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Authors: Michael Robotham
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evidence.
The kid got bail yesterday. Daddy forked out two mill and Ray Jnr was probably straight down to his clubster mates, bragging about how he toughed out his first night in the Scrubs. How he ran the joint like King Rat.
The cack-handed moron has no idea of the chain of events he’s set in motion or how much shit is gathering on the fan. It’s a mess and Murphy has to clean it up before someone hits the switch.
He shakes. Shakes again. Zips his fly. Washes his hands.
Dessie is waiting outside the door, standing guard like a loyal Labrador with less intelligence.
Murphy has a plan, but he needs Macbeth.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asks Dessie.
‘Persuade him.’
‘And if he does the job?’
‘Get rid of him.’
Murphy goes back to the table and orders a crème caramel for dessert, which isn’t on the menu, but the chef will do it by special request. So he should, thinks Murphy. ‘I own the poncy arsehole.’
11
Sami has an appointment. It’s part of the deal with his early release - a once-a-month pow wow with a probation service supervisor.
He’s late. Missed his turn. He sits on a plastic chair in the waiting room, staring at a potted plant that seems to be surviving without light or leaves.
‘Hello, Mr Macbeth,’ she says. ‘Can I call you Sami?’ It’s a woman, Miranda Wallace. Well-preserved. Mid-forties. Dressed in a grey suit with a pink ribbon pinned to her lapel. She calls herself Ms, which makes Sami think she could be gay but she’s too hot for that.
They sit in her office with the door open. Paperwork comes first. Twenty questions. Notes. Finally, she leans back and pushes her fringe from over her left eye.
‘How do you feel about being out?’
‘Good.’
‘Have you had any trouble adjusting?’
‘No.’
‘What plans do you have?’
‘I want to be a rock god.’
‘That’s an ambition rather than a plan. Perhaps you should find a more realistic goal.’
‘I play guitar.’
‘That’s a good life skill.’
She makes it sound like needlework.
Sami starts telling her how he used to be in a band, playing gigs and occasionally supporting indie bands from the States who have one hit song and think they’re going to fill Wembley Arena.
‘What sort of music?’ she asks.
‘Rock infused with blues,’ says Sami. ‘Solid wall of sound stuff full of attitude.’
‘Live fast, die young.’
‘Leave a pretty corpse.’
‘Sounds great,’ she says.
Sami’s surprised. Maybe she’s an old rock chick. ‘When was the last time you went to see a band?’ he asks.
‘I saw REM at Wembley Stadium in the summer.’
He’s impressed.
They talk music a bit more and then she steers him on to his future plans. She wants to know about his accommodation arrangements and his employment prospects.
One of the conditions of Sami’s probation is that he looks for work.
‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ he explains. ‘Once I find Nadia, I’ll get my Fender, call up the old band, rustle up a gig or two and get some money in the jam jar.’
‘It’s not exactly steady work,’ says Ms Wallace. ‘Who’s Nadia?’
‘My sister.’
Sami starts telling her about going to Nadia’s gaff and finding someone else living there. She hasn’t been to work. Isn’t answering her mobile. He doesn’t know how much he should tell her about what happened last night with Toby Streak or about his meeting with Tony Murphy. He could be back inside before his feet touch the ground.
Ms Wallace asks the questions. She wants to know if Nadia is the sort to go missing or take off without leaving a note.
‘Never,’ says Sami. ‘We’re tight, you know. We look after each other.’
Next thing Sami is telling her about their mother dying and how he won custody of Nadia. One thing leads to another and soon he’s recounting the whole sorry saga of Andy Palmer becoming a speed bump and Sami pleading guilty to possession.
She doesn’t say much. Sits. Listens. Maybe she hears
The kid got bail yesterday. Daddy forked out two mill and Ray Jnr was probably straight down to his clubster mates, bragging about how he toughed out his first night in the Scrubs. How he ran the joint like King Rat.
The cack-handed moron has no idea of the chain of events he’s set in motion or how much shit is gathering on the fan. It’s a mess and Murphy has to clean it up before someone hits the switch.
He shakes. Shakes again. Zips his fly. Washes his hands.
Dessie is waiting outside the door, standing guard like a loyal Labrador with less intelligence.
Murphy has a plan, but he needs Macbeth.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asks Dessie.
‘Persuade him.’
‘And if he does the job?’
‘Get rid of him.’
Murphy goes back to the table and orders a crème caramel for dessert, which isn’t on the menu, but the chef will do it by special request. So he should, thinks Murphy. ‘I own the poncy arsehole.’
11
Sami has an appointment. It’s part of the deal with his early release - a once-a-month pow wow with a probation service supervisor.
He’s late. Missed his turn. He sits on a plastic chair in the waiting room, staring at a potted plant that seems to be surviving without light or leaves.
‘Hello, Mr Macbeth,’ she says. ‘Can I call you Sami?’ It’s a woman, Miranda Wallace. Well-preserved. Mid-forties. Dressed in a grey suit with a pink ribbon pinned to her lapel. She calls herself Ms, which makes Sami think she could be gay but she’s too hot for that.
They sit in her office with the door open. Paperwork comes first. Twenty questions. Notes. Finally, she leans back and pushes her fringe from over her left eye.
‘How do you feel about being out?’
‘Good.’
‘Have you had any trouble adjusting?’
‘No.’
‘What plans do you have?’
‘I want to be a rock god.’
‘That’s an ambition rather than a plan. Perhaps you should find a more realistic goal.’
‘I play guitar.’
‘That’s a good life skill.’
She makes it sound like needlework.
Sami starts telling her how he used to be in a band, playing gigs and occasionally supporting indie bands from the States who have one hit song and think they’re going to fill Wembley Arena.
‘What sort of music?’ she asks.
‘Rock infused with blues,’ says Sami. ‘Solid wall of sound stuff full of attitude.’
‘Live fast, die young.’
‘Leave a pretty corpse.’
‘Sounds great,’ she says.
Sami’s surprised. Maybe she’s an old rock chick. ‘When was the last time you went to see a band?’ he asks.
‘I saw REM at Wembley Stadium in the summer.’
He’s impressed.
They talk music a bit more and then she steers him on to his future plans. She wants to know about his accommodation arrangements and his employment prospects.
One of the conditions of Sami’s probation is that he looks for work.
‘That’s what I’m going to do,’ he explains. ‘Once I find Nadia, I’ll get my Fender, call up the old band, rustle up a gig or two and get some money in the jam jar.’
‘It’s not exactly steady work,’ says Ms Wallace. ‘Who’s Nadia?’
‘My sister.’
Sami starts telling her about going to Nadia’s gaff and finding someone else living there. She hasn’t been to work. Isn’t answering her mobile. He doesn’t know how much he should tell her about what happened last night with Toby Streak or about his meeting with Tony Murphy. He could be back inside before his feet touch the ground.
Ms Wallace asks the questions. She wants to know if Nadia is the sort to go missing or take off without leaving a note.
‘Never,’ says Sami. ‘We’re tight, you know. We look after each other.’
Next thing Sami is telling her about their mother dying and how he won custody of Nadia. One thing leads to another and soon he’s recounting the whole sorry saga of Andy Palmer becoming a speed bump and Sami pleading guilty to possession.
She doesn’t say much. Sits. Listens. Maybe she hears
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