by Adam Creed
Stanley looks at Staffe as if to say ‘Was that it?’ and as soon as Debra Bowker gathers her handbag up and makes her way to the door, he says, ‘I forgot. What about a woman called Greta? Greta Kashell? Did you ever meet her at the group meetings?’
‘Greta? I didn’t like her one bit. But you didn’t need to ask me that, did you, Inspector? She calls me every so often. You wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t know that, would you?’ And she winks at Staffe.
‘Why don’t you like her?’
‘She gives me the creeps, that’s all. If you take my bastard husband as the exception, I’m not a bad judge of character.’ As she says it, she smiles. Then she opens the door and sees Ross Denness. The smile disappears. His too.
‘Do you two know each other?’ says Staffe.
‘Never seen her,’ says Denness.
‘How about you, Debra?’
‘I’ve seen him, when I lived on the Limekiln. He’s that bitch’s cousin.’
‘You’re Leanne Colquhoun’s cousin?’ says Staffe, looking at Denness, recalling that he claimed not to know her.
*******
As she slides into the car, Debra Bowker lifts her feet in the footwell of the Peugeot’s passenger seat and looks down at the drinks cartons and discarded newspapers. Staffe says, ‘Don’t worry, there’s nothing important down there.’
‘I didn’t want to dirty my shoes,’ says Debra Bowker and she gives him a mischievous wink. ‘I take it you’re single,’ she says, looking across at him. She casts her eyes down and back up. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘How’s your room?’ says Staffe, looking over his shoulder and pulling out into traffic.
‘It makes me feel like a tourist.’
Staffe thinks that she’s a cool customer, whether or not she has anything to feel guilty about. For most people, simply visiting a police station makes them feel as though they are a criminal. Most wouldn’t feel like jaunting around to see the sights.
‘I might even go up the Trocadero later,’ she says.
Staffe laughs out loud, says, ‘I could drop you.’
‘Come with me, Inspector. You look as if you need to loosen up.’
‘I don’t do “loose”,’ he says, looking across at her, smiling.
She leans forward in her seat, frees up the back of her hair and her scent wafts through the front of the car. Staffe can’t imagine her and Karl Colquhoun together. He can’t imagine Linda and Tyrone Watkins together. He wonders at mothers like them fashioning some kind of improvement from the terrible things that happened to their daughters.
‘You’ve not always been single, Inspector?’
Staffe brakes and eases himself forward, takes a peek down at how the traffic is on Queensway. ‘I’ve always …’ He looks in the wing mirror, pulls into the bus lane, gets bad looks and V-signs from the stationary drivers.
‘Always?’ she says.
He looks across at her, watches her expression soften. Suddenly, she looks as if she could be easily hurt. ‘Always preferred to ask the questions. It’s my job, Miss Bowker.’
‘A man can get too much of his own way.’
Staffe pulls up outside the Grafton and leans across, pushes open Debra Bowker’s door. ‘Like I said, we’ll need to speak with you again.’
‘It’s his service on Monday. Are you going?’
‘Are you going?’ he asks.
‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Have you seen his mother yet? Maureen.’
‘I’ve got nothing against her.’
‘It’s just that she didn’t even know you’d moved away. I think she’d like to hear how the children are. I could get my colleague to take you.’
‘I know the way.’ Bowker gets out of the car and reaches back in for her handbag. ‘Thanks for the lift. And for not being a bastard.’
‘I wouldn’t know how,’ says Staffe.
‘Don’t spoil it by lying, Staffe.’
‘Staffe?’ he says, but she shuts the door, walks through the Grafton’s revolving front door; he moves off and parks up in the underground car park. There’s only one way out of the Grafton and the Alma Café is straight opposite. He takes his accounts out of the glove compartment and decides to spy on Debra Bowker for an hour or so.
Staffe’s accountant sent him the papers three weeks ago. It only takes an hour to check them over, but there are always more important things to do. He orders a double espresso and a slice of Dutch apple pie and looks across to the Grafton’s entrance, then down at the profit and loss account. The figures look extraordinary. The rental income is twice his salary but everything is not what it seems. Deductions take their toll: interest payments; sinking funds for repairs, renovations and rental voids; management company’s fees; accountants’ fees; bank charges; and a provision for the taxman.
He looks back out at the Grafton with the figures swimming around in his head and takes a sip of the coffee. It is scalding and bitter and a much-needed slap to the system. It makes him crave a cigarette. He looks back down to the next page, sees a breakdown of the monthly income and makes a note to let the accountant know not to expect anything from the Kilburn flat now Marie is staying there.
He turns to the balance sheet and sees how much this part of him is worth, after the building societies have been taken care of. The noughts look absurd, make him feel alone.
In the corner of his eye, the shape of Debra Bowker shimmers. She doesn’t look out of place. Somehow she has managed to narrow the gap between the Limekiln and Mayfair. Staffe tips out all the change he has and swigs back the rest of the espresso, follows Bowker up towards Piccadilly.
She turns the occasional head as she clips her way up Grafton Street on stiletto heels. Turning on to Albemarle Street, Bowker disappears from view and Staffe has to break into a trot, stepping off the kerb to widen his angle of view and as a taxi comes towards him, he sees her disappear into the Albemarle pub. Staffe remembers the place from years ago when he had a night on the tiles with Georgie Best. Not exactly a collector’s item, but one to remember.
There is a snug on the left as you go in and a large back room through a small corridor. Staffe waits a few minutes to make sure Bowker has not just gone in to use the toilet. It is a strange place for a woman to come. He glances into the snug and sees her at the end of the bar, his pulse quickening on the way through to the back room as he glimpses Debra talking to another woman, younger than her and blonde. At first, he thinks she is Sally Watkins. Surely not.
In the back room, Staffe gets himself a spot at the bar and angles himself away from the small gap that shows through to the snug. The same staff serve both bars and from here he can see the back of Debra Bowker, a three-quarter profile of Sally Watkins. Except it’s not Sally Watkins. Is it Leanne Colquhoun? He’s sure of it. Or is he going mad?
He orders a pint of Carling so as to fit in and risks another look. Debra Bowker is neither smiling nor frowning. If it is Leanne Colquhoun, surely there would be some kind of a row going on. He takes a slug of the beer and steals another look through to the snug.
Leanne has spent some of Nick Absolom’s thirty pieces of silver on a new look. Her hair is cut on to her shoulders and the blotches on her face have been vanished.
Two things concern Staffe: firstly, Debra Bowker and Leanne Colquhoun are in earnest conversation with no sign of a fight brewing; secondly, he mistook Leanne for Sally Watkins – Leanne being the woman he first thought might be the figure behind the hood in the photograph of the butchered Karl Colquhoun.
He takes a second and final swig of the lager and leaves, quitting for now while he is ahead.
‘He’s not here,’ says Becky Johnson, down the phone.
In the background, Staffe thinks he can hear Johnson calling out to see who it is. ‘Funny, the station said he left. Never mind. Do you mind if I pop round, Becky?’
‘There’s no point.’
‘How are things?’
‘Don’t you know how things a
re, Will? Things are crap.’
Staffe wants to ask if she knows all about her husband, but knows he can’t. There’s a muted kerfuffle on the other end of the phone and he says, ‘I’m only round the corner.’ And he hangs up.
When he gets to Milford Street, at the wrong end of the Holloway Road, Staffe braces himself for crossfire. He’s known Becky since before Johnson came across from the Met but in the last few years, since Charlie was born it would seem, she has become increasingly resentful and cold. Maybe it’s because the London allowance doesn’t scratch the surface of their outgoings and the pension is a speck on the horizon. Up front and large, Becky Johnson represents the frustrations of a CID widow.
‘I told you not to come round,’ says Becky, standing in the doorway with Charlie clasped to her hip. His Teletubby sweats are clearly handed down and smeared with God-knows how many meals.
‘I just need a quick word with Rick.’
‘I told you.’
‘It’s all right, Becky. Show him in,’ says Johnson from behind her. He is wearing a T-shirt and boxers, has a duvet draped over his shoulders.
‘He’s done in, Will. Can’t you see?’
In truth, there’s little to deny. Johnson looks like death warmed up.
‘Just a quick word, about Sally Watkins,’ says Staffe.
Becky calls the children through from the lounge, to take them into the bedroom. The lounge is open-plan to the kitchen and a decent size, but there is a cot in the corner and it’s easy to see that the place isn’t big enough for a family of five.
Young Ricky leads the way. He is six and runs at Staffe, head-butts him in the stomach and throws his arms around the waist. It is an act of affection disguised as aggression. Staffe ruffles his hair and throws a few play air-punches.
‘Don’t wind him up, Staffe!’ calls Becky.
Sian follows – the oldest. It is all too juvenile for Sian who has an adult’s face. She walks past, head down and glum; Staffe can remember when she was a happy-go-lucky little thing.
‘Are you OK, Sian?’ He beams a smile at her.
She says nothing. Staffe looks at Johnson who looks at the carpet.
‘You look terrible, man,’ says Staffe once Becky has closed the bedroom door on the mayhem.
‘Thanks,’ says Johnson.
‘You corroborated Sally Watkins’s alibi, didn’t you?’
‘I wrote it up.’
‘Just tell me if you didn’t follow it up.’ Staffe listens to the commotion in the next room. ‘We can change the paperwork.’
‘She was with some bloke off the estate. He’s married. I didn’t want to go busting his family apart but it stacked up. What’s the problem anyway? You can’t finger her for the Montefiore case, surely.’
‘No. Colquhoun.’
‘Colquhoun! Why’d she do anything to him? She never knew him.’
‘Tyrone Watkins knows Debra Bowker.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Johnson sits down on the edge of a threadbare sofa and pulls the duvet tight around him. He’s shivering.
‘We can manage without you for a day or so. I’ll see you Monday, Rick.’
‘A whole day off, why thank you,’ says Becky Johnson, leading the children out of the bedroom.
Staffe tries a stoic smile out on Becky as he walks towards the door but gets nothing back. He wants to ask how the Chinese was the other night, but says nothing. Just as soon as Janine gets back to him about the syringe, Staffe will have words with Rick. He daren’t think about the action he will have to take.
As he leaves, young Ricky is trying to wrestle Sian to the floor. She fends him off, disinterestedly. Tiny Charlie hits Ricky on the back of the legs with a fish slice and Becky Johnson starts up on her husband before Staffe can close the door behind him. As he does, Sian looks at him with wide, sad eyes, as if to say she can’t live like this much longer.
Saturday Night
Ross Denness has been brought in for assaulting one of his neighbours, a five-feet-four ‘rag-head’ who was supposedly on the sex offenders’ register. Josie has checked it out and the victim is not, nor has ever been, on the register. As if Saturday nights in the station weren’t bad enough anyway.
‘The fuckin’ register’s wrong, innit,’ says Denness. ‘Everyone knows what goes on with them Moslem bastards.’
Staffe raises his eyes to the duty solicitor who shrugs as if to say, ‘Don’t blame me. I don’t get to choose my clients any more than you do.’
‘Even if he was on the register, assaulting him is still a criminal offence.’
‘You sayin’ the law protects him more than me.’
‘You tell me how you know Debra Bowker. Tell me why you never told me you are related to Leanne Colquhoun and then we’ll see what the law’s got in store for you.’
‘I’ve been here hours. You charging me, or what?’
‘Did she tell you what he was doing to her kids? Ask you to sharpen him up, did she?’
‘You know where I was when that happened,’ says Denness with a smug smile. He leans back, puts his hands behind his head.
‘You knew Karl when he was with Debra Bowker and you never liked him then. Debra told you he was more interested in her kids than he was in her. That’s right, isn’t it, Ross? Were you giving her one?’
‘Inspector, please,’ says the solicitor.
‘Well?’
‘Might of,’ says Denness, unable to resist.
‘Who’d blame you’, says Staffe, ‘for getting involved.’
‘Involved?’
‘Maybe you can sleep on it, Ross.’ Staffe stands up, makes to leave.
‘You can’t just hold me here like this.’
‘An officer will be in soon, to charge you with actual bodily harm and inciting racial hatred. For starters.’
‘You bastard.’
‘Mr Denness,’ says his lawyer.
‘Keep it coming, Ross. Keep it coming,’ says Staffe. ‘It’s all good for business.’
Denness’s smug grin falters; he looks as though he can tell Staffe isn’t interested in the ABH.
Staffe pauses by the door. ‘Should be right enough for a two-to three-year sentence. You ask your friend here,’ says Staffe, nodding at the duty solicitor. ‘With your history.’
‘It was self-defence,’ says Denness. ‘I’ve got a dozen witnesses.’
‘Just like for when Karl Colquhoun was killed. Best we let the courts make sense of it, eh?’ And Staffe turns his back on Ross Denness for a final time tonight. He’s had as much as he can take for one day and decides to kill two birds with one bottle: in the Steeles with Smethurst for a bit of R&R and Met networking.
On his way out, he calls Pulford, tells him to chase up the Sally Watkins alibi and get it re-corroborated. Pulford sounds down, but Staffe lets it slide. He can’t afford to get sucked into being another man short, so he says he’s breaking up and clicks his DS dead.
*******
Errol Regis has spent sixteen hours sitting in his mother’s old rocking chair in the window of his front room, praying for Theresa to walk down the street. He doesn’t think he can bear a life all on his own.
At three o’clock some men came to fix the porch roof of the house next door, except nobody lives there any more. Errol opened the top window of his front room to let in the smell of the burning tar. He likes the smell but in the end he had to shut the window because it reminded him of Theresa. She couldn’t bear the smell. At four, he made tea: two mugs instead of one and he put out ginger biscuits even though he doesn’t like them. He’s been eating them fifteen years and never said a word.
The men went away but they left the tar burning in a small tin drum over a Calor ring. Just half an hour ago, a man in a donkey jacket came along to check everything. He went away and left the ring burning, still. Errol wanted to ask him why, but he didn’t have the nerve. He thinks something might be afoot so he turns off the lights and gets a blanket to spread over his legs. He turns the radio right down and dia
ls the number for Leadengate Station. He lets it ring once then hangs up, rests his finger lightly on the redial button.
Later, drifting in and out of a troubled sleep, Errol wakes. Thinking he can hear somebody knocking on his front door, he draws his knees up to his chest, feels his body tighten. His head pounds and he thinks he hears steps, fading away. He waits, musters the courage to go to the window and peers through the gap in the curtains. He sees two people disappearing and thinks they are police but he’s not sure. He checks the doors are locked, front and back, and resumes his position in the chair.
On the hour, Capital Radio tells him that the attacks on sex offenders on and around the Limekiln have abated. Men have been apprehended and order is, for now, being restored.
*******
Smethurst is already in the Steeles when Staffe gets there and before he can say what he wants, Smethurst gives the barmaid a wink and puts up two fingers. Two halves of bitter arrive together with two large Jameson’s. She is the same barmaid who served Staffe and Josie the other day. She fixes her hair, puts a hand on her hip and smiles.
‘You get it in the neck from Pennington about the Leanne Colquhoun story?’ says Smethurst.
‘I can handle it.’
‘And what about the complaint, from that gang. I heard the PCA are involved.’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Word is, the Montefiore and Colquhoun cases will be with AMIP before the weekend’s out.’
‘No chance. I’m getting there.’ The AMIP rumour, the Area Major Investigation Pool, is news to Staffe. He downs his Scotch in one.
‘How d’you make that out? Some victim support group and a bunch of people with rock solid alibis.’
‘Everybody knows each other. Even Ross Denness, Karl Colquhoun’s workmate, is Leanne Colquhoun’s cousin. And we’ve had him in for beating up a supposed sex offender.’
‘He’s got an alibi right?’
Staffe thinks about Sally Watkins and Johnson’s cock-up over the corroboration of her alibi. He doesn’t want her to become a real suspect.