Willing Flesh (19 page)

The day emerges, pale and misty, and he mooches into the kitchen, puts a dash of vinegar to the pan of water, delicately breaks two eggs into a rolling boil so they form, and hold, teardrop shapes. He toasts two rounds of pain rustique, pours the coffee, butters the toast and scoops the eggs. As he takes the breakfasts up on a tray, he catches himself humming
Pavane for a Dead Princess.

After breakfast, Staffe climbs into a pair of gunmetal-grey chinos. Sylvie comes up behind him, laughing. She slaps his backside and says, ‘Mornings aren’t exactly a minefield for you, are they, Will?’

‘How do you mean?’

She points into his wardrobe. ‘Four pairs of chinos and four pairs of jeans. Two leather jackets and one suede one. Four blue shirts and two white. Two pairs of Chelsea boots and two pairs of loafers. That’s it!’

‘Don’t you like the way I dress?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to tailor you. I’m taking you off the peg.’

A loud rap from the front door is followed by two rings on the bell. Staffe pulls on a blue shirt and rushes to the door, says, ‘What’s up?’

Josie walks past him and into the lounge, tossing last night’s
News
onto the coffee table. She puts her hands on hips like a little missy. ‘This! And your visit to Blears – for starters. You could have told me you were going to see him.’

‘Nothing came of it.’

Josie taps the copy of
The News
. ‘Where did Absolom get his front page, sir?’

‘You think it was me?’

Josie looks past Staffe. Sylvie is leaning against the frame of the door and the two women smile at each other, cool and polite. ‘I’ll see you down the station, sir,’ says Josie.

‘I’ll come with you. Just give me a minute.’

In the kitchen, Sylvie is putting coffee into the cafetière – enough for three people. ‘Don’t worry. I know,’ she says.

‘Know what?’

She puts her arms around him. ‘You have other people’s lives to slide into and out of. That’s what turns you on about your job, and it’s part of what I love about you.’

‘You love me?’ he says.

She punches him in the chest and holds up her ring finger. ‘Don’t be an idiot.’

*

‘Will you go public on Blears’ arrest now?’ says Staffe to Josie as they walk down from Farringdon tube. The night snow is grainy and hard and people walk gingerly, sometimes slipping and laughing.

‘Pennington’s spoken to Absolom already.’

They are outside the Port Authority building and Staffe taps Josie on the shoulder, points towards the Barbican. ‘I’m going this way.’

‘We’ve got all the witness statements from the Kennel and the evidence from Marigold Close is all bagged and indexed. You should have a look.’

‘I will.’

‘We got an ID on Blears from the kennel. And Tara Fleet’s preparing an expert witness report.’

‘Tara Fleet! Was she Rimmer’s idea?’

‘What did you say to Blears?’ asks Josie.

‘I wanted to look him in the eye. I wanted to hear him tell me he didn’t do it.’

‘And did he?’

‘Get Tara Fleet to ask him.’

‘Did he deny it, sir?’

‘Not exactly.’

He watches Josie go, thinks back to what she was like just eighteen months ago, when she first joined the team. His team.

As he crosses the Barbican piazza on his way to Rosa’s place, walking against the grain of people walking to their financial jobs, he wonders if there will be some kind of law of diminishing returns that applies to Rosa and her profession.

The last time, she told him to phone ahead, so he takes out his phone, seeks her out and presses green.

‘Will?’ she says down the phone. ‘It’s not like you to call.’

‘Can I see you?’

‘Of course you can. But I have to go out soon.’

He makes the knock on the door.

She says, ‘Hang on. Don’t go away.’

He smiles, at the prospect of his surprise playing itself out, but he immediately questions how inappropriate it might be, to want to see her light up for a moment.

The door opens and her face does light up. She says, ‘Will!’ Steps forward, hugs him, then moves back, holding onto his hips.

His arms hang by his sides.

‘Why the long face?’ says Rosa, inviting him in.

She makes tea, constantly lamenting the fate which befell Elena and Rebeccah.

‘There are some names in their phones,’ he says.

She sits alongside him on the sofa and he shows her the list, distilled from the dead girls’ data matches.

‘We know Bobo and Tchancov. And you, of course,’ says Staffe. ‘What about the others?’

Rosa says, ‘Kimberley was one of the girls but she moved away, back up to Manchester – a year or so ago.’

Which figures, thinks Staffe. The last call is over six months old.

‘But this one, this Arra, she was friends with Elena and Rebeccah. They were thick as thieves.’ Rosa shakes her head. ‘She’s not my cup of tea. Not by a long chalk.’

‘One of the girls?’ says Staffe, knowing Mitch had said not.

Rosa shakes her head again. ‘No way. But not so you’d know – unless you knew.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’s a rich little girl gone wrong. Her boyfriend …’ Rosa taps the paper with a French manicured nail. ‘This bloody Darius. He deals – to Becx. And to Elena, for her clients. Elena can take or leave the stuff, but not Rebeccah.’ She is talking about the dead girls as if they might be meeting up later to shop out west or kill a couple of bottles of dry white. ‘Rebeccah can’t help herself.’ She glazes over, talks low, as if to herself. ‘Life’s hard enough without making it so. Arabella had choices, but you know, if Rebeccah or Elena had those choices, they’d be here now.’ Rosa’s voice begins to crack.

‘Arabella. Her surname is Howerd?’

Rosa nods. ‘You didn’t just come for a chat.’

‘Do you have to go out? We could talk, if you wanted.’

‘The Metropole. It’s a good number.’

‘You shouldn’t go to hotels.’

‘Don’t judge me, Will.’

He wraps an arm around her and she flinches. He holds her tighter and puts his other arm around her waist, pulls her close and her body goes slack. They stay like that – her head tucked between his chin and chest. Eventually, she taps him on the leg and he unravels his hold of her.

Staffe nods at the photograph of the man with the Italianate village behind him. ‘You never said who the fella is.’

‘He would never hurt me.’

‘Is it serious?’

She smiles, sadly, and walks to the door. ‘I have to get ready.’

He says, ‘It’s strange how you’re in the middle of this.’

‘Mine’s a tiny world, Will. You’d be amazed how few real pervs there are in this city.’

*

The sugar dusting of snow is brittle with frost, like brûlée. Yesterday, London’s snow turned to slush almost as soon as it fell, but the temperatures are so low today that it has retained its crust on the pavement. There is a chirp in the air, a fairytale Christmas just around the corner. Staffe goes through the stained-glass portal to the Laing’s empire, and its deputy chairman, Leonard Howerd.

‘There is nothing in the diary for Mr Leonard,’ says the erect butler, hands behind his back and a feint of a smile delicately sculpted into his earnest face. He is wearing tails and a stiff collar and has a look of the Guardsman about him. He looks Staffe up and down as if he has no place in this parish.

‘He wouldn’t be expecting me,’ says Staffe, putting a plum to his voice, placing his warrant card discreetly upon the high-countered, teak-panelled desk. ‘But I can’t imagine he wouldn’t make time to see me for a few moments. It is a matter of the utmost gravity.’

The butler looks over the rims of his pince-nez glasses and says, ‘I shall see what we can do. But Mr Leonard is a very busy man.’

‘As am I,’ says Staffe.

They wait for ‘Mr Leonard’ to pick up and Staffe leans forward, says almost under his breath, ‘Whether Mr Howerd can see me or not, he will see me. I can always return with some uniformed officers. It’s simply a question of what he would prefer.’

*

Leonard Howerd looks as though professional attention from Elena Danya would crack him like a Ming vase. He slowly passes an upturned palm in front of him, towards an empty chair on the opposition’s side of the satinwood partners’ desk – like a peasant casting seeds into ready ground. His thin-lipped mouth is tight.

‘Taki Markary is a friend of yours,’ says Staffe.

‘I know many people. You do in this line, Mr …?’

‘Inspector. Detective Inspector Wagstaffe. Was it he who introduced you to Elena Danya?’ As he says this, Staffe scrutinises Howerd’s reaction. And, right enough, he stops blinking and his eyes widen. His thin mouth opens and he stares into his lap for a moment.

‘Is Mr Markary in some kind of trouble?’

‘I’m afraid that I ask the questions, Mr Howerd. And I would like to know exactly where and when, and in what circumstances, you met Elena Danya.’

‘Is this all you have come for?’

‘This, and to find out where your daughter might be.’

‘Ah. I see. What has she done?’ He smiles. ‘Aah. Another question from me. Not allowed.’ Howerd interlocks his fingers, seems to consider what information he should impart. After a long silence, and as if reading from text, he says, ‘Taki and I have a business arrangement, near my home in Suffolk. It is something for which I have dispensation from my directors here, and from the Bank of England. In the course of these arrangements, I had cause to meet Miss Danya,’ he pauses, ‘on a number of occasions.’

‘And she was a friend of your daughter’s?’

‘I would not attempt to choose Arabella’s friends.’ He stops, frowns, and says, ‘Was? You said Miss Danya
was
a friend.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. Elena Danya has been murdered, Mr Howerd. But you know that, don’t you. Now, where can I get hold of your daughter?’

‘I don’t understand what business …’

‘
I
don’t understand! You are in cahoots with Markary, and his murdered mistress bought her drugs from your daughter.’

‘I am not in cahoots.’ Howerd checks his watch, is clearly fuming.

‘You hosted Markary at the Colonial Bankers’ Club last week?’

Howerd nods.

‘Why did Elena Danya call the club while you were there?’

‘I haven’t a clue. Is it so?’

‘It was one of the last calls she ever made.’ Staffe stares Howerd down. ‘Silence isn’t one of your privileges, Mr Howerd.’

‘I am perfectly prepared to be interviewed under the appropriate conditions.’ He reaches into a drawer and hands Staffe the business card of ‘Sir Ralph Waikman, Essex Court’. ‘If you call my barrister’s chambers, I’m sure they can arrange for your questions to be answered.’

Staffe says, ‘You are too kind,’ thinks that this isn’t the time for that. In fact, he has a short cut he can take – just around the corner.

*

Finbar Hare is not quite in Howerd’s league but he has been in and around the City all his working life. Many years ago, he and Staffe partied, hard. Now they struggle to see each other once a year. This is the first time Staffe has visited Finbar at these new glass-and-steel offices. As he enters the marbled atrium through five-yard-high revolving doors, Staffe’s phone vibrates and Finbar’s name fades to Janine. He answers.

‘You asked about the dead foetus, Staffe? Well, Taki Markary is definitely the father. No mistake. It’s a match from the hair you gave us.’