by James Oswald
‘Mother says she thinks she might recognise him. There was someone that night asking around, but then there were police officers asking around as well. This is a good neighbourhood. You know this. Not like the estate with all its drugs and violence.’
‘The man though.’ I put a finger in the middle of the photograph, aware that this conversation could very quickly turn to a general complaint about the lawlessness in the area, the lack of bobbies on the beat or any other grievance this pillar of the community has.
‘I think there was a man asking questions, yes. And this could be him. But he wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him.’
‘A woman? There’s nothing on the tape.’
‘That’s what Mother says. She was a smart one. Young, but she knew where the camera was. Like she had been here before. Or maybe just observant.’
‘Did she say what this woman looked like, your mother?’ I nod my head past him at the bead curtain, half expecting the old woman to come back out again.
‘She did. Said she was young. Still a child really, but she dressed like a grown-up. Too much make-up, making her face all pale like a ghost.’
A horrible feeling creeps into my mind, and I have a suspicion I know exactly who they’re talking about. ‘Was she Asian? About so high?’ I hold my hand at about my shoulder height. ‘Surly. Won’t look you in the eye.’
‘Sounds like you know her,’ Karen says as the shopkeeper nods his head. She’s not laughing any more when I face her.
‘The young girl who visited Dan Jones in the hospital. Anna, she said her name was.’
‘You sure it’s her though? From a description like that? Could be anyone.’
‘Could be, yes. But my gut says it’s her. There’s a logic to it, too. She’s connected to him, after all, otherwise why go see him in the hospital? What if she helped him escape wherever it was he was being held?’
Karen lets out a slow breath that accurately pictures her doubts. ‘It’s a bit thin, isn’t it?’
‘Paper thin, but I know someone who might be able to shed a bit of light on it.’ I can’t believe that I’m even contemplating it.
‘You do? Who?’
‘The only man I know who’s got anything on the Church of the Coming Light.’ God help me, I’m going to have to speak to the press. The gutter press. ‘Jonathan Stokes.’
Meeting on neutral ground makes me feel like a cold-war spy. The café’s almost equidistant from the corner shop and the offices where the paper Stokes works for spews out its hateful bile. Transport links are better in my direction though, so I arrive before he does, and get to choose the best spot for our meeting. Karen wanted to come with me, but I managed to persuade her this was a job best done alone. The less attention from the press she gets, the better.
I’ve got my back to the wall and a good view of the exits when he arrives.
‘Fairchild.’ He shrugs off his dirty-old-man overcoat, its shoulders damp with rain, and hangs it over the back of the chair opposite me, then waves at the waitress for coffee before taking his seat.
‘Mr Stokes. How did you enjoy the wedding?’
He cocks his head to one side at that, staring at me with his rheumy eyes for a while before breaking into a smile that shows too many yellowed and broken teeth. ‘You were there, weren’t you. Sneaky.’
‘I saw the papers. Hard to miss them. It really is a slow news week when you go with a minor celebrity wedding for the front page, isn’t it?’
‘On the contrary. Charlotte DeVilliers is big news, especially after what her father did. What you did to him, too.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out an old-fashioned spiral-bound notebook and a biro. Its end is badly chewed, which might explain the broken teeth. ‘Mind if I take some notes?’
‘Sure. I’m not here to answer questions though. Not about Charlotte or her father, anyway. I’m more interested in asking questions.’
That gets me another cock of the head, a bit like a confused puppy, only the opposite of cute. ‘And what’s in it for me?’
‘Strange how that never seems to come up when the roles are reversed, isn’t it? I don’t seem to recall there being any upside to my talking to you about my family background. Just endless nasty columns about posh cops and privilege. Yet as soon as I want something from you, it’s “How much?”’ I rub fingers and thumb together in front of him suggestively, but his annoyance is cut short by the arrival of coffee. It takes a while for him to pour in milk and add at least five sachets of sugar. Another explanation for the broken teeth. Only once the ritual has been completed and he’s had a drink does he look at me again.
‘OK. So what is it you actually want to know?’
‘Edward Masters.’
Two words, and the transformation is instant. The blood drains from his face, his weather-beaten red turning to pasty grey. The hand holding the coffee mug starts to shake, and he rattles it on the tabletop as he puts it down.
‘Masters?’ He almost chokes on the name. ‘What the fuck is this about, Fairchild?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me. You know he was at the wedding, right?’
I can tell from the look on his face that this is news to him. Maybe the reverend doctor only attended the reception afterwards, and he could easily have been driven to the hall without any of the press at the church door noticing.
‘Fuck’s sake. Why?’ Stokes takes another drink from his coffee, managing only to spill a little down his chin. I can tell that he’d rather it was laced with something stronger.
‘Apparently my mother invited him. Wanted him to bless the union, too, but my brother threatened to call the whole thing off.’
‘At least someone in the Fairchild family’s got some sense, then. Jesus. Edward fucking Masters.’
‘So what can you tell me about him? I saw your name on a lot of the bylines back when that court case was going through.’
‘The case was dropped. No story there.’ Stokes picks up his notebook and shoves it back in his pocket, fishes around for some change and rattles it onto the table. I can tell a man who’s getting ready to leave easily enough.
‘Is that why you’re a hack now? Preying on vacuous celebs and hanging out with your pal Chet?’
He pauses, half twisted in his seat to retrieve his coat. I’ve hit a nerve, time to press it harder.
‘I’ve read some of your pieces from a few years back, Stokes. The investigative stuff. You blew that environmental waste scam wide open. People went to jail. Now you spend your time trying to wheedle out the unimportant secrets of pathetic people. Secrets that don’t even shock anyone any more.’
For a moment I think he’s going to leave anyway. He stares at me, still poised, for a count of maybe ten seconds that feels like an hour. Then he sits back down squarely, rubs at his face with both hands.
‘I knew this would come back to haunt me. Just goes to show, really.’
‘Show what?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You want to know about Masters? Let’s start with the fact that he’s not a doctor, and as far as I’m aware the only church he’s ordained in is the one he created.’
‘The Church of the Coming Light?’
‘The same. I take it you’ve met them?’
I pause a moment, not wanting to tell him exactly why I’m interested in Masters. At least not yet. I’d need to run it past both Bain and the team at Police Scotland anyway. Talking to the press in the middle of an investigation is frowned upon.
‘Euston station. A bunch of them were mobbing commuters for charitable donations. I got the impression they might have been recruiting, too. They shoved a leaflet at me, got in my face, so I looked them up. Wouldn’t have known Masters from any other religious nutjob otherwise.’
‘Religious. Heh.’ Stokes laughs without mirth, then thumps his chest when it turns into a cough. ‘It’s a f
ront. A cult. Oh, I’m sure they do some good stuff. Take a few kids off the street and help clean ’em up. Just enough to keep the politicians happy, senior police off their backs. But the main reason they help waifs and strays is so that Masters can indulge his more unsavoury habits.’
I’m a bit concerned for Stokes now, which isn’t something I ever thought I would be. The cough punctuates his words, and the colour that drained from his face when I first mentioned Masters is coming back now, darker and redder than before.
‘You OK? Here, let me get you some water.’ I stand up, intending to go to the counter, but he reaches up as I pass, grabs me by the arm. There’s something very wrong with him now.
‘Talk to Polly. Polly Cho.’ The name means nothing to me, but it only seems to make his choking worse. He pulls himself up, still half doubled over so I have to bend to hear his rasping words, each one broken by a laboured intake of breath. ‘Just. Be. Care. Ful.’
Then his grip fails and he collapses to the floor, writhing and choking, his hands grasping at his neck. He’s going from red to purple as I drag the chairs away to make space for him, shout at the stunned waitress.
‘Call an ambulance. Now!’
38
‘Honestly? He’s lucky to be alive.’
I’m not sure what’s happened to the time, but I can see through the hospital window that it’s dark outside. I came here in the back of an ambulance, holding on to the hand of a man whose death I’d have probably joked about as being a good thing. Had I not been there to witness it almost happening.
‘Any idea what it was?’
The doctor shrugs. Like everyone else who works here, he looks tired. ‘Best guess is his heart gave out when he got something stuck in his throat. Whoever gave him CPR saved his life though.’
Twenty minutes of intermittent mouth to mouth with a sleazy tabloid journalist while we waited for the paramedics to arrive. I shudder at the memory, want to go and wash my face, gargle salt water, maybe disinfect myself with malt whisky. I settle for wiping my lips with the back of my hand.
‘I first learned how to do it at school. Hoped I’d never have to use it. Will he be OK?’
‘Early days. But we’ve got him stabilised. Don’t think he’s going to be walking out of here any time soon. And no, he’s not fit to talk to anyone either.’
I’d not really been intending to ask, but the doctor’s words are enough to let me go. I stand up slowly, tired from a long day and the effort of all that CPR. ‘I’ll call by, see how he’s doing tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday.’
‘He’ll be here.’
Outside, the sky’s cleared, the earlier drizzly rain giving way to the closest approximation to a starry night you ever get in the city. I’d catch a bus back to the station, but it’s near enough shift end to make the journey pointless. Karen knows about Stokes, so hopefully she’ll let the relevant people know what’s happened to him. The hospital is closer to my place, and it’s early enough for there to be plenty of people about, so I decide to walk even though the memory of being attacked is still raw. There’s a lot to mull over, and I’ve always thought best on my feet.
I’ve not got far up the road before my phone rings in my pocket. Pulling it out, I see a number I don’t recognise. Probably someone calling to tell me I’ve been in an accident that wasn’t my fault. I’d ignore it, but that’s something detective constables don’t have the luxury of doing.
‘Yes?’ I keep walking as I talk, phone clamped tight to my ear to block out the traffic noise.
‘Constance. Hope you don’t mind. I bullied your brother into giving me your number.’
Alex Fortescue. Not a cold-caller then. ‘Hi, Alex. Thought you were heading overseas today.’ A half-remembered conversation from the wedding reception left that particular nugget of information behind.
‘Yeah. Op’s been postponed, so I’m at a loose end for a couple of days. Wondered if you fancied a drink?’
I know better than to ask what the op was, and given the day I’ve just had, a drink sounds like a splendid idea. ‘Sure. Whereabouts are you?’
‘Charlotte’s, actually. Izzy let me in.’
I stop walking, much to the annoyance of a few pedestrians behind me. Alex is a nice enough chap, but I’m not really looking for that kind of relationship right now. On the other hand, if he’s at the house already it’s kind of difficult to make excuses.
‘I’m on my way there right now, actually. Half an hour, forty-five minutes. Unless you want to meet at the pub down the road? Can’t imagine making small talk with my half-sister’s easy.’
His laugh is genuine, friendly, warm. ‘You’re not wrong. I’ll get the first round in. What’s your poison?’
There’s nothing odd about the question, the way it’s phrased. I’ve probably asked the same of people a thousand times and more. Something about it gives me pause though. Poison. Might that be what did for Jonathan Stokes? The doctor said his heart gave out after he choked on something, but I cleared his airway and there was nothing blocking it. He wasn’t wearing a tie, so that’s not it. I play the sequence of events back in my head, and there’s really no good reason for him to have started coughing, except that he’d taken a drink of his coffee a few moments earlier. But that doesn’t work either. If you’re going to choke on a drink it tends to happen straight away. I was sitting opposite him; I’d have ended up wearing most of it.
‘You still there, Constance?’ Alex’s voice on the phone breaks my train of thought.
‘Sorry. Just had a thought about the case I’m working on. Pint of whatever IPA they’ve got on tap will do me fine.’
‘Pint?’ There’s a momentary hesitation, the faintest question in his voice. ‘OK. See you in a bit.’
‘Yeah. See you. And, Alex?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Con, remember? Only my mother calls me Constance.’
I hang up before he can say anything more, shove the phone into my pocket and set off towards the pub.
Maybe it’s the promise of a drink, but I make good time across town, and it’s only half an hour after the phone call that I step from the cold night air into the warm fug of the pub. I take a moment to compose myself, unzipping my coat and unwrapping the scarf from around my neck. My hat I keep on, at least until I’ve satisfied myself that there are no paparazzi in here.
Alex’s slumped in a corner seat, a half-drunk pint of something dark in front of him. Across the table from it, a full glass of IPA sits waiting for me. The glistening beads of condensation on the side, and still-tight head suggest it’s not long poured. It doesn’t take me long to neck it down to the same level as his, either.
‘Cheers. I needed that.’
‘Clearly.’ He leans forward, picks up his glass and takes a more measured gulp while I shuck off my coat and dump it on top of my bag. Woolly hat removed, I scratch at my short hair in a vague attempt to make it presentable. It doesn’t work.
‘No wig today, I see.’
‘Didn’t think I’d need it when I left this morning.’ I proceed to tell him all about my exciting afternoon at the hospital, and by the time I’m done so is my pint.
‘And I thought my life was complicated. You want another?’ Alex indicates the empty glass.
‘It’s OK. I’ll get them.’ I start to stand, but he’s on his feet in an instant, grabbing the glass from the table before I can reach it. Impressive, given how much closer I am than he was when he started.
‘I insist.’ He’s gone before I can protest, and who am I to complain about free beer anyway? It doesn’t take long for him to be served. Monday nights are quiet here.
‘So this reporter fellow. He going to be all right?’ Alex asks when he returns.
‘Who knows? Not sure I much care, to be honest.’
‘I’m surprised you did what you did. After all the stuff he’s written about yo
u.’
If I wasn’t a suspicious sod, I might have missed the subtle warning hidden in Alex’s words. I told him Stokes was a reporter, that he was at Charlotte’s wedding, but I’m not sure I’ve mentioned quite how much the man’s been fixated on me and my family since I ruined Roger DeVilliers’ life. ‘All the stuff he’s written about you’ might be innocent enough, but it sounds to me like somebody’s been google-searching my name. Alex is nice enough, but I don’t know much about him beyond age sixteen or so, and I didn’t exactly fancy him then.
‘I couldn’t let him die. Imagine how much fun the tabloids would’ve had with that.’
He shrugs to concede the point.
‘So what about you, then?’ I ask, keen to shift the conversation. ‘Any idea when they’re going to ship you out?’
‘If you’re that desperate to get shot of me, you can just say, you know?’ Alex feigns being upset with a little too much enthusiasm. Or am I just looking for excuses? It’s been a while since I chatted over a drink with someone like this.
‘Actually, it’s only a day’s grace,’ he says just in time for me to regret my thoughts. ‘Can’t tell you what or where, obviously, but I’ll be gone in the morning.’
‘You need to work a bit harder on your chat-up lines, Alex.’
A light flush creeps up his neck and into his cheeks, followed by a wistful smile that sits well on him. ‘I wish.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Gone as in another country. I’ve got to report in, oh, about two hours from now.’
‘On a couple pints of beer?’
‘A couple of pints of low-alcohol beer that’s better than it sounds but still not as good as I’d like.’
Now I feel bad for thinking he was angling for something more. The guy’s just lonely. And that’s when it hits me. He might be one of Ben’s oldest friends, but he’s not got anyone else outside of his unit. No wife, no family. He has parents at least, I remember him telling me ‘Mrs Fortescue’ was his mum’s name. I don’t exactly see eye to eye with mine though, so maybe he’s cut ties with his. It occurs to me that when he was told not to report for duty for another twenty-four hours, he genuinely had no idea what to do with himself. And I thought I was married to my job.
