With No One As Witness

by Elizabeth George

  “Even though they pay their employees shit?”

  “I like the kids. And anyway, Colossus pays more than I’m currently making, believe me.”

  “So how do you make them?”

  “What?”

  “Your deliveries.”

  “Bicycle,” he replied. “There’s a cart that gets attached to the back.”

  “Going where?”

  “The cart? The deliveries?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Round South London, mostly. A bit in the City. Why? What’re you looking for?”

  A van, Barbara thought. Deliveries by van. She noted that Kilfoyle had started to flush, but she didn’t want to put that down as any more significant than Greenham’s damp upper lip or his too soft hands. This bloke was ruddy skinned anyway, in the way of many Englishmen, and he had the doughy face, narrow nose, and knobby chin that would mark him out as British no matter where he went.

  Barbara realised then how badly she wanted to read one of these blokes as a serial killer behind their ordinary exteriors. But the truth was, she’d so far wanted to read just about everyone she’d come across exactly the same and, no doubt when he finally showed his mug, Griff Strong was going to look bloody good to her as a serial killer, as well. She needed to keep things slow and easy at this point, she thought. Piece details together, she told herself, don’t cram them into position simply because you want them to be there.

  “So how do they keep body and soul together?” Barbara asked. “Not to mention roofs over their heads?”

  “Who?”

  “You said wages were bad here…?”

  “Oh. That. Mostly they’ve got second jobs.”

  “Such as?”

  He considered. “Don’t know them all. But Jack’s got a weekend job in a pub, and Griff and his wife have a silk-screen business. Fact is, I think only Ulrike’s making enough not to have something else going on at the weekends or at night. It’s the only way anyone can actually do this and still eat.” He looked past Barbara to the doorway and added, “Hey, mate. I was just about to set the hounds on you.”

  Barbara turned and saw the same boy who’d been playing cards with Kilfoyle earlier in reception. He was slouching in the doorway, baggy blue jeans crotched at the knees and boxer shorts bulging at the waist. He shuffled into the kit room, where Kilfoyle set him up sorting through a tangle of climbing ropes. He began pulling them out of a plastic barrel and coiling them neatly round his arm.

  “Do you happen to know Sean Lavery?” Barbara asked Kilfoyle.

  He thought about this. “Been through assessment?”

  “He’s on a computer course with Neil Greenham.”

  “Then I probably know him. By sight if not by name. Back here”—He used his chin to indicate the kit room—“I only see the kids close up when there’s an activity scheduled and they come in for supplies. Otherwise, they’re just faces to me. I don’t always put a name to them or keep a name on them once they’ve moved beyond the assessment level.”

  “Because only assessment-level kids use this stuff?” Barbara asked him, referring to the supplies in the kit room.

  “Generally speaking, yes,” he said.

  “Neil Greenham tells me there’s a divide between the assessment people and everyone else round here, with Ulrike on the assessment side. He indicated that’s a trouble spot.”

  “That’s just Neil,” Kilfoyle said. He shot a look towards his helper and lowered his voice. “He hates being out of the loop. He takes offence easy. He’s keen to have more responsibility and—”

  “Why?”

  “What?”

  “Why’s he keen to have more responsibility?”

  Kilfoyle moved from the Wellingtons to the remaining life jackets that had not been chosen for wear by the team going out on the Thames. “Most people want that in their jobs, don’t they? It’s a power thing.”

  “Neil likes power?”

  “I don’t know him well, but I get the feeling he’d like to have more say about how things are run round here.”

  “And what about you? You’ve got to have bigger plans for yourself than volunteering in this kit room.”

  “You mean here at Colossus?” He thought about this, then gave a shrug. “Okay, I’ll play. I wouldn’t mind being hired to do outreach when they open the Colossus branch north of the river. But Griff Strong’s angling for that. And if Griff wants it, it’s going to be his.”

  “Why?”

  Kilfoyle hesitated, weighing a life jacket between one hand and another as if he were also weighing his words. He finally replied, “Let’s just say Neil was right about one thing: Everyone knows everyone else at Colossus. But Ulrike’s going to make the decision on the outreach job, and she knows some people better than others.”

  FROM THE BENTLEY, Lynley phoned the police station in South Hampstead and brought them into the picture: the body found that morning south of the river, which was possibly one of a series of killings…if the station would allow him a conversation with a certain Reverend Savidge who might soon be phoning them about a missing boy…Arrangements were made as he crossed the river, heading diagonally through the city.

  He found Bram Savidge at his ministry, which turned out to be a former shop for electrical goods whose whimsical name Plugged Inn had been economically used as part of the church’s moniker, Plugged Inn to the Lord. In the Swiss Cottage area of Finchley Road, it appeared to be part church and part soup kitchen. At the moment, it was operating as the latter.

  When Lynley walked in, he felt like an overweight nudist in a crowd wearing overcoats: He was the only white face in the establishment, and the black faces looking him over were doing so without much welcome. He asked for Reverend Savidge, please, and a woman who’d been dishing out a savoury stew to a line of the hungry went to fetch him. When Savidge turned up, Lynley found himself face-to-face with six feet, five inches of solid Africa, which was hardly what he’d expected from the public school sound of the man’s voice on the speakerphone in Ulrike Ellis’s office.

  Reverend Savidge appeared in a caftan of red, orange, and black, while on his feet were roughly made sandals, which he wore without socks despite the winter weather. An intricately carved wooden necklace lay on his chest, and a single earring of shell, bone, or something very like dangled just below the height of Lynley’s eyes. Savidge might have just stepped off the plane from Nairobi, except his clipped beard framed a face not as dark as one would have expected. Aside from Lynley, he was actually the lightest-skinned person in the room.

  “You’re the police?” That accent again, speaking not only of public schools and a university degree, but also of an upbringing in an area that was a far cry from his present community. His eyes—they were hazel, Lynley noted—took in Lynley’s suit, shirt, tie, and shoes. He made his evaluation in an instant, and it wasn’t good. So be it, Lynley thought. He showed his identification and asked if there was somewhere private for them to speak.

  Savidge led the way to an office at the back of the building. They wound there through long tables set up for use in eating the meal being dished out by women wearing garb not unlike Savidge’s own. At these, perhaps two dozen men and half as many women wolfed down the stew, drank from small cartons of milk, and slathered bread with butter. Music played low to entertain them, a chant of some sort in an African tongue.

  Savidge closed the door on all this when they got to his office. He said, “Scotland Yard. Why? I phoned the local station. They said someone would come. I assumed…What’s happening? What’s this all about?”

  “I was in Ms. Ellis’s office when you phoned Colossus.”

  “What’s happened to Sean?” Savidge demanded. “He didn’t come home. You must know something. Tell me.”

  Lynley could see the reverend was used to being instantly obeyed. There was little doubt why this was the case: He dominated by simple virtue of being alive. Lynley couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a man who so effortlessly exuded such authority.

&
nbsp; He said, “I understand Sean Lavery lives with you?”

  “I’d like to know—”

  “Reverend Savidge, I’m going to need some information. One way or the other.”

  They engaged in a brief battle of eyes and wills before Savidge said, “With me and my wife. Yes. Sean lives with us. In care.”

  “His own parents?”

  “His mum’s in prison. Attempted murder of a cop.” Savidge paused, as if registering Lynley’s reaction to this. Lynley took care not to give him one. “Dad’s a mechanic over in North Kensington. They were never married, and he had no interest in the boy, before or after Mum’s arrest. When she went inside, Sean went into the system.”

  “And how did you end up with him?”

  “I’ve had boys in my home for nearly two decades.”

  “Boys? Are there others, then?”

  “Not now. Just Sean.”

  “Why?”

  Reverend Savidge went to a Thermos, out of which he poured himself a cup of something fragrant and steaming. He offered this to Lynley, who demurred. He took it to his desk and sat, nodding Lynley into a chair. On the desk, a legal pad held jottings, things listed and crossed out, circled and underlined. “Sermon,” Savidge said, apparently noticing the direction of Lynley’s gaze. “It doesn’t come easy.”

  “The other boys, Reverend Savidge?”

  “I have a wife now. Oni’s English isn’t good. She felt overwhelmed and a bit overrun, so I had three of the boys placed elsewhere. Temporarily. Till Oni settles in.”

  “But not Sean Lavery. He’s not been placed elsewhere. Why?”

  “He’s younger than the others. It didn’t feel right to move him.”

  Lynley wondered what else hadn’t felt right. He couldn’t help concluding it might have been the new Mrs. Savidge, inadequate in English and home alone with a household of adolescent boys.

  “How did Sean come to be involved in Colossus?” he asked. “It’s quite a distance for him to go there from here.”

  “Colossus do-gooders came to the church. They called it outreach, but what it amounted to was talking up their programme. An alternative to what they obviously believe every child of colour would get up to, given half the chance and absent their intervention.”

  “You don’t approve of them, then.”

  “This community’s going to help itself from within, Superintendent. It’s not going to improve by having help imposed upon it by a group of liberal, guilt-ridden social activists. They need to toddle back to whichever of the Home Counties they came from, hockey sticks and cricket bats well in hand.”

  “Yet somehow Sean Lavery ended up there, despite your feelings.”

  “I had no choice in the matter. Neither did Sean. It was all down to his social worker.”

  “But surely, as his guardian, you have a strong say in how he spends his free time.”

  “Under other circumstances. But there was an incident with a bicycle as well.” Savidge went on to explain: It was a complete misunderstanding, he said. Sean had taken an expensive mountain bike from a boy in the neighbourhood. He’d thought he’d been given permission to use it; the boy had thought otherwise. He reported it stolen and the cops found it in Sean’s possession. The situation was considered a first offence, and Sean’s social worker suggested nipping any potential for illegal behaviour in the bud. So Colossus came into the picture. Savidge had initially, if reluctantly, approved the idea: Of all his boys, Sean had been the first to come to the notice of the police. He was also the first who wouldn’t attend school. Colossus was supposed to remedy all this.

  “He’s been there how long?” Lynley asked.

  “Closing in on a year.”

  “Attending regularly?”

  “He has to. It’s part of his probation.” Savidge lifted his mug and drank. He wiped his mouth carefully. He went on with, “Sean’s said from the first that he didn’t steal that bike, and I believe him. At the same time, I want to keep him out of trouble, which you and I know he’s going to get into if he doesn’t go to school and doesn’t get involved with something. He hasn’t exactly looked forward to Colossus every day—from what I can tell—but he goes. He managed the assessment course, and he’s actually had some good words to say about the computer course he’s doing now.”

  “Who was his assessment leader?”

  “Griffin Strong. Social worker. Sean liked him well enough. Or at least well enough not to complain about him.”

  “Has he ever failed to come home before, Reverend Savidge?”

  “Never. He’s been late a few times, but he’s phoned to let us know. That’s it.”

  “Is there any reason he might have decided to run off?”

  Savidge thought about this. He circled his hands round his mug and rolled it between his palms. He finally said, “Once he managed to track down his dad without telling me—”

  “In North Kensington?”

  “Yes. Munro Mews, a car-repair shop. Sean tracked him down a few months ago. I don’t know exactly what happened. He’s never said. But I don’t expect it was anything positive. His dad’s moved on in his life. He has a wife and kids, which is all I know from Sean’s social worker. So if Sean went hoping to get Dad’s attention…That would have been a real nonstarter. But not enough to cause Sean to run off.”

  “The dad’s name?”

  Savidge gave it to him: one Sol Oliver. But then he ran out of the willingness to cooperate and self-subordinate. He was clearly not used to doing either. He said, “Now, Superintendent Lynley. I’ve told you what I know. I want you to tell me what you’re going to do. And not what you’re going to do in forty-eight hours or however long you expect me to wait because Sean might have run off. He doesn’t run off. He phones if he’s going to be late. He leaves Colossus and he checks in here on his way to the gym. He pounds the punch bag and then he goes home.”

  The gym? Lynley took note of this. What gym? Where? How often did he go? And how did Sean get from Plugged Inn to the Lord to the gym and from there to home? On foot? By bus? Did he ever hitchhike? Did someone drive him?

  Savidge regarded him curiously but answered willingly enough. Sean walked, he told Lynley. It wasn’t far. Either from here or from home. It was called Square Four Gym.

  Did the boy have a mentor there? Lynley asked. Someone he admired? Someone he spoke of?

  Savidge shook his head. He said that Sean went to the gym as part of coping with his anger and upon his social worker’s recommendation. He had no ambition to be a body builder, a boxer, a wrestler, or anything else along those lines, as far as Savidge knew.

  What about friends? Lynley asked. Who were they?

  Savidge thought about this for a moment before he admitted that Sean Lavery didn’t seem to have friends. But he was a good boy and he was responsible, Savidge insisted. And the one thing he could vouch for was that Sean wouldn’t fail to come home without phoning and explaining why.

  And then because somehow Savidge knew that New Scotland Yard would not have come in place of the local police without more of a reason than having been in Ulrike Ellis’s office when he phoned, he said, “Perhaps it’s time you told me why you’re really here, Superintendent.”

  In reply, Lynley asked Reverend Savidge if he had a photo of the boy.

  Not there in his office, Savidge told him. For that, they would need to go to his home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EVEN IF ROBBIE KILFOYLE IN HIS EURODISNEY CAP hadn’t alluded to the fact, Barbara Havers would have twigged that something was going on between Griffin Strong and Ulrike Ellis about fifteen seconds into seeing them together. Whether it was merely a case of angst-filled love going unacknowledged, of footsie in the local canteen, or Kama Sutra under the stars, she couldn’t have said. Nor could she tell if it was just a one-way street with Ulrike doing all the driving in a car she was piloting to nowhere. But that there was something in the air between them—some sort of electrical charge that usually meant naked bodies and moaning exch
anges of bodily fluids but could really mean anything in between handshakes and the primal act—only a deaf-mute alien life form would have thought to deny.

  The director of Colossus personally brought Griffin Strong to Barbara. She made the introductions, and the way she said his name—not to mention the way she looked at him, with an expression not unlike the one Barbara felt on her own face whenever she gazed upon a fruit-topped cheesecake—pretty much put neon lights round whatever secret she or they were supposed to be keeping. And obviously, there had to be a secret. Not only had Robbie Kilfoyle earlier mentioned the word wife in connection with Strong, but the man himself wore a wedding band the approximate size of a lorry tyre. Which in itself was a wise idea, Barbara thought. Strong was just about the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen walking unmolested on the streets of London. He no doubt needed something to ward off the hordes of females whose jaws probably dropped to their chests when he passed them. He looked like a film star. He looked better than a film star. He looked like a god.

  He also, Barbara realised, looked uneasy. She couldn’t decide if this counted in his favour or marked him down for further study.

  He said, “Ulrike’s told me about Kimmo Thorne and Sean Lavery. You might as well know: They were both mine. Sean went through assessment with me ten months ago and Kimmo was going through assessment now. I let Ulrike know straightaway when he—Kimmo—didn’t turn up. Obviously, I didn’t know Sean was missing, as he’s not currently one of mine.”

  Barbara nodded. Helpful, she thought. And the bit about Sean was an interesting wrinkle.

  She asked was there a spot where they could talk. They didn’t exactly need Ulrike Ellis hanging upon their every word.

  Strong said he shared an office with two other assessment leaders. They were off with their kids today, though, and if she’d follow him there, they’d have some privacy. He himself didn’t have a lot of time, though, because he was due to help take some kids out on the river. He gave Ulrike a quick glance and motioned Barbara to follow him.

  For her part, Barbara tried to interpret that glance and the nervous smile that quivered on Ulrike’s lips as she received it. You and me, babe. Our secret, darling. We’ll talk later. I want you naked. Rescue me in five minutes, please. The possibilities seemed endless.