by Adam Creed
‘How might you help me, Mr Stone?’
‘You giving me your word?’
‘I can’t do that. And anyway, you’ll know we have got the man who murdered Rebeccah.’
‘You think that, what the fuck you doing here? Go on, then. Fuck off!’
‘You know something?’
‘You make me that promise.’
Staffe locks his eyes on Brendan Stone. ‘This thing that you know, it’s about Rebeccah going up to Suffolk, isn’t it? And her friend Arabella Howerd.’
Brendan’s eyes flicker and he looks away from Staffe. Staffe wants to make the promise, but he plants his hands on his knees, stands up. ‘I’m sorry you can’t help me, Brendan. Truly, I am. But I’ll find him, and if I don’t, or if I do but I can’t put him away because of something you know but won’t tell me – well, that’s something that you’ll have to get your head round, isn’t it.’
‘I’m her father, for fuck’s sake!’ Brendan Stone stands, faces up to Staffe.
It appears, to Staffe, that the world can’t hurt Brendan Stone any more. So what chance would he have, should he take a step closer? Staffe’s heart beats fast and his surging blood makes his fingers prickle. He forms a fist, says, ‘You’ve left it a bit late to be the doting father, Brendan. You can’t use me to make that kind of fucked-up peace with her.’
Stone stares him out, the veins in his temples pulsing thick, fast. He puts his hand up to his mouth, takes a hold of his roll-up and it is all Staffe can do not to flinch. Stone exhales, says, ‘If my only peace is fucked up, that’ll do. That’d be a fucking blessing.’
Rosa hands the baby back to its grandfather, saying, ‘What’s her name? She looks just like Rebeccah.’
Brendan smiles kindly on Rosa, says, ‘Elena. You knew she had a baby daughter?’
‘She never told me her name.’
Twenty-two
Roddy Howerd has been frozen to the spot for twenty minutes outside Leadengate Station, running through his lines, visualising the innards of this dark, gothic home of the Peelers, formerly an inn.
Now, going up to the front desk, seeing the large, happy-go-lucky sergeant smiling at him, he rehearses a final time, waits, says, ‘I want to report a missing body.’
‘Body?’ says Jombaugh, looking up at the tall, immaculately dressed young man. He couldn’t be anything but the real thing – born to rule. Of his type, he seems nervous, but he speaks with great clarity.
‘It is my sister. The family is most distressed.’
‘You said body, sir. Not person.’
‘A slip of the tongue.’ Roddy looks down. This is exactly what they had agreed upon. Precisely. Word perfect. Roddy knows his father thinks he falls short, but this is where he is at home. This could be a stage, and in this crucible, Roddy finds a small pocket of time in which to contemplate that this might be the one thing his mother passed down to him. ‘Since Arabella was taken, the family has feared the worst.’
‘Taken?’
‘Oh yes. We are quite sure she has been taken.’
‘And her name?’
‘Arabella Howerd.’ Roddy gives the address, an outline of her last known movements, says, ‘I don’t know how to say this,’ looking away, as if ashamed. ‘Arabella has always had a wild streak and she is by no means an angel. She used to take drugs, occasionally, I believe. And I should perhaps say, simply to save you time and trouble, and so you can fully understand why we are so agitated, that she was a friend of those two poor girls who were murdered recently. A friend, I must add. Not an associate or colleague or anything like that.’
Jombaugh stops writing and looks at the young man, so clearly distressed about his sister’s disappearance. Howerd. That name rings a bell. ‘Howerd?’ he says. ‘Is that with an “e”?’
‘Precisely. You may have heard of my father.’
Jombaugh nods towards the door to Roddy Howerd’s left, says, ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Black. No sugar.’
Once the young man has closed the door behind him, Jombaugh puts his head in his hands, thinking as fast as he can. He curses Staffe but calls him anyway, recounting what Roddy Howerd had said.
‘He said his sister had been “taken”. He referred to her as a “body”. I’m about to tell Rimmer, of course. And Pennington.’
‘Thanks for the wink, Jom. I appreciate it. How did the young Howerd seem, Jom?’
‘Very concerned about his sister, but composed, I’d say.’
‘How does he know she was taken and hasn’t just got wasted somewhere?’
‘They’re worried because she was a friend of the two murdered girls.’
‘The ones Graham Blears killed,’ says Staffe, ending the call, looking up at the steel-and-glass, shameless opulence of the home of Devere Chance, Finbar Hare’s firm.
Staffe shows his card and the receptionist responds with disproportionate respect. Perhaps they think he is here on matters fraud. Had they known that it was simply a matter of common murder, he might be given shorter shrift, rather than a personal escort.
‘Twice in a week, hey Staffe? To what the honour?’ says Finbar.
Staffe splays his hands and raises his shoulders. ‘You said you’d ask around, about that development up in Suffolk.’
‘Howerd again? Poor bastard, to have your teeth clamped on his arse cheek,’ laughs Finbar, opening the door to an oval glass shell of a meeting room with precipitous views all the way down into the jungled atrium. Rooms that look inward.
Staffe looks up through the atrium’s glass roof to the milky sky above. ‘Have you got anything for me?’
‘It’s being built on Howerd’s family land, that’s for sure. He’s got plenty left, mind you – enough for a bungalow or two – and half a dozen golf courses.’
‘Mary Tudor’s corner of England, I’d guess.’
Fin shakes his head. ‘Almost. But not quite. Howerd’s line ran out a couple hundred years back and they had to get a husband to take the wife’s name. But the Duke insisted they change the “a” to an “e”.’
‘An “L” of a difference.’
Finbar laughs. ‘But Lenny’s marriage to Imogen Audley got them right back in the tree.’
‘Audley? As in the cardinal?’ says Staffe.
‘You got it, my son. Cardinal Bernard Audley, sending up smoke in Rome.’
‘Shame Roddy’s the other way inclined.’
‘Best hope Arabella comes out of this phase, then,’ says Finbar.
‘And who’s developing this almost royal land?’
‘Difficult to say. There are three Jersey companies involved, run by a firm of project managers based in Mayfair. But the ultimate shareholdings of the development companies are nominees in Liechtenstein. It’s not unusual. Loopholes in the tax regime.’
‘Do you have the details?’
Finbar goes into his desk, hands Staffe a piece of paper. Bluecoat Holdings, Oakvale Developments and Pinfold Housing. All three companies have listed as their hundred-per-cent shareholders a firm based in Liechtenstein called Laissez SA.
‘Who is doing the building work itself?’
‘Not one of the major housebuilders,’ says Finbar, sitting down. ‘Which is quite unusual. The project managers have appointed subcontractors directly.’
‘Why do that?’
‘To keep the contractor’s profit for themselves. But it’s a big risk because most of the subbies will be itinerant workers. If the build fucks up, you’ve no one to sue. They disappear,’ he clicks his fingers. ‘Like that.’
‘Poles?’
‘Probably.’
‘And who is this project management firm?’
‘Again, this is unusual. Not one of the big outfits. I’ve never heard of these boys and nor have our analysts.’
‘Eggs in one basket,’ muses Staffe, looking back at the list that Finbar had given to him. ‘Is this the project manager? Mount Street Management.’
‘Only incorporated eighteen months ag
o. They’ve got a couple of decent people on the notepaper.’
‘It’s all a bit thin, isn’t it? That development has five hundred units going up.’
‘And a commercial element. End value is about three hundred million.’
‘What!’
‘It would have been more, but they had to put some starter units in there – to get through planning.’
‘Howerd would have helped with that, presumably.’
‘Don’t ask no questions …’ says Finbar. ‘Whichever way you look at it, some palms will have been greased.’
‘And pockets lined?’
‘It’s not the cleanest game in the world, as you know.’
‘They’re taking profits all the way down the line. The land, the planning gain, the development and the construction. A nice deal for Howerd, wouldn’t you say?’
Finbar goes quiet, turns and looks out across the City. The glass flanks of the financial world glint in the sun. The Thames shines, like a new coin. ‘There is something else, Will.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You know, where Howerd’s concerned, you should think twice before you go barking up the tree.’
‘What is it, Fin?’
Finbar turns around, all jollity evaporated. ‘One of my analysts knows all the housebuilders – the sort you’d expect to be throwing up a development like Aldesworth Country Town. It’s a hard business. These are hard people.’
‘Go on.’
‘My man says that one of his clients was within a gnat’s chuff of getting the Aldesworth contract. They shaved their profit right down to the bone.’
‘But they pulled out.’
Finbar nods. ‘My man wouldn’t say any more. He swore me to secrecy on this. It’s a question of face for these people, but he says if they’d gone ahead, there would have been unforeseen complications.’
‘Of a foreign nature?’
Finbar says, grimly, ‘You know?’
‘Did he mention a man called Tchancov?’
‘Don’t push this, Will.’
Staffe shakes Finbar’s hand. They look each other in the eye, clear to see Finbar Hare fears for his friend.
*
Bobo Bogdanovich is wearing a singlet top, jogging bottoms and a film of sweat. He fills the doorway. ‘You have no business here,’ he says, wiping his head with his forearm.
‘Tell me about Arabella Howerd, Bobo.’
‘I don’t know her.’
‘A friend of your girlfriend’s. She went to Suffolk with her. You remember that, Bobo? Is that where they first met?’
Bobo pulls on his left ear with his right hand, a deep crease running down from his hairline.
‘Course you don’t.’ Staffe takes a step back, deliberately looks left and right, down to the street, as if checking for back-up. ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bobo? You should let me in. We might not have long.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why don’t you want me to find the man who killed Elena?’
‘You got him.’
‘Do they know she was your sister?’
He stares open-mouthed at Staffe and, for a moment, stops tugging at his ear.
‘I need to know what got Elena killed. I know you know, Bobo – whether you know it or not.’
The puzzled seam deepens, as if Staffe has set him a calculus problem.
‘I don’t know what you talk about.’
‘Tell me about the building up in Suffolk. Did you help Vassily put the squeeze on up there?’
‘I don’t build.’
‘What do you do, for Vassily? If he asks you to jump, Bobo – do you jump?’
Staffe wants to ask what kind of man would stand by and let his sister get murdered, then protect the people who did it. He waits for Bobo to meet his glare but when he does, Staffe can see no shame; not a flicker of guilt at doing the wrong thing; no hint that Bobo might be putting his own welfare first.
The penny clunks.
Staffe turns and walks away. As he goes, he waves a flimsy hand at Bobo then calls back from the top of the stairs at the end of the concrete deck. ‘They got you, hey, Bobo? All the way back home.’
Even in the grey light of the December dusk, Staffe can see Bobo’s bottom lip protrude. Elena is his older sister and there’s no doubt he loved her, but she is gone and their mother and father are still alive and kicking; other sisters and brothers, too, perhaps. That’s Staffe’s guess.
Making his way back through the rows of terraced houses, he glimpses mid-rise sixties blocks, flaked to almost nothing. Here, giant crosses of St George block out the light to the windows so the skins can’t even see the salwar kameez shops. This is the tinder of England and, outside the Marquis of Cornwallis, a group of Somalis, long-limbed and large-skulled, like Giacomettis, choose to cross the road. The smoking whites and Asians laugh, flick their fag butts at the Africans.
Staffe thinks of Suffolk, of Elena and Rebeccah being there, the Howerds, too; and perhaps Tchancov. What might he gain from the disappearance of Arabella Howerd?
*
The forensic interpretations have arrived from the expert witness and Josie has entered the findings into the database, sent copies of Discovery to the CPS and to Blears’ counsel. As she lifts her collar, Josie feels the papers in the inside pocket of her coat. She pulls her lapels tight, clasps them as she runs, as quickly as she can in these heels, to the Hand and Shears.
She goes into the far snug and asks Dick for a hot toddy. Waiting, images of Graham Blears flicker. She contests what, precisely, has brought her here.
Dick brings the hot toddy across and waves the money away. ‘He can pay. Lovely girl like you left drinking on her own.’ He winks at her, and as if on cue, Staffe comes in through the narrow saloon doors and orders a pint of Adnams.
He looks weary, but manages a smile and his eyes become bright. He puts a hand on her shoulder and kisses her on the cheek, near her mouth. He never kisses her. His jaw pricks her with its afternoon shadow and he smells of a long day.
‘You don’t kiss me.’
‘Is that an order?’ he says, laughing.
‘An observation.’
‘I’m on leave and you’re a friend.’
She places the papers on the table, sips from her hot toddy. The cloves and the spirit remind her of Boxing Day walks. She wonders what she might do this Boxing Day, who she will spend it with. ‘What do you want with these, sir?’
‘How’s Blears getting on?’
‘He’s on the vulnerable wing.’
‘Suicide watch?’
‘No. Not that I know of.’
Staffe suddenly looks angry. ‘Blears is a danger to himself. He can’t die on us!’
‘You still don’t think he did it?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Josie.’
‘We have a knife from off his premises. We have witnesses at both scenes. We’ve got his bloody confession for crying out loud!’ Josie realises she has raised her voice and sees Dick looking across. She leans forward and hisses at Staffe. ‘We’ve not rustled this up from nothing, you know!’
‘How’d he do for Arabella Howerd, then?’
‘She’s only been gone a day or so. There’s no body.’
Staffe puts the papers in his coat pocket. ‘Did I ever tell you about my friend Rosa?’
Josie nods. Her eyes go wide, sparkle. She has come a long way in the year or so they have been together, but she is still so young, so green.
‘She had a gig in the Metropole the other night; second time with the same fella. He attacked her, said he wanted to know what she knew.’
‘Is Rosa all right?’
‘All right as she can be. He referred to the other two girls. He knew Elena was pregnant.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Staying with me.’
‘But you’re with Sylvie. Aren’t you?’
He nods. ‘Of course I am.’
Josie finishes her hot toddy and plonks it
on the table, buttons her coat back up.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need to see the transcripts of Rosa’s statement. I’ll have to talk to her. And so will Rimmer.’
Staffe reaches out, holds her arm and whispers, as if he was making a tender confidence. ‘But it didn’t happen, Josie. Rosa didn’t go to the police with this. I’m telling you as a friend.’
‘But you’re my boss, sir.’ She gives him a disgruntled look, as if she is betrayed. ‘Except, you’re not.’
Staffe watches her go, then hitches his chair closer to the fire. He takes out the papers and reads about Arabella. As much as is publically known.
Arabella Imogen Geraldine Howerd was educated at St Mary’s School, Ascot, but left without A levels, despite the offer of a place at Somerville College, Oxford. She has never been on an electoral roll, nor claimed benefits nor paid National Insurance stamp or PAYE.
She was charged with possession of ecstasy, crack cocaine and MDMA at Bishopsgate Police Station on 1 May 2009. The charges were subsequently dropped as Miss Howerd had not been offered independent legal representation, and that case of misapplication was presented to the CPS by Sir Ralph Waikman of Essex Court.
Arabella has never taken a driving test, is currently registered with neither a GP nor a dentist, but was admitted to A & E in Stratford, East London, in November this year when a stomach pump was administered. She was brought by Darius A’Court and a suicide attempt was posited but not pursued. Less than a month later, her brother, Roderick, notified City of London Police that she was missing.
*
Staffe throws a stone up at the first floor window of 72 Jarndyce Road. Hippy blankets are still pinned at the windows. Along the street, builders are hard at work under lights. Staffe can tell they are not British, not at this hour. In a street nearby, kids are playing out. Staffe hears the thump of a football, the scurry of young feet. In the corner of an eye, he thinks he sees a twitch of swirling orange and purple fabric.