by Adam Creed
‘How’s Johnson bearing up?’ asks Smethurst.
‘Why d’you ask?’
‘He’s got mates at the Met. I hear he’s got problems at home. Word is, he’s struggling. And that young pup, too.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Pulford.’
‘You can be too loyal, you know, Staffe.’
‘I’m not too anything,’ says Staffe.
‘Course not.’ Smethurst clinks glasses, says ‘Chin chin’, drains his beer and throws his head back, laughing. ‘I’ll drink to moderation.’
‘Bastard,’ says Staffe, following suit, trying not to think about the PCA and AMIP.
‘You’re a different man since you split up with that Sylvie. All uptight.’ Smethurst laughs again. ‘Maybe being single doesn’t suit you.’
The barmaid sets down another brace of braces. She smiles at Staffe. Ever since he went to see Jessop, this case has taken him back. Towards Sylvie? If he was to see her, just once and for old time’s sake, it might somehow help the case.
‘Staffe?’ Smethurst is looking straight at him, obviously talking to a deaf ear.
‘Sorry,’ says Staffe.
‘Hit a nerve, did I?’
‘I’ve just got to make a call,’ says Staffe, getting up from the bar stool and making his way outside. It’s coming up to last orders but it’s still warm out – revellers spilling round the bench tables.
He scrolls down through Calls Received. Sylvie comes up and his thumb makes contact with the green Call button but just as he applies the telling degree of pressure, the handset vibrates in his hand and he gets the incoming call, hears his sister’s voice.
‘What’s wrong, Marie?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all is wrong. It’s exactly the opposite.’
‘What is it?’
‘I wish Mum and Dad could be here.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I’ve had a couple, but …’
‘What do you want?’
‘Paolo’s asked me to marry him.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘I think I am. I just wanted to say thanks, for letting us have your place.’
Staffe clicks the phone dead and curses into the hot night. As he turns to go back into the pub he thinks he hears someone shout his name. He spins round and looks up and down Haverstock Hill. There’re some youths in a bus shelter on the other side of the road, but a bus pulls up. Staffe thinks they might be the e.Gang. Then he thinks he’s being paranoid. When the bus pulls away, the youths aren’t there.
He marches back into the pub, barging into a couple of youths by the door. They’re holding bottles as if they are weapons and say something he can’t make out as he passes them. ‘Fuck yourselves!’ he says, turning on them. They take a step back, in formation. One of them looks familiar, but Staffe can’t place him. When he gets back to the bar, Smethurst says, ‘Jesus. Looks like we’re going to need a couple more.’
‘Get them in,’ says Staffe, looking towards the youths at the door – who have disappeared.
When the Steeles won’t serve them any more, Staffe and Smethurst make their way out. They’re the last by a long chalk and in the middle stages of disrepair. As she makes the way to her minicab, the barmaid gives Staffe a friendly pat on the back. ‘Look after yourself, sweetheart,’ she says.
‘I can look after you, too,’ he says. ‘I’m a policeman, see.’
‘I don’t think you mean that,’ she says, smiling. She gets in the minicab and it pulls away, past a group of youths hanging around in the car park. Even though he’s half cut, Staffe recognises two of them from the pub. They smirk and another youth appears from the back of the group – the one who claims Staffe stabbed him outside the Ragamuffin.
‘Shit,’ says Staffe, instinctively feeling the cut on his wrist.
‘What’s going on?’ says Smethurst.
‘It’s that shitbag who’s got me up on that PCA. Leave this to me.’ Staffe takes a step towards the gang, shrugs off Smethurst’s attempt to restrain him. ‘What the hell do you want with me? And how do you want it? Two or three of you will get it. You know that.’ He looks them each in the eye, one by one and when a bottle gets thrown from the back, smashing at his feet, he knows he has a chance. That’s a coward’s move, a gang mindset. He plants his feet, shakes his arms down and turns his palms to face them, as if to say ‘Come on’.
The gang mumble to each other and Smethurst moves alongside Staffe, says, ‘And the rest of you we’ll bang up. I’ve seen you. All I need is to call up your file and your girlfriends’ll be in line, too. It’s an offence to pimp your girlfriends, boys.’
‘Wo! You can’t say that. No way, man. This is harassment.’
‘Who threw the bottle?’
The youth from the other night is smirking. He says, ‘We not causing no trouble, man. When we bring you trouble, you won’t see or hear us, pussy.’
Staffe takes a step forward and the youth doesn’t flinch. The gang gathers tight around him and Staffe thinks he hears the metallic shift and lock of a gun being braced. His heart misses a beat and his legs go weak. Smethurst must have heard it too because he whispers, ‘Fuck off out of here. Now!’
The youth smiles as he sees police bravado turn to mush. The law just hasn’t got the weaponry these days and he takes a step forward. ‘Don’t think Jadus gonna lie down and take your white justice. We know about Kelly, man. Don’t matter if it’s from his brief or his bredren – things will come level.’
The gang take a step up and Staffe feels Smethurst tug at his jacket. Beyond the gang, a car swerves across the road. Its lights come straight at them and Staffe holds his breath, not knowing which way to jump. The youth looks round and the gang follow suit.
‘Fuck, man!’
The car’s brakes screech and it mounts the kerb between the gang and Staffe. He recognises the MR2 and although Pulford calls for them to ‘Get in. Bloody get in!’ the gang have begun their retreat. Staffe squeezes in behind the front seats and Smethurst gets in the front. As they tear off in the cram-packed Toyota, a missile hits the boot. ‘Shit,’ says Pulford, ‘I hope that’s covered on police insurance?’
‘Isn’t it Mummy’s car?’ says Smethurst.
‘Do you want to walk?’ says Pulford. Then under his breath, ‘You fat bastard.’
‘What the hell were you doing there?’ says Staffe.
‘There’s something I need you to see,’ says Pulford.
‘But how did you know I’d be there?’
‘I’m supposed to be a detective, remember?’
They dropped Smethurst at the Boss Clef and carried on up to Pulford’s flat in Southgate with Staffe recounting the run-in with the e.Gang.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, maybe you’d be better off not drinking, with everything that’s going on.’ He pulls the car up sharp, pulls into a parking space.
Staffe looks up at the grey-rendered, inter-war semi with its red-tiled, half-hexagon bay window on a long curving street, all the same, and says, ‘You live here. I just mean, I thought you’d live somewhere … else, I suppose.’
‘Somewhere hip?’ Pulford locks the car up and ushers Staffe towards his front door. ‘There’s plenty you don’t know. Wait till you see this.’
Inside, Pulford shows Staffe up the stairs and into his first-floor flat. In the small living room there is a blue-grey glow from a computer screen, but Pulford heads straight to the tiny galley kitchen and puts the kettle on. He makes the coffee strong and hands it to Staffe.
‘I don’t need to sober up, you know.’
‘I didn’t say you did.’ He logs on to the Internet.
Staffe picks up his coffee and sits alongside Pulford, watching the web make itself available. ‘Every four seconds, someone hits a child-porn site. Did you know that?’
‘I told you,’ says Pulford, busy with the mouse, taking the cursor round the screen double-quick, with the speed of youth. Staffe blinks, trying to keep up. The coffee makes
him grimace. ‘Now, look at this.’ Pulford leans back in his chair, blows out his cheeks. ‘Just look at this.’
‘Jesus!’ says Staffe. ‘What is it?’ The screen is cut into four segments. Top right is the photograph of Karl Colquhoun. Bottom left is Montefiore. Bottom right is a blur that Staffe can’t make sense of but in the top-left quadrant is an image which Staffe has never seen before. It is a face he feels he should know, but doesn’t.
‘You don’t recognise her? Top left?’ says Pulford.
‘I do and I don’t.’
The woman’s face is hard and pale. Her hair is blonde, the skin grey. Her eyes are closed but pain is written all over her still features. ‘I’m pretty sure this is an autopsy photograph. See the slab in the background?’
‘It’s not …’
‘It’s Lotte Stensson, sir.’
‘What the hell is this site?’
‘Look,’ says Pulford, pointing to the web address at the top of the page. vengeancevictims.com
‘Victims?’ says Staffe.
‘VABBA?’ says Pulford.
‘What’s going on in this bottom right section?’
‘I can’t make sense of it but I think that’s the point. It’s not decided yet.’
‘Oh my God,’ says Staffe.
‘They want us to see it here first, sir. It’s going to be a live execution.’
‘Can you find out where this site is coming from?’
‘I’ve got a techie working on it, but I didn’t know if you wanted it to get back to Pennington.’
Staffe’s pocket vibrates. The telephone screen tells him he has missed calls: Sylvie and Pennington. He curses under his breath and calls Pennington. Even though it’s nearly midnight, his boss sounds bright as a button.
‘Aah, Staffe! You’ve got one hell of a sense of timing.’
‘I’m sorry it’s so late, sir.’
‘No. I was about to call you. I need to see you at the station. We’ve got a problem. Quite a problem.’
‘There’s something I need to tell you, sir. About a website.’
‘Vengeance something dot com?’
‘What!’
‘We’ve got the News to thank, Will. I’ve got Nicholas Absolom here with me now. They’re being civilised about the whole thing, Will. Very civilised. But I would like you to get here as soon as you can. Absolutely as soon as you can.’
Pennington hangs up and Staffe can imagine him showing a brave face to Absolom, the forced smile straining to break into a snarl. Suddenly, Staffe feels the booze catching up.
*******
Nick Absolom is heroin thin in a skinny-fit Paul Smith suit: legs crossed in the manner of a faux intellectual and his hooded eyes slightly shut. He talks through a pursed, superior smile and regularly reinstates the centre parting of his fop’s hair with a slow sweep of his left hand. He says, ‘I have to tell you, Inspector Wagstaffe, I think this should be our front page.’ He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and unfolds a tabloid-sized piece of paper with a photograph of the website and a headline:
MURDER
WHILE YOU WATCH
Underneath the image of the website is the strapline:
BRITAIN’S FIRST SNUFF-CAST?
Staffe takes the sample page from Absolom and scrutinises it. He swallows his pride, says to Absolom, ‘It’s good of you to pull it. In the public interest.’
‘It’s not in the public interest,’ says Absolom.
Pennington sighs.
‘You know how incendiary it is out there. How did you get hold of this anyway?’
‘I’m an investigator, just as much as you.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Absolom.’
‘Staffe!’ shouts Pennington.
Staffe scans the front page mock-up.
Child rapists drop like flies as vigilantes cut and
crucify their way through London’s long,
hot summer. But what should the police
do? If you were a copper, in a world where the
guilty are set free and the innocent are left to a
slow, slow death, what would you do?
Just ask yourself.
He looks long and hard at Absolom, who stares him down in turn. Neither man gives an inch. Neither blinks. Pennington sucks hard on a plastic cigarette. Eventually, the silence snaps.
Absolom says, ‘Say what you like, the public have a right to know. I’m only representing conventional wisdom.’
‘Isn’t it convenient that it just happens to be raising your profile. Climbing over dead bodies to get yourself on to the ladder. How gallant of you.’
‘Are you talking about the bodies of child molesters set free by the state? Well I do apologise. Maybe we should do more to protect the likes of Karl Colquhoun and Guy Montefiore and Lotte Stensson.’
‘Lotte Stensson! How do you know about her?’
‘I don’t doubt that you’re probably quite good at your job, Inspector Wagstaffe. But that’s not to say I can’t be too. She’s right there in the top-left corner of the web page. It’s not rocket science.’
‘How exactly did you get hold of that web address?’
‘We’re a long way from me having to tell you that. And you’d have to disprove that I happened to simply stumble across it.’
Staffe looks back at the front page, reads again about the slow death of the victims and wonders how much Absolom might know about VABBA.
‘You should thank Mr Absolom, Will,’ says Pennington. ‘This has bought us some time to regroup.’
Regroup? thinks Staffe, fearing the worst.
‘Will you be reassigning the case, Chief Inspector?’ says Absolom. ‘You did say we could have first run with the next big break on the case. This would be a start.’
‘You’re nothing but a muckraker,’ says Staffe.
‘I am simply establishing a debate about the nature of guilt and innocence.’
‘You’re inciting anarchy.’
‘And the release of known sex offenders into the community, simply because the pursuit of justice doesn’t meet your budget, doesn’t contribute to anarchy?’ Absolom snatches the front page off Staffe and stands up. He’s not smug. He looks genuinely angry and slowly folds the page back, sliding it into his pocket. ‘You were lucky this time.’ He looks at Pennington. ‘If this had anything to do with justice, anything at all, you’d be choking on my words over your cornflakes tomorrow morning. Now, can I assume that this case is being reassigned?’
Pennington nods. He gives Staffe a resigned look. ‘Detective Inspector Wagstaffe will remain attached to the case but it is now under the control of AMIP.’
‘The Area Major Investigation Pool? Who will be in charge?’
‘DI Smethurst.’
‘Of the Met? And where will it be based?’
‘Hammersmith.’
‘What would you like to say to my readers, should they ask why it took so long for the Met to take the lead on this case?’
‘Synergy,’ interrupts Staffe. ‘Evidence has emerged connecting the murder of Karl Colquhoun to a case which the Met allowed to lapse. Three years ago. You can ask Smethurst if you want any more.’ Staffe watches Absolom shake Pennington’s hand and leave. ‘So I’m off the case, then?’
‘Like I said, Smethurst will run the AMIP squad.’
‘I’ve just had another run-in with the e.Gang. I told you they know all about Sohan Kelly.’
‘He’s untouchable.’
‘Untouchable?’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Staffe. You can go.’
Staffe makes his way down through the building into the night. As he goes, he looks through the windows. Outside it is black, pinpricked with bits of life going on all over the city.
Sunday Morning
‘Did you sleep in those clothes, sir?’ says Josie in the entrance to the Queens Terrace flat. She is holding a brown paper bag and a copy of the Sunday News.
Staffe rubs the sleep from his eyes and goes back into the
flat, calls out, ‘Don’t just stand there. Come in!’ In the kitchen, he puts mound after mound of coffee beans into his grinder. The machine roars and Staffe rubs his temples with his free hand then takes a slug of water from a Guinness pint pot.
‘Do you want one?’ he says, holding a white china mug up.
Josie nods and gives him a curious look, as if to say, ‘You’re supposed to be pissed off.’ ‘What will you do now Smethurst is in charge?’
‘It’s not about being in charge. It’s about catching this person before they get to whoever is in the bottom right-hand corner of that web page.’ He jabs his finger at the News’ front page. ‘What have the photoanalysts said about the images?’
‘Anybody could set the website up. It’s a ten-quid, standard web-camera lens. But get this. The original location where the domain address was bought, was Guy Montefiore’s computer. It was his landline.’
‘And they used his credit cards, too?’ says Staffe.
‘Yes.’
‘Where’s the transmission coming from?’
‘The image is too blurred. They reckon they’ve got some kind of gauze over the lens. But the techies think it might be a building, an outside shot. And it’s in our time zone. It came light the same time as London.’
‘Gauze?’ Staffe downs the rest of the pint of water, pours himself another. ‘What are you up to today?’
‘It’s Sunday, but I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter.’
‘How do you fancy breaking and entering?’ Staffe taps the back of a chair at the kitchen table, inviting Josie to sit down. ‘I’m going to grab a quick shower then we’ll get off.’
‘What are you going to do about Montefiore?’
‘Montefiore? Why would I do anything about him?’
‘Aah,’ says Josie. She looks at her feet, clearly embarrassed.
‘What’s happened? Josie?’
‘Last night, just after eleven, he was attacked, in his bed at the hospital. A porter disturbed them but they got away.’