 
Chasing Answers

(A Kina McKevie Crime Novel)

Laurence Moore

Copyright © 2017 Laurence Moore

1st Edition 2017

All Rights Reserved.

The use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the publisher or author is an infringement of copyright law.

**Also by Laurence Moore**

The Kina McKevie Series

Wiping Out Guilt

Chasing Answers

The Wasteland Soldier Series

A Fractured World

Escape From Tamnica

Drums of War

Men of Truth

The Atlanta Mission

For more information visit:

<https://www.facebook.com/authorlaurencemoore>

**About The Author**

Laurence Moore has been writing since the 1970s. He enjoys fast-moving books with complex main characters taking the lead.

The Kina McKevie series features London's newest and rawest private detective – an ex-convict turned investigator.

The Wasteland Soldier series is set in a post-apocalyptic America and features Stone, a no-nonsense fighting man looking to restore balance in a dangerous world.

Chasing Answers

_Kina McKevie, East London's rawest and newest private detective ..._

_"I used to run with a gang; sell drugs, do bad shit. I was evil. I ended up in prison. I ain't like that no more. I'm a different person now. I work as an investigator, getting answers for people with nowhere left to turn. Along the way, I reckon I might earn a little redemption for the things I've done ..."_

Sixty-one year old Barry Fraser is missing and his best mate, Donnie Copeland, is out of his mind with worry. Donnie doesn't trust the cops and turns to Kina for help. Once onboard, she uncovers conflicting versions of Barry and wonders how much Donnie really knows about his friend.

When a shocking gangland-style murder goes down the stakes are raised and all bets are off as Kina is plunged into beef that has a rank smell. Someone has a bitter score to settle and doesn't care who gets in the way.

With her personal life spiralling out of control, cops all over her and an old criminal acquaintance on the scene needing a big favour, Kina will have to dig deep to come up with all the answers ... and even that might not be enough.

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapters 1-5

Part Two

Chapters 6 – 13

Part Three

Chapter 14 - 21

Part Four

Chapters 22 - 24

Part Five

Chapters 25 - 28

Part Six

Chapters 29 - 35

Part Seven

Chapters 36 - 41

Coming Next

**PART ONE**

ONE

Donnie Copeland put down his pint glass, slid his mobile across the table and sat back, folding his arms.

"Knocked about for thirty years or more." He nodded at the phone. "Used to go on cruises and holidays with the wives back in the day - until Barry got himself divorced, silly sod."

I spun the mobile, studied the photo of his best mate, Barry Fraser.

" _Bazman_ never knew how lucky he was. His bird Pauline is a cracking girl. Me and my missus, Sandy, we got on well with her. Don't see her much now. You know how it goes."

He dug out a memory, smiled fondly. Then the smile faded, the way smiles always do. That's why I don't bother with them much.

"I haven't seen or heard from him since Friday." He wiped beer from his lips with the back of his hand. "We were in here having a few that night. Supposed to meet up on Saturday, during his lunch hour, but no show from the _Bazman_. No text or nothing. That ain't like Barry."

_Here_ was the Bricklayers Arms, Donnie's local, a traditional pub, a proper pub, no frills unless you counted a solitary fruit machine that no one was playing. Every now and then it beeped and lights flashed, hoping to encourage the few regulars sat at the bar. No chance. The TV was on, Sky News, and the punters were glued to it. Jerry, the landlord, a hard-looking white guy in his late forties, wasn't interested in the lies up on the screen and was happy working on a crossword. I didn't blame him. I never watched the news.

Donnie and I were sat in a corner. I wore an unzipped purple hoodie, a white vest top, blue jeans and trainers. Donnie wore a green polo shirt, blue cords and a pair of shiny blue brogues. He was clean-shaven, smelt of aftershave. He was white, in his fifties or sixties, neatly-cut grey hair, blue eyes, no beard, no moustache. The guy was a working man, construction. The hands holding his pint were huge, spotted skin thick with long wrinkled lines. He'd knocked off work early to come here, went home to freshen up, put on clean clothes. Donnie was from a generation that got smartened up before they met with someone to discuss business. I was East London's newest and rawest investigator. The guy was taking me and his mate's disappearance seriously.

He was born and bred Forest Gate. I'd been living here for three months. Before I was in Stratford, barely a whisper away, a walk or a bus ride through Maryland and you were there. Before Stratford it was prison. I'd seen Donnie around once or twice, never spoken to him. He was well-known, always with a wave or a smile. He had no smile now. His round face looked heavy. His voice was edgy, a bit shaky. Poor guy, he was knotted up with worry ...

"What time was you supposed to meet him on Saturday?" I asked.

"Just after one. _Bazman_ always gets the one-o-clock slot."

" _Bazman_ ...?"

"Ah, that's nothing. My nickname for Barry. Called him that for donkey's years. Can't remember where it came from. Probably Batman. Dunno."

"And he never sent you a text?"

"Nah, nothing, and that ain't like the _Bazman_. We text all the time. Chatting about, well, anything, birds ... I mean girls ... football, politics, all sorts. Most of the time we just take the piss. I went over to his work after he didn't show, found out he ain't turned up. So yesterday, Sunday, I popped round his gaf. I got spare keys. All his stuff is there but no _Bazman_." He paused. "I know it's only Monday and you might think I'm overreacting, Kina, but this don't feel right to me. I ain't sleeping good worrying about the stupid bastard ... I think he might have a bit of aggro on his plate."

"You go to the cops?" I asked.

He lifted his pint. "I don't trust the law, Kina."

"Yeah, I hear you, man." I said, and picked up my beer bottle.

It was warm in the pub with late afternoon sunshine streaming through curtained windows. Spring was wrestling control, sweeping away the last dregs of a wet and chilly winter. I loved the sunshine. Made me wanna jump on a plane, go someplace hot; lie on a beach and kick back with a drink and a smoke. Only that wasn't gonna happen any time soon because I was saving to buy wheels and I no longer had a valid passport; my old one had expired five years ago and you're not allowed to apply for a renewal from a prison cell.

"What kind of aggro are you talking about, Donnie? Does he owe money?"

"No, he's never short of a few bob."

"Is someone after him?"

"I don't know. I really don't. I wish I could be more helpful. Barry _has_ done some bloody daft things ... I don't know what's going on."

"Like what?"

He shrugged. "I don't know." He obviously did know. "Things, you know. Just things."

I left it for now. "How old is he?"

"Sixty-one. I'm sixty-five."

"Looking good for sixty-five, man."

"That's very kind of you, love."

I wasn't offended by his use of the word _love._ He'd also called me _darling_ and even _treacle_ when we'd first met. Naz, my current girlfriend, would've been. She would've given Donnie a lecture on demeaning women or something. She was brittle about that kind of thing. She didn't even like me using the word _girlfriend_. She preferred _partner_. When I was in a mood, I slipped into moods now and then - Naz would argue it was more than now and then only she wasn't here to fight her corner – but when I do get a mood on I would tease her with the whole _girlfriend_ thing. I was mean to her over that kind of shit. She could handle it.

Living the life I've lived, there were more important things to worry about than an old guy calling you _love_ or _darling_ or even _treacle._ Donnie was harmless, a man of his time. Don't get me wrong, I drew the line at certain words. I wasn't gonna laugh at the colour of my skin or my heritage or nothing. That's a road you don't go down with me unless you want your face stamped in.

Naz was from Islington. Her parents were from India. I was from Belfast, raised in London. My mum was a Protestant. My dad had been Jamaican. We and our parents had endured far worse things than being called _love._

But I didn't _always_ argue when Naz went off on one. I let her have her moment. Standing proud for all the women on the planet. OK, I was still in teasing mode. But when she did her thing, ranting and raving, I would smile and nod and try to get her into bed and that wasn't difficult because we couldn't resist each other. Once in bed, she was Naz and I was Kina and none of that _love_ or _girlfriend_ shit seemed to matter.

We'd hooked up on Christmas Eve _._ I thought it would be a one night thing. Then New Year rolled quickly round and she was still on the scene and now it was March. I didn't know how much longer it would last because I was keeping secrets.

"How old is this photo?" I asked, pointing at Donnie's mobile.

"Oh, that was last summer."

Barry was messing around in the photograph, gripping a pool cue above his head and pulling a face like he'd gone mad. He was wearing a rose-coloured shirt, collar button open, a loosely-knotted tie, creased grey trousers. A matching grey suit jacket was draped over the bar stool behind him. The guy was tall, grey hair and good skin, a long and narrow face.

"Barry's a pool king but I'd wiped the floor with him that day."

He nodded at the pool table. No one was using it. The fruit machine played a short jingle. No one was using that, either.

Outside, there was loud clattering from the local market as stalls were stripped and dismantled.

I handed him back his mobile, asked him to send through the image and any others that he had.

"Exactly when and where did you last see him?" I asked, pen hovering over my open notebook.

"You're right professional, darling," he said. "I'm glad I came to you." He picked up my business card, pointed it at me. "Dylan was spot on about you, said you were good at this kind of thing."

"Dylan's a good bloke," I said. He lowered his voice, not that anyone was listening to the pair of us. "Word got round about you, Kina. You know that, don't you, love?"

"I was never mentioned in the papers or nothing."

He chuckled. "Who reads them? You did a good job solving that murder case last year. People know it was you that sorted it all out. Not the soddin' old bill. They got it well wrong. I know almost everyone in Forest Gate, Kina, even that Polish lot filling up Renton Court. I hear things, I do. I hear things about you."

"I'm just trying to help people with nowhere to turn, you get me?"

"What I'm getting is you another drink. Girl like you deserves it."

He went to the bar. I think he wanted an excuse to stretch his legs. I sat alone for a moment, humbled. I was a bit stunned at what I'd said to him.

I'm just trying to help people with nowhere to turn ...

See, that wasn't always me. I'd spent most of my life helping myself, fucking up those round me and not giving a shit. I used to run with a gang. I've robbed, stabbed, sold drugs; done all kinds of shit I ain't proud of and have never been punished for. I ran away from the girl I was, the woman I was, invented a different version of myself, the way women do all the time, and ended up with a dude named Billy Ingram. I don't know why the fuck I ever lived with that prick. I didn't even like cock. I still don't. But Billy had a way of taking what he wanted and getting rid of what he didn't. He did that with me. Many fucking times. But you can only take so much from a man. You can only hate him and yourself so much before something snaps. I didn't know how to walk away. I didn't know how to get out. It was only ever gonna end one way.

I got eighteen years for killing him. I served eleven. The world is a better place without him in it, safer anyway. That ain't no easy thing to say about another person, another human being, but it's the truth – guy was a fucking animal. Thing is, so was I; I was no different, but I never got caught slipping like Billy. Older now, I'm a better person, I hope. I ain't proud of my life. I get sick when I think of the things I've done. But time only goes forward, not backward, which gives me a chance at putting right what's to come. The darkness is still in me, can't erase all that shit completely, but I know how to control it. _Most of the time ..._

Donnie was back. He had a pint and a whisky for himself, a bottle of beer and a brandy for me.

"Dylan mentioned you like a nip of brandy."

"Yeah."

I swigged the beer, left the brandy for now. I needed to get Donnie back on track. I picked up my pen once more.

But Donnie was in a chatty mood ...

"Are you and him together?" he asked. "I'm only asking because I heard he already has a young lady, bird called Hannah, and ..."

"I just rent the room above his shop." I smiled. "I can promise you we're _really_ not together."

"I'm sorry to stick my nose in. It's just I saw you arm and arm with that Asian lady and I thought ... well, you know. Things are so complicated nowadays." He lifted his pint, then lowered it. "That sort of thing doesn't bother me, mind. Got to be yourself in life. Besides, you shouldn't give a monkeys what people say." He paused. "You know _monkeys_ is just an expression. I mean, I'm not like that."

I patted him on the arm. "Don't tie yourself up in knots, Donnie. The world's gone PC mad. We're good."

He grinned, loosened-up. "I knew his old man back in the day. Dylan, I mean. We used to go and watch the _Irons_. He was a die-hard supporter Reggie Tucker was. Had a bit of monkey-chanting back then. Didn't make no sense to me, doing it to your own players."

I frowned at him. "The Irons?"

"The Irons," he repeated, as if saying it twice would help. A typical bloke thing. "West Ham United ... you're not into football, are you?"

"No."

"Ah, you don't know what you're missing. Mind you, there was stuff you wouldn't have liked. We had a black player called Clyde Best, brilliant lad he was, but you'd get a handful of morons chucking bananas at him." He shook his head. "I wouldn't go watch them now. That lot sold out by moving to Stratford. Upton Park was home. Big fancy stadium don't seem right to me. I'll never see them play again."

Doors opened and a dozen stallholders spilled into the pub, men and women, most of them nodding at Donnie.

He grinned back, called out a few things.

"Where does Barry work?" I asked, trying to steer him back on track.

"Bushman Electricals. Little shop on Leytonstone High Road. TVs, stereos, few white goods."

"Is Barry a salesman?"

"Yeah, plenty of charm has Barry. Born to sell. Snow to the Eskimo's and all that."

"Who did you speak to on Saturday?"

"At the shop? Isabel first off. She answers the phones. I called and she said that Barry hadn't turned up."

"Did she say if he'd called in sick?"

"I asked her and she said he hadn't."

"Did you go to the shop?"

"Yeah, I mean, I sent the _Bazman_ a couple of texts first and nothing. Then I phoned his mobile and nothing."

"Who did you talk to at the shop? Isabel?"

"Yeah, and I got a word with the manager. Geezer named Roger. Nice bloke that Roger. Makes all his staff call him Mr Steadman, as they should, but I get to call him Roger. Like me, he was a bit concerned about Barry not showing up."

"How long has Barry worked there?"

"Roughly six years."

"Were they open yesterday?"

"No, they don't open on a Sunday. The company don't believe in it. Want to keep Sunday sacred, like that toy shop. They don't open on a Sunday, neither."

I nodded. "Did he call in sick today?"

"No."

"Did you go to the shop today?"

"No, I couldn't. I phoned and spoke to Isabel and she said Barry hadn't turned in again."

I wrote it all down. Details of the shop, the people Donnie had spoken to, Barry's mobile number and his home address. Donnie glanced at my notebook as I wrote. I was thirty-six years old but I half-curled my hand round it, afraid he would laugh at my childlike writing. I hadn't bothered much with education. It was backfiring on me now.

"The thing is, Kina, love ... I'm not sure how to say this but ... well ... Barry _has_ done a runner before."

I looked up, sharply. I got the feeling we were gonna discuss the _daft things_ ...

"But that was years ago. And this ain't the same thing - it doesn't _feel_ right. Do you know what I mean?"

I picked up my brandy. "Tell me."

TWO

We carried our drinks outside, sat on a bench shaded by a striped umbrella, rippling in the breeze.

There was a backdrop of council towers and low-rise flats, shadowing the deserted marketplace. The old buildings were smeared against a pale blue sky, the air filmed in traffic fumes. Deep bass throbbed through jacked open windows. High up on the tenth floor a crowd was already getting into it. _That was gonna be a long night._ Just for a moment, I thought back to terrace barbecues, dancing under the stars, partying until the sun came up. There had been _some_ good times in the past.

A balding man with tied back grey hair was at another bench, nursing an empty glass. He was shrivelled-looking, skin and bone. It was impossible to guess his age. He was just old, washed out, forgotten. I watched him for a moment, out of the corner of my eye. I got the feeling he was talking to himself. A skinny dog was curled on the ground beside him, fed up with the heat. I always felt I was one step away from where they were. That's why I had to keep moving. Donnie tipped his pint glass at the guy and was offered a brown-toothed grin in return.

"Give us a minute, love," said Donnie.

He was on his feet again, going back into the pub. A moment later he emerged with a glass, it looked like vodka. He set it down in front of the guy with the dog, and then came and sat with me.

I looked at him.

He looked back at me.

"That's Niall," he said. "Long story."

I took out my box of cigarettes, shook one free. I didn't offer Donnie one because he'd packed up twenty years ago.

Behind us, two men in suits stood in the shade; drinking pints, smoking e-cigarettes and talking about how Chelsea were gonna run away with it – whatever _it_ was. OK, I knew they meant the league, or whatever it was called. I didn't like football but you couldn't escape a basic understanding of it. I didn't mix with guys much but a lot of women I knew were into football. Last year, I'd hung with a hardcore football fan a month after getting out. She'd been hot in bed, crap afterwards; football, football and more football was all she wanted to talk about. I ditched her quick enough. Donnie's beloved West Ham got a mention followed by a right laugh. I thought he was gonna steam in and defend their honour. Maybe he was past all that ...

I funnelled smoke through my nose. "What happened before?" I said.

"This is going back ten years ago. See, Barry loved his missus but he didn't love being married. He has wandering hands, a right charmer. He'd had a load of flings by the time Tracie Meadows came on to the scene. She must have been twenty. Tracie Meadows. That's Tracie with a C I E. Not with a C Y or a C E Y. Tracie with a C I E. More like Tracie with a C U N ..."

He let the sentence trail.

"She was bleedin' full of herself that one. Barry was really into her. She was his soul mate. Fuck me." He shook his head. "I couldn't understand what he saw in her. But he was in love, again. Poor old Pauline. Well, this Tracie Meadows, that's Tracie with a C I E, you'd have slapped her one I reckon, Kina. She was ... she still makes my blood boil. Well, she likes her blokes a bit older. A lot older. Next thing I know I get a call from Barry and he's in bloody Greece with her. Yeah, Greece. And they're gonna set up home, get married." He snorted, lifted his pint glass. "Lasted about three weeks and then he was back in rainy England 'cause this young 'un had run off with some DJ."

"So Barry's got an eye for the women then?"

"They're all young enough to be his daughter. Granddaughter, I reckon. Well, not really because Barry ... you have to keep this to yourself, Kina, love, OK?"

He lowered his voice. "Barry ain't taking anyone down with his bullets, you know what I mean? I'm loaded with live rounds like most blokes but poor Barry has a mag of blanks." He chuckled. "You understand me?"

I understood. "Tracie Meadows was twenty. How young does he like them?"

"I know what you're asking but Barry ain't no fucking nonce, let me straighten you out on that score. He likes pretty women. Not little girls in school uniform. He ain't a kiddie-fiddler or nothing."

"I had to ask."

"I know that, darling. No offence taken."

"This killed off his marriage, right?"

"Legging it to Greece was the final humiliation for Pauline. Can't ask a woman to put up with that."

I asked for the ex-wife's address. He hesitated, and then gave it to me. "You won't find him there. No way has he gone back to Pauline."

"What about Tracie Meadows?"

"Reckon she's a bit old for him now. Last I heard she was back in England. I don't think the DJ bloke thing worked out. What a surprise! I don't know where she lives."

"Does he have a girlfriend at the moment?"

"No."

"Would he tell you if he did?"

"Yeah, he would. Yeah, he'd tell me." He frowned at me. "Why?"

"You don't seem certain."

"I'm certain, love. Barry would tell me."

"Did you give him a hard time about busting up his marriage?"

"Well, yeah, but that was ten years ago."

"Has he had many girlfriends since Tracie Meadows?"

Donnie laughed. "Yeah, a lot, a new one every week. Barry doesn't go short. He's a charming bloke. He knows how to talk to young birds ... girls, I mean ... women, you know."

He flushed a bit.

"And you give him stick about it, right?"

"Yeah, course. Oh, right, I see what you're getting at."

"He might be hiding someone from you to avoid the earache. If he's chasing young women he might be pissing off a dad or a brother who's out looking for him."

I took a sip of beer.

"Maybe he didn't wanna tell you about it in case you told him to sort his life out or something."

"I hadn't thought of it like that," he said, and went silent.

I dragged on my cigarette.

A teenager skated through the empty market over the road, wheels grinding against the concrete as he bent and swerved. The kid had good moves.

Donnie was still deep in thought.

Traffic zipped by.

The old guy with the dog had gone.

The two young men with the e-cigarettes went inside for a fresh round.

Movement in the closed market caught my eye for the second time. It was a young black woman. She ducked behind a toilet block, a low and grimy brick building with graffiti-covered walls and doors. I only got a glimpse but I had a feeling I knew who it was ...

"I don't think he has a bird at the moment," said Donnie.

"So the last time you saw him was here on Friday night?"

"Yeah."

"How was he?"

"Yeah, good, good. He was good. He left about half nine."

"Was that early for him?"

"Yeah, but he had a dodgy gut. We'd picked up a curry after work, that new place down the High Street. Must have turned his gut rotten."

I threw more questions at him. He was probably wishing he'd gone to the cops by the time I was finished. But I'd learned a lot last year in unravelling a case that had my sister's murdered boyfriend at the heart of it and covering all the angles was one of them.

"Look, I've been asking round for days, all our regular places, and no one has seen him. I need you to start asking round the places not so regular, do you know what I mean, Kina?"

"Sure," I said.

"Now look, I can pay you," said Donnie. "Can't expect you to go bobbing round for nothing, darling."

He dug out a bulging leather wallet.

"Let me ask round first, OK?"

"No, I ain't having that." He fished out five twenty-pound notes. "And here's the keys to his gaf."

I stared at the money. "Ain't that enough? I can pay you more. Do you charge by the hour or something?"

I told him the money was fine.

There were footsteps on the pavement. A young, ginger-haired woman was walking toward us. Donnie's expression changed. "Put those notes away sharpish, love."

I didn't ask why. I scooped up the money and keys, stuffed them into my pocket.

Donnie beamed as the young woman approached us.

She was about nineteen or twenty, fairly tall, black suit, white blouse, good legs in black tights, a long and narrow face, waves of ginger hair falling onto her shoulders.

"Hello, love," said Donnie, getting to his feet. "Sit down." She slid onto the bench without a word. "Do you want a drink?"

"G&T, Dad, thank you."

"G&T," he repeated. "Kina, do you want another, love?"

"I'm all good," I said, waving a near-empty bottle at him.

"Maggie, this is Kina, she's going to help me find Barry. Kina, this is my girl, Maggie."

"Nice to meet you," she said. Her handshake didn't back up her words. "Have you done this kind of thing before?" she asked.

Donnie clamped a hand on her shoulder. "She's the girl that solved that murder last year, that black boy who got stabbed."

"Dad, I'm parched." She threw him a big smile.

He squeezed, let go, strolled back inside. I glanced over Maggie's shoulder, toward the market. The black girl was still hanging round, sticking to the shadows.

"He's deluded," she said, not even looking at me. "Don't mess him around or drain his money."

I lit a fresh cigarette, said nothing. I was good at saying nothing.

"How much has he given you? Well? What do you charge?"

I still didn't answer.

"Confidential, is it? You're not a solicitor or a priest. And you're wasting your time. Did he tell you how Barry likes to disappear? Did he?"

Silence.

"He meets a new woman and then ..." She clapped her hands together, right in my face. "And that's him gone, acting like he's a teenager. He ran off to Spain with a girl my age. Did Dad tell you about that? Barry was fifty at the time. That's sick."

"I thought it was Greece."

She blinked at me, and then plucked up the business card that Donnie had left on the table.

"Kina McKevie," she said. "Investigator. Discreet. Professional." She made direct eye-contact for the first time. "You sound like an escort."

"Do you know where Barry is?"

"No."

"Any idea why he's gone missing?"

"No."

"Then shut the fuck up, you get me? Your old man's an adult. He knows what he's doing."

She was stunned for a moment. It had been a long time since someone had shut her down. But she still had plenty of bite left in her ...

"We can find Barry without you. I'm running a page online and have alerts across all my social media accounts. You're not needed ..." She tossed the card at me. "Kina McKevie."

I could've told her I'd solved four cases since starting out.

But I didn't.

I could've told her I was a changed woman with no intention of fleecing her old man.

But I didn't.

Instead, I got up, eyes narrowed, mouth twisted, arms flexing. I moved round the table toward her.

She gasped, started to edge along her seat.

"You must be the only twenty-year old Barry hasn't tapped," I said. "And it ain't because of him and your old man being mates, you get me?"

"I'm not afraid of you, street girl."

I put hot breath in her ear. "Then you're a fucking idiot."

"I know people," she hissed.

I stepped back. "Line 'em up."

Donnie emerged from the pub, glass in hand, bouncing toward us, grinning from ear to ear.

He caught the tail end of the confrontation. "Everything alright, girls?"

I patted him on the arm. "It's all good, Donnie. I'm gonna get started. I'll be in touch, man."

THREE

Sunglasses on, hoodie unzipped, I leaned against the bus stop.

Forest Gate High Street was noisy with traffic and pedestrians, people coming and going from work or setting out for the evening. Music poured from slow-moving cars. I nodded my head at a few tunes. Life was good, for the moment, and it was all for me because I had a new case to work on.

Barry had left the Bricklayers Arms round 9.30pm, Friday night, crying off with a dodgy gut. No contact since then. Not even a text. And he hadn't turned up for work for a couple of days. I shared Donnie's concern. The guy had disappeared off the map. But then he'd done that before ...

I'd eaten a few times at the new curry house. The food was quality. I wondered if it had been a smoke screen to slip away, see a girl that Donnie didn't know about. Guys like Barry never stopped. Led by his dick, he'd chase women until the end. Keeping this new girl a secret meant no hassle from Donnie, especially if a father or brother or even a husband or boyfriend was involved.

I thought of what I'd said to Maggie about her being the only girl Barry hadn't tapped.

Yeah, a cold comment but ... she was the right age for Barry and I hated to admit she was a fine-looking girl ... good body, great hair ... and I'd bet that was all it took for Barry. I'm sure personality didn't matter shit to him.

Was he fucking her? Is that why she was so pissed? Had he done a runner without telling her?

What about Donnie? Had he found out? He'd handed over that hundred without blinking. Was I being paid to paint a target on Barry?

Shit ...

I lit a cigarette, played with a few more theories.

People go missing all the time. Ain't that the truth? The older you are the less they notice or care. You got thousands sleeping rough on the streets; open your eyes, man, they're in the doorways and the parks, I _know_ you see them. No one wondering about them. No one looking for them. I reckoned I was one breath away from that world.

But not everyone who disappears ends up homeless. People find that they just can't cope with life, that it suffocates them, so they take themselves away, start someplace new. I know how it feels to live on the fringes of life, looking in, never getting to be the one looking out; one minute your head is screaming, the next it's silent. There are a hundred reasons why people disappear. And then a hundred more. Lot of folk ain't gonna be found. Some don't wanna be. I could disappear right now. Wave a wand and I'm gone in a puff of smoke. No one would come looking for me. Yeah, I had a family and a few friends but what had I ever done for them except caused them heaps of pain and misery. The world would keep turning. I wouldn't be missed. Barry was lucky he had a mate like Donnie ...

Still no sign of the bus.

Birds flitted overhead in the pale blue sky, a few more clouds nudging in. The cool breeze of late afternoon was now a light wind. The sun was going down, changing the colours of the skyline, buildings turning red and orange. It was still warm, despite the time, the warmest day of the year so far, I guessed, and I tingled in the fading heat.

Summer was only a few months away. It was my favourite time of the year; terrace barbecues, all night parties. Not that I'd hang at any. I didn't go near any of the crew I used to roll with. Most of them were dead or in prison anyway. A few were still in the game, I'd heard, doing dirt on the street, maiming over drug spots and postcodes - but plenty were out of it, living what you'd consider regular lives. Jade was a girl living a regular life now. She was the first English person I met when I moved to London. I'd known her for twenty-five years now. I hadn't spoken to her since Christmas.

Before getting out of prison last year I'd thought about nothing else but tracking her down. I'd wanted to build a future with her even though she'd never visited me inside or even wrote to me. She explained it all once we finally met up and I accepted her reasons. But she wasn't the same. Back in the day she'd been a wild thing. Now she was all educated, a long time clear of drugs and crime. Time hadn't stood still. I don't know why I'd expected it to. She was never gonna be the same girl. I never got to sleep with Jade. Not then and not now. The moment could've come for us all those years ago but I chose to stick a knife in Billy Ingram and that ended any hope for the pair of us.

Jade had a new life. I was pleased for her. She was a social worker in – her words – one of the poorest and most deprived boroughs in London; harrowing cases of neglect, abuse and poverty facing her on a daily basis. Despite that, she was happy in her work. Like me, I guessed she was finding a slice of redemption out there. She was also in a long term relationship with a woman that _could've_ been me. I didn't really think like that. Jade and me were the past. I still thought about her now and then, but only now and then.

Naz was my girl now. I wasn't in love with her. I didn't think I would ever fall in love with her. We were having a good time. I reckoned that was enough. I would see her tonight. _A soak in the bath, a bottle of wine and a Tracy Chapman CD._ She'd complain that my music tastes were out of date. I didn't give a shit. I didn't know how long those good times would last once I'd told her my secrets ... I kept wondering if things were coming to a natural end.

The bus was nowhere. The bus stop was crowded. Irritation was setting in. There was grumbling, impatient shuffling on the spot, frustrated stares.

A white woman in a creased business suit was talking on her mobile, explaining to her husband that _he'd_ need to start preparing dinner because she had no idea how long she was going to be stuck _in this place_ and no she wasn't getting a minicab because she didn't like minicabs and yes she had said she preferred public transport and yes he was to put the beef in now and what did he think she'd been talking about? I wanted to toss her phone in the road.

An Asian teenager, hood raised, head bent toward his mobile, was playing a game that involved blowing up coloured shapes. He was wearing earphones but every now and then he cried out in celebration as he cleared a level or earned a bonus. It was so sudden it startled the people round him. He'd even made me jump. It takes a lot to do that. I wanted to put his phone in the road as well.

But what was really pissing me off was this one guy. He was black, in his twenties, standing with two other guys, both of them white. The three men wore smart suits, bright-coloured shirts, flash ties. I wondered if they were estate agents. They had that greasy estate agent look.

The black guy kept checking me out, his eyes all over my chest. I thought about zipping up my hoodie, covering up, but why the fuck should I? He was getting less and less subtle, his looks more regular, lasting longer. I saw him lick his lips a few times. Maybe that was nothing to do with me. The heat was packed into the High Street, coming off the pavements and the tarmac and the cramped buildings, and people were sweating, especially this woman next to the Asian hoodie; man, she was starting to stink.

The black guy was still doing it. Like I was dressed for him. Like I was just there for him to fucking look over and rate me out of ten or say I was hot or not or whatever it was guys did ... _I don't know!_

I kissed my teeth, shifted round, faced the other direction and watched the traffic grind slowly forward, cars and vans and bikes, no buses. The seconds were like hours. I could drive. That's what made it worse. I stole my first car when I was fourteen. I was driving regular at the age of fifteen, no tax, insurance or license. I got arrested so many times. It was getting stupid so I studied for my test and passed first time shortly before my nineteenth birthday. I was saving for second-hand wheels. I probably had enough but I was concerned about the insurance and road tax. I knew you could pay them monthly so that would help. But then there was the petrol, the yearly MOT and maybe even a service now and then. I was hesitant to part with the money. It was the most money I'd had since getting out. I felt secure having the money. I didn't wanna feel vulnerable without it.

Douglas, my stepdad, had offered me a loan. No, _first_ he'd offered me money as a gift. I told him there was no way he was giving me money. He had before. I wasn't gonna let him do it again.

"I can make it a loan," he'd said. "Would that be better?"

I refused a second time. Besides, it would have never been a loan. He wouldn't have accepted a penny of it back. I knew he had money but it was his and not mine and I wasn't gonna take it. He'd visited me in prison whenever he could but I didn't have a strong relationship with him. The guy had never tried to replace my dad. I did respect him for that. He'd made it known he was there if I needed him but I never had and never would. We'd clashed when I was in my teens but I guessed that was normal, although there was nothing much normal about my teenage years. My stepdad and me were strangers, really, just two people who happened to be in the same family.

Mum had a different solution. She told me if I stopped smoking and drinking and wasting money in _those places,_ she actually used that phrase, then I'd have enough to buy a decent second-hand car and pay for all the insurance, tax etc. By _those places_ she meant the kind of bars and clubs I hung in. The words lesbian bar or gay bar or bi-sexual bar or LGBT bar or gender-neutral bar or whatever the hell you wanted to call it were never coming over her God-fearing Irish lips. Mum was a Belfast mum and Belfast mums are one of a kind, believe that.

I didn't care about her using the words _those places_ because I hated labels anyway. Labels were shit. I'd had labels all my life. I was Kina, fuck you and your labels, man, you're making my head spin.

Mum was probably right about the money ... not that I'd ever admit that to her, even if we were the last people on the planet.

The black girl I'd spied in the market was still shadowing me. I had a wry smile. I knew who it was. She was harmless. Well, harmless where I was concerned. Maybe not if civilians were involved.

I wondered what she wanted ...

She was kicking around outside a Bangladeshi cash and carry that sold Halah meat and Bangladeshi fish. _What the fuck is Bangladeshi fish?_ I guessed it wasn't Cod or Haddock.

Her name was Kimberly Brown. Most people called her _Kimbers._ I knew her as Kim. I'd met her in Holloway. She was in for burglary and shoplifting. Like me, she was transferred to Downview when Holloway closed. She was only in Downview for about six weeks when she got early release. She was twenty-one, a woman, sure, but to me she was a girl, despite what Naz would say about disrespecting. I'd seen Kim puke her guts out and smash her face into a cell wall trying to kick a crack habit. I'd listened to her cry, sob and beg to die because she missed her brother, Anthony. She wasn't a woman. She was a girl. I was glad to see her and wanted her a million miles away in the same breath.

I pushed off the bus stop.

The black guy was still looking at me.

I spun round at him. "What the fuck is your problem, man? Do you know me? Do you?"

He turned to his white mates. They weren't helping him out.

"Why you acting like you know me?" I rounded on him. "Why? Why? Ain't you never seen breasts and nipples before? What the fuck did you suck on as a baby?" I kissed my teeth at him, walked away.

I headed for the Bangladeshi cash and carry. Kim was browsing the crates of fruit and vegetables stacked outside. An Asian kid watched her from the doorway, his arms loose at his sides. He was wearing shorts and a red football shirt, a white cotton prayer cap on his head. His legs were skinny. He looked no older than fifteen. He was right to watch her. She was a thief.

She prodded a few bits of fruit, picked up something, put it back down. She kept looking round in no particular direction, rocking on her trainers, ready to snatch and run. She was wearing baggy grey jogging bottoms, an unbuttoned denim shirt and a skimpy orange crop top. A bag was slung over one shoulder, unzipped. I wondered what she'd already stolen.

"Can I help you?" asked the Asian kid in the prayer cap. "What would you like to buy?"

I think he was hoping she'd go away. Kim had other ideas. She slammed her hands on her hips, jutted out her chin. "What's your problem? You think I'm gonna nick something?"

Yeah, I thought, he does and he's right ...

"I will help you," said the teenager. "What do you want? Let me help you."

I glided between them, held my hand up at the boy, told him to chill. I grabbed Kim by the elbow, steered her away from the shop. She leaned over my shoulder, yelling back at the boy. I tightened my grip until she lost interest, cried out in pain.

"Fuck, Kina, what's the deal?" She vigorously rubbed her elbow. "That fucking hurt, man, you know what I mean?"

"Why are you following me?" I said.

"I'm not following you, man. I'm just about and about, you know what I mean? Out and about, you know."

She broke into a wide grin, displaying a row of shiny white teeth. She stopped whining about her elbow, threw her arms wide. "Kina, good to see you. You look fine, man."

I hugged her, held her tight. "Yeah, good to see you, girl. Just stop trying to get lifted for stealing."

She held up her hands, shook her head, all innocent. "Man, I didn't take nothing, you know what I mean?" She patted down her pockets. "Look, I'm clean."

"What's in the bag?" I said. "You wanna go back inside?"

"Nah, nah, not me, Kina. I ain't going down that road no more, you know what I mean?"

Traffic shunted by us. A bus came round the corner. I wasn't prepared to miss it.

"Listen, give me your number," I said.

We swapped numbers as the bus lumbered toward the stop, sunlight glinting off filthy windows.

"I _do_ need to chat with you," she said.

"Later," I said. "I gotta get somewhere."

The bus ground to a halt. Doors opened with a loud hiss. People streamed on and off.

"Keep your hands clean," I said. "You get me?"

Kim nodded. "I hear you."

I got on the bus. No seat. I watched Kim disappear into the crowds of people, head down, shoulders slumped.

I wondered what shit the girl had landed herself in.

FOUR

Barry Fraser shared a house in Wanstead Flats.

He took the bus to work, sold a ton of electrical crap, ate takeaways, played pool and drank with his best mate. Now things were fucked up. I wanted to find him and it wasn't just because I'd been paid to. I liked Donnie. He was impossible to dislike. There are people like that in life – you meet them once and instantly like them. I'm not one of those people. I don't smile much. I rarely laugh. I'm not approachable. Donnie was the opposite and I guessed, from what he'd told me, Barry was the same. I didn't wanna let either of them down.

But I wasn't keen on his daughter, Maggie. She had no respect for her old man, even less for me. I knew it was rich of me to talk of respect, after all the shit I'd done in my life, but I did have respect, plenty of it, for the right people, for the right things. I hated the word _bitch,_ I'd been called one often enough, usually with the word _black_ chucked before it, but I was happy to hang that word round that girl's neck. Maggie could go fuck herself, her and all the _people she knew ..._

I got off the packed bus, sweating. I tied my hoodie round my waist, found patches of cool shade as I walked.

I lit a cigarette. A tune bounced round my head. Brookes Brothers, Tear You Down. That was as up to date as I got. At least it was this decade (this millennium). Most of the music I was into was from the nineties and earlier. Plenty of jungle. I also dug a lot of reggae and Tracy Chapman, when I needed to slow the mood.

My phone buzzed. It was Kim. It was the sixth message she'd sent. Girl was too needy - it was starting to piss me off. I sent her one back, told her I was busy. Then I switched off the phone, pocketed it.

A young black boy weaved by on his bike, headphones on. Traffic meandered, the roads still jammed, no one really getting anywhere. A low haze, thick with car fumes, hung over the sprawl of housing; Leytonstone in one direction, Manor Park and Forest Gate in the other.

I took a right, avoiding a pile of cans that had been dumped on the pavement beside a street sign, no doubt a regular drinking spot.

Wanstead Flats stretched ahead of me, the furthest tip of Epping Forest, with only the A12 keeping the two apart. It was untamed grassland fringed with trees and dotted with ponds and winding pathways. I hadn't been this way in a _very_ long time.

The squeals of children filled my ears. A playground stood on the edge of the flats, newly-built, enclosed by brightly-painted red railings. Kids ran and chased, hopped, climbed, swung, dived, spun and yelled. Parents sat on benches, chatting and rocking pushchairs, sipping tea and nibbling biscuits bought from an open kiosk painted blue with yellow lettering. I stopped, watched, a faint smile on my lips. Now and then one of the parents had to get up and break up an argument or console a crying toddler but it was over quick enough.

Sunglasses on, cigarette in hand, I headed down the street. The houses were old Victorian-style, all with a great view across the flats. There were cars parked on both sides of the road.

A tree grew outside the house where Barry lived and it was seriously out of control. Huge branches had wrapped round a street lamp and were hanging over the pavement, creating a shaded canopy. I didn't know trees. What I knew were birds and there were birds up above. It was a shame they were so timid. They ran away – _flew away –_ the moment you got near them. I hesitated, not wanting to frighten them. I waited, spotted a couple of finches perched on a low branch. They were beautiful little things, plenty of yellow and red on them.

Wings flapped noisily and a fat grey pigeon came out of nowhere, crashing into the tree, scattering the finches. I swore. A second pigeon landed. This one was brown and white in colour. I had no love for pigeons. I'd had them all over the roof of the flat I'd lived in last year and was always cleaning shit off the bedroom window.

I took off my sunglasses, ground out my cigarette.

The house was old-looking, a few slates missing from the roof, large patches of rust on the guttering, paint peeling from the window frames. There was a half-demolished front wall and no gate, only the rusted remains of hinges. The small front garden was paved but the slabs were stained and uneven, moss and weeds growing between them, faded flyers wedged in gaps. A wheelie bin had been overfilled and buzzed with flies. My nose wrinkled at the rank smell. There was a plastic box of rinsed bottles and jars. One of the tenants was keen on recycling.

There was also a ton of junk waiting to be collected or taken to the nearby council dump. A busted clothes dryer. Oblong-shaped pieces of wood, once a bookcase by the look of it. A battered maroon-coloured suitcase with broken catches. A rusted bread maker with a cracked lid. A cheap hi-fi with broken speakers.

I stepped into the porch, swatting away a persistent fly determined to land on my bare arms. There was dirt on the walls, cobwebs overhead and a worn Hessian mat on the ground, its word of _welcome_ a discoloured smear.

I dug out the set of keys Donnie had given me, opened the front door. I walked into a hallway with no carpet and magnolia walls. The floorboards creaked. Two doors on my right, both closed and numbered, and stairs on my left. I could hear a TV from the floor above. A beaded curtain hung at the end of the hallway, a kitchen beyond. There was someone out there.

I half-pushed through it. The kitchen was basic but clean. There was the smell of meat and way too much deodorant.

A dark-haired white man in shorts and a stylish string vest was at the counter, back to me. His legs were tanned, thick with tightly-curled hair. Headphones draped from his ears, connected to a mobile in his pocket. There was the tinny sound of music. The swish of the beaded curtain caused him to glance over his shoulder. He stared at me for a moment, his gaze dropping from my eyes and down my freckled face, over my mouth, neck, breasts, stomach, slowly down toward my ...

"Hey, man," I said.

His eyes snapped back up. He nodded, just the once, then turned away. He was in his mid-thirties, I guessed, bearded, a tanned complexion, skin-marked. He went back to fixing himself a sandwich. The bread looked yellow. I didn't recognise the meat he was using and the dressing came from jar with a label I couldn't read. He topped it off with thinly-sliced tomatoes and a piece of lettuce.

"I'm looking for Barry," I said.

The guy didn't respond.

"Is he around?"

Nothing.

"The old guy who lives upstairs?"

Still nothing.

"Do you speak English?"

He was happy to keep ignoring me. He took a can of beer from the fridge, picked up the plate with his sandwich and tried to edge by me, getting in one final and less than subtle look at my breasts. _What the fuck was it with guys today? Like dogs on heat ..._

He went upstairs. The staircase creaked. I heard a door unlock, the sound of the TV got louder for a second, then the door shut and the TV became muffled once more. I glanced round the kitchen. There was a wipe board with a list of chores. Barry was on bathroom duty this week. I got the feeling the bathroom wasn't getting done. Nothing else caught my eye so I went back into the hallway.

There was a wooden shelf near the front door, chipped, paint peeling, cluttered with letters, leaflets and a small package. I quickly flicked through the mail. None of it was for Barry. There was a cork notice board above clogged with flyers, taxi cards and a set of house rules inside a laminate.

I dropped down on the foot of the stairs, took out my notebook and scribbled a message about Barry. I pinned it to the notice board with one of my business cards. I stepped back, stared at it for a moment.

A figure appeared in the porch. The front door swung open. A young woman was propelled through the doorway, wrestling bags, a satchel, keys and sunglasses. The door flew from her hand, slammed against the wall.

"Sorry," she said. She grinned, sheepishly. Before I could even offer any help she attempted to close the door. It slammed for a second time. "Sorry," she repeated. I don't know why she kept apologising. I didn't live here. "It slipped out of my hand," she said. "You know, I think I'll go back out and start again. Normally, I'm not this noisy."

I didn't think she was noisy. I thought she was _cute_. She was white, mid-twenties, straight brown hair to her shoulders, her fringe a little wild, hair curling this way and that, loose strands tickling thick brown eyebrows. Her eyes were deep blue, large and bright, mascara and eye shadow purple. I held eye-contact for a split-second ...

She was much shorter than me, easily by three or four inches, and carrying more weight. She wore a printed kimono wrap over a V-necked jersey dress, slashed over large breasts, pale cleavage on show. Her legs were hidden in black tights, her feet snug in black ankle boots. A black fedora was angled across her head. It suited her fine. I'd never worn a fedora, only a cap. She looked perfect in a hat.

"Cab firms and takeaways," she said. I frowned. She nodded at the notice board behind me.

"Yeah," I said, not looking round. "Do you want a hand?"

"You're OK, I got it."

Juggling her bags and keys, she went to the first door, unlocked it. "Kitchen is down the end," she said, pointing and nudging the door open. "There's a dishwasher which is a blessing."

She dumped her bags and satchel inside, took off the fedora.

"I'm Ella," she said. She extended her hand. Her nails were painted purple. Her skin was fleshy, warm. "Kina," I said.

"Didn't anyone come with you? The agency are rubbish. They still haven't sorted out the toilet. _You need to flush it at least twice to get rid of ... you know._ Don't worry, I can show you around. I hope you don't like loud music. I had a terrible time with my last neighbour. Where do you ...?" She stopped. She looked at me. I looked at her. I let the penny drop. "You're not the new tenant, are you?"

I shook my head. "I'm looking for Barry, guy who lives upstairs."

She clasped her hands to her reddened cheeks, laughing. "I am such a doughnut. I'm getting a new neighbour. I'm a bit nervous about it." She jabbed a thumb at the room next door. "She was a nightmare. I don't think she knew how to do anything quietly. I thought I was getting you." A heartbeat. "That would have been nice."

"Sorry, I'm just looking for Barry." I didn't know why I was apologising. "Have you seen him?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Not since Friday. He usually gets home from work round about this time. Are you a friend of his?"

I got what she was asking.

"Ain't nothing like that." I let out a smile. "Barry hasn't been seen for a few days. He's missed work, appointments, that kind of thing. People are worried."

The humour dropped from her eyes. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope he's OK. Can I help?"

"When did you last see him?" I asked.

She leaned against the doorframe of her room, thought for a moment. I glanced at her figure, taking in her legs and rounded hips, the pale slopes of her breasts. _Shit, I was just the same as the sandwich-making creep._ I don't think she noticed. I hoped she hadn't noticed. She wasn't my usual type. Not that I had a type. Guys have a type. They chat shit about _this pussy_ and _that pussy_ like we're all factory-packaged just for them. Guys love types. It's their thing. Not me. But I do seem to end up with the same _kind_ of woman – _is that a type?_ – and they're usually petite, passive, willing for me to take control. Naz was different; incredibly strong-willed, determined, forceful. In my teens and early twenties most of the women I'd slept with had been much older than me, often married women looking for something rough off the street. I didn't go for that anymore.

There was something about Ella, something very different ... it left a pulling feeling inside of me, a curious ache ... I almost couldn't breathe.

I didn't know if she was gay - or gay and interested, or gay, interested and single. _I wasn't single._ The thing was gays didn't walk round with a big fuck-off sign stating _I am gay, come and get it._ Even gay clubs and gay bars were filled with straight women. So you went on little things. Like straights do. Eye contact, touch, conversation, those normal things that straights think non-straights don't do.

I liked her smile, the sound of her voice, the wetness of her lips, her large blue eyes. _Shit, her eyes were gorgeous._

"Friday morning," said Ella. I blinked. "Before he went to work. That was when I last saw Barry."

"How was he?"

"Fine, fine. He's a lovely man. He's very sweet. He did ask me out when he first moved here. _I turned him down._ But he really is a nice man. He has good manners and always cleans the shower after he's used it."

"So Friday morning was the last time you saw him?"

"Are you a policewoman?"

"No. Shit, do I look like one?"

"You sound like one," she said. I gave her a wry smile. "But, yes, Friday morning was the last time I saw him."

"He didn't come back Friday evening?"

"I was out with a friend Friday evening. I didn't get home until midnight."

I started wondering who the friend was.

"Does he get on well with the other tenants?" I asked.

"I think so." She gave a small shrug. "Yes, I'm sure."

"No arguments?"

"With Barry? No, nothing." She tilted her head toward the ceiling, lowered her voice. "There are rows though. I think it's race, religion." She shook her head. I had to step closer to hear what she was saying. She had a lovely smell. "There are three rooms upstairs. One of them is rented by two Polish men, Kuba and Damian." She waved a hand at me. "I don't have a problem with Polish, by the way. But there is a woman who lives in the next room. Her name is Mariana, she's Romanian. She's lovely, speaks very good English, but Kuba has a real problem with her. He doesn't like Romanians. He thinks they're scum. _His words._ Damian doesn't have any issue with her. I think he fancies her but would never ask her out because of Kuba. Now and then it all flares up."

"Has Barry ever got in the middle of one of these rows?"

"Yes, once. Kuba was being incredibly rude. Most of it was in Polish so none of us knew what he was saying but ..."

"You could tell it wasn't nice," I said.

"Exactly." Her lips glistened. "I like it when someone can finish my sentences for me."

"Sorry."

"I wasn't complaining."

A pause.

"When did this row kick off?" I asked.

"Oh, this was months ago, last year, around Christmas, I think."

"And Barry got in the middle of it?"

"Yes, but it all calmed down afterwards. I saw Kuba and Barry shake hands later that evening."

She looked over my shoulder at the notice board, reading the note I'd pinned up. I grew embarrassed at the state of my handwriting.

"Ignore my handwriting," I said.

She didn't comment. "Do you have another card? I can call you if he comes back."

"Sure." I dug one out for her. "A friend of mine got them printed for me. She said I needed to present a more professional image if I was gonna keep investigating shit. Taking on cases, I mean."

I had no idea why I was telling her all this.

"I'd better get my shopping put away," said Ella. She gestured with the card. "Nice meeting you, Kina. Shame you're not going to be next door."

FIVE

The thin cord carpet was striped with fading sunlight. Dust motes floated in stale air. I pushed open a window, filled the room with the noise of traffic.

A family would've lived in this house. Proud and hardworking parents. Two or three children. Walls soaked with memories. Now it was only rooms. Sliced and diced and filled with strangers; low earners stapled together, nothing else affordable.

I rented a flat above a record shop. I had more than one room. I didn't have to share a kitchen or bathroom. I had a sofa-bed in the living room, a bargain in the New Year sales. I didn't use the bedroom. It was filled with an overflow of vinyl, cassettes, CDs and music memorabilia (all neatly arranged in storage boxes). It was the location of one of my assorted part-time jobs.

Dylan, the guy who ran the shop, sold online as well. At the end of the day he'd post through an envelope of invoices. I'd pack them in the evening and drop them off at the post office the following morning. He'd installed a wooden packing bench and there were boxes of bubble-lined envelopes and cardboard mailers. It didn't take long. Some days there were no orders at all. He paid me peanuts but it chipped a few quid off the rent at the end of the month, which was greatly reduced because I didn't have full use of the flat. He'd rented it out years ago but it hadn't gone well for him – the tenants had trashed the place and run off owing three months rent. He was happy with me. I didn't give him any shit.

He was about eight years younger than me, a likeable, easy-going kind of guy. I'd met him whilst investigating a murder last year, involving his best friend. A young woman helped him in the shop. Her name was Tayla. She was the friend who'd got the business cards printed for me. I did feel a bit stupid carrying them round and even more stupid handing them out because I was light years away from the professional investigators who operated in the capital.

Now and then I thought about why I was renting from Dylan - the flat I'd been in last year had been burnt-out in an arson attack. It still fucked me off. My blood raged whenever it got into my head, made me wanna lash out.

But then I was an ex-con. It didn't matter how many years I'd served or how much remorse or regret I'd shown for the crime I'd committed because I would always be an ex-con (one of my many labels) so what I felt and what I'd lost meant shit. I hadn't shown much in the way of remorse or regret for killing Billy Ingram. The guilt that washed through me, destroying bits of me on a daily basis, threatening my ability to function like a normal adult – that guilt was for the things I'd _never_ served time for. I was happy to punish myself for those crimes until the day I punched out for good in this life.

Ella was moving around in the room below ...

Her voice was in my head, that bouncy tone, warm and friendly. I pictured her round face, cheekbones flushed, moist lips parted, desperately wanting to kiss her ...

I needed to focus.

Leaning beside the open window, cool air rifling through the gap, I slowly ran my eyes over Barry's room.

There was a bed, a wardrobe with a single mirror on the right hand door, a chest of drawers with a stack of magazines on top, most of them about the latest in technology and home entertainment, a little home research for the guy. A square-shaped table was under the window with two folding chairs. There was an armchair, a radio with a pair of headphones plugged in, a few cardboard boxes, stacked haphazardly; dated looking ornaments thick with dust, a bundle of paperbacks, spines broken, pages tanned, a tub of playing cards, more than a dozen decks, still in cellophane wrappers. No TV. No sound system. No gadgets.

It was all Barry had to show for sixty-one years and it didn't seem enough. I know the guy had been an arsehole through his marriage but there was sadness in the room and it was slowly creeping over me. I thought about my own dad living in a room like this, in a city like London. But that was make-believe and fairytales. He'd been dead for twenty-six years, taken from our house in Belfast, right in front of me, our living room suddenly filled with men in combat jackets and hoods, shouting at my dad, my big mouth shut for the first time, only ten-years old, watching through tears as he was dragged out to a waiting car, the Godfathers finally running out of patience with him.

Dad was found the next day - beaten up, tied up and shot.

He'd been an incurable thief. That was how the local newspaper described him. Those words had never left me ...

An incurable thief.

Barry Fraser was an incurable womaniser. Had he snatched hold of the wrong girl and had run because of it?

From the window, he had a perfect view of the playground, all those ripe women looking to be charmed away from the demanding schedule of being a mother, a wife, a girlfriend, a sister, a daughter, an aunt; juggling those roles, balancing one with the other, never complaining, never showing the wear and tear. And then along comes this man. He might be mature, you could've called him old, and he didn't tick the box of a muscled fantasy guy, but I guessed what Barry lacked in that department he more than made up with old school manners, charm and knowledge with a touch of cheek thrown in. The guy knew how to play the game and all at once the mothers and wives, girlfriends and sisters, daughters and aunts, get transformed into women.

Yeah, I could picture that scene, a hundred times over.

I still hadn't touched anything in the room. I was in no hurry. Once I was finished here I would head over to Naz's place and spend the evening with her. We hadn't hooked up for a few days. Earlier, I'd been excited about seeing her. Now, as the time got closer, I wasn't so interested. I would've preferred to pop downstairs and ask Ella for a drink. But that wasn't the only reason I was lacking in enthusiasm. I was keeping secrets from Naz and I knew time was running out.

I turned from the window, picked through the room. Without Donnie no one would give a shit about Barry because he's _just some old guy_ living in the kind of house he might have owned when he had his wife, Pauline. It would've been too big for them. They never had children. Barry couldn't father kids, as Donnie had explained.

Donnie had been here – found nothing. I didn't find anything, either. But ... it was what I _didn't_ find that was more interesting to me.

There were no toiletries.

No shaver or razor blade, no gel or foam, no deodorant, toothbrush or mouthwash, no aftershave, nothing, and that didn't fit with the image of Barry working in retail and chasing young women.

He's on the run or he's getting down and dirty with a new woman and hasn't come up for air yet.

I picked up a framed photograph. Barry and Donnie arm in arm, best mates, big grins and dark tans, short-sleeved shirts, canvas shorts and sandals; standing on the deck of a ship, twenty years younger, blue sky behind them. I put the frame down, got on my knees, peered beneath the bed and spied a laptop with a power cable. I dragged it, set it down on the small table beside the window, plugged it in.

The front door went, someone trotted up the stairs, across the landing and into the bedroom next door. Loud conversation broke out in Polish. The volume on the TV was jacked up. Sounded like MTV. Kuba or Damian had arrived home. I wondered if Kuba was the sandwich-maker or the MTV-lover.

The laptop had booted up. I grabbed a chair.

A presenter was chatting. Her words were clear. She sounded young. I cleaned dust from the mouse pad, guided the cursor toward a handful of icons on the screen, started clicking.

"Oh, Jesus," I said.

The presenter introduced her favourite video of the week. Music began to throb through the wall.

I got up from the table, stared at the playground across the road, empty now, all the children back indoors.

"No," I whispered.

I hastily switched off the laptop, slammed the lid. Bass lines fed through the wall. My gut churned.

"Fuck," I said.

The sun dipped behind the clouds, throwing shade over the rides, and the view of the children's playground became something far more sinister.

I needed to wash my hands.

PART TWO

SIX

Naz knew something was wrong.

Chilling together in her bath, candles all round, music from the living room, jazz or something, brown eyes roaming my face, trying to find answers. She was thirty-one years old. Indian descent. Luscious red-dyed hair. Gorgeous brown skin. Those eyes set in an oval-shaped face that normally bounced with humour. There wasn't a lot of humour right now. She was studying me.

She was intelligent, university-educated, tuned in. She could read me. I couldn't read her. She was a blank wall when she wanted to be. She knew how to hide things and knew how to make it look like she wasn't hiding things. I didn't know how to hide nothing. That was my nature. Take it or leave it. I stormed in. I exploded. I was learning, sure, coming up to thirty-seven and still learning how to deal with people and situations, but I wasn't there yet, not by a long way. This job had taught me a lot about patience and listening, about how much you can learn by letting others chat, by watching them when they ran off at the mouth.

Thirty-six, still learning. I wondered who I'd spend my next birthday with. Would it be Naz? Would I be blowing out candles with her? Somehow, I couldn't see that happening ...

I lay back and thought about the secrets I was keeping from her. One of them I would just out and out lie about to cover my back.

But the other ... _shit_ ... the other was heavy ... and if I revealed it then I reckon I'd be blowing out thirty-seven candles by myself.

Not that I wanted thirty-seven candles. Or a cake. Or anything. Which brought me full circle - _Naz knew something was wrong_.

I sipped wine, rolled my eyes at her, took another mouthful, tried to avoid her gaze.

"What?" I said.

"I'm here for you," she said. "Always."

She was smart enough, and patient enough, to let it come out naturally. Or let me think it came out naturally when she'd prod and poke and bit by bit slowly draw it out of me. She'd been working me over for the past hour or so, pulling at strands. She'd soon unravel me completely.

Her job was IT. She ran a department. I guessed it was all that analysing, problem solving and responsibility that gave her an edge over me. Though she hardly chatted work when we were together. She worked in Chancery Lane, I knew that much, but I didn't even know the name of the company she worked for. She'd let slip a comment once about an _arsehole from the first floor_ who always thought he knew more than her. Then she'd rant about men thinking they were superior to women where IT was concerned. That kind of shit pissed her off big time. She was a modern woman. She didn't want special treatment, only respect.

I'd asked her a few times if people at work knew she was a lesbian. She'd always move the conversation on to something else so I stopped asking. There was no point. What did I care? If I was a dirty secret, fine, whatever, sure, no problem. All I cared about was how she was when the two of us were together. I didn't give a fuck about the rest.

But this thing I was holding on to ...

I had to tell her. We'd been together for nearly three months. Neither of us had expected it to last more than one night. She'd seen the scars on my body. She must be wondering how I'd got them.

Naz rented a flat in Ilford, far away from where she worked in Chancery Lane, far away from her family in Islington and far away from _Heaven 101,_ the gay bar over in Dalston where we'd first met. She liked things kept at distance. We still laugh about that first night. She'd been trying to make a move on my now ex-girlfriend and I'd brushed her aside with a threat.

"I wasn't intimidated," she'd told me.

"You were."

"I saw it as a challenge."

"Snagging a bit of rough?"

"You're much more than that, Kina."

I'd already told her I was working on a new case; a missing person. I told her about the client, Donnie Copeland, his moody daughter, Maggie. She'd listened, washing my hair and massaging my shoulders at the same time. Then she got out the bath and fetched a bottle of wine from the kitchen. She'd cracked the seal, filled our glasses to the rim ...

Ilford was beyond her windows; a constant murmur of traffic, a few sirens thrown in now and then, wailing loud and sudden and then fading slowly. Muted snatches of conversation drifted through the open window as an endless stream of people went by on the pavement below.

"What is it, Kina?"

This was pretty direct for her. She never really asked stuff outright. Went round and round the houses to get anywhere.

"I never ask but I'm asking now. This can't go on. You have to talk to me."

Coldness swirled in my stomach, a sick coldness, a guilty coldness.

"What we have matters. You're carrying something. You have been for a few weeks. That burden will damage us and then there won't be an _us_. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

She was too smart for me.

"What's wrong?" she persisted. "No matter how terrible it might be you have to share it with me and get rid of that feeling that's eating you up inside. My reaction could never be as bad as the feeling you have right now."

Smart, smart, smart ...

"Tell me, Kina. Trust me."

She clasped my hands whilst invisible ones attempted to drown me in the bathwater.

"Barry Fraser is a paedophile."

Ilford kept on moving. All the traffic, all the people; they hadn't stopped because of the contents of Barry's laptop.

I told her what I'd found. She listened with a deepening frown, took a long drink of wine. Dirt and filth had invaded our lives, crawled into our private space. I'd always been mesmerised and excited by her, overshadowed, too, if I was honest. Right now, all of a sudden, she looked like a little girl and I wanted to comfort her, not put her on a pedestal to stare at.

I stroked her with my foot, turned it into a tickle. She grabbed my ankle, tickled me back. My leg kicked, a natural reaction, splashing water. We laughed and then fell silent for a moment, guilty at sharing humour.

We listened to the traffic, the people going by. I emptied the last of the wine into our glasses.

I realised I'd managed to avoid opening up about the _other_ stuff that was bothering me ...

"How bad were they?" she asked.

"Horrific."

"Oh, my God."

"Yeah."

"That's awful."

"I've washed my hands a dozen times."

"How many did you find?"

"Thousands," I said, nodding. "Thousands."

"How young were the children?"

"No older than seven or eight. Donnie said Barry liked them young." I kissed my teeth.

"Bastards," said Naz. She didn't swear much. It really had to be something bad for her to swear. "That Donnie conned you."

"I thought of going back to the pub, ramming that money down his throat. But ..."

"What?"

"I don't know." I lightly tapped my glass against my temple. "I missed something at the house. I know it. I'm going back in the morning."

She said nothing more. I asked her about her day. "Long. Busy. Not as difficult as yours though," she replied.

"I didn't have a difficult day. I spent most of it in a pub full of white people. And shouting at some fool at the bus stop." I grinned. "Yeah, difficult."

Naz climbed silently from the bath. She had a beautiful shape and eight beautiful tattoos. I had six. On her back, rising from her firm arse toward her shoulders, was the stunning design of a person with no facial features, clearly a woman by the curve of her body. The plain-faced woman stood in a garden of soaring flowers with trees and rolling hills in the distance.

"What do your family think of your tattoos?" I'd asked her once.

"I have a very progressive family."

I wasn't university-educated, like Naz, I was barely educated, but even I knew an evasive answer. I'd thrown another at her.

"Do they know you're a lesbian?"

"My family have always allowed me independence."

Which wasn't an answer, either. I wondered if she was really in IT or maybe she was a politician.

She had photographs of her family in her bedroom. There were several generations with only the most elderly traditionally-dressed.

I didn't know any of their names.

Grabbing a towel, she propped her left foot on the edge of the bath, started drying between her toes.

I stared between her legs, smooth and damp, and couldn't stop thinking of Ella and wanted suddenly to get out of here.

"You're beautiful," I said, instead.

"So are you."

"Yeah, right."

I turned my head, stared at the candles, drank.

"Did you call the police?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She lowered her leg, switched to her right foot. I stretched out, shrugged.

"Why not, Kina?"

"I wanna check something first. I told you."

"Like what?"

I didn't answer her.

"You don't like the police, do you? Have you been stopped or hassled by them before?"

I couldn't help but let out a short laugh.

"I don't understand you," she said. The warmth in her voice was dissolving. She wrapped the large towel round her body. "You've come across a laptop full of child abuse images and you don't want to notify the police. How well do you know Donnie Copeland? What if he's a paedophile as well?"

"Dylan knows him. The old guy is sound. I think."

"You should talk to Dylan. Find out ..."

"Yeah, alright." I got out the bath, angrily grabbed a towel and went into the living room.

Behind me, the bathwater gurgled loudly as Naz yanked out the plug.

"Kina?"

"Leave it."

I was sat beside the window, the only place I was allowed to smoke in the flat. I lit a cigarette.

"No, I won't leave it."

"Man, you should."

I couldn't look at her right now.

"Don't call me man or girl. I'm a woman and I have a name."

"Right."

"What kind of answer is that?"

"Only one I got."

I blew smoke through my nose.

"Why are you being like this?" she said.

"Like what?"

"Like _this_ ..."

"Is what it is, you get me?"

"Don't go all gangster on me. I don't want that from you and I don't deserve it. I don't understand your attitude."

I snorted. _Yeah, always attitude, that word you all love ..._

"You've uncovered thousands of files of exploited ..." she began.

"I saw the fucking pictures," I shouted, and she went silent. I stared at her long and hard. "I saw the pictures," I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. "You get me? I saw them. Not you. Me ... I saw them and I _need_ to go back to that house before the cops get involved."

I ground out the cigarette, whipped off my towel, started to dry myself. "Something ain't right with that laptop. This don't feel right to me."

"Was that our first argument?" asked Naz.

"I think so."

"I didn't like it."

"No."

"Shall we get the other thing out of the way?"

"What other thing?"

I picked up my underwear. I wasn't taking her to bed tonight. I wasn't sure if I even wanted to stay.

"The thing that's hanging over the both of us."

"Ain't nothing hanging over me."

I pulled on my jeans and vest top, started lacing my trainers.

"I thought you were staying," said Naz. "You always stay on a Monday. You don't start back until tomorrow night."

She was referring to one of my other jobs. I couldn't live off being an investigator, unofficial or otherwise. I didn't get that much work and I hadn't always been paid. I'd been washing cars before Christmas but that had fizzled out last month when the place got raided. I had no clue what went down but I cleared out at once. I'd been coming out the newsagents across the road, buying cigarettes, when these cars just swooped on the site and a handful of men and women in suits got out. It hadn't been a cop raid. I'd guessed it was immigration.

The night job was with B&C Cleaning. I worked Tuesday through to Friday, 8pm until 11pm. I enjoyed cleaning. I really did. I liked the order, the discipline; there was something _therapeutic_ about it. The contract was in an office block in West Ham. One of the girls I cleaned with was called Simone. She was black, a lot older than me. She lived in Leytonstone, in a house near St Patrick's cemetery. She owned a car and gave me a lift home when she saw me walking one night. I told her it was only Forest Gate, not too far away. She wasn't having any of it. Now it was a regular thing. She was a good woman.

"I gotta get going," I said.

She was breathing heavily. So was I. Anger was brewing in my veins. I needed out.

"Is there someone else?"

"No."

"Was it the weekend you were at _101_ without me?"

I narrowed my eyes, tightened my mouth. She'd busted open the first of my two secrets without much effort.

"Nothing happened that weekend."

She folded her arms, pulled back her shoulders.

"Was it Sara?"

"It was no one."

"It was, wasn't it?"

"No."

I was lying. It _had_ been Sara. But just the once, well, twice. Naz had been away for the weekend. A family thing. I hadn't been invited. I was _her_ secret. My criminal record was mine.

"Did she pull that _I've-never-been-with-a-woman_ act? She's been sniffing around you for a while."

"She can keep sniffing. I ain't interested in her." _I wasn't, not no more._ "I haven't been with anyone but you since Christmas." A lie.

"Then what is it?"

Ella popped into my head once more. It was getting a bit crowded and complicated in there.

"We ain't tied, you get me? We have a good time, yeah? I think a lot of you, but we ain't tied. You got your secrets, you know that."

She didn't answer.

My phone buzzed.

"I'll catch up with you," I said.

Then I left. I was good at leaving. It was the one thing I did better than her.

SEVEN

I had shit to do and I was in the mood to do it.

Heading over to Plaistow where Kim lived with her brother, Anthony, I put Naz out of my head. I had the feeling I wouldn't be seeing her again. I couldn't tell her about my past and if I couldn't share that with her then what kind of future was there? How could we get anywhere if she didn't know where I'd been and what I'd been through?

It was a sticky evening. Only March, first month of spring, feeling like the middle of July. The weather in England was crazy, even more mixed up than what we had back in Belfast.

The heat from the day had burnt off the buildings and tarmac. The air dripped with humidity. Licking perspiration from my lips, I lit a cigarette, drew hard, savouring every lug.

Kim's parents weren't on the scene. Her mum had been killed in a road accident, mashed up by a lorry. She'd been making for a nearby crack house, a crumpled note in her pocket, more of Kim's stuff sold for a pipe and a rock. She hadn't watched the road, desperate for her fix. The driver had been unable to avoid her. Her frail body had flown like a rag doll.

Her dad never came to terms with it. He was fighting his own demons; drink, paranoia. He disappeared two months later. Kim never heard from him again. Her only blood was Anthony. He was much older than her, a crack addict, like his mum, and messed up in the head, like his dad. She'd always been vague about him. I did wonder, one time, if he was even real.

That evening, I found her on the street, hanging outside the train station with a few girls, jumping on and off metal railings, swinging on the roof of a bus shelter, looking for trouble with passengers trying to get home after a long day.

Behind them, a brown and white tower block was lit up, surrounded by houses and low-rise flats.

Kim saw me, broke off messing around.

"What up, Kina?"

"I'm hungry," I said. "Let's go."

One of the girls gave me an evil look. I didn't know her. She didn't know me. She was about eighteen-years old. She rocked from side to side, watching me, hands thrust in her pockets, chin jutted out, mouth twisted, baseball cap angled across her head.

I stood my ground. I was in the mood for smacking someone around.

She boosted herself onto the railings, looked away.

I kissed my teeth at her, left her behind.

The station was on a hill. The road sloped down toward a row of shops. We started walking, passing a car showroom. I threw a look over my shoulder. The platform was visible over the roofs of all the cars parked on the forecourt. There was the rhythmic clatter of a train. Lights flashed, brakes squealed, doors hissed; a few people stepped from graffiti-covered carriages.

Kim bounced alongside me.

We got chips. I doused mine in salt and vinegar. Kim covered hers in red sauce.

"You don't like sauce?" she asked.

"Nah, not on chips."

"You shouldn't put on lots of salt."

"Yeah?"

"Serious, Kina. Salt ain't good for your heart and shit. Blocks you up."

"That right?"

"Yeah."

"Salt?"

"Serious, man, it ain't good for you."

"You all brainy now?"

"I read it."

"You can't fucking read."

"For real, I can."

She laughed. I could smell drink on her. She could smell it on me.

"You worked since getting out?" I asked.

"Nah, man. Who's gonna give me a job? Look at me."

I did. She was dressed the same as when I'd seen her earlier; trainers, baggy grey jogging bottoms, a denim shirt. She'd fastened the buttons on it but missed one so the shirt hung crooked. She didn't seem to notice or care. The collar was raised. She wore a black cap over her short wild hair. The cap looked new. I asked her where she'd got it. She said she'd bought it. She rolled her eyes, curled her mouth at one end. She did that whenever she was lying.

"Things cool with you and Anthony?"

"Yeah, it's all good."

"He ain't messing you up, is he?"

"No." She rolled her eyes, curled her mouth. "He has to pop pills and they keep his head straight. You know what I mean?"

"What happens if he don't take the pills?"

"That ain't gonna happen, Kina. Anthony ain't a dummy. Boy knows he gotta take them pills. Keep him safe."

"Yeah, but what happens when he don't?"

She didn't answer me. Her eyes were on the people passing us. I noticed she'd barely touched her chips.

"What's the deal with you?" I said.

"I got _an ask_."

"So ask."

"It's heavy. I don't want no trouble. You feel me?"

We binned the remaining chips, wandered into an off-licence. I picked up a four pack of beer. The guy at the till checked my note twice. I gave him a look. _What the fuck is your problem, dude?_

Walking, drinking, we passed youths in groups, conversation loud as they drifted by. Music throbbed from nearby flats. Cars sped by, headlights blinking. A woman was shouting. Then a dog started barking until an angry voice told both to _shut the fuck up_.

We passed a parade of closed shops; beauty salons, a newsagent, a laundrette, a mobile phone store, a flower shop, shutters and padlocks all in place, alarms set.

A couple of middle-aged white boys called out to us, looking to hook up. We paid them no mind.

"This is near where I used to live," I said.

Kim wasn't interested. I didn't saying nothing else. There was no point. The girl needed to spill her guts. I took a long drink of beer, smoked hard. We turned off the main road into streets of terraced houses. We found a spot, a telephone exchange box, a huge metal thing. We boosted on top of it. I cracked open a second can. The street was silent. Here and there lights shone through glass panels in front doors. The sound of passing traffic was muted.

"You gonna tell me?" I asked.

"I need you to step into something for me," said Kim. She avoided the dark glare I gave her. "I got myself into ... like, this _situation_ , do you know what I mean?"

I kept listening, didn't say shit.

"Thing is, this _situation_ got me all tangled up. I need you to help me with it. Like before, inside, when you helped me out, you know what I'm saying? You remember? I was getting beat on and you went in an mash up 'dem girls ..."

"Shut up," I said, quietly. I lit two cigarettes, handed her one. "You wanna go back?" I asked.

She ducked her head, stared at her trainers. "No."

"Sounds like you do, girl."

"Nah, it ain't like that. It ain't nothing _illegal._ I wouldn't be coming at you if this was _illegal._ "

The more she said it the more she rolled her eyes and curled her mouth. Stomach churning, I lifted my beer can, took a long drink. I should've told her to disappear, right then, but somehow I couldn't. I already had one missing person to find. I didn't wanna double that number.

"... do this thing," Kim was saying. "I need to do this thing with someone ... and I ain't keen on them, yeah, you get me? But, you know, like, I gotta do this thing with her. So ... I was gonna tell her to get out of my face, you know what I'm saying, yeah? Gonna tell her I ain't on it, I don't want no part of this _situation_ with her ... and I just want ... you know, I want back up ... like when we were inside, you feel me?"

I nodded. "We'll talk at my place."

Kim grinned. "Alright, Kina." She raised her fist. I bumped it. "I knew you'd come through for me."

We grabbed a bus on the main road, right through Stratford and Maryland, on to Forest Gate. The record shop was in darkness. Dylan had closed hours ago.

"You live above a record shop?" Her eyes sparkled. "Cool."

I liked Kim. I really did. Not in that way. I just liked her. I saw too much of me in her. It was like she was a mirror. But she was stupid. She was really fucking stupid at times. She was into shit and buying herself a one-way ticket back to prison. And she was that stupid she couldn't see how fucking mad I was with her. The truth of it - she _wasn't_ stupid, she _had_ brains, the girl could read and write and knew shit I didn't - but she got led astray too easy and _that_ made her stupid.

I unlocked a side door, scooped up the envelope Dylan had posted through earlier, online orders he needed me to pack and post.

"What's that?" asked Kim.

"Work," I said.

She nodded, not having a clue what I meant. She was chatting as we went upstairs, chatting shit. She was still chatting as we went through the door, still chatting shit.

"Man, your place is clean. Hold on, hold on, where's the TV?"

"I ain't got no TV."

"No TV? What the fuck you mean? You mean you ain't got Sky?"

"How the fuck can I have Sky if ain't got no TV?"

"Man, I like the Simpsons. I record the Simpsons. Watch it all the time. That cracks me up. You getting a TV?"

I had a sofa-bed and a radio. I didn't have a TV or DVD player. I didn't have any ornaments on shelves or photographs on the wall. Kim glanced around the place for a second time, seeing how little I had, and then she started chatting again, chatting shit, only chat time was over.

I threw her against the wall, slapped her in the face. No more chat. No more shit.

"Kina," she gasped.

"I told you when you left Downview to pin down a fucking job."

"I ... I tried ..."

Fear in her eyes ...

"You wanna go back?"

"No ..."

Shaking all over ...

"You wanna take me with you?"

"Nah, it ain't like that, Kina, I swear ..."

She knew what I was capable of, what the old me was capable of.

"Kina, this ain't nothing _illegal,_ man ..."

Eyes rolling, mouth curling.

"The fuck it ain't," I said. "Next time I go away for good, you get me?"

I shook her.

"You get me?"

"Yeah, I get you, but this _situation_ ain't _illegal_ ..."

I pushed my fist into her face, held it there, tightened knuckles squashing her nose, letting her know I was a whisper away from beating on her. Blood roared in my head. My eyes bulged at her.

"I'm sorry ... it's this _situation_ I'm in ... you gotta help me ..."

I stamped away from her, roaring. Kim stayed pinned to the wall. I lit a cigarette. Tried to calm down. _I had to calm down._ They were all in there. Donnie, Barry, Naz, Kim, Ella, that fucking laptop. I started counting. Nice and slow. A method I'd been taught. One, two, three, four ...

Kept counting. Slowed my breathing. Started to realise where I was. Started to realise who I was.

Smoke curled from my mouth.

"I can't go back, Kim," I said, not even wanting to look at her. "You can't put me in something where I can go back. I was in there for eleven years ..."

She didn't answer me.

"Who you mixed up with?" I asked

Still nothing from her.

"Who?" I shouted.

She slid down the wall, crying as she went. _Shit!_ I went to her, crouched beside her, but she pulled away, swearing at me, tears running down her cheeks, mucus streaming out her nose. I gently put a hand on her shoulder. This time she didn't shrug it off.

"I'll sort it," I said. I pulled her close. "Don't worry." I backhanded wetness from my own eyes. "I'll sort it, Kim. I'll sort it."

She stayed the night, shared the sofa-bed. She was loud and sweaty. I spent half the night sitting in a chair by the window, smoking.

In the morning, I threw open the curtains and windows, made a pot of tea and a pile of toast. I had a second-hand kitchen table with chairs that didn't match. Kim crashed onto one of the chairs, black knickers, orange vest top. I was used to breakfast alone. Just me and the radio and Forest Gate coming alive with people doing their business. That morning was the noisiest breakfast I'd ever experienced. There was no peace with Kim. She chatted the whole time.

Sunlight spilled into the flat. There was movement downstairs; Dylan had arrived. It would be an hour before he opened the shop.

"Why should I help you?" I said.

"You said you'd sort it for me, Kina."

"I will. But why should I?"

"I ain't got nothing." She glanced over her shoulder at the unmade sofa-bed. "You want that?"

"Girl, if I wanted that you'd know it. That ain't what I mean. What the fuck are you gonna do?"

Reggae music vibrated through the floorboards. Dylan was singing. I'd heard the dude sing before. He was pretty bad. I looked at Kim. She grinned back at me. We both started laughing.

"What do you want, Kina?"

"Three things from you," I said. I counted off on my fingers. "One, you stay away from that crew you were hanging with yesterday. I don't ..."

"Man, I wasn't doing nothing, I swear it." Her eyes flared, her head rocked. "You can't tell me ..."

"One," I repeated, raising my voice. "You keep clear of them. You get me?"

She kissed her teeth.

"Kim?"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck."

"Two, you clean up, take a shower and get a fucking job."

"Man, there ain't no ..."

"Clean toilets, wash dishes, mop floors, stack shelves, any shit you can find."

"What do you mean _take a shower?_ "

"Girl, you stink."

She kissed her teeth once more. Then nodded. "I'll sort myself out."

"Three," I said, still counting off with my fingers. Kim rolled her eyes. "How much more of this?"

"I want you to meet a friend of mine. Her name is Tayla. She's part of a local group called _Reclaim._ "

"I ain't going to no church."

I laughed, told her all about _Reclaim_ and how they were a movement created as an angry reaction to the gun and knife crime in Forest Gate. How society needed picking up, shaking round and setting back down again, like one of them snow globes you see round Christmastime. I actually put it in those words. Tayla would've been proud of me.

"I've been to a few meetings, came face to face with a girl who stabbed me with a screwdriver years back."

Kim was silent for a long time, digesting the words. "OK," she said. "I'll do all that shit."

There was no rolling of the eyes or curling of the mouth. I was getting through to her.

"I got things to do this morning," I said. "We'll meet up later, sort this out."

"Cool."

"So who is it?"

She gave a big sigh. "Leah Atkins, dealer over Hackney Wick. Everyone knows her as _LA_."

I knew the name, told her to get out of here.

"Thanks, Kina."

She hugged me, bounced down the stairs, out on to the street. I hoped I knew what I was doing.

EIGHT

I needed to look Donnie in the eye. This was something that had to be handled face to face.

I told him about the laptop. Told him about the sick images and videos. Told him how young the kids were. Told him about the adults and what the adults had done to these kids. Told him I couldn't stop washing my hands. Told him what I'd seen was imprinted in my head.

He'd come to me because I knew Dylan Tucker and he'd known Dylan's dad. But he wasn't using me to track down his paedophile mate.

I watched his eyes. I waited for him to speak. He didn't. He couldn't.

So then I told him a story of back in the day, in Holloway years ago, before it got closed and we were moved around. There was this woman who'd abused kids. She was a childminder on the outside, a big woman with a big smile. Parents would drop off their little ones, trusting her with them, and she ...

We'd gagged her, busted her hands, broke every bone, beat her black and blue. I didn't tell him the other stuff that got done. I didn't even wanna think about that no more.

Now he knew where I was coming from. Now he knew what I was all about.

"You said he liked them young," I said.

He choked. "Not like that."

"That's what you told me yesterday."

"Not like that," he repeated, much firmer.

"Yeah, like that. Sitting in the pub yesterday, singing the praises of this dude. Your best mate."

"Not Barry."

"I know what I saw, Donnie. I know where I found it. On that laptop. Thousands of files. Little kids, man."

He cleared his throat, got some composure. "Not the _Bazman_."

"No more fucking _Bazman_ , you get me? Did you know?"

We were in a portable office on a construction site in Goodmayes. It was airless, thick with the smell of coffee and pastry. White blinds hung over dirty windows. I stood in blades of sunlight, kept watching him.

He got up from his cluttered metal desk. He was wearing faded blue jeans, heavy black boots and a stained sweatshirt beneath a high-visibility vest.

"The laptop belonged to Maggie. She hadn't used it for years. It don't work right. The battery don't hold its charge and the wi-fi was crap. Maggie uses a tablet now and her mobile. I was gonna chuck the bloody thing out but I thought of Barry and gave it to him."

"When did you give him the laptop?"

"Last year, I think. Yeah, last year. I told him to get on the internet and have a bit of fun. I don't think he even turned it on. He don't really know computers."

"C'mon, man," I said. "He's a salesman. In an electrical shop. The guy knows computers."

"Bushman don't sell laptops or computers. Ask Barry about TVs and all that stuff and he's your man but computers ... I just couldn't be arsed to sling it out. Seemed a waste."

He went to the nearest window, opened it. The air cooled his face. He was shaking. Visibly shaking. The site manager. The dude that handled a crew of men; coping with big decisions, rules and regulations, and shaking like a kid back from the headmaster.

"Barry wasn't that switched on with computers. I got him a few magazines so he could learn the basics. I think he read them but he couldn't connect. Not like that. I mean, he couldn't make the leap from words on a page to actually turning the bloody thing on and doing anything with it. I thought he'd chucked it out."

He wiped his hands over his face. He hadn't shaved this morning.

"It was in his room?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

"Tucked under his bed?"

"Yeah."

I leaned against the wall of the cabin. I was wearing black jeans, a white T shirt and a hoodie, the hood down.

"I don't get it," he said. "It don't make sense." He was pleading now, fighting for the name of his best mate. "That ain't Barry. I've known the bloke for thirty five years. That ain't him, love. He's been round Maggie all her life. He never showed ... he was like an adopted uncle. He couldn't have hid it for all that time. No way ... no way is he one of ... _them_."

With the window open, an endless stream of noise filled the cramped cabin; voices ringing out, drilling, hammering, vehicles shunting back and forth.

I'd done this face to face. I knew how to read people (except Naz). I'd seen all I needed to see.

"I think they were planted," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know for certain – I'm gonna check it out – but I reckon someone is trying to set him up."

"You what? Set up Barry? Make him look like one of those kiddie-fiddlers? Who would do that?"

"A couple of things bugged me last night once I got over the shock of what was on the laptop. I went back to Wanstead this morning."

Donnie perched on the edge of his desk, listening intently. His mobile buzzed. He turned it off. "Go on, love. I'm all ears."

"The phone socket for the house is in the hallway downstairs. No internet hub. Not even a phone. There's wi-fi from the surrounding houses but all password protected. And the files on the laptop are dated. They were copied to the laptop on Friday. All at once, during the day when Barry was at work. Now I ain't saying he didn't slip out, go to the nearest internet café and download all this but ..."

"But?"

"I found marks around the lock of his door."

"What kind of marks?"

"The kind someone makes when they're forcing a lock and don't know what the fuck they're doing."

He folded his arms. "Why would someone do that?"

"Someone wants to fuck him up, Donnie. They could've planted drugs or a weapon but they chose child abuse." I took a deep breath. "What's the name of his girlfriend?"

"He wasn't seeing anyone. I told you that."

"Are you trying to protect her?"

"No," he said, waving his arms. "No."

"You told me he always had a young woman on the go, right?"

"Yeah."

"So why not now?"

"I don't know. Maybe he did have someone and didn't want me getting on his case about it."

"You did that a lot, yeah?"

"Well, some of these girls are the same age as my daughter. I did give him a bit of stick over it."

"I think this is a warning to Barry. _This is what I can do. I can come into your room and put this shit on you. Next time I'll call the cops._ Like I said, why not a gun? Man, you know how easy it is to buy a gun? Nah, someone was making a point. _This is how I see you. This is how I'll make others see you unless you back off."_

He thought it over, nodded.

"That _does_ make sense, Kina." He cleared his throat. "I bet you're right pissed off at me."

"I was. Not now. You're too likeable."

"I'm sorry, love," he said, the voice of a kindly father. "I'm really sorry you had to see that sort of ... but that ain't the _Bazman_. I swear it. What are you going to do now? Are you still going to help me?"

I pushed myself off the wall. "You've paid me to find him. I ain't gonna stop. Did he say anything on Friday night about going on the run?"

"No, I would've told you."

"Did he talk about the laptop?"

"No."

"This is what I don't know. Did he find the images on the laptop and run or was he planning on running anyway?"

"Why are you convinced he's done a runner?"

"His toiletries are missing. No razor. No toothbrush. Nothing. The guy ran. Was it because of the laptop or something else?"

There was a sharp knock at the door. "In a minute," shouted Donnie. "I don't know why he would run." He picked up his mobile. "I can't stop checking my text messages hoping he'll send me one. Nothing. His mobile's dead." There was pain in his eyes. "I don't know if he's seeing anyone. If he is he never told me. I'm being straight with you, Kina, you know that don't you?"

The knock at the door came again. There was a black guy outside in a hi-visibility jacket and hard hat, paperwork in his hand.

"Problem with the delivery, Donnie," he called.

"I said in a minute." He turned to me. "What are you going to do with the laptop?"

"Track down who broke in and planted those files. Find out why."

"You need any more money?"

"Nah, it's all good."

"You keep a log of your hours. All your travelling. I'll cover the lot. What's your next move?"

"Talk to his ex-wife, see if she ..."

"Barry won't be there. That's a waste of time."

"It ain't a waste time, man. It's called being thorough."

"I'm paying you to find my mate, Kina. Not hassle Pauline."

"Are you being serious?"

"Well," he said, suddenly sheepish. "I just think it's a waste of time."

"Blokes are a waste of time, Donnie, but it's always mum or the missus they go running to when there's trouble."

I opened the cabin door.

"I'm guessing his mum ain't around."

NINE

She was the woman who'd endured the endless affairs and the final humiliation of her husband running off to Greece - Pauline Fraser for more than twenty years. Now she was Pauline Campbell and looking good on it.

She was white, taller than me. I'm five-nine. She was close to six foot. She had a lovely, athletic figure; a slender waist, flat hips, flat stomach, well-shaped legs. Her hair was brown, recently coloured and styled. She wore a pair of green sandals with low heels, skinny blue jeans with a frayed hem, no belt, a tucked-in designer shirt, a darker shade of green than the shoes, covered with black and white star-shaped flecks. The top three buttons were unfastened, revealing a lace-edged bralet and leathery skin. I still couldn't believe she was fifty-nine years old. I told her she looked twenty years younger, causing her to blush and look away.

She set down a tray of tea and biscuits.

"I'll be Mum," she said. "How do you like your tea?"

I told her; black, two sugars.

"No milk?" She paused. "Barry never took milk in his tea. Isn't that funny? What a coincidence. Help yourself to a biscuit. Don't be shy."

She poured into china cups, neat and precise. I watched her closely.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome.

I took a sip. It was quality tea, nice and strong.

"Is that OK for you?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Not too strong?"

"I like strong tea."

"Me too," she said. "You have lovely manners, young lady."

My eyes lowered. I'd never had a compliment like that. I wasn't gonna spoil the moment and correct her.

She had a pleasant way about her. That said a lot considering I was a stranger and here to dig into her past. Her smile was painted on, the kind of smile that told me she made the best out of life. She could've been incredibly sad or deliriously happy and I wouldn't have known. The reality for her was probably somewhere in between. She was old school. A woman who got on with things. It was what us women did best.

There are people you just take to. Pauline was one of them; another Donnie. I never understood how that worked. You meet someone, like them at once and feel you've known them all your life. In a way I _had_ known her all my life. A version of her. She was the next door neighbour who nothing was too much trouble for when you needed a favour, never mind how much it put her out. She was the woman your mum knew and you called aunt even though she wasn't one. She was the woman who no one had a bad word for. I'd never been a woman like that.

We sat at a small table beside a window. There was a vase of daffodils and a glazed ornament of two guys in suits and bowler hats. One was fat, the other skinny.

"That belonged to Dad," she said, following my gaze. "He loved them." She patted it. "He died four years ago. He was ninety-one. Mum went six months before. I think he died of a broken heart. You can do that." She sighed. "I still haven't done anything with their house in Romford. It's on Mawney Road. Do you know that area?"

"Not really."

"I don't want to rent it and I can't bring myself to sell it, either. I suppose I'll end up moving in there."

I'd phoned her first, wanting to know if she had heard from Barry recently. She told me she hadn't spoken to her ex-husband in years. I asked if she was prepared to meet me and talk about him. She was reluctant.

"He's missing," I'd said. "It might not be like before. He might be in trouble this time."

Her voice had sounded a little broken when she spoke again.

"I'll give you my address."

I already had it, from Donnie, but I let her read it to me. She was living in Beckton, her third address since the divorce. The bus had toiled through mid-afternoon traffic. We hit all the red lights. There was a bearded white guy who was stinking. I could almost taste his unwashed smell. It made my gut heave. I kept thinking of the money I was saving for a set of wheels.

She lived in one of three newly-built blocks. It was red-brick, no graffiti, covered in satellite dishes. There were paved parking bays, one designated for each flat. Most of the bays were empty. A brick path led to a small play area for children, a couple of swings and a big slide behind a low chain-link fence, nothing too fancy, not like the one on Wanstead Flats. It was empty at the moment; kids at school, parents at work.

I took another mouthful of tea. Sunlight streamed into the flat. I was baking, sweat rolling from my armpits. I took off my hoodie.

"Open the window," said Pauline. "You shouldn't take any notice of me. I'm cold all year round."

I popped it open a few inches, liking the breeze at once. The drone of traffic filtered in, the A13 flyover hanging against a hazy sky.

Interviewing was the toughest part of this job, I'd learned. Cops roll in and wave a warrant card around; they make people answer questions or drag them to the cop shop and force them to. I had to earn a person's confidence, persuade them that talking to me was gonna _benefit_ them. I wanted them to open up about stuff that was personal and painful, the kind of shit they didn't wanna share with family or friends, let alone a stranger. And I wasn't naturally patient. I liked things direct. Mum said I was a _bull in a china shop_. She always had confidence boosters like that for me. Of course, she was right, as usual, but I was never gonna admit that. So I had to find a different, less volatile version of myself for times like this. Crashing round got no one nowhere, I knew that. All you achieved was missing out on the things that gave you answers.

"I thought you might have been one of Barry's girlfriends when you called me. I can see you're not."

"No."

She leaned toward me, lowered her voice. "I think you're a bit old for him." She laughed. I laughed with her. She picked up my business card, studied it.

"So Donnie is worried about the _Bazman_ is he? God, I hated that nickname. I still do. It's childish."

"Donnie didn't want me to bother you."

"He was always a bit overprotective of me. I wish he'd spent less time worrying about me and more time trying to convince Barry not to cheat on me." She rolled her eyes. "Still, he's a kind man, Donnie. I love him and Sandra to bits."

I waited.

She sighed.

"Barry didn't have a childhood. His parents were alcoholics. They beat him when they were drunk and beat him when they couldn't get drunk. He was in and out of care."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

She put down her cup, patted my arm. "It was a long time ago."

I took out my notebook and pen, started writing.

"He did love me. You can make a note of that. He loved me very much. But not as a wife."

I looked at her. "Then he was crazy. You look amazing. You seem really nice."

"Thank you. I haven't always looked like this. I used to wear long floral dresses. I had no sense of style back then." She paused. "Barry loved me as a friend, a sister ... a mother."

"Does he have any brothers or sisters?"

"No, he was an only child, thankfully."

"Are his parents still alive?"

"I don't know. Probably both drank themselves to death. Or killed each other. It was a violent home. Do you think he's really in trouble?"

Before I could answer a door slammed in the adjacent flat. Pauline flinched like I'd just slapped her.

"Oh, the ogre is up," she said. "He's early today."

A voice filtered through the wall, a guy chatting into his mobile. He was that loud he could've been standing behind us.

"He always starts his day with a phone call. And then ... just wait a moment."

Deep bass rumbled through the paper-thin walls.

"There we go," she said. "I walk a lot. It clears the headaches, keeps me fit." There was pain in her eyes. She didn't wanna walk. She wanted to enjoy her home. "One good thing of getting older is that your hearing worsens. When I'm stone deaf it'll be a blessing."

"Do you want me to have a word?" I asked, lowering my pen.

"No, I've tried."

"I can deal with an arsehole like that."

She paused. "I have to live here long after you're gone."

The music got a little louder.

"This is the third address I've had since the divorce," she said. "I'm thinking of moving again."

They'd owned a two bedroom, semi-detached house in Forest Gate. It was sold six months after Barry had returned from Greece, hanging his head in shame and regret.

"We were left with no money. Negative equity is what they called it. Being skint is what it is."

She had lived with her sister for five months but there really wasn't any room. It all got a bit tetchy.

"I got a little place in Woolwich, a flat." She glanced round the front room. "Nicer than this place. I got a job. I used to walk to work every day. I even went out a few times with a man. Nothing serious, you know. I was there for five years. But then the company when bankrupt. I got another job quick enough but it was further away and the bus fares ate into my wages. I never got any money from Barry. I had to manage it all myself. So I moved from Woolwich and here I am."

"You and Barry never had children did ..."

"No," she said, before I could even get the words out. It must have been hard for her. Not only was Barry messing round with anything that had a pulse he couldn't even provide his wife with a child.

"Did you want children?"

"I'd rather not talk about that."

I let it drop. I wasn't sure why I'd asked. "Do you still keep in touch with Donnie and his wife?"

"It got too awkward. We'd done everything as couples and once I was divorced from Barry ..." She shrugged. "It's a shame. Sandy and I were good friends. Sandy is Donnie's wife. Sandra. We met at work. This is really going back. I think it was 1980, 1981. We worked in the same office. She was already with Donnie. She'd been dating him since school. I went to their wedding. That was where I met Barry." She paused, searched for the date. "That was in 1982. Barry was very handsome, a charming man. We had a _whirlwind romance_ and a year later it was Sandy and Donnie attending our wedding. We didn't have a church do. A registry office suited us fine. I go to church now. I enjoy the peace and quiet. I miss seeing Sandy and Donnie regular. We send cards. That's all. Sandy might _like_ a post of mine on Facebook from time to time and Donnie sends me funny videos through the mobile, jokes, you know. But it's not like what we had before. They were happier times."

The room throbbed with music, distant traffic. The painted smile had finally been worn away.

"I think I might go for my walk now," she said. "He is really annoying me today."

I nodded.

"I'm sorry I can't help you. The last time I was in touch with Barry was when Dad died. Will you let me know if he's OK? I still have a soft spot for the old rascal."

"You can't think where he might be?"

"No."

"I know this must be painful but do you think Barry might have tried to reconnect with Tracie Meadows?"

"I don't know what he would or wouldn't do. And I don't want to talk about that girl."

"Do you remember where she lived?"

She gave me an address in Forest Gate. "That's her parent's house. She was living there when she ... when she took up with Barry. I know she came back from Greece a few months after he did. I don't know where she went."

I closed my notebook. "Thank you."

"I don't hate him. I used to. But I don't. His parents have a lot to answer for. They were monsters."

"Do you know where they live?"

"I don't know Leeds at all. Besides, I reckon they're both dead."

I frowned at her. "Leeds?"

"Barry's originally from Yorkshire. Didn't Donnie tell you? He moved down to London when he was twenty-six."

She cleared away the tea. Neither of us had touched the biscuits.

TEN

The traffic was backed up along Leytonstone High Road.

I ditched the bus, tied my hoodie round my waist. The afternoon sun burned from a sky dotted with stationary clouds. I put on sunglasses, lit a cigarette, started walking.

I passed a long line of frustrated drivers. It didn't seem to matter that there might have been an accident or terrorist attack up ahead. Faces were miserable or plain angry. _Man, no one had no patience._ You know it was bad when I was complaining about that kind of thing, you get me?

I'd impressed myself with the way I'd handled the interview with Pauline. She'd told me a lot of stuff, most of it probably useless, but solving cases often came down to the smallest bits of information. She'd known a different version of Barry. He'd experienced a brutal childhood in Leeds, violence from those you love and trust the most. I wasn't excusing the guy for chasing twenty-year olds, I didn't exactly pick girlfriends round my own age, and Pauline wasn't excusing him either, but it mattered to her that I knew there were more sides to Barry than just that of the _Bazman_.

She'd quickly shut me down when I asked about the two of them having children. It was a sore point. Donnie had told me Barry fired blanks and there was never any hope of kids.

Was it that revelation that had driven Barry to prove himself with scores of much younger women?

How much younger?

No, I didn't wanna believe he got off on child abuse. There was too much pointing to the files on the laptop being a plant.

But why had he quit Leeds in his twenties and come to London? And didn't they say, whoever they were, that victims of abuse can become abusers? I know when I got beat in the past, by my one and only boyfriend, I would always go out and find someone to unleash all that hurt on. Sometimes it was a member of another gang, sometimes it was a civilian ...

I deserve to feel like shit for the things I've done. I deserve to hate myself. Doesn't matter how nice and polite Pauline thought I was 'cause the past is still the past and I can't change none of it ...

Naz flashed into my head. I'd ended it rough. That was another thing I wasn't too proud of that but that scene was history.

I started thinking of Ella - the cute girl I'd met yesterday – I guessed I was gonna call her later ...

The pavements were crowded, noisy. There were shops, takeaways, arcades; all grimy and rundown-looking, trying to elbow to the front, grab what little money there was in a low-paid area like this. There was rubbish in the gutters, rubbish dumped on the street, rubbish spilling from over-filled council bins. I spotted a Methodist church with closed doors and iron bars over the windows. There was even rubbish in the car park.

I kept my eye on the building as I went by. Churches put me on edge. I guessed it came from childhood. I'd been born in a religious country - anything rammed down my throat as a child had been puked right back up.

Horns blared.

An articulated lorry was angled across both lanes. The driver was out of his cab. He was white, looking really worried. He was talking into a mobile, his words in Polish.

Drivers yelled at him. A few were out of their vehicles, angrily waving their arms around, like that was gonna help.

One guy stamped over to the Polish guy, started jabbing a finger in his face.

The atmosphere was getting ugly.

Sirens were getting closer.

Briskly, I went on down the road, glad I was on foot.

I reached a petrol station covered in scaffolding and plastic sheeting. There were no workmen around. The forecourt had been coned off. A bunch of truanting kids with skateboards had taken the cones and set out a course. They zipped and curved, video phones capturing every moment.

The pavement widened. More shops. Takeaway smells filled my nose. Music was playing. I kept going. Another row of shops. This time Bushman Electicals was the first one. Next door was a cash and carry, then a fruit and veg shop and a clothes shop specialising in Indian fashion and after that a newsagent. All the buildings, except for Bushman, carried the business name Patel Trading. There was a wide alleyway beside the newsagent with a sign pointing in the direction of a furniture warehouse. Neither Bushman or Patel Trading appeared to own it.

My mobile suddenly buzzed.

A text from Naz. _Hated fighting. Miss you. Call me tonight if you want to sort this. Do you?_

I was working tonight. It was now 3.21pm. My shift started at 8pm. I pocketed my phone, didn't reply.

I didn't know Barry's movements once he'd left the Bricklayers Arms on Friday night at 9.30pm, crying off with a dodgy stomach. What I wanted to confirm was his movements _before_ and find out if anything had come up to make him run. Bushman Electricals was a good place to start.

There was a row of fridge freezers on the pavement outside the electrical shop with price stickers slapped on them. A white boy no older than twenty was looking them over. He wore sandals, baggy shorts and a red shirt, unbuttoned. He was hairless, toned. There was scarring on his chin. Every now and then he raised his hand to cover it. I don't think he even realised he was doing it.

The shop door opened and a black guy in an olive-green suit came out. He was tall, over six-foot, late-thirties, bald with a moustache, brown eyes, gold-rimmed glasses, a salesman smile.

A name badge was clipped to suit jacket.

MANAGER. ROGER STEADMAN.

He greeted the young man with a handshake, started chatting. The white boy was nodding and laughing. Steadman was a pro seller. No wonder he was manager. Then he turned up the charm to maximum. The white boy was digging out his wallet as I went past them into the shop.

There was an electronic bong. A rush of ice-cold air-conditioning hit me. My skin cooled.

A row of TVs were switched to the same news channel and a dull woman in a suit was chatting about how she was gonna help those less fortunate. I zoned out at the sound of her droning voice. TV was full of liars.

Two sales staff loitering near the sound systems turned their eyes on me. Both of them were Asian. A girl no older than seventeen veered toward me. She wore a black skirt, short and tight, black tights, black shoes and a white blouse with a gold-striped tie. Her name badge read: SAMIRA. She was carrying a company memo pad and beamed a fake smile at me.

"Good morning, how can I help you today?"

"Is Barry around?"

"No, I'm sorry, he isn't here today."

She was incredibly well-spoken.

"Was he helping you with something?" she persisted. "I can carry on where he left off."

I shook my head, told her I wasn't looking to buy. The second member of staff was a few years older. He was growing a beard. His black shoes were dull-looking, shirt and trousers a little rumpled, gold-striped tie poorly knotted. His name badge read: JOHN. He nodded at me. I guessed that was the most effort he was willing to put in. I inched past him. His eyes had already glazed over.

There were two desks at the back of the shop. The one on the right was empty. A black woman in a grey suit with a gold-striped tie sat at the one on the left, talking on the telephone.

I hung back, gave her privacy, but not too far back. I wanted her to know I was around. She caught my eye, signalled for me to sit. There were two chairs positioned this side of the desk. I took one of them. She kept talking. A problem with a delivery address or something. She was very professional. I wished I had a telephone manner like that. Her hair was dark brown and wavy and fell onto her shoulders. She looked a few years older than me and wore a wedding ring. A framed family photograph was the only the personal item on her desk.

I took out my mobile, sent a text to Kim, told her we'd meet after my shift, sort out her _situation_. She fired a text back. It was on. I replied, told her to keep out of trouble today. She bounced one back. _It's all good._ I shook my head, smiling. Getting Kim away from Leah Atkins was one thing but the girl had to take on the responsibility of keeping clean and building a future by herself. I wasn't gonna hold her hand all the way.

I read Naz's text once more, hesitated over replying. I owed her more than how I'd ended it last night. There was an electronic bong behind me. Two middle-aged white men stepped inside, followed by Steadman and the white boy. Another electronic bong signalled the arrival of a few more customers. All at once Samira and John were buzzing around. I put my mobile away.

Steadman came to the back of the shop, took the empty desk. The young white boy sat across from him.

"I'm sorry about that," said the woman, setting down the phone. "I'm Isabel, how can I help you today?"

It was the same opening approach that Samira had used. I guessed they were all trained to say the same thing.

I leaned forward, handed the woman my card. "I'm trying to find Barry Fraser. I know he's been missing work."

She studied the card for a moment. "He isn't here." She blinked. It was almost in slow motion. Her eyes were closed for a couple of seconds. Her brown eyelids were painted red, complimented by long lashes. I thought there was something wrong with her or she was gonna burst into tears.

She opened her eyes. "Donnie was in here on Saturday. Are you a friend of his?"

"That's right," I said.

Her eyes were normal now. She didn't appear upset. I wondered if it was a habit or a medical condition.

"I've known Donnie years. He's a nice man. He was very worried about Barry. He spoke to me and Mr Steadman."

She did it again with her eyes. An incredibly long blink. I tried not to stare but it was really odd.

"Barry hasn't worked since Friday – is that right?"

"Yes, he's missed Saturday, Monday and today. I don't know what's going on with him."

"Does he get a day off in the week?"

"Thursday. But ..." She glanced fleetingly at Steadman, and then left the sentence hanging.

"Is he gonna get the sack?"

She shrugged. "I don't know about that." It was clear that she did. She blinked once more. "It is a bit worrying when you think about it."

"Was there any message on Saturday?"

"No."

"Yesterday? Today?"

"No, I'm sorry."

She looked past me. A customer needed assistance.

"I'm sorry, I'm needed ..."

"Could someone have taken a message and forgotten to pass it on?"

She was on her feet. "No, that couldn't happen."

"How was Barry on Friday?"

"Normal?" It was more of a question than an answer. She looked over my shoulder. The customer was getting agitated.

"Did he say if anything was ...?"

"Isabel ..." called Steadman.

It was the final prompt. She was out from behind the desk. Steadman moved across toward me. The white boy had gone.

"Roger Steadman. I'm the manager." He extended his hand. "I couldn't help but overhear. This is about Barry, am I right?"

His hand was still hanging. Reluctantly, I took it. It was smooth, soft with lotion. I didn't like him at once.

He picked up the business card I'd handed to Isabel. "You're an investigator?" He seemed surprised. "Come through to the back. It's more private."

I didn't like the idea of going anywhere private with him but I followed into a room with a high ceiling and bright overhead strip lights that buzzed. Tall metal racks lined the walls and were crammed with boxed goods. There was a set of toilets, a fire exit, a lunch room and an office with a pebbled glass window.

A bearded, turban-headed Asian guy looked up. He was counting packs of batteries, tapping the numbers into a tablet. He was casually dressed; trainers, jeans, a dark polo shirt.

Steadman asked him to cover out front. The guy nodded, left without a word.

"Tea?"

"No thanks," I said.

"Coffee?"

"No."

"I could use a cup."

He went into the lunch room. There was a large table, six metal chairs with plastic seats, a scattering of technology magazines, a small kitchen area. Steadman filled the kettle, put it on to boil. He opened an overhead cupboard. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?"

I shook my head.

He took out one mug, spooned in coffee and sugar.

"Have a seat."

I dragged out a chair. He didn't sit. He stood a few feet away, legs wide, arms folded.

"How do you know Barry Fraser?" he asked.

"I'm looking for him. People are ..."

"Yes, I heard all that. That doesn't answer the question, does it? How do you know him?"

He was talking politely. He even managed to force out a smile. But I still didn't like him.

"Are you one of Donnie's friends?" he asked.

"I know Donnie."

He chuckled. "You're good at avoiding questions. I like that in you."

Donnie had sung his praises - _Roger this_ and _Roger that_. I thought the guy was an arrogant prick with eyes that roamed too much and a manner that was patronising. I also got the feeling Roger had a different opinion of Donnie. I'd noticed that no one called him Roger. It was Mr Steadman. I bet Donnie had pissed him off no end.

An awkward silence dropped between us, a bit of a stand-off. The kettle rattled as the water boiled. I glanced around the lunch room. Posters on the wall. A calendar with staff holidays. Half a dozen framed photographs. Steadman was in all of them - _who else?_ \- accepting awards, shaking hands with men and women in suits. In one of them he was on stage, playing guitar in a band.

"That's my band," he said, nodding. "Fire Men. I play lead guitar. You should see us, we're good. We play rock covers. We bring the _fire!_ " He rolled the word in a way he thought funny. "You'd enjoy it. We get the crowd jumping. Women go crazy for us."

He was waiting for me to ask something, like how long he'd been playing or what venues he'd played or had he always wanted to be in a band rather than sell electrical appliances? I asked him nothing. He didn't look happy. I'd stepped on his ego a bit.

"You weren't very discreet talking to Isabel. Not like what it says on your business card. Discreet inquiries."

He waved the card. The kettle clicked off. He poured, stirred, carried his mug over to me.

I got a choking waft of aftershave as he sat down. My skin crawled.

"I've been employed to find Barry," I said. "It's the kind of thing I do. I can't tell you more than that. I know Barry hasn't been in for a few days and I know you must be pissed with that. You're probably pissed about Donnie coming round and now me when all you wanna do is run your business." I nodded at the photographs, trying to make him feel good. "Which you obviously do very well." _I wanted to throw up._ "But Barry is missing. He's ain't skiving. He's ain't lying in the sun getting a tan. The guy is missing and this is one of the last places he was seen so I need your help, man."

Steadman sipped his coffee. "Are the police involved?"

"Yeah, they're gonna do everything to find him. Nah, they ain't involved."

"OK." He held up a hand, smiled. "How can I help?"

"Was anything troubling Barry?"

"He never said if it was. I don't know him outside of work."

"Anyone threatening him? Giving him a hard time? Did you see or hear anything like that?"

"No."

"Was he feeling pressured with work?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"He's a lot older than the rest of your staff."

"I know that."

"You OK with that?"

"I took over three years ago. Barry was already here. He's an efficient salesman."

I looked at him. "Guess I ain't the only one good at avoiding questions. Did you wanna get rid of him? Keep a more youthful image out front?"

"I'm glad you think I'm youthful looking."

He grinned. He didn't get one back.

"Yes, if I'm honest, I prefer my sales staff younger. But we do have a large number of older customers and they always go to Barry. He knows his stuff. I wasn't planning on sacking him but if he doesn't come back to work or at least pick up the phone then my hands are tied."

"Hold off a bit. The guy is sixty-one. A good job is hard to find, even tougher at his age."

Steadman took off his glasses, cleaned the lenses. "I could place him on holiday. He has days left."

"Thank you," I said. "Call me if you hear ..."

"What are you going to do for me in return?" He put his glasses back on. "You're a very attractive woman. How about dinner?"

I frowned at him. "For real?"

"There's a lovely new Mexican restaurant ..."

"No, thanks, man."

"We could just go for a drink, if you prefer?"

I shook my head, got up. He pushed back his chair, legs scraping.

"Would you like to see Fire Men? We're playing this Friday ..."

"Thanks, but I ain't interested."

"I think I'd like you to leave now," he said, hands on his hips, not even looking at me. "If Barry returns to work I'll have him call you on this number."

He escorted me back into the shop. I glimpsed my business card getting tossed into a bin.

Outside, I lit a cigarette, funnelled smoke through my nose. My mobile rang. Naz or Kim? It was neither of them.

"Kina, it's Ella."

"Hi," I said.

Her voice was lively down the phone. I smiled, almost closed my eyes.

But there was no time for small talk. She wanted to meet. She had information on Barry.

ELEVEN

A white teenager sat on paint-peeling railings, acne-scarred face and sour eyes tucked inside a hood.

He was the local dealer.

There were two girls with him.

One of them was white. She was about twelve-years old. Maybe thirteen. She was the lookout. She wore dark red dungaree shorts, an off-the-shoulder top, quality white trainers. Gold hung round her neck, dotted her fingers. She had light brown hair, fixed in a pony tail, pulled through a baseball cap. She stood in the middle of the pavement, legs parted, hands in her pockets, rocking from side to side, watching the surrounding streets and alleyways for cops or rival gang members.

Every now and then her eyes fell on me – I was across the road, sat in a bus shelter outside a row of terraced houses.

She kissed her teeth, spat on the ground. She was lucky I had something better to do.

Her companion was a year younger. She was mixed race and she was the runner. Her job was to fetch the food from the stash. She wore a hoodie, patterned leggings, trainers. Her footwear wasn't as expensive. She didn't have any visible gold. Give her a year and she would have.

There was no muscle around. The dealer was confident his spot was unchallenged or he felt he could handle any shit himself.

The white girl was still checking me out and now her dealer was taking an interest.

I smoked, ignored them.

A siren began to wail in the distance. Then it got closer, real quick, and a cop car burst into view, lights flashing. We all looked. The white dealer shaped his hand into a gun, took pot shots at the feds as they sped by. His girls laughed. Any interest they had with me had been broken.

A customer arrived; a grey-haired white guy, shuffling over to the dealer, slipping him the money. The dealer made a signal at the mixed race girl. She scampered away into an alley that ran alongside a boarded-up house, pushed through a gap in a chain-link fence, disappeared for a second. That was where the food was hidden. She was back a moment later, passing the drugs to the old guy.

The white girl strutted back and forth, her mouth flapping all the time. I could hear her from the bus stop. She was talking shit about _bitches in her yard_ and _bitches she was gonna burn_ and _bitches she'd taken out._

I dragged hard on my cigarette. I wished Tayla was here. She would know what to say to two girls who should be in school uniform. She was a big part of the _Reclaim_ movement, founded in Forest Gate, waging verbal war on the gangsters and the guns. In the past I'd been part of the problem. I didn't claim to know what the solution was but the drugs and guns came from somewhere and no one wanted to stop that flow so I guessed the suits in power were happy with the shootings, stabbings, burnings and dealing because it's going down on poor shitty estates and ain't happening in no fancy mews or nothing.

I'd done the whole cycle of crime and prison. I'd learned the hard way. Too late for me. Not too late for those girls over the road. Tayla was only nineteen, had never been in a gang or sold drugs but she had fire in her belly and knew how to talk to people in the game. She had that edge. My method would have been to slap the two girls stupid. I wasn't as progressive as Tayla. But the gangster life was all about luring the young ones in. In truth, those girls were already pretty old. An eight-year old can be a runner or lookout and the cops can't do shit to them.

Outsiders don't get it but gang life is family. When you're born into fear, poverty, hopelessness and diminished choices, the street gang is the most natural choice in the world.

Those girls were ... they were _products of environment_. But I still wanted to go and slap the white girl. She'd better stop staring at me.

I spotted Ella turning the corner, passing a Jamaican restaurant. My mouth became dry. I couldn't believe how happy and nervous I was to see her ...

She spotted the posse of dealers loitering in the middle of the pavement. Her pace slowed. She shuffled toward the kerb, waited for a gap in the traffic. I got to my feet, raised a hand. She smiled across the road at me. She wore the black fedora with a suit jacket, a black roll-necked jumper, blue jeans and black boots. Her straight brown hair was loose, falling to her shoulders.

She crossed, looked at me, a little uncertain. I realised I was staring. I loosened up, smiled, nodded and thanked her for the call. She visibly relaxed.

"I said I would call," she said.

"Yeah."

"Barry is a nice guy. I'd like to help you find him."

"You look good in a hat."

She flushed a little. "Thank you." She took it off, ran her fingers through her hair, put it back on.

"So what did you ...?"

"This way," she said, beckoning.

The white girl in the dungaree shorts started shouting. It took me a split-second to realise the hate was directed at Ella. I glared at the white girl with narrowed eyes. Ella sensed I was about to get involved.

"Don't," she said.

"That girl needs a fucking lesson ..."

"It's not worth it."

"You're worth it."

"I don't want any trouble."

Her companion had joined in now. The two of them in tandem. _Freak. Hairy bitch. Fat cunt._

Kids could be evil. In primary school back in Belfast, Northern Ireland, where I was from, I got singled out for colour _and_ religion. I was the only mixed race girl in our class. In fact, I'd been only one of three non-white kids in the entire school. I was also a Protestant in a mostly Catholic classroom. I knew all there was to know about hate-filled tongues.

The two girls were still taunting Ella about her look and her weight. I thought her look was cool and she wasn't overweight.

"Please, Kina," said Ella. "Leave it."

The dealer was off the railings now, standing behind his girls, grinning inside his hood.

We rounded the corner, left them behind. Another street of terraced houses, both sides of the road packed with cars.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Nearly there," she said.

"I thought you had information on Barry."

"Mariana does." She paused. "The woman who lives upstairs. _She_ wants to talk to you about him. She speaks very good English but she wanted me here as well. That isn't a problem is it?"

"It's all good," I said.

We reached a junction, turned right, went under a graffiti-covered bridge. A train clattered overhead. Out from under the bridge we arrived at a noisy garage behind a chain-link fence.

"This is where she works," said Ella.

There were cars and breakdown vehicles parked out front and men walking around in blue-boiler suits. A mechanic was in conversation with a dark-haired woman. She was halfway in her car, trying to get out of the place, and he was over-explaining the work he'd carried out. There was an office with lowered blinds and an open window. A radio was playing.

Ella took out her mobile, sent a quick text. "She won't be a minute."

I nodded, said nothing.

A large, shaggy-haired dog nudged open a side door, revealing a workshop where a mechanic had a car up on a ramp and was working at the exhaust. The dog started to prowl, spotted us loitering and loped across.

"We used to have a German Shepherd," said Ella, greeting him. The big dog coiled round us. She stroked it. "Her name was Monica ... y _ou're gorgeous, aren't you? You are gorgeous. Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Aren't you gorgeous?"_

I petted the dog with her.

"My sister and I had bunk beds," said Ella. "Monica would sleep by the door and guard us. I have photos of her back home. I must show you them."

I didn't say anything.

"Do you like dogs?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Do you have a pet?"

"No."

"The love from an animal is ..." she started.

"... unselfish," I finished.

"You have a habit of doing that."

"Sorry."

She raised her eyebrows at me, smiling. "That's OK. _It's all good_."

Mariana emerged from the office. She was in her late twenties, her face blunt and expressionless, brown hair held in a high ponytail. She wore a check shirt, black jeans and boots. Her eyes darted back and forth.

"Hello," she said. Her accent was thick. She offered a pale hand. I shook it. "I want to help you with Barry."

There hadn't been many Eastern Europeans knocking around London when I was sent down twelve years ago. There were plenty now. They'd come from countries I'd heard of - Poland, Bulgaria, Romania - and ones I hadn't - Latvia, Estonia, Belarus. Near where I lived in Forest Gate there were Eastern European shops popping up all over the place. They were the new migrants. I was an old migrant. Dad had been an even older migrant. I'd come to this country in the nineties. Dad had landed on these shores in the sixties.

I _was_ a bit wary of the new migrants. White people are always surprised when a non-white person shows even the slightest bit of prejudice. They think it's only them that can trust less because of skin colour or background. I'm mixed race and I can only speak for myself but I guess we are _less_ prejudiced as people because we know what it's like to suffer because of colour. White people don't suffer because of colour. The world is a white world. It's made for them. It's shaped for them. The default is white. Not black. Not brown. That's just the way it is. Tayla had said that to me once. She's smart, so I guessed she was right, but I told her I reckoned there was an even bigger divide; those who have and those who ain't and when your belly is empty it hurts no matter what colour you are.

I had no idea how many non-whites there were in Eastern Europe but it didn't seem many based on the usual reaction toward me. This girl, Mariana, had shaken my hand. She obviously didn't have a problem with me. It was refreshing.

We edged along the pavement, away from the noise of the garage.

"You are looking for Barry, yes? Ella said you come to house looking for Barry. He is missing, yes?"

Her voice was blocky but I could understand her perfectly. Her English was better than mine.

"Do you know where he is?" I asked.

"No."

She took out a box of cigarettes, offered them around. I accepted. Ella shook her head. I shared Mariana's lighter.

"I am sorry ... my English ... I have been here three years." Her attention went to Ella. "Still I learn. Sorry if you are ... not understand me."

"There's nothing wrong with your English," said Ella. "Tell Kina what you told me."

"I see Barry and this man. At a bar on Friday."

"What bar?"

"The Rising Sun. It is ..." She was determined to get the word right. "Leytonstone. My brother runs the shop across street. I was dropping off a gift for his baby." She was talking to me but kept turning her eyes at Ella. Her hand trembled as she dragged on her cigarette. "He has been in England for many years. His children are born here. He has two children. Boy and girl. They are new English, yes?"

"Listen, relax, OK?" I said.

Ella chipped in, told her she was doing fine. "He is nice man, Barry. I like him. He ask me for date. I say you are too old. He laugh. I tell him you are like my grandfather. He is polite, not like Kuba. Kuba is bastard." She then fell into her own language. It was lost on me.

"What time did you see Barry at the Rising Sun?"

"My brother close his shop at ten. I see Barry then. Friday night."

"Friday just gone, right?"

"Yes." She blew out a stream of smoke.

"How was he?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Did he seem ill?"

"I ... I don't know." She glanced at Ella, uncertain.

Donnie had told me Barry had left the Bricklayers Arms at 9.30pm, suffering with a dodgy stomach after a curry a few hours earlier. But he'd been well enough to make it across to Leytonstone and head for another bar.

"Was he going into the bar or coming out?"

She frowned at me. "Sorry, what ... what do you mean? My English, sorry."

Ella spoke up, repeated the question. I gave her a sideways smile. I don't know if she saw it.

Mariana nodded, understanding now. "No, he was standing outside. He didn't go in. He didn't come out. I didn't see. Maybe he was going in but then this young man stop him. He was no friend."

"What young man?"

"They are not friends. I didn't want to say anything."

"Were they arguing?"

"Yes, this man was jabbing his finger at Barry. Like this." She poked her finger angrily at me. I got the picture.

"What happened then?"

"The boy walk away. Barry was laughing. He find the boy funny. But they are not friends."

"What did Barry do?"

"He went into the bar. I didn't see him again."

"What did this boy look like?"

She thought for a moment. "Young, young boy. Very angry. Maybe twenty. He was white, not very tall, brown hair." She frowned. "He had thing on his face."

"A what?" I said.

"Do you mean a beard?" asked Ella.

I glanced at her once more.

"I ... I don't know ... my English, I'm sorry ..."

"Did he have hair on his face?" I asked.

"No, no, not beard. A thing. Here." Her finger went to her chin. "He has mark. I could see it across street ... a burn ... that is the word ... I have seen burns." She patted her chin again. "He is burned here."

I thanked her. She went back into the office. We started walking away.

"She's a nervous kind of person," said Ella. "She didn't want to phone you. She asked me to do it."

We rounded the corner. Traffic zipped by.

"You didn't mind me being here, did you?"

"Nah."

"What do you think of what she told you?"

"I'll look into it."

I was glad of her help but I wasn't gonna start discussing it with her. We walked a little further without speaking. The dealer and his girls were still about. Names streamed across the road.

"No," said Ella.

She curled her hand round my arm.

"Please don't, Kina."

The dealer shouted at his girl to keep quiet. Enough was enough. She was supposed to be a lookout.

The white girl in the dungaree shorts went silent and moody, eyes burning at us as we went by.

"You heading back to work?" I asked.

"No," said Ella. "I'm going home. I finished early today. I have a long list to get through this evening. Washing, ironing, a few calls, write out two birthday cards ... and studying."

"What are you studying?"

"Are you investigating me?" she said. She laughed. "I'm sorry. That was rude."

"I'm interested in you."

I nodded toward the Jamaican restaurant. "Do you fancy something to eat? Before you get working on that list?"

Her bright blue eyes roamed my face.

Locked with mine.

"OK," she said.

TWELVE

I fucked up with Ella.

I have a lot to learn about people. I might be getting good at being an investigator but I know shit about relationships. Sex is different. I can go to any lesbian bar or club and I'm confident I ain't leaving on my own and in the morning that girl is gonna be wanting me to stay.

But friendships? And relationships? That stuff is heavy and I'm out of my depth ...

That was all I could think as the train rattled toward Hackney Wick, Kim beside me, a few idiots at the end of a carriage that stank of beer, piss and sweat.

It was 11.32pm.

Kim was talking. I told her to shut the fuck up. I was in the mood for putting my fist in someone's face. I didn't want it to be hers.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I tried to empty my thoughts. It didn't work. My shift had been miserable. I'd spent three hours with a permanent scowl, regretting all the things I said in the restaurant. The other cleaners avoided me. Even Simone, the woman who gave me a lift home, didn't pry until the very last minute.

"I really hope you get it sorted, Kina," she'd said, as she left me outside the record shop in Forest Gate.

Kim started talking again. I opened my eyes, glared at her. She saw the look, went silent.

I didn't wanna hear her voice.

Or the voices of the idiots down the end of the carriage, dancing and recording each other.

But the voice I hated the most, the one that grated, that set my teeth on edge, that made me wanna shred my eyes with my nails, that voice, that fucking voice ... yeah, you know it, that voice was my own, and I wanted to ram my fist into my mouth and keep it there so I'd never hear it again.

Naz had sent three texts. I hadn't answered them. Maybe, if I was honest, I hadn't told her of my criminal past because I didn't _wanna_ tell her - not because I was afraid or frightened of her reaction. Maybe, if I was honest - and I hated how honest I was with myself - I had known time was ticking for the two of us. It _had_ just been a one night stand, one night that had lasted three months.

An empty feeling surged inside, nothing to do with hunger. It folded round me, pushed my head and shoulders down. I felt the lowest I'd felt since getting out last year.

In prison there is routine. Sure, there's chaos, real crazy shit and you have to watch your back all the time, never knowing from one day to the next what's gonna kick off, but even in all that chaos there is routine.

I liked routine. I relied on it. Was I ... what was the word ... institutionalised?

But on the outside it was just chaos and that was scary and in the middle of it all I would get lost.

I shouldn't kick myself around too much. Get this, Naz wasn't perfect, the girl had her secrets, for real. _Sorry, Naz, woman._ Her family was a mystery apart from a few photographs. No matter how many times I asked her about them she would shut down the conversation. Did she think I was stupid? That I wouldn't notice how she'd subtly moved us on to something new? She was like a politician at times. Her workplace was another mystery, too. I didn't even know if she was _out_ with any of them. The only place she seemed relaxed was her flat or at _Heaven 101_ , the lesbian bar we'd met in.

Thinking of the bar let my ex-girlfriend, Abi, into my head. She was younger than Naz, similar in age to Ella, and I'd gotten into a relationship with her pretty quick. It was the first serious relationship I had since coming out of prison. I should've tested the water with my toes but instead I'd waded in. _Bull in a China shop. Yeah, OK, Mum, I hear you ..._

I'd been terrified of using Abi, never once realising she was more experienced in relationships. It had ended in a painful mess. I still saw her with her partner from time to time. She always raised a wine glass at me. It still hurt.

I knew it was over with Naz. Now I had to figure out a way to repair the damage I'd done with Ella ...

The train was approaching Hackney Wick. I had to get my head right. I couldn't get caught slipping out here.

Only ...

Ella had talked and I'd listened, absorbing every word, watching her fast-moving lips, glistening and kissable.

I'd taken in all her expressions and mannerisms. She rolled her eyes a lot, nudged her head to one side when she corrected herself. She spoke with her hands. I've seen people do that. Ella did it a lot; flicking them around, gesturing. She fiddled with her brown hair now and then. It was her thing and I loved it. I didn't know if she was gay. I didn't even know if she was into me.

But here we were in a half-crowded restaurant tucking into brown stew chicken and peas and she sparkled as we ate, putting down her cutlery to tell a story with her hands. Her eyes smiled at me. Her lips smiled at me. Her body smiled at me. I couldn't get enough of her. I wanted the moment to last forever.

I told her the meals my dad used to cook. "I can still picture him in our old kitchen making the biggest mess."

"You talk about him as he isn't with you."

"He ain't. He got killed when I was ten."

"I'm really sorry, Kina."

"Long time ago."

"Where are you from originally? I mean, you sound like you're from East London but there's a little twang in your accent that comes out now and then."

She was smart. I told her that. Most people never noticed. She fiddled with her hair, all those nerves coming out as I complimented her.

"Belfast," I said. "I came here with my mum when I was eleven."

I quizzed her about where she was from, places she'd lived. I was being sly – I was more interested in _who_ she'd lived with. She sussed me out, held back, didn't wanna talk about relationships. I learned she was from Plumstead. Her family moved across the river when she was a teenager.

"I'm in Forest Gate," I said. "Got a flat above a record shop. I know the guy who owns it. He gets the bedroom and I get low rent."

She lowered her fork.

"Ain't nothing like that."

I told her about Dylan, how he used my bedroom for an overflow of stock that he sold online, how I packed orders for him, took them to the post office in the morning before working on whatever case I had. I told her about my night work, cleaning over at West Ham.

"Doesn't that mess up your evening?" she asked.

"I finish at eleven. Plenty of time to get down and dirty."

She didn't like the comment and changed the subject. She got by working as a part-time receptionist at a nearby dental practice. She was studying to be a Maths teacher.

"You're a student?" I asked.

"A mature student." She giggled, flashed her eyes, picked at her hair. "I'm not mature. You should see _us_ on a Friday night."

I learned that _us_ was a group of old college friends that she partied with.

"We can only last one night," she said. "We need the rest of the weekend to recover. We're getting old."

I'd asked her how old she was.

"Twenty seven," she said, without hesitation. She told me I looked about thirty-two but a lot older and meaner when I frowned. She said I frowned a lot.

"Yeah, I've been told that."

"Then don't do it."

But Ella didn't just talk. She asked a ton of questions. More than I could handle at times. She leaned toward me as I spoke, her elbows on the table, her head balanced on her hands. Her interest in me was honest.

"How many cases have you handled?"

"This is the fifth one."

"Have you solved them all?"

"Yeah."

She beamed, impressed. I'd been sly earlier and got sly once again. I started to lead her astray, manipulate her, probe for the stories on boyfriends and girlfriends. She was guarded. She answered but gave nothing away. She was hard work. Big flashing signs told me to cool off, chill out, back down – I ignored them, kept going, coming on too hard, too strong.

"I knew you'd call," I said. "Asking me for a second card when my number was on the notice board."

"Oh, you knew, did you?"

"I did. I knew it."

"First, you like finishing my sentences. Second, you're a mind reader ..."

"Third ...?"

She paused. The smile slipped. "I want to ask you something and I want honesty. OK?"

I nodded.

"Yes, I'm gay," I said. "And I'm into you."

"That wasn't the question."

"Not that I like labels. I hate labels. Gay, straight, bi-sexual, whatever. Just like what you like and go for it. I like you and ..."

She didn't look too happy.

"Ask your question," I said.

"Are you single?"

I hesitated for a split-second. I was, I think, though I hadn't officially finished with Naz but then I'd assumed it was a casual thing with a casual start and casual end. But the hesitation was enough for Ella. I'd answered without saying a word.

Her hands, once animated, withdrew, coiled together.

"It ain't serious," I said.

"OK."

"I mean, we're sorta finished."

"OK."

"Is that a problem?" I asked.

"Not for me."

"I told you it ain't serious. It weren't, I mean. We're done. I'm done. It was just a casual thing."

She was silent for a moment. "Do you live with her?"

"No. Fuck, no."

"Are you planning on living with her?"

"I live one day at a time."

_Yeah, I was digging that hole pretty big now at this point._ A frown creased her forehead.

"I don't. I have plans."

"Frowning doesn't suit you," I said.

She sat back, folded her arms. A thousand words flashed across her eyes but she couldn't nail down any of them.

"I hope Mariana's information helped," she said, finally.

She picked up her bag, rooted out her purse.

"No, this is on me," I said.

"Are you made of money?"

I was a bit hurt by her tone. Anyone else would've got a slap in the mouth. "No," I said.

"Then I'll pay my share."

"I invited you."

"Why?"

"Because I like you."

"You don't know me. Why not try to get to know me without checking me out every five seconds and trying to find out all about my private life? Try being a friend first."

I swallowed. "Have I read you wrong?"

She didn't answer me.

"Look, I _do_ live one day at a time," I said. She stopped preparing to leave, stared across the table at me. "I was in a gang. When I was younger. I was always in a gang at some point in my life. I did bad shit. Shit I'm ashamed of. I wasn't a nice person. I was the kind of girl you avoided. I was with this guy; he was the gang leader, the one and only guy I've ever been with. It was an abusive relationship. He beat me, he cut me, he got me raped and when I stupidly tried to change him with a baby he ..."

Her face paled. I couldn't stop. It was all out in the open now.

"I killed him," I said. "I did eleven years. I fell into this thing of investigating. But I like it. I like finding shit out, helping people who won't go to the cops. Maybe this is redemption for the things I've done. I don't know. But it led me to you and I can't stop thinking about you. I can barely breathe when you're around, you get me?"

She was stunned.

"I don't find this kind of thing easy. I ain't confident when it comes to getting to know people. I'm sorry I offended you. But I've known you twenty-fours hours, Ella, and I've told you more about myself than I told Naz in three months. You figure that out. You're the one with the big brain."

I don't know if she did because she left without saying a word.

THIRTEEN

We crossed a wind-blasted, graffiti-covered footbridge strewn with rubbish. I threw up my hood, bent my head as I lit a cigarette.

The street outside the station was narrow, poorly-lit and lined with wooden barriers swaying and creaking in the wind. It was a prime spot to get robbed. We kept our eyes open. There were rundown flats crowding in on us, an open window letting out voices filled with anger, the kind that puts a child behind a closed door, sobbing into a teddy bear. There was graffiti hitting every spot. Serious artists were operating round here. I had to admire their work.

The smell of burgers and sausages wafted from a late-night food van, parked near a busy road. We walked across to it. Two black-haired and olive-skinned guys sweated over hot plates. A radio was playing. Football commentary. The guys were animated, talking about the game.

"You want something?" I asked Kim.

She nodded, a little distant. I ordered cheeseburgers.

"You want onions?" one of the men asked.

"Yeah."

"Lettuce, tomato?"

"Put it all on, man."

I flicked away my cigarette end, bit into the cheeseburger, nodded at the guy. He cooked a fine burger. No cheap stringy meat or toughened lumps. I wolfed it down, sucked my fingers clean. We walked away from the van. Kim took a few bites of her burger before binning it.

"You wanna tell me about this _situation_ LA has you in?"

She didn't answer.

"You alright, girl?"

She rolled her eyes, curled her mouth. "Yeah."

A car zipped by, headlights illuminating us. A siren wailed in the distance. Seconds later a helicopter buzzed overhead.

We were getting close to the estate. Kim had told me at least three gangs were on the towers and blocks. A few lights blinked at us. London had settled, getting ready to sleep, but for the likes of us the night was only beginning. I told Kim it was gonna be OK.

"I ain't scared," she said.

"Yeah, right."

"For real."

"You ain't scared then I'll get back on the train."

"Nah, man."

"Yeah, leave you to it."

"Don't be like that."

"Nah, I can go back home," I said. I lit a fresh cigarette. "Get some sleep."

"Don't be teasing, Kina. I just wanna get this done. You know what I mean? I don't wanna be wasting no more time on this bitch."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, that's right. I want her gone. You know what I mean?"

I knew what she meant. We were down amongst the dirt. I had to be careful not to like its sweet taste too much.

"I just want this done," said Kim.

"Yeah, you said." I paused. "We got a deal, Kim. I help you tonight and you do that list of things, you get me?"

"Yeah, yeah, OK, man."

We moved onto the estate, couldn't get caught slipping now. There were women older than me hanging in hallways; high heels, short skirts and the shakes, waiting for local men, a few notes for a blowjob or a fuck, a little more for bareback, collect all that crumpled money for dope, drink or bills. Ain't nothing new with a woman selling what she got. Years change, reasons don't.

Groups of teenagers were hanging in caps and baggy clothes, girls tagging along, part of the crew, always a few girls around. Most of the kids were black, a few whites, no Asian. Kim was known. A few guys called out to her. She called back. Getting on the estate wasn't gonna be a hassle. Getting off might be a bit different.

Angry voices flared as we moved across an uncut lawn peppered with crushed cans and cigarette ends. A boy was getting singled out. It was starting to heat up. We had no idea why. Then it kicked off, the boy went down. A group of teens surged over him, trainers stamping him into the ground. Mobile phones whipped out, recording every second of the beat down.

There was a lot of hate round us; hanging in the air, coming off the brickwork, like the heat in summer.

I knew hate, recognised it quickly. I got a lot of hate in me. Thing is, most of it is _for_ me, probably all of it. I hated myself all through childhood. I hated myself when dad was murdered. He stole to feed me, clothe me and I was to blame when he got killed. Mum never stopped to tell me no different. She let me hate the girl I used to be and the young woman I grew into. She tried to steer me right but her shouting and hitting and lecturing only drove me further into it. I hated her for wanting things that got my dad killed. I hated her for having me. I hated myself for friendships I'd ruined and relationships I'd never made happen. I hated myself for running to a man when I've always known that men are weak. I hated myself for rushing Ella, smothering her with my desires.

Hate is an ugly fucker ...

I know I have to let go of it to build a life. I've been trying. Every day I hate a little less and I find a bit of myself I didn't know about. It's a long road, a painful one. Now, with the mistakes I was still making, that hate was surging in my veins and it needed to get out. I guessed Leah Atkins had to watch her mouth tonight ...

On the street she was known as _LA_. She was a low-level drug dealer and was three months into a nine-month suspended sentence for attacking a Turkish minicab driver with a hammer.

She'd pleaded guilty to beating the shit out of him and stealing his takings. Told the court her benefits had been stopped. True. Told the court she was desperate for money. True. Told the court she didn't know no better because her parents had pulled her out of education at the age of twelve to sell drugs. True. Told the court she was sorry and only hurt the guy because she needed money for food. Half true. The judge imagined cereal and fruit, vegetables, fish, bread and milk. She'd suggested a food bank. Leah had nodded her head but it was all fairytales now; the kind of food Leah Atkins was referring to was drugs.

Nine months suspended.

We headed into a block.

The kid was still getting worked over, still getting filmed.

Gang life.

I got it.

I'd been there. I'd been here. Hung out in these same squares. _Grown up without choices, still taken the bad ones._ These kids weren't born hoodies and dealers and gangsters. That came from surroundings, from upbringing, from looking at those that had plenty and figuring they would never have plenty and that shit needed balancing out and that was just the way it was gonna be. No choice. No hope. No guidance. No nothing.

I got it _._

But no one that mattered was getting it. No one who could change shit really cared because they didn't live here, this wasn't their neighbourhood, so when a hoodie stole your car or busted into your yard and took your belongings or set fire to your wheelie bin or tipped shit on your front lawn or buzzed your street on a scooter or waved a blade at you and grabbed your phone – those that counted ain't gonna do shit for you or the monsters they've helped create – you get me?

We climbed the stairs; vandalised lights, graffiti-covered walls, a needle here and there.

LA lived on the third floor. It was a landing of identical flats; past midnight and most of them in darkness. Our footsteps echoed along the concrete. The wind bent against us.

Music erupted from the square below. I peered over the balcony. A car had pulled in. The driver sat with his door open, stereo pumping. A small group gathered round him.

The kid who'd been beaten was limping away cradling his arm. His feet were bare against the cold tarmac.

"I got your back in there," I said. "Then tomorrow you can put this shit behind you and find a proper way to earn some money."

Kim nodded.

"Start new tomorrow, Kim."

"OK."

We rapped on the door. It jerked open almost immediately. The girl knew we were on the estate.

" _Kimbars ..._ " said LA, rolling the word.

She held up her fist. Kim bumped her. Then she looked me over.

"You bring ya mamma?"

She laughed. "I'm just fucking. Call me LA."

I nodded. "Kina."

"Come in."

The TV was on. Cartoons. Three little ones were sprawled on the sofa. Two of them, both girls, were fast asleep. I guessed they were two or three-years old. The third kid was a boy. He looked about six-years old. He smiled at Kim and me. Then sipped his carton of juice and went back to watching Phineas and Ferb.

The living room was a mess. Scattered toys and clothes and picture books. It was cramped with a huge TV and sound system. That setup had cost some serious money. We went into a poky and messy kitchen where Leah was halfway through cutting and weighing and bagging dope. The window was half-open. A radio was playing.

"S'happening?" asked Leah.

She was mixed race with pebbled light brown skin, braided hair, brown eyes and a wide mouth. She was a heavy girl; thick arms, both tattooed, giant hands, chunky legs, a swollen stomach. She was wearing a football shirt, loose-fitting jogging bottoms and thong sandals.

Kim bounced on her feet, started chatting. Her voice was shaky. I hung back, said nothing.

There was a crayon drawing on the fridge. It was a picture of Leah – a small circle stuck on a much bigger circle with straight lines for legs and arms; the word _Mummy_ was scrawled along the bottom of it, a different colour used for each letter.

For a moment, I couldn't match her with picking up a hammer and battering a cab driver.

But it was past midnight and here she was with dope and scales and wraps and six mobile phones in a row and a sheathed knife with an eight-inch blade right next to a box of Coco Pops and a Star Wars lunchbox that needing rinsing.

"So, that's what it is, LA," said Kim. "We cool, yeah?"

Leah didn't say anything at first. She picked up a mug of coffee, drained it. "This why you bought backup?"

"Ain't like that," said Kim.

"You here to look after Kimbers, yeah?"

I met her cold look, didn't answer. She turned back to Kim.

"See, Kimbers, I was relying on this _situation_ , feel me? You can't invite someone to help you with shit and then fuck them over ..."

"I didn't invite you, LA."

"Yeah, you did."

"Nah, you invited yourself in this. You know it. Don't be starting with that."

"This is a one-off thing, Kimbers. I told you. 50/50, yeah?"

"It ain't happening."

"You mean you ain't doing it or you don't want me doing it?"

"It ain't happening," repeated Kim.

"Girl, you need to think about what you're saying, feel me? You need to think. You know what I'm saying?"

"Kim," I said, finally speaking. "Go watch TV."

"What?"

I glared at her. "Go watch TV." She backed out the kitchen, without a word. I closed the door.

The sheathed blade was on the counter, inches from Leah's hand.

"Me and Kimbers had a deal, feel me? Fuck all to do with ..."

She stopped talking, went for the knife. She was big but fast. The blade whipped out of the sheath. I sprang across the cramped space, grabbed her wrist with my left hand, bunched my right into a fist, hit her three times. The knife clattered on the floor. I kicked it clear. Leah flew at me, howling and raging. I hit her once more. She cried out. I yanked her hair, backhanded her. She got in one good dig, into my ribs. I gasped. I pulled her shirt over her head, exposing large breasts in a black bra. I coiled it round her head, blinding and choking her.

Kim shouted through the kitchen door. The kids were waking up. I told her to put them in the bedroom.

"You done, yeah?" I said, breathing hard.

"Yeah, yeah."

I twisted the shirt tighter.

"Yeah, fuck, I'm done."

I let her go, pushed her into the corner. She covered herself. Her eyes bulged. Her bleeding mouth was twisted. She started making threats. I scooped the dope into the sink, put my hand on the tap.

"Shut the fuck up and listen or this is all gone."

She froze.

"Kim ain't doing shit with you. You find a new partner, you get me?"

"Bitch, it wasn't my fucking deal." Blood was dripping onto her shirt. I grabbed a cloth, threw it at her.

"I don't give a shit. Stay away from Kim. She's out of the game."

"Like you? I know who you are. You're Kina McKevie. Used to be a name. Got a new name for you now ... _grass._ "

I moved slowly from the sink. "The fuck you say?"

Her mouth didn't open again. She realised she'd fucked up. My voice was cold. There was darkness in my eyes.

"Is that the word on the street?"

She nodded.

"That I'm a grass?"

She started to shake.

"Who'd I grass up?"

She didn't answer.

"Who?"

She shrugged. "I don't know." She shrugged again. "Your old gang. That crew in Stratford. Top boy got killed, feel me? Soldiers got put away."

For a few seconds, the world moved in slow motion. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I didn't even know how it happened. One moment I was staring her down and the next I had her in the corner and her knife was in my hand and I hadn't held a knife since prison. The kitchen door opened. Kim was calling my name and telling me to back off and let it go and leave it alone and all that shit but I couldn't hear a word of it.

I couldn't hear or see anything but that blade pressed against LA's throat.

Noise rushed into my head.

A child was crying in the next room.

Beads of sweat broke over my forehead.

I swallowed hard.

My grip opened. I didn't even hear the knife hit the floor.

LA was staring at me, gulping air.

This was a girl who'd been stabbed and beaten and taken it in her stride but she'd never looked into the eyes of a killer until now.

Sickness gushed through me.

"It's done, Kina," whispered Kim. "We need to roll."

I didn't answer her.

"You hear that story about me," I said, staring at LA, my voice low. "You make sure you put people right. I ain't no grass."

"Yeah."

"I ain't no fucking grass, bitch."

"You ain't no grass."

"And you leave Kim alone."

"Yeah."

"You keep the fuck away from her. You get me?"

PART THREE

FOURTEEN

Rain slithered down the windows.

Showered, I sat on the edge of my sofa bed, wrapped in a big towel. I lit a cigarette, pinched the bridge of my nose.

It was 3am.

The radio was on, a talk station, no music. I wasn't in the mood for tunes. I wanted to hear people chatting, regular conversation; this was a phone-in about supermarket prices and healthy eating. One guy said it was shocking how all the healthy food cost more than the junk food. The next caller, a woman, said it was our responsibility what we purchased and fed our families, regardless of supermarket pricing.

"You got that right," I muttered.

Dried, I threw on loose bottoms and a big T-shirt, no underwear. I lay back, stared at the ceiling through a haze of cigarette smoke.

Another guy said it was possible to eat healthy on a low budget but he understood why harassed parents leant toward the processed options. A woman was up next. She sounded wasted. She said it was a conspiracy to suppress poor people. A lot of it went over my head. I didn't care. It was just nice to be part of a conversation where no one had a blade at someone's throat whilst her kids were crying in the next room.

I didn't give a shit about Leah Atkins. She was in the game. She knew the score. It was me I felt bad for. I'd slipped back into that darkness too easily. It was frightening to know that a piece of me was probably still capable of taking someone out.

_Did you hear that? Taking someone out._ Like if you say it that way it doesn't mean the same thing, have the same impact.

I'd see Leah Atkins in my dreams tonight, if I slept, and I'd hear those kids, her kids, crying.

Shit ...

" _Bitch, it wasn't my fucking deal ..."_

LA had said those words. I sat up, the gentle tapping of rain on the windows. I'd dug Kim out of her mess. Now it was up to her ...

But Kim was a born thief and she was also a liar.

" _It ain't happening."_

" _You mean you ain't doing it or you don't want me doing it?"_

" _It ain't happening," repeated Kim._

It was _still_ happening and it belonged to Kim. LA had muscled into the deal and I'd got rid of her. I had the feeling I hadn't heard the last of Kim's _situation._

Stubbing out my cigarette, I reached over for a large hardback book I'd picked up in the local charity shop. It had cost three quid. It was an encyclopaedia of British urban birds. I've always liked birds – Dad kept a couple of budgies in the kitchen – but I really got into them when I was in prison. I began flicking through the pages. There was a lot of writing, which I was too tired to read, and tons of colour pictures.

Robins. Finches ...

I yawned.

A caller on the radio was saying it was tough managing her four kids and buying junk food was a way of keeping them quiet and well-behaved in the supermarket.

"My dad's hand kept me behaved in the supermarket," I told her.

Blue tits. Housemartins ...

I yawned again.

Turned the page.

My favourite was ...

* * *

I opened my eyes.

Grey light poured into the flat. The radio was still on. My arm was curled round the bird book.

I lay still for a moment. Rain beat against windows. Dylan was in the shop, moving around.

Kicking back the duvet, I got up, re-tuned the radio. Grime erupted from its single speaker. I thought a little more about the fight with LA, the meal with Ella, the text messages from Naz.

Then I put it out of my head.

I dressed in grey jeans and a silky black shirt with black, heart-shaped buttons. I'd picked up the clothes at the same time as the book. I didn't tuck the shirt in and I left the collar open. I only owned a few bits of jewellery but I didn't wear any day to day. I kept them for a night out. I brushed my curly hair, shorter now since getting it cut last week. I was still pleased with it. I laced up my trainers, pulled on a hoodie and a leather jacket. I had packages to run to the post office for Dylan but it wasn't open yet so I'd come back for them later.

Grabbing my notebook and cigarettes, I headed out. On the pavement, I banged on the window of the shop, raised a hand at Dylan. He waved back with a big grin.

I headed for the bus stop, got myself over to Leytonstone. I hung near the electrical shop, waiting on Isabel. Within seconds she emerged from a street lined with houses. She was wearing a beige-coloured coat, buttoned up and belted. She was carrying a striped umbrella. The traffic rumbled through. She checked her watch, waiting for the lights to change. Finally, she crossed. I veered toward her.

She spotted me, stopped in the middle of the crowded pavement. Rain bounced off her umbrella.

"Hello." She didn't say anything more. I guessed it was taking a moment for my face to register. "Oh, have you found Barry?"

"No. I need your help with something."

She took one of her long blinks. "I can only spare a few minutes."

We edged away from the kerb.

"What happened to the weather?" she grumbled. "It's been lovely these past few days."

She nudged the umbrella toward me, offering a corner of it.

"Do you remember the white boy that bought the fridge freezer when I was in the shop yesterday?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever see Barry talking to him?"

"I don't think so."

"Or arguing with him?"

"Arguing? I've never seen Barry argue with anyone. What's this about?" She took another long blink. "I can't be late. Tell me what you want to know."

"I want that boy's address," I said. "I need to talk to him."

"No, I can't do that. I can't."

"I could spend days trying to find him. You have his address already."

"That's confidential information. I could lose my job."

I told her about Friday night, a witness seeing Barry and a guy with a scarred chin argue outside the Rising Sun bar. It was too much of a coincidence not to be the same guy.

"Barry has disappeared off the face of the earth, Isabel. Who cares? Almost no one because he's just some old dude. The way it is, this white boy is the last one that saw him."

I was putting her in a corner. She didn't like it. She jerked the umbrella away from me, started to walk away and then checked herself.

"OK, give me your number. I'll text you the address."

I plucked out a fresh card for her.

"But you can't tell anyone about this," she said. "I could be in serious trouble if Mr Steadman found out. Do you think this boy hurt Barry?"

"I hope not."

I thanked her, moved off through the crowds of pedestrians. Before crossing the road, I glanced back at the electrical shop.

Roger Steadman was in the doorway, watching me.

FIFTEEN

His name was Ian Dobson.

I was eating breakfast in a local café when I got the text from Isabel. I finished off my scrambled eggs and toast, groaning because there was no time for a second cup of tea.

The rain had eased off. Pockets of blue sky started to break the grey. Cigarette lit, I started walking.

Shops were open for business and the pavements were busy with mothers wheeling pushchairs and pensioners clutching shopping bags. I walked brisk, people thinning out as I turned into streets of houses and low-rise flats.

Dobson lived in a small house.

I rang the bell, took a few steps back. The front door was painted red, shiny brass numerals, shiny letterbox.

He took a moment to answer.

"Ian Dobson?"

"Yeah."

He wore grey running shorts and nothing else. A regular guy would've thrown on a shirt or something but Dobson was ripped and didn't mind who saw it. His eyes were light brown, tired-looking. His hair was untidy. His right hand lingered at his scarred chin. His left hand gripped the front door.

"I'm looking for Barry Fraser. Do you know where he is?"

He looked me over, looked past and around me.

"Are you the police?"

"Kina McKevie." I offered him a card. He took his hand off the door, wiped it over his chin and accepted it.

"I just got home. I've done a double shift." He yawned, slowly coming into focus. "What's going on?"

"You want to do this out here?"

He pulled the door wide open. I stepped into a hallway that was tidy, fresh-smelling. Trainers and heels in a neat row on the floor, jackets hanging from pegs on a shaped wooden plaque, an open door into the front room, white leather sofa, big TV. Dobson closed the front door. A security chain jangled. He left it off. A dishwasher splashed and vibrated, the only sound. He padded through an archway into a kitchen, bare feet squeaking against the wooden floor. I followed, notebook in hand.

Cinnamon and freshly-ground coffee was in the air. Sunlight poured through patio doors. A back garden was shiny from the rain. Crazy-paving surrounded a patch of neatly-cut grass. White plastic garden furniture dripped rainwater and puddles sat on a covered barbecue. There was a green-painted shed and a compost bin against the rear fence.

He put down my card, picked up his coffee mug. It was white with a rabbit on the front.

"What's your beef with Barry Fraser?" I asked

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know him, right? He works at Bushman Electricals."

"Where?"

I nodded at the square-shaped gap between the kitchen units. "Place you're getting your fridge freezer from."

"Oh, right."

"You were there yesterday. So was I. Tell me about you and Barry."

He shrugged, drank his coffee. "I've seen him in there."

"You don't like him, right?"

"He's an old pervert."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because he is."

"Is that what the argument was about on Friday night?"

"I don't know what you're going on about."

"You and him outside the Rising Sun bar."

He set down his mug, angrily. "Are you his daughter? One of his girlfriends?"

"I'm what is says on that card. I'm an investigator. Barry is missing. The last time anyone saw him was when you confronted him outside the Rising Sun."

"Well, I didn't do anything to him. I just told him to stay away from Naomi. You should get him arrested for stalking."

He glanced at a trio of canvas blocks on the wall; Dobson with a heavy-looking, pale-faced girl, sitting at a restaurant table, a backdrop of the sea and a night sky filled with stars. They were holding hands in the left hand print, sharing raised glasses in the centre one, sat apart in the right hand one.

"Is that Naomi?"

"Yeah. Portugal, last year."

I studied the canvas blocks further. Dobson looked happy. Naomi didn't, even when she was smiling.

"Barry's a womaniser," I said. "I know that. But he's still missing. Why did you confront him Friday night?"

"That fucking pervert ..." he said.

I waited.

"You don't know what it was like for Naomi. The guy's like a hundred and he was sniffing round her all the time. I had to take a second job once she left. She has a job now but it was a struggle."

I frowned. "Did Naomi work with Barry?"

"Yeah, what do you think I'm talking about? She was working at that shop for a year or more. He kept flirting with her, being really suggestive. He made her life a misery."

His hand wafted over his scar.

"Look, do you want a coffee or something? I could do with another one."

"Sure."

"Sit down."

I sat at a stripped pine table whilst he made coffee. He offered me a toasted bun but I wasn't hungry. He still hadn't put on a shirt or anything. He was quite happy with his body on show. Now and then he dropped his hand to his crotch for a squeeze. He had a lot going on down there, the shorts hid nothing. He had no idea my world didn't revolve around a blob of flesh between his or any other guy's legs.

He set a mug down on the table. This one had a bird on it.

"A magpie," I said.

"What?"

I pointed at the mug.

"Oh, right, yeah. Naomi picked them out."

We were silent for a few minutes, drinking coffee, the sunlight getting warmer.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?" I said. "When did Naomi start working at Bushman Electricals?"

"Christmas," he said. "Not the one just gone, the one before. She was a temp. But that Mr Steadman was really impressed with her and offered her a permanent position. Only part-time but the money was good. Naomi was really happy working there. She got on well with Isabel, Mr Steadman, everyone. And she got extra hours. Barry had shown her the ropes at Christmas. He was really helpful; like how to work the till and how to book a delivery, the best way to get a sale from a customer so she could earn a little bit in commission, asking open questions to customers, not closed ones, making the customer talk rather than just answer yes or no, that sort of thing. She even sent him a Christmas card from the both of us. I thought he was cool for an old guy. Then when she got taken on permanent he started to flirt, tell her how nice she looked and smelled, asked her did she have a shower or a bath, and talking about restaurants he'd like to take her to."

"What did she do about him?"

"What could she do? She tried to humour him, at first, but he got really aggressive about it. He kept on and on at her. He knew we were going to Portugal and he wanted her to share her beach pictures when we got home. He wanted to see what she looked like in a bikini ... he even asked if she was planning on going topless. He ruined the holiday for us. She was miserable the whole time. She couldn't relax. She stayed at the shop for as long as she could but in the end she left. It got too much for her. We're only starting to get back on our feet, financially, I mean."

"Did she report Barry to Roger Steadman?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"What was that going to do? Naomi was the new girl. You know how that story ends."

"Did she confide in Isabel?"

"She wasn't any help. Do you know what she told Naomi? She told her she should be flattered by the attention." He lifted his mug, then put it down. "I was going to kick the shit out of him. But Naomi said no, he's an old guy, you'll end up getting arrested. It's all behind her now."

"Tell me about Friday night."

"It was nothing. I just saw him, had a go at him, that's all."

"Did you hit him?"

"No."

"You must have wanted to. He made Naomi's time in that shop miserable. He gave you both money problems."

"I'm not hitting some old geezer. It wasn't worth it."

"Bit of a coincidence you bumping into him, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were you following him that night?"

"No."

"You didn't hang round the Bricklayer's Arms and then follow him to the Rising Sun?"

"He's the sort of bloke who follows people around. Not me. Look at where he lives ..."

He cut himself short.

"How do you know where he lives?" I said.

"I don't."

"Yeah, you do, Ian, because you were there on Friday, breaking into his room and putting all that sick shit on his laptop. Then you followed him and confronted him on the street, told him he was fucked, good and proper, time for payback."

He went silent.

"But you chickened out of calling the cops on him, yeah? You couldn't go through with it."

He wiped his jaw.

"Have you told any of this to the police?" he asked.

"I ain't got nothing to do with the cops. I'm independent. I've been employed to track down Barry. Nothing more."

"I hope the old fucker is lying dead somewhere."

"Really?"

"No."

"What went down on Friday night?"

Tears sprang into his eyes. That surprised me.

"We spent a year, me and Naomi, a whole year talking about him and dealing with all the crap he put her through. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't think. We had rows. She'd storm out, telling me I didn't understand. I wanted to get back at him. I told a mate of mine all about it. He said he could get his hands on ... some stuff I could put on Barry's laptop, make him look like a ... you know ... he's probably into that kind of thing. He likes them young, doesn't he?"

I kept listening.

"I went to the house on Friday. I knew he was at work because I phoned the shop and asked for him. When he came on the phone I just hung up. A bloke let me into the house. He didn't ask me anything. I knew what room belonged to Barry because he'd told Naomi where he lived and that he was on the top floor at the front. I got that door open in seconds. I found a laptop under his bed, copied all the files onto it. I didn't look at them. Nor did my mate. I had to pay him for them. Then I followed Barry that night. Got him outside that bar. Gave him a mouthful. Told him he would regret what he put Naomi through. Then I went home."

"What did Barry say?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, come on, man. You're standing in the street taking him down a peg or two and he said nothing? Serious?"

"He didn't say anything." He paused. "He laughed. He laughed at me. I walked away. Left him alone like Naomi wanted me to."

"Did you see where he went afterwards?"

"Into the bar."

I nodded.

"Who sold you the child abuse images and videos?"

"I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

"Do you still have the original memory stick or hard drive?"

"No, I got rid of it. I'm not into that kind of shit."

* * *

For the third time I went back to the house in Wanstead Flats, taking with me a large polythene bag.

I carefully wrapped the laptop, made a call and waited at the window. The house was silent. No one was home. I knew Ella was at work. My head fogged as I thought of her.

The framed photograph of Donnie and Barry was looking at me, reminding me why I was here; the two men arm in arm on that cruise ship, heavy tans and a big blue sky, happier times, simpler times, for both of them. Donnie round-faced and black-haired, Barry narrow-faced with blondish-ginger hair.

There were too many versions of Barry popping up. I needed to nail down the real one. I'd thought he was a paedophile after finding that laptop but the images had been planted, like I suspected. Now he was a predator, sexually-harassing a girl at his work, forcing her to quit. I believed every word Ian Dobson had said. He believed it, too. He hadn't lied to me. The guy couldn't lie for shit. But my gut told me he'd been lied to which meant there wasn't any truth to this version of Barry, either.

I picked up the frame, removed the photograph and slipped it between the pages of my notebook.

Then I spotted a car draw up alongside the empty children's playground over on the Flats.

It was time to go.

SIXTEEN

"Hello, Kina," said Detective Sergeant Corrigan.

She was black, in her mid-thirties, a slender, toned build, brown hair cut in a short bob, standing roughly my height. She wore black shoes and a dark green trouser suit, a white blouse and a light brown neck scarf. An unusual silver bracelet hung round her left wrist, the only jewellery I'd ever seen her wear. It looked old. I'd never asked her about it.

"How have you been?" she said.

"Fine."

"Are you still investigating?"

"Yeah."

"I was right about you. You have an instinct for detection. I'm glad to see you're turning your life around."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am."

We went into the playground, found a bench in the sun. The kiosk was closed. No one around.

"It means there's one less gangster for me to worry about."

I gave her a wry smile, nothing more than that. I no longer hated cops. But I didn't like them, I didn't trust them. The thing was I ticked too many boxes for cops. I was an ex-convict, mixed race, gay, half-Irish ...

Except ...

There was one cop I had time for. That was Corrigan. It wasn't a friendship or even an understanding – it was more a rough connection.

"What's with the laptop?"

I told her about the contents and the case I was working.

"I'm not giving you any names. Not yet. But I know you can look into the images and videos."

She nodded, thinking for a moment.

"I know this ain't your thing but the stuff on there ... I can't let that slide, I needed to hand this in."

"Did you view it?"

"Yeah."

"Bad?"

I nodded. Wind rustled leaves, bushes. The sun dipped behind a cloud, plunging us into cold shade.

"You still working murders?" I asked.

"Yes, I am."

"Busy?"

"I have seven ongoing investigations."

"Jesus."

"I'd appreciate _His_ help. The wall of silence from local communities gets thicker by the day. Do people want killers on the street?"

"I dunno," I said. "You doing anything about the knifings in Forest Gate? Three boys cut up in the past ten days."

"I'm a murder detective, Kina."

"So you'll only get involved when one of them actually gets killed, yeah?"

"I'm certain the detectives in Trident are working on the crimes. These gang task forces were specifically set up to ..."

I kissed my teeth, threw my hands in the air. "Man, quit that shit, you're pissing me off, starting to sound like a politician. That ain't you, Corrigan."

She went silent for moment.

"Do you have information regarding the stabbings?"

"Only that no one is stopping them."

"Who is your missing person?" she asked.

"That's private. I ain't giving you any of that."

"But you said this laptop belongs to him."

"It was given to him. The guy ain't into computers. Someone put that shit on there. I told you that. Just hand it over to the kind of cops that deal with this ... please."

I took out my cigarettes. Corrigan nudged me. There was a NO SMOKING sign in the playground.

"Is there something else bothering you, Kina?"

I shook my head.

"I'd like to help you."

My eyes flashed angrily at her.

"How come word on the street is I'm a grass? How did that get out?"

"Where did you hear this?"

"Some people are saying it."

"Which people? Give me names."

"I ain't giving you names. I called you to give you this laptop because I trust you."

"I'm glad I've earned your trust."

"I trust you'll do the right thing."

I looked at her.

"I don't want people chatting about me. You told me you'd keep me out of what went down last year."

"I did. All the evidence you provided was recorded as anonymous tips. You're not an informant, Kina, paid or otherwise. Last year, the decision you made put a lot of gangsters behind bars."

"Yeah, for a few years."

She leaned toward me. "I make arrests. I hand the case to the CPS. Then it goes to court. I have no control over sentencing. You know that. You know how it works."

"Yeah, I know how it works."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Three years," I said. "Three years for firebombing my flat, wrecking the business downstairs."

"I wasn't happy with it, either."

"Bitch will be out in eighteen months. You know it. I lost all my stuff. I didn't have much to lose but I lost it anyway."

"And you've bounced back. You have a place to live. You have paid work. You're even in a relationship."

I couldn't help but laugh. Her eyes roamed my face.

"You don't miss anything about me, do you?" I said.

"No."

"I don't know shit about you but then why would you tell me anything? I'm just a fucking ex-con who gives you tips ..."

"That's not the reason why."

"Then what is?"

"I'm a very private person, Kina. When I put on this suit and pick up my warrant card I'm a detective, a professional working women, and I don't gossip and chitchat at work."

"I get that," I said, respect in my tone. "But I don't even know your name. I'd like to know your name."

"It's Danielle."

"Seriously? Danielle? What?"

"Is there something wrong with Danielle?"

"Nah, it ain't that. Just don't suit you. I'll stick with calling you Corrigan. So how did you know I was seeing someone?"

She smiled at me, placed her hand against the laptop. "I have to make tracks. Thank you for this. I'll be honest, Kina, it takes a long time investigating child abuse images. Lack of resources. Lack of funding. And too many of _them_ out there."

We started walking to the gate.

"You got kids?" I asked.

"One, a daughter."

"What's her name?"

"Sabine. She's eight-years old."

"Man, that's nice."

Out of the playground, I lit a cigarette, sucked down hard, got that raw burn.

"You married?" I asked.

"Divorced."

"Oh."

We reached her car. Sunshine glinted off the windscreen.

"Man, I need to get some wheels. Sick of buses and shit."

Corrigan fished out her keys. "Tell me about the case you're working on."

"I don't think so ... Danielle."

"I might be able to help."

"Cops don't give a shit about missing persons."

"We do." She had tremendous patience for me no matter what I said. "And we have more resources than you."

"The guy employing me doesn't trust cops." I rocked on my heels. "That's why he came to me."

She nodded. "Just keep within the law, Kina. Whatever you do. With this case or anything else."

I didn't answer her.

"If you can get me some names about where these images came from ..."

"I'll see what I can do."

The laptop went into the boot. She got in the car, started the engine. Wailing guitars and heavy drums exploded from the speakers. A gravel-voiced singer screamed it was time to pay.

"Man, you still into that shit?"

"You should see me at the festivals." She smiled at me. "Look after yourself, Kina."

I nodded. Her car edged into the stream of traffic, quickly disappeared. She was pretty cool.

For a cop ...

* * *

The Rising Sun was a modern and sleek wine bar, nothing like Barry's local, and was busy with the lunchtime trade. Tables and leather-studded booths were crowded with young men and women; black, white and Asian, early to mid-twenties, all suits and quality jewellery. Bits of educated conversation overlapped with a soundtrack of pop tunes converted into instrumental jazz numbers.

Feeling suddenly old and out of place, I grabbed an empty stool at the bar, ordered a bottle of beer. The guy that served me was in his early-twenties, East Asian descent, good looking, roughly five-ten, a slight build, springy black hair, warm brown eyes and a wispy goatee beard. Neatly-pressed black trousers and a green shirt open at the collar, no tie. His name badge read: ADE.

The air was tangy with fish and chips. My stomach growled. I picked up a menu, saw the prices, quickly realised I'd be eating from the kebab house a few doors down.

"Would you like to order any food?" he asked.

"Nah, you're good."

I took a sip of beer. At one end of the bar was a huge screen. A chalkboard beside let me know the date of the next premier league fixture.

"You into the football?" he asked.

"No."

"Me neither, everyone goes crazy for it. I'd rather go to the cinema."

I didn't know if he was making a move or just being friendly – maybe a little bit of both.

"I just wish people wouldn't talk on their phones or film bits of the movie. Nothing but ignorance."

"I haven't been to the pictures in years," I said, realising too late what that sounded like.

Ade cleared his throat. "Would you like to see a movie with me?"

He had gorgeous hands. Beautiful olive skin. Clean and shaped nails. I liked hands but only on women. I lowered my bottle. "I didn't ... when I just said ... you know I wasn't trying to ... listen, man, thanks but no thanks."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot."

"I work nights anyway."

He gave me a genuine smile. "I know what you mean."

I drank another mouthful of beer, took out my mobile. Two men edged toward the bar in a cloud of overpowering aftershave. Ade went to serve them. I waited until he'd finished then called him back.

"Have you changed your mind?"

I flashed the screen of my phone.

"Do you recognise this guy? He came in here on Friday night. Round 10pm. His name is Barry Fraser. Do you remember seeing him?"

He stared for a moment, shook his head. "I've seen him in here before, I think. I'm not sure. Besides, I wasn't here Friday night. Let me ask Caroline."

He glided along the narrow bar, past rows of spirit bottles and mirrors hanging on the back wall. He leaned toward a white woman in her twenties. She was attractive and knew it and I didn't like that. She had a cheeky look in her brown eyes. Her hair was braided, piled high inside a red and white bandana. She listened intently, glancing at me a few times. I guessed this was Caroline.

Ade moved forward to serve another customer. I hoped he'd find someone to take to the cinema.

Caroline came down the bar. Her name badge read MANAGER. She stood before me, beautiful long fingers with perfectly-shaped nails painted dark green, matching her eye shadow. She wore a silver engagement ring. A silver chain hung round her neck. She had five silver studs in each ear. Girl liked her silver. She was tall, a slim waist, nicely-rounded hips, large breasts inside a white blouse, top few buttons open, a glimpse of a fierce tattoo above her cleavage; a beast with its mouth open, shooting a column of fire.

The girl was fine-looking but, like I said, she knew it and there was nothing worse than that. She seemed to loom over me. Her mouth broke into a friendly smile.

"Let me see him," she said.

I angled the phone toward her.

"Oh, him. Yeah. He was here Friday. Is he your old man? Are you checking up on him?"

"Nah, nothing like that. What time did he stay to?"

She chewed her lip. "Not sure. I don't think he was here too long. Had something better lined up. _Hashtag gross_."

I frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

A suited woman edged alongside me. "Two Bacardi and Coke, please. Lots of ice."

Caroline started mixing the drinks. I waited. The woman handed over a ten pound note.

When she left, drinks and change in hand, I repeated the question to Caroline. She hesitated. "Are you the law?"

"No." I gave a short laugh, handed her a card. "I just need to find him."

"Have you found him yet?"

"I would be here if I had," I said.

"I suppose not." She pocketed the card. "Don't know when he left that night. Here one minute, gone the next. Friday, you know what it's like."

"What did you mean by _hashtag gross?_ "

"I thought she was his daughter. Then they start kissing. _Hashtag get a room._ "

I nodded, finally understanding the Twitter reference.

"What did this girl look like?"

SEVENTEEN

Naomi Simmons was the whitest white person I'd ever seen. She also had jet black hair which made her look even paler.

She worked as a scanner for a digital imaging company in Snaresbrook. Her shift finished at 3.30pm. I'd phoned through beforehand - where I'd learned her surname from the receptionist - and asked if she was prepared to meet me. I told her we needed to talk about Barry. She had a light voice on the telephone, nervous, childlike. She'd refused, at first. I was expecting that. I told her I'd interviewed the staff at the Rising Sun and that I knew about the lies she'd told her boyfriend, Ian Dobson.

The line had gone silent.

"I can go and talk to Ian again," I said.

More silence.

"You want that, Naomi?"

"You don't need to threaten me," she said, softly. "I'll meet you."

She was ten minutes late. I was starting to wonder if she'd changed her mind, got out another exit. Then a side door clattered open and she stepped out into the warm sunshine, shielding her eyes from its rays. She was ghostlike in the bright afternoon light.

Twenty-years old, she had thin arms and thins legs, skinny waist, flat hips and a flat chest. She wore an open white cardigan over a streaked blue crop top, exposing a pale stomach, stylishly-ripped red jeans and black boots. I guessed she'd shifted at least three stone since the holiday last year.

"What do you want?"

She was trying to be tough. She didn't sound it or look it. I handed her my card. She read it, kept hold of it.

"I don't have money. If you're going to blackmail me I'll call the police." She gave the card back. "You went to my home. You talked to Ian. Now you're at my work. I still don't see why this is any of your business."

"You think I'm harassing you?" I asked. "Stalking you?"

She glared at me, slowly shook her head.

"You done with the tough girl act?"

She nodded.

"Let's grab a coffee," I suggested.

We walked in silence for a few minutes, heading in the direction of the train station. The roads were busy, vehicles slow moving. The takeaways were open, a dense smear of fried meat, sauces and cooking oils combining with the petrol fumes that hung in the heavy air. It was too warm for spring. I wondered if it would break later on, a real downpour like this morning.

Crowds of uniformed teenagers streamed along the pavement. Noisy conversation vibrated around us. It was always noisy where school kids were concerned. They careered over the road; vehicles slammed on brakes, drivers hit horns and yelled through rolled down windows.

Naomi was bumped on the shoulder by a group of boys swerving this way and that. One of them stopped and apologised. His mates laughed and shoved him. She didn't seem to notice.

I guided her toward a coffee shop wedged between a shop that sold bathrooms and a shop that specialised in blinds.

"I don't want to miss my train," she said.

"Then let's get this done," I told her.

We sat by the window, comfortable stools at a long pine table, recently wiped down, the aroma of lemons faint in the air. Across the road, a teenager hung at the entrance to a long row of low-rise flats. Now and then the school kids stopped by him, moved on quickly once the drugs had been bought.

"I want to go and get my train. I don't want to be here talking to you. You have no authority to make me talk to you."

"Yeah," I said, not interested. A waitress buzzed toward us. "Good afternoon, are you ready to order?"

At first, Naomi didn't answer. Then she sighed, really exaggerated, and ordered a latte and a muffin.

"Black coffee," I said.

"I'll bring them over," said the waitress, and left us.

The coffee house was air-conditioned. Folk music drifted from speakers. The walls were painted purple.

I asked her about her job, threw her off track. She didn't answer right away. Then she sighed again, like before, all melodrama, and finally started chatting.

"The actual work is fascinating," she said. "We take on contracts from the council and care homes. We convert their paperwork into digital format. The stuff is decades old. Once scanned it can be shredded. Our biggest contracts are with the council. They have so much paperwork. It saves them a lot of money in storage and is more accessible. It's a good job, a nice place to work."

Our order arrived. I poured sugar into my coffee, took a mouthful.

"Any problems with other staff members?"

"No."

"No one asking you out on a daily basis? No one hassling you?"

"No."

She stared down at her latte and muffin. She wouldn't make eye contact.

"It was Roger Steadman, wasn't it? _He_ was the one sexually harassing you, right? _He_ was the one who kept asking you out. _He_ was the one with all the suggestions and wanting to see your holiday photos, yeah?"

She looked at me.

"I've met him," I said. "Guy's a creep."

"He convinced himself I fancied him. I think I said I liked his aftershave once and that was a green light. He wouldn't stop. When I got back from Portugal last year it was even worse. He kept badgering me for bikini photos. As if I would share them with him or anyone else." She was angry but her voice barely got above a whisper. "Then he got it into his head I'd gone topless. That was his fantasy. That I'd been on the beach topless. I would never do that. I don't enjoy the sun. I burn. I spent most of the holiday in the shade. I wanted to go to Denmark. Ian chose Portugal. He loves the sun."

I kept listening, kept waiting, but there was nothing more from her. She picked up her latte.

"I got why you couldn't report the harassment. The guy was the manager, yeah?"

"I told Isabel. She said I should be flattered. Why? Because I was overweight?" She grimaced. "I was in a relationship. He just wouldn't take no. That's why I left."

"You mean you were in two relationships. Why the fuck did you blame Barry for harassing you and not Steadman?"

"I didn't ... I mean ... with Ian ... he kept asking questions. I ... I got tangled up with ..."

"The lies?"

She hissed at me sharply. "Yes, the lies." The girl had some bite. _At last!_ She broke off a piece of muffin, held in between her pale fingers.

I leaned toward her. "Listen to me, Naomi. I don't care about the affair. I don't care when you started seeing Barry and I don't care why. I don't care if you're gonna run off with him and get married or stay with Ian or whatever. _I don't care._ I just got one question and I need you to answer it honestly. Then I'm gone. You get me?"

The chunk of muffin started to crumble between her fingers.

"You gonna eat that or what?" I said.

"No."

She pushed the plate away. "I don't have an appetite." She paused. "Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because we both care about Barry. It ain't your fault that Steadman is a creep. It ain't your fault you had to give up your job at the electrical shop because of him. But it is your fault you pinned the blame on the guy you were sleeping with to throw your boyfriend off the scent. You don't know how serious this has got."

"I didn't mean for that to happen," she said. She stared out of the window. "Do you think it's disgusting? I'm twenty. Barry is sixty-one."

I shrugged. "Like I said, I got one question. I know you met him Friday night in the Rising Sun, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Where did you both go after that?"

"Barry called me a cab. He wanted me to go home."

"And Barry?"

"I don't know."

"Did he have a bag with him?"

"Why do you ask?"

"So he did have a bag. Naomi, I know he's on the run. Did he tell you where he was going? Did he tell you why he was gonna run?"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore. Please leave me alone."

"Man, I told you already. I don't care about the affair. All I care about is finding Barry. Why did he run?"

She bit her lip. Her eyes filmed with tears. "You don't understand. _I love him. I really do._ We became good friends first. That was how it started. He became all the things Ian had forgotten to be. Ian can be so vain. He spends too much time looking at himself and not the people around him. He let me put on so much weight and didn't say a word."

Ella flashed into my thoughts. _Good friends._ That's where I'd gone wrong with her in the restaurant. I'd moved too quickly. She was interested, I was pretty certain of it, but I'd treated her like an inflatable doll, the way guys treat women most of the time. I felt ashamed.

Naomi started talking. "Barry looked after me. We bonded. I hated blaming him for what Roger was doing but by then it was too late. I was in a mess the way Roger was treating me. Barry was a shoulder to cry on. I missed him so much when I was stuck in Portugal. I had to pretend I was having a great time but really I was counting the days to get back home and hold him. I didn't even want to go. I told Ian I wanted to go to Denmark. Do you know what he did this week? He went back to the shop and bought our fridge freezer there because he thinks _Mr Steadman_ is cool. I told Ian to order it online. But no, Ian does things Ian's way and that's it."

She picked up her latte.

"I have so much in common with Barry. We both come from broken homes. His parents were very violent. My dad was ... he was a lovely man until he drank and then ... his temper was awful. Mum had three miscarriages after I was born. Dad blamed her ... blamed himself ..."

"Did Barry tell you it kicked off with Ian outside the Rising Sun?"

"Yes, I couldn't believe it," she said. "I was sitting inside waiting for him to show up. If Ian had followed him into the bar ... oh, my God, I don't know what I would have done. I told Barry we should've never met in there. It was the first time we'd been in that bar. We never meet in Leytonstone. I have a friend who lives in East Ham and covers for me when I want to see Barry." She paused. "She doesn't like Ian. She says he is too controlling. Barry told me on Friday he would be going away for a little while."

"How long?"

"A few weeks."

"Why?"

"He'd had some bad news. Someone had died. An old friend."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't ask?"

"Yes, I asked, of course I asked. He wouldn't tell me. He just said it was an old friend from long ago. He'd only just found out."

"OK, so an old friend has died but why does Barry have to go away?"

"I don't know."

I narrowed my eyes, leaned into the girl. "Did he have something to do with this old friend dying?"

"No," she said, shocked. "No." I watched her eyes. "No, he didn't." I couldn't see any lies.

"Did he ask you to go with him?"

She nodded.

"But you said no."

She nodded once more.

"I can't just ... I couldn't just leave Ian ... I love Barry but ... I don't know."

"Was this the first time he mentioned going away?"

Another nod.

"Have you heard from him since Friday?"

A shake of the head.

"He hasn't called you once?"

"No."

"Not even a text?" I said. " _Nothing?_ "

"No."

"The two of you are in love and he just ups and leaves and you don't hear nothing. That don't make no sense."

She pushed back the sleeve of her cardigan, glanced at her watch. "I have to go. I'll be late."

I quickly paid for the order. We started walking toward the station.

"Have you tried calling him?" I asked.

"I thought you were only going to ask me one question," she said.

"You know how it is."

I repeated the question for her.

"His phone is dead."

"Barry put you in a minicab on Friday night, right?"

"Yes."

"Was he planning on going back into the Rising Sun bar afterwards?"

"No, he had to leave. He had a cab booked for himself."

"Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No."

"What cab firm did he use?"

EIGHTEEN

"Dennis Brown," said Dylan, slipping vinyl from a white sleeve and dropping it onto the deck behind the counter. "My man."

The needle hit the groove. Music burst from the speakers. "That's a fearsome tune," I said, nodding. I cracked open a beer, "A legend. My dad used to play his albums all the time."

"Along with Boney M?" asked Tayla.

"Yeah," I said, raising my can at her.

"What?" said Dylan.

It was a private joke. I'd told Tayla last year how my dad used to play his Boney M album _Nightflight to Venus_ almost every day, especially once he'd had a drink. I knew every track of that record word for word. Tayla had surprised me with a Christmas present of that very album. It had been a touching thing to do. I'd played it only once, working my way through a bottle of brandy at the same time, tears in my eyes. No matter how hard I grabbed at the past I couldn't bring Dad back to chat for just a few minutes and tell him things were all good and that he had nothing to worry about no more. If only life was simple like that when people died on you.

After chasing round all day I'd just made it back to Forest Gate in time to drop off the packages at the post office. Dylan told me not to sweat it. He knew he was paying next to nothing for me to pack those online orders. But that wasn't the thing. I took pride in the work I did. It was about doing a good job or not doing it at all. He'd once said he would like to pay more but it would wipe out the low profit involved. I told him if I wanted more money I could go back to selling dope. He'd given me a look, uncertain, until I'd started laughing. Dylan didn't always get my humour. Probably because there wasn't much of it. Besides, he was a dude, what did I expect?

The shop was closed for the day. It still shut at the same time since Reggie Tucker, Dylan's father, first opened its doors in the late eighties. Reggie had sacrificed all his savings, most of his sanity and his precious Saturday afternoons at Upton Park with his beloved West Ham United to provide a future for his family. At the time, CDs were gaining in popularity, breaking into music stores, pushing aside tape and records. It was going to be the death of vinyl. Reggie listened and ignored the voices of doom. He knew music, knew what people wanted and sold vinyl exclusively. He was right. I spend a lot of time in charity shops and at car boot sales and CDs and tapes are worth peanuts. But never vinyl. Not unless it's some easy listening shit.

There was a framed photograph of him on the wall, a good-looking dude with a big afro and an even bigger smile as he stood on the pavement outside his shop.

The place had been modernised since those days. No more cardboard boxes stacked on paint-stained trestle tables. No more hand-scribbled prices. No more concrete floor covered in cigarette ash. No more smell of weed, I guessed. There were black-painted metal racks fitted to exposed brick walls with professional price points. There was a stand that held posters, a spinner loaded with postcards, dump bins of cables and leads. There were lighted glass cabinets with revolving shelves displaying a huge range of memorabilia from James Brown alarm clocks ( _get up!_ ) to Bob Marley ashtrays.

I gulped down another mouthful of beer, boosted myself onto the counter, gently rocking as old school reggae poured from the speakers. I dug into the plastic bag I had with me, broke off a second can, handed it to Dylan. He took a long drink, set it down on the counter.

"Ah, yeah," he said, nodding and bouncing, finding a rhythm as he cashed up the till for the night.

"Some of us are still working," said Tayla. She was dragging a red Henry vacuum cleaner from out back.

"Yeah, girl, and some of us will be working tonight when you're scoffing lasagne and watching Eastenders," I said.

"You watch Eastenders?" said Dylan. He frowned. "That show doesn't look like any East End I recognise."

"It's my guilty pleasure," said Tayla.

"Makes a change from all those brainy political shows," I said.

She smiled as she plugged in the vacuum cleaner.

"You can get a pink one of them," I said, randomly.

"What's that?" said Dylan.

"Henry. They do lady ones now. In pink. I've seen them."

"Man, I don't want a pink vacuum cleaner."

"Yeah, get yourself a pink one, Dylan," said Tayla. "Mr and Mrs Henry."

I laughed. "They're not called Mrs Henry."

"I know that. I'm just messing."

"What are they called?" said Dylan, starting to look confused.

"Henrietta," we both replied.

"Man, I don't want nothing pink. Well, almost nothing ..."

He gave a sly grin and we laughed. I winked at Tayla. She was good to be around. You could never be down with her on the scene. Forest Gate born and bred, she was the kind of girl I wished I could've been; intelligent, happy, bright, sympathetic. She had made the right choices in life. I was sixteen years older than her and still catching up on that score. I respected her, admired her and considered her a friend.

Last year, she'd helped me break down a few barriers. I usually only saw her once a week, we went swimming on a Sunday, so this evening was a bonus and whenever the girl was around she brought a smile to my face. She was gorgeous inside and out. She had light brown skin, braided hair in a high ponytail, hazel-coloured eyes, a big smile on a small mouth. She'd been with her man for a year. I hoped he treated her right or he'd be in serious trouble with me. She was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt printed with the word _RECLAIM_. A shiny piece of rose-coloured quartz hung from a gold chain. I'd never seen her without it.

"So why are you in such a good mood, Kina?" she said.

"Got me a sweet breakthrough on this missing person case."

"Thank fuck for that," said Dylan. "When Donnie can't get hold of you he rings me. I ain't seen Barry. I don't even know him."

"Are you close to finding him then?" asked Tayla.

"I think so. The night he disappeared he took a minicab from Leytonstone. I went in the cab office and pretended he was my dad and suffered with dementia. They dug out the paperwork and I spoke to the driver who picked him up. Barry rocked up in Romford, walking distance from where his ex-father in law has a house on Mawney Road."

"Do you think he's staying with him?"

"Nah, it ain't like that. His ex-wife told me her dad died four years ago. She never sold the house or nothing. It's just sitting empty. I'm gonna take a run over and get the keys off her before my shift tonight. I can check it out later."

I looked between the two of them.

"You two don't repeat none of this shit, right? This is confidential, you get me? I shouldn't be saying nothing but I trust you two."

Tayla grinned. "Look at you, Kina, learning to trust people."

"Yeah, fuck you," I said, laughing.

"Oh, I just remembered," said Tayla. "I can't make swimming on Sunday, OK?"

"That I'd like to see," said Dylan. "You two gliding through the water ..."

We both glared at him. "Would you like me to repeat that to Hannah?" said Tayla. "No, I didn't think so."

He changed records. Grime erupted from the speakers. Angry beats, cold lyrics.

"Not this one again," said Tayla, rolling her eyes.

Dylan ignored her.

"What are you at on Sunday?" I called out, as Tayla switched on the cleaner.

She frowned at me. "It's Mother's Day. I'm taking Mum out for lunch."

"Oh."

"Are you seeing your mum?"

I drank, said nothing.

"Kina?"

I still said nothing. She switched off the cleaner. Came over to the counter, hands on her hips.

"You have to see your mum. It's Mother's Day."

"I don't have to do shit."

"Yes, you do. Buy her a card, get her some flowers. This is the first Mother's Day you're out. Make the most of it."

"You don't know her."

"It doesn't matter. She's your ..."

"Yeah, it does matter. You don't fucking know her. What kind of card would I get her? Tell her how much I love her? Tell her _thank you for always being there for me_ when all she ever done was blame me for everything?

"She came to visit you in prison for eleven years. She never let you down."

I kissed my teeth. I had no answer for her.

Tayla opened her mouth but was cut short by a repeated knocking at the shop door.

"Closed," shouted Dylan, jacking up the volume of the music.

"Nah, that's Kim," I said. I sprang off the counter, glad to escape. "Catch you two later."

I slid back the bolt, jerked open the door. I had planned on Kim meeting Tayla but right now I just wanted air. I stepped out into the bright sunshine, nodded at her. She nodded back. She was wearing a black cap, leather jacket, jogging bottoms, trainers.

I dug out my flat keys, told her to come up. Upstairs, we lit cigarettes. I gave her a beer.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Ah, nothing, Kina, man, nothing, you know what I mean?"

She dropped down on the edge of the sofa bed, sipped her beer. There was torment in her eyes.

"Man, you look worse than before. What's going on with you?"

"Nothing."

"I got shit to do. I need a shower and then I gotta get over to Beckton before my shift starts. You wanna hang?"

She nodded.

"Fridge is empty."

"Don't matter."

"I ain't got no Sky."

She half-laughed. "You ain't got no TV."

I grabbed a shower, thought about her under the cool spray. Done, wrapped in a big towel, I called Pauline Campbell for the second time. Straight to voicemail, just like before. I left the same message. Told her I needed the door keys for her dad's place in Romford.

Out of the bathroom, I started to get dressed. Kim was still nursing her can, deep in thought.

"That your work uniform?" she said.

"Yeah."

A light grey polo shirt, durable black trousers, a darker-grey tabard with pockets at the front and the company logo stitched over the right breast. I folded the tabard into a bag.

"It's my _Hong Kong Phooey_ outfit," I said, and threw out a few kung fu moves with sound effects. She didn't laugh. I rolled my eyes. No one got my humour!

" _Hong Kong Phooey?_ " she said, frowning. "That an old kid's cartoon, yeah?"

"Yeah."

I pulled on my trainers and hoodie.

"I don't get it."

"He's a janitor, a cleaner, like me, and a crime-fighter." She still wasn't connecting the dots. "Man, people keep nagging at me to have a sense of humour and when I do no one gets me."

Nothing from Kim.

"You still in this _situation?_ " I said.

"It ain't like that."

"What the fuck is it like?"

"I need to do this thing on Friday, Kina. I gotta do it."

"You ain't gotta do nothing. You got choices."

"Nah, man, you don't understand. This _situation_ is complicated. You know what I mean?"

"Stop calling it a fucking _situation_ and tell me what's going on. I ain't got time for this shit, Kim. I gotta get over Beckton and then ..."

"It's Anthony, my brother," she said. "I gotta put it right. I need money, you know what I'm saying? I need a lot of money, Kina, and then this problem goes away."

I closed my eyes, opened them slowly.

"Tell me."

So she told me.

Mr Chicken in Plaistow. A fast-food takeaway. An inside job. The guy doesn't set the alarm. Kim hits the place in the early hours of Saturday morning. Walks away with a couple of thousand.

"I needed a lookout, you feel me? Got chatting to LA when I was scoring. She got involved, wanted more than a 50-50 split. So I couldn't be having that, you feel me?"

"And that's why you came looking for me. You needed me to chase her off."

"It ain't like that, Kina. I wanted to see you. You were good to me inside."

"So the guy that owns this Mr Chicken isn't there Friday night. Won't he bank the takings before leaving?"

"Nah, man, his brother is getting married the next day so he's leaving round the middle of the day. There's a couple of girls working the afternoon and evening but they ain't trusted to take the money to the bank. So it's gonna be there that one night, you know what I mean? That's why I told you there's a small window for this. So I gotta do this."

"No alarm and the cops will know it's an inside job."

"Feds ain't gonna do shit, Kina."

"A few thousand disappears and the owner is just gonna ..."

"This guy that owns Mr Chicken has done time for fraud and shit, insurance, you know what I mean? He ain't gonna call the feds. He'll just suck it down case five-o look at him for the crime. He can't afford to have heat on him."

"So why doesn't Anthony do this job if the money is for him? Why are you risking it?"

Kim laughed. "Come over and meet Anthony. You'll know why I gotta do this for him. He ain't up to this shit. The guy is messed in the head, man."

She chewed at her nails, twisted the end of her hair. _Here it comes ..._

"So, like, what I was thinking ... now that LA ain't in the picture ... I need a new lookout ... someone I can trust ..."

Tayla should've been here to listen to all this. She would've talked to Kim, used logic and reason, pointed out how this choice was only gonna end one way; if not this robbery then the next one or the one after that. A thief is a thief and a thief don't stop until they get caught. Tayla would've demolished Kim within minutes.

That's what Tayla would've done.

But I ain't Tayla.

So I did it my way, old school.

I rapped Kim hard in the mouth. "Get the fuck out," I told her. "You and me are done, girl."

NINETEEN

Naz was bombarding me with messages. I ignored them all. That scene was over.

All I could think of was Kim and the stupid robbery she was involved in. I couldn't abandon her, despite what I'd told her. I had to do something. The guy that owned Mr Chicken _would_ go to the cops no matter what record he had. A drug dealer gets ripped off he doesn't go to the cops. He gets a gun and sorts shit out on his own. The guy that ran Mr Chicken didn't sound like a drug dealer. He'd call five-o. No alarm meant an inside job. They'd lift the guy on the night shift, work him over in an interview room, solicitor or not. He'd say - leave me alone, you got nothing, I made a mistake, I'm not used to the alarm, I shouldn't have been left in charge, it's not my fault. Cops always smelt liars and thieves and would tighten the pressure and the guy would give up Kim. She wasn't gonna listen to me. _What did I know?_ I'd have to think of a fresh angle to keep her from going back to prison.

The bus laboured through heavy rush hour traffic. The temperature was cooling, the sky was turning overcast. I guessed a downpour was on its way. The past few days had been stupid hot for March.

My mobile started to ring.

I dug it out, expecting the caller ID to display _Naz_ or even _Kim_ but it was _Ella._

"Hey," I said.

"Hi, Kina."

There was a moment of nothing. I thought I'd lost her.

"Are you still there?" she asked.

"Sure. You good?"

"I'm good. Thanks for asking. You?"

"Yeah."

Silence once more.

"I'm sorry about before," I said. "I came on heavy. I'm a bit out of touch with how to handle stuff ..."

"It's okay."

Silence.

"What are you doing Friday night?" she asked.

"Working," I replied. "Shift ends at eleven."

"Do you fancy coming to a party afterwards? One of my friends, James, has his place free. It'll be great."

"Yeah, that's sounds good. Do you want me to pick you up from Wanstead?"

"No, that's fine, I'll already be there."

"OK."

"Are you sure, Kina? You don't sound sure."

"Yeah, no, it's cool, thanks. So we're not going as ... I mean, we're not gonna turn up together like ..."

"No."

"OK."

"All my friends are going to be there. I thought you wanted to be my friend. Come along and introduce yourself."

"OK."

"You do want to be my friend, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do. You know that."

She paused. "I don't know that. I know you want to sleep with me. You made that clear the other day. But ..."

"You're not gay, right?"

"I didn't say I was or wasn't, Kina, that's a very personal question."

"Look, I said I was sorry for coming on too strong, man."

"No, that's OK. But I'd like us to be friends, Kina."

"Just friends?"

"Is that not a big enough thing? Does there have to be something more?"

I didn't know if she was teasing me or being deadly serious. I guessed she wasn't messing around.

"I'd like there to be something more."

Silence.

"I haven't got a chance with you, have I?"

More silence.

"Does that mean you only want to be my friend if you have a chance of sleeping with me?" asked Ella.

"No," I said. "It ain't that. I think about you when you ain't around. I feel good when you are. Friends is cool."

"What about your current girlfriend?" said Ella. "Will you be bringing her to the party?"

Now I knew she was teasing me. "That's finished," I said.

"Tell me about it Friday," said Ella. "I'll text you the address. Bye, Kina."

* * *

Pauline was red-faced when she opened her flat door. Her recently-coloured brown hair was damp, plastered to her head. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on her upper lip, the painted smile nervous and apprehensive. She was wearing a silky robe. I guessed she was naked underneath it.

"What are you doing here, Kina?"

I gave her a cold look.

"I kept phoning, leaving messages. Now I know why. What the fuck is wrong with you people?"

A confused expression crossed her face. I pushed into the flat. There were leftovers on the table, two plates, a half-empty bottle of wine, a couple of glasses.

"Now listen," she said, closing the front door, following me inside. "I was very nice to you last time." Her voice grew sterner. Her smile had disappeared. The lines round her eyes deepened. Her mouth narrowed, tightened. She was pretty intimidating. "But that doesn't give you the right to come barging in when I'm entertaining. I divorced Barry nearly ten years ..."

"I recognise his car," I said. "It's parked in your bay." I looked her up and down. "I reckon he's been in your bay all afternoon, yeah?"

"No need to be crude, Kina," said Donnie, quietly.

He emerged from the bedroom. He was belting a robe. I glimpsed a large stomach, a chest of curly grey hair. "It ain't what you think, love."

"Man, what is it with you and Barry?" I said. "You can't leave it alone, can you? You got a wife at home."

"You're too young to understand," said Pauline. She sat down, poured a glass of wine.

"Too young to understand? What the fuck, man?"

I looked between them, glanced up at the wall clock, took a deep breath. I needed to roll.

Donnie fetched a beer from the kitchen. "Why are you here, love?"

"Don't love me," I said. "I'm pissed off with you, Donnie."

He took a long drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It ain't what you think." He laughed. "It _really_ ain't what you think. And, to be honest, it ain't none of your business."

Pauline got up from the table, wine glass in hand. "I'd like to know why you're here as well."

"I need the keys to your dad's house in Romford," I said.

"Why?"

"Barry left the Bricklayer's Arms on Friday night." I glanced at Donnie. "He went to the Rising Sun bar to meet his girlfriend. Her name is Naomi Simmons. She used to work at the electrical shop. She's twenty, lives local with some dude."

Donnie lowered his beer. "Why didn't he tell me he had a bird? Why'd he keep it from me?"

"Maybe he was fed up of you taking the piss. Or maybe he thought you'd make a move on her."

Donnie stiffened. "That ain't funny, Kina. I ain't into girls young enough to be my daughter."

"I just need those keys." I glanced at the wall clock. "Shit, I'm gonna be late."

"Where are you working?" asked Donnie. I told him. "Let me get dressed," he said. "I'll drive you over."

He put down the beer, disappeared into the bedroom. I turned to Pauline. There was a distant look in her eyes. I couldn't read it.

"When Barry left his girlfriend on Friday night," I said. "He got a cab to Romford, two streets from Mawney Road."

"Do you think he's hiding there?"

"Yeah."

Donnie came back into the living room as Pauline rooted in a drawer, dug out the house keys.

I looked at the pair of them. "I ain't gonna say nothing. Like you said, this ain't my business. This shit is for you to deal with."

The two of them smirked, and then laughed. I frowned. I didn't get why they were so casual about it.

Pocketing the keys, I went outside. Donnie followed a minute later. The music had started up next door.

"I'll be back to deal with that cunt later," he said.

We went down to his car. He drove pretty fast, braking hard, overtaking recklessly.

"I can't believe Barry kept this Naomi bird a secret," he said. "What's she like?"

"I dunno," I said. "Young."

He rolled his eyes, overtook once more, tyres squealing.

"Are you gonna tell him you're nailing his ex-wife?"

"I don't need to. He knows."

"What?"

"Anyway, it was a one off."

Donnie thumped the horn, yelled.

"Did Barry tell you about a friend of his that died recently?" I asked.

"No. Who died?"

"I don't know. An old friend. Maybe from when he lived in Leeds. Which you forgot to tell me about."

Donnie braked, swore. "What do you mean?"

"You never told me he was from Leeds. He might have gone back there."

"What for? The _Bazman_ never had a happy childhood. His parents were cunts. Right horrible cunts."

"Yeah, I know, Pauline and Naomi told me," I said.

He sped through West Ham, weaved round a lorry, broke suddenly. "This you? Now, that'll be twenty quid, love."

I jabbed him on the arm. "I'm still mad at you."

"I'll tell you all about it over a pint," he said, grinning.

I got out his car, leaned down toward the open door. "Once I finish here tonight I'll go over to Romford."

"Nah, it's alright, love, I'll go. Give us the keys."

"You're paying me to find him."

"I know that and I reckon you've solved it already. Better than the old bill. Come on, Kina, give us the keys."

I don't know why I was reluctant to hand them over. This was my investigation. I didn't want Donnie muscling in now I was bringing it to a conclusion. But then Barry was the one that mattered, not any pride on my behalf. I dug the keys out, tossed them to him.

"Cheers, love." His wallet came out, another wad of twenties.

"Is that a bribe to keep quiet?" I asked. He grinned. "Let me finish the job, Donnie. Pay me then, yeah?"

"Take the bloody money," he said. "I know you ain't rolling it in. I'll bell you once I've been over that gaf in Romford."

"He might not be there."

"Then where is he? Why'd he scarper off like that? Is all this aggro because some geezer popped his clogs? What's the matter with him? Silly bastard!"

"Text me," I said.

TWENTY

Nothing from Donnie.

I guessed he'd found Barry and gone on the piss. Or I'd got it wrong and the house had been empty and he'd driven back to finish doing the nasty with Pauline.

How long had that been going on? Body language told me that wasn't the first time. They were _so_ comfortable round each other. No shy awkwardness, nothing. Ain't like that with a one-off. I was pissed he hadn't sent a message but there had been four calls from the same unknown number with no voicemail for any of them.

Travelling in Simone's car, heading back to Forest Gate, I stared at the number. It was a mobile I didn't recognise.

The wind whistled round the car, dark clouds surging overhead, blotting out the stars.

Fuck it, I thought, and hit the dial button.

An aggressive woman was waiting at the other end. She laid into me, question after question, barely letting me get a word in.

I quickly ran out of patience. "Who the fuck are you?"

Simone glanced sharply at me. She went to church, hated swearing. I mouthed a silent apology.

"I'm Sandy Copeland. My Donnie hired you. He's got your card up on the fridge. I know you're working for him so don't mess me about. Maggie says you're full of it. Reckons you're a con artist. Is that your game?"

Maggie, the poisonous daughter, stirring the pot ...

"Yeah, I'm working for him. What's the problem?"

"He's missing. That's the fucking problem, darling. He ain't come home. He told me he wouldn't be long and he's been gone all bloody night. And you ... you were the last one who saw him."

The dashboard clock read 11.13pm. Donnie had dropped me off at 7.56pm. Was he still in Romford?

"Mrs Copeland, when did you ...?"

"You call me Sandy. None of that Mrs Copeland bollocks. You ain't sweet talking me, darling."

She was raw East End, terrifying.

"When did you last hear from Donnie?" I said.

"Just before eight. He'd told me he'd dropped you off at work and was going over Romford. He reckoned you'd found Barry. Now he ain't here and I don't know ..."

Her voice stuttered, lost the aggression, revealing the fear inside.

"Where's my Donnie?"

"Sandy ..." I said.

The phone was grabbed from her.

"Where's my dad? What have you done with him? I warned you, street girl ..."

"Put your mum back on the line, Maggie."

"Kina," whispered Simone. I suddenly realised the car was stationary, engine still running, parked outside the record shop. I covered the mobile, thanked her for the lift, got out. Wind and rain hit me.

"Are you still there?" shouted Maggie. "I know people. I told you I know people. I can ..."

"I'm still here," I said, sheltering in the doorway, left hand digging out my keys.

Simone hadn't driven away. I stopped rummaging, frowned at her.

"Where's my dad?" shouted Maggie. "Where did you send him?"

"He's checking an address ..." I said. I didn't finish my sentence. I was distracted by Simone, still sitting in her car, pointing at me.

"You better hope Dad found Barry and the pair of them have gone on a bender or I'll be coming for you ... are you listening to me?"

Simone was gesturing wildly at me, reaching for her door, pushing it open, her hand still pointing at me ...

... _not at me_ ...

... _behind me_ ...

... _a split-second to realise_ ... _and on the street that was all it took_ ...

The knife came out of the rain-drenched blackness. The long blade flashed in the yellow street light. There were two of them. Hooded and masked. Clearly girls. Most likely teenagers.

A long time since I'd got caught slipping ... _a long fucking time._

"Gimme the phone, bitch." She thrust the blade at me. "Gimme it. Make a move and I'll cut you bitch. Fucking cut you bitch. Yeah, you know it, you fucking know it."

I slowly lowered the phone from my ear, eyes on the blade. Simone was out of her car, bravely shouting at them.

They ignored her.

They didn't have any respect for her or her words - afraid of nothing, afraid of no one, not even me ...

The tip of the blade jabbed toward me. The eyes holding it were young and dark brown surrounded by black skin. I'd been stabbed twice before. A knife the first time, a sharpened screwdriver the second. I'd been slashed a few times and belt-whipped as well. I still had the scars. _I had a lot of scars ..._

"Fucking come over acting like you someone still," said knife-girl. "Fucking ain't shit to us what you done ..."

She had me cold. She could've taken my phone or cut me by now which meant ...

"You're fucking old. We ain't afraid of you. Dried up pussy that no one wants to fuck no more ..."

There had been plenty of muggings and cuttings in the High Street. This wasn't one of them. This was personal ...

I moved a few inches on the wet pavement, shaping my body, ready to attack that knife.

"Bitch ass fed lover," said the second girl. She was holding a container. I guessed what was in it. _This_ was what knife-girl was waiting for.

Simone was still yelling, slamming her fist on the roof of her car. For a quiet lady of the church she was no pussycat.

Lights were turning on in nearby flats. People were emerging on the street, calling over.

A car slowed, headlights streaming toward us.

Knife-girl made her first and only mistake. She took her eye off the game for just a split-second. Told Simone to shut the fuck up, fuck off, bitch. Like I said, all it took on the street was a split-second ...

I lunged forward, grabbed her wrist. I moved fast, faster than she expected. My grip tightened as she tried to thrust the blade into me. I pinned her arm, bringing up my free hand at the same time, mobile in my palm, held with my thumb, fingers open. I jabbed hard into her face, driving my nails into her eyes.

Her scream was gut-wrenching. I thrust deep. She was howling, trying to pull back, break free, but I didn't let go of her. There was no mercy from me. She still carried the knife and I needed her body as a shield. I knew what the second girl was holding. I knew these soldiers had been sent by Leah Atkins ...

The second girl sprang at me, hastily unscrewing the container.

I yanked knife-girl toward me, using all my strength. She slammed into me, right as the second girl threw the acid.

She fucked up. It splashed her partner's back.

Knife-girl screamed again. I don't know if any of it had burnt through her clothing or she was crying out in anticipation. I didn't care. Better her than me. The fight was going out of her. Her hand loosened and the knife dropped, hitting the pavement with a deadly clatter.

I spun knife-girl away, smashed her face into the padlocked shutters of the record shop. She dropped to her knees. I kicked her in the stomach. She slumped against the pavement. I kicked her a second time, right across the face, tearing away her bandana, busting open her mouth.

Acid-girl saw the cold reality of what was going down, knew she had to get outta here. She ran. I chased after her.

She looked over her shoulder, saw me spiralling toward her. She veered round a corner. I followed. She whipped over the road. I followed. Her trainers slapped on the rain-slick pavement. I followed. Bitch had tried to disfigure me. Nothing was gonna stop me catching up with her.

She was younger than me. Youth should've allowed her to get away. I smoked and drank, should've fallen behind. But fear was cramping her muscles, slowing her, and though fear tore through me probably more than it did her, I knew how to handle it and poured it into speed. I ran, ran hard, heart thumping, face covered in sweat and rain. There was shock in her eyes as I collided into her. I grabbed hold, yanked her off the street and into an alley.

There were no lights.

Darkness above, darkness all around, darkness in me ...

Sheets of rain fell on us, the ground all slippery and uneven, sodden weeds, bags of rubbish.

She would beg or take me on. In the end, she took the middle ground and froze. I beat her face into the wall until there was a sickening crack of bone. She went down, crying. I kicked her. I stamped on her.

They'd wanted to burn me, mark me for life ...

I tore off her bandana, clasped her jaw in my hand, gripped hard. She was starting to beg now, between the sobs. I lifted her from the bottom of the alley, caught her face in the moonlight.

She was white. No older than thirteen. No acid-girl or knife-girl. Just a girl. Just a girl with brown hair and hazel-coloured eyes. A daughter, a sister, a niece. Just a girl. A girl with a flattened nose, a cut forehead, a gashed cheek, a busted mouth. A girl with blood, tears and mucus all over her face. A girl who should've been at home in bed; funny videos on her phone, texts to her friends, updates for her crowd, school and boys and planning a future - not out here, not on the street doing dirt ...

"Tell LA what happened," I whispered into her ear. "You tell her. You fucking tell her if she sends anyone else I'll dig a big fucking hole for her. You get me?" I shook her, raised my voice. "You fucking get me?"

It took a few minutes to get back to the record shop. My heart was still burning in my chest, wanting to explode. Kim had led me back into a world I thought I was done with. I felt sick. The gangster was still lurking in me.

There were a dozen people in the street. Knife-girl had gone. Simone was standing beside her car, shaking. People were calling out, chatting round me. A white-haired black man was pacing with a baseball bat. The locals were sick of the violence, sick of the attacks, sick of how they were all painted with the same brush.

"Oh, Kina," said Simone. "Are you OK?"

Barry was missing. Donnie was missing. Kim was planning a robbery that would see her back inside. Naz was getting madder and madder because I was avoiding her. Ella wanted me to go to a party and meet her friends. It was Mothering Sunday this weekend and I wished I could trade my mum for five minutes with my dad and I hated myself for thinking such a wicked thing. And now Leah Atkins had sent girls to disfigure me with acid.

"Nah, man," I said, rain drilling all round me. "Things are pretty fucked up."

TWENTY ONE

This time I was the one who needed backup. I knew I could rely on Dylan. The two of us had handled shit in the past.

"Man, you love doing your thing at night," he said, yawning. "Do you know what time I have to get up for the shop?"

"Is that Kina?" said a woman's voice in the background.

"Yeah," he replied. "She needs help, wants me to drive her somewhere."

"Then go help her and let me get back to sleep."

I kept listening to the pair of them.

"Man, it's late," he said. "Look at the time."

"Dylan, you know you're going to say yes so just say yes and get out of here."

"Is that Hannah?" I asked.

"Yeah," he replied.

"Say hello."

"Kina says hello," he said.

Hannah groaned. "Say hello back. Tell her no smoking in the car."

He told me. I laughed.

"You OK?" he said.

"Nah, man, some bitch just tried to fuck me up with acid."

He repeated it to Hannah. I got the feeling she'd just sat up in bed. She hit Dylan with a thousand questions ...

"Why are you still here?" she said, taking the phone from him. "Get dressed. Kina, it's Hannah, are you OK?""

"Yeah."

"I can't believe it. Have a drop of brandy."

"On it already."

"When are you going to come round for dinner?"

I heard Dylan shout something in the background. She told him to stop listening in and hurry up.

"Soon," I said. "I promise."

"Good, you can bring your girlfriend, I'm pretty liberal. Oh, and Kina ..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't smoke in my car."

"Sure."

I hung up, poured another brandy, threw it down. My eyes were on the rain-swept street below. The flat was in darkness. I smoked a cigarette. Drank more brandy. The alcohol wasn't touching me. I was too numb. Dylan got there ten minutes later. I went downstairs, got in the car and lit a cigarette.

"Man, Hannah is gonna go mad at me."

"You, not me." I grinned at him, nudged down the window. "Chill, we'll pick up an air freshener at the garage. Man, this is like old times."

"Where are we going?"

"Mawney Road, Romford."

"Acid," he said, driving through the early hours of the morning. "That's heavy."

"Yeah."

"Random or personal?"

"Personal."

"You know who?"

"Leah Atkins."

"I've heard of her. She sells drugs off an estate in Hackney Wick. How come we're going to Romford?"

"Because I got a job to do. That bitch can wait."

"You gonna go after her?"

I dragged on my cigarette. "Dunno."

"You can't let that go unanswered, Kina, you know it. She came after you with acid."

"I don't want no war with no one."

"Man, it ain't about that. You know how it is."

"I know."

"You'll have to sort her out."

"Not yet."

"Don't get me wrong. I hope you _don't_ sort her out. This is what's gotta end. All this beef is what's killing us black men ... and women."

"You sound like Tayla."

"In a perfect world we should all sound like Tayla."

"Amen to that."

He nodded, switched on the radio. A dance track burst from the speakers. Cheesy beats, meaningless lyrics. He went through the stations, found Dizzee Rascal, left it there. I flicked my cigarette end out of the window, left it open, needing the cold air, needing the rain on my skin, the brandy flowing through my blood. Dylan drove, said nothing. I could always count on him. He was a friend I never realised I had.

"Thanks, man," I said, quietly.

"You're alright," he said.

I watched the city lights. The adrenalin was burning away. Stark reality was hitting hard. I'd taken my eye off the game for a second and could've been lying in hospital right now, messed up for life over a deal that wasn't even mine. Tears popped out. I rubbed them dry with the heel of my palm, swore under my breath.

"You OK?"

"Yeah."

"You get mixed up in some pretty rough shit don't you, Kina?"

"Yeah."

The towers and estates and corners glared back at me with a curled lip, judging me behind sheets of rain, misery reaching into the black night, all those old scores, all that beef, all that hate. The streets were telling me there was only one way to deal with LA and I didn't have a choice. I thought of all the shit I'd been through since getting out of prison last year. I'd found a different way to do things, a better way. _It was working for me ..._

Words were blinking in my head, alarms screaming. I had to respond but I had only seconds to decide. Most people don't get that long. They don't get any time at all – they just react. Stick a blade or a broken bottle into flesh, watch the blood flow. Ain't no one gonna catch you. Ain't no one gonna get the better of you. Your crew has your back. The street has your back. You're untouchable. Then the feds kick your door in at dawn and the dogs are barking and uniforms are yelling and overhead a helicopter throbs and beats.

You're slammed against a wall and the feds read you your rights and the cuffs are going on and you're in an interview room and the tape is going round and round but it's all good - your crew have got your back, the street has got your back. Then they stand you in court and your family are weeping and your crew are stunned and before you can blink you're in hell, a real hell of bars, keys, landings and predators wanting to fuck you up a million different ways and suddenly ain't no one got your back. You know pain. You know hurt. You know it like you've never known it before.

Then you find that space in your head - if you haven't slashed open your wrists or had your head stamped into the ground - that frozen moment when you can stop and think about how you _could've_ reacted and _should've_ reacted but by then it's too late, man, too fucking late.

I knew that moment. I wasn't going back to prison. I'd press the buttons. I'd pull the levers. I wasn't turning back. That version of me wasn't dead. Nah, that bitch was kicking round every day inside me, like a thirsty addiction, tempting me all the time, trying to get me to forget I had a choice, needing and wanting me to forget, but I wasn't forgetting nothing and she could go cry.

I closed my eyes, started counting from one to ten. I never made it to ten ...

Seconds later, or so it seemed, Dylan was nudging me. "You snore like a fucking elephant. Is this the place?"

I blinked awake. He was crawling along a road lined with houses and trees, wipers zipping back and forth. I didn't know why he was driving so slowly until the car lifted over a speed bump. I spotted the house. It was detached, no lights showing, sitting at the end of a paved brick driveway dotted with weeds, black railings with gold-painted razor-sharp tips, gates wide open, a silver Jag parked outside.

"That's Donnie's wheels," I said.

There was no parking at the roadside. Cars were parked in designated bays painted on the wide pavements.

"Keep driving," I said.

I studied the house as we went by. No movement. No sign of Donnie or Barry or anyone.

"Go back," I said. "Park up."

Dylan slowed, turned the car, headed back down the road, parked in the empty bay outside the house.

He turned off the engine, killed the lights. Rain drummed on the roof of the car. I took a torch from my pocket.

"No electric in the place," I said.

We climbed out, rain lashing us. The street was empty. We dashed toward the house, stopped at the front door. Dylan looked at me. I shrugged, reached for the handle, pushed it down. The door swung inwards. We went inside. I switched on the torch. The hallway was empty. No furniture. Nothing on the walls. I flashed the torch over a staircase and several doors, all standing wide open.

I glanced at Dylan.

"Do your thing," he said.

The house creaked. The rain poured down outside. I licked my lips.

"Barry?" I called.

I waited.

"Barry?"

Nothing.

"Donnie?"

Still nothing.

"No one here, Kina." said Dylan.

"Donnie's car is ..."

I broke off. We both heard the noise and looked at each other. The house had been empty for a considerable time. It might have been a rat or a fox or the wind or the rain but we knew the scraping movement was a person ...

We rushed forward, without thought, pure instinct, torchlight bobbing. We headed toward the back of the house, into a huge room bathed in moonlight, a long row of windows, one of them open ...

It all happened at once ...

... torch beam flashing over a figure climbing out the back window ...

... a man, definitely a man ...

... I caught a glimpse for less than a second. I thought it was Barry. It looked like Barry. _I wanted it to be Barry ..._

... outline of a second figure on the floor ...

... unmoving ...

And then the figure in the window raised his arm.

"I didn't kill _them_ ," he yelled, that thick Yorkshire accent untouched after three decades living in the south.

Barry ...

I saw the gun.

A revolver, held in his gloved fist.

"Fuck," I yelled, grabbing Dylan and diving.

The muzzle flared.

The gunshot was deafening.

The bullet whipped overhead, buried itself in the wall.

I spun from the room, still holding Dylan. The gun blasted a second time, flashing in the gloom.

We threw ourselves down.

Breathing ragged.

There was a loud scramble as the shooter dropped out of the window. I could hear him making his way through the back garden.

I boosted myself onto my feet.

"Kina, stay down," yelled Dylan.

I ignored him, edged half-crouched toward the back room, sucked in air, held it, poked my head round the door.

Barry had gone ...

Rain blew in. I let out my breath, angled the torch toward the body on the floor.

"Nah, man," I said.

I straightened, went into the room, eyes flicking between the open window and the body.

Donnie was slumped forward, ankles and wrists bound with cable ties. The carpet was soaked in blood.

"Jesus," said Dylan, following me into the room.

I kept the torch on Donnie.

There were two bullet holes in the back of his head.

**PART FOUR**

TWENTY TWO

The tape buzzed, took forever to stop.

Then Macklin spoke. DS Janice Macklin. She gave the date, people present – only the two of us – added this was an informal interview regarding the murder of Donald Eric Copeland.

I was offered a solicitor.

"I ain't done nothing," I said. "I don't need no suit."

"Miss McKevie, you gave a statement at the scene. Can you explain once again how you happened to be at the property?"

"I was following up a lead."

"A lead?"

"Yeah."

"Are you currently working as an investigator?"

"Yeah."

"Do you work for an agency?"

"No."

"You work solo then?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have an office?"

"No."

"Are you paid for your service?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you declare your earnings to the HMRC?"

"What?"

"Do you keep accounts? Records of work you've been paid for?"

"I keep notes."

"In these notes do you record the earnings that you are paid for working as an investigator and, subsequently, do you submit these earnings to the HMRC?"

"Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"So I can get up and leave, yeah?"

"That's correct."

"See you around."

I kicked back my chair, got up. I was here to give a witness statement. She was crawling all over me. I wasn't taking that shit from her.

Macklin was in her thirties, white, tight-skinned, resentment in her faded blue eyes; failed relationships, disillusion in her job, it was all there. She was roughly the same height as me, about five nine, but carrying more weight, far less muscle. She'd been the cop who'd arrested my sister, Olivia, last year and charged her with murder.

"Tell me about this lead you had that led you to the house on Mawney Road."

I said nothing.

"Please sit down, Miss McKevie."

I still said nothing.

"The first twenty-four hours in a murder inquiry are the most crucial."

I relented, sat.

"I'm looking for a guy that's missing," I said,

"Name?"

"Barry Fraser."

"Go on."

"Barry was married to Pauline Campbell. The house belongs to her. It was her father's house."

"His name?"

I hesitated. "I don't know."

"You don't know his name?"

"No."

"You were in a house of a man whose name you don't even know?"

"The dude's dead. I don't reckon he'll mind."

She glared at me.

"The house belongs to Pauline."

"Does she live there?"

"No."

"Does anyone live there?"

"No."

"So why did you go there?"

"I told you. I had an idea Barry was crashing."

"Was he?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"How did you gain access to the property?"

"The front door."

"Did you force the lock?"

I gave her a look. "The door was unlocked."

"An empty house with an unlocked door. Is that what you're saying?"

"Climb off me. Donnie had the keys."

"Go on."

"I went inside. Saw his body. Some guy went out the back window. He took a couple of shots at me."

She nodded.

It was still raining outside.

"Do you own a gun, Miss McKevie?"

I sat back in my chair.

"Why?"

"Please answer the question."

"No."

"Is that _no_ you don't own a gun or _no_ you're not going to answer the question?"

I fucking hated her.

"No, I don't own no gun."

"Have you ever owned a gun?"

"No."

"Have you ever fired a gun?"

I kissed my teeth.

"Answer the question."

"No."

She looked up, sharply.

"Are you saying to me that you have never fired a gun?"

"I'm saying to you _no_ I ain't answering that question."

Silence.

Cops loved blocks of silence, loved creating voids for us to fill when we sat on the other side of the table.

"What the fuck is this?" I said. "I called you people, reported a murder and now you're quizzing me like a suspect."

"That's not what's happening."

"The fuck you say. Sounds like you're trying to pin this on me. I'm a witness, you get me?"

Macklin leaned toward the tape, indicated the interview was to be suspended. The tape went off.

"Why the fuck are you up my arse, Janice?" I asked.

Her eyes burned at me. "You will address me as Detective Constable Macklin. Do you understand me, Kina?"

"Detective Constable? DC? Wow, what the fuck happened? You lost your rank."

"Shut up, Kina."

"No longer a sergeant. Did the bosses finally realise how shit you are at being a detective?"

She wet her lips, went silent.

"What are you gonna do, Constable? Beat the shit out of me? Write it up that I fell."

"You think you're so smart. You should still be inside, serving all those eighteen years."

"I'm a reformed woman."

"You're a wannabe."

"A wannabe?"

She leaned forward. "A wannabe-nigger _."_

There were footsteps in the corridor outside. They went past. There was the hum of air-conditioning nearby, ringing telephones. Take a step forward, one year, a hundred years, it don't matter shit; they'll always be a Janice Macklin.

"Say that in the street and I'll take you down," I said.

"You humiliated me last year," she said. "And I bear a grudge." She paused. " _You get me?_ " she added, mocking me.

I went silent.

"No tape running. No camera on. Take a swing at me, half-breed. Go on. Prove me right."

Silence.

"Do you know the percentage of witnesses who notify the police when a crime has been discovered who then go on to be arrested for actually committing that crime?"

Silence.

"You know how to handle a gun. You've used one before on your ex-boyfriend, back when you liked sucking cock instead of pussy, right?"

"You're wrong," I said.

"About what?"

I grinned at her. "I've always loved pussy. See, I just realised something. You're a Detective Constable. That means you're just a constable, right? Like, you ain't no different than the uniforms, right?"

"I'm a Murder Detective."

"Nah, you're the same as the constables who dance at carnival. That's you, ain't it? The dancing _cunt-stable_ ..."

There was a knock and then the door swept open. DS Corrigan came into the room, folder and coffee in hand. She looked between the two of us, a furious expression in her eyes. "A word," she said to Macklin.

The two of them went outside. I waited, staring at the walls, at the ceiling, at the tape machine.

Wannabe-nigger. Half-breed.

I picked at the table.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt ...

I snorted. Fucking rhyme had it fucking arse-backwards. Bones mend, you forget they ever got damaged but names, fuck ... I hated that bitch ...

Corrigan came back in, alone. She closed the door. She took a mouthful of coffee.

"Do you want to tell me what she said, Kina?"

"Nothing."

"I can see it in your eyes."

"Forget it."

"Kina ...?"

"Let's get this done, man."

She took my statement. I read through it, signed it.

"I just want to ask you a few questions before you go," she said. "Are you OK with that?"

"You gonna tape me?"

"No."

"OK."

"I'm working this case, Kina, so anything you can tell me might help catch who murdered Mr Copeland."

I nodded.

"Did you see the shooter?"

I shrugged. "I thought it was Barry." _I knew it was Barry._ "But I didn't get a proper look. The guy was white, I think. I don't know. It happened quick." I shook my head. "I gave Donnie the tip-off. I sent him to his death."

"You didn't know that was going to happen."

"He was executed. Tied up, shot in the back of the head. That's fucking heavy shit."

"It's too early to ..."

"Man, don't do that, Danielle. I was born in Belfast. Do you know how many guys used to end up like that? My dad ..." I swallowed hard. "Donnie was the nicest person you could hope to meet. He was. You know when you meet someone and like them straight away. That was Donnie. That should have been me lying dead."

She looked at me evenly. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Was either Donnie or Barry mixed up in any illegal activity?"

"Donnie built buildings. Barry sold TVs." I shrugged. "Nah, you well off the mark with that."

"This was an execution. You said it yourself,"

I let out a frustrated sigh.

"As far as I know the guys were on the level. I never heard nothing about them being in the game."

She nodded. "I want to talk to you about the laptop."

"What about it?"

"Something has come up. Not with the images or videos. They haven't even been examined yet. Backlog, lack of resources and so on." She waved a hand, picked up her coffee cup. "We picked up five sets of prints from the laptop. One, unsurprisingly, are your own. Three were unknown. The fifth set came back a match."

"Who to?"

Corrigan shook her head. "I don't know. The information is restricted."

"What?"

"Who planted the child abuse data on the laptop?"

"If I tell you that do you spread it round I'm a grass?"

"Kina, I'm the last person who would do that. I thought I'd earned your trust?"

I nodded, said nothing.

"Have I earned your trust?"

"I wouldn't have come to you with the laptop if you hadn't."

I took a deep breath.

"Ian Dobson," I said. I told her his address. "He was trying to frame Barry. Make the guy look like a paedophile. Dobson thinks Barry was sexually-harassing his girl. Truth is his girl is sleeping with Barry."

"What's her name?"

"Naomi Simmons."

"Same address?"

"Yeah."

She looked up from her notebook. "Do the images and videos belong to Dobson?"

"He said he got them from a mate."

"Name?"

"No name."

"Did you believe him?"

"What does it matter what I think? You're the cop ..."

"I value your opinion. When you interviewed him did you believe he'd bought them from a mate or made the whole thing up?"

"I didn't think he was lying."

"OK."

"So what's the deal with these prints? Have you ever come across that kind of thing before?"

Corrigan didn't answer.

"You have, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"It means that someone who handled that laptop has a past I'm not authorised to know about."

TWENTY THREE

"Man, fuck you," I said.

I stepped off the bathroom scales, furious. I tossed back the shower curtain, reached in, turned on the spray. The water spat until it found a steady rhythm. I glared back at the scales, tried them a second time.

"Half a stone," I said, carrying on the conversation with myself. "Nah, ain't right. Ain't right ..."

I scrubbed with anger, still talking to myself. Once done, I put on black underwear. It was warm in the flat. I popped open a few windows. Friday morning traffic outside, silence in the shop below, birds scampering on the flat roof, most likely pigeons. I'd need to get up there and clean off the mess at the weekend.

My skin tingled from the breeze. I didn't get dressed right away. Moved round in my underwear. No one could see in. No one was around. Cigarette lit, I switched on the record player, dropped vinyl on the turntable, carefully lowered the needle. Keep your downloads and shiny CDs, man, this was where it was at; that sexy sound of the needle hitting the groove, a sound that makes your hairs stand on end.

Old school jungle burst from the speakers. Angry drumbeats. Deep bass. The music matched my mood.

Dylan knew I played his records and borrowed a few CDs now and then. He didn't mind as long as everything went back in the right place. None of the stuff up here was new. It wasn't like I was ripping off cellophane. This was all his online stock, all of it second-hand. Before I moved in he'd had stacks of plastic crates and cardboard boxes scattered through the flat. I'd cleaned the place up and converted the bedroom into a stockroom. He'd been delighted. I had one less room to live in but he charged me a hell of a lot less rent. It suited both of us.

I made a mug of tea and a slice of toast. I sat at the round wooden table I'd bought in January from a junk shop. There was a bunch of daffodils in a cheap glass vase and an ashtray brimming with cigarette ends.

Gulping down the tea, I lit another cigarette, stared into space as I smoked, lost in thought, going over it again and again; the acid attack, Donnie getting killed, Barry springing out of the window firing at me and Dylan. Then there was Kim's planned robbery at Mr Chicken going down tonight. And Ella's party invite. I tipped a column of ash into the ashtray, closed my eyes for a few seconds.

I picked up my cigarette box. It was black. There was a health warning and a vivid coloured photograph of lung surgery. All cigarette boxes were black now, the colour of funerals. I tapped the box against the table. I would go to Donnie's funeral. I didn't know when it would be or if I'd be welcome. I'd sent him to that house, sent him to his death. I couldn't shake that. I also couldn't understand why he'd been murdered.

I didn't kill them.

Barry going out the window, gun in hand, muzzle flaring, bullets zipping past us, trying to make his escape and wasting seconds shouting that message.

I didn't kill them.

I wasn't the brightest on the block, I had no problem admitting that, but that made no sense.

Now maybe I shouldn't expect sense from a guy who popped a couple in his mate's head and was shooting at a couple of strangers but ... it should've been _I didn't kill him. I didn't kill my best mate. I'm just here in the same house with a gun and he's lying on the floor with two bullets in him but it wasn't me ... I didn't kill him ..._

It _had_ been Barry climbing out that window. I'd glimpsed him for no more than a second in the flashing torchlight but it had been him.

I didn't kill them.

Did he mean Donnie and his old friend from the past? His old friend from Leeds? I was guessing about Leeds. I was guessing about the old friend.

I picked up the toast. Cold. I ate it anyway. I put the kettle on, made a second mug of tea. I quickly dressed, black jeans and a fitted green T-shirt. I got out my notebook, pages and pages of scribbled writing; interviews, things I'd discovered since Donnie had first arranged to meet me on Monday. I skimmed over the pages, a sudden frown, certain I'd missed something, finding a thread, a contradiction, until I spied the colour photograph I'd taken from Barry's flat and then the thread was gone for the moment.

Barry and Donnie ...

Tanned and smiling on the deck of a cruise ship. Blue sky all around. Mates. Best mates.

I traced a finger over Donnie's face. I moved my finger over to Barry, dragging on my cigarette, smoke curling toward the ceiling, traffic zipping by, the working day starting up, school kids emerging on the street, end of the school week for them, Barry looking back at me, ash breaking, tiny flakes, Barry grinning that schoolboy grin, skin brown, hair ginger, that long and narrow face ... _the Bazman ... I didn't kill them ... I didn't kill them ..._

"Why did you run, man?" I said.

Who was this old friend that had died? Why did it mean that Barry had to disappear because of it?

He'd gathered his toiletries, severed all contact with Donnie and Naomi, his job, his home ... had he been _protecting_ them? Getting them out of harm's way?

But why kill Donnie? Why kill your best mate? Why? Why?

I sat back in the chair, cigarette burned down.

Had he found out about the affair with Pauline? That was definitely a long-running thing. I guessed the cops would say that provided Barry with motive. A mate sleeping with his ex-wife. It _was_ motive. It didn't matter that he'd cheated on Pauline. Blokes ain't keen when it's the other way. Jealously was an ugly thing. Barry was shagging his way through the twenty-something population of London but that didn't mean he wanted anyone, especially not his best mate, getting into his ex-missus.

Then why say _I didn't kill them_ and not _the fucker deserved it_?

And Donnie and Pauline had been so casual about sleeping together.

I stared at the photograph some more, looking for answers.

Barry with his skin brown, hair ginger, that long and narrow face ... _I didn't kill them ... hair ginger, hair ginger ..._

"Oh, shit," I said.

Trainers and hoodie on, I trotted downstairs, rapped on the locked door of the shop.

"Hey," said Dylan.

His voice was flat.

"How you doing, man?"

"Things get pretty intense round you, Kina."

"I won't drag you along no more."

He leaned against the window, looked out at the street. "The world just keeps going, doesn't it? Kids getting knifed, Donnie gone, and the world just keeps going."

"Ain't it better that way?" I said, unsure what he wanted to hear.

"Nah, it ain't right, Kina. Someone tried to burn you with acid and then some white boy takes a shot at the both of us. It ain't right." He paused. "Thanks for keeping me out of it, letting me take off before you called the cops."

Awkwardly, I placed a hand on his shoulder. "We're mates, yeah?"

"Yeah," he said. "Man, that was close."

I squeezed.

"I need a set of wheels," I said. "Can you hook me up with someone who ain't gonna rip me off?"

"You don't need wheels. I don't mind helping you out."

"No one's gonna miss me if a bullet takes me out. You, man, you'll be missed. Lot of people got a lot of love for you, Dylan."

He laughed, shrugged off my hand. "Yeah, yeah. Go do your shit. Give me a bell if you need anything."

"Check out some wheels for me," I said. "Promise?"

He nodded.

* * *

I met Pauline at midday.

"I went to the supermarket," she said. Her voice was distant. "I always go on a Friday. Have done since I was married. I used to make Barry push the trolley. Silly sod would get embarrassed. Round and round we'd go with him moaning. He didn't really mind but he liked a moan now and then. Well, he's a bloke. After the divorce, Sandy used to come with me. Well, we went together. Donnie would drive us. We'd go at the weekend because he was working during the week. I never really liked going on a Saturday. I didn't like to tell them. This was in the early days when we were all still together. I miss those days."

I waited.

"Donnie used to sit outside and read the paper. Sometimes he'd come in. But only if he wanted doughnuts. He loved doughnuts. Liked trying the ones with the different fillings in them. He used to push my trolley. As a joke, you know, because Barry wasn't there to do it. He never pushed Sandy's trolley. He wouldn't dare. She didn't want him getting in the way."

I waited a little more.

"I walked round and round the aisles in circles this morning. I always go on a Friday. I had my list. I had all my bags and I didn't buy a bloody thing. They must have thought I'd lost my marbles. Round and round with this bloody empty trolley and I couldn't focus. I still ... I still can't believe he's ... poor Sandy and Maggie. Oh, Donnie ..."

She pressed a tissue to her eye, held back a fresh wave of tears. She'd layered on the makeup today, covering the puffiness around her eyes where she'd no doubt been crying. She was wearing a smart blazer over pale blue jeans and a black silk shirt with the top three buttons open, leathery cleavage squashed tight.

We were sat in a restaurant. The place was sleek, shiny chrome and speckled black marble. The flooring was wooden, highly polished. Lazy tunes drifted out of speakers. Huge windows looked out toward the Beckton Alps, nothing more than waste ground with the deteriorating remains of a dry ski slope.

Pauline was drinking white wine. It wasn't her first drink of the day. I had a single brandy. Three young women covered the bar and tables. They wore black trousers and black shirts and polished black shoes that echoed across the wooden floor. They were all white and Polish. There was barely any lunchtime trade for them to break into a sweat over.

I placed the photograph of Donnie and Barry on the table, spun it round. Her eyes began to moisten.

"I know this must be hard," I said. She drained her wine glass, shook it at one of the waitresses. "But I need the truth, Pauline."

"Why? What does it matter now?"

The waitress brought over a fresh glass of wine. I swallowed a mouthful of brandy, waited for her to leave.

"You told me you couldn't have kids because Barry wasn't fertile. Donnie told me the same thing." I reached across the table, gently held her hands. "But it was a lie. It was _Donnie_ who couldn't father a kid. Maggie is Barry's daughter, isn't she?"

"No."

"Yes, Pauline."

"No."

"Same hair, same facial features."

"No."

She pulled her hands away, picked up her wine glass, finished it, waved it at the waitress once more.

I pushed the photograph toward her.

"Tell me about that cruise the four of you went on in 1996 – a year or so before Maggie was born."

She rolled the empty glass between her shaking palms. Beads of sweat popped out across her forehead.

"Did Barry have an affair with Sandy?"

"I think I'm going to be sick," she said.

She started to get up, unsteady on her feet. I sprang out of my chair, just as the waitress returned with another glass of wine. The three of us collided and the glass went down, shattering instantly. The waitress reacted in her native tongue. I didn't have a clue what she was saying but it didn't sound good. I guided Pauline toward the toilets.

"I don't think ... I don't ..."

She doubled over, right in the middle of the restaurant, choking sobs as she puked out a solid twenty-four hours of booze and not much else.

The staff glared at the pair of us. I looked round the near-empty restaurant. "Ain't like you got fuck all else to do," I said.

A black guy in his forties came hurrying over. He was in a shirt and tie. "Is she OK? Can I help?"

"Yeah, man, can you get some water?" I said.

One arm round Pauline, I used my foot to wedge open the toilet door. Pauline was muttering and crying and saying she was sorry and would pay for the mess. I told her to shut up. The black guy returned with the glass of water, his face creased with worry.

"Thanks," I said. "She'll be OK."

I bundled her into a cubicle, sat her down on the lowered toilet seat. I got the blazer off her. There was vomit stained down the front. My gut turned at the smell. I pushed the glass of water into her hand, only letting go once I was certain she had hold of it. She took a few tentative sips. Keeping her in sight, I filled a sink with water, checked the pockets of the blazer, found nothing, and put it in. I was certain it was the kind of garment that should've been dry-cleaned but the thing stank and there was no way she could carry it round like that.

One of the waitresses poked her head through the door. "Is everything OK?" she asked. She had a flat tone. She clearly didn't give a shit.

"Can you phone a minicab?"

"What name?" she said.

I told her to put it in my name.

"I'm sorry," said Pauline. "I'm so sorry. I started on the sherry and then I found a bottle of gin and ... oh, poor Sandy, poor Sandy."

I settled the bill, got her home. I got another glass of water down her. I offered to run her a bath, stay with her, if she wanted.

"You don't have to do that, Kina. You don't even know me. I need to get changed."

She went into the bedroom. I waited in the living room, smoking beside the open window.

She emerged a few minutes later wearing the same silky robe she'd worn the day I'd found her with Donnie. I stubbed out my cigarette, sat opposite her. She stared at me for a long time.

"Tell me, Pauline."

TWENTY FOUR

Spain ...

Twenty-two years ago. The mid-nineties. The four of them sharing a villa ...

A year before the cruise.

A year before Sandy would fall pregnant.

John Major is Prime Minister and has just won a leadership election he triggered by resigning as leader a few weeks before. There is talk of civil war in Bosnia and that UK soldiers might be sent to fight.

It's good to be away ...

The football season had finished but the boys were still talking football, football and more football. Arsenal had just signed Dennis Bergkamp. Liverpool had bought Stan Collymore. Donnie and Barry were wondering how clubs could pay the kind of money they were paying. 7.5 million for the Dutchman, 8.4 million for the kid from Forest. They didn't have a clue how those price tags would look like peanuts in the years to come.

And the boys were talking women, their women ...

Sandy and Pauline had swum topless in the sea. Donnie and Barry had compared wives, the way men do.

"We'd been drinking all day. We had a lovely meal that night. This gorgeous little restaurant with a rooftop terrace. It had been a perfect day, ended up being a perfect night as well. When we got back to the villa, well, Sandy and me decided it was time to even up the score. The boys had spent all day ogling us. Now it was our turn. We told them we wanted them to strip. I have never laughed so much in all my life. Soon the boys were running naked through the villa. Then Sandy and me joined in. I slept with Donnie and Barry slept with Sandy.

"We shrugged it off the next morning. We'd been drunk. But we all had a taste for it and that night we tried it again. Some nights I had sex with Donnie, some nights it was Barry, one night it was both of them, Sandy as well. None of us had children. We all worked very hard. It was a great time. When we got back home we talked about whether or not to carry on or leave it behind in Spain. You can't always bring back the magic of holiday to rainy England.

"But we did. And it was just as good. A little colder, mind." She chuckled. "Then, after the cruise, Sandy phoned me up and said we had to stop. She was pregnant. I knew the baby belonged to Barry. When I was first with him I fell pregnant. I wasn't ready to settle down, start a family. I was only twenty-five at the time. We only did it the once without protection and bang – I'm in the family way. I had an abortion. I've only ever told that story to Sandy. She had a feeling the baby belonged to Barry. She said her and Donnie had been trying for years and no luck. It was Donnie that had the low sperm count, not Barry. We agreed, Sandy and me, that we'd never tell. Donnie raised Maggie as his own.

"Did Barry know?"

"Why do you think he never chased after her? He knew she was his."

"How did he feel about it?"

She thought for a long time before answering. "He just accepted it. It wasn't a problem for him. Men are like that, aren't they? They never grow up. Do you think this has anything to do with Donnie getting murdered?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Have the cops interviewed you yet?"

She told me they had. A lovely detective named Corrigan and a sour one named Macklin.

"How much did they tell you?"

"They told me they were looking for Barry to eliminate him from their inquiries."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Cop talk. Barry was there that night, Pauline. He had a revolver."

I thought she was going to throw up again.

"He took a couple of shots at me. And he shouted _I didn't kill them._ Do you know what he could've meant by that?"

She stared blankly, unable to cope with what I was telling her.

"Barry is still on the run, Pauline. And he's armed. And he killed Donnie."

"No."

"He was in the house. He had a gun. He killed his best mate. Who the fuck is he running from? You know, don't you?"

She started to cry. "I don't know."

"His current girlfriend said someone had died. An old friend. Did Barry kill this old friend or is he being blamed for it?"

I clenched and unclenched my fists.

"Pauline ...?"

She wiped away the tears. "The police don't know."

"Don't know what?"

"I thought they would've known about it. But they didn't."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can't, I can't tell you."

I liked her. I really did. But right now I wanted to slap a bit of sense into her.

"Your ex-husband is running round London with a fucking gun, you get me? If you know something ..."

"You don't understand, Kina."

"Yeah, I'm thick," I said, raising my voice. "You said that the other day."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it? Who's coming for Barry? Tell me. It's in your eyes. I can see ..."

She got to her feet, shouted down at me. "Barry Fraser isn't real. He doesn't exist."

I was out of my chair, squaring up to her. "He looked pretty fucking real when he was shooting at me."

"Barry didn't leave Leeds because he wanted to," she said. "He left because he had to."

"Why?"

"I don't know why."

Hands on my hips, I shook my head. "Are you fucking kidding me? Your were his wife and you didn't know."

"He never told me why," she said. She backed away from me, went to the window, shivering as the breeze touched her skin. "He couldn't tell me. He never even told me his real name."

"His real name?" I said.

"He was my husband and I never knew his name. Do you know what that was like? I could just about put up with him chasing every woman in sight. But after Greece, after all that nonsense with Tracie Meadows I told him I wanted a divorce. He begged me for one more chance. Said it wasn't easier being Barry Fraser. I laughed at that. What did he bloody mean it wasn't easy being him? And then it all came out. He still wouldn't tell me his name, wouldn't tell me what he'd done or why it had happened."

She wiped a hand over her mouth and chin.

"In 1983, they gave him a new identity."

"Who did?" I asked.

"They sent him to London to start again."

"The cops?"

She nodded, let out a long sigh.

"Barry is in witness protection."

**PART FIVE**

TWENTY FIVE

I left a message on Corrigan's phone, told her I might have an answer to the mystery fingerprints found on the laptop.

Then I phoned Kim, said I was sorry for hitting her.

"I deserved it, Kina, I was holding out on you, know what I mean?"

She confessed she'd planned on getting me involved in the robbery from the start, once I'd chased off Leah Atkins who'd elbowed her way onto the deal. I told her I'd be lookout tonight. I told her this was a one-time thing. I told her I had her back. I was lying through my teeth. It didn't matter. Kim believed me. I asked her about the split. It was 50/50 with the guy who worked at Mr Chicken. He would take the brunt of his boss, claiming he'd forgotten to set the alarm, knowing the boss wouldn't go to the cops because of his previous trouble over fraud. Then it was 50/50 again with me. I told her it was a sweet deal. I told her it was on. She believed every word.

That was why prison was full. Fucking idiots without a clue. I told Kim I had some things to get done and she could wait at my flat.

Then I called Dylan, said that Kim was coming over. He knew what to do. He was ready for her.

I went over to The Bricklayer's Arm, hung around outside for a few minutes. It was nearly six. The market had closed. The regulars were inside. I phoned my supervisor at C&C Cleaning. Said I wouldn't be working tonight. Said I had a heavy period. He got tongue-tied the moment I spoke the word _period._ Like it was a fucking disease or something. He told me to get plenty of rest. I said I would be back next week.

Pocketing my mobile, I took a deep breath and pushed through the pub doors. The place was packed, noisy. These people knew Donnie. It didn't matter that he'd taken the keys from me and volunteered to drive over to that house. I'd sent him there and now he was dead...

Biting my lip, I edged toward the bar, waiting to be recognised and for a silence to fall. It didn't happen. Nothing happened. Heads turned in my direction exactly like they would've done on any night of the week.

Jerry, the landlord, served me. He knew who I was and that I'd been working for Donnie.

I asked for a bottle of beer. He uncapped it, set it down on the bar. I handed him a crumpled note but he waved it away.

"Just glad you didn't get killed as well, love. Donnie thought a lot of you. You'd put a smile back on his face."

He headed down the bar to pull another round of pints. My pulse slackened. I took a long drink, glanced round. A few pint glasses were raised at me. I nodded back.

I stared at the TV behind the bar rather than make eye contact with anyone. I didn't know them in here. Donnie must have told everyone about me. I continued watching the TV. The news was coming. International and national first. Crazy shit overseas and crazy shit here. There was no mention of the shooting. That would feature in the local news that came at the end of the programme.

All the conversation was about Donnie. No room for nothing else. I started to feel conscious again as anger and outrage at his murder bubbled to the surface. But there were calmer voices and people sharing moments of humour and reflection. Donnie had been a mate to them all, closer with some, less so with others, but still a mate.

"Do you remember when he gave up booze 'cause of his little Mags?" said one of the regulars.

"Yeah," cried another. "Didn't last, did it? Donnie was a proper geezer who liked a pint, mark my words."

The discussions went on. _Bring back hanging. Give the old bill guns. It's the drugs. Too many fucking immigrants, that's why we voted leave last year._

I ordered another bottle of beer. Jerry served me for a second time. This time I paid for it.

The local news came on. Donnie was the only story. Jerry called for hush. No one argued with him. I'd never really taken much notice of him until now. The guy had a stern face with an old scar on his chin. He was six-foot four, shirt-sleeves rolled up, hairy arms covered with tattoos.

On the TV there was shaky footage of the house, showing reams of blue and white police tape, officers in white crime suits. Then it cut to an interview with an officer in uniform. He wasn't a street copper. He talked shit, like a politician, deflecting all the questions about escalating gun crime in the capital.

There was no sign of Corrigan or Macklin and I wasn't mentioned. The interview ended and there was another five-second segment of the house and then it was on to the weather.

The volume started to increase in the pub.

Jerry came out from behind the bar, leaving his two barmaids to cover. Both of them were white, mid-thirties, attractive.

"You're Kina, right?"

I nodded.

"You were working for Donnie, weren't you?"

"Yeah."

"It's alright, love, don't need to get all defensive. Come and have a seat, I want a word."

I got the feeling I didn't have a choice. As Jerry moved a space opened up in the corner of the pub.

"I know he was paying you to find the _Bazman_. I mean, that's a mystery in itself. Don't know what happened to that skinny streak."

Brown eyes glared at me from beneath shaggy brows. I don't think he was pissed at me. It was just the way he looked.

"So, here's how it is. There's a rumour going round, now it's just a rumour, I gotta stress that, but the rumour is that Barry was the shooter and topped his mate."

He leaned toward me. His breath stank of garlic.

"Now that has gotta be proper bollocks, hasn't it? You put me straight, right?"

"Proper bollocks," I repeated. He was a pretty intimidating guy. I think I would've said anything right then.

"I thought so," he said, nodding. He jabbed his thumb toward his punters. "That lot are well cut up by losing Donnie. He was a smashing bloke. I'm doing a collection for Sandy and Mags."

There was a large jar at the end of the bar with a scrawled note taped to it.

"I mean, you don't have to put it if you don't want to."

"Nah, I want to."

I walked over to the bar, digging out one of Donnie's twenty pound notes. I pushed it through the opening in the lid. Jerry hadn't budged from the corner. That suited me because I had a question for him. I walked back, taking a mouthful of beer.

"Donnie came in here that evening," he said. "He was pleased as punch with you. It's not your fault he got shot. You couldn't have known that was going to happen."

"Yeah, but it don't mean I'm gonna to stop blaming myself."

"I was watching you when you came in. What'd you think we were gonna do? You didn't pull the trigger. You got nothing to worry about. You might want to think about avoiding Maggie. In her eyes you're the one who got her old man killed." He gestured toward his regulars. "None of us think that and if anyone even suggests it they'll have me to deal with."

"I wouldn't like to be on the end of that."

He grinned, revealing nicotine-stained teeth, and patted me on the arm. I didn't like the guy touching me.

"Are you still going after Barry? Because, if the rumours are right, and he did shoot Donnie, then you need to be careful, love. Might be best leaving it to the old bill."

"Donnie never trusted the cops. He paid me to do a job. It ain't done yet."

"Good girl." He winked at me. "I'll keep you in mind if I ever need someone who's good at nosing around. Anyway, you're always welcome in here. Got it?"

"Can I ask you about last Friday night?"

"'Course, what'd you want to know?"

"What were Donnie and Barry like that night?"

"Same as normal. Just like any other night. They had a few beers, game of darts and then Barry went home early with a dodgy gut. We right took the piss out of him, said he couldn't handle his booze, called him a poof. It was just a laugh."

"That was around half-nine, yeah?"

"Yeah, it was, I remember for a fact because Barry was watching the telly halfway through a game of darts. That geezer is shit at darts. Duck for cover if he's chucking arrows." _And bullets, I thought._ "I think he only plays so Donnie can win at something. He hardly ever wins at pool." He was quiet for a moment, a sad look in his eyes. "But Barry was glued to the box. Then he went home, big fucking girl."

"What was on TV?"

"The news, I think. Yeah. It was the news. I don't know why I leave it on. I don't pay no attention to it. Ask Sammy. He was watching it with him. Sammy's a right smart bloke."

"Is he around?"

"Nah, he won't be in until later. He only comes out at night. Likes to surprise us." I didn't get the joke. I would. Jerry narrowed his eyes. "Is it important? I can tell you where he lives, if you like? He won't mind one of his own popping round." I got the joke. I didn't crack a smile.

I tried the address Jerry gave me. It was a five-minute walk. A big detached house at the end of a long row of semi-detached new builds. It was managed by a charity I'd never heard of. A car was parked out front. The front door was painted red. I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I went into a tiled hallway smelling of bleach. The walls were painted white. There was the sound of a washing machine. There were three ground floor rooms, doors painted red, all closed. A large staircase swept to the floor above where a skinny white guy was at the top of a ladder, changing batteries on a smoke alarm.

"Is Sammy around?"

"Come back in an hour, he's gone for his walk."

I could've hung around for an hour but I had other shit to deal with – Kim and the robbery at Mr Chicken.

I caught a bus to Plaistow - it was time to finish Kim's _situation_ once and for all.

TWENTY SIX

I got a frantic call from Kim. I was expecting it.

"You gotta come back," she said.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Dylan, I think he's gonna try something."

"What?"

"Yeah, man, the guy just come up and locked the flat door. I'm stuck in here now. I think the dude is gonna come back and rape me."

"Nah, Dylan ain't that kind of guy."

"Then what the fuck is he playing at? Why would he lock me in? We gotta do this thing tonight, Kina. I can't do shit if I'm ... man, this is you, isn't it? Did you tell him to lock me in?"

"Yeah."

"But you ain't got no TV, man, no Sky. What the fuck am I gonna do waiting round for your skinny ass to come back? We got that _situation_. Can only be tonight, you feel me?"

"I feel you, girl, and I ain't letting you out that place 'til I'm done."

The line went silent for a moment.

"You after a bigger split?"

"Nah, it ain't nothing like that, Kim. I'm helping you."

"Are you fucking messing? You think you can keep me locked up all night in your flat?"

"Yeah."

"Bitch, I'll break your fucking door down. I'll climb out the window. I'll go in and smash all those fucking records and ... fuck, you padlocked the door. Alright, Kina, you made your point. Now let me out. Please, Kina, please don't do this to me. This is easy money. Cash. Not drugs or shit I gotta fence. This is notes, baby. Please, Kina, I gotta do this thing to help Anthony."

"Go take a shower, chill out."

She went quiet again. "I'm gonna wreck your fucking place, man."

"You do that and you gotta deal with me and I won't go easy on you like I did with Leah Atkins and the bitches she sent after me."

"What?"

"Yeah, you didn't know, did you? She sent a couple of her girls with a blade and a bottle of acid."

"Oh, shit."

"You can't stay in this game, Kim. It'll fucking kill you. I'm getting you out of it, you get me?"

"You ain't telling me what to do, Kina."

"Yeah, I am."

"I ain't afraid of you."

"Then you're a fucking moron."

She switched tactics right away. "Kina, I'm sorry, I mean it, I'm really sorry. I'm begging you, please, I'm on my knees ... right, here I go, I'm on my knees, yeah, please get Dylan to come back and let me out."

"Gotta straighten out your boy, Anthony. Then I'll be back."

"Where are you?"

"Plaistow," I said. "Outside your flat."

"No ... Kina, don't ..."

I hung up.

The flat door was closed. There was a single cracked pane of frosted glass at the top with a grubby curtain draped over it.

I rapped my knuckles against it, waited.

"C'mon," I muttered.

I knocked again, kicked the bottom of the door.

"Open up, it's Kina McKevie, you know who I am."

I'd never seen her brother. All I knew is what she'd told me when we first met up in Holloway. I knew the guy was older than her. Had mental problems, couldn't make the pieces of any day fit like regular dudes.

A bolt went across.

My right hand coiled behind my back where I had a collapsible steel baton thrust into the waistband of my jeans.

The door creaked slowly inward.

I got ready.

A skinny kid stared up at me. He was about five-years old, food-stained, stinking of sweat and piss. He had on a pair of worn slippers, faded pyjamas. There was a big red car on the front, eyes on the windscreen. _Cars._ I'd seen both the movies. I liked kids' films. No one came at you with acid in them.

"Hello," he said.

"Hey, little man. I'm looking for Anthony."

The kid stared back at me.

Big brown eyes.

A straight mouth.

"Anthony," I said. "Where's the big man?"

He started giggling.

He had stained teeth, missing teeth.

"Big man, big man," he sang.

A sinking feeling hit my gut. I released my grip on the baton.

"Are you Anthony?"

He clasped his hands, nodded.

"I'm Kina, I'm a friend of Kim ..."

"Mummy," he beamed, and dashed out of sight.

Mummy?

Licking my lips, slowly shaking my head, I went into the flat, closing the door behind me.

I called out but no one answered. Kim had a regular guy before she got sent down. I wondered where he was at. There was no one here but Anthony.

The living room was airless. There was a frayed sofa. It looked like a dog had been clawing at it. Stained food bowls, plates, wrappers, empty packets, cans, cartons, dirty washing, unfolded clean washing, broken toys and picture books were dumped around the room. There was an unplugged electric heater, a rocking chair missing one arm, a table cluttered with makeup and an oval-shaped plastic mirror on a stand.

Pulling back a curtain, I reached for a window.

"No," he said, frantically. "Don't, don't. No."

He grabbed hold of my legs, tried to pull me away.

"He can get in."

"Who can get in?"

"Him," he said, looking around.

"We're on the fourteenth floor. Ain't no one coming through that window except Spider-Man."

"No, no, no," he screamed. Tiny fists started battering me. I grabbed the top of his head, spun him away.

He was panting. I held up my hands.

"OK, OK, I'm gonna leave the window alone, little man. OK? Yeah? OK?"

He nodded.

His breathing started to slow.

"You good?"

Another nod.

He lost interest in me, went back to playing with a dozen brightly-painted metal cars spread all over the thin cord carpet, all of them vehicles from _Cars_.

I checked out the kitchen. A clotheshorse hung with damp washing. Cupboards with no doors, empty shelves. Black mould climbing the walls.

There were two bedrooms. More clothes and makeup and rubbish. No sign of any dude.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I stared at the kid. My heart broke a hundred times. I took out my mobile. I was about to call Kim when it started to ring. Naz. I answered it. I don't know why. She was the last person I wanted to talk to.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Working," I said.

Anthony had his cars in a long line, snaking over the carpet. He clapped his hands together.

"I've missed you, Kina. It's been a horrible week."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Well, you've been avoiding me since we argued on Monday night. I pushed too much."

"I ain't been avoiding you."

"Yes, you have. You haven't answered any of my text messages."

"I had nothing to say."

"Are we still good?"

"No."

Anthony was driving his cars off into groups, little metal vehicles gliding over the shitty carpet. He parked them neatly. I realised he was sorting them by colour. _Got_ _all that to come, little man ..._

"You sound really cold."

"That's something coming from you. You know ... nah, forget it."

"No, go on. What do you want to say?"

What do I want to say? Man ...

Could've told her how I wasn't happy being a grubby secret from her family and work friends.

Could've told her about the attempted acid attack and how I was pretending that shit hadn't bothered me when inside my guts were ripping in different directions.

Could've told her about the shooting and how when I close my eyes I can hear those devastating gunshots and when I look down I don't see Donnie on the floor – I see my dad.

Could've told her all that and plenty more. But I ain't like that. I don't deal well with this kind of shit. I should've never kept going with her. It wasn't her fault. Well, some of it was. I was supposed to go to a party tonight, hook up with Ella, her friends. Like I was in the mood for that. I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know where I wanted to be. I needed out of this flat, get that. I wanted to bundle Anthony in a coat, scoop up his precious toys and get him out of this dump. But life ain't like that. Life ain't simple. I'm thirty-six years old, turning thirty-seven next Saturday, and I never felt more like a little girl lost in the supermarket.

I couldn't do everything. I couldn't help everyone ... _but ain't nothing gonna stop me trying ..._

"Naz, we're done."

"What?"

"It's over. We're done. I'm sorry."

"Do you think you can ...?"

"Peace," I said, and switched off the mobile.

"Hey, little man. Yo, Anthony. Anthony." I finally got his attention. "You wanna go on an adventure? Go see Mummy?"

His eyes roamed my face.

"Can I bring my cars?"

"You can bring whatever you want, little man."

TWENTY SEVEN

My freckles glowed under the low-wattage bathroom lights. I'd hated them as a child, loved them as an adult. Guilty with my reflection, I turned away.

I was wearing black tonight.

Black leather trousers, a black belt with a black buckle, a collarless and sleeveless black shirt with a V-shaped crop at the bottom, and a pair of black high-heeled boots.

My underwear was purple, matching my eye shadow.

I came out of the bathroom, yanking at the light cord behind me. The ceramic pull bounced noisily off the tiled wall.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"You don't have to be hush-hush," said Kim, speaking loud and normal. "Ain't shit waking Anthony. When he's down, he's down."

The little man was lying on the left-hand side of the sofa-bed, curled against her, fresh from a shower and wearing a long T-shirt and pants. His pyjamas and underwear were in a plastic bag ready for the laundrette in the morning.

"You look good," she said, easing her arm from beneath him and climbing off the bed. "Man, don't get embarrassed. _Hot mamma!_ " She laughed. "You out to impress?"

"Yeah," I muttered, awkward.

I wanted to bust open her head for complimenting me. I didn't want compliments. I didn't deserve kind words. It's just ... when I do my hair nice and put on makeup and perfume and my best clothes (still from the charity shops and the market) and my only piece of jewellery ... I always think I don't deserve to feel good about myself ... like I ain't been punished enough for all the shit I've done. People tell me to move on but it ain't easy when you've spent most of your life doing evil things to people, even if most of those people are just as evil as you. I can't put that guilt in a box, pretend it don't exist. Chasing out ghosts ain't easy. That's why I don't smile much. That's why I don't laugh much. Because I don't deserve nothing better than feeling worthless and outside of what's good.

"Thanks," said Kim, mumbling her words. "For everything, Kina. I mean it."

I nodded, said nothing.

"I can't go back to the flat. I owe a lot of rent, man. I ain't ... I ain't been paying all the bills."

"I know someone might be able to help you both," I said. "She's a social worker."

Kim kissed her teeth. "I ain't keen on no social getting involved, telling me I gotta do this and do that like I don't know shit."

"Her name is Jade. We used to run together. I trust her. She's a friend."

"Still don't like no ..."

"You got a fucking better idea?" I said.

"Yeah," she said, and gave a half-laugh. "Thinking about that money sitting in Mr Chicken just waiting for me to take it."

I beckoned with my head, got her out of the flat. The landing was gloomy. My cab was due in ten minutes.

"Forget about Mr Chicken."

"I already have."

"You better, girl."

"Ain't often a sweet _situation_ like that comes round." She held up her hands. "I ain't gonna do nothing. Ain't leaving Anthony no more, for real."

"You grab them notes and you go back inside and they put Anthony in care."

"I know that, I ain't no fool."

She'd been a fool most of her life. She'd dropped out of school at thirteen, carrying Anthony. Got knocked up in the toilets when she should've been in science. The boy was a few years older than her, a total arsehole. Kim's mum tried to raise Anthony but what the fuck did she know? Old lady was an addict. Ain't gonna learn nothing off someone like that except how to work the street. Kim used to curl her little boy in her arms, sing nursery rhymes to him at night whilst grandma was getting banged in the next room, scraps for her worsening crack habit.

"Got out early from work one time," she'd told me earlier, when I first got back from Plaistow. "Mum was on her mobile, desperate, talking about selling something really fucking valuable. Fucking bitch. She told me after I got it all wrong but I knew, Kina, I knew when I looked into her face that she was gonna sell Anthony ..."

Kim beat her up, threw her out. But the flat belonged to her mum and every couple of weeks she would show up and try to make amends, all the lies of an addict.

Under sixteen, lying about her age, Kim got a handful of low-paid jobs with a bit of stealing on the side. She got her hands on a flat in Plaistow, a council sublet, near the station. She got relatives and friends to help with raising Anthony when she was at work. Then she got tired of hard work and the demands of early motherhood and fell back on what she knew best. She ripped off cars, lifted from shops, broke into houses, robbed on the street, carrying a knife all the time, threatening with it, using it the once when some woman resisted.

The relatives and friends drifted, sick of how nothing was improving in Kim's life, despite the new flat, and how the favours were getting bigger and the flat was getting dirtier and the bills were mounting and Kim was rolling back wasted more often than not.

"Woman named Donna started looking after Anthony. She had a couple of kids, I got to trusting her. She took care of him when I went inside. He ain't right. Weren't right before I got sent down. Got worse when I was gone. Ain't on no radar. Social don't know about us, Kina. We gone through the cracks, you know what I'm saying? I gotta change. I know that. We had a deal. You got rid of LA for me. No Mr Chicken. No foolish plans like that."

"You should've told me," I'd said.

"Had to lie and protect my little man. Can't let them take him off me."

The minicab arrived.

"I ain't gonna do nothing stupid," said Kim. "I promise. You're my second chance, Kina."

My boots echoed down the stairs. I walked across the spot of the acid attack. Barry was still out there, his best mate's killer, the mystery man from _witness protection._

I shut it all from my thoughts.

I needed a night off ...

* * *

The party was in South Woodford.

The driver was Asian and didn't have a clue where he was going. He could barely speak English which wasn't helping. I kept pointing out when he'd taken a wrong turn. I was probably pissing him off. I didn't give a shit. The guy was an arsehole. We got there, at last. He slowed in a street mixed with old terraced houses and larger red brick semi-detached ones.

"It's there," I said, pointing.

He laboured forward, hunched over the wheel, looking left and right. I frowned at him.

"Just drop me here," I said.

He understood that alright and parked outside a primary school, low buildings in darkness. I thrust a note into his sweaty palm, waited for change. He picked up his radio, started jabbering in his own language.

"Man, don't be testing me. Where the fuck's my change?"

Grudgingly, he handed me a few coins. I kissed my teeth at him, got out. He drove off, shouting something once he was clear.

I lit up, walked to the house.

A few young white guys were sat on a wall outside, smoking and drinking. I hoped this wasn't going to be a white-only thing with me the token non-white. Wiping a sour look off my face, I crossed toward the house. Lights shimmered in the windows. The music was a steady, hypnotic beat. The two white guys raised their cans at me. I gave a nod.

I looked a mess, didn't I? This was stupid. I should turn right round, go home and keep tabs on Kim.

How long had Ella been here? How drunk was she? What if she was with someone? What was I supposed to do then? Maybe she was still at home. Maybe she'd changed her mind after I came on too hard in the restaurant ...

"Kina?" said a voice.

But it wasn't Ella. This girl was tall and blonde, taller than me in giant sandals with the biggest heels I'd ever seen. She wore bright orange suede shorts, a cropped mesh top and a white bra. She had a narrow face, wild looking blue eyes.

"Ella told me to look out for you."

Couldn't do that herself?

She clattered toward me. She was braver than me wearing heels like that. I'd end up busting my ankle in five seconds flat. She'd surprised me by guessing who I was – maybe I _was_ going to be the token non-white. I hoped not. Then she threw her arms round me, surprising me further. The two white guys stared at her arse. I hadn't seen it yet. I guessed it was worth seeing. She was letting that hug linger. I peeled her off me.

"I'm Carrie, Ella's friend, let's get you smashed." She grabbed my hand, dragged me through the doorway.

The house was packed. Music filled my ears. Carrie propelled me into a brightly-lit kitchen with a centre island surrounded by stools. There were at least a dozen women and several men sitting and standing, drinking and chatting, none of them older than thirty, all of them white.

Shit, first I was the token non-white and now I was the token old woman. Fuck ...

"Wine or beer?" asked Carrie.

"Wine," I said.

She elbowed through the crowd. There were spirit bottles, open crates of beer and boxes of wine. I put away the first glass within seconds, quickly got a second. Carrie was probably on her twentieth.

Leaning into me, stinking of wine and weed, she said, "Ella told us you're a private detective. That is _soooo_ cool!"

"I do a few things," I said, not wanting to get into it tonight. "What else did she say about me?"

Someone moved toward me.

An arm curled round my waist.

I tensed.

"Why don't you ask her?" said Ella.

TWENTY EIGHT

I opened one eye, then the other. The world was the wrong way round. I blinked a few times, focused. I was still in the kitchen. I was still at the house.

And it was morning ...

Slumped on a stool, face sideways, I flexed my hands, pushed down and peeled my face off an ice-cold, rock-hard counter.

Then it kicked in. _Ouch, that hurt ... shit, that really hurt._

My jacket was missing. I looked round, a bit frantic, and then spotted it beside the sink. Gingerly, I eased off the stool, losing balance for a moment. Pain slammed the front of my head. I blinked, repeatedly, wiped sweat from my face. I stumbled toward my jacket, trying to rub the cramp from my neck.

My boot caught on something, a body ...

The fog wasn't going to clear for a while yet but even in that state I knew this body wasn't tied up with bullet holes in the back of the head. Mind you, the dude didn't look much better. I couldn't remember his name but I did remember talking to him. Turned out I wasn't a token non-white or a token old woman after all. The guy on the kitchen floor, a big coat over him, was black, in his late forties, a lecturer or something.

No sign of Ella or Carrie.

Grabbing my jacket, I pushed open the back door into a large garden with rows of potted plants, busy flower beds and a newly-painted shed.

The sun hid behind heavy clouds but it was still too bright. I put on sunglasses. The hangover rolled from one side of my head to the other. I leaned against a wall, dug out my cigarettes. No lighter.

"Shit."

"Here," said a voice.

A woman with striking purple hair and a tartan skirt had wandered into the garden with the same idea as me. She was white, skinny, five-foot nothing.

"Thanks."

I lit up, handed back the lighter.

"It was a good night, Kina."

"Yeah."

I vaguely remembered chatting to her but I couldn't think of her name.

"Izzy."

She was a mind reader. "Right, we chatted, yeah?"

Izzy laughed. "You kept asking me my name. You told me you were terrible with names."

I chuckled, blew out smoke. "I am."

"Ella invited you."

"Yeah," I said. "You a friend of hers?"

"That's right."

She looked the same age as Ella, late twenties. I wondered how far back they went. I didn't want to start asking.

We chatted as we smoked our cigarettes. Going over last night. Talking about this and that. I got on well with her. Then we went back inside. I rinsed out a glass, filled it with water, gulped it down. Izzy disappeared into another room. I started moving through the house. A rank smell of sweat, booze and weed filled my nostrils. I spotted at least three or four people asleep in each room.

I reached the front door. I still hadn't seen Ella. I glanced at the stairs leading to the bedrooms. If she was up there I didn't want to know about it.

Yawning, I jerked open the front door. Cans and bottles filled the front garden. A cold wind blew at me.

Zipping up my jacket, I started walking.

It was still early, only a few cars on the roads, hardly anyone about. A ginger cat sat on a low wall, eyes watching me.

I crossed a near-empty car park into a twenty-four hour supermarket. I went straight for the toilets, washed in the sink. In the restaurant, I ordered a pot of tea and an extra large bacon roll.

I sat scrolling through my phone as I ate. I had taken a load of photos. There were plenty of Ella and even more of Carrie, the blonde. At some point in the evening she'd lost her mesh shirt and was dancing in only her bra and the suede shorts. I studied her for a moment before picking my favourite one of Ella. It was a selfie, the two of us, both looking the worse for drink. I couldn't remember taking that photo but I was glad I had.

She looked beautiful. Straight brown hair piled in a bun, heavy black eye shadow emphasising the brightness of her blue eyes, lips moist and sparkling, a white shirt with a black collar, tight over her large breasts.

I propped the mobile against the window. She kept me company as I finished my sandwich, poured a second cup of tea. Breakfast with Ella. I was pretty happy at that moment, despite the deadening pain in my head.

Outside, walking, I scrolled through the gallery looking for more photos but I came across the ones Donnie had sent me of Barry. I looked at that first photo I'd ever seen of him, taken in the pub last year, Barry going mad with a pool cue as he'd lost one of very few games to Donnie.

"You bastard," I said, lighting a cigarette.

I kept walking, shaking off the alcohol, strength and mobility returning to my limbs. I neared South Woodford overhead station. I'd catch a train back to Stratford, walk to Forest Gate from there.

Waiting on the platform, my mobile started to ring. It was Corrigan. She had shit to tell me but I got in first.

"Barry Fraser ain't Barry Fraser," I said. "You get me? I don't have time to go into it. My battery is low. Five-o up in Leeds put him in witness protection. I don't know why."

"That would explain the fingerprints linked to a sealed record."

"Listen, I'm leaving the cop shit to you." A train rattled toward the platform. "You go after him. The guy killed his best mate. He might have killed others as well ..."

"That's the reason I'm calling you, Kina. I need your assurance what I'm about to disclose goes no further."

The carriage doors slid open.

I frowned. "You got it."

"I don't want this repeated to DC Macklin."

"Like I would say shit to that racist bitch."

I stepped onto the train. A guy shuffled on through another door.

"The bullets we found in Donnie Copeland were 9mm. The ones we dug out of the wall came from a .32. Kina, there were two guns in that house. Now, I'm not saying Barry Fraser wasn't armed with both of them. But I have a theory. Now, it is just a theory ..."

"Nah, you're right," I said. "Two guns."

I'd seen him too late. I hadn't really taken much notice of him, my head still fuzzy with booze.

"How can you be certain?" said Corrigan. "I've only just ... "

"I'm certain."

I hung up.

"Phone," said Barry, revolver in his fist, aimed right at me.

**PART SIX**

TWENTY NINE

"Phone," he demanded.

I don't know why but he could've told me to strip and dance along the carriage and I would've done so rather than hand over my mobile. I kept thinking of Ella's photo. I guessed I wouldn't see it again. I guessed I wouldn't see her again.

He pocketed my mobile, dug out my business card with his left hand, turned it over and over. His right hand held the gun.

"This you?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so."

"How'd you find me?"

"You're not the only one who can go round asking questions."

He wasn't one for eye contact. No one else in the carriage but he was still looking around. The guy was a jangle of nerves. I needed to keep those nerves away from his trigger finger.

"Found this at the house." He put the card away. "I took a chance going back but I needed clothes."

There was a sports bag on the seat beside him. He didn't look too good; unshaven, grey hair lank, suit rumpled, shirt creased. He didn't smell too hot, either.

"Who's after you, man?"

He ignored the question. "This is what's going to happen. You were working for Donnie, right? Now you're going to work for me."

"I ain't doing shit for a guy who murdered his best mate and took a shot at me."

He jammed the revolver into my stomach. I winced as the barrel ground into old scars.

"I could've killed you," he said, angrily, his breath stale. "You and that fella you were with. But I didn't. Think about that for a minute."

I did. It didn't make me feel any better. The revolver was still on me. Blades were one thing, I told you I'd been stabbed twice, but a gun was a whole different game; once a bullet got loose inside it could fuck you up so many ways.

"I didn't kill them. That's what you shouted at me. Who didn't you kill? Why tell me your shit?"

"I thought you were one of his girls. I needed them to know. I can't believe they killed Donnie."

The train began to slow, brakes coming on, iron against iron. We were coming into Snaresbrook, the platform deserted. The carriage rocked gently from side to side and finally came to a stop.

Further down the train, I heard doors hiss and people get off.

Nothing more.

The train started to move. We gathered speed. Sunlight broke through the grey clouds.

I was getting sick of this – fucking arsehole sticking a gun in me and demanding I help him.

"You need to tell me everything, Barry. Donnie trusted you. He trusted me. Tell me what the fuck is going on."

"There isn't time," he said. With his left hand he reached into his jacket pocket, took out a thick brown envelope. "Take this. There's an address in there. You have to go there and warn them. I can't go. It's too dangerous. They have lookouts all over London. I'd lead them straight there."

I stared at the envelope, said nothing, did nothing.

"You have to help," he said, jabbing it at me. "It's what you do, isn't it? You find people."

Licking my lips, I raised my hand, slowly took the envelope. "You ain't gonna tell me shit, are you?"

"No time," he said.

I kissed my teeth. "Typical white boy."

The train started to slow again.

Leytonstone. Doors opened, two young men got on, chatting in low voices. Barry tensed.

"Why don't we get off?" I said. "You can go and see Naomi. She's worried about you."

He didn't answer for the moment. He pulled the revolver away from me, kept it hidden beneath his jacket.

"Have you seen her?" he asked.

His voice had softened. He was thinking of her.

"Yeah."

"How is she?"

"Confused. Upset. You just took off. How'd you think she is, man?"

"It's complicated."

"Yeah, it is. You don't know the half of it. Why don't you start by telling me your real name?"

He blinked sharply.

"I need to know who I'm dealing with. Now give me back my mobile, you fucking prick."

I was taking a big gamble. I held my breath. But the guy didn't look like a killer, despite the revolver pointed at me.

He handed back my phone. "I can't tell you my name. It doesn't matter, anyway. Just do that for me." He nodded at the envelope. "Warn them. Tell them it's started and they need to run. They'll understand."

"Yeah, they might, but I don't. Who are you running from? And why now? Why after all these years?"

He glanced at the two men further down the carriage. They had no interest in us and were in deep conversation. Barry lowered the barrel of the revolver. The train rolled into Leyton. A few more people got on. He shifted the sports bag onto his lap, slipped the revolver inside.

"I didn't know about the fire," he whispered. "Then I saw that Peter Levine had died from his injuries. I knew it was only a matter of time before they tracked me down. They think I killed them but I didn't. I couldn't tell anyone. I thought I was safe in Romford. When I came in and found Donnie dead on the floor I knew it was my fault. Then you showed up. I panicked. I'm sorry I shot at you. I wasn't aiming for you, I swear it."

The train pulled out. My head was spinning.

"Man, you need to start at the beginning. I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"No time," he said, nervously looking around. "Will you go there and warn them for me?"

"Stop wasting time telling me _there's no time_ and tell me what the fuck is going on."

"Will you go there and warn them?"

"Go where? Warn who? Why don't you just phone them? Whoever _them_ is."

"I don't have a number. There isn't one. I haven't seen them in thirty-five years."

"Why is this my problem?"

"Two lives are at stake. Innocent lives. Maybe more, after all this time. Don't you care about that?"

I stared at him. "Lot of things I care about. You were one of them until you killed Donnie."

"I didn't kill my best friend."

Tears popped into his eyes. He wiped them away with his sleeve.

"Cops said he was shot with a nine-mil," I said. "Not that lame .32 you're packing."

"You're mixed up in this now. They'll know about you. You have to help."

"OK, OK, I'll do it."

"Thank you."

"Look, go to the cops, man. If this shit is that bad they can protect you. They did it before, right? Pauline said they put you in witness protection."

"They can't protect me," he whispered. "Peter Levine was a cop and they killed him."

"Peter Levine was the old friend who died? Was he the cop who gave you a new identity?"

"Yes. He retired from the police force a long time ago. He was living in care. He was an ill man. There was a fire a few weeks ago. I didn't hear about it until he passed away a week later."

"Friday night in the Bricklayer's Arms," I said. "You and Sammy watching the TV behind the bar, yeah?"

He frowned at me. "You are good at this," he said. "Yes, that was when I saw it. It was only on for a minute. I can remember it word for word. Ex-DCI Peter Levine died today from heart failure after a fire at the care home he was a resident in. It only got a slot on the news because of ..."

"Because of what?"

I waited. He didn't answer. Stratford station was coming into view. The train began to slow.

"What did you do back in Leeds, Barry? Were you a witness to a crime or what?"

"Oh, shit," he whispered.

He sprang to his feet, no longer focused on me. He reached into the sports bag, took out the revolver, slipped it into his jacket pocket.

I looked out the window. A few white guys were hanging on the platform, fearsome looking men, thick arms, huge bodies, hired muscle.

"Barry," I said. "Man, don't use that thing."

He smiled at me, the first time I'd seen him smile, all cheek and charm, and then he winked and I understood what the girls saw in him. "Do that one thing for me. Please. Do it for me and Donnie. You'll understand."

I pushed onto my feet. The two guys on the platform spotted Barry and pointed at him. They weren't exactly subtle.

Barry tensed.

The guys on the platform got ready.

The doors opened with a hiss.

"No ..." I said.

The shot was deafening. The bullet tore into the leg of one of the guys, put him down, a fountain of blood spraying out. He looked fucked. His mate dropped beside him, undecided, caught between helping his partner or going after Barry. He'd been paid to get his hands on Barry. He left his mate bleeding and swearing on the rough platform. Barry started running. There was shouting, screaming. Bodies split, let the two of them through.

I slipped off the train, moved in the swell of people rushing for the exit. Breathing hard, sweat pouring from my armpits and running down my chest, I kept moving.

I lost sight of Barry and the guy chasing him. There wasn't any more gunfire.

Loudspeakers blared.

Sirens erupted in the distance.

I didn't look back.

I didn't look around.

I got outside the station and kept walking.

THIRTY

Kim and Anthony were still asleep.

I watched over them for a moment. He was lying on his side, legs drawn up, right arm under the pillow, left arm bent behind him.

She was curved round him, duvet half-kicked back, one leg splayed at an angle, her left arm brushing against his. I wondered if they'd fallen asleep holding hands. I took a few deep breaths, needing their simple beauty to sort of out what had just happened.

My clothes stank of drink, nicotine and sweat. I went into the bathroom, undressed, grabbed a shower.

A little while later I was sitting at the kitchen table, black leggings and a white vest top. I was drinking tea, smoking a cigarette. Kim had rolled away from Anthony and was lying on her back. The little man hadn't budged. I could hear Dylan in the shop downstairs. It was after eight o'clock. Normality was starting to return to my head.

Corrigan had told me there were _two_ guns in that house. One that killed Donnie and one that was fired at me and Dylan. Both guns could still be in Barry's possession but I didn't buy that theory. I don't think Corrigan did, either. Donnie's killer was still out there.

Whoever was after Barry had figured he was hiding out in Romford. So the killer is waiting for Barry to show but instead Donnie turns up. The killer follows him inside, ties him up and demands to know where Barry is. Maybe Donnie tries to talk his way out of it. Maybe Donnie tells the guy to fuck off. The guy shoots Donnie and doesn't wait around because now he's sitting on a body. Then Barry finds Donnie and freaks out when I roll up with Dylan. I don't know, I'm just guessing.

Picking up the envelope, I turned it over in my hand.

Why had he been given a new identity?

I knew about witness protection. Back home, in Belfast, cops used to offer it to any fool willing to tout on the IRA. I knew it was active over here. Billy Ingram, my dead ex-boyfriend, biggest mistake of my life, had contacts beyond the street. Whenever one of our gang had gone to trial, which wasn't often, Billy got hold of the witnesses and sent Dennis Green to silence them.

Green had been a nasty cunt. He liked to hurt, got off on pain. He'd got sent down for the murder of a rival gang member a year before I killed Billy. He'd killed plenty of times but this was the first time five-o had a witness willing to speak up. She was moved into witness protection after the trial. New identity, new place to live. Billy had used his contacts to try and get a line on her but he never did catch up with her. Dennis Green got life. Fool was stabbed to death after six months. I celebrated. The guy had tried to rape me. In the gang women were passed round but the woman who belonged to Billy was never to be shared. Dennis didn't like that rule. When I told Billy his right hand man had tried to pin me Billy had told me _I'd_ tempted Dennis and then beat the shit outta me.

But that wasn't the only kind of person that got put into witness protection. Killers got given new identities. Murder a kid, come out of prison and you're given a new name and a nice new place to live. It was sickening. Then there are women in stalking cases who get put in witness protection. I heard a story about that happening once from another con. She knew a woman who was getting followed by her ex-husband. They tried restraining orders and warnings but in the end he just wouldn't stop. The cops gave the wife a new name and got her relocated.

So who was Barry? Grass? Witness? Victim?

I stubbed out my cigarette, tore open the brown envelope and tipped the contents out over the table.

A handful of Polaroid photos held together with a thick elastic band.

A small white envelope with the name _Katy_ written across it _._

A sheet of paper torn from a notepad. There was a name - _Christina Beckett –_ and an address in Kent.

I examined the envelope. There was clearly a letter inside. I left it alone, loosened the elastic band on the photos.

They were old, creased, a little faded. The top one was of a toddler on one of those rides outside an arcade. This was a space rocket. The kid had curly blonde hair and a fat face. I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Probably a girl but I couldn't be certain. The clothes didn't help. Corduroy trousers and a buttoned up duffel coat. There was no one else in the photo but I could see a shop window behind the ride with a poster advertising a film I'd never heard of.

I skimmed through the rest of the photos. More of the kid. Definitely a girl. In one of them she was standing on a beach, posing in a pink bikini, no older than seven. The beach looked cold, windswept, the sky grey, a typical British summer.

There was a blonde woman in the last photo. She was narrow-faced, hair blowing in the wind, golden strands escaping from a patterned headscarf. She had long legs in blue jeans, flared at the bottom. She had a slim waist, flat hips and a flat stomach. She looked like a catalogue advert from the seventies. I went through the photos a second time. Everything screamed seventies at me. My mum had a box of old photos just like these.

Was Katy the woman or the kid? Which one of them was Christina Beckett?

I studied the photos for a third time. One of them - the little girl on the beach in her pink bikini - reminded me a little of Maggie, Donnie's girl, well, Barry's girl, but her hair was dark, not ginger or blonde.

I kept back two of the photos. The one with the blonde woman and the one with the girl on the beach. The rest, along with the letter and the piece of paper, I put back into the envelope.

I carried the envelope into the bedroom, concealed it inside one of the thousands of records stacked in crates and boxes.

No one would find it there.

I wasn't about to go chasing down to Kent just yet. I needed more information first.

Kim was stirring. I shook her awake. I made her a cup of coffee. We sat and chatted for about twenty minutes. I told her she could stay for a couple of days. No mess. Not like the flat in Plaistow. I couldn't handle mess. I didn't really want her here. I liked my own space but I didn't want her to take Anthony back there. The kid had freaked when I'd tried to open a window. That didn't seem normal. I told her to take all the washing down to the laundrette, including mine. She had no problem with that.

"I'll be out for most of the day," I said. "I'll catch up with you later."

"What are you gonna do about LA?" she asked me.

I'd almost forgotten about her. Bitch sends her girls round to fuck me up with acid and it had slipped my mind.

"Forget about her," I said.

"Yeah, things come round on people like her, karma and shit."

She nodded, grinned. I stared at her for a moment and then pulled on my trainers and a hoodie.

"I'll talk to Jade today. The social worker I told you about. See if we can get you and the little man back on the map."

I went downstairs. Tayla was busy filling gaps in the racks, open boxes of vinyl on the carpet.

"Hi, Kina," she said. "You look wasted."

"Yeah, thanks."

"Yo, Tayla," said Dylan, from behind the counter. "I don't pay you to stand around chatting to my tenant."

She laughed at him. "Hey," she said. "I'm sorry about the other day. Telling you what you should and shouldn't do on Mother's Day."

"Forget it."

"No, Kina, I won't. I felt bad ..."

I squeezed her. "I wouldn't have you any other way." She smiled at me. I walked over to Dylan.

"What's up?" he asked.

"You get anywhere with a set of wheels?"

"Yeah." He gave me a number. "My man Niren. He's got something lined up for you. Call him today."

"Thanks, man."

I wandered onto the High Street, yawned and called this Niren guy. He answered the phone on the second ring. I told him who I was. He was lively, really talkative, a bit too much for my sore head. He gave me his address in Ilford, ran through a car he had that sounded ideal. It took me thirty minutes to get down there.

Four second-hand car dealerships were sandwiched together with similar overhead advertising boards. _Finance available. Cash paid for cars. Part exchange welcome._ There were telephone numbers, website addresses and account details for Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

Passing shiny car after shiny car, with prices way out of my range, I hoped this wasn't gonna be a waste of time. I wasn't in the mood to get hustled by a car dealer. I'd told Dylan what cash I had and I wasn't gonna apply for finance. Besides, I'd never get finance, not legit finance, anyway, and as far as I was concerned the other way was the road to ruin.

A café on the corner was closed, shutters drawn down over the windows and front door. I couldn't pronounce the name of it but it specialised in Peshawari and Afghani cuisine. A low red brick wall bordered a small area with metal tables and metal chairs and a synthetic patch of grass. A clean-shaven Asian guy with short black hair was sat on the wall, grinning as he scrolled through his mobile.

"What's going on, Kina?" he said, without looking up.

"You know me?"

He jumped to his feet, pocketed his phone. He was taller than me, nearly six-foot, blue jeans and a purple shirt, worn unbuttoned over a white T shirt.

"Niren," he said. "Dylan told me you were coming. He said I got to treat you right or you'll bounce me up and down the street."

I laughed. "I ain't that bad."

"Yes, but I am. I'm a salesman." He threw his arms out wide. "I was born to sell you something you can't afford. But I won't. Not to a friend of Dylan's."

"Not to someone who'll kick your ass, you mean."

He grinned. "I got something special for you. You're going to love this. It's old but only one owner, my auntie. Come on."

I followed him into the showroom. There were a few customers around. Another guy was dealing with them. I couldn't afford none of the cars they were looking at. Niren led me to the back where a pocket-sized silver car was parked. There was no price on it.

"What do you think?"

It was a three-door with a little bit of rust round one of the wheel arches, a few scratches here and there, nothing major. It seemed perfect for me.

"Vauxhall Corsa," he said. "Ten years old. Full service history. 55k on the clock."

I frowned. "For ten years? You clock it?"

"No, never, this belonged to my auntie. She hardly ever went anywhere in it. Once a year family outing to Luton."

He popped open the driver's door.

"Get in, see what you think."

I wet my lips.

"How much?"

"Seven."

I kissed my teeth. "Did Dylan tell you my budget?"

"Kina, I have to make something on this. You understand business. I buy at a price and I sell at a higher price with just a little wedge in the middle for me."

"Four," I said, a hundred below what I could afford.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "No, that's too low. If that's your budget I can't help you today. Dylan stressed for me to make you happy." He grinned. "We've been mates a long time. We were at school together."

"Did you know Simon Farley?"

He nodded. "That's why I'm willing to give you a good price. I know what you did last year. You're alright with me."

I didn't say anything for a moment. "I can go to five," I said. "But that's it. I don't earn a lot ..."

He held up his hand. "I'll take five. Do you want me to help you with the tax and insurance? We can do it all online."

I nodded, staring back at the car as I followed him into an office.

THIRTY ONE

"Where did you go?" said Ella. "You said you would come with us."

I was sat in my new car, parked behind a clapped-out blue van in a street with rows of terraced houses. There were a few people out and about, all of them Asian.

I frowned. "What'd you mean?"

"We planned to go for breakfast," said Ella. "I wanted you to be there."

"I'm sorry."

"Do you remember agreeing to go?"

"No."

She laughed. "You _were_ pretty drunk."

"I think you were as well."

"We all were. Did you have a good night?"

"Yeah, I did, I thought I wouldn't, but I did."

"Why did you think you wouldn't?"

"Because your friends are all younger than me."

"So?"

"And I can be ... I'm not approachable."

"You were last night. Everyone was talking about you." She paused. "They liked you, Kina, even Izzy and Izzy doesn't like anyone." She laughed. "I'm only joking. I liked you being there."

"Better than when we had dinner?"

"You came on too strong."

"I did," I said, gliding one hand over the steering wheel, thinking I needed to pinch myself a hundred times.

"What about your girlfriend, Naz? Is it true?"

I took my hand off the wheel.

"Is what true?"

She sighed. "You really don't remember much about last night, do you?"

"I'm teasing you. Yeah, it's true. I finished with her."

"OK."

"Does that mean I now have a chance with you?"

"Assuming I'm gay."

"I think you are."

"Are you sure?"

"I can tell," I said.

"Oh, the gay-radar. I've heard about it. I don't believe it."

I laughed. "I think when someone looks at me in that special kind of way then I know. Male or female, I know they're interested. I'm interested in you. That hasn't changed. I think you're interested in me. Gay or straight, I don't care. I hate labels."

"I hate labels as well," said Ella.

"Where are you now?" I asked.

"Home. You?"

"Ilford. I just bought a car."

"Are you serious? Oh, I'm so pleased for you, Kina. I really am. All that detective work is paying off."

"Yeah," I said, a little flat.

"What's wrong?"

"It's been a rough few days. A lot of bad shit has happened. I don't know if I want to talk to you about it."

"We're friends, right?"

"Right."

"So you can talk about anything you want, Kina. I love saying your name. It's a very beautiful name."

"Thank you," I said.

"Do you have a middle name?"

"No. Do you?"

"Louise."

"That's nice."

"I hate it."

"Why?"

"My dad picked it. Ella Louise. Do you get it? Eloise. Like the song. He was a big punk and rock fan."

"Oh."

"You don't know the song, do you?"

"Sure."

I didn't have a clue and she knew it. She laughed.

"I could sit here all day talking to you," I said, lowering my window and then raising it for no other reason than I could. "What's that you're listening to?"

"Christina Perri," she said. "It's an old CD."

"I've heard of her."

"Wow, Kina, you know someone from the 21st century."

"Hey ... I know ... people."

She laughed once more. I was falling in love with that laugh.

"I'm just teasing," she said.

"So are me and you friends?"

"I think so."

"I'm nearly ten years older than you."

"That doesn't bother me. I'm really glad you enjoyed yourself last night. I mean it, everyone liked you. I don't know why you think you're not approachable. I think Carrie would like to approach you. You'll need to watch her."

"Yeah," I said.

"I noticed you took a big interest in her shorts. She has a lovely bum and fantastic legs. I couldn't imagine me wearing something like that."

"Why not?"

"Are you serious? I'm about three stone overweight."

"You look fine to me."

She went silent.

"Do you remember those kids earlier in the week? Calling me names when we went to see Mariana?"

"You should've let me slap them."

"Is that the kind of thing you do?"

"If I need to."

"Names can really hurt," she said.

"Yeah, I know that. But you ain't weird. You ain't fat or nothing."

"Sure, sure."

"You ain't. You're all in proportion. You got a sexy shape."

She swerved the compliment. "Was all that true what you told me? Were you really in prison?"

"Yeah."

"Did you really kill your ex-boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Does that scare you?" I asked.

"A bit."

"It shouldn't. Long time ago. I ain't that girl no more."

"I know you're not."

"I don't want to lie to you, Ella. I wasn't a nice person. I did ... I did things that I gotta live with, you get me? Guilt and shame and all that. But you ... you make me open up in ways that other people ... I don't know ... I ain't no good at all this."

"I think you're doing fine."

"How about I come over and take you for a drive?"

"No."

"Oh."

Silence.

"How about you come over and we go for a walk?"

"Sure," I said. "I just need to pop home and check on something."

* * *

Anthony was playing with his toy cars. He had them across the carpet in a great big loop. I didn't realise he had so many. Kim wasn't around. I guessed she was in the bathroom.

"Hey, little man, where's your mum?"

"Out."

He started breaking up the loop, forming them into groups. Not colours this time, something else.

"Out where?"

"I don't know."

He didn't seem that bothered. Why should he be? He was six-years old and had spent most of those years alone.

I got up off the floor and checked the bathroom. Empty. I tried the bedroom door. The padlock was still in place.

"I'll be back in a minute, little man," I said.

I jogged downstairs onto the High Street, looked up and down, searching for her amongst the crowds. A young guy got in my face. I kissed my teeth at him. He rolled back looking for more. I stood my ground. He mouthed off for a bit. I gave him plenty, and then he fucked off, pussy. I went into the record shop. It was busy. Dylan was at the till, bagging up vinyl. Tayla was talking to a couple of guys. Grime throbbed from the speakers.

I caught Tayla's eyes. "Kim?" I said.

She shrugged, shook her head.

"Yo, Kina," called Dylan, as I started to walk away. "How'd it work out with Niren?"

"Sweet, talk later."

Hands on hips, I stood in the afternoon sunlight, frustrated and angry. I didn't want to start going in the local crack houses and hanging round the drug spots looking for her - she'd roll back when she was done.

THIRTY TWO

An hour went by and then another.

I was getting hungry and so was Anthony. I had nothing in; I don't cook, not unless you count toast and I couldn't even offer him a glass of milk because I can't stand the stuff. I didn't know if kids still drank milk. Seemed to be energy drinks stacked with sugar nowadays.

"We're going out for some food, little man," I said, grinding out a cigarette.

He pulled on jeans that were creased and trainers that were falling apart. The bag of unwashed clothes was still stinking up the flat. I dumped it in the laundrette and then bought him burger and fries, the same for myself. He was quiet at first but once he started chatting he didn't stop, non-stop chat about everything and nothing. That was kids, I guessed.

I missed a lot of what he was saying, the words just rebounding off me. I liked kids but I wasn't good with them. I didn't know what to say or how to act. I had to hide the anger I was feeling. I'd cancelled Ella. She was sympathetic, understanding, as I knew she would be, but she was also disappointed. I'd been looking forward to that walk with her. Now my head was crammed with Anthony and Kim and Barry and Donnie and the good vibe from last night was rapidly fading. I was gonna kick the shit out of Kim for this one.

I couldn't even drive because I didn't have a car seat or booster or whatever it's called that kids sit in. I know I shouldn't have cared but the kid wasn't mine and I wanted him safe. Besides, knowing my luck, I'd get spotted by a cop and get pulled over.

There was a small park nearby. I asked Anthony if he wanted to go. He wasn't sure. I got the feeling he didn't go to the park much, or at all. I told him it would be fun. It wasn't. He wouldn't go on the slide or the roundabout and refused to go near any of the other kids. Frustrated, I half-dragged him over to the swings and plonked him on a plastic seat. He freaked out, started rocking from side to side, fighting to get off. I let him off the swing and he punched my legs. The other parents were watching. I didn't know how to handle him so I got him at arm's length and he stopped punching me. I didn't slap him or nothing, like some do. I'd been slapped plenty of times as I child and I could remember every one of them, deserved or not. He started crying and then clung to me.

I took him by the hand and walked him out of the playground, eyes burning at me from all the parents who seemed to be able to manage their children with no problem. Anthony wasn't even mine and I was getting judged.

We collected the clothes from the laundrette and went back to my flat. Kim still wasn't there. I tried her mobile a couple of times, no answer.

"Go play, little man," I said.

He seemed at his happiest playing by himself, his box of cars tipped all over the floor. I hear people moaning about kids not playing nowadays. They should've come over and checked out Anthony.

I watched him, a frown creasing my brow. He definitely had more cars than the day before.

"Hey, Anthony, where'd your new cars come from?"

He didn't answer.

He was in his own world.

I dug in the kitchen bin and found six cardboard and plastic wrappers from his new toy cars.

How the fuck had Kim found money for these?

"Oh, no," I said, talking to myself.

I grabbed my cigarettes, lit one. It was warm in the flat. I went to the window.

"No," screeched Anthony. "He'll get in."

I'd had enough. "Listen to me, little man. I'm here. Ain't no one getting in my flat to hurt you, you get me?"

He lowered his eyes. His head dipped, his shoulders went down. I still opened the window.

Kim rolled back four hours later, grinning from ear to ear. She made a big fuss of Anthony. I watched her with narrowed eyes. Then I grabbed her by the arm, pushed her into the bathroom, closing the door hard.

"What the fuck, Kina?" she said.

"Is that it? No apology? Nothing?"

"Man, the fuck you want from me?"

"Where you been, girl?"

"Out."

I looked in her eyes. She was slowly coming down.

"Stupid fucking bitch," I said.

"Man, fuck you."

"Fuck me? _Fuck me?_ You wanna make me an enemy? All I'm trying to do is help you. I phoned my friend, Jade. She's gonna ..."

"Fuck your white bitch friend and fuck you. Man, who the fuck do you think you are? You ain't no better me. Coming at me with your three things I gotta do. Like you know me. Like you know shit about me."

Her eyes flared. Her mouth kept going.

"I came to you 'cause I needed muscle to get rid of LA and like a good dog you did that."

I twitched.

"Do you want paying? Is that it?"

She dug a few crumpled notes from her pocket, threw them at me. They dropped on the floor.

"We fucking done? Or you gonna ..."

I hit her right in the mouth. I had a hard punch. I didn't fuck around. Her lip burst, sprayed blood. The force slammed her against the wall. She lunged, made a grab for my hair. I put my foot into her shin and she soon gave up with that plan. I wrestled her, threw her across the room. She hit the wall below the frosted window. Her hand snaked toward a pocket. _Stupid bitch was gonna pull a weapon on me ..._

I stamped on her hand and arm, twice, then cracked an elbow into the side of her head and watched her slide to the floor. Crouching, I took the blade from her pocket, threw it in the sink with a loud clatter.

"Did you hit the takeaway?" I shouted, pinning her to the floor with my trainer.

"No."

"Why are you still lying to me?"

"I didn't go there."

"You fucking did. I trusted you and you fucked me over."

She was gasping, scrabbling around.

"I didn't, I didn't," she sobbed. "I wasn't nowhere near Plaistow."

"You fucking did it."

"No, Kina."

"Then where'd the money come from? For the toys? For the crack?" I took my foot off her, scooped the notes off the floor, chucked them at her, the way she'd done with me. "Where'd you get this?"

I took a few steps back, breathing hard, blood rushing in my head. I didn't want any of this. She'd been nothing but trouble since she'd shown up. She was gonna drag me down in the dirt. I'd get a taste and find the old Kina, that bitch who still lurked in me. I could call her a bitch. I hated that word. Hated it so fucking much. Guys threw it out all the time. All those videos - bitch this, bitch that. But there was a bitch in me and she was _fucking evil_ and I kept her chained up but she was still there, talking at me in moments like this, whispering to me to let her out for a bit, let her come out and play ... _especially with that blade in the sink ..._

"Take Anthony and get the fuck out of my life. You don't deserve a kid like him."

She pushed herself into a sitting position. She was a mess of blood and tears.

"I know," she said, choking. "I know. I know."

"You can't keep him safe. You can't even keep him clean."

"Don't judge me, Kina. Please, don't ..."

"I ain't judging you, girl. I'm telling you the way it is. You need help. That's why I called Jade. She might be able to help."

"I don't want no social worker."

"You need someone," I shouted.

There was a knock at the door.

Anthony was standing outside the bathroom.

He wasn't crying or shaking or begging for us to stop. He should've been. He was a blank space. There was something wrong with him.

But he wasn't my problem. Not anymore. I didn't know how to get through to him. I only knew I needed space.

I drove them back to Plaistow, dropped them outside the tower block.

"I'm sorry," said Kim.

I nodded, didn't answer her.

"I'm really sorry. I did it for you."

I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about and I didn't care. I should've. I'd find out soon enough.

THIRTY THREE

I got my walk with Ella on Sunday.

It was mid-morning. The sky above Wanstead Flats was pale blue with grey and white clouds shifting in a wind that was a little cold. A typical March day. Not like that crazy weather of last week. It was also Mother's Day. Or Mothering Sunday. Take your pick. I had. I chose to be here. With Ella ...

She was wearing black jeans, orange trainers with white laces, a pink denim shirt with white buttons, a short black jacket and her black fedora. Her straight brown hair was loose, falling to her shoulders. The playground on the corner was crowded with noisy children and dads of all ages.

I showed her my car. She was genuinely pleased for me. I had a gift for her. It was in the boot. I wanted to save it for after our walk. I walked with my hands thrust in my pockets. She surprised me by curling her arm through mine.

I smiled at her, loving the close feel of her body.

We passed a large number of dog walkers. Most of them were middle-aged – some greeted us with a nod or even said hello but one woman glared at us and I kissed my teeth at her.

The two of us chatted as we walked; about this and that, about nothing really. I didn't do small talk. I did with Ella. She bought out the best in me, whatever that was. I hadn't heard from Kim. I was glad. She bought out the worst in me.

"Are you seeing your mum later?" she asked.

"No."

We picked our way along a well-trodden path dotted with weeds.

"It's complicated," I said, finally.

"I had a mum like that."

"She gone?"

"Yes, she passed away four years ago. We didn't have a good relationship."

She had a sister, Suzie, who lived in Newcastle with her husband and three children.

"I'm planning on spending a week with her when the kids break up for the summer holidays."

We chatted for a bit more. I was starting to enjoy the small talk. Then she asked me about Naz.

"Does she know about me?"

"Ain't nothing to know."

"You know what I mean."

"We're just friends."

She stopped me. I was teasing her a bit. She looked me in the eye, still holding on to my arm.

"Did you tell her about me?"

"No."

"Did you break up with her because of me?"

I didn't answer right away. I wasn't sure. We started walking again.

"I couldn't be straight with her. Ain't no point being with someone if you ain't honest with them. It was a casual thing."

"I don't like casual."

"I know."

She tightened her grip on me. We walked on. An hour went by before we got back to my car.

"I've got something for you," I said, popping the boot. I took out a small bunch of flowers, plenty of yellow and white. She was lost for words. She leaned toward me, kissed me on the cheek. Her lips were damp.

"Thank you," she said. I'd surprised her. I was glad. "Do you fancy a cuppa?"

Kuba and Damian were in the kitchen, making a late breakfast and chatting in loud voices, all the words in Polish. Ella made the drinks. I put the flowers in a cheap glass vase. The men watched us. I stared at them with a sour look. We went to her room. I was glad when she shut the door. She told me later that Kuba was the bearded guy I'd seen the first time I'd come to the house.

It was a fair-sized room. There was the scent of coconut oil. A sofa-bed was under the window, draped with a lime green throw. A patterned rug brightened the plain cord carpet. Two watercolours hung from the wall, set in bamboo frames. She put the mugs down on a desk cluttered with folders and textbooks, a laptop, a writing pad, a pot of pens and a radio. I put the vase of flowers on the windowsill, next to a line of framed photographs. Ella pointed out her sister and her nieces and nephew.

"Have a seat."

There was a rocking chair covered in a patchwork quilt. I took my tea, eased onto the chair. She slipped off her jacket and hat, hung them behind the door, and then sat on an office chair with a worn cushion.

"It's not much," she said, looking around.

I followed her eyes. "I like it."

"Thank you. It's all I can afford for now."

"How's your coursework going?"

"Slow. I'm doing health and safety at the moment." She made a gesture with her hands, like twin explosions either side of her head. "It's mind-numbing. Tell me about your work."

"I found Barry," I said. She started congratulating me. I held up a hand, told her he was a suspect in killing his best mate, Donnie Copeland, the guy who'd hired me to find Barry in the first place.

"There's a cop I know, Corrigan, she's a detective sergeant. She's alright. She isn't sure Barry killed him."

I explained about the two guns used that night. Ella lost a bit of colour.

"I don't have to tell you this stuff," I said.

"We can talk about extractions and fillings if you prefer?"

I winced. "Nah, you're alright. You don't do that kind of thing, do you?"

"No, I work at reception. But nearly everyone I deal with is in pain. Anyway, back to your case."

"I shouldn't tell you anymore." I grinned at her. "It's confidential."

"You can trust me."

"I've been doing a lot of trusting lately," I said. "It ain't worked out good for me. But I know it's gonna be different with you."

"Is it always this dangerous?"

"Sometimes it's just phone calls and talking to people."

"I'd hate anything to happen to you."

"Yeah, me too."

We drank in silence. She waved her hands at her flowers.

"That was very kind."

"Apology for last week when we went out for something to eat."

"I like you, Kina. I liked you the first moment I saw you. I really wanted you to move in next door. The room is available to let again. It all fell through with the other tenant so ...?"

"I'm OK where I am. Do you want to come round next week? I can't cook but ..."

"We can get a takeaway," she said.

"Now you're ending my sentences ..."

"I get that from you."

I smiled. "Takeaway it is," I said. "You can choose."

"Not that I should." She patted her stomach. "I really need to lose weight."

"You look fine to me."

"I'm fat, Kina. You're not."

"I put on half a stone. Too much junk food. But you ain't fat." She wasn't. She _really_ wasn't. She was stocky, sure, but not fat. I didn't care if she was. I just didn't want her being down on herself for nothing. "Do your friends know you're a lesbian?"

"We don't talk about it. Not because it's a dirty secret." She sipped her tea. "It would be like discussing if Gary prefers blondes, which he does, or Zara only dates black men, which she does, or Carrie and Izzy are bisexual, which they are. It comes up now and then. It's no big deal."

"Does that mean I _might_ have a chance with you? More than friends?"

"What if I said no?"

"I still want to be your friend. I think about you a lot. If you want me as a friend and nothing else then I'll take that."

"I don't want you as just a friend."

I took a deep breath. There was movement in the house. Voices. Footsteps. A burst of laughter. Sounded like Mariana.

"But I'm enjoying friendship. Why don't we let everything else happen when it happens?"

My heart was racing. I wanted to tear her clothes off, pin her down on that sofa-bed. Moving fast hadn't worked in the past. It was time to take Mum's advice, on Mother's Day of all days, and slow the pace. I told her, with as much sincerity as I could, "Yeah, that's a good idea."

"What are you going to do about the envelope Barry gave you? Are you tempted to drive down to Kent and deliver it? Because I don't think that's a good idea. He fired a gun at you and threatened you on the train with it. I never realised he was like that. He was such a gentleman when he lived there."

Worry seemed to fade the brightness of her blue eyes. She was genuinely afraid for me.

"I ain't running off nowhere until I got the truth," I said. "And I know where to find it."

I said I should get going. Leave her to her essays. She smiled at me, thanked me for the flowers again.

At the door, she kissed me. I wasn't expecting it. I didn't react. I had one hand on the door and the other hanging loose. Her face zoomed into focus and then I tasted her lips against mine and then it was over before it had even begun.

"Pick a night," she said. "Next week. At yours."

Outside, I twisted the ignition key, listened to the engine for a moment. Ella had a lot of questions about the case. _A lot of questions ..._

I hoped trusting her was the right thing to do.

THIRTY FOUR

It took a few days to track down Tracie Meadows.

That was Tracie with a C I E. Not Tracy with a C Y or a C E Y. _Poor old Donnie._

He'd never liked her but the girl had stolen Barry's heart and the pair of them had ditched rainy London for sun-soaked Greece. And when it all went wrong Barry had done what all guys do; he'd crawled back to his missus, begging forgiveness, making all kinds of promises he'd never keep. Getting nowhere, he'd told Pauline things from his past, things that had changed the man he used to be. It still hadn't worked. Pauline had been humiliated too many times and asked for a divorce.

I wondered how much he'd confessed to Tracie Meadows to keep her from legging it with a local DJ in Greece, all those years ago.

"Things have gone well for me," she said. "I was a silly sod back then. What was I thinking? Well, I've done alright ..."

Ten years on and she was running a successful gardening business and owned her own property in Gidea Park. She was engaged and getting married in August, a castle venue in Derbyshire, I think she said, with a honeymoon in Florida to follow. She had a lot to say. I didn't catch all of it. Her fiancé worked in the city. They owned a dog. I think he was named Jasper. _Who the fuck calls a dog Jasper?_ Maybe the fiancé was called Jasper. I don't know. I was losing interest by now. They had no children and no plans for any. Children sucked time and money, so she reckoned. This all came from her as she sat on the lip of her van's flatbed, doors open. There was an assortment of tools and boxes behind her.

I stood in the road and smoked a cigarette, nodding and making facial gestures that showed I was interested when I wasn't. It all sounded a little rehearsed. She also had an annoying voice, dull and flat, and it really started to irritate as she repeated all the details of her forthcoming wedding and the honeymoon and how good business was and how nice her flat was and ...

The thing was \- and I thought this whilst she sat drinking tea she'd poured from a flask - that time hadn't been kind with her looks. She was six or seven years younger than me but looked in her mid-forties. Her skin was baggy with deep lines, her plain brown hair scruffy and tangled and at odd lengths as it jutted from beneath a floppy sunhat. She was wearing shapeless trousers, Wellington boots, a blue polo shirt, fabric bobbled and stained, and a dark red fleece, worn at the elbows.

I was being unkind or being a bitch (I really hate that word) because I'm no model or nothing. I'm ordinary, plain and small-chested in a city where every other female appears younger, prettier, fully in the chest, curvier, better dressed and all round more appealing than me. Women seem to purr. I tend to bite. I knew as I listened to her that I would never understand men. I couldn't see what she had that Pauline didn't. Why the fuck had Barry dumped Pauline for this one?

She was doing a job in Collier Row, close to where she lived in Gidea Park. She'd told me three times now she lived in Gidea Park. Her customer was a retired midwife in her eighties. Her husband had been a keen gardener but had passed away. This was the third summer Tracie had taken care of the woman's garden.

She wasn't alone in the business. She employed a young girl named Lisa who was from Romford. She was seventeen and had worked with Tracie since leaving school last year.

I glanced over at her. She was working on a brick-paved driveway, scraping off moss and weeds with a wooden-handled wire brush. Her straight black hair was in a ponytail, pulled back through a baseball cap.

"I don't want to keep you," I said, gesturing toward the garden. "You're obviously very busy."

"This is one of my bigger jobs," said Tracie, and started explaining what work was required.

I cut her off. "I wouldn't know where to start. No wonder the business is going so well. You really know your stuff."

She didn't answer for a second.

"Thank you," she said, deciding I was paying her a compliment.

"I know you don't want to talk about this – you got a new life, successful business, a fiancé, a dog – but I need to ask you about Barry Fraser and then I'm gone."

She let out a long sigh. "OK. What do you want to know?"

"What's his real name?"

The question hit her like a punch in the face. She wasn't expecting it and her eyes told me all I needed.

"I need his real name," I said.

"I can't," she said.

"You can. You have to."

She pushed herself off the edge of the van, shook out the remaining drops of tea onto the road. "He made me swear not to tell anyone."

"That was ten years ago. A man is dead. Tied up and shot in the back of the head. Barry is in the middle of it. People are after him. This is heavy, Tracie, and it ain't gonna stop. Barry asked me to run an errand for him. He wants me to warn someone from his past. How can I run an errand for a guy when I don't even know who he is?"

She screwed the cup back onto the flask, pulled on her gloves. They were yellow and green and decorated with flowers.

"You're the only one he told, the only woman he trusted with that information. He must have thought a lot of you."

She stood by the van doors, unmoving. I noticed Lisa glance over, trying to listen in.

"Please, Tracie. I can't help him without that name. I _won't_ help him without it ... and I want to because the guy is in a mess."

I was breaking through her defences. She was starting to crumble. There was no stopping me now.

"You ran away with him. We all do crazy things. Ain't no one judging you. None of that matters now. But when you told him it was over he begged you to stay with him, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"And he told you things, didn't he?"

Another nod.

"Things he hoped would impress you or make you want to stay with him, yeah?"

"I didn't believe any of it at the time. I do now. I realised I'd made a mistake with Barry when I met Franco. He was twenty-five. Gorgeous boy he was. He wasn't from Greece. He'd been born in Verona. He was a DJ. Barry saw I was spending time with him, he sensed I was going to leave and started telling me thing. He said he used to be a big deal in Leeds back in the seventies and eighties. He ran three nightclubs. I can still remember the names, after all this time. Focus, Gossip and White Noise. I've never forgotten those names.

"I did love Barry. But I fancied Franco something rotten. It didn't last. I came down to earth with a bump and back to London skint. I lost all my friends and my dad didn't talk to me for two years. I mean, Barry was older than _him_. Silly Barry thought because he'd owned nightclubs I'd stay with him. He was starting to lose interest in me anyway. He'd see the girls on the beach and in the bars and it was driving him crazy. I felt sorry for him. I honestly did. He was this ... this really great bloke ... handsome in his own way, charming, intelligent ... but he just couldn't keep it in his trousers. He had no chance in life. Not really. His parents were violent toward him but his brother, Karl, he was the real problem."

She shivered.

"His brother? I thought he was an only child."

"Barry Fraser is an only child. Derek Pearson isn't."

"That his real name?"

"Yes," said Tracie. A few spots of rain fell from the grey sky. "He told me he was in witness protection."

"Derek Pearson," I repeated. "And Karl Pearson is his brother? Why do I know that name?"

"I didn't," she said, laughing nervously. "Not at the time. A few years ago I was watching a documentary on gangsters. It was on Channel 5. I don't watch a lot of TV except for the soaps. This was all about organised crime in Britain, the underworld, that sort of thing. They had them all on there. All these really scary men. This episode was about gangsters who go after other gangsters. They had this really frightening fella from Liverpool and a bloke in Glasgow and there was Karl Pearson, a celebrity. They mentioned Barry ... I mean, Derek ... I was sick after watching it."

"Did you watch the whole programme?"

She nodded.

"What was Karl Pearson into?"

"He was the Robin Hood of Leeds. He took from the rich and gave to the poor."

"What?"

"Barry ... Derek ... had a problem with drugs in his nightclubs. Karl and his mates got rid of them. Then Karl decided it was time to clean up the city. Drugs was a new thing then. This was back in the late seventies. There was a book about him years ago. About Karl. I found it in the library. I went looking for it. Karl had a gang, more scary looking men. They robbed drug dealers and sold the drugs to a London gang. Karl put the money back into the local community. He got churches repaired, centres for kids, started up courses for adults who couldn't read or write, hostels for the homeless. You name it he did it. But it all ends the same way, doesn't it? Karl Pearson and his gang were sent to prison because of all the murders."

"The murders?"

She nodded.

"They pissed off a lot of drug dealers. There were shootings all the time. Karl and his gang used to tie them up and shoot them in the back of the head. That was the life Barry told me about. I thought he was making it all up until I saw that TV programme and realised he'd been telling the truth ... and he wonders why I left him."

THIRTY FIVE

I was sitting in my flat, drinking and smoking.

Nearly midnight and I was still reading through my notebook. I wanted to be certain I hadn't missed anything. I wasn't a professional detective or nothing. I didn't have a partner or a team to bounce ideas off and listen to suggestions. I was raw, an amateur. The professional agencies in London had inroads into things I could only dream of. But then I'd had work and I was working now, even though my client was dead and my new client had no intention of paying me. I was just glad he'd stopped shooting at me.

I cracked open a second can, took a long drink. My mobile started to ring.

Caller unknown.

"Yeah?"

"Did you do it?"

"No."

"Jesus, why not?" he said, angrily. "You said you would go and warn them. I can't leave London because ..."

"I know all about it, Derek."

The line went silent.

"Hey, are you still there, man?"

Nothing.

"Derek?"

Still nothing.

"Barry?"

"I'm still here. So you know. Now what? Are you looking to trade me in?"

"No."

"Then what do you want?"

I kicked back my chair, got to my feet.

"What do I want? I want an end to this. You shot that dude at the station, man. These people are gonna keep coming."

"Let them come."

"Yeah, act the big man down the end of a phone. Donnie is dead because of you. He got killed because they wanted you and Donnie knew shit. Is your brother behind this?"

"Yes."

"Fuck," I said. "I thought the dude was in prison."

"Karl was released two months ago. I wasn't notified. He went after Peter Levine, the police officer who relocated me and gave me a new identity."

I picked up my cigarettes, lit one.

"Where are you now?"

"A garage lockup. No one knows about this place."

"Why does your brother want you dead?"

He coughed, cleared his throat, apologised. I wished he wasn't so damn polite. I wanted to hate him.

"What did you do, Barry?"

"Barry didn't do anything." He laughed. "Derek was a police informer."

"You grassed up your own brother?"

"Yes."

"Oh, fuck."

I drank another mouthful of beer.

"Did you give evidence against him in court?"

"No."

"Then why does he want you dead?"

"Because I killed his wife and daughter."

My stomach turned. I smoked hard.

"What the fuck did you say?"

I didn't kill them.

"I killed them. You have to understand Leeds in the early eighties. Drug wars. Gang wars. It was as bad as Belfast."

"Mind your manners, man, I was born in Belfast."

"I'm sorry. I meant no offence."

"Stop wasting time and get on with it."

He got on with it. Leeds. The late seventies. The early eighties. The menace of drugs and the money to be made with the right muscle and the right drive to deliver violence.

"I wasn't married. I had a different girlfriend every night of the week."

"That hasn't changed."

"I was a successful club owner. But I had lowlifes peddling this crap to youngsters. Karl sorted it out. Then he took on the rest of them. Don't get me wrong, my brother was a very bad boy. He was always turned on by the criminal life. He'd built a fierce reputation on the street. Then he took it to another level. It's called taxation. When you steal from the drug dealers. Karl was the best at it. He showed no mercy. It was a war."

It was there in his voice. Sixty-one years old and it was still in him. The taste of the dirt on the street.

"My clubs were clean but it was getting bad. Karl had a wife, a daughter. She was only six."

"I've seen the photos. That was them, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And you killed them?"

"I told you I didn't kill them."

I didn't kill them.

"Then what ..." I paused. "You faked their deaths, right?"

"Karl was given life, a minimum of thirty. He served thirty-five years. They let him out on compassionate grounds."

"What do you mean?"

"He's dying of cancer."

I dropped into my seat, squeezed the bridge of my nose.

"They were going to get hurt," he said, his voice suddenly distant and sad. "I'd been feeding the police information for years. I did it to protect Karl. I didn't want him to get caught and go to prison. So I served up members of his gang and other dealers that I knew of, told them locations of drugs and guns. Karl never suspected. He trusted me. But I knew he was going to get himself killed. They were taking too many chances, going after really big drug gangs. A contract was put out on Karl's family. They were going to kidnap them, rape them, kill them. It had gone too far. I had to do something. I had to step in. I grassed up Karl and his gang, all of them. It was better than watching them get killed. I didn't have to give evidence. There was enough evidence to bury them. The police wanted me in witness protection. I refused. I had one thing left to do. I got help from a few old contacts and we staged a car crash, bodies lost in the river, Karl's family. It worked. I set them up with new names and some money down in Kent. And then I left them to start again ..."

"Didn't they want to wait for Karl?"

"No."

I stubbed out my cigarette.

"Is the kid yours?"

"No."

"Like Maggie?"

"Maggie is ... was ... Donnie's daughter."

"In name, yeah, but we all know the truth. Were you sleeping with your brother's wife?"

"I might have been. It was a long time ago. Karl blamed me. Said I should have kept his family safe. _That_ was when I went into witness protection and disappeared."

"Who is Karl using to track you in London?"

"The Barrett family. Karl sold the drugs from Leeds to Eric Barrett. The family are still in business."

I drank.

"How are we going to keep you alive?"

"You can't. I'm a dead man, Miss McKevie."

"Hey, call me Kina, like Donnie used to. He was a lovely man."

"We both know how this ends, Kina. I can only run for so long."

"Then make a trade. Tell him the truth about his wife and his kid."

"No, I have to protect them from him."

"That was thirty-five years ago."

"Kina, you didn't know him. He was a monster. Do you understand what I'm saying? My brother was a monster and he still is now. Prison hasn't changed him. Look at what he's done since getting out. He's murdered my best friend and a retired police officer. Karl isn't going to stop."

"People change," I said, softly. "He's reacting this way because his family are dead and his brother ran off into witness protection, you get me?"

He went silent.

"Listen, I want to help you out, man, I really do, because Donnie was a decent guy and he didn't deserve to die. But this is too heavy for me. I gotta walk away from this. You should get on a train to Kent or jump on a plane back to Greece otherwise, you're right, it's only gonna end one way."

He started muttering. I couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Barry? Speak up, man. Barry? Barry? Hey, don't fuck about man." I put down my beer can. "Barry?"

I heard voices, followed by a thud as the phone was dropped.

"Barry?"

Scuffling, more voices, indistinct ... then an explosion, and another, more scuffling, someone screaming.

Then nothing. They had him ...

Kim had tried to drag me back into the dirt. Now Barry was doing the same thing.

"Fuck," I shouted.

I wasn't gonna walk away, I knew that, despite what I'd told him. I ran a few things in my head and all my ideas left me with one choice ...

And it would start with a phone call to the Bricklayer's Arms and a chat with Jerry, the landlord.

PART SEVEN

THIRTY SIX

I drove through the night.

After a quick freshen up, I threw on a change of clothes, turned off the lights and locked up the flat. I went down to my car. I checked the route for a second time, M20 and A20 – that would dump me on the southeast coastline. I fancied a glimpse of the sea. Nudging down the window, a blast of cold air filling the car, I twisted the ignition key and rammed in one of three jungle compilation tapes I'd _borrowed_ from Dylan's stock.

I sat on the M20, keeping my speed around seventy, not wanting to get pulled over for something as stupid as speeding. I used to tear round the streets of Walthamstow clocking nearly a hundred as a teenager. Then we'd dump the car after ripping out the radio. Here I was obeying all the laws of the road.

"Pussy," I muttered.

My mobile was in my lap. No one had called. I knew Jerry was the kind of guy who was connected. I'd told him I needed to speak to the Barrett family.

"What makes you think I know anything about them?"

"C'mon, man, there's no time. We lost Donnie. I don't want to lose Barry, you get me?"

"Eric is still head of the family. Used call him the Digger. You don't want to know why. Anyway, he's still the man who says what goes. I don't think anything happens without his say so."

"Can you make it happen?"

He whistled, started laughing. I hung on the line, waited for him to rein it in.

"Give me your number, Kina, I'll see what I can do. Look, I gotta warn you, love, the Barrett family are a bit naughty, do you know what I mean? You be careful."

I was still waiting. Barry could already be dead, tied up with two in the back of the head, but it was a chance I had to take.

I didn't have enough petrol to get there and back and planned to stop at Maidstone services. After using the toilet, I decided to grab a hot drink and a bite to eat. The girl who served me was pretty miserable and half-draped over the till. She kept asking me to repeat what I wanted. She was starting to piss me off. I only ordered a coffee and a sausage roll. _How hard was that to remember?_ The coffee tasted shit. I didn't even finish it. I had to remind her to heat up the sausage roll, which she did, dragging her flat feet over the tiled floor. It still tasted lukewarm. She asked me to clear my table as I got up to leave. I kissed my teeth at her.

I drove onto the petrol station forecourt. It was brightly lit. There was a guy in a suit filling up. I went in to pay. An acne-covered teenager with a mop of curly brown hair served me. I started worrying about money as I drove away. I wasn't getting paid for any of this. It wasn't that I was a mercenary or nothing but I had a car to run now as well as a flat to pay for. I also spent way too much on cigarettes and drink, though I'd cut down in the past few months going to Heaven 101, my favourite bar. I thought about taking Ella. I wondered what she had planned on Saturday. I hadn't told her it was my thirty-seventh birthday. I wanted to spend it with her.

There was hardly any traffic. A few cars were still with me from London. One had joined at Maidstone. I wasn't suspicious. Lighting a cigarette, I started thinking back to the flat, before Barry phoned. I'd been reading through the notes I'd kept. I liked to write it all down, even if my handwriting was appalling, because I forget things and if things get serious and the cops are involved then it all needs to be written down or I'd end up going round and round in circles with them.

Something was bugging me.

A contradiction.

I'd read it for the second time tonight but couldn't quite grab at it. I stopped rolling the pages in my head - I was getting tired thinking.

"Fuck it," I said, edging down the window a little more.

Wind blasted into the car. My cigarette almost blew out of my mouth. I jacked up the volume. Rapid-fire drum beats and throbbing bass lines rolled. The music put me in a good place.

I came off the motorway onto a deserted A-road. I was surrounded by black fields and trees. No tower block lights. No skyscrapers. There were scattered lights, here and there, but the silence and emptiness was a bit eerie. I'd never been to Kent. Not once. I don't scare easy but the openness of this place was giving me the creeps.

Christina Beckett lived in a location called Dymchurch. I didn't know if it was a town or a village or whatever. What made a place a village, town or city? I'd never understood all that kind of thing at school. I guessed not turning up on a regular basis was never gonna help. But education had spoken in a voice I couldn't understand and didn't respect.

I could taste salt in the air. I parked in a lay-by, got out and stretched. Smudges of light glimmered on the sea. It looked pretty calm out there. The wind whipped at me, blew my hair crazy. I could make out houses and bungalows and a caravan park. I was no more than twenty minutes from Dymchurch.

Cold, I got back into my car, switched off the music and turned on the heaters. I sat there for a moment, smoking. I hadn't thought this through. Barry getting grabbed had forced me to make a move. I couldn't bounce up to the Beckett house at this time in the morning. It wasn't even dawn. A few cars flashed by. And then a lorry thundered through, giant tyres spraying grit and dirt.

I took off, drove the coast road, sunlight slicing thin lines in the blackness. I was still cold, even with the heaters on. I thought about another cigarette but my mouth was like an ashtray. A road sign warned me to reduce my speed to thirty. I started to slow. I glimpsed houses in the darkness. The buildings were spaced out. This place was nothing like London where we lived bunched up together. I'd never thought of that as odd. I'd lived bunched up all my life; Belfast, London, Holloway ...

There were plenty of bungalows with large gardens starting at the front and going round the property. Tracie Meadows would've loved it here. There were a few bigger houses as well, sitting at the end of paved driveways. These places smelt of money with double and triple garages, eight bedrooms and en-suite bathrooms. I felt shabby and poor all of a sudden. This wasn't my world.

I drove further in. More regular-sized houses started to appear. Probably council ones because they were all the same; old red brickwork, clusters of satellite dishes, wooden windows that needed stripping down and repainting, cramped front gardens with barely room for the wheelie bins. This was more familiar to me.

I found a parking spot in a cul-de-sac, beneath a row of trees, right next to an empty playing field.

Patches of light continued to bleed along the horizon. The trees creaked in the wind. I could hear the sea.

Locking the car, I shut my eyes ...

* * *

A loud bang jerked me awake.

There was a spotty-faced kid in school uniform peering in at me. "Sorry, miss," he shouted.

He stooped to pick up his football and ran off to join his dozen or so mates on the playing field. The ball had left flecks of mud on the windscreen.

Sunshine flooded the car.

I got out, arched my back, yawned. I dug out a cigarette, ducked my head from the wind as I lit up. I checked my mobile. There was a second text from my sister, Olivia, creating at me for not seeing Mum on Mother's Day. She slaughtered me for not even sending a card. I didn't reply. Mum understood, I think. I don't know. The problem I had with her, and she had with me, was that we were blood relatives and nothing more. She didn't approve of my life. I know she'd borne the brunt of a lot of the choices I'd made, most of them shit, but she'd been at me from the beginning, always pushing. She put me down, no matter what, ever since I was a little girl. She blamed Dad for the way I'd turned out, I know that. In a way, I always felt she blamed _me_ for what had happened to him ... I could never figure her out.

The school kids, all of them white, started to drift from the playing field. I checked the time.

8.21am.

* * *

I drove through the High Street.

Most of the shops and tearooms were closed but the newsagents and the beach shop and village store were open. I flashed by a mini-amusement park, glimpsed red metal gates, a bumper car ride and crazy-painted buildings. The village wasn't Southend but it had a charm. I spotted one black guy, about my age, walking along the pavement, hands thrust into his pockets.

Following the directions on my mobile I made a few turns, coming away from the shops and the seafront. I slowed on a lane without a road sign. Stones flicked from beneath my tyres. I edged forward to the end of the lane, spotted a house by itself, painted white with brown window frames. There was a brick outbuilding with a corrugated iron roof, a stone well, an empty washing line, a child's swing and a wire enclosure filled with chickens.

I turned off the engine, got out, took a deep breath and walked toward the house, stones crunching beneath my trainers.

There was a broad metal gate for the driveway and a smaller wooden one with a paved path lined with brightly-painted pots.

Both gates were closed.

A white woman stood at the kitchen window but this wasn't Christina Beckett looking out at me. The photos were from the seventies. This was the little girl from the ride outside the arcade, the little girl who'd posed on the beach in a pink bikini, the little girl who'd smiled without a care in the world and who was now a grown woman in her forties.

I loitered at the gate, stared back at her. She came to the front door, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Christina Beckett. Does she still live here?"

The woman shook her head.

"She passed away six years ago."

"Are you her daughter, Katy?"

The woman threw her own question back at me. "Who are you?"

"I'm Kina McKevie," I said. I unlatched the small gate, pushed it open. "I need to talk to you."

I knew this was going to be one of the toughest things I'd done since taking on this crazy idea of being a detective.

THIRTY SEVEN

"I'm here about your dad," I said.

I didn't know her exact age. I guessed she was roughly forty-five or forty-six. No one had told me her age. There was a look in her eye. It wasn't just because I was a stranger rolling up to her house before 9am in the morning. The look was something else. It was as if she'd played out this moment a hundred times, dreaded it, hated it, feared it, but was now at peace with it, satisfied it was over. She always knew one day someone would knock. She'd probably thought it would have been someone older or maybe even a distant relative or an old family friend. But it wasn't and it didn't matter. The message was all that mattered.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"No."

"That's a pity."

"But he's dying."

"Good."

I could've told her it was going to rain later this afternoon and I think she would've responded the same way. She had a clear, well-educated tone. She had been born in Leeds but lived most of her life in Kent. There was no trace of any accent. She hadn't invited me in. I wasn't sure she was going to.

"He was released from prison a few months ago," I said.

She nodded several times. I imagined she wanted to scream right now. She didn't; she was too composed for that.

"Can I come in?"

"No, I don't know you."

"I've told you who I am."

"Yes, but I don't know you. Did he send you?"

"I've never met him." I paused. "Your uncle Derek sent me. He's in trouble and he needs your help."

I took out the brown envelope.

"This is from Derek. There's a letter and photos of when you were a child."

It hung in the air between us.

"Barry ... I mean, Derek ... he asked me to bring this to your mum. He wanted me to give her a message."

Gingerly, she took the envelope, peered inside.

"What was the message?"

I let out a deep sigh, one of regret. "I was to tell her it was starting again. He said she would know what it meant."

She nodded, said nothing.

"Your father got to him late last night."

"What do you mean by _got to him_?"

I told her what I'd heard.

"I'm waiting on a call," I said. "From a man named Eric Barrett. He's the man who has Barry. Sorry, Derek ... Barry is the name I know him by."

"Uncle Derek used to carry me on his shoulders into the sea. My father hated the water. He would never go in."

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Would you like to come in?" she said.

I wiped my feet, stepped into a kitchen with a large window, sunlight slanting in, a view of fields and trees and scattered houses.

The chickens were clucking. It was a peaceful setup she had here. A photograph of mother and daughter hung on the wall.

"My mother," said Katy. "Peas in a pod."

"What?"

"It's an expression," she said. "Who is Eric Barrett?"

"A London gangster. He worked with your father back in the day. Your father sold him food. Drugs, I mean."

She nodded.

"Sit down, I'll make tea."

"Eric Barrett had been contracted to find your uncle. He's done that. That's who I'm waiting for to call."

"Why?"

"I want to make a deal for your uncle's life."

She busied herself making a pot of tea, one bag each and one for the pot. I told her I didn't take milk. I put my mobile and cigarettes on the kitchen table. She paled at the sight of the black box.

"I would prefer you not to smoke," she said.

"Yeah, no problem."

She sat opposite me, curled her hands round her cup.

"I know the kind of man my father is or was. But in my eyes he died when I was six-years old and I saw him kill a man with a gun. I wasn't supposed to witness it, obviously, but I did, and I've lived with that all my life. He put a gun against this poor man's head and then ..." She looked around the kitchen. "I grew up in this house. I never got married, never had a boyfriend." I must have glanced at the swing in the garden. "That's for my neighbour's children."

She drank a mouthful of tea.

"I don't even remember Leeds. I've only known this village. I'm happy here."

She tipped out the contents of the envelope, stared at the Polaroid photos. Photos from the past can do that. They stop you in your tracks. For the first time I saw a look of fragility in her.

"Bridlington," she said. "My father took us there on holiday. My mother told me all about it. Do you know he was arrested for sticking a beer glass in a man's face?"

"I didn't know that."

"It never went to trial. Once his victim realised who my father was he claimed he never witnessed who attacked him."

She gathered the photos and dropped them back in the envelope.

"Tell me about this deal."

"Your uncle staged an accident. A car crash ..."

"I know all that. What ...?"

She paused, lowered her cup. She was quick off the mark.

"Yeah," I said.

"No."

"Just talk to him."

"Never."

"You don't have to give him your address or nothing."

"I won't do it."

"Just let the guy know you're alive."

"Why? So he can try and find me? The way he found my uncle? Why should I do anything for him? Because he's dying?"

"You'd be doing it for your uncle. His best mate was murdered. I found his body, tied up, shot twice in the back of the head. I don't want Barry ... Derek ... to end up the same way."

I took out my notebook, showed her the photograph of Donnie and Barry on the cruise ship.

"Best mates for more than thirty years. I want one of them to survive this."

"Can I see that?" I handed it to her. A smile touched her lips. She bit down on it. "How old is this photograph?"

"Roughly twenty years, give or take."

"Is this his friend who was killed?"

"Yeah," I said.

My mobile started.

We both looked at it.

Caller unknown.

"I'm not doing it," said Katy.

I held up my hand, silencing her, and got out of my chair.

"Who's this?" I asked.

A stern voice came on the line. A London accent. "I'm not comfortable with talking on the phone with someone I've never met," he said.

It wasn't Eric Barrett. This guy was much younger. They didn't know me from a hole in the wall. I _had_ to get this right.

"I'm interested in your collection service," I said. "You get me? I know you picked up a package last night. I need to talk to the customer who placed that order. I have something more valuable than that package."

I waited.

I kept waiting.

Katy watched me, shaking her head.

I stared out the kitchen window. The chickens were bobbing around.

"That might be possible," he said.

"What I have is for your customer _before_ he opens his delivery. It must be _before_ , you get me? After ain't no good."

"I'll be in touch."

He hung up. Katy had heard half of the conversation. She wasn't stupid. She could easily translate what I'd been asking for.

"Remember when he carried you on his shoulders? Walked into the sea with you? It's time to return that kindness."

She went to the sink. She'd been washing vegetables when I turned up. It seemed a long time ago now.

"Listen," I said. "I know how you feel right now."

She glared at me. "You know, do you? I really doubt that. My father featured in a TV programme," she said, angrily. "A journalist wrote a book about him. There are online communities who celebrate what he did. It's sick. My father is a murderer. I don't care how long he spent in prison. I don't care that he's dying ..."

"Don't get upset," I said.

"Then don't tell me you understand. You have no understanding of ..."

"Let me straighten you out," I said, running out of patience with her. I was tired, hungry. "I ain't well-spoken like you. I don't have all those words you got. I probably look like shit to you, rolling up to your house with a hoodie on. You probably thought I was gonna rob you."

"I never once thought ..."

I cut her off a second time. "I was ten when my dad was murdered. Men in hoods turned up at our house one night and took him away. He was a thief, my dad. He stole clothes, toys, food, drink, anything he could get his hands on. They warned him, kept warning him, but he wouldn't listen, so they tortured him, shot him, chucked him out with the rubbish. I can't say shit to him, you get me? I can't tell him nothing about my life and how losing him made me feel. I can't tell him how much I hate him and love him all at the same time. I can't go back. You can. You got a chance to say things to your old man ... and at the same time you can save your uncle's life."

I picked up my cigarettes. "I'll smoke outside," I said.

Lighting up, I listened to the birds chirping, tried to calm down. A bird I didn't recognise took flight. I memorised it colours and size. I'd look that one up tonight. A faint smile touched my mouth. My breathing relaxed. I thought of my flat, my book of birds, my car staring back at me and Ella - all the good things in my life.

Then my mobile rang.

And all the bad things in life came with it.

THIRTY EIGHT

I don't scare easy.

I've said that before. It takes a lot to intimidate me. That doesn't mean I rush into things headlong. I understand all about consequences. But when he spoke for the first time the hairs on the back of my neck prickled and the blood in my veins froze.

"I'm Karl Pearson. I understand you want talk to me, Miss McKevie. I'm very busy at the moment."

I stuttered. "Family reunion?"

"Now that's very funny," he said, his accent strong, his voice cold. "Yeah, you're right, I'm having a little family reunion."

"Have you opened the package?"

"I've got cancer, Miss McKevie, I have about two months to live. I don't need coded messages. I'll be gone before the summer. I'm out and I'm making the most of my time by putting straight my affairs. Do you know what I mean, Miss McKevie? So if you have something to offer me then you'd better getting a fucking move on and make your offer. Do you understand me?"

He spat each word at me. My hand was trembling.

"He didn't kill them," I said.

I didn't kill them.

"Yeah, he grassed you up, you and your gang, but he didn't kill them."

"I know he didn't kill them. Is that what you're wasting my time with? They died in an accident that I know wasn't an accident. Their car was run off the road. I know they were murdered. It was his responsibility to take care of them. That was all I ever asked of my brother, my own flesh and blood. I said to him, when I got sent down, I told him ... look after my family, get them somewhere safe."

"Barry ..."

"My fucking brother's name is Derek," he said. "Do you fucking hear me?"

"I hear you."

"I still don't know why we're having this conversation," said Pearson. "You went through a lot of people to find me."

"He staged the car crash."

The line went silent.

"Your wife passed away six years ago. She was living as Christina Beckett."

"Her mother's name was Christina," he said, his tone incredibly soft. I thought I was talking to someone else for a moment. "And she grew up on Beckett Road."

"Your daughter, Katy, kept her name. I'm with her now. She's alive."

I lit a fresh cigarette. I'd just told him the past thirty-five years had been a lie. He'd spent all his time in prison hating his brother for his betrayal. But the pain he'd felt at losing his wife and daughter had been for nothing. They had moved away and carried on and now he was losing them all over again.

"Can I talk to her?"

Now I was off the ropes. I could come out fighting. I had something _he_ needed and I could name a price.

"She'll talk to you ... but you need to let Derek go ... right now ... let him get on a plane and go far away."

"My brother was a police informer."

"I know."

"He grassed on me and my men. He got us sent down for thirty-five years."

"I know."

"You know? You fucking know? Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea who you're dealing with?"

"I know who you are. _Do you know who I am?_ They ain't made no TV show about me and no journalist gonna write my story. Nah, you don't know me. You got a clock ticking on you, man. You got a chance of something good before that cancer eats the fuck out of you or you can dish out a bit of street justice and what's the fucking point, man?"

Katy was standing in the doorway, hand extended, composed; she was ready for her father, the notorious taxman of Leeds.

"Don't give her one more thing to hate you for."

I handed her my mobile, wandered back to my car, leaned against it and smoked my last cigarette.

The call lasted a few minutes.

"He wants to talk to you again."

I took the phone from her.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you, Miss McKevie. You've made a dying man very happy. My little girl is all grown up."

I heard a rattling sound.

"And my rat brother is going on holiday."

There were two deafening bangs.

"No," I yelled.

"That's how we treat police informers. Goodbye, Miss McKevie."

THIRTY NINE

I wanted to disappear.

Early afternoon, back in London and a stack of orders to pack for Dylan. I stared at the invoices, couldn't focus. I would deal with them later or tomorrow. The curtains were still closed. I left them that way. I put my mobile on charge, got in the shower, cried under the spray.

I slept until nearly five. I dug out a bottle of brandy, poured a double, sank it. I got dressed, jeans and a vest top, hoodie and trainers.

I'd worked out the contradiction. I was doing this on my own, remember? I had no support, no real support. I wasn't going to catch everything that was said to me.

Scooping up my notebook and mobile, I went downstairs, drove to Leytonstone, ready to play my last card.

Ian Dobson was at work. That made things a lot easier. Naomi was wearing denim shorts and a cut-off T-shirt. Her feet, legs and stomach were pale. She rolled her eyes at the sight of me.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"I need to ask you one question," I said.

A few people were on the street. She held the door open, told me to come inside. We didn't go any further than the hallway. It didn't matter. This wouldn't take long.

"How many times did you meet Barry in the Rising Sun bar?"

"Just the once. I told you that."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'd never been in there until that night. Nor had Barry." She paused. "Is he OK?"

"I think so." _Yeah, two in the back of the head is no trouble ..._

She nodded, timidly.

"If you find him can you give him a message? Will you ask him to call me? I miss him so much. Please, I'm sorry I was rude to you a moment ago. Things are ..."

"Did Barry ever drink in the Rising Sun?"

"No, why do you keep asking? We hadn't been in there before. It was new. There used to be a pub there, a more traditional pub. The family that owned it wanted to modernise – it only opened at the start of the month so Barry and me thought it would be nice to go there."

"Do you know the family who owns the bar?"

She looked at me as if I was crazy.

"No, I don't."

I left her house, carrying the message for a dead man. The bar was a few minutes away. I parked in a side street. It was fairly quiet inside. Still early. There was football news on the big screen but only a handful of guys were watching it. Caroline was at the end of the bar, serving two young women. Ade, the cinema-loving barman, was talking to a customer, a black guy in his twenties. I climbed onto a stool away from them, took out my mobile.

"Hey, it's you," he said, strolling over with a big smile, hands spread on the bar. "What can I get you?"

I showed him the photo of Barry.

"Do you remember me asking you about this guy?"

"Sure, did you catch up with him?"

I ignored his question.

"You told me you'd seen him in here before but he'd only come in here the once. The night you weren't working."

His perfectly-shaped nails tapped at the bar.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked.

"Nah, you can answer my question. How can you have seen the guy in here when he was only here the once and you weren't on shift that night?"

He leaned forward, his smile growing faker by the second. "Please, buy a drink," he whispered. "Please."

There was no threat in his voice. I curled out a note. I was running low on them.

"Brandy," I said.

"Brandy," he repeated, turning his back on me. Caroline caught my eye, smiled at me.

"Talk to me," I said, pocketing my change. "Tell me what you know, Ade."

A crowd of men and women pushed into the bar, talking loudly, and I lost him for nearly ten minutes. Trade was starting to pick up. I wondered what the place had been like before the conversion.

Caroline was loud behind the bar. A second barman had appeared. He was black, very tall, long skinny arms flashing quickly.

I waved my empty glass at Ade. He scooted down the bar, poured me another.

"Talk to me," I said.

"I don't want to lose my job," he said, keeping his voice low. "I saw that man on Caroline's phone. The next day. She'd been taking photos of him the night he was in here. "

I caught her looking at me a few times, the smile never leaving her face. I turned my focus back to Ade.

"Go on," I said.

"She was out back. Talking to this guy. I don't ..."

Caroline glided down the bar at me, braided hair hanging loose, red and white bandana worn over her forehead, that same cheek in her eyes. She was the girl who liked her silver. I guessed she had the money to enjoy a lifestyle where silver was a common thing to own. The top buttons of her blouse were open, flashing her large breasts.

Ade shuffled away.

"I like your tattoo," I said.

It was above her right breast, an angry beast with its mouth open, a column of fire and razor-sharp teeth.

"What is it?"

"It's me when my period kicks in."

She gave me an exaggerated growl. I didn't laugh. I didn't even crack a smile.

"Shall I get you another brandy? You need to loosen up."

"Who owns this bar?" I asked.

Her hands went to her hips.

" _Hashtag nosy_ ," she said.

"The Barrett family, right?"

"Raymond Barrett is my father," she said, proud and defiant.

I nodded. "And Eric Barrett is your grandfather. I bet you couldn't believe your luck that night, could you?"

She stared at me.

"Your family had been contracted to track down this fella and then right out of the blue in he strolls. Barry Fraser. You look confused, Caroline. Sorry. His real name was Derek Pearson."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and gave me another growl. "I think you might want to find another bar to drink in."

"Donnie Copeland was a civilian. He was innocent. He had nothing to do with any of it. Your grandfather would've never taken out a civilian."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she repeated.

"All he wanted was to find his mate. Nothing more. I sent him to that house. I won't forget that."

She leaned onto the bar, her top gaping. She was still smiling.

"Why don't you run along, old woman?"

"You killed Donnie because he didn't tell you where Barry was. He didn't fucking know. You took his life for nothing."

"Don't get upset. It's all done and dusted now. Move on."

I was raging. But this cocky fucking bitch was right. It was all done and dusted. I could whisper the name of Caroline Barrett into Corrigan's ear but without a witness or the gun or any other evidence the cops had nothing.

"You know something?" I said.

"What?"

I shot out a hand, curled it round her throat and busted her smug face against the bar.

"I hate white girls who braid their hair. Can't you let us have anything?"

FORTY

Candles, music, wine, takeaway ...

"What did you first like about me?" asked Ella.

Guitar-strumming folk crap was playing on the record player; Ella's choice once she'd discovered Dylan's stock of vinyl.

"Well?" she said, smirking. "What was it that sent your head spinning?"

"Your boobs," I said, and laughed. "You got my share." She threw a prawn cracker at me. "Be serious," she said.

"Jesus, no," I answered. "That's all I ever am. I don't wanna be serious when I'm with you." A heartbeat. "You make me feel ..."

I stopped talking, feeling like an idiot, emotion of the past few weeks coiling inside of me. I glanced at the empty bottle of wine.

"Your eyes," I said, surprising myself. "You have the loveliest eyes I've ever seen on a woman."

I went to the fridge, took out a fresh bottle. It was Thursday night. I had spent the day cleaning. The flat was spotless, fresh-smelling. I'd swapped my evening shift for a morning one at a new location. I was keen to make the move permanent. I'd picked up Ella after seven, driven her back here, menus ready for her; Jamaican, Indian and Chinese. She'd picked Chinese.

Topping up our glasses, I asked if she minded if I smoked.

"I don't mind."

"Do you want one?"

"I smoked when I was sixteen. I didn't like it."

"I won't if you don't want me to."

"No, go ahead, it doesn't bother me. I know smoking is less socially acceptable now than alcohol but I don't mind."

I tossed the lighter on the table. "What do you mean?"

"No one bats an eyelid when you put away a few bottles of wine or a couple of cans but the moment someone lights up a cigarette they're demonised."

"Hmm," I said, coughing smoke at the ceiling. "I never thought of it like that."

"There you are," she said, resting her chin on her hands, glowing in the candlelight, beautiful and sexy as hell. Naz skittered into my head and left behind a pang of guilt. I'd ended it roughly with her. She hadn't deserved that. But she'd had her ways and I hadn't liked them. Naz was the past. I hoped Ella was the future.

I reached across the table, squeezed her hand. She picked up her glass, watched me over the rim.

"You're beautiful," I said. "Beautiful eyes. Great boobs."

We both laughed. She was wearing the V-necked jersey dress she'd worn the first time I'd met her, slashed over large breasts, pale cleavage on show. I finished my cigarette and we carried the bottle of wine over to the sofa-bed. It was just a regular sofa at the moment. We got chatting. This and that. Big things, little things. I was comfortable, relaxed, no more coming on too strong.

The record clicked off. Ella told me to choose the next one. She went to the toilet, talking through the door as she peed, masking the sound of it. I told her she didn't have to do that. I'd spent eleven years in prison.

She told me to hurry up with the music. I ignored my usual selection of drum and bass. The mood wasn't right for that. I flicked through a box of old school soul but I didn't have Ella down as a soul girl. She liked that folk type of thing. I rummaged in another box. She was out of the bathroom now, back on the sofa, pouring more wine. The second bottle was running down a lot quicker than the first. I came across an album with a girl holding a guitar. I'd never heard of her before. I put it on.

"I love this," said Ella, as I dropped down beside her. She sang the chorus, words moving softly over her lips. "How did you know this was my favourite album?"

I did now. I drank, listened to her singing. The wine helped her misplace a few words.

I emptied the bottle into my glass. "You won't be able to drive me home," she said. "You've had too much to drink."

"Shit," I said. "I didn't think about that. Still getting used to having wheels." I took a deep breath. "You can stay here if you like. I don't mean ... better than a cab."

She didn't answer. Watched me with glowing eyes and faintly smiling lips. I hoped I hadn't pushed too hard.

"We don't have to ..." I said.

She held my hand, continued to sing, her voice soft. I eased back on the sofa, watched her. She was still holding my hand. Another song came on. She squeezed, finally let go of me.

"I don't want to be a one-night thing," she said. "I've had offers. From girls and guys. Not many. It might just be sympathy sex because I'm fat."

"You're not," I said. "You look amazing."

"Kina, I'm fat. It's not a dirty word. I enjoy my food and drink too much. The thing is ..."

I leaned forward, kissed her gently, lingered for a moment, tasting her, smelling her, noses touching. The world just vanished, all the darkness folded away ...

I moved back, picked up my wine glass, realised it was empty. "I like you," I said, putting it down. "A lot. You get me? A lot. I ain't always that easy to be around. I got a lot to learn. But I'm honest. Pretty much. I tell it how it is. I got a past and you know about it and you ain't running away from me."

"I fancied you the moment I saw you," she whispered.

"You almost knocked me flying the way you came in swinging that door."

She laughed. "Why don't you make up the bed so we can get comfy?"

We kissed again. I pulled away, suddenly.

"What's wrong?"

She hadn't heard the car. I had. I went to the window. "Nah, man, not tonight. For fuck's sake, not tonight."

The doorbell rang.

"Who is it?" said Ella.

"Feds," I said.

It was DC Macklin. She wasn't alone. A white guy in a suit was with her. They came into the flat, warrant cards out, spoiling everything, ruining it. Ella got up from the sofa.

"What do you want?" I said.

"DC Macklin," she said. "This is DC Gibbs. Do you know Leah Atkins? Known as LA?"

"I know her," I answered, sourly.

Macklin glanced at Ella. "And who are you, miss?"

"Ella Stevens."

She was clearly shaken. She was white. I guessed she wasn't used to cops hassling her.

"When did you last see Leah Atkins?" asked Macklin.

I shrugged. "I dunno."

"Recently?"

Another shrug.

Ella dropped the volume of the music. Gibbs still hadn't spoken a word. I didn't like the look of him. He had cold brown eyes that stared.

"Would you mind coming to the station, Kina?"

I put my hands on my hips. "Yeah, I would mind. What the fuck is this all about?"

"Where were you Friday evening between the hours of 10pm to 12pm? Were you working?"

"If you're asking then you already know I called in sick that night."

"That's right," said Macklin, with a smile. "Your employer confirmed your absence. Where were you?"

"She was at a party," said Ella. "It was at a friend's house in South Woodford. Kina was there all night."

Gibbs moved toward her, notebook in hand. "I'll need names and addresses," he said.

"Are you certain, Miss Stevens?" said Macklin. "Were you with Kina the whole evening?"

"Yes," said Ella, sobering. "Most of the evening. I mean, yes. Yes, I was."

"You don't sound certain. You're not certain, right?"

"Fucking leave her alone," I said.

"We're just doing our job," said Gibbs, directing his comments at me whilst he scribbled into his notebook. "No need to get aggressive."

"Man, fuck you. Come busting into my home and ..."

Macklin put her hand on me. "I think you need to come with us, Kina. We should do this at the station."

"You ain't got shit. I don't know nothing about Leah Atkins. I was ..."

"You were at a party," said Macklin, nodding. "I know, I know. We will check that with the witnesses your _friend_ here has provided. But we have witnesses who place you in Hackney Wick. They saw you, Kina, they saw you push Leah Atkins down a flight of stairs." _I did it for you._ "She sustained a broken hip and a broken arm. She was in a coma for five days. She identified you as her attacker."

"Get your fucking hands off me," I said. "I didn't do nothing."

"Kina McKevie," said Macklin, formally. "I'm arresting you on suspicion of the attempted murder of Leah Atkins. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned ..."

The caution tailed away in my head. The cuffs went on. _Kim, I thought. You kept your word and stayed away from the chicken shop ... and went after LA instead._

"Not bad for a dancing constable," whispered Macklin. "I don't think I'll be seeing you at carnival this year. You're going back inside for good, Kina ..."

"Fuck you," I said. "Fuck you, man."

I looked at Ella.

There were tears in her eyes.

FORTY ONE

It was thrown out like I knew it would be.

Macklin had sniffed a chance. It came and went for that racist fuck. But this time there were bits of evidence. My prints were in LA's flat, there were two witnesses who saw me throw her down the stairs (like I would be that stupid) and she was pointing the finger at me after her girls had fucked up the acid attack. This time I got a solicitor. I wasn't taking any chances. A woman named Harjit Sanghani represented me. She was in her forties, experienced, a real battler, ready to go to war. She had a spiky, unfriendly voice and butted heads with the cops at every step of the way.

I was interviewed three times over the attempted murder; taped, filmed, placed in a cell a couple of times. I was told nothing. Cops are good at that. I was escorted to the toilet by a female officer. I drank coffee. I drank tea. I itched for a cigarette. I still got told nothing. Kim was in my head. She must have slipped out of my flat that Friday night and made her way over to Hackney Wick. She knew the chicken shop robbery was gonna end one way. She'd seen it, finally, but Kim was still in the game and her new plan had been to rob Leah Atkins. That was where the money had come from.

Hours rolled by. Thursday became Friday. The cops still held me. The clock was ticking. An extension was granted. Ella's friends were quizzed. I wondered what they thought of me now. Not much, I guessed.

I had to justify my fingerprints in the flat. I told them Leah Atkins was putting out the word I was a grass. Macklin had laughed at that. Gibbs hadn't cracked a smile. He was a miserable guy, doggedly working the case, no personal slant on it, not like his partner. He just wanted a result, another tick in the clearance column.

"I went to her flat to kill off that rumour," I said, tiredness creeping in.

It had been a poor choice of words and Macklin and Gibbs seized on it. They put me in an ID parade. That was when the case started to come apart. I found out later that neither of the two witnesses had picked me out.

I didn't see Corrigan. Not until the end when it was finally over and I was released on Saturday morning.

The sun was bursting from a bright blue sky. It had rained last night. The scent of flowers lingered in the damp air. I took off my hoodie, tied it round my waist. I lit a cigarette, light-headed as I took the first hard lugs.

Corrigan spoke to me alone. In the car park. No solicitor. No tape. No camera. No nothing.

"Leah Atkins still maintains you threw her down those stairs."

"She's fucking lying," I said.

"Macklin and Gibbs know that. Your alibi was confirmed by nine witnesses at the party in South Woodford."

"That racist bitch did this to fuck me up."

"At the time Macklin and Gibbs acted on information, Kina. You're in the clear. Walk away, forget it."

"Forget it?" I said. "Just like that? Fuck. I don't know how you work with her."

She side-stepped the question. "Do you have any idea who attacked Leah Atkins?"

"No."

"Stay away from her, Kina. Please don't try to settle this yourself. Macklin will be all over you. She blames you for her demotion."

"Did she tell you that?"

"Department gossip." She forced a smile. I didn't smile back. I was cold inside.

"I thought you had my back."

"I can't protect you if you mix with the likes of Leah Atkins."

"Man, I had no choice, that bitch was marking me a grass. Whose fault is that, yeah?"

"Don't go backwards, Kina. You've made tremendous progress since leaving prison. There will always be speed bumps."

"Yeah, especially when you ain't white."

"You can go down that road," said Corrigan. "Or you can be better than them and keep doing what you're doing."

I funnelled smoke through my nose. Corrigan always made sense. I hated her for being right.

"Are you still working Donnie's murder?" I asked.

"Yes, of course. And plenty of other unsolved murders including a fatality in Forest Gate yesterday afternoon. A black teenager was stabbed to death. He was fourteen, Kina."

"I told you about the knife attacks," I said, bitterly. "So now a kid is dead you'll do something?" I glanced back at the police station. "Or nothing?"

"Take care of yourself, Kina." She smiled at me. "If you uncover any information regarding Donnie Copeland's murder it will be treated in the ..."

"Yeah, yeah, the strictest of confidence. You told me all that shit before. Word still got out. That's what put me in this mess."

"You can trust me, Kina."

"So you say."

"Keep proving them wrong. Don't give up. You're one of the few who haven't got back in the game. Do you know how much you've achieved?"

"Why the fuck do you care?"

She stared at me. I stared back at her.

"Let the anger go," she said.

I lit a second cigarette with the dying end of the first one.

"Caroline Barrett," I said. "Manager at the Rising Sun bar, Leytonstone. She was the shooter. You might as well start there. But you'll never prove it. People like her and her family are never the ones who pay the price."

I walked away, angrily swinging my arms as I hit the street. I caught a bus home. Dylan and Tayla were in the shop. There were no customers. Tayla told me a rally was being organised for tonight after yesterday's murder.

"We have to make them sit up and take notice of what's going on round here," she said. "I want you there. And your friend, Kim."

"I don't know about Kim," I said.

She gave me an inquiring look. "Don't give up on her, Kina. You told me she's a lot like you when you were her age."

"Yeah," I said. "That's the problem."

Dylan had a spare set of keys. I used them to get in. Ella had posted my door keys through the letterbox, just like I'd asked her to. I had a long shower, put on jeans and a collarless shirt, went out and got breakfast.

Plate empty, teapot drained, I gripped my mobile, thinking of what to say to Ella. I should walk away from her, let her have ...

It started ringing.

"Ella?"

"It's me," she said.

"Look, I'm sorry. I understand if you don't ..."

"Kina, stop it, OK? Stop it. You don't have to explain."

"I do have to explain. I feel sick thinking about what happened. It ain't right. You shouldn't be in a relationship where that kind of thing goes down. Maybe you ought to see someone else, have a normal life, keep doing your studies and ..."

"You're my friend," she said, her voice firmer than I'd heard it before. "That's not going to change."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Only a friend?"

"I think we're going to be more than that," she said.

She was breathing rapidly.

"Why don't you drive over?" she said. "I'd like to go for another walk and then I can take you out for lunch."

The tension began to ease in me.

"That's sounds nice," I said.

"Kina?"

"Yeah?"

"Happy Birthday."

I lowered my eyes, humbled.

THE END

Thank you for reading _Chasing Answers_ – I hope you enjoyed the story.

Kina McKevie will return soon in a new investigation.

Book 3 - Left Behind

