Perhaps they should book a holiday, Fiona thought. She’d made desultory conversation about the idea at Christmas but Owen didn’t seem interested in anything she suggested. Perhaps if he brought a friend, she thought now. Just a week. Even that would be costly, the boys would pay full fare if they flew anywhere. Or somewhere at home – an English seaside break: rain and steamy cafés. The smell of vinegar and candy floss. Owen and friend could go off exploring on their own. And what would she do? The thought of being trapped in a B &B or a holiday cottage with two bored teenagers for seven days in a row made her heart sink. America then? She had cousins in Maine; Owen could hang out with their kids. The travel would cost more but they wouldn’t have to pay accommodation. They would perhaps need to dip into Owen’s university fund to pay for it.
Fiona stopped and watched a kestrel hovering overhead. The bird hung, a black silhouette against the bright sky. Then plummeted. Rose with something in its talons. A mouse or shrew.
‘You get any Valentines?’ she joked with Owen at teatime.
He didn’t answer, just the usual drop-dead glower.
‘If we had a summer holiday,’ Fiona said, ‘maybe you could bring a friend along.’
Owen gave her a sidelong glance, frowning.
‘Just something to think about,’ she said.
‘Where?’ Owen asked.
‘Don’t know,’ Fiona rushed on. ‘The seaside or up to Scotland. Or Maine, to Auntie Melanie’s.’
‘America?’ A whiff of interest.
‘Nothing’s decided. Just be nice to have something to look forward to. But if we did go to America we couldn’t really afford for you to bring a friend, not unless they could pay the fare.’
Owen nodded. He went back to his shepherd’s pie, scooping it up on his fork, his knife untouched. Why did she bother ever setting him a knife, he never used one.
‘The police rang me today.’ Fiona realized she wanted to tell him before he left the table. ‘They’ve charged someone with Danny Macateer’s murder. There’ll be a trial.’
‘You’ll be a witness?’ Owen spoke with his mouth full.
‘Yes.’
‘Who did it?’
‘They’re called Derek Carlton and Sam Millins; they’re part of the gangs. The police had a pretty clear idea of who was behind it all along but they’ve only now got enough evidence to charge them.’
‘How come?’
Fiona shrugged. ‘He said a breakthrough.’
‘Maybe they found the gun,’ said Owen. ‘Or DNA.’ Fiona relished his contributions, these rare and fleeting times when he reverted to human form and was sociable and articulate.
‘Maybe,’ she smiled.
Owen was out that evening, he’d gone to a competition at the skate park. Fiona was reading but her concentration was all over the place. Joe Kitson’s phone call was repeating in her head. All the talk of special measures and protection. She thought of the man she’d identified, the driver of the car, Sam Millins. He had driven the car to the recreation ground and waited at the wheel while the other man shot Danny. They were dangerous people. So dangerous that she had to be hidden from view when she gave her evidence.
A noise from the back of the house jolted through her and she sprang to her feet, gasping in fright. What was it? Was there someone outside? She crept over to the french windows and looked out. Nothing to see in the dark, just the glitter of frost over everything and the bare black arms of the magnolia tree raised to the sky.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Zak
Zak and Bess were sleeping in an underground car park, below a block of flats, been there almost two months. Zak had gone in there one night, after Christmas, walking in through the automatic gates after a car, figuring that the worst that could happen is the driver chucks him out.
He found a store cupboard down there, tucked away in a corner. Full of cleaning materials and things. He thought he’d struck lucky, it wasn’t locked. He moved some stuff about a bit to make space to lie down. He just fitted if he curled his legs up. Then the door opened and there was a guy in brown overalls and a Hitler tache looking at him. The caretaker, a can of woodstain in his hand.
Zak scrambled to his feet. ‘Soz, mate, just looking for somewhere to kip.’ Bess got up, wagged her tail.
‘How d’you get in the gate?’ the bloke asked.
‘Followed a car in.’
The bloke shook his head. ‘Thick as planks, half of ’em. And then they wonder why they get robbed.’
‘I’m not on the rob,’ Zak protested.
‘I could turn a blind eye,’ the bloke said. ‘Few nights, you make it worth it.’
Zak knew he meant for money. He only had about £4 in change. He dug in his pocket, held it out.
‘No notes?’ the bloke complained.
Zak shook his head.
‘That’ll do you for tonight but I’ll be wanting more.’
Zak nodded. ‘Ta, thanks, mate.’
The bloke, he was called Russell, nodded at Bess. ‘He house trained?’
‘She. Yeah.’
‘And you?’
Zak ignored that.
‘You can’t smoke in here.’ Russell nodded to the tins. ‘Hazardous chemicals, fire risk.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Zak.
‘Most of ’em are gone by nine in the morning.’ Russell indicated at the cars. ‘Stay in here till then, then I’ll let you out.’
Zak’s heart skipped a beat. ‘You’re not locking us in! No way.’ If that was part of the deal, then Zak was walking. He’d go mental. He couldn’t be locked up. Never again.
Russell stared at him. He twitched his moustache. ‘If anyone sees you-’
‘I’ll stay in here, I promise.’
He gave a grunt. ‘Make yourself scarce after that. Just press the green button for the gates.’
‘Right. How’ll I get back in?’
‘Be here before six, I’ll let you through.’
After a couple of weeks Russell gave Zak the code of the gates so he could get in himself. Zak’s ‘rent’ was a nice little earner for him. Zak was a model tenant. When he did smoke he nipped out of the store and did it in the garage, kept his dimps to chuck away somewhere else so Russell wouldn’t find out.
It was the worst time of year to be on the streets: the cold and the way it got dark so early. People were tight an’ all, the times after Christmas. Often as he could Zak went round to Midge’s, a chance to get warm, have a brew and a spliff. Stacey was still there and still had it in for him so he had to be careful, not overstay his welcome. He tried to smooth the way by running errands for Midge: a delivery here, picking a package up there.
Today when he and Bess turned up there was a big gang of lads already at the house. Bikes were piled up in the front garden like a scrap merchant’s. Nowhere left to sit in the front room.
Conversation died when Zak walked in. Everyone looked at him and he felt his face burn. He rose on the balls of his feet, nodded to Midge. ‘I can come back.’
Midge shrugged. ‘S’ all right, you can go for some Rizlas, king-size.’ He tossed Zak a coin.
Zak went to the shop and when he came back the lads were gone.
‘What’s going on?’ He handed Midge the papers and change.
‘Carlton and Sam Millins, they’re being done for murder. Danny Macateer.’
Zak stared at Midge. ‘You’re shittin’ me!’
‘It’s true. Picked ’em up the day before yesterday, charged ’em last night, in court this morning. Denied bail.’ Midge ruffled Bess, and Zak blew a long breath out wondering what to say.
‘The rest of ’em, they’re all freakin’ case they get done too, conspiracy and that,’ Midge said.
Zak counted on his fingers. ‘Eight months it must be. Everyone thought they’d got away with it.’ He shook his head.