A Dark Devotion

by Clare Francis

  I tried again, a little more firmly.

  His arm came up, as though to protect his face from the blows of an aggressor. ‘Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!’ His voice was rough and slurred.

  I straightened up and looked down at him with a numb and distant heart. Pity runs dry in time, and for me the time had stolen up and rushed past. Paul didn’t need me any more, except to cover for him, to collude by default in his addiction.

  I fetched a blanket and pulled it over him. I locked up and went upstairs and lay in bed, wide awake.

  It was almost midnight when the phone rang, and for a moment I wondered if Paul was Duty Solicitor and had forgotten to tell me about it.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  I felt a rush of pleasure. ‘Will.’

  ‘Is it too late?’

  ‘No, no—I was awake.’

  ‘I wanted to talk.’ He sounded dispirited.

  I propped myself up on the pillows. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nothing particular.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Charlie was a bit upset tonight. Couldn’t talk to him at all.’

  ‘What about finding a therapist for him? A counsellor?’

  He gave a dry laugh. ‘This is Norfolk, Ali, not London.’

  ‘Yes…Of course. A family friend, then? Someone he trusts.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t want that. He wouldn’t want to talk to them.’

  ‘What about Maggie? Can’t he talk to her?’

  ‘No.’ There was irritation in his voice, a note of disapproval. ‘She treats him like a small child. It’s all “your mother’s gone to heaven” stuff. She can’t see how confusing it is for him, can’t see that it does no good.’

  ‘Well, he still has you. He’ll listen to you.’

  After a pause he murmured something I didn’t quite catch, something that might have been: ‘…wish he would.’ Then, in an altogether brisker tone: ‘I had a look at the tides, by the way.’

  ‘The tides?’

  ‘For that night. To be absolutely sure.’

  I took a guess. ‘The current, you mean?’

  ‘It was ebbing fast when I opened the sluice. Two hours into the flood when I closed it again.’

  A silence. I suggested, ‘So anything lying on the Gun would have been swept away?’

  ‘No—not at all No, the point is that she couldn’t have been swept in from the creek. That’s the point. She couldn’t have come from that side of the sluice.’

  There was obviously some great significance to this, which I hadn’t grasped. ‘And if she had come from the creek side, what difference…?’

  ‘Well, then, she could have come from anywhere, couldn’t she? From right up by the quay, the house. Anywhere,’

  I was getting there: the ebb ran fast through the creeks; a body might be carried a long way on the tide. ‘So you’re saying she must have fallen on the Gun side?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And not far from the sluice.’

  A reluctant pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But then, when you drained the marshy why wasn’t she—’ I caught myself on the point of saying ‘flushed out’ and changed it to: ‘carried out into the tide?’

  ‘The flow was too sluggish, just a trickle, it wouldn’t have carried her…’

  ‘Far.’

  ‘Far.’

  He was saying that she had fallen on the Gun side, near the second sluice; he was saying that her body hadn’t travelled very far, if at all.

  ‘She could have tripped,’ I ventured, for something to say.

  He murmured under his breath, ‘But why was she there?’

  In the silence that followed, I thought I heard him give a sigh of hopelessness.

  ‘We can go through it again when I get back,’ I said.

  ‘When’s that, Ali?’

  ‘Tomorrow, in the evening.’

  ‘You’ll be able to stay for a while?’

  If I stayed for more than a day it would be Friday, and then it would hardly be worth going back to London until after the weekend. Taking a decision, I said, ‘I’ll stay for a while.’

  ‘Otherwise it’ll be the whisky bottle.’ He attempted a laugh.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I said.

  Heavy rain and a broken-down lorry had brought the one-way system around Camden Town to an early standstill. On the dismal pavements mothers wielding flimsy umbrellas dragged their children to school, teenagers sloped along, heads down, hoods shielding their faces like aspiring bank robbers, two scowling workmen hurried past clutching bags of McDonald’s. I did not love the city at times like this, perhaps did not love it deeply at any time. If it hadn’t been for my work, I could have lived in the country very happily indeed. Years ago, hunting for my first job, I’d applied to a firm in Plymouth, imagining I could rent a country cottage above the Tamar, not too far from my parents’ new home, and get the best of both worlds. But the firm hadn’t done much crime, just the occasional shoplifting, and, young and arrogant as I was, I’d thought my talents would be better used elsewhere.

  My only arrogance now was to think that my clients might miss me if I wasn’t around any more.

  I had woken to an empty house and a note from Paul to say that he was at Ealing Magistrates Court for the day. He hadn’t come to bed during the night and I hadn’t heard him leave in the morning. The phone had rung very early, some time before dawn, but the ringing had stopped or been answered before I’d managed to roll across the bed to pick it up. When I got up I realized from the damp towels and discarded underwear that Paul had showered and dressed in the guest bathroom. Separate bathrooms: by such small degrees does one grow apart.

  The traffic began to move at last. By one of those strange quirks of jams, the road ahead cleared rapidly.

  The mobile rang. Expecting Corinthia, I called a bright, ‘Good morning!’

  I heard traffic noise through the earpiece and the muffled sound you sometimes get from another mobile. A male voice said, ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yes.’ Whoever the man was, he was breathing heavily. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Gary.’ His voice was high.

  ‘Gary. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve got to see you. Straight away.’

  ‘I’m on my way into the office. Where are you?’

  ‘Farringdon Station.’ This was just two minutes’ walk from work.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the office, then. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘No. Not there.’

  I thought I understood then: this was about Sturgess’s future with the firm and Paul’s determination to fire him. ‘That new cafe on Clerkenwell Green, then? The Italian place with the black blinds.’

  ‘I know.’

  I parked in my bay beside the office and, taking an umbrella from the boot, picked my way back along the rain-soaked Clerkenwell Road to the cafe. Sturgess was sitting hunched at a corner table. Spotting me, he jerked as if on string, and fixed me with a fervent stare.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ he gasped.

  I sat down. ‘The job? I’m sorry if there’ve been problems.’

  ‘The job?’ He was momentarily baffled. ‘No, something’s happened, something bad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Munro,’ he explained urgently. ‘The GBH case.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He’s dead, Alex! Dead! My first thought was suicide. However vigilant prison staff tried to be, remand prisoners regularly found new and desperate ways of doing away with themselves. ‘I’m very sorry.’

  ‘They found him this morning!’

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘But it’s my fault! My fault! He was almost in tears. ‘He didn’t want bail! He didn’t want it! It was only because I told him it was okay—He knew, for God’s sake! He knew!’

  I asked quietly, ‘You got him bail?’

  ‘Yesterday. But
he didn’t want it! He knew they were going to get him. He knew!’

  Understanding came at last. ‘You’re saying he was murdered?’

  Sturgess nodded mutely.

  ‘Let’s just go through this slowly, Gary. One fact at a time. You’re saying that Munro knew he was at risk?’

  ‘Christy yes. He was shit scared. Fucking terrified. He kept asking me, is it okay for me to walk, you sure it’s okay, sure my name’s not posted? Knew? Christy he knew better than anyone. And it was me that went and told him, wasn’t it? Told him—Jesus’—his face contorted—‘told him it was okay. ,

  The waitress came up and stared at Sturgess with open curiosity. I ordered two espressos. As soon as she was out of earshot I held up both hands as if to quieten things down, but really to give myself a chance to think. ‘But what are you saying, Gary? Are you saying he was expecting you to know whether it was safe for him or not? To have some sort of inside information?’

  He gave me an odd look, a blend of shame and caution ‘Yeah. Well, I guess so. He kept asking me, is that the message? Are you saying it’s okay? Are you sure?’

  The implications of this hung uncomfortably in the air, and for the moment I didn’t pursue them. Instead, I said, ‘Did he say who he was frightened of?’

  ‘Sure. Told me the whole bloody lot. Couldn’t stop him. Chapter and verse. The whole bleedin’ story. I didn’t ask for it! Didn’t want it!’

  ‘But he insisted?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The waitress brought the coffee and stared again.

  I said, ‘He wanted you to know, then.’

  Sturgess grimaced. ‘To be his insurance policy, you mean? Jesus, fine bloody insurance!’

  I felt a moment of sympathy for him. Nothing in his training could have prepared him for this.

  ‘So who was out to get him then?’

  ‘Ronnie Buck. He was one of Ronnie Buck’s men, and Ronnie had the frighteners on him.’

  I absorbed this slowly, with surprise, but not, perhaps, so much surprise as all that. ‘Okay,’ I said in my calmest voice. ‘Let’s decide how to—’

  ‘There’s more,’ Sturgess announced abruptly. ‘Worse.’ He leant forward and I noticed two spots of heat burning high on his cheeks. ‘I saw them pick him up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘After Munro got bail, I had another case. When I finally got clear, Munro’d gone. Well, I thought he’d gone. But then I’m on my way to the Tube and I see him ahead of me. Making for the Tube too—well, that’s what it looked like, we were a street away. Then this car draws up. Merc, big one. Munro takes one look at the driver and starts walking like hell. The car drives along with him, and the driver and Munro are having a conversation, and it’s definitely not a happy one. Suddenly Munro tries to scarper but the car overtakes and the driver and this other geezer jump out and the next thing, they’re pushing Munro in the back seat. Shit…’ The memory made him wince. ‘I ran after them, but the car was off like a shot…’

  ‘You got the registration number?’

  He shook his head.

  Suddenly I was impatient with him. ‘What, none of it?’

  ‘I was too bloody gobsmacked! Too freaked. I couldn’t believe it—the way they’d just scooped him up, in broad daylight. And I felt so bloody sick, Alex. Part of me knew what was going to happen, you see. Once I saw the driver I bloody knew!’

  ‘You recognized him?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you bet I did! It was Russell, the driver was Russell.’

  ‘Russell?’

  ‘Ronnie Buck’s driver.’

  I felt a flutter of excitement. ‘The guy who stood trial with Ronnie for the attempted murder?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Christy I spent six weeks in court looking at him every day. Yeah, I’m dead sure.’

  ‘How far were you from the car?’

  ‘Oh, twenty feet and closing. And he turned towards me, full face. No mistake, Alex. No bloody mistake.’

  A lot of things went through my mind as I heard this, some electrifying, most of them unsettling. Only one thought emerged with any clarity. ‘You’ll have to go to the police with this. You realize that?’

  He fiddled with his coffee cup. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s no option, Gary.’ Saying this, I forced myself towards the final question. ‘The bail—I just need to understand—what made you go for it?’

  There was a heavy pause. ‘Told to.’ He kept his eyes on his cup.

  I hardly needed to ask: ‘By Paul?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Having got this far, I went on coolly, ‘Did you tell him about Munro’s worries?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said it was okay.’

  ‘That was it?’

  He shifted slightly in his seat. ‘Well…more or less.’

  ‘Give me the conversation, Gary, would you? In detail.’

  He didn’t want to tell me, but I pressed him. Finally he murmured, ‘When Paul said to go for bail, I said are you sure, because Munro’s dead worried about what’ll happen to him when he gets out. And Paul sort of shrugged it off, and said, oh he’s worrying about nothing, or there’s nothing to worry about, something like that. And I said again, are you sure it’s a good idea because he’s shit scared. And Paul sort of made out I was questioning his judgement. I don’t know—he made me feel I was making a fuss about nothing. He just told me to get on with it and then he was busy with something else and I didn’t get the chance to talk to him again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said rather formally.

  We sat for a while, locked in our own thoughts, then I said, ‘I think as far as the police are concerned it might be best to stick to the basic facts.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said immediately. He was quick, Sturgess, he seemed to be way ahead of me, but I had to be certain.

  ‘Just what you saw,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Just Russell and the car.’

  ‘Anything else would…’

  ‘Make it too complicated.’

  We exchanged a look of complete under-standing, and I thought that Paul hadn’t done much to deserve such loyalty.

  Sturgess hesitated. ‘I’ll have to tell them that Munro was dead frightened of Ronnie, though. I mean, he was shit scared, the poor bastard. He knew. I’ll have to tell them that, Alex.’

  ‘Yes. That would be the right thing to do.’

  ‘But I’ll say…I’ll say…’ He agonized over it for a moment. ‘I’ll say he was aiming to go into hiding when he got bail. Keep it simple. Otherwise they’ll want to know why I went for it, you know. Why I went for bail.’

  Suddenly I hated Paul for making conspirators of us both, for landing this can of worms in Sturgess’s lap. ‘You mustn’t say anything you’re not comfortable with, Gary.’

  ‘Look, I’m not going to drop Paul in it, am I? I’m sure he didn’t mean Munro any harm. I’m sure it wasn’t a message he was giving me as such. Nothing—you know—definite.’

  I wished I could be so certain. ‘It would certainly keep it simpler,’ I said, guilt building on guilt. ‘How was Munro killed, by the way? Do you know?’

  ‘Shot.’

  ‘And how did you hear?’

  ‘Corinthia. She called me this morning.’

  ‘Did she say where it happened? Which CID we’re dealing with?’

  ‘She may have said…I can’t remember.’

  I glanced at the time and called Corinthia on the mobile.

  ‘Lewisham,’ she told me.

  ‘Who’s the investigating officer?’

  ‘DI Barrett.’

  ‘How did you hear, Corinthia?’

  ‘How?’ Faint surprise sounded in her voice. ‘Well—Paul. He called me first thing this morning. He said they’d contacted him in the night.’

  The call before dawn.

  ‘Did Paul leave you any instructions?’

 
‘He said to find next-of-kin if I could. But I’ve been through the file, and I’m pretty sure we don’t know of any relatives.’ She was flustered; she was talking a little too fast. ‘I don’t know why he should think we did.’

  ‘When are you expecting Paul back from Ealing?’

  ‘Noon/

  I looked across at Sturgess, whose face still paraded myriad emotions. I asked Corinthia, ‘What’s Gary got tabled for today?’

  I heard her flipping the pages of the central appointments diary. ‘Nothing in court. Meetings with clients this afternoon, at two and three thirty.’

  ‘Can you find someone to stand in for him? And I won’t be available today, either.’

  Corinthia was trying to work out what was going on. ‘Are you going to be contactable?’

  I thought about that. ‘No.’

  ‘What shall I say?’ She meant: to Paul.

  ‘Say I’ll call in later.’

  I snapped the phone shut and paid the bill.

  ‘It’s Lewisham,’ I said to Sturgess. ‘We might as well go straight there.’

  ‘What’re they like at Lewisham?’

  I thought of Dave Adamson. ‘One of them’s okay.’

  ‘One?’ Sturgess showed some of his old spark. ‘Oh, well, nothing to worry about, then.’

  It was three in the afternoon before DI Barrett’s team was ready to take a written statement. It was always flattering to believe that success in the law came from a blend of tenacity and talent, but I had long since recognized that the main requirement for a criminal solicitor was an ability to endure long periods of crushing inactivity in small airless spaces. Sturgess hadn’t been encouraged to leave the interview room—the reasons for not showing his face hadn’t needed to be spelt out to him—and while we’d chatted desultorily between interviews Sturgess wasn’t exactly in the mood to chat. At one point I’d gone in search of Dave Adamson, but they’d told me he was off duty until later in the day, and I’d resorted to consuming large quantities of canteen coffee, which had left me with jittery nerves and a mouth tasting of old tin or worse.

  The written statement, once started, was not to be hurried either. We were still soldiering through it at four when I was passed a note from Dave Adamson to say he was in the building. We met in the passageway forty minutes later.

  ‘Have I heard right?’ he asked with unconcealed excitement.