by Adam Creed
‘Uncle Ludo’s son?’
Pennington nods. ‘Nikolai. Quite the bastard, by all accounts; he could buy and sell Vassily with his small change.’ He pats his DI on the shoulder. The contact is soft, implies with great force that Pennington wouldn’t want to be Staffe.
*
As Staffe passes through reception, Jombaugh says, ‘Somebody to see you, Staffe,’ pointing, as if to say, ‘rather you …’
Brendan Stone sits, still as death. When he sees Staffe, his eyelids flutter.
‘You’ve heard?’ says Brendan, looking at the floor. ‘About the bastard killed my Rebeccah.’
‘He topped himself, Brendan.’
‘You sure about that?’ Stone looks up, his eyes are wet, his lips pursed to nothing.
‘I’ve seen the coroner’s report.’
Brendan taps a rolled-up copy of The News’s morning edition against his thigh. ‘I was thinking why he’d kill my Rebeccah. I been making my own enquiries.’ His eyes are dark and hollow; they blink, fast, and he bites his lip. He doesn’t want to cry. Not here, of all places.
‘I only know what’s in front of me, Brendan. Have you got something for me?’
‘I’ve got more friends in Pentonville than you’ve got in this world, you bastard,’ says Brendan. ‘What have you got for me?’ His voice is cracking. His fists are clenched.
‘I said before, the law has to run its course.’
‘I want the one that done my Rebeccah, the one that …’ His head drops and his shoulders shake.
Staffe wraps his arms around Brendan Stone. The man is hard as war but he weeps like a Latin widow, incanting beneath his breath, within his sobs, over and over, ‘six times … six times …’
His nose and cheeks and mouth are wet with tears, his voice like porridge, thick with the mucus of grief. Stone interlocks his fingers on the back of Staffe’s neck and pulls until their foreheads rub. Staffe tries to pull away, but he can’t.
Brendan Stone’s words are warm.
Ten minutes later, walking down Cheapside and calling Janine, what Brendan said is stuck like silt in Staffe’s mind. ‘Give him me. He stuck my Rebeccah and he’s out there. I know. I know!’
*
Pulford is with Staffe in the niche he was in just twenty-four hours ago – before Blears had committed suicide; before they knew why Bobo Bogdanovich and Elena had come to England.
They go up to Bobo’s floor. It is dusk and this is dead time on the junkie streets. Everyone is done for the day and only animals can be heard, the occasional clatter or curse from within the domestic as they pass along the deck.
‘I don’t see how Bobo could work for Tchancov, not if he raped Bobo’s sister,’ says Pulford.
‘They were working to a plan.’
‘How do we know it’s him?’ says Pulford.
‘He’s in the photograph. It’s clearly him.’
Pulford says, ‘But how do we know the girl is Ludmilla Shostavic? There’s nothing to say the photograph and the charges have anything to do with each other.’
They reach Bobo’s door. Staffe pats Pulford on the shoulder. ‘Good point, sergeant.’ He knocks and there is no reply. ‘You have the warrant?’
Pulford shows him the document.
They knock and there is no reply, so Staffe brings out his ring of keys. On the third attempt, the lock yields and Staffe stands to one side, lets Pulford lead.
This time there is no smell of furniture polish. No such luck. Even in the hallway, the smell of drains is thick and sweet and ripe and Pulford pulls up the neck of his sweater, over his nose.
Staffe says, ‘Shit. We’re too late.’
‘Bobo,’ calls Pulford, opening the bathroom door, sees nothing is inside. Not the source of the smell. He advances slowly towards the bedroom door and lingers.
‘You want me to go in?’ says Staffe.
Pulford shakes his head and turns the handle, breathing deep as he does, looking at the floor, breaking himself in, gently.
He sees Bobo’s shoes, first, just inches from the ground. They sway, the slightest degree, by the draught from the door.
The smell is tight as a headlock.
Pulford takes a step forwards and Staffe says, ‘Come away. Leave this to Forensics. Just check for a note. Go through the drawers. Here.’ He hands Pulford a pair of plastic mitts.
‘I should have called the station, got someone round here last night.’
‘You were with Josie. They’d have killed him come what may, David. Thank God you didn’t get caught in the middle of it.’
Together, they go through all Bobo’s effects. It doesn’t take long. Everything is gone, save a note – in Russian, signed Bogdanovich. When Pulford hands it to him, Staffe says, softly, ‘Bastards.’
They step outside and close the door.
‘Stay here and wait for the SOCOs.’
‘Where are you going?’ asks Pulford.
Staffe puts heavy hands on each of Pulford’s shoulders and crinkles his eyes. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about this. We’ll get these bastards.’
‘Please tell me, sir. Where are you going?’
‘Shoving my head where it doesn’t belong.’
*
Sylvie doesn’t take the usual pleasure as she applies the last stroke of varnish to the violin carcass. It is walnut, as Staffe had suggested, and it looks just fine. She has some good wine in the fridge for such occasions: the culmination of design, cutting and gluing, sanding and varnishing, the fretting and the acoustics. ‘You leave a little of yourself in there,’ Shivorski, her maestro, once told her. It feels truer than ever tonight.
She turns off the light and makes her way downstairs. She will drink the wine and flop in front of the telly. She may wake late and find him in the house. When he poaches her eggs, soft-yolked and teardrop-shaped, she feels certain that he loves her – despite any evidence to the contrary.
On the sofa, she curls her legs under her bottom and takes a sip of wine. The phone rings, which startles her.
It is her father.
‘I’m engaged, Dad,’ she says.
‘Who to?’ says her dad, deadpan.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You pregnant?’
‘Dad!’
‘You want babies, though. I’m not getting any younger. Your mother – she …’
‘Oh, Dad, don’t. Are you pleased for me?’
‘You’ll be your own boss, won’t you, love? You were always your own boss.’
‘I still am.’
‘That’s my girl. Now tell me what you want for Christmas.’
‘It’s OK, Dad.’ She knows he has precious little put by.
‘Don’t worry about me. This is a big day. My girl.’
‘I’ll come see you, Christmas dinner – don’t forget. We’ll both come.’
When they are done, she feels sad. She should call her father more, she knows – but she always feels low, after, feels – if she is honest with herself – that it is only a matter of time before she turns into her mother. It is not his fault, but if she doesn’t see or speak to him, that possibility seems more remote.
*
Tchancov is sleekly dressed in a pale grey suit. The light picks out the pocks in his face and his colourless eyes flit left and right as if there is plenty to be wary of.
Violins hack at the perfumed air. A final movement.
He leads Staffe into a sumptuous drawing room, fit for tsars, and they sit opposite each other across an Empire coffee table.
‘Stravinsky,’ says Staffe, looking at Tchancov’s wedding hand. The intaglio ring shines. He has big hands, for such a small man.
‘He’s a countryman of mine,’ says Tchancov. ‘Not always popular.’
‘He had to make his life in foreign fields. Your intaglio must remind you of home.’
‘I think your intelligence is the wrong kind, Mr Wagstaffe – at least for the purpose at hand.’
‘These must be difficult times for you
, Mr Tchancov – having to prove yourself all over again, in these hard times. And now your cousin is coming.’
Tchancov is taken aback and for a moment it is possible to imagine him as a child, left all alone by cruel friends. ‘You should mind your own business.’
‘My business is to find the killer of Elena Danya. I was hoping Bobo might cast some light.’
Tchancov doesn’t flinch or even blink. ‘Then why are you here?’
Staffe takes out the photograph of Ludmilla Shostavic and shows it to Tchancov. He is unmoved.
‘You recognise the girl?’
He shakes his head.
‘Elena’s sister, Ludmilla Shostavic.’
Tchancov blinks, rapid, the glint from his eyes all gone.
Staffe hands him a copy of the charge sheet and his mouth opens like a coin slot. His pale face loses its final semblance of colour. When he speaks, it is quiet. His voice trembles. ‘Is there nothing these bastards won’t do to bring shame on me?’ He pours himself a glass of vodka from a cut-glass decanter and drinks it in one, standing with his back to Staffe. When he turns back, his face is set rigid, the eyes totally dead. ‘The whole truth cannot hurt me, Inspector.’
‘You were using Elena to blackmail Howerd.’
Tchancov raises his eyebrows, curls his bottom lip, as if considering an offer. ‘And why would I blackmail him?’
‘To get a share of the action up at Aldesworth. But Elena knew all about you, and turned the tables. That’s why you would have her killed.’
‘You have a vivid imagination.’
‘And you have a charge registered against Howerd’s development company, to protect your contract with him. Were you getting greedy, Vassily? Is there pressure from above – from your paymasters?’
‘You should be speaking with my accountant. I do as I am told.’
‘Bobo is dead, too.’
‘No! I would know.’ Tchancov curses in Russian and goes to his telephone. He speaks rapidly for the best part of a minute, then slams down the handset. ‘My solicitor is coming.’
Staffe taps the photograph of Ludmilla and her brother, says, ‘Recognise him?’
Tchancov peers at the image. ‘You surely don’t think I killed Bobo.’
Staffe shakes his head, takes back the photograph and the charge sheet. ‘At the moment, I can’t prove you killed anybody. Not recently, not directly.’
As he waits for his solicitor, Vassily drinks vodka, becomes maudlin.
‘Tell me about the letters Elena wrote you,’ says Staffe.
‘She didn’t.’
‘I saw the lilac envelopes. If you didn’t kill her, the letters can only help you.’
‘They can’t prove I killed her.’
‘Elena?’
‘The Shostavic girl. She killed herself. You don’t know what it was like in that war. You need to be born to it. I wasn’t. I was left alone in the world. You have to find ways to survive.’ Tchancov looks at Staffe as he pours himself another vodka. ‘You know that.’
‘You should tell me the truth, Vassily. It is an opportunity to preserve your honour. Your only chance.’
‘I know what is best for me.’
‘Someone killed Bobo.’
‘I can assure you, Inspector, it was done to damage me.’ He laughs. ‘Was he really her brother? To think – he knew enough to save me.’ Vassily stares into his glass, realising how badly he has miscalculated the will of his enemies, and Staffe decides he has done enough, for now. As he goes, the man with the scimitar sideburns looks daggers at him. He walks away down the Bishops Avenue, every currency represented in sprawling neo-Georgian and mock-Tudor splendour. England through the ages. Getting into his car, Staffe gets the wink from the onlooking, hidden Pulford.
*
The Elder watches the iron gates glide open. Not for a moment does he envy Vassily Tchancov’s wealth or power. In the back of his Bentley Mulsanne, the Russian cuts a sad figure. ‘That’s him,’ says the Elder, pointing from the driver’s seat of his hackney carriage. His finger follows for a moment then sweeps across the road to the sergeant’s unmarked Mondeo. ‘But you won’t have long. That’s the lackey, about to follow him,’ he says, pointing out Pulford who pulls away, follows the Bentley at a safe distance.
‘Aren’t we following them?’ says the Elder’s passenger.
‘We don’t need to. I have a device.’
‘And you’re sure it’s him?’
‘You’ve seen the proof. I’ve told you what your daughter knew, and why Elena was involved with him. It’s up to you what you do with it, so long as you don’t mention a word about us. Don’t mess with us, Brendan. If you do, you’ll be in mourning again.’ The Elder starts the engine. Into the rearview mirror, he says, ‘But I know it won’t come to that. This is a case of honour. Yes?’
In the back, Brendan Stone looks into the haunted eyes of Ludmilla Shostavic, feels his heart tugged. His blood flows cold as he anticipates the moment he will stop this bastard in his tracks.
He thinks of nothing more, all the way to Bow.
*
When Pulford had arrived at the Castle, he called Staffe, who said he would be straight round. Pulford explained there was an enormous brute on the back door and the main door to the pub was closed. It seemed derelict, from the outside. ‘How will we get in, sir?’ he had asked.
‘I’ll work something out,’ Staffe had said. ‘You make yourself scarce, sergeant. I don’t want to scare the horses by going in mob-handed.’
Now, Staffe parks up. Parts of Bow have been taken over by artists and media artisans, but Shiel Road seems beyond the wit of man. Its grim Victorian houses are boarded up: metal plates riveted to window frames and doorways, the easier for crack homes to stay unseen.
Officially, the Castle is still a going concern as a pub. It has a sign hanging and a flunky’s name above the door. Staffe knows how these places work. They buy in half a dozen kegs of Carling a week that go straight out the back, off to some other establishment.
Like Pulford said, the front door is locked and Staffe goes round the side, knocks, twice, checking behind him. His heart bumps and his fingers tingle. He knocks again, preparing his carrot and his stick: two fifties and no ride down the station; the further information that this place will be closed down soon and he’ll be out of work anyway.
He knocks again, as hard as he can, and when he tries the handle, is amazed when it yields.
Pulford was right about the brute. He has an oversized head, the same circumference as his neck, sloping straight to his shoulders. He wears training sweats with the arms cut off. His shoulders are like hams, the colour of fat. But most importantly, he is horizontal. Flat out, at the top of the stairs down into the cellar, his legs are splayed and his arms crossed over his chest. The big man’s face is split in two, his nose butterflied.
Staffe strides over the man, goes down into the bowels of the pub. The steps to the cellar are steep and the smell of stale beer blends with sweat and bleach. A narrow corridor runs between the basement rooms and he gently presses open a door, peeks in; then another. The rooms must be soundproofed so that in the corridor you can hear nothing of the Gomorrah within.
In the third room, a man is at the rubber-envied mercy of a masked woman, who stands on an upturned crate, wearing only a strapped-on, flesh-coloured, make-believe cock.
Staffe closes the door, unseen, and makes his way down the corridor. He is about to open a fourth door when he hears a high-pitched wailing from the end of the passage. A door is ajar and he advances, slowly, feeling each step, wanting to retrace, to leave this stone unturned, but knowing he can’t. Too much suffering at the hands of this Russian, with hidden truths to bury.
He reaches the door, pushes it open, tentatively. Inside, it is dark and the wailing louder, relentless. On the floor, in the centre of the room, is a young woman, barely more than a girl. She is naked, save for white ankle socks with a pink trim. Her blonde eyes look up at him, beseechingly, and she
says, ‘Look. Look what they have done to him. What do I do now? Where do I go now?’ She speaks in a faltering accent from beyond an Iron Curtain.
Above her, Vassily Tchancov is lashed to iron rings, attached to the ceiling beam. He hangs, loose, as if Hieronymus Bosch has depicted St Sebastian. He is cut from ear to ear, from nipple to nipple, from his navel to his pubis and down along his thighs. A pond of blood is thick as soup beneath him.
Staffe takes off his jacket, drapes it on the back of a chair and moves, slowly, towards the body.
‘Too fucking late, Inspector.’ The voice comes from behind and when Staffe turns, he sees a column of light, an outline figure.
A shadow falls fast across the downlit room and Staffe smells metal, tastes blood in his mouth, sees the painted concrete floor rise slowly. A dull, deep pain washes all through him and he waits for the ground to stun him, but he is out before he lands, just the snapshot, crystal-clear image of Brendan Stone’s face: sharp-boned, dead-eyed. The reprise of his pleading words, ‘Give him me. I know. I know,’ in the bright black.
Twenty-nine
Pain skewers Staffe’s head from his jaw to the crown of his skull. It sears from temple to temple. Lights flash behind his eyes, like Roman candles, but he senses the flesh of a soft voice. His eyes flutter and the light becomes white, then dulls. A shape forms: a pale face and cherub ruby lips. He knows the voice, watches the mouth make its shapes.
‘Staffe? Sir?’ She is crying, this angel.
‘Move away,’ says a gruff voice, from Grimm tales.
Staffe’s arms feel weak and his face stings, his mouth tender. He pushes himself up off the floor, doesn’t believe what he sees – even though he has seen it before.
‘Lie back,’ says Josie.
Pennington says, ‘Stay where you are, Staffe. This is ours to take care of.’
‘How many?’ mutters Staffe, counting the long, deep cuts carved into Tchancov. ‘Seven,’ he says, seeing that they have left the knife in. One more than Rebeccah Stone.