Lockdown

Chapter Fourteen

Pinkie cruised west on Piccadilly towards Hyde Park Corner. He kept his eyes on the red tail lights at the far end of the boulevard, the faintest of pinpricks shining back through the darkness ahead of him. He had extinguished his headlights, and could see perfectly well by the light of the streetlamps. If he was stopped by soldiers he would simply say he was trying to avoid attracting attention. Private vehicles were being attacked in the street by looters every night.

He had a niggling sense that all was not well, and suspected he might know where it was MacNeil was headed. Although how he could have made that connection was a mystery to him. Pinkie could not imagine that Kazinski would have told him.

Poor Kazinski. If only he had burned the bones as he had been paid to do, none of this would be happening. Pinkie would be at home, back in his real world life, where his mother would be preparing supper. Kazinski would still be alive. As would those kids in South Lambeth. And the old lady on the Isle of Dogs. All because the stupid little bastard hadn’t done what he promised he would do.

Pinkie shook his head. It was extraordinary. One simple failure, one unscripted act, and look at the chaos that ensued. Spiralling out of control. This is what happened when you didn’t see a job through to the end. How in the name of God was it all going to finish?

The mobile phone on the seat beside him began to ring. He reached across and pressed the green answer button and clamped it to his ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Pinkie, how’s it going?’ Mr Smith had such a restful voice. Pinkie could listen to it all day. Even though he knew it was just a veneer, a smoothing over of the turmoil beneath.

‘Kazinski’s dead, Mr Smith.’

He heard the pleasure in Mr Smith’s voice. ‘Well done, Pinkie. That should be an end of it, then.’

‘I hope so, Mr Smith.’

But Mr Smith clearly detected the reserve in Pinkie’s response. ‘Why do you only hope so, Pinkie?’

‘Because the cop got to him first. They had quite a tête-à-tête.’ That was French, Pinkie knew, and he wondered if Mr Smith would be impressed. ‘I don’t know what he told him. Could have been anything.’

Mr Smith was silent for a long time.

‘Hello? Mr Smith? Are you still there?’

‘Yes, I’m still here, Pinkie. What are you doing now?’

‘I’m following the cop. Looks like he might be heading for South Ken.’

Another silence, then, ‘Do you think he knows?’

‘I’ve no idea, Mr Smith.’ He paused. ‘Something odd, though.’

‘What’s that, Pinkie?’

‘He never called it in. Kazinski’s murder. Just left him lying there on the pavement.’

‘I think our Mr MacNeil might be a little out of control, Pinkie. Which could make him very dangerous.’

‘How do you mean, out of control? Why would he be out of control?’

‘It’s his last day, Pinkie. He quits the force at the end of his shift. And it’s been an emotional day for him. He lost his son.’

Pinkie frowned. ‘Lost his son?’

‘He died, Pinkie. The flu. Policemen’s kids are just as likely to get it as anyone else.’

‘Aw, shit.’ Pinkie focused on the distant pinpricks of red light, and now they signalled only grief. ‘That’s a shame, Mr Smith,’ he said. And meant it. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Keep following him, Pinkie. Do what you feel you have to. And keep me informed.’

Mr Smith hung up, and Pinkie felt unaccountably sad. He wondered how his own father might have felt if he had died of the flu when he was just a kid. If his father had known he existed. If he had known who his father was. His mother, he knew, would have been bereft.

Kids didn’t deserve to die. They hadn’t done enough bad things yet to deserve it. What harm had that poor little girl done anyone? None of it had been her fault, but she was the one that Mr Smith blamed. She’d got on his wrong side. And the wrong side of Mr Smith was not a good place to be.