No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 7

Next morning Riley tried the phone number for Peter Willis again. There was still no reply, so she double-checked with Directory Enquiries and trawled the Internet. No number was listed. Maybe he’d gone to ground to escape the press. She had a feeling that as a driver/handyman — for which read minder — he would be a more reliable source of information than most. If she could find him.

She left the flat, pointing her Golf towards the Thames. The first address she had noted was Trinity Court, south of the river near Elephant and Castle. It turned out to be a block of flats set back from the road, and she cruised by to check the layout first before slotting into a parking space fifty yards away.

The block had been given a trial makeover, although there were still a number of gloomy walkways and alcoves typical of the design, with trees and flower tubs struggling to complement a garish fascia and buffed-steel handrails along the balconies. But what would probably once have been a breeding ground for scraggy dogs, doubling as a car-breaker’s yard into the bargain, was now gone. At least, on the surface.

Riley climbed a spiral stairway, following the numbers to the first floor balcony. Her progress was watched by a group of children, for the most part hooded and silent, and she wondered if anything had truly changed under the surface. Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at the door to number thirty-two. It was a carbon copy of those on either side, all three reinforced with sheets of aluminium or steel, daubed with paint and etched deeply with initials or symbols. Dynamite would not have dented them, and Riley wondered if neighbourhood watch schemes elsewhere couldn’t learn a thing or two around here.

She hammered on the door until it flew back without warning, revealing a tall, emaciated man in a string vest. He looked about eighty but could have been twenty years younger. Strands of grey hair hung limply from his forehead and rheumy eyes stared out in a dazed fashion, like an animal emerging into the daylight after a lengthy hibernation. Around his body hung the acid aroma of beer and stale sweat.

Riley swallowed hard. So much for her image of a gang member from the sixties. Reginald Arthur Cook, according to reports of the time, had been an enforcer — a strong-arm man — for Bertrand Cage and John McKee. In December 1968, one of his strong arms had put a bookie into a coma, resulting in a five-year prison sentence. Back then he had been bad news, a man to avoid.

“Reggie Cook?” she asked bluntly.

He blinked slowly. “Who wants to know?”

Riley handed him a card. He took it without looking at it. “You from the Social?”

She almost smiled at the irony; here was a man who had brought pain and violence to people and he was frightened of a visit from the DSS. She became aware of movement along the open corridor to her right. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“No. What do you want?” His eyes began to look less vague, as if sensing there might be something he could gain from her presence.

“I want to talk to you about Bertrand Cage and John McKee.”

“Who?”

“They’re both dead. You used to work for them, didn’t — ”

“Fuck off.” As the door slammed in her face a stab of laughter drifted along the corridor. She hammered on the door again but Cook had obviously gone deaf.

As she walked back downstairs the kids appeared. A stringy boy in an oversized denim jacket pushed forward. “Cook’s mad. You wanna watch him!” The others laughed, jostling for support and egging each other on.

“Why’s that?” Riley asked.

“He talks to himself,” put in a podgy girl with short, streaked hair. “And he’s a perve.” She grinned and nudged her nearest companion, a slender girl with coffee skin, eyes glinting beneath a tracksuit hood.

“Would be, if we let him,” she muttered.

“Are you the filth?” a boy with a moon face demanded. He had an air of edgy tension about him that Riley had seen in kids where she had been born. Some grew out of it; some never lost it, ingrained from birth and carried through life like a badge.

“She’s a snoop!” crowed the podgy girl. “I bet old Cookie’s being watched by the Social!” She spat out a wad of chewing gum, deftly kicking it away before it hit the ground.

“I’m not a snoop,” said Riley. “Why do you say Cook’s mad?”

“She’s not the filth,” said another, deeper voice. “But she ain’t far off it.”

The kids looked round, their mood changing instantly. Two older youths had appeared out of nowhere. The one who had spoken jerked a thumb sideways and the group of kids melted away, their scuffed footsteps clattering off the walls.

Riley’s mouth went dry. These two weren’t that much older than the others, but it was time to leave.

“Why you calling on old Cook?” the first youth demanded. His stance was tense and full of aggression, and he had a painful-looking graze on one cheek. The other youth drifted off to one side, feigning disinterest. The move made the hairs bristle on Riley’s neck. Both were dressed in baggy jeans, trainers and hooded jackets, brand names colourful splashes against the drabness. Old faces in young bodies.

“That’s my business,” Riley said flatly. She glanced around and saw no movement, no sign that anyone else was aware of events happening here.

The first youth scratched at the graze on his face. “Yeah? Like, his aunt’s died and left him a fortune, right?” He was anywhere between fourteen and eighteen, with a thin, colourless face and a coarse crew cut. There was a crudely drawn tattoo of a bird on one side of his neck. He had maybe an inch of height over Riley, and did his best to stare down his nose at her. “Maybe we should have a chat about it.” He leered sideways at his mate.

A scraping sound came from the end of the block and a man appeared dragging a dustbin. He didn’t look at them but concentrated on tipping the contents into a large rubbish skip. The two youths shuffled their feet, caught momentarily off-guard.

It was enough to break the tension. Before they could say anything Riley stepped to one side and walked past them. They made no move to stop her, turning instead to watch her go. The second youth scuffed over to join his companion, and she felt their eyes boring into her back as she hurried away.