Willing Flesh (21 page)

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘When will she be back?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I told your father I would be coming round.’ Staffe shows Roddy his warrant card and puts a foot into the house. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘She’s staying away at the moment.’

‘Staying away.’ A strange phrase. ‘Best not talk in the street, hey?’ Staffe thinks it odd that Roddy hasn’t asked what trouble Arabella might be in.

Roddy shows Staffe into a beautifully furnished drawing room on the upper ground floor, overlooking Bryanston Square. With his back to Roddy, looking out onto the Square, Staffe says, ‘Tell me about your mother, Roddy.’

‘I thought you were here about Bella.’

‘Her friends call her Arra. Have you met her friends? Two of them are dead, so when I ask you about your mother, when I ask you anything at all, I’d like an answer. Do you understand?’

Roddy nods, looks at his feet.

‘What did your father do to lose Arabella?’

‘She’s not lost. Bella has always done her own thing.’

‘Does she take after her mother?’

‘I was fourteen when she died.’

‘I’m sorry. Did you know Elena?’

He shakes his head.

‘Rebeccah Stone?’

Roddy shakes his head again, like a shy one in class.

‘If I find out you’re lying or haven’t told me everything, you can kiss goodbye to your degree – that’s for sure. Now! Where is Arabella?’

Roddy replies, quick as lies, ‘I don’t know.’

‘If any harm comes to her, you’ll have blood on your hands. Is that what you want? Now, do you have an address for her? A boyfriend?’

Roddy shakes his head. Staffe knows that as soon as Daddy gets home, the shit really will fly.

He turns his attention to an oil painting. ‘Where is this?’ The painting, of a boat in a sunwashed harbour, is almost Impressionistic, but with a Fauvist palette of lilacs and yellows and blues.

‘The Med?’ says Roddy.

‘Could it be Turkey? You’re a Classics scholar, Roddy?’

‘Father was. I’m a mathematician.’

‘Aah. Like the rest of them.’

‘There is something of a tradition.’

‘Except your father. It must be difficult, all that to live up to. You really are quite a family.’ Staffe knows there is a chink in the line, without which you could trace Roddy all the way back to Mary and the men who set fire to those martyrs outside his Oxford college.

‘It seems normal to me.’

In the corner of the room is a Byzantine icon of the Virgin with Child.

‘Turkey?’ says Staffe. ‘Taki Markary’s a family friend.’

Roddy shrugs, his hand busy in his pocket.

Staffe has what he wants, for now, and if his instincts are correct about Roddy, then Leonard will really struggle with that faltering family line – should Arabella not issue forth with progeny. On his way out, Staffe clocks a panoramic group portrait.
Ampleforth Leavers, June MMIX
. Roddy is extreme left, right at the back.

*

Staffe says, ‘Yes, please. I would love tea. Mint, if you have it.’

Sema Markary smiles, says, ‘Taki lives by it.’ She knows not to be overly familiar, takes a backward step and leaves the room. As she goes, she smiles tightly at her husband and narrows her eyes. Staffe sees that she loves and respects Taki. She will not make the tea herself, of course. The Markarys have people who do that.

‘You have a beautiful wife,’ says Staffe.

‘Why are you here?’

‘It’s delicate.’ Staffe goes across to the Sickert and admires it.

‘You’ve seen it before, Inspector.’

‘What do you think our friend Sickert would have made of Vlad the Ripper?’

‘It would seem the press have got that one wrong. Unless Graham Blears has Russian ancestry.’

‘Aah. You have been following the case.’

‘You know damn well I have an involvement. If only through your harassment.’

‘This signature?’ Staffe has leaned right in to a vivid portrait of a beautiful woman who could be Turkish, or Persian. Staffe thinks the setting is the garden of a villa on the Bosporus. Aghia Sofia’s dome and minaret are implied with six deft strokes in the background. ‘Imogen Howerd. What do you make of her work?’

‘This is at our villa in Istanbul. They are family friends.’

‘Why might Leonard Howerd kill his wife, Mr Markary?’

‘What?’ Markary is appalled.

‘They are a troubled family.’

‘Only Arabella,’ says Markary.

‘How did you meet Elena Danya?’

The door opens and Sema Markary directs the maid to set the silver tray down on the ebonised petit table in the window.

Markary stares at Staffe, rigid with fear at what the inspector could say.

Staffe waits for the maid to leave. Sema stays. He says, ‘Arabella was a friend of hers. Is that how you first met?’

‘Arabella Howerd?’ enquires Sema. ‘Oh, dear. Has she been up to nonsense again? Always fighting with poor Imogen.’ Sema Markary looks at her portrait, the smile gone and her eyes cold, unfaltering. ‘Is Arabella tied up with that Russian girl? I’m always telling Taki to be less generous, Inspector.’ She turns back to Staffe. ‘Not like me. I’m different.’

Sema leaves and Staffe pours tea. The glasses are filigreed with gold and the tea smells of Smyrna. Through the window, he peruses Mayfair. The snow remains on the roofs and railings of the Georgian rows – a scene for pen and ink. ‘It was your daughter they killed, Taki,’ Staffe says. ‘Elena was carrying a daughter and you were the father. We have the proof, if you wish to see it.’

Markary’s glass slips through his fingers and smashes. Both men look at the diamond scatter of the crystal and the Turk says, ‘You don’t know how solid we are, Inspector. I suggest you look elsewhere. Good luck with that.’

‘Don’t pretend you were born to this life. You’re no Leonard Howerd,’ says Staffe, standing.

‘What do you mean?’ Markary looks deeply affronted.

‘Before
she
took a shine, Taki, you were running guns to the Arabs. You know how to get blood off your hands. You’ve had to try harder, haven’t you. Not so close to God as some, hey? And in my book – that gives you less to lose.’

*

Staffe waits for Josie and Rimmer in the far snug of the Hand and Shears and allows himself a pint of Adnams. The glass’s etched crest denotes the brewery. As he waits, in the warm glow of the fire, logs spitting, he wonders how much money there is to be made up in Aldesworth Country Town.

As soon as he sees Josie and Rimmer come through the door, raising their arms aloft and striding towards his table, Staffe can tell Graham Blears must have chucked up his confession.

‘Tonight, we drink!’ says Josie, her eyes twinkling and Staffe can’t help but feel glad in a part of his heart. He raises his glass and wiggles it and she marches off to the bar.

Josie gets stuck into a conversation at the bar with Dick, and Rimmer pulls up a stool. ‘She’s done well, the girl. A bright cookie.’

Rimmer tells Staffe how the CPS are happy with the corroborating evidence. He jokes about how Blears had obsessed about the welfare of his dog; and then, as the pints are sunk, he confides that he had secretly feared his return to duty and how much he appreciates Staffe letting him take the lead on this investigation. ‘Imagine, if you hadn’t gone off like that.’

Staffe raises his pint of Suffolk ale. ‘To you. Your old man would be proud.’

Rimmer’s eyes glaze over and he looks down into his beer, says, ‘I’m not half the man. Not half the copper.’

‘Go easy on yourself. Those are big boots to fill.’

‘You know, he died within a year of retiring. There’s more to life than that, surely. I’m up for pension in six years, and between you and me, it can’t come soon enough.’

Staffe wonders where this is all coming from and contemplates the power of hubris.

‘You’re different though, hey Staffe. You couldn’t cope without this, could you.’

Staffe tries to picture the long, empty arc from morning to night; can’t begin to imagine how the days would fill themselves without this life he has formed for himself. Suddenly, he feels quite weary.

On his way out, he pats Josie on the back. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he says.

‘You can see that Blears did it, sir?’

‘Seems you were right. Follow what you believe, Josie. No matter what you hear. You’ll be right often enough, and if you’re not – there’s always the law.’

She laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘You should stick around, sir. It’s going to be a big night. We’re going down the Butcher’s in a while.’

Staffe yields to a tug from the station; kicks back against something else. He kisses Josie on the cheek and leaves, swallowing away everything he might say.

*

Pennington sucks on a plastic cigarette and when he sees Staffe in the doorway of his office he smiles, warmly. Pennington seldom smiles warmly. He reaches into the pedestal drawer of his desk and draws out a bottle of Scotch, goes back in for two glasses and holds them up. Staffe nods.

‘You look done in, Will.’

‘I’ve been with Rimmer and Chancellor. Seems congratulations are in order.’

‘We got that bastard, good and proper.’ The DCI hands Staffe his glass and they chink, then slug. Pennington recharges them.

‘I’m going to take a break, sir.’

‘Nobody barks up a tree quite the way you do, Will. Not just barking, shaking the bloody fruit down before it’s ready.’

Staffe laughs. He likes the image. ‘You’re not always so phlegmatic, sir – about my harvesting.’

Pennington stands. ‘Take your leave, Will. And if I might suggest, you could do a little gardening.’

‘You don’t have any doubts about Blears, sir?’

‘There’s no doubting the quality of the evidence against him. Go easy, Will.’ Pennington shakes Staffe’s hand, gripping his shoulder with the other. ‘Have a merry Christmas, and plenty prosperity.’

‘Prosperity?’ thinks Staffe. That’s relative. Prosper like Pennington or even himself. Or prosper like Markary and the Howerds?

Staffe goes into his office and reaches right to the back of the drawer of his filing cabinet. Rebeccah’s plastic freedom bag is still there, as is the
PRIVAT
envelope, the bearer bonds within. But it is something else that Staffe wants. He replaces Rebeccah’s things, pockets Mitch’s bag of wraps and makes his way to visit Rebeccah’s so-called boyfriend.

*

Mitch has a fresh cut above his eye and a swollen jaw. ‘’t you want?’ he snarls. ‘You lay one finger on me, I’ll call my brief.’

‘Where does Arabella live?’

He shrugs.

‘Her boyfriend, Darius – he’s a dealer, right? You’ll know where his place is.’

‘No way, man.’

‘I bet you’re still playing catch-up, aren’t you, after I had away with your little stash?’ Staffe prods Mitch’s swollen cheekbone. ‘They’ve been a-visiting, I see.’

‘The fuck you want? I don’t know where they live.’

‘There must have been fifty grammes of decent stuff, I’d say. You hadn’t had a chance to let it down.’

Mitch keeps his beady eyes fixed on Staffe’s hands, flinching as he goes into his pockets. ‘Leave me alone!’ he shouts, all street disappearing from his voice.

Staffe shows Mitch what he is carrying. In the palm of each hand, at least a grand’s worth of coke. Mitch’s coke. ‘Supposedly, it helps the memory.’