by Jane Goodall
Macready drew a sharp breath. ‘So, Williams, you are making a pre-emptive appointment through the agency of your colleague here. Explain yourself.’
She should have had a little speech prepared, but she didn’t. Idiot. What came out of her mouth was absolutely not something she would have prepared.
‘It’s the Walker, sir. Things happen on a whole different level around him.’ As the eyebrows dipped and rose again, there was nothing for it but to stumble on. ‘I mean, it doesn’t seem he can be directly involved, but — ’ She held up the picture in the inside cover of Yeller. ‘But if this sort of thing is getting around, I think it concerns all three of us. Equally.’
‘Equally,’ Macready echoed, deadpan.
‘In the sense that — we don’t know where this is coming from, and we don’t know which of us will be targeted next.’ She saw Macready make hawk-like eye contact with Steve, who gave a slight shake of the head. She continued. ‘And from my point of view, I’m the one at BD, at the scene of the action.’ Flicking through the pages of the fanzine, she gathered courage. ‘Which means two things, essentially. Of the three of us, I’m the one most likely to come across new information on the ground. And I know exactly what I’m looking for, because I know the Walker’s case history.’
Silence.
‘Besides which, this isn’t a case that can be cordoned off, sir. This punk thing is spreading all over the place, and if they’re starting to make a cult of the Walker, we can’t second guess where and how that’s going to play out. It’s not a matter of deciding whether I’m involved in the case. I just am. So I need to get advice about how to proceed. I need to be in consultation.’
‘You are in consultation,’ muttered Steve. ‘That’s why I called you up in the first place.’ He raked a hand through his disorderly hair. ‘As I’ve admitted to you, sir, I told Inspector Williams — Briony — about the arson attacks.’
‘I appreciate, Latham,’ said Macready with an exaggerated tone of sympathy, ‘that you produced the information under duress.’ He turned towards Briony. ‘Our concern has been to minimise the risks to you, and we have been cautious about assuming a connection between the arsonist and the material in that unsavoury publication with the yellow pages. Maxwell Tremlay remains securely behind bars, and I’m assured he has had no visitors in recent weeks.’
‘The Walker’s hallmark is violence,’ Steve said. ‘The messages follow the act. Keep an eye out for me. Remember?’
The neatly extracted eye in the little blue Tupperware container, sitting on Macready’s desk with its accompanying greeting. How could anyone forget?
‘He doesn’t mess about with signs and signals for their own sake. Everything he’s done was based on a design for action.’ Briony registered the change to past tense with relief.
‘Designer par excellence,’ he continued. ‘You’ll never see another crime scene like one of his. Total control over the look of the whole thing, the setting — that guy in the pulpit, bleeding over his Bible. He’s the only killer I’ve known who controls where the blood goes. Punks are anti-design. This is a different personality we’re dealing with — ’
‘Somebody who’s a bit of a showman?’ Briony interjected.
‘A different kind of showman from the Walker. With him, all the theatrics were in the actual scene of the murder. This character we’re dealing with now has more diversity. He enjoys playing games for their own sake.’
‘So it could be someone who’s actually in show business? You know, I heard about somebody like that, just this morning. I went to see Vince Telford.’ Briony was leafing through her notebook. ‘He was telling me about one of the guys in that group Sudden Deff. Garry Flaxman’s his name. Calls himself Flak. Trained in the circus, apparently, and does a pyrotechnic act. Vince went to great pains to assure me that he didn’t allow any of the fireworks on his premises.’ She looked at Macready. ‘Sudden Deff is the rock group that features in Yeller, sir. Apparently they’re fans of the Walker.’
‘What we have to bear in mind,’ said Steve, ‘is that the Walker’s a celebrity — from a certain warped point of view he’s a superstar. He attracts followers. His fan club members are highly unlikely to be as dangerous as he is, so it’s interesting what you say about Flaxman. People who like playing with fire — well, it’s like the metaphor. They enjoy the risk. Fire is spectacle and the fire-eating type of performer is a classic exhibitionist. Let’s hope that’s essentially what we’re dealing with.’ Steve looked at Macready. ‘We could bring Flaxman in for questioning.’
‘Premature.’ Macready’s tone was decisive. ‘We don’t have enough to go on.’
‘The only way we’re going to find out what’s going on in that scene is to put somebody under cover.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Briony, ‘that’s what I was thinking myself. Which is why I asked Aidan to stay in the car. I think you should meet him, sir.’
*
Briony had never seen Aidan look ill at ease, not exactly, but it was obvious he felt out of place in Macready’s office, consigned to a little metal-frame chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. His answers to Macready’s questions were disappointing, as if he wasn’t really concentrating or was even a bit bored. They went through the basics — number of years of service, CID experience, experience in major cases, aims and ambitions in the job.
‘Earnin a livin is a pretty high priority with me, sir. I don’t come from what you might call a wealthy family.’ As he said this, she could see Aidan was looking out of the window, avoiding Macready’s eye.
‘You might earn a better living as a bank manager.’ Macready smiled. ‘Does that not occur to you?’
‘I might.’ Aidan smiled back. ‘But I think they prefer nice English gents in those sorts of jobs. I don’t quite fit the bill.’
This sounded almost insolent. Briony was itching to interrupt, to come in with something that would at least show up Aidan’s dedication, or the way he could think on his feet. Macready took his time over the response. ‘Perhaps I do see what you mean, DC Silvera. I take it you dislike the exercise of fitting people into categories.’
‘You could say that, sir. Yes. Sir.’
‘One of the most common forms of human error, wouldn’t you say?’
The line of Aidan’s gaze shifted to Macready’s face. ‘I seen some serious mistakes, consequence of that sort of thinkin. Nobody ever imagines the nice quiet man next door has a collection of corpses under his kitchen floor, do they? Most people don’t imagine somebody in a police uniform is goin to kick their head in. Most people don’t think the man behind the bank manager’s desk is practising daylight robbery. But that’s what’s happenin a lot of the time.’
‘Do you consider you would make a good bank manager, DC Silvera, given the opportunity?’
‘Absolutely not, sir.’
‘And why is that?’
Aidan shifted in the chair and brought one foot up across his knee. ‘Because I couldn’t live behind a desk. I like to be movin around. Like to be out there, in amongst it, seein what goes on.’
Macready leant forward. ‘So do I, if the truth be known. Tell me what you look for when you are out there, in amongst it.’
‘Patterns. Regularities and irregularities. There’s a lot of routine in crime, and most of the time it looks like all the other routines, but if you can spot it — if you pick up on the little system somebody’s got going and you watch the way they go through the steps, then you can pick the best way to close in.’
16
‘Mum? Yes, it’s me.’ Sharon waited for the explosion on the other end of the phone, but there was silence. ‘Look, I’m perfectly all right. I’m staying here, with some people I met — ’
‘And when are you corning home?’ Her mother’s voice sounded strange, almost as if she was talking to someone she didn’t even know.
‘Not for a while I don’t think.’
Then carne the explosion. ‘Sharon, have you go
t the slightest idea of the trouble you’ve caused? Have you any idea? I’ve had the police round here. I’ve had the school phoning up every half-hour. Listen to me, my girl. You are coming home right now, d’you hear me?’
‘Well I’m not. I’m perfectly all right. Just tell the police I’m perfectly all right.’
‘You are, are you? Well what about me then? Do you think I’m perfectly all right, lying awake all night worrying about what’s happened to you?’
‘I’m fine, Mum.’
‘How could you do this to us? Do you know Mike’s been up to London looking for you? You’ve no idea of the upset you’ve caused.’
Sharon put the receiver down. ‘If I’m that much trouble you’re well shot of me, aren’t you?’ she said to the phone box. And she was shot of them, what’s more. And she was having a good time, doing what she felt like without people getting on her back all the time — and saying what she felt like without people jumping down her throat. The phone box was just outside SEX, so there were half a dozen people hanging around there as usual, including Annie and Zig, who were in the middle of an argument.
‘It’s a big set up,’ Annie snarled. ‘It’s all a big con. And you’re in on it.’
‘Fuck off!’ yelled Zig, turning and flouncing off herself. Sharon watched her marching across into the World’s End estate, then joined Annie. ‘What was that about?’
‘I got back first last night, after that blackout. And I heard someone down in Sol’s studio. There was definitely someone in there. Definitely. I went down the stairs and I saw light around the door, so I knocked. No answer. Then the light went off and that was it. Zig doesn’t believe me — and I tell you what, Sharon — I don’t think Sol’s missing at all. I think it’s a big con. He’s up to something. It’s just another bloody load of tricks and I’m not going to be the one who’s taken for a ride.’
‘I had the impression she was really worried about Sol.’
‘Then you got taken for a ride too, didn’t you? He’s got a seriously weird imagination, that bloke. And don’t think Zig isn’t part of it. She’d do anything for him. She’s obsessed with him.’
‘What exactly do you think they’re up to?’
‘How would I know, Sharon? He’s a nutcase. He thinks he’s William Blake. Did you know that? Seriously. A few months ago I came back from a concert and he’d filled the whole house with lighted candles — hundreds of them — because he was expecting the angels. And not the good angels with the fluffy white wings, either. Anyway, I’m moving out. I’m taking my stuff over to Dave’s flat in the Cloisters.’ Annie set off towards the Sloane Ranger end of the street.
Sharon thought of following her to see if she could get a bit more of the story, but she decided to follow Zig instead and nipped across the road. She kept a wary eye out for the bike boys as she entered the tower-block precinct, but it looked quiet today, with only a few old people wandering about carrying Sainsbury’s bags and a couple of mothers walking side by side pushing prams.
Just as she was thinking she was too late to catch up with Zig, she rounded the corner of one of the buildings and spotted her, leaning against the wall, smoking. And it was obvious from the way she was smoking — the jerky movements of her hand, and the angle of her head — that she was upset. Sharon stood beside her and waited, having learnt by now that sometimes it was better not to be the first one to speak.
Eventually Zig broke the silence. ‘Look at that.’ She was pointing to a square of grass at the foot of the building opposite, which bore a sign on the wall: No ball games. ‘I mean — what do they expect the bloody kids to do? They stack em up like budgies in cages and if they come down here they’re not even allowed to kick a ball across the sodding grass.’
‘Then let’s go.’ Sharon pushed away from the wall and started walking. And for a change Zig followed her. As they entered the World’s End Passage, side by side, Sharon decided now was the moment. ‘Annie isn’t the only one who’s heard things down in the basement,’ she said. ‘And if she’s moving out, that leaves just you and me — which actually makes me a bit nervous to tell you the truth.’
‘Why?’ There was a note of contempt in the question.
‘Because I’m not a hundred per cent sure I can trust you. Don’t get me wrong. You done a lot for me, but I don’t think you’re coming clean about what’s been going on in that workshop.’
Zig suddenly rounded on her, doing the full spitfire. ‘What makes you think I know, Sharon? I’ve been doing everything I bloody can to find out, but anything to do with the Suddens is just totally under wraps. And so is all the stuff in Sol’s workshop. I’ve hardly even seen past the door. He wouldn’t let anyone go in there.’
‘Well someone’s getting in there now, with the lock still on the door, so there’s only one explanation. There must be another way in. If the factory’s got underground tunnels, maybe there’s a way through from one of them.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ Zig had switched to her usual throw-away tone. ‘Don’t assume I haven’t thought of that.’
They were crossing into Lots Road now. ‘Then why don’t we look into it?’ asked Sharon.
‘I’m intending to. It’s exactly what I’m intending to do.’
‘Well I’ll help you.’
‘Yeah? See, that’s what I’m trying to make up my mind about.’ Zig mimicked Sharon’s voice. “‘Because I’m not a hundred per cent sure I can trust you.’’’
Sharon lashed back. ‘Then let’s just go our separate ways, shall we? I’ll find another squat. There must be enough of them round here.’
Zig didn’t reply, and they walked up the road in silence, straight past number 93, without any sign of parting company. Zig crossed the road and went into a loading yard beside the factory. Sharon followed.
As they threaded their way through a narrow alley lined with metal drums, she asked, ‘Where are we actually going?’
‘I think we can get around the back to the place where they did the last fire show. And I know you can get underground from there. That’s why they chose the place — because they need a level under the stage for Flak to do his act. He has to be able to get up above the stage and underneath it.’
‘We’ll need some light, won’t we? I haven’t got a torch.’
‘I have,’ said Zig.
There the conversation stopped again. They were standing on the edge of the creek, which ran wide and deep between the giant walls of two buildings. There was a narrow bridge across and they had to edge forward along a rim of concrete at the base of the wall to reach it. The bridge was enclosed in a metal frame and Sharon noticed heavy railway tracks running along it. She hesitated.
‘It’s okay,’ Zig instructed. ‘Just walk on the boards between the rails.’
Sharon listened anxiously for any approaching rattle as she followed Zig across. On the opposite side they jumped to the ground. In contrast to the main building of the factory, with its patterned brick walls, the place they were looking at was a faceless grey monster. There were no windows, but an outside staircase led to a door some twenty feet up, near the roof. Zig was already on her way up there.
They found themselves looking out over a vast area half filled with metal drums and storage containers. One end looked as if it had been deliberately cleared, with a row of crates pushed across to block it from the rest of the building. The only way down was by a metal ladder fixed to the wall, and they had to proceed slowly to avoid making echoing clangs as their feet hit the rungs. When they reached the ground, Sharon realised that the cleared area was big enough to fit the crowd at the Triangle. At the back there were more pieces of scaffolding stacked up against the wall, with electrical cables draped over them and lengths of chain — the kind of thing the Suddens used for their performances.
Some daylight came in from glass panels high up near the roof, but they still needed the torch. Zig directed the beam at the floorboards in the centre of the cleared area. She stamped on one of the boards and it wobb
led, so they pulled it up — and the boards next to it — revealing steps leading down.
Zig sniffed. ‘Can you smell anything?’
‘Sort of a charcoal smell, now you mention it.’ As they went down again, the smell got stronger and Sharon could see scatterings of black and white ash on the steps. She counted seventeen, eighteen, nineteen: after twenty-two, her feet came to ground but she nearly tripped over something. She stooped to pick it up: someone’s shoe, a heavy men’s lace-up. The torchlight showed they were standing in a tunnel with rounded brick walls and a concrete floor.
They set off, walking side by side, and after a few minutes came to a sharp bend where the tunnel sloped downwards, narrowing so Sharon had to walk behind. The uneven floor wasn’t concrete any more, just earth with a few embedded bricks to make a foothold either side of a channel running down the middle, where patches of water had collected. The walls were lined with wooden planks and some of these carried messages.
The Second Coming, Sharon read, then a bit further along, A Time to Die. Your Future Is Behind You then Bam bam bam. She stopped, trying to ignore the reverberation of her words as she said, ‘Look — maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Not when there’s only two of us.’
‘Next time I’ll call in the army,’ said Zig. ‘Get a move on.’
Sharon was getting sick of the orders, but this wasn’t the place for another argument. She could tell Zig was on edge too. The bossiness was a cover act. Anyway, she didn’t want to chicken out. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: Oh, Sharon — what have you got yourself into? Well, she thought, what’s the point in being alive if you’re too bloody scared to go anywhere or do anything?
Live without dead time, said the wall, in the flailing light of the torch. Or join the living dead.
They rounded another bend in the tunnel and Zig stopped. The noise of the factory machinery had been getting fainter, but now they heard something much closer at hand. It sounded like a vehicle being driven right over their heads. There was some low light here, coming from a bulb fixed to the wall with a wire cage over it and revealing a round shape in the ceiling, with a handle attached. An instruction diagram showed the handle had a clockwise release.