Little Triggers Read online

  The politician opened his mouth to speak, but Larkin was fully into his stride.

  “Don’t give me that competitive tendering crap. Don’t tell me that you’re just protecting the interests of your white-collar constituents. You can always find some bullshit to justify lining your own pockets. Didn’t Nolan and Scott get through to you? Or was that just something to throw to the press on a slow news day?”

  The politician remained silent. Larkin stood up and began pacing. “Now, I’m not naive. I know how you lot work.” He moved closer to the bed, dwarfing the shrunken, defeated bundle where it sat. “All I’m saying is, if the people who elected you knew how much contempt you hold them in they’d tear you limb from limb.”

  Larkin stood still in contemplation. “I’ve got your whole future in my hands. Maybe I should treat you like you treat the voters – just do what suits me and not give a fuck.”

  The politician lifted his head. “So what do you propose to do?”

  “That’s entirely up to you. I’m giving you a choice. Mend your ways, do your job properly and these photos won’t find their way onto people’s breakfast tables when they throw open their morning papers.”

  “Marmalade droppers, I think they call them,” chimed in Houchen.

  “Thank you, Ian,” said Larkin.

  The councillor was stunned. “What? But how can I …”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can find a way. These photos could end your career, after all. I’m sure you could get yourself a nice comfy little directorship somewhere else – I know you’ve got friends in high places – but what about your wife? How will she cope when she’s walking round Sainsbury’s with people laughing and staring? What about your daughters? How would they manage at school? Children can be wicked, you know.”

  “But what can I do? I don’t understand why you’re picking on me.” He sounded like a kid himself.

  “Think about it. Surprise yourself. And what makes you think you’re the only one we’ve done this to?”

  The politician was astonished. “How many others?”

  Larkin smiled. “That would be telling.”

  “So what’s to stop me from finding out who the others are and making a stand against you?”

  “Nothing at all. But d’you really see yourself going up to your esteemed colleagues and saying, ‘Excuse me, but these two chaps burst into a hotel room that I was in last night and found me tied to the bed with a transvestite about to stick his knob into my mouth. Anything similar happen to you?’ ” Larkin crouched down, eyeball to eyeball with the man. “There’s an old Chinese proverb: Steal your neighbour’s wife. If you think you’re strong enough.”

  Their eyes were locked, a battle of wills. The politician flinched away first; he couldn’t match Larkin’s unblinking stare. He sat in silence for a while. Then he said, “This is blackmail.”

  Larkin almost laughted aloud; the clichés just kept on coming. Without his scriptwriter the man was nothing.

  “Call it what you like. If it is blackmail, it’s politically correct blackmail. It’s a moral balancing of the books, if you like.”

  “What if I go to the police?”

  “They’ll have a bloody good laugh. And we’ll publish anyway.” He turned to face him. “And be damned.”

  “Christ, you’re a shit.”

  “Ah,” said Larkin lightly, “my secret is out.”

  The councillor sighed heavily. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “What I’ve told you. Start working for the people who got you elected.”

  “And then?”

  “The photos will be destroyed.”

  “And if I don’t do what you say?”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that question with an answer.”

  Larkin stood up and turned to go. Houchen did likewise. As they reached the door, Larkin turned.

  “Oh, by the way,” he said chattily, “I know you’ve got people, fixers and that, kept on your payroll for such an eventuality as this, but believe me, we’ve got this little operation sewn up tighter than a gnat’s chuff. If anything happens to us, the photos get published. You won’t be getting your hands on those negatives. If you think that’s a bluff, go ahead and call it.”

  The politician had no strength left to fight. All the layers of security and power had been stripped away until his true self had been exposed: a fat, sad, middle-aged lech sitting half dressed on a semen-stained bed in a shabby hotel. A hollow white chocolate Buddha with no wisdom. Larkin gave it to him straight.

  “You got where you are today by treating people as if they’re stupid. Don’t make that mistake with us.”

  Aware that that was a suitably dramatic exit line, Larkin swept out.

  “See you then,” said Houchen and lumbered after him.

  Outside on the pavement, Larkin stood propping up Houchen’s rusty Volvo, shaking a little as the tension ebbed away. Houchen came to join him. Taking a packet of Silk Cut from his jacket pocket he offered one to Larkin.

  “Celebration fag?”

  “I don’t smoke, and you know it.”

  “Yeah.” Houchen took one for himself, lit it, breathed it down to the pit of his lungs and exhaled slowly. “Well, that was an easy night’s work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Liked the bit about askin’ his mates if they’d met us. Good one that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s up?”

  Larkin sighed. “Oh … I don’t know. I thought I’d get a real kick out of it. You know, justice being done, seeing that bastard put in his place.” He looked up at the room; the light was still on. Larkin imagined the politician would still be sitting in the same spot, huddled and abject. “I just feel … sordid. Pathetic, really.”

  “Aye well,” said Houchen, untouched, “it gets better as it goes on.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Aye.” Houchen opened the car door and climbed in. “Wanna lift?”

  “No thanks. I feel like a walk.”

  “Suit yourself.” Houchen leaned out of the car window. “Oh, and I think I’m on to somethin’ else. You’ll like this one – it’s a good ’un. Big an’ all. I’ll let you know when I know for definite, right?”

  “Yeah, sure. Take care.”

  “Aye.” Houchen laughed. “See you at work tomorrow.”

  And with that he sped off noisily, the car belching toxic fumes from its ruptured exhaust.

  Larkin walked to the house, his feet becoming heavier the nearer he got. He stopped in front of it, searching his pockets for a key. The house loomed huge and dark against the clear night sky. Desolate.

  An estate agent’s board in the overgrown front garden had FOR SALE slapped across it in big red letters. No takers so far, though. No one to pour life into it; make it a home as Larkin never could.

  He scanned the front of the house, his gaze focusing on what used to be her bedroom window. He scrutinised it, vainly looking for signs of life. But the void stared back, a dark, empty socket in a dead red brick skull.

  “I’m doing what I can,” he said. “I’m doing what I can.”

  He walked up the path, key in hand, feeling as hollow as the house. He opened the front door and entered. A light bulb flared briefly from deep inside the house, then all was darkness again.

  2: Welcome To The Working Week

  It was the incessant bleeping of Larkin’s travel alarm that woke him. He opened his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and sat up, mentally taking stock.

  He was in bed, and his sleep had been undisturbed. Judging from his position he had hardly moved. And there had been no dreams. The ghosts had left him alone for another night.

  While turning the alarm off, he noticed that his hand had a touch of the shakes: nothing new there. He flopped back on the bed, thirsty, his mouth dry. He should buy a teasmade, he thought, and smiled to himself, knowing full well that, like wife-swapping, such suburban banalities would never form part of his life.

  He knew he would g
o back to sleep if he lay in bed much longer, so with a supreme effort of will, he groped for the remote on the bedside table and pointed it at the TV. The BBC breakfast programme came on. Larkin watched sober-suited men with sober expressions relating sober news. Politicians delivered pithy sound-bites over the nation’s muesli. A familiar face appeared; Blake Carrington’s younger, more handsome brother, possessing teeth so white they must have been boiled. It was Alan Swanson, a charismatic local chancer who was now making waves nationally. Earnestly pontificating about something or other he looked, to Larkin, about as trustworthy as a basking shark. This man and his cheekbones were the driving force behind the “Rebirth of the Region” scheme – not to mention electing himself unofficial Minister of Youth – and it had won him more than votes.

  “ ‘And what smooth beast, his hour come round at last, goes slouching towards Westminster …’ ” murmured Larkin, pleased that he could misquote poetry this early in the morning. He cocked his thumb and forefinger at the screen and fired his imaginary handgun until Swanson’s image disappeared. You’re next, thought Larkin, and yawned.

  Switching off the television, he picked up the other remote and pointed it at the CD player. The melancholy, swooping pedal steel guitar and tinkling piano, followed by gruff vocals, announced itself as “Sweet Dreams”, an old Patsy Cline song, covered by Elvis Costello and the Attractions. A soulful, lost start to the day. The song made him look at the empty Glenfiddich bottle sitting on his desk – and he remembered the night before.

  Shaking down the politician hadn’t given him the righteous kick he thought it would. Coming home to an empty house, he had opened the bottle, flirted with it, kissed it, made love to it, cried into it and, eventually, killed it. His sleep had been deathly, dreamless. The whisky had kept his subconscious in check, stopped the ghosts from haunting him. The bottle was proving to be a good jailer, and lately he had been relying on it more and more.

  He flung back the duvet and swung his feet to the floor where they landed with a slapping plonk, as if they didn’t belong to him. Standing up, he waited for the hangover to hit, but was pleasantly surprised to discover that it had decided not to put in an appearance this morning. Just the shakes, then. No problem. He padded around the attic, feeling the space. He hadn’t long possessed the room and it still felt alien to him.

  The attic was in Charlotte’s house. After her death, it had been bequeathed to Larkin, but he couldn’t bear to live in it. He had tried renting it out, but there were no takers, so he moved back in to the converted loft and left the rest of the house untouched. As long as he didn’t spend too much time in the other rooms the place was fine, apart from the fact that his height prohibited him from deviating from the centre of the room.

  Stretching, bleary-eyed, he headed off for a shower and some coffee.

  He parked the car behind the Central Station, in front of a piece of Roman Wall tucked away between the Federation Brewery and a grim-looking pub, and just opposite a railway arch turned hot-dog-stand warehouse. After locking up, he walked the rest of the way, hoping that his soft-top VW Golf wouldn’t be too conspicuous. God knows, he felt conspicuous enough driving it.

  Rounding the corner he was confronted by Bolbec Hall, next to the library’s old Lit and Phil building. On the corner of Mosely Street, situated on the fringe of the city’s City district, it looked as though it had surrendered and was quietly dying in the middle of an uneasy truce between Victorian and Sixties architecture.

  Larkin took the rickety iron lift up to the top floor, to where the sign on the door said THE NEWS AGENTS. He pushed the door open and entered. It was a newsroom in miniature, shortage of space determining depth of frenetic activity. The place consisted of three big rooms plus a kitchen-cum-toilet – or “restroom” as Bolland insisted on calling it – linked by a corridor. There was a rusted iron balcony on top of the fire escape, outside the main window, which the smokers had commandeered. If it wasn’t bad enough that they had to risk their health to smoke, they had to risk their lives on a daily basis to do it.

  The two largest rooms had been knocked through and contained the workstations: terminals, desks, faxes and phones. The third room had become Bolland’s office. All the walls were painted a cool off-white grey, potted ferns were dotted strategically about the place. The decor tried hard to create the aura of an upmarket office space, but it still felt like a cheap lease in an old building.

  “Mornin’, Steve.”

  “Morning, Joyce,” said Larkin, as cheerfully as he could manage given the hour. “How you doing?”

  “Not so bad,” Joyce replied. She was, possibly, in her mid-thirties; but ten years either side of that might have been equally accurate. Dark bottle-blonde hair, trim figure and a pretty face prematurely reddened by too many Happy Hours with the girls and not enough happy hours by herself. She hadn’t been in the agency long, but had quickly established a niche for herself as an indispensable and lovable piece of office furniture.

  “Good night, was it?” asked Larkin with a small-talk smile.

  “Ee, Steve, I’ll have to tell you all about it. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “You know, you shouldn’t drink that much during the week. It’s bad for you.”

  “Why? Cos it gives you a stinkin’ hangover for work the next day?”

  “No,” said Larkin still smiling, “because it spoils it for the weekend.”

  “Ee, daft sod.” Joyce laughed; Larkin joined in. After all, it cost nothing. He took off his jacket, hung it on the communal stand and sat at his bare desk – the only one in the room unadorned by gonks, family photos and other useless objects.

  He shook his head in wry disbelief. For one thing he couldn’t quite believe he had a regular job again; for another he couldn’t believe how hard he was working at it. He supposed he needed something to occupy his mind – some mindless routine – and at least he was good at it. It was therapy, and he was getting paid for it.

  As he sat down, other members of the staff filed in. Frankie Baker, solid, middle-aged. An old pro, always getting a round in after work. Mick O’Brien, young, eager to succeed. The type to get up early and write novels, thought Larkin. Then there was Carrie Brewer. Young, dark and fiercely ambitious. The kind of reporter who gave chequebook journalism an even worse name. She wouldn’t sell her grandmother to get a good story, Larkin thought, because she’d done so already. A photo-journalist called Graham Rigby was hanging up his anorak as Dave Bolland made his entrance. Tall, splendidly coiffed and tailored, even with his jacket off and braces showing, Bolland both looked and acted as the ultimate Eighties revivalist. Larkin suspected that the much-vaunted image of Bolland masturbating at night over a picture of Michael Portillo might be a bit of a pisstake. He hoped so, anyway.

  “OK, everyone, good morning,” enunciated Bolland. There was a general mumble in return. Bolland smiled. “Lovely! To business.” He swept his eyes round the room, headcounting. “Where’s Houchen?”

  Another mumble, this time negative. Larkin kept silent.

  “No one know? Oh well, let’s press on.” Bolland referred to his clipboard. “Right then – unless there’s something of staggering importance that you’re working on, here’s how I see today dividing up. Carrie, I take it there’s no news on Jason Winship?”

  Carrie sat forward on the edge of her desk, looking pure business. “Nothing, I’m still following up me leads and pestering the police, but no. Nothing new as yet.”

  “Well keep at it. Either the boy will turn up or his killer will. Either way it’s a result for us and I want it covered. Right – Graham. Cobbler in Gateshead, retiring, local interest, that kind of thing…”

  Bolland’s voice droned on. Larkin looked at Carrie. She was lit from within by a fire that only showed in her eyes. With lizard’s blood and an actress’s range, she was perfect for the job. Larkin wondered what it was that drove her.

  “Stephen?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Graced us with your presenc
e, for which we are eternally grateful. Now – Newton Aycliffe bypass, crusty protestors versus landowners. Head to head piece. How’s that coming?”

  “Well, I’ve got some tameish landowners ready to comment and I’ve got some Newbury veterans eager to talk. Which d’you want?” said Larkin.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Depends who wants the story.”

  “Well,” said Bolland, “we’ve had some interest from the quality tabloids.”

  “Now there’s an oxymoron,” said Larkin, raising a half-hearted laugh. He checked Bolland’s face; he was annoyed, but wouldn’t admit it. He hated anyone else to be the centre of attention. Larkin ploughed on.

  “OK, I’ll visit the landowners. The Daily Mail’ll lap it up.”

  “If you’re that bothered about balance you could also visit your veteran protestors and get a Guardian story from them.”

  More half-hearted laughter. Larkin, tactfully, joined in. Bolland, his authority restored, continued. “Take Houchen with you – when he eventually shows his face.”

  Larkin nodded; Bolland continued. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” said Larkin, “I’m still doing this local thing about people in the community. Bravery, not conforming to the accepted stereotype, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh – that. Yes. Any interest?”

  “Colour sups. You know.”

  Larkin felt Carrie Brewer snigger behind him. He made a mental note to throw her down the lift shaft at the first possible opportunity.

  Bolland appeared not to have noticed. But he allowed a sketch of a smile to appear on his lips. “Right. Onward and upward…”

  Bolland rambled on, believing he was imbuing his troops with the power to accomplish superhuman feats. Finally he left the room. Larkin crossed to Rigby and pestered him into lending him a camera; Rigby, reluctantly, complied.

  As Larkin was about to leave, Bolland unexpectedly beckoned him into his office. Sitting down behind his matt-black desk, he motioned Larkin to one of the pieces of black leather and twisted chrome trying to pass as a comfortable chair. Larkin managed to perch. Bolland leaned back and steepled his fingers, giving the impression of entrepreneurial pensiveness. After plenty of brow-furrowing, he spoke.