Willing Flesh (8 page)

Today, I feel low and missing you.

I love you my Bobo,

Elena.

Staffe takes an unhealthy swallow of his Adnams. Reading Elena’s thoughts, he is prompted to think of Rosa, his friend, who is bright and attractive and who will soon be too old to do what she does.

He steers himself to the next translation, but by the time he has read the first paragraph, his mind is back on Rosa. He should go round. It’s been six months and he remembers full well what happened the last time – a first time.

‘What do you make of it?’ says Josie.

‘It doesn’t suggest she was being coerced, or held hostage to some habit. What did Forensics come up with at Livery Buildings?’

‘Just a few of Elena Danya’s prints. And Markary’s, too. According to the caretaker she was just there for a few days. Markary took pity on her, apparently. The caretaker backs it up.’

‘What about the other residents?’ says Staffe.

‘They’re saying nothing, and the CCTV is broken.’

‘Are there any tapes?’

‘They only keep them forty-eight hours.’

‘How convenient.’ Staffe feels his face soften into a smile.

‘You should smile more often, sir,’ says Josie, as Pulford returns with the drinks.

‘There’s plenty we should all do more often.’

‘Word has it you’re getting quite serious – with Sylvie.’ She raises her eyebrows.

Staffe allows that strain of conversation to fade to nothing. As it does, a plan drifts. He swallows his Adnams, allows the plan to ferment. ‘Aaah. Dick keeps his beer perfectly. They make it up in Saltburgh, Pulford. What do you make of it?’

‘It’s grand, sir. That’s where she was going – the Signet Hotel.’

‘You should get yourself up there. You want to go with him, Chancellor?’ says Staffe to Josie.

‘Nice of you to offer, sir. But I can see you might be better equipped to make such a sacrifice.’ She laughs, as does Pulford, and Staffe revisits the second translation.

My sweet Bobo,

I feel so low and miss not seeing you.
I am a prisoner up here and don’t know
how much longer I could have done this.
Perhaps it is the winter that brings me
down. He has said I can have a few days
away and I will go to my paradise
and forget everything, I hope. I can’t
remember how long it is since I saw
you …

Staffe finishes his pint and stands. ‘You get off, Pulford. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. Josie, tell Bobo he’ll need to account for his whereabouts between four and six o’clock on the seventh.’

As Pulford gets his coat, Staffe winks at Josie and taps his watch, holds five fingers up and mimes the turning of a steering wheel.

*

‘Christ, sir. Is this his place?’

Kerbside, on Bishops Avenue, the dashboard dies, like someone turning off the Christmas tree lights. Opposite, though, beyond the gilded gates of number 75, Tchancov’s Norwegian spruce would do the Kremlin proud.

‘Oooh. What a tree.’ Josie’s eyes glint as a car sweeps by.

Staffe talks into the entryphone, embedded in a vast stone pillar.

‘You!’ responds Tchancov’s voice.

‘I’m going to have to ask you come down to the station, Mr Tchancov. Or we could try to handle it here.’

‘And may I ask why?’

Staffe looks at Josie, letting the silence stretch. The lock clunks and a small gate to the side sweeps open.

‘Wow,’ says Josie, going ahead, looking up at the double-gabled, modern gothic extravagance.

‘The rouble must be strong,’ says Staffe, watching light glow bright in the twelve-foot porch. The front door opens and little Tchancov appears, wearing a smoking jacket and a fragile smile. Through narrow lips that barely move, he says, ‘I have guests arriving. Unless you have documents, you should be quick.’

‘I thought you’d want to know …’ Staffe looks past Tchancov, sees a suited, broad-shouldered man with Mongolian eyes and no hair, dyed-black sideburns.

‘Know what?’ asks Tchancov, instating a broader smile.

‘You’re needed to identify the body of Elena Danya in the morning. Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll send a car round for you.’

Staffe scrutinises the reception hall, decked with holly and some fine baroque furniture. On the secretaire by the curving dual staircase is a pile of post. Amidst it, a pale lilac envelope.

Vassily steps across, into Staffe’s eyeline. ‘I heard Bobo was tending to the identification.’

‘We have a conflict. Bobo simply can’t do that, Vassily.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s been arrested – in connection with the murder of Elena Danya.’

Vassily Tchancov bats his eyes, just the once, at the news that one of his has been brought in for murder.

*

‘What the hell’s going on, sir?’ asks Josie, once the car door is shut.

‘I’ll run you home. You’re on my way.’ He fires up the engine, pulls out, waving at the Mongolian, who watches them from the other side of the gilded gates.

‘You’ve got evidence on Bobo?’ says Josie.

‘If we wanted him to come in and he refused to co-operate, we might have to arrest him.’

‘Tchancov will soon find out if he’s not.’

‘Jombaugh’s got two uniforms going round to get him. My guess is, he’ll resist.’

Traffic is thin and the snow is falling. Going down past the Spaniards Inn. Josie turns in her seat and says, softly, ‘You just want Tchancov in front of the body. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Not quite.’ Staffe turns on the radio, surfs it to a classical station. Copland, he thinks, and in that orchestral prairie sweep, he lets his thoughts roam. All he has for Elena is a disputed address and a probable occupation; a surname and a boyfriend; a lover and an ex-employer. No National Insurance number or passport; no place or date of birth. An empty hotel room awaits her in Suffolk. Tchancov said she really did love what men paid her to do, but Staffe won’t accept that. Nothing about Elena will be that simple, he fears.

He thinks about how long it is since he visited his parents’ grave, and he fears for Elena’s father and mother, feels the terrible burden of those who survive.

He calls Jombaugh, who asks who he wants to talk to.

‘You, Jom. I want you to do me a favour.’

‘You must be in trouble, Staffe.’

‘You’re my oldest friend in the Force now, Jom. You know that, don’t you.’

‘Big trouble!’ laughs Jom.

‘Your father was in the Russian army, right?’

‘Only by accident. He was a Pole. They conscripted them.’

‘I’ve got Vassily Tchancov coming in tomorrow. He was in the army, an officer in the first Chechen war.’

‘So?’

‘I’ll bring in some cheesecake. Share some slices with him and chew the fat. Have a little dig around.’

‘What do you want, Staffe? Exactly?’

‘To find out just how bad a bastard he is.’

‘That first Chechen war is a good place to start.’

Eight

Sylvie is on the chaise longue at Queen’s Terrace, a nest of newspapers and sketches all around her. ‘Stranger,’ she says, seeing Staffe come in.

Pulford is in the armchair, a copy of
The News
and cans and a pizza box at his feet. He must see Staffe’s lip curl, because he gets up and gathers the detritus. ‘Sorry about this,’ he says.

Staffe sits at Sylvie’s feet and rubs her calves. She nestles, deeper, lifts her legs onto his lap and Staffe takes Elena’s letters from his pocket – re-reading the second one as Pulford scuttles out of the room. He loosens his tie, says to Sylvie, ‘What do you make of this?’ He hands her a lilac letter. ‘Just these lines.’ He taps the paper.

‘I feel so low and miss not seeing you. I feel like
a prisoner up here and don’t know how much
longer I could have done this …’

As Sylvie reads aloud, he closes his eyes and drinks her voice, like a
digestif
. But she falters and when he opens his eyes, her face has turned sad. Her eyebrows pinch together.

‘She knew an end was coming,’ she says.

‘Really?’ Staffe knew he had missed a nuance, first time round. He wonders what else might have stared him in the face, only to be missed.

Sylvie says, ‘…
could have done this …’

‘It might just be that she’s going to have the baby?’ says Staffe.

‘She doesn’t mention a baby,’ says Sylvie, ‘and this is a letter to her boyfriend, right?’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, she didn’t know about the baby when she wrote the letter …’

‘In which case she is giving up on something else.’

‘… Or, she knew about the baby and had decided she wasn’t going to have it,’ says Sylvie.

Staffe sighs.

‘Is it getting to you?’ Sylvie runs her fingers through his hair. ‘Lovely paper, though.’

Staffe recalls the lilac correspondence on Tchancov’s secretaire, puts the letter away and his fingers linger on the box in his jacket pocket. If Pulford wasn’t the other side of the wall, he might offer the ring up. He looks into her emerald eyes and can’t remember the last time he read a book, had an early night, woke up fresh as a daisy. He stretches out, flat, between her legs, his head resting on her tummy.

Sylvie reaches for the TV remote and flicks through the channels, finally resting on
University Challenge.
Staffe can’t see the screen but he surrenders to the cadence of questions and answers, the starters and bonuses. He says, in a low voice, ‘You never talk about your university days. I bet you had a ball.’

‘You mean boyfriends? Well you didn’t go short.’ She pokes him on the shoulder. ‘I know that for sure.’

‘You can tell me,’ he says.

‘I only had one, really.’

Staffe tries to remember if they have had this conversation before.

She says, ‘I was a bit of a mess back then, what with my mum and everything.’

He is jealous, that she had only one. And before he can help himself, he has said it. The idiot. ‘Is that where you met Ollie?’

‘Ollie?’

‘From the Randolph.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, Will.’

*

Rebeccah slides out of bed and feels the nip of the evening, cold as mountain water. She has slept too long, after a midnight-’til-six shift in Omega. She throws on Mitch’s parka, the fur of the hood warm on her face, and she goes through his pockets. It’s her money, for God’s sake, but once she hands it across, it’s his: ‘to see the both of us right, and save you from yourself’.

But she’s already planning to save herself and tomorrow is her secret day. Her once a week. Like Elena says, it’s
her
money, and she dares anticipate that one day soon she will be more like Elena. Her plans are grand, for sure.