by Adam Creed
‘The family is safe. He has what he wants.’
‘What is it that he wants?’ The Younger’s head feels foggy. ‘What have you given him?’
‘The murderer. It’s all that concerns him.’
The Younger thinks, ‘Which murderer?’ and suddenly feels as if a hand is upon his shoulder, a bead trained on the back of his head. It is as though time has turned and he is, once more, estranged on the Shankill Road – the day the Elder gifted him this life.
The Elder says, ‘Put her back in the ambulance and drive it to Leadengate Station. Clean yourself from it and go.’
‘Go where?’
‘I don’t need to know,’ says the Elder.
The phone clicks dead.
The Younger knows there is an opposite reaction to everything you do.
The Elder makes his way back to his car and promises himself that next Christmas, he will look in on his family. His daughter has a newborn baby he has only seen twice. He sighs as he points the key at his car. It jingles and he opens the door, clocking, as he gets in, the young sergeant in the car across the road. He spotted him as they came onto the Old Street roundabout. He reconciles himself. He will have to do what he must, whether the sergeant sees him or not. This will mean another spell away.
*
Sir Ralph Waikman pulls up his chair to talk to Darius A’Court. Howerd stands against the wall, arms crossed, looking on intently. He scrutinises Darius’s every move, seems impressed with the young man. If Staffe didn’t know Howerd, he might think there is an element of pride in Howerd’s expression.
Staffe says, ‘He has been read his rights. Do you want to hear it again?’
‘You have new evidence, I hear,’ says Sir Ralph. ‘I will need to see full disclosure, by the close of day.’
‘The bellboy identified Mr A’Court at the scene.’
‘Anything my client might have said will have to be reconsidered, I am afraid.’ Waikman leans forward, lowers his voice, says to Darius, ‘There will be no more duress.’ An ember of hope seems to glow in the young man’s eyes.
Howerd goes to Waikman, whispers in his ear.
‘Aaah. I see.’ The beknighted brief turns to Staffe and says, knowingly, ‘Do we have an understanding?’
‘I have spoken to the CPS. There is a will to bring this case to a speedy conclusion.’
Howerd nods, and when Sir Ralph looks back to his client, the hope seems all gone from Darius’s eyes.
Staffe says, to Waikman, ‘We have almost reached the end of this line.’
‘This line?’
Staffe realises he has to rekindle a threat. God knows where Sylvie is. He considers the strength – and the weaknesses – of his hand. ‘I don’t know how far to pursue this case, Sir Ralph. I have some interesting theories about your client’s motives.’
Howerd says, ‘And what about our agreement?’
Waikman says, ‘Interesting?’
‘I would like a few minutes with Mr Howerd.’
‘You have a proposal?’ says Waikman.
‘Oh, yes. I think you should be there, too.’
Staffe leads Howerd outside. ‘The fresh air will do you no harm,’ he says. ‘Imagine being on that boat – all the way to Biscay, and beyond. It would be nice if Imogen made it back to the Black Sea.’
‘You gave your word.’
‘I said I’d bring charges. And I said Imogen would be free to go.’
‘You have conditions?’ says Waikman.
‘You deceived me,’ says Howerd.
‘May I burn in hell for all eternity – such heinous bloody sins,’ says Staffe, his voice trembling. ‘I would happily send Roddy down for being an accessory, and you might quite easily die in prison if we ever uncovered all the conspiracy evidence.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Just like Graham Blears.’
‘Not quite the same,’ says Waikman, who is cool, aloof. ‘Such evidence is thin.’
‘But as you say, I gave my word,’ says Staffe. ‘And you gave me yours. Now where the bloody hell is my fiancée!’ he hisses, taking care none of the milling uniforms gets wind. ‘And while we’re here, I’ll remind you that I won’t rest until I have whoever killed Rebeccah Stone.’
In this instant, the doors to the station are battered open and a pair of community officers, decked out in bicycle helmets and high-vis vests, force their way into reception. ‘We need some medics,’ they say.
Between them, Sylvie is slumped, her legs dead, feet dragging on the parquet floor.
‘We found her outside – in an unmanned ambulance, would you believe? She’s out of it.’
Jombaugh steps in, taking a hold of Staffe, whispering in his ear, ‘You stay out of this. This is too close to home to make a scene.’
Staffe shrugs Jombaugh off and walks to Sylvie, wraps his arms around her, holds her tight, says, ‘You’re safe.’ He presses his face to her head, whispers, ‘It’s over.’ He can smell petrol, says, ‘What the hell have they done to you?’
Her hair is dank with sweat. She groans. ‘You lied.’ Her breath is sticky and he can smell her insides as she sighs, ‘Stay away from me.’
The medics come into reception from the First Aid room and Jombaugh takes a tight hold of Staffe. ‘The last thing she needs is more upset. Bide your time, Will. Do you want this all out in the open?’
Staffe jabs a finger at Leonard Howerd. ‘You know who killed Rebeccah, God damn you. I want a statement to prove it.’
‘If, hypothetically, my client were to do such a thing, the Crown might conceivably pursue Mr Howerd’s involvement,’ says Waikman.
‘Unless the perpetrator confessed. The confession would be enough for us,’ says Staffe. ‘There were times when men would fall on their swords. Now, we are more civilised, but you could imagine such a thing, Leonard,’ says Staffe, wrestling with how honourable he has been – when you look at what he allowed to happen to Sylvie and Brendan Stone. ‘This way you are tarnished with a single black sheep. Every family has one. Think about the secrets you can preserve.’
Sir Ralph whispers to Howerd and approaches Staffe, putting an arm around his shoulder, leading him back inside. As they go, Staffe turns to Howerd, says, ‘And there is one final thing I have to ask. A small matter – a private affair.’
As he tells them, he looks over their shoulders, to the holding room, where Sylvie was. But she is gone.
*
The Elder places the note on the mantel of his young accomplice’s fireplace. The handwriting is a perfect copy and will stick in court. He has been at this juncture once before, but was granted a pardon. This time, it is simply too grave. When you mess with police, there’s a price to pay. Otherwise, the files never close, and this is a file that has to close.
He looks out at the young sergeant’s parked Mondeo, three doors down. He checks the action of his Ruger revolver, a 101, chosen for its double action. You can’t be too careful when taking down a pro. Especially one of your own. Split seconds might stop the reflexes from killing them, and he blocks out how fond he is of this victim. Still nothing more than a terrace hooligan when they second met, when the young hoodlum saved this soldier’s life.
Since, he has fashioned that boy into what he is today. He has much to answer for. He checks the chamber for its .357 Magnums. With a heavy heart, he returns the cylinder and switches on the TV. The front sitting room flickers. Its glow should deceive the surveilling sergeant for a minute or so. It’s all he needs.
He slips out the back of John Parnell’s rented ground-floor apartment and across the gardens, knowing where its tenant, the Younger, will be: a final prayer before he fully disappears – if the Elder knows his man. Which he does.
*
Jombaugh blocks Staffe’s path to the First Aid room, says, ‘She’s adamant.’ Through the grilled window, Staffe can see Sylvie, drowned in thick red blankets, a male nurse on one knee in front of her, administering an injection. She looks up, catches Staffe’s eye and at first it seems she doesn’t re
cognise him. Her hair is greasy, combed back. Her eyes Balkan hollow and grey-black.
He is appalled with himself, knows he needs to hold her, to tell her he loves her and that he will never allow such a thing to happen again. He pushes past Jombaugh, who says, ‘Be careful what you say to her, Will.’
Staffe pulls open the door, not quite understanding why Jom said what he did. He takes the velvet box from his pocket, removes the emerald pendant and holds it out.
Sylvie shakes her head and, soft as a distant dove, she says, ‘It doesn’t matter what you say, Will.’
Suddenly, he understands what his sergeant meant. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m better on my own. I suppose I should thank you for that.’ She removes the intaglio ring. It seems to take every last drop she has and the nurses look on as if Staffe is some ogre from fables.
He says, ‘You keep it,’ holds out the pendant. ‘I wasn’t lying.’
‘We could be at Dad’s and thinking everything was going to be just fine,’ she says. ‘But you couldn’t. I know that.’ She smiles at him. ‘Someone has saved me, Will. And it’s you.’
Boxing Day
Staffe runs the Castelnau as far as the track to the river, then down stream along the right bank to Putney Bridge. There are no ducks on the Thames. Perhaps it is a family day, on land.
Working his way through the Harbour development, he thinks of all the profit being made, up in Aldesworth, and what that can and can’t buy. He touches the paper he is carrying, tucked down the back of his tracksuit bottoms, damp from sweat, still worth the same, though.
On the Embankment, Parliament behind him now, he sees St Paul’s and the smaller domes of the Thamesbank Hotel. Gary Mulplant will be far, far away, his young wings clipped. Staffe hopes the other young man, Darius A’Court, might have been visited by his mother. He hopes she will never be made to understand her part in his downfall.
He focuses on the Thamesbank’s burnished domes, like something you would see across the Bosphorus, and he sees that beautiful and young woman, pale as death, on the moonlit floor of that hotel room. He never spoke to her, can never understand the depths of her ambition, her realised desires. Elena and Bobo will be flown home. Arabella will be getting lines on her fair face by the time Darius emerges from his sentence.
In the City, he puts in a hundred-stride sprint along Cheapside, collapses through Leadengate’s doors and into Jombaugh’s reception. Panting, he asks for Pennington. Jombaugh nods and Staffe climbs the stairs.
Pennington is looking out on a part of his domain, says, ‘You finally put it to bed, Staffe.’
‘Just the one loose end, sir,’ he says, sitting down, rubbing his quadriceps.
Pennington spins on his chair, raises his eyebrows at Staffe’s sporting attire.
‘What loose end?’
‘The bastard who killed Rebeccah. We will have to see if that confession materialises. You know how these people can go to ground.’
‘These people?’ says Pennington. ‘I guess there are things we will never understand. Do you ever think that there are other worlds, running alongside us? We don’t see them or hear them. We can’t touch them.’
‘We can smell them, sir.’
Pennington opens the drawer to his desk and takes out an envelope, lobs it to Staffe. ‘Pulford brought it in. I read it. Felt I had to, in the circumstances. But I’m showing it you now.’
The envelope is addressed to DI Wagstaffe, Leadengate Police Station. Inside, the letter is short and written in an ugly, thin hand.
I, John Parnell, acting of my own volition and being of utterly sound mind, confess the lives of Rebeccah Stone and myself. She was executed for violations against society and I undertook to kill her independently. My reasons go to my grave. Both killings are absolutely a matter of honour, in ways neither you nor the legal system can understand. May God forgive me, and you, and all of us.
John Parnell
25 December 2009
‘You say Pulford brought the letter.’
‘It was in Parnell’s flat. Pulford followed the other one there, but lost him. The body was found in the garden of St Philip Neri, just before midday.’
‘Ironic,’ says Staffe. ‘Suicide is a sin.’
‘He was shot in the head. There were no prints at all on the gun. He wasn’t wearing gloves.’
‘An execution?’ says Staffe.
‘Can this be the end of it?’
‘Not quite,’ says Staffe, standing. ‘But don’t worry. Just one final, private matter, sir.’
‘I heard about Sylvie. I’m sorry, Will. You said you might take a holiday. Where might you go?’
Staffe remembers Stanislav, driving for the port and the vast continent beyond. Sometimes, his world seems so small.
‘Another country,’ he says, leaving.
*
‘You never call,’ says Rosa, standing aside, welcoming Staffe in.
In the lounge, baby Elena bangs her toy pram into furniture. She spits bubbles and her chubby cheeks are impossibly rosy. On his knees, wiggling a doll at her and making her chortle, is the man from the photograph with the Italianate village behind him.
‘This is Mike,’ says Rosa.
Staffe looks for Mike’s wedding finger, sees it is bare. He gives the man the benefit of the doubt and a handshake, his warmest smile.
‘You look terrible, Will,’ says Rosa.
And, true enough, he feels terribly weak, utterly eroded by this case. He puts his hand out behind him, sits back heavily on the sofa. Rosa hands him a glass of water and he sips from it, hears the infant Elena gibbering nonsense.
He pushed too hard, for a woman he didn’t even know, and now he is bereft.
Staffe forces down the water, hands the glass back to Rosa. ‘I can’t stop. I’m going away, but I’ve got something for you. For Elena, really.’
He hands her the envelope marked PRIVAT, watches Rosa’s mouth drop open as she sees the bonds.
‘She needs someone to look after her, to be with her, all the time – at least until she goes to school.’
‘This is …’
‘It belongs to whoever holds it. It was Rebeccah’s and now it’s yours. Hold it for Elena. It’s a matter of honour.’
Extract from Book 3 in the D. I. Staffe series
Exclusive extract from the new D. I. Staffe novel
Pain of Death
Publishing May 2011
One
Staffe sinks to his knees, the floor surprisingly warm, here beneath the City. He feels the ground-water leech into his trousers and he leans close to the face of the dying woman. In this false light, her skin is the palest blue, almost neon, and her broken lips are strangely bright, like burst plums. He searches for a glimmer of life but there seems to be none. Then she moans. He could swear she does, so he puts his ear to her mouth. There is nothing, just his own drumming of life, within.
Water drips, seeping all around them. It is cold and the old stone vaults echo the constant murmur of the small generator. A camera clicks, punctuating the buzz of the crime-scene lights.
A paramedic asks Staffe to move away and another stands over the woman, drapes a blanket over her; red. It covers her body, not the face.
‘No,’ says the photographer. ‘I need her the way she was.’
Beneath the blanket, the woman is as she was: naked from the waist down, a cotton dress hoisted up around her breasts. No underwear.
A scene of crime officer in plastic overalls removes the blanket and looks away as the photographer tries to lock the scene, in time.
‘We have to move her,’ says the doctor. She wears red, patent chunky heels and her hair is done up in a swirling twist. Her plastic suit rustles in the subterranean melée and she sounds unsure as to whether she is doing the right thing by moving the woman. The night she had dressed for was in a different, brighter world.
‘You must take her,’ says Staffe, snatching the blanket from the SOCO. As he replaces the blanket, he s
ees the smears and clusters of blood, some dried, some fresh. It is all over the down curve of her tummy, and her legs, and between. He averts his eyes, too late, ushers the paramedics.
‘We need more time,’ says the photographer.
Staffe grabs the photographer’s camera, says to the doctor, ‘I’m sorry. Please take her away.’
The paramedics lift her onto a stretcher, as if she were a Faberge egg. Written on all their faces is the doomed concentration of people who wish to save lives, who often as not tend the new dead.
The doctor places a hand on Staffe’s elbow, grips it lightly, saying softly, ‘She might be all right. She really might.’
They smile at each other, weak as baby birds.
He watches everybody leave, taking their kit with them: the SOCOs and medics in separate groups. The photographer gives Staffe his dirtiest look.
The Inspector remains in this tunnel the Victorians designed to house the machines to build a line that never was, beneath the Thames. His chest tightens.
Far away, at the bottom of the spiral shaft that delivered them here, the iron door slams shut. It takes the last light and for a moment all Staffe can hear is his own heart. From the dark, distant, a light flickers. It slowly grows larger and as the man comes closer and closer, Staffe thinks he looks like something from Hammer, his eyes intent and narrowed. His bearded jaw juts and his thin lips are dark; a crescent of blood across one cheek. Blood on his hands and his shirt front, too.
This is Asquith, Secretary of the Underground Victorians. Staffe knows he will have to question him, will have to search for a link between Asquith and the dying woman, but this is a Historian. He found the poor, captive and dying woman and called the police. Killers don’t call, and even if they do, they don’t stick around.
