by Jane Goodall
And: When Death Walks In, For the Hell of it, A Time to Hate and a Time to Kill.
Sharon bent closer to read some of the smaller articles. There must be hundreds of them in here, torn out roughly and pasted higgledy-piggledy over each other so you could only read fragments.
Ripper Was Incompetent, Says Walker
In sensational court testimony yesterday, Maxwell Tremlay — known as the Walker — referred to Jack the Ripper as ‘a bungling toady’.
‘He didn’t know what he was doing,’ said Tremlay. ‘He didn’t even know how to use a knife.’ Tremlay has pleaded not guilty to five counts of murder and may face further charges when US police have completed their investigations into his activities while living in the San Joaquin Valley in 1970.
Until yesterday, the accused had remained tight-lipped under cross examination but
Here the paper was ripped.
The book was only half used, but on the last page the heading DEFF ROW appeared again. This time there were the original three faces plus two more, stuck underneath. But these weren’t newspaper cuttings. One was a little passport photo, and the other was a snapshot of a man sitting at a table drinking beer. Sharon didn’t know who the first one was, but the second was instantly recognisable.
‘Come and see this,’ she said. ‘Look who’s on Deff Row.’ Zig came over and stood beside her. ‘Logan Royce!’ she scoffed. ‘It’s a joke.’
‘That’s not what I’d call it.’ She flicked back through the pages of the scrapbook, stopping at a page headed DEFF’S DOOR. In the centre was a photo of a small square building with an open door in it. There were other photos surrounding it, that were obviously taken in a graveyard with statues of angels, and old crosses leaning at weird angles.
‘That’s Highgate cemetery,’ Zig said. ‘I’ve been in this part of it. The Suddens do some of their gigs in there.’ She turned more pages and pointed to a double spread of drawings showing figures hanging in chains, or with flames all around them. Zig suddenly shut the book and began to stuff it into her bag. ‘We can look at this later.’
Sharon stood her ground. ‘Just a minute. You don’t like it either, do you? Go on — admit it Zig, All this deff lark.’
‘You’re not supposed to take it literally.’
‘Then how are you supposed to take it?’
‘Provocation. You’ve got to fire up people’s minds. Make them angry, so at least they know they’re bloody alive or something.’ Zig picked up a piece of chain from the floor and began winding it round her wrist. ‘Get them snarling, so their faces move.’
‘What if some people do take it literally?’
‘What if some people are just too bloody stupid to know which way up they are? Some people take everything literally.’ Zig uncoiled the chain and wound it the other way. ‘Some people believe everything they’re told. Do you think that isn’t dangerous?’ She smacked the chain against the benchtop. ‘Trouble is, Sharon, you got the wrong idea about the situation you’re in. You’re used to a lot of security, aren’t you? You’re used to a little suburban house where you lock the door and keep the bad people out and if the bad people try to get in you call the police.’ She whipped at the benchtop again, then threw the chain away. ‘Thing is, it’s the bad people that are in the houses and the cop shops. Not to mention the bloody government.’
Sharon pulled at a strand of hair that was hard and sticky with yellow paint. ‘Okay, okay. I get the point. We’re on our own. But you’ve got to tell me what Sol’s up to.’
‘What you got to understand is Sol’s an artist. Look.’ Zig reached up, unhooked one of the masks and put it into Sharon’s hands. It seemed to mould itself to her skin instantly, its eyebrow and eye socket taking shape against her outstretched palms. And the mouth. It leered and gaped with the slightest movement she made. Sharon turned the face this way and that, watching its expression change.
‘It’s like those faces in the art gallery. In the Blake room. I know why you were looking for Sol in there. Annie told me.’
‘Sol likes William Blake. It’s no secret.’
‘Annie says he thinks he is William Blake.’
‘Blake had visions, and so does Sol. It’s some brain thing he’s got. He starts hearing and smelling things and he sees faces, like these, but to him they’re actually there.’
A thought entered Sharon’s mind. ‘Does he always think he’s Blake?’
‘What are you getting at?
‘It’s just ... What if he thought he was somebody else?’
‘Like who for instance?’ Zig’s eyes were scanning the room. ‘Who?’
19
Briony stared at Aidan, trying to keep a straight face at the sight of the new embellishments. The hanks of black hair were chopped in uneven ridges, exposing an assortment of spikes and studs in his earlobes and a ring through one eyebrow.
‘That is — ’ She stopped, blocked for a suitable adjective.
‘Brill?’ suggested Aidan, breaking into an exaggerated smile. ‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s not often a senior officer gets carried away by your choice of jewellery. If you want a lend of any of this, I’ll be happy to oblige when I’ve done with it.’
‘Looks a bit too painful for me. Anyway, you’ve got rid of one of my concerns: I’m completely confident they won’t recognise you at the Triangle.’
He shrugged. ‘Why would they? I’ve only been there once.’
‘Yes. On which occasion you and Denis immediately raised the alarm that you were cops.’
‘That’s because I had creases in the front of me jeans. And sleeves in me shirt.’
His new outfit consisted of baggy camouflage pants, a t-shirt so worn it was more holes than cloth, and a pair of ripped Converse boots.
Briony nodded. ‘Sit down, Aidan.’
They were in one of the interview rooms at Paddington Green, lent to Briony as temporary office space. He dropped into the chair opposite her and leaned forwards, elbows on knees. ‘Nick is what you’re supposed to call me. And I’m ready to go,’ he said. It’s all this briefin and preparation that’s needlin me.’
‘No more briefing, I promise. Just a few things I want to know about. Since I got you into this, I feel kind of responsible. Is everything going to be all right on the — you know, on the home front?’
‘You mean, are my folks gunna go spare with worry about me?’
‘None of my business, Aidan. Nick.’ She suddenly found herself getting self-conscious and awkward. ‘You don’t have little kids or anything?’
‘Little kids — not that I know of. Or anything? Can’t think of anything. You don’t have to worry about me, ma’am. I done all the training.’
‘And you are okay about this assignment?’
‘I’m all trash and ready, ma’am — can’t you see that? Would I have given meself a lovely haircut like this if I wasn’t dedicated body and soul to the job? Besides. I picked up a bonus this afternoon. Got me a motorbike. Well, a scooter to be exact. A binjy old thing that’s probably held together with chicken wire, but hey! — now I got the freedom of the city.’
Briony was striving to get back the thread of serious conversation. There were things she still needed to talk about. ‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘You’ve got the freedom of the World’s End, which is a different kettle of fish. Don’t get distracted, Aidan. You know how many issues we’re dealing with from that part of the district. This is not about collecting insights into the culture of petty crime. You’ll see plenty of it. Drugs-related, mostly, but we’ve got other ways of pursuing that sort of thing. Basically, you’ve got one concern — ’
‘The Walker,’ Aidan interjected. ‘And his new fan club.’
‘See if you can track down somebody called Flak. Full name Garry Flaxman.’
‘I already got that name in my notebook. DCI Latham mentioned him.’
‘Yes, well — he’s the manager of the Sudden Deff so he’s likely to be well connected in that scene. We need to know who got t
hat photo of Walker in Yeller, and how. And more than anything, we need to know — What’s the fascination? He fancied himself as an artist, Max Tremlay. There’s a lot of art students amongst those punks. And he fancied himself as a prophet. All that about the turning of times and seasons. This punk craze — it’s got that sort of edge to it, hasn’t it? They think they’re ringing the death knell on culture as we know it. Something like that.’
Aidan offered no response. He was gazing at his hands — a habit of his, she’d noticed, as if he was trying to read his own palms. ‘You sure you’re happy about this assignment?’
A hand went to his left earlobe and he fingered one of the more aggressive looking studs. ‘Can’t get used to this shit.’ His eyes met hers briefly. ‘You said this wasn’t another briefing, ma’am.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t intend it to be. I actually wanted to ask you about your impressions. You’ve read the Walker files — or some of them — and you’ve read those issues of Yeller. I want to know what you make of it.’
‘I don’t think the punks are such bad news as they’re pretending. They’re rough London kids, doing what rough London kids have always done, but with a bit more savvy. They want to think it’s a bigger deal than that, though. They want to be dangerous. They want to be outlaws. That’s why they put swastikas on their gear and buy leather sado masks. Walker’s a celebrity crim. The ultimate social frightener. So they pick him up and put him on their t-shirts like an ID tag.’
‘They haven’t actually put him on a t-shirt yet, as far as we know. But I see what you mean.’ She was frowning. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. But why target the CID team in those photos? And what about the arson attack? That’s not just about image, is it?’
‘What arson attack?’ Aidan looked up from his hands, eyes wide.
*
‘It’s irresponsible!’ Briony spat the words into the telephone receiver, one at a time, each of them charged with the weight of her own pent-up anxiety. ‘Steve — he needs to know.’
The response came across as infuriatingly casual. ‘That’s for me to judge.’
‘Oh, is it? If he doesn’t know about the attacks on you and Macready, there’s a whole level of danger in this that he’s just not aware of. We have a responsibility to make sure he understands what he’s getting into.’
‘Look, I think we should discuss this over a cup of coffee. Where are you — Paddington Green?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘I haven’t got time for coffee. I’m supposed to be back at Chelsea.’
‘Wait, Briony!’
But the receiver was already on its way back to the connection plate.
She sat for a moment, finger-brushing the clinging strands of hair from her neck and forehead. It wasn’t the heat making her sweat today, it was the pressure. Sometimes the phone made it worse. She flexed her right hand to cool the palm where it had been gripped too tightly against the hard plastic. Maybe that was why so many people found themselves using the telephone as a weapon. A couple of pounds of solid hard plastic made a strong missile — fatal, on one occasion she’d had to investigate — and the provocation was right there, literally at hand. She jumped when the phone rang again.
‘Williams?’
Macready. She might have guessed it. Yet again, Steve was playing his game of hotline to the top.
‘Whereabouts are you, Williams?’
‘Interview room three, sir. I’ve been allowed to use it as a temporary billet.’
‘Stay where you are. I will be with you in ten minutes.’
Since when did the commander come paying visits to his juniors in shabby interview rooms? Why didn’t he just do what his title suggested, and command her to appear in his office? Trying to avoid the eye of the grey-suited vigilante who watched over all the visits he was paid? Quite likely. Sidestepping his own authoritative role to get closer to the action? More likely.
The knock on the door came well before the ten minutes was up. Entering the small grey space, Macready looked absurdly overdressed. His clothes, she always thought, were like armour: the shoes designed for shooting expeditions on a Scottish grouse moor, the thick tailored jacket with its leather buttons, the stiff collar and cuffs, and the waistcoat complete with fob pocket and watch chain. The twentieth century would be over before he knew he was in it.
‘I owe you an apology, Williams,’ he said briskly, taking the seat normally reserved for petty criminals whose luck had broken. ‘I understand Latham has not properly explained to you our intentions with regard to Aidan Silvera’s briefing.’
Our intentions, Briony registered sourly.
‘Isn’t it Latham who owes me an apology, sir?’ she said sweetly.
‘No.’ The reply cut across the end of her question. ‘The ... instructions were mine.’
‘But you just said, sir — ’
‘With Latham’s advice — which I value because of his particular qualifications.’ Macready’s right eyebrow dipped sharply. ‘DC Silvera is a junior officer and his assignment is to be managed accordingly. You are, of course, quite properly concerned with his safety, but our view is that he’ll be in no immediate danger from the person or persons who have a vendetta against the CID team that brought Tremlay to his just deserts. Which, I must emphasise, includes yourself, Williams. When is it you are going on holiday?’
‘Friday, sir.’
‘Go early. Can’t you leave tomorrow?’
Briony was quite taken aback. For an exhilarating second she imagined dropping everything and phoning Gareth tonight with a rapid change of plan. Then the reality of the situation took over again. ‘I’m needed here,’ she said flatly.
There was no immediate response, but Macready shifted in his seat, looking around the room. ‘There are no windows in here. A room without windows will not do for an office, even temporarily. It restricts one’s sense of possibility. Beware of the delusion that you are always needed, Williams. We are all dispensable in the end.’
‘You’re trying to get me out of the way, sir.’
‘Exactly. The further you are from these games of pyromania, the better. You can be assured that the investigation is in the best hands. Pavan is taking charge of the forensics, and the evidence will remain strictly confidential. The perpetrators will be looking for a reaction from us. I don’t want any information about this leaking out.’
She could feel herself changing colour. ‘I’m afraid I have mentioned it to Aidan, sir.’
The words hung there, in a silence. ‘You mentioned what Williams?’ said Macready very quietly.
‘I mentioned arson attacks.’ She made an effort to rally her confidence. ‘But I gave no details. I can cover it, sir, with some general information. If that’s what you want me to do.’
‘Cover it?’ The eyebrow was back in action.
‘I could say that there have been some random arson attacks and we think the punks are involved.’ Already she was realising this would contradict her advice to Aidan about keeping his eye on the main game and leaving peripheral offences to the regular policing system.
‘You could. Yes, Williams, you could do that. Tell him to look out for anyone with a special interest in matches.’ Macready stood up. ‘Though on second thoughts, it would be better for Latham to provide him with that advice. And please be assured that everything about this inquiry has my personal supervision, by agreement with your chief superintendent. Silvera’s colleagues are to be informed that he has been transferred again, to assist with a special inquiry at Notting Hill. Latham will maintain daily contact with him while he is undercover. Does that address all your concerns?’
No, sir, she thought. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
20
Still in her jeans, Briony laid out her new clothes on the bed, intending to put them on just before she went out. Since she wasn’t due to meet Gareth till ten, she’d left her packing for the morning. Better to do it all in one hit, rather than risk leaving those last minute essentials behind — like the toothbrush
and the hairbrush and the moisturiser. And of course, mustn’t forget her pills. That would be a truly daft thing to do, mid-cycle. She was heading for the bathroom to collect all this when the phone rang. Gareth? Surely he would be on the train by now. What if he’d missed it? She dived for the phone.
‘Sorry. I know you’re on holiday, strictly speaking.’
‘I’m about to leave. Literally, Steve. I’ve got a train to meet.’
‘Aha! Who’s on the train, Briony — that’s the thing. Gareth, is it?’
The two men had met in Oxford a couple of years ago, when the early stages of her relationship with Gareth got wired into the investigation of an especially nasty case. Macready had brought Steve into that one, too, because of his ‘particular qualifications’, which of course licensed him to pass an expert opinion on Gareth. She remembered it word for word: ‘A permanent amateur, Briony. Nice, but fuzzy round the edges. You’ll get bored with him.’
So far that had been proved wrong on every count.
‘Yes,’ she sighed into the receiver, ‘Gareth. I’ll be away for a couple of weeks, Steve. I’ll phone you when I get back, to see how things are going. Aidan starts at the weekend, is that right?’
‘Yes. We’ve got Jimmy Chapman to fix him up with some accommodation and equipment. But that’s not why I called you. Look, I’m sorry this is rather last-minute, but I only just heard you’d brought your holiday plans forward. While you’re away from your flat, we think it’s best if you leave a spare key with us.’