by D. B. Thorne
I am done.
Farewell, kind mother. Father, long farewell.
Rebecca
Kay read it twice, three times, then looked at Jean. ‘This is her handwriting?’
‘Yes. But it doesn’t sound like her.’
Kay hadn’t known Rebecca, but she had no difficulty believing that it wasn’t her style. The words would sound strange coming from anyone. ‘And the police didn’t think it was strange?’
‘They didn’t want to know. Weren’t interested. I said to them, you really think she wrote this? They said, she weren’t in her right mind, so who knows?’ She put out a hand and Kay gave the note back, the piece of paper small and pitiful inside the bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kay said.
‘You still think something ain’t right?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’
‘You do that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kay said again. ‘To keep bothering you.’
Jean shrugged. ‘Ain’t no bother.’
‘Where’s Jim?’
Jean shrugged again, and sighed. ‘Ain’t seen him for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘On a bender, I expect. Like he used to do when Becky was a kid.’ She sighed again and Kay saw the suspicion of tears, but Jean turned around before they fell. ‘Looks like I’ve lost them both,’ she said, and walked back into her flat again, this time closing the door behind her.
nineteen
FOX WAS BORED, VERY BORED. THE CONFERENCE SHE WAS AT was entitled ‘Policing Diversity: Considerations for a Post-Western Community’. She didn’t walk the beat any more, so she didn’t really give a damn about ‘South Asian Terms of Engagement’ or ‘Women, Islam and Street Diplomacy’. As far as she was concerned, this was just a box-ticking exercise, one more course to put on her record, one step closer to her next promotion. That was the only reason she was sitting in a hot lecture room in Hendon, sun streaming through the windows and no air-con, surrounded by over-eager fellow officers who actually, properly seemed to be taking this nonsense seriously. They were taking notes, for God’s sake.
Her mobile rang again, and this time she decided to take it, three missed calls being, to her mind, too many for comfort. Besides, it’d give her a rest from this latest speaker, a pudgy man in glasses who seemed to think that being from a minority conferred some special status, some kind of extra-legal protection from arrest, regardless of whatever crime you’d actually committed. She took her mobile out of her bag and stood up, and before she’d reached the door said, ‘Fox speaking.’
‘Inspector Fox?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hi there. My name’s Gary, Sergeant Gary Bright. I’m calling from Islington nick.’
A sergeant? She’d got up to speak to a sergeant? She sighed and looked back through the windows into the room she’d just escaped. Oh well. Speaking to a sergeant still beat listening to an overweight man talking about diversity. ‘Yes?’
‘I understand you’re in charge of the Tiffany Mullan case.’
Fox frowned and didn’t answer immediately, calculating her answer. In the end, she just went for, ‘That’s right. And?’
‘Well, I’ve picked up a case that has, or at least might have, similarities.’ He paused, then added, ‘Maybe.’
Fox sighed, then attempted interest. ‘Really?’
‘She was found drugged, after a date. Somebody she’d met online. Only we can’t find him, seems he doesn’t exist. Does that sound familiar?’
First Solomon Mullan with that, what was her name? Rebecca Harrington. Now this. Fox closed her eyes and lifted her face to the ceiling, taking a moment to compose herself. ‘Possibly,’ she said.
‘So I was wondering if you could share the file with me,’ Sergeant Bright said. Not Gary. Fox liked to keep things formal. ‘Let me take a look?’
‘Let me just understand,’ said Fox. ‘The victim’s female?’
‘Yes. Early twenties.’
‘Found drugged?’
‘That’s right. Like Tiffany Mullan.’
‘Okay, hold on,’ said Fox. ‘Slow down. Where was she found?’
‘In a church.’
‘A church?’
‘In Finsbury Park.’
‘Any injuries on her?’
‘No,’ said Sergeant Bright. ‘Though she was drugged.’
‘You said. Any idea what kind of drugs?’
‘Propofol. It’s a sedative.’
‘You know that Tiffany Mullan was drugged with pentobarbital? It’s a barbiturate.’
‘Well …’
‘They’re very different drugs.’
‘Still,’ said Bright. ‘There are similarities. Between the cases.’
‘Possibly,’ said Fox again. Keep it vague, don’t commit to anything, she thought. Don’t encourage him. Sergeant Bright had the same eager sound that a lot of the officers in the room she’d just left had. She didn’t like it, not one bit.
‘Actually, I was surprised,’ said Sergeant Bright.
‘Oh?’
‘That you were taking the case. Isn’t organized crime more your area?’
Oh spare me, thought Fox. She pinched her eyes with a thumb and forefinger, then forced herself to put on a smile before she answered, the better to sound pleasant. ‘Normally, yes. But you know how it is. Not enough officers. It’s about whoever’s got capacity, or at least it is over my end.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Sergeant Bright.
Behind Fox, the door to the lecture room opened and a man’s voice said, ‘Sorry, could you keep your voice down? We’re trying to listen.’ Fox turned and gave him one of her looks, one of the looks that had, she suspected, helped get her to the rank of inspector so quickly. It was the kind of look people found hard to deal with. Hard to even fathom, the depth of hostility it contained. The man, short and balding, with glasses, quickly scuttled back into the lecture room.
Fox walked further down the corridor, then said, ‘So. What was it you wanted?’
‘Your file. On Tiffany Mullan. I wondered if you could share it with me.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Fox. ‘I picked the case up first. How about you share what you’ve got with me, and I’ll be in touch.’
‘I—’ began Bright, but Fox interrupted.
‘After all, I’ve got more experience, and I’m further into the investigation. If I find anything, I’ll let you in on it.’
‘Well, I mean—’
‘Good. Listen, I’m in a meeting, so I’m going to have to go. Get whatever you have over to me. And Bright?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good work.’
She hung up before he had a chance to protest. Jesus. Things were starting to get a little complicated, and Fox was aware that she was playing with fire with this one. Pretty soon she might have to do some proper investigating, which hadn’t been the original idea. She’d have to be careful. She’d have a think about it back in the lecture room. At least it would give her something to do.
‘He gave you what?’
‘Twenty grand. On top of the eighty.’
‘Why?’ Solomon held the Bat Phone away from his ear. It wasn’t often Luke raised his voice, at least not to Solomon, but that was what he was doing now.
‘Because he’s making too much money to wash it through his businesses, and evidently you’ve told him that it’s a particular speciality of mine. So thank you for that,’ said Solomon, not raising his voice but sounding equally irritated.
‘And you took it? Jesus, Solly. This, exactly this, is what I didn’t want to happen.’
‘It’s not as if he’s an easy man to say no to,’ said Solomon. ‘And I was there on my own.’
Luke was silent for a moment, then said, ‘No. I hear you. He’s a horrible bastard, he really is. But Solly, he’s got us now.’ Solomon listened to his brother groan on the other end of the line, a note of despair in it. ‘You know? Thomas Arnold has got us. Shit.’
‘What was I supposed to do?’ said Sol
omon. ‘It’s you who got involved with him, not me.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Luke. ‘Listen, I’m not angry with you. It’s me, this is on me. Shit,’ he said again. ‘Okay. Let me think.’ He was silent, and Solomon listened to the whistle of the bad connection, then Luke said, ‘Any news on Tiff?’
‘Still the same,’ said Solomon.
Luke sighed. ‘Is that bad or good?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Solomon, even though he thought it was probably bad. There was no need to share his fears with Luke. What could he do, hiding out in a caravan on the edge of Essex?
‘Okay,’ said Luke. ‘Let’s contain this. Do whatever it is you do with his money. I’ll sort it out when I get back. Yes?’
‘Which will be when?’ said Solomon.
‘Yeah, well,’ said Luke. ‘Just stay safe. Do what you need to do. Yes?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Luke.
‘Okay.’
‘Stop saying okay.’
Solomon did, but only with difficulty. ‘I’ll call you,’ he said, instead, and hung up. He was in his living room, sitting at his desk, and behind him he could feel Arnold’s money from where it sat on the coffee table, like some uninvited malevolent spirit that had taken up residence in his apartment and couldn’t be exorcized. Which was ridiculous, Solomon knew, irrational and ridiculous, but still. Do what you need to do, Luke had said. The problem is, Solomon thought, I don’t know what to do. I have no idea.
He was interrupted by the sound of a notification, and he looked up at his screen and saw a message from Kay.
Hey. Are you there?
No, thought Solomon. No, I’m not. I don’t exist. Nothing to see. Nothing worth seeing. But instead he leant forward and typed:
Yes.
Need to speak to you.
Okay.
Now?
Okay.
Solomon watched his screen as if it was a dangerous animal until the call icon appeared. Incoming call from Kay. He checked his webcam was disabled and hit the green receiver icon. Onto his screen came a video image of Kay. She had her hair up again, just a few stray curls hanging down, and Solomon felt a lurch in his chest, a freefall sense of despairing desire.
‘Hi, Kay.’
‘Hi, Solomon. How are you?’ She sounded formal, Solomon thought. Distant.
‘I’m well.’
‘So, okay, so I need to speak to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It’s about your sister. Well, might be. I’m not sure. But I think it is.’
‘Is …?’
‘Is about your sister. Well, actually it’s about Rebecca Harrington, but it might have something to do with … I mean, I don’t know. I’m not sure.’
‘Okay …’
‘You remember that Rebecca was going on a date, to drink cocktails? At the Gypsy Queen?’
‘Yes.’
‘So I was in the Gypsy Queen, well, I was passing it and I just thought, you know. Since it had been mentioned. Remember?’
‘The bar. Yes.’
‘Right. So, I was passing it, and I remembered it, so I went in. Just to, I don’t know. For a look.’
‘For a cocktail?’
‘Well, see that’s the thing,’ said Kay. ‘Exactly that. Because they don’t do them. Cocktails. They don’t even have a cocktail menu. Zero cocktails. I asked for a mojito and the man said, what’s in it?’
‘Rum, mint …’
‘He didn’t have any mint.’
‘So you think …’
‘Wait, that’s, that’s not even the beginning. It got me thinking, and I remembered the suicide note, and I’m thinking, well, something’s not right here, with the whole zero-cocktail situation, and if there’s something up, then that suicide note, that can’t be right either. With me?’
‘Yes,’ said Solomon. ‘Causality.’
‘That’s exactly it,’ said Kay. She nodded, sounded excited. She had a pen in her hand and she shook it at the screen. ‘Causality, that’s exactly what I was thinking. So I went back to Rebecca Harrington’s parents’ place.’
‘You did?’
‘Uh-huh. And I asked Rebecca’s mum, Jean, I asked her about the note. And she said that there was something up with it, but the police had told her that often suicide notes can sound funny because, you know, the people who write them aren’t, by definition, in their right minds.’
‘Kay,’ said Solomon, ‘you didn’t need to do this. Not on your own.’
‘No, well.’ Kay laughed, a self-conscious sound, and looked down, away from the screen. ‘Anyway, doesn’t matter. You want to know what it said?’
‘The note?’
‘Yes. It was in this, like, this freezer bag, Solomon, it was the saddest thing. Just the saddest thing. And it said, I am done. Farewell, kind mother. Father, long farewell. Rebecca.’
‘That doesn’t sound right.’
‘Exactly what I said. And what her mum said. It’s not right. Solomon, nothing about this is right, the more I think about it, the more I believe it.’
‘The police said it was suicide.’
‘The impression I get,’ said Kay, ‘is that this was a troubled young lady who the police couldn’t be bloody arsed to waste precious resources on.’ She paused, then added, less forcefully, ‘Is what I think, anyway.’
Solomon couldn’t help but smile at Kay’s sudden righteous anger. But she was right, or at least, what she said sounded plausible. After speaking to Fox, he’d given up this angle, any connection between his sister and Rebecca Harrington. Maybe he’d given it up too easily.
‘So,’ said Kay, looking straight at the screen so that Solomon had the impression that they were making eye contact, even though they weren’t. ‘I thought I’d tell you. See what you think.’
What Solomon thought was that Kay was unlike most people he’d ever met. What he said was, ‘I don’t know. I need to think.’
Kay blinked, then said, ‘Sure,’ as if Solomon had dismissed her, which wasn’t what he’d meant, was far from it.
‘I mean, sorry, Kay, I mean, this is unexpected and I don’t know what to make of it. That’s what I meant.’
‘Okay,’ said Kay, but she still sounded hurt.
Solomon blinked his eyes closed, then said, ‘I’m sorry. About last time. Turning you down. You know, when you asked me—’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No, Kay, please, it’s not. It’s just—’
‘I was out of line. It’s fine.’ Kay shook her head, not looking at Solomon. ‘Look, I just thought you’d want to know.’ She looked away from the screen, and said, ‘I need to be somewhere. Let me know how you get on.’
‘Kay,’ said Solomon, but she put up a hand and waved her fingers, and the picture cut out as she hung up the call. Solomon sat looking at the blank screen for a long time, wondering how he’d managed to get it so wrong. It wasn’t often that he felt stupid, but right now, he wouldn’t trust himself to tie his own shoelaces. He stood up, and as he turned, he saw the blue plastic bag full of money, money he had accepted from a criminal he’d been pre-warned about. He picked the bag up and threw it against the wall, banknotes fluttering down to the floor like a lottery winner’s celebration. Solomon watched them sourly. Luck, he couldn’t help but think, was something he’d been short on recently.
twenty
RENAISSANCE DRAMA WASN’T ONE OF SOLOMON’S STRONGEST areas. He had, he was willing to admit, a kind of inverted snobbery when it came to Shakespeare. Shakespeare was the establishment, the canon, the knowledge that you got by going to the right school, by doing education the right way or, put it another way, by having it bought for you. He’d done nothing the right way, had learnt what he’d learnt the hard way, and he’d given Shakespeare a miss. Pretty much all of early-modern and Jacobean drama with it: Marlowe, Middleton, Jonson, Webster, the lot. Which still didn’t, and this he knew, really didn’t excuse the fact that Rebecca Harrington’s date was as good a
s forcing references from Antony and Cleopatra down everybody’s throats, and not being particularly subtle about it, either.
Gypsy Queen. Caesar. And now this suicide note, which basically stole Cleopatra’s dying words and retasked them for he didn’t know what reason. Couldn’t guess. But he had the link. What was even more irritating was the fact that as Solomon read the play, he had to admit that it was pretty good. More than good. It was extraordinary, an intoxicating journey of unexpected metaphors and extended conceits, of exquisite poetry and explorations of human frailty and hubris that endured to this day. In fact, although he knew this on one level, when he thought of what he’d read, he perceived it in his mind as a rolling green landscape interwoven with mile-wide ribbons of silk of every conceivable hue, the entire terrain trembling and humming slightly with the power of the language it was built upon. Which only made him feel more of a fool for having wilfully avoided it for the last twenty-something years.
So, have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian; Iras, long farewell.
And Rebecca’s suicide note:
I am done.
Farewell, kind mother. Father, long farewell.
Cleopatra. Egypt’s Queen. The Gypsy Queen. Solomon stared at the text of the play on the screen in front of him and thought of Kay, of how, if she hadn’t made the effort on his behalf, he would never have made this connection. He felt, how had Shakespeare put it? Robbed of his sword. Belittled, outwitted, humiliated. The question was, by who? What intelligence lay behind this, and was it the same one that had put his sister in a coma?
His intercom sounded and Solomon walked to the hallway and picked up the entry phone. ‘Yes?’
‘Delivery.’
‘For?’
‘Solomon Mullan?’
‘Third floor,’ he said. He couldn’t remember ordering anything but, given that everything he ever received was ordered online, it was easy to lose track. Still, he left the chain on his door. He’d rather let the delivery person think he was a strange recluse than let them look at his face. Anyway, he was a strange recluse.