Read Online Good as Dead by Mark Billingham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Billingham
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crisps or bloody Coca-Cola … ’
Helen knew that Javed Akhtar was right, of course. The war on knives was all but lost, and it was hard to imagine the attempt to tackle gun crime going any other way, when you could buy one in a pub car park as easily as a box or two of dodgy fags.
He might just as well have been at the cash-and-carry.
‘Why don’t you just get rid of the gun?’ Helen asked.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘ Please ,’ Mitchell said. The single word was said quietly but was thick with desperation. ‘You don’t need it.’ He rattled the handcuffs against the radiator pipe. ‘We can’t go anywhere.’
‘You don’t have to do anything else,’ Helen said. ‘We can carry on just like this if you want. It’s only the gun that’s making things dangerous. For all of us.’ She nodded reassuringly. ‘You can see that, Javed, can’t you? Just put the gun away … ’
‘My son never carried a weapon in his life,’ Akhtar said, ‘and look what happened to him.’
‘I know, but isn’t one terrible incident enough? Just put—’
‘“Dangerous”.’ Akhtar spat the word out. ‘That’s what they said about Amin in court. That he demonstrated a “degree of dangerous ness ”. What kind of word is that? What does that even mean?’
It was a legal term that Helen was well familiar with. It had been applied to many offenders she had dealt with over her years in Child Protection. It was invoked as justification for harsher sentencing, and for increasing the period an individual had to spend on licence once that sentence had been completed.
‘So what do you think, Javed? About the gun.’
Akhtar stood up and looked at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘What kind of word is that, I ask you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Helen said. ‘But it’s just a word.’
Akhtar shook his head and shouted. ‘No, no, no! Not just anything!’ His face was flushed suddenly and he was waving the gun about.
Next to her, Helen felt Mitchell flinch and whimper.
‘What kind of bastard , stupid word?’ He looked from Helen to Mitchell for an answer and, when none came, he shook his head again and stormed quickly out into the shop.
A few seconds later, the noise started, things crashing and breaking.
Helen shuffled across and, once again, dropped a hand gently on to Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be OK, Stephen,’ she said.
He turned slowly towards her. His skin was clammy and his lips looked pale.
He said, ‘I can’t do this.’
A woman approached Donnelly as he was walking back into the hall from the boys’ toilets. She introduced herself as DC Gill Bellinger. Said, ‘I work with Helen.’
‘Right,’ Donnelly said. ‘Well, we’re doing everything we can, but right now it’s a sodding big plate of wait-and-see pudding, I’m afraid.’
‘I was wondering what you were doing about Helen’s little boy.’
Donnelly said, ‘Right,’ again and nodded, as though he had just been wondering exactly the same thing.
Bellinger nodded back, but she could see that this was the first time he had so much as thought about Alfie Weeks. ‘He goes to a local childminder,’ she said. ‘I just thought we should make some arrangement to have him picked up?’
‘Yes, of course. Is there any family?’
‘There’s a sister, Jenny. Lives in Maida Vale, I think. I’m not sure they’re particularly close, but … ’
‘OK, I’ll try and get that organized, thanks, Gill.’ Donnelly looked around. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘You want me to do it?’
‘That would be great,’ Donnelly said, taking a step away. ‘Might all work out very well, seeing as you’re a friend of Helen’s, I mean.’
He was already on his way back to the monitors as Gill Bellinger was telling him that she would let him know what she’d managed to organise. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and sat back down.
‘Takes me back,’ he said.
Sue Pascoe looked up at him.
Helen knew that Javed Akhtar was right, of course. The war on knives was all but lost, and it was hard to imagine the attempt to tackle gun crime going any other way, when you could buy one in a pub car park as easily as a box or two of dodgy fags.
He might just as well have been at the cash-and-carry.
‘Why don’t you just get rid of the gun?’ Helen asked.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘ Please ,’ Mitchell said. The single word was said quietly but was thick with desperation. ‘You don’t need it.’ He rattled the handcuffs against the radiator pipe. ‘We can’t go anywhere.’
‘You don’t have to do anything else,’ Helen said. ‘We can carry on just like this if you want. It’s only the gun that’s making things dangerous. For all of us.’ She nodded reassuringly. ‘You can see that, Javed, can’t you? Just put the gun away … ’
‘My son never carried a weapon in his life,’ Akhtar said, ‘and look what happened to him.’
‘I know, but isn’t one terrible incident enough? Just put—’
‘“Dangerous”.’ Akhtar spat the word out. ‘That’s what they said about Amin in court. That he demonstrated a “degree of dangerous ness ”. What kind of word is that? What does that even mean?’
It was a legal term that Helen was well familiar with. It had been applied to many offenders she had dealt with over her years in Child Protection. It was invoked as justification for harsher sentencing, and for increasing the period an individual had to spend on licence once that sentence had been completed.
‘So what do you think, Javed? About the gun.’
Akhtar stood up and looked at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘What kind of word is that, I ask you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Helen said. ‘But it’s just a word.’
Akhtar shook his head and shouted. ‘No, no, no! Not just anything!’ His face was flushed suddenly and he was waving the gun about.
Next to her, Helen felt Mitchell flinch and whimper.
‘What kind of bastard , stupid word?’ He looked from Helen to Mitchell for an answer and, when none came, he shook his head again and stormed quickly out into the shop.
A few seconds later, the noise started, things crashing and breaking.
Helen shuffled across and, once again, dropped a hand gently on to Mitchell’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be OK, Stephen,’ she said.
He turned slowly towards her. His skin was clammy and his lips looked pale.
He said, ‘I can’t do this.’
A woman approached Donnelly as he was walking back into the hall from the boys’ toilets. She introduced herself as DC Gill Bellinger. Said, ‘I work with Helen.’
‘Right,’ Donnelly said. ‘Well, we’re doing everything we can, but right now it’s a sodding big plate of wait-and-see pudding, I’m afraid.’
‘I was wondering what you were doing about Helen’s little boy.’
Donnelly said, ‘Right,’ again and nodded, as though he had just been wondering exactly the same thing.
Bellinger nodded back, but she could see that this was the first time he had so much as thought about Alfie Weeks. ‘He goes to a local childminder,’ she said. ‘I just thought we should make some arrangement to have him picked up?’
‘Yes, of course. Is there any family?’
‘There’s a sister, Jenny. Lives in Maida Vale, I think. I’m not sure they’re particularly close, but … ’
‘OK, I’ll try and get that organized, thanks, Gill.’ Donnelly looked around. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘You want me to do it?’
‘That would be great,’ Donnelly said, taking a step away. ‘Might all work out very well, seeing as you’re a friend of Helen’s, I mean.’
He was already on his way back to the monitors as Gill Bellinger was telling him that she would let him know what she’d managed to organise. He raised a hand in acknowledgement and sat back down.
‘Takes me back,’ he said.
Sue Pascoe looked up at him.
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