by Adam Creed
The tendrils from this case go all over the place. He needs something to focus on – like a magnifying glass, put to the sun, that burns a hole when the clouds roll away.
He picks up the data sheets for Zoe and Kerry, and Cathy Killick, too, looks at the thinly populated central core of the Venn diagram. The only thing that unifies the women is that they were twenty-four weeks pregnant when they disappeared (or were threatened, in the case of the Home Secretary).
Jimmy Hamilton’s clarinet meanders. Occasionally, and fleetingly, he swims with the melody. Staffe looks at the data reports for the three women, then works his way through the list of names that are in his head, looking for connections – a job for Pulford, rerunning the data fields for everyone in this case: victims, witnesses and suspects alike.
The orchestra swoons and rolls, and Ellington picks out strands of the melody with a few choice piano chords – just so much that you can follow him, like someone almost out of sight, giving chase in the half-light of dense woods.
Staffe reaches for the telephone, to tell Pulford to spread further the data matches, but as his fingers touch the phone, it rings.
‘Inspector?’ It is a woman’s voice: calm, lofty, distinguished. He recognises it immediately, from the radio.
‘Mrs Killick, you shouldn’t call me here. Your people won’t be happy.’
‘The line is fine. We checked.’ She pauses and he suspects her hand is over the mouthpiece, thinks she might be talking to somebody else. ‘This isn’t an official call, you understand. We are not having this conversation.’
Staffe considers what he discovered of her past from Vernon Short.
‘I need this case to be solved, Inspector. The other women disappeared at my stage, and as you know, there are people who want Vernon’s bill back.’
‘I can’t do as much as I would like – as you know. Can you arrange for me to have access to Lesley Crawford’s house?’
‘What I am about to tell you is absolutely confidential, Inspector.’
‘You shouldn’t tell me, then.’
‘I have to.’ Her voice cracks. She lowers her voice, almost whispering. ‘They have been in touch again. They said that they have no choice.’
‘Was it a man or a woman?’
‘A woman.’
‘Was it taped?’
‘No.’
‘And did you recognise the voice?’
‘No. I’d like to say it was her, that Crawford woman – but I can’t.’ Cathy Killick’s voice is tremulous.
‘Tell me about Vernon Short. What might the future hold for him?’
The phone falls silent.
Staffe tries to imagine what the scene might be on the other end of the line.
Eventually, she says, ‘There’s someone who could make way for him. There’s always somebody wanting to spend more time with their family.’
Staffe is quite dizzy at what is at stake here and, although he knows it might not advance his own cause, he feels a compulsion to tell Cathy Killick what he knows Vernon knows. ‘Mrs Killick …’
‘Yes?’
He falters. ‘Have you offered Vernon a Cabinet post?’
‘I can’t say any more.’ She laughs weakly, trying to break the tension. ‘I’d have to kill you.’
‘Can you get me into Lesley Crawford’s house?’
‘How might that help?’
‘Why call me? You have your own people,’ asks Staffe.
‘I will arrange what you want, Inspector.’
‘Mrs Killick …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’ He hangs up.
The record has come to its end and the needle scratches away in the runaway grooves at the end of the final track. As Staffe flips the record over, there is a knock at the door and he checks his watch. Who could it be, this time of night?
Pulford looks sheepish and, immediately, Staffe knows that the news must be bad. He invites his sergeant in and they sit opposite each other at the kitchen table in the flat which, earlier in the year, they had shared.
‘It’s Josie, sir. You know we were onto Tommy Given.’
‘We’ve a problem with that. He’s the Met’s man. Anything to do with Given, we have to pass through Pennington.’
‘We didn’t know that.’ Pulford looks at his hands. He can’t keep his fingers still.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve not seen Josie since …’
‘Since when?’
‘You know Josie spoke to Cello Delaney, that friend of Kerry’s.’
‘What’s happened!’
‘She told us about Tommy Given and so we – well, Josie – went to see the foster parents, the Archibalds. And I went to Given’s local. Josie wound the Archibalds up and they phoned Given. I followed him. We wanted to see him going into their house, that’s all. It’s the connection we need.’
‘And they saw you following them.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘And where was Josie?’
‘That’s it, sir. I don’t know.’
‘You haven’t seen her since then?’
‘We think it’s Tommy Given, sir.’
‘We?’
‘Jom came with me.’
‘With you?’
‘To Given’s spot, down in Surrey.’
‘My God, Pulford.’ Staffe stands up, paces the kitchen. ‘What have you done about it?’
‘I’ve checked all the A & Es and I’ve called Josie’s folks …’ Pulford looks up at Staffe, appears to be close to tears. ‘I don’t know what to do, sir. It’s a right mess.’
Staffe sits heavily in his chair.
‘Have you knocked on, in the Archibalds’ street?’
‘Not yet.’
‘First thing in the morning, Pulford.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘When was the last time you phoned a DCI at home? Call it staff development.’ And Staffe tosses Pulford his mobile. ‘Then, you can do something constructive. I take it you’re in no mood for sleep.’
*
Sean puts down the phone, fearing the worst. He shouldn’t have even come out tonight. From the phone box, he looks along the canal, then back up at the window of the flat he is holed up in. You would never guess. There is no outward clue as to who or what might be within.
Now, though, he is out. It is done. He may as well make the most of it.
In the off-licence on the New North Road, he counts his change again, keeps his phone money separate, in a coin bag, then gets himself a quarter-bottle of an obscure brand of vodka with an implausibly eastern-bloc name. All set, he slips in the side door of the Nags.
There’s only two others in – sitting separately and each sucking hard on the house doubles. One chases it down with a half, the other a pint. The place smells of toilet. The Pogues track on the CD keeps jumping. It’s the one about whisky on Sunday and tears on your cheeks. He thinks it’s called ‘The Majestic Shannon’. Kerry used to love it. Kerry …
Nothing seems real.
He looks around the place and tries to think of something not Kerry, tries to block out the sound of Shane’s cracked and bleeding throat. It’s a place you’d come if you took pubs but left people. It suits, down to the ground, for tonight.
Sean orders the premium lager. The barman weighs him up, as if he might be a threat, and when Sean says, ‘You all right?’ he smiles and nods, looking as if he has decided he knows Sean won’t present a problem. The phone goes and the barman goes out back, and Sean, deft as a thief, slurps a sixth of his pint, pulls the vodka from his pocket and glugs half the quarter-bottle of vodka into his pint. It comes up nicely to the rim and Sean smiles at a job well done. One of the others catches him at it and gives him a look of admiration. Sean takes a drink and immediately feels the full whack. It fuels a softening inside him and a vial of optimism unfurls. He settles back in his stool and watches Sky Sports News with its looping tales of sacked managers and sub-continent
al cricket.
The barman comes back in, eats his freebie chilli at the bar. He winks at Sean, as if to say he knows his sort. When he turns away, Sean empties the rest of the vodka in and takes a slug. It is almighty powerful now and his eyes water a little. When he gets towards the bottom, he orders a half, hears the words of his request tumble softly into each other. The barman smiles, but instead of pouring a half, he takes the pint from in front of Sean and fills it right up, just asks him for the one-eighty for the half.
Sean begins to picture a better outcome. The prospect of it flows slowly in his blood. He wonders if he might approach Phillip Ramone. Technically, he is due a commission, still. Kerry’s contract had been signed. And he wonders also if simply considering this makes him a bastard. He thinks of Grace, knows he has to provide for her, somehow. God knows how, if he’s holed up like this. But this can’t be for ever.
If Phillip coughed up and he could get to Grace, he could take her out of London altogether until things settle down. Which they will. He tries to remember who had assured him everything would ‘settle down’. His head is fuzzed. Soon, his pulse quickens, his mood darkens. He needs another drink. Just one. He takes a final and almighty gulp of his strange brew, feels the stool beneath him waver.
The fellow who was chasing with pints sups up and heads for the door, pulling a fag from his black pack of cheapo cigs. Sean looks for the other punter, but he’s gone. Now, he’s all on his own. He looks at his pile of change and thinks he hasn’t quite got enough for a final half. He doesn’t want to leave just yet. He could dip into his phone money, his lifeline.
The barman says, ‘Another?’
‘I’m not sure …’ Sean looks at his pile.
The barman raises a finger to his lips and says, ‘Pay me next time.’
Sean necks the remainder of his pint in one go, but has to stop himself gagging on the viscosity of the booze. It’s like winning on a long shot after a stewards’. The barman hands across his glass then goes out back again, leaving Sean to his good fortune, his head soft and his heart lifted.
As soon as the barman goes, a hand appears upon Sean’s shoulder. It feels neither unusual nor familiar, and Sean recalls that the last time he touched or was touched by another human was days, maybe a week, ago. He had pressed the sole of his boot to the wrist of that prostrate newsagent.
‘Hello, Sean,’ says his new companion. ‘We should go. I have what you asked for.’
‘Why don’t you stay? Just for one.’
‘We can’t be seen. Come on, there’s plenty where we’re going.’
*
Pulford taps away on his laptop at Staffe’s kitchen table, whilst Staffe ploughs through the case notes and statements, calling out slivers of information for his sergeant to enter.
The computer does the hard bit and Staffe takes a break, cuts them each a slab of Cornish Yarg and a chunk of bread, serves it up with spoonfuls of spring chutney and a handful of salad leaves growing on his window-sill. ‘Do you want a glass of beer?’ he asks.
‘Wait!’ says Pulford, peering into the laptop’s screen. ‘Lesley Crawford went to Sidney Sussex College, Cambridge, from 1984 to 1987.’
‘Same as Vernon Short,’ says Staffe.
‘Hang on. I need to style these correctly or the computer won’t pick up the match.’ He types in Cambridge, then the dates, then the college, into three separate fields – just as he had for Vernon Short and Zoe Bright.
‘I knew that. I’m sure I knew that, from somewhere,’ says Staffe. ‘Am I going mad?’
‘No. Vernon was there eight years earlier. They wouldn’t have met.’
‘When can I look at this? On paper, I mean – not on that damn thing.’
‘We’re nowhere near done, sir.’
Staffe wants to bomb straight up to Cambridge, to talk to the tutors who might still be there, who knew Crawford and Short. Absently, he reads out more details regarding Lesley Crawford, pausing, habitually now, for Pulford to input the data. As he talks, his mind wanders. ‘First house, Argyll Street, Wandsworth, 1992 to 1998; next house, Paternoster House, Battersea, 1998 to 2005; then her Southfields place, from 2008 till now.’
‘What did she do between ’05 and ’08?’ says Pulford.
Staffe flicks through his notes, then through Josie’s jottings on the photocopied cuttings. ‘I don’t know.’ He flicks back and forth, loses himself, half his mind still on the Sidney Sussex connection.
‘She was at university. I’m sure she was,’ says Pulford. ‘Here, give it to me.’
Staffe pats his sergeant on the shoulder and looks at the dense grid of rows and columns and text, wondering if they are helping or hindering.
Twenty-Two
Josie is cold and the rough blanket scratches her legs. They have brought her a cup of tea and some cold toast, spread with bright yellow marge. She wolfs it down, then bangs at the door again, complaining that they haven’t made the phone call yet. Her head thumps and her mouth is still dry. She feels as if she could drink a bathful of water and still be thirsty. She slumps to the floor, runs her hands over the rough scabs on her knees.
They said she had tried to glass a police officer in a night club. Hence, the treatment.
She skews round and uses the tray to bang on the door for five, ten minutes. She loses sense of time, but eventually, the metal plate slides across the spyhole and she recognises the dark eyes of the sergeant who brought her food.
‘I’m sorry about what happened, but I want my phone call, Sarge.’
‘You’ve had it.’
‘Who did I call?’
‘Your dad.’
Josie doesn’t get on with her dad. Her dad is a treacherous, selfish, vain pig. She hasn’t called him in a year. She knows they are lying.
She brings her knees up to her breasts, holds herself and wonders what state she must have been in. But the door opens.
The duty sergeant stands over her. ‘What did you say?’
‘What did I say to him, Sarge? I’m curious. We don’t get on, me and my father.’
‘You called me “Sarge”.’
‘I’m one of you. I’m one of us, I mean. I told you that. Can I have some water?’
‘Not according to your ID.’
‘Who am I?’
The sergeant crouches down, says, ‘You were off your tits. You punched out a nineteen-year-old girl and you tried to glass one of my WPCs. It took four officers to get you out of that club.’
She looks down at what she is wearing, tries to cover herself up. She puts her hand on the sergeant’s knee and twists round, looks into his eyes, smiling. ‘Then you should charge me.’
‘What?’
‘Sounds like a Section 89.’
‘What?’
‘Surely, you know your ’96 Act. Or maybe she wasn’t in uniform, so you’re worried about mitigation. At least hit me with a Section 39. That would be the ’88 Act.’
‘Christ,’ says the sergeant.
‘What the hell did they give me?’ Josie stands up. ‘I need to be tested.’ She pulls down her skirt but its lycra content is too high and it recoils. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You’re going nowhere, young lady.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve had the wool pulled over too many times to fall for that.’
‘Call Leadengate and ask for Sergeant Jombaugh or DS Pulford and check me out. Tell them what I look like.’
‘Is that really what you want?’ says the sergeant, allowing a smile and closing the door behind him as he goes.
*
It is early morning and although the sun is bright, it is still low in the sky. A pewter dew lies across Thames Ditton’s Green. Staffe is on his way down into Surrey whilst Pulford organises the knock along the Archibalds’ street. Seeing as how he was on the A3, and bearing in mind what Anton Troheagh had told him about the Kilbride sisters, he thought it only polite to call in on Bridget. And he had wanted to pull off the A3, to see if the knackered blue Beemer fo
llowed him. Looking around now, he can see no trace. Is he becoming paranoid?
A frost had missed by the barest degree and the house of Malcolm and Bridget Lamb is pretty as a picture. Pretty as a picture of a chocolate box.
Staffe knocks on the door and the sight of him is enough to bring a frown to Malcolm Lamb’s fresh face. Nonetheless, Malcolm can’t suppress a whole life of decency and he invites Staffe in.
Bridget is in the living room, sitting in her pyjamas with her knees tucked up in a bergère chair beneath a standard lamp and flicking through a soft-furnishings magazine. She says, ‘It would be nice if you had called. I suppose it’s one of your tricks, to catch people unawares.’
‘Why would I need tricks?’
‘I told you what I know.’
‘You didn’t tell me you went to see Grace.’
‘I hadn’t been, when I saw you.’
‘I can check the dates. And I will. You’d want me to check, wouldn’t you? To find the person who killed your sister.’
Bridget removes her spectacles and closes Country Home. She sighs. ‘You obviously have something to say.’ Turning to Malcolm, she says, ‘You have to prepare, love. You can leave us.’
‘Where are you going?’ says Staffe.
‘He has a church group,’ says Bridget. ‘Druggies.’
‘They are lost,’ says Malcolm.
Once Malcolm has gone, Staffe says, ‘I went to see Anton Troheagh. Mr Troheagh, to you, I guess.’
‘Kerry was his favourite.’
‘And you were Sean Degg’s – until Kerry came along.’
‘He was a predator.’
‘He loved her, though, didn’t he?’
‘I judge a tree by its fruit, Inspector. I don’t see much love in that fruit.’
‘This isn’t the best analogy, is it, Bridget?’ Staffe perches on the edge of a library chair, clasps his hands together. ‘Anton Troheagh told me you were expecting a baby while you were at school.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘But you must still resent Sean – leaving you in that state.’
‘I was weak, for a while. Time heals.’
‘It doesn’t heal everything, though, does it?’ Staffe wants to say more, but holds himself back, speculating that it must have been the dénouement of her pregnancy that had wreaked some kind of havoc on Bridget, preventing her from being a mother, now and for ever.