John Harvey - A Darker Shade of Blue

Now, some months later, Nicky Cavanagh was in a wheelchair, his only drinking done at home or in the sketch of park which edged the main road near Kiley’s old flat, and Kiley himself had found another pub. Despite statements taken from several witnesses at the time, none of Cavanagh’s attackers had so far been charged.

The Lord Nelson was a corner pub, for Kiley a longer walk though none the worse for that; refurbishment had brought in stripped pine tables and Thai cuisine, wide-screen satellite TV, but left the cellar pretty much intact — John Smith’s and Marston’s Pedigree. The occasional Saturday night karaoke he tolerated, quiz nights he avoided like the plague: which non-league footballer, coming on in extra time, scored a hat-trick in the quarter finals of the FA Cup? Embarrassing when they misremembered his name — Keeley, Kelsey, Riley — worse when he was recognised and some good-hearted fellow, full of booze and bonhomie, insisted on introducing him to the room.

But he had been more than a soccer player and there were those who knew that as well.

‘Jack Kiley, isn’t it? You were in the Met.’

The face Kiley found himself looking into was fleshy, dark-eyed, receding hair cut fashionably short, a small scar pale across his cheek. ‘Dave Marshall.’

Kiley nodded and shook the proffered hand; rough fingers, calloused palms.

‘Mind?’ Marshall gestured towards an empty chair.

‘Help yourself.’

Marshall set down his glass, angled out the chair and sat. Late thirties, Kiley thought, a few years younger than himself. Marshall wearing a waist-length leather jacket, unzipped, check shirt and jeans.

‘I was in the job myself,’ Marshall said. ‘South, mostly. Tooting, Balham. Too many rules and regs. Shifts. Better now I’m me own boss. Damp-proofing, plastering. Bit of heavy rain and you’re quids in. But you know all about that, working for yourself, I mean. Not that it ever really appealed, not to me, like. Going private.’ He shook his head. ‘Missing persons, mispers, lot of those, I reckon. Them an’ wives frightened their old man’s goin’ over the side.’

Kiley shifted his weight, waiting for Marshall to get to it.

‘Here,’ Marshall said, taking a folded sheet from his inside pocket and smoothing it out. ‘Take a look at this.’

It was a poster, A3 size, composed by someone on a dodgy home computer and run off at Prontaprint or somewhere similar. The photograph of Marshall was just recognisable, the print jammed too close together but the message clear enough.

DAVID MARSHALL

Six months ago David Marshall walked out on his family, leaving a gorgeous little baby girl behind. Since then he has refused to pay a penny towards the upkeep of his child. If you’re approached by this man to do building work of any kind, look the other way. Don’t put money into his pockets so he can spend it on whores and ignore his responsibilities.

DO NOT TRUST THIS MAN.

‘Where was this?’ Kiley asked.

‘On some hoarding up by the Nag’s Head. And there’s more of ’em. All over. Here. The Archway. Finsbury fucking Park.’ The anger in Marshall’s face was plain, the line of his scar white as an exclamation mark. ‘What am I s’posed to do? Go round and tear every one of ’em down?’

‘What do you want me to do?’ Kiley said.

‘Go see her. Talk to her. Here.’ He pushed a slip of paper towards Kiley’s hand. ‘Tell her it’s not fuckin’ on.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if you did that yourself?’

Marshall laughed, a grating sound that finished low in his throat.

Kiley glanced at the poster again. ‘Is it true?’

‘What?’

‘What it says.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Did you leave her?’

‘Course I left her. There weren’t no livin’ with her.’

‘And child support? Maintenance?’

‘Let whichever bloke she’s screwing pay fuckin’ maintenance.’ Marshall laughed again, harsh and short. ‘And she’s got the mouth to accuse me of goin’ with whores. Ask her what she was doing when I met her, ask her that. She’s the biggest whore of the fuckin’ lot.’

‘I still think if you could go and talk to her…’

Marshall leaned sharply forward, slopping his beer. ‘She’s trying to make me look a cunt. And she’s got to be stopped.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Kiley said, a slow shake of the head. ‘I don’t think I want to get involved.’

‘Right.’ Marshall’s chair cannoned backwards as he got to his feet. The poster he screwed up and tossed to the floor. ‘You ain’t got the stomach for it, believe me, there’s plenty who have.’

Kiley watched him go, barging people aside on his way to the door. The piece of paper Marshall had given him was lined, the writing small and surprisingly neat. Jennie Calder, an address in N8. He refolded it and tucked it out of sight.

He had met Kate at a film festival, the premiere of a new Iranian movie, the organisers anticipating demonstrations and worse. The security firm for whom Kiley had then been working were hired to forestall trouble at the screening and the reception afterwards. Late that night, demonstrations over, only a handful of people lingering in the bar, Kiley had wandered past the few discarded placards and leaned on the Embankment railing, staring out across the Thames. Leaving Charing Cross station, a train clattered across Hungerford Bridge; shrouded in tarpaulin, a barge ghosted bulkily past, heading downriver towards the estuary. In their wake, it was quiet enough to hear the water, lapping against stone. When he turned, there was Kate, her face illuminated as she paused to light a cigarette. Dark hair, medium height, he had noticed her at the reception, asking questions, making notes. At one point she had been sitting with the young Iranian director, a woman, Kate’s small tape recorder on the table between them.

‘What did you think of the film?’ Kiley asked, wanting to say something.

‘Very Iranian,’ Kate said and laughed.

‘I doubt if it’ll come to the Holloway Odeon, then.’

‘Probably not.’

She came and stood alongside him at the Embankment edge.

‘I should get fed up with it,’ Kate said after some moments. ‘This view — God knows I’ve seen it enough — but I don’t.’ She was wearing a loose-fitting suit, the jacket long, a leather bag slung from one shoulder. When she pitched her cigarette, half-smoked, towards the water, it sparkled through the near dark.

‘There’s another showing,’ she said, looking at Kiley full on. ‘The film, tomorrow afternoon. If you’re interested, that is.’

‘You’re going again?’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’ She was smiling with her eyes, the merest widening of the mouth.

The opening images aside, a cluster of would-be teachers, blackboards strapped awkwardly to their backs as they struggle along a mountain road in a vain search for pupils, it turned out to be the longest eighty-five minutes Kiley could recall. Kate’s piece in the Independent on Sunday, complete with photographs of Samira Makhmalbaf and suitable stills, he thought far more interesting than the film itself.

Plucking up a certain amount of courage, he phoned to tell her so.

Well, it had been a beginning.

‘I’m still not clear,’ Kate said, ‘why you turned it down.’

They were sitting in Kate’s high bed, a bottle of red wine, three-parts empty, resting on the floor. Through the partly opened blinds, there was a view out across Highbury Fields. It was coming up to a quarter past ten and Kiley didn’t yet know if he’d be invited to stay the night. He’d tried leaving his toothbrush once and she’d called down the stairs after him, ‘I think you’ve forgotten something.’

‘I didn’t fancy it,’ Kiley said.