Down into Darkness (20 page)

She had suggested a weekend away together. He'd told her it sounded fine.

She thought he was sleeping, and maybe he was, but when her hand trailed down over his belly, he turned to her at once, scooping her up, and she cried out, shivering, knowing she could never get enough of him. Afterwards, it was Aimée who slept while Woolf lay awake.

He thought,
If we go away somewhere, not a city, somewhere wild, no people, woods and sea and open land, I could kill her there
.

Mike Sorley was sitting up against his pillows and seemed to be looking at a football match on the TV angled out over the bed, but in fact he was looking at the wall opposite. The wall was blank, the usual hospital magnolia, but he could see something there, something from a dream. The dream had come when he was dead.

He knew he'd died, and he knew when, because Karen had told him how they had used CPR and defibrillation,
working hard to haul him back. The dream wasn't tunnels of white light or sweet meadows in the peaceable kingdom; it was a series of dark alleys and dimly lit dead ends, himself running through, going this way and that, every turn a wrong one, every wall a blank, unable to find a way in, unable to find a way out.

In the end, he stopped and sat down on the ground. He knew the alleys and pathways went on for ever, and his heart shrank at the thought. He felt bereft in a way that was so great it was almost beyond pain: everything he had ever loved lost to him, everything he'd ever cared for come to a black negative. He sat on the ground and cried. Then they had brought him back, but he couldn't remember how: just that there had been glare and voices and pain and anxiety and relief.

Karen came in and sat beside him and continued to sit for a minute or two. Someone scored in the match, and the crowd went wild, but Sorley didn't seem to notice. Finally, she pushed the TV aside and said, ‘Are you there?'

Sorley turned, startled, then laughed. She had brought him some fruit and a book and a TV guide but not the Tree Girl/Leonard Pigeon case reports he'd asked for. She kissed him, and he held on to her, so she got up on the bed and he lay with his head on her shoulder, her arm round him as if to guard and protect.

He said, ‘You know what being dead is? It's being afraid and alone. I used to think it was nothing, you know, like being switched off. It's not. It's being on your own for ever.'

Karen gave a little shudder. She said, ‘You're not dead.'

‘No.' Then he said, ‘You know what's totally fucking outrageous about this place? They won't let you smoke.'

Stella watched the night-time river craft and the black waves lapping the stone wall.

Dirty girl. Filthy coward.

Who are you to say, you arrogant bastard? You murdering bastard
. She had a picture of him in her mind's eye: young, white, strong; the body was easy to imagine, but the face stayed blank. She thought of Bryony Dean, her eyes plucked out. She thought of Leonard Pigeon, his head sunk on his chest, his features fallen and out of true. Killer and victims, none of them looking themselves.

She felt a chill at her back, something more than the wind off the river, and turned fast to see him coming towards her, one of the city's haggard desperadoes, clothes stained and torn, face dark with grime, one hand held low and in that hand something that caught a glint from the riverside lights.

Hit him with anything that will stop him, anything that cuts
.

She reached for her keys, sidestepping at the same time, and held them in her clenched fist, the serrated car key protruding through her knuckles, but he turned, eyes wide and vacant, and set off down the street at a fast shuffle. She realized that he hadn't even been looking at her; might not have known she was there, able to see only the vision inside his own head.

The glint had been from the soda can that doubled as a crack pipe. But another time, it wouldn't be that. Another time it would be a knife.

London at night. Expect the worst.

Pete Harriman was a man who liked women. He liked them so much, he tried not to be exclusive: why deny himself or them? At present he had three relationships in progress, and schedules were a part of his life, but one woman took precedence. Her name was Gloria, and she was dangerously close to stealing the show. She walked naked into her bathroom where Harriman was shaving and held his mobile phone up to his ear, but a fraction away from the foam on his cheek.

He said, ‘Hello?' then, ‘No kidding,' then, ‘On my way.'

He watched Gloria as she walked out of the bathroom. She had the clear skin and firm lines of youth. The way her back curved out to her ass, the way her ass curved in to her thigh, was enough to leave any man breathless, and he wished she hadn't picked up the phone, because under other circumstances he wouldn't have been on the road for another thirty minutes.

Stella was in the local Coffee Republic with an espresso and a Danish that carried a sky-high calorie count. She had chosen the smoking area as a concession to Harriman, who came in looking a touch surly and sat down without placing an order. Stella told him about her moment with Neil Morgan: that someone had put Morgan ahead of the game, that she was pretty sure the person in question – the
asshole
in question – was Brian Collier.

She said, ‘I want you to know, because, just for the present, I'm saying nothing.'

‘And you want a witness to that fact. Also a witness to confirm, if necessary, that you
did
suspect that Acting DI Collier might have overstepped the mark.'

‘That's right.'

‘Because you ought to be sending a report to the SIO.'

‘I'm unsure of my ground.'

‘Not enough to go on.'

‘Just a feeling.'

‘And it would be wrong to make an accusation against a brother officer on the basis of a feeling.'

‘Highly irresponsible. Also bad tactics.'

‘Because you'd sooner wait until you
have
got some evidence and then nail the bastard.'

‘Long pointy nails.'

‘Which evidence might well be forthcoming, if you bide your time.'

‘My fervent hope.'

‘Why would he do that?' Harriman wondered. ‘Tell Morgan to expect you, let him know that we had information about the blonde?'

‘He's career-building. Names in high places, favours to be done in the hope of eventual payback, putting himself on a name-check list…'

The raw contempt in her voice was plain to hear, a rankle from the past. Harriman asked, ‘When he hit on you – what did he say?'

‘He told me he was hung.'

Harriman was caught in the act of bringing a match to his cigarette. ‘He what?'

‘Told me he had a big dick.'

Harriman smiled a slow, broad smile. ‘A prince among men,' he said.

*

The prince had left a message for Stella with Maxine Hewitt. Maxine delivered it along with the morning's paperwork:
My office now
.

Stella looked through the reports and emails, sorting the wheat from the chaff. There was a letter marked ‘Personal'. She dropped it in the bin, then took a moment to read the opening paragraph of an article on serial killings that Anne Beaumont had sent as an attachment. There was a highlighted passage:

One notable characteristic of serial killers is their tendency to recklessness. They proceed with a plan and part of the plan is, of necessity, repetition. There might be a rationale to their actions – some sort of spurious reason for these killers to act as they do – but studies suggest this is less important to the killer (though no less important to the investigator) than the simple need to kill. This irresistible impulse is more important to the perpetrator than the need for preparation or caution and is more likely to lead to an arrest than the discovery of any motive, not least because motive is often irrational or obscure.

Anne's accompanying email message said:

In other words, serial killers get a taste for it; already
have
a taste for it. This is right, though it underplays the business of motive, especially in this case, since the writings on the bodies indicate some specific (and therefore traceable) reason for their deaths. But, yes, he might slip up. Is there something you can do to get ahead of him?

Stella was aware of being watched and knew it must be Collier. Resisting the impulse to look towards the door, she put Anne's email down on her desk, turned her back and made for the corridor and then the exhibitions room. She had nothing to do in there, but she took her time doing it. When she came out, it was just Maxine and Sue Chapman, eyes down over keyboards.

As Stella walked through, Sue said, ‘He doesn't look pleased.'

Collier was smoking, but he was a dilettante compared to Sorley: he smoked his cigarettes one at a time. He was working on some papers and didn't look up when Stella came in, a technique so worn round the edges that she almost laughed out loud.
Acting
DI.

He said, ‘I told you to tread carefully: my exact words, I think.'

‘Sorry?'

‘You know what I'm talking about.'

‘Neil Morgan?' Collier didn't reply. ‘I called on him to offer the theory that he might have been the killer's real target. We'd agreed that I should.'

‘You harassed him.'

Stella's laugh almost took her by surprise. ‘I offered him protection.'

‘Don't bullshit me, Stella. You could have gone to his home, instead you nobbled him at a club in Orchard Street. You embarrassed him.'

‘There was a blonde with him – she wasn't his wife. He embarrassed himself. Here's another thing: it's very likely that he's using his position as an MP to some advantage in business.'

‘We're a murder squad. And he's not a suspect. In fact, he's a potential victim. So in future –'

‘How did he know about the connection with Bryony Dean?' Her wait-and-nail-him tactics shot in one flush of anger.

Collier started to speak, stopped, started again. ‘Did he?'

‘About the link between her and Pigeon, about the writing on both of them.' Collier shrugged, as if that would do the job. ‘He wasn't supposed to talk about that, was he? Okay to mark his card; okay to give him the drop on me; okay to fill him in on confidential details… he'd know what was coming, and he'd know the background; but he forgot to keep his mouth shut.' She let a silence develop, then: ‘Something you forgot – politicians and journalists, they think they stand outside the normal conventions, think they have some kind of licence; and the word “loyalty” doesn't exist in their vocabulary.'

‘He's a man with contacts,' Collier observed. ‘Anyone could have –'

‘Who?' Stella asked. ‘Who would be looking for an advantage? Who'd want to impress the great and good? Who'd want to jeopardize this investigation just to have the opportunity to kiss ass? The SIO? Sam Burgess? One of my squad? Me?' She waited. ‘You?'

Collier coloured up. His hand moved reflexively, raking the desk – a blow redirected – and papers spilled on to the floor. He said, ‘Get the fuck out of my office.'

Stella walked to the door. She said, ‘Now I know it was you.'

Harriman saw her walk into the squad room and through to the rest room. He followed her and went in. She was bending over to wash her face at a sink and spoke through the water.

‘It's probably sexual harassment.'

‘What is?'

‘Your being in here.'

‘How did you know it was me?'

‘Heavy breathing.' Harriman laughed. ‘You want to know what happened.'

‘Well, you did look pissed off, so… yes.'

Stella pulled a handful of paper towels and dried her face. ‘With myself. He knows I know.'

‘How?'

‘He prodded me; I prodded back.'

‘Harder.'

‘Yes.'

‘So now what?'

‘He'll be covering his ass, and I'll have to watch my back.'

‘All sounds a bit…' he searched, ‘…anatomical.'

Stella laughed: a genuine, hearty, out-front laugh. ‘You do cheer me up, Pete.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘About Collier? Nothing, for the time being. Try to find out what else Morgan might be involved in. If he was the intended victim, there'll be more to find in his life than in Bryony Dean's.'

‘They're still an odd pairing.'

‘As are Bryony and Leonard Pigeon.'

‘Do you want me to take a closer look at Morgan?'

‘Maybe…' Stella nodded. ‘Leave it a while… I've got a bit of inside track with our MP.'

A little silence fell between them, and Harriman raised his eyebrows:
What?

‘Well, if you wouldn't mind leaving,' Stella said, ‘I'd quite like to take a piss.'

Woolf was bench-pressing two hundred, staring up at patterns of reflected sunlight on the ceiling. At two in the afternoon the gym was almost empty. The brokers, the bankers, the traders, the head-hunters, the sidesteppers and the second guessers were back at their desks; the leotard-and-Botox sisterhood had left for lunch in their shiny SUVs. Woolf got through his reps, plus five, turned to bicep curls for a while, then made three circuits of the weight machines before getting on to the treadmill. He liked running. When he ran, he blanked.

He set a gradient and worked steadily for half an hour, barely thinking a single thought, then stepped off and went back to the weights section and loaded the bar. The patterns on the ceiling had changed. Somewhere, outside, a tree was filtering the sunlight before it struck up off the chrome weight bars, and, when he stretched out on the bench and looked up, there were forms shifting and shimmering, human forms, seeming to walk forward as the light fluctuated.

He remembered the day; he remembered the heat-haze on the dusty road and the sudden silence like a vacuum that had to be filled.