Bye Bye Baby

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘Or diving,’ Brodie quipped.

  Jack took his hand from beneath Kate’s and flipped Brodie the bird. That got everyone laughing, but only Kate realised that he slipped his hand back to its same comfy spot under hers.

  A nurse bustled in, all starched and crisp efficiency. ‘How are you feeling, Mr Hawksworth?’

  ‘Shitty,’ he replied.

  ‘Excellent, marginally better than dead then,’ she replied crisply. She offered him a drink through a straw. ‘I can’t sit you up just yet, with your ribs all beaten up. We’ll get to all of that when your visitors have gone, but they’ve been waiting a long time so I’ll let them have a few moments.’

  Jack mumbled his thanks.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she said, giving them all a look that said not a moment longer.

  ‘Blimey, you’ve cracked Nurse Ratchet,’ Brodie said. ‘What happened to sweet, young, well-endowed girls in tiny white uniforms?’

  ‘They’re in your sad fantasies only, Cam,’ Kate said tiredly but not without some amusement.

  Jack found his voice now that his throat had been sluiced with weak cordial that tasted of Tupperware. ‘Flynn?’

  ‘We got him,’ Brodie said. ‘He’s not well but he’ll live and face trial.’

  Kate explained. ‘He got burned. Apparently he was even more soaked with petrol than you were. His head and face were the worst affected but fortunately for us, although he looks like a freak, it’s all relatively superficial according to first reports. But then hospitals are used to serious burns so their idea of superficial probably just means you don’t need years of skin grafts. The fact that one side of his face has melted and he has no hair isn’t considered their problem.’

  ‘Tell someone who cares,’ Jack said, relieved. ‘And the son?’

  ‘We got him out before it all went up,’ Brodie said. ‘He’s pretty messed up emotionally, but he’s given us a statement based on everything his father confessed in front of him. Garvan Flynn can’t escape justice this time.’

  A freshly awkward silence stole around the bed. Jack decided to make it easy on them.

  ‘Is Anne McEvoy dead?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Kate admitted. ‘By all rights she should be, considering the concert hall went up like a tinderbox.’

  ‘I presume that was a Molotov cocktail she set it all ablaze with?’ Brodie said.

  Jack nodded, shards of pain arcing through his body as he moved his neck in a direction it didn’t want to go. ‘I didn’t think she’d throw it.’

  ‘You’d soaked yourself in petrol. It could have been much worse if she’d really aimed it at you,’ Kate said, and he was grateful to her for trying to make him feel easier about his lover’s actions.

  ‘When will we know?’

  ‘The SOCO team is crawling all over the place now.’

  ‘Is anything left of the pier?’

  Kate squeezed his uninjured hand. ‘No, Jack. They’re going to salvage what they can, I imagine. A lot of the ironwork can be saved but the pier itself is a burnt skeleton. What is left, the weather will finish off. I’m sorry.’

  ‘All those starlings have lost their home,’ he said, his mind wandering.

  A knock at the door revealed that Superintendent Martin Sharpe had also travelled down to the Brighton General Hospital to check on his DCI.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ everyone said at once, standing to attention.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘relax, and well done to all of you.’

  Swamp nudged Brodie and Sarah nodded.

  ‘Excuse us, sir. Nurse Ratchet has put us on a deadline anyway. Be warned,’ Brodie said. ‘Coming, Kate?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, glancing at Jack. ‘I might stick around in Brighton today. I don’t feel like doing the Dan scene just yet. Need some time to think.’ She smiled sadly. ‘See you later?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Jack said and a look passed between them. ‘Thanks.’

  Kate left with the others as Sharpe took up position at the end of the bed and made a show of looking over Jack’s charts.

  ‘So, you got your man.’

  ‘At a cost, but yes, sir, I’m very glad he’s in custody.’

  ‘They tell me you tipped petrol over yourself to save Flynn before you pulled off some sort of extraordinary leaping stunt. That was pretty heroic, Jack.’

  ‘All very selfish, sir. I wanted to put him behind bars and claim lots of glory for Operation Danube. I figured I’d make Superintendent a lot quicker.’

  Sharpe nodded at the dry comment. ‘Nevertheless, well above and beyond the call . . . and all that.’

  Jack wanted to shrug but was too cowardly. He knew the pain was just waiting for him to make a move. ‘It all happened so fast,’ he admitted. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I just reacted.’

  ‘Well, that reaction has earned you lots of nods from above.’ He sat down. ‘We don’t know about McEvoy yet. SOCO is hunting for her remains now.’ He didn’t see Jack wince, or chose not to. ‘But either way, you did a good job.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. We all did.’

  ‘I’m told you’re pretty beaten up. Why don’t you take some time off? Perhaps go on that Australian holiday when you get out of here.’

  ‘I was thinking just the same thing myself.’

  ‘Good, that’s settled.’

  ‘What about Deegan?’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘He’s off your back for now, but not out of your life, I suspect.’

  ‘Off my back? How?’

  ‘Your colleague, DI Carter. I presume you told her what was going on?’

  ‘Just a rough outline. She heard us talking on Sunday afternoon. I had to explain after my outburst.’

  ‘Well, good job you did. I gather Kate Carter did some private sleuthing. She knows a bit about DCI Deegan’s personal life. Let’s just say she put her Monday, while waiting for you to wake up, to good use.’ Sharpe winked.

  ‘You have to tell me.’

  ‘Well,’ Sharpe began, enjoying the build-up, ‘it seems that Deegan and Conway were lovers. He was heartbroken when Conway was killed and, like most of us in that situation, he needed someone to blame.’

  ‘So he blamed me? He took his time.’

  ‘I think your fast rise at the Yard helped him dislike you more, but yes, he knew there was some question over whether you ignored the call from Conway.’

  ‘I was exonerated —’ Jack winced in pain from trying to sit up and make his point.

  ‘I know, Jack, I know. But he wanted to dig around and make more of it. Felt there was a case to answer, although heaven knows what triggered it so long after the event. That’s what I mean — he’s off your back for now but don’t get too comfy. I doubt this will go away completely yet.’

  ‘But it’s over, is that what you’re saying?’

  Sharpe nodded. ‘Professionally, yes. Kate had a word to him, let him know that she knew he was building a case based on a grudge, that she knew about the affair — and I gather a few other things that she refused to share with me. Anyway, Deegan knows it won’t withstand the scrutiny now that his secret’s out.’

  Jack’s frown deepened. ‘What do you mean professionally? Why not personally as well?’

  ‘Ah, well, I think you need to catch up with Liz Drummond for the personal bit.’ He gave Jack a searching look. ‘But not yet, son. You need to get well, get out of here and take that holiday.’

  Before Jack could press him, the nurse bustled in. ‘Still here?’

  ‘Just leaving,’ Sharpe said.

  ‘I should think so,’ she said and made shooing gestures.

  Sharpe gave Jack a look of helplessness. ‘Talk tomorrow, eh?’ He winked and nodded towards the nurse and her obvious plans for a bedbath before smiling with sympathy. ‘Enjoy.’

  Jack felt suddenly too weary to protest. He fell back on his pillow as his boss left him to the nurse’s ministrations. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘this came for you. I said I’d bring it in. Someone loves you,’ she beamed, ha
nding him a handwritten envelope. ‘Right, I’m just going to get a couple more things and I’ll be back for a nice wash down, okay?’

  She left him to undo the card awkwardly on his chest with one hand.

  It showed a picture of West Pier with a flock of starlings lifting from its roof. Inside was a dried and pressed pale pink tulip — he was sure it was one of the twelve he’d paid through the nose for in Chinatown. The words on the card read:

  I hear you made it safely out of the murky Brighton waters. Be well, Jack. Love Sophie x

  And, despite all the pain, he smiled.

  48

  Penelope Baudrier smiled sweetly at the immigration officer when he handed back her passport and then joined the queue to step aboard the ferry from Newhaven in East Sussex to Dieppe in France. From there her plans were sketchy — a few days in Paris to rest, shop, set up a fresh bank account, but it seemed Santorini in Greece called to her.

  Why not? she thought. I’ve always wanted to see it.

  She pulled on her sunglasses and headed for the outside deck, hoping the wind would blow away the memories of this past month and the smell of smoke that clung to her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The West Pier, which seemed to be the boundary between the Hove seafront — where I lived on Brunswick Terrace as a child — and Brighton proper, is very much part of my earliest memories. I can remember glorious summer days with our granny taking us onto the pier for special treats. It cost sixpence to enter and every inch of it was a magical land so separate from the humdrum of everyday life. On the pier there was vibrant colour, exotic sights, wild sounds, the incredible experience of fairy floss that has never tasted the same in adulthood, and the red striped helter-skelter that made us scream. There was magic and mystery; it was both sinister and enthralling. One-armed bandits — or fruit machines as we knew them — were the latest hi-tech invention and much of the pleasure of the pier was that sense of leaving behind reality, walking out above the sea and into a land of fantasy.

  And so it seemed fitting when I decided to tackle a crime novel, to return to the familiar stomping ground of Brighton, particularly as today the West Pier is such a sad skeleton of its former magnificence. Its brooding, sorrowful presence gave me a perfect setting. To this day, no one has been held accountable for the terrible fire in March 2003 that destroyed it. The mystery surrounding its destruction and the suspicion of arson suited this tale perfectly. I wish the hardworking members of the West Pier Trust every success with their plans to rebuild the grand old lady and I cherished the opportunity, in May 2006, to walk amongst the salvaged items of the pier. They prompted a host of memories — my favourite being to see those lampposts again after thirty-five years, with their entwined, scary serpents.

  I’ve taken lots of liberties in this novel for the sake of story — such as having the 2003 West Pier fire at night, rather than just before 10 a.m.

  My sincere thanks to Professor Fred Gray, Dean of the Sussex Institute at Sussex University, member of the West Pier Trust and historian-author on seaside architecture. Our paths crossed by chance and he was a godsend for the early part of this project.

  Another stroke of luck — or was it destiny? — brought Anthony Berry into my life. Tony became my partner for every step of the journey through this tale and I couldn’t have crafted it without his regular, often daily input of facts and advice, particularly in regard to police procedure.

  Thanks also to Dr Michael McEvoy, Dominic Broadwith, Mark Hibbert and Arthur Hazeldine for their help with various aspects of the story at just the right time, and to Samantha Rich and Judy Downs for their early insights into the draft. I’m most grateful to Linda Funnell for her constant guidance, to my editor Nicola O’Shea and to my agent, Chris Lotts. Everyone at HarperCollins has been so enthusiastic about this project — thanks to all for believing in it. Big round of applause for wonderful Jason Lehmann for all his hard work in designing an exciting website that we’ll continue to develop, and to Trent Hayes for his endlessly generous help in giving it wings to fly. Thanks guys!

  Love and thanks to Sandra and Giles Stone in Hove. Together with their beautiful boys, Jack and George, they helped me to rediscover Hove Park, Western Road, The Lanes, Brighton seafront and various other childhood haunts.

  As usual, I’m indebted to the patient understanding of my trio at home, who managed to pretend it’s thoroughly normal to be discussing the modus operandi of a serial killer over a pot of tea. — FM

  DCI Jack Hawksworth

  of New Scotland Yard

  returns in

  Beautiful

  Death

  In bookstores now.

  1.

  FEBRUARY 2005

  The two men frowned at the map. It made little sense and one referred to the detailed instructions he’d taken good care to note down. Hiran needed to make this new life in England work; he had a wife and five children back home, whereas Taj only had two little ones. Hiran suspected he might be taking this opportunity more seriously than his friend.

  They’d been given the name of a contact. Apparently they’d find him somewhere in the corridors of the Royal London Hospital … or rather, he would find them. He was called Namzul but they knew nothing more about him, other than what he might be prepared to organise for them. Hiran thought Taj would run scared when the moment came, especially now that they were accommodated after a fashion, with the prospect of work and wages in precious pounds sterling. So be it; for the moment the companionship of Taj gave him courage in this strange world he now walked. He would need it to face the decision ahead of him.

  London was daunting, but this part — Whitechapel — felt more like home than anywhere he’d been the past few weeks. He’d travelled overland into Europe, paid his money and been smuggled into England in a container from Calais by friends of friends of strangers who knew lorry drivers who were part of the international racket of human trade. He was put into a ramshackle house — a squat — in a place called Broadway Market, a rundown part of Hackney, not far from the Whitechapel area of London. He shared the squat with a transient population of about fourteen men, not all Bangladeshi; some were Pakistani, there were a couple of Turks, a handful from other impoverished nations. It helped. They were all strangers but they were all here for the same reason — to give their families a chance to break out of the grinding poverty of their lives back home. If he could just stick this out for a year, he and Chumi would save enough to get their children into school. He might be able to start that food stall he knew he could make work if he just had the opportunity and the small amount of capital it would take. He could be happy, feel safe.

  ‘Look out, mate,’ a man in uniform said, interrupting his thoughts. He seemed to be a guard of some sort.

  Hiran turned, startled. ‘Sorry, please,’ he said, anxiety jumbling the language he’d worked hard to get his tongue and mind around. English was so confusing.

  Just say sorry for everything, his teacher had once said lightheartedly. If you tread on an Englishman’s foot, he’s the first to apologise. Manners get you everywhere and saying sorry gets you out of most dilemmas.

  ‘Don’t want you to get knocked down, mate,’ the guard said, pointing to the Audi waiting to get into the Sainsbury’s car park and the driver who looked appropriately furious at her way being blocked. Everyone was in a hurry in London. Hiran wondered if he was going to survive here.

  ‘Are you lost?’ the guard asked, friendly enough, noticing their map and moving closer. ‘Whoa, that’s a strange look you have there, friend,’ he smiled, now that he was close enough to see Hiran’s different coloured eyes — one chocolatey, one soft green in his brown skin. He was never allowed to forget his defect; many people back home found it hard to look upon him for fear he travelled with an evil spirit. Yet his eyes were the reason Chumi had been drawn to him — they made him appealing and vulnerable, she said. She had never been frightened of him.

  ‘Please,’ he began again, apology in those stra
nge eyes now, ‘we’re looking for the hospital.’

  The guard grinned and gestured past their shoulders. ‘You can’t miss the bugger! Straight through there,’ he said pointing down the road, speaking loudly, giving plenty of hand signals. ‘Turn right and then look across the road. Big dark red building sitting opposite all the Paki tents. Er, no offence,’ the man concluded, suddenly embarrassed that he was talking to two men likely to have come from the same region. Hiran had been warned about this. He could hear his teacher’s voice: Everyone’s Paki or Indian according to the man on the street in Britain, although today’s favoured terminology is ‘Muslim’. Lumps us all in together. If you’ve got this colour skin, you go into one basket whether you’re from Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka … Don’t be offended and remember, it cuts both ways — you won’t be able to tell whether they’re from England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland. They all look the same and will all be impossible to understand, so just accept it.

  It was sound advice.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said several times to the guard, bowing with each utterance.

  ‘Yeah, okay mate, no trouble,’ the fellow said, slight bemusement in his expression. ‘Just follow the smell of the curry and you’ll find it.’ He laughed, thinking they would understand his light jest.

  Neither did but Hiran nodded and smiled and pushed Taj in the direction the guard indicated. They rounded the corner to see a long row of canopied market stalls selling everything from pirated DVDs to vegetables. Vendors fought for space to display shoes, fish, watches, pulses. Colourful saris hung as beautiful drapes. Every inch of the street was filled with voices, bodies, laughter. Hiran recognised snatches of Urdu amongst a hubbub of Gujarati and Hindustani. He understood the guard’s quip now, for small eateries selling mainly spicy foods peppered the street, nestled among ‘proper’ shops offering luggage, mobile phones, freakish clothes and groceries. Garishly lit convenience stores promising to sell everything to anyone were open all hours.