by Adam Creed
‘So she was going to end it.’
‘Like I said, she couldn’t make her mind up, but this nurse made her feel like what she was doing would be all right.’
‘Did she say anything else about the nurse?’
‘Said she was pretty.’ Hutchison smiles to himself, lost in a good thought. ‘She always said when she thought a girl was pretty. She was like that. And she knew her.’
‘Knew her! What was her name?’
Hutchison shrugs. ‘They weren’t mates or nothing.’
‘Try to remember.’
‘I can remember, exactly. Emily said, “I’m sure I know her.” I asked her where from and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. She was dog tired. Simple as.’
Staffe stands, whispers something to Josie and goes into the hallway.
‘What you doing?’ says Hutchison.
‘I have to make a call.’
‘Oh, my God,’ says Hutchison. He leans forward and his shoulders twitch. ‘You think they took her? You think she’s down there?’
‘I don’t know, Rob,’ says Staffe. ‘DC Chancellor’s going to ask you some questions, about Emily. We’ll do whatever we can to find her.’
Staffe steps out, calls Jombaugh, who says he’ll get hold of forensics, and Staffe gives him Asquith’s number, tells him to get the underground historian down there, pronto. And then he asks Jombaugh to get hold of Pulford. He says, ‘Tell him to check the nurses’ rota for the days and shifts when Bagshot had her appointments. Tell him to look for a Nurse Delahunty. Eve Delahunty.’
*
Pulford sits in a steel-framed chair and feels the knots in his lower back tighten. It is well past midnight and there are only a couple of nurses here. The duty sister quite literally groaned when he said he needed to see the files of a patient going back three years. But she had gone off, wearily, checking in on beds along the ward as she went.
He watches her come back, pausing by a bed with a blonde, smiling nurse he recognises from when Baby Grace was in her pod, struggling for life. As she approaches him, the sister shakes her head. ‘No record of her being here. Are you sure she didn’t transfer to another clinic? They often do. This is such a big place. Not everybody’s cup of tea.’ She manages a smile, but soon remembers who she is.
Pulford refers to his notes. ‘Emily Bagshot. She came here on the sixth of June, and again on the fifteenth of July – 2008.’
‘That’s odd. We went computerised way before then and there’s nothing on file. She must have transferred to another clinic.’
‘There’s no birth registered.’
‘That’s sad, but it happens all the time,’ says the sister.
There is no need to tell her about Emily going missing. Instead, he says, ‘I’d like to know who was on duty the afternoon of the fifteenth of July 2008. Can you show me the rosters?’
‘Why?’ The sister looks at him warily.
‘We’ll need to talk to the staff – see if their memory is better than the computer.’
Which makes the sister smile. ‘You know we have three and a half thousand births a year here. I’ll get the roster up, but then you’ll have to come back when we have more cover if you want to talk to the nurses. That’s if they’re still here.’
As they go, the blonde nurse smiles at Pulford. Her teeth are good and her eyes sparkle. She closes one of them, slowly, and makes Pulford laugh. As he goes, he half turns, catches her looking him up and down. It brightens his night.
In the sister’s office, the overhead lights fizz and the computer screen glows. Her office faces onto the Victorian bricks of Raven Lane. It is a skyless aspect and he wonders how long the staff might go without seeing natural light.
‘Duty sister was Underwood. She’s gone. Nurses Redpath and Gilligan are gone, too.’ She clicks onto another screen. ‘But Stafford’s still here. She’s on tonight, actually.’
‘Is she blonde?’
‘I can’t spare her. Like I said, you’ll have to come back. And there’s Nurse Delahunty, too. That’s it.’
‘Eve Delahunty?’
‘Yes. How do you know her?’
‘From the Baby Grace case.’
‘Aaah yes. She got attached to that one.’ The sister shakes her head, suddenly looking stern. ‘I’ll show you out.’
*
Staffe takes his final step down the ladders into the Smithfield tunnel. Unlike the last time he was here, the tunnel is ferociously lit, revealing a cavern that had been intended as a passenger hall. Within fifty yards or so, the cavern forks into two separate conduits.
Staffe stands at the confluence of the two tunnels, walks backwards towards the entrance, looking left and right. The entrance curves round towards the bottom of the ladders and you can barely see into the left-hand tunnel. Kerry was found in the right.
From the left, emerging from their blind spot, a group of SOC officers in white, disposable overalls march into view. The gang on the right are following the historian, Asquith. As soon as he sees Staffe, Asquith tacks an extra clip to his stride, holds his hand aloft, as if this is his world, Staffe merely a guest.
Staffe looks beyond Asquith, into the brilliantly lit, carved tubes, going nowhere. The Victorians had cut into London’s clay these perfect cylinders – except at the bottom, where they had carved shelves for the two platforms and below that, troughs to take the rails, except you can see now that they are not perfect, on account of what Asquith had called Quaternary river terrace deposits. This is the sand and gravel from the course of the Thames, and it rendered this tunnel unstable. Elsewhere, in this part of the network, they would cut and cover.
Kerry Degg had been at the end of the right-hand platform and the detritus from the birth had been recovered further along, up what Asquith called a service spur.
Now, in this light, it seems perfectly plausible, and not quite so inhumane, to be tended down here, but Staffe reminds himself of that first scene he discovered, when Kerry had bitten almost clean through her lip. And he begins to wonder where the hell they might have put Emily Bagshot.
Asquith says, ‘I’ve taken them every navigable yard of the system and there’s nothing.’
‘Are you sure? What about the spurs, where we found the placenta.’
‘Am I sure?’ says Asquith, pulling his beard. He looks at Staffe, quite nonplussed. ‘Am I sure? Do you have any idea how much research I have conducted since our last trip? I have spoken with the London Transport in-house historian. I have consulted with engineers at Imperial College. I have cross-checked the mappings of the water, gas and electric companies, and the cable communications cartographers.’ His eyes sparkle and his lips are wet with his passion for this subterranea. Above, the tunnel roof glistens with percolating moisture. ‘I know this place. I know this place like nobody else alive.’
A strange phrase, thinks Staffe.
Asquith takes a step closer. Behind him, the SOCOs are packing away. A light shuts down and the electric fizz goes down a notch. Kerry’s tunnel goes back to black.
Staffe feels a chill jag through his blood.
Asquith whispers passionately, up close now so Staffe gets a gust of the bearded man’s supper, ‘Is there another woman? Were we looking for a body?’
‘Mind your own damn business.’
‘You invited me to make this my business. I’m part of this.’
‘What made you come down here the night we found Kerry Degg?’
‘I found her.’
‘What exactly made you come?’
‘I had planned the visit for months.’
‘You had no permissions. What if you had discovered something of value? That would be theft, as well as trespass.’
‘You’re not proposing to betray me, Inspector?’
‘Answer me. Why that night?’
Asquith looks away.
‘You had seen somebody coming down here, hadn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Was it a man?’
�
�I’ve told you.’
‘How about a nurse?’
He shakes his head.
‘Which tunnel did you go down?’
Asquith turns, says, ‘The left.’
To his back, Staffe asks Asquith, ‘And did you hear anything? Anything at all?’
Asquith doesn’t move, nor does he say anything.
Staffe taps him on the shoulder.
Asquith spins round, smiling and tapping his ear. ‘Sorry. A little hard of hearing.’
‘You saw nothing down here?’
Asquith shakes his head.
‘You wouldn’t want to obstruct the truth. You’re an historian, for crying out loud.’
Which makes Asquith smile. ‘I have nothing to be ashamed of. And as for obstruction, my actions have been quite the reverse.’ He holds his head high and walks away, towards the constable at the bottom of the ladder. As he gets to the uniformed officer, he has to pause, waiting for somebody else, descending the ladder.
‘Don’t talk to him!’ shouts Staffe. Asquith and Nick Absolom stand just feet apart. Each of them looks bemused and as Asquith climbs, Absolom approaches Staffe, wide-eyed, like a child in the grotto of all grottoes. He looks around in wonder, says, ‘How could this be here and nobody know?’
‘I’ve done my bit, Absolom,’ says Staffe. ‘Now, you tell me what you know.’
‘We have our deal? Can I take photographs?’
‘No.’
‘Who was that I just passed? He looked weird, but not a suspect, right?’
‘You’re here. Nobody else.’ Staffe is uneasy about this pact he has made with the devil’s own, but he has a pro quo in mind, so extends his arm with a sweep and points the way to the tunnels. ‘You can have a look round. I’ll even show you the spot we found Kerry Degg. Now, what is it you said you could tell me?’
Absolom says, ‘I’ve had contact from Lesley Crawford.’
‘I knew it,’ says Staffe. ‘She’d been in touch when we were at the Sean Degg scene.’
‘And since. She saved another baby, in 2008. The mother and baby survived.’
‘My God,’ says Staffe. ‘How do you know she’s not bullshitting just to get this bill of Vernon Short’s resurrected?’
‘The mother is Emily Bagshot.’
Staffe stares into the deep-set, dark eyes of Nick Absolom. ‘I need to know how you know this.’
‘Am I in?’
Staffe nods.
Absolom produces a piece of paper from the top pocket of his suit jacket, hands it to Staffe who reads it in silence. ‘It checks out.’
‘What was the postmark?’
‘It was hand delivered.’
‘You have CCTV.’
‘A motorcycle courier delivered it. We tracked him down, but he said he was paid in cash to deliver it by another courier.’
‘Did he know him?’
Absolom grins. ‘No. And he kept his helmet on. You’ve got to hand it to her.’
‘Have you run a story yet?’
‘Are you kidding? Vernon Short’s bill is making a comeback. I had to run something.’
‘Did you mention Bagshot?’
Absolom shakes his head, which tells Staffe that Absolom needs more. He will drip feed what Crawford has told him over the course of the next two or three days, hoping that the story develops, that he can garner further details.
‘You scratch my back, Absolom, and I’ll give you more.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tomorrow, you’ll be planning to name Emily Bagshot, right?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That’s fine. You’d like a picture of the baby, though, wouldn’t you?’
‘Too bloody right. Do you have one?’
‘Oh, yes. So tomorrow, you tell your readers about Emily and her baby.’
‘Baby Bagshot.’
‘Is that what you’re calling her?’
‘Her? I didn’t say it was a girl. The note doesn’t mention it’s a girl. You know it’s a girl?’
‘I’m damn certain. You should tell your readers that you’re about to acquire a picture. You should include that in your next copy. As soon as you can.’
‘What’s in this for you?’
It is Staffe’s turn to grin. He slaps Absolom on the shoulder and says, ‘Come with me. We don’t have to need opposite things, Nick. Not always. Sometimes, what’s good for you can be good for me. Vice versa.’
‘Vice bastard versa,’ says Absolom. ‘Now, where did you find Kerry Degg, exactly? I can have a photograph, can’t I? Just the one.’
‘Later. First, let’s see what you’re made of.’
Thirty
Tommy brings the suitcase downstairs, sets it by the front door and calls, ‘Sabine! It’s time.’
In the lounge, he pulls a drawer all the way from its housing in the Dutch dresser and he empties the contents, turns the drawer upside down and pulls away a taped passport inside a plastic bag. Tommy removes the secreted identity from the bag, trousers it and puts the drawer back, loads it.
‘Do I really have to go, chérie?’ says Sabine. Giselle is by her side.
‘I want mama,’ says Giselle.
‘We’ll have a special time,’ says Tommy, sinking to his knees and hugging his little girl. He whispers, ‘Go to your room, my petit singe.’ He tickles her under her chin and she giggles freely. In her eyes, you can see she has already forgotten that she was upset. Giselle nods and skips out of the room.
Sabine sobs. Tommy sits on the edge of the sofa and pulls her towards him. He listens to Giselle, playing upstairs, and runs his hands up his wife’s legs; all the way, under her loose-fitting Karen Millen dress. He bought it for her. She swears blind it is her favourite. He rests his head on her lump and says, ‘We’ve wished it so. We’ve wished it so long, chérie. Be strong. For Giselle and for me, be strong.’
She puts her hands on his face and he looks up, into her eyes.
He loves her so much and with his hands busy inside her clothes, he unclasps the hooks from the eyes on the rigmarole beneath her fine dress. Sometimes, people stop Sabine in the High Street and say they don’t know how she does it – to look the way she does when she is so pregnant. So elegant. To which Sabine smiles coyly, almost embarrassed.
Tommy continues to fumble, but he gets there in the end. With a final release and a gentle tug, he relieves Sabine of this sham burden. He pulls the lump down and she runs her hands over her flat stomach and sighs. They each look down at the bump that Tommy has placed on the floor. His tailor had run it up, had expanded it – once each month, for the last five months – to get her showing and to keep it that way.
Tommy hands Sabine her passport, equally false. He says, ‘When you come back, Giselle will have a baby brother.’
‘Your blood,’ she says, her eyes flitting as if there is so much to be wary of. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s in good hands. As healthy as you like.’
‘I wish I could see him.’ She runs her hands in Tommy’s hair. She does it roughly. He is such a big man. She can be rough as she likes and he doesn’t feel it. But that’s only half the truth. ‘We need to talk about him, Tommy. He’ll never be whole, not without his sister.’
‘He’ll have the perfect life, just you see.’
‘But I can’t see.’
‘Soon, they’ll be together. We’ll all be together. It’s a natural law. This is meant to be.’ He holds her by the hips.
She grabs his hair, tighter, and stoops down, kisses him on the mouth.
In the heart of the kiss, he says, ‘Did I ever let you down?’
‘No, never.’
Tommy thinks how, on God’s earth, will he be able to accomplish this beautiful thing, from the monster he has created.
*
‘Why do we need to see him?’ says Pulford.
Staffe raps the window again and recognises the tattooed man who walks slowly, squatly, to the entrance of the Rendezvous. ‘We need to know everything we possibly can abou
t Kerry’s state of mind; how she was behaving in those last days, before she disappeared. I’ve a feeling those who loved her most turned against her.’
‘Who are you talking about? Bridget and Sean.’
‘And others. She had an uncle.’
Pulford clocks the door opening, over Staffe’s shoulder. He points and as Staffe turns, to see Phillip Ramone waiting as the minder unlocks the door, he whispers, ‘Tommy?’
The door opens. ‘We’ll go out, have some tea,’ says Ramone.
‘What’s wrong with your office?’ asks Pulford.
‘Don’t want us coming in a third time, hey, Phillip? Do you really think you’re being watched?’
‘What if I just want some air?’
‘It’s a free country,’ says Staffe, following Ramone through the alley that leads up to Berwick Street market where vendors shout and vans rev their engines, parp their horns, trying to squeeze between stalls.
Ramone weaves through the crowds, his silver, bouffant head raised high. Every few steps he nods at stallholders and punters alike, until just before the Blue Posts on the corner of Broadwick Street, where he goes through a door to an unmarked shop. Inside, the lighting is low and the air thick with smoke. In the far corner is a tiny counter with a giant urn. All along one wall, men sit in fours, playing cards and smoking and drinking tea. An aroma of whisky swirls in the smoke.
‘They’re smoking,’ says Pulford.
‘It’s someone’s home,’ says Ramone. ‘They’re allowed.’
They sit in the window and watch the busiest of life chug on by. Their tea is brought already sugared in thick china mugs. It reminds Staffe of being very young in a Lyons tea shop. His grandfather would take him and he would scoop knickerbocker glory from a tall, ridged glass with a long-handled silver spoon. His grandfather would tip whisky into his tea and smoke the whole time. Ladies would pinch young William’s cheek and pat down his parting, and whisper to his grandfather. He tries to remember what his parents were doing, for him to be out with his grandfather.
‘Tell me about Tommy, Mr Ramone. And all about Kerry, too – in those last days.’
‘You’re a dog with a bone. You want to kill a dog, you can give it a bone. One you’ve treated.’