In the Dark by Mark Billingham Page A

talking about . . .’
    Helen hopped through the channels without finding anything she fancied. Decided that when Paul got home she’d tell him that, if they were strapped, they could save thirty-odd quid a month by getting shot of the satellite TV.
    She brushed away the crumbs from her pyjama top and realised that it was wet. She pulled the back of her sleeve across her face, unwilling to get up and fetch tissues. She had no idea when Paul would be getting home, or where he would be getting home from, and acknowledged that this was the way things were now, more often than not.
    Only so much any doctor could tell.
    Every box ticked, except one.
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The journey north took them the best part of an hour, and Theo only got the Audi above forty for about one minute of it. He enjoyed the thump of the extra bass-bins Easy had put into the back, though, and the leather seats, and the green LEDs on the dash.
    Just beyond Highgate Village they cruised past a large house set well back from the road on the other side of a pond. Turned and cruised back again before parking up two streets away.
    Theo turned down the music. ‘Place has got pillars , man.’
    â€˜Yeah, and a proper damn alarm,’ Easy said. ‘You not see that thing flashing?’ He took a piece of paper from his pocket and studied it, shaking his head. ‘We just going in and out, man, five minutes. Don’t need safes and antiques and all that.’ He jabbed at another of the addresses on his list. ‘Let’s try the one in Southgate.’
    As Theo took the car back down towards the North Circular, Easy explained how it worked. He told him about his friend who worked as a baggage handler at Luton airport, and helped himself to the odd camera, MP3 player and the like. Who copied down home addresses from luggage tags which he passed on to Easy for a few quid and a wrap of something nice every now and again.
    â€˜Everybody’s happy,’ Easy said.
    â€˜Does Wave know about this?’
    Easy drew his head back and stared. ‘What does that matter?’
    Wave. Top man in the street crew. Plenty he was answerable to, of course; plenty nobody ever saw. But round the estates and on a few square miles of Lewisham streets, Wave was the one asking the questions.
    â€˜Wave’ because of the hair: the Afro that sort of fell from one side of his head to the other. And for other reasons of his own invention: ‘Because sometimes a wave can be there for everyone to enjoy. To ride on or to splash about in as they choose, you check me? Other times that thing can get big and come down like a tsunami or some shit. That wave can fuck you up if you don’t watch out .’
    â€˜Said what the fuck does that matter?’
    â€˜Just asking.’
    â€˜This is my thing.’
    â€˜Not a problem,’ Theo said.
    â€˜Wave got far too much else to worry about,’ Easy said. ‘Plenty poking up his arse, remember?’
    Theo nodded. Yeah, he remembered.
    He finally got a chance to put his foot down on an empty stretch through Finchley, catching a couple of green lights on the bounce. He remembered Easy taking him through it all one night, a few weeks after he’d got back from Chatham. Sitting in a KFC with a Coke and nuggets, and Easy sketching out his world on a napkin.
    Three triangles, one on top of the other.
    â€˜This top one’s like the upper distribution,’ Easy said, stabbing at the highest triangle. ‘Import, smuggling operations, all that. Serious money, and most of it going in white pockets, you ask me.’ He drew a line down to the middle triangle. ‘This is the warehousing and the factory, yeah? Breaking the gear up and cutting it. Them in white coats and what have you, chopping in the lactose and the caffeine powder and the rest of it.’
    â€˜And laxatives, right?’
    â€˜All that, yeah. Get off your face and shit your pants at the same time, whatever.’ He moved