by Chris Petit
Moffat didn’t like the turn the meeting had taken. He hadn’t expected his argument to be turned against him.
Gotcha, thought Davenport.
Nesbitt knew when to call a spade a spade.
‘You’re talking about a cover-up.’
‘Yes,’ said Moffat.
‘So what are you going to tell my detective inspector?’
Moffat ducked the question. He had given Cross considerable thought on the way back from Northolt. He could see him being even more difficult if he were told the full circumstances. Cross was the sort of sticky character who would object to a cover-up, less out of principle than cussedness. Moffat knew that Cross did not like or trust him.
‘What do we know about your killer?’ asked Nesbitt.
Moffat passed over Nesbitt’s use of the possessive pronoun.
‘Enough to be worried.’ Moffat handed Nesbitt the dossier he’d been up half the night writing. ‘I would appreciate it if you read it now.’
Nesbitt was a slow reader and his lips moved as he read. Put off by this unedifying sight, Moffat stared out of the window and assessed what Nesbitt had told him about his meeting with Westerby. Moffat recognized that Westerby was much brighter than the average policewoman. In a more enlightened force she would have been singled out for promotion. She and Cross were potentially a formidable team and, in his opinion, the more isolated they were, the more effective they would be, which was why he had taken the precaution of putting taps on their phones, and bugging Cross’s office. There was also the smear campaign against them, via Hargreaves putting it about that they were having an affair.
Moffat didn’t find Westerby attractive in the usual sense, but there was something about her. She looked like she’d fuck like a stoat for starters, but perhaps that was a projection of his own frustration. Since Sarah he had found himself contemplating propositioning the most unlikely women. At least Westerby looked like a woman, which was more than could be said for most of her colleagues. Anyone halfway decent became the source of feverish collective fantasy in the closed boarding school-like atmosphere in which they worked.
Nesbitt was still reading. Moffat was uncomfortably aware of the beginnings of an erection. The way her colour had risen when she had been humiliated by him at the same time as that defiant look had appeared in her eye had excited him. He wondered how personal his desire was to hurt her. A little kick, perhaps, a little extra humiliation within the larger frame. The point was to set them loose from the main investigation, he mustn’t lose sight of that. Two driven and increasingly cut-off people might get further than a larger sweep. Setting the hounds to catch the hare, it was called, and if he managed to pick up Westerby along the way so much the better. He was halfway through mentally undressing her and surreptitiously adjusting his trousers when Nesbitt at last surfaced.
‘Christ, son, even if half of this is right I can see why you wouldn’t want it getting out.’
Moffat suppressed a snigger and regarded Nesbitt drily. ’That’s not even the half of it. That’s just the stuff you need to know.’
‘Don’t play the smartarse with me, Mr Moffat. This is your mess. You get yourself out of it.’
Cross went back to work. He phoned Deidre and they had lunch in a crowded restaurant near the tourist board. She turned up looking brisk and smart.
‘You don’t look all right,’ she’d said after he said he was fine. It was true. His eyes were bloodshot and nervousness gave him a haggard air.
Lunch with Deidre reminded him that Belfast was a city of warring factions that nevertheless met occasionally in temporary truce. They were on best behaviour, she showing concern for his safety and lack of appetite. He said he missed the children, which was true, and added that he missed her too, which was true in that he wanted it to be true. He thought she was comfortable staying at her parents and felt better loved by them than him.
‘Are you the one I called before?’ he asked Westerby and made her prove it by repeating details from the previous conversation.
‘You have a nice voice,’ he said. ‘Did you find out who killed Tommy Herron?’
‘Do you have fair hair and blue eyes?’
‘That’s for you to find out.’
‘Are you going to give me a name I can call you by?’
‘The butcher, the baker or the candlestick maker? Guess right and you get another question.’
‘Are you Mr Butcher?’
The line went suddenly dead.
‘Fuck,’ said Westerby and went off to find Cross.
He wasn’t in his office and someone said he was out at lunch. She was worried about him and still shaken by how much he’d lost his grip since the hospital.
Her stomach was wrestling with the effects of a canteen meal when her phone rang. She recognized the voice straight away.
‘What’s my name?’
‘You’re the candlestick maker.’ She held her breath.
‘You can call me Candlestick. Now what are you going to give me in return?’
‘What would you like?’
‘How about a kiss?’
‘Well then, why don’t you come round to my place?’ Keep him talking, she thought, talk crap, say anything.
‘I might just.’
From the way he said it, she had the sick feeling he knew where she lived. Her gut contracted.
‘Tell me your name,’ the man ordered.
She said the first one that came into her head.
‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘But don’t catch a chill, Jill.’
Jill was her mother’s name. Westerby was simultaneously appalled and amused by the choice. As for Mr Candlestick, he sounded too intelligent for such inanities.
‘I bet the boys make you do the talking,’ he continued.
She said she didn’t know what he was on about, but carefully, not to offend.
‘Talking to the relatives of the dead,’ he said. ‘The rape victims. The grieving. Men don’t do that sort of stuff.’
She wondered how he knew. It was true. The men were notoriously wary of dealing with situations requiring compassion. Hand-holding was seen as a woman’s work.
‘How did Mr and Mrs Ryan take the news of poor Mary’s death?’
You sick fuck, she thought, caught off guard.
‘How do you think they took it?’
‘Answer a question with a question, very clever.’
There was a silence.
‘Don’t go,’ she blurted.
‘Then don’t jerk me around, bitch.’ His voice was harsher. ‘I ask, you answer. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened when you talked to Mr and Mrs Ryan?’
‘They were very upset.’ She couldn’t stop herself from adding, ‘What did you expect?’
‘How upset?’
‘They told me that Mary’s death confirmed their worst fears. They’d always thought no good would come of her going to the city.’
She felt ashamed passing on this confidence.
‘You’re cleverer than most peelers, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Westerby, with some defiance.
‘Well, in that case, there’s something a clever girl should see and see what she makes of that.’
Westerby’s heart was beating faster. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. I’m starting to build up a picture of you and I like what I see.’
‘What do you see?’ She hoped he couldn’t detect the anxiety in her voice.
‘Five foot two, eyes of blue.’
‘What do you want me to see?’ she asked hurriedly, shutting out the implications of what he’d just said.
He was spooking her, but at the same time she felt a tingle of excitement, like she got when watching the heroine of a horror film going down into the cellar, while the audience hooted at her not to.
‘There’s a basement,’ he said, echoing her thoughts.
‘What?’
He gave her the address.
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��How do I know I can trust you?’ she asked.
‘You don’t, but curiosity will take care of that.’
He laughed. She could imagine his sense of humour extending to a trip-wire designed to wipe the smile off the face of an over-keen, blundering policewoman.
‘Candlestick,’ said Cross, puzzled. First Francis Albert Evans, then Francis Albert, then Sinatra and Dr Death, now Candlestick.
‘He gave me an address.’
Cross was suspicious and asked why the man should want to declare his hand.
‘I get the feeling he needs us, in some way,’ said Westerby.
‘You can’t go on your own.’
‘He told me to.’
They haggled. Westerby insisted, to prove to herself that she was foolhardy or brave. She also understood that Candlestick had flattered her, treating her with more respect than her colleagues, but she didn’t tell Cross that.
In the end they compromised and Westerby agreed to let him drive her there and wait nearby.
‘I’m sure he’s being quite straight with us for the moment.’
Cross shivered, remembering the slaughtered animals.
The address was in an anonymous area of dingy terraced houses in a mixed district that was becoming dilapidated. Cross’s hands were damp on the steering wheel. Westerby had forgotten to do up her seatbelt, but he said nothing. It would sound like fussing.
He parked in the street next to the address, again saying he was unhappy about her going in alone.
Westerby sat hunched forward, summoning up her courage.
‘We’ve no back-up,’ he said.
‘We have to see what’s there,’ she said.
They sat in silence, neither moving.
‘I’m shaking. Look.’
She held up her hand. Cross wanted to take it to reassure her, but was too aware of his own clammy nervous sweat.
‘I can’t go through with this,’ she announced.
It was Cross’s turn to be positive. He put his hand on her sleeve and squeezed. ‘If it feels wrong, come back.’
‘This is unreal,’ said Westerby.
They looked at each other and laughed nervously.
She reached for the door. His hand was still on her arm.
Westerby paused and turned to Cross. She caught his eye and held it. She seemed calmer, almost amused.
‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘For luck.’
He had to unsnap his seatbelt to reach across.
He felt her cool lips brush his for a moment, her hand coming up to rest lightly on the back of his head. It was just a good luck kiss she was wanting after all, he thought. He felt like he was poised above a clear blue pool. All he had to do was jump. He thought of the things that held him back.
He continued to hold her while she rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked the nape of her neck, aware only of the touch of her skin and her smell, reminding him of warm summer days. She did not use perfume, unlike Deidre.
He lifted her chin and leaned down towards her, curious to feel again the touch of her lips. Again he kissed her chastely.
She looked up at him, more amusement in her eyes.
’I’ll be needing more luck than that.’
He felt the sudden surprise of her tongue, sweet and testing, and the clean smoothness of her teeth, and a different taste, like vanilla, which he realized was her lipstick. He didn’t want to stop. Passion made them clumsy and their mouths slithered apart. They broke, both of them breathless from the shock of their coming together, then were kissing again. A song line she’d told him about drifted through his head: We’re living in a powder keg and giving off sparks. He remembered the record in the crowded bar, then Westerby, upset afterwards, shading her eyes with her hand as they drove back on the road from Carrickfergus. He felt light-headed for the first time since he couldn’t remember when.
They lost all sense of time and suddenly they were moving too fast, driven by desire, sitting in a car in broad daylight. Cross felt her hand slip under his shirt while his own moved across the smoothness of her back. He didn’t want to stop, but was afraid to go on. Her urgency matched his. A part of him watched from a distance, marvelling at the strange newness of it all. Then he lost her quite suddenly. One moment she was in his arms and the next she was gone, walking down the street away from him, towards the house.
Reality descended on Cross again like a lid.
As Westerby walked down the road she felt more uncertain about what she was walking away from than what she was going towards. What had that been about? And where did it leave them? She was unsteady on her feet, like after being ill in bed for too long. The street in front of her jerked about like an old silent film.
She could smell the encroaching poverty. A group of sullen children stood and stared at her. Westerby had dressed down for the occasion, wearing an old pair of jeans and a tatty jersey, and still she felt conspicuous compared to the children in their thrift shop clothes.
She walked past 13A with a sidelong glance. There were railings in front and steps down to a basement entrance. The single window had a blanket tacked across. Westerby went on to the end of the street. Gulls screeched overhead and she could smell the sea.
She walked round the block to check the back and see if there was an alley between the yards. There was not.
She felt very exposed and wondered if his eyes were watching her. The children were playing with a skipping rope and chanting, ‘If you hate the British soldiers, clap your hands.’
The steps down to the basement were green with mildew. The door was black, with frosted glass panels. To the left was another door, which she checked. It was a cellar that stretched under the pavement and was used for rubbish. She could just make out a couple of dustbins, and beyond that several pieces of abandoned furniture. She checked the bins. Each smelled of refuse but not as if it had been used recently.
The key was where Candlestick had said, under a loose brick by the drainpipe. She had been rather hoping that it would not be there.
She unlocked the door and stepped gingerly inside. The place smelled damp and lifeless, the air stale and undisturbed. The corridor was covered with dingy linoleum and led to a short flight of stairs that was sealed at the top by a nailed-up and padlocked door. In the space underneath the stairs was a makeshift kitchen with a sink and an ancient cooker. A strip of tin plate was nailed to the underside of the stairs above the cooker to prevent burning. The cooker was encrusted with dirt and grease. She moved extra carefully, reluctant to touch anything. Mice or rats scratched away behind the wainscoting, and she tried to rid herself of the feeling that she was not alone.
There was a bathroom across from the kitchen, with a freestanding bath, a basin, a wooden chair and nothing else. The window looked out over a tiny walled yard.
Westerby suppressed a shiver and tried to tell herself that this was squalor she was looking at rather than evil. Then she went into the only other room.
She stared, mouth agape. So this is where the evil is, she thought. This is where the evil is.
The walls were plastered with images, hundreds of them, making up a demented quilt of death and pain. Westerby recognized many of the pictures – a bound man standing in the street being shot in the head with a pistol; Buddhist monks turning themselves into human torches; charred and twisted corpses; concentration camp bodies in mass graves.
The images were from newspapers or magazines. They were roughly torn, which made them seem even more violent. As Westerby raised her eyes, following the crazed path of one death after another, she realized that the ceiling was pasted with them, the door and window too. Even the floor.
The images danced in front of her eyes, bearing down on her. The horror lay less in the individual pictures than in the obsessive effort of their accumulation. Westerby felt as though she had been transported Alice-like straight inside the killer’s head.
She forced herself to look again. Some of the pictures were different from the rest, morgue photos o
f forensic autopsies – bodies agape, cavities, faces lividly bruised, reminding her of Cross’s injuries, or smashed beyond recognition – glossy eight by tens, each a nightmare of colour.
Westerby was paralysed in front of this shrine to atrocity. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to get out. This room was the work of the man who had gouged out Mary Ryan’s eyeballs and stabbed Francis Breen through the wrists before slinging him in a deep freeze.
Get out, she told herself, then another voice from deeper inside her whispered that it was too late to turn back now.
Besides the quilt of images covering every available surface there was just a table without a chair. On the table were a dozen or more cardboard wallets. They were dossiers, she saw on opening them, on the killer’s victims.
She flicked open the one on Breen. He was listed as both Berrigan and Breen. His date of birth was there, plus both addresses, and a grainy photograph taken on a telephoto lens. Most of the information was scrawled on scraps of paper. The word ‘Betrayal’ was next to Breen’s name in a different-coloured ink.
The other dossiers included a snapshot of each victim, but none indicated how the information had been gathered.
At the bottom of the pile was a notebook, a school exercise book with ruled lines, much scribbled in.
She flicked through it quickly, sensing time was running out. She did not want to stay much longer. In the distance she could hear the children chanting.
The book seemed mostly full of statistics, and, as Westerby scanned through the lists, she grew puzzled. The statistics were a catalogue of domestic violence in Northern Ireland – the wife beatings, the batterings, the domestic rapes. Why would he want to list those?
Westerby knew about these statistics from her own work in the sex abuse unit. She noted the phrase ‘plague of domestic violence’ in a margin, the word plague underlined. The spelling and lettering were strange, she saw. ‘Domestic vilence – far gRater than streeT vilence and unremarked on – taken for grantted. The poinT is, the Two are connecteD.’ She found herself agreeing, to her discomfort.
She took the notebook when she left.