by Adam Creed
‘Didn’t the station say to call me?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘We’ve cocked up. Remember when we went to the VABBA office? I left my jacket there. I knew we shouldn’t have gone.’
‘Shit,’ says Staffe, looking up and down the street as he walks up the path. ‘Come in.’
He opens the place up and goes into the kitchen.
‘My Tube pass is in the pocket.’
‘We’ll go and get it tomorrow.’
‘Can’t you do it tonight?’
‘There’s something I have to do, on my own.’
‘You shouldn’t be doing things on your own.’
Staffe picks his mobile phone up off the dresser. Is he letting things slide? The phone tells him he has six missed calls: four from Josie and two from Smethurst. He goes into the view details and sees Smethurst has only just called him. ‘Why don’t you make us some coffee? I’ve just got to get this. I won’t be a minute,’ he says, pressing ‘Call’ as he goes into the living room. He draws the curtains back, stands in the window, looking out as he waits for Smethurst to pick up. Opposite, a taxi stops. Its light goes off and an old lady emerges. She smiles at the cabbie and looks up at Staffe, waves.
‘Where the hell have you been, Staffe,’ says Smethurst, clearly unhappy.
‘Getting a bite to eat.’
‘We’ve got a problem here. Montefiore has discharged himself from hospital.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘He says he was threatened. We’ve had a uniform on his door but he reckons he was asleep and someone came in and held a chloroform rag to his mouth and a knife to his throat. It’s bullshit!’
‘He’d know all about chloroform.’
‘It makes us look like muppets. It’s bad enough that we have to guard a child molester without him trumping up some dereliction theory.’
‘It’s your case, Smet.’
‘He’s asking for you, Staffe. He won’t talk to anyone else and he says if he can’t talk to you, he’ll go to the press.’
‘Asking for me?’
‘He says you can save him. Says you’re the only one.’
Smethurst hangs up. Another taxi pulls up across the road. This time, the light stays on.
When he turns round, Josie is standing in front of the sofa, a hand on her hip, waiting. Exactly where Sylvie was.
‘I’ve got to go to Montefiore’s,’ he says.
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘I could do with your help.’
She wiggles a finger in her ear. ‘Am I hearing things?’
‘You heard right,’ says Staffe, allowing himself a smile.
It’s getting dark. He looks up and down the road as they walk to his car. As they pass the cab, the light is off but there is nobody in the back.
It seems weeks since Staffe was last at 48 Billingham Street. Now, with evening the sky streaked like rainbow trout, it is a less sinister place, save the uniformed officer on the front door. He checks Staffe’s warrant card, opens the door and smiles at Josie, looking her up and down.
‘Were you on duty at the hospital when they got in and threatened him?’ says Staffe.
The officer looks sheepish, says, ‘Yes, sir. I don’t know how they got in. Honestly I don’t.’
‘Nip off for a cup of tea, did you?’
‘No. I’ve given a statement. It’s the truth.’
Staffe can tell what the constable is thinking: what a waste of time, protecting a child molester? No wonder the police get a bad press.
Montefiore sits in a reproduction library chair with a rug over his lap. His eyes are dark and he is gaunt, like someone from a different economy. Staffe can smell soup – probably the only thing Montefiore can take. He is holding a mobile phone in both hands, as if his life depended on it.
Staffe pulls up a framed Louis XV chair, another reproduction, and sits a couple of feet away from Montefiore. He looks into his eyes and tries to forget what he did to Sally Watkins, what he tried to do to Tanya Ford. ‘Tell me what happened, Guy.’
‘He just appeared, in that balaclava, again. He came from nowhere.’
‘You’re sure it was a man?’
‘The same as the first time, you know, when he did what he did.’ Montefiore looks as if he might be sick.
‘And what did he say this time? Exactly.’
Josie is looking out of the window, trying not to be conspicuous.
‘I don’t want her here. He said it was you who could help me. Only you.’
Staffe nods for Josie to leave them alone. ‘I’ll have a coffee. Do you want anything?’ he says to Montefiore.
Montefiore shakes his head, slowly, and as Josie leaves, he leans forward, beckons Staffe to come closer. As he does, Montefiore smiles at him. It is a look of fondness and makes Staffe look at his shoes.
‘He said you’re a good man.’ Montefiore’s smile cracks. ‘He said, “I’ll be back. This is to show I can get to you any time I want.” He said “You’ll see me coming and nothing will save you. Only Wagstaffe can save you. Keep him close, I warn you.”’
Staffe looks up, determined to find some kind of perspective.
Montefiore has tears in his eyes and he leans forward more, lets the mobile phone drop into his lap and reaches out to take a hold of Staffe’s hands. He clasps them the way you would a lover who was trying to leave you. ‘You can save me, Inspector.’ He looks at Staffe as if it is the last blast of love to someone you know doesn’t feel the same. ‘You will, won’t you? You will save me?’
‘Why don’t you confess, Guy. Let Sally Watkins move on. It’s the right thing. You can save yourself.’
‘You don’t care. I can tell.’ Montefiore lets go of Staffe’s hands. ‘Why do they say you can save me when you don’t even care?’
Staffe thinks about this and tries to make sense of the warnings he has received, the messages too. ‘Why do you think he would say that, Guy?’
‘Because you’re the only one with a real faith in the law.’
‘The things you’ve done, that’s quite a compliment.’
‘What, precisely, does the law say I have done?’
‘Tell me why you did it, Guy. Tell me that and I can help you. Who hurt you, Guy?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it.’
‘And why did you marry? You never loved her.’
‘You don’t have to love them.’ Montefiore looks back up at Staffe. He doesn’t quite smile.
Staffe dearly wants to spurn this sick and damaged man, but knows he can’t. He wants to be anywhere but here, yet here he is – stretched to breaking point. He stands, says, ‘I will save you, Guy. Tell him that next time.’
‘Next time?’
Staffe makes his way down the hall to the kitchen and what he sees through the glass panes of the door stops him in his tracks. He can feel his pulse quicken, the colour come to his face, a thin trail of sweat at the nape of his neck. He feels so far removed from the younger self that joined the Force.
Josie is sitting at Guy Montefiore’s kitchen table, her hands interlocked around a mug of tea, looking studiously down, avoiding Staffe. Standing beside her is DCI Pennington, shaking his head, slowly.
‘What the hell is going on!’
Pennington frowns, tight-lipped, and Staffe hears a mechanical cough. It comes from neither Josie nor Pennington. He looks around and realises it is piped in from elsewhere. It was Montefiore coughing. There is a loudspeaker on the dresser.
‘You bugged us? You bastards. You can’t trust me to tell you what he said?’
Josie looks up, pleadingly, as if to say she had nothing to do with it, but she says nothing.
‘You haven’t exactly been straight with us, have you? And quite frankly, I’m glad I heard what I did. It’s all pretty disturbing, Staffe. Pretty disturbing.’
‘What is?’
‘Your relationship with Montefiore.’
‘What!’
‘Hardly regular, is it
?’
‘I am trying to get him to confess to a crime.’
‘He seems to think you’re on his side.’
‘I wasn’t the one who let him off the hook.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see Kashell? Or were you afraid you were barking up the wrong tree, causing a vulnerable prisoner to make an attempt on his own life?’
‘He didn’t kill Lotte Stensson. I know for a fact.’
‘Which fact? Go on! Show me the fact.’
Staffe looks down, tries to slow his fast-beating heart. He takes a step back from Pennington who suddenly seems like the enemy.
‘And I know about the break-in – to the office on Kennington Lane. I don’t know why you couldn’t just use a warrant like anybody else. And why you had to drag DC Chancellor into it, I …’
‘He didn’t drag me, sir. I went of my own volition.’
‘That’s not exactly true, sir,’ says Staffe.
Pennington plunges his hands into his pockets and sighs. He looks out of the window. ‘We’ve had a complaint from the parents of Tanya Ford, too. They say you attacked the father.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘There was a careworker there. She doesn’t contradict their claims.’
‘He came at me. I was just trying to get some justice for their daughter! They call it disclosure, sir.’
Pennington turns, puts his hands behind his back, as if he was at a scene of crime – protecting evidence. He takes a step towards Staffe. ‘Meting out justice, regardless of procedure. Where have we heard that before?’
‘It’s not like that!’
‘It doesn’t look good, Staffe.’
Staffe looks into Pennington’s cold grey eyes. ‘What exactly are you saying?’
‘The PCA are following through on the e. Gang’s accusations. The spotlight’s on.’ He takes another step closer. Staffe can smell the clean lemon of his aftershave, as though the long hot day has taken no toll. Suddenly, Staffe feels tired, outgunned. ‘I have to be seen to be white on this one. Whiter than white. I hope you’ll play ball, Staffe.’
‘Ball?’ Staffe loses his breath. He fears the worst and his jaw is so slack it feels like stage fright. But he knows this isn’t make-believe. This is his life.
‘I’m going to have to ask where you were when Karl Colquhoun was murdered and when Guy Montefiore was attacked.’
‘I can’t believe this!’ Staffe sits at the kitchen table. He feels dizzy.
‘You were at the scene. You were here when it happened, Staffe! You opened the door that did for him. Believe me, I want the right answers. For your sake and mine.’
‘Are you arresting me?’
‘I’m warning you, DI Wagstaffe. This is a formal warning, in the presence of DC Chancellor. I want a full explanation of all your movements during the past week. I want alibis and witnesses. And I don’t want you within a country mile of this bloody case! Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On my desk tomorrow.’
‘Are you suspending me, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I have no choice, Inspector.’
*******
Darkness descends and the Limekiln tower looms over Gibbets Lane like a blue-black giant. Errol Regis looks out of his living-room window to see the flame burning beneath the drum of tar in the pathway to the unoccupied house next door. The pink-streaked sky is low tonight.
Errol had called the council to see what is going on but received only the answering service. They don’t open for business until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. In the meantime, he looks up and down the street and paces from room to room. He makes pots of tea that don’t get drunk. He flicks from channel to channel, stopping on the weather even though he has heard it before. As soon as the news comes on, he switches away.
He takes a sleeping pill and checks the bolts on all the doors and says a prayer that Theresa makes some kind of return, even if it is just to collect more of her things. Like he always does, he says a prayer for Martha Spears, and finally he asks God to one day let the truth arise – that he may be forgiven for something he never did. And as usual, he curls up like a foetus, listening to the deep resound of his own heart.
*******
As he drives home, Staffe designs a route towards what seems an improbable sleep. He will run himself a deep Radox bath and open a decent bottle of red, then he will watch the cricket highlights in bed and hopefully drift away. Then he will rise early and document his whereabouts ever since the afternoon Karl Colquhoun was murdered. He has never been able to turn a blind eye to a problem.
Outside the V & A, he sees a news-stand touting the News and he feels a bubble of bile. He tries to swallow it away, begins to sing a song in his head. For some reason, the opening refrain of ‘Love For Sale’ announces itself. He indicates away from home, turning away from all the things he has prescribed. Staffe can’t get Jessop out of his mind. Why the hell would he do the things Staffe thinks he has done?
Montefiore’s recanted words resound: ‘Only Wagstaffe can save you. Keep him close, I warn you. But there will be a time when he won’t be there.’ Were they Jessop’s words? Staffe can’t help feeling his old friend might have played him like a fiddle.
When he gets to Jessop’s place, Staffe sees lights on all the way up the building, until you get to Jessop’s windows that jut from the sloping, slate roof. He isn’t surprised to get no response from the intercom and feels the ring of keys in his pocket. He thinks about the alibis he must produce, the hearing he will have to face. What else can he do, but uncover the truth.
He picks out a key and puts it to the lock, slips inside and takes the stairs one at a time in the dark. At the top, he knocks lightly on Jessop’s door – just enough to raise him, not enough to draw attention from the flats below. When he gets no response, he removes his diary and pen, takes off his leather jacket and drapes it on the floor in the corner of the small landing. He checks that Jessop won’t see him as he comes up the stairs, and he begins to jot down his precise movements at the times in question.
When Karl Colquhoun was being delicately butchered, he had cooked a meal for Josie, was packing for Spain. And as for Montefiore, that night he had gone for a run and asked Johnson to ‘take care’ of Marie’s bullying boyfriend. He had gone to bed, found an imperfect sleep – a good match for his imperfect alibi.
He snugs down into the corner of the landing where the walls and the floor meet. He pulls his jacket up around him and smells the leather and pubs and too much hurry. He feels so, so weary but knows he cannot allow himself the luxury of sleep. His eyes lid down and he blinks himself awake, feels himself drifting again. He thinks of dinner with Sylvie, can see her standing naked. He remembers the cut of her hair and the deep green of her eyes, the way she spoke as she ate, spearing the turbot flesh with her fork. On the back of his eyelids he pictures the way she looked when she spoke of her favourite aunt – as though she had never left him, as though the last three years had been a dream. A long, long dream.
*******
A searing light wakes Staffe. He blinks into the fierce white. He smells meat on a man’s breath, can feel the dull weight of something blunt on his throat. He struggles to breathe and squints into the light, trying to see what is beyond. Right up against his face is the leather sole of a boot, the frayed edge of trouser bottoms. He tries to lever himself up, but can’t.
‘Do yourself a favour, Staffe. You think you’re doing good, but you’re not. Believe me,’ says Jessop. He talks calm and slow, as if he has nothing to fear from his friend.
Staffe tries to work out where he is and how long he has been asleep. He stretches out with his right hand, feels wood and the coarse fabric of worn carpet, the soft leather of his own jacket. Even though he can see nothing beyond the torchlight, up close and shining straight into his eyes, he starts to remember.
Jessop says, ‘Believe me, there are forces of good at play here. More than you might imagine.’
&
nbsp; Staffe fancies his chances to overcome Jessop but doesn’t want to hurt him. ‘Let me up. We’re friends, for God’s sake.’
‘Some friends we’ve turned out to be.’
‘I could have handed you to Smethurst and AMIP, but I want to be wrong. Tell me I’m wrong.’ He drags his legs round, prepares to spring up, but one of his legs snags. Something bites into his ankle and he realises he is tethered.
‘What exactly is it that you think I’ve done?’ Jessop takes his foot away and lowers the torchlight. ‘Keep your voice down. I’ve got neighbours you know.’
Staffe takes his chance and makes to spring up off his free leg, but he falls back to the floor, bangs his head against the wall and sees that his ankles are tied together. ‘What the hell?’
Jessop slowly places a heel on Staffe’s chest. ‘Go on. Tell me what you’ve got.’
‘Nico Kashell didn’t kill Lotte Stensson and you know it. And you pulled the Sally Watkins prosecution, you and Ruth Merritt between you.’
‘Why would I do such a thing, friend?’
‘You were pissed off with the law, fed up with the way you were treated, the way people got off.’
‘And your evidence?’
‘There’s no interviews. There are massive gaps in the filed evidence on that case. Only one interview with the defendant. There’s no sign whatsoever that you saw Sally Watkins. But I know you did.’
‘I hope that’s not your idea of evidence. Do you have a statement from Sally?’
‘Tell me I’m wrong. Deny it!’
‘You know a lot for a man who’s been suspended.’
‘How do you know I’ve been suspended?’
‘Let it go, Will.’
‘How can you let Kashell do his time?’
‘You should leave well alone. He was all right until you upset his apple cart.’
‘You killed Stensson, didn’t you? And you’re letting an innocent man serve your time.’ And as he says this, Staffe has the hollow feeling he has underestimated Jessop.
Jessop lifts his foot off Staffe’s chest and turns off the torch. In the dark, Staffe can discern the crouching figure of Jessop. The smell of meat on his breath is stifling now. ‘I went to see Stensson to get a confession out of her. We had other accusations but nobody would disclose. There would have been others, too, if we hadn’t …’ Jessop sighs and his speech slows right down. ‘You should have seen the way she looked at me. As if she was better than me. I could have killed her there and then, wiped that smug look off her face. She saw it and she screamed the place down, accused me of trying to beat her. So I went back to see Nico.’