The Power(65)

‘Because of what you did today,’ says Barbara, ‘for Ricky. I’ll square it with Bernie.’ And she takes her mug of tea and goes to bed.

Roxy stays up the rest of that night back at her own place, going through the books, making notes and plans. There are contacts here go back years, connections her dad’s been developing, people he’s been blackmailing or bribing – and the latter usually leads to the former eventually. Barbara doesn’t know what she’s given her here – with the stuff in these books, she can take the Glitter across Europe, no bother. The Monkes can make more money than anyone’s made since Prohibition.

She’s smiling, and her one knee’s joggling up and down when she runs her eye along a row of names and sees something important.

It takes her a bit to work out what it is she’s seen. Some bit of her brain got there ahead of all the rest, told her to read and re-read the list till it jumped out at her. There. A name. A bent copper, Detective Newland. Newland.

Cos she’ll never forget that thing Primrose said when he died, will she? She’ll never forget any of what happened that day her whole life long.

‘Newland said you weren’t going to be home,’ Primrose had said.

This copper, this Newland. He was part of the plan to kill her mum, and she’s never known who he was, not till now. She thought it was done a long time since, but when she sees the name and she remembers, she thinks, Fuck. Some dodgy copper selling stuff to my dad, selling stuff to Primrose. Fuck, she thinks. Some dodgy copper watching our house and saying when I wouldn’t be home.

A quick search on the internet is all it takes. Detective Newland lives in Spain now. Retired policeman. Little town. Doesn’t think anyone’s going to come looking for him, obviously.

She never meant to tell Darrell about it. It was only that he came himself to thank her for what she’d done for Ricky, and for saving his own life.

He said, ‘We know which way this is going. Ricky’s out of the picture now. If there’s anything I can do to help you, Rox. Just tell me what I can do.’

Maybe he’s started to have the same thoughts she has, about how you just have to accept this change that’s struck us all, roll with it, find your place in it.

So she told Darrell what she was going to Spain for. He said, ‘I’m coming, too.’

She sees what he’s asking her for. Ricky’s not coming back to the life, not for years, maybe not ever, and not how he was. They’re running out of family. He wants to be family to her.

The place isn’t difficult to find. GPS and a rental car, and they’re there in less than an hour from Seville airport. There’s no need to be clever about it. They watch through binoculars for a couple of days; long enough to know that he lives alone. They stay in a hotel nearby, but not too nearby. Thirty miles’ drive. You wouldn’t go looking there if you were local police, not if you were doing a routine just-in-case inquiry. He’s nice with it, Darrell. Businesslike, but funny. Lets her make the decisions, but he’s got a few good ideas of his own. She thinks, Yeah. If Ricky’s out of the game, yeah. This could work. She could take him to the factory next time she goes out.

On the third day, in the pre-dawn light, they chuck a rope up one of the fence poles, climb over and wait in the bushes till he comes out. He’s in shorts and a ragged T-shirt. He’s got a sandwich – this time in the morning, a sausage sandwich – and he’s looking at his phone.

She’d been expecting something, some kind of terror to strike her; she’d thought she might wee herself or have a rush of bloody rage or start crying. But when she looks into his face all she feels is interest. A completed circle: two bits of string tied together. The man who helped get her mum killed. The last little bit of stuff to mop up from the side of the plate.

She steps out of the bushes in front of him. ‘Newland,’ she says. ‘Your name is Newland.’

He looks at her, open-mouthed. He’s still holding his sausage sandwich. There’s a second before the fear kicks in, and in that second Darrell charges from the bushes, clonks him on the head and pushes him into the swimming pool.

When he comes round, the sun is high in the sky, and he’s floating face up. He thrashes around, brings himself to standing in the middle of the pool, coughing and rubbing his eyes.

Roxy’s sitting at the edge, fingers splashing. ‘Electricity travels a long way in water,’ she says. ‘It’s fast.’

Newland stands stock still at that.

She tips her head first to one side, then the other, stretching out the muscles. Her skein’s full.

Newland starts to say something. Maybe it’s ‘I don’t …’ or ‘Who are …’, but she sends a little thrill through the water, enough to prickle him over his whole wet body.

She says, ‘This is going to be boring if you start denying everything, Detective Newland.’

‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘I don’t even know who you are. If this is about Lisa, she got her fucking money, all right. She got it two years ago, every penny, and I’m out now.’

Roxy sends another shock through the water. ‘Think again,’ she says. ‘Look at my face. Don’t I remind you of anyone? Aren’t I someone’s daughter?’

He knows it then, all at once. She can see it in his face. ‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘this is about Christina.’