Suffer the Children

by Adam Creed

‘I said I’d take you. I’ll stop with the questions.’

  ‘I don’t believe you can.’ Debra dabs at the corners of her eyes with the cuff of her blouse. Two smears of black make dark gashes on the white silk.

  ‘She’s still in London, isn’t she?’

  ‘I’m not saying,’ says Debra, sniffing.

  ‘She’s with Helena Montefiore.’

  ‘Let me out!’

  When Debra Bowker gets out of the car, she busies herself adjusting her skirt and the sleeves of her blouse. Then she does her hair. Staffe pulls away but has to stop at a red light. He checks Debra in the wing mirror and watches her shoulders shake, dark tears streaming down her cheeks.

  As he drives away from her, Staffe is smothered by feelings of regret. All through this case, he has been amazed by the kindnesses and atrocities that people are capable of bestowing and inflicting on each other. He thinks, now, that he knows how this is going to pan out. But as he drives his father’s car towards that end, he fears the worst – for the victims and for himself.

  Officially, Staffe is still suspended from the investigation and, although he made the connection to Johnson, Smethurst and Pennington are still fuming that he kept the cards so close to his chest. But what else could he do? What can he do now, to make sure he is doing the right thing: by the victims. For justice.

  The cats are pretty much all out of the bags and the endgame is being played out in public – with more than one eye on the politics. This is Nick Absolom’s domain. After everything that has happened in this case, why not go into the den, offer his head up to the mouth and see what happens?

  ‘I can’t believe Kashell is still insisting he killed Lotte Stensson,’ says Nick Absolom, running his long fingers through his hair and sucking on a cigarette in his seat by the open window on the sixth-floor offices of the News in Ravencourt House.

  A part of Staffe feels compelled to respect a part of Absolom – his devil-may-care.

  ‘What angle are you taking?’ asks Staffe.

  ‘I think you know. But that’s not to say I believe your DS Johnson did all this on his lonesome.’ Absolom flicks his cigarette out of the window, not caring how it falls to earth.

  ‘Sometimes you’ve got to follow the party line, hey, Nick?’

  Absolom lights another cigarette and swivels on his chair to face Staffe. ‘We’re not so different, you and me. We get our hands dirty, but it’s nothing like the grime at the top. Same in news, same in law, same in politics. It’s a mad, mad food chain, hey, Will?’ He laughs, but cuts it dead and leans forward, fixes a look you could hook a fish with. ‘You and me both know it’s all shit. I can’t follow the line any more than you can and it’s killing me like it’s killing you. We believe it’ll be different when we get to the top.’ He leans back. ‘But will it?’ He looks at his cigarette, inhales deep, blows the smoke into the room. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you, Will? Even though you’re suspended from the case, you’re going after Sally Watkins, aren’t you? And you know where Jessop is.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘That’s only half an answer.’

  ‘She could be anywhere.’

  ‘You could just let her live in peace,’ says Absolom.

  ‘And if she does it again?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that if you put her inside, she’s more likely to do it again. She’s nearly sixteen. In three months she’ll be padded down with proper crims twenty-four seven. It will become her land of opportunity and she’ll be a hero in jail for doing what she’s done. Does that make a better society? It would be law for law’s sake.’

  ‘Is that your headline?’

  ‘As you well know – I don’t have freedom of expression on this case. If I did, maybe I’d direct myself to ex DI Jessop for my headlines.’

  ‘You haven’t had any new messages?’ says Staffe.

  ‘You reckon they were coming from Jessop, not Johnson?’

  ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘We’d have printed them.’

  ‘Isn’t there a party line, though?’

  ‘If there was, do you think I’d be telling a suspended detective?’

  Staffe stands up and turns his back on Absolom, deciding he has no information regarding Sally Watkins.

  ‘Straight down the middle, hey, Inspector? You can’t help yourself.’

  Staffe spins round on his heel. He wants to absolve himself but he knows that if you reduce everything down, Karl Colquhoun and Guy Montefiore have caused all this. Without them, the crimes would not have dominoed. They should be the ones he is bringing to justice. He spits out the last of what he has to say. ‘I believe that Sally Watkins is a danger to herself and a danger to the world around her. I believe that if we catch her, we can give her help. She will be better off this way than left to her own devices – running scared, dragging herself up like some feral creature. I try to make the world more civilised, Absolom. That’s where we differ.’

  ‘We’re both involved in the truth. Don’t forget that. And don’t ever underestimate how much truth I’ve got stashed. I know it all.’

  Staffe shoots out a hand and grabs Absolom’s throat. He watches the journo’s eyes bulge and he thrusts his other hand deep into the inside pocket of Absolom’s Paul Smith suit, pulls out a clear plastic bag. Two, three grams, he reckons. He smiles at Absolom and tosses the bag out of the window.

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  Staffe walks away, treating himself to a smile as he waits for the lift to come. He has just two more calls to make before his final visit: to Helena Montefiore, up in her grand confection of stylish living, high on Harrow’s hill. Suspended or not, he will see Johnson. They can’t stop him doing that.

  Looking up at St Thomas’s, Staffe tries to predict the reception he will get inside. He makes his way past the squad cars, showing his warrant card to the uniforms on the main door and outside the lifts. It’s the press they’re guarding against, but just as he thinks he is home clear to the third floor, a uniformed constable holds out a hand. Staffe had shown him the warrant card but the officer smiles, patronising. Before he can say anything, Staffe snarls through his gritted teeth and spits out the words, ‘That’s my man in there. My sergeant! He’s dying and I have to make my peace with him. Now what kind of a bloody man are you? Hey!’

  ‘I can’t …’

  Staffe presses his face right up to the constable and whispers, ‘Sometimes, just sometimes, being a decent copper is about what people can do, not what people can’t do. Remember that. Now get the hell out of my way.’

  The constable stands aside, and as he walks on Staffe can hear the rustle and rattle of a radio being pulled out and used. But he puts that right to the back of his mind.

  Just about everything he believes in tells him that Sally Watkins must be brought to justice – in the same way Nico Kashell must be released and Guy Montefiore protected. Even Debra Bowker told him as much – even though it broke her heart to do so. And Helena Montefiore, too, must have figured out what he was likely to do. Why else would she visit Josie? Why else set down so red a herring as the letter to Sally?

  It all points him towards Harrow on the Hill, but he figures that, somehow, being with Johnson will give him the strength, show him a final sign. Johnson will point him the opposite way. He is the antidote. If Staffe is wrong, Johnson must in some way be right. He must prove Johnson wrong. Absolutely.

  Johnson was in VABBA and Staffe rewinds all the visits he has made to Johnson’s house, puts together everything he knows about that family. The faraway look in Sian’s eyes; Becky locking herself away from her career and the world. He tries to work out how old Sian would have been when it happened, but he soon swallows that calculation away. He feels sick, wants to weep for his sergeant, wants to be punished for every break he ever denied him.

  He recognises a couple of Smethurst’s men on the door to the ward. They look glum, as if they would rather be anywhere else. Staffe nods at them and they nod back, brin
g together their feet as they do it – too formal. One of them steps forward, as if to stop him. ‘I was his friend, for crying out loud.’ And, outside Johnson’s private room, Staffe sees Pennington, surrounded by a bevy of uniforms. He fears the worst.

  One of the uniforms nods and Pennington turns round. He is not glum, and nor would he be. The second he opens his mouth, with his superior and faux grave words, Staffe knows that Johnson is on his way out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Will. They’re stopping the medication. He’s too bad to take the chemo and without that, it’s too big to operate on.’

  ‘Where’s Becky?’ says Staffe.

  ‘She didn’t want to bring the children.’ Pennington beckons Staffe, sends the officers away. He whispers, ‘She’s said her goodbyes, is what she said. I said we’d let her be. I’ve got a WPC over there, on the door. If she wants anything, we’ll know.’

  ‘Has he said anything else?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to see you, Will.’

  ‘Did he say anything about Jessop? About Nico Kashell?’

  ‘Can’t you just treat him like a friend? A colleague.’

  ‘And leave you to control all the information?’

  ‘Be careful, Will,’ says Pennington. ‘You’ve got a career to think of. I know you’re upset, but …’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, sir.’ Staffe takes a step towards the door to Johnson’s room and Smethurst flexes, looks to Pennington for a sign, but the DCI must think there is no more damage left for Staffe to inflict. It spells out how near the end Johnson must be.

  ‘We’ve got all our statements,’ says Pennington. ‘Let him make his peace.’

  Staffe feels the bile surge up, from his belly up into his throat, and before he can help himself, he rounds on his superior. ‘I’m not the coward piling all the blame on to a dead man’s shoulders. You …’

  Smethurst steps in between the two detectives and leans on Staffe, his considerable bulk easing him towards the door to Johnson’s room. ‘Come on, Will,’ he whispers, ‘this is between you and Rick now. Don’t ruin it.’ He takes Staffe by the shoulders, fixes him a deep and penetrating stare. ‘Tell him you forgive him, Will. Let him have his peace.’

  Staffe nods and reaches out, pushes open the door. He sees his sergeant’s eyes close as he enters the room and he sits down between the feed station and the pinpricked Johnson – three different goodnesses going into him.

  He takes a hold of Johnson’s hand, careful not to disturb the intravenous tubes. He waits for his sergeant to look him in the eye and he leans forward, says in a soft voice, ‘I want to say sorry, Rick.’ His voice begins to crack. ‘I should have been a friend. You should have been able to come to me.’

  ‘It’s not …’ Johnson can barely speak.

  ‘I know about VABBA, Rick. It was Sian, wasn’t it?’

  He nods and tears fill up his sad pale eyes. He sets his jaw.

  ‘And you never found out who did it?’

  He shakes his head, one way then the other, just the once. ‘I took her shopping. It was Christmas. So packed, so many people. I had her and Ricky.’ He begins to sob and Staffe squeezes his hand as much as he dare. ‘We were having another. Becky was at the hospital.’

  Staffe can’t hold it back. His jaw goes slack and he feels his lips lose form. His eyes become wet and he leans forward, puts his head on Johnson’s chest, feels Johnson’s hand on the back of his head. He tries to find the words that would offer the forgiveness that Smethurst talked about.

  ‘We had Charlie. But I lost my life. I couldn’t love my baby.’

  Staffe waits until he thinks he can speak without breaking down. He wants to ask Johnson if he really did kill Stensson, but he thinks he knows the answer. He will find out by checking Becky’s hospital visits but he’s sure the records will show it was after Stensson died. Johnson already said it was Christmas. Without looking up, he says, ‘You got your life back when you met Sally. That’s right, isn’t it, Rick? For a while you got it back.’

  Johnson doesn’t reply.

  Staffe looks up and sees his sergeant staring, wide-eyed into the light. He runs the palm of his hand over Johnson’s face, checks to see his eyes have closed, and he leaves.

  Two squad cars are parked up at the bottom of the block of flats off the Holloway Road and Staffe shows his warrant card to gain access to the tenement. He feels ashamed that this cramped and tatty flat is the best a detective sergeant can do for his family in this day and age. As he climbs the stairs to Becky Johnson’s floor, he tries to formulate a first sentence he might say to her. He comes up blank.

  Outside the door, one of the Met’s WPCs stands guard. She pushes a palm out at Staffe and says she knows who he is and she doesn’t give a toss, he’s not going in. ‘No way, sir. I’m sorry.’

  Staffe turns his back on the WPC and looks down at the Holloway Road. If he leans out, he can almost make out the line it cuts north up towards Archway. Harrow-on-the-Hill is way beyond but he needs to know what to do when he gets there. He turns back to the WPC and feels the muscles in his face become weak. His voice sounds soft and low. And as he speaks, he believes every word.

  ‘You know, I worked with this woman’s husband for three years. I could have been a lot kinder to him and to her. I could have given him more time. His wife in there’ – Staffe jabs a finger at the door to the flat – ‘and those children, have suffered for what the Force has made them do. And now I need to say these things to Becky Johnson. I have to explain what happened so she can understand that what her husband did has a purpose. It still has a purpose.’

  ‘I don’t really know what you’re saying, sir,’ says the WPC.

  ‘She is a mother. She has to bring those children up in this world. I need to tell her what will happen next. She needs to know. And I need to hear from her what she wants to do next. What she says to me has a bearing on what I do with this case. If that was you, would you want me to hear you or to plough on regardless? What do you think she deserves?’

  The WPC nods, says, ‘I’d love to let you in, but …’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Staffe. He wraps the palm of his hand around her elbow and squeezes, gently. He looks her deep in the eyes. ‘Just give me five minutes. You can trust me. I promise,’ and he opens the door, makes his way into the flat, holding his breath as he goes. It is deathly quiet.

  He presses open the door to the lounge as quietly as he can. The curtains are drawn and there is a blue-white wash to the room from the TV screen. He can’t see the picture because of the angle, but the sound is turned down and Staffe looks around for signs of life. He makes his way in, so slowly, and sees the back of Becky Johnson’s head peeking up from an armchair in front of the TV.

  ‘Becky,’ he whispers.

  There is no response. As he moves around, his eyes pinned to her chair, he sees that she has Sian on her knee. There is no sign of the two boys. Sian is asleep and has white music buds in her ears. She has an arm wrapped around her mother’s neck. Her face is squashed and he can’t discern whether she is at peace or perturbed in her slumber.

  Becky also seems to be asleep, at first sight. But when he looks closer, he can see her eyes are half open. Her face has a fixed expression – of mild amusement. He moves closer, and crouches, slowly. He takes her wrist in his hand and watches her face for signs of life. As he touches her, there is no change to her expression. Yet the pulse is strong.

  He looks into her eyes and there is the faintest registration of life. He looks deep into them and follows what they are fixed upon.

  And there … there, on the moderately sized LCD television screen, are the moving images of Karl Colquhoun writhing in agony. Staffe can’t take his eyes off the screen – until Becky’s husband takes out the scalpel, goes to work on Karl’s testicles. He scrunches his eyes tight shut when it gets to the part when Johnson had turned the blade to Karl’s eyes.

  By the time Staffe opens his eyes, the subject has changed. Guy Montefiore is strung up, bleeding from hi
s eyes.

  Staffe looks at Becky and gasps. She is looking straight at him now and smiling. She says nothing. Staffe looks down at young Sian and sees that her mother has the wherewithal to rest the palm of her hand over her daughter’s eyes – in case she should wake.

  ‘Becky?’ he says.

  She says nothing. Ever so slowly, she turns her head to the screen, and as Guy Montefiore jags down on to the wood, her smile becomes infinitesimally wider.

  Staffe goes across, leans slowly over the wing arm of the chair and kisses Becky Johnson on the forehead. He hopes to God that she will tire of reliving her husband’s work, and as he makes his way out of the flat, he makes a prayer that he is just a little bit wiser.

  Staffe feels sure that he knows what to do. He wishes he wasn’t quite so alone, but knows that this is no kind of decision for Pulford to take, and Smethurst and Pennington’s interests are too vested. They have their man. It’s not the one either of them would have wanted, but he is dead now and they can begin to pile on the guilt, like earth to a coffin. He feels alone. Dreadfully alone.

  But not for long.

  Sitting on the bonnet of his E-Type and swinging a set of keys around on his forefinger – as if they might be a revolver – is Ross Denness. He looks sharper, cleaner, and somehow more capable than when Staffe first came across him in the Rag. Denness is wearing a suit jacket and twisted jeans. His hair is waxed and he looks handy, smiling at Staffe as if he has nothing in the world to fear from this officer of the law.

  ‘Get off my car!’ calls Staffe.

  Denness doesn’t shift an inch. He says, calm as you like, ‘There’s no need. You’re not going anywhere. Not till we’ve had a chat.’

  ‘I’ll go where I want and when. It’s nothing to do with you. I could still have that racial incitement pressed, you prick.’

  Denness laughs. ‘I’m no prick, and you’re no fucking hero. And that’s why I’m here – to make sure you’ve got that straight.’ He stands up, probably measures a couple of inches taller than Staffe; a good ten years younger. His scars are more pink and Staffe can’t work out if this is a good or a bad thing. For sure, Denness has enough violent form, most of it gratuitous, and he would be a firm favourite in anybody’s book.