Willing Flesh (9 page)

She feeds a pound coin to the meter, and switches on the immersion, then boils a kettle for good measure. While she waits for the water to heat, Becx goes into the bathroom and pulls up the sealant strip, hooks her fingers round the bath panel and tugs it away. She reaches in for the plastic bag, having to get her head right in. The damp clags her nose.

Cross-legged on the floor, she empties the contents of the bag into her lap. She has
£
4,280 in the Post Office book with another hundred from Frank tomorrow and some interest to be tagged on. It’s not enough. She doesn’t just want a beach and a few spliffs a day; her designs are on a brand-new business and she reckons she can do it for ten grand. Clippers and brushes and a crisp white uniform with royal blue piping and a little car. And some working capital – that’s what Elena said, and Arra too –’ til the pet grooming trade picks up.

She unfolds the certificate, reads that she, Rebeccah Stone, is fit to groom domestic animals. It makes her fizz with pride.

When Rebeccah told Elena what she was planning, Elena had gone all serious. Her eyes crinkled up and her lips went thin and she said, ‘We’ll see what we can do. There’s a chance things might change for me. They could change for you too, Rebeccah.’ ‘Re-Beck-Caah’, she called her. It made Becx sound like a movie star. It’s the way her name was meant to sound, but somehow nobody saw it. Apart from Elena.

Which is why she has resisted all temptations to take a peek into the envelope Elena asked her to keep secret for her. It is marked
PRIVAT
, in Elena’s long and beautiful hand. Rebeccah aches with curiosity to see what is inside the A4 manilla envelope. But she won’t. Not so far.

She wonders how Elena’s getting on up at her secret sea. She wouldn’t tell anyone where it was, but Rebeccah begged and begged to go with her and when Elena must have tired of saying ‘No’, they went there together. Elena told Rebeccah about the elements. They sat on the beach holding hands, listening to the force of the moon and the water, making tides. ‘Close your eyes, Rebeccah,’ Elena had said. ‘We are only what we see of ourselves in the dark.’

Rebeccah closes her eyes now and pictures herself the way she will be for Frank, tomorrow, in his old Bentley out in Epping Forest. Afterwards, Frank will take her to the Drunken Duck, near Shoeburyness, where nobody knows him. And he will watch her eat, say how much he loves her, but not so much that when he tips her the wink and he drops his pudding spoon, she doesn’t have to shift up her dress and ease her thighs apart. His treat for the bill, he calls it. The Duck’s bill, and she will laugh along with him. She wonders whether, if she closes her eyes when he slips down for his gander, it will make her feel better about herself.

The kettle begins to whistle and she runs her bath then gathers her secrets together. The Post Office book and the hand-drawn designs of her calling cards for the pet-grooming business and the name of an estate agent in Estepona. Finally, the
PRIVAT
envelope she is keeping for Elena. Rebeccah is the only person in the whole world Elena could trust with this. Even Bobo. It makes her want to sing and she returns the kept secret, just so.

The water running onto the enamel by her ears sounds like the sea in a shell. Like childhood. It’ll be warm, come March, on the Costa, she thinks, returning her trove to its secret place.

Rebeccah takes her phone out and dials Elena’s number, picturing her by the sea. She’s got a new name to test on Elena. She likes Tender Petting, but the phone rings and rings and she is just about to hang up, wondering why it doesn’t switch to message, when Elena picks up.

‘Hi Lena,’ says Rebeccah, upbeat and sitting on the edge of the bath. ‘What do you think about Tender Petting? Subtle, innit? And it says I’ll look after them. What do you think? Really.’ The phone crackles and Rebeccah looks at the screen to make sure she’s got Elena. ‘Lena? It’s me.’

‘Who’s me?’

‘Who’s that? Lena, is that you?’

The phone goes quiet, then says, ‘Rebeccah?’

Whoever it is says her name wrong. Her heart judders. Blood rushes to her head and she feels weak.

‘Don’t hang up, Rebeccah. Elena is gone.’

‘Gone?’

The silence stretches.

‘She’s dead, Rebeccah. We need to speak to you. Please don’t hang up. We can help …’

Rebeccah acts on instinct, struggling for breath, pressing red.

*

Josie stares at the gold handset, sees Rebeccah Call Ended. She scribbles down the number and turns off the interference track on her field recorder. If only Rebeccah had called when she had been at the station, they could have triangulated and got a fix on where the incoming call had been made. Nonetheless, the name and number tally to her data sheet. Rebeccah is an illegitimate, pay-as-you-go SIM.

Josie calls the technicians, feeds them the number, says she’ll hang on while they get into the network. It is dark out and the snow glows, neon orange in the street’s lights. It is a night to sit by a fire with a lover and a glass and conversations that reach for a better life. But it seems such things are sliding away.

She could go out to the Butcher’s Hook and join coppers’ corner, laughing and joking about the cases, flirting and winding up. But lately, it is not what she wants. Looking back into the hot summer, she thinks about the fling with Pulford and was she right to finish it. At least they are friends, still. And as for Staffe …

The technician comes back on the phone, says, ‘Too late, Josie darling.’

‘Cheers, Conor. Let’s hope the next one calls when I’m at the station.’

‘You going down the Butcher’s?’

‘Got to go.’ She hangs up and calls Staffe to let him know about the call from the youngish woman called Rebeccah with her Bow Bells twang and her talk of Tender Petting. But the ether is a vacuum. Staffe’s phone rings and rings and rings and when she clicks off, her flat is deathly quiet.

*

Darius chops out lines for them all. Six thin ones from a bag he was going to mix down and sell off, later at the Conti in Borough. But needs must. Arabella and Rebeccah are on the sofa and thank God Mitch isn’t in. The girls have been crying and talking about Elena and crying and drinking and talking about Elena, but without really talking about Elena, just trying not to be afraid.

He does his lines and calls the girls over, swigs from the Absolut and lights up a joint, sits himself down in the corner and tries to work out why he hasn’t cried, reckons it must be a mechanism to protect Arra.

Arra looks up at him from doing her lines. She seems absolutely lost and he knows it is time to get her back to the fold.

‘Poor Arra,’ he thinks. She and Becx haven’t got a prayer: the blind leading the blind and now the one-eyed queen is dead. What the hell will they do? He takes an almighty draw and wonders if he’ll ever really know exactly what Elena was playing at.

‘What you thinking?’ asks Arra.

Darius gives her a hurtful smile. She ought to know he hates that question.

Becx says, ‘I can’t believe she’s not going to just come in and tell me what she’s been tricking. She’d have a bottle, wouldn’t she, Arra? And a little something. She always had a little something.’

‘A little something to get her into trouble,’ says Darius.

‘And what would you know?’ says Arra, wrapping an arm around Becx.

‘A lot less than you,’ says Darius. ‘Three fucking witches.’ He laughs, isn’t proud of himself. Something outside of his body tells him they should be making a better fist of mourning Elena.

‘I’ve got to get away,’ says Becx.

‘Sshh,’ says Arra. ‘Don’t talk like that. Not now.’

‘The Great Escape,’ says Darius.

Arra takes the joint off him.

‘Didn’t your father and Elena …?’ says Becx, taking the joint off Arabella. She staggers back, steadies herself on the table. ‘I forget how we all met.’

‘Don’t you have to phone in, Becx?’ says Darius. ‘Reb-beck-cah. That’s how she said me. Loved that. She was the only one knew how to say me.’

‘You should call,’ says Darius.

‘Leave her alone,’ says Arra.

‘And now they’ve killed her,’ says Becx.

‘You don’t know how she died, or why,’ says Darius.

‘We know fuck all, that’s for sure,’ says Arabella. ‘They won’t come bothering us, will they, Darry?’

‘You should go see your father.’

‘I should call Vassily,’ says Becx. ‘Let him know. Bastard!’

Darius pulls Arabella onto his knee and she kisses him hard, lets him put his hand up her skirt, doesn’t know that all the time his mind is racing, trying to map what is best for him. And doing the same for her, hoping Becx can look out for herself.

Nine

Staffe slams the Peugeot’s door and the engine ticks in the morning dark as it cools.

‘Where are we?’ asks Josie, bleary-eyed and sipping from her Thermos mug of coffee.

‘This is the humble abode of Taki Markary.’ Staffe presses Markary’s videocom. Quickly, the Turk’s voice emerges from the shiny grille. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Staffe looks into the camera. ‘I would like you to come with me, to identify the body of Elena Danya.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘You were her landlord.’

‘You can’t just turn up here.’

‘And the father of her unborn child. If only …’

The videocom shuts down and the camera clicks off. Staffe smiles at Josie. ‘I think he’s coming.’ Staffe rubs his hands together. Josie is pale as snow and staring into space, possibly fearing for her inspector.

*

Vassily Tchancov is in holding room two with Jombaugh who has been regaling the Russian with tales of his father’s war, serving in the RAF having escaped a prisoner-of-war camp in Finland.

Staffe leaves Markary with Josie in holding room one and taps on room two, enters, holding a baked cheesecake. Tchancov has responded with an account of his great-uncles from the Ukraine who were saved by the English; they would have been court-martialled as deserters had they returned home to their families. Now, they toast England and Churchill. As Staffe serves up the cheesecake, Jombaugh reminds Tchancov the Ukraine was once part of the kingdom of Poland.

‘But I am Russian,’ Tchancov says, pushing out his sparrow chest. ‘And I have served my country in the first Chechen war.’

Jombaugh says, feigning sadness, ‘I am the lost generation. Never to serve. Born too late.’

Tchancov talks about the treacherous Chechens and Staffe watches Jom bite his tongue, knowing what he does of how Vassily Tchancov made his money – using his cousin’s business to create false bearer certificates. He made a fortune, but it became impossible for him to be allowed to stay. Even in Russia, it seems, slates have to be wiped. Between the lines, Vassily is exiled permanently, war hero or not, and with debts to honour.

Jombaugh stands, makes to leave. Tchancov offers his hand and Jombaugh takes it, saying something their fathers and uncles would have understood.

Once Jombaugh is gone, Tchancov says, ‘Nice fellow. Pity about the uniform.’

‘We’re a necessary evil,’ says Staffe, sitting down. ‘Shame on those who make us necessary.’

‘Send them to Stalin,’ laughs Tchancov. ‘Now, when are we going to see this body? I have businesses to run.’

‘We’ll go across soon.’ Staffe’s phone vibrates and he reads the text, from Josie, says, ‘I have to leave you for a few minutes. Is there anything you want?’

‘Some more cheesecake, perhaps?’ Tchancov presents his words as if he hasn’t a care in the world, but Staffe sees in the flit of his eyes that all is not well. Vassily cannot afford for his London life to bubble over into a wider domain, to appear on radars in Moscow.

Staffe makes his way to the observation room, a glorified cubby-hole with a television monitor and a desk. He leans forward, watches Vassily Tchancov. A hiss of white noise comes through the speaker.

The door opens and Josie squeezes in next to Staffe. She says, ‘Markary’s being taken in.’

Vassily Tchancov recrosses his legs, picks at his fingernails. Jombaugh comes into the holding room, followed by another man, immaculately dressed with a Crombie draped on his shoulders. Jombaugh sweeps an arm in the direction of the unoccupied seat. As Markary sits down, Tchancov double-takes. Markary clocks his cohabitant and his mouth drops open. Jombaugh leaves them to it.