by Ashley Dyer
Kharon’s composure was shot; he seemed upset that she had turned on him, when he thought she was a nice person.
“The thing about aiding and abetting, Karl,” she said, “is the secondary party—that’s you—is as guilty of the offense as the person who actually did the killing.”
“But I didn’t—”
“The law doesn’t care,” Ruth interrupted, keeping her gaze on him the whole time, speaking slowly and calmly, because the way his eyes were darting right and left, she’d say that his brain had switched to fight or flight, and he wasn’t taking too much in.
“You see, the abettor’s guilt derives from the guilt of the perpetrator—like your Triptych piece derives from the three ‘exhibits’ the Ferryman has already staged. The perpetrator—that’s the Ferryman—and the abettor—that’s you—are one and the same in the eyes of the law.”
Karl Obrazki’s coloring had taken on some of the sage green of the wall coverings. Now he was getting it. She slid a business card across the table to him.
“If he messages you, call me,” she said. “If he rings you, call me. If he stops you on the street or—God forbid—turns up on your doorstep, call me. This is not a game. It’s not art. It’s murder.”
30
On the drive home, Carver glanced across at Ruth Lake. The dying rays of a fabulous sunset lit the car interior in a blaze of red and orange, warming her skin, but during the day, he’d noticed an unusual pallor, and now the setting sun seemed to cast deeper shadows under her eyes.
“Have you been getting any sleep recently?” he asked.
“Says the man who’s working twice the hours he’s officially allowed,” she shot back.
“Just concerned.”
“Ditto.”
He sucked his teeth, really not wanting to say anything about his late arrival that morning, but feeling he owed Ruth for all she’d done for him.
“I saw my therapist today,” he said.
She didn’t actually turn her head, but he caught her sideways glance. “On a weekday.”
“Mm.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m dealing with it.”
She opened her mouth, and for a second he thought she’d ask what, exactly, he was dealing with, but she changed her mind, nodded, said, “Good,” and left it at that.
“So . . . are you okay?”
Her mouth twitched in a half smile. “I’m dealing with it.”
He tugged his ear. “Well, I’m glad we’ve cleared that up.”
Ruth laughed. “I’m fine. I just need a hot bath and bed.”
A sudden gleam of light on a wall to their left drew his attention, and Carver focused on a stenciled image of the hooded figure that had come to represent the Ferryman. Dozens more of the graffiti stencils had appeared in the last two days, but this one glowed bright in their headlights.
“D’you see that?” he said.
She nodded. “They’re using reflective paint now.”
Ruth pulled up at a pedestrian crossing, and a male figure crossed slowly in front of them. He was wearing a gray hoodie, and he pulled the hood farther forward, casting his face in deep shadow. The lights changed and they drove on.
On the next street corner, another hoodie stood in the gathering gloom. Farther on, another, watching their approach, turning bodily as they passed.
“Am I being paranoid,” Ruth said, “or . . . ?”
“Or,” Carver said. “Definitely or . . .”
As they slowed for a turn the car headlights lit up one of the figures, reflecting, in a brilliant flash, a stylized F on the chest of his hoodie.
“Looks like the T-shirt entrepreneur has diversified his product lines,” Ruth said.
The figure raised his right hand and tapped the logo with two fingers.
“Bloody hell . . .” Carver murmured.
After that, hooded figures seemed to show up every half mile or so along the route.
“It can’t be coincidence that we interviewed the Ferryman’s PR man, and a few hours later—this,” Ruth said.
“I’m going to be bold and rule out coincidence,” Carver agreed.
“That said, it’s not what I would’ve expected from Kharon: he’s a disciple, not a leader.”
“My feeling exactly,” Carver said. “He’s totally transparent—exactly what he says he is, a fan.”
“So what the hell is this?” Ruth jerked her chin toward the next apparition.
“I really don’t know,” Carver breathed.
Forty minutes later, Ruth had grabbed a sandwich and her first decent cup of coffee of the day. She took the coffee cup upstairs with her and turned on the shower, extra hot to purge the nasty feeling that had stayed with her all the way home. It was one thing knowing that the Ferryman had thousands of anonymous groupies online, but seeing them in the flesh was far more unsettling.
The crudely drawn tattoos forcibly inked on her forearm by a killer she and Carver had brought to book over the winter had faded to ghostly gray since her last laser treatment, but she saw them all too clearly. Felt them, too: the heat of a shower could set them off, or worry—even tiredness. Mostly, they were a gritty itch under her skin, but occasionally she would experience a sudden burn, which she knew was partly psychological. She dabbed the area dry and slathered on moisturizer before dressing in jeans, running shoes, and denim jacket for street anonymity.
But before she headed out again, she checked the street from her front bedroom window. It was empty and quiet. Even so, she would leave the car and flag a taxi—she couldn’t risk her search for Adam Black being broadcast over social media.
She had tried every Adam Black on the electoral registry—he was not among them. Now her only option was to hit the streets, showing Adam’s picture around, visiting places, talking to people she knew to be his associates or former associates.
Two hours on, Ruth had struck out at a drug rehab unit and three homeless shelters in the city center, stopped and talked to every sex worker who’d hung around long enough for her to reach them. She’d even rousted a couple of kids selling pills on street corners. She wasn’t sure if she felt more relieved or frustrated that nobody recognized the guy with a topknot and a nose ring. She hadn’t had time for proper exercise in a few days, so she ran the mile or so up the hill from the city center, aiming for Edge Lane, the southernmost boundary of Kensington.
Liverpool’s Kensington district was the polar opposite of its London namesake. Some of the best acting talent of the city had emerged from its crumbling housing stock, but on a recent survey, 98 percent of “Kenny” residents were judged to be suffering the highest deprivation in the country. The area had recently undergone a bit of a spruce-up, but nearly a century of poverty and deprivation could not be purged by planting a few trees and installing Victorian-style streetlamps.
When he was in trouble, Adam used to lie low in a semiderelict squat facing Edge Lane, and that was where Ruth headed. She slowed as she approached the building; its windows and front door had been secured with perforated steel plates. She stopped, bracing her hands on her thighs while she caught her breath. Tellingly, there were no wheelie bins outside the property. She checked the shutters anyway, giving those within reach a tug; they were solid—nobody was getting into that house anytime soon. A quick recce around the back of the house revealed a narrow alley, barred by a security gate. These gated alleys had become commonplace around the city; intended as a deterrent to thieves and other criminals, they were usually only unlocked to allow access for rubbish collection. Ruth climbed over the gate, lowering herself carefully on the other side.
The alley was pitch dark and reeked of piss—and worse. She waited for a few seconds until her eyes acclimatized to the gloom, then counted three doors down to the target property. Another steel had been placed over the gate into the backyard, and she had to scramble over a six-foot wall to access the backyard. She needn’t have bothered. The house was completely locked down.
Boosting he
rself over the wall again, she dropped nimbly into the alleyway at the back of the house and was immediately dazzled by a flashlight.
“What d’you think you’re doin’?”
Ruth shielded her eyes with one hand, squinting past the light. Whoever was holding it wasn’t particularly tall, and the voice sounded young. “It’s all right, son,” she said. “I’m leaving.”
She heard a spattering of laughter; it echoed off the alley walls. There were at least two more of them.
A shadowy head appeared from around one of the back gates farther down the alley, just behind the flashlight-wielding kid. “What you got there, lad—a jigger rabbit?” This voice sounded deeper, older. “You looking for business, love?”
Alleyways were known locally as “jiggers.” “Jigger rabbits” were alley cats; the implication was obvious.
“Like I said, I was just leaving,” Ruth said.
“Nah.” The deeper voice stepped out into the alley, behind the light, and another stocky form followed him. A clang on the other side of the gate warned her that someone else was guarding the gate that gave access to the street, cutting off her escape route.
“You wanna use this alley, you gotta pay the tax,” Deep Voice said.
More sniggering. Insinuating and obscene, the echo magnified the sound, carrying with it the threat of violence.
“I understand,” Ruth said, her voice low and controlled, though her heart beat hard against her rib cage. “You’re protecting your properties, and your families.” She was giving them a way out without losing face. “But I’m police.”
The squirt with the flashlight cursed roundly, but Deep Voice wasn’t ready to stand down.
“Prove it,” he spat.
Ruth reached for her warrant card, held it up to the beam of light, simultaneously taking out her Casco baton.
More swearing.
Then the light went out.
Blinded, Ruth flicked the baton to full length and relied on her hearing to guide her. Someone rushed at her and she crouched. He missed her arm, but grabbed a handful of hair. She swung the baton low and hard, made contact with bone. He fell, screaming, dragging her with him.
As the green wash of afterimage faded from her retinas, she saw that her assailant was at least twice her bulk. He held on to her ponytail, cursing and howling in turns. This must be Deep Voice. Ruth whacked once, twice more, and he let go, gripping his leg, screaming so loudly that lights started to come on in houses up and down the alley. His trouser cuff was rucked up, and she saw that he was wearing an electronic ankle tag.
“Okay,” she said, raising her voice above the curses and yells of her attacker. “I’m leaving now.” Her breathing was ragged, and she fought to get it under control. “Anyone who tries to follow me will not get off as lightly as your friend.”
She didn’t wait for confirmation, but turned and ran to the end of the alley, lobbing her Casco baton over as she jumped. She got to two-thirds the height of the security gate, grabbed the top rail to hoist herself the last third, then tipped forward, allowing her body weight to carry her over. Grasping a bar halfway down the other side, she steadied herself, flipped sideways, and landed untidily on top of the lad who’d been standing guard, sending him sprawling.
Ruth disentangled herself while the youth took whooping breaths, winded by the impact. She sat him up and placed her hand flat on his back. “Okay?” she said.
After a few seconds, he nodded. Under the streetlights, she realized that he was barely in his teens, terrified, and that she recognized him.
She showed him her warrant card and checked up and down the street. “Am I going to have any more trouble from your mates?” she asked.
“Nah,” the boy said. His voice hadn’t broken yet, and he spoke with the piping trill of a boy soprano. But this was no choirboy.
She hauled him up and set him on his feet; he was such an underfed bag of bones, she was surprised he didn’t rattle. “So it looks like it’s just me and you, kid.”
His face fell, his mouth turning down in an almost comic caricature of dismay. “I never done nothing,” he whined.
“That remains to be seen,” Ruth said. “Let’s start with a name.”
He opened his mouth and she lifted one finger to stay him. “Your own name—”
His features scrunched in a grimace that was half frustration and half tearful anxiety. “Kyle Nolan,” he mumbled.
“You need to understand something, Kyle Nolan,” Ruth said. “I never forget a face. Not ever. So, if you’re lying to me, you’d better get ready to spend the rest of your life stuck indoors—because I’ll be scanning the arrest records for every sorry little scall who’s been picked up for antisocial behavior, or thieving, until I find you. And as soon as I’ve got your real name, you’ll get a knock on the door.”
She’d laid it on a bit thick, but it had the desired effect.
“I’m not lying. Honest, miss.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me—honestly, mind—why you were all the way down the Dingle three nights ago. I mean, it’s not exactly your turf, is it?”
The boy’s eyes widened, and she could see him trying to decide what he could own up to without earning himself a ride down to the cop shop.
He jutted his chin out. “Where’d you see me?” he demanded.
“That’s not how it works, Kyle,” Ruth said. “You tell me what you were doing, and I decide if I believe you.”
He hung his head, swearing under his breath.
Ruth gave him a little shake. “Language,” she said. Then: “I’m waiting.”
“We seen the stuff about the bodies on telly, and our kid—” He stopped, knowing he’d made a gaff.
“Your brother is the big lad with the ankle tag?” He didn’t answer, but she read in the boy’s startled expression that she was right. “That’s going to make it even easier to find you, if you’ve been lying to me. Remember that, Kyle.”
Kyle’s face screwed up into a tight ball. “He’ll kill me . . .”
“Come on,” she said. “You don’t want to be seen blubbing in front of your mates. They are watching, aren’t they?”
He nodded, miserably.
She glanced around, saw nothing, but these were kids who knew how to use the shadows.
“Okay,” she said. “You’re doing great. You say you saw the stuff on telly and . . .”
Kyle gave a groan of distress, but after a moment, he went on: “Our kid put in the hashtag—you know, for the Ferryman—on Twitter and that. Seen there was something going on down the Dingle, and . . .” Tears dripped mournfully from his chin, showing no sign of letup. “We just thought it’d be a laugh, miss.”
“Kyle,” she said. “Look at me.”
He raised his eyes to her left shoulder, then to her face, but it seemed an effort.
“Is that the truth?”
“Yes, miss.”
She searched his face, and he looked away, not because he was lying, she thought, but out of embarrassment.
“I’m going to trust you, Kyle.”
He tensed, and she could tell he still wasn’t sure how this would end. She suspected he’d been doing a bit of petty thieving with his brother at the Catch the Gamma Wave exhibit but had not a smidgen of evidence to support her gut feeling.
“Cheer up,” she said. “If you’ve told me the truth, you’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know our Neil.” He froze. “Now he really is gonna kill me.”
“It’s okay,” Ruth said. “I would’ve found out his name on the system anyway.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Look, if it makes it any better, I’ll even let you give me a bit of cheek when I let you go, okay?”
He stared at her, a fragile hope glittering through his tears. “You’re gonna let me go?”
“Kyle, love, I wouldn’t waste my time with a little tiddler like you,” she said. “On the count of three. Ready?”
She felt him b
race, ready to twist free of her when she eased her grip on his sweatshirt. Then he looked quickly into her face. “You won’t tell me mam,” he said.
“That you were giving cheek to the police?”
He looked at her like she must have lost her mind. “That I told you me name.”
“Okay,” she said. “On condition you haven’t been lying to me.”
“I haven’t.”
She kept her fist bunched around his collar, but he was free to run whenever he wanted. “I asked you a question!” she roared, and he startled, frightened all over again. “Just to make it look good,” she whispered. “Off you go.”
He made a big thing of the struggle to free himself, ran ten yards, then turned, arms spread wide, bent at the elbows.
“You wanna know who I am?” he yelled. “I’m Shifu the Kung Fu Panda, and I’ll kick your friggin’ ARSE, if you come bothering me and my mates again.” He flicked her a two-fingered salute, one on each hand, to emphasize his defiance.
“Don’t overdo it, kid,” Ruth murmured, but she’d already dismissed the boy and had her eye on a shambling figure staggering up the side street toward the corner where she was standing. The kid would only complicate anything that went down—she needed him out of the way—so she made a feint toward Kyle, and finally, he turned and fled.
Now it was just her and the man. He was approaching fast, considering he took one step sideways for every two steps forward, and she distributed her weight more evenly, ready to act if he made a move.
He was carrying two plastic bags, one of them clinking musically with what she imagined was a couple bottles of extrastrength cider. He passed under a streetlight, twenty feet away, and she got a good look at his face. She could smell him at ten feet—the reek of filth forming a bubble around him.
He shifted the lighter of the two carrier bags to his wrist and held his hand out. “Spare some change for a cup of coffee, girl,” he said.