Talking to the Dead: A Novel

by Harry Bingham

  For our last twenty minutes we cuddle together on the sofa. Brydon is a good kisser. A broader repertoire than you’d guess. He’s good on the passionate knee-wobblers, but he’s got a good range of nibbly, nuzzly, intimate, flirty kisses too. I wonder again what I have done to be so lucky. As I’m wondering, my phone bleeps the arrival of a text. It’s Bryony. She tells me she’s giving out flowers and notes like crazy, and finishes, HAVE A GOOD TIME. YOU DESERVE IT.

  “Anything important?” says Brydon.

  “No.”

  We go on cuddling till the taxi comes and it’s time to see him off at the door. I feel like a true citizen of Planet Normal. I am going to be a girlfriend. This is going to be my boyfriend. We’re police officers, you know. CID. My boyfriend is law-abiding, so this is him leaving in a taxi. And here am I seeing him off at the front door. Watch us kiss goodbye. Watch me smile and wave. Just watch how normal I am.

  Once the taxi leaves, I don’t close the front door right away. I hold on to it, this feeling. I am a citizen of Planet Normal. This is my boyfriend. I am his girlfriend. Just watch how happy I am.

  Sunday is a nothing day. Pretend to clean my flat. Fail to go to the gym. Forget to eat anything much. Go to my mam and dad’s for tea, and end up staying till ten. I talk to Brydon twice on the phone, but we don’t see each other. Slowly does it.

  The next morning, Monday, is another one of those weird ones. I come into work—bang on time, no fogginess, no shock—and find that life has once again moved on. Over the weekend, they kept an eye on what they believed to be Sikorsky’s Cardiff address. After no sign of any movement there, they launched a dawn raid this morning and searched the place. A massive SOCO type operation, the biggest yet by all accounts. Office rumor says that Forensics have taken some clothes and think they have a blood splash on a trouser leg. If the blood is April Mancini’s, then Sikorsky is inching ever closer to a life sentence. Better still—and unbelievably—the address has yielded a roll of duct tape and some cable ties from a DIY shop. Both used, though still in the original shopping bag with the receipt. Rumor has it that the cut end of the duct tape in Edwards’s flat matches the roll in Sikorsky’s bag. It’s unbelievable how stupid most criminals are. Unbelievable and lucky. We’d have a hell of a job convicting them otherwise.

  All we need now is Sikorsky himself. The prosecution case feels largely complete. But a case isn’t much use without a criminal to convict. To make it as far as we have without getting our hands on the probable killer feels frustrating, to say the least of it. The betting around the coffee machine is that Sikorsky is already in Poland or Russia. If the former, then we’ve a 20 or 30 percent chance of getting him, because the Poles aren’t too corrupt and because they’re EU members who try to behave themselves. If Sikorsky is in Russia, then we’re pretty much fucked.

  Most officers reckon he’s in Russia.

  If I had to guess, I’d say he was there too.

  Meantime, Axelsen’s effort seems to be winding down. Traces of cocaine have been found both in Fletcher’s home and in a desk drawer. We already know, from my interview with Charlotte Rattigan, that the big man used to do the odd bit of coke when he was still alive, so the ruling assumption is that Fletcher was dealing. That’s where his cash came from. Some drug-world problem made him do a runner. He might be in another country. Or dead. Whatever it was, it must have been a pretty urgent problem to make him leave two hundred grand in cash lying around. As for the whole Rattigan fishing trip thing, it’s being assumed that Rattigan and Fletcher were coke buddies. Fletcher got to hang out with—and sell drugs to—rich people. Rattigan got his kicks out of hanging out with criminals. Stranger things have happened.

  Because it’s all go on Lohan, because Axelsen isn’t exactly desperate to have me back in Newport, and because Jackson and Hughes both have other things on their minds, no one really cares what I do today.

  Just as well. I’m busy with funeral stuff and I want to save my energies. Yesterday afternoon, I called a journalist at the Western Mail and told him about the people’s power demonstration of solidarity that was expected at the crematorium. Because bugger all happens on a Sunday, which means they’re always desperate for material to fill the paper on a Monday, we’ve got the whole front page of the newspaper: HUNDREDS EXPECTED AT DEAD GIRL’S FUNERAL. Gill Parker of StreetSafe is quoted as saying that the funeral will show Cardiff’s opposition to violence against women. A rent-a-quote local pop star is reported as saying much the same thing, and implies that she’s intending to be there herself, although if you look carefully at the way she says it, she’s left herself plenty of wiggle room.

  I spend some time on Facebook groups and other Cardiff women’s group things, getting the word out. I call the bus company and ask them if they can provide more transport if need be. They say yes. Then I call eight head teachers of schools close to April’s. I tell them that there’s a big kids’ movement wanting to protest against violence. I tell them that transport is arranged and paid for. They just need to call the bus company to arrange pickup times. Six of the eight head teachers sound really interested. I think the newspaper headline helped. Maybe the pop star too. I call the crematorium and tell them to expect eight hundred. I call another flower place and tell them to send a thousand pounds’ worth of flowers to the event. They say what sort of flowers and I tell them the sort with petals.

  When I give them my card to pay, they tell me it’s declined. I tell them to try eight hundred pounds, then seven hundred. Seven hundred seems to work, so I tell them that I’ll give them the three hundred later in the month, when my pay comes in. They say okay. I haven’t yet paid the bus company either, so they’ll have to show some patience too. Payday is the middle of the month, so I’ll only have to get through a week without money. Should be a doddle. The only thing that bothers me is the state of my fuel tank, but my Peugeot, bless her, is pretty much full. She needs to be.

  All the time I’m making calls, I’ve got April’s little dead face up on my screen. “We’re doing good, kid,” I say to her. She smiles at me. She’s never had a funeral before, so she’s looking forward to this one, and quite right too.

  I’m doing all this when I spot Brydon drifting over. He smiles at me and sits on the corner of my desk. Nothing unusual. We haven’t talked about it much, but neither of us want the office to know about our relationship, so we play it cool. Only a lift of his eyebrow as he sits indicates that he quite liked the way he spent Saturday. I wrinkle my eyes back at him, to indicate the same thing. If truth be told, I feel a little odd about the way we finished. That thing about rules. Was that really Brydon telling me that he was going to have a problem with little things like the occasional speeding ticket or unlicensed handgun? I was hoping for a bit more give-and-take than that. But still, no need to worry about that now. Always put off till tomorrow.

  “What was it again?” he says. “Bastard, thieving, wish-he’d-go-and-top-himself Penry? That was your phrase, I think.”

  “Drown,” I say. “It was drown himself.”

  “He’s just come in downstairs. Wants to plead guilty apparently.”

  “Does he? Ha!” Some noise like that anyway. Not a real word. I’m trying to figure out what this means, and I get up to go, grabbing my bag and a book from my desk drawer.

  “I’ll see you again soon, will I?” says Brydon, who doesn’t want me to rush off.

  “Yes. Not this evening. I can’t do this evening, I’ve got family coming round for dinner. The day after tomorrow? Are you free?”

  “I am, yes. Subject to operational requirements.”

  “Then, subject to operational requirements, you’ve got yourself a date, Sarge.”

  I rush off downstairs.

  If you want to plead guilty, you notify the court, not the police station. If Penry came here, it was to send me a message. I waste a minute or two trying to find out where he is, or was, and discover that he came in, spoke briefly to the duty officer, then walked out again.

 
; I go outside. Which way? Our offices occupy one of the best addresses in Central Cardiff. We’re a stone’s throw from City Hall, the Welsh Assembly Government, Cardiff Uni, the National Museum, the Crown Court, and loads else. But if Penry wanted to see me, he’d make himself easy to find. That probably means one of the two parks. Either Bute Park the other side of the tennis courts or the various different bits of green space which make up Cathays. I choose Cathays. Alexandra Gardens, the one with the war memorials and the roses. Ghosts enumerated in bland official stone. I can see that appealing to Penry’s sense of humor. Either that, or I just like the ghosts.

  I walk over there, then walk up the park from the south end. It’s a warm day, though overcast, and with a firm wind pulling inland from the sea. Not comfortable weather. Weather that hasn’t made peace with itself. There are a few picnickers, but Penry isn’t one of them.

  I find him at the top end, on a bench. Drinking take-out coffee from a paper cup. He has a brown paper bag next to him, with another coffee cup in it.

  “For you,” he says, passing it over. “I forgot you don’t drink coffee.”

  “That’s okay. Thank you.” I take it.

  Now we’re here, I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Anyway, it seems to me the ball is in his court.

  “I saw the thing in the Mail this morning,” he says.

  “That’s people power for you.”

  “Yeah. And a little birdie tells me that the good folks of Gwent have got Fletcher nailed as a coke dealer.”

  “That’s very naughty. Dealing coke.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I shrug. I’m not very focused on Fletcher at the moment. April has most of my attention. Still, a civil question deserves a civil answer, as my granny used to say.

  “Don’t know. Find him. Catch him. Arrest him. Prosecute him. You might be cellmates, you never know.”

  “I doubt it. I’ve got a lawyer who says I’m very sympathetic. Police hero wounded in the line of duty. Lots of flashbacks. Difficult stuff psychologically. Poor lad needs a bit of support, but doesn’t get it. Goes off the rails. Feels awful. I’m going to try to cry on the witness stand, but I don’t know how that’ll come off.”

  “You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.”

  “What do you reckon I’ll get? Two years? Maybe out in one. Worst-case scenario. An open prison too, probably.”

  I don’t say anything to that. For a while we just sit, letting the wind comb through the park, looking for answers. It’s Penry who breaks the silence.

  “He might be dead already. Hard to arrest a dead man.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. At least they don’t run.” I pause. Penry knows more about this than I do, and most of what I “know” is supposition. “Can I just check a couple of things with you? First, has Fletcher really been as stupid as I think he has?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And he’s as dangerous as I think he is? Dangerous on his own, I mean.”

  “On his own, he’s about as dangerous as my old nan. Not even. My nan had more balls than he does. Or did. Whichever.”

  I nod. Good. It’s nice to have those things confirmed.

  Penry asks, “Do you know where he is?”

  “No. Not exactly. But out west somewhere. Beyond Milford Haven. Why? Do you know?”

  “No, not exactly, but you’ve got it about right. I know the place you’re after is right on the coast, like not even a minute’s walk away. That’s all I know.”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “Not my cup of tea, any of that. I didn’t want to see it.”

  “You had his key. His phone number. You could check his emails.”

  “Listen, he wanted me involved. I refused. He gave me cash, his phone details, his email passwords, his bloody door key. He begged me.”

  “You kept the cash, though.”

  “That bloody conservatory. I don’t even like the bugger.”

  The bugger that was purchased fifteen weeks after Rattigan’s death. Money that had come from Fletcher, not Brendan Rattigan.

  “It wouldn’t look good in court.”

  “Fuck, Fiona, none of it would look good in court. But I didn’t help them. Either of them.”

  I raise my eyebrows at that. I don’t believe him.

  “Listen, forget courts. Just you and me.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  “It started—pure chance. I was in Butetown. Saw some idiot drive his Aston there. Interested to see what kind of idiot stepped out. It was Rattigan. I recognized him. Talked to one or two of the girls. I found out everything, and he knew I’d found out. I think it could even have been Mancini who told him.”

  “So you started to blackmail him? It wasn’t operational advice, it was just blackmail?” Somehow that feels worse.

  “Not really. That’s the stupid thing. It was hardly even that. Rich bastard knows I know, and starts giving me money. Invites me to the racecourse. We find we actually like each other. Rich bastard, corrupt copper.”

  “But you weren’t corrupt. Or hadn’t been.”

  Up till now, we haven’t really been looking at each other. We’ve been staring out at the park, letting the world spin on its axis, doing what it does. But now Penry wants my gaze as well as my attention. He touches me on the shoulder and gets me to look at him. I do that, investigating his features more carefully than I ever have done before. The tough cop act is only half of Penry, maybe less. The bigger chunk of him is more solemn, more thoughtful.

  “You’re right. I’d been a good cop. That thing about crying on the stand, it’s not all crap. I did feel cut off from the police service, as it happens. One moment, I was the bee’s knees, the kipper’s knickers. Medals from her Her Maj and letters of commendation from the Home Secretary. Next thing, it’s just a monthly pension and invites to the annual police dinner. I was disoriented for a while. Rattigan felt like a way out.”

  “A way out—?” I begin, but Penry stops me.

  “I know. People died. Don’t think I don’t know. That’s why I started ripping off the school. A cry for help. Isn’t that pathetic? I’ve turned into the sort of person I used to hate.”

  I don’t answer or push the point. Penry’s immortal soul is not my concern.

  The wind travels inland from the sea. Hurrying up from the south. Rushing about, confused by the city, peering in every nook and cranny, rustling leaves, moving picnic blankets, blowing up skirts and dresses. A wicked wind, a restless wind.

  “Then Rattigan dies.”

  “Yes. I thought that was it, and so it was, really. Fletcher—well, he was just as much of an arsehole, but he wasn’t fun to hang around with.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing. Fletcher wanted me in. He thought I’d jump at the chance. But I didn’t. I’ve only been into his house once, and that was to tell him he was a fuckwit.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “No. Wish I had, though.”

  “Me too.”

  There’s more I want to ask, but Penry touches my arm and points. “See that man there?”

  It’s a man in a suit. Forty-something. Pleased with himself.

  I clock the man, then look back at Penry.

  “Ivor Harris,” he tells me. “Ivor Harris, M.P. North Glamorgan. A Tory.”

  I shrug. “The Conservative Party is legal, you know. Even in Wales.”

  “You want to know his first name? It’s Piers. Posh Piers. He changed to his middle name because he thought it would attract more votes.”

  “So? That’s allowed too.”

  “Best buddies with Brendan Rattigan. Coke snorters. And he knew. Not the whole thing, maybe, but he knew enough.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I wonder for a second how Penry knew that posh Piers would come a-wandering by, then realize that he didn’t. We’ve got our backs to the National Assembly. This park belongs to the ranks of the powerful. You probably couldn’t spend an hour or two here and not fin
d someone who used to hang out with Brendan Rattigan.

  “I do know that. Rattigan couldn’t get high without boasting about it. And Ivor bloody Harris is an M.P. Brian bloody Penry is a criminal.”

  “Same difference.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, fair enough.” He lets that comment die away, then adds another. “Do you want to know how much personal income tax Rattigan paid?”

  “I didn’t, but I do now.”

  “Nineteen percent in the U.K. Nothing at all overseas. And most of his income came from overseas. He probably averaged under ten percent in taxes. Because he’s rich and has clever lawyers. Brendan Rattigan, Ivor Harris’s buddy.”

  “Yeah, but it’s better, isn’t it? Being like us, I mean. Ordinary work, ordinary money, ordinary tax.”

  Penry laughs. “Ordinary criminal, ordinary jail time.”

  “Yes, that too. Even that.”

  Penry’s done with his coffee. He scrunches it up. He can have mine, if he wants more, but he doesn’t. The top rate of tax in the U.K. is 50 percent. Even those of us on ordinary salaries pay double Rattigan’s average rate of 10 percent.

  “Weird thing is, I’m a bit scared of prison. I didn’t think I would be.”

  “You’ll be okay.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll visit you, if you like.”

  “Would you? Really?”

  I nod. “If you like.”

  “I would like. Yes, I would.”

  The more I know Penry, the more I like him, despite all that he’s done and not done. We sit on the bench and stare out into the park. Harris has gone from view now. No more M.P.s to despise.

  “Here. I’ve got something for you.”

  I give him the book that I took from my desk drawer before coming out. It’s My First Book of Piano Classics.

  “I didn’t know if you were into classics more, or pop stuff. I thought maybe the classics.”

  He’s touched. Genuinely moved. I only got the book on the off chance. I’d intended to mail it, but hadn’t got round to it.