by Adam Creed
Inside the Hand, the chatter is low and gentle. Josie is in the back snug, its walls panelled in dark wood. Staffe nods at Dick behind the bar: big-bellied in a Jermyn Street shirt and links.
This isn’t a police pub and although the regulars know Staffe is a copper, no mention is ever made. ‘Have you settled things at Livery Buildings?’ says Staffe to Josie.
She nods, finishing off a tomato juice. ‘I’ve had a chat with the caretaker, a bloke called Miles. I said I was a friend, and he said he hasn’t seen her for a couple of days and nobody’s been round for her.’
‘We’ll go over as soon as we’re done with Pennington. What’s agitating him?’
‘He just said to get hold of you and quick. He said “fucker”, actually, sir. And Rimmer was with him.’ She looks at Pulford, smiles thinly.
It seems, to Staffe, that Pulford and Josie might be sharing a private joke. Not the only thing they have shared, he reckons. ‘“Fucker”, you say.’
‘What did you make of our friend Bobo?’ asks Josie. ‘Is he a sweetie?’
‘Hardly,’ says Pulford. ‘But he’s the boyfriend all right. I wouldn’t want to cross him – especially if the baby wasn’t his.’
‘Sergeant Pulford reckons Bobo is our man,’ says Staffe. ‘Have you got those addresses from the numbers in Elena’s phone?’
Josie slips him the list.
In exchange, he hands her Elena’s pale lilac letters to Bobo. ‘Get these translated, would you? Quick as you can, and keep them away from Rimmer. Let’s meet back here at six.’
On his way out, the landlady, April, bumps into Staffe. She is a decade or so younger than her husband, Dick, with impossibly blonde hair and ‘done’ breasts. She craics with the locals about Staffe being ‘all over her’ in a moll’s twang and getting a laugh from them all.
‘You off, Staffe?’ she says, with a lingering smile.
‘I’ll pop in later, when Dick slopes off for his nap.’
She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips. ‘Sshhh. He don’t know nothing.’
*
Rimmer is sitting smug on Pennington’s right. Staffe drags a straight-backed chair from the corner of his chief’s office.
‘I don’t want a mountain out of a molehill here, Wagstaffe.’
‘All we have is a body. I can’t dress it up as something it’s not.’
‘A prostitute,’ says Rimmer. ‘She was a coke addict and probably a Russian.’
‘She was seeing one of Vassily Tchancov’s boys,’ says Staffe.
‘Bobo Bogdanovich,’ says Pennington, as if he wishes he didn’t know such things.
‘She was a trick gone wrong, if you ask me,’ says Rimmer.
‘This wasn’t done in the heat of passion, Rimmer. Did you see the look on her face? You call that a trick gone wrong?’
Rimmer smiles, for his and Pennington’s benefit. He turns towards the DCI as if seeking permission to go ahead. ‘The likelihood is, he is impotent. Sex crimes are often committed by men deficient in that area. Unable to do the deed, he becomes furious and kills her. This is what stimulates him. It’s why he leaves her naked. It gives him the upper hand, a last word.’
‘This wasn’t a sex crime.’
‘Then why was she naked?’
‘Who’ve you been talking to?’
‘They left her phone. That’s not a professional job. It’s a crime of passion, I tell you.’
Staffe thinks about this. He looks out of the window. ‘She was killed in an instant, not during a struggle.’ The snowflakes are getting thicker, heavier, falling fast to the ground now.
Pennington leans back in his chair. When he is impatient, he goes the opposite way. He talks, slowly, enunciating each syllable. ‘We shan’t make this case something it is not. Bear in mind what she was and where she came from. I know full well who lurks in the wings here, Staffe. You need to hold this in check.’
‘This isn’t a sex crime, sir,’ says Staffe, making to leave. ‘And I won’t pretend it is.’
‘She’s a prostitute, man.’
‘When I see a prostitute, a high-end, dead prostitute like Elena – I think about power and money. Not sex.’
*
Staffe thanks Miles the caretaker for letting them in to Elena’s flat. Miles is modestly built, with wiry grey hair in an expensive cut, and with dandruff drifts on the shoulders of his dark suit. He hands them a master key once he has studied Staffe’s warrant card, jotting down the details in a spidery hand.
Elena’s place is on the New York model: exposed brickwork and high ceilings; on its surface, the flat is unstained as to the business she conducted here. You wouldn’t bring just any stray tom into this place – even if Miles was in on it. The living room has two vast windows that look onto the arching wrought iron of Smithfield’s meat market.
Staffe pulls on his disposable crime-scene mitts and counts the years he has been in this neck of the woods. He would come to the market with Jessop for a fry-up and a few pints of Guinness at six in the morning after a surveillance vigil or a long night of incident-room follow-up.
In the wastebasket by the sideboard there are a couple of envelopes addressed to Elena Danya, and Staffe hands them to Pulford. ‘Danya,’ he says. ‘Elena Danya.’ It is good in the mouth, this name. It rolls in the ear, makes Staffe feel sad – the tragedy a little more coloured-in. Staffe realises, with a heavy heart, that before they are done he will probably know more about poor Elena and her world than her lover and her mother and maybe even herself.
‘There’s one here for Markary, too, sir,’ says Pulford, wiggling a letter in the air. ‘It’s from the management company.’
‘So, he picked up the bills. Leave the place as we find it, Pulford. And tread gently.’
The bedroom smells of fabric softener. The linen is Egyptian cotton: ivory with bands of navy and powder blue. Translucent roman blinds keep Elena’s bedtime world a secret. She has what seems to be a Clarice Cliff lotus jug on her painted French chest of drawers but when Staffe inspects the piece, he sees it is a modern copy. In the matching painted wardrobe, her clothes hang neatly – the kind of finery you would expect of a fancy whore. But Staffe double-checks – no mirror: not even on the wardrobes. Picking up a silver-framed photograph of Elena in a ball gown, looking into the camera with her pale eyes and her china-fine bones, it makes his heart sad to think she didn’t appear to like looking at herself.
‘Not your typical hooker’s joint,’ says Pulford.
Staffe sits on the bed and sighs, ‘Not by a long chalk.’ He feels something stop the mattress from taking his full weight and looks under the bed, pulls out a suitcase. It has ED inscribed on its fawn kid leather. He carefully picks his way through the contents: a pair of faded 501s, not even washed, two lumber-check shirts, a cable-knit sweater and a crocheted tea-cosy hat. Two pairs of colour-run Marks & Spencer’s bikini briefs, and a copy of Mansfield Park. ‘Poor thing,’ says Staffe.
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘This was her,’ says Staffe. ‘Not Markary, not Bobo. Not the bastards she slept with.’
‘You heard what Tchancov said. He said she loved …’
‘What does Tchancov know?’ says Staffe, going into the kitchen.
He finds nothing out of the ordinary, sees the washing machine is full. On his knees, he goes through it: only bedding. She must have washed that day, he thinks. ‘You wouldn’t wash … It wouldn’t be the last thing,’ he says to himself, looking at this human remain of her final day.
‘Excuse me!’ Miles the caretaker stands in the doorway of the kitchen with his arms crossed. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
‘A woman died, Miles,’ says Staffe.
‘No woman lived here.’ Miles looks at Staffe, awkwardly.
Staffe takes a step towards. ‘Are you changing your tune?’
Miles retreats back into the hallway. ‘I shouldn’t have let you in.’
Staffe wants to grab the man by the lapels of
his suit and rattle the truth from him, but he tries to conjure another way. ‘She was quite a beautiful girl, wouldn’t you say? And popular.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You turned a blind eye. And a healthy profit, no doubt.’
‘Perhaps I should call the police. You don’t act like police.’
Staffe notices a stack of writing paper on the shelf of the telephone stand: pale lilac and stiff as parchment. He picks up the phone, presses Redial and after three rings a woman with a stern Balkan accent says, ‘Signet Hotel. Can I help you?’
‘You have a reservation in the name of Danya?’
The phone goes quiet and Miles says, ‘I must insist!’
Staffe holds out a hand and listens to the woman say, ‘You are not her.’
‘Is it for tonight? I am police.’
‘Last night. For two nights. She did not appear.’
Staffe hangs up and leaves. As he passes Miles, busy now into his mobile phone, he hisses, ‘You wash your hands well, tonight. Get under the nails. And try not to look in the mirror.’
*
In the Hand and Shears, Staffe reads the translation of the first of Elena’s letters to Bobo.
My sweet Bobo,
I’m trapped here in this palace he has made for me. More like a prison and sometimes I really wish I had never come. But the life here can be so good. It is easy to forget what it was like before. I can’t remember how cold it was, and what we did not have. There was nothing beautiful around us. Were the mountains beautiful, Bobo? When I have to do things, I close my eyes and I try to think of the mountains. Life would be easier if they were not beautiful.
Today, I feel low and missing you.
I love you my Bobo,
Elena.
Staffe takes an unhealthy swallow of his Adnams. Reading Elena’s thoughts, he is prompted to think of Rosa, his friend, who is bright and attractive and who will soon be too old to do what she does.
He steers himself to the next translation, but by the time he has read the first paragraph, his mind is back on Rosa. He should go round. It’s been six months and he remembers full well what happened the last time – a first time.
‘What do you make of it?’ says Josie.
‘It doesn’t suggest she was being coerced, or held hostage to some habit. What did Forensics come up with at Livery Buildings?’
‘Just a few of Elena Danya’s prints. And Markary’s, too. According to the caretaker she was just there for a few days. Markary took pity on her, apparently. The caretaker backs it up.’
‘What about the other residents?’ says Staffe.
‘They’re saying nothing, and the CCTV is broken.’
‘Are there any tapes?’
‘They only keep them forty-eight hours.’
‘How convenient.’ Staffe feels his face soften into a smile.
‘You should smile more often, sir,’ says Josie, as Pulford returns with the drinks.
‘There’s plenty we should all do more often.’
‘Word has it you’re getting quite serious – with Sylvie.’ She raises her eyebrows.
Staffe allows that strain of conversation to fade to nothing. As it does, a plan drifts. He swallows his Adnams, allows the plan to ferment. ‘Aaah. Dick keeps his beer perfectly. They make it up in Saltburgh, Pulford. What do you make of it?’
‘It’s grand, sir. That’s where she was going – the Signet Hotel.’
‘You should get yourself up there. You want to go with him, Chancellor?’ says Staffe to Josie.
‘Nice of you to offer, sir. But I can see you might be better equipped to make such a sacrifice.’ She laughs, as does Pulford, and Staffe revisits the second translation.
My sweet Bobo,
I feel so low and miss not seeing you. I am a prisoner up here and don’t know how much longer I could have done this. Perhaps it is the winter that brings me down. He has said I can have a few days away and I will go to my paradise and forget everything, I hope. I can’t remember how long it is since I saw you …
Staffe finishes his pint and stands. ‘You get off, Pulford. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Josie, tell Bobo he’ll need to account for his whereabouts between four and six o’clock on the seventh.’
As Pulford gets his coat, Staffe winks at Josie and taps his watch, holds five fingers up and mimes the turning of a steering wheel.
*
‘Christ, sir. Is this his place?’
Kerbside, on Bishops Avenue, the dashboard dies, like someone turning off the Christmas tree lights. Opposite, though, beyond the gilded gates of number 75, Tchancov’s Norwegian spruce would do the Kremlin proud.
‘Oooh. What a tree.’ Josie’s eyes glint as a car sweeps by.
Staffe talks into the entryphone, embedded in a vast stone pillar.
‘You!’ responds Tchancov’s voice.
‘I’m going to have to ask you come down to the station, Mr Tchancov. Or we could try to handle it here.’
‘And may I ask why?’
Staffe looks at Josie, letting the silence stretch. The lock clunks and a small gate to the side sweeps open.
‘Wow,’ says Josie, going ahead, looking up at the double-gabled, modern gothic extravagance.
‘The rouble must be strong,’ says Staffe, watching light glow bright in the twelve-foot porch. The front door opens and little Tchancov appears, wearing a smoking jacket and a fragile smile. Through narrow lips that barely move, he says, ‘I have guests arriving. Unless you have documents, you should be quick.’
‘I thought you’d want to know …’ Staffe looks past Tchancov, sees a suited, broad-shouldered man with Mongolian eyes and no hair, dyed-black sideburns.
‘Know what?’ asks Tchancov, instating a broader smile.
‘You’re needed to identify the body of Elena Danya in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll send a car round for you.’
Staffe scrutinises the reception hall, decked with holly and some fine baroque furniture. On the secretaire by the curving dual staircase is a pile of post. Amidst it, a pale lilac envelope.
Vassily steps across, into Staffe’s eyeline. ‘I heard Bobo was tending to the identification.’
‘We have a conflict. Bobo simply can’t do that, Vassily.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s been arrested – in connection with the murder of Elena Danya.’
Vassily Tchancov bats his eyes, just the once, at the news that one of his has been brought in for murder.
*
‘What the hell’s going on, sir?’ asks Josie, once the car door is shut.
‘I’ll run you home. You’re on my way.’ He fires up the engine, pulls out, waving at the Mongolian, who watches them from the other side of the gilded gates.
‘You’ve got evidence on Bobo?’ says Josie.
‘If we wanted him to come in and he refused to co-operate, we might have to arrest him.’
‘Tchancov will soon find out if he’s not.’
‘Jombaugh’s got two uniforms going round to get him. My guess is, he’ll resist.’
Traffic is thin and the snow is falling. Going down past the Spaniards Inn. Josie turns in her seat and says, softly, ‘You just want Tchancov in front of the body. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Not quite.’ Staffe turns on the radio, surfs it to a classical station. Copland, he thinks, and in that orchestral prairie sweep, he lets his thoughts roam. All he has for Elena is a disputed address and a probable occupation; a surname and a boyfriend; a lover and an ex-employer. No National Insurance number or passport; no place or date of birth. An empty hotel room awaits her in Suffolk. Tchancov said she really did love what men paid her to do, but Staffe won’t accept that. Nothing about Elena will be that simple, he fears.
He thinks about how long it is since he visited his parents’ grave, and he fears for Elena’s father and mother, feels the terrible burden of those who survive.
He calls Jombaugh, who asks who he wants to
talk to.
‘You, Jom. I want you to do me a favour.’
‘You must be in trouble, Staffe.’
‘You’re my oldest friend in the Force now, Jom. You know that, don’t you.’
‘Big trouble!’ laughs Jom.
‘Your father was in the Russian army, right?’
‘Only by accident. He was a Pole. They conscripted them.’
‘I’ve got Vassily Tchancov coming in tomorrow. He was in the army, an officer in the first Chechen war.’
‘So?’
‘I’ll bring in some cheesecake. Share some slices with him and chew the fat. Have a little dig around.’
‘What do you want, Staffe? Exactly?’
‘To find out just how bad a bastard he is.’
‘That first Chechen war is a good place to start.’
Eight
Sylvie is on the chaise longue at Queen’s Terrace, a nest of newspapers and sketches all around her. ‘Stranger,’ she says, seeing Staffe come in.
Pulford is in the armchair, a copy of The News and cans and a pizza box at his feet. He must see Staffe’s lip curl, because he gets up and gathers the detritus. ‘Sorry about this,’ he says.
Staffe sits at Sylvie’s feet and rubs her calves. She nestles, deeper, lifts her legs onto his lap and Staffe takes Elena’s letters from his pocket – re-reading the second one as Pulford scuttles out of the room. He loosens his tie, says to Sylvie, ‘What do you make of this?’ He hands her a lilac letter. ‘Just these lines.’ He taps the paper.
‘I feel so low and miss not seeing you. I feel like a prisoner up here and don’t know how much longer I could have done this …’
As Sylvie reads aloud, he closes his eyes and drinks her voice, like a digestif. But she falters and when he opens his eyes, her face has turned sad. Her eyebrows pinch together.