by Mo Hayder
“Have we met?”
“No. I was interviewed by one of your men. He gave me your name.”
“And you are?”
“Name's Gummer. I'm, uh—” He looked over his shoulder. “I've got some things I'd like to say about the Peach case.”
“Uh.” Caffery didn't move for a moment. He supposed he should shake Gummer's hand but there was something about him that said Gummer was more interested in giving him a lecture on the allocation of man-hours than passing on any information. He looked like someone who had a theory. Or maybe he was a journalist giving him an act. “It might be easier if you made an appointment.”
“Maybe we could have …” He waved vaguely down the street in the direction of the shops. “I could buy you coffee. They wouldn't let me into the station—made me wait out in the sun.”
“They probably would rather you called first.”
“S'pose so.” Gummer began to tuck in his shirt, and now Caffery could see a slight stoop in his posture, as if he was afraid he had shown too much of himself, too much spirit in that brave, rash sprint across the tarmac.
Suddenly Caffery felt a little sorry for him. He dropped his hand from his wallet. “Look, what did you want to talk about?”
“I just said—the Peach family. You know. The ones in Donegal Crescent?” He crossed his hands over his chest and gave an odd little dip at the waist, as if his hands had been bound across his chest like a pharaoh's. “You know, the ones who got tied up.”
“Yes, surprisingly, I do know.”
“I've got a theory.”
Ah. I was right. I've got you sussed. “Look, Mr. Gummer, maybe an appointment would be better—do it officially.” He turned to go but Gummer stepped in front of him.
“No.”
“We can make an appointment now.”
“No—come and have coffee with me.”
“If it's so important, why don't you just tell me? Now.”
“I'd rather you had coffee with me.”
“I'd rather you made an appointment.”
“OK. OK.” Gummer dropped his eyes and stared at his graying, unlaced trainers, shifting from one foot to the other as if getting up his courage. His face was becoming red. “Has—um—has anyone said anything to you about a bogeyman? A troll?”
That got Caffery's interest. “Where've you heard that?”
“It was in the paper. A little boy got attacked by him in the park.”
“I see,” he said cautiously. “And when was this?”
“Long time ago. His name was Champaluang Keoduangdy.”
“Did you know him?”
“No. I read about it.”
“You remember his name? It's a difficult name to remember.”
“I learned it. I was living in Brixton then. It was the troll who did that, you know.”
His neck was red now, bright red. He seemed to be blushing all over.
“Is this what your kids have told you?”
“No, no. Not my kids …” He put his hands in his pockets and shuffled his feet a bit more. “I haven't—uh— I haven't got any.”
“Got any?”
“Any kids.”
“Then who told you about the troll?”
“The kids I teach—at the swimming pool. The little ones are always talking about it. And …” He looked up and met Caffery's eyes. “And I wondered what the police knew about it.”
“We're talking about kids' fantasy lives, aren't we? What's it got to do with the Peaches?”
“They're not stupid, children. If they talk about a troll in the woods, about a troll watching them in bed, maybe you should listen to them. Whoever it was attacked Champaluang wasn't a figment of someone's imagination.”
“That's true.” He put his hand under the ice cream, afraid it would drip. “Mr. Gummer, these children you teach, have any of them actually seen him? The troll? Have you heard any of them say they've seen him or been approached by him?”
“Just because they haven't doesn't mean you can dismiss it. You should be exploring every avenue.”
“That's what we're—”
“And something else,” Gummer interrupted, agitated now. “I read the Peaches were going on holiday—is that true?”
“If you read it then it must be true.”
“Well, then,” he said, “maybe we should ask ourselves if that is relevant information.”
“I think it would have crossed the mind of any investigating officer. If he was doing his job. Wouldn't it?”
“If he was doing his job, yes …” Gummer met Caf-fery's eyes defiantly, leaving the sentence to hang there between them.
Caffery sighed. He was tiring of this jousting session out in the midday sun. “Look.” He held up the ice cream. “It's melting. I should go.”
Gummer shifted his weight from foot to foot and back again, the corduroys folding and pleating around his feet. “You police, you won't take any help—”
“I'm sorry.”
“You're all as bad as each other.” He rolled the carrier bag and its contents into a little ball. “You've all got your theories but anyone else comes along, you've got to be the kings of the castle, haven't you? Won't listen to anyone else.”
“Mr. Gummer, that's not true.”
“No wonder no one never reports anything to you.” He began to shuffle away. “No wonder—kings of the castle.”
Caffery stood in the hot sun and watched Gummer's shambolic progress across the tarmac. He waited until he had disappeared around the corner then sighed and turned back to the Jaguar.
Bela Nersessian was in the downstairs lobby waiting for the lift, breathing heavily. She was wearing a sequined low-necked sweater and tight black leggings, and had three bags of shopping gathered around her feet. Caffery had forgotten she was coming today.
“Bela,” he said.
“Afternoon, darling.” She held a hand out for the ice cream. “I'll take that and …” she nodded at the shopping “… if you wouldn't mind.”
“Go on, then.” He handed her the ice cream, picked up the shopping and they got into the lift, Bela clutching his arm for support. “I'm yours for as long as you want me— Annahid's gone to the cinema with her daddy.” When the doors closed she took a handkerchief from her goldchained handbag and mopped the back of her neck, plunged it into her sweater and dabbed her armpits, her cleavage. She smiled at Caffery. “Sorry, darling, just need to make myself presentable.”
Souness met them at the lift doors. She was worried by Caffery's drawn face. “Are ye all right, Jack?” she whispered as they led Bela into the SIOs' room. “Ye look like ye're going to throw up.”
“Yeah. I'll tell you later.” He took the ice cream through to Kryotos then joined Souness in the SIOs' room. Settled now, all attention on her, Mrs. Nersessian was in her element. She reached inside one of her bags and found a long packet of Dottato figs and two packets of Garibaldi biscuits.
“Good figs.” She peered at them, pressing a varnished nail into the soft flesh. “Yes, perfect. The fig is the poor man's food, Mr. Caffery, full of calcium, good for your bowels too—you have clean bowels, you have a clean mind, you can think straight. And you are going to need that, straight thinking, I hardly need remind you—here.” She spread the biscuits across the desk, smiling encouragingly at Caffery. “Come on, now—what's the matter with you that you're so thin? Your wife doesn't feed you?”
“Mrs. Nersessian—”
“Call me Bela, darling. I might be a mother but I'm not an old woman yet, and you, darling,” she leaned over and rested a hand on Souness's wrist, “darling, call me a busybody, but has your husband ever mentioned your weight? Not that I think there's anything wrong with it, some men like something to hold on to, don't they—”
“Bela,” Caffery interrupted, “we'd like to talk about Alek.”
“Ah.” She turned to him, gold jewelry jingling. “Now, there's another one needs to eat a bit more—you should see him. All he does all day is walk—all day
long wandering around the park. Poor man, poor man, what that fam-ily's had to endure.” She pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “God protect us all from what they've had to live through.” She dropped her hands and leaned over the food on the desk, scooping a plump fig into her mouth and chewing for a long time, smiling at Caffery over moving teeth. “ 'Course, if I was the police I'd have let them down a bit easier than you did. I'd have broken it to them more gentle. I'm not criticizing you, of course.”
“Bela, let's talk about Carmel. How's Carmel?”
“Your man's been round, talking to her, but she just stares at the wall.”
“We heard. Does she speak to you?”
“Only to Annahid.” She pressed another fig into her mouth and bent over, her face close to the fruit, inspecting them for the next candidate. “Cries a bit with Annahid, but maybe that's good.”
Souness shifted in her seat. “Bela, about Alek, he hasn't worked for a while, has he?”
She looked up as if Souness had suddenly leaned over and slapped her. “The man's grieving.” She stared at her, her mouth open. “He hasn't time to worry about work— he's just lost his son.”
“I think the chief inspector means before—”
“Before? Oh …” She patted the top of her lip where a line of sweat had started. “Oh, that. Well, he used to have a disco, see, a mobile disco, and, oh, he loves his records and America—he loves America, dreams he's going to live there, thinks he looks like Presley with all that black hair of his. The biggest dream of his life was to take Rory to Graceland. Of course, you can understand all the fuss, you can understand why the family never approved of him marrying Carmel in the first place, but I never held anything against him. Nor Carmel.” She waggled a box of Garibaldi biscuits under Caffery's nose. “Come on, darling. Make me happy.”
“Thank you.” He took a biscuit, the last thing he wanted, and rested it on the rim of his coffee mug. “You were saying, about Alek's work, his disco …”
“I'm not saying he was the hardest-working man, and then there was all that trouble, which makes it more difficult for him, but let's not go into that—they're not a traditional family, see, her being an odar, not that I'm saying I hold that against him.”
“I'm sorry, you said an oh-dah?”
“An odar. A foreigner—not one of us.”
“One of you?”
“Not an Armenian.”
“But Alek Peach is?”
“Oh, yes.” She blinked. “Not a traditional one, of course, but he is one. Oh, I know, I know …” She touched Caffery's arm with her long gold nails. “He's got blue eyes— lots of us have got blue eyes, just like you, darling. Everyone thinks we're Iranian, but we're not. Look at me.” She pulled off her tortoiseshell glasses and blinked at him. “See? See?”
“Yes, I see.”
“Blue, and what's interesting is …” She replaced her glasses. “What's interesting is our great-grandfathers, mine and Alek's, they were best friends. Fought together against the Turks—died together too. Our grandparents were sent to Paris and—”
“But Peach, that's not an—”
“An Armenian name? No. Of course not. That's what I'm saying—he's not traditional, he's ashamed of his heritage is what I think.”
“He changed his name?” Caffery could feel Souness's eyes on him, could feel her interest spiking out into the room. “Anglicized it?”
“Only his second name. Not Alek, of course, he kept that because it didn't sound—”
“And his real name? What was Alek's real name?”
“Oh, you won't be able to pronounce it.” She flipped out one jeweled hand dismissively. “If you can't manage Nersessian you certainly won't be able to do Pechickjian.”
When Caffery left Tracey Lamb on the A134 she had no choice but to walk the mile or so home. Like a cunt in me drawers. It was a pale blue day and the distant finger of steam from the sugar factory in Bury St. Edmunds was visible above the trees. Few cars passed, the tarmac was hot under her bare feet, and she passed only one phone box, a little brindled dog sniffing around it. But even if she had 20p to call a cab she didn't have any cash at home to pay the cabbie. Since Carl's death things at the house had got bad. There were only four cartons of Silk Cut left, the Datsun was low on petrol, and the dole check couldn't even begin to cover everything. And now, it seemed, the Bill were on to her.
Tracey had no one to ask about DI Caffery's visit—the person she would usually have turned to was gone now, her brother Carl. She and Carl had clung together for the thirty years after their parents' deaths in a way that some called unhealthy. They had so many things in common— ”Even got the same teeth capped.” Carl would grin and pull up his front lip for anyone who would listen. He'd lost his front two in Belmarsh, and Tracey, well, he had to admit he'd taken hers out for her one St. Patrick's Day. Carl had lots of “friends.” Tracey knew all about his “friends”—she'd met one or two of them when she'd done the videos.
She paused for a moment on the roadside, bent over and dragged brown phlegm out of her throat, spitting it into the ferns. A car went by and hooted loudly. In the back window she saw faces laughing at her. She put her hands on her knees, straightened painfully and looked up the baking road to where it disappeared in a point on the hazy horizon. She couldn't let herself be fucked around like this—when she got home she would find Carl's book and call his friends, ask them what to do next. She didn't like talking to them—some of them were insane, even Carl admitted that. Some of them would do it with anything and anyone: “Some of them'd do it with the exhaust pipe of an old Cortina,” Carl would laugh. “It'd have to be a good-looking Cortina, of course.” But she had to do something.
She hobbled on in the heat, her feet hurting. Apart from the occasional passing car she hadn't seen anyone for over an hour, only a gray-haired old man in overalls, scavenging around the disused industrial poly-tunnels near West Farm. She turned off toward Barnham, past the derelict military houses, bricked-up windows and plywood on the doors, past the abandoned industrial hangar. She was making slow progress—she had to stop every few minutes to catch her breath and bring up some phlegm. Tracey's lungs had never been right, not from the start.
“Nothing to do with the sixty a day, is it, Trace?” Carl would grin when she bent over her little polystyrene cup and hawked gobbets of phlegm into it. “Nothing to do with that.”
“Fack off.” She'd give him the V sign and Carl would laugh and they'd both go back to staring at the TV. She missed him, God love him. I miss you, Carl.
By the time she got to the little track that cut across farmland, along the top of the disused quarry and on to the garage, her feet were bleeding. The garage was a long way from the road, but she kept going, limping now. Every now and then a military jet from Honnington would blast its way across the sky, splitting the air open, disappearing in seconds into the horizon, but otherwise the countryside around her was quiet, quiet and very still in the sun. She knew it so well now, these fields, that fence, that path. Carl had been renting the garage and the house since their parents died when he was nineteen and Tracey was thirteen. She understood his business. She understood all about the pile of smashed car windows, the stolen chassis stamps and the dodgy MOT embosser. There was always a stripped-down car up on blocks in the garage, a pile of dodgy number plates in the kitchen and a Transit van or an old Ford parked under a tarp out the back—Carl would let her have a peek then drop the tarp and put his fingers to his mouth: “Never say nothing about this car, all right, girl? Just pretend you ain't seen it.” Every now and then a car would come in that needed an “urgent valet job”: Carl would jump like a whippet at those words and would work all night on some anonymous Discovery or Bronco, the electric lights in the garage blazing out across the countryside. And he collected people too, the same way he collected scrap metal: they'd come and go, day and night, through the little breeze-block house, carrying car stereos and carrier bag
s full of duty-frees. Tracey had grown up with the sound of Harleys zooming up and down the driveway. There was always someone around, someone sleeping in the bath, someone curled up in a grubby sleeping bag in the garage, an ever-changing string of boys who came and went, helping Carl with the resprays (and other things too, she was sure of that). The Borstal boys, she called them, because they always seemed to be on the run from the Borstal. “And that's something else to stay schtum about, Trace, all right?” Everyone in Carl's circle had done time at some point or another—and that included the “biter” that DI Caffery had been asking about.
“He was a weird one, him,” said Carl. “Always reckoned women were dirty. You should have seen him; he had to put on rubber gloves before he touched any of the boys in case they'd been near a woman.” He lived in Brixton and although DI Caffery hadn't said where the little boy had been bitten, Tracey had a suspicion it might have been on the shoulders. But in any case her predator instinct told her that actually it wasn't the “biter” Caffery was most interested in at all—in his questions about him she sensed a cover of some sort—and it was only when he began asking about Penderecki's boy that she thought he was getting to what really interested him.
Penderecki's boy. Although Tracey knew what the shifty old Polack had done to the child, she had never been told who the boy was, neither his name nor where he'd come from. But, from the way Carl had built a mile-high wall of silence around the subject, she had always guessed it was because the boy meant something to someone important. She guessed there was money in it somewhere. And maybe, she thought, that was why Caffery was so interested.
She stopped. She wasn't far now. She could see the sun glinting off Carl's abandoned vehicles on the edge of the quarry: an old Triumph, a moss-covered trailer, a pickedclean Ford. Only another ten minutes to the garage, but she stood quite still, the pain in her feet forgotten, hardly registering the clutch of pheasants that rose screeching from the trees. Something was emerging from the dank, unexercised walls of Tracey Lamb's brain. Something about DI Caffery. Maybe she thought, maybe he wasn't the beginning of her problems after all. Maybe he was the solution.