by J G Alva
He looked tired. Drained. He was always pale – too many hours in front of a computer – but he seemed paler than usual. There were dark circles under his eyes. Sutton wondered about his health. Fin’s health could be fragile, if compounded by stress. Maybe he had been pushing him too hard.
As if afraid he would never have the courage to say it again, Fin blurted out, “I read the stuff in your safe. You know. After the Artisans took it. When I got it back for you.”
So. A confession at last.
Was this what had been bothering him?
Sutton nodded.
“I assumed you had.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Sut.”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. I think I wanted you to read it.”
Fin’s eyes widened.
“You did?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
Sutton shrugged. He looked away from Fin’s eyes. They were too honest. Too unguarded. A little too pure for Sutton’s tarnished soul.
“I don’t know. Punishment? To isolate myself? To protect you? You’re a good friend…I’m not sure I deserve such good friends. And what I do…it’s dangerous. There’s no getting around that. We’re slaying dragons and demons here. The murky underbelly of a moral society. I didn’t think I was risking anyone but myself but…of course that’s not true. It can’t be true. Did you know that even though Michelangelo painted most of the Sistine Chapel, he still had a team to help him prepare? They cleaned the initial plaster way in readiness for his frescos, and they helped construct a scaffold so he could paint the ceiling with relative ease. No great thing can be done by one man alone. We’re not painting churches, but I like to think it’s an equally moral endeavour. And I can’t do it by myself.”
Fin hung his head.
“I’m sorry I read it,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“So you probably know me better than anyone else alive, my good friend,” Sutton said, sitting back in his chair. “Do you still want to work with me?”
Fin lifted his head.
“Tell me what they are. The papers.”
“The letter?”
“Yes. El Buitre. Did you kill him?”
Sutton hesitated.
“It was an accident,” he said eventually, struggling for a moment. He wasn’t used to telling the truth…at least not about himself. “El Buitre was a terrible man: a powerful figure in the local community, and a horrible person. I thought I was in love with his daughter. She begged me to help her. You see, he was…let’s just say his fatherly love went beyond the realms of ordinary paternal affection. She couldn’t face him alone; he was too much. We worked out how we were going to stop him, but of course it all went wrong. But the accident in the end worked just as well. I purposely incriminated myself so that the daughter could go on living there, without suspicion. I knew my father would get me out of there. He was my hero, after all.” Sutton shrugged again.
Fin stared at him a moment, silent, searching his face.
Then he said, “and the diagnosis? Autassassinophilia?”
Sutton allowed himself a bitter grin.
“I suppose today they’d call it PTSD. I’d inadvertently killed a man. When we came back to England I was wild. I guess I was punishing myself then too. I got involved with an older woman; she was married to a man who made a lot of trouble for my father. He had to agree to put me in that facility, just to stop the husband from coming after me. The doctor’s diagnosis was…experimental, to say the least. I was headstrong. No more interesting than that, I’m afraid. I was only there for two and a half months.”
Fin was silent again, processing what he had been told, but eventually he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Yes,” he said eventually.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I want to work with you. We’ll slay dragons and demons together.”
Sutton smiled, and then looked around.
“I’d drink to that, but I can’t see one clean cup in your entire kitchen.”
Fin looked too, seeing it with fresh eyes. It was a mess.
“Oh. Well. I’ve been busy.”
“That you have.”
“I don’t think you’ll need to worry about that cheque.”
“No?”
“No. What do you want to do with it?”
“Well,” Sutton said carefully. “We could give ourselves a bonus?”
Fin shook his head.
“We can’t. We have to be better than that.”
“We can’t fight dragons if we don’t have money for armour and weaponry –“
“I’m all for keeping some for our crusade. But it’s £12 million.”
Sutton felt a moment of complete and utter shock.
“How can it be £12 million?”
“I don’t know,” Fin said, “but it is. I can’t keep that. Not, and keeping looking at myself in the mirror. And you shouldn’t too.”
Quickly, Sutton recovered. He nodded. Fin was right. That amount of money was corrupting. He could already feel it start to work on his mind. The things he could do with it: holidays, trips, cars, parties…
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Fin nodded too, as if vindicated.
“I was thinking we could set up some kind of fund for Chris’s sister and her kids,” he said. “Tell her it was from him.”
“That sounds good. I like it. But…”
“What?”
“Maybe don’t give all of it to her.”
“Then what about the rest?”
Sutton smiled, but there was something old and sad in it.
“I have the perfect place for it, where it can do a lot of good. If you don’t mind?”
“What?” Fin said, searching his face. “Where do you want to put it?”
◆◆◆
The trees arched over the path like a canopy. Like a cathedral roof. They cut out most of the sun, except for random dapples of sunlight. They moved over the path, like floating daffodil heads; blobs of painted highlights that seemed to have a life of their own. To Sutton’s left, there was a mound of earth…before the terrain dipped down toward the bottom of the gorge. On his right, the terrain rose up. He was halfway up the gorge, on a path running into Leigh Woods. Not many people came down this way. It was too far from the city, too difficult to get to, too far off the beaten track. And that was the point.
Detective Sean Bocksham came down the path toward him as if expecting an ambush. His shoulders were up, and his head swivelled about as if on a mount. Sutton had thought that he was built like a boxer before, but now he thought he resembled a tank. He might have only been five foot seven, but he was thickly built in the chest, arms and neck.
He stopped ten feet from Sutton; cautious to the last.
“Are you alone?” He asked.
“Are you?”
Sean nodded, and crossed the distance between them.
“What is it?” The detective asked. “Why the clandestine directions?”
Sutton hadn’t seen the man for years, and not much had changed in all that time. Maybe the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes were deeper, the lines on his forehead more pronounced, his features not quite so sharp. But he stood much as Sutton remembered him…except for the goatee, which was new, and showing just a touch of grey.
He appeared tense. As well he should be.
“How are you?” Sutton asked.
Sean seemed to relax in that moment, but his eyes continued to wander.
“Alright. All things considered. And you?”
“I can’t lie, it’s been a difficult week. But I’m okay.”
“So why did you want to meet?”
Sutton watched his face as he asked, “I wanted to talk to you about Jennifer Casey.”
Sean froze for perhaps half a second.
“You could have called me. We didn’t have to meet.”
“I assumed all calls to the office were bei
ng monitored.”
“Why would you assume that?”
“Because you’re trying to set me up.”
Sean’s features grew still.
Sutton continued, “and recording any conversations we had would be part of that.”
Sean’s shoulders sagged.
“God, I’m sorry, Sutton.”
“The Liam Casey investigation is a ruse?”
“Yes and no. It’s a real case…but realistically no one believes it will be solved. And that’s why it was perfect for setting you up. I thought for sure you already knew.”
“Well. I guessed.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. But they made me contact you. They threatened to fire me. I had to do it.”
“They’ve got something on you?”
Sean’s eyes grew dark.
“Something…it’s not much, but it could hurt me. But I called you. To warn you. So your guard would be up.”
“That was you?”
“Yes. It was all I could do. They were watching me…I couldn’t come to your place. So I borrowed a colleague’s phone.”
“Did they follow you here?”
Sean shook his head, but looked behind himself just the same.
“I made sure.”
“So that was how they were going to get me? Surveillance?”
Sean avoided his eyes.
“And my testimony. Hampering an investigation. Obstruction of justice. It wouldn’t be much…but with the other things they had, I got the suspicion that it could become serious. You’d go to prison.”
“Who was it that came to you?”
“A detective. A tall slimy asshole by the name of Charles Leeman. He knew I’d worked with you before. Your name’s in the Headhunter file. I tried to keep it out, but you knew that was impossible. Leeman said they were building a case against you. That they had some evidence, but needed more. He asked if I had any current cases. Dead end cases with a living relative. One who was unsatisfied with the investigation. He was pretty specific on that.”
“So you sent Jennifer Casey to me.”
“I didn’t. I told them about it, but it was a solicitor who spoke to her, convinced her that there wasn’t much more we could do for her. But that she knew of a consultant that might be able to help. So she agreed to contact you.”
“Would this be Lisa Hopkins?”
Sean nodded. He looked pained.
“I thought there was no way you would fall for it. You’re like a bloodhound: you can smell the truth on a person. But I called anyway. Just in case. It was all I could do.”
He shrugged. He looked pretty pathetic: remorseful and guilty, in equal measure.
“After what you did for our family…it’s a poor excuse. I’ve been eaten up inside about it.”
“I hear Andrea’s doing very well,” Sutton said.
Sean frowned.
“She’s getting married in July next year,” he said.
“I’m glad.”
“Fuck.” Sean looked murderously angry in that moment. “This is disgusting. I’m disgusted with myself. Being a detective is everything to me. You know that. But this…it’s too much. Should I resign?”
Sutton shook his head. He was amused.
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because you saved my cousin’s life, and I repaid you by setting you up.”
“You didn’t set me up. They did.”
“Still. It’s hardly what a friend would do. If you can call me a friend. I owe you so much…I shouldn’t have been so helpful to them. I shouldn’t have let them intimidate me. I should have walked away. There’s a million things I could have done differently, that would have made it harder for them. But I didn’t do any of it. I just went along. Like a sap.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Sutton said. “Think of it this way: by coming to you, they inadvertently gave me a man on the inside of the investigation. So I think things have worked out alright. Or at least, as well as I could have hoped for.”
“So what happens now? What do we do?”
Sutton took a deep breath.
“Scuttle their plans, I suppose.”
“How do we do that?”
Sutton smiled.
“Close the investigation.”
Sean looked confused.
“What?”
“I’ve worked out who killed Liam Casey. If you’re interested.”
◆◆◆
Sutton watched him from a park bench across the road.
The garden was mostly private, but the building was set up on a hill above it, which meant a good portion of the garden was visible from his vantage point. The building was a converted Edwardian manor house; terracotta brick walls, tall flat windows in grey brick mountings, and a triangular front entranceway with roman columns. Each architectural piece gave the structure a regal feel. About half a dozen people milled idly in the part of the garden he could see and, as he watched, half a dozen more came into view as they returned to the facility. The rest period was over. Chip was one of the last ones to return, as he had to push the wheelchair up the incline, along a winding concrete path to a newly installed wheelchair ramp mounted to the side of the wide front steps. The man in the wheelchair was thin, wasted, with his head leaning unnaturally on his shoulder. Sutton only got a glimpse of him before they both disappeared inside.
Twenty minutes later, Sutton saw Detective Leeman on the pavement in front of the ornate stone entranceway that broke through the line of the protective hedge. He stopped to light a cigarette. He took a deep drag and leant his head back, his face angled toward the sun, his eyes closed. He stayed like that for a while…Sutton got up and walked toward him, and Chip didn’t open his eyes and turn to him until he was almost on him.
The detective didn’t say anything, but his look was actively hostile. Furious, Sutton thought, but Chip made an effort not to show it. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and coughed and spat. There was a breeze, and his thick hair blew into his eyes. He wiped the hair away, and after he revealed them once more, his eyes were clear, with no sign that they had ever been angry.
“Alright, mate,” he said nonchalantly, nodding his head.
“Not nice, is it,” Sutton said.
“What?”
Sutton indicated the building behind him.
“Someone knowing your mistakes.”
Chip looked away.
“You been busy,” he said, looking down the street.
“I thought I’d even the playing field. That’s all.”
Chip nodded, and turned back.
“Fair enough. I get the message. You’re not to be fucked with.” Chip smiled. “You could have just said so.”
“Words can fall on deaf ears. Actions have a lot more punch.”
“Yeah. They do. But don’t forget you’re on the wrong side of the line. So don’t fuck with me either.”
“Fine. As long as we understand each other.”
“Yeah, I think we do,” Chip said, and indicated the small park bench that Sutton had just vacated.
They both began walking toward it.
“What’s happening with the Dunbar case?” Sutton asked.
“Fucking Dunbar,” Chip said scornfully. “He’s like a Pike. You fish?”
Sutton shook his head.
“You should,” Chip said. “It’s relaxing. Most of the time you’ll get a bite, and it’s fine. But you hook a Pike…they’re a hard-fighting fish. They’ll wriggle, and they’ll twist, and perhaps nine times out of ten they’ll get away.”
“Is Dunbar going to get off?”
They arrived at the park bench and sat on it.
Chip pulled a face.
“No,” he said eventually. “He’s not. At least, not in the way you think he would. His solicitor has come up with medical documents that state he can’t stand trial. Early signs of dementia.”
“He seemed fine to me,” Sutton remarked. He couldn’t say he was surprised though. As Leeman said, h
e was a slippery fish.
“There’s nothing fucking wrong with him. It’s a load of bollocks. But he won’t go to prison. He’ll be put away in a supervised facility somewhere. Not the same…but it’ll have to do.” Chip grinned. “Another thing about Pike fish is that, when they fight to try and get off the hook, they can hurt themselves in the process. Know what I mean? Dunbar’s had to sign over power of attorney to his solicitor. Not a smart move. That’s effectively de-toothing the old coot. He might be worse off in the end.”
“And Steadman?”
Chip shook his head, but he was amused.
“She’s going down. We can’t shut her up. She’s proud of what she did, and quite willing to tell everyone about it. God bless her.”
“Has Mackenzie recovered?”
Chip flapped his hand.
He took a long slow drag before answering.
“He’s fine. He’s not talking much, but we’ve got him on Chris Masters’ murder.”
“He confessed?”
“No. The fragments on the body matched his car. So that’s cleared away.”
“Good. Do you know why he did it?”
Chip nodded.
“Money,” he said, and shrugged. “It always comes down to money. Ninety percent of my cases are about money. Once you cut through the shit.”
“The root of all evil.”
“More like the means for assholes to get stuff done. Without it, there’d just been a few punch-ups on a Saturday night. Sometimes I miss being just a Bobby on a beat. Chasing down shoplifters. That was nice and simple.”
“Mackenzie was a shoplifter. When you look at it. But with Chris Masters’ help, he was able to do it without even being in the shop.”
Chip nodded. His expression was not a happy one. World weary, Sutton thought.
“Did he give up the money?” Sutton asked.
Chip dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his foot.
“Yeah. There was about a hundred grand in an account he had in a Swiss bank. We reckon the rest went to his causes. Lot of good it did. That fell on deaf ears too. Speaking of fallen, that reminds me.” He turned toward Sutton. He had a strange smile on his face. “We got an anonymous call early Wednesday morning. Seems Dunbar junior got himself into a spot of bother at his daddy’s warehouse. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, mate?”
