Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(45)

‘Decent stuff he keeps in the fridge,’ Letitia said from the doorway. ‘And there’s one of those filter things somewhere. Try the sink.’

Cordon switched on the radio as he waited for the coffee to drip slowly through. The middle of a news broadcast. The economy. Ethnic clashes in Uzbekistan. Afghanistan. Still Afghanistan. When had it all started, the first Anglo-Afghan war? Eighteen thirty-f*cking-nine! Wars without f*cking end. It made him angry in a way he didn’t quite understand. It all seemed so far away, another world. But then, even his own life in Cornwall seemed distant now, something seen through bottled glass, a blur. And this – threats of violence, Ukrainian gangsters, recrimination perhaps the world, the real world, was coming to him?

He found Letitia at the back of the house, smoking a cigarette. The sky above was muddy grey. Beyond the garden end the land rose up towards the cliff top and, on the far side, the sea. Dragging over two plastic chairs, he set the mugs of coffee down on uneven ground.

Letitia was staring off into the middle distance, shapeless in those shapeless clothes, scarcely any make-up on her face, no longer young. Despite everything, Cordon thought, she had some desperate kind of beauty. Beyond looking. Some steeliness; resilience, despite everything.

He wondered if this Anton saw the same.

The mother of his child.

His son.

I doubt if he could give a flying f*ck.

Cordon wondered if that were really true.

Letitia dropped the butt of her cigarette on to the drying earth and pressed down on it with the sole of her shoe. Taking the chair next to Cordon, she picked up her mug of coffee and gave it a sniff.

‘Sugar?’

‘Two. Two and a bit extra.’

She smiled. ‘What’s that, then? Long memory or just plain luck?’

‘Copper’s instincts. Training. Every little detail.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Never know when it’s all going to come in handy.’

‘Gonna help us here, are they? Your instincts?’

‘Depends.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Last time you spoke to him, Anton, what did he say?’

‘You mean, aside from sweetheart and darling and how he loves me more than life itself?’

‘Aside from that.’

‘If he doesn’t see my ugly whore’s face within twenty-four hours, me and Danny, he’s going to send someone to come and get us.’

‘He won’t come himself?’

‘Too much like begging. Losing face. He’ll send someone. Possibly the twins.’ She grimaced. ‘Give those two bastards an excuse and they’ll slit your throat and laugh about it. Whole world’s a bloody video game where they’re concerned.’

‘You said you’d seen someone already. A car.’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure. Could have been nothing. Imagination. I don’t know. Then again, it could be someone local, someone Anton knows, repaying a favour. Brighton, maybe. He’s got contacts down there. I know. Could be that. Making sure I was still here, hadn’t done a runner, me and the kid. Letting him know.’

He looked at her, the set of her mouth. ‘You’re not going back, are you? You’ve made up your mind.’

‘No.’ Smoke drifted upwards as she lit another cigarette. ‘No, I don’t think so. Not to that.’

‘Whoever it is he sends, you think they’re going to take that laying down?’

‘About the only way they will.’

‘They’ll use force?’

‘What else?’

‘Then we should tell the police, local. They’ll have a patrol car drive by, maybe station someone outside.’

She shook her head. ‘How long for? And even if they did, the minute Anton thinks I’ve done some kind of deal with the police, that’s it. He’ll get to me, no matter what.’

She lit another cigarette. ‘I’ve been around him too long, know too much. He wouldn’t want to take that kind of a risk.’

Know what? Cordon wondered. Too much of what?

‘What could he do?’ he said.

‘Kill me. Have me killed. Take Danny. And you wouldn’t be able to stop him. Even if you tried.’

Cordon started to speak, but she laid a finger across his lips.

‘Listen, it was good of you to come. Daft, but …’ She shook her head. ‘You’re not a bad bloke, for a copper, specially. But this … this isn’t dealing with druggies in the bus station down by the harbour; out looking for someone lost on the moors or hauling bodies back out of the surf. This is something else, Cordon. Another world. Let it go.’





29


Afternoon turned evening. The temperature dropped, reminding them it was winter still. Clifford Carlin went into town for fish and chips and brought them back wrapped in pages from the local paper.

St Leonards man narrowly escapes being first in Britain to die of snake bite since 1975.

Petula Clark president of Hastings Music Festival.

Carlin hadn’t known she was still alive.

He decanted the food on to plates, offered salt, vinegar, tomato sauce. Buttered bread. Poured mugs of tea. Even lukewarm, the chips retained some bite, the cod flakey inside its batter and pearly white. Danny ate with his fingers, despite his mother’s attempts to get him to use a fork.