Paying the Ferryman

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘I don’t think sense has anything to do with it. He’ll want to see the reaction to what he’s done.’

  ‘Part of me hopes you’re right. I’d like to see him caught, see him pay. Part of me hopes he was in so much of a hurry to get away that he got hit by a lorry and he’s dying in a ditch somewhere.’

  If the prison officials had been expecting a violent explosion when Terry Baldwin was told of his brother’s death, then they were disappointed. This time, Terry did not lash out immediately. At first he seemed to shrink in on himself, become smaller and thinner, his face pale and his hands shaking.

  ‘I want to call my lawyer.’

  ‘What for? It’s ten o’clock at night, no one’s going to take your call at this time.’

  ‘I want my fucking lawyer!’

  The guard backed off as Terry, roused at last, sprang off the bed and advanced on him. This time he didn’t get the first punch in. He was on the floor, on his face before he had taken the second step.

  The door clanged shut and he was left alone to shout and rage.

  Terry pounded his fists against the door until the blood ran. Roddy was dead, Ricky was dead. His whole damned family was being taken away from him.

  The irony that he had been happy to see his wife and child shot dead was lost on him. Roddy and Ricky were blood and Terry, banged up though he might be, was out for revenge.

  ‘Joey’s still in surgery,’ Steel told Sophie when she got back. ‘I’ve saved you some pizza.’

  The pizza was cold, but she ate it anyway, perched on the end of Sarah’s bed. The side room was crowded with all the people: Maggie and Tel, Stacy, Sophie and Steel (who dominated the space on his own anyway). The night sister had put her head around the door earlier. Scowled at them and then left. Visiting time had been over for a long time. The lights were out in the main ward but Sarah’s side ward was well away from anyone else, down a little corridor, and Stacy had assured them that so long as they didn’t make a noise no one would bother too much.

  And she would know, Sophie thought. She’d practically lived here since the night Sarah’s family had been killed.

  ‘When will we know if he’s going to be all right?’

  Sophie got the impression that Sarah must have asked the same question dozens of times, but was still hoping for a better answer.

  ‘As soon as there’s anything to tell, we’ll be told,’ Maggie said. She gripped the girl’s hand tight and Sophie Willis could see the unwarranted guilt in the woman’s eyes. Maggie would blame herself for a long time, Sophie thought, even though there was nothing she could have done.

  ‘I’m going to take you home,’ she told Steel, but it was a half-hearted offer.

  ‘I’m going to sit downstairs for a while. See if anything happens. You go, I’ll get a taxi.’

  ‘No, I’ll come down with you.’

  Maggie didn’t move. Tel had fallen asleep in a chair and Sarah too was fighting the urge to drop off. Stacy walked out with them. ‘It’s raining,’ she commented as they passed the window on the way to the stairs. ‘As hard as it was that night.’

  Looking out, Steel could see that she was right. Rain pounded against the glass, flooding it. Hiding the world from view. He experienced a sudden vertigo, a sense of unreality as though this was all there was. This hospital, these people, marooned and cut off from some imaginary world. ‘There’s enough of us here,’ he told Stacy. ‘Go home, get some proper rest. I doubt we’ll shift Tel and Maggie until morning.’

  She nodded gratefully. ‘Thanks. I will. I just need to get away for a bit. You know.’

  She wanted to go home to prepare herself, Steel thought. To take some time out, so that she was ready for when she had to tell Sarah that Joey had died.

  He looked at his watch. It was now almost two in the morning. Joey had been in surgery for hours and, like Stacy, Steel knew that every passing hour diminished his chances.

  Tomorrow, he thought, might bring a change to the pursuit of Hughes. It might not just be one murder they sought him for; most likely it would be two.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Gregory arrived at the Dog as Naomi and Alec were eating breakfast. He joined them for a cup of tea and helped himself to toast and jam.

  ‘Roddy Baldwin,’ Naomi said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘So I heard. It was on the news.’

  Naomi stared hard in what she hoped was his direction. ‘And did you have a hand in it?’

  ‘Never confess to anything,’ Gregory said. ‘Have either of you heard of a bunch of lawyers called Maxwell, Clarke and Roper?’

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ Naomi said.

  ‘Why?’ Alec asked him.

  ‘Because I came across their names on a document linking Roddy Baldwin to the Vitelli family. A business deal of some sort. Something about some property in Brighton, but somehow I don’t see either the Baldwins or the Vitellis going into the housing business.’

  ‘The Vitellis might,’ Naomi said. ‘They own a hotel chain and a string of restaurants and an events catering business. But I’m not finished with Roddy Baldwin.’

  ‘Roddy Baldwin is no longer of this world,’ Gregory told her. ‘So I’m guessing he has finished with you, or any questions you might have wanted to ask him. And if you want to scowl at me properly, you need to move your head to the right about another ten degrees. Look, my methods are not your methods. We established that a long time ago. There are bigger fish to fry than what I might or might not have done with Roddy Baldwin. Nasty piece of work anyway.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘I’m not just a nasty piece of work. That’s the difference.’

  ‘You were saying,’ Alec interrupted. ‘About this property deal.’

  He glanced across at his wife. Naomi was fuming, but the truth was Gregory caught her off balance all the time. She knew she ought to hate everything about the man. The ex copper in her told her that she ought to have turned him in long ago. He was a killer, he was everything she had once worked to bring to book – but she also owed him, Alec thought. And he owed her. Lives had been saved because Naomi and Gregory had worked together, and so the bonds had been forged for good or ill and, in Alec’s view, there was no sense making an issue of it.

  Most of the time, Naomi realized that too, but Alec knew that she was sometimes still conflicted as the old Naomi and the woman she had become fought.

  ‘You know about the Vitellis?’

  Naomi sighed. She buttered her toast and then asked for the marmalade. ‘I worked organized crime for the Met for a while. Secondment just before my accident. You know that. I met the Vitellis back then.’

  ‘Met them?’

  ‘Long story, but essentially the Vitellis had some artworks stolen. They were not best pleased. On the face of it, they are an important part of the business community: hotels, catering, they organize some really prestigious events … anyway, we were left with this issue: on the one hand we know they’re a bunch of crooks; on the other hand we know they are an impressive and successful family business.

  ‘Alphonso, the grandfather – the head of the family, even though he must be in his nineties by now – he had a sense of humour. Their property was recovered and they said they wanted to thank the police. They held a benefit event at this great big place they own up on the South Downs. All funds raised going to police charities.’

  Gregory laughed. ‘Stylish,’ he said.

  ‘And potentially embarrassing. Top brass managed to get out of attending but I was sent along with a chief constable who was on the point of retirement and therefore didn’t care about potential embarrassment, and a few other disposable representatives. Alphonso Vitelli knew exactly what we were doing. Laughed like a drain.’

  ‘And the benefit. Raised money, did it?’

  ‘It was covered by Hello! magazine. One of the must-attend events of the season.’

  ‘And you met this Vitelli?’
/>
  ‘Met the clan, drank the champagne, ate the canapés and enjoyed the music. I got to wear a posh frock – and feel totally underdressed. End of story.’

  She frowned. ‘It’s just struck me. Victor Griffin … well, Marcus Karadzic. He might even have been there.’

  Joey Hughes was out of surgery. On a high dependency unit, but he had survived the night.

  Steel left the hospital at five in the morning and grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep, then Sophie collected him again at nine. He had spent the past hour on the phone to his colleagues in the Metropolitan Police and was now a very irritated, very frustrated Detective Inspector.

  Sophie set a mug of tea on his desk and sat down.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I’ve more or less been told to keep my nose out. They’ll handle the Victor Griffin connection to the Vitellis and anything else that comes along on that side of things. They told me to lay off Terry Baldwin and that, essentially, we’re relegated to gathering evidence at this end and handing it over to them for processing.’

  ‘And their reasoning?’

  ‘Is that Roddy Baldwin’s death has opened the field and it’s all looking to kick off. They don’t want us provincial coppers getting in their way.’

  He sighed and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. ‘The one thing I did manage to get was confirmation of Madeleine Jeffries’ address. It seems they have no real interest in her so we’re free to go and interview her again. Providing, of course, that we play nice and share.’

  ‘And they got her address from?’

  ‘From the address book on Roddy Baldwin’s desk. Along with half a dozen others. It seems she’s moved about a bit in the past few years.’

  ‘And taken Thea’s letter with her every time. She must have known it was something really important. You move house, you have a clear out. She kept that all this time.’

  Steel nodded. ‘I’ve sent copies down to the Met, of course. I’m not sure how important they think it is. I get the feeling their main focus is keeping the lid on the pressure cooker right now.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘So we go and see Madeleine Jeffries.’

  ‘Another long drive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Let me guess, back to where we met her before.’

  ‘Give or take about ten miles, yes. Our colleagues in the Met are organizing a visit to Messrs Maxwell, Clarke and Roper and frankly, I wish them joy of it.’

  ‘My, we are having a jaundiced morning.’

  ‘We are. Yes. We are royally pissed off and suspect we are also going to be royally shafted when this mess is finally sorted out and our big brothers down in London get to take all the bloody credit.’

  Maxwell, Clarke and Roper were a case study worthy of Harvard Law School, Gregory thought as he went through the information Nathan had obtained for him and added it to the little stash of documents he had taken from Roddy Baldwin. He wished he’d had more time to search Roddy’s office, but he’d already spent far too long in the house; further risk was unacceptable. Someone would come knocking on their boss’s door and he’d have to fight his way out. It wasn’t so much that he worried about that aspect; Gregory knew himself capable. More that he was not of a mind to draw attention to himself.

  He valued his invisibility. Over the years that was what had kept him alive.

  He had Nathan on the phone now, checking facts.

  ‘Did you ever see the film The Princess Bride?’ Nathan asked.

  ‘The Princess what?’

  ‘Never mind. I love that film. Anyway, there’s a character in it called the Dread Pirate Roberts, who’s sailed the seas for decade upon decade, terrorizing anyone that crosses his path.’

  ‘No one lives for that long. What’s the catch?’

  ‘Exactly! You see, it isn’t the man that matters, it’s the name. There have been generations of pirates called the Dread Pirate Roberts. When each one retires another takes on the name and the reputation.’

  ‘And Maxwell and co?’

  ‘Are a firm of solicitors who always happen to have a Maxwell and a Clarke as partners in the firm. Roper died ten years ago and doesn’t seem to have been replaced, but the original, fully legitimate firm, was called Maxwell, Clarke and Roper. It has gravitas, so I suppose they kept the tradition.’

  ‘So, what, do people change their names when they get the job?’

  Nathan laughed. ‘The official records have a half dozen Maxwells over the years. All fully accredited, all distant cousins, brothers, uncles – you get the picture.’

  ‘But not one drop of blood shared between them.’

  ‘Um, I can’t tell you that. Not definitively. It did start out as a family business, but I’ve already managed to dig up one name change by deed poll, and as one of the previous Maxwells was definitely Asian, I’m guessing it’s a nom de guerre.’

  ‘And the Clarkes and Ropers?’

  ‘There have been a few Clarkes. All gone now, but genuinely related. The last one retired five years ago, lives somewhere on the south coast and cultivates petunias, or something.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Sorry, begonias. I’ve had him checked out, and he looks clean.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘OK, so here’s how it goes. Maxwell, Roper and Clarke have their main office in the same location it’s been in for the past eighty years. It has kudos, reputation, respectability. Anyone needing to make a will or settle a dispute with their neighbour over the leylandii will be referred to one of a chain of smaller offices where a team of perfectly legitimate and well-trained associates look after them.’

  ‘Nice,’ Gregory said.

  ‘The head office only handles the criminal side. Literally and figuratively. The successors to Mr Clarke – who are presently named Patel and Rhodes – handle the pre-court side. Again, they seem to be pretty much legit – how much they know about the Maxwells is, of course, a moot point. Because so many of their clients inevitably end up inside, on account of them being guilty and undefendable, the Maxwell part of the partnership is responsible for appeals so they have ready access to their clients, wherever they might be locked up.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, currently there are two Maxwells and a couple of associates handling that. A father and son who changed their names about a decade ago – the son was still in his teens – from Meads to Maxwell. Maxwell senior was a barrister, but had a bit of a professional fall from grace and a wife who publicly humiliated him with a High Court judge, so you can see he might, legitimately, want a fresh start.’

  ‘He was also in prime position to need a job offer,’ Gregory said.

  ‘I would think so. Anyway, that’s the set up. I’m still trying to work out who set it up, but you now know a little more.’

  ‘And do they have a conveyancing business?’

  ‘Funny you ask. It’s called Clarke and Roper, established in Hove about six years ago. Now has a second office, also in Hove. You’re wondering if they’re handling the Vitelli–Baldwin property deal.’

  ‘Anything on that yet?’

  ‘Not a lot. Sorry. We could do with another researcher. The only thing I know so far is what’s in the public domain. The property is a town house, been empty for five years. It’s very run down at present, but done up, and in that part of Brighton … I’ll let you do the maths.’

  ‘Which is all well and good but—’

  ‘The Vitellis do buy up property like this all the time. It might be a false lead.’

  ‘But do they involve the Baldwins?’

  ‘That is a valid question. I don’t know, Gregory, but it seems unlikely. Why would they? Unless there’s something in the house that both families have an interest in.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘That I don’t know.’

  Agreeing to check in later, Gregory rang off and, not having anything better planned, decided he should go and keep an eye on Inspector Steel.

  Naomi was restless that morning. Alec had been reading aloud old statem
ents and court transcripts from the Baldwin trial and at first he just thought she was finding it upsetting, being reminded so much of the past.

  ‘It isn’t that,’ she reassured him. ‘I suppose it’s Gregory.’

  Alec set the transcripts aside. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You do realize that he shot Roddy Baldwin?’

  ‘I realize that he’s shot or otherwise disposed of a lot of people.’

  ‘And you’re OK with that?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘I’d have thought it a simple enough question. Are you OK with him going round killing people?’

  ‘Naomi, I don’t think it would make any difference whatever I thought. Gregory is a fact; what he is and what he does are facts. What I think about that is – well, irrelevant.’

  ‘Is it? Is it really?’

  Alec got up and came to sit beside her, taking her hands. ‘What’s this all about, love? Really about?’

  She sighed and slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure I know,’ she told him. ‘I think it’s just … being back, involved in an investigation. All right, on the periphery of it, but being involved with people like Steel and Sophie and being reminded of who I was—’

  ‘Who you still are.’

  ‘But I’m not, am I? Neither of us is and I don’t just mean because we’re older and water has flowed under the bridge, or any of the other crass clichés you might come up with.’

  ‘Crass?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I mean … When we both joined the force we’d got such a clear, clean idea of what our job was and why we were doing it. Didn’t we?’

  Alec shrugged. ‘Probably.’

  ‘It was all about doing the right thing, stopping the bad guys. Bringing people to justice.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’m having to face the person I was, only a few years ago. I look at her and I know I’ve changed so much. And not because of the accident. Alec, we promised to do what was right and uphold the law without fear or favour and I really believed that. Really invested in it. You know? And I see people like Steel and Sophie and they are still so sure of where to draw the line. So sure of—’ She broke off, not certain what she wanted to say.