We left it there.
Jackson studies me in the sunlight.
My daisy chain is yards long now.
Long enough.
I thread the leading flowerhead through a slot in the trailing stem. Turn the chain into a loop. Double it over, and again. Tease the thing into shape until I have a many-braided crown.
Jackson makes as if to help me put it on, but I tell him it’s not for me.
We leave it.
He says, ‘Bleddyn Jones. You and he have had your ups and downs.’
I can’t remember so many ups, but I say yes anyway.
‘He says you’re a total pain in the arse.’
‘I know. I mean, I know that he says it, but I also know that I am it.’
‘And one of the best officers he’s ever worked with.’
‘He said that? Really?’
‘Yes. He was very complimentary. I mean, in some respects. Some very narrow respects.’
‘Oh.’ Pause. ‘That’s nice of him.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a good officer too. I mean . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘That beard.’
‘Fiona—’
‘I know. I know. Terrible beards aren’t a valid reason for dislike. And he is a good officer. And I am a pain to work with. And on that final night. When I was at Brocéliande . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, he was outstanding. I know that. Then, and when I was with de Boissieu. He did as much as anyone to save those hostages. To save me.’
Jackson nods. He has this fatherly pleasure when, temporarily, I behave like an almost acceptable human being.
He says, ‘There’s a vacancy at Bridgend. Now the Chief’s in Cardiff, they need someone to run things there. They’ve offered it to Jones and he’s accepted.’
I let out a breath. A deep wash of relief. The loss of a tension I hadn’t even known was there.
I can’t speak for a moment, but my face probably says enough.
Jackson: ‘And do you know what he told me?’
That’s a stupid question. Of course I don’t know what he told Jackson. I do my stupid-question face.
‘He wanted the job. He wanted my job. And I was more than half-inclined to give it to him. I did wonder whether a younger, more active type might not be better. I wondered whether early retirement or some part-time role might not suit me better.’
‘What changed his mind?’ I whisper, worried that I already know the answer.
‘You. He said he’d never have been able to work with you. One of you would have killed the other, most likely, and he thought that your contribution to the team was, on balance, going to be the more important one. So he stood aside. Took a job that wasn’t really the one he wanted.’
‘He did that?’
‘Yes.’
‘He said that?’
Jackson does his version of a stupid-question face which – like most of his faces – looks a lot like craggy immobility.
I say, ‘I am a terrible human being, I know that.’
‘You should thank him. Actually go and see him. Say thank you.’
I nod. I will. I make a promise, the sort I will actually keep.
‘Good.’
Jackson turns his face to the sun.
Gulls swoop.
Bees bumble over clover flowers.
Dad and Katie come towards us.
Katie’s limping badly: she gets tired more quickly now and Dad isn’t very sensitive to that kind of thing.
When they arrive, Katie flops exhausted on the grass. Gives me a tired-looking smile.
I say, ‘I made you a crown.’
I give her her crown.
I have to re-pin one of her braids to make it look right, but my honoured mistress is worth the labour.
When I’m done, she gives me a nice smile and says, ‘Thank you, slave.’
I bow my gratitude.
The older guys look awkward, not knowing if they’re meant to say something or just ignore our Embarrassing Girly Moments.
They look out towards the south, where a blue sea lies, and choose the latter option. Always safer.
So.
The Thing.
The thing that brought us here.
The thing on which everything depends. Or not everything. Not really. Just – just, it feels like that sometimes. With Kay safe, and Katie safe, and me safe, and Devine in jail, and Charteris neither deader not aliver than she was before – with all that sorted, then this last thing is the pole about which an entire planet of crime revolves.
Jackson says, ‘Lovely spot this, isn’t it, Tom?’
Tactical use of first name, there. A good, careful opening gambit.
The fact is, my dad regards police officers the way most people would regard a nest of tarantulas intermixed with a boxful of puff adders and Indian cobras. When I joined the force and, worse, when I moved into CID, my dad and I suffered the only real relationship breakdown of our lives. We got over it, yes, but it took time and patience on both sides. Also: Dennis Jackson isn’t my father’s daughter.
‘Oh, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? Never been here before, would you credit it? Born only over there—’ he points to an unseen Cardiff, the lost world of Tiger Bay, ‘but never once set foot here.’
He witters on.
Jackson reciprocates. They exchange stories, humour. Some shared memories.
And slowly, slowly, they edge closer to The Thing.
Edge closer, then arrive at its lip.
Jackson says, ‘When your girl here barged in on Devine, he went out into the yard to make a call. You probably know that. She probably told you.’
Dad wrinkles his face in a way that might mean yes, might mean no, or might just mean the sun is in his eyes.
But he does know. I did tell him. And told Jackson that I had.
‘We think Devine was calling his boss. The money man. We think he spoke about how to proceed. What to do next.’
‘Well, that would be logical, I suppose,’ Dad murmurs, as though the ways of crooks were entirely unknown to him.
‘We tracked the call. He was calling a mobile, of course. An unregistered one.’
Dad sighs – scratches – looks upwards at the blue.
Jackson: ‘I don’t know how much you know about these things, but we can get an approximate location for the telephone receiving the call.’
He explains about triangulation. The limitations of the technique. But explains too that the technique on this occasion did enough.
‘We arrested a man named Idris Prothero. Your daughter here, Fiona, almost had the bugger on another investigation a few years back. Weapons smuggling. We didn’t get him then, but we’ve got him now. We’ve got his actual prints on the actual phone that took the actual call. Not just that, but we got his computer too. He had a webpage open on – what’s it called, Fiona? – Tor. Part of the dark web. I don’t understand that stuff, not properly, but basically he was negotiating the sale of King Arthur’s sword. Seventy-eight million dollars. Sixty million quid. The deal was almost done when we broke his bloody door down.’
Jackson stops.
Prothero is in custody now. He won’t get bail. When we bring him to trial for conspiracy to murder, along with multiple other serious charges, he’ll be found guilty. He’ll go to prison. Maximum security. The kind of place that’s full of tattooed fuckers with shaven heads and one-stud earrings and some serious anger management issues.
He’ll never leave it.
But Jackson isn’t done. ‘So obviously, once we have the bugger, we start pulling his life apart. We search his property.’ Properties, actually. In the plural. His place in Penarth. His apartment in Chelsea. Ask the Italian Carabinieri to do the same to his villa in Umbria. ‘Look at his phones. Landline and mobile. Give his electronic stuff to our tech people, so they can take a look at what he’s been up to. Bank accounts, of course. Onshore and offshore. It’s not like these people pay taxes like the re
st of us, is it?’
Dad mutters something. Barely audible, but to the effect that no, these bastards never pay their taxes.
Jackson says, ‘I mean, I earn decent money. I get about fifty-five grand, and I pay tax at forty per cent, on the last chunk of that amount, anyway.’
Dad sharpens his gaze. Focuses more closely on Jackson. This isn’t like any police interrogation my dad has encountered in the past. But then again he’s never had the pleasure of being interrogated by Detective Chief Inspector Dennis Jackson.
Dad says, ‘Well, they’ve got to pay for schools and hospitals, I suppose. Them and the bloody police force.’
Jackson says, ‘Oh, I don’t complain. It all seems fair enough. Except our boy Prothero was paying maybe six or seven per cent on his income. Legally paying that. Just filtered all his profits offshore. Totally, utterly, completely legal.’
Dad says, ‘You have access to his bank accounts?’
‘Yes.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
Dad’s eyes push a question, but his lips say nothing.
Once, just once, I feel his eyes dart over to me. Trying to read me. Trying to learn whether this is all a trap, whether I would trap my own father.
Jackson says, ‘This isn’t a regular interview, you know that, right?’
Dad nods, but Jackson continues: ‘We’re not taping anything. We haven’t charged you. We haven’t read you your rights. We haven’t offered you a lawyer. And your daughter, a police officer, is sitting right here next to you, which means that any investigation on our part is so totally and utterly compromised, we could never even think of bringing anything to court. Plus, of course, we regard you as a victim in all this. You had one daughter abducted. This one here risked her life trying to rescue her. And you? You did rescue them. Rescue them both. You were the hero of the hour.’ Jackson pauses and his gaze floats on the mild air. To a far distant horizon, he murmurs, ‘We’re not about to charge you, Tom. We’re not charging you with anything at all.’
Dad remains silent, but silences are never only one colour.
And this one?
Well, it’s turning an almost pinky silver. Like cherry blossom viewed from below, against blue sky and sun.
Dad’s lips move, but nothing comes out.
Jackson stuffs brownie into his mouth. Turns his face to the sun and says, ‘You’ve been paying money to Idris Prothero for six years. Six years, at least. We’re still gathering the data that will let us look back further. The sums aren’t small. Ten grand one month. Twenty grand another month. Over the average year, you’re looking at just about two hundred grand. Paid offshore. To Idris Prothero. We thought that was interesting. I’m just saying.’
Dad looks direct at me. Trying to get a read from my face. I try to give him nothing at all.
Katie looks ill at ease. She didn’t know this thing was going to be happening and she feels like she shouldn’t be part of it. But she should, she really should. She’s like a heat diffuser for the rest of us. Someone whose mere presence can prevent things hitting combustion point.
Jackson pushes his brownies at Dad.
‘Homemade, these are.’
Dad takes a brownie. Mutters something vaguely wife- and bakery-related.
Jackson says, ‘Plus you made a phone call. To Prothero, I mean. A mobile located at or close to your home address went straight through to Prothero’s office landline. The call was made about twenty minutes after you learned of Kay’s abduction.’
Dad laughs softly.
‘Amazing what you people can do these days,’ he says, in a way that does not suggest he is delighted about it.
Jackson passes a brownie to Katie.
‘They’re made with nut flour,’ he says. ‘I never knew that.’
She takes one. Nibbles.
This is, I realise, the first time I’ve ever seen Jackson interrogating anyone. Such things are way below his paygrade these days, but the man is a pleasure to watch. I relish the experience.
Dad says, ‘I don’t suppose there is any charge you could bring in any event.’
‘No, no. There’s nothing illegal about paying people money. Nothing illegal about making phone calls. And you were anxious about Kay. You wanted to help her. So you made a call. You called someone you thought might be able to help.’
‘He didn’t help.’
‘No. No, he certainly didn’t. But then greedy murdering criminal bastards aren’t known for their general niceness, are they?’
‘No.’
Jackson and my father.
Two men. Similar age, similar build, similar backgrounds, similar everything. Except Jackson has spent his life in the police service and my father spent his career, the first part of it anyway, involved in large-scale crime.
Prosecuted five times, convicted never.
Their gazes duel in this unreasonable sunshine.
Katie shifts position. Adjusts her crown of daisies.
She is withering, Katie. Her last set of hospital tests was all bad. She is withering and shrinking and losing her symmetry.
The warrior queen is dying and her favourite slave is troubled.
Dad says, ‘Who knows about this? This conversation, I mean?’
Jackson points. Himself, me, Katie, Dad. We four and no one else.
Dad checks and double-checks, but I tell him it’s true.
Dad: ‘Thing is, I know you people. You’ve got to write things down and put them in a file somewhere and then who knows who sees that file.’
I say, ‘Dad, there’ll be no writing. No file. No record. No nothing. And—’ pointing at Jackson, ‘you can trust this man. I do.’
‘No file?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You don’t have to report anything to anyone else?’
‘Dad, Dennis here is a Detective Chief Inspector. He’s like the Archangel Michael. When he farts, he farts thunderbolts. He doesn’t have to say anything to anyone, except maybe to God, and God won’t ask.’
Dad nods.
Breathes out.
He’s never done this before. Me apart, he’d never spoken to a police officer with the intention of disclosing an actual self-revealing truth.
But he trusts Jackson. He trusts me. And he says, ‘So. Me and Idris Prothero. Everything you need to know.’
55
July.
The churchyard at Llanymawddwy.
The strangely hot, strangely cloudless weather of a few days back has scurried away, back to France and Spain and other places cursed by a lack of wind and foul weather.
No such curse for us.
Low cloud skims the surrounding mountains. Cloud that, from time to time, lets fall a handful of rain, a shower of silver.
The views here are wide enough that you see the rain coming, long grey curtains that are, nevertheless, full of light. A darker light enclosed in something brighter. Somewhere far beyond, over Camlan, a patch of hillside is caught in a flash of temporary sun.
Bowen, seeing my gaze, murmurs, ‘I have seen the sun break through to illuminate a small field for a while, and gone my way and forgotten it. But that was the pearl of great price, the one field that had treasure in it.’
I stare at him, but he doesn’t explain, and perhaps now is not the time, here is not the place.
In his hands: a casket.
In the casket: ash.
And in the ash: all that is left of Dr Gaynor Charteris, her head and her stump, her tweed and her tutting, her piercing gaze and her outdoors hands.
Her two children didn’t desert her in death. They flew over from Australia to grieve, to tidy her affairs, to host little tea parties of remembrance, to participate in a sung mass with the choir she’d been part of.
Also: they arranged and hosted a cremation, at a service that included all Charteris’s known friends and family. But the children weren’t themselves religious and didn’t much mind what finally happened to Charteris’s ashes. The default option
was to have the ashes interred at the crematorium itself, which is a perfectly fine place, but also the blandest, safest, dullest, most rose-spiked and lawn-clipped place in the universe.
And it was Katie – also not religious, but better knowing Charteris’s tastes – who insisted that Gaynor would prefer an interment in an ancient country churchyard. Wind blowing in the grass and lichens creeping over tombstones.
The kids – with plane tickets back to Oz, with lives and jobs and duties that summoned them home – said fine. Left Katie with the ash.
And we have it now.
The ash.
A hole.
A tombstone.
Welsh sandstone. Hand carved. A clean and sober grey. A little fretful at entering on this first day of its new life. The first day at school in Tombstone World.
We’re at the shaggy fringe of the churchyard. A fringe not usually reached by whatever goodly soul walks round this place with a lawnmower in summer. The grass here is thick with cow parsley and buttercup and vetch and, by the wall, the first tall stands of willowherb.
Me, I like the spot precisely because it is marginal. I’d like a death here amongst the vetch and willowherb, hearing the thrum of that summer mower passing quietly over other people’s graves.
But Bowen didn’t choose the spot for that reason. He chose it because this as close as he can reasonably get to the last resting place of Saint Tydecho himself.
Holy man and warrior.
Saint and madman.
Arthur’s nephew and comrade.
Worms fed to bursting on that holy corpse can wriggle across and wash themselves in Charteris’s salty ash.
I like that thought. Charteris would have done too.
The saint and the scholar, commingled in death.
Bowen reads a funeral service. Katie and I give the responses. Bowen has a prayer book in his hand, but he knows the service well. Delivers it, mostly, by heart.
No oration.
No eulogy or tribute.
Those things happened already in that bland crematorium in the south. These hills, these grasses need no oratory.
We inter the ash. Scatter earth.
One solemn handful each but, at the end, Bowen just says, ‘May as well,’ and sets to with a spade. The earth thumps down in solid chunks. A good weight. A solid pressure.
The Deepest Grave: Fiona Griffiths Crime Thriller Series Book 6 (Fiona Griffiths 6) Page 38