by M B Vincent
He would not be sidetracked. He was here to create death. The odds, despite all the personnel who’d turned up, were in his favour.
He smiled at Jess.
Jess took off towards him. She, too, had something of the animal in her. If she had to cover that bullet, so be it.
But something beat her to Lasco. All twenty stone of Margaret, unleashed by Mitch, got there first.
Perhaps it was the surreal nature of this turn of events that made Lasco stand so still. The pig mowed him down.
She turned to investigate him. She smelled him, none too gently. She sat on him.
The gun landed by Jess’s Doc Marten. She felt the horrible heft of it. Pointed it shakily at Lasco.
Mary was on her feet, hunched over like a crone. She held out her hand. ‘Here, give it here, snowflake. I’ll shoot him if he moves, but you might not.’
Lasco seemed to believe this. When Margaret stood up and minced away, skidding a little on the oil, he stayed put. He was a man again; winded, defeated, but no longer a little boy.
‘Mary, oh my God, Mary?’ Jess didn’t know how to hold Mary; she looked as if everything must surely hurt.
‘Look after your dad,’ said Mary.
The hateful knife was useful now. Jess cut through the rope. The Judge was groggy and uncooperative as she shouted their location to Mitch, who had called 999.
As they waited, Jess crouched beside Rupert. Face down, his nose was pushed into the rubble.
There was a lot of blood. A red Rorschach test bloomed around him.
‘Should I turn him?’ she asked Mitch. ‘Is the shoulder a good place to get shot? Not a good place, obviously, is it a dangerous place? Should we—’
‘Jess, leave him as he is. Best not to move him.’ Mitch was using his dad voice, the one she’d heard him use on Zinnia.
Jess took off her scarf and pressed it against his shoulder. She stroked his hair. His lovely nineteen eighties boyband hair.
‘Talk to him,’ said Mitch. He was in pain, too. Nobody was unscathed.
Afterwards, Jess wouldn’t remember what she said. Except for one thing she said over and over.
‘Rumpole, stay with me. Please.’
CHAPTER 23
LITTLE NICKY
Sunday 15 November
Incongruous in the spartan corridor, Jess was covered in blood.
Eden, one hand on the handle of the interview room, was concerned. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?’
‘It’s not my blood.’ The stains were crusty on Jess’s black clothes. ‘It’s Rupert’s.’
Eden was silent. Jess thanked him, also silently, for offering the only kind of sympathy she could handle.
He kept to safe ground: the investigation. ‘Norris’s cause of death has been confirmed. Cardiac arrest. His weak heart gave out.’ Eden wilted, only slightly. ‘Poor Abonda.’
Norris had been found in a ditch. Twigs had drifted into his open mouth.
Jess was too tired to yawn. ‘What time is it?’ Time had stopped at the Jolly Cook. ‘Actually, what day is it?’
‘It’s Sunday.’ Eden quelled a burp; his tummy was carping again. ‘And it’s almost dawn. Why not go home, Jess?’
‘I assume you’re kidding.’ Jess gestured to the video-link suite. ‘I’ll be watching you. Oh, and Sarge . . .’ She waited for a reprimand that didn’t come; the blood gave her license, it would seem. ‘When I was talking to Nic during the, um, whatever we’re going to call it, the incident, he turned into a little boy. That’s who he is. He’s really little Nicky Lasco, a sad and very lonely little boy.’
***
The preliminaries done with, Eden took time to arrange his pen and a sheaf of notes, which Jess, watching from next door, recognised as window-dressing. Eden needed to compose himself. Until the arrest, Nic Lasco hadn’t been on the police radar.
Lasco was grimy. No sheen of stardom, just a bloke in a torn shirt, smeared with engine oil.
The duty solicitor, sleep in his eyes, seemed in awe of his client. A new form of celebrity was about to overtake Nic; he was transitioning from famous chef to infamous murderer.
‘Right, Mr Lasco.’ Eden steepled his fingers. ‘Let’s make this as simple as possible.’
Chair pushed back, Lasco stared at the ground. His lower lip stuck out a little.
‘If you cooperate, this’ll be relatively painless. I need answers, and you’re the only person who can supply them.’
Lasco didn’t move a muscle.
‘I want to understand. I really do. These are grave crimes, Nic. Let’s go back to the night Denis Heap died. Halloween. Less than a month ago, but I bet it feels like a lifetime.’
Moretti joined Jess in the fizzy glare of the screen. ‘How’s the boss doing?’
‘Nic’s giving him nothing.’
‘Wish I could have a go at him.’
The small Eden on the screen asked, ‘Why Denis? Why take a man away from his children like that?’
Lasco’s batteries seemed to have run out. No matter how Eden pushed, no matter how many times he pressed the red buttons of fathers and sons and the Jolly Cook, Lasco was silent.
Moretti leaned towards the screen, as if watching the footy. ‘Lean on him, sir!’
Eden stood. He strolled around the small square room, his eyes on Lasco the whole time. The lawyer wrote something on his yellow notepad; it could have been a haiku for all the use he was.
Eden stopped. Sighed. Leant his head against the bare white wall.
Moretti balled his fists. ‘What’s he up to? Get on with it, for Christ’s sake!’
‘He’s about to have one of his moments.’ Jess was a proud stage mother.
Eden slowly turned. He found the camera. Sent it a fleeting look. A look Jess knew was meant for her. A look she readily translated as, ‘I can’t quite believe I’m doing this and if it all goes wrong it’s your fault.’
His voice soft, low, a nursery voice, a lullaby voice, Eden said, ‘Nicky?’
Moretti snorted.
Again, bending slightly to find Nic’s eyes, Eden said, ‘Nicky?’
‘What the fuck’s he up to?’ Moretti bit his knuckle.
Jess shushed him.
‘Daddy?’ said Nic. He talked and talked and talked.
All Eden had to do was ask questions. The child-man answered in a rambling, confiding style that changed his face. No hauteur anymore; Nicky was a good boy.
‘Why the Jolly Cook, Nicky?’
‘‘Cos I always get a lolly.’ His voice was light. None of the tent pegs of adulthood holding it down. ‘It’s my favourite bit of our days out. Daddy always says his bit of the day is when we look around old old old places like where people were buried and stuff, but my bit is when we have an all-day breakfast and a burger at a Jolly Cook place.’
‘What’s your dad like?’
The lawyer had put down his pen; he just looked on, fascinated.
‘He’s the best dad in the world. Mum’s mean. She doesn’t let me see him. She says he forgets.’ Lasco’s face creased. ‘But he doesn’t! Daddy’d never forget me.’
‘Denis Heap was a dad, wasn’t he?’
‘A really bad one,’ said Lasco, with feeling. ‘He was all cross the whole time.’
‘And Timothy Wong?’
‘Really, like, strict.’ Lasco looked appalled. ‘About stupid homework. Some dads shouldn’t be dads at all, Mr Eden. That French man with the stupid long name took no notice of his kids, even when they wanted him to go on the slide with them. And the man from the pub did a divorce. My dad didn’t want a divorce, it was my mum’s stupid idea. Do you have a little boy?’
‘I don’t.’ The question seemed to take Eden by surprise.
‘I bet you’d be nice. But bad dads must get told off.’
‘So you take them on a little outing. Like you and your dad used to do. A prehistoric site and then a hot meal.’
‘‘Xactly. Only I did it the other way round. Jolly Cook first, then off to
the edu . . . educate . . .’
‘Educational?’
‘Yeah, the educational bit. They went all woozy before I cooked them their all-day breakfast.’
‘Because you hit them on the head?’
‘They made me do it. With my . . .’ He looked down at his empty hand. ‘Where’s my frying pan? It’s the best one ever.’
‘I’m sure it’s safe. Why didn’t the dads eat the breakfast?’
‘I wouldn’t let them. I ate it while they had a time out and thought about what they’d done. That’s what Mum makes me do if I break something or I’m cheeky.’
‘And after the food, what happened when you got to the educational bit, Nicky?’
‘I set fire to their, you know, the inside bits. They’re all steamy when they come out, and they’re heavy. I did a dance. Like the pictures Daddy showed me in books, of pagans and that.’ Lasco rubbed his eyes.
‘You’re getting tired, just a few more questions. Why do you nail their hands to the table?’
‘I feel icky. Can I go?’
‘Why the hands, Nicky?’ Eden put his hands flat on the plain table.
Lasco leaned over. Covered them with his own. Looked into Eden’s eyes. ‘Because then you won’t leave me this time, Daddy.’
Eden let Lasco hold his hands while he talked, the words falling over one another.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy, I know you loved all those spooky ritual places. Sorry I looked bored. I wasn’t really. I love you, Daddy. I hate it when you don’t arrive and Mum goes all see-I-told-you-so. I miss you at night and I miss you when there’s football on and I just wish it was all like it used to be.’ Lasco screwed his eyes up tight. ‘So stay, Daddy. Please please stay with me.’
***
It was very late. Or was it very early? The sun hadn’t yet risen; the police station was a candle against the dark.
Jess pushed her arms through the sleeves of Bogna’s jacket as she joined Eden in the interview room. The chair opposite him was empty. ‘That was . . .’ Jess shook her head. ‘What you managed to get out of him. You were brilliant.’
Eden swayed as he stood up. ‘It’s been a long night for everybody.’
‘Nic Lasco,’ said Jess, doing her buttons up wrong, ‘doesn’t exist.’
‘He’s just a mask.’
‘Masks are useful.’ Jess thought of the leather masks laid over the faces of the dead by Aztecs. Of the Greek theatre, where young men wore masks to transform themselves. ‘They project what we want to be.’
‘The terrible thing about Lasco is he didn’t murder in anger. It was more like . . .’ Eden couldn’t fix on a word.
Jess could. ‘Desperation. He’s in turmoil. The last time Nic Lasco was genuinely happy was when he was a little boy, holding his dad’s hand.’
‘He’s reliving those days.’
‘More than that; he’s perfecting them.’ Jess felt the weight of the past twenty-four hours settle around her shoulders. ‘This time around, his dad doesn’t leave.’
‘They say,’ said Eden, ‘that children can blame themselves when parents split up.’
‘Particularly if the divorce is as messy and toxic as the Lascos’. Next time you talk to Lasco, draw out the entrails.’ They both ignored Jess’s inadvertent joke. ‘There were times when I doubted there was a mystical element to the burnings. I thought it was just acting out. I was wrong.’ She imagined a fire. Lasco watching the flames climb. ‘Atonement’s always been a huge part of human conversation with the gods. Kidbury Henge, Poundham Apostles, those places reverberate with feeling. Nic’s sensitive beneath the TV persona. He felt the vibes, and he used the sites the way they’re meant to be used. He was trying to make things right with a higher power. He was apologising for not appreciating the days out. He thought that maybe if he said sorry for being bored . . .’
‘ . . . his dad might come home.’ Eden looked, really looked, at Jess. ‘It was fathers and sons after all. You had the right motivation but we kept applying it to the wrong man. Norris never laid a finger on anybody. He was just enjoying the climate of fear and exploiting it to make your life a misery.’
Bogna had found a sleeping bag and Norris’s personal effects as she groped around the cellar. She had told Eden ‘that silly bugger was munching his way through my pickled cabbage and my homemade wine.’
Big bad Norris, Castle Kidbury’s bogeyman, had been snug in the cellar beneath the Castle family’s feet while police combed the countryside looking for him.
‘All Norris had to do,’ said Jess, impressed, ‘was nip out of the side door and plant his pressies on our doorstep.’
‘Nothing supernatural about him.’ Eden half laughed. ‘Knott’ll be disappointed. Jess, what made you call Fred Lasco? I don’t understand the leap you made.’
‘It was a leap. It made emotional sense but until I spoke to Lasco’s dad, it didn’t make any logical sense. Iris – my aunty – was talking about her husband dying. Their son, she said, had to grow up overnight. She was so sad, and she’s never sad, and the sense of loss, of what losing a father does to a boy filled me up. The leap was to Lasco claiming his dad was dead, when the man was very much alive. That is such a vast lie to tell, goes against the grain. I realised, the murders weren’t just about orphaning sons, it was about killing fathers. Punishing them.’
‘And, strangely, making amends with them,’ said Eden. ‘It’s Nic Lasco’s own little boy I feel for.’ Eden was grey with tiredness, but he found the energy to empathise with the child. ‘Imagine going through life as the son of an infamous psychopath.’
‘He won’t have to,’ said Jess. ‘He doesn’t exist.’
‘He does. I’ve got my men tracking him down right now.’
‘They won’t find him. Fred Lasco told me. Nic was born infertile.’
‘There’s more than one way to have a child these days, Jess.’
You sound as if you know a lot about this topic. Jess agreed, yes, thankfully there was, ‘but Lasco isn’t a father. I subtly let him know what I suspected and I could tell he was rattled. I don’t have proof but when you look into it, you’ll see I’m right.’
‘I’ll put money on it.’ Eden smiled. It was feeble, his mouth wasn’t in the mood, but he meant it.
‘Guys!’ Moretti was suddenly in the room. ‘My unc— DI Phillips, I mean, just texted me. He’s called a press conference here, and he’s on his way from Richleigh to break the news to the media about Lasco. It’ll explode all over the internet and TV.’
‘And?’ Eden was scathing. ‘We don’t have to jump at your uncle’s every word, Moretti.’
‘Sir!’ Moretti bounced on the spot. ‘Journalists are already arriving, out on the steps.’
Eden just looked at him.
Jess got it. ‘Get out there! Talk to them!’
Eden hesitated.
‘Go!’ said Jess and Moretti together.
They followed Eden as he walked slowly at first, then with increasing purpose, to reception.
The bedlam on the steps went up a notch, like water coming to the boil. Eden stepped outside just as DS Phillips’ chauffeured car nosed through the gates.
Phillips got out and watched Eden beat him to the punch, telling the gentlemen and gentleladies of the press that the Kidbury Kannibal was in custody.
Knott wiped away a tear. ‘He’s such a good man,’ she said.
‘True,’ said Jess.
Moretti said, ‘Best boss I’ve ever had.’
‘And so damn sexy with it,’ murmured Knott.
Moretti said, ‘If you say so, Karen. Hey, where’s Jess off to?’
‘Who knows with that one? Probably pestering poor Rupert Lawson in his hospital bed.’
CHAPTER 24
THE RED GIANT
Still Sunday 15 November
Blackdown Woods felt different.
Jess felt able to plunge into its tangled heart.
David doesn’t live here. He lives in memory. In Josh.
A yellow
tape cordoned off a fallen oak. There was just enough light to make out the lone figure sitting on the trunk.
Jess sat beside Abonda, who didn’t move or react. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I know how much you loved Steven.’ Possibly Abonda was the only person on earth who would miss the odious Norris. Her grief was real, and worthy of respect; all grief deserves respect.
No mollycoddling, though. Jess knew Abonda’s rules. ‘Eden told me about the heart attack.’
Abonda might have been carved out of the oak they sat on.
‘Brought on by stress, presumably,’ said Jess. ‘There was so much evidence against him, it must have felt inevitable he’d go to jail. The motive. The threadbare alibis. The lollipops. No wonder his heart gave way.’
A bird sang. Tentative, then full throttle.
‘The lollipops incriminated your son,’ said Jess. ‘When really they should have incriminated you.’
Abonda looked at her then. An appraising look.
‘I know you didn’t want to do it,’ said Jess. ‘But once you’d met Louise Mannix and knew the truth about her rape, the matter was out of your hands. Steven was marime. You had to provide justice.’
A breeze disturbed the yellow tape.
‘Abonda always made lollipops for her boy.’ Abonda looked past Jess, into the trees. ‘He loved them.’ She spoke fluently, without apparent emotion. ‘After I give him his last one, I knew he had twelve hours. Then he’d feel sick. Then it’d all be over.’
Abonda turned and settled her bulk so she was facing Jess. ‘Remember that plant I wouldn’t let you touch? Them little red beans? That’s called the Red Giant. I adds lye to a little hot water in a jar. Let it cool. Then I soak the beans in it, remove their tough little skins, and put them through a coffee filter. Once it dries into a powder, Abonda’s made—’
‘Ricin.’ A powerful toxin. Jess had read how it was used to assassinate a Russian dissident. Just a few dabs on the tip of an umbrella, stabbed into the victim as he passed in the street. Jess put her hand on Abonda’s. It wasn’t shaken off, so she said, ‘I hope he didn’t suffer too much.’
‘He suffered,’ said Abonda. ‘He suffered all right.’
No last journey for Norris. Just a sentence meted out by the sternest of judges. A judge with a broken heart, who would have to live with the knowledge of what she’d done to the last scrap of family she had. She squeezed Abonda’s hand.