by Adam Creed
After protestations, the Elder holds out the phone to Staffe, says, ‘This will have to play out. You’d better speak to him.’
‘Who?’
‘The Younger.’
A lazy voice at the other end says, wearily, ‘Hello? Who’s that?’
Staffe recognises the voice. ‘Sylvie! Are you all right? Where are you?’
‘Is that you, Will?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m tired. So tired.’
‘No point trying to do anything, Inspector. Just do what you’re told,’ says the Younger. His voice is soft and he seems calm, assured. ‘I won’t be fucked about. This is going to end. Today, you understand?’
‘Don’t touch her!’
‘I won’t need to. She’s a clumsy thing. An accident waiting to happen.’
‘I can trace this call.’
‘Not to me, you can’t. Now hand me back to the Elder.’
‘I’ll find you!’ Staffe hands the phone back and sits heavily at the chart table, wanting to grab the Elder, to rattle him until he gives the word for Sylvie to be released, until he bleats out the truth – all of it, and nothing but.
However, he knows he is a step behind, and that the Elder is beyond his reach. He turns to Imogen Howerd, says to her, ‘You can go. I’m not here to stop you.’
‘What about Darry?’ Imogen says.
‘You’d be a fool to take him with you.’
‘I need crew. Darry’s a dab hand.’
‘You’ve got family can help you out with that.’
‘You’d let me go, just like that?’ says Imogen.
‘The power of love,’ says the Elder, putting his phone into his pocket. ‘Our friend, the Younger, seems to have everything in hand.’
Staffe tries to block out what could be happening to Sylvie, is unable. ‘There’s nothing as powerful as love, like you say, Darius,’ he says.
‘I’m not falling for your games,’ says Darius.
‘It’s not a game. They called you, from their club, just an hour before she was killed.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘It’s an alibi, for them. A noose, for you.’
‘I should be careful, if I was you, Inspector,’ says the Elder.
‘I spoke to the bellboy. He never saw Blears.’
‘That’s bullshit,’ says Darius. He looks at the Elder, desperation oozing from his pores in the cabin chill.
‘You’re not really a dealer, Darius. You haven’t got that in you, have you? But you had enough coming in to look after yourself and Arra. You lived in that shithole squat but you always had the readies to get wasted or high, and to eat and go out partying. Leonard was bankrolling you, wasn’t he?’
‘Why would he?’
‘You couldn’t know it would escalate the way it did, or that Elena would push things too far. But to be a Howerd, Darius, that would mend everything that ever went wrong with your life.’
Staffe weighs Geraldine A’Court’s love for this son, considers the hand the poor boy was dealt by his parents: ‘I know why you did it, Darius. Honestly, I do. I have visited your mother and I understand. I know what is at stake for you and her. You were trying to secure a future, preserve your past.’
‘This is bullshit,’ says Darius.
‘Let him finish,’ says the Elder, his eyes flitting, fast as thoughts.
‘I know it wasn’t your idea. How would you ever come up with such a thing? And why would you?’ Staffe looks at Imogen. ‘You probably didn’t even know that Elena had found out about Imogen not being dead; that Leonard had concocted a way to bury the shame.’
Staffe takes out the photograph of the dark young boy with the straight nose. ‘Your son,’ he says to Imogen. ‘Too bad, to bear a Turk’s bastard, on the strike of Uncle Bernard’s finest hour.’
‘What?’ says Darius, a step or two behind.
‘I adopted this boy,’ says Imogen. ‘I have the papers. And you forget, I have no Uncle Bernard. I’m not her. We buried her.’
‘That your uncle could become cardinal. How proud the family must have been.’ Staffe says, to Darius, ‘When they said Elena was a problem and she had to go, did they promise – if you could do that thing for them and if you could deliver Arabella back into the fold, which was your game all along – you would be welcomed into the family with open arms?’
Darius turns to the Elder, who looks away.
‘… Of course they did. And of course, you couldn’t resist. You knew that if you hadn’t killed Elena, someone else would have. You knew what a conniving bitch she was. She tried to split you and Arra up, didn’t she?’
‘Shut up!’ shouts Darius. He looks at Imogen, now, imploring help. ‘Tell him!’
‘Is this what you’re proposing, Inspector?’ says Imogen.
‘I’m proposing the truth. It’s all I know, I’m afraid.’
‘And your fiancée?’ says the Elder. ‘The truth can be exchanged for her?’
‘The world will see that Darius was the one who dragged Arabella down. Your daughter can return to her family and all will be well. I have no vendetta, provided nothing – and I mean nothing! – happens to Sylvie. I just want the murderer.’
‘And Leonard and I?’ says Imogen.
‘As you said, I can’t disprove that you are someone else. And it’s not my business anyway. All that matters to me is you had nothing to do with the murders. Leonard may have to wait for his knighthood, I guess, but your name will be saved.’ He turns to the Elder. ‘But Sylvie will have to be brought to somewhere safe, to someone I can trust.’
‘But it’s not true!’ says Darius.
‘Isn’t it?’ says the Elder. ‘We’d look after you. You know that.’
‘He could just let it lie,’ says Darius. ‘You’ve got his fucking girlfriend, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I need to talk to you,’ says Imogen, to the Elder. ‘Just for a minute.’ She walks into the bespoke airlock in the bow of the boat and he follows her. Their voices are low, muffled, impassioned.
Staffe hisses, to Darius. ‘Listen, and listen well. I have the proof. You hear me! The bellboy told me he saw you that day. I’m afraid your fate is nailed to the mast.’
Darius looks at Staffe, open-eyed, like the adolescent in the photograph again – as if he would quite happily lose himself in his mother’s skirts. As if in a trance, he says, ‘I can’t trust anybody.’
‘They’re cashing you in, Darius. It’s not a question of trust. The truth has come to take you.’
The doors to the airlock open and close. Imogen’s face is set. She says, low and even, ‘There is only one way this can work. When the family arrives, Roddy sails with me.’
‘You’ll be crossing Biscay,’ says Staffe. ‘Just the two of you?’
‘We have Lord Admirals to our name, Inspector. I think we can tackle Biscay,’ says Imogen – as if the elements cannot touch her.
The Elder says, ‘Arabella can enter a programme of rehabilitation and Leonard will issue a statement explaining his disappointment and his hope for a recovery. The Crown will look kindly upon Darius. He will be represented by Sir Ralph Waikman. You will process him and you will lay this case to rest. If you can agree, I’ll speak to the Younger. Otherwise … You have other people you care for – a nephew, I believe.’
‘You bastards!’
‘You can’t judge us,’ says the Elder.
Staffe tries to work out where Sylvie might be, tries not to picture the state she is in – drugged or otherwise sedated, by the sound of her. He knows what is right, what he should do, but this is no time to bring Rebeccah’s killer to book.
He says to the Elder, ‘You’ll bring Sylvie to Leadengate. Once I’ve seen her, I will process the charges. And once that happens, the harbourmaster will give you the all-clear.’
‘I need to see Arabella,’ says Darius. His voice is frail, warbling; his face the grey of bad truths dawning.
The Elder takes Staffe’s hand and they shake
. Staffe wants to ask if it was his bastard accomplice, the Younger, who ran Rebeccah through with the knife because of what she learned from Elena on that trip to the seaside; the Younger, who has Sylvie’s life in his hands. Staffe’s pulse quickens.
‘Is there any unfinished business?’ asks the Elder.
‘What we know and what we can prove are often different. Sometimes, we have to wait for a missing element. I have nothing whatsoever on you or your friend. I don’t even know your names. But be assured, if I ever come across him again …’
‘This will not happen.’
Staffe wants to whip this cold, calculating man into shape, wishes he had brought one of his new knives with him. His hands have formed fists and his face must betray him because the Elder takes a step back, reaches into his jacket and with the imperceptible curl of a wrist he unleashes the full extent of a telescopic steel cosh. In the same instant, a car parks up outside. There are three slams of the doors.
The Elder says, ‘Are we on the same hymn sheet?’
Staffe nods.
The Elder pushes the cosh back into itself and they each watch as the Howerd family come below decks. First Roddy, then Leonard and finally, weak on her feet and leaden with medication, Arabella.
When she sees her daughter, Imogen emits a low, strangulated wail, like something from another culture.
Huddled between father and brother at the bottom of the steps, Arabella is bewildered. Leonard ushers her towards her mother, and the truth dawns. No apparition; this is a resurrection. Arabella cannot believe what she sees. ‘It’s all lies,’ she says.
Darius goes to her, puts an arm around her and guides Arabella towards Imogen, whispering that he loves her, that he is going away. ‘For our love,’ he tells her. ‘I’m going away for our love.’ But Arabella doesn’t understand. She lets herself be wrapped in her mother’s arms. The two women stand there, like that, until the Elder and Howerd prise them apart.
‘I have to go,’ sobs Imogen. She turns to Roddy. ‘Are we ready?’
Roddy comes to her, whispers something which makes her smile, approvingly.
‘I will see you again?’ says Arabella, now in her father’s arms.
‘Before you know it. I love you, Bella.’
‘Whenever people say that, they leave me.’ Arabella shrugs off her father and reaches for Darius, who looks at Staffe.
Each wishes for a better solution.
The Elder leads the way above decks and Imogen says to Leonard, ‘There is a greater good. Isn’t there?’
‘Of course, my love.’ To see his jaw weak, you might think he doubts the wisdom he inherited.
*
The Younger looks in his rearview mirror, sees the shape of the inspector’s fiancée in the back of the ambulance. She lies still, now. He had to calm her down, whilst the pills worked their magic. He can’t abide people who hit women and he feels ashamed at what is sometimes necessary on this path that chose him.
When this is all done, he will go to Ireland, spend a week in retreat before he visits his mother. She has a lovely new place now, a long way from the Falls Road. Same country, different world. Her garden runs all the way to the Shannon banks. He will fish and she will call him for dinner and then he will walk into the village, have a pint or two in this place where nobody knows him. The Elder has assured him that, after this, there will be no calls for a good while. This job requires that the dust settles, good and proper. It is always difficult when the police get involved.
The bastard’s girlfriend moans, in her half-sleep, murmuring into the muzzle he has put on her. He has planned, quite meticulously, how he will tend her. He has everything that is required in the glove compartment and it will be administered in her house. Her attic is stacked to the gunnels with varnish and lacquer and other flammables. She will have spilled some on her clothes and been careless with a candle, then fallen asleep. He is confident that further measures will not be necessary.
If all goes well, he will be on a ferry from Fishguard by first light tomorrow. It will be Boxing Day and his brothers will have gone back to Liverpool by then. No loss. Ignorant bastards. In the mirror, he watches as he presses the salmon-pink, soft new flesh of his scar. If he presses hard, it pains him – in a sweet way.
Putting the key to the ignition, he prays his mother will not concern herself with what has happened to him.
As he drives away, along a mews-lined, cobbled street, he makes a small detour, pauses at the gated entrance to a private garden square. Where the garden meets the street, the church nestles back. This is where the Elder first brought him, at the beginning of this job. It is St Philip Neri and he has confessed here. Now, he looks at Our Lady, hands clasped in stone prayer, above the arched entrance, looking to the ground as if all our sins are upon her shoulders. He feels his heart slow and he understands, absolutely, quite how we must all suffer.
*
The waters are grey, the horses high and white out at sea. It is choppy beyond the bar, but Roddy is keen with the ropes and cleats. He is lithe, his movements precise.
Nearby, church bells peel and the gulls flap their wings, squawk off, circling high. On the far side of the harbour’s hardstanding, Staffe sees Pulford skulking in a doorway. He says to the Elder, ‘I need the toilet.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
The toilet block smells the way you’d expect it to and Staffe goes into a half-door trap, drops his trousers, hoping he can summon what is necessary, all the time scrolling through his phone, creating white noise as he punches in his message to Pulford … They have sylvie. Follow man with me til he meets the one with the scar – he killed reb stone.
He manages to ablute and turns off his phone. When he emerges, he jokes about giving it a few minutes. The Elder doesn’t laugh, just says, ‘You are a man of your word?’
‘It’s all I have,’ says Staffe.
‘So you’ll bring the charges against A’Court – and only him.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And Leonard and Imogen?’
‘I have given you my word.’
*
Staffe leads the way back to London, Howerd driving Darius and Arabella in his Bentley, the Elder turning off when they get to the bottom of the A11, disappearing back into his secret world.
As they drive the empty roads, Staffe works out how he will accomplish a final summoning to justice of the man who killed Rebeccah. He laments what the Howerds have writ for poor Darius, how quickly he became dispensable, and didn’t even know, fully, why he was called upon to take Elena’s life. His bile rises.
But they hadn’t counted on Rebeccah. Hence, the Elder and the Younger – whatever circle they form a part of – digging up what Vassily Tchancov had left in his bloody wake. And when Graham Blears turned up … Manna from heaven.
By the time they get to Leadengate, Staffe has arranged for medics to be on the scene, fearing the worst for Sylvie. He leads Darius into the holding room, suggests that Arabella stay with him. ‘Love is a precious thing,’ he says to Leonard. ‘Regardless of who it is wasted on.’
Leonard manages a thin-lipped smile. He looks exhausted, as if he might agree to anything.
‘I need a few minutes with Darius,’ says Staffe.
‘How can I trust you?’ says Howerd.
‘Imogen and Roddy will be on their way now. You should call Waikman, get him down.’
Staffe closes the door on him, praying that this is the right thing, and calls Jombaugh. ‘Call me the moment Sir Ralph Waikman gets here.’
He turns his attention to Darius, who is holding Arabella. They touch each other like lovesick teenagers. Sad, that they got in so far above their heads.
‘You know, I wasn’t going to do it. I had thought I could, kidded myself I could, but when I got there …’
‘Do what, Darry?’ says Arabella.
‘… She fell. She fell against that fucking radiator. She was cut. What could I do?’
‘You could have helped her; not su
ffocated her. And you could have saved Graham Blears. Can you imagine his agonies? You did a terrible thing, Darius.’
Staffe watches the truth dawn on Arabella, who says, ‘Sir Ralph will make it all right, won’t he?’
Howerd comes in, goes to Darius and whispers in his ear.
Darius nods, forlorn, broken, says, ‘All I can hope is that I can somehow make amends, and that Arabella and her family don’t suffer unduly.’
‘What are you saying, Darry?’ says Arabella.
Darius looks at Howerd, who shakes his head. He says nothing more.
*
The Younger has Sylvie in the attic, had to carry her up, fireman style. At one point, he thought he might have to show her the back of his hand again, but she went quiet, must have seen the intent in his eyes. She is curled in a ball, under the hip window. The white spirit is poured on her jeans and the sleeves of her jumper, on the floor all around her for good measure. He takes out the matches, sniffs in, hard. It clears his sinuses, gives him a rush.
Looking at her, he can see the second dose of pills have taken effect. She will be dead to the world in a minute. Her eyes lid down, heavy, and he regrets that he has to do this. Equally, he knows that an unenforced threat is its own death sentence. It cannot ever be allowed. These are the terms of engagement.
His leg vibrates. He plunges his hand into his pocket, looks at the phone. Seeing it is the Elder, his heart gladdens, briefly. Perhaps the ether is bringing tidings that there is another way. He hasn’t killed often in his life. The first was a bomb-making Unionist in the North; tit for tat and twenty years ago, when he wasn’t even a man, and just a week before he first met the Elder. His heart beats fast.
‘Are you in the ambulance, still?’ says the Elder.
‘No. I’ve switched her. We’re ready to go.’
‘You mustn’t. We have what we want.’
‘What we want?’
‘Bring her to the station, to Leadengate.’
‘What has changed?’ Something inside the Younger subsides. A fast lifeform dies and he feels a vial of disappointment burst in his belly. He is ashamed of his own reaction, knows he will have to answer for it. ‘What has he said to you?’
