by Jane Goodall
‘Logan?’ The voice came through a lot of crackling on the line.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Logan’s not here at the moment.’
‘Who is this I’m speaking with?’ The caller had an American accent.
‘My name’s Sharon. I’m a friend of his.’
There was a distinctly suspicious tone to the reply. ‘You sure Logan’s not there with you, ma’am?’
‘I’m perfectly sure.’
‘Well, ma’am, you tell Logan that Rex needs to talk to him. Like, yesterday. Tell him if he’s too busy in the bedroom to answer my calls, I’ll cut him loose. He was due to file copy forty-eight hours ago and the issue’s gone to press without it. If he misses another deadline, that’s it. Vamoose. Get the idea?’
‘Logan’s not in bed,’ Sharon said. ‘And neither am I. As a matter of fact I’m looking for him.’
‘Well, honey, that makes two of us. I’m sorry if I got you wrong. You his regular girlfriend?’
Possible responses flashed through Sharon’s mind. ‘Yeah.’
‘And you got no idea where he is? Okay.’ There was an audible sigh. ‘But if you see him, make sure you tell him to call me. Rex.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘All right honey. Good luck to you.’
As Sharon put the phone down, there was an explosion of giggles.
‘What was that about?’ Annie asked.
‘His boss, probably. Seemed to think I was in bed with Logan.’ Sharon started giggling as well but she overdid it, finding herself almost hysterical with the mix of reactions she was experiencing.
‘Come on,’ said Flo. ‘Better get out of here. You’ll get me in trouble.’
*
Aidan laid out the evidence bags on the table in his room. There were eighteen of them, containing samples of the stuff on the floor and the bench of the workshop: loose pages with sketches or handwriting on them, sections of adhesive tape used to capture fibres and particles from the various surfaces, flakes of paint, a length of the red twine. Leave the forensics to the socos — that’s what Fletcher said. So why was he bothering to do all this?
Same as always, wasn’t it? You did what needed to be done in the hopes that some part of the system would work right. When it did, that usually meant it by-passed the mainman. Aidan stashed the bags in the lining of his jacket. He had decided to deliver them to Jimmy tomorrow morning, since Jimmy might be able to help get the message across that this was an urgent job. He would understand that it needed to be moved along. No senior officer with a pack of obligations to a lot of other senior officers would get an opportunity to obstruct the process.
Trouble with the top ranks in the Met was that too many of them had their eyes on each other, instead of on the ball. Macready was a notable exception. He had an eye for the other good players on the field, regardless of their rank. Aidan decided he owed Macready one, for being the only bigman he’d come across who saw what he had to offer as a detective.
Well, this case had the look of destiny: it was set to be the beginning and end of his brilliant career. The real botheration wasn’t doing the detective work, it was dealing with Babylon. And now he’d had enough of that. If he had to break the rules to break the case, that would be dead righteous. He picked up the phone to ring Keisha.
40
Briony returned to Lucan Place in the late afternoon, feeling seasick from the alternation of mental pictures: Macready in his green hospital pyjamas, Tremlay’s face floating in mid-air during the prison interview, the smiling face of the nurse announcing, ‘It’s positive!’
Positive. Strange word to use. Of course, the nurse was talking about evidence: she was a professional in receipt of positive evidence, and by the expression on her face you’d have thought this was something she was really pleased about. If only she and Briony could have exchanged places — they might both have been better equipped for their roles. But being pregnant wasn’t a role, was it? Not something you could swap with someone else. She took the two leaflets out of her bag, placed them side by side on the desk in front of her, and stared at them. She couldn’t read them now, couldn’t think about this now — not when the Walker’s face kept looming up in her mind’s eye. She swept them into the drawer and, elbows on the desk, covered her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying to see nothing and think nothing.
Ten minutes later she was knocking on Fletcher’s door, prepared for a confrontation. What she had not anticipated was something much harder to deal with — a reception of kindness and quiet attention. He talked about Macready, explained funeral arrangements, enquired with careful tact about her family circumstances. At one point she was even on the verge of telling him what she’d learnt this morning at the Chelsea and West clinic, but instead she started talking about Aidan, rehashing her concerns that he hadn’t been properly briefed about the case when he was first sent out.
Fletcher listened, taking an occasional note with a sharpened pencil, then laced his hands together on the desk in front of him — a signal she’d learnt to read all too clearly. Dialogue closed.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I talked to Aidan yesterday evening and I’m keeping a very close eye on what he gets himself into. I have to say that when I spoke to him, I had some concerns. He’s disaffected, Briony, and that crazy environment down there’s just the thing to provoke him. He’s not a man I’d have chosen for that assignment myself, and I don’t think he’s coping too well with it. He made a fuss about some samples he left for the lab, so I checked up on those with Pavan. He’s not impressed. Says they’re complete rubbish, a waste of his time. Two plastic bags stuffed full of graveyard mud — completely unnecessary quantities of the stuff —traces of human remains, of course, but nothing recent and nothing outside what you’d expect for the location. He says a properly trained officer should have a better idea of what to sample and how much. As you know, Aidan had a few question marks over him when he was transferred from Notting Hill and I think we’re going to have to be much more circumspect about giving him any special responsibilities.’
‘Does that mean you’re going to pull him out, sir?’
Fletcher paused, reached for a folder from the pile at the side of his desk and opened it. ‘I’ve talked to the DAC again this morning, and yes — that is something we discussed. Maybe it will help if I explain our thinking. The people at risk from now on are yourself, DCI Latham — and Aidan, by virtue of his assignment. We have no reason to believe that anyone else is in any immediate danger.’
‘But — ’
He held up a hand. ‘Let me finish, will you? I understand your emotional investment in this case, Briony. I understand that you’re distressed about it, but I can’t allow that to influence the way we proceed. Chalmers and I are both satisfied that the investigation is on track. The forensics are in good hands — Pavan and his team couldn’t have been more thorough up at Macready’s house. They’ve practically taken the place apart. We’ve got several dozen police on local enquiries and dozens more working in the area around your flat and Steve Latham’s residence. But our first priority is to prevent any further attacks — on you or Latham, or anyone who risks becoming a target. So we’re intending to proceed discreetly. There’s no blinding rush. As you know, we weren’t expecting you at work today. I’d like you to go back to your hotel and rest. We’re organising some better accommodation for you in one of the flats over in Lambeth. They’re just completing the security arrangements and it should be ready for you to move in early next week. In the meantime, if you or Leonie see anything suspicious at or around the hotel, you’re to contact me personally.’
‘Leonie?’
‘She’ll be staying at the hotel, in the room next to you.’
Great, thought Briony. No privacy anywhere. Feeling hot and confused, she went and sat in her office, trying to collect her thoughts. Denis’s unmistakable ratatat on the door came as a welcome relief.
‘The desk sergeant told me you were here,’ he said, taking a
seat. ‘We weren’t expecting you back so soon after — ’
‘So I’ve been told. Supposed to make myself scarce till a decent interval of time has passed, Denis. The recently bereaved are never a pretty sight, are they?’
He shut the door after him and sat down. ‘You know it’s not like that. We’re all pretty shook up about it, as a matter of fact. When’s the funeral?’
‘Monday morning.’
‘Well. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ She managed a smile. ‘Catch the bastard who got Macready. Failing that, tell me something to distract me. My mind’s going round in circles. Wasn’t one of your children having a birthday? How was the party?’
He snorted. ‘Horrendous. We’re still trying to get the cake out of the carpet. I don’t know who came up with the idea of birthday cake, specially that stuff with all the white cream in it.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, ma’am? They told me you were at the hospital when he died. Terrible thing, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Denis, it is. You feel so useless. That’s the worst of it. Fletcher thinks I should be resting but that’s the last thing I want to do. And since I can’t seem to make conversation about children’s birthday parties, haven’t you got a nice normal crime you could tell me about?’
‘No,’ he said cheerily. ‘But do you want to hear the latest about the Battersea foot?’
‘Actually I do. You were going to help them with the local enquiries. So what’s new?’
‘Turns out he had an errand down this way, at the Chelsea art college. Didn’t amount to anything from the point of view of the case, but I got a bit of a surprise out of it.’
‘Tell.’
‘Well you know they have recreation classes in the prison? Basket weaving and that. Seems Lenny went to the art classes and he paid a visit to the art teacher, Ewan Sherringham, whose regular job is at the Chelsea college. So I go down there — Monday afternoon, this is — and they tell me Mr Sherringham’s in a class. Anyway, they give me the room number and the secretary — nice woman — an older lady, you know — tells me don’t worry about interrupting him. It’s only a studio class, so basically the students are all just getting on with their work. So I go up there to the studio — door’s wide open — and the first thing I see is a woman standing there completely starkers. Turns out it’s a life drawing class.’
Denis was overcome with the comedy of it, and that was infectious.
‘I suppose you never know what thrills you’re going to have next on this job, do you, Denis? But what’s that got to do with the Battersea foot?’
‘Not much, unfortunately.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘I sent in my report and I was told there were no more follow-ups.’
‘Just a minute. Let’s just get this sorted, shall we?’ Briony reached for a pencil. ‘You talked to Ewan Sherringham, I assume. What did he have to say?’
Denis shrugged. ‘Just that Lenny came to collect a piece of his artwork. Sculpture. Apparently they’re not allowed to keep bulky items in their cells, and they don’t have any storage facilities for the art classes, so if somebody makes a thing they really want to keep, Sherringham hangs on to it for them and they can collect it from him when they get out.’
Briony was already making notes. ‘So he came to collect a bulky item. What exactly?’
‘Just some piece of sculpture.’
‘I said what exactly, Denis. Didn’t you ask?’
‘Not specifically. I saw the shelf where he keeps the stuff from Brixton. There’s dozens of parcels, all wrapped in newspaper with the prisoner’s name written on them in black texta.’
Briony smacked the pencil down. ‘Never mind. I need to talk to him myself.’
‘I don’t think Cl will appreciate it if you step on their turf, ma’am.’
‘You said they weren’t interested in that particular piece of turf. But I am.’
*
Ewan Sherringham reminded Briony of the art teachers she had at school: faded and forty with wiry hair, and cord trousers bearing forensic traces of everything they’d done in the past two years. They found him in his office, a little cubicle so crammed with papers and boxes there wasn’t enough room for more than one visitor.
‘We’d better go up to my studio,’ he said. He led the way, carrying a large bunch of keys.
‘No classes this morning?’ asked Denis.
‘Term’s finished.’
‘Then how come — ’
‘How come you walked into a life drawing class on Wednesday afternoon? Third years. It’s part of their final assessment.’ Sherringham bounced the keys in his hand. ‘Part they all hate most, unfortunately.’
‘Really?’ Denis chortled. ‘Can’t see why.’
I can,’ said Sherringham dryly. ‘In my job, the thing you have to realise is that the kids who come to art school these days aren’t interested in art. They’re here because it gives them an image. Drawing’s just too conservative for them, especially life drawing. They’re not interested in art, and they’re not interested in life.’ The last words were punctuated by his emphatic tread on the stairs.
‘Then what are they interested in?’
‘Image.’ Sherringham stuck his keys in the first door they came to on the upper level. ‘Mind where you tread,’ he said, ‘and I hope you’re not wearing anything too precious. I do my plaster work in here.’
Briony walked in first and found herself surrounded by strange white shapes and textures. The floor was smothered in plaster dust, laced with trails of dried plaster of Paris that cracked under foot. The space in the centre of the studio was occupied by dozens of sculptured heads and bodies in various stages of completion and the walls at either end were lined with shelves neatly stacked with rows of faces, hands, feet, torsos. The newspaper parcels were clearly visible on the top two shelves.
‘Is this your work?’ she asked, noticing the fine details of a woman’s head mounted on a glass pillar over by the window.
He made a sweeping gesture. ‘All of it is, pretty well. I told you, students aren’t into this sort of thing any more.’
Denis took out his handkerchief and dusted off the seat of a wooden chair before sitting on it. ‘Is that why you like teaching in the prison?’
‘Did I say I liked it? I don’t remember that.’ An ironic smile crept over Sherringham’s face. ‘But yes, I suppose I do quite like it. I sometimes wish I could switch the location of my students — some of the men in there would make a darn sight better use of an art college place than a lot of the boys and girls I have to deal with here — and some of them ought to be locked up.’
‘Is that right? What are they up to?’
‘Well — their clothes are a crime, to start with. That and their hair. And their faces. A bad influence on ordinary decent gangsters like Dignall.’
‘What sort of bad influence?’ Briony asked. ‘On his looks, you mean?’
‘Yeah. When he came to see me he’d already punked up his hair and covered himself in lavatory chain — on the very day he got out.’
She laughed. ‘So who might have given him that inspiration, do you think?’
‘No idea. They’re all breaking out in that paraphernalia.’ While Denis continued the questioning about the students and the local scene, Briony inspected the rows of chalky white body parts. She decided to go straight for the leading question. ‘What exactly was it that Lenny Dignall came here for?’
‘A life cast.’
‘A life cast? What’s that?’
Sherringham turned and picked up one of the plaster faces from the shelf behind him. ‘This is made from a life cast. The cast itself is the negative, a mould taken from the features of a living person. Once you’ve got the negative, you can fill it with plaster and turn out a perfect replica of that person’s features, see?’
Briony looked at Denis. ‘So whose ugly mug did Lenny want to reproduce?’ he asked.
&n
bsp; ‘I don’t remember.’
‘But how could you forget?’ Briony shot back. ‘If you had his face sitting on your shelf all that time.’
‘I had the cast. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but a concave face is not all that easy to identify. And anyway it was kept wrapped. I’d forgotten all about it as a matter of fact, until Len turned up.’
That’s too many reasons, thought Briony. He’s not coming clean. Bring out the teacher in him, that should get him talking. ‘So let’s say I want to make a life cast of you. What exactly do I have to do?’
Sherringham went over to a table by the window, where a mass of bottles, tins and jars were assembled. He picked up a tin, prised off the lid and held the powdery contents under Briony’s nose.
‘Smells of peppermint,’ she said.
‘This is alginate.’ Sherringham spooned some into a glass, then added water to make a gelatinous runny consistency. ‘Essentially, you spread this over the face.’ He poured a small amount of it into Briony’s left hand and briskly smoothed it over the palm with his fingers. ‘You’ll notice it’s very quick-drying — ninety seconds, on average — and there’s chemicals you can use for slowing that down, so with a face mask you can get a good result on all the details. But for now we might as well take advantage of the speed.’
The mixture was already transforming itself so it felt like a soft rubber glove. ‘Now hold still,’ he instructed, grabbing another tin and shaking white powder into a mixing bowl. He whisked some water into that, then began cutting strips from a roll of gauze bandage. ‘Here, you’ve still got your right hand free, so you can do the next bit yourself. You take a piece of the gauze, dip it in the bowl here, so it gets nice and tacky — that’s right. Now press it lightly over the alginate mould on your hand. Good! Next one.’
When the plaster strips had formed an even layer across the inside of her hand, he told her to stretch and flex her palm so the whole thing loosened. He pulled it away, turned it upside down and showed her.
‘There, you see. Perfect palm print.’