Free Crusher by Niall Leonard Page B

tanned bloke with silver hair and blue-grey eyes.
    I’d seen photos of him on the steps of a courthouse. Then the collar of his overcoat had been turned up, his flat cap pulled down, and he’d been wearing shades, but it was the same bloke. McGovern stooped down by thelittle boy, who was still coughing and retching, and laid a hand on the kid’s head. “You’re all right, Kell. You’ll be all right.”
    The Guvnor turned his pale grey eyes to me.
    “Thanks,” he said. “Now who the fuck are you?”

five
    “Kell, you go over there and shake that man’s hand.”
    The little boy, in a thick towelling robe slightly too big for him, walked over to face me, held out his hand and piped up, “Thank you.”
    “You’re very welcome,” I said. “Next time make sure there’s a grown-up around before you go swimming, OK?”
    “OK.” He grinned at me as if he hadn’t been dead a few minutes earlier.
    We were all standing in the living room, or rather one of the living rooms, in the main house. On my way in I had glimpsed a warren of similar lounges leading off the hall. In this one three big sofas in white leather had been laid out in a C-shape around a glass and chrome coffee table piled with glossy style magazines. Above a vast black marble fireplace, its iron fire basket full of dusty unburnt logs, a huge flat-screen TV hung in acustom-built alcove. The wallpaper was pale gold and textured like woven silk. There were gilt and dark wood side tables scattered around the place, bearing heavy cream side-lamps with gilt trim, and yet more glossy magazines. It was all a bit fussy, more expensive than stylish, from what I knew about style … which admittedly was bugger all. I felt self-conscious, standing barefoot on the soft white wall-to-wall shag pile carpet, water still trickling down my legs despite the heavy towelling robe I’d been given over at the pool house.
    McGovern hadn’t got much further than asking who I was when the women had started fussing over the boy and arguing about taking him to hospital. It seemed the kid was McGovern’s son, and the blonde with the eye-popping curves his second wife, Cherry. Kirstie—the teenage girl with the Essex facelift—was the nanny. McGovern sent me to get out of my wet clothes, and while I’d unpeeled my soaking jeans in a little changing room to the side I’d heard the voices of the two women, shrill with shock and fear, defensive and tearful, answering the questions McGovern was asking in a calm, low, steady voice. From what I could make out, through the overlapping apologies and lamentations and excuses, each woman had thought the other was keeping an eye on the kids. Cherry had been shopping online, while Kirstie had been on the phone to her boyfriend.
    By the time I came out, holding my wet clothes at arm’s length, Kirstie had disappeared. Presumably she’d caught the rap for what happened, though from the look on McGovern’s face there was still plenty of blame to go round.
    “Come in the house,” he said to me, then turned and led the way. His wife followed, carrying the little boy, now recovered, in her arms while the little girl trotted after her. McGovern’s minder—the gorilla with the scarred face—waited impassively for me to follow them, his hands politely folded in front of him. He shadowed me over to the house to an open French window and waited as I dropped my sodden clothes on the tiled patio before entering.
    “Right,” McGovern was saying to his wife, “Kelly’s calmed down now. Take him back and put him straight in that pool.”
    “Joe …” she protested, but not with a lot of conviction.
    “He’s had a fright. Best thing is get him back on his horse. And this time you go in with him, all right?” He chucked the boy’s chin. “Mum’s going to give you a swimming lesson. This time, mind you stick to the shallow end.”
    The kid nodded. “Yes, Dad,” he squeaked.
    His mother glanced in my direction. For a moment I sensed