by Jane Goodall
‘I don’t think we can wait for Aidan to be lured out of the jungle, Pavan. We should get on to this today. There must be a caretaker, or someone like that, who could identify the location from the photos Aidan took. But what about this new set he’s collected in Lots Road?’
‘He’s described the place as a basement workshop. The samples are threads and fibres, plaster dust, pieces of rag and gauze impregnated with various substances. I can’t be more specific than that until we have the results of the lab analysis, but the one that will interest you most is a latex mask — rather a fine piece of work.’
‘Get that sent over here, will you? This workshop — it would be where the masks are made, is that right?’
‘That will be more evident from the photographs, which Jimmy’s developing today.’
Briony put the phone down and sat at her desk, resting her head on a hand. Search warrants for Mrs Mullighan’s flat and the basement in Lots Road, a soco team to Highgate. The case was ready to move into top gear now, and that wouldn’t happen unless she went all-out to get it revved up in the right places, but she felt suddenly drained. There was a knock on the door and Denis poked his head around.
‘No John Mullighan on the current factory payroll but he worked there up till April. Bit of a story.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘They caught him snooping around in one of the foremen’s offices, after hours. Turned out he had his own key, but they never found out how he got it.’
43
Sharon was realising that she’d become someone who knew too much. She’d heard that expression in films and on TV shows but had never thought about what it really meant — especially as people were always on at her about what she didn’t know. In the last few days, though, she’d been trying to avoid thinking about what she did know — or at least, avoid seeing how it all added up.
First, there was Logan. Someone had been spying on him, taking pictures. Then he’d gone up to Highgate to meet Johnny Mullighan. His raincoat was still in the tunnel out there and she had his notebook, but where was he? What really happened in the fire show? Second, there was what she’d seen on the television news. One of the police detectives on Deff Row had been murdered. And when she found the latest Deff Row page in Johnny Mullighan’s flat, it only had two faces on it. Which meant probably they really were on death row and somebody ought to warn them. The woman looked quite young and Sharon thought she had a nice face. Detective Briony Williams. Maybe she should find a way of letting this detective know what was happening?
Sharon had been walking the streets all morning, turning this stuff over and over, trying to work out what she should do. She’d followed the Embankment for miles, and now she stopped to sit on the wall and look at the pictures again.
It was as if someone had taken them from her dream. The fire and the chains and the looming faces were all done in black and white lines, but the vision they conjured up seemed to be inside her head, filling it with noise and colour. She recognised the scenes and the places, and also the lines of writing from William Blake. Did the whole idea of the fire show come from Blake?
She realised that she’d walked so far now along the river that she must be at least halfway to the Tate Gallery. She decided that was exactly where she was going. The holidays had started, so she was in no danger of running into school parties. All the same, it was a strange feeling going back inside: she’d walked in here three weeks ago in her school uniform, and walked out again as a different person.
This time there were quite a lot of people in the Blake room, and she hadn’t anticipated that. It was hard to concentrate when others were looking over your shoulder and Sharon moved quickly from one picture to the next, getting only a quick impression of the images. Parts of the fire show were echoed in them, but here they all belonged to different stories.
In the centre of the room was a glass case displaying some open books. Her attention was caught by a picture of a woman in chains, surrounded by tongues of fire. The picture from the scrapbook was a copy of that. Definitely.
Sharon looked at the uniformed official sitting in the corner. He was the same elderly man who’d spoken to her on her first visit. She remembered how nice he’d seemed, and summoned the courage to go over to him.
‘Can I have a look at one of the books in there?’ she asked. ‘I need to see what’s on the other pages.’
‘Which one?’ He got to his feet and went over with her. ‘Dante’s Inferno. You’ll need to go to the study room. They keep a copy in there. You a student, are you?’
‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘I’m at the Chelsea art college.’
He directed her to the clerk at the enquiry desk, who gave her a form to fill in and made a phone call. As she was completing the invented details of her name, address and place of study, a woman in a bright blue suit appeared, clipping across the floor in high-heeled shoes. She took the form and, without smiling or even looking at Sharon, said, ‘Come with me.’
The study room was also full of people sitting at sloping desks on which large volumes were propped. They all wore white gloves, Sharon noticed, and when she was shown to a seat she was given a pair, too. Turning the pages in those things was tricky, especially when she was trying to position Sol’s drawings alongside the pictures. In exasperation, she took the glove off her left hand, since it was placed on the loose drawings and wasn’t even touching the book.
The woman in the blue suit had come from nowhere and was standing right next to her. ‘Please wear the gloves on both hands,’ she said. Then her attention focused on the loose page. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘It’s mine,’ said Sharon. ‘A friend of mine did it.’
The woman’s voice developed a hard edge. ‘I’ll have to ask you to empty your bag,’ she said, directing her to a table at the other end of the room.
The whole room fell into an unnatural silence as the woman took the scroll of drawings, then picked up the phone and asked for a security officer.
Two men arrived and escorted Sharon into a nearby office, where she was kept sitting around for nearly half an hour, while a succession of confused discussions went on over her head. She kept repeating that the drawings had been done by a friend of hers, but no one seemed to believe her. The woman from the study room said she was going to phone the police, but a younger woman who had come in from another room thought they ought to report it to the senior curator first, so somebody went to find him.
Apparently he wasn’t in his office and in the end the police — a man and a woman in uniform — turned up before he did.
At least they got a bit of order into the situation. The female police officer took her into a room on her own and asked for her name and address. Sharon used the false surname and address she’d put on the form earlier, and when she was asked her age, said confidently, ‘Eighteen.’
‘Would you like to phone your parents?’ asked the officer.
‘Why?’ said Sharon. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see about that. We may have to ask you to come down to the station and answer a few questions. Are you sure you wouldn’t like anyone with you?’
An idea occurred to Sharon. ‘No. But can I choose who I talk to at the police station?’
This suggestion seemed to amuse the policewoman. ‘Got friends there, have you?’
‘No. Just someone I need to talk to. Briony Williams. She’s a detective. Do you know her?’
‘DI Williams? I’ve heard of her. She’s in a different division. Chelsea, I think. What do you need to talk to her about?’
At that point they were interrupted by the other police officer, who came in holding Sharon’s bag. ‘All a false alarm, apparently,’ he said. ‘The senior curator’s had a look at the drawings and he’s quite happy to accept that they’re the property of the young lady here.’ He handed the bag to Sharon. ‘They’re very apologetic, miss. All a bit of a misunderstanding.’
Sharon stood up. ‘Could I ask you to do
me a favour?’
‘Depends,’ said the male officer nicely. ‘I daresay somebody round here owes you a favour.’
‘Give these to Detective Williams.’
44
Aidan turned into the King’s Road just downstream of the shop Mat number 430. Seeing people clustered round there, he parked the Vespa and walked towards them. Flak was in the centre of the group — doing all the talking, as usual — and the girl who’d worn the rubber corset was looking away from him, out across the street. She wasn’t wearing the corset today, though the string vest she had on revealed a shiny black bra underneath.
‘If I put it to the band,’ Flak was projecting his voice for the benefit of anyone passing, ‘I know exactly what they’ll say. They’ll say exactly nothing. Because it won’t appeal to them. A punk festival. What kind of a bollock-dead idea is that?’
He caught Aidan’s eye and stopped for a moment. No one else seemed to have anything to say, but Aidan could see that the girl in the petticoat was agitated, making tense little movements and biting her lip. As Flak started up again, she glanced at her watch then, as if on an impulse, set off across the road. It would be too obvious to follow her straightaway, but he watched where she went and figured she might well be going towards Lots Road, since she’d turned south at the Edith Grove intersection. He let another five minutes pass, keeping half an ear on Flak’s monologue, before returning to the bike and going in pursuit.
Entering Lots Road from the opposite end to the girl, he was in time to see her walking towards him. He dismounted strategically outside number 93 and stood there, letting her decide how she was going to deal with it. His guess was that she wouldn’t bolt. From the look of her, beating a retreat was not her style.
She kept on coming but got slower and slower, keeping her eyes fixed on his face, and when she reached him she gave him the once-over before speaking.
‘If you’re looking for the squat,’ she said, ‘it’s full. You’ll have to go somewhere else.’
‘I’m not lookin for the squat, I’m lookin for you. Got something I need to talk about.’
‘Oh yeah?’
He gestured towards the door with his thumb. ‘Matter of fact I been in there. I had a look around but I wouldn’t say it was the sort of accommodation I’d be fallin over myself to get a share of. I’m interested in another person that’s resident here.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s what I want to discuss with you.’
She folded her arms. ‘Where exactly were you thinking of having this discussion?’
‘Maybe inside. Maybe somewhere else, if you’d prefer it.’
‘Somewhere else. You can buy me a drink.’ She went up to the bike and smacked the saddle. ‘And since you got transport, you can give me a lift.’
Which pub? Aidan thought rapidly as he started up the engine and felt her hands meet firmly round his waist, her knees against his thighs. Not the Roebuck, or anywhere else that was a tribal meeting place. There were several small locals in the nearby streets, but among the regular customers they’d stand out too much. Better to go somewhere big enough for them to be lost in the crowd. He rode around to the World’s End Distillery, where he’d had a couple of meetings with the Doc.
‘Guinness,’ she ordered, leading the way inside. ‘And a cheese and onion roll.’
By the time he’d got the drinks there was only thirty minutes of lunchtime opening left, but since he’d already broached the topic he didn’t have to waste any time.
‘Are you the one that makes the masks?’ he asked. ‘Is that your workshop down in the basement?’
Keeping her eyes on him, Zig scooped foam from the top of her Guinness with a finger, and put it in her mouth. ‘Yeah.’
Aidan’s face broke into a wide grin and he clapped his hands together. ‘I like a girl can tell a barefaced lie.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘You know, I had a look in that basement, and I’d say the tenant down there is definitely male and quite possibly a danger to himself and other people.’
‘When?’ Zig was reacting like she’d been stung. ‘When did you go in there?’
He made a play of counting on his fingers. ‘Ooh, I’d say ... proximately one day ago. That would make it yesterday.’
‘You couldn’t have. It’s locked.’
He fished in the lining of his jacket for the metal pick and held it up, twirling it between his finger and thumb before he handed it to her. ‘Padlocks are dumb things, most of them. Hit em with a hammer, stick em with a pin and they just give up on the job. But you know, somebody else got in to that workshop quite recently and made a bad mess in there. Yellow paint all over the floor — splatter marks point to throwin rather than spillin. It in’t the kind of accident the regular tenant would have, because he’s careful when it comes to his packets and bottles. You noticed how they all is pushed to the back of the bench, lined up neat and tidy? I don’t think he’d want to mess that place up by throwing yellow paint around. I think somebody else threw it. Somebody that didn’t know what they were doing. And made it worse when they tried to clean up.’
Aidan saw that he’d hit on something she had strong feelings about and she was evidently waiting for him to finish, to see how much he knew. Unfortunately he also saw, through the window behind her, a car draw up in a hurry. Doc Latham’s car, but with two people in it. He tried to keep the focus. ‘Somebody threw the paint, and you got in the way. I seen you wearing the vest with the yellow cartoon splash.’
‘Nick!’ Dr Steve Latham was standing right there beside him, a bit breathless. He coughed into his fist.
The girl took one look at the newcomer and her face clouded over with suspicion. ‘Is this some kind of a set-up?’ She gathered her bag and flounced out.
‘Sorry,’ said Steve, taking Zig’s seat. ‘Things are getting urgent, Nick. No time for chatting up the girls.’
Aidan’s first impulse was to make a rude exit himself but something about the Doc’s manner told him that the urgency was real.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Latham. ‘You’ve no idea what I’ve been through the last few days.’
‘Maybe I have. I heard about Macready.’
Steve nodded, staring at Aidan’s half empty Guinness glass. ‘Would you mind getting that out from under my nose? I’m on the wagon and it’s driving me nuts.’
Aidan took the glass over to the bar and returned with a couple of bottles of Coke. ‘I was told I’m reporting to Fletcher,’ he said. ‘So what’s this about?’
‘We’ve reason to believe that your forensic samples have been interfered with.’
‘Really? Funny that. I got reason to believe nobody’s botherin to even look at them.’
‘Cut the cynicism for a minute. What was actually in those samples? We’re talking about the first set, taken in Highgate.’
‘Well,’ Aidan leant back in his seat and looked at the ceiling. ‘They should have included a dead crow with a bullet in it, but I drew the line at that. Otherwise — leftovers from the fireshow. Burnt rags, ash, broken chain, blood capsules, some discoloured earth — ’
‘How many bags?’
‘Eleven.’
‘And you left them locked up in your room?’
‘No, Doc. I like to hang loose, you know. Why should I care about protecting the evidence? I tell you what. I think I’ll just leave you to have a nice whisky before closing time. I got things to do.’ He stood up.
‘Wait!’ ordered Steve. But Aidan was already on his way out. Steve grabbed him by the arm and steered him towards the car. ‘We have to get this sorted,’ he said, flinging the door open and practically shoving Aidan into the back seat.
‘You should take up kidnappin, you know that?’ Aidan rubbed his arm where the fingers had dug into the flesh. ‘Where we going?’
‘Jimmy Chapman’s,’ Steve said to the driver.
*
Aidan saluted Jimmy as they went in.
‘If they’d just call you Detective Supe
rintendent Jimmy, it would be all cook and curry, man. All pots boilin.’ He gestured at Steve with his thumb. ‘I’ve had enough of these facety bastards.’
Steve gave him a shove. ‘Just get in there,’ he said.
Once they were seated round the table, Steve tried to take over again. ‘Worst case scenario,’ he said, ‘is that someone has penetrated your cover. This changes everything. It means we have to pull you out. It’s more than my job’s worth to let you carry on the way you are.’
‘Ah,’ Aidan responded slowly. ‘But it in’t your job, is it, Doc? Not any more. I’m Fletcher’s problem.’
‘It’s my job to report it to him.’
‘Maybe you’d like to deliver my resignation at the same time.’ Aidan threw his keys on the table. ‘Thanks for the temporary accommodation. I’ll find me a squat somewhere.’
There was a stretch of hard-edged silence before Jimmy spoke. ‘Tell you what. Why don’t we go and look at those photos from 93 Lots Road? They’re a bit of an interest you two might have in common.’
In the dark room the prints were pinned up over the sink and lined along the bench, a gallery of faces whose strange leers seemed to broaden under the infrared light.
‘To think,’ said Jimmy, ‘one of these is what Macready saw. Means we’re getting pretty close. Doesn’t seem like the time to jack it in, somehow. But I don’t reckon you got any intention of jacking it in, do you, Aidan? What’s bothering me is the suspicion you fancy your chances of catching the bastard on your own. Or bastards.’
Aidan stared at the row of faces and said nothing.
‘Look.’ Steve had his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up. ‘We can probably work something out, but the bottom line is you can’t go it alone. And you can’t stay in that room. Dropping the undercover game doesn’t have to mean being out of the case. I’m hoping we can get a soco team out to Highgate later today and you ought to be with them, to show them what to look for and where.’
‘I got other things on this afternoon.’