The Hanging Club (DC Max Wolfe) Page 7

He laughed. ‘Another hour of cardio won’t kill me.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘I’m just saying – what they’re doing is illegal. But does that make it wrong?’

  ‘You talk like you admire them.’

  ‘And you talk like you don’t. A child groomer, Max. A hit-and-run driver. No great loss.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’

  ‘The point is – who made them God? Who elected them judge, jury and executioner? They’re not the law.’

  ‘I forgot,’ he smiled. ‘You are.’

  ‘I was at the Old Bailey,’ I said. ‘Some boys kicked a man to death. His name was Steve Goddard and he was forty years old. They got off too lightly and it made me mad. I was going to go for them. I wanted to wipe the smiles off their faces. I wanted to hurt them, to punish them in a way that the court had not punished them. I wanted to give them what they deserved. Stupid, right? I’ve got Scout to raise. I’m no good for her sitting in a jail cell. But it was a moment. Then one of the court ushers got in my face and the moment passed.’

  ‘That’s you, Max. For some people, the moment doesn’t pass.’ He paused. ‘But the hanging’s weird. A funny way to do it, I mean. You ever see anything like this before?’

  I shook my head. ‘Never.’

  ‘Even if you hate these bastards, why would you go to all the trouble of stringing them up?’

  I smiled at him. ‘What would you do? Beat them to death with your spatula?’

  He didn’t smile back. His dark eyes slid away from me.

  ‘If I wanted to kill someone that deserved to die, I wouldn’t hang them.’

  ‘What would you do, Jackson?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t put a rope around his neck.’

  ‘But what would you do? Put a bullet in their brains from half a mile away?’

  ‘I’m no sniper, Max. I’m a chef. But I’d get close enough to smell what they had for breakfast.’ He stared at the open palms of his hands as though noticing them for the first time. ‘Then one in the head,’ he said. ‘And one in the heart.’

  We were silent. Then he gave me his gap-toothed grin and the moment was broken. He gestured at my bag.

  Fourteen-ounce gloves. Shirt. Shorts. Trainers. Gum shield.

  ‘Can you lend me some kit?’ said my friend.

  We banged the bags at Smithfield ABC.

  One of Fred’s famous circuits – ten three-minute rounds on the bags, alternating the heavy bag and the speedball, with one minute between rounds for ten burpies and ten press-ups. No rest for your heart. Recover while you work.

  ‘You’re so lucky to be training!’ Fred shouted at us. ‘If it was easy, everybody would do it! Pain is just weakness leaving the body!’

  Halfway through I stood back from the speedball, trying to catch my breath, reaching for that second wind while Jackson whaled away at the heavy bag, the dull thud of leather against leather. He had on one of my long-sleeved T-shirts that was a size too big for him.

  He laughed at my exhaustion.

  ‘I was always tougher than you!’ he shouted.

  It wasn’t true. I was always tougher.

  But he was wilder.

  There was a crowd of drunks in Charterhouse Street.

  More than anywhere in the city, Smithfield was the neighbourhood that never slept. The meat market worked all night. The clubs on Charterhouse Street had them dancing till dawn. Pubs had licensing laws that saw the clubbers and meat porters having a pint at first light. Drunks were no big deal in this part of town.

  But the men in front of us now were the ugly kind of drunks. They were standing outside one of the clubs, being refused entry. Politely but firmly. Jackson and I stepped into the road to walk around them as they argued with the men on the door.

  ‘I smell pig,’ one of them said. The smallest one. The runt. They are often the mouthiest. Napoleons in polo shirts.

  We kept walking.

  I saw Jackson glance over his shoulder and then look at me.

  ‘Keep walking,’ I said.

  ‘That might not be an option,’ he said.

  They were following us. I looked over my shoulder. Five of them. Polo shirts in the warm summer night. Kebab stains down the front. Three of them were holding bottles. One of the bottles exploded between my feet.

  Glass and beer everywhere. Then they were in front of us.

  ‘Where you off to, pig?’ one of them said, stepping forward, right in my face. I could smell cigarettes and beer and junk food. Working himself up into a frenzy, the way they always do before the violence starts. ‘I think you know my mate, pig. I think you helped to send him down.’

  I took a long step back, giving myself enough room, and I aimed a big right hand at his heart. That always slows them down and shuts them up. A hard punch in the heart. Nobody is expecting a big punch in the heart.

  And I missed.

  He swivelled to address his friends just as I threw the punch and I caught him high on his shoulder, a skimming shot that spun him around and kicked it all off.

  Suddenly there were punches in my face, wild punches that scuffed against my ear, my forehead and high on my cheekbone. Nothing punches. Then one caught me flush on the jaw and the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees. A foot slammed into my ribs. And another, the other side this time. I could not get up.

  And then, through their legs as they continued to kick me, I saw Jackson.

  The runt who had screamed in my face went down first. Jackson aimed one low, hard kick at his knee, the side of his foot connecting with bone and ligament, ripping them apart, sending him down with a scream that turned them all around.

  Jackson wasted nothing.

  These were not the same as the kicks that were pounding into me. These were expert, economical movements, shocking in their violence, his foot raising and turning and aimed at knees. And connecting. Another one hit the deck, his face twisted with agony. Two of them went for Jackson at once. He stepped forward, lifted his hands and inserted both his thumbs into their eye sockets. As they whirled away, howling, their hands clutching their faces, he kicked their knees. It wasn’t the kind of fighting you learn in a boxing gym. There was nothing fair about it. There was no respect for his opponent. He destroyed them. I wondered if they would ever walk again.

  One man was left standing. Jackson moved swiftly towards him and swung his body, his right elbow connecting with the man’s mouth, showering front teeth across the pavement. He kicked both of the man’s knees before he hit the pavement.

  Then he was helping me to my feet and we were running.

  We did not speak when we were running. And we did not speak as we cleaned ourselves up and I dressed the wound that he had on his elbow, his flesh torn away by the front teeth of the last man.

  And then we looked at each other.

  ‘What kind of chef were you?’ I said.

  11

  A Media Liaison Officer was meant to be briefing DCI Pat Whitestone before the press conference at West End Central. But it was the Chief Super, DCS Swire, who was doing most of the briefing.

  ‘The message we need to send, Pat, is that nobody takes the law into their own hands. Because that doesn’t improve the law. It destroys it. Just keep hammering that point home.’

  ‘Phone call, ma’am,’ TDC Billy Greene said.

  Behind her glasses, DCI Whitestone’s eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘I said no calls, Billy.’

  ‘You’ll want to take this, ma’am.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m afraid it’s your son.’

  Whitestone took the call and I went to the window where Edie Wren was staring down at the street. The circus was arriving. Camera crews, satellite vans, and dozens of reporters.

  ‘And they’re not even serial killers yet,’ Edie said.

  ‘Give them time,’ I said. ‘They’ve done two. They only need one more to make the grade.’

  ‘Are you all right, Pat?’ the Chief Super said behind us.

&nb
sp; Whitestone was white-faced with shock.

  ‘It’s Just. My son. My Just. I thought he was staying with a friend last night. But he’s at the hospital. They tell me he’s been there all night. There’s been . . . an incident. Someone – a gang – put a bottle across his eyes.’ She fought to control herself. She took her glasses off and polished them. ‘Ma’am,’ she said to the Chief Super. ‘They say – they think – the doctors think there’s a chance he could lose his sight.’

  To me Whitestone’s son was a shadow that I had glimpsed on a computer screen late at night when his mother Skyped him from our office. They talked of the domestic minutiae that fill a family’s life – homework, meals, triumphs and disappointments, the plans for tomorrow. It suddenly felt as if he would never be the same boy again.

  ‘Go to him,’ the Chief Super said. ‘Just go.’

  ‘But the press conference—’

  ‘Just go to your son,’ Swire said, and she physically escorted Whitestone to the door of MIR-1. ‘Go to him now. Nothing is more important.’

  When Whitestone was gone, the MLO stood before the Chief Super, shaking her head.

  ‘But who’s going to take the press conference?’ the MLO said.

  ‘The investigation’s senior officer,’ the Chief Super said, and she looked at me without enthusiasm.

  I stared out at the massed ranks of media who had crammed into the briefing room at West End Central. My mouth was dry and my palms were wet. My shirt stuck to my back and my mind was totally blank.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ I said. Nobody looked up.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ the MLO said. ‘Your microphone’s not on.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, one second after she had turned it on. Now they were all looking at me. Some of them were smiling. Someone shook his head.

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘My name’s DC Wolfe and I’m going to give you a briefing on the two murders we are currently investigating.’

  I looked at my notes. But they were already shouting questions at me.

  I tried to remember the message. The message I had to hammer home. The message about the law not existing when someone takes it into their own hands. Feedback howled out of the microphone.

  ‘DC Wolfe?’ a tall, hard-looking redhead said. ‘Scarlet Bush.’

  ‘Scarlet,’ I said.

  ‘How do you feel that the online community sees these men as heroes?’

  ‘They’re not heroes,’ I said.

  My mouth twisted to show the absurdity of the very idea. It was bone dry although curiously my back was warm and wet with sweat.

  ‘What we have seen in these two films,’ I said. ‘That’s not the law – that is what happens when the law breaks down.’

  Scarlet Bush shook her head.

  ‘But the two men who died had both done unspeakable things. One was part of a grooming gang. The other crippled and killed a young boy. How can you stand there and say—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve done,’ I said, and the room went wild.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve done?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve done?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what they’ve done?’

  I reached for my water just as I caught DCS Swire staring at me from the back of the room. Somehow I knocked the water over.

  ‘Oh, fuck my giddy aunt,’ said the Media Liaison Officer as water spread across the front of her dress.

  Scarlet Bush laughed.

  ‘The victims of both these evil men were children,’ she said. ‘Blameless, innocent children who had their lives destroyed by wicked men. And you say it doesn’t matter what they’ve done?’

  ‘What I meant—’

  The MLO leaned across me.

  ‘No more questions!’ she shouted into the microphone.

  ‘One last question,’ said Scarlet Bush. ‘How do you sleep at night, Detective?’

  It was online news by the time I got to the hospital.

  ‘IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT

  THEY’VE DONE!’

  Callous cop insults the innocent

  By Scarlet Bush, Crime Correspondent

  Bad day at the office, I thought.

  Pat Whitestone was sleeping in the hospital waiting room.

  She was curled up on a row of plastic chairs that were fixed to the sticky carpet as if somebody might decide they were worth stealing. Without her glasses her face had an unguarded look that was so different to the woman I knew from work, she almost looked like someone else.

  I went to get myself a cup of coffee from a vending machine that I had passed on the way in. It came out black and boiling hot. I stood in the corridor, sipping it as it cooled down, watching the cancer patients in their dressing gowns smoking their last cigarette of the day beyond the big glass doors of the main entrance. When I came back to the waiting room, she was awake and sitting up.

  ‘Max,’ she said, and I knew that there had been no real rest for her in this place. She slowly put her glasses on and I had never seen her face look more vulnerable.

  ‘How’s your son?’ I said. ‘How’s Just?’

  She nodded, as if struggling to understand their new reality.

  ‘He – uh – lost his sight in one eye.’ She shook her head. ‘Somebody hit him in the face with a bottle, Max.’ She put on her child-sized trainers, ran her fingers through her messy blonde hair. ‘In a club. A fight. Over some girl. He was meant to be looking at some girl. And his right eye – his right eye took the full force of the blow and the left eye got a shower of glass fragments. He’s lost that right eye, Max. That’s gone. That’s mush. Forget about that right eye, Max. The left eye has a detached retina and all the bits of glass in it and – uh – they are trying to save that other eye. Dr Patel is doing his best, Max. But there’s glass . . . bits of glass . . . in his eye . . . his left eye.’

  ‘Pat,’ I said. ‘My God, Pat.’

  She scratched her head. She sighed. She exhaled.

  ‘So that’s where we are,’ she said. ‘Waiting for news about his other eye.’ She shook her head and then she looked at me and her face stirred with the start of a smile. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I left you in the lurch. Up at West End Central. The press conference. How did it go?’

  ‘You didn’t see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not. Of course you didn’t see it. It went well.’

  ‘That’s good, Max.’

  I felt like putting my arm around her. But she looked me straight in the eye and I saw that she was still the woman I knew, she was still my boss, she was still the most experienced homicide detective in 27 Savile Row, and the moment passed, even though her eyes were wet with tears, even though I had never felt closer to her.

  I sat down next to her.

  ‘What happened, Pat?’

  She shook her head. She told me the story in broken fragments. Because it made no sense and yet at the same time it was all horribly easy to imagine.

  ‘Just the usual teenage rubbish,’ she said. ‘It started with a lie – Just told me he was going to play video games at his friend’s house. I believed him. And his friend told his mother the same lie. And instead they sneaked off to this place. To have a few drinks. To pretend that they’re not children any more. It’s what teenagers do, Max. Some boys out – Just and a couple of his friends from school – nice kids – they were in some little pub off the Holloway Road – then suddenly these other boys were shouting at Just – that he had looked at a girl – but his friend – I spoke to his friend – his friend sat in the hospital all night long, too scared to go home – he said that Just didn’t do anything – he didn’t even see this girl – but they – one of them – this gang – the Dog Town Boys, they call themselves – they put a bottle across his face – and it broke – the glass – and his eyes . . .

  I took her hands in mine.

  She needed to say no more. It was the kind of ordinary madness that h
appened every night of the year. But it usually happened to someone else.

  ‘We’re such a small family, Max. Me and Just. You don’t realise it until a time like this. I feel like I should call someone. But who can I call? My parents are dead. I don’t have brothers or sisters. There’s no one to call, is there?’

  ‘What about his father?’ I said, and when I saw her face twist with anger I knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

  ‘He’s dead to us,’ she said. ‘He left us to get on with it. And we will get on with it. Even this.’

  Then we were silent until a doctor appeared in the doorway. A thirty-something Asian in blue scrubs, in a rush. He looked around the waiting room.

  ‘Miss . . . Whitehead?’

  ‘Whitestone,’ she said, standing up. ‘Where’s the other doctor? Dr Patel?’

  ‘Dr Patel’s shift ended. I’m Dr Khan. I’ve just come out of surgery with your son, Jason.’

  ‘His name is Justin.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He looked at her, his face a mask, and my stomach fell away. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ he said, consulting his notes. ‘We managed to remove the fragments of glass from your son’s left iris and its supporting tissue but unfortunately the optic nerve has been detached from the back of the eye . . .’

  He looked at her, nervously licked his lips, waiting for her to fill in the terrible blank.

  But she said nothing.

  ‘What does that mean, Doctor?’ I said.

  ‘The eye is a sphere with a transparent bulge at the front – the cornea – and a stalk – the optic nerve – at the back. The glass was in the cornea but the optic nerve – which carries visual impulses to the brain – has been severed . . .’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Vision is not possible without the optic nerve.’

  ‘So he’s . . .’ she said, swallowing hard. Swallowing it all down. The rage. The grief. The fear. The disbelief. Emotions that I could not begin to imagine because it was not my child in that operating room. She could not say the word. It seemed as if she would never say it, as if she would live and die without ever saying the word. And then finally she said it.