Authors: Martyn Waites
Tags: #Crime, #Thriller, #Mystery, #Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Suspense, #UK
The Mercy Seat (44 page)
He tried to shake the thought away. Perhaps that was just his own sense of bitterness and loss manifesting itself. He hoped so. Because he couldn’t shake off the feeling.
The new editor had already been appointed. Maria’s hated old dep., the one who had made no secret of coveting her job. He came up to Donovan afterwards, shook hands, expressed his condolences. Smiling smugly all the time. Then, on behalf of the
Herald
, asked him to write his own account of what had happened.
‘An eyewitness account from the eye of the storm,’ he said. A phrase which, Donovan thought, didn’t bode well for the future of quality journalism at the paper.
His first reponse was to punch the guy and walk away. But he didn’t. Surprising even himself, he accepted the commission.
Back in Northumberland, he laboured on it day and night, determined to turn it into a truthful piece of work. He thought Maria’s memory deserved full honour. And others who could no longer speak, the chance to have their story heard.
In doing so, it became more than that. Catharsis, writing as therapy; a piece that would exorcise the demons of the last few weeks, purge the ghosts from within. He created a safe working environment for himself out of the defined boundaries of the article. Then, taking his memories of events, and
emotions concerning them, as raw ingredients, he began. He shaped and reshaped, striving for an emotional clarity and honesty, depth behind the words. In doing so he sculpted something that went far beyond the limit of his original brief. It became universal, a treatise on the nature of grief and anger, remorse and revenge.
It was undoubtedly the best piece of writing he had ever done, possibly the best he would ever do.
The
Herald
paid handsomely for it, realizing they had something special. In addition to that, they offered to broker him book deals, film rights. Anything to keep him writing. Donovan declined everything. While working on it, he had decided it would be the last piece he ever wrote. For them or anyone. He was finished with the
Herald
, finished as a journalist.
The piece had served its purpose.
Something else also happened at Maria’s funeral. Just as the article was the past, so this could have been the future.
‘There’s Sharkey,’ said Peta, pointing from the pew they sat in.
They were standing, collectively making their way outside after the service.
‘Ignore him,’ said Donovan.
They didn’t need to be told. However, it was clear that Sharkey wanted to talk to them. As they made their way to the graveside for the final part of the service, Sharkey sidled up beside them.
He wore his usual immaculate pinstripe suit, with his left arm strapped up and a camelhair coat draped theatrically over his shoulders. Gave a respectful bow.
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve turning up here,’ said Donovan.
‘We should find a spare hole and bury you as well,’ added Peta.
Sharkey placed his good hand on Donovan’s sleeve. Donovan turned.
‘Please. Not here. I’ve come to pay my respects too.’
Donovan looked at him. There seemed to be genuine emotion behind his words. He looked to be grieving. Donovan gave him the benefit of the doubt.
They walked slowly on.
‘The
Herald
chucked you out, then?’ Donovan asked.
‘They needed a sacrificial scapegoat,’ Sharkey said. ‘Someone to shoulder the blame and apologize in public. I am now, officially, a penitent.’
‘Good. Because it’s all your fault.’
Sharkey sighed as if about to argue. But said nothing.
They reached the graveside. Maria’s mother, who so far had been stoical, let go all her tears as her daughter’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Donovan looked away, trying to mask his own, private grief.
Afterwards, he turned down an offer to go back to Maria’s parents’. He couldn’t face it. Her mother saw his face, understood. As he, Peta, Amar and Jamal walked away, Sharkey found them again.
‘Glad I caught you all,’ he said. ‘Wanted a word.’
‘I can think of a good one,’ said Amar.
Sharkey stood in front of them, blocking their path. ‘Can we call a halt to hostilities and have a decent, civilized conversation? Please?’
‘What have we got to talk about?’ asked Donovan.
‘I have a proposition for you which could be to your benefit.’ Sharkey looked at Peta and Amar. ‘All of you. Please hear me out.’
They said nothing.
‘I’ll take you to dinner.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t say fairer than that, can I?’
* * *
Chinatown in Manchester. The Yang Sing restaurant. Gold and red décor. A round table piled high with dishes. The food excellent. Jamal ate like he had never been fed. Donovan, Peta and Amar picked. Sharkey tried valiantly with chopsticks, gave up and used a fork.
‘So what was this proposition?’ said Donovan, taking a sip of his gin and tonic, looking at the solicitor.
Sharkey put down his fork, settled back in his chair. Donovan sensed a lecture coming. He wasn’t disappointed. The price he paid for the good food, he thought.
‘Heavy industry,’ he began, ‘manufacturing. Mining. All the old industries. Here in the West, and particularly in Britain, they have declined to the point of extinction.’
‘Anybody want the last chicken ball?’ asked Jamal.
Donovan almost laughed out loud. He told him to take it. Sharkey, irked at having been interrupted, continued.
‘What our blighted land of Albion now exists on,’ he said, waving his fork as if that in some way emphasized his point, ‘is information. It passes back and forth across the world at great speeds; it informs, if you will, every aspect of our lives.’
‘Is there a point to this?’ asked Peta. ‘We’ve got a long drive home.’
‘Yes, Peta, there is a point,’ he said, angry now at his perfectly prepared speech being interrupted again. He indicated Donovan. ‘Now you, Joe, I know you don’t want to be a journalist any more. But you have first-class investigative skills. It would be a shame to see them go to waste. And you, Peta and Amar, you have a framework, a business structure already in place. Perhaps not as successful as you would wish, but the basics are there.’ He sat back, looked at them.
‘That’s it?’ said Donovan. ‘The big idea? I should go and work with these two? Well, thanks, Francis.’
‘Just hear me out. Not private investigators. Not investigative journalists, even.’
‘Then what?’ asked Amar.
Sharkey smiled. ‘Information brokers.’
He explained. Information, he said, was sometimes hard to come by. Sometimes even deliberately kept secret. Sometimes not in the best interests of the majority. He proposed that they set up a company that utilized their individual skills for the express purpose of gaining information to sell.
‘Who to?’ asked Peta.
‘Whoever wants it.’
‘What if that doesn’t turn out to be ethical?’ said Donovan.
Sharkey shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. I’m sure a team with your collective intelligence could find a way to salve your conscience and maintain your company’s integrity.’
‘How will it work?’ asked Amar.
Sharkey would make initial enquiries, use his contacts to find potential buyers. The three of them would get access to this information; Sharkey would sell it on. They’d all be paid. ‘And handsomely,’ he added. ‘I am as in need of funds as you are. But this is the deregulated private sector in the twenty-first century. A very lucrative place to be.’
‘Who has this information?’ asked Donovan.
‘Anyone and everyone. I doubt two jobs will be the same. It might be easy or it might be dangerous. But I’m sure it’ll never be dull.’
Donovan stared. Sharkey had seen that look before. He swallowed hard.
‘You’ve made promises before,’ Donovan said. ‘About David. Why should I believe you now?’
Sharkey looked suddenly hot. His features coalesced into a kind of frightened sincerity. ‘I meant what I said about your son. I have contacts in the police force, the media, social services even. If I get to hear anything, a sighting, a body even –
God forbid – I will let you know. I’ll even give you support in setting up your own investigation, if needs be.’
Donovan looked unconvinced. ‘Why?’
All pretence seemed to drop from Sharkey’s features. ‘Because I believe it’s something I owe you.’ He sat back. ‘And because I know what you’d do to me if I don’t.’
Donovan almost smiled.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Peta, unconvinced. ‘But can we trust you?’
Sharkey smiled. ‘If there’s money involved, then we’re all on the same side.’
They all looked at him.
‘Think about it,’ he said.
They did. All the way back to Newcastle.
Argued about it, tossed the idea back and forth. Came up with an answer.
Yes.
And a name for the company. Because it couldn’t be Knight Security and Investigations any more.
‘What was that word he said earlier?’ said Jamal, speaking for almost the first time.
‘Which one?’ asked Donovan.
‘Albun, or something?’
‘Albion, you mean?’
‘Yeah, yeah. That one.’
They looked at each other.
‘Albion it is,’ said Amar.
‘Albion?’ said Nattrass, when Donovan met her for coffee next.
He nodded.
‘Good name. Will we still have our reciprocal arrangement? Share mutually beneficial tips on ongoing investigations?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Donovan.
Nattrass took a mouthful of coffee. Her eyes became steely over the rim of her cup.
‘Are you going to play the cowboy like I warned you not to? Or are we still going to be on the same side?’
Donovan sighed. ‘I hope so.’
She replaced her cup. Unsmiling.
‘So do I. For your sake.’
Donovan looked around the room. A vast improvement. He looked at Jamal, still working furiously.
‘You wanna break?’ he asked.
Jamal looked up. ‘Sure.’
He put down his brush, stood up and back. Admired his workmanship.
‘You’re doing a good job there,’ said Donovan.
‘Thanks, man.’ Jamal’s smile told Donovan that he knew that already. But it was still good to hear it.
Donovan went into the kitchen. Made tea for himself, got apple juice for Jamal. Took them back into the living room. Looked around. Yes, he thought, it’s starting to take shape.
Jamal was settling in. It didn’t look like he would be going anywhere soon. Donovan didn’t know how he felt about that. The boy had a lot of problems. It wouldn’t be easy. But in time, and with the right help, he hoped they would diminish. Disappear altogether, hopefully.
He crossed over to him, handed him his juice.
‘Thanks, man.’ Jamal turned, kept looking out of the window.
‘What you looking at?’
‘That bit there,’ he said. ‘In front of the house. Before you get to the road. That yours?’
Donovan nodded. ‘You mean the garden.’
Jamal laughed. ‘You call that a garden? Just weeds and stuff, man. That ain’t no garden. Garden’s got flowers an’ shit in it. That’s just a mess.’
‘Well,’ said Donovan, ‘come spring, when winter’s over, we can weed it and plant things in it.’
‘You mean like flowers an’ shit?’
Donovan laughed. ‘Exactly that. Flowers and shit.’
‘An’ it’ll grow, yeah? Be like proper?’
Donovan looked at the boy. Remembered Peta’s words to him outside Father Jack’s:
We can’t do everything, Joe. We can’t save everyone …
And his response:
Just one … just one …
Donovan smiled. ‘I hope so, Jamal. I hope so.’
Jamal smiled.
Breaktime was over. They still had a lot of work ahead of them.
Thanks to Deb Kemp, Nick Kemp, Jane Gregory, Anna Valdinger, Kate Lyall Grant, Digby Halsby and my wife Linda.
Apparently there is a ‘Get Carter’ tour which features many of the locations used by the one in this novel but any resemblance between the two is entirely coincidental.
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