by Adam Creed
‘The baby is still in the papers.’
‘All this Whole Family claptrap.’
‘I thought that was our claptrap, Home Secretary.’
‘Word is, your bill would pass if it went before the House today,’ says Cathy Killick.
‘Let us hope. We’re up for debate next week.’
‘For what, exactly, do you hope, Vernon?’
‘To serve my country.’
‘What would it take, to do that? I don’t think the country really wants this bill. We certainly don’t want our legislation flapping like dirty laundry.’
‘I don’t write the headlines.’
‘And journalists don’t make law.’ Killick adjusts her posture, sighs heavily, looks Vernon dead in the eye. ‘Nor do they understand you, Vernon. You have pedigree and you have integrity. I need statesmen, Vernon. I need you with me.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘We’ve been talking about you.’
‘We?’
‘You know there’s a reshuffle in June.’
‘What are you saying?’ Vernon tries to remain calm, but there is a bubble between his heart and his stomach. He barely dare listen.
‘Your father was in Education.’
He nods. ‘Briefly.’ Beyond, he can see the splendid white fondant of Whitehall, high above the people. ‘He was his own man, in the end.’
‘It wouldn’t do to follow. The PM wondered about Enterprise. With your connections in the City, we wondered if you might be able to spearhead our clampdown on bonuses, tighten up on derivatives, you know. Headline stuff – you’re good at that.’
‘Minister for Enterprise?’ murmurs Vernon, not believing his own words.
Cathy Killick presses a button on her laptop and across the room a printer begins to softly hum as the laser does its work. ‘Pick it up and have a read,’ she says, nodding to the printer and smiling wide. ‘We thought you might say something along these lines.’
Once Vernon has closed the door behind him, Cathy Killick places a hand on her baby within, says, ‘Who in God’s name does he think he is?’ She reflects, considers her rise to this moment and all the prices she paid. How much of her is left?
*
Staffe watches as Alicia Flint gets to work on Petal Broome. She talks softly, touching Petal’s elbow and guiding her towards a pair of chairs at the back of the Curious Cat, where they sit opposite each other, shoulders rounded, talking about what might possibly be happening to Zoe Bright. Every now and then, Petal looks across at Staffe. Alicia Flint says, ‘Will, perhaps you could get us some tea?’
‘Ginseng?’ says Staffe. As he goes, Alicia Flint flicks him a wink.
By the time Staffe returns with the tea, Petal is shaking her head, saying, over and again, ‘No. No. I don’t trust you, it’s a violation. A bloody violation.’
‘The smallest detail could help us find Zoe. And if we don’t find her …’
Staffe says, ‘The woman in London died. They abducted her and held her for weeks, living with rats and having to shit where she lay. If Zoe was here and she heard you pontificating about “violations”, what would she say?’
‘And what if it’s not like that? What I say would be for nothing.’
‘What you say!’
‘Inspector,’ says Flint, standing, silently beseeching him not to undo her good work.
Petal looks self-righteous, says, ‘All you need is jackboots and a black shirt.’
‘What!’ shouts Staffe. He feels his blood surge, something in his mind floods. He hates this cheap allusion. He breathes deep, takes a step away and measures his anger by the look on Alicia Flint’s face. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I could spend all day explaining why you’re more of a fascist than I am. But let’s not bother, hey? Let’s talk about your mother, Petal. I hear she is using again. And if she’s using she’ll be paying for it somehow – a little scam? A bit of shoplifting? Maybe benefit fraud. Good old victimless crimes in your book, I suppose, comrade?’
Petal has regained her composure. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
‘Who was Zoe with? Where did she hang out?’ says Alicia.
‘You don’t fool me,’ says Petal.
Alicia Flint looks up, at the roof, across to the stairs. She stands up. ‘This place is a danger to the public. I’ll give you till five o’clock tomorrow to come up with something, otherwise you’re closed down.’
Outside, Staffe says, ‘You don’t mess about.’
Alicia Flint gets into the car and revs it up, says, ‘But that’s all I am doing. I can’t touch her mother or the premises – not unless I want to be on the front page of the Echo and have everyone in the city knowing what we’re up to. Like you said, it’s a big village – and all the neighbours are nosy. And I don’t need you fucking my interviews up.’
She looks over her shoulder, sees a line of traffic and curses. As she turns back, she catches Staffe looking at her. There is a car’s-length gap in the stream of traffic and Alicia Flint cuts in, gets the horn and a finger from the car behind. She gives it back and turns to look the driver behind in the eye. He backs off.
Fourteen
It is with immeasurable regret that I have to consider the withdrawal of the private member’s bill proposing the reduction in the legal limit for the termination of pregnancies. I remain committed to the cause of maintaining the highest standards of care for pregnant mothers and their unborn children but am concerned for the integrity of this legislative solution in the light of what can only be described as a media circus and indeed the spate of criminal activity which has appended itself to the bill.
I have been in the House for nearly twenty years and cannot stand by and watch the integrity of Parliament being compromised in this way. I have every confidence in the ability of the government to continue to represent the interests of mothers and this issue will continue to be addressed through the consultative and legislative process, unhindered by those who seek to undermine our country’s revered democratic standing.
Staffe watches the television. Vernon Short folds up the piece of paper, placing it in the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket. He smiles into camera, Big Ben beyond, and is strobe-lit by dozens of flashing cameras. The journalists call out questions but Vernon simply raises his hand and smiles some more, as if he is associated with a great success.
Alicia Flint smells of camomile and her hair falls in thick, wet thongs. She wears a short-topped, low-trousered velour track suit and her midriff is tanned and taut. She bounces Ethan on her lap, across the room from Staffe. Ethan is naked, his legs are strong. She says, ‘I wonder what they have promised that sanctimonious scrotum.’
‘He’ll be tucked into some obscure ministry in the next reshuffle,’ says Staffe.
‘These are people’s lives they’re fooling around with. Big decisions. At least it will bring Lesley Crawford from out of her cover. That Breath of Life lot will have to respond.’
‘I’m worried about Zoe. Christ, what will they do to that poor girl if there’s nothing to be gained?’
Alicia puts Ethan in his baby walker and spins him round. He chortles, pushes himself up with his legs and claps his hands. She reaches into her briefcase, pulls out a stack of papers and lays them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. ‘I can do this on my own.’
Staffe wants to ask about Ethan’s father, how he came to abandon them – or otherwise. ‘It’ll be quicker, the two of us.’ He takes the Zoe stack of papers and they go through them independently: copies of all the interviews and the data for Zoe and Kerry and their parents and loved ones. Alicia Flint takes the Kerry Degg pile.
‘How shall we play Anthony Bright?’ asks Staffe. ‘We can disclose to him that we know about Zoe’s termination now.’
‘And the fact that we know he went with her to the clinic. But you’ll need a gentler touch than you showed with Petal Broome.’
‘He’s lied to us and we need to know why.’
‘Do you really think he had anyt
hing to do with Zoe going missing?’
Staffe reads through the notes which draw the profile of Zoe Bright’s professional and domestic rituals. It seems she moved within a small circle. Her colleagues at the university’s resource centre said she was quiet, committed, kept herself to herself. Her university email history revealed nothing untoward and her only indulgences were a penchant for second-hand book sites and literary blogs.
Staffe flicks back through his notes, goes through the inventory of the house, looks at two items: a collection of cartons for potted shrimps and ice-cream tubs. She used the former for earrings, the latter for her necklaces – bursting with bright gems. Each from a place called Parkgate.
‘Where’s Parkgate?’ he calls through to Alicia Flint.
‘Across the water. It’s worth a daytrip before you head back. When are you going back to London?’
*
‘You look dead on your feet,’ says Pulford, pushing through the crowd, holding the drinks out to Josie. ‘I got you a vodka Red Bull.’
‘So I won’t be able to sleep. Cheers.’
‘There’s a band on in the back. Fancy it?’
‘We’re here to see whether Cello Delaney shows, and who with.’ Josie has her hair frizzed and is wearing a beret, no eye make-up but blood-red lipstick – enough to wipe her off Cello Delaney’s radar.
‘I’m not sure about the new look.’
‘Oh, David. I’m so sorry. There was I hoping it would make you swoon. I so want you to adore me.’
This had been Pulford’s night off until Josie persuaded him away and he’s already had a couple of drinks. ‘But I do. You know that. We have history. Remember?’
‘Pulford! That was years ago and we both agreed it was a mistake.’
‘Maybe I like mistakes.’
Josie turns her back on him, looks around the room. She can’t see Cello Delaney, and it’s already gone nine. A rhythm section starts up in the back room and she says, ‘Let’s try the band. Cello might be in there.’
Pulford reaches for his warrant card and Josie takes a hold of his hand, says, ‘You may as well have come in a helmet if you show that.’
He pays them in and leads her around the back room as the sax pipes up, playing the opening bars of ‘Night in Tunisia’. He holds onto her hand and leans down, talks into her ear. ‘I’ll be your cover. The things I do for the love of the law.’ And he puts his arm over her shoulder.
‘Don’t push it.’
‘Don’t blow my cover,’ he laughs, drinking from his bottle of Moretti and watching the band on the stage, picturing Cello Delaney from the publicity shots Josie had shown him on the way over.
He gets a nudge in the ribs and Josie reaches up with a hand, whispers into his ear, ‘Bingo. Just by the stage, with the old fella. On the right.’
‘Where? Aaah.’
‘Let’s wander round, see if I can get them in a picture on my phone.’
Pulford slides his arm from her shoulder, begins to back away, towards the door, taking Josie’s hand and bringing her with him as the sax player finishes his chorus and takes the applause, moves away to the side of the stage where he picks up his drink and raises it to Cello Delaney. Except, it’s not Cello so much as the older fella the sax player is toasting. ‘There’s no need for a photograph,’ says Pulford.
‘I don’t trust my memory. I can do it. It’ll look like I’m taking one of the band.’
‘I know him.’
The older fella is right by the stage now, chinking his drink with the saxophonist and saying something that makes Cello and the horn player both laugh. Tonight, she seems less out of it, and whilst the two men smile and nod their heads to the piano player’s eight-bar solo, the smile fades quickly. She looks as if she’d rather be somewhere else.
Pulford says, into Josie’s ear, ‘He’s Tommy Given. I came across him during my stint at the Met.’
‘Rings a bell,’ says Josie, on tiptoes. She likes Pulford’s aftershave and it brings the better part of a memory back on a breeze. ‘Why should I know him?’
‘Because he’s a bad bastard.’
Fifteen
Staffe takes a sharp intake, flicks a look across to Alicia Flint as he begins to glean what he can from Anthony Bright. Her hair is scraped back, clipped up meticulously into a plaited bun. Her cheeks glow and her eyes are bright. She sits erect, wearing a tailored, chocolate-brown suit. The police station is two miles from her home, a million miles from Ethan bouncing on her knee.
For some reason, he feels nervous. ‘Anthony, it is time we were honest with each other. So I’ll start.’
Anthony Bright’s expression changes. Since they came in, he had sat with his head high and his back straight, hands clasped loosely. Now, he stiffens, looks across to his solicitor – then back to Staffe.
‘I have deceived you, Anthony. I chose not to tell you that I have spoken to Zoe’s parents, and I didn’t tell you I have been to see Petal Broome. Soon, I will know as much about Zoe as anyone – save you.’
‘Save me?’
‘So you have to realise that you can’t spend the next days and weeks trying to guess what we know – or should I say, what we might not know. Every day, we get a little closer.’
‘You’ll find Zoe, then.’
‘And what took her away. Does that make you nervous, Anthony?’
‘Why should it?’
‘You said Zoe visited her parents every week. She didn’t. Is that a lie, or do you simply not know your wife?’
‘I know her all right.’
‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed.’
‘Ashamed? Why would I be ashamed?’
Staffe smiles at him, reaches out with a hand and clasps his arm, says, ‘You’ve had your chance. Coming clean would have helped us all.’ He stands and Alicia Flint takes his seat. Staffe leans against the wall, arms across his chest.
Anthony’s brow puckers, as if he is trying to solve a riddle.
‘How were things between you and Zoe, you know …’ says Alicia.
‘Normal.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s having a baby, for fuck’s sake.’
‘She is a curious, educated woman. Different from you.’
‘Things were fine. Just fine.’
‘People are complex. Zoe went away and came back. She even changed her name, didn’t she?’
Staffe intervenes, ‘But you didn’t tell us that, either.’
Alicia Flint ignores Staffe, says, ‘She was mixed up. Caught between two worlds. She didn’t really know what she wanted, did she?’
‘She wanted to be with me. We got married.’
‘She wasn’t the same when she came back from university, was she?’
‘I was the first – I know that. And she’s the only woman I can love.’ He looks down, at his shoes, then up at Alicia Flint. ‘You probably think I’m a sad fuck, but you don’t know how lucky I am. I trust you.’
‘And if we don’t find her – at least nobody else will ever have her,’ says Staffe.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘She was going to get rid of the baby, wasn’t she, Anthony?’ says Alicia Flint.
‘You went with her,’ says Staffe.
‘No.’
‘You lied to us. Now, tell us the truth!’
‘Inspector,’ says Alicia Flint.
‘Tell me!’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ says Anthony. He bites his lip, as if in pain. He leans forward, arms crossed, holding his knees beneath the desk.
‘Forget your pride.’
‘I have tried to love other women – like when Zoe went away. And I probably don’t understand her. But I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you on my life and her life and the baby’s life, there’s nothing I can’t forgive. Nothing. And that makes me hate myself, sometimes.’ He leans back now and he is scratching, jabbing at his wrist. He grimaces. Anthony Bright leans further back and the whites of his eyes roll up and he top
ples from his chair and his solicitor gets down on her knees, screams, ‘Get someone. Get someone!’
Staffe rushes across, bends to pull up Anthony Bright but Anthony’s eyes have gone. He has passed out and as Staffe reaches for him, he sees Anthony has four short lengths of pencil in his hand, broken to the size of cigarette butts and taped together – sharp as nails.
Blood begins to pool on the floor, seams of red ribboning from his wrist.
He has Anthony in his arms and looks up at Alicia Flint. For the briefest moment, before she calls for help, she looks daggers at Staffe – as if this was his fault.
*
By the look of her, Cello Delaney had stayed the distance last night with Tommy Given and maybe the band. Her hair is all over the place and her face is puffy and grey. She smells of drink and a recent cigarette.
‘What the fuck?’ she says, peering at Josie and Pulford. ‘Who’s the boy?’
‘This is DS Pulford,’ says Josie. ‘He wants to know a little more about the company you keep.’
‘You can let us in, Cello,’ says Pulford. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘I don’t have to let you in.’
‘And we don’t have to talk to you. I guess we could go round to see Tommy Given, ask him what it is that he gets from a friendship with Cello Delaney, best mates with murdered Kerry Degg.’
‘I can see who I like.’
‘If that’s what you want.’
She steps back, runs both hands through her hair and rubs her temples with the balls of her hands. ‘You followed me?’
‘We’ve got better things to do, Cello. It’s a question of reliable sources.’
She trudges away, down the hallway.
Today, Fleetwood Mac are sultry in her kitchen. ‘Stevie Nicks,’ says Josie. ‘Perfect for hangovers.’
‘I like rumours,’ says Pulford. ‘It’s sometimes a way to skin a rabbit.’