Down into Darkness (38 page)

‘It's one of the things we're looking for.'

Tom Davison's cubicle office sported a large poster of Rembrandt's painting
The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Deyman
. The head on the eviscerated body had been replaced with that of a Hollywood actress, and a speech bubble read:
Don't meddle with what don't concern ya
.

Davison was showing Stella a photograph of a partial boot print. He said, ‘The blood is Morgan's, of course. The boot is one of those calf-length, lace-up combat-style boots. You can get them pretty much anywhere. Same print in the garden by the empty house, same again in the house itself.'

‘DNA at the scene?'

‘Sure. It's sorting one lot from another. Which we are.'

‘Fingerprints?'

‘Same thing. However…' Davison shuffled some papers and found a lab report, ‘it looks as if he did leave prints this time, prints we can probably isolate, anyway; two sets on the fire-iron and what looks like a matching partial on a door-frame.'

‘Anything on the letter?' Stella asked.

‘We haven't had it long enough.'

‘It's a priority.'

‘We know that.'

He smiled at her, and she remembered the smile or, at least, its sleepier, sexier version.

What is it about me that I'm drawn to men who deal with the dead or the dying, with people who kill?

What is it about them that they're drawn to you?

Stella was having a two-way conversation with herself as
she nudged her car out into the tailback, then played yellow-box chicken with a black cab. London driving is all about attrition.

It's not so much that he's planning to go to dangerous places; it's that he hasn't told me
.

Ask yourself why
.

Okay
…

Stella cut up a Volvo to make a lane switch, found herself blocked by a parked truck and switched back, cutting up the Volvo again: horn blasts and the flashing of headlights.

He doesn't want my opinion on the matter.

Maybe. Or he just doesn't want it to be an issue.

Why not?

He isn't used to it?

Because he's not used to having to take anyone else's opinion into account.

That's right.

But he was the one who suggested we move in together, buy a house even, thereby ipso facto involving another person.

Which means he's taking a risk.

Is ipso facto right?

Fuck knows.

You mean living with me at all is a compromise?

One he's prepared to make.

Oh, well, big fucking deal.

Says you. But turn it around.

How would I feel if I wanted to do something but worried about someone else disapproving?

Yes.

Hmm… Okay.

Not so good, huh? Don't like being corralled.

Not much.

So here's a guy who can see the downside of involving someone
else in his life on a permanent basis – a buying-a-house-together basis – but goes ahead and makes the suggestion anyway.

He's a good man, and I'm lucky to have him.

Was there a note of cynicism in that?

I don't like being nagged at.

My point exactly.

Sorley came through on her mobile. Her Bluetooth was somewhere, anywhere, so she drove one-handed and let go of the wheel entirely to change gear.

‘He's a cartoon, he's loony tunes.' Sorley sounded like a sketched-in version of his old self.

‘I hope you're not letting Karen know where those report folders come from.'

‘Karen doesn't see them. I keep them under the bed.'

‘Got anything else under there, Boss?'

‘Don't you start.'

Sorley had nothing much to do but watch TV and not smoke. In fact, he was a heavy non-smoker; his non-smoking activities were world class.

‘He says he's going to stop killing – that he
has
stopped. You saw that?'

‘I saw it. And if he means it –'

‘We might never catch him. Right.'

‘Like he was a man on a mission, and now it's come to an end.'

‘What are they saying about you?'

‘They're saying I have to lose weight, take exercise, moderate my drinking –'

‘You can drink?'

‘Not yet. When I start drinking again, then it has to be moderate.'

‘What's that?'

‘What?'

‘Moderate.'

‘Well, they've given me a units card. Tells you how many in a single Scotch, small glass of wine, half of bitter, you know…'

‘Single this, small that, half of something else. Sounds mealy-mouthed.'

‘The thing is,' Sorley said, ‘if you can have, say, three units a day –'

‘Is that the allowance?'

‘For a man. Less for a woman.'

‘Oh, good…'

‘That would be twenty-one units a week. So I mean, can you drink the twenty-one on Monday and go on the wagon for the rest of the week?'

‘Oh, yeah,' Stella said, ‘I don't see why not.' Then: ‘He's loony tunes all right, but there's an X-factor.'

‘Like I say, man with a mission.'

‘Get well soon, Boss.'

‘I am well.'

‘Get better than well.'

‘Stella…'

She knew what was coming and she told him not to say it, but he said it anyway. ‘Karen told me. You saved my life.'

‘It wasn't intentional.'

He laughed, which was what she'd expected, then asked: ‘How's acting DI Collier?'

‘Acting up.'

‘You turned down too many promotion boards.'

‘I know. Look, he's finding it difficult. I almost feel sorry for him.'

Her arm was cramping, so she switched hands, drifted and over-corrected. A patrol car cruised alongside for a moment, then dropped back to tail her.

‘I'm going to have to go, Boss. I'm about to get arrested.'

She dropped the phone, took a left turn without signalling, changed down, accelerated hard, made another turn and parked. In her mirror, she saw the patrol car pass the junction, bucking as it hit a speed bump.

She picked up the phone and dialled. When she gave her name, the estate agent said, ‘You're accepting their offer?'

‘They'll go a few grand more,' Stella said, ‘otherwise why would they agree the asking price?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Push them,' Stella said. ‘Gentle push.'

‘If they say no?'

‘Push again.'

She got back into traffic, the sun low now and glossing her windscreen.

You're delaying. You're backing off.

I know what I'm doing.

You're going to have to make a decision, sooner or later.

Fuck off.

Remember you used to have these dice – you used to make choices by throwing dice?

Not really.

You did.

A couple of times. It was Anne Beaumont's idea, not mine.

Why not throw the dice?

I don't know where they are. I lost them.

Throw them in your mind.

In my mind?

Because that's where the decision gets made anyway. Five and below, don't sell. Six and above, go for it.

Is that any way to choose the future?

Good as any… Okay, thrown yet?

Yep.

What was it?

I don't know. The sun's in my eyes.

Gideon and Aimée out for a stroll, hand in hand, a couple in love, she in a short skirt and an emerald crossover top that showed some cleavage and deepened the colour of her eyes, he in jeans and a T-shirt, just like any other guy.

She paused, reaching up to kiss him. She wondered whether it would ever fade, this constant sexual need of him. She could feel a flush spreading down from her throat, and her nipples hardened. She thought it must have something to do with his being the perfect match, the
one
.

They spoke about going away and agreed it would be soon. They decided on a place: it was by the sea. They decided on a day. They would go by train; he wanted that, and it seemed a wonderful idea. They would meet at the station. They chose a specific meeting place; they chose a time of day. In her mind's eye, Aimée saw them sitting on the train as it slid away from the platform. Then she was in the train beside him, the view from the window a blur, like her old life. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun.

A walk in the park. It was hot, and they'd been out for a while, so they rested in the shade of a tree.

The mark of his triple-vee high on the trunk.

Three a.m. and London's false neon dawn a spreading blush in the sky. A blackbird ran through its repertoire in a plane tree close to the window of Stanley Bowman's study.

The American money was through, and Bowman was in the process of making it invisible. It had come by a circuitous route to a host account, but Bowman wasn't content to let it stay there long. He had several methods, all of which involved the money taking flight, but he was worried about the frequency with which they'd been used recently; in an electronic age there is always the danger of a stalker.

He called the American to confirm delivery: it took three seconds; then he dialled the number that Ricardo had given to Sekker. A recorded voice offered a prompt, and Bowman gave the code word. The line went dead, and Bowman hung up. It was all as it should be. Ten minutes later he received a return call. A voice asked him to nominate a bank account. Bowman gave the number. There is, in all such transactions, an issue of trust. The voice asked Bowman for a designated sum, and Bowman gave the information. The bank would be identified, a John Doe account opened and Bowman given code-word access to the account. Half the money would be deposited and a commission taken. Then Bowman would send the second half of the money. After that it would travel for a while – a few red routes, a few cash highways. It might even divide and redivide in the interests of faster movement. Flight capital is like a jet stream: you know it's high and swift, but you can't see it. Finally, Vanechka would be in touch to talk about defraying and investment.

Bowman had the TV on with the sound down. While he made his phone calls, he was accessing Teletext share prices but also, from time to time, channel hopping. The late-night movies were all-action affairs, bloodbaths, fire-fests, robowars. Cops advanced the cause of law and order, and the bad guys went down. In an urban killing field, the incoming took out house walls; smart bombs found cellars and dugouts. Foot soldiers sprinted from cover to cover, yelling instructions, putting down a field of fire as they ran.

Bowman gave himself a Scotch that was either the last of the night or first of the day. He watched the movie for a few moments, then switched to PokerNite. The phone rang, and a voice let him know that his money was well on the way to becoming anonymous.

In an urban killing field, the incoming took out house walls; smart bombs found cellars and dugouts. Foot soldiers sprinted from cover to cover, yelling instructions, putting down a field of fire as they ran.

Stella was watching a round-up of the day's news, because she was too tired to read but too wakeful to go back to bed. As she watched, a soldier fell as if his strings had been pulled. A building mushroomed, its walls bellying out as black smoke enveloped it.

Is this what you want, Delaney? Is this where you plan to be?

She almost obeyed an urge to wake him and ask for an answer, but it would be too close to asking for commitment. Some things have to be freely given. She spent a few minutes staring at the white-board, as if an answer to everything might suddenly appear there: her killer, her lover, her life…

On TV an embedded reporter spoke of kidnaps and executions. The war-zone sky was lit by flares and burning buildings.

*

Aimée had been woken by the sound of her own voice. She might have shouted his name, she couldn't be sure. Peter and Ben were sleeping. She hoped their dreams were good.

The kitchen still held the heat of the day. She made tea, then switched on the TV with the sound low, looking for a distraction: she didn't want to have to think about the letter she was planning to write. A letter because she intended to be gone before Peter knew; she wouldn't be able to listen to his pleas, or to Ben's, or to look at their faces.

She glanced at the TV without really seeing it. In an urban killing field, the incoming took out house walls; smart bombs found cellars and dugouts. Foot soldiers sprinted from cover to cover, yelling instructions, putting down a field of fire as they ran. An embedded reporter spoke of kidnaps and executions. The war-zone sky was lit by flares and burning buildings.

If it hadn't been her own voice that woke her, it might have been a memory of his voice as he spoke her name. She pictured herself lying beside him in whatever bed they would find in whatever place they would come to on her first real night of freedom; it was where she most wanted to be.

Gideon
.

She thought she would stay up and see the dawn in, because then she would feel a day nearer to that moment at the train station, their meeting, their departure, the new life.

The incoming, smoke, rubble in the streets…

Stella turned from the white-board to the TV and back again. Men running from cover to cover. Silent Wolf, dressed to kill.

There was something she recognized in all this but couldn't isolate; something nagging, like a word on the tip of the tongue or some memory half brought back by a certain smell. It came and went, sometimes almost in focus, then
becoming foggier. She closed her eyes, searching for it, and other thoughts crowded in – spoilers – her mother's face, made sluttish by drink; the book floating down from eighteen storeys; Delaney in the TV war zone.