Willing Flesh (26 page)

‘It’s all a bit thin, isn’t it? That development has five hundred units going up.’

‘And a commercial element. End value is about three hundred million.’

‘What!’

‘It would have been more, but they had to put some starter units in there – to get through planning.’

‘Howerd would have helped with that, presumably.’

‘Don’t ask no questions …’ says Finbar. ‘Whichever way you look at it, some palms will have been greased.’

‘And pockets lined?’

‘It’s not the cleanest game in the world, as you know.’

‘They’re taking profits all the way down the line. The land, the planning gain, the development and the construction. A nice deal for Howerd, wouldn’t you say?’

Finbar goes quiet, turns and looks out across the City. The glass flanks of the financial world glint in the sun. The Thames shines, like a new coin. ‘There is something else, Will.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You know, where Howerd’s concerned, you should think twice before you go barking up the tree.’

‘What is it, Fin?’

Finbar turns around, all jollity evaporated. ‘One of my analysts knows all the housebuilders – the sort you’d expect to be throwing up a development like Aldesworth Country Town. It’s a hard business. These are hard people.’

‘Go on.’

‘My man says that one of his clients was within a gnat’s chuff of getting the Aldesworth contract. They shaved their profit right down to the bone.’

‘But they pulled out.’

Finbar nods. ‘My man wouldn’t say any more. He swore me to secrecy on this. It’s a question of face for these people, but he says if they’d gone ahead, there would have been unforeseen complications.’

‘Of a foreign nature?’

Finbar says, grimly, ‘You know?’

‘Did he mention a man called Tchancov?’

‘Don’t push this, Will.’

Staffe shakes Finbar’s hand. They look each other in the eye, clear to see Finbar Hare fears for his friend.

*

Bobo Bogdanovich is wearing a singlet top, jogging bottoms and a film of sweat. He fills the doorway. ‘You have no business here,’ he says, wiping his head with his forearm.

‘Tell me about Arabella Howerd, Bobo.’

‘I don’t know her.’

‘A friend of your girlfriend’s. She went to Suffolk with her. You remember that, Bobo? Is that where they first met?’

Bobo pulls on his left ear with his right hand, a deep crease running down from his hairline.

‘Course you don’t.’ Staffe takes a step back, deliberately looks left and right, down to the street, as if checking for back-up. ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, do you, Bobo? You should let me in. We might not have long.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why don’t you want me to find the man who killed Elena?’

‘You got him.’

‘Do they know she was your sister?’

He stares open-mouthed at Staffe and, for a moment, stops tugging at his ear.

‘I need to know what got Elena killed. I know you know, Bobo – whether you know it or not.’

The puzzled seam deepens, as if Staffe has set him a calculus problem.

‘I don’t know what you talk about.’

‘Tell me about the building up in Suffolk. Did you help Vassily put the squeeze on up there?’

‘I don’t build.’

‘What do you do, for Vassily? If he asks you to jump, Bobo – do you jump?’

Staffe wants to ask what kind of man would stand by and let his sister get murdered, then protect the people who did it. He waits for Bobo to meet his glare but when he does, Staffe can see no shame; not a flicker of guilt at doing the wrong thing; no hint that Bobo might be putting his own welfare first.

The penny clunks.

Staffe turns and walks away. As he goes, he waves a flimsy hand at Bobo then calls back from the top of the stairs at the end of the concrete deck. ‘They got you, hey, Bobo? All the way back home.’

Even in the grey light of the December dusk, Staffe can see Bobo’s bottom lip protrude. Elena is his older sister and there’s no doubt he loved her, but she is gone and their mother and father are still alive and kicking; other sisters and brothers, too, perhaps. That’s Staffe’s guess.

Making his way back through the rows of terraced houses, he glimpses mid-rise sixties blocks, flaked to almost nothing. Here, giant crosses of St George block out the light to the windows so the skins can’t even see the salwar kameez shops. This is the tinder of England and, outside the Marquis of Cornwallis, a group of Somalis, long-limbed and large-skulled, like Giacomettis, choose to cross the road. The smoking whites and Asians laugh, flick their fag butts at the Africans.

Staffe thinks of Suffolk, of Elena and Rebeccah being there, the Howerds, too; and perhaps Tchancov. What might he gain from the disappearance of Arabella Howerd?

*

The forensic interpretations have arrived from the expert witness and Josie has entered the findings into the database, sent copies of Discovery to the CPS and to Blears’ counsel. As she lifts her collar, Josie feels the papers in the inside pocket of her coat. She pulls her lapels tight, clasps them as she runs, as quickly as she can in these heels, to the Hand and Shears.

She goes into the far snug and asks Dick for a hot toddy. Waiting, images of Graham Blears flicker. She contests what, precisely, has brought her here.

Dick brings the hot toddy across and waves the money away. ‘He can pay. Lovely girl like you left drinking on her own.’ He winks at her, and as if on cue, Staffe comes in through the narrow saloon doors and orders a pint of Adnams.

He looks weary, but manages a smile and his eyes become bright. He puts a hand on her shoulder and kisses her on the cheek, near her mouth. He never kisses her. His jaw pricks her with its afternoon shadow and he smells of a long day.

‘You don’t kiss me.’

‘Is that an order?’ he says, laughing.

‘An observation.’

‘I’m on leave and you’re a friend.’

She places the papers on the table, sips from her hot toddy. The cloves and the spirit remind her of Boxing Day walks. She wonders what she might do this Boxing Day, who she will spend it with. ‘What do you want with these, sir?’

‘How’s Blears getting on?’

‘He’s on the vulnerable wing.’

‘Suicide watch?’

‘No. Not that I know of.’

Staffe suddenly looks angry. ‘Blears is a danger to himself. He can’t die on us!’

‘You still don’t think he did it?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Josie.’

‘We have a knife from off his premises. We have witnesses at both scenes. We’ve got his bloody confession for crying out loud!’ Josie realises she has raised her voice and sees Dick looking across. She leans forward and hisses at Staffe. ‘We’ve not rustled this up from nothing, you know!’

‘How’d he do for Arabella Howerd, then?’

‘She’s only been gone a day or so. There’s no body.’

Staffe puts the papers in his coat pocket. ‘Did I ever tell you about my friend Rosa?’

Josie nods. Her eyes go wide, sparkle. She has come a long way in the year or so they have been together, but she is still so young, so green.

‘She had a gig in the Metropole the other night; second time with the same fella. He attacked her, said he wanted to know what she knew.’

‘Is Rosa all right?’

‘All right as she can be. He referred to the other two girls. He knew Elena was pregnant.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘Staying with me.’

‘But you’re with Sylvie. Aren’t you?’

He nods. ‘Of course I am.’

Josie finishes her hot toddy and plonks it on the table, buttons her coat back up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I need to see the transcripts of Rosa’s statement. I’ll have to talk to her. And so will Rimmer.’

Staffe reaches out, holds her arm and whispers, as if he was making a tender confidence. ‘But it didn’t happen, Josie. Rosa didn’t go to the police with this. I’m telling you as a friend.’

‘But you’re my boss, sir.’ She gives him a disgruntled look, as if she is betrayed. ‘Except, you’re not.’

Staffe watches her go, then hitches his chair closer to the fire. He takes out the papers and reads about Arabella. As much as is publically known.

Arabella Imogen Geraldine Howerd was educated at St Mary’s School, Ascot, but left without A levels, despite the offer of a place at Somerville College, Oxford. She has never been on an electoral roll, nor claimed benefits nor paid National Insurance stamp or PAYE.

She was charged with possession of ecstasy, crack cocaine and MDMA at Bishopsgate Police Station on 1 May 2009. The charges were subsequently dropped as Miss Howerd had not been offered independent legal representation, and that case of misapplication was presented to the CPS by Sir Ralph Waikman of Essex Court.

Arabella has never taken a driving test, is currently registered with neither a GP nor a dentist, but was admitted to A & E in Stratford, East London, in November this year when a stomach pump was administered. She was brought by Darius A’Court and a suicide attempt was posited but not pursued. Less than a month later, her brother, Roderick, notified City of London Police that she was missing.

*

Staffe throws a stone up at the first floor window of 72 Jarndyce Road. Hippy blankets are still pinned at the windows. Along the street, builders are hard at work under lights. Staffe can tell they are not British, not at this hour. In a street nearby, kids are playing out. Staffe hears the thump of a football, the scurry of young feet. In the corner of an eye, he thinks he sees a twitch of swirling orange and purple fabric.

‘He’s in,’ says one of the builders, approaching. He has a cheery face, a fag in the corner of his mouth, and speaks his English with the long, squeezed vowels from beyond an Iron Curtain. ‘We keep our eye on the place.’

‘Squatters holding out on you?’

‘He’s a clever son a bitch.’

‘And your boys get their drugs from him?’

‘What you mean!’

Staffe turns away, hands the builder a card. ‘If your boys buy a bit of stuff off him, just call me. I won’t do you for possession. You’ve got my word. And he’ll become the last of the squatters.’ Staffe winks at the builder who shakes Staffe by the hand.

‘My name Stanislav.’

‘Are you Polish, Stan?’

He shakes his head. ‘But I have permit. Very clean permit.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ says Staffe, walking across to the skip, picking up half of a London brick. ‘Russian?’

Stanislav shrugs.

‘What about the girl?’

Stanislav says, ‘I not seen her for days.’

Staffe weighs up number 72, gives himself a run-up, brings his arm back and launches the brick.

The glass shatters.

From inside, Darius shouts, ‘What the fuck!’ He looks down in anger, undiminished when he sees it is Staffe.

*

Darius sits in the room’s only armchair toking on a roll-up and swigging from a can of supermarket beer.

‘What the fuck am I going to do now? It’s freezing in here,’ he says in his posh, faux-Cockney drawl, nodding at the smashed window – the dark night beyond.

‘Call the council.’

‘Don’t take the piss.’

‘Where’s Arabella, Darius?’

‘I’m not her keeper.’

‘But you are, aren’t you?’

‘The fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Roddy has been to see us – you know Roddy?’