by Adam Creed
‘I’m glad we got our man,’ says Staffe.
‘I’m off to bed,’ says Sylvie, holding a cup of cocoa. ‘Don’t be too long.’ She bends down, kisses Staffe, and as she does it, she takes a hold of his flesh and pinches him just above the nipple. It smarts. When she has gone, he rubs it, looks down, sees that his shirt is smudged with leaked mascara – exactly where his fiancé had pinched him. ‘Oh shit,’ he says, aloud.
‘What?’ says Pulford.
‘How are you getting on with Rimmer?’
‘He seems to have taken a shine to Josie. It’s like he’s skipped over me.’
‘You want me to have a word with Rimmer about the case?’
‘Let Josie have her day in the sun. As long as we’ve got the bastard, that’s the main thing, hey, sir,’ he says, checking the time on his watch, leaving.
Staffe takes off his shirt, stained with black tears, and puts it in the linen basket, walks quietly on padding feet to his bathroom. He showers vigorously, taking it as hot as he can bear – then a notch higher for the count of twenty, then immediately onto full cold full blast for as long as it takes him to count down from sixty. He walks naked and wet to the bedroom. As he eases the door shut, Sylvie stirs.
He tries to slide into bed without waking her but she backs into him and takes hold of his hand. She says, soft, ‘You showered.’
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘I don’t know you. Do I, Will? Not really.’
*
As soon as Staffe is certain that Sylvie is asleep, he eases his way out of bed and creeps down the corridor, walking on his toes until he gets to the lounge. He takes his phone from his jacket pocket and seeks out Rosa, checking his watch and deciding this cannot wait until morning. He thinks of her in the Metropole Hotel with a stranger; thinks of the two dead girls’ numbers she still keeps in her phone. He looks into the night as he calls her. Flecks of snow are falling, slowly in the radial haze of the streetlights.
‘Were you awake?’ he says. ‘Sorry. But you got back OK? I worry about you. You have to be extra careful, Rosa. Promise me you’ll be careful. OK. Goodnight. I’ll be in touch soon. Me too.’
He clicks off the phone and turns to put the handset back in his jacket pocket. As he does, he sees her.
Sylvie says, ‘Who is Rosa, Will?’
Eighteen
Staffe draws back his hand, rattles the lion’s-head brass knocker to the four-storey town house in Mayfair. He thinks he should perhaps have been more respectful to Leonard Howerd at the bank. But then he thinks of Elena Danya and Rebeccah Stone. Bugger that. He knocks the brass lion head again, knowing Howerd will have left to go to his bank.
A young man answers: tall and frail, handsome and boyish. He is dressed as if his mother may have laid his clothes out for him, except his mother was taken by Peruvian bandits five years ago. This is Roddy Howerd, a freshman scholar at St John’s, Oxford. Latest in the line.
‘Is Arabella in?’ says Staffe, looking Roddy in the eye, holding it until the boy looks away.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When will she be back?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I told your father I would be coming round.’ Staffe shows Roddy his warrant card and puts a foot into the house. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘She’s staying away at the moment.’
‘Staying away.’ A strange phrase. ‘Best not talk in the street, hey?’ Staffe thinks it odd that Roddy hasn’t asked what trouble Arabella might be in.
Roddy shows Staffe into a beautifully furnished drawing room on the upper ground floor, overlooking Bryanston Square. With his back to Roddy, looking out onto the Square, Staffe says, ‘Tell me about your mother, Roddy.’
‘I thought you were here about Bella.’
‘Her friends call her Arra. Have you met her friends? Two of them are dead, so when I ask you about your mother, when I ask you anything at all, I’d like an answer. Do you understand?’
Roddy nods, looks at his feet.
‘What did your father do to lose Arabella?’
‘She’s not lost. Bella has always done her own thing.’
‘Does she take after her mother?’
‘I was fourteen when she died.’
‘I’m sorry. Did you know Elena?’
He shakes his head.
‘Rebeccah Stone?’
Roddy shakes his head again, like a shy one in class.
‘If I find out you’re lying or haven’t told me everything, you can kiss goodbye to your degree – that’s for sure. Now! Where is Arabella?’
Roddy replies, quick as lies, ‘I don’t know.’
‘If any harm comes to her, you’ll have blood on your hands. Is that what you want? Now, do you have an address for her? A boyfriend?’
Roddy shakes his head. Staffe knows that as soon as Daddy gets home, the shit really will fly.
He turns his attention to an oil painting. ‘Where is this?’ The painting, of a boat in a sunwashed harbour, is almost Impressionistic, but with a Fauvist palette of lilacs and yellows and blues.
‘The Med?’ says Roddy.
‘Could it be Turkey? You’re a Classics scholar, Roddy?’
‘Father was. I’m a mathematician.’
‘Aah. Like the rest of them.’
‘There is something of a tradition.’
‘Except your father. It must be difficult, all that to live up to. You really are quite a family.’ Staffe knows there is a chink in the line, without which you could trace Roddy all the way back to Mary and the men who set fire to those martyrs outside his Oxford college.
‘It seems normal to me.’
In the corner of the room is a Byzantine icon of the Virgin with Child.
‘Turkey?’ says Staffe. ‘Taki Markary’s a family friend.’
Roddy shrugs, his hand busy in his pocket.
Staffe has what he wants, for now, and if his instincts are correct about Roddy, then Leonard will really struggle with that faltering family line – should Arabella not issue forth with progeny. On his way out, Staffe clocks a panoramic group portrait. Ampleforth Leavers, June MMIX. Roddy is extreme left, right at the back.
*
Staffe says, ‘Yes, please. I would love tea. Mint, if you have it.’
Sema Markary smiles, says, ‘Taki lives by it.’ She knows not to be overly familiar, takes a backward step and leaves the room. As she goes, she smiles tightly at her husband and narrows her eyes. Staffe sees that she loves and respects Taki. She will not make the tea herself, of course. The Markarys have people who do that.
‘You have a beautiful wife,’ says Staffe.
‘Why are you here?’
‘It’s delicate.’ Staffe goes across to the Sickert and admires it.
‘You’ve seen it before, Inspector.’
‘What do you think our friend Sickert would have made of Vlad the Ripper?’
‘It would seem the press have got that one wrong. Unless Graham Blears has Russian ancestry.’
‘Aah. You have been following the case.’
‘You know damn well I have an involvement. If only through your harassment.’
‘This signature?’ Staffe has leaned right in to a vivid portrait of a beautiful woman who could be Turkish, or Persian. Staffe thinks the setting is the garden of a villa on the Bosporus. Aghia Sofia’s dome and minaret are implied with six deft strokes in the background. ‘Imogen Howerd. What do you make of her work?’
‘This is at our villa in Istanbul. They are family friends.’
‘Why might Leonard Howerd kill his wife, Mr Markary?’
‘What?’ Markary is appalled.
‘They are a troubled family.’
‘Only Arabella,’ says Markary.
‘How did you meet Elena Danya?’
The door opens and Sema Markary directs the maid to set the silver tray down on the ebonised petit table in the window.
Markary stares at Staffe, rigid with fear at what the inspector c
ould say.
Staffe waits for the maid to leave. Sema stays. He says, ‘Arabella was a friend of hers. Is that how you first met?’
‘Arabella Howerd?’ enquires Sema. ‘Oh, dear. Has she been up to nonsense again? Always fighting with poor Imogen.’ Sema Markary looks at her portrait, the smile gone and her eyes cold, unfaltering. ‘Is Arabella tied up with that Russian girl? I’m always telling Taki to be less generous, Inspector.’ She turns back to Staffe. ‘Not like me. I’m different.’
Sema leaves and Staffe pours tea. The glasses are filigreed with gold and the tea smells of Smyrna. Through the window, he peruses Mayfair. The snow remains on the roofs and railings of the Georgian rows – a scene for pen and ink. ‘It was your daughter they killed, Taki,’ Staffe says. ‘Elena was carrying a daughter and you were the father. We have the proof, if you wish to see it.’
Markary’s glass slips through his fingers and smashes. Both men look at the diamond scatter of the crystal and the Turk says, ‘You don’t know how solid we are, Inspector. I suggest you look elsewhere. Good luck with that.’
‘Don’t pretend you were born to this life. You’re no Leonard Howerd,’ says Staffe, standing.
‘What do you mean?’ Markary looks deeply affronted.
‘Before she took a shine, Taki, you were running guns to the Arabs. You know how to get blood off your hands. You’ve had to try harder, haven’t you. Not so close to God as some, hey? And in my book – that gives you less to lose.’
*
Staffe waits for Josie and Rimmer in the far snug of the Hand and Shears and allows himself a pint of Adnams. The glass’s etched crest denotes the brewery. As he waits, in the warm glow of the fire, logs spitting, he wonders how much money there is to be made up in Aldesworth Country Town.
As soon as he sees Josie and Rimmer come through the door, raising their arms aloft and striding towards his table, Staffe can tell Graham Blears must have chucked up his confession.
‘Tonight, we drink!’ says Josie, her eyes twinkling and Staffe can’t help but feel glad in a part of his heart. He raises his glass and wiggles it and she marches off to the bar.
Josie gets stuck into a conversation at the bar with Dick, and Rimmer pulls up a stool. ‘She’s done well, the girl. A bright cookie.’
Rimmer tells Staffe how the CPS are happy with the corroborating evidence. He jokes about how Blears had obsessed about the welfare of his dog; and then, as the pints are sunk, he confides that he had secretly feared his return to duty and how much he appreciates Staffe letting him take the lead on this investigation. ‘Imagine, if you hadn’t gone off like that.’
Staffe raises his pint of Suffolk ale. ‘To you. Your old man would be proud.’
Rimmer’s eyes glaze over and he looks down into his beer, says, ‘I’m not half the man. Not half the copper.’
‘Go easy on yourself. Those are big boots to fill.’
‘You know, he died within a year of retiring. There’s more to life than that, surely. I’m up for pension in six years, and between you and me, it can’t come soon enough.’
Staffe wonders where this is all coming from and contemplates the power of hubris.
‘You’re different though, hey Staffe. You couldn’t cope without this, could you.’
Staffe tries to picture the long, empty arc from morning to night; can’t begin to imagine how the days would fill themselves without this life he has formed for himself. Suddenly, he feels quite weary.
On his way out, he pats Josie on the back. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says.
‘You can see that Blears did it, sir?’
‘Seems you were right. Follow what you believe, Josie. No matter what you hear. You’ll be right often enough, and if you’re not – there’s always the law.’
She laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘You should stick around, sir. It’s going to be a big night. We’re going down the Butcher’s in a while.’
Staffe yields to a tug from the station; kicks back against something else. He kisses Josie on the cheek and leaves, swallowing away everything he might say.
*
Pennington sucks on a plastic cigarette and when he sees Staffe in the doorway of his office he smiles, warmly. Pennington seldom smiles warmly. He reaches into the pedestal drawer of his desk and draws out a bottle of Scotch, goes back in for two glasses and holds them up. Staffe nods.
‘You look done in, Will.’
‘I’ve been with Rimmer and Chancellor. Seems congratulations are in order.’
‘We got that bastard, good and proper.’ The DCI hands Staffe his glass and they chink, then slug. Pennington recharges them.
‘I’m going to take a break, sir.’
‘Nobody barks up a tree quite the way you do, Will. Not just barking, shaking the bloody fruit down before it’s ready.’
Staffe laughs. He likes the image. ‘You’re not always so phlegmatic, sir – about my harvesting.’
Pennington stands. ‘Take your leave, Will. And if I might suggest, you could do a little gardening.’
‘You don’t have any doubts about Blears, sir?’
‘There’s no doubting the quality of the evidence against him. Go easy, Will.’ Pennington shakes Staffe’s hand, gripping his shoulder with the other. ‘Have a merry Christmas, and plenty prosperity.’
‘Prosperity?’ thinks Staffe. That’s relative. Prosper like Pennington or even himself. Or prosper like Markary and the Howerds?
Staffe goes into his office and reaches right to the back of the drawer of his filing cabinet. Rebeccah’s plastic freedom bag is still there, as is the PRIVAT envelope, the bearer bonds within. But it is something else that Staffe wants. He replaces Rebeccah’s things, pockets Mitch’s bag of wraps and makes his way to visit Rebeccah’s so-called boyfriend.
*
Mitch has a fresh cut above his eye and a swollen jaw. ‘’t you want?’ he snarls. ‘You lay one finger on me, I’ll call my brief.’
‘Where does Arabella live?’
He shrugs.
‘Her boyfriend, Darius – he’s a dealer, right? You’ll know where his place is.’
‘No way, man.’
‘I bet you’re still playing catch-up, aren’t you, after I had away with your little stash?’ Staffe prods Mitch’s swollen cheekbone. ‘They’ve been a-visiting, I see.’
‘The fuck you want? I don’t know where they live.’
‘There must have been fifty grammes of decent stuff, I’d say. You hadn’t had a chance to let it down.’
Mitch keeps his beady eyes fixed on Staffe’s hands, flinching as he goes into his pockets. ‘Leave me alone!’ he shouts, all street disappearing from his voice.
Staffe shows Mitch what he is carrying. In the palm of each hand, at least a grand’s worth of coke. Mitch’s coke. ‘Supposedly, it helps the memory.’
‘You’re not going to fuck me over?’
‘Lie, and I will. Otherwise …’
‘Haverstock Hill, just round the back of the Steeles. It’s Jarndyce Road. Number seventy-two. The street’s full of Polish builders. They’re a fucking nightmare.’
Nineteen
Rosa mulls her finances as she runs a bath. The smell of cinnamon and cloves rises and spreads with the steam. She swirls the bath water and curses as the phone rings.
It has been a slow day, at the end of which she treated herself to a dusk stroll through Borough Market. Lunchtime, she saw Max, one of her regulars, which was eighty quid in – not the stuff of nest eggs, which a girl of her age should be incubating.
Rosa doesn’t recognise the phone number and her thumb hovers. Red or green? Green or red? She wants an early night but today hasn’t really got her anywhere.
She chooses green, recognises the tone of his voice immediately. You would too, if you’d heard what it uttered only the day before, in the Metropole Hotel – looking up at her, saying he loved her and what he would like her to do to him. But it was only words and over soon enough. He didn’t even go inside her.
She held him afterwards. Two hundred buys you love.
Tonight, he asks for the same thing, the same price, and he asks her to wear white.
Rosa turns off the bath taps, orders a cab. She lays out the clothes to his specification; the nest egg a couple of days closer to hatching. She lets out the water, turns on the shower.
*
Tchancov downs his vodka and asks Staffe if he would like coffee.
Staffe declines, says, ‘What did you make of the article in The News?’
‘Vlad!’ he laughs. ‘We get it all the time. People think we are what we are not.’
‘There is such a thing as a Russian gangster, though – here in London.’
‘I won’t play that game, Inspector.’ The cocky smile from their earliest meeting has gone and the man who took Markary down all those pegs seems a pale outline of himself.
‘Times are hard for everybody, I suppose, Vassily.’
‘The world turns, still.’
‘Like cogs. We have to keep going at other people’s pace, keep finding new ways. I see your uncle Ludo is up for governor again.’
‘That’s a faraway land.’
Staffe thinks it is, perhaps, closer than Vassily might wish. ‘My colleagues keep an eye on things. There seems to be an insatiable desire to work in England.’
‘My uncle Ludo is like a father.’ For the first time, since Staffe met him, Tchancov shows sadness, regret. Something unrequited, or unforgiven, is written on his gaunt face.
‘There has never been a Mrs Tchancov?’
‘You should be going.’
‘Not before I have told you our news. We have a man for the murder of your girl. And Elena. He has confessed. In a way, I suppose he’s one of yours.’
Tchancov pours himself another vodka, downs it immediately. Pours another. ‘A Russian?’
‘No. He likes his sex. He’s a consumer, Vassily. A right pest, so they say.’
As if by magic, the Mongolian with the scimitar sideburns appears in the doorway of Tchancov’s lounge. ‘Hardly one of mine,’ he says. ‘If you have a confession, why are you here?’