by Adam Creed
‘That’s nonsense,’ says Staffe.
Rosa wipes her eyes on the back of her hand and inspects, saying, ‘How about you, Will? You got a girl?’
Staffe nods at the photograph on the television and says, ‘Who’s the fella?’
‘I asked first.’
‘Sylvie,’ he says.
‘Aaaah.’ Rosa stands up, strokes her skirt down and plays with the zip at the back. She walks slowly towards the door, head bowed, opens it.
‘How did Elena end up with Markary?’
‘That was all tits up.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘She met him through the trick. You should meet the trick through the pimp. “Tits up”.’
‘You wouldn’t describe Markary as a pimp, would you?’ says Staffe.
‘Not really. He’s got the Executive, though.’
‘Did Elena work for him at the Executive?’
‘I wouldn’t say Elena worked for anybody – not after that first month or so – once she got to know the ropes. She was her own boss.’
‘How’s that happen?’
‘She’s beautiful and young and strong, and I suppose she got the right connections. It’s every girl’s dream.’ Rosa checks her watch. ‘She cottoned on to the bankers. Those pinstripe boys love Elena like a bad wife.’ She kisses Staffe on the cheek, holds for a second. ‘You’d have liked her. The real her.’
As he goes, Staffe feels as if he has betrayed somebody; which is nonsense, surely.
Here and there, Christmas lights twinkle in the windows of the Barbican’s mid-rise flats. Some people are still at work, but most have spilled onto buses, down into the Tube. Many have made a way west for late-night shopping.
He pulls up his collar and raises the clip of his stride to keep warm and he is soon passing the Port Authority building at the back of Livery Buildings, the station not far away, but he steers a course away from Leadengate and follows the snaking red tails of the traffic all the way back to the Square Mile. Between the steel and glass gulleys that run to the Thames, he glimpses the burnished copper domes of the Thamesbank Hotel.
The Colonial Bankers’ Club looks nothing from the outside – a slim, mullioned column of a building. Once you are in, it reeks of old England, as if it is decorated with white fivers.
Staffe shows his warrant card, which makes the doorman stiffen, and the steward, witnessing this, smiles with all his restrained might.
‘How might I help you, sir?’
‘I would like to see the visitors’ book.’
‘Do you have somebody to sign you in, sir?’
‘Not exactly,’ says Staffe.
‘Then I am afraid …’
Staffe whispers, ‘There’s no need to be afraid. Not unless I ticket all those cars on the double-yellows outside.’ Staffe makes a point of examining his watch. ‘I’ll be back with a warrant anyway. It could be very disruptive – for the lack of a little co-operation, Mr …?’
‘My name is Dickinson, sir.’
‘I’ll be five minutes, no more. And discreet. I can be discreet when I want.’
Dickinson looks across the lobby. The gentle clatter of pudding and wine, of cheese and port being served rings through from the echoing dining hall. Six gentlemen, three from the Far East, emerge laughing, plotting a naughty night, no doubt.
Staffe says, in a raised voice that makes the group stop and look, ‘Mr Dickinson!’ He lowers his voice. ‘If you please?’
‘Go through into the back,’ says Dickinson, referring Staffe to a cubby-hole behind the desk, as if he were showing him trifle from a trolley.
Within five minutes, Staffe has what he wants. He doesn’t quite know why he wants it, but there are three occasions on which Taki Markary has been signed in during the past year. The first time he was introduced by a Leonard Howerd and the second time by Lord Audley. Last week, true to his alibi, he was signed in again by Leonard Howerd, only an hour or so before Elena Danya and her unborn child were killed just a quarter of a mile away.
Staffe hands back the visitors’ book, apologising for being so uncouth. He actually uses the word ‘uncouth’. ‘Is Mr Howerd in today, Mr Dickinson?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Never mind. I’ll catch up with him.’ He treats himself to a smile as he goes out into a thickening mist. The streetlights are a soupy orange. He will treat himself to a couple of pints of ale in the Jampot before travelling home, to meet Sylvie. Tomorrow, he will lift the crust of this case. Good and proper; bib and tucker.
*
Rimmer sucks in the cold night, breathes out long trails of hot air and transfers his weight from one foot to the other, looking behind. He has three unmarked cars as back-up and suddenly wonders if he is underequipped. His heart beats fast as he holds his arm aloft, waving the cars in to the forest clearing. He says, to Josie, ‘Let’s see what we can catch.’
‘As long as we don’t catch what they’ve got,’ says Josie as they follow the cars into the Kennel.
The uniformed officers tap on the windows and step back from the six parked cars. Curses spill into the forest as doors are opened. They soon turn to pleas as many states of dress are hurriedly repaired. The officers herd the doggers into a line and Rimmer is amazed to see that he would be one of the younger participants. He steps forward and something like a frisson judders through his body as he directs his first question to the first exhibit: male and approximately fifty, wearing a suit and saying, rubbing his hands on the sides of his thighs, ‘I have a wife; she can’t find out. Anything but that. My wife, she can’t find out …’
‘Your name and address. Answer the questions and you will be free to go.’
The line of people falls quiet and these doggers, who only minutes ago were thrusting and groping and moaning with animal intimacy, have fallen coy. The smell of sex, over-ripe, curdles with fear. It is too heady a mix for Rimmer, who doesn’t know quite how to treat these people.
He takes out his notebook and, in turn, asks each person to verify who they are and whether they have ever seen the people in the three photographs: Elena Danya, Rebeccah Stone and Graham Blears. The inquiries are deliberately undertaken here in the field, where it is cold. Josie holds the torch, capturing their reactions in high relief.
Twenty minutes after they started, Rimmer and Josie swap. She squares up to a woman in her early fifties who gives the name of Margaret Shinwell. This is verified by her driving licence. She came alone and she is married, has been for twenty-eight years. She is crying, and Josie assures her everything will be fine, but does she really know what risks she is taking by coming here? The woman nods, vociferous, and Josie shows her the photographs in quick succession: Elena, Blears and Rebeccah, in that order.
‘Do you recognise any of these people?’ says Josie.
‘I never seen him.’
Josie shoots Rimmer a quick glance, says, ‘Say that again.’
‘I never seen him.’
‘There are three pictures here, Mrs Shinwell. Two of them are of women. Why say you haven’t seen him?’
As Margaret Shinwell struggles to find an answer, Josie notices she has stopped crying.
‘You know him, don’t you?’ says Josie, holding the photograph of Graham Blears right up to her face.
The woman is trembling now, shaking her head, saying, ‘No, no, no.’
‘Don’t you!’ shouts Josie.
‘Your husband won’t find out,’ says Rimmer.
Margaret Shinwell looks at Rimmer as if he is the doctor most likely to tell her what she has is benign.
‘I promise,’ says Rimmer, putting a hand on her shoulder.
‘He’ll bloody well find out if you don’t tell us,’ says Josie. ‘We can drive you home right now and take your full statement there.’
‘I seen him a couple times, is all.’
‘How many times? And when?’
‘I can’t remember,’ says Margaret, looking anxiously at Rimmer.
‘It was two nights ago, wasn’t it,’ says Rimmer.
Margaret nods, says, ‘What has he done?’
‘We can’t say he has done anything for sure. But these two girls,’ says Josie, stabbing the photographs of Elena and Rebeccah with her finger, and lowering her voice to a poisonous hiss, ‘these poor girls are dead. And one of them died here. Now, I don’t care how you get your kicks, but you will tell me everything you know about this man.’
Talking to the ground, Margaret tells Josie how she took Graham Blears into her mouth while being gratified by another man. This, within two hours of the latest possible time of death for Rebeccah Stone.
Although Rimmer is her immediate superior, Josie wants to put Staffe in the picture. She’s still fuming that he had been to see Blears the previous night without telling her but she has kept Staffe’s visit to herself, a part of her aware that he might know best and fearful that if she is wrong there might be more to come.
Margaret Shinwell is put into a squad car, for Leadengate. As the last of the doggers drives away, one of the uniformed officers comes across, tapping a rolled-up News against his thigh. He holds it up. ‘Last edition,’ he says. ‘Squad driver picked it up, said you should see it.’
By torch, Rimmer and Josie read, together.
‘Are these photographs taken from the morgue or the scenes?’
‘They’ve been clever, cropping like that.’
The two photographs of the murdered girls show only the ghostly pale faces of Elena and Rebeccah, down to the chest plate. Their eyes are closed, like Rossetti lovers being sent off to watery graves.
‘I see this is Absolom,’ she says, tapping the front page. ‘A nasty piece of work. Shouldn’t we tell the press about Blears now?’
Rimmer looks weary, but he reaches out to her and pats her on the shoulder, says, ‘You did a bloody marvellous job tonight, but I’ve a horrible feeling Pennington will take the case away from us. He’s never liked me.’
*
Sylvie’s hair is wet and she is wearing one of his shirts.
‘Where’s Pulford?’ says Staffe.
‘Out.’ She leads him into the Queen’s Terrace lounge by his lapels, pushing him onto the sofa, sitting on his lap. Suddenly, she looks just the same as their first night, when he was tempted into a club so trendy that he didn’t know a single person who had even heard of it.
Her fringe hangs down in wet thongs and her eyes are clean as a whistle – like a country girl. Not like that first night when, back at one of his flats up in Maida Vale, she had pulled out of a long, deep embrace and smacked his hand away, saying, ‘Manners! I had you down for a gentleman.’ She had smoothed down her tiny dress and knelt at his Cobb coffee table, tipping out the powdery contents of an intricately carved teak pillbox. ‘You having a line?’
Staffe had shrugged.
She said, ‘You’ll treat me right. I can tell you know not to hurt a girl.’ He later learned that Sylvie had discovered, earlier that week, her mother was pregnant by her French boyfriend – the latest in a constant line. She would never meet that sister.
Now, Staffe pulls her towards him. He kisses her and she opens her mouth. He holds her away, looks into her eyes and says, ‘Remember our first meal?’
‘I remember the drive home.’
‘I spent a fortune on you.’
‘And I …’ She stands up, unbuttoning the shirt and letting it slide to the floor. ‘Was worth every penny. You said so.’
‘I love you,’ he says, glancing towards the door.
‘How much?’
‘Every inch of you.’
Sylvie raises a leg and plants her foot on the sofa. ‘You haven’t even noticed what I’m wearing.’
Staffe looks her up and down, smiling. She twinkles her left hand and his eyes go wide and bright. The Urals ring catches the light and he gasps. ‘You’re saying yes?’
She pushes him back, kissing him, saying, ‘You’ll treat me right, won’t you, Will? Not hurt me.’
*
Pennington strides into the incident room, dressed in black tie from his interrupted dinner at the Salters’ Hall. He was mad as hell on the telephone, but by the time he arrives, he is calm.
The four of them sit around a table: Rimmer with his notes in front of him; Josie twirling a pencil like a majorette, her adrenalin surging, still; Pennington, composed as an undertaker; and Tara Fleet, who has come straight from the gym, her hair and make-up immaculate and low-riding velour tracksuit seemingly fresh from its wrapping.
Tara reads the transcript of the interview with Margaret Shinwell. ‘Of course what I say can only steer you. It will be dismissed in court as speculation,’ says Tara. ‘You can call me or somebody else as an expert witness, and as far as I can see, this is textbook stuff. His behaviour, as far as we know it – the prison interviews and the computer drives, then the snuff magazine and the underwear – and now this, all represent a repressed but irrepressible need to impose, born from a ritualised programme of sexual passivity and social exclusion.
‘In the Kennel, Blears makes do with being fellated whilst another man brings the woman to orgasm, but he has his payback. Leaving Danya naked, the repetitive stabbings of Stone. These look like two different murders, by two different people, but they are both precisely the types of behaviour you could rationalise to a type such as Graham Blears. Especially when one led to the other.’
‘Then the need to be seen – by coming to us,’ says Rimmer.
‘Exactly.’ Tara Fleet tosses the transcript down and looks at Pennington, pleased with her analysis.
‘Recognition. A temporary, but essential inversion of the exclusion.’
‘A type?’ says Josie.
Tara looks at her as if the young DC is holding her fork and knife the wrong way round.
‘He’s our man, then?’ says Pennington.
‘It’s totally plausible.’
Pennington picks up the copy of The News.
‘We’ve got Absolom downstairs, sir,’ says Rimmer. ‘We think maybe we should tell him we’ve got Blears.’
‘Of course you should. But be careful. We win this prosecution in court, not on the front page. Give Absolom as little as it takes to turn his story round.’
‘Will you see him, sir?’ says Rimmer.
‘Naturally,’ says Pennington, as if something lovely has just dropped in his lap. ‘I can’t wait to wipe the smile off that little scrote’s face.’
Seventeen
Staffe has barely slept, and as the wagons on the Brompton Road begin to rumble, he makes a cafetière of coffee, lets it brew and returns to his books. Who’s Who lies open at H and he re-reads the entry for Howerd, Leonard Patrick Mark. Born 1955, educated at Ampleforth and St John’s College, Oxford. Howerd married Imogen, nee Audley. He has two children, Roderick and Arabella, and is Deputy Chairman and Head of Corporate Finance at Laing’s Bank. He is a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, the Royal Horticultural Society and the Royal Yacht Club. His wife died in 2005. Blood doesn’t get much bluer than this, yet what interests Staffe most is the unknown, stark relief to the published history: his daughter, domiciled in the telememories of two dead whores.
The day emerges, pale and misty, and he mooches into the kitchen, puts a dash of vinegar to the pan of water, delicately breaks two eggs into a rolling boil so they form, and hold, teardrop shapes. He toasts two rounds of pain rustique, pours the coffee, butters the toast and scoops the eggs. As he takes the breakfasts up on a tray, he catches himself humming Pavane for a Dead Princess.
After breakfast, Staffe climbs into a pair of gunmetal-grey chinos. Sylvie comes up behind him, laughing. She slaps his backside and says, ‘Mornings aren’t exactly a minefield for you, are they, Will?’
‘How do you mean?’
She points into his wardrobe. ‘Four pairs of chinos and four pairs of jeans. Two leather jackets and one suede one. Four blue shirts and two white. Two pairs of Chelsea boots and two pairs of loafers. That’s it!’
‘Don’t you like the way I dress?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to tailor you. I’m taking you off the peg.’
A loud rap from the front door is followed by two rings on the bell. Staffe pulls on a blue shirt and rushes to the door, says, ‘What’s up?’
Josie walks past him and into the lounge, tossing last night’s News onto the coffee table. She puts her hands on hips like a little missy. ‘This! And your visit to Blears – for starters. You could have told me you were going to see him.’
‘Nothing came of it.’
Josie taps the copy of The News. ‘Where did Absolom get his front page, sir?’
‘You think it was me?’
Josie looks past Staffe. Sylvie is leaning against the frame of the door and the two women smile at each other, cool and polite. ‘I’ll see you down the station, sir,’ says Josie.
‘I’ll come with you. Just give me a minute.’
In the kitchen, Sylvie is putting coffee into the cafetière – enough for three people. ‘Don’t worry. I know,’ she says.
‘Know what?’
She puts her arms around him. ‘You have other people’s lives to slide into and out of. That’s what turns you on about your job, and it’s part of what I love about you.’
‘You love me?’ he says.
She punches him in the chest and holds up her ring finger. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’
*
‘Will you go public on Blears’ arrest now?’ says Staffe to Josie as they walk down from Farringdon tube. The night snow is grainy and hard and people walk gingerly, sometimes slipping and laughing.
‘Pennington’s spoken to Absolom already.’
They are outside the Port Authority building and Staffe taps Josie on the shoulder, points towards the Barbican. ‘I’m going this way.’