The Walking Dead

They had gone. Probably, Banks thought, they were now in the stand-by room and had taken over the bar-billiards table. He had hardly noted their going and doubted that anyone had glanced at him. He put his marker in the notebook, an Underground train ticket, and dropped it back into his pocket. He was haunted by what he had read, and sapped…but would have felt shame if he had not stood shoulder to shoulder with Cecil Darke, and had not refused to make the negotiated apology that was asked of him.

He felt the wet in his eyes.

* * *

It was the Nobbler's moment. He had sat in the car for three hours and his eyeline had given him a decent enough view of the white-painted front door, and the wheelie-bin; the little wicket gate was askew on its hinges. The house reeked neglect, financial hardship and lack of pride, which was as Benny Edwards wanted. He had read a newspaper from cover to cover and eaten a sandwich; the last dregs in the coffee Thermos were cold. He shifted in his seat to look through the sunlight blazing on to the windscreen and knew that the wait was over.

The buzz ran in him — excitement, adrenaline, expectation. It was always the same when it was his moment. The day was long past when he had worked for money and what money bought him. Today or yesterday he could have gone to an agent — he could go tomorrow — and bought the airline tickets for Faro or Malaga, have done the electronic cash transfers and bugged out to the southern sunshine, could have found the place — with a wide patio, a pool and a view — where he would spend the rest of his days, but he would be without the buzz. He craved it, could not exist without it.

They came out of the door. The Tango first, then a girl who had a holdall in her hand. The wife followed her daughter to the step, kissed and hugged her, but had nothing for her husband. The Nobbler had allocated the whole of that day, and Sunday, to searching out the optimum moment for the approach. It was never an exact science, needed the flexible thinking on which he prided himself. The only place that an approach, first time up, never worked was at the home when the juror's partner was there, and the doorstep was the poorest option. He wanted the Tango alone and off his beaten track. In his car, on the back seat, a canvas satchel held the carrot, and in his pocket was the photograph that would be the stick. For some Tango subjects the carrot or the stick was quick, for others slow, but the Nobbler had the two days of the weekend to make his approach with carrot or stick.

They were off down the pavement. He couldn't know where the Tango would lead him.

He liked what he saw of the scrote, his Tango. The girl was ahead of her father, as if she couldn't wait to be shot of him. He had those daft sandals on and bright socks that the sunlight caught, old trousers and the windcheater from court. He read the shabbiness that was the same as the front door, and the gate on to the pavement that was half off its hinges. He did not believe that the Tango would need the stick on his back, just a bite at the carrot — but he'd show the stick. It was his way and well practised, and he rehearsed the opening words: told his own boy, who would take over the trade when he was past it — not bloody yet — that the first words of the approach either sold or sank a deal. He nudged his car after them.

They went out of the road on to the main drag and were on the far side of it from the Nobbler.

They went to the station, crossed the forecourt and stopped where there was a rank for buses to pull in. He understood. The dutiful dad was doing his family bit, escorting his girl, maybe aged fourteen, to the bus and was going to stay with her till it came. He would see her off and would say, doubtless, 'Have a good time at your friend's, don't drink tonight and don't get shagged.' The Nobbler parked on a double yellow, nowhere else, took the Disabled card from the glove box, displayed it and waited some more.

The bus came.

As if it was a chore, the girl pecked the Tango's cheek and was away up the step and inside.

The bus left. The Nobbler noted that the Tango watched it go across the forecourt, raised his arm and waved, and was still waving when it was round the corner and gone, as if he didn't want to let it go.

The car door closed quietly after the Nobbler. He straightened, his hands flicked over his clothes, smart casual with a decent jacket, as if to smooth creases from them. Important to look good — a grin swept his face — and respectable.

He came behind him.

He said pleasantly, 'Excuse me, isn't it Mr Julian Wright? It is, isn't it?'

He spun awkwardly. 'Yes, that's me. I'm Jools Wright.'

'I was hoping to meet up with you. Actually, I was trying to.'