Then one day Paul simply told me not to go in. Though I did, while he was occupied on the phone. Her body lay motionless, eyes unblinking. Like it was empty, like the rent had run out.
He didn’t even tell me about the funeral. I think his plan was for me not to be there. He said later he believed it would not be good for a young child, though I was nine, almost ten, and young as I was I sensed there were other reasons: he was afraid I’d do something to let the Blackleigh side down – cry, perhaps, or be childishly emotional. But in any case, the week after my mother died, an aunt let slip on the phone that the funeral was to take place the next morning and I confronted Paul with it. He went on about me not having the right things to wear, but he knew he was beaten on that one.
On the day itself I was more nervous than I had ever been. I don’t know why. The only person who really mattered wouldn’t know anything about it. I was aware people were watching me as I took my place by the graveside. There were family and there were policemen, and there was Gerry with Isobel. I looked down at the deep hole in which my mother’s coffin was to be lowered, with its thick sweet smell of freshly dug clay. And then suddenly, I felt an overwhelming urge to step forwards into the empty space.
That’s all I remember. The next thing I knew, we were standing in Gatwick Airport three weeks later at five in the morning, me and Paul, watching other people’s suitcases rattle round a carousel. The indicator showed a flight from Tenerife and Paul was staring at me as if he’d asked a question, but I had no idea what he’d said. Or what I had done for the past twenty-one days. There was nothing there.
Had R taken me over? Is it possible he was there, inside me, even then?
I’m suddenly aware of silence in the courtroom. The jury is waiting for me to continue. The judge leans over and asks if I need a break. I shake my head and try to remember where we’ve got to. What had been said, and what might be better left unsaid.
33
2.30pm
I’ve turned in the direction of the hospital and driven just far enough out of sight to convince Gerry I’m obeying orders but have pulled up by the side of the road. My hands have stopped shaking, but the anger hasn’t gone.
I should go home to Laura, but I’m afraid to face her. Afraid of what she’ll say. And what I might learn about the past year and a half. Then there’s the Prius I promised to return to her. I’ve fucked up there too. Everything I’ve touched in the past day is fucked.
I find myself stopped opposite a church that actually still is a church and hasn’t evolved into a bistro bar or art gallery. There are people entering, wrapped in thick coats and scarves. I stay in the car and contemplate the building – a bulbous shape, more gothic throwback than artistic treasure, hunkered down like a large beleaguered toad. There’s a buried memory that wants to make itself known, but I don’t know how to dig down to it. It’s not like déjà vu, not like I’ve been here before. More a sense of things that I could remember if I knew how. I bend my head over the steering wheel as if praying and the feeling jams up awkwardly, like I’m trying to think in the wrong direction, like my brain is working in reverse.
Instead, I find myself remembering sitting on a pew next to my mother. She always perched birdlike, smoothing down her best dress and tapping me on the hand so I’d pay attention at the important moments, my father on the other side of her, stern-eyed, stiff-chinned, heavy on the seat, in charge. Unless he was on duty. On those days my mother often took me to a later service and begged me not to let on.
She was a different person when it was just the two of us. She laughed more and I loved that. She leant her head close to mine and whispered jokes about the service or made surprisingly snide comments about the other parishioners. She even seemed to become more attractive on those days. She put on make-up and her hair seemed neater. She played quiet word games with me and nudged me with a smile if the sermon dragged. But she still insisted I listen with care and tested me afterwards on what I’d learned. I never knew whether that was for my religious education or in case he asked me for details later, but I took the tests very seriously, for her sake. After the cancer started, it was just me and Paul.
Now, from the car, I can hear the congregation launch into a hymn. The predictability of the service used to both console and disturb me. On the one hand, it comforted me: the seasonal changes, the vestments, the tang of the incense and the dust and polish on the pews. But there’s also a darkness that hides under every seat. Because everything here is about death and judgement and truth.
Now I remember my father sitting beside me at Sunday Holy Communion, staring into the darkness beyond the altar as if he was peering into his own grave. I remember the fear on his face. On cue he would push himself heavily down to his knees with a serious out-breath. And I could hear the urgency of his muttered prayers.
I hope that these memories might trigger other memories, but nothing comes, no flashes of enlightenment, no sudden recall, no bleep of the mental computer.
I keep wearily digging inside my head. Where has he gone, R, that man who I was yesterday? I’m sweating again, hot and cold at the same time. Again my spade hits frozen ground. There is no interrogating this resistant witness. I pray, head bowed, desperate. If there is a God… wherever God is… if God is listening, whatever God wants of me, reveal a truth, show me the way.
I look up to see if there’s any message visible in the church itself, but the Honda’s side window has misted up. I wipe a clear patch with my hand and notice the brightly coloured posters outside with uplifting messages about God being a Winner in the Game of Life. But the blandness angers me. I’ve already spent far too long here. I reach for the ignition key and as I do, I lift my eyes and glance above the entrance, higher on the wall, above the posters with their platitudes. And without warning I see it all.
There are two round eyelets cut into the wall above the entrance and they are watching me like reptiles’ eyes, unmoving. The arched black doorway beneath them forms an enormous mouth. And with a horrible shock I see the whole stone face as it was intended. It stares at me, at all of us. It gapes in a frozen shriek of terror, terrified at its own power to destroy, ready to swallow us whole – you, me, our tiny hopes and aspirations, our beliefs and certainties – and suck every one of us into the darkness of eternity.
I sit half bowed, half upright. It’s been there all the time and I’m caught. Caught like a rat in a trap set by the church’s anonymous architect who knew his message would remain in the cold grey stone long after his death. The grey face of a devil. No, not a devil, a face that was first seen long before saints and devils. A face that knows nothing of God or Satan but simply is.
When my phone bleeps with a missed call message, I realise Becks has been trying to reach me and I’m surprised I didn’t hear. I ring back and he sounds rough.
‘My phone was flat,’ he says. ‘And it took me a fucking age to find a phone shop and longer to find a place to park, then to argue with this idiot assistant who insisted they only sold chargers with phones, not on their own, before I discovered a coffee shop that was good enough to let me borrow one and plug in for the price of a flat white.’
Again, I feel good hearing his voice. I like his solid scepticism. I know I should tell him I’m off the case, and tell myself I will in a minute, when I can bring myself to face the mess I’ve made.
‘So now I’m back on grid,’ he’s saying. ‘I’ve been making more calls – not much else to do in Hampstead High Street apart from watch the battery fill up and listen to people complain about the weather.’ I can hear some of them in the background. The warm chatter of people safely indoors on a cold day. ‘I spoke–’
His voice breaks up for a moment then comes back.
‘I lost you there,’ I say.
‘I got through to a friend of a friend of a friend, didn’t I? A DC on Winstanley’s team.’ Becks stops.
‘Go on.’
‘She hates you.’
‘You charged your battery to t
ell me that?’
‘That was just your starter for ten. The fingertip search inside and outside the hotel brought up nothing. No gun, no mobile.’
‘They’ve still not got Amy Matthews’ phone then?’ I can’t stop myself talking as if I’m still in charge. As if my questions still matter.
‘Looks like it. And Forensics say she was shot with a 9-millimetre. Five times. Plus one in the wall and one in the ceiling.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes. Apart from that there’s been more tension this weekend between the Lithuanians and the Bangladeshis.’
‘Why?’
‘My guy didn’t know. He just picked up one word. Baikal.’
‘Baikal?’ Something metal on the car ticks quietly as it cools. ‘When I saw Rahman at Lonely’s earlier, he asked about a BK. The only BKs I could find were Burger King and a virus.’
There’s a silence on the line suddenly. I say Becks’ name and feel very cut off. And then his voice is back. ‘Sorry. Crap signal here. The charger cable’s not very long, but I’m trying to get as close to the windows as I can. Baikal is a gun,’ he says. ‘In fact it’s a shit-awful Russian-designed pistol that was originally made to fire 8-millimetre tear gas cartridges at muggers and rapists–’ his voice breaks up and returns, ‘–gangs in Kaunas found a way to convert them to live 9-mill rounds. Now the Lithuanians have started selling them over here on the cheap, kind of IKEA for guns.’
‘9-millimetre,’ I say. ‘Like they found in Amy Matthews.’ I drum my hand on my knee and watch the windscreen thicken with condensation. The different pieces of the case are starting to connect. ‘And Javtokas? What’s he been doing? Converting the guns for them? Undercover hitman?’
‘Boss,’ he says. ‘Darjus Javtokas – none of my contacts have heard of him. That’s what they say.’
‘And off the record?’
‘On and off the record. That’s it. Only one thing.’
‘Go on.’
‘Some of the Lithuanian students hang out at the Lithuanian Community Centre. They like to chill over borscht and dumplings and swap gossip about the Vilnius club scene.’
‘And?’
‘That’s the centre where we nicked the Kleiza twins ten days ago.’
There’s an answer here somewhere. I just want a chance to see the whole picture.
‘Who actually made the arrest?’ I ask, hoping this wasn’t me, hoping this isn’t something else R won’t tell me.
‘Dave Haskins,’ Becks says, to my relief. ‘He took a team in after a tip-off.’
I know Haskins. He’s been one of Gerry Gardner’s personal gofers for years. There’s something else about him I should remember, but for the moment I can’t. Meanwhile, Becks gives me the address of the community centre and it’s not far from where I am now. I shouldn’t go, of course, but what’s to stop me making a personal call? I can feel the excitement rising. Becks says he’s going to go to the station to find out who could have phoned to call off the armed guard.
‘Be careful. While you’re at it, see if there are any rumours that DCI Gardner is having money problems. Or has been spending more than usual.’
‘Gerry Gardner? Are you sure?’
‘I don’t know… simply covering everything off. Expensive car, expensive wife…’
I hesitate a moment. I’ve remembered what it was about Haskins. Last night when I left the Aviva Hotel, I saw someone I felt I should remember.
‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘Outside the Matthews crime scene I asked Norris to have photos taken of the people watching. Can you get those for me?’
I hear rather than see three small children walking alongside the church: soft coloured blobs through the condensation. They dodge happily between the parked cars, scraping snow off the bonnets. By not telling Becks I’m off the case, I’m dropping him into deep trouble. I breathe out and watch my breath cloud and then disperse in front of my eyes. One of the children slips and falls on the ice and starts to cry.
‘You ought to know,’ I say finally. ‘Gerry Gardner has put me on sick leave. You shouldn’t do any of this for me.’
There’s a moment’s silence before Becks says, ‘Yes. He rang and told me ten minutes ago.’
So Becks knew all along. I wipe the mist off the windscreen with my sleeve.
‘You’re my guv’nor,’ Becks says. His voice distorts and clears, presumably as he tries to get closer to the windows in the coffee shop.
I’m touched by his loyalty and ashamed that I was even thinking of lying to him. ‘You don’t have to take the risk,’ I say.
He tells me he knows about the risk and he’s made his choice.
34
The Camden Lithuanian Community Centre lives in a redbrick building wedged between two railway viaducts. This is where the Kleizas had their office. I’m about to walk into Kaunas Gang territory and by coming here I’m breaking about every rule there is. There’s no safety net anymore, no Gerry Gardner to back me up. But there may be something here that will unlock my missing memory.
I buzz the entryphone and the front door is opened by a tall Lithuanian. I flash my warrant card and he goes into a tiny reception office by the door to pick up a phone, watching me warily all the time. I look for a place to sit. The furniture is beaten up, the walls covered with posters and photos: Vilnius in all seasons, adverts for Lithuanian foods and cheap flights. It’s the kind of place that expatriates create, wherever they come from. But I don’t remember ever being here.
The guard puts the phone down and says nothing, just keeps looking at me from his desk. I can hear a thumping at the far end of the hallway so, as nobody comes, I stand up, smile at the guard and follow the noise to a double door. Pushing the doors open a crack, I see a function hall with a stage at one end and nine teenagers booting a football around at the other.
The appearance of normality makes me even more tense and I jump when there’s a noise behind me, but it’s a fifty-something woman who’s thrown down a metal bucket and started mopping round an eating area – five empty tables and a plastic sign saying: Baltic Café. She’s strawberry-blonde, with a good figure, and I’d guess she’s seen a few things in her life. Looking up from her work, she says something in a thick accent. Am I supposed to recognise her? I shake my head, not understanding her words, and she goes back to slopping soapy water.
The couple who come down the stairs to meet me are wary and defensive at first, a woman in her forties and an older man. The woman gives me their names – Mrs Malda Atauskaite and Mr Rimas Sireika – then gesticulates with her red-rimmed glasses and says they are surprised I’m working on a day like this.
I tell her I need to see the Kleizas’ office. The glasses stop in mid-air. ‘The other police searched thoroughly.’
‘I’d still like to see it.’
The older man gives a sigh, nods sadly and stiffly motions towards the stairs, but then the blonde woman from the Baltic Café calls out.
‘Vaida recognises you,’ Malda says.
‘Of course,’ I say, bluffing desperately.
Malda looks at me more closely. ‘She says you came to interview the Kleiza brothers in the week before the police raid.’
I nod to Vaida as if I knew her all the time and she continues.
‘She says it’s okay,’ Malda translates. ‘You didn’t much notice her. You were important police officer and she’s nothing.’
I start to apologise, but Vaida cuts me off with a shrug and goes back to her work.
On the first floor, Malda unlocks a thick wooden door and steps back. It’s an office not much different from any other except for a ripped leather sofa which the Crime Squad team must have searched. A large framed mirror lies face up on the floor, reflecting the ceiling back to itself, and still I get no memories of the place.
‘We never had any problem,’ she says. ‘Karolis paid the rent on time every month. They were both polite, arranged many presents for the old people, the sick and the orphans. They never made a f
uss and cleaned the office themselves.’
‘I bet they did,’ I say.
The two older Lithuanians stay the other side of the doorway as if the room is polluted beyond salvation, though whether by criminals or police I can’t tell. Then Malda shows me down the corridor to where the drugs were found, behind the toilet cistern. It’s an old-fashioned men’s toilet with tall ceramic urinals. High on the walls, I can still see smudges of grey fingerprint dust from Forensics. I bring out photos of Amy Matthews and Crystal.
‘Do you recognise these women?’
At first Malda ignores them. She has something to add. ‘I do know drug dealers exist. But I always thought I could tell if people were good or bad–’ She breaks off with a jab of her spectacles, sad at her own disillusionment. I warm to her. These people are too trusting. If I stay here much longer, I’ll be a different person too, kinder, friendlier and out of a job.
They don’t recognise the nurses, so I hand Malda the Facebook selfie of Javtokas in his Liverpool kit. Immediately she passes it to Rimas Sireika with a laconic glance. He wrestles with English syntax for a while then imparts that this one is a student and not much meeting with anyone, comes and goes and never involved with Kleizas.
I ask who he is involved with and Rimas excavates a few more English words from deep inside. ‘Nobody friends almost,’ and then adds poetically, ‘a man of his own space.’
‘Was he ever violent?’
Rimas spreads his arms. ‘He has argument temper.’
Darjus Javtokas certainly has argument temper, I think. ‘Who did he argue with? About what?’
‘Everything. Politics. Football. Still young.’
I don’t know what I hoped to achieve here, but I’ve learned nothing. Malda locks up the office with a hollow rattle of keys and at the bottom of the stairs, we pause for the teenagers, who’ve just finished their game. They crowd past, shouting at each other in the Caribbean gangsta street talk used by every white London teen that I see, and greeting Malda and Rimas, who reply affectionately. For a moment, I long to be a part of a community like this.
Room 15: a gripping psychological mystery thriller Page 18
