John Harvey - A Darker Shade of Blue

Bending forward, Kiley righted one of the chairs.

‘You think they’ll be back?’

‘Not yet.’

Kiley went into the kitchen and filled the kettle, set it on the gas, made tea; he tracked down an emergency locksmith and told him to fit extra bolts top and bottom, metal reinforcements behind both hinges and locks.

‘Who’s going to pay for all that?’ Jennie asked.

‘I will,’ Kiley said.

Jennie started to say something else but thought better of it. She put Alice down in her cot and almost immediately the child was asleep. When she came back into the room, Kiley was clearing the last of the debris from the floor.

‘Why?’ Jennie asked, arms folded across her chest. ‘Why’re you doing all this?’

‘Job satisfaction?’

‘Nobody hired you.’

‘Ah.’ He set one of his cards down on a corner of the settee. ‘Here. In case you lost the first one. Ring me if there’s a need.’ Leaving, he leaned the splintered piece of two-by-four against the wall by the front door. ‘Just in case. And don’t let anybody in unless you’re certain who they are, okay? Not anybody.’

He found Dave Marshall later that evening, at a table in the Royal Arms. Two others with him. The big man was still wearing his wool hat, only now there was a good inch of bandage visible beneath it, plaster sticking to his cheek. One eye was bruised and two-thirds closed. Their companion — loose suit, dark shirt, blue patterned tie — Kiley didn’t recognise.

He crossed the floor towards them.

‘What the fuck…?’ the big man started, half out of his seat.

The one in the suit reached out and caught hold of his arm, gave a slow shake of the head. Grudgingly, the big man sat back down.

‘You’ve got some balls,’ Marshall said.

‘I told you to go and talk to her,’ Kiley replied. ‘Sort things out. Not this.’

Marshall nodded. ‘You said you didn’t want to get involved, an’ all. Remember that?’

‘Talk to her,’ Kiley said again.

‘What is this?’ Marshall scoffed. ‘Marriage guidance? Social fuckin’ services?’

Kiley shrugged and took a step away.

‘You,’ the big man said, lurching back to his feet. ‘Your life ain’t worth livin’.’

Which was when Kiley knew who he was, the place, the occasion reminding him, the family resemblance now clear.

‘Nealy, isn’t it?’ Kiley said.

‘Eh?’

‘Nealy.’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What’re you fixing to do? Get those boys of yours? Wade in mob-handed like you did with Nicky Cavanagh?’

Nealy moved close enough for Kiley to smell the sourness on his breath. ‘I’ll fuckin’ have you,’ he said.

‘Bob,’ loose suit said quietly from the table. ‘Let it go.’

Reluctantly, Nealy lowered his hands to his sides.

Kiley took a last look at each of them, turned and left.

The phone went at a quarter to seven, Kiley not quite awake, wondering if he should turn over again or push back the covers and face another day.

Jennie’s voice was angry, frightened. ‘It’s the police. They’re arresting me. They…’

Abruptly, the line went dead.

Kiley ran the bathroom tap, splashed water on his face, cleaned his teeth and dressed.

They’d taken her to the police station on Hornsey Road, the officer on the desk fending off enquiries like Atherton on the fourth day of the Test. A Jennie Calder had been taken into custody and was currently being interviewed, that was all he would confirm. ‘What are the charges?’ Kiley demanded. The officer’s eyes switched focus. ‘Next,’ he called into the small crowd at Kiley’s back.

Margaret Hamblin’s offices were in Kentish Town. Hamblin, Laker and Clarke. When Kiley had been building up his overtime in CID, Margaret had been a lowly solicitor’s clerk, forever in this police station or that, picking up cases nobody else wanted, learning on the hoof. Now, even if Kiley had still been in the force, overtime was pretty much a thing of the past and Margaret was a senior partner with a taste for good wines and stylish clothes. This morning she was wearing a cord drawstring jacket and chevron skirt from Ghost. She listened to Kiley intently then reached for the phone. Ten minutes later, a car was taking them back to Hornsey Road, Margaret sensibly lyrical about her recent holiday in northern Spain.

This time Kiley got past the enquiry desk but not a great deal further. He was kicking his heels outside the custody suite, trying not to notice the smell of disinfectant, when two officers, one in uniform, one plain clothes, pushed their way through the double doors. Neither looked to be in the best of humour. The CID man had changed his shirt from the previous night in the Royal Arms, but the suit and tie were the same. If he recognised Kiley, he gave no sign.

An hour later, no more, they were sitting, the four of them — Kiley, Margaret Hamblin, Jennie and Alice — in Margaret’s office. An assistant had brought in coffee, Danish and bottled water. Jennie’s face was strained and pale without make-up; Alice, released from the tender mercies of a broody WPC, clung to her mother’s neck, whimpering softly.

Margaret sipped at her espresso and set it aside. ‘Jennie’s charged with keeping a brothel.’

‘She’s what?’ Kiley exclaimed.

Jennie looked away.

‘I persuaded them to release her on police bail, but it seems they’re considering instituting care proceedings…’

They can’t!’ Jennie pressed her face down against her daughter’s head and held her tight.

‘On what grounds?’ Kiley asked.

Margaret leaned back in her chair. ‘That Alice is exposed to moral danger where she is.’

‘Surely that’s a nonsense?’

‘Not if the brothel charge can be made to stick.’

‘How can it?’ Kiley asked.

Margaret looked across at Jennie and Kiley did the same. It was a while before she spoke, her voice shaky and quiet.

‘This friend of mine, Della — we were at school together — she’s been seeing this bloke, married of course. Della, she’s living with her mum, got two kids of her own. Car parks and hotels aside, they didn’t have anywhere to go. So I’ve been letting them use my place, afternoons. Just, maybe, once or twice a week.’

‘And you and Alice,’ Margaret asked, ‘while they were in the bedroom, whatever, you’d both be in the flat?’

Jennie shook her head. ‘Not as a rule. I’d take Alice up the park, swings and slides. You know, a walk.’

‘And if it rained?’

Jennie hung her head; all too clearly, she could see where this was going. ‘If it was really bad, yes, we stayed in.’

Margaret looked across at Kiley, one eyebrow raised.

‘This was an affair, right?’ Kiley said. ‘Two people having an affair. There’s no suggestion of any money changing hands.’

‘Is that true, Jennie?’ Margaret asked.

Jennie paused. ‘Sometimes he’d give me a fiver on the way out. A tenner. So I could get something for Alice. Just as a way of saying thanks.’

‘And your friend, Della? Did he give her money, too?’

‘I don’t know. He might have. Sometimes. I don’t know.’

‘They’re friends,’ Kiley said. ‘They’re never going to testify.’

‘It depends what kinds of pressure are put on them,’ Margaret said. ‘And besides, payment’s not the crucial thing, not according to the law. A brothel is a house, room or other place, used for the purposes of illicit sexual intercourse and/or acts of lewdness.’

‘It’s still not enough, is it?’ Kiley said. ‘Even if they make up stuff about men traipsing up and down the stairs at all hours, it’s not enough.’

Tears began to fall, unbidden, down Jennie’s face.