Pain of Death (17 page)
‘But she had no time for Sean.’
‘It’s a human life, someone she had been close to.’
Bridget comes down and throws her bloodied dress into the utility room. Malcolm goes to get it, but she says, ‘Leave it, Malcolm. Just leave it.’ The smile she forces dies under its own weight. ‘Please.’
Staffe says, ‘I need to know precisely where you were, and with whom, the night before last. All evening.’
‘I was here.’
‘From six till midnight – every minute?’ He glances at Malcolm. ‘And you, too.’
‘We were here. Together,’ says Bridget.
‘Did someone phone the house?’
Malcolm sits down, puts his head in his hands. When he looks up, his face is quite grey.
Bridget says, ‘That’s when Sean died. Am I right? You’re asking these questions because you think I might have killed him.’ Her voice tremors. She tries to catch a look from Malcolm, but he studiously looks at the floor, begins to talk. ‘We were at a meeting, in Kingston. There were plenty of people there. It will be easy to verify. We went at seven-thirty and stayed until gone ten, then we gave someone a lift home, to Petersham. We got back here at around eleven.’
‘We got the end of
Newsnight
,’ says Bridget. ‘I can’t abide him, that Paxman, but it was the girl. The Jew.’
‘Who did you give the lift to?’
‘The point is, we couldn’t have done it,’ says Bridget. ‘We have people who can vouch. Isn’t that enough?’
‘I don’t understand why you would be reluctant to tell me.’
‘They are good people. We are good people. It isn’t right, that’s why.’
‘What was the meeting?’
‘It was our church,’ says Malcolm.
‘Which is?’
‘It’s not a church as you would think of one,’ says Bridget.
‘Look, a man has been murdered, not to mention your sister. Your niece was in intensive care, for Christ’s sake.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ says Bridget.
‘Tell me!’
Malcolm says, ‘It’s the House of the Holy Innocents.’
‘We were worshipping, for crying out loud,’ says Bridget, standing.
‘Don’t get upset, darling.’
She goes to the sideboard, hands Staffe a leaflet. At the top, it gives an address, on Norbiton Road. At the bottom, the Reverend Laurence Hands has signed the newsletter.
‘What was the meeting in aid of?’
‘What does that matter?’ says Malcolm.
Staffe says, ‘You must understand, the more you evade my questions, the more likely I am to think you have something to be ashamed of.’
‘Ashamed?’
Staffe stands.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To see the Reverend Hands.’
‘Don’t,’ says Malcolm. He stands, but is unsteady and totters back to the sofa, lands heavily, groaning.
‘What’s wrong?’ says Staffe.
‘It’s his levels,’ says Bridget.
‘Levels?’ he says, as Bridget goes to the sideboard and opens a leather pouch. ‘Ah, insulin.’ A shabby memory emerges. Strange, how deep and dark the mind can make its recesses. Staffe looks at the floor as Bridget calmly tends her husband. They were thirteen, he and Malcolm. Staffe was just one of a gang and Woodsy had got hold of Malcolm’s bag and stamped on the kit inside. Malcolm hadn’t grassed Woodsy up, but neither did Staffe, not even when the ambulance came for Malcolm because he hadn’t got his insulin fix.
‘I’ll tell you about the meeting,’ gasps Malcolm.
‘That’s all right, Malcolm. It’s not necessary. Not now.’
‘Did you remember something? You look peculiar,’ says Malcolm. ‘So long as you don’t feel sorry for me, Will. Don’t you dare do that. It’s too late.’ He flinches as Bridget feeds him his drug.
‘I remembered when Woodsy …’
‘I was at your house when your parents were killed. The police came and Marie was at home. My father saw the police pull up and he went round. We looked after Marie when your parents died. And you went off the rails, I remember. And look at you now. Look at us both.’ Malcolm laughs, at himself, it seems – or perhaps not.
The House of the Holy Innocents is a down-at-heel, turn-
of-the
-century chapel which looks Methodist or
Congregationalist
. Nowadays, from the outside at least, it doesn’t conform to what you would expect of a holy house. The windows are cracked and the chimney is crudely pointed. Beneath the patched-up roof, the running boards hang down, rotten and flaking.
Out front is a ten-plated Mercedes with a silver fish of Saint Peter on its tail. Thirty-five grand’s worth of chariot.
Inside, the House is high non-conformist. On three walls, hand-fashioned quilts hang, and Staffe suspects that this is a place where they clap happily, where guitars strum all over the hymns.
From a back room, a dog-collared man in a red track suit strides boldly towards Staffe. He reaches out with a big hand and beams a yellow-toothed smile. ‘Laurence Hands.’ His shock of russet hair struggles against a damped-down parting. ‘You need not beat around the bush, Inspector,’ he booms, as if addressing a packed congregation. ‘I am here to uphold the law of the land. And God’s law, too.’
‘Which would you choose – if you had to?’ says Staffe, wondering how the Reverend knows he is police. A call from the Lambs, perhaps.
‘The one should represent the other, don’t you think? I am answerable to God, just like you, Inspector.’
‘And Sean and Kerry Degg?’
‘Baby Grace, for that matter. Oh, yes, we have been offering up our prayers for that innocent soul.’ The Reverend sits on the end of a pew and beams at Staffe, as if his smile is sculpted.
‘The Lambs said I was coming?’
‘I can vouch for them.’
‘Reverend, would you go beyond prayers, to save an abandoned soul?’
‘This is a church.’
‘Who prays with you, besides Bridget and Malcolm Lamb?’
‘There are many fine people.’
‘Do you subscribe to the beliefs of Breath of Life?’
‘Of course. “You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” We are God’s work from the get-go, Inspector.’
‘And what of their methods?’
‘I know Lesley Crawford. Why would I pretend that I don’t? She has a great mind, a lively mind. If you have ever heard her speak, you would understand.’
‘Do actions speak louder than words?’
‘You won’t get me to judge her. We have a Lord for such things.’ Laurence Hands’ smile grows impossibly wide. He shows his scarlet gums.
‘I will need to see a list of your congregation. And affiliated churches. Is there a denomination as such?’
‘You could say we are independent.’
‘The list, please.’
‘I’m not sure we have such a thing.’
Staffe looks around the church, sees nothing that might help him. But Hands doesn’t know that and he rubs his chin, nods to himself. ‘You’re a charity, right?’
The Reverend’s smile falters. ‘What?’
‘If you’re a charity, you will have benefactors. You will account to the Commission for your income and expenditure.
All
your income. Your Mercedes. It’s a nice one. A brand spanker.’
‘It’s a year old.’
‘I’m curious. Would that car belong to you or to the church? If it was the church, I suppose you would have to declare it as a benefit in kind.’
‘As you said, it’s not really your business.’
‘You’ve heard of the Crown Prosecution, Reverend? Well, we sing from the same hymn sheet.’
‘You can’t intimidate me.’
‘Is that what you call it, when a policeman takes an interest in the statutes of the land? I have to say, we do see the world in different ways. I suppose we
are
answerable to different deities, after all.’
The smile is back. ‘Mine is not an adversarial system.’
‘And mine is not necessarily so. I only have to dig so far. When I get what I want, I stop. Do you think there might be a list, Reverend?’
‘I can look.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
*
Janine has a mischievous look on her face as she sits down opposite Staffe in the back snug of the Hand and Shears. It’s an expression you’d never see when she has her forensic hat on.
‘What’s amusing you?’ he says.
‘When you give me something, I can tell what you want the outcome to be.’
‘The outcome will be what the outcome is. That’s the beauty of your job. It’s a science. You don’t know how lucky you are.’
‘So’s yours.’
‘Until people get involved. They usually crop up somewhere along the line.’ Staffe taps his glass against Janine’s large merlot and, drinking from his Virgin Mary, says, ‘A little early.’
‘I’m done. I was in at six. A rush job for some inconsiderate types I know.’
‘Damn them. And I suspect the news is not good.’
‘Tommy Given’s DNA is conclusive, Staffe. He’s not the father of Miles or Maya Degg.’
‘What?’
‘You’ll have to look elsewhere for the father.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s a scientific fact.’
Staffe downs his tomato juice and stands.
‘Charming,’ says Janine. ‘I’ll just drink this on my own then, shall I?’
‘We’ll go for a drink tomorrow, if you fancy.’
‘A little birdie told me you were seeing someone, kind of a colleague of mine – in a roundabout way.’
‘There’s some big-mouthed birdies around.’
‘Are you off to see our friend Mr Given?’
‘Maybe.’ Staffe knows he has to meet Alicia Flint up in Nottingham, is calculating whether he has time to make a diversion.
‘If you can get him to cough up some sperm, I could check if he’s able to be any kind of father.’
‘I wasn’t expecting it to be that kind of a visit.’
Janine laughs. ‘You can be rather persuasive, when you want. Give it a whirl.’
‘Fortunately, I know my biology, and he is able. He has a daughter.’
‘Which might insinuate that he and Kerry weren’t lovers. She seemed to get knocked up easily enough.’
Which sets Staffe thinking.
As he drives down to Cobham, to call on Tommy, this time without Smet, he looks down at Laurence Hands’ list of members on his passenger seat. He is growing tired of the A3, doesn’t even look at the City towers, receding in his rear view, finally disappearing beneath the cusp of Kingston Hill.
The benefactors of the House of the Holy Innocents include Lesley Crawford and Bridget Lamb. Most surprising of all, though, is the name of a Thomas Given, of Cobham.
His phone goes and he sees it is an unknown number, which probably means it is the station, so he takes it, but hears a weak, vaguely familiar voice.
‘Sir?’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s me. Josie.’
He wants to say that she sounds terrible, but refrains. ‘You should be resting.’
‘I was going crazy in there.’
‘You’ve no business discharging yourself.’
‘Too late, sir. Where are you?’
‘I’m going to see Given, but keep it under your hat.’
‘Can you pick me up on your way? I can meet you at Whitechapel Tube.’
‘I’m out west,’ says Staffe.
‘I need to get back into the swing, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, Chancellor.’
‘Give me something to do.’
‘Run the numbers again that Sean Degg called from the payphone.’
‘How do we know which were his calls?’
‘You don’t. I’ve got the obvious numbers. There’s just one we can’t match – to a mobile.’
*
Tommy Given’s brow is crumpled, his mouth downturned. He jigs his leg double time and thumps his big clump of a fist up and down on the arm of his Lloyd Loom armchair in the conservatory. Away across the paddock, his beautiful wife is leading his beautiful daughter out on a cloud-white miniature pony.
‘I owe you an apology, Tommy.’
‘You’ll owe me more than a fucking apology if you haven’t pissed off by the time my wife is back. What the fuck, exactly, are you sorry about anyway?’
‘About Miles and Maya.’
‘Kerry’s kids?’
‘I thought you were the father.’
‘You sad bastard.’
‘Who is?’
‘How would I know?’
‘What was your relationship with Kerry?’
‘There wasn’t one.’ Tommy’s leg stops jigging and he puts his hands together, begins to wring them, staring into a middle distance, somewhere between Staffe and his loved ones.
‘You took care of Sean. You made sure he was safe.’
‘That’s your opinion.’
‘Does Ross Denness work for you?’
‘He’s a Bow Bells fuckwit. You should know your geography.’
‘But so was Sean. What makes Sean different? And why would you have a hotline to Miles and Maya’s foster parents?’
‘That’s shit.’
‘And because Sean was safe, I’m thinking there must have been something between you and Kerry. And I’m thinking, I can’t see Sean getting Kerry that residency at the Rendezvous. Not on his own. So that leaves me with the impression that you and Kerry were close. And if you were, and you’re denying it – then, that’s pretty dodgy. You can see that, can’t you?’
‘I don’t need to see anything. I’m not involved. Does Smet know you’re here?’
‘You lost that kind of immunity when you fucked with a police detective.’
‘You know that’s shit. You should have called him.’
Staffe takes out his BlackBerry, scrolls to the attachment to Pulford’s last email. It lists the calls from the payphones down on the New North Road. ‘The last thing Sean did before he died was get wasted. The last thing he did before that …’ He looks at the bold items on the call log. ‘… was call Ross Denness. Within three hours, he’d committed suicide. Supposedly.’
‘Why aren’t you talking to Denness?’
Staffe is looking at the data, keeping to himself the small lie he has just told. Sean did call Denness, but it wasn’t his last call. That was reserved for the unknown mobile. He looks up at Tommy. ‘I wanted to see the organ grinder.’
‘You’re full of shit.’
‘How do you think we found out Sean was in your keep?’
Tommy’s leg jigs again.
‘Why did you give the word to have him taken out of the game?’
‘You’re trying to stir things up. Well, I’m not having it.’ Given stands up, towers over Staffe. ‘You’re out of your jurisdiction, Wagstaffe, and out of your depth. Get the fuck out of my house.’
‘It’s not just Kerry, though, is it? How about Bridget?’
Tommy takes a hold of Staffe’s jacket. He scrunches it tight with one hand and lifts Staffe out of his chair.
Staffe looks Tommy in the mad eyes and fears that, should Tommy decide to kick off, there would be little he could do. He tries to swallow, but can’t, is on his tiptoes now, tasting the angry breath of the man of the house. The dog barks and bounds in from the dining room, it jumps at Staffe and takes his trouser leg in its bludgeon muzzle. Staffe wheezes, ‘And the Reverend Hands. Let go of me. Fuck that dog off. I’ll have you in. Your wife, too.’
Tommy’s mad eyes go wider, but his grip slackens, ever so slightly, and Staffe takes the opportunity to suck in deep, get some air. ‘You’re in the Holy Innocents. I know. So is Lesley Crawford.’
‘That’s crap.’
‘You’re in the shit, Tommy. You have to start talking.’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘I’m here for Kerry, and Sean, and Grace.’
Tommy shakes his head.
‘Is Giselle yours?’
Given takes a hold of Staffe with his other hand, clasps him around the neck and lifts him clean off the ground.
His eyes bulge and his head is light, his face bursting with fluid. He can’t breathe. Tommy’s face becomes paler and paler. Staffe whites out, feels the air all around him, then the wicker crackle of the sofa. The ground slaps him heavily, all along one side.
A dog snarls and he can feel the lick and spray of its spittle. Somehow, he manages to say, ‘I’m on to you.’
‘Tommy, what’s going on?’ Her voice is soft and unmistakably continental.
‘Nothing,
chérie
,’ says Tommy.
‘I hope not,’ says Sabine.
The dog moves away from Staffe who sits up, his back to the sofa, and says, to Sabine, ‘We were messing about. I bet Tommy the dog couldn’t get me to the floor without biting.’ He takes out a tenner and hands it to Tommy. ‘You win. I’ll get you next time, though.’
‘He bites, for sure,’ says Sabine. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It’s about the Holy Innocents, Madame Given.’
‘The what?’
‘Just give us a minute or so,
chérie
,’ says Tommy. He takes Sabine by the arm and stoops, brushes her hair behind her ear and kisses its lobe. He might be saying something, but Staffe can’t hear. The infant Giselle, meanwhile, is playing with the killer dog’s head, as if it is a rag doll.
Sabine walks away, trailing her hand in his as she goes, until they are apart. At the door she says, ‘You should tell him, Thomas. You have nothing to be ashamed of.’
They look each other in the eye, clear as day that they are in love. It seems that the trust in each other is unbreachable; seems also that, together, they have something to fear from the world.
Tommy offers Staffe a hand and he accepts it, is pulled to his feet. He and Tommy stand toe to toe, neither quite sure who holds the upper hand. He looks out across the paddock, hangs his head. ‘You should know, I won’t let anything harm Giselle and Sabine.’
‘And the new baby.’
Tommy nods. ‘That’s right.’
‘Your new baby?’
‘It’s mine all right, you prick. Don’t you worry about that. Now, get out.’
‘Tell me about Kerry. What was she to you? Tell me and I can leave you in peace.’
‘Kerry!’ He laughs. ‘Christ, that girl.’ Still looking across the paddock. As if in a trance, Tommy says, ‘I loved her, you know. She’d drive you berserk, but I loved her.’
‘Loved her like …?’
Tommy looks as if he is coming round from anaesthetic. ‘She’s my sister’s girl. Me and my sister, we weren’t that close, you know. I was young and she killed herself. She left Bridget and Kerry and I did fuck all to help. And when I’d grown up enough to realise what I had done, it was too late.’
‘You’re their uncle? You’re the great-uncle of Miles and Maya?’
‘They don’t know who I am, or what I am, so you don’t say a word. So help me God, you don’t utter a fucking word to Bridget or them kids.’
