by Adam Creed
She says, ‘I have learned to trust in God’s will.’
‘It must have been hard for you not to hate the two of them.’
‘Hatred is not in my repertoire. I can only live as good a life as I can, and I have been rewarded with more love than poor Kerry ever brought on herself.’
‘Tell me about when you went to the hospital, to see Grace.’
For a moment, Bridget looks befuddled, as if she is trying to remember that day, what she might have said and to whom. ‘I can’t remember. I was upset. Surely you can understand that.’
‘I’m trying to understand why you wouldn’t tell me that you once carried Sean Degg’s child.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What did you see in Sean?’
‘I was a different person.’ She forces a smile. ‘I see it as a step on the road to salvation.’
‘Has he been in touch since I last saw you?’
‘Why would he?’ Bridget looks confused.
‘You’re his sister-in-law. He’s an only child and his parents are dead. His children are in care. You are as close a relative as the poor man has.’
‘They’re not his children.’
‘Grace is.’
Bridget bites her lip and her eyes glint. A weaker person might show a tear, but all Bridget does is open her magazine. Without looking at him, she says, ‘I don’t care for the way this is going. She was my sister, you know. My damned sister.’
‘I’ll show you out,’ says Malcolm, standing in the doorway with a light mac over his arm even though it is a fine day. ‘Please, there’s only so much she can take in one go.’
Staffe nods. On the way out, he looks back at Bridget. She is staring into nowhere, as if she can see something that is coming to get her. At the door, he says, ‘This won’t go away, not unless we can get hold of Sean.’
‘He’s still missing?’ asks Malcolm.
‘Without trace. Anything you or Bridget can tell us, and I wouldn’t have to be round here so much.’
‘He won’t be able to stay away from the babies, surely.’
‘Babies?’
‘You know,’ says Malcolm, opening the door. The day floods in. ‘He’s got the others, too.’
Miles and Maya aren’t babies. Perhaps they are to Malcolm. Babies, Staffe thinks, and he feels the gap in Bridget’s life – and Malcolm’s, too.
*
Pulford looks through the spyhole, scarcely believing what he sees. ‘That’s her,’ he says. ‘For fuck’s sake, what have you done to her?’
Josie sits on the bed below the high, barred window, shivering. Her knees are scabbed, her hands red raw, the knuckles scuffed. She is wearing a thin, red dress that barely reaches the top of her legs and the bodice of the dress is torn, revealing a black bra. Her make-up is smudged and smeared. Her hair looks big and brittle and broken.
‘Get her some clothes,’ Pulford says to the WPC behind him.
‘Where from?’
‘I don’t care. She’s one of us. Why the hell have you let her stay in this state? Let me in and then get her some clothes and a hot meal.’
‘She had a go at one of our WPCs. Tried to glass her – so you can get fucked. She’s a right bitch.’
‘Get her the bastard clothes!’ Pulford glares at her and hisses, ‘Have a word with your sarge. He’s in on the picture.’
When the bolt shoots and the door swings open, Josie sees Pulford and gasps. Pulford wraps his arms around her. Gradually, her body becomes less taut. He remembers when they were briefly together. She smells of drink and stale cigarette smoke. She doesn’t smoke. He says, ‘What did they do to you?’
‘What did they do to me?’ she asks.
‘You were drinking cider. Strong cider, according to the shop owner, by the Archibalds’ house. You were supposed to make yourself scarce. Remember?’
‘Not really.’
‘Then you ended up in a place called Scotty’s, out in Southend.’
‘Scotty’s? Never heard of it. Am I in trouble?’
‘We need to get you looked at. Tested, you know, and see what they gave you.’
‘Did I do what they said?’
‘You laid out a girl in the night club but she’s OK, and you went for a WPC.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘But we need to know how you got there. Can you remember anything?’
Josie shakes her head. ‘I got the cider. I remember that. I was waiting.’ She looks up at him. ‘I was waiting for you, and then you drove by. I wanted to wave, David.’ Josie surrenders to him again, says over and again, ‘You should have looked,’ like a little girl.
Suddenly, Pulford lets go of her. ‘Oh, God!’
She looks up, afraid. ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve got to call Staffe. He’s on his way to see Tommy Given. He’s going to shake it out of him. Wait here.’
‘Where would I go?’ she says, curling up on the bed, a soft smile smudged on her face now. By the time Pulford gets to reception, she is asleep.
*
Staffe recognises the type immediately. The suit is blue and his eyes are covered by a pair of Wayfarers. Leaning against Staffe’s Peugeot by the Green, the man flicks his cigarette into the gutter and stands erect.
‘What have I done now?’ says Staffe.
‘I’m taking you to Southfields.’
‘You’re not. Not now.’
‘I was told you were desperate to have a poke around.’
‘I am, but I’m going the other way.’
‘We’ll take your car. It’s best.’
‘I told you, I’m …’
The bonnet of his own car and the powdery sky and then his bonnet again swirl. Then his face is cold, on the metal of his Peugeot, and the side of his face is compressed. He is looking across the bonnet towards the Green and a searing pain is shooting down his shoulders and through his head. He tries to move, but he can’t. Now, he feels pressure behind his ears and he thinks he is going to black out. Just as he does, it is as if he is landing on feathers and when he opens his eyes, he is in the back of his own vehicle and the houses around the Green are moving, as if he were on a fairground horse. There is a deep voice alongside him, telling him he has a call.
*
As they come up over the cusp of Kingston Hill, Staffe has recovered his bearings, has absorbed the news that Josie Chancellor is being released from prison and that charges will not be pressed. And he has been told, by Pennington, that he is, under no circumstances, to go west along the A3. Tommy Given, for now, is still off limits.
‘I take it Crawford won’t be there,’ he says to the man in the blue suit, alongside him. He can’t work out if that is the one who assaulted him, or whether it was the driver. They both wear Wayfarer sunglasses.
‘We’ll catch up with her,’ says the passenger, clearly taking her continued absence to heart.
Staffe wonders whether his companions know anything of the ace that Lesley Crawford has put up Vernon Short’s sleeve. And is Lesley Crawford necessarily behind the threat to Cathy Killick?
Once in Southfields, the men in suits remain outside and Staffe is given the run of the house. He can have as long as he likes.
The kitchen is in keeping with the unspoiled, early Edwardian ethos. What was once the scullery still sports a gleaming, renovated black range, and it is clear that Lesley Crawford has lavished much love on the place.
Working his way from the larder, round the cupboards and sideboards, Staffe finds nothing of interest at all and moves to the dining room, then the lounge. It appears that Lesley Crawford keeps all her paperwork in an inlaid, deco secretaire. She maintains a modest credit balance in her current account and has the maximum in her ISA account. Her income seems to flow from a trust and yields her two thousand pounds per month. A copy of the trust document shows the estate is that of a Lieutenant-Colonel Bruce Crawford, and that Lesley has been the recipient for five years.
Staffe checks in the airing cupboard
and under the beds, at the back of her drawers and every level of her three wardrobes. There is not an item out of place in this pristine and orderly house, not a thing to suggest that Lesley Crawford has any connection with any political cause, nor even the faintest interest in the plight of the ‘unborn population’. There is an invitation bearing the embossed crest of Sidney Sussex College inviting her to a Victorian Society dinner at the beginning of June and from the tick she has struck through ‘RSVP’, it would seem she has accepted. Staffe takes note, will check with the secretary if Vernon Short is also on the guest list.
He clambers up into the loft void, using the telescopic ladder. The loft is boarded and lit by a single, bare bulb. There are several suitcases, all empty, and boxes of History Today which go all the way back to the early sixties.
And there is a small tidy-box, the film of dust undisturbed on its buff-coloured cardboard. Staffe sits cross-legged, places the box in his lap, knowing this is his last hope of a connection between Lesley Crawford and Kerry Degg – or Zoe Bright.
He lifts the lid and goes through the contents, item by item. It is a museum of Lesley’s life, from the plastic nameband for her wrist when she was born, through certificates up to grade seven in piano and violin, all the way to her O and A level, BA and MA certificates, to a letter congratulating her on gaining her Doctorate of Philosophy, from the Vice-Chancellor of Nottingham University. The subject of her PhD: ‘Midwifery and the sexual politics of the Victorians.’
Staffe tries to recall if anything else had suggested that she lived or studied in Nottingham, but he can’t. The letter is dated June 2008. Zoe Bright was at Nottingham University from September 2005 to June 2008.
He notes down all the details and checks the rest of the box, hoping there might be letters, and then he goes back down below, checking everything again.
There is not the faintest draught of Breath of Life in the house.
Sometimes, on a blind search, you have a subconscious agenda. The brain can’t help but prescribe what the eye is looking for. So he goes through everything again. This time, he even checks behind all the books on the shelves of the inlaid, two-door Stickley case. It is a beautiful piece and surely beyond the means of what he has seen of Lesley Crawford. It must have belonged to Lieutenant-Colonel Bruce, he thinks, replacing the last stack of books, pushing the spines straight, his finger lingering on a hardback of Beloved, by Toni Morrison. It makes his heart miss. He removes the volume, looks for an inscription, sees only that it is a signed and dated first edition.
Immediately, he calls Petal Broome who is brusque with him. ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Tell me more about Zoe’s reading. I’d like to know what books she liked.’
‘Find her and she could tell you herself.’
Staffe bites his tongue, says, ‘If you tell me, I might be able to find her. Catch 22?’
She gets the joke, laughs sarcastically. ‘Very funny. There was a Hemingway, Bell Tolls, I think.’
Staffe checks the shelves. No Hemingway. ‘Go on.’
‘There was a Katherine Mansfield.’
‘Collected Short Stories?’ says Staffe, looking at the spine of Lesley’s book.
‘Of course. And Virginia Woolf.’
‘To the Lighthouse?’
‘How do you know?’
‘Carry on. Please.’
‘Anne Tyler.’
There are four Anne Tyler novels on Lesley’s shelves and Staffe decides to flip the roles, begins to read from the spines of Lesley’s books. ‘Enduring Love?’
‘No,’ says Petal.
He goes for something more obscure. ‘Limestone and Clay by Lesley Glaister.’
‘She loved Lesley Glaister.’
There are seven Glaister novels in Crawford’s case. Staffe looks for what he thinks might be the most obscure of all her novels. ‘Cradle To Grave, by Gareth Creer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thanks, Petal. I owe you one,’ says Staffe, elated, hanging up. He calls Alicia Flint straight away and tells her of the connection between Lesley Crawford and Zoe Bright. It seems strange, to hear her voice again. When they are done, she says, ‘I’m glad you’ve kept me in the loop, Staffe.’
He looks out of the front window, sees the men in the front seats of his car. One of them is leaning forward, appears to be faffing about with his shoes. ‘Don’t tell anybody, will you?’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll send you everything I’ve got on Crawford, but keep it to yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we have to find Crawford before anybody else does. She will be able to tell us where Zoe is.’
‘Find her first? Who else is looking for her?’
‘Dead birds don’t sing. That’s all I know.’
‘Any luck with the herrings?’ says Alicia Flint, laughing.
Staffe says, ‘What? Hang on.’ He goes into the kitchen, opens the door to the fridge and sees a tub of rollmops. ‘You beauty.’
‘Who?’ says Alicia.
‘The herring is a beautiful thing,’ he says.
‘You’re going round the bend, Staffe.’
‘I told you there’s something about Parkgate. And they met at Nottingham University, too. Maybe we should meet.’
‘It’s half-way,’ says Alicia.
Staffe says goodbye and leaves the house, wiping the smile off his face.
‘Any luck?’ says the man.
‘Not a sausage,’ says Staffe.
‘I told her,’ says the man, smiling. The mat in the passenger footwell, beneath the man’s feet, is an inch out from the line of dirt around it. It has been moved.
Staffe says nothing.
Twenty-Three
‘There was a residue of Rohypnol in her blood,’ says Pulford. ‘The clothes are from Topshop and there’s no trace on them apart from Josie herself.’
‘When can I see her?’ asks Staffe.
‘When she wakes.’
‘What exactly did happen on the night?’
‘Like I said, she was supposed to have got right away from the Archibalds’. I called her to say what car Given was in and I followed. I followed Given all the way and he just drove round and went back to Putney. There must have been another car behind, following me.’
‘So you still can’t prove Given knows the Archibalds.’
‘But we know he does.’
‘What use is that?’
‘It’s the truth, sir. We can always prove the truth.’
Staffe is trying to stay annoyed with Pulford, but he can’t. ‘The truth of the matter is, we don’t know any more than before you allowed DC Chancellor to put herself in danger.’
‘No, sir.’
‘And you’ll take it on the chin, Sergeant?’
‘How will we get to Given, sir?’
‘Let me worry about that. Just remember, it’s all the more reason to stitch him up with decent evidence. Thank God you took Jom down there with you.’
He remembers being a young lad – about Pulford’s age and fresh in the force. Jom had just passed forty – the same as Jessop. He wonders if he will go the way of Jombaugh – ground down by the job. Will he ever go the way of Jessop: once his mentor but tempted too far. Would he ever take it into his own hands? There will be a case out there with his name on it. And he will be shown a way to mete justice, beyond law. It could be this one.
*
Outside, whilst he is busy examining his Peugeot, Staffe gets a missed call. It makes him happy in the pit of his stomach. He feels light in the head and loose in his loins. Against his better judgement, Staffe returns the call, then says precisely what he thinks. ‘Eve. I’m glad you rang.’
‘Really? You said to call.’
‘Are you working today?’
‘Not until tonight. I start my ten-six shifts tonight.’
‘How about an early lunch? It will help you sleep the afternoon.’
‘That’s thoughtful of you, Inspector,’ she
says, jokingly.
‘There’s a place I want to try. It’s called Menage.’
‘Will there be just the two of us?’ She laughs, throatily, and he glimpses a different her – one with the guard down. Getting to know her …
*
Staffe is on his knees. In the car park at the back of the City Royal, beside his Peugeot, you might think he is answering a call to prayer. Appropriately enough, he finds what he is looking for. In the footwell of the passenger seat, he holds the tiny device between finger and thumb. It is no bigger than the decade bead of a rosary.
‘She’s asked for you.’
Staffe twists round, feels a nerve pinch. Pulford looks down at him.
‘I’ve a job for you.’ He gets to his feet and puts a finger to his lips, hands Pulford the device, knowing his sergeant embraces the continuing aspects of his professional development in a way that Staffe does not.
Pulford carefully takes the device from him, examines it and – holding the offending article tight in his fist – whispers, ‘It’s not police issue, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s a hybrid. A tracking device and a bug. It tells them what you’re saying and where you are when you’re saying it.’
Staffe whispers, ‘Put it back where it was. Under the mat.’
‘Why?’
‘Now we know it’s there, it’s our device. Wait here.’
*
Josie is in the raw. They have bathed her and dressed her in a paper gown. She sits up with her hair combed back off her face. Her eyes are tired but there is blood back into her lips and she manages a shallow smile that soon collapses.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I was a fool.’
‘Shush. Don’t be silly.’
He sits next to her, takes her hand in both his and squeezes a little. He looks around the room, sees there is nobody and leans forward, puts his lips to her forehead. He lets the soft kiss stay there for a count of three, four.
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Josie. Her eyes are glassy.