The Thing Itself

FIFTY-TWO

‘About bloody time,’ Charlie Laker said as he swung open the door of the converted lighthouse.

His mouth fell open when he saw who was standing in the doorway but he recovered quickly.

‘DI Williamson, isn’t it? I’m guessing you’re not here with my pizza?’

Williamson pushed him in the chest. As Laker fell back, Williamson barged into the room and slammed the door behind him. The woman — Lesley White/Clare Mellon — was sprawled on her white sofa, naked from the waist down, her legs akimbo.

She looked up at Williamson, eyes glazed, a bruise on her cheek. Williamson saw the white powder on the table, a flake of it beneath Laker’s nose.

‘Hey, fat man, fuck you and your family.’ Laker’s fists were going up. ‘Are you mental? Laying your hands on me-’

Williamson swept the cosh out of his pocket and brought it down on Laker’s collarbone. He heard more than felt it snap.

Laker howled and sagged to one side, his right hand reaching weakly up. Williamson stepped forward and pushed him in the chest again. This time Laker went down, screaming as his shoulder hit the wooden floor.

The woman on the sofa hadn’t moved. Williamson caught a breath.

‘Hello Lesley — or Claire — which is it?’ Williamson shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. I came to question you about your relationship with Charlie Laker and to ascertain his current whereabouts. Looks like I can skip down quite a bit.’

Laker was groaning, gripping his shoulder. Williamson kicked him and got another cry.

‘I’ve had a hell of a day, Charlie, a hell of a day. Quite aside from anything else, I’ve been wondering could I have done things differently, done things better? So if I’m a bit tetchy, blame it on the fact there’s a lot gone on today. Oh, and I’ve just been at Newhaven with the customs boys, opening one of your containers bound for Dieppe. Expecting, you know, rotten meat or some other scummy thing you were intending to offload on our European Community friends. Know what we found?’

Laker moaned, hugging himself.

‘You broke my collar bone — I can’t fucking believe it.’

‘I’m going to do worse than that,’ Williamson said, his belly wobbling as he raised the sap.

Laker had taken beatings before. Dennis Hathaway had beaten the shit out of him when he’d discovered Laker had made his daughter, Dawn, pregnant. The Mexican in prison who’d sliced his face had damned near punched a hole in him first. But all that had been a while ago.

This cop was old school. He knew how to lay it on with minimum effort. A flick of the wrist rather than putting the arm and shoulder into it. He knew where to hit, too. He could do this all day and not break a sweat, despite his weight.

As Laker thought this, Williamson brought the sap down on his elbow. Laker roared. He’d never espoused the idea that keeping shtum when you were taking a beating showed what a tough guy you were. Screaming your nuts off frankly made it more bearable. That way he could take it and survive — and then he’d see about this fat fuck.

‘I’ll beat you to death, you don’t talk to me,’ Williamson said. ‘Then I’ll throw you out of the window and say it was hara-kiri. Think anyone will give a shit?’

The rage was on Williamson all right. He wanted to kill Laker. Williamson’s life had effectively ended when his son had killed himself and Angela had blamed him. Made his life unbearable, in fact. He loved his wife and he lived in misery because he knew he could never leave her.

Instead, she’d now left him. Forever. Taken their car with her. No note. Just their car — and her — smashed to smithereens on the beach below Beachy Head. God. Yeah, God had a lot to fucking answer for.

Williamson looked at Laker and the gangster saw it in his eyes.

‘Do you know the filth I’ve waded through these last months,’ Williamson said, ‘because of your sick ambitions?’

Laker ducked his head and cried out again as his collar bone shifted.

‘Do you know what we found in the back of your container? Do you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Laker gasped.

Williamson bent and hit him on the knee joint. It wasn’t a good strike but Laker grunted. Williamson turned to the woman on the sofa, who was blearily trying to sit up.

‘Five young girls we found,’ Williamson said. ‘Trussed like pigs, lying in their own piss and worse, scared out of their wits. Snatched off the street in Milldean.’ He turned back to Laker. ‘That’s what we found in your container. Headed where, Mr Laker, sir?’