The Burning Men

by Will Shindler

  Chapter 57

  Seven Days Later

  The summer heatwave was well and truly over, the dry conditions and baking temperatures replaced by consecutive days of thick cloud and hard rain. After too many sleepless nights in the heat, Finn was enjoying the change. He held a plastic folder of paperwork over his head and ran across the road from Cedar House towards YoYo’s as the heavens parted. He looked around the cafe and saw Andy Warrender in the corner nursing a mug of tea. Warrender was in London following up some leads on Ray Spinney’s current whereabouts. He’d suggested popping in for a final catch-up on the mutual ground their investigations covered. Finn agreed, as much out of curiosity as necessity. There’d been a strange thaw in their relationship over the past week, and DI to DI, Finn found himself empathising with his counterpart.

  Warrender greeted him with a friendly smile and they shook hands. Finn still didn’t rate him, but there was an integrity which was hard not to respect. Whatever else you could say, he’d meant well. The double blow of Farmer’s death and Godden’s betrayal would have hit anyone hard. All things considered, he looked remarkably at peace with himself. Finn immediately suspected the reason.

  ‘I’ve handed in my notice, and it feels bloody great, I can’t deny it,’ Warrender said as Yolande brought Finn the espresso he hadn’t needed to order.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ve got family in Devon. It’s time for something different. Running a pub, or even a gaff like this, suddenly feels appealing.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear about Mike Godden,’ said Finn.

  It was nothing to do with sympathy for the dead man. Godden’s death would have been devastating for Warrender and everyone at Chapel Row. Getting him to face justice in the dock for what he’d done was probably the only thing keeping them going following Jim Farmer’s death. Godden also possessed crucial knowledge regarding Spinney, which he’d taken to the grave with him. It was the worst of all possible outcomes. Warrender shook his head and stared down into his tea.

  ‘I guess he fucked me right to the end, didn’t he?’

  ‘What about Spinney – any leads?’ asked Finn, changing the subject.

  ‘Nothing. Just spent a wasted morning chasing shadows. Current thinking is he’s probably gone abroad. Romania possibly. He has contacts and the resources to create a new identity. Interpol have been informed, but then he was living in plain sight out in Kent for years, so your guess is as good as mine. Frankly, it’s not my problem any more.’

  ‘What’s happening with the inquiry?’

  ‘My entire team is under internal investigation now. A new SIO is being drafted in, with a new team. They’ll start again. Every last piece of evidence we gathered is considered compromised. They’re welcome to it.’

  Warrender drained the last of his tea. He looked out of the window; the showers were turning into sustained driving rain.

  ‘I won’t miss London either,’ he said, then glanced back at Finn. ‘By the way, I was hoping to catch up with that DC of yours – Paulsen? Just wanted to thank her for her help. Thought she had something about her, that one.’

  ‘Sorry but you’ve missed her, she’s been taking some personal time,’ Finn replied. A couple of young officers across the road were sprinting to the main entrance of the station as the rain pounded down. ‘And yes, she is a bit different.’

  Chapter 58

  The weather more or less matched her mood, Paulsen thought. Although no, that wasn’t entirely true. Since Pacific Square, she’d just felt numb, as if she’d reached saturation point. She’d gone back to Cedar House with Finn directly after Portbury’s death. The rest of the team went for beers that evening. She naturally shunned the invite. The last thing she felt like doing was celebrating with a bunch of men who hadn’t actually been there when it happened. She wasn’t sure what they were celebrating anyway. They’d failed as far as she was concerned, another man was dead. She imagined they’d be slagging her off in the pub. Or not. Either way, their thoughts didn’t really matter. She’d told Finn she needed some time off and he’d granted it immediately. She thought he should do the same but held back from saying so, having learnt her lesson on that front. She’d hoped to slip away unnoticed. It was Ojo who’d intercepted her. At first Paulsen was expecting an attempt to try and make her come out, but the detective sergeant simply said: ‘Go home. Get your head sorted. But if you fancy a drink – just you and me – text me.’ Then, almost brusquely, she turned and joined the rest of them as they headed off to the pub.

  Back home things improved that week with Nancy. In a funny sort of way, Portbury’s death felt like the closing of two chapters in her life. Perhaps the numbness helped in a weird way. For the first time in months she didn’t feel either angry or guilty. The love child of those two emotions – the self-loathing – wasn’t there either. It felt strange not to be carrying those feelings after so long, and it all added up to an odd sense of detachment. Seeing Stuart Portbury’s guilt consume him in his own personal blaze affected her deeply. Everything she’d said to him on that rooftop was true. She’d known exactly how he’d been feeling, why he’d wanted to die. Seeing it so vividly made her realise that’s the direction of travel she’d been on too. It wasn’t that she’d ever felt suicidal, but she now understood with clarity where she might have ended up. On a metaphorical roof of her own, with nobody able to get through to her. She was ready to change course now, she just didn’t know how.

  Nancy sensed it, and there followed the usual attempts to cheer her up. This time Paulsen didn’t find them annoying. Instead she felt grateful. There was no big moment, they didn’t do anything special. Nancy just gave her some space and it already started to feel like they were finding themselves again. She’d told Nancy about Ojo’s suggestion of a drink and Nancy had virtually forced her on the spot to send a text accepting the offer.

  Now here she was, in a wine bar in Clapham feeling strangely nervous. Jackie Ojo was one of those people who said little, but whose eyes pierced right through you. Paulsen imagined that sitting opposite her in an interview room would be quite daunting.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d take me up on this,’ said Ojo with a brisk smile as she passed Paulsen a bottle of Leffe. She sat down and took an appreciative sip from her own large glass of red wine.

  ‘I thought you’d probably been waiting to give me the girls together speech?’ said Paulsen. She’d meant it slightly more sociably than it came out.

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Ojo, and leant forwards. ‘Why are you at war with everyone?’

  ‘I’m not. Honest, I’m not. Just ninety per cent of the world.’

  Ojo surprised her with a broad grin. She didn’t smile often, Paulsen noticed. You needed to earn it with her, she thought.

  ‘I hate saying it, because it makes me feel so old – but I used to be just like you once. Being black and a woman in the Met is a hard combination. But trust me, this aggressive thing you’ve got going on . . . isn’t the way to work it.’

  ‘You don’t understand – it’s complicated. I’m far less interested in what goes on at Cedar House than you think. There’s other stuff. What happens at work is irritating sometimes, but it’s small in the scheme of things.’

  ‘Okay. Can I ask what this other thing is?’

  ‘I’d rather not go there. No offence.’

  ‘Fair enough. Anyway. Here it is then, the big speech . . .’ This time it was Paulsen’s turn to grin. ‘Your workmates – they’re not the enemy. Some of them are dicks, absolutely. Some of them don’t care, and some of them are really decent people. You’ve got to work with them all, or at least find a way of working with them. What you’ve been doing isn’t sustainable.’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘As I might have just said – fuck off, Paulsen. I care because . . . well, girls together, aren’t we?’

  Paulsen realised she was enjoying herself, enjoying the banter. That felt new too.

  ‘Did you have to work hard to
be accepted here?’

  ‘What do you think? But I learnt a few tricks. Tricks I think I can pass on to you, if you’re prepared to listen to me. Some of these guys, they really want to get on with you – you’re just not letting them in. Give them a chance.’

  ‘What about the DI?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do I need to win him over?’

  Ojo took a deep sip of her wine, a playful look forming on her face.

  ‘What do you make of him so far?’ she said.

  ‘Not fair. You and him clearly go back.’

  ‘I’m interested, genuinely.’

  ‘Alright – at first I thought he was up himself. But he’s complicated. Then again, I dare say the last few weeks haven’t been the easiest, have they?’

  ‘That’s not a bad analysis. A lot of people find him difficult to work out. When I first met him, I thought there was genuinely something a bit missing. But there isn’t. He just turns off the social graces sometimes, because his brain hasn’t got time for them. They get in the way. Sometimes with other human beings he can be stunningly stupid.’ They both laughed as she said the words. ‘But when it comes to the job, he knows what he’s doing. People tend to underestimate him; other cops, villains, Skegman even . . . the public . . . it’s a mistake, trust me.’

  ‘I’d worked that out actually.’ Paulsen took a moment, feeling Ojo’s gaze searching her out. ‘He’s told you what I said to him, hasn’t he?’ Ojo nodded and she felt a rush of embarrassment.

  ‘What was that all about?’ said Ojo quietly.

  ‘It was the way he was talking to me. It just . . . triggered something.’

  ‘To do with this issue of yours?’ Paulsen nodded. ‘I suppose that explains it to some degree, even if it doesn’t excuse it. What the fuck were you thinking? His wife’s just died.’

  ‘I know, I’m not trying to excuse it. It was appalling, I understand that. I lost control. I just don’t know how to put it right. We were right in the middle of the investigation. Portbury attacked him that night so we’ve not really talked properly about it since.’

  ‘Do you really need me to tell you what to do?’

  Paulsen rolled her beer bottle between her hands for a moment.

  ‘No. I just don’t know how to do it.’

  ‘You’re almost as bad as he is. It doesn’t matter how you do it, Mattie. Just do it.’

  Chapter 59

  Finn was cooking lasagne. He was in the mood for comfort food. It was good to be slipping back into another of his old routines. Cooking felt strangely healing and if he never saw another microwave dinner again it would be too soon. Tomorrow he’d call the estate agents and get someone in to value the flat. It was time to begin the process of moving on, in all senses of the phrase. He’d just put the lasagne in the oven when the front doorbell rang, and he found a familiar face waiting outside.

  ‘Hello,’ said Mattie Paulsen. ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ She looked strangely small standing there, and her Scandinavian lilt sounded particularly pronounced. ‘Can we talk?’ she said, and he nodded her in.

  ‘You’ve rather caught me on the hop, I’m afraid, can I get you a drink?’ he said, wriggling with slight embarrassment at the kitchen apron he was wearing.

  ‘Whisky, neat – if that’s okay,’ she replied. A hint of a smile crossed his face – he’d been thinking more tea or coffee. A few minutes later they were sat on opposite sofas in his living room, both nursing a glass of single malt.

  ‘I’d like to start with a question,’ she said. ‘You heard what I said to Portbury out on that rooftop. About being responsible for someone’s death . . .’ Finn nodded. ‘And yet, you haven’t asked me about it. You let me take a week off instead. Why?’

  ‘Because I wanted to have this conversation with you, and I wanted you to have the time to think about it first.’

  He’d thought it through, she realised. Obviously he’d thought it through.

  ‘So start at the beginning . . .’ he said.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well, there’s a lot of whisky left in that bottle.’ He smiled, and she realised then what he’d done. The bridge he’d been building between them since she’d said those awful things to him. Everything was about bringing them to this point; a conversation where she could speak freely, without fear. He’d played her, but in the kindest way possible. Again, she thought, what a very Finn-like thing to do.

  ‘It was just over a year ago. I was part of an investigation into a series of suicides at a children’s home – a number of teenage boys. We’d received a tip-off about one of the staff. His name was Christopher Riggs. It all came down to one boy – Curtis. I was tasked with building up a relationship with him so we could get a statement. It’s not easy with a kid like that, when they’ve been let down by adults over and over. Finally, he told me his story; what Riggs did to him. Trust me, it was the kind of stuff . . .’ She blew through her cheeks. ‘The very worst . . . and just when we’d reached a point where Curtis felt strong enough to go on the record, I got a phone call. He’d taken a dive out of his bedroom window. The same day he’d spoken to me.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Finn. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘He survived, but was severely hurt and needs round-the-clock care now. We’d no choice but to let Riggs go. There was nothing we could use against him.’

  That part of the story was all too familiar to Finn and he could guess where this was going.

  ‘So what did you do next?’

  ‘I went after Riggs myself. I wanted to scare him, mark his card, let him know we wouldn’t forget. One day, after he’d done his shopping, I followed him to a multistorey car park and that’s exactly what I did. He tried to tell me I’d got it wrong, and that Curtis was confused.’ She swallowed. ‘. . . And I lost my temper.’ She stopped, frozen in the memory.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I threatened him, made it clear everyone he ever came across would know what he’d done. That he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. I told him he might as well jump now . . .’ She gave Finn a small, sad smile. ‘And he did.’

  She could see it in her mind’s eye, the look on his face as she’d been shouting. In those seconds he’d made the calculation, the difference between life and death. He’d said nothing, just turned silently and vaulted over the edge. There was no scream, just the crash of impact and the sound of blaring car alarms. She’d killed a man, or at least as good as. None of his victims would ever see him in the dock, no jury would get to hear a full account of what he’d done, no judge would ever pass sentence on him. She’d taken all that on herself and let Curtis down in the process.

  ‘What happened when they investigated it?’

  ‘I was lucky – there was no CCTV in that car park.’

  ‘So everyone assumed he’d jumped?’

  ‘There was no evidence to suggest otherwise. Given what we knew about him, it wasn’t a huge stretch for people to think his conscience had caught up with him.’

  ‘And that’s why you disobeyed me on the roof with Portbury?’

  ‘Yes. I wanted it to be different this time. But I failed again.’

  ‘It was a completely different set of circumstances. A different man with different reasons.’

  ‘That’s not the point; I don’t learn. When I lost it with you at Cedar House, it was exactly the same loss of control.’

  ‘Have you always been like that?’

  ‘No. Well, not to this extent, anyway. A man died, regardless of what kind of person he was. I’d never lost it like that before. I couldn’t stop it. And for a second, after he’d jumped – I was pleased.’ She looked disgusted as she said it and gulped some whisky down. ‘There’s a reason I keep myself to myself at work; it’s because I don’t trust myself.’

  ‘Where does the anger come from? Originally, I mean?’

  ‘That’s a whole other conversation.’

  ‘But you’ve an idea?’
r />   She nodded.

  ‘Good. Understanding it is a start.’

  She didn’t look convinced. ‘I didn’t come here to be psychoanalysed.’

  ‘So why did you come here?’

  ‘To say sorry.’ She looked up, meeting his gaze. ‘I am so sorry for what I said to you.’ Her voice trembled with emotion, and Finn nodded gently.

  ‘I know.’

  The smell of lasagne was starting to waft into the room, and the only sound was the faint whirr of the oven fan from the kitchen.

  ‘So what happens now?’ she said.

  ‘My wife – my late wife – left me a note. In it, she asked me a question: ‘‘How far will a blind dog walk into a forest?’’ It took me ages to work it out. It only made sense to me after listening to Portbury out on that roof. The answer’s obvious, really.’

  Paulsen looked nonplussed.

  ‘Until it comes out the other side.’ He smiled sadly and let the words percolate for a moment. ‘It was Karin’s way of telling me to get over her. To find a way through the grief, to push on, keep on living. I think you’ve been lost in the same forest as me. The same one Portbury couldn’t get out of.’

  ‘Except I’m not grieving for Christopher Riggs.’

  ‘No, but you’re grieving nonetheless. You feel responsible for a man’s death and you’ve been suppressing it for way too long. You don’t do something like that without losing a piece of yourself in the process.’

  ‘So, what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And why would you do that? So you can have a hold over me?’ Her face was clouding with suspicion now.