The Last Voice You Hear (19 page)

At the library, the computer area was decorated with a mural made by pupils from a local primary school: it pictured a green field grazed by fat and stupid sheep; an image of the countryside designed by city children, who didn’t know much about it, but suspected it was rubbish. Ignoring it, she went looking for Wensley Deepman, who was dead. This was the first thing you noticed about him, trawling the web: all the hits were recent, and all concerned his death. That was as much footprint as he’d leave: this ghostly electric newsprint, describing his end on an unforgiving pavement.

But last time she’d hunted Wensley, all she’d wanted was his address; now, she devoured the details of his passing. The
Guardian
had covered it in depth; most of the others had let it drown in the wash from the week’s big story: the death of Charles Parsley Sturrock. The tower block he’d fallen from hadn’t been anything like the forty storeys Bob Poland had quoted, but anything over ground-level was high when you hit the road head first. She had a sudden dizzying moment, living it – the acceleration beyond anything achievable by non-fatal means, and then the dead stop, sudden as a diagnosis. A bead of sweat trickled down her back: What is this? she thought. This isn’t about me. Some kid I never knew; some kid I swore at, long ago. One of the tabloids had run with it a little, once its angle was established.
Death plunge boy was tearaway.
Another way of saying that everything worked out for the best in the long run.

It was the
Guardian
that confirmed the half-remembered detail she’d taxed Tom Connor with: that there had been a witness; a man who, from the ground, had seen Wensley leave the roof. His name wasn’t given. (
Not everybody wants
to be a celebrity
, Connor had said; his voice tightening with the words, as if Zoë were a rubbernecker at a traffic accident.) The boy jumped, said the witness. Stood on the ledge and spread his arms like the Angel of the North. The block had been just west of the City, not far from where Zoë had grabbed Andrew Kite, and transported him home to his parents. A life’s small circle, though this circle had a finishing point.

. . .
record of street crime . . .

. . . involvement with drugs . . .

The witness would be at the inquest; the story would roll on the same. Wensley Deepman had killed himself.

Other stories, meanwhile, unfolded, only a mouseclick away. The Internet was another version of that maze of connecting doors, through which you could wander secure in the knowledge that there was no way you’d truly lose yourself, except you always did. On the newspaper’s opening page she found Charles Parsley Sturrock: the familiar photo, with that fuck-you grin that was his default expression. Until they took him into the car park, probably. Which, she saw, was just this side of the City: a long way from Sturrock’s own patch, but not that far from Wens-ley’s. Calling up a map, she pinned the distance to less than a mile, which was neither too small nor too big to be anything other than what it was: a fact. Playing with it further would be like rearranging sheep in a field. Sooner or later you’d find a pattern, but only because you wanted one.

That was always the danger. That you’d end up designing your own maze, just to be sure you’d know your way out again.

The inquest had taken place in the magistrates’ court not far from where Wensley Deepman had died, as if in this, too, he’d been keen to demonstrate how circumscribed a life could be when its poles were street crime and thug-gery. By the time Zoë arrived, it was over. From one of the news crews on the pavement she learned the verdict: misadventure. It was the one preferred to suicide when there was family extant, or a child involved. She lit a cigarette and held back, keen not to step into cameraview. The redbrick building was tall and flat-faced. Its barred windows put Zoë in mind of orphanages.

When people began emerging it was clear who the focus was on. There was nothing like a grieving mother to shift copy. Jet – the name came back like magic; Joseph Deep-man saying
It was her mother’s idea. It means a stone, not an
aeroplane –
Jet Deepman leaned on her man’s arm, her bright blonde hair belying her name. If that was natural, Zoë didn’t smoke. Zoë smoked. Jet wore a black dress, which showed she’d read some of the etiquette books, but even from here Zoë could see the scarlet tips to her fingers. It was easy to judge, so Zoë judged. The man she leaned on was broad and solid: black, bald, wearing a rather fine knee-length coat. His expression in the face of press attention was utterly inscrutable.

Jet Deepman, though, wept as if she’d had lessons.

Zoë watched for a while, thinking about motherhood.

Some instincts, you couldn’t fake. Love was inimitable, evidently. There were times she imagined she’d felt that tug – had wondered what it would be like, being woken by a crying child – and expected, in all honesty, she’d have fallen short. She’d always been too much Zoë to happily submit to another’s demands. But a small steady part of her was sure she’d not have touched up her nail polish to attend her child’s inquest. She dropped her cigarette, ground it underfoot, kicked it into the gutter.

‘You’re Zoë Boehm.’

She looked round. The speaker was mid-forties, tall and lean, with thinning sandy hair, and that seen-it-all edge Bob Poland affected sometimes: enough of a clue for Zoë. Cop. He must be Tom Connor; Tom Connor in tan chinos and dark jacket, an expertly knotted black tie. Tom Connor wore thin-framed spectacles; behind them, had brown eyes with lines creeping away from their corners, like fine fractures. Tom Connor wasn’t smiling. Tom Connor looked like the kind of cop you didn’t want to meet when you were guilty, and possibly the kind of cop you didn’t want to meet, full stop. Bob Poland must have described her to him.

‘DI Connor,’ she said.

A blink was as much surprise as he showed. ‘You’re still ferreting, then.’

‘Interested party.’

‘Who lives in Oxford. Who isn’t getting paid.’

Zoë said, ‘You know a lot about my business.’

‘None of which you’re denying. Thanks. I will.’

She was holding her cigarettes, so extended the pack. He slipped one free and held it between finger and thumb, as if it were a whole new experience.

He said, ‘Public spirit, that’s good. Nothing like seeing a member of the GBP taking an interest in the workings of justice.’

‘You’re about to say “but”.’

He leaned close for a light. As soon as he had one he dropped the cigarette, and trod it out. ‘Filthy habit.’

This was meant to annoy her. She said, ‘That’s pretty clever.’

‘Biggest favour anyone’ll do you all day. You’re right, Ms Boehm, there’s a but. There’s a big difference between taking an interest and interfering. There’s nothing to find out.’ His voice was surprisingly gentle: that was probably an asset. Cops, you expected to be brusque and loud. When they weren’t, it took you aback. You might end up believing their every word. ‘A boy’s dead. Very sad, but nobody’s fault. All you’re doing is upsetting people.’

‘Like you?’

‘Ms Boehm, I don’t want to come across like some pillock from the TV. But you’re way off home ground. If I say you’re upsetting people, you’re upsetting people.’

‘Go go go,’ said Zoë.

‘What?’

She shrugged. ‘That’s what they say on
The Bill
, isn’t it? I don’t have a telly.’

He said, ‘The coroner’s verdict’s in. Misadventure. We both know she was being kind. The kid killed himself.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I just did. So it’s over. You can leave now.’

‘Last I checked, I still had freedom of movement.’

‘Okay. That was inappropriate. But there’s nothing to find out. We know what happened. We’ve drawn a line.’

Her next cigarette was still unlit. She remedied this, while wondering how to respond. He was a clean-looking cop – not just the tie, the jacket, the close shave, but what he didn’t have: the weasel glint to the eye that told you he was in it for himself. You couldn’t spend more than ten minutes with Bob Poland without knowing he was after a bite. Of course, it was always possible Tom Connor was better at undercover.

‘Zoë.’

Both turned as if operated by the same string. It was Chris, whom Zoë had met last Friday at Joseph Deep-man’s. Slightly dressier (black jacket, black jeans, white shirt), but otherwise still pale and plucked. In daylight, his buzz-cut looked like a fight he’d lost.

‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ he said, and she realised they’d been staring at him, wordlessly.

‘Chris,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Connor.’

Zoë thought it wise to make clear who was the policeman.

‘Chris Langley.’

Connor nodded, without offering his hand.

Chris said to Zoë, ‘I just thought somebody ought to be here. For the old man. The daughter tells him nothing.’

‘I was late, myself.’

He said, ‘It was the usual thing.’ He looked round. Cameras were still running; Jet still crying. She looked capable of continuing for as long as the situation demanded.

‘You’d be a friend of the family?’ asked Connor.

‘Of the grandfather.’

‘Give him my condolences.’ He looked at Zoë. ‘I don’t mean to come on the hard guy. But all this, it’s done with. People get aggravated, people get upset. When it’s the death of a black kid, well. We don’t want anybody making more of it than it is. I’m sure you appreciate that.’

Chris Langley was watching this conversation more than listening to it; watching, too, the way she raised her cigarette to her lips. Zoë was having one of those slightly hyperreal moments: time slows down, and every action seems invested with a significance beyond reason. She inhaled, then dropped the cigarette. How many was that today? It was a good job she’d cut down, else she’d probably be dead by now.

. . . She was tired and pissed off, and really needed to get a grip. ‘Was he carrying cash?’

‘Was who carrying cash?’

‘Wensley. He was coming into money. So he said.’

‘As far as I’m aware,’ Connor said carefully, ‘his pockets were empty.’

‘As far as you’re aware.’

‘They were empty.’

‘Did you know he was scared of heights?’

‘No. I’d say it was a moot point now, though.’

‘He was running a scam, Inspector. Something he’d seen, something he’d heard.’

‘He was always running a scam. Mostly the smash and grab kind.’

‘But maybe he got ambitious. Maybe he was putting the squeeze on somebody. That’s the sort can easily go wrong.’

Connor looked at Chris, newly aware they had an audience. He turned back to Zoë. ‘I don’t recall that being mentioned inside.’

‘Little bits. Details. They add up.’

‘Ms Boehm? Do you have anything you want to make official?’

‘She’s only saying,’ Chris said.

They both stared. He flushed.

‘She’s only saying, maybe not enough attention’s been paid. He was a kid. He’s dead. He might have been a handful. That doesn’t make it right.’

There was an edge to Connor’s voice when he said, ‘I don’t think any of us are saying it’s right.’

‘Well . . .’

Zoë said again, ‘Details add up.’

‘Coincidence.’

‘Is that the best you can do?’

Tom Connor nearly smiled. ‘If they didn’t happen, we wouldn’t have a word for them.’

‘Are you working the Sturrock case?’

If the switch fazed him, it didn’t show. ‘Not my patch.’

‘Not far, though.’

‘Borders have to happen somewhere.’ He looked at Chris as if about to say more, but unsure what it should be. Chris had that earnest, left-leaning, actions-speak-louder air that worked on policemen the way salt works on wounds. Except Connor had used
inappropriate
, so maybe he’d had sensitivity training. He turned back to Zoë. ‘You have a point?’

‘He was a street kid. Maybe he heard something.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t have a telly?’

‘Who was the witness?’

He said, ‘Ms Boehm, I don’t want to appear rude, but you’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame. Was that not enough?’

Zoë said, ‘You’ve looked me up.’

He glanced at Chris, then back at her. ‘You shot a man. Killed him. He wasn’t armed.’

‘He was armed.’

‘Reports vary.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what reports do. He was armed.’

Along the pavement, the news crews were packing up. Maybe Jet Deepman had stopped crying. Chris was watching Zoë, his expression unreadable. This might have been the most shocking thing ever. It might have been an update on the weather.

She noticed, as if it were happening to somebody else, that she was trembling.
Zoë is trembling.

And said, ‘My history has nothing to do with this.’

‘Not everything you’re involved in has to be newsworthy.’

‘That’s not what this is about.’

‘No?’

Her mouth dried. Behind his glasses, Connor’s eyes narrowed. She’d lost the ability to read: maybe there was sympathy there; maybe contempt.

He said, ‘Either way, perhaps he was asking to be shot. That happens sometimes.’

Her voice returned. ‘You’re saying Wensley –’

‘I’m saying, don’t make something out of nothing. People can get the wrong impression. Reports vary. The truth doesn’t.’

Chris said, as if it remained the important thing, ‘He was just a kid.’

‘Nobody’s forgotten that. It’s a sad event. But don’t –’ He turned from Chris to Zoë to continue. ‘Don’t go taking minor details and building fantasies on them. Coincidences happen. They mean nothing.’

‘Like dates.’

‘Like what?’

She said, ‘I was thinking about birthdays. It wasn’t important.’

Everyone leaks history. Stray remarks draw blood, sometimes. Tom Connor stared and she saw she’d hit a chord, the way it can happen with strangers.

He said, ‘It would have been nice to have met differently. After what Bob Poland said about you.’

This alarmed her. ‘He spoke highly?’

‘No. But he’s always struck me as a prick. Goodbye, Ms Boehm.’ He nodded at Chris, and left.

So then there were two, standing on the pavement, watching the policeman walking away.