Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

Riley swallowed hard. So much for her image of a gang member from the sixties. Reginald Arthur Cook, according to reports of the time, had been an enforcer — a strong-arm man — for Bertrand Cage and John McKee. In December 1968, one of his strong arms had put a bookie into a coma, resulting in a five-year prison sentence. Back then he had been bad news, a man to avoid.

“Reggie Cook?” she asked bluntly.

He blinked slowly. “Who wants to know?”

Riley handed him a card. He took it without looking at it. “You from the Social?”

She almost smiled at the irony; here was a man who had brought pain and violence to people and he was frightened of a visit from the DSS. She became aware of movement along the open corridor to her right. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’d like to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“No. What do you want?” His eyes began to look less vague, as if sensing there might be something he could gain from her presence.

“I want to talk to you about Bertrand Cage and John McKee.”

“Who?”

“They’re both dead. You used to work for them, didn’t — ”

“Fuck off.” As the door slammed in her face a stab of laughter drifted along the corridor. She hammered on the door again but Cook had obviously gone deaf.

As she walked back downstairs the kids appeared. A stringy boy in an oversized denim jacket pushed forward. “Cook’s mad. You wanna watch him!” The others laughed, jostling for support and egging each other on.

“Why’s that?” Riley asked.

“He talks to himself,” put in a podgy girl with short, streaked hair. “And he’s a perve.” She grinned and nudged her nearest companion, a slender girl with coffee skin, eyes glinting beneath a tracksuit hood.

“Would be, if we let him,” she muttered.

“Are you the filth?” a boy with a moon face demanded. He had an air of edgy tension about him that Riley had seen in kids where she had been born. Some grew out of it; some never lost it, ingrained from birth and carried through life like a badge.

“She’s a snoop!” crowed the podgy girl. “I bet old Cookie’s being watched by the Social!” She spat out a wad of chewing gum, deftly kicking it away before it hit the ground.

“I’m not a snoop,” said Riley. “Why do you say Cook’s mad?”

“She’s not the filth,” said another, deeper voice. “But she ain’t far off it.”

The kids looked round, their mood changing instantly. Two older youths had appeared out of nowhere. The one who had spoken jerked a thumb sideways and the group of kids melted away, their scuffed footsteps clattering off the walls.

Riley’s mouth went dry. These two weren’t that much older than the others, but it was time to leave.

“Why you calling on old Cook?” the first youth demanded. His stance was tense and full of aggression, and he had a painful-looking graze on one cheek. The other youth drifted off to one side, feigning disinterest. The move made the hairs bristle on Riley’s neck. Both were dressed in baggy jeans, trainers and hooded jackets, brand names colourful splashes against the drabness. Old faces in young bodies.

“That’s my business,” Riley said flatly. She glanced around and saw no movement, no sign that anyone else was aware of events happening here.

The first youth scratched at the graze on his face. “Yeah? Like, his aunt’s died and left him a fortune, right?” He was anywhere between fourteen and eighteen, with a thin, colourless face and a coarse crew cut. There was a crudely drawn tattoo of a bird on one side of his neck. He had maybe an inch of height over Riley, and did his best to stare down his nose at her. “Maybe we should have a chat about it.” He leered sideways at his mate.

A scraping sound came from the end of the block and a man appeared dragging a dustbin. He didn’t look at them but concentrated on tipping the contents into a large rubbish skip. The two youths shuffled their feet, caught momentarily off-guard.

It was enough to break the tension. Before they could say anything Riley stepped to one side and walked past them. They made no move to stop her, turning instead to watch her go. The second youth scuffed over to join his companion, and she felt their eyes boring into her back as she hurried away.

Back in her car, Riley quickly locked the doors and let out a deep breath. She found her hands shaking and a cold shiver running between her shoulder blades. She cursed herself for being so careless. It had been stupid coming here alone; she was out of her depth and Palmer would be rightly critical of her. But for whatever reason she had got away without harm. Next time she might not be so lucky. She started the car and drove away.

As she negotiated her way out of the area and headed north, she mentally scratched Reginald Cook off her list of interviewees. Even if he were willing to talk about Cage and McKee, his story would probably change with every new drink. And there was nothing worse for a journalist than an unreliable source.

Her next call was very different. Brambleside old peoples’ home, set in leafy Kenton, had no brambles that she could see, and was new, fresh and serene, a world away from the flats where Cook lived.

A tall, imposing looking woman appeared in response to Riley ringing the bell. Starched in uniform and manner, she announced herself as Mrs Marsh, the matron, and looked surprised when Riley explained the reason for her visit.

“Norman Page?” she echoed. “Goodness — it’s ages since we had anyone asking for him. I didn’t realise there was anybody. Are you family?”

“Not exactly,” Riley confessed smoothly, letting a touch of Kensington slip into her voice. “My name’s Riley Gavin. I’m a writer… You may have heard of my work…? Well, I was hoping Mr Page might be able to give me some background material for some articles I’m writing. Would it be possible to have a quick word?”

Mrs Marsh hesitated, then retreated behind her matron’s rulebook. “We normally expect at least two days’ notice for visits. And then only family. You’re not family,” she finished unnecessarily but with a smile, her tone clearly reflecting that this young woman was obviously well bred. Rules, however, were rules.

“Yes, I know, but-”

“And in any case, Mr Page is not allowed visits at the moment.” She glanced at the watch hanging from her chest. “And it’s late.”

“Is he ill?”

The matron pursed her lips in an authoritarian huff. “If you must know he’s been misbehaving again.”

Riley killed the grim thoughts that entered her head. “Seriously?”

“Serious enough,” the matron replied sourly, misinterpreting the meaning. “We don’t need to put up with his sort of carry on.” She began to move backwards, the subject closed.

Riley took out her card, handing it to her. “Can I make an appointment to see him in a couple of days? I know I’m not family, but it is important.”

“Well, perhaps,” the woman considered carefully. “I’ll have to discuss it first.”

“Who with?”

The matron looked at Riley as if she’d developed horns. “With his solicitor, of course. All our guests have solicitors. We don’t just accept anyone here.” With that she slammed the door, snapping the security chain into place.

At Trinity Court a dark blue Toyota RAV4 slid quietly into a space between a battered transit van and a rubbish skip, and the driver cut the engine. He sat for a few minutes, occasionally checking his watch, then climbed out and walked across to stand under the overhang of the first floor balcony running the length of the building.

Ten minutes passed before footsteps echoed down a spiral stairway, and a familiar figure crossed the open space towards the RAV. The driver let out a pent-up breath through gritted teeth and stepped out to confront him.