by Adam Creed
Staffe follows Alicia Flint down the wide staircase from Flanders’s office and into the bright hallway, licked by the low, setting April sun. Particles of dust dance in the golden shafts that beam in through the weeping willows outside.
His mind flits.
He is thinking how grand Lesley Crawford’s scheme might be. He thinks also of his sister, Marie, and Cathy Killick, too. And if the future bodes ill for some who cross Lesley Crawford’s path, then what of the past? He says, ‘The past.’
Alicia comes towards him, says, ‘You all right?’
‘Just tired.’
‘You need a lift, to the station?’
He nods, already elsewhere.
Twenty-Eight
On the return to London, Staffe had considered what he had failed to see. Clearly, Crawford had known Zoe Bright for years. Clearly, Crawford could easily have known Vernon Short for many years.
He has been pointing the wrong way. He should be facing the past.
Now, he regards Bridget Lamb, ‘How long have you been in the House of the Holy Innocents, Bridget?’
They are in Leadengate station and Bridget’s bottom lip is red and ragged. This business has well and truly caught up with her and whilst she has managed to stifle tears, she has chewed at her lip non-stop for half an hour.
Staffe recalls that her sister, Kerry, had done precisely the same, though in a more extreme fashion.
‘Should we take a break?’ says Pulford, feeling Bridget’s distress.
‘As soon as I’m satisfied that Bridget has told us everything about Lesley Crawford.’
‘I don’t know the woman. I keep telling you,’ says Bridget.
‘And I keep telling you, I don’t believe you. Until I do, you’re staying.’
‘Fine,’ says Bridget, crossing her arms, resteeling herself.
‘There’s a woman in Liverpool about to have a baby. Do you want her to go through what happened to Kerry?’
Bridget stares at her feet, crinkles her nose.
Staffe says, ‘She’ll be just like the others. Crawford tells them one thing and does another.’
‘The others?’ says Bridget, her eyes wide.
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ says Bridget’s lawyer.
But it’s too late.
‘You know about the others?’ says Staffe.
‘What others?’
‘You thought you were the only ones, did you? Did Lesley tell you that she could save your unborn flesh and blood? The life that was knitted in the womb.’
‘What?’ Bridget looks confused.
‘Grace is the closest you will ever get to having your own bloodline.’
‘No.’
‘Did Crawford make you feel special? Well, you’re not, Bridget. You’re just one of many.’
Bridget shakes her head, looks at her solicitor who drags her chair closer, whispers confidences straight into her ear. Pulford says, into the tape machine, ‘Interviewee’s legal representative providing confidential counsel.’
‘Did Lesley Crawford tell you she had done it before?’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Bridget, to her solicitor.
‘My client is tired. We need a break.’
‘Did Lesley talk about Vernon Short to you? Did she mention his bill? Is that what made the difference, for you?’
‘That’s God’s will. It will stop the suffering. Anybody with a soul can see that.’
‘How many were there, before Kerry?’
Bridget shakes her head.
‘I suppose Lesley showed you the babies she had saved; not so different from the soul you lost.’ Staffe and Bridget gaze awkwardly at each other. ‘I’m sorry, Bridget. I can see how it would hurt, to learn what Kerry was going to do, simply because it didn’t suit.’
Bridget focuses, as if appraising him for truth.
He waits for a sign, but she becomes expressionless. For a moment, Pulford and the solicitor look at their notes. Staffe and Bridget are in a cocoon. As if alone in the world. He whispers, softly, ‘Were there others, Bridget?’
‘How should I know? Why should I care?’
‘Because you know how precious life is.’
She smiles, as if coming round.
‘Was Kerry having twins?’ he asks.
‘What makes you think she’d tell me if she was?’
‘I wonder,’ says Staffe, smiling back.
*
When Staffe sees Josie in the back snug of the Hand, he gasps. Somehow, here in the soft, dancing light from the hearth, Josie’s injuries seem so much worse. The flesh beneath her right eye is puffed up and plum-coloured, and her knuckles are bruised and grazed. He tries not to be too sympathetic, knows that would make her feel worse, but he can’t help putting his arm around her. He lets the hug linger, for an extra moment.
She winces, says, ‘I’m a bit tender. Any chance we can finger Tommy Given for doing this to me?’
Staffe shakes his head. ‘No forensics. No witnesses, and half a dozen sworn alibis. He was with his beautiful wife, don’t you know?’
‘Bastard.’
‘We’ll get him one way or the other. Get this, he’s Kerry’s uncle.’
‘What?’
‘Kerry didn’t know he was.’
‘So he’s related to Grace.’
Staffe nods, pensive. ‘And Bridget. But Bridget doesn’t know.’
‘Aah.’ Josie takes out some papers. ‘That reminds me. You wanted me to check those numbers from the booths on the New North Road. Guess what?’ There is life in her eyes now and they sparkle in the fireside glow. ‘I cross-checked the unidentified mobile number to all the other numbers on the case data universe. That same mobile number Sean Degg called, three hours before he died, appears on Malcolm and Bridget Lamb’s landline records.’
‘So the mystery mobile is a friend of Bridget’s?’
‘Or a foe she keeps close.’
‘I could kiss you,’ says Staffe.
‘Don’t,’ says Josie. ‘I’m embarrassed enough about facing that lot in the station. I’m a laughing stock.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘We’ll laugh about it one day. Now, how do you fancy some evening work?’
*
Josie puts down the phone. It is the last of the calls on her list. The sun had dropped low and the computers gloam in the Leadengate dusk. Josie, Staffe and Pulford have the place to themselves.
‘It’s a blank, sir.’
The Givens, it seems, aren’t registered at any of the clinics within eight miles of Cobham.
‘And how about the adoption agency, Pulford?’
‘They’re getting back to me, sir.’
‘Tonight?’
‘They promised.’
‘So let’s employ the time well.’ He points at the boxes of missing-persons files. ‘You take those, Pulford. Arrange them in date order. And Chancellor, shout out the medical appointments, clinic by clinic – in date order.’
‘I couldn’t get them all, sir.’
‘We’ll take what we’ve got. And we’ll start with City Royal.’
Pulford and Josie look at each other, behind Staffe’s back, neither quite sure whether he has lost it or not.
*
Three hours later, it is dark and Leadengate echoes with the silence of absent police. Pulford’s missing-persons files cover two desks in piles the size of wine cases.
Josie is looking through the admissions records of City Royal Hospital and all the other antenatal clinics in the City that they could requisition. Nine out of sixteen complied with the request for their appointments data. None would release patient records without the requisite court orders.
Staffe paces the room, wondering what to do with his theories. Sabine Given wasn’t on the radar of any of her local clinics. One of them – the Orchard in Stoke D’Abernon – said that their general practice showed a record of having treated a Giselle Given, though they woul
d not say what it concerned. And yes, they recalled that the mother was pregnant. A beautiful-looking woman. They remembered mother and daughter well. No, they didn’t think it odd that the mother wasn’t registered there for antenatal treatment.
The phone rings and Pulford reaches across the paper piles. He takes the call, standing. It is the adoption agency and he checks his watch, sees it is gone ten.
The poor administrator on the other end sounds crotchety. She says, ‘The result is positive.’
‘Really! The Givens made an application?’
‘Three years ago. I can’t say any more.’
‘All I need to know is whether they were accepted.’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Look. If I need to use this, as evidence, I will come back to you with the authorisation, but a child is involved here. Can you give me any kind of indication?’
‘Not really.’
‘A new-born baby is missing. You’re part of that investigation.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘I won’t breathe a word,’ says Pulford.
‘The application didn’t see its fruition. It’s all I can say.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Pulford returns the phone to its cradle and claps his hands together. ‘Given applied to go on the adoption agency’s books three years ago. But they declined him. They can’t say why.’
‘Too old?’ says Josie.
‘Too bloody evil,’ says Staffe.
‘Why would he apply for adoption if he’s got a daughter?’ says Josie.
‘He didn’t, then. Giselle isn’t three yet.’
‘They must have had her soon after.’
‘Or not.’
‘Is Sabine the type to have an affair?’
‘I don’t think she’d risk it,’ says Staffe. ‘And from what I’ve seen of them together, she loves him to bits. God knows why.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘We need to crack on with the data match.’
‘We’re only half-way through.’
‘I’ll get coffees, shall I?’ says Staffe.
‘How noble,’ says Josie, putting the pad of her index finger in the margin where she left off and running down to see the pattern of attendance of each woman in the register. When the woman reappears only once or twice, Staffe checks the name against registered births. If there is no registered birth, Pulford checks to see if the woman appears as a missing person.
As Staffe comes back with the coffees, Josie says, ‘Soraya Constantine: last appointment February 2009.’
Staffe scans through the births register. ‘Son, born twelfth of May. Father’s name: Emmanuel Constantine.’
Josie sighs and leans back, scrunches her eyes shut to try to find some perspective. She reminds herself that every name that results in a birth is a thing to rejoice. ‘Thank God.’
‘What?’ says Pulford, looking across. ‘Aaah, I see. Right. But don’t go thinking you’ve moved into the good news department.’
The night outside is a deep indigo and they can all see themselves reflected back in the windows, by strip light.
Staffe fails to find the next name in the births register, nor is the mother-to-be in Pulford’s missing-persons stacks. This is what Staffe has designated a ‘possible’ and will have to be followed up, should the inspector have his application for overtime granted.
Pulford says, ‘Another needle for the bloody haystack.’
‘They’re not needles, Pulford. They’re lives.’
‘I know, sir.’ Pulford walks along the piles he has made, each for a three-month period, going back five years. Twenty stacks.
‘Bagshot,’ says Josie. ‘Have you got an Emily Bagshot? Last appointment at City Royal, July 2008.’
Staffe checks the births. ‘No birth,’ he says, waiting as Pulford drags the relevant stack onto his lap. He has lost count of the number of times they have done this.
‘She’ll have got married and changed her name, or not gone the full course … Aah.’ He stops, squints at the page in his hand. He holds it up, closer to his face. He stands, and the pile that was on his lap falls to the floor, scattering everywhere.
‘Pulford!’
‘Bagshot,’ he says, quiet as a scolded child.
‘Emily …’ says Josie.
‘Emily Mae. Born 1990, reported missing eighteenth of July 2008. Last known address, 33 Bevin House.’
‘The Attlee estate,’ says Staffe, moving towards Pulford, reading the paper over his sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Report filed by a Robert Hutchison, born 1987 and of the same abode. Case open.’ He goes to Josie, who is standing with the extract from the City Royal’s appointments register held out in front of her. Frozen to the spot, she looks at the scant information on the hospital register. He says, ‘Can you get down to the City Royal, see if our Emily had a consultation about a termination?’
Slowly, Josie shakes her head. ‘I don’t want to, sir. I mean, I don’t think I can. Not now.’ She is pale and done in. She reaches for the desk, sits heavily in the chair, blowing out her cheeks. ‘You don’t think …’
‘You come with me, then. We’ll make a call on this Hutchison fellow.’
‘I’ll check the hospital,’ says Pulford.
Josie says, ‘Do you think there’ll be others?’
‘God knows.’
‘If it’s anything like Kerry Degg, there won’t be any records of her appointments,’ says Pulford.
‘For her sake, then, let’s hope there are. And let’s pray we find her and Hutchison curled up like love’s young dream up on the Attlee.’
‘And if they’re not? What if she’s not there?’
But Staffe has turned his back, is disappearing out of the door.
PART FOUR
Twenty-Nine
Staffe looks across the Attlee estate, can see into the flats on the Bevin’s lower decks, opposite. It’s where they had found Bobo Bogdanovic last year, hoisted from the neck by his foes. People die all the time in these blocks and anything sinister usually crosses Staffe’s path. No matter what he does, the harm that man wreaks on man still comes. But you can save one life. In his time, he has done more than that. He counts back. But sometimes, the closer you get, the more damage you can do.
Josie knocks again and a shadow scrolls across the living-room window. They each take a fraction of a step back.
‘Robert Hutchison?’ says Staffe as the door opens.
‘I’ve done nothing. Don’t owe nothing neither.’ He is wearing jeans and his chest is bare.
Josie shows her card, says, ‘Can we come in?’
‘It’s late. I’ve got company.’
‘Emily?’
Hutchison’s eyes flit and he takes a step out, even though he is barefoot. ‘No. It’s not. She fucked off.’
‘With your baby?’
‘Rob!’ calls a woman, distant within the flat.
‘Where is Emily?’ hisses Hutchison, pulling the door almost closed as he steps fully onto the deck.
‘Was it your baby, Rob?’ says Staffe.
‘The fuck you want?’
‘Did she go of her own accord?’ says Josie.
‘Look. I never done nothing to that girl. She was carrying my baby for fuck’s sake and she said fuck all, she just left one day and then I never saw her. I reported her missing. I done all the right things.’
‘Was she going to keep the baby, Rob?’ says Josie.
The door opens and a woman in velour bottoms and a grey bra appears behind Hutchison. ‘What baby?’
‘Fuck off,’ says Hutchison. He turns round and snarls, in the woman’s face, ‘Just fuck off, go on.’ He steps back into the flat and says to Staffe, ‘I said I’d marry her. I would tomorrow.’ In the light of the flat, Josie can see he is a handsome man with fine features and expensively cut, mod hair. He’s skinny-rib and his jeans are crazily low, showing tufts of hair, the hollow indent of his loins.
His latest girl looks him up and down as she bru
shes past, the top of her velour trackie under her arm.
They go inside and sit down and Hutchison runs through the last days he spent with Emily Mae Bagshot. He swears blind he hasn’t seen her since the fifteenth of July 2008 and he doesn’t know she had ever signed up to not follow through with the birth. Josie asks him about the two visits Emily had made to the City Royal’s antenatal unit – as verified by his own statement in the missing-persons file.
‘I’d have gone – like a shot – but she never wanted me to.’
‘Was she looking forward to the birth?’
‘Mostly.’ Hutchison stands, goes into a cupboard and pulls out a framed photograph. ‘That’s her. Something else, eh?’
Josie takes the photograph: a beautiful girl with almond eyes and a shock of honey-coloured, ringlet hair, smiling the broadest smile, straight into camera. ‘She was going to get rid, wasn’t she, Rob?’
He shrugs. ‘She was messed up. She was cool and then she wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her, but she’d have been fuck-all use as a mother. I’d have brought the baby up. I told her that. I love kids.’
‘More than the mother?’ says Staffe.
‘What do you mean?’ Hutchison looks up, stares Staffe in the eye. ‘Hey! Not like that. I’d never have forced her, fuck me, not like that poor cow they found the other week.’ He sits down. He talks to the floor. ‘Jesus. It’s not one of them. It can’t be. Not Emily.’
‘Tell me about her appointments at the hospital. She went to City Royal,’ says Staffe.
‘I didn’t go.’ His voice cracks as the ends of his words fail. ‘The first time, she liked it. I remember. She came home and she was buzzing. It was a good day, for her. She didn’t always have good days. You think she’s all right, don’t you?’
‘What did Emily say about the hospital?’ says Staffe.
‘She said the nurse was nice to her.’ Hutchison wrings his hands, frowns, searching for the memory. ‘She sat there.’ He turns to Josie. ‘Where you are now. She’d been worried about going, said she felt ashamed.’