Willing Flesh

by Adam Creed

  ‘Is there something wrong, Inspector?’

  Staffe also can’t bring himself to tell Geraldine A’Court that her darling Darius is not in Greece, so he says, ‘One of his bad influences, I’m afraid. A young man called Roddy Howerd.’

  Mrs A’Court nods, sagely, and takes a shoebox from the drawer of a Queen Anne secretaire. She is a quite striking woman, with a narrow, pale, porcelain face and bobbed golden hair, but dressed ten years beyond her age in a knitted twinset. She issues not an ounce of allure and seems, to Staffe, perfectly pious. ‘Roddy Howerd,’ she says. ‘Such a very good family. He and Darius were ever so close, a couple of years ago, when Darry first went to Greece.’ She proffers a photograph, of the same hue as the one Staffe had seen in Roddy’s album. ‘He knew the Howerd boy at school. He was in the year above and I think there was something.’

  ‘Something?’

  ‘Darry was quite obsessed, for a while. I’m told it’s normal. I spoke with my bastard husband about it and he said it was all part of growing up and being English. He laughed about it. Roddy even came here one half-term, when we had the whole house. There was such a hoo-hah about it beforehand. Darry wanted it to be just so.’

  ‘Didn’t Darius go out with Roddy’s sister?’

  ‘Arabella? I know about her. We have friends in common – from Ampleforth. Darius has a fickle heart. A good heart.’

  ‘He was comfortable in those circles?’ asks Staffe.

  ‘He is of those circles, Inspector. A chance circumstance, one bad business decision, does not undermine everything.’

  ‘Darius gets his breeding from you, I suspect,’ says Staffe.

  Geraldine cannot help herself. She smiles from ear to ear. ‘A’Court is not his father’s name, you know. My father had no sons. I was an only child.’ Geraldine looks ashamed. ‘My father allowed Peter – my bastard husband – to take my hand, on the condition that he also took my name.’

  ‘Peter is your ex-husband, surely.’

  ‘The A’Courts don’t divorce, Inspector.’

  ‘Ahaa,’ says Staffe. ‘Like the Howerds.’

  ‘Exactly. A wonderful family, in so many respects, but that daughter. My word!’

  ‘Not everybody can be blessed with good children. We take that for granted, I suppose.’

  ‘I take it you are a father, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss my personal situation whilst on business.’

  ‘Of course. And your business? Have I been of any help?’

  ‘I think so, Mrs A’Court.’

  ‘Can I ask what Roddy has done?’

  Staffe shakes his head. He imagines Darius A’Court under his mother’s spell, his grandfather’s, too: all that history on his bony shoulders and probably an entirely different strain from his bastard father’s blood, and all tits up – until he met Roddy Howerd, at school, and followed him to Greece. Then Roddy’s sister – with the same thing to offer, but more, perhaps. A few lean years and a grand plan unfurls; a promise from the highest deity.

  ‘I’m sure Darius will tell you all about Roddy next time you see him, Mrs A’Court. Does he have any plans to return home?’

  ‘I’ll be the last to know,’ says Geraldine. ‘How youth is wasted on the young.’ She flutters her lashes and for an instant, he sees the maiden her, with all the world ahead.

  Staffe promises to pass on her regards to the Howerds and as he leaves her to a steeped, confected peace, he thinks of Brendan and Rebeccah Stone. Fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. He closes the door on Geraldine A’Court, tries not to imagine her all alone on Christmas morning.

  *

  Gone twilight, and the City is dead, just the odd gaggle of smokers and thin trails of people in suits and Santa hats, making their ways down into the tube. A wisping mist comes off the Thames. The buses are like something from greetings cards.

  Staffe looks up at the slice of olde England. The Colonial Bankers’ Club is tall and slim, built from red brick and dressed with stone, a Jacobean tower squashed in by a Victorian branch of Glyn’s and an eighties infill of glass and steel, TO LET.

  He rehearses what he will say but his words smudge. He pushes open the door, holds up a hand to the steward, his collar stiff and his mouth agape at the unpretty picture of Staffe’s battered face. ‘Don’t worry, Dickinson, I’ll find my own way,’ and he strides towards the dining hall, opens the double doors, looking around the room.

  Here and there, diners look up, wonder what such a specimen is doing here. In the far corner, at a small table under a portrait of Thomas Coutts, Staffe sees what he wants.

  When Howerd and Markary see Staffe coming, his face cut and swollen, they look at each other, frowning.

  ‘Merry Christmas, gentlemen,’ he says, pulling up a chair, sitting between them. ‘I come bearing gifts.’

  Howerd’s smile remains tight, resolute.

  ‘Your children miss their mother most, I imagine, this time of year, Mr Howerd? Especially Roddy.’

  Markary intervenes. ‘You have no idea.’ He folds his napkin, his cheese only half eaten. He dabs at his mouth and a petal of port stains the linen.

  ‘I don’t understand what you have to gain, Taki.’

  Markary shrugs.

  Staffe turns back to Howerd. ‘And Uncle Bernard? Does he ever get in touch – after what happened?’

  ‘What did happen, Inspector?’

  ‘His First Consistory. You missed it. You were in Peru.’

  Howerd says, ‘This is becoming tiresome, Mr Wagstaffe.’ He raises a hand, beckons a waiter.

  The waiter arrives at the table and Howerd says, ‘This man is leaving, Samuel. Please show him out.’

  Staffe turns to the waiter, hisses, ‘If you want me off the premises, tell Dickinson to call the police.’

  ‘Why exactly have you come?’ says Howerd.

  Staffe addresses Markary. ‘In your case, new blood comes and new blood goes, but for others, life goes on, the way it has for centuries. The Howerds have been solid so long, it shouldn’t surprise us.’

  ‘Surprise?’ says Howerd.

  ‘That you emerge unscathed from the death of Elena.’

  ‘What is the point of this?’

  ‘I said I have a gift. Tchancov’s arse is in a sling for you.’

  ‘There was a time when you thought I was responsible,’ says Markary. ‘It pays to keep faith.’

  ‘Faith,’ says Staffe. ‘Faith in what is right.’

  ‘How long will he serve?’

  ‘Forever. As you know.’ Staffe stands. ‘But he left a few crumbs.’

  ‘Crumbs?’ says Howerd, colour draining from his face.

  ‘Like Hansel and Gretel, but easier to read. I’ve been reading about your family, the original line, before you ran out of genes. John Howard – that’s with the “a”, of course – helped kill the princes in the Tower, so they say.’

  ‘That’s conjecture. And a long time ago,’ says Howerd, unflustered by what he sees as Staffe’s little joke.

  ‘It would mean murder was in the family. Those poor young Princes, paying such a price. Merry Christmas,’ says Staffe, turning his back. From the door, he looks back, at Thomas Coutts looking down on one of his own. Howerd is signing his account, making hasty arrangements.

  *

  Staffe cannot remember when London was ever like this – such empty streets.

  The door to Sanderson’s jingles behind him and the old boy behind the counter, in his moleskin apron, peers over his pince-nez. He puts the perused gems back in the safe and prepares to close the oldest jewellers in the Square Mile.

  Staffe feels the velvet box, wonders if this booty will be enough to save his skin tomorrow. He swings his arms as he crosses Cornhill, the Bank of England to his right. He is pleased with what he has done, and watches a big red bus sail into the river fret. He picks up The News from a vendor who is finishing up and pops into the Jampot, otherwise known as the Jamaica Inn. He used to come here with Jessop aft
er an offal lunch in the George and Vulture for a pint and some old times’ sake.

  It is easy to see why the men come here, mainly in their ones and leaning on the wooden bars in the tiny wooden snugs with their beer and their newspapers; the sawdust beneath their feet and the dim lights above their heads. But there is no escaping, for Staffe, the fact that it is Christmas Eve. He can’t bear the thought of home, and having to tell Sylvie he can’t be with her, tomorrow, so, to kill the Eve, he opens the paper and drinks his pint.

  In The News, Nick Absolom is trying to make sense of the slaying of Vassily Tchancov – intimating that his murder, at the hands of Brendan Stone, might be the collateral damage of oligarchical muscle-flexing. Staffe drinks lustily from his pint and mulls Absolom’s words, considering an even bigger picture. Suddenly, he feels unsuitable for what awaits him tomorrow.

  Christmas Day

  Staffe wakes, groggy. He can hear children playing, so knows he has slept deeply. Sylvie is asleep, still. He doesn’t want to wake her, and knowing what he must do – today of all days – he chooses to leave her sleeping.

  As a child, Will had always awakened in the dead of night, Christmas Day. He would lie in bed, rigid with stifled anticipation at what Santa might have brought him. Eventually, his father would come in and he would pretend to be asleep, allow himself to be jostled awake.

  His mother and father would sit cross-legged in their pyjamas on the living-room floor, amongst the nest of wrapping paper, playing with him and Marie – making up the numbers for Cluedo and Kerplunk.

  He showers warily, so as not to disturb Sylvie nor reopen his cuts or alarm his bruises. Dressed, he chomps a muesli bar and swigs a coffee on the hoof, looking for his phone and eventually finding it in the lounge. On his way out of the room, he clocks a golden parcel in the fireplace. Where Santa would have left it.

  ‘Open it,’ says Sylvie, rubbing her eyes, arms wrapped around herself in the doorway.

  ‘When I come back.’

  ‘Come on, Will.’

  ‘We’ll have more time – let’s not rush it.’

  ‘I have a bad feeling, Will. Where are you going? It’s Christmas Day. We should be together.’

  ‘It’s just some work I have to do.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be going to my dad’s. I told you.’

  He walks to her, puts his arms around her, but she pushes him away, says, ‘I’ll think of something to say to him, shall I?’

  ‘I’ve got you something special.’

  ‘I have a bad feeling.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m talking about me,’ she says. ‘At least open your present.’

  He opens the golden parcel, feels a slow wash of melancholia as the kindness is revealed: a full set of Sabatier knives. On the canteen, Sylvie has written, I took a quid from your pocket, so this is not a gift. Cook for me. He sits in the spoonback, recalculates. He might not need to go until after lunch.

  His phone rings. It is the code for Saltburgh and he immediately knows it is a mariner’s call.

  The man says, ‘I’d say they’ll be on their way soon. Once the tides are right.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘A couple of hours. They’re all provisioned for a trip, from what I’ve seen.’

  Staffe imagines the harbourmaster peering out into the marina through binoculars. He hangs up, puts the knives down, remembering how Vassily Tchancov died, slashed until his flesh hung in tatters from his bones.

  Sylvie says, ‘Give me my present before you go. At least stay until I have opened it.’

  ‘Let’s wait, until we have time – together. I have to go now.’

  ‘You haven’t got me anything.’

  ‘Is that what you think of me?’ he says.

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘You bloody don’t,’ he thinks, gathering his keys and wallet and phone together, brushing past her.

  ‘You leave me then, you bastard. On Christmas Day.’

  He puts the wallet and phone in his jacket pocket, feels the velvet box; the emerald pendant safely secreted, within.

  *

  The Younger watches the inspector drive away. He recognises that look in the eye, has seen it often in the faces of supposed enforcers of law. He had told the Elder what the inspector would do, and they had discussed the need to grasp the horns. The finer details are his own.

  He has the measure of the inspector, knows he can shake him free of this case once and for all. He has prepped her place, knows it inside out; knows exactly how she would most likely, accidentally, come to grief.

  *

  As Staffe drives the empty roads north and east to Suffolk, he looks again at the image of the murderer as finally and reluctantly verified by poor, ambitious, fucked-up Gary Mulplant.

  The phone rings. It is Pulford, telling him that Leonard Howerd and Roddy and Arabella have just climbed into Leonard’s Bentley. He enquires as to whether he should follow.

  ‘No, I’ll be waiting for them. The roads are too clear today. They’ll notice you,’ says Staffe, looking in his rearview mirror. The silver Mondeo drops back again. It has been with him all the way.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Give them a head start, then make your way to Warblingsea Harbour. Keep your phone on, and your head down.’

  ‘I’ve got the records from A’Court’s phone, sir. You were right. He got a call from the Colonial Bankers’ Club – an hour before Danya was murdered.’

  Staffe hangs up. As he drives, he pictures the movements of Darius A’Court that day – sees it in sepia.

  *

  Sylvie puts the Sabatier canteen back in its gift box, makes a space for it in the cupboards at the bottom of his dresser and boils the kettle to make herself an instant coffee.

  She sits at the table in the kitchen and wraps her hands around the mug. It is the oversized souvenir from Copenhagen, a mermaid’s tail swirled around the handle. She bought it for herself on the long weekend she and Staffe took – the first time they were together. She only brought it over here, to his place, a week ago. He hadn’t noticed.

  Sylvie hears the front door go and her heart bumps. It isn’t him. She is sure of it. He has his own, practically silent way of coming into a house. Even so, she calls, ‘Will!’

  Silence.

  Sylvie grips the mug tighter and the heat within makes the pads of her fingers tingle. She stares at the door, wants to call out to Staffe again, but something – between her heart and her throat – stops her.

  She hears a tread in the hallway, the whine of a door being opened, then closed. Sylvie wants to leap up and grab her phone and call the police but this feels ridiculous.

  Could it be Pulford? Or did she leave the radio on?

  A heavy creak in the hallway, the creak of a person. He appears in the kitchen doorway, making not such a large shape and forcing a thin smile. His face is ruddy and he has a scar down his forehead. It is fresh, pink.

  ‘I won’t harm you,’ he says. ‘Not unless I have to.’

  Sylvie knows she should scream.

  The mug is beginning to burn her now, and her hands yearn to tremble so she grips tighter and she feels sick. Her stomach, shrunken, gives up on her and she turns her head so she cannot see this man.

  ‘It is Christmas,’ she says. ‘I have to visit my dad.’

  ‘Not today,’ says the man, coming towards her. ‘You’re going to do everything I say, when I say it, and if you don’t get to see your dad – ever – don’t blame me. It’s that fucking boyfriend of yours. You get me?’

  *

  Staffe considers everything that has been done to maintain this secret, how much suffering has bled into so many lives. In this context, he should fear for himself. But today, all he can think of is the plight of Brendan Stone, and the lonely, lonely death of Graham Blears.

  This is a day to right the wrongs. He steps down, into Imogen II, goes below decks.

  He is not surprised to see
Darius A’Court, but has never before seen the woman sitting at the table in the saloon, sipping from a cup. She is sun-dried and skinny, has her hair cut short and side-parted. She wears an offshore sailing coat and salopettes – dressed to go.

  ‘Imogen?’ he says.

  ‘Inspector,’ says Imogen Howerd. ‘I am right and you are wrong. I have papers to prove who I am.

  ‘Whoever you claim to be, I see you’re planning to harbour criminals.’

  ‘You should be careful what you say, Inspector,’ says the Elder, emerging from the aft cabin. ‘I see you didn’t get the chance to take Tchancov in.’

  ‘It seems that in this world you can bury the truth,’ says Staffe.

  ‘Surely, this case is laid to rest.’

  ‘You’d be amazed.’

  ‘And so would you, Inspector. Throughout this investigation – from the moment you began to mudsling – we have made it our business to keep abreast of developments. You have nothing to hold against us.’

  ‘It would have been edifying to talk some more with Bobo Bogdanovich; and Vassily Tchancov, for that matter.’

  ‘We should all celebrate the death of such a man,’ says the Elder.

  ‘Brendan Stone will serve life because of you – as if losing his daughter wasn’t enough.’ Staffe looks around the cabin. ‘Where’s that shitty little mercenary of yours? The one who likes to beat up women. I’d like him to know I’m not done with him.’

  ‘Why are you here, Inspector?’ says Imogen.

  ‘I have come to see Darius. I need to talk to him.’ Staffe looks at Darius, who seems somehow diminished. ‘I’d like to know what your plans are now; now that Arabella is returned. Will you help her all the way back into that fold? I would have thought there would be rewards, for a saviour like you.’

  ‘We look after people we love. It’s not a crime,’ says Darius.

  The Elder’s phone rings. He answers, listens, and his face sags into a frown. It is an expression Staffe has not seen on him before.