by Adam Creed
‘We’ve got all the witness statements from the Kennel and the evidence from Marigold Close is all bagged and indexed. You should have a look.’
‘I will.’
‘We got an ID on Blears from the kennel. And Tara Fleet’s preparing an expert witness report.’
‘Tara Fleet! Was she Rimmer’s idea?’
‘What did you say to Blears?’ asks Josie.
‘I wanted to look him in the eye. I wanted to hear him tell me he didn’t do it.’
‘And did he?’
‘Get Tara Fleet to ask him.’
‘Did he deny it, sir?’
‘Not exactly.’
He watches Josie go, thinks back to what she was like just eighteen months ago, when she first joined the team. His team.
As he crosses the Barbican piazza on his way to Rosa’s place, walking against the grain of people walking to their financial jobs, he wonders if there will be some kind of law of diminishing returns that applies to Rosa and her profession.
The last time, she told him to phone ahead, so he takes out his phone, seeks her out and presses green.
‘Will?’ she says down the phone. ‘It’s not like you to call.’
‘Can I see you?’
‘Of course you can. But I have to go out soon.’
He makes the knock on the door.
She says, ‘Hang on. Don’t go away.’
He smiles, at the prospect of his surprise playing itself out, but he immediately questions how inappropriate it might be, to want to see her light up for a moment.
The door opens and her face does light up. She says, ‘Will!’ Steps forward, hugs him, then moves back, holding onto his hips.
His arms hang by his sides.
‘Why the long face?’ says Rosa, inviting him in.
She makes tea, constantly lamenting the fate which befell Elena and Rebeccah.
‘There are some names in their phones,’ he says.
She sits alongside him on the sofa and he shows her the list, distilled from the dead girls’ data matches.
‘We know Bobo and Tchancov. And you, of course,’ says Staffe. ‘What about the others?’
Rosa says, ‘Kimberley was one of the girls but she moved away, back up to Manchester – a year or so ago.’
Which figures, thinks Staffe. The last call is over six months old.
‘But this one, this Arra, she was friends with Elena and Rebeccah. They were thick as thieves.’ Rosa shakes her head. ‘She’s not my cup of tea. Not by a long chalk.’
‘One of the girls?’ says Staffe, knowing Mitch had said not.
Rosa shakes her head again. ‘No way. But not so you’d know – unless you knew.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s a rich little girl gone wrong. Her boyfriend …’ Rosa taps the paper with a French manicured nail. ‘This bloody Darius. He deals – to Becx. And to Elena, for her clients. Elena can take or leave the stuff, but not Rebeccah.’ She is talking about the dead girls as if they might be meeting up later to shop out west or kill a couple of bottles of dry white. ‘Rebeccah can’t help herself.’ She glazes over, talks low, as if to herself. ‘Life’s hard enough without making it so. Arabella had choices, but you know, if Rebeccah or Elena had those choices, they’d be here now.’ Rosa’s voice begins to crack.
‘Arabella. Her surname is Howerd?’
Rosa nods. ‘You didn’t just come for a chat.’
‘Do you have to go out? We could talk, if you wanted.’
‘The Metropole. It’s a good number.’
‘You shouldn’t go to hotels.’
‘Don’t judge me, Will.’
He wraps an arm around her and she flinches. He holds her tighter and puts his other arm around her waist, pulls her close and her body goes slack. They stay like that – her head tucked between his chin and chest. Eventually, she taps him on the leg and he unravels his hold of her.
Staffe nods at the photograph of the man with the Italianate village behind him. ‘You never said who the fella is.’
‘He would never hurt me.’
‘Is it serious?’
She smiles, sadly, and walks to the door. ‘I have to get ready.’
He says, ‘It’s strange how you’re in the middle of this.’
‘Mine’s a tiny world, Will. You’d be amazed how few real pervs there are in this city.’
*
The sugar dusting of snow is brittle with frost, like brûlée. Yesterday, London’s snow turned to slush almost as soon as it fell, but the temperatures are so low today that it has retained its crust on the pavement. There is a chirp in the air, a fairytale Christmas just around the corner. Staffe goes through the stained-glass portal to the Laing’s empire, and its deputy chairman, Leonard Howerd.
‘There is nothing in the diary for Mr Leonard,’ says the erect butler, hands behind his back and a feint of a smile delicately sculpted into his earnest face. He is wearing tails and a stiff collar and has a look of the Guardsman about him. He looks Staffe up and down as if he has no place in this parish.
‘He wouldn’t be expecting me,’ says Staffe, putting a plum to his voice, placing his warrant card discreetly upon the high-countered, teak-panelled desk. ‘But I can’t imagine he wouldn’t make time to see me for a few moments. It is a matter of the utmost gravity.’
The butler looks over the rims of his pince-nez glasses and says, ‘I shall see what we can do. But Mr Leonard is a very busy man.’
‘As am I,’ says Staffe.
They wait for ‘Mr Leonard’ to pick up and Staffe leans forward, says almost under his breath, ‘Whether Mr Howerd can see me or not, he will see me. I can always return with some uniformed officers. It’s simply a question of what he would prefer.’
*
Leonard Howerd looks as though professional attention from Elena Danya would crack him like a Ming vase. He slowly passes an upturned palm in front of him, towards an empty chair on the opposition’s side of the satinwood partners’ desk – like a peasant casting seeds into ready ground. His thin-lipped mouth is tight.
‘Taki Markary is a friend of yours,’ says Staffe.
‘I know many people. You do in this line, Mr …?’
‘Inspector. Detective Inspector Wagstaffe. Was it he who introduced you to Elena Danya?’ As he says this, Staffe scrutinises Howerd’s reaction. And, right enough, he stops blinking and his eyes widen. His thin mouth opens and he stares into his lap for a moment.
‘Is Mr Markary in some kind of trouble?’
‘I’m afraid that I ask the questions, Mr Howerd. And I would like to know exactly where and when, and in what circumstances, you met Elena Danya.’
‘Is this all you have come for?’
‘This, and to find out where your daughter might be.’
‘Ah. I see. What has she done?’ He smiles. ‘Aah. Another question from me. Not allowed.’ Howerd interlocks his fingers, seems to consider what information he should impart. After a long silence, and as if reading from text, he says, ‘Taki and I have a business arrangement, near my home in Suffolk. It is something for which I have dispensation from my directors here, and from the Bank of England. In the course of these arrangements, I had cause to meet Miss Danya,’ he pauses, ‘on a number of occasions.’
‘And she was a friend of your daughter’s?’
‘I would not attempt to choose Arabella’s friends.’ He stops, frowns, and says, ‘Was? You said Miss Danya was a friend.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Elena Danya has been murdered, Mr Howerd. But you know that, don’t you. Now, where can I get hold of your daughter?’
‘I don’t understand what business …’
‘I don’t understand! You are in cahoots with Markary, and his murdered mistress bought her drugs from your daughter.’
‘I am not in cahoots.’ Howerd checks his watch, is clearly fuming.
‘You hosted Markary at the Colonial Bankers’ Club last week?’
Howerd nods.
; ‘Why did Elena Danya call the club while you were there?’
‘I haven’t a clue. Is it so?’
‘It was one of the last calls she ever made.’ Staffe stares Howerd down. ‘Silence isn’t one of your privileges, Mr Howerd.’
‘I am perfectly prepared to be interviewed under the appropriate conditions.’ He reaches into a drawer and hands Staffe the business card of ‘Sir Ralph Waikman, Essex Court’. ‘If you call my barrister’s chambers, I’m sure they can arrange for your questions to be answered.’
Staffe says, ‘You are too kind,’ thinks that this isn’t the time for that. In fact, he has a short cut he can take – just around the corner.
*
Finbar Hare is not quite in Howerd’s league but he has been in and around the City all his working life. Many years ago, he and Staffe partied, hard. Now they struggle to see each other once a year. This is the first time Staffe has visited Finbar at these new glass-and-steel offices. As he enters the marbled atrium through five-yard-high revolving doors, Staffe’s phone vibrates and Finbar’s name fades to Janine. He answers.
‘You asked about the dead foetus, Staffe? Well, Taki Markary is definitely the father. No mistake. It’s a match from the hair you gave us.’
‘Lucky for Taki we seem to have the man who killed his unborn …?’
‘Daughter. Josie came to pick up the reports. They’re within a whisker of a confession, she said.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me one bit,’ says Staffe. ‘He might be a pervert, but he strikes me as an honourable man.’
‘Blears?’ says Janine.
‘I’ll let Markary know,’ says Staffe, hanging up and getting into the lift.
All the way up to the trading floor, London spreads wider and wider, like a magical city in a pop-up book. The snow-white fields of Essex and Herts and the Chiltern Hills crumple beneath the clear sky. As he rises, Staffe sees that Markary, with his impeccably bred wife and his power-mongering friends and associates, would be better served if the bastard daughter to his whore mistress was prevented from entering this world.
Finbar Hare meets him at the lift. Staffe’s friend of twenty years, with whom he played rugby and drank furiously, has changed further in the year or so since they last hooked up: his stomach hangs over a belt that won’t stay and his hair has thinned; his face is puffy and pale. Staffe tries desperately not to say, ‘Bloody hell, man. What’s happened to you?’ But Finbar slaps his belly and laughs, motions for Staffe to go into his office. He says, in a slow and soft-earth voice that always made women swoon and men unable to dislike him, ‘Couldn’t this have waited a couple of hours? We might have had a drink. Or are you still off it?’
Staffe shrugs. ‘Off and on.’
‘You should come round to the house. Flick would love to see you.’ Staffe must express surprise because Finbar says, ‘Oh yes. We’re back together. Again. Miracles happen. But this isn’t a social call.’
‘Leonard Howerd, Fin. He works for …’
‘Laing’s. I know. Christ, what’s the poor bastard done to have you delving into his life. He’s a chosen one, you know, Staffe. Tread softly, my man.’
‘I can be subtle, you know.’
‘Ah, so some things do change.’ He looks at his watch and makes a grumpy face. ‘A quick snifter?’
‘Don’t let me stop you.’
‘You know, word is that old Leonard might be up for the nod in the New Year’s list.’
‘What’s he done to deserve that?’
‘As if we’d ever find out.’ Finbar laughs, pouring himself a nip of whisky and holding the bottle up to Staffe, who shakes his head, wishes he could find time to meet his friends more. ‘Arise Sir Leonard. For services to the world of money and your third-world yomping and all that dead game you litter East Anglia with. And God, of course.’
Staffe says, ‘He’s related to those Howards?’
‘All the way back to Mary bloody Tudor – except Leonard’s lot let it slip – out of line. But his wife got them back on track.’
‘She’s an Audley.’
‘And deader than a dodo. Poor Lenny. I only met him a couple of times. We hosted him at Twickers once and had him over for a directors’ lunch.’ Finbar leads the most irreverently charmed life. He got capped for England, just the once, and that disastrous debut is possibly the only bad luck he ever suffered. In fact, it made people like him the more, and smoothed his way into what he does now. ‘Talk about establishment. You know his second cousin thrice removed – or whatever – has organised three state funerals and two coronations. Earl Marshal malarkey. Still, when his wife popped it – a few years ago, it knocked him for six. Loved her to bits, apparently.’
‘What about the children?’
‘Bloody disaster, is what I heard. Son’s a gay boy and the daughter’s a junkie. End of the line!’ Fin laughs.
Staffe looks at his watch.
‘Flying visit?’ says Finbar. ‘Honestly,’ he walks around his desk, punches Staffe in the shoulder. ‘Give us a ring and come round for dinner. You got a girl?’
‘Sylvie.’
‘Christ, man.’ Finbar clicks his fingers and whistles. ‘Still batting above your average, then? Bollocks! If you’re still with Sylvie, you’ve got to come round.’
‘We will,’ says Staffe, opening the door.
‘What’s he done, then, our friend Sir Leonard?’
‘I’m not sure he’s done anything at all.’ He smiles at Finbar and shrugs, sorry that his profession is now standing between them. ‘Did he … did he like his ladies? Ladies of the night.’
‘Don’t they all? Dirty bastards,’ says Finbar, ‘judging by the time we showed him at Twickers. But you know that.’
‘What?’
‘The higher they are, the lower they get.’
‘Anything dodgy?’
Finbar shrugs. This time it is his profession that stands between them, all Jermyn Street and Royal Enclosured.
*
Graham Blears, grey, drawn and haunted, is led into the interview room by two prison officers who don’t give a toss whether he is a twoccer or a serial killer. One of them takes a copy of The News from his back pocket, unaware that his con is the man fallaciously described as Vlad the Ripper. Later today, Absolom will U-turn and the front page will feature Blears.
His solicitor whispers in his ear and Blears nods, somehow resigned, but summoning the strength to ask of Josie the wellbeing of his dog, Useless.
‘She’s just fine, Graham. Once we have put this to bed I’ll find a proper home for her. I promise, she’ll be loved.’
‘You remember what we agreed?’ says the solicitor.
Blears nods and says to Josie, as if Rimmer was not even in the room, ‘I know what I have to do.’ Through a high window, he sees the brick tenement wing of the jail, running away, like the façade of a Victorian mill.
‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’
He shakes his head. ‘You have your evidence, so I’m told. And I have been an evil man. I must make my peace.’
‘It’s important, Graham, that you tell me if there are any other girls. We’ve spoken to Margaret and she has told us what you like.’
‘Margaret?’
‘Your friend from the Forest.’
‘She knows me?’ A smile suggests itself.
‘Did you harm any other girls?’
Blears shakes his head and his solicitor produces a sheet of typewritten paper from his briefcase, says, ‘This is what we agreed. I have to know, before we sign and witness this, that nothing has changed.’
‘The tariff is a matter for the judge, as you know, but we have the CPS on side,’ says Rimmer. ‘Our expert witness has already documented what she thinks. Grafton would be appropriate.’
At this, the solicitor nods, approvingly. Grafton is the most progressive high-security prison in the country. What the Tory tabloids would describe as a holiday camp.
‘I don’t care where I go,’ says Blears,
no qualms about serving his time. Grafton would claim to give Graham Blears his best shot at making a fully functioning and safe contribution to society, some time down the line. But Graham is unconcerned. He takes the pen from his solicitor.
‘Did you know the girls were friends?’ asks Josie.
‘Of course they are. They’re all just the same.’
‘How did you know?’
Blears smiles, as if he has something to be proud of, as if he is governed by a higher deity. He holds the pen as if it were something holy and turns his attention to the document. As he reads it, his face briefly changes.
*
Sylvie has a plate on her tummy, littered with parkin crumbs. Staffe had made it for Bonfire Night and she had said it wasn’t ‘the kind of thing to blow my hair back’. It makes him smile now, seeing her in her low jeans and short smock top, with the parkin all eaten up.
Pulford evidently doesn’t know quite how to take her. He is sitting up with one leg draped over the other, hands clasped in his lap. His hair is unwaxed and floppy.
Staffe asks Pulford what he has done with his day.
‘I was pulled back onto the trafficking case. They had a whole boatload coming in to work on a shopping mall out in Essex. The licences traced to somewhere in Mile End, but the place was shut up when we got there. Not a whiff.’
‘Seems like we both missed out on the murder cases,’ says Staffe.
‘Josie says they got an ID on Blears from some middle-aged woman; says she gave him a – you know,’ he looks towards Sylvie, then at the floor.
‘A blow job?’ says Sylvie.
‘A couple of hours after he did for Rebeccah Stone. Bloody pervert. I can’t get my head round it.’
‘Is Josie the pretty one?’ says Sylvie.
Both men nod and mumble, ‘Yes. I suppose so. Kind of.’ As if it hadn’t occurred to them.
‘Rimmer and Josie reckon Blears wants to confess. They’re talking to the Crown.’
‘Tidy,’ says Staffe.
‘You know, sir, sometimes cases can come together. Surely. You told me that crimes have to be caught hot. And for Blears it was just too much of a burden, that realisation – of what he had done.’