Kill and Tell (17 page)

Pulford puts down his reading, another day drawn almost to its close. He began studying the new Charles Sabini material after his lunch and turned dinner away. There is a pink and coral sky tonight and he allows himself to briefly wonder if his mother might see the same, from the kitchen window in Whitley Bay.

These days count. Every day on remand will be docked from the time he is given in whatever deal they cut with the Crown. The plan is to try to come to an agreement before the trial starts. His barrister said, ‘They’ve got you by the ball-bag,’ and this, apparently, is the best deal he’s ever seen, in twenty-six years. ‘Everybody really wants this,’ he had said, reminding Pulford that the new evidence makes a big difference.

Pulford sits cross-legged on his bunk with the papers between his knees, piecing it together. All day, he had been immersed in the East End’s history and, eventually, he came across what he was hoping for – a small-time criminal called Maurizio Verdetti came to London from Sicily in 1936. Rumour had it that the family back home wanted a piece of the bookmaking business, but before poor old Maurizio Verdetti could get close to sidling up alongside the likes of Charles Sabini, he was tragically trampled underfoot by horses during the Battle of Cable Street.

Sabini and his boys were in the frame for the briefest time, but it took them only a day to verify that they were miles away, up at a race meeting in Pontefract. But as Pulford read around the subject, looking into Sabini’s biographies, it seems that it was only a matter of time before Sabini would have discouraged Maurizio in the most direct of fashions.

Pulford goes to his index cards and checks that Sabini was also briefly questioned regarding the murder of a David Myers, but acquitted on account of his alibi. Referring to the original article, he says to himself, ‘Christ. Small world.’ A small world, in which on that very same day Charles Sabini was racing in Pontefract, David Myers, another of his supposed competitors, was stabbed to death – this time on Brighton racecourse. With more hope than expectation‚ he bangs on his cell door‚ calls out.

Josie stares into the dark as they drive west along the A3. She wants tonight to be over and tomorrow, too; can’t bear the thought of explaining herself to the commissioner. Word is Pulford is seriously considering the deal he has been offered.

Once they get signs for Guildford, Staffe bears left onto Ripley Lane and the darkness drops a notch, their headlights illuminating the hedgerows and ditches. She says, ‘April gave me the note. You could have come over.’

‘Could I?’

‘Conor’s all right, you know.’ Josie looks across at Staffe. ‘But he’s not for me. I don’t know who is. This bloody job scuppers everything, doesn’t it?’

‘You broke up with him?’

‘What do you care? You made it quite plain you didn’t like him.’

‘We need to talk about tomorrow and what we’re going to say to the commissioner.’

‘I should be doing it on my own.’

Staffe puts his hand on hers, says, ‘I’m not coming as your boss. We’re friends, right? I’ll sit there nice and quiet. Just give me the nod if you want me to chip in, otherwise I’ll say nothing.’

‘Yeah. Like that’s going to happen.’ She laughs.

‘You’re the one with the wagging tongue.’

‘Me? How?’

‘What you said to Sylvie.’ He takes his hand away, changing gear and turning sharply down an even narrower lane, following the beam.

‘So, what can we expect at Ockingham? Not a pretty sight, presumably.’

‘It can’t be so bad. They discharged him from hospital. A bit of plastic surgery and he’ll be OK, is what they said.’

‘Not exactly Van Gogh, then?’

‘His eardrum is the problem.’

Josie says, ‘We’re not going to charge Attilio, are we?’

‘He’s saying it was an accident. No one else was in the house.’

‘When Guildford rang up, they said it was a suicide attempt.’

‘I’m inclined to accept their word.’

Josie says, ‘If a man could do that to his own father, it’s going to mess with his head. And it takes a messed-up head to turn a gun on yourself.’

Staffe slows the car right down as they pass the Crooked Billet. Out front, three men are huddled by the door, smoking. They stare into the car as it glides towards them and Staffe winds down the window, waves to the men, and the men wave back. He says, ‘How did you get on with looking into Maurizio Verdetti?’

‘Seems his death was an accident all right – caught under stampeding police horses and trampled to a pulp according to the hospital records. Not that they’re much to go by.’

‘No post-mortem?’

‘One line about the circumstances. I guess it was a busy day.’

‘And what about other deaths that day?’

‘There were hundreds, sir. You’d have to know what you were looking for.’

‘David Myers. Abie’s brother.’

‘There was no David Myers in any of the registers for all the London boroughs and I checked the following two days as well.’

Staffe pulls into Ockingham Manor. ‘Maybe we need to look further afield.’

‘Should I mention it to Rimmer?’

‘Rimmer?’ He looks up at Ockingham Manor. ‘Maybe I got him wrong. Why not?’ And with that, the front door of the manor opens, and out walks Frank Rimmer, waving.

Staffe puts on his rubber gloves and lifts up the Mossberg shotgun, looking closely at the end of the barrel. He smells it, says to Helena, ‘I bet there’s traces of Attilio’s saliva.’

Helena’s forehead wrinkles. ‘We’ve told you, it was an accident.’

Rimmer says, ‘We’ve got the audio from emergency services.’ He reads from a small notebook: ‘You said, “My husband has shot himself. He’s alive but we need help. It’s his ear. My God, I don’t know what made him.” It sounds as if you thought it was a deliberate act by him.’

‘I was distressed.’

Staffe says, ‘There’s a thumbprint on the trigger. You only leave a thumbprint if you turn the gun on yourself.’

Helena kneels in front of Attilio, strokes his face, tenderly. You can see that she has loved him, that it has not quite all turned to hatred, and Staffe thinks perhaps he might have misjudged her; that she is simply the victim of an irrepressible urge for pastures new – eager to secure her corner of England, too.

Attilio says to her, ‘I love you.’ He is unabashed, ignoring the fact that the room has three police officers in it.

Helena Ballantyne rests her head on Attilio’s knee and curls both arms around his leg.

Staffe says, ‘I’m afraid I need to know about Maurizio.’

‘No!’ shouts Attilio, surprising himself, his eyes wide as a Munch. ‘I don’t know anything. Not a thing!’

Staffe crouches beside Helena, says, ‘Your father arrived in London two weeks before the Battle of Cable Street. Maurizio died on the day of the battle.’

Attilio shakes his head, mumbles, ‘No.’

‘Inspector! Leave him!’ says Helena.

‘We need the truth, if we are going to find Carmelo. If you are lying to me, Attilio, I can only assume it is because you don’t want your father found.’

Rimmer says, ‘I’ve heard enough.’ He holds up a clutch of evidence bags with swabs and prints inside. ‘Carmelo Trapani was here. We have the proof.’

‘I don’t know how those prints got there.’

Helena says, ‘Carmelo was here a week before he disappeared, to discuss the future of the estate. I invited him.’

‘You didn’t tell me,’ says Attilio.

Helena Ballantyne releases the hold she has on her husband. Her face becomes softer and she says, ‘I’m sorry, darling.’ She looks at Staffe, then Rimmer, and back to her husband as the uniformed officer goes towards him. The officer handcuffs Attilio.

She follows Attilio as he is led out of the room by Rimmer, who simply cannot stop a broad smile spreading across his face. He gives Staffe a look that says, ‘I told you.’ But Helena stops at the door, lets Attilio go, and Staffe says, ‘You spoke to Carmelo but dealt with Abie.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just thinking aloud. Trying to make it all add up.’ He looks around the room, furnished by the books of her prior husband.

As they drive past the Crooked Billet, Josie says, ‘I don’t mind if you want a drink. It’s been a weird day and I know I won’t sleep.’

‘You’re worried about the commissioner tomorrow? We’ll be OK.’ He pats her on the leg and turns hard into the car park, sees the butcher’s bike leant up against the back wall. ‘Just a quick one, then.’

Inside, a group of young lads and two girls sit in the back room, laughing and joking, playing darts. Most have mud-spattered breeches and Staffe guesses they’ll be from the Ockingham estate. Rodney seems happy enough to see Staffe and has clearly had a few already. ‘We heard the ambulance,’ he says. ‘All kinds of rumours flying around. And now you’re here, so I suppose it’s true.’

As Josie takes a seat by the fire, her phone beeps with text.

‘You can tell me,’ says Rodney in a stage whisper, laughing but not joking. ‘Has Attilio had a pop at her?’

‘No! Nothing of the sort.’

‘I knew something was up. He came in at teatime and shoved me a few hundred, said to treat the lads and lasses.’

‘Maybe he was just being generous.’ Staffe joins Josie, who is reading her mobile. He wonders if it is Conor. Her eyes are soft and glassy in the fire-glow.

‘Jom’s texted me,’ she says. ‘Pulford’s been kicking up a stink. Demanding to see the governor.’

‘He’s changing his mind? He’s not going to do a deal?’

‘No. It’s not that. It’s about some bloke called Sabini. Here.’ She hands Staffe the phone: ‘Pulford kickd a stink + gvnr #1 called. Says myers killed by razor in brighton. 1936. Supposed to be sabini but not. Make sense?’

‘Myers,’ says Staffe, reading the message. Josie’s previous text is from ‘Con’. Staffe can’t help seeing the first line: ‘Cant we giv it 1 more go . . .’ He hands her the handset.

‘David Myers?’

‘This whole thing goes back to Cable Street.’

‘Poor Pulford,’ she says. ‘What an idiot I was, holding that gun.’

‘You’ve been a good friend and you tried too hard. That’s no crime.’

They sit together whilst Staffe finishes his pint and Josie pulls a small package from her pocket, slides it across the table, saying, ‘I worry about you.’

‘What’s this?’ He removes the outer packaging, which is in brown vinegar paper, revealing a velvet jewellery box. He opens it, pulls the watch out. ‘A watch?’

‘A heart monitor. You wear it on your wrist. You used to run all the time.’ She pats his tummy. ‘Time you took more care of yourself. It tells the time, too.’

He laughs, putting the device on his wrist, going for a fresh pint.

She fusses the pub dog, who rolls on his back so she can tickle his tummy. When Staffe returns, she says, ‘We should have someone to love, shouldn’t we?’

Staffe hitches his stool a little closer.

‘I can’t keep a boyfriend. All I have is this damn job and now that’s blowing up in my face. Every year I see less and less of my friends. God knows, I’ll never have a child at this rate.’

‘You will.’ He puts his hand on her shoulder.

‘What about you? How do you feel about that? The chance you might never have children?’

He rubs the nape of her neck, says, ‘You’ll be a wonderful mother.’

Their faces slowly come together.

He closes his eyes, feels her lips softly against his. She opens her mouth, ever so slightly, and says, ‘You love her, still.’

Staffe opens his eyes.

Josie’s eyes are large and green. She blinks.

‘I don’t,’ he says.

‘There’s something there.’ Josie presses her face against his and she kisses him on the mouth. He moves closer, but she leans away. ‘We can’t do this. There is something. I can tell.’

‘Having a baby is what she wants. Not for us to be together, but to have a child.’

Josie stands, picking up the car keys. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘I just did.’

Maurice Greene walks past the bandstand as a lone skater boy clatters the boards above the shingle beach. The pier lights still twinkle as he turns up into Brunswick Square.

All yesterday the police were up and down the prom, from Marine Parade to the Brunswick Lawns. He kept an eye on them as they searched for him. Now they have gone and Brighton is the safest place to be, but he can’t stay here. The city beckons and the end of the line is almost here. The evidence is all in, almost.

He checks his watch, and walks briskly towards the station, dreading the prospect of the last train and its revellers. He feels the absence of Tatiana as if it is an illness. It makes him doubt the wisdom of what he has got himself into; what he must do tonight.

When he gets up to the top of the town, drunken groups spill onto the station concourse. Maurice pretends he is gazing down towards the pastel terraces of Hanover, but using the full periphery of his vision, he is checking whether he is being followed.

Once he is in the mêlée of the station and in line for the last train, Maurice glances at his phone, but Tatiana hasn’t called and he can’t help thinking that something has gone wrong. He can’t call her. He absolutely cannot call her. He pauses in the queue for the gate, stops shuffling forward and pulls up ‘Tatiana’ from his recent calls and his finger hovers on green. His heart drums and Maurice checks around him again, turning off the phone, denying himself.

‘Come on, fella. We want to catch this fucker.’ The man behind him, oozing fumes of alcohol, slaps Maurice on the shoulder.

Maurice trousers his phone and turns round, tells the man to take his fucking hand off him. The man’s eyes widen and he looks Maurice up and down, trying to reconcile the appearance of him with the words he has uttered. The drunken man is taller and broader than Maurice and he lifts an arm, but Maurice acts swiftly, flicking the man in the throat, watching him crumple to the ground. As the man’s girlfriend kneels over him, Maurice shares a joke with the ticket collector about day-tripping drunkards, all the time looking into the crowd, picking out the faces. He does it all the way to London.

The train slows into London Bridge and Maurice peers up at block after apartment block, lit up and soaring all the way to the sky. Lives unseen.

The journey on the underground is swift and quiet and by the time he gets to Highbury, Maurice’s carriage is empty, bar a medium-height, medium-built, slender white man. Maurice takes note of his lightweight gabardine, the collar of a Prince of Wales check suit jacket showing.

The man in the gabardine gets off and this is Maurice’s stop. He watches the man pause at an exit, messing with his phone before going into the passage marked ‘Way Out’. Maurice takes a different exit and goes a long way round. As he goes through the ticket barrier, putting the Oyster card to its pad, he has a feeling of being watched but the ticket hall is empty.

Outside, he gives a tramp his Oyster card, wondering if it is possible to trace a person’s movements from such a thing. He must tell Tatiana to pay as she goes.

Maurice turns the wrong way, walking briskly, switchbacking all the way to Canonbury, assuring himself that he most definitely has not been followed. He uses a call box to phone Tatiana and he lets it ring four times. Then he hangs up and waits for two minutes before calling again.

When this happens, Tatiana is supposed to either pick up on the first ring – if everything is hunky-dory – or she is supposed to have turned off her phone altogether, but as it is, when Maurice calls a second time, the phone just rings and rings and rings all the way to message service. Something is wrong.

Maurice walks along the New River Walk‚ deep into a darkening hush. The trees are big and in this small lung of the city night animals scratch and scuttle. He looks up at the big house at the end of its cul-de-sac. All the lights are off and he waits for ten minutes and not a soul comes by.

He taps the code into the keypad and pushes the door open. He goes straight up and doubles back on himself, crouching down in a dark corner of the half-landing. From here, as his eyes adjust to the dark, he can discern the dimmest light coming from the Yale-locked door – a small glow in the gap at the bottom.

Maurice waits and waits, and waits some more. His stomach rumbles. He needs to eat something. Eventually, he stands, prepares himself to go in, but he hears something below.

Wood is splintering and he thinks it must be the front door, so he hunkers back down, coiled, every muscle in his body taut, expectant. Blood surges through his body as steps climb slowly through the building.

He sees the arm of the gabardine coat at the far end of the banister, by the newel post. Maurice wraps his hand around his keys, making a fist but placing the sharp Yale between his index and middle finger. He takes a run up and leaps at the man, screams, and his target turns, open-eyed. The man raises an arm and tries to take a step back, but Maurice is too fast, uncoiling every sinew and focusing solely on thrusting, jabbing his fist at the left eye of the man.

Maurice feels the resistance and hears the sharp end of his Yale key ripping the skin between the bridge of the man’s nose and the corner of his eye.

The face is familiar now and the man is no threat.

Maurice withdraws a half-step and watches Miles Hennigan fall to his knees. Maurice crouches, checks the cut and says, ‘Shit. I’m sorry, Miles. That’s bad.’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘You followed me.’

‘I’m making sure they’re not following you.’

‘You’re wearing gabardine.’

‘What the fuck?’ Blood seeps through Miles’s fingers, his hand clasped to the eye. ‘Abie’s on your case. He doesn’t know where you stand.’

‘Why break the door?’

‘You wouldn’t give me the code, remember? And you were in here twenty minutes and no light came on.’

Maurice wipes the Yale key on Miles’s gabardine and lets himself in, going straight to the temporary kitchenette, removing a plate of bresaola with cling film over the top of it.

He counts the slices, knows Tatiana has been, and he cuts two slices of bread from the stale loaf in the cupboard, takes it through with a bottle of Sangiovese.

Opening the door to the dimly lit room, the television gloams silently and Carmelo looks over the top of his pince-nez glasses. From the clean smell of him, Maurice knows Tatiana has definitely been. Looking at the blood that stains the perimeter of the dressing she has taped over his mouth, he has come just in time. Things are getting worse.

Gently, Maurice removes the tape and dressing and calls Miles Hennigan to bring some water. Hennigan calls back that he can’t fucking see properly, but Maurice concentrates on Carmelo, who says, dry as sand with the last drop his mouth can utter, ‘Is it tonight?’

‘Not tonight, uncle.’

Carmelo groans. He tries to swallow and Maurice pours him a glass of Sangiovese which he sips, cautiously. Eventually, he musters. ‘Pity me. Pity a dying man’s soul.’

‘Pity doesn’t come into it, uncle. It never did.’