“Again, Sarge, now!” shouted Holland urgently. “Just a touch more and she’ll be able to squeeze through.”
“Paulina Kowalski won’t. Let me know when that opening’s wide enough to get them both out.”
Maik revved the car again, easing forward into a slow, sustained pull. The support held firm, but the tailgate itself began to bend sideways as the car battled against the back drag.
“More,” shouted Holland. “Give it one more go.”
The car bucked violently as the bodywork continued to bend. But the support held, and the weed rope remained taut. And slowly, the metal grille began to twist away from the door.
“Through.” Holland skidded down through the opening and shoulder-rolled into the half-open door, feeling it give under his weight. He got to his feet and peered into the wall of thick, dark smoke that filled the foyer, but it was so dense he could see nothing. Beside him, something moved and he could hear the measured heaves of someone dragging a heavy burden. He couldn’t see to help but as he stretched out his hand, feeling for the door, the tiny form of Des Gill lurched past him, hunched over, moving slowly backwards. As soon as she backed through the doorway, she dropped low and rolled through the opening at the base of the grille. Maik reached through to drag the inert form of Paulina Kowalski out after her. Gill came back to help, but as she bent down, she reeled and stumbled back, collapsing heavily on the ground.
Holland had dropped low to escape the worst of the smoke, and he squirmed out through the narrow opening on his belly. Behind him, dark clouds of smoke were billowing out of the open doorway. His eyes were streaming with tears and the acrid taste of smoke filled his mouth. He got to his feet and leaned against the side of the building, retching violently, until his throat felt like it was on fire. In the distance he could hear sirens, and when he looked up he could just make out blurry flashing lights as fire engines and ambulances made the long, sweeping curve around the track towards the berm, slowing to ease past the parked plane. Holland coughed again heavily and peered around, waiting for his eyes to clear. Then, finally, he looked down in front of him. Through his milky vision, he could make out Danny Maik, resting on his haunches. Beside him, two women lay stretched out on the ground. Neither moved.
35
“Of course I’m not okay with the decision.”
Perhaps there had been a second after Holland’s entrance, before the diverted eyes and the awkward hesitation in the doorway, when they might both have been able to pretend he had not heard anything. But that moment had passed now and Holland stood still, looking at Des as her gaze slowly returned to his. She waved him into the hospital room with a brief smile, but it was the speaker on the other end of the phone who had her attention. And she had no smiles for whoever it was. She listened carefully for a few moments, nodding her head occasionally, even though the speaker couldn’t see her. “I understand. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I have a visitor. I’ll speak to you later.”
Holland stood at the foot of the bed and waited patiently while Des set her phone down on the side table beside a small plant with a profusion of pink blooms. Other than this, there was nothing on any of the surfaces, not even a cup of water. Des tugged at the sheets to draw them up a little. She fixed a smile back on for Holland. It was clear the caller hadn’t been a well-wisher, but he wasn’t going to ask, and she’d made no effort to fill the pulse of silence he’d allowed, so they would move on.
“That’s a nice plant, I must say,” Holland told her.
She turned her head to look at it. “The nurses tell me some bloke dropped it off last night while I was sleeping.”
“Did they comment on what a looker he was?”
“They said he seemed like a bit of a saddo, actch,” said Des, playing her part, “wandering around the corridors carrying this plant with the name he couldn’t pronounce.”
“Yeah, well, I believe I told you Latin isn’t my strong suit.”
Des dropped her smile. “How is Mrs. Kowalski? I’d appreciate some honesty. I asked earlier but nobody wanted to say.”
Holland tilted his head slightly. “Not great. She swallowed a lot of smoke. There might be some lung damage. They’re going to keep her in for a while and watch her….” He looked around for somewhere to sit, and his eyes found the bottom of the bed.
“Don’t get any ideas, Tony. My eyes are like this because of the drugs. Dilated pupils, as you undoubtedly know, signal arousal in women. I just wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression.”
“Beautiful woman, lying in bed, giving me the eyes? Never crossed my mind,” he said. He chose the uncomfortable chrome-framed chair beside Gill and became serious. “Paulina Kowalski is lucky to be alive, and Danny Maik has been making sure everybody knows why.” He looked at her significantly.
“I wouldn’t have been able to get her out on my own,” said Des. There was a short intake of breath. “Oh my God, Lindy’s car?”
“A right mess,” confirmed Holland. “From what I could see, they might even have to scrap it.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Best thing that could happen to one of those things, if you ask me.” He looked as though there might be weightier things on his mind, but the light route was the one he chose to take for now. “So you’re doing all right yourself?”
“Just waiting until the results of the pulmonary function test are back and I’ve had another consultation with the respirologist. Once he signs off on me, I’m on my way.”
Holland nodded absently at the news and Des waited to see if there would be another question to which he didn’t particularly want an answer. Instead, he made a production of looking around the room before circling in for a landing. He looked at her.
“Erm, in the plane, just before we saw the smoke …” Holland paused and looked at Des to see if she was going to give him any help, but it was clear that he was going to need to go the distance. “I wondered if there was something you were going to say. About your review.”
“Did you?”
It wasn’t an answer, but the way she was looking at him now, dilated pupils and all, told him it was the only one he’d be getting. He looked around again, as if there might be another approach lurking in one of the corners of this bright, white room. If there was, he couldn’t find it. “Almost forgot.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a paperback in a small plastic bag. “Brought you a book. It’s a murder mystery,” he said, handing it to her.
“Thank you. The doctors have been telling me I need to get plenty of sleep. This should help.” She smiled. “Seriously, that’s very sweet.”
“It’s by some Canadian bloke,” he said. “I thought perhaps you might get some insight into how they think over there. Help you out with the DCI. You’d better watch your step, though. If you plan on making a habit of this heroics lark, you’re going to shove him right out of the spotlight. I can’t see that going down very well at all.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem,” said Des seriously. She paused, as if weighing up whether to continue. “That call I just took was confirmation from London. Next stagecoach out of Dodge.”
“They’re calling you back? Why?” Holland stood to add urgency to his question.
She shrugged. “They sent me up here to do a job, not lounge around in a hospital bed. They’ve found something else for me to do back at the Met.”
Holland gave her a long look. The nonchalance wasn’t really coming off. Des didn’t strike him as the kind of person who’d be comfortable leaving something half done. He might have expected disappointment, resentment, even, at having been ordered off the case. Of the kind he’d heard on the phone as he entered, come to think of it. “You know, I’ve never had a lot of time for the bloke,” he said grudgingly, “but that business with the ephedrine, I’m beginning to understand how the Home Secretary could get to like Jejeune.”
Des nodded. She suspected that the more time you spent around DCI Jejeune, the more you started to understand what all the fuss was about. But she didn�
��t offer to prolong the conversation.
Holland could see that, whatever was going on, there would be no more sharing, no more confidences about her review of the case. Perhaps it would take them both places she no longer wanted to go. It was hard to see your heroes fall. He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “So, that’s it, then.” For them, he meant. But it wasn’t necessary to say it.
“That’s it,” said Des. The businesslike tone softened. “It was probably never really on, anyway, if we’re being honest. You’re nice, Tony, really you are. But you’re a bit all over the place — lad on the pull one minute, decent, caring bloke the next. I think losing your girlfriend like you did has left you not quite knowing who you are. You need someone who can wait for you until you find out, somebody who doesn’t have her own plans to keep getting in the way.”
“Like yours would, you mean?” He nodded and gave her a wan grin. “Cue the soft-focus camera and the twinkly piano music in the background, then, I suppose.”
“Just as long as it’s not Motown,” she said with a sad smile. “But you should think about what I said about Sergeant Maik, Tony. He’s a good man.”
“Not exactly a great role model when it comes to sorting out your love life, though, is he? I mean, look at the mess he’s making of this business between him and Salter.”
“Things don’t always work out. Sometimes they’re not meant to. Like you and me.”
“Ah, never say never,” said Holland with a smile. “Maybe we’ll hook up again sometime. You never know, I might even land that job with the Met — Psychological Profiler: Speciality, Women.”
“Yeah, about that…”
Their laughter was cut short by the sight of DCS Shepherd in the doorway.
“I’m glad to see you’re in such good spirits,” she said. “You’re well on the road to recovery, I take it?”
“So they tell me,” said Des. Holland stood silently beside her.
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. “No lasting damage then?”
Gill wasn’t sure she would go that far, but she simply gave a shrug.
“You did well, Constable. I want you to know that.”
“If the DC hadn’t gone in, Mrs. Kowalski wouldn’t have made it,” said Holland. “We’d never have been able to get to her.”
“Yes, Constable, I’m aware of the circumstances.” Shepherd paused and looked at him.
“Okay, then. I suppose I’d better be off,” said Holland hurriedly. “Make sure you take care of that plant. The book, not so much. I suppose you can leave it in the library when you go. There must be somebody who enjoys that kind of thing.” He turned to leave, but stopped at the doorway and looked back. “It’s been a real privilege to work with you, Detective Constable Gill. I mean that.” He nodded respectfully to Shepherd as he passed, and she watched him disappear down the brightly lit corridor. The normal spring in his step was noticeably absent.
Shepherd’s eyes went to the plastic bag lying beside Des on the bed and then to the plant on the side table. “That’s very nice. Did he bring that in for you?”
Des nodded and gave a slight smile. “He told the nurses he thinks it might be called a Chlamydia.”
Shepherd’s eyebrows went up a notch. “Well, let’s hope it’s a slow-growing one, then. I presume you’ll be taking it with you when you return to the Met to take up your new duties. Once you’re fully recovered, of course.”
Gill’s eyes opened a touch wider. There had been no hint of a question in the DCS’s comment. Shepherd gave her a frank look. “Tony Holland’s goodbye rather suggested you’d already heard.”
“They phoned me just before he arrived. Sorry if that’s what you came all the way down here to tell me.”
“It wasn’t, actch.” Shepherd gave her a small smile and Gill had the courtesy to return it. “I came in to let you know you’ve been put forward for a special commendation, Constable. I’ve no doubt the committee will approve the nomination. You showed a great deal of courage going into that building, DC Gill, truly.”
“Thank you,” said Gill sincerely. “I appreciate that very much.”
Shepherd rounded the end of the bed and approached her. “I want you to know I had nothing to do with the decision to terminate your review. I understand you told them you’d come across nothing that warranted further investigation.” This time, there was a questioning note to Shepherd’s statement.
“They asked me if I had found anything. I told them I had nothing firm. They said wrap it up.” Again, the shrug of the narrow shoulders seemed overly casual, but Shepherd ignored the gesture.
Nothing firm. Des could have looked at Shepherd and told her directly, delivered the message unequivocally: I found nothing. She hadn’t done that. And from a straight talker like Detective Constable Desdemona Gill, the inference was clear.
“I’d like to think you would have come to me if you’d found anything questionable,” said Shepherd cautiously. “Any troubling inconsistencies, for example.”
“I imagine that would very much have depended on what I’d found.”
And just for a moment, Shepherd got a sense of the steel that had taken this young, fresh-faced woman to the heady heights of Empowered Investigator for the Met. But while there was a part of the DCS that admired the honesty it had taken for Gill to deliver her response, Shepherd was not heartened by it. Des Gill was not the type of person to let something lie. Orders from on high or not, she’d find a way to revisit things, eventually, even on her own time. The question was whether somebody else would be clever enough to get there first.
36
A strong wind was blowing in over Foulness Island, and there was enough coolness in the air to remind Domenic Jejeune that out here, spring was still only taking its tentative first steps onto this year’s stage. He stood at the edge of the land, where it sloped gently down to the sea. Behind him, the stark, windswept landscape huddled beneath a low sky the colour of pewter. Wild, uncultivated fields spread out in all directions, spongy underfoot and dotted with tussocks of coarse grass and low shrubs. It was harsh terrain, flat and rugged. Less than three metres at its highest elevation, the landscape offered little protection to the few hardy souls that clung on here, scattered across the length and breadth of the island in their farmhouses and cottages. They had been bowed all their lives by the elements that punished Foulness Island, but they had been defeated, finally, by the economic realities of farming in the global era.
Jejeune stared out over the rocky shoreline, beyond which an uneasy sea churned restlessly. A solitary figure stood at the shore, at a point where an ancient ramp of crumbling concrete sloped out into the sea until it finally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. But the figure, he knew, was not looking at the ramp, or the sea. On the shore of the wide world I stand alone, and think. Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. Fame? Yes, perhaps Domenic might agree with that. His own experience had taught him of the transient, inconsequential nature of public acclaim. But love? Surely, a mother’s love endures even when all else has disappeared. As this mother’s love had.
He had known she would be here. She had travelled, like him, across the single bridge on the north side of the island that tethered the hundred or so remaining inhabitants of Foulness to the mainland. She would have followed the gravel road built, like so many out here, on top of the ancient sea walls, to park beside the brooding, abandoned building a few hundred metres behind them. It was a modest structure built of rough-hewn Kentish ragstone. At the base of the walls, tufts of pale grass trembled in the constant wind. Jejeune knew the woman had not been into the decaying building. She did not want to see where her son had been held captive. She wanted to look upon the place where he had known his last moments of freedom. Out there, at sea.
The woman did not turn from her vigil when Domenic approached. He stood beside her for some seconds, watching the sea perform its never-ending ballet; rising, rolling, falling.
“I wasn’t sure you would come, Inspector. I knew yo
u wouldn’t forget, not with that mind of yours, but I didn’t think you’d have time. I mean, with that terrible business out there where you are now, the burned body and all….”
Jejeune left his own eyes on the sea as he spoke. “Is your husband any better?”
“He has his days. Still, it’s hard, you know.” She turned to him and shook her head a little. “Hard,” she said again, as if settling on the word.
Jejeune looked at her. She was a small woman, but the weight of her grief seemed to have shrunk her even more. Her hair was wispy and unkempt, the grey-white dominating the black now. She’s stopped trying, thought Jejeune. Her hair, her clothes, the way she carried herself: it was as if she recognized the irrelevance of personal vanity when you are standing at the site where the world had claimed your only child. He looked at her again, and saw the loss in her face. It struck a note somewhere in his mind. Perhaps he’d seen it before, at the funeral.
The wind dragged its talons across the land, and the scrubby grasses quaked and bent at its passing. Offshore, the grey sea tumbled and rolled into ragged, half-formed waves. Somewhere back inland, a Greenshank called, scarring the air with its high-pitched cries. Individual moments, thought Jejeune. That’s where their sense of dislocation came from, these windswept coastal islands. The crashing of a wave, a shorebird’s call, a gust of wind. Everything was separated into its own little pocket of time. There was no sense that events were all part of some eternal linear progression, connecting and connecting, drawing you on, pulling you in, dragging you down.
“I did wonder if they’d let me through today,” said the woman, as if conversation might keep some of her feelings at bay. “The website said the area was closed for munitions testing, but I came down anyway. The MoD man at the checkpoint was very nice. He told me they’d cancelled the exercises on account of the coming fog. He said I could stay as long as I liked. That was very nice of him, wasn’t it, Inspector?”
A Tiding of Magpies Page 22