Kill and Tell (19 page)

Louis Consadine sits cross-legged in a litter of greased Dicksy Chicken wrappers and bones and two-litre plastic bottles of Ice White, one of which has been fashioned into a bong. He nurses his head and Curtis Consadine kneels beside him.

‘Can’t we just have a minute together? He’s my little brother, for God’s sake.’

‘I’m sorry, Curtis,’ says Staffe. ‘We need to talk about Leilah and Margate, the day Jadus was shot.’ Staffe goes down on his haunches. ‘Was Brandon behind it all, Louis? If you bear witness to that, we will keep you safe. I promise you.’

Curtis says, ‘Don’t say anything, Louis.’

‘Brandon’s not here?’ Louis looks around, his eyes wild and red, black bags beneath them. His cheeks are sunken and his teeth yellow. He looks more like forty than fifteen.

‘Some wires got crossed,’ says Curtis.

‘Where did Leilah go? I want her. It was like you said it’d be, Curt. She’s so perfect, you know, man.’

‘We’ve got her,’ says Staffe.

Louis looks at Staffe then back to his brother. He seems unsure who the answers are coming from. ‘She’s
my
girlfriend, man. You know that.’

‘Of course she is,’ says Curtis.

Louis says to Staffe, ‘Who are you? You that copper from Shawne’s place?’ He looks at his bright-eyed brother, wanting a miracle.

Curtis says, ‘I’m on your side, right. We’re brothers.’

‘You need her alibi, Louis,’ says Staffe. ‘You’re in trouble without it.’

‘She was with me,’ says Louis, staring at his brother.

‘Now she’s saying she was with Curtis when Jadus was shot. That puts you in the frame.’

Louis says to his brother, ‘What’s he mean?’ He shivers, rubs his hands up and down his arms like he’s being crawled over by spiders.

Staffe says, ‘She’s changed her statement – to say she was with Curtis.’

‘No way.’

‘Why would she lie about that?’ says Staffe.

Curtis says, ‘She lied before, right?’

Staffe says, ‘They were on the beach with champagne and oysters.’

‘Oysters?’ says Louis. He is shaking now and beads of sweat pop on his brow.

‘They’re an aphrodisiac,’ says Staffe.

‘I know what you’re trying,’ says Curtis.

‘What’s he trying?’ says Louis. ‘Where’s Leilah? I’ve got to see her.’

‘She’s securing her liberty,’ says Staffe. ‘You should do the same.’

‘The fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

Curtis kneels beside his brother. ‘He’s winding you up. Stay strong.’

‘We caught Leilah in possession of ecstasy and MDMA, Louis,’ says Staffe, standing up, backing away to the window, raising his voice. ‘You do know she has an unspent suspended sentence. She will do time for this charge we are holding her on. She’s desperate, Louis.’

‘Desperate?’ he says, to his brother.

‘Where did she get the money for that gear?’ says Staffe.

‘Look at me, Louis,’ says Curtis.

‘Did your student loan come through, Curtis?’ says Staffe. ‘Is she dealing for you? Are you speculating, to accumulate? Is that part of the plan?’

‘Say nothing,’ says Curtis.

‘Looks like the best laid plans can go awry.’

‘What’s a wry?’ says Louis, looking at Staffe then back to his brother.

‘It’s in the shit,’ says Curtis. ‘Like his man in jail. That’s all he’s trying to do, get his man off the hook and he doesn’t care how.’

‘Come clean and maybe we can get Leilah out of this.’

 ‘Say nothing, Lou.’

‘We can bring Leilah back home. Just tell me and she’ll be free.’

Louis scratches his arms, leaves long red tracks, almost to the blood. He leans back and sweat coats his head and face with a dull sheen in the morning light. Louis reaches out behind a cushion and pulls out a bottle of Courvoisier. He takes a long glug.

‘Leave that alone, Lou.’

‘Tell me, Louis.’

‘She’ll be free, you say. You promise?’

‘I swear.’

‘She says she was with Curt? I’m only fifteen. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Louis!’ says Curtis. ‘Don’t do this, man.’

‘It was me.’

‘Louis!’

‘I killed Jadus.’ He looks at Curtis. ‘It was me all right. Not Brandon. Not anyone else. I’m only fifteen. You got that?’

‘He’s high. He’s high as the fuckin’ moon.’

‘We’ll see,’ says Staffe, kneeling in front of Louis, taking the boy’s head between his open palms. He waits for Louis’s swimming, bloodshot eyes to assume some kind of focus. ‘Are you absolutely sure about this, Louis?’

‘I knew it couldn’t work. It’s all right.’ He puts two fingers together, imitating the barrel of a gun and press them to Staffe’s heart. ‘Brap! Brap! Two bullets, right to the heart.’ He looks across to the window where his brother is standing, blocking the light, but Curtis has his back turned, looking out, past the gasometer all the way across the Isle of Dogs to the Naval College.

Pennington’s phone goes off and he takes it, seeing it is Staffe. He listens to the good news about them tracking down Leilah Frankland and the younger Consadine confessing. He can imagine how keen his man is to rush to Pentonville and see his sergeant, tell him the good news. ‘I told you not to get involved. I’ll have to tell the commissioner that you ignored me. You ignored a direct order not just from me, but from her.’

Staffe tells him they got the truth, they found Jadus Golding’s killer.

‘We have a version of the truth, Will. You know that. It’s as much as we can ever hope for.’

Staffe starts apologising for dropping Pennington in it. He says he will personally explain to the commissioner.

‘Shut up, man! What I’m telling you is to come into the station and to deliver Louis Consadine into custody. He will be questioned and held on remand but this trial is going to happen. This is new evidence, is what it is, and we have to process it and Pulford’s prosecutors will need to be told. The CPS will evaluate the situation, but your work is done, you understand?’

Staffe says he wants to be there when Pulford is released.

‘We’re a long way from that. Not everybody is going to be as pleased as you. Some people don’t want this.’

Staffe says he is going to Pentonville.

‘You can try, but they won’t let you in.’ Pennington chooses his words very carefully. ‘I need Carmelo Trapani, Staffe, and I need him today. I want it to be you delivering him. Hear me? Do you bastard well hear me! Make sure it’s you delivers him to me.’

Two uniformed officers lead Louis Consadine away to the meat wagon, destined for Pentonville. Staffe sits in Leadengate’s reception, watching the new shift come in. His limbs are heavy and his eyes ache, but he knows if he tried to sleep, the anger wouldn’t allow him.

He can’t believe they won’t let him see Pulford, that Louis Consadine’s confession is simply added to the pile of evidence. Right now, a team from Internal Investigations is corroborating Louis’s confession. They are treating it with suspicion.

‘You need to get it together, Will,’ says Jombaugh, sitting beside him, slapping him on the thigh. ‘You’ve heard the rumours, about cuts? Well, I say, bring it on, but they won’t let me go. I’m too expensive to get rid of – this close to retirement. But watch out for yourself, Will.’

‘What are you saying?’ Staffe has a flash vision of what life would be like without his job. It makes him feel afraid, alone.

‘Rimmer’s been hard at it, you know. While you’ve been on Pulford’s case, he’s brought in Attilio Trapani and now he’s found Abie Myers’ wife.’

‘What?’

‘Interviewed her and got some evidence that the whole thing goes way back, to Abie Myers’ brother David and a fellow called Maurizio Verdetti.’

‘The bastard!’

‘Verdetti?’

‘Rimmer. I got all that stuff. Is he passing that off as his own work?’

‘He’s uncovered the evidence. This Verdetti character was murdered on the day of the Cable Street riots.’

‘And he knew Carmelo and Abie.’

‘He was Maurice Greene’s grandfather, so they say.’

‘I discovered that, not Rimmer.’

‘Seems to me, you’ve got to bring in Maurice Greene.’ Jombaugh hands him an envelope, dressed with Italian stamps and stamped ‘SICILIA’.

Staffe stands, looks down at his old friend. ‘You know, they won’t even let me see Pulford.’

‘It stinks, Will, but you’ve got him the evidence he needed. You’ve just got to let it play out. Trust in justice.’

‘They would let his mother in to see him. Can you get hold of her, Jom? Ask her to come down. Tell her there’s good news.’

‘’Course I will. And we got a call from City Royal. The shared database flashed up a name you might want to hear. Miles Hennigan.’

‘Thank God something’s working. What did they do for him?’

‘He’s still there, I think, with a laceration to the face. Lucky not to have had his eye out.’

Miles Hennigan curses as he twists into the jacket of his suit. He is in a private side ward in City Royal and the nurse tells him he is in no condition to leave.

‘He has no choice,’ says Staffe.

Hennigan and the nurse turn around, in concert.

‘You need to make yourself scarce, don’t you, Miles, before Abie Myers finds out where you are. Are you rumbled?’

‘Would you mind if I had a couple of minutes with the inspector, nurse?’

When the nurse is gone, Staffe says, ‘Tatiana called you the other day. Why would she do that when she is Maurice’s fiancée and Maurice is harbouring Carmelo from Abie?’

‘Is Maurice harbouring Carmelo?’

‘He wants to be the one to reveal the secret. Or not.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Secret?’

‘And Abie desperately wants to keep it buried.’

‘You’ve lost me completely.’

Staffe reaches out, puts his index finger to the patch on Hennigan’s eye. ‘Did Abie do this – when he discovered you are a turncoat?’

‘I am a man of honour.’

‘Where would a man of honour look if he wanted to find Maurice Greene?’

Miles Hennigan sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. ‘It’s not what you think.’

‘What I think is that Maurice lives in the past. It’s where he belongs. And Carmelo needs to face his past, to prepare his redemption, but I don’t understand why Maurice would protect Carmelo, if he played a part in the murder of his grandfather. Surely Maurice wants revenge for Maurizio. Why not let Abie do his worst?’

‘That’s quite a theory.’

‘Maurizio Verdetti died on the day of the Battle of Cable Street. He was crushed to death, but nobody saw it happen. He died just two weeks after Carmelo and Jacobo Sartori landed in Tilbury, from Sicily.’

‘And Carmelo wants redemption? How poetic. But what you have is a thirteen-line sonnet, inspector.’ Hennigan smiles, enjoying the look of surprise on Staffe’s face.

‘You mean something is missing? Do you know what it is?’

Hennigan shakes his head. ‘Maurice discovered something that freaked him out. It made him rethink everything. That’s why your precious secret’s not already out. He’s unhinged. He did this to me.’

Staffe takes out the photograph of Jacobo Sartori from the envelope stamped ‘SICILIA’: a mop of unruly curly hair and a broken, Roman nose – a rugged beast of a man. ‘Seen this before?’

‘Maurice had the same one,’ says Miles, resigned.

Staffe turns the photograph over, shows Miles the reverse, where it says: ‘CERTIFIED LIKENESS OF JACOBO SARTORI: MILENA SARTORI, DAUGHTER.’ It is stamped ‘POLIZIA SIRACUSA’. ‘Not the Jacobo Sartori you and I have come to know. And if that’s not Jacobo, then Maurizio isn’t Maurizio.’

‘I can’t help you. You know how it is.’

‘Maurice was going to save Carmelo. He wanted the truth to come out. Now, I’m not so sure. At least tell me what state Carmelo is in.’

‘He’s going to die. Soon.’

All the way from Luton, where she’s staying with her sister, Maureen is up and down from her seat: to the loo and back; to the buffet car and back; constantly to the luggage rack and back. Much as Maureen keeps herself busy, she can’t stop the ebbs and flows of her heart.

Just a couple of days ago Maureen had learned that David would plead guilty, take his punishment and, in a few years, he might get a generous parole. He always had his own way of doing things, especially after his father deserted them. It was her fault, of course. Then Sergeant Jombaugh had called her.

As the train rattles into the thick-skinned city, she prays to Saint Jude, to thank him for saving her lost cause.

After Sergeant Jombaugh had called she got Ray to make enquiries and he confirmed it is true – that another boy had confessed to killing that man who had shot David’s boss. Slowly, very slowly, with her sister holding her tight for an hour and more, she came to believe what these police were telling her. She knows it’s the hope that kills you, though.

The train begins to slow and the vast Kings Cross canopy makes the carriage go dark. She thinks what a fool she has been. If it is true, why isn’t David released already? She had asked Ray and he said the Crown has to consider the evidence. What has the Crown got to do with it?

At this point, she tried not to believe, but something in her heart sang. She tried to resist, but the hope had already risen.

Everybody rushes to gather their things. They cram into each other, shuffling for the doors as if their lives depend on it. Maureen sits alone, until the man with the large bin bag comes to clear the newspapers and coffee cups. He tells her to move on, doing it with a kindly smile and a soft hand on her shoulder, as if he could possibly understand.

Jacobo Sartori moves away from the window of his fine Edwardian villa. The window is etched with long-stemmed flowers, stained emerald and rose.

Within sixty seconds, Jacobo is back, looking up and down the street. Before long, Appolina appears at his side. The two of them appear to be in some well-mannered disagreement and Jacobo points up the street, in the direction of Muswell Hill Road.

Five minutes later, the front door opens and Appolina leaves the house, pulling a shopping bag behind her, on wheels.

Jacobo waves from the window, looking quite mournful. She waves back and looks equally sad; Staffe lowers his field glasses as she comes towards his parked Peugeot 406, battered and inconspicuous. He turns down the music, which is Bartók. It makes him think of Curtis Consadine and Mako, two long lives ahead of them.

Staffe watches Appolina until she is completely out of sight, and considers his next move.

‘You are in a strange mood today, my boy,’ says Carmelo, sitting in the back of the car, which has blacked-out windows.

Maurice locks the doors from the switch on the driver’s door.

Carmelo lights up a cigarette. ‘Is this the day?’ He takes a drag as best he can, coughs until his eyes water.

‘Those will kill you, uncle, and you don’t want that.’

‘Are we finally done with all this prevaricating? The truth is what’s killing me.’

‘Which truth?’ Maurice keeps an eye on Carmelo in the rear-view.

The old man is looking out of the window, watching his adopted city scroll by. ‘The truth that it was Abie Myers who killed your grandfather; that I completed the pact and ran David Myers through on Brighton racetrack. It was straight after the third race. You can corroborate.’

‘There is only one truth, uncle. You can’t give one to me and the police, and keep another to yourself.’

 ‘I’m coming clean, so why would I lie?’

Maurice drives steady.

Carmelo says, ‘You drive slower than me – like an old man. You should be fast, at your age, eating life up.’

‘They say it is better to travel—’

‘Than to arrive. Hah! Just like an old man. But where are we travelling to. What is this fateful destination of mine? A police station?’

‘Not yet. Perhaps not at all – unless you tell me the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth!’ Carmelo takes a deep drag on his cigarette and holds his side as he coughs up. ‘Where are we going? These are the woods. Is this Muswell Hill?’

‘It’s where you stashed Jacobo.’

‘Stashed?’

‘You’ve been a good boss. He lives like a successful man, perhaps the manager of a bank, yet all he does is make you risotto and collect your laundry. It doesn’t add up.’

‘He’s a friend.’

‘But I’ve been adding up, uncle. I wonder how I’ll fare, with my total?’

‘You talk in riddles.’ Carmelo sits back and remembers when he and Jacobo first came here, thinking they were champions of the world.

Maurice turns slowly without indicating into Cranley Gardens and a horn blares from the angry driver behind.

They paid cash for the house: four hundred and fifty pounds – a fortune. Carmelo catches Maurice looking at him in the rear-view mirror. A smile creases across the young man’s face.

‘I never thanked you, uncle, for that share in your house. I appreciate it, and I think I understand it.’

‘There’s nothing to understand.’

‘Me and Jacobo and Appolina sharing – not allowed to sell. We’d end up living there together, wouldn’t we? It’s big enough for an extended family.’

‘Extended family? What’s that?’

Maurice pulls up, outside Jacobo’s house.

Carmelo says, ‘This is too obvious a place for me to seek refuge.’

‘Refuge? We’re simply taking our chances with the truth, and by coming here, a swift resolution is assured. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘I want to confess, damn you! Is that too much for a dying man to ask? What harm—’ Carmelo coughs. ‘—what harm can come of that?’

Maurice turns off the engine, twists in his seat to face Carmelo. ‘Attilio rests heavy on my conscience. They arrested him for your abduction. We can’t allow that.’

‘He doesn’t care a jot for his own father. He can fuck himself. He would see me die in sin just so he can cling onto his life as gentry. That’s a lie, not a life, and they say he tried to kill himself. That’s the act of a coward; and a sinner. My God! He deserves the truth to come out.’

‘Does anybody really want the truth?’

‘You want it, surely? You want justice for Maurizio‚ your poor grandfather?’

‘I want what is best for my grandfather, after the life he has lived. That’s the only thing that matters to me. Absolutely the only thing.’

Carmelo tries to say something, but coughs again, holding his chest and leaning back.

Staffe keeps an eye on the black Golf with tinted windows outside Jacobo’s house.

After a short while, Maurice Greene steps out. He glides around the car, leaning into the back, helping someone out.

For the first time in many long years, Staffe sees Carmelo Trapani. His eyes are bright but his face is grey. In his hand, a bloodied handkerchief. Still, everything about the man exudes grandeur. He would draw the eye, even if you weren’t looking for him.

Carmelo walks up Jacobo’s path with his head high, his draped overcoat hanging from his shoulders in long folds, like a Bernini, and Staffe suddenly feels less capable of negotiating the conclusion he had in mind. At the door, Carmelo pauses and turns. He looks across the road and fixes his eyes on Staffe’s Peugeot. His long jowls crease almost into a smile. His chin comes up an inch or so, like a leader of men. He grimaces and holds his side, coughing, bringing the handkerchief to his mouth. The door opens and Carmelo steps inside.

Staffe thinks, ‘Stick or twist?’

Jacobo brings Maurice and Carmelo a tray of tea, with glasses of water and a bottle of aquavit, three tulip-shaped glasses from Murano.

‘Will Appolina be gone long?’ says Carmelo.

‘Until she hears from me,’ says Jacobo.

‘Did she know we were coming?’

‘She knows me well enough, after everything I have denied her.’

‘You gave her plenty, Jacobo,’ says Carmelo.

‘She was here when Maurice called. I have never been able to lie to her.’

‘You just didn’t tell her. That’s the same as lying. Don’t think you’re better than me, Jacobo. And Maurice called you to say we were coming? To what end, I wonder?’ says Carmelo, looking at Maurice with some hostility.

‘My only concern is Maurizio, uncle. I’m still unsure of the circumstances surrounding his murder.’

‘I told you, Abie Myers killed him and in return I did for David Myers – to my eternal shame and suffering.’

‘I need to hear Jacobo’s version of events.’

‘He was
my
cousin,’ says Carmelo, ‘And the important thing is, two men died. I must atone for what was done. Justice must be done.’

‘What would my grandfather think of what we are doing, Jacobo? What part did you play in the murder of that poor soul on Cable Street?’

‘Jacobo had nothing to gain,’ says Carmelo.

Maurice sits beside Jacobo on the sofa and taps him lightly on the knee with his open palm. His knee is all bone. Jacobo, a shadow of his master. ‘Is that correct? Does my grandfather concur?’

‘Your grandfather?’ says Jacobo, his eyes big and wide in his kindly, wrinkled face.

Maurice produces the photograph of the burly man with the dark hair and the broken, Roman nose. He shows it to Jacobo, turning it over, showing the yellowed reverse, with his name on it.

‘What the hell is that?’ says Carmelo.

‘Jacobo Sartori,’ says Jacobo, reading the reverse of the photograph.

‘He is watching over us; looking down,’ says Maurice. ‘But he is not Maurizio Verdetti, is he,
nonno
?’

‘He’s not your
nonno
,’ says Carmelo.

Maurice turns to Jacobo, holds both his hands. ‘What did he do to you,
nonno
? What did you do with your life, and poor Appolina, and my damned father? Claudio was damned, wasn’t he,
nonno
, even before he was born.’

‘That’s why we had to send him away.’

‘And what of me? Am I damned?’ He turns to face Carmelo. ‘What must I do, to be absolved? I’ll tell you what, uncle – I must save my grandfather from a prosecution of this awful truth. That’s what I must do even if that means sending you to hell.’