by Adam Creed
‘He’s been in. Longish hair, yeah. He asked after you, straight out. No. Not a dicky bird.’
Having heard enough, Staffe opens the door and walks into the light, closing the door ever so gently behind him.
He has to meet Sylvie in San Giorgio, round the back of Leicester Square, in less than an hour. He can’t be late, not after all this time. Instead, he goes west, to Hammersmith.
The Viva room is on AMIP’s sixth floor. Viva is the case’s code word. Victimvengeance. Viva. In some places ‘Viva’ means ‘life’.
‘Ahaa,’ calls Smethurst across the room as Staffe enters. ‘You grace us with your presence.’ Everyone in the room sees the funny side. Even Johnson joins in the craic of Smethurst’s laughing policemen.
‘Just thought I might be able to help.’
‘We’re getting on just fine, Inspector. But it’s nice of you to pop in.’
Smethurst walks right up to Staffe and puts a hand on his back, ushering him to a quieter place. If the officers in the room didn’t already know, it shows them exactly who’s boss. Staffe wants to shrug him away, but he fights his instincts and simply flexes his shoulders, walks with Smethurst into a small meeting room.
‘We’re pushing ahead with this now, Will. Say what you like but we’ve already got our killer for Lotte Stensson and with a bit of luck, if he doesn’t top himself, he’ll get his parole in a few years.’
Staffe tries to work out whether Smethurst has tied Jessop into the case. And if he has, what is he doing about it? ‘I wanted a word with Johnson.’
‘Maybe you can persuade him to go home. He’s a good man, but he’s done in. Most of the continuity work is finished. I’ll send him in.’ Smethurst turns at the door. ‘Oh, and Will.’
‘Yes.’
‘I understand if you don’t want to be involved. I wouldn’t want to – if I was you.’
Staffe says nothing. As he waits for Johnson, he smells drink on himself. It reminds him of younger days in smoky pubs that supposedly smelled of Wormwood Scrubs. ‘And too many right-wing meetings …’ he says, aloud.
‘Talking to yourself, boss?’ says Johnson.
‘It’s a song.’
‘The Jam.’ Johnson looks as if he’s been kept awake every night for a month.
‘How’s the case going?’
‘This website should blast it open. The techies are working on it now.’ Johnson looks around, uncomfortable. Staffe thinks about the needle and makes a mental note to check with Janine precisely which narcotic his DS has been injecting himself with.
‘Any fresh leads?’
‘I heard you went to see Kashell.’
Staffe nods.
‘We’re not going down that road,’ says Johnson.
‘What about Delilah Spears?’ As he asks the question, Staffe studies Johnson for his response.
His face flickers then breaks into a grimace, then a coughing fit.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘You taking something for that? Or is that the problem?’
‘I don’t have a problem, sir.’
‘She’s on the VABBA list. A bloke called Errol Regis raped her daughter, Martha Spears.’
‘What makes you ask about her?’ says Johnson.
Staffe shrugs, says, ‘Her name cropped up, in the Bowker transcript.’
‘Like I said, DI Smethurst is going his own way.’
It feels like a first date. Walking down Gerrard Street. Staffe pictures Sylvie the last time they were together. Her hair was short in a French bob, shiny black and fashioned into sharp curves that came together on her pale, pale neck. Her eyes – green as new shoots in spring – were dewy wet from him being too much of a bastard once too often. He had a reason, but like she said, he always had a reason.
He is shown towards their table by the maître d’ who seems to recognise Staffe. Sylvie is sitting by the window, looking out and twirling the ice in her Campari and soda. He should have got here first, but then he wouldn’t have seen her this way, the sun flitting across her, through her flimsy cotton dress.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, sitting. ‘So sorry.’ A waiter hovers, asks him what he would like to drink. ‘A Bloody Mary, please,’ he says.
‘You look as though you’ve had a few.’
‘It’s the weekend,’ he says. ‘You’ve changed.’ And she has. Her hair is long, wavy and full, resting on her shoulders, shiny. She looks happier than he remembers.
‘I haven’t.’
‘Have you chosen?’ he says, opening the menu.
‘I don’t need to. I know what I’m having.’
‘It was work. That’s why I’m late.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
He looks down at the menu, even though he knows what he will have. He takes a breath, ‘You’re happy, now?’
‘I always was.’
‘Sometimes, a lot of the time …’
‘Nobody died, Will. At least we didn’t get stuck.’
The waiter brings his drink. ‘Chin chin.’
They clink glasses and she says ‘Chin chin’ laughing. ‘At least I made some kind of a mark on you.’ The sun catches her hair, the side of her face. She shimmers, her eyes shine. ‘I know there’s a good reason you’re late. And I know you might start to tell me but I know that you’ll stop.’
‘I can’t tell you exactly why.’
‘Exactly.’ She smiles fondly. ‘You always did the right thing, Will. For better or worse.’
‘What do you mean?’
She takes a drink. ‘You do the right thing, but it’s not a good thing. You do the right thing because you can’t do anything else.’ She puts a hand across the table and takes hold of his, squeezes it. ‘I’m glad you called.’
The waiter reappears, holding his black leather notebook, folded open for their order. Staffe says, ‘The lady will have the marisco soup, then the turbot and I’ll have the smoked salmon, then the skate. And we’ll have a bottle of Aligoté and the Brouilly. Together.’
The waiter nods approvingly and Sylvie shakes her head, says, ‘I might have changed my mind.’
‘You said you hadn’t changed,’ says Staffe, finishing his Bloody Mary.
‘Do you still have your friends?’ she says.
‘I never had many friends.’ He looks into her eyes and she smiles. ‘Never that many.’
‘Whatever happened to that old rogue, Jessop?’
‘Jessop? Why do you ask?’ Staffe feels his breath go short.
‘Don’t look at me like that, Will.’
‘Why ask about him?’
‘It’s a perfectly innocent question.’
Innocent. A strange word to use. The waiter brings the starters and they both lean back. A different waiter brings the wine. He holds out a bottle in each hand, offers the red to Staffe who indicates that the lady is to taste. As he readjusts, Sylvie looks daggers at Staffe who watches the wine being poured.
‘It will be fine. Just pour it,’ says Sylvie and leans forward, hisses, ‘Don’t be suspicious with me, Will. I only asked how he was.’
‘I saw him the other day. Funny, isn’t it – us being here, me seeing Jessop.’
‘Is that why you called me?’
‘No! It’s just one of those life tricks.’
‘Course it is.’ She pulls a face then takes a good slug of her Brouilly and as she swallows it down, her features relax, almost into a smile. ‘Hmm. That’s good. So how is he?’
‘You know he got kicked out of the Met.’
‘We were still together.’
‘And Delores left him.’
‘That was on the cards.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were dead in the water. She told me.’
‘She told you?’
‘If you remember, we were both alone at the same times. She’d call me. I can’t believe you didn’t know.’
‘Know what?’
‘He was having an affair. With that woman in the CPR. Is that right?’ Sh
e takes another slug of her wine, leans back and wipes her mouth with the starched linen napkin.
‘CPR?’
‘You were always saying they got in your way.’
‘CPS? You mean CPS! What was her name?’ The drink has got to her eyes and they sparkle. ‘Can you remember her name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what was it?’
‘Can’t we talk about us?’
‘Of course we can. What was her name?’
Sylvie looks sad. ‘Ruthie. Ruthie something. I had an aunt called Ruth. She was my favourite.’
‘I remember. Does she still live down in Rye?’
Which makes Sylvie smile.
Sylvie stands with her arms crossed in the window of the Queens Terrace flat, looking out.
‘Do you want me to draw the curtains?’ says Staffe.
‘It’s still light. Why would you want the curtains drawn?’ She turns, eyes glistening and her mouth soft from drink. She tilts her head and reaches out, takes the glass of wine from him. She draws her fingers across his as she does it. ‘You’ve got big fingers, Will.’
‘Big fingers? Why would you say that?’
‘I always liked them.’ She takes a slug from her wine, puts the glass down and goes up to him. She stands so their legs dovetail, clasps her hands behind her back and leans back from the hip. ‘Why shouldn’t I say it?’ She laughs.
‘No reason.’ He can smell drink on her as she speaks. He watches her tongue as she speaks, feels her against his thigh.
‘You know I never had the measure of you, Will. Most girls would never say that of a man they love.’
‘Love?’
‘I loved you, Will.’ She reaches up on tiptoes, hooks a finger in the top of his jeans and pulls herself up against him. With her mouth an inch from his, she says, soft as you like, ‘And you l … loved me.’ With the ‘l’ of loved she flicks his lip with her tongue. She puts a hand on the back of his neck, kisses him, slow, soft, and with her eyes wide open. He feels as if he doesn’t know her at all. She slips a second finger down the top of his jeans, brings her thumb up against the top button.
‘I’ll draw the curtains,’ he says.
‘After all these years, you finally learn,’ she says.
He draws the curtains and when he turns round she is pulling the flimsy cotton dress over her head. She stands there naked, bar her strappy sandals. She puts her hands on her hips and smiles.
‘You coming?’ she says.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. He wants to hold her. He wants to tell her he loves her. He wants a life he never had.
She picks up her dress from the floor and holds it over her, walking backwards out of the room.
Sunday Evening
Staffe pays the cab and feels for the pavement beneath his outstretched foot. He rubs his face and squints up at Leadengate, the evening sun still bright in the western sky. He walks up the steps and hears his name in a familiar voice. He struggles to place it, then his heart sinks as he turns. Nick Absolom has his pad and pen at the ready.
‘You said I could have first run on any breaks in the case,’ says Absolom.
‘I’ll let our press officer know.’ Staffe turns, takes another step.
‘I’d say that you being investigated by the Police Complaints Authority is pretty newsworthy.’
‘Who told you!’
‘You can give us your version, or we’ll speculate.’
‘I haven’t got time for this.’
‘At the moment, I’ve only got one headline for this case and, unfortunately, it’s you.’
‘Go to hell.’ Staffe takes the steps two at a time and kicks open the front door.
Jombaugh looks at him disapprovingly, says, ‘DC Chancellor has been asking for you. She wants you to call her.’
Staffe watches Absolom leaning against a pillar, making notes. As he does, a thin smile shows in the corners of the journalist’s mouth.
‘I hear you’ve been back in touch with Jessop,’ says Jombaugh. ‘Give him my best.’
‘He was a good friend, wasn’t he, Jom?’
‘He thought the world of you, Will.’
Staffe makes his way up to his office, feeling for his mobile phone. He checks all his pockets, trying to remember where he has left it and making a mental note to call Josie.
As the computer boots up, he stretches out his legs, crosses his arms across his chest, closes his eyes and, breathing deep, incants ‘pass-if-eye-yourself’. He measures out his breathing, waits for his pulse to calm, tries to fathom why he turned Sylvie away.
When he opens his eyes, he leans forward, slowly moves the cursor to the web address box. He clicks victimvengeance.com and tries to imagine Jessop doing the things that were done to Lotte Stensson, Karl Colquhoun and Guy Montefiore. He pictures him with the hammer, the scalpel, the ropes. He tries to kindle the bitterness he must have felt, the slow death of faith in the law. He can’t see Jessop being unfaithful to Delores, either. How can you think you know someone so well? The quadrants on the website are unchanged and in the bottom-right corner the image is still unfathomable.
He goes into Authorised Searches and activates Financial. A textbox appears and he fills in all the compulsory fields: All Names, Address, DOB, Occupation, and clicks All Accounts, All Clearing Houses, and Search: last five years, then Amounts in Excess of £10,000, then says a prayer against coming up with the evidence he needs. The machine whirrs and comes up with the Protected Data script boxes. He shouldn’t know the password, but he does. He takes a breath and types it in. He presses ‘Send’ a last time. Aloud, he says, ‘Sorry.’
Staffe makes his way through the almost empty building. It is late Sunday evening and now the case is transferred to AMIP, Leadengate echoes with old, shoved-aside crimes. He looks up and down the stairwell, remembers good times. More good than bad, it seems, now. He doesn’t want to go back for Jessop, but knows it has to be him who does this.
First, though, he has to discover one last thing about his friend.
*******
‘What you doing here?’ says Sally Watkins, crossing her arms and not budging from the doorway. In the background, Staffe can hear the TV turned up too loud. He wonders what sounds Tyrone must have been trying to obscure.
‘Can I have a quick word?’
‘Fire away.’
Staffe looks over her shoulder, nods to be invited in.
‘I’ve got company,’ says Sally, unashamed.
‘You gave an alibi to my colleague, DS Johnson.’
‘You know what I do.’
‘And I know you’re underage.’
‘So report me.’ She sneers, a completely different cup of tea from the girl who made him a tuna Marie Rose sandwich less than a week ago. ‘You could’ve before, but you didn’t. Why not? You feel sorry for me? Jails are all full?’
Staffe feels out of control.
‘What is it you really want?’
‘I want you to think back to when, you know, Montefiore attacked you.’
‘If you know he attacked me, do something about it.’
‘I’m trying to, for God’s sake! Can’t you see that?’
Sally takes a pace back. A flicker of warm blood comes to her face and her eyes soften. She uncrosses her arms and clasps them together on her narrow, child’s hips.
He says, ‘Before the case was withdrawn, the police interviewed you, right?’
She nods, looks over her shoulder and back again.
‘There was a senior officer, a bit older than me. His name was Jessop. DI Jessop.’
She looks at the floor and shakes her head.
‘Come on, Sally. This is important. Please.’
‘What’s going on!’ An angry male voice cuts through the sound of the TV. It sounds familiar.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, taking a hold of the door.
‘Sally! Jessop did talk to you, didn’t he? Please! If he didn’t, I need to know.’
‘Never heard of hi
m.’ She closes the door and Staffe jams it with his foot. ‘You ain’t got no warrant. You can’t force your way in.’
‘Oi! Sally!’ comes the man’s voice.
‘I’m sorry, Sally, for what happened. But there’s other people suffering here.’
‘Anybody wants to swap with me, they’re welcome.’
‘You shouldn’t be doing this,’ says Staffe, looking over her shoulder towards the man’s voice.
‘He’s a friend.’ She looks hurt.
Staffe withdraws his foot but holds the door ajar with his outstretched arm.
‘If you tell me, it will help bring Montefiore to justice.’
She smiles at him, as if he is a fool. ‘And how would you do that?’ She pushes the door harder and Staffe lets it go. In the instant that it slams in his face, Staffe gets a snapshot slice of Sally Watkins’s face: she looks disappointed in him – way beyond her years.
‘You know him all right,’ Staffe calls out. As he walks along the concrete walkway to the stairwell, he mutters, ‘Bloody Jessop. Bloody fool.’
He leans against the wall in the stairwell. It takes half an hour, but when it comes, it’s worth it. Ross Denness emerges from the Watkinses’ flat with his head down, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and looking for all the world as if he didn’t get what he went for.
Staffe drops in at Queens Terrace before going to see Jessop; when the cab draws up, he sees the curtains are still drawn and the stupid argument from years ago reprises – the second time in as many days. Then he double takes. On the steps to his front door is a familiar-looking figure. She looks downcast, staring into the distance, chewing her nails – something he has never seen her do before. As soon as he slams the cab door behind him, she stands up, looking nervous.
‘Where have you been?’ says Josie. ‘I’ve been calling you.’
‘I must have left my phone inside.’ He nods up at his flat.