‘Is that what they are then? Gangsters? Some kind of Soviet Mafia?’
She shot him a look, then turned her face away.
Anton, Letitia had told him earlier, had called her mobile when she and the boy hadn’t arrived back as expected, called and texted; threatened her, threatened her father, issued ultimatums. Forty-eight hours more. Then he would send someone to bring them back. She had already seen cars passing slowly along the street outside; glimpsed a face she thought she recognised.
Not enough to be sure.
Cordon straightened, stretched his arms. The edge of the step above was sticking uncomfortably into the small of his back.
‘We have to keep sitting on the stairs?’
‘No one’s forcing you to sit anywhere.’
‘For God’s sake …’
‘What?’
‘Why does everything with you have to be so bloody difficult?’
‘Because it is.’
He shook his head. There was a cry from above them, muffled, Danny caught in a dream.
While she was settling him, Cordon went downstairs. Tipping what remained of his lager down the sink, he set the kettle to boil and started opening cupboards. There was a jar of instant coffee, untroubled for some time, the granules set in a stiff rind that resisted the first taps with a spoon.
‘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-fucking-nine! Wars without fucking 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 fuck.
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.
Before they’d finished eating, Carlin went over to the record player and slipped a nearby album from its sleeve. Jazzy piano, smooth voice, banks of strings.
‘Christ,’ Letitia said, ‘can’t we get through just one meal without you making us listen to that old junk?’
‘Charlie Rich,’ Carlin said, unrepentant. ‘The original Silver Fox.’
‘You don’t fuckin’ say.’
‘Mum,’ Danny piped up, ‘you said a naughty word.’
‘Just shut it and eat your chips.’
Cordon excused himself, went out into the garden to make his call. Kiley’s voice, when he answered, was slightly breathless, as if he’d been hurrying up several flights of stairs.
‘Jack,’ Cordon said, ‘I need a favour.’
‘Not going to turf me out of my bed again, are you?’
‘No, not that.’
‘Where are you now, anyway? Back down in Cornwall?’
‘Hastings.’
‘I thought that was over.’
‘Yes, well …’
‘Okay, out with it. What do you want?’
‘These famous connections of yours. You don’t know anyone in — I’m not sure what it’d be — Serious and Organised Crime, maybe? Someone involved in keeping tabs on criminals from Eastern Europe operating over here.’
Kiley gave it a moment’s thought. ‘I might have, why?’
‘I need someone to check a name for me.’