by Jane Goodall
‘Would you mind showing him the picture on the back?’ Steve said.
The warder positioned himself right in front of the prisoner and held the image up. Unable to see Tremlay’s face, Briony found herself staring at his feet. One ankle looked quite badly twisted and she thought she detected a twitch, but apart from that, they might have been sharing the room with a waxwork. The warder returned the magazine to Steve and sat down.
Steve carried on. ‘Seems you’ve got a fan club of some kind, so naturally we’ve been wondering where the inspiration came from.’ He flicked through the pages of Yeller as if he was studying them anew. ‘They’re a colourful bunch, this. Bit of art, bit of philosophy, lots of costume and make-up. They seem to have got the idea they’re going to change the world. Take up where you left off.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘I was wondering how you’d feel about that — given you can’t do much yourself while you’re stuck in here.’ Another pause. ‘What do you think of this, for example?
Down in the dark satanic mills
Where the wheels keep turning over iron grilles
Don’t look now
You’ll never see how
London’s invisible machinery kills.’
He shut the magazine and looked directly at Tremlay. ‘Crap, eh? Bit of Blake, touch of Dickens and a load of old baloney. Are you happy about this lot taking your name in vain? Not to mention your image.’
Briony’s eye caught another twitch in the ankle. Steve let the silence grow for a minute, then picked up his chair and moved it to the other side of the desk, about a yard away from Tremlay’s. The warder started up as if he was going to intervene, then thought better of it and sat forward, alert for any move.
‘You see,’ Steve said. ‘I think we could probably put a stop to this quite easily if we had some cooperation from the right quarters. I’d say we could stamp it out. It’s just that one thing puzzles me.’ He paused again. ‘What’s puzzling me — and my colleague here, Briony Williams. I’m sure you remember Briony, don’t you, Max? What we’ve been unable to figure out is how this bunch of scumbags got hold of your photograph. Can you help us with that?’
Briony was used to the silence technique, which was a favourite of Macready’s. But this felt like the longest silence she’d ever experienced. Steve stayed where he was, his eyes fixed on Tremlay. The warder was in agonies at the back of the room, suppressing a succession of coughs and fidgets. And in her own eyes, the face of the waxwork seemed to become airborne again, staring at her from some deep void.
At last, Steve said quietly. ‘That’s disappointing. Ah well, Max. Better let you get back to whatever you’ve got to get back to.’
Tremlay was escorted out and as the door closed behind him Steve gave an expansive mock sigh. ‘At least we tried,’ he said, pulling out his cigarette packet. ‘So what’s your take on it, Briony? Not like you to stay out of play like that.’
‘I dunno.’ Briony was still staring at the empty chair. ‘It wasn’t what I expected.’
‘The silence, you mean?’ Steve exchanged glances with the warder, offering him a cigarette. ‘You were warned about that.’
‘Of course I expected the silence,’ she shot back. ‘It’s just he seemed so completely ... evacuated, somehow.’
Steve gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Well — don’t you remember that theory they were running in the tabloids? The Walker’s a spirit on the move, between one host personality and the next. Maybe he’s moved on.’
‘That’s a dangerous idea. It only needs the wrong person to take it too seriously and you could get exactly the situation we’re facing now.’
‘So you think Tremlay’s got nothing to do with it?’
Briony was genuinely puzzled. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’
There was silence for a few seconds, then the warder said, ‘Would you mind if I had a look at the magazine again?’ He took it from Steve and turned through the pages. ‘We had one of these in here before. Not with the same picture on the back — we’d have picked up on that, obviously. But it was the same magazine. One of the men was reading it during some recreational activity and it was confiscated. Do you want me to see if I can find it?’
He was gone for a good twenty minutes, but returned with a cellophane bag containing some yellow paper. ‘Here you are. Yeller. That’s it, isn’t it?’ He read the tag. ‘Confiscated 24th of May this year during an art class. Property of prisoner number 582, Patrick Mullighan, but the man who was actually reading it was Lenny Dignall.’
A penny dropped very noisily in Briony’s mind and she gave herself a hard smack on the side of the head.
‘Ow!’ said Steve. ‘I could feel that from here. What’s up?’
‘There’s another case involving Dignall. I’ll tell you about it in the car.’ She turned back to the warder. ‘Any idea who brought the thing into Brixton in the first place? Can we talk to Mullighan?’
‘He’s been transferred to Pentonville. We’re overcrowded here and he’s classified low risk.’
‘Do you know if he had visitors while he was here?’
‘Two, on a regular basis. His mother’s a bit do-lally, if you know what I mean, and his brother usually came with her on visits. My best guess would be that it’s him brought the literature.’
‘Mind if we take this with us?’ asked Steve, holding up the magazine.
On the way back to Lucan Place, Briony filled Steve in on Lenny Dignall.
‘“The Case of the Battersea Foot”,’ he said, ‘I like it. Has a sort of Sherlock Holmes ring to it. So where are they at with the investigation?’
‘As if I’d know, Steve. C1 don’t report to me. Denis was supposed to be helping them with BD follow-ups, so we could ask if they’ve sent him on any errands.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘But there’s more to this than meets the eye, isn’t there? What have you done to deserve that smack on the head you gave yourself?’
‘I should have put two and two together before now. It’s been staring me in the face. According to the coroner’s report, the Battersea foot — well, the lower leg, actually — is charred. They thought it might have been some kind of misfired cremation, so I sent Denis and Aidan on the runaround looking at incinerators. Then Pavan said it could be spontaneous combustion.’
Steve guffawed. ‘He said what?’
‘Spontaneous combustion. He was dead serious. But anyway, I should have connected it up with this fire-show thing, shouldn’t I? Pyromaniacs and burnt body parts — there just has to be a connection.’
‘Not necessarily.’ But as they turned into Lucan Place, he said, ‘Look, I suppose you’re about to get hot on the trail of the Battersea foot, so just a bit of strategic advice. Let’s follow the lead our end first and see where it takes us. We might progress a bit faster that way.’
‘Agreed. But I can’t just sit on the evidence of what could be a vital connection between the cases.’
‘Of course not. What you do is cover yourself by reporting it to Fletcher, and rely on him to leave it on the back burner. Trust me, he will.’
It was good advice, she had to admit. Briony got out, leaving Steve to drive back to Paddington Green. She walked into the station trying to sort out what she needed to report to Fletcher from the morning’s confusing trawl of information.
But things weren’t as she expected in that quarter, either. Fletcher’s greeting was oddly subdued. He listened passively to her account of the session with Tremlay, giving only a token nod when she suggested that someone ought to follow up on the question of how a copy of Yeller had got into Brixton, and why it had ended up in the hands of Lenny Dignall.
‘Thank you. Is there anything else you want to discuss?’
‘Aidan Silvera, sir.’ She was aware she needed to choose her words carefully. ‘I’ve heard he needs more background — to help him pick up on the right leads — and I thought — ’
Fletcher cut her off. ‘You’ve been talking to Jimmy Chapman.’ She blush
ed. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’
‘Given the changed circumstances, I’m taking over Aidan’s supervision myself.’
‘Changed circumstances?’ That was when she twigged. He was holding off on some bad news.
When he picked up the phone and asked for tea to be brought in, she knew it for certain and what it must be about. But sitting there with her mouth dry and taut, she found she couldn’t ask. So they waited for the tea to arrive, staring out of the window at the sun on the houses opposite.
‘I’ve had a phone call from the hospital,’ he said at last. ‘I know you had a close working relationship with the commander when you were on his team at Vine Street ... so I thought you’d want to be kept informed of his condition.’ There was a pause. ‘Commander Macready’s had complications. He’s suffered a collapse of the lung — medical condition known as tension pneumothorax — and it’s serious. To be straight with you, Briony, he’s not expected to — ’
Briony replaced her cup on its saucer with excessive care, then found herself standing up. ‘Thanks. Thank you, sir.’
She left the room, marched down the corridor and straight through the front door. Voices were raised behind her and someone caught her arm. Leonie.
‘Excuse me, ma’am, but I’ve been asked to — ’
Briony rounded on her. ‘I know exactly what you’ve been asked to do, DC Hendricks. I’m going to the hospital and I don’t want any minders of any description trailing after me. Is that understood?’
34
The hours passed. Briony sat in the waiting room for much of the time, taking an occasional trip down to the cafeteria for a change of scene and a mug of tea that she left to go cold. When she saw staff looking at her and exchanging glances, she buried her head in a magazine. Not that she could read anything. She stared blankly at the dog-eared glossy pages with their endless parade of women in kooky caps and boots. Some time in the afternoon she saw Chalmers walk through in earnest discussion with a doctor and was relieved that he didn’t look in her direction.
When Steve turned up she was glad to see him.
‘What have you heard?’ she asked.
‘Nothing much. I only just found out. Been trying to get another hotel room because Pavan won’t let me back in my flat. He should be here any minute. Gathering of the clans.’
‘What about Macready’s family? He must have some relatives.’
‘Well, he’s always been cagey about his personal life but I know there was a divorce about ten years ago. And he has a son who works for Oxfam. Macready’s secretary has been trying to contact him, but he’s in India and I gather the communication lines aren’t very good.’
She looked over towards the desk, where things seemed to have gone quiet for a while and the attendant was engaged in paperwork.
‘You know, I was thinking. This collapse of Macready’s must have happened while we were at Brixton, sitting in the same room as the Walker.’
‘Don’t think about it, Briony. Just don’t think about it. Anyway, Macready’s tough as old boots. Concentrate on that thought instead.’
‘Do you know anything about this condition? What’s it called? Tension something-or-other.’
‘Tension pneumothorax. Here’s the person to ask — Pavan.’
Pavan moved one of the yellow plastic armchairs so it faced them, creating a small enclave in the corner of the waiting room. He arranged his long legs in the ridiculously low seat and made a face. ‘Who designs these chairs? The human body was never meant to be positioned at such angles. And you know what happens to that stuff in a fire.’ He pointed to the mustard-coloured foam bulging out through a slit in the edge of Steve’s chair.
‘We’re hoping you can tell us about tension pneumothorax,’ said Briony.
He leant over, opened his briefcase and took out a large white envelope, which he laid on his knees. ‘It’s probably best if I explain in relation to these. I’ve been studying Macready’s x-rays. These are the ones taken when he was first admitted, so they don’t show the current state of his lung, but my responsibility is to identify the nature of the injuries.’
Steve cut him short. ‘What’s the weapon, then?’
‘I can tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t a knife, or any other weapon with a blade. The wounds are punctures.’
‘Stiletto?’ Steve was reaching for the envelope, but Pavan kept it firmly under his hand.
‘I think not. My best conjecture, on the basis of what I can see here — ’ He tapped the envelope. ‘Is a skewer of some kind. Possibly a meat skewer, though most meat skewers are shorter and thicker than the instrument we’re looking for. I’m more inclined to think ...’ He drew out two x-ray plates and handed one to Steve and one to Briony. ‘That’s a front view, through the chest,’ he said to Steve. And to Briony, ‘That’s the back view.’
She studied the image in front of her, then looked over at the one Steve was holding. ‘There are two chest wounds,’ she said. ‘As well as the one in the throat. Three altogether. I thought he’d been stabbed twice. That’s what he reported, isn’t it?’
‘Exactly,’ said Pavan. ‘The second thrust has gone right through the lung, creating an exit wound on the lung tissue. The rib here has prevented the instrument from coming out on the other side of the body. I’m inclined to think that the weapon in question is a bicycle spoke. My guess is that this second wound wasn’t spotted when Macready was originally assessed by the medical team. It’s lower down, and quite tiny, but may have opened since. It’s in a particularly dangerous spot, anatomically speaking. A tension pneumothorax can occur when air is trapped in or around the lung, which in some cases can also affect the working of the heart. When that happens it’s a critical condition.’
Staring at the black and white forms on the plate, Briony felt a wave of nausea rising, tingling at the back of her neck, then swooping down into her stomach. She turned her face and looked out of the window, breathing steadily and willing herself back into control.
Pavan gathered up the x-ray plates and got to his feet. ‘Macready’s in good hands. I know Albrecht a little from my time in Cambridge. He’s the leading consultant surgeon in the field — supposed to have been called back from a conference in Paris this morning. It’s possible he’ll be willing to talk to me. I’ll go and try my luck.’
Steve and Briony sat in silence for a few minutes until Steve said, ‘I feel completely useless, you know. Like a spare prick at a wedding.’
‘That’s a strange choice of metaphor.’
‘You know what I mean. You plough on in your work, assuming you’re doing something useful — vital, even — then you find yourself in a situation like this and you wish you’d spent your life training for something completely different. It’s all in their hands now, isn’t it? The white coat brigade. I could wish I was in there myself with the scalpel. Making the life-saving cut.’
‘It’s not our calling, Steve.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Something Macready said to me when I went in to see him yesterday.’ She was about to try and explain but noticed some new activity around the desk on the other side of the room. Several nurses had converged and were talking to the receptionist. Then one of them — senior to the others, judging by the extra stiff and starchy way she carried herself — turned and looked at Briony directly. There was something terribly inevitable then about the way this woman crossed the room, took the chair Pavan had occupied and faced Steve and Briony.
‘You’re Commander Macready’s friends, is that right?’ She glanced at a notepad. ‘Briony Williams and Steven Latham? We’ve had a team in there doing everything possible.’ The nurse paused to take a breath, but Briony was unable to breathe at all as she heard the words that followed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.’
35
Sharon wasn’t used to eating curry because her lovely stepdad classified it as ‘foreign muck’. Actually she didn’t like it all that much, but she was hungry and hadn’t e
aten a hot meal for the best part of a week. Zig was a regular here, so the people in the restaurant were quite friendly to them and let them in before opening time while they were having their own family meal. The restaurant looked as if it was also their sitting room, with a little television up at the end near the kitchen and a settee on which two small children sat staring at the screen. It was funny being in the same room as a normal family again.
This was the first time she and Zig had talked to each other since the concert, because they’d spent last night partying at the Cloisters and most of today sleeping off the effects of the stuff they’d taken. In a way there was no point in talking, because it was perfectly obvious Sol hadn’t been part of the act yesterday — there was only Kaiser, Flak, Mr Ex and Rollo.
‘You didn’t tell me about Rollo,’ she said. ‘He must be a regular part of the act. That’s a slick routine they’ve got worked out.’
‘He’s been in it, couple of times, but he’s just an extra. Anybody could do what he does.’
‘Where does he hang out then? I haven’t seen him round the place.’
‘Maybe you have, but he just wasn’t done up like that.’
‘Could be.’ Sharon crunched on a poppadom. ‘But you know what my guess is? I think he’s Mr Ex. No — seriously. It fits. Mr Ex goes back down, out of sight. Then this bloke comes out from the crowd, all done up with the spikes and the specs. I could tell he was an insider from the way they were going about things on stage. And besides, Flak’s life depends on what that bloke does or doesn’t do in the act. He couldn’t use just anybody.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Zig.
‘You said you wanted me to notice things. Well I noticed one thing that’s got me puzzled. You know the last part of the act, where the dummy comes up? I was looking at how the pulley system works. Flak doesn’t need it when he drops down through the roof — he just drops — but what comes up again has to be attached to the pulley system.’