by Stav Sherez
His stomach soured at the thought of how close they’d been and how Bayanga had so easily read him, knowing Carrigan would stop and help Geneva before anything else.
Bayanga had turned into a ghost. One of an unseen army living their lives under the radar, a shadow London of hospital cleaners, dishwashers and street sweepers. A city he passed every day yet never noticed. Invisible because they wanted to be, invisible because we preferred them to be so. Perhaps the city was always like this – two parallel realms that rarely touched – the murder being a random intersection, an abutment of worlds.
He woke suddenly, crumpled and numb, his heart beating fast in his chest. How long had he been asleep? The night was still dry and silent and the clock on the dashboard said it was only just past one in the morning. He caught his face in the rear-view mirror, saw the lines and wrinkles highlighted by the overhead bulb, the roll of fat under his chin, the dead past swimming in his eyes, and then he heard the crash of breaking glass. He shook his head free of the memories and looked up at the house. He saw Ursula cross one of the upstairs hallways then stop dead in her tracks. At that exact moment a light went on downstairs.
37
He was out of the car immediately, coat snagging, his feet numb from lack of movement. He glanced up at the house as he ran. He could see the door swinging open, the stained glass smashed and jagged in its frame.
The silence inside was overwhelming. Not normal silence which was never really silence but something else, a constriction of the air, as if all the oxygen had been leached out of the building. He stood there for a moment willing his breath to slow and quieten, then took a few tentative steps and nudged the living-room door open with his shoe. It was empty, the kitchen too. He passed by the fireplace, still smouldering, then turned back and picked up a long brass poker from its tray. It felt both cold and hot in his hand as he gripped it tight, getting used to the weight, and then he headed for the stairs.
He was halfway up when Ursula screamed. A terrifying out-of-control yelp exploding from her lungs. There was no time to react. The ensuing gun blast filled the silence, leaving his ears ringing. The next thing he heard was a thud, like an exhalation of breath, from somewhere upstairs – the dead weight of Ursula’s body hitting the floor.
He took the stairs two at a time willing his mind to block out the images that were flooding it: Ursula supine on the floor . . . Ursula with her head missing, a halo of blood curdled around her neck . . . Ursula turning to him in a darkened lecture theatre . . . He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, never having noticed there were so many steps before, and made the landing winded, almost unable to stand.
A thin tendril of smoke curved up from the door to Ben’s bedroom. The smell, sharp and rich, filled Carrigan’s nostrils as he approached. He kicked open the door, swinging himself into the room, poker raised in his right arm, ready for anything but what he saw.
It took him a second to readjust, to focus, and then fear took over as he stared into the black rings of the shotgun’s barrels.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted, dropping the poker, standing rigid in the doorway. ‘It’s me.’
Ursula was standing at the far end of the room pointing the shotgun at him, using her left arm as a crook. Her eyes didn’t even register his entrance.
‘Ursula, put it down.’ He glanced at Bayanga’s body sprawled out across the Persian rug. The young man was still twitching, a series of involuntary jerks and burbles as he gasped for air.
Ursula’s eyes met his and for a moment he thought she was going to pull the trigger and then he saw a flicker of recognition pass across her face and her eyes rolled back into focus. Bayanga twitched once more and took a cracked breath which he never exhaled.
‘It’s okay.’ Carrigan didn’t dare move, the scene frozen, only two ways it could go from here.
Ursula looked down at the body on the floor, then back up at Carrigan. Her arms suddenly gave way and she dropped the gun. Her hands began to shake now they weren’t holding anything, a slight ripple that turned into a rumbling torrent as her body caught up to the scene in front of her. Carrigan walked over and took her hands in his, surprised by how cold they felt. He put his arms around her. ‘I’m here now.’
Ursula didn’t answer, her eyes fixed on Bayanga. ‘I . . .’ Her voice faltered and cracked. ‘I . . . I thought he was going to kill me.’
Carrigan held her tight. ‘There was nothing else you could have done,’ he whispered. ‘It’s over.’
He stood next to her as she sat down in Ben’s armchair, shaking so much it seemed as if she would break apart in front of him. ‘It was you or him, he wouldn’t have hesitated.’ His voice sounded foreign to him here in this room of memories, the nights and conversations he’d shared with Ben, the history they skirted around, the dark lure of the beckoning past. ‘He’s already killed at least four we know of.’
He watched to see if she was taking this in but she seemed cocooned in a world of her own, slowly withdrawing from the room around her. She sat on her hands, her eyes staring at a blank spot of wall. He picked up the gun, the metal still warm, and placed it to one side, away from the spreading pool of blood which outlined Bayanga.
He knelt down and checked the Ugandan’s pulse but it was only a way to stretch the moment, put off what he was dreading. His skin was still warm and Carrigan thought if he pressed his finger deep enough he’d be able to feel the echo of the young man’s heartbeat, a last communication into the world. But there was nothing except a deep sense of disappointment flooding his stomach. This was the man they’d been chasing, the man who raped and killed Grace, who’d hurt Geneva, the man who held all the answers to this case and here he was, mute and silent for eternity. There would be no clink of handcuffs, no face-to-face in a hot interview room, no confession, nor explanation of why and how. Just this dead body, a large red hole gaping where his stomach should be.
He checked Bayanga’s pockets but there was nothing except a knife and a wallet. The knife was small and curved and he recognised it, the wallet held £240 in crumpled notes and a photo of Geneva. The latter made Carrigan’s blood go cold. He stood back up and looked at the sluggish river wind its way out of view. ‘We’ll get this all sorted out,’ he promised Ursula, sitting down next to her and taking her hand.
She looked up, caught his eye and started shaking, hard shuddering jolts that looked as if electricity was pouring through her body. ‘I wasn’t going to let him take me too.’ She was staring down at the floor, trying to wipe blood, something sticky, off the bottom of her slippers. ‘What’s going to happen to me, Jack?’
‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to arrest you formally and take you in but I’ll be there with you all the way.’
She cried a little more and then she took a handkerchief from the table next to her and wiped her face, and coughed, and stared out the window at the grey river as they waited for Geneva and the others to arrive.
Carrigan explained the situation to Geneva as quickly as he could. He watched silently as two uniforms led Ursula out. She stopped once, picked up a photo of the girls and held it tightly in her hand as they took her outside. He’d promised he’d meet her back at the station once he’d secured the crime scene.
His headache pulsed ferociously as he watched the patrol car leaving with Ursula. He saw her look back at the house once and then he turned away.
As he waited for the SOCOs to arrive, he crossed the room, trying to press the pain away from his temples, the sense of hidden things rising to the surface. He avoided the body, saw the blood staining one of Ben’s rugs, vaguely remembered a story of how Ben had bought it in Pakistan, how it had been woven by hand, was supposed to represent something about God. He blinked the thought away, looked around the room trying to determine if there was anything amiss but it was impossible. This room he knew so well looked like a foreign battlefield, everything sheathed in smoke and dust.
He eyes drifted to the mantelpiece, the photos deep with
memory and contentment. He picked up a few, his fingertips tingling: Ben on his first field trip back to Africa, Ben in Khartoum and Addis Ababa, Ben, Ursula, and the kids sitting over Christmas lunch, uncles and grandparents, photos of the girls at school pantomimes and sports days, the happy family on holiday in Zermatt, Vail and Acapulco.
He took out the smudged news clipping from his pocket, smoothed out the edges and looked at the murky shadows of the two of them boarding the plane at Entebbe. The paper felt like it was burning his hands. He carefully folded it back up and placed it in his pocket.
Next to the mantelpiece were two photo albums with red leather covers. He picked one up, sat down in the armchair and began flicking through it. The book was heavier than he expected, all the weight of years and memories pinned like butterflies against the black pages.
He followed Ben’s rise to stardom and fame, the clothes getting more expensive with each year, the haircuts sharper, the smile more confident and assured. He saw photos of Ben at Oxford, Ben giving a lecture at some symposium in France. There was a photo of Ben and Ursula taken on the night of their wedding, Ursula as he remembered her, her smile so genuine it looked as if it could cure cancer.
His breath caught in his throat when he recognised the picture of the three of them. A memory bright and present as a toothache blossomed in his head; the moment the photo had been taken – Ben, David and him standing on the mound at the front of the Great Hall, degrees in hand, the whole of their lives in front of them. He looked deeply into Ben’s eyes, David’s, his own, but could see no presentiment of how their lives would shudder and crack on that African road only two weeks later.
He flicked through photos of a young Ben smiling in the equatorial sunshine on his first field trip. Ben standing in front of a new excavation, his helpers all around him. Ben wading in one of the great lakes, a stork caught mid-flight above his head. Ben at a refugee camp, his arms around his assistants, Ben talking to the bishop of Gulu, Ben standing . . .
. . . He flicked back and stopped, looking at the photo in the right-hand corner of the previous page, convinced it was a trick of the light.
Ben was standing on a dirt road next to a group of colleagues. They had their arms draped around each other. Carrigan carefully lifted the clear plastic and peeled off the photo.
He stared out of the window, towards the river, trying to clear his head, and then he looked down at what he held in his hands, realising how badly they’d misinterpreted Solomon Onega’s words.
38
‘Where the fuck is he?’
Branch was red as an apple, leaning forward, both arms planted squarely on the desk. He ripped his glasses off, snagging them, wincing and cursing under his breath.
‘Carrigan?’ Geneva replied, trying to stall, think of what to say even though she’d been going over it in her head these last few hours.
‘No, Lord Lucan. Who the fuck do you think I’m talking about?’
‘I don’t know where he is, sir.’
Branch sighed. ‘I’ll choose to believe that for now.’ He picked up one of the mobiles on his desk and pressed something, his face scrunched in concentration, cursed and picked up another phone.
She watched as he clumsily began texting, his large fingers splayed across the keypad, his suit ruffled as if he’d slept in it several nights.
It had been two days since she’d seen Carrigan. Two days since anyone had heard from him. He hadn’t turned up at the station after Ursula’s arrest nor was he at his flat. Geneva had tried his mobile, leaving several messages, but as yet there had been no reply.
Branch read something off one of his phones, smiling to himself. He looked up at Geneva as if she’d only just stepped into his office. ‘Good work, Miller, I’m very impressed.’
She didn’t know what to say, hadn’t been expecting this at all. ‘What for, sir?’
Branch put his hands together in front of him, pursed his lips. ‘For bringing this case to a satisfactory conclusion, of course.’
She leant forward in the chair, feeling its rough bristles chafe against her tights. ‘It’s Carrigan you should be thanking. If he hadn’t been there when Bayanga—’
‘Nonsense, Miller,’ Branch interrupted. ‘All very well to give credit to your superiors but I think both you and I know that Carrigan should have cracked this one much sooner.’ Branch pulled out a sheet of paper from a yellow file folder and studied it. ‘Anyway, it’s over for him.’
‘Sir?’
Branch sighed. ‘He’s gone missing, for God’s sake. No one’s seen him since Ursula’s arrest. He’s finished.’
She could tell that he was happy Carrigan had given him the opportunity he was looking for to shut down the case. ‘But if Carrigan hadn’t worked out that—’
‘People have noticed you, Miller,’ Branch interrupted her again, his voice serious and grave. ‘What you’ve done to bring this case to its conclusion, the risks you took in the line of duty. Your reinstatement to detective sergeant is permanent, effective immediately. You should start thinking about where you want to go next.’
Geneva sat back in the chair, taking a deep breath. The pain came again, sharp and sudden, making her reach for her side. She bit her lip and counted to three, waiting for the spasms to subside. ‘I’d like to stay on Detective Inspector Carrigan’s team, sir.’
Branch tapped his fingers on the table, a slow and steady rhythm. ‘I’m not sure that’s really what you want. I’m not sure DI Carrigan will still be here once the review board’s had its say.’
‘Well, if he is,’ she felt a pulse throbbing behind her left eye, ‘that’s where I want to be.’
‘You should think carefully about this, Miller. Think what being associated with someone like Carrigan could do to your career. As I mentioned, people have taken notice of your work; even that prick from the Foreign Office told me to congratulate you.’
She felt it in the tone of his voice, the glare of words that weren’t being said. ‘The case hasn’t been resolved yet. Not to my satisfaction.’
Branch took off his glasses, breathed on them then put them back on. ‘That’s exactly the kind of thing I’d expect from Carrigan.’
Despite the insult, Geneva felt strangely proud.
‘We have the killer, that’s what matters.’ Branch looked up, his glasses smeared and whorled with fingerprints. ‘You’re not in any doubt that Bayanga killed Grace, Ngomo, and the others?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then.’ Branch smiled.
She crushed her shoe against the side of the table, thought carefully about her next few words. ‘Bayanga was working for someone, we’re certain of that. He was hired to kill Grace and until we find out who paid him, the case is still open. We need to interview the Ugandan diplomats who took our evidence, we need to find out more.’
‘Christ, Miller, can’t you just take your win and go home and relax?’ He passed over a stack of newspapers lying on his desk. She could see Bayanga’s photo plastered above the fold, the headlines WEREWOLF OF LONDON GUNNED DOWN and VALENTINE SLAYER SLAIN in bold type.
‘Is this Marqueson’s work?’ Geneva pushed the papers back across the table. ‘Did he dictate that to the press word for word?’
Branch opened his mouth then closed it. He looked at Geneva sadly and shook his head. ‘We all have a job to do, Miller, and we all do that job to the best of our abilities. You think I’m happy with this? I was supposed to be going on a fucking holiday yesterday. First one in three years. My wife didn’t take it well and I don’t fucking blame her. So, you see my situation? I’ve got a choice between giving upstairs a neatly wrapped case and taking my holiday or I can present them with a dubious conspiracy theory from a detective who’s gone AWOL, a conspiracy involving the Ugandan embassy and our own Foreign Office. Which do you think I’m going to choose?’
She left the office feeling sick, rushing down the stairs and into the rain-soaked night. She lit a cigarette, picked up her phone and dialled the number
.
The man on the other end sounded polite and helpful. ‘Who can I direct your call to?’
She said a name, was told to wait, smoked two more cigarettes listening to a synthesised version of Mahler’s fourth.
Marqueson’s voice, cold and clinical, cut through the phone static and sounded as if he were standing right there next to her. ‘Detective Miller, how pleasant. I’ve been wanting to say how grateful we—’
‘You owe me a favour,’ she interrupted, cigarette clamped between her teeth.
Marqueson didn’t reply but she could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge any information about the Okello case.’
‘This has nothing to do with the case.’
‘Okay . . .’ Marqueson replied tentatively.
‘I need a list of British nationals reported dead or missing for the year 1990.’
Marqueson was silent, then finally he said, ‘I can do that.’
Geneva smiled through the rain. ‘And there’s one other thing . . .’
39
He sat on the train and watched the rain obliterate the western outskirts of the city. Children nagged their parents, men whispered into mobile phones, computer games bleeped and, above it all, the relentless hammering of the rain against the windows smearing the outside world into inchoate shapes as if only these few remaining travellers had been left unwarped by the weather.
