‘And these other two – we know they really did disappear, like Pearmain. They didn’t just move on?’
‘They hung out, the three of them. And they left stuff as well, in their shack. A Thermos, a wallet. Stuff you never leave, anywhere, unless you’re asleep, right there.’
‘Did they come back?’
Pie used a boot to rearrange the ashes in the fire. ‘No said was the deal. But if Pearmain can turn up on the sands… But the story they were given was straight-up: they get the money – cash; they get to recover, then a free trip to a new town. And they don’t come back – ever.’
‘Not ever?’ asked Valentine, offering Pie a Silk Cut which he turned down. ‘So how do you know what happens?’
Pie ignored him. ‘I’ve given you info. It’s good info. There were no strings, but I want a favour. I’d like a favour. For him…’ he nodded into the shadows. ‘Because he said we should tell you.’
The man in the shadows stood, shuffled into the light, then sat comfortably on his haunches, like a cowboy on the Great Plains. His hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Shaw recognized the man he’d rescued from the upstairs bedroom at number 6 Erebus Street, the man he’d seen curled in a bundle of fear on the floorboards as the house burnt beneath him, the man who’d walked out of the Queen Vic two days ago.
‘Mr Hendre,’ Shaw said. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’
‘I can discharge myself, I just didn’t fill in the forms. I understand that you’d like to interview me – well, this is it.’ The voice was modulated middle class, and Shaw recalled Hendre’s original profession – accountancy. ‘You saved my life. This is the payback. Then that’s it.’ Hendre held the lapels of the pinstripe jacket together despite the heat of the fire. ‘I don’t go on the stand, and I don’t ID anyone. I’ll tell you what happened – you do
Hendre felt inside the jacket for a quarter-bottle of Scotch, then drank, keeping that for himself. He took two inches off the level in the bottle. Shaw recalled Liam Kennedy’s character sketch of Peter Hendre, and the observation that he was clean on drugs and alcohol.
‘I can’t promise,’ said Shaw. ‘But there’s a good chance. Your best chance.’ He looked around. ‘Your only chance.’
Hendre put a knee down, folded himself forward, and took a piece of wood out of the fire to light a roll-up. At first Shaw thought he was nodding, but now he saw it was a tremor, the whole skull vibrating at a high frequency.
‘I was at the Sacred Heart of Mary a year ago. Out in the day, in the nave at night. They didn’t like anyone drinking so I kept it secret, drinking in the day, then I’d sober up in time for the free food. I give it a bash sometimes, but I don’t need it every waking hour. If they caught you boozing they’d put you on those drugs that make you throw up with it. I didn’t want that. So I played the game.’ He swigged at the bottle again. ‘It worked. It still works. That’s the problem with good people – they want to believe the best of you.’
A laugh ran round the circle. Hendre looked at his feet. ‘Maybe I fooled them, maybe they didn’t give a fuck. Anyway, I was out on the rough lots by the abattoir sleeping one off last summer when I woke up. There’s a grass bank, and I’d curled up on it. I’d got a book off the travelling library – Anna Karenina – and I’d opened it up and put it over my face. The first thing I knew there was
Pie threw a broken crate on the flames, which reared up, the air shimmering in the sudden blast of heat.
Hendre stood, opened the jacket, and pulled a T-shirt free of the belt so that they could see his skin, the edge of the pubic hair, the navel, and to one side a scar.
‘I woke up with this.’ An incision. From Peploe’s description Shaw was confident it was the result of a kidney removal – keyhole surgery, two small scars, six inches apart, one for each surgical tool, like the mechanical hands in a seaside arcade machine, fishing for a cuddly toy.
‘Where did you wake up?’
‘A room. Blank concrete walls, pipes in the ceiling. There was a kind of hum, like a machine. A metal door with rivets. Just the bed, linen, a neon light. I was shitting myself, and I could feel the pain in my side. We’d talked at the hostel about the Organ Grinder. Rumours, gossip. Some stories had trickled back on the grapevine.’ They all laughed at a private joke. ‘But nobody really knew shit – though they knew someone was out there, and what they wanted. So I had to just lie there, knowing what they’d done to me.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘I waited. It was really quiet, except for that hum. Nothing outside. Then I heard someone coming. First
‘Portuguese?’ asked Valentine, unable to keep the insistence out of his voice.
Hendre shrugged. ‘He said I’d agreed to donate a kidney, that they’d offered a thousand pounds.’ He laughed. ‘That’s crap. But I guess it made him feel better. Anyway, it’s academic, because there wasn’t going to be any money ’cos they couldn’t use my kidney. He didn’t say why, even when I asked. But, you know, it’s kind of obvious.’ He took another two inches off the whisky level in the bottle. ‘I stayed a few days, then they gave me two hundred – two hundred fucking quid; drugged me up again and dumped me back at the Sacred Heart of Mary. I had a week to get out. Find somewhere new. If they ever saw my face again in Lynn they’d pick me up. If I talked about what had happened I’d pay a price. He had a knife, this bloke, and he got it out, pressed it right up here…’
Hendre pressed an index finger into the soft flesh under his right eye.
‘Eyes. He said they could get a fortune for those. But no donors – unless they’re dead. Pissed himself laughing at that. He said I’d have trouble reading Tolstoy after that.’
He shrugged. ‘What’s to tell? It was hot. Always, like a constant heat, but there was nothing in the room, no radiator, and the pipes were in the ceiling. The lights never went off – no, they did once, like a quick power cut, but there was emergency lighting outside ’cos even in the dark I could see a light through the keyhole. When they opened the door to bring in food and drugs – it was always the dago – I could see out into a corridor. Narrow, lit – but, like, not a lot. Darker than the room. Bare concrete walls. And pipes again – services, I guess – taped up on the ceiling.’
Shaw caught Valentine’s eye, knowing they were both thinking the same thing: the hospital basement, Level One, with its maze-like corridors. ‘And the hum?’
‘Yeah. Always, like you were inside something.’
Pie retrieved a large plastic bottle of white cider from under his crate and drank. Over by the edge of the gas holder they heard shouts, two figures fighting, locked in a dance. Dogs barked, and shadows ran to break them apart.
‘Why’d you come back to Lynn?’ asked Shaw.
‘Bit of luck. Unfinished business. Before this life.’ He looked around the fire at the faces. ‘I had another life. I fleeced a couple of old dears of their money. I thought they’d die. They didn’t. It was just bad luck. I got barred, started living on the streets. It’s not much of a qualification, right – dishonest accountant. Well…’ He laughed, swigging at the bottle. ‘Actually, you can make a good living at it, but you’re not supposed to advertise the fact.’ He stood. ‘After they dumped me back at the
All the faces round the fire smiled.
‘And the Organ Grinder?’ asked Shaw. ‘That night of the fire – how come you knew he was in Erebus Street?’