by Mick Herron
‘I want to hear him –’
‘He could confess to killing Princess Di, Zoë, and it wouldn’t matter. A forced confession’s about as much use as . . .’
‘Cardboard wellies?’ a voice from above suggested.
DS King was on the landing above.
The lift, thought Sarah. He’d taken the lift.
‘Let him free, Ms Boehm,’ King suggested.
‘You don’t know who he is,’ Zoë said, without turning.
‘I don’t care who he is. You’re the one contemplating murder.’
‘I still haven’t ruled it out.’
‘And I’m sure you’re prepared to face the consequences. But can you speak for Ms Tucker?’
That gave Zoë pause.
DS King looked at Sarah. ‘You came in together. Looking for him. We’ve got conspiracy and we’ve got premeditated.’ He turned back to Zoë, not that Zoë was facing him. ‘So it won’t be just you under the hammer.’
He came softly down the stairs as he spoke. He was still wearing trainers, Sarah noticed.
‘Are you prepared to send her to jail for murder, Ms Boehm? Along with you? Will you be that good a friend to her?’
There were other policemen behind him, Sarah saw. The uniformed variety, hovering on the edge of the landing.
‘Because she was pretty upset back when you were dead, I couldn’t help noticing.’
Zoë said, ‘Is this your softly softly? Because I’m not sticking around for your Gene Hunt.’
‘Zoë,’ Sarah said. ‘Listen to the man. Let Talmadge go.’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
In that next moment it nearly happened – it would have been a moment’s work for Zoë to open her fists, to shrug off Talmadge’s grasp. Sarah couldn’t see his face, but had no trouble picturing it: his eye-wide shock at having nothing but air to cling on to. The half-second’s grace before his body was plundered by gravity.
Zoë pulled him on to the staircase, and sent him sprawling in a heap on the landing.
King nodded, as if she’d done a good thing, then arrested her.
19
Looking upwards, it was hard to believe that only yesterday the city had nearly washed away in the rain. Upwards was largely blue; the few clouds a high wadding that stippled into nothingness at the edges. A jet’s trail was a brief scratch on the sky’s underside. But at Sarah’s feet, pools gathered in the cracked brick ground, and a mossy smell lingered, probably from the drainpipes.
Zoë lit another cigarette.
‘I thought you were eating apples these days.’
‘They spray all kinds of crap over apples. At least with these, it says on the packet they kill you.’
‘That’s really good, Zoë. A couple more lines like that, you might win a new lung.’
‘Can we save the sermon?’
‘You let us all think you were dead.’
‘You saw the body,’ Zoë said. ‘You couldn’t tell it wasn’t me?’
Her voice was still tight, Sarah thought. That invisible grip still flexing itself round her throat.
They were speaking quietly, because there were policemen nearby. A pair of them on a bench on the other side of the yard, sharing a smoke and a joke. Another just inside the door, waiting for Zoë to finish hers. A slew of butts underfoot spelt out the obvious: this was where the cops came to indulge their addictions. All those films and TV shows where fags smouldered non-stop in interrogation rooms: they were history.
She said, ‘It wasn’t that easy. She looked like you. And she had – there was your wallet, your keys. Everything.’
‘She could have been wearing a little badge saying “My name’s Zoë”. It wouldn’t have made her me.’
‘So how come you weren’t in touch? “Hey, Sarah? I’m still alive.” Something like that. What would that have cost?’
‘He knew I was alive. Talmadge did.’
‘You thought this was just you and him?’
‘If I’d gone to the police, he’d have been smoke.’
‘Being a private eye doesn’t mean you have to sound like one,’ Sarah snapped.
‘Sarah. You know how long I’ve been after this guy?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Sarah?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘I’m surprised they let you out.’
Zoë waggled her cigarette, so the smoke looping from its tip squiggled a doctor’s signature on the air. ‘Human rights. They can’t deny you life’s necessities.’
‘What will they do to you?’
‘They haven’t decided yet.’
There was nowhere to sit other than that occupied bench, and Sarah didn’t fancy leaning against the wall. Her coat had seen enough punishment lately.
‘We’ve only got five minutes,’ she said. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I was on a job for your friend Gerard Inchon.’ Zoë could get to the point when she wanted. ‘You know that much.’
‘Yes.’
‘It was a nothing piece. Find a man he was after, he wouldn’t say why. John Wright. Took me a day and a half, tops. Then Inchon wanted to contact him, without it looking like he did.’
‘So you came up with a list of names he could invite to a soirée. I know about that.’
‘Busy beaver, aren’t you? Anyway, once I gave him the list I was done. But the night before I checked out, it happened.’
‘The Bolbec bar was unexpectedly busy,’ Sarah said.
Zoë looked at her.
There was a crowd, Barry had said. Expecting free drinks.
Sarah said, ‘Talmadge put up posters round the town. Offering freebies.’
‘I thought it must have been something like that.’ She inhaled. Smoke leaked from her lips with her next words: ‘I was drugged. Roofie in my drink. Something like that. I didn’t get drunk.’
‘I believe you, Zoë.’
‘That’s nice.’ She threw her cigarette at the drain, where it bounced off a mossy match and fizzled into silence. ‘When I started feeling groggy, I thought it must be flu or something, so went to my room. Crashed out. Next morning, everything I’ve got that says I’m me has gone. Plastic, mobile, all of it. Plus watch and so on. But he’d left my cash. Now, what did you think I thought about that?’
‘You knew it was Talmadge.’
‘Who else? He’s always been out there, Sarah. Always. I’ve never even known his real name. But I’ve always known he’s out there.’
She lit a fresh cigarette.
‘But I didn’t know about her. The woman he was with. I thought he was trying to spook me, that’s all. Not that he was working on his own model. His own version of me.’
‘You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.’
‘That’s not what he does, Sarah. The women he’s killed, they’ve all been in love with him. A substitute was the closest he was ever gunna get where I was concerned.’
Sarah wondered if Talmadge believed that. She needs me, he’d said. She just doesn’t know it yet. ‘How did he know you were in Newcastle?’
‘Credit card? Mobile phone? E-mail?’ A whisper of smoke reached Zoë’s eyes, and she flapped it away. ‘I fly low, but I use my real name. He knows where I live. And it’s not like stalking’s new to him.’ She shook her head. ‘So I dropped out of sight. Figured that was the best way to get him to play his hand. He sent an e-mail the same day.’
‘Missing you,’ Sarah quoted.
Zoë stared.
‘Vicky,’ she explained.
‘That kid’ll go far. She should choose her direction carefully.’
‘Where were you?’
‘It’s a big city. There’s no shortage of places.’
‘And you just figured that sooner or later he’d, what? Take out an advert in the local paper?’
Zoë said, ‘Well, he did the next best thing, didn’t he?’
Something tapped on glass, and they looked to the window behind them. The policeman inside was pointing at his watch.
&nb
sp; ‘Come in, Ms Boehm, your time is up,’ Zoë muttered.
‘It’ll work out all right, Zoë.’
‘It’ll work out all right when they realize the bastard’s a killer. Course, they might still be upset about my hanging him over that stairwell.’
She gave Sarah a sly grin, and for the first time, Sarah saw her old friend.
‘Jesus, Zoë,’ she said, and shook her head. ‘What you need is a dimmer switch.’
‘No, what I need is a hairbrush,’ Zoë said. She ran her fingers through her close-cut hair. ‘This itches, you know.’
‘Mine’s in my bag,’ Sarah said.
‘The bastard took mine. Oh well. I’ll survive.’ More tapping on glass: ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’
The policeman opened the door and Zoë slipped back inside.
Because nobody had said otherwise, Sarah stayed where she was.
It had been a long day. Just forming that thought deserved a prize for understatement: the day had begun, as far as Sarah was concerned, when she’d knocked on Gerard’s door at the Bolbec, to find him gone. Then lunch with John M. Wright; then Alan Talmadge in a soap shop . . . She’d bussed in a panic through the rain; holed up in a pub in Jack Gannon’s Walker. And there’d she’d slipped off reality’s map. The attempt to recapture the ensuing hours produced a Catherine Wheel of images: a campfire in a derelict shipyard; a spiders’ picnic in an abandoned cinema. All of it meshing into one big helter skelter carrying her through to daybreak, and the bright glassy newness of Sage and Baltic. Since when, she’d mostly been in interview rooms. Had mostly talked to policemen.
Her main current source of amazement was that she wasn’t under arrest.
‘Ms Boehm is pretty adamant you just happened to be there.’
That was what DS King had said to her, about an hour earlier.
Fact was, Sarah had spent a lot of time lately just happening to be there. If DS King had the full list of those events, he might have reconsidered her non-arrest.
‘What’s going to happen to her?’
‘Charges of assault, I expect.’
‘But not yet?’
He’d said, ‘We’re waiting for a fuller picture to emerge. It’s not often we get a former dead person in custody. So what do you know about it?’
‘Until this morning, I thought Zoë was dead.’
‘So what’s kept you in Newcastle the last couple of days?’
‘Sightseeing,’ she’d told him. ‘What about Talmadge?’
‘You keep calling him that.’
‘It used to be his name. Back when he was killing women. You haven’t let him go, have you?’
‘No. We haven’t let him go.’
‘You believe Zoë’s story?’
‘We’re considering the evidence.’
‘And how much of that is there?’
‘Not a great deal, Ms Tucker. These, ah, murder victims. You’re aware that neither was treated as murder at the time?’
‘He’s good at causing accidents.’
‘Well, he slipped up this time, didn’t he? A body in the river could get there by accident, no argument. But not if it was dead before it hit the water.’
‘Nobody gets away with murder forever.’
‘Do you think so?’ DS King had a steady gaze, and Sarah had felt as if he were looking straight through her. ‘I think you can get away with it for a hell of a long time. But not if you start making amateurish mistakes.’
‘Well, he’s obviously not as clever as he’d like to think. What’s he calling himself, by the way?’
‘Oliver Cartwright. National insurance checks out. He lives just outside Maidenhead, he says. We’re making calls.’
Oliver Cartwright. Sarah had rolled the name around her head; had practised it on her tongue. Zoë’s bogeyman had a new name.
Perhaps it was the real thing. Perhaps – back against the wall – Alan Talmadge had to slough his other skins, and own up to who he was.
Uncovering what he was would be the next stage.
‘What about the woman in the water?’
‘Says he knows nothing about that.’
‘Well, he would say that –’
‘– wouldn’t he?’ King had finished for her.
‘So where’d she come from?’
‘We know a bit less about that than we did when you identified her as Zoë Boehm.’
‘I thought that’s who it was.’
‘Really?’
Sarah met his gaze. Tell the truth. ‘Okay. Not a hundred per cent. But I knew she’d been wearing Zoë’s jacket. And Talmadge – Cartwright – stole that jacket years ago. So if it wasn’t Zoë, then Zoë had good reason to be hiding.’
‘And that was enough for you to mislead the police?’
‘That was enough for me not to voice the one in a thousand chance it wasn’t Zoë.’ She looked away. ‘Have you charged her yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Can I talk to her?’
‘Are you her lawyer?’
She hadn’t replied.
But a little later he’d asked if she wanted tea or coffee. Coffee. Coffee might save her life. She’d expected him to find someone to fetch her a cup, but instead he’d led her to a lobby with a coffee machine, and left her to it.
The lobby looked on to a yard, and Zoë was out there, smoking.
And now Zoë was gone again, and Sarah still hadn’t had her coffee. She slipped back through the door, negotiated a cup of brown liquid from the machine, and returned outside. She took a sip, burnt her tongue, and reached for her mobile. The battery was flat.
I’ll call you, Russ, she promised. Soon. I’ll see you soon.
At that moment something in the square space of sky overhead made her heart skip a beat. It was a mass of balloons – large bright silver ones – easily two dozen, possibly three, tied to each other but untethered to anything else. A single scarlet tail dragged in their wake. Just for a second she saw this. It was impossible not to smile.
But somewhere, there was a street salesman whose helium-filled stock-in-trade had just taken to the skies. That was the trouble, Sarah thought: everything had a world of detail behind it, and every detail snapped into place in someone else’s life. What was that phrase she’d heard lately? Smoke and whispers. Everything was smoke and whispers.
The bench was free now. With all plans on hold she went to sit down, and as she did so DI Fairfax came into the yard. Still tall, with thin elongated features – still with the hint of a developing paunch – he came and sat next to her, cardboard cup of his own in hand.
‘You’ll want to watch that,’ she said. ‘It’s hot.’
‘Trouble is, when it cools down, you can taste it. Cigarette?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘Good for you. Neither do I.’
Sarah said, ‘But you keep a pack handy for special occasions.’
‘I don’t, actually. It’s as well you said no. I’m just doing the nice cop bit.’
‘Is that supposed to be disarmingly frank?’
He shrugged. ‘If it works. Ms Boehm have anything interesting to say?’
‘What makes you think I’d tell you if she had?’
‘Because whatever else is going on here, you’re her friend. And the sooner we work out what’s going on, the better it’ll be for her.’
‘And for me?’
He drank some of his coffee. If it was as hot as hers, he hid it well. ‘We’ve spoken to Mr Gannon,’ he told her. ‘He backs up your story. That you’ve been with him these past few days.’
‘Sightseeing,’ Sarah reminded him.
‘Strange company to choose.’
‘But that’s not a police matter.’
‘As you say. I can’t remember, are you married?’
‘No.’
‘But you have a partner.’
‘Is this a crude attempt at blackmail, Inspector? I tell you what you want to know, you keep quiet about what you think I’ve been up to?’
>
For some reason, this possibility struck her as rather funny.
He said, ‘Just making an observation.’
‘Have you found out who the woman is yet?’
He shook his head.
She could give him a name, Sarah thought. Madeleine Irving. But Sarah had no proof that’s who it was. It was Internet-based conjecture, no more. Nothing Fairfax couldn’t find for himself.
‘And Talmadge – Cartwright – he’s still denying all knowledge.’
‘No idea what we’re talking about.’
‘Zoë’s told you he stole her things?’
‘Ms Boehm has made that accusation,’ Fairfax said. ‘She’s failed to back it up with proof.’
‘He had Zoë’s phone.’
‘Well, he doesn’t have it any more.’
‘It’ll be somewhere in the Baltic.’
‘Or somewhere in the Tyne,’ he said.
‘Have you looked?’
‘To the best of our ability.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘Not up to or including dragging the river.’
‘The last two times, he just walked away,’ Sarah told him. ‘Nobody ever came looking for him. Except Zoë.’
‘Maybe there was nothing to look for.’
‘Twice?’
‘We’ve only Ms Boehm’s word that he knew both women. The way he tells it, he went out with a woman once who fell under a tube train. After they’d split up.’
‘But this time there’s proof.’
‘I thought we’d established there’s nothing –’
‘That it wasn’t an accident, I mean. Else she’d not have been in the river.’
With clean water in her lungs.
Fairfax nodded abstractedly. She’d told him nothing he didn’t already know. He finished his coffee, set the cup on the bench’s arm, and stood.
Sarah said, ‘There isn’t a bin that can go in?’
He picked it up.
There was something scratching at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t tell what.
‘My sergeant told you you’re free to go?’
He hadn’t, in fact, but she’d picked up that message.
‘But leave a number we can reach you on.’
As he turned Sarah stood, and caught a glimpse of herself in the window. She looked crudely drawn, something a child might have managed with a crayon. Her face had grown new hollows. And as for her hair – As for her hair.
