Pain of Death (10 page)

Staffe tips a third miniature into the plastic cup which the Metropolitan Hotel has provided for his bathroom. He is now on the brandy, having drunk the Bell’s and the Glenfiddich. He should really go down to the White Star, which is his kind of pub – cloistered with panelled booths, segregated from the bar by stained-glass panes and with an array of proper beer. But here he is, sitting at the foot of his bed looking out onto the city. Between the civic monoliths he can see the top of the Liver Building, the black sky beyond, laid out above Wales.

He slowly goes over what Zoe’s father had said to him and what he said to Anthony Bright, and what Flint had said to him. He knows Bright is still holding out on him, but can see that he might have gone too far. Sometimes, though, you have to go too far.

Staffe looks at the brandy and swirls it, watches it catch the light. Round and round.

The phone rings and he downs the spirit in one, feels its burn, easing into the gut of him. ‘Yes,’ he says.

‘We’ve got a problem.’ It is Pennington and he sounds unnerved. Pennington is never unnerved – or so he would have it.

‘
You’ve
got a problem?’

The phone is silent. He can practically hear Pennington seething.

Pennington says, ‘Jesus.’

‘What is it, sir?’ In the window, he can see himself looking him in the eye. He seems lost, with the waterfront city behind him.

‘I’m in bloody Hampshire, man. In the middle of nowhere. This case is out of control.’

‘Hampshire? Why didn’t you send Pulford?’

‘I’m trusting you, Staffe. This goes no further.’

‘Go on.’

‘I’ve just been with the Home Secretary.’

‘Cathy Killick?’ Staffe feels bilious. He should have eaten.

‘She’s been threatened. They said they’d kill her baby. The Home Secretary! It’s a bloody disaster.’

‘It must be that bill of Vernon Short’s.’

‘Straight to the top of the class, Staffe.’

‘You need to get hold of Lesley Crawford.’

‘She’s gone missing.
Quelle
bloody
surprise
! You’d better get yourself back down here.
Tout suite,
man. I don’t care what time you get in. You call me. And not a word of this to anyone.’

Staffe puts down the phone and packs as quickly as he can. When he is done, when he looks out on the city, glimpsing the estuary between the buildings, it feels wrong. His work here is not done and he picks up the phone, calls Alicia Flint.

‘I have to go,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to say good luck with the case.’ He can hear Ethan shouting in the background.

‘You have to go?’ Despite what happened with Anthony Bright, she sounds disappointed.

‘Zoe went to Parkgate. She bought herrings for somebody.’

‘Bloody herrings again?’

‘I think it’s important.’

Ethan screams.

She says, ‘I’ve got to go,’ and hangs up.

*

Josie sips her tea and watches Sheila Archibald go through the archway into the dining room to tend to Miles and Maya. Husband John knocked it through from the lounge himself, so they could keep an eye on the children while they had their dinner. John is proud of his work.

The Archibalds like their quiz shows and the opening titles for another programme come up on the big old tank of a telly. John watches the drama unfold with one eye as the children sit at the dining table, despite Josie’s suggestion that Miles and Maya might be better upstairs.

She says to John, ‘The father has gone to ground. Has he been in touch?’

For a moment, John looks confused. ‘The father?’

‘Sean.’

‘Aah.’

‘You know he’s not …’ Josie lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘… the real dad.’

‘That’s not our concern.’

Through the archway, Sheila takes the plates away from the children, even though they haven’t touched the fish fingers or peas on their plates. The oven chips are all gone. Sheila says, ‘No clean plates, no pudding.’

‘I want a biscuit,’ says Maya.

‘Bedtime,’ says Sheila.

The children slide off their chairs, looking glum. It is seven o’clock.

‘We thought he might have tried to see them,’ says Josie. ‘You’ll call if he does.’

Sheila takes the children upstairs and John Archibald looks at Josie from the corner of his eye. ‘We’re not involved. It’s our misfortune, that’s all it is. You have to understand, we won’t be roped in.’

‘Kerry must have talked to you about their real father. That’s your concern, surely – in the children’s interests.’

‘She only came round once, we told you.’

Josie finishes her tea and places the cup and saucer on the coffee table. It is glass-topped and has a shelf below. On the shelf are a couple of romantic novels, a TV guide from the tabloids and a travel brochure – for cruises.

She contemplates asking John if he and Sheila are planning a trip, but decides against, instead says, ‘There’s the funeral to think about. We’ll let you know, of course, but I can’t say when it might be. I suppose Kerry’s sister will be the one to organise it – now the dad’s missing. The children should be there, but I’ll talk to the care worker about that. She’ll do an assessment.’

‘We wouldn’t want any part of that – the funeral, I mean.’

‘No, of course not.’

Upstairs, a child cries. Josie thinks it is Maya but can’t be sure.

She says good evening to John Archibald and at the door, which is panelled with frosted glass, she reminds him to let her know when Sean Degg gets in touch.

‘What makes you think he will?’

‘Oh, he will,’ says Josie. ‘He isn’t a bad man and he’s the closest those children have got to a real father.’

‘You can’t know that, though.’ John looks up the stairs, follows the noise from the children and his wife. He looks like a child in a supermarket aisle, bereft of its mother.

Josie takes a step closer, softly says, ‘We’ll get whoever did this. We owe it to those children, don’t we?’

John nods, averting his eyes. He looks down at the telephone stand by the door.

‘Between you and me, John, we know who Kerry was seeing. We know who was looking out for her – or should I say, Sean.’

Upstairs, a commotion breaks out. Maya cries. Josie knows it is her for sure this time, because above the crying and the stern coaxing of Sheila Archibald, she hears the voice of a young boy pleading, ‘I want my dad. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him.’

Josie has heard enough and lets herself out, leaves the Archibalds to their contrived domestic. Outside, she turns right at the gate and waves to John, who watches her – all the way. She goes past her car, which is unmarked and on the opposite side of the street. At the end of the road, she turns right again and waits for three minutes, then goes back onto the Archibalds’ street, texts Pulford and tells him it might be time. Then she waits ten more minutes and returns to her car.

It is cold in the car but she resists the temptation to turn on the engine and suck in the hot air. From here, she can see the Archibalds’ home quite clearly. The upstairs lights go off and she tries not to dwell on what long, sleepless gloom the children face. Downstairs, the hall light comes on. Two shapes appear in the frosted panes of the front door, beside the telephone stand.

Josie texts Pulford again: ‘Archibalds calling. Anything your end?’

*

Pulford gestures to the barmaid from the side bar of the Duke’s Head and asks for another glass of low-alcohol lager. All the while, through that gap between the optics and the counter in the opposite bar, he keeps an eye on what goes on in the front snug.

Tommy Given and his entourage have been guffawing and drinking, slapping each other and taking the piss out of the barmaid, since early doors – just like Smet had said. Smet didn’t have to go to a file or refer it around the Met. He knew, straight off, and he told Pulford to steer well clear and not be seen. For fuck’s sake not to be seen.

Some folk have ventured into Tommy’s sphere, but few have stayed. A couple of old-timers schlep against the bar, happy to be victims of the gang’s chidings. They give as good as they get. They’re in some kind of circle, and probably have been since the good old days.

But now, the laughter stops. Pulford leans down, gets his change, and sees that Tommy has a serious look on his face. Pulford leans further down so he can see Tommy properly beneath the optics. He sees all of Tommy for the first time, as he stands: how broad he is, how hard he is.

Tommy raises the phone to his ear and pushes one of his cronies out of his way. He has a good face – bright blue eyes and a strong jaw, a boxer’s nose and big, golden-brown hair, all combed back. His skin is white, almost translucent, and he has a scar across one cheek, from his eye to the lobe of his ear. There’s a big ring on each big finger of both his big hands.

He makes his way out of the bar, pausing at the door, phone still raised to his ear. Pulford can’t make out what he’s saying but it’s bad news for somebody. He points at one of the entourage, who stands, leaves the rest of his orange juice. The driver?

As soon as Tommy is gone, Pulford turns his back to the bar and texts Josie: ‘They’re coming. Make scarce. On my way.’

*

Josie knows she should make herself scarce. Pulford had told her what Smet said about not being seen and she twirls the car keys around her finger, looks back at the Archibalds’ house. The shapes in the frosted windows of the front door are gone and the hall lights flick off. She knows it will be fifteen, twenty minutes, if he comes at all. What harm can she do?

She thinks about Grace, and what it must have been like to be born like that. What kind of repercussions there will be. She’s been thinking through the possibilities all day.

Josie does her hair into a high-up ponytail and pulls a baseball cap from the glove compartment, then teases her ponytail through the gap in the back of the cap. She drags a pea jacket from under the passenger seat and takes off her tailored woollen blazer, folds it neatly and places it under the seat. Josie zips the pea jacket right up and checks her watch, kills minutes by sifting the backlog of texts on her mobile. As she does it, she realises how seldom she returns messages from her friends. She can’t remember the last time she saw any of them.

She gets out of the car and pulls the peak of her cap right down. There’s a minimart on the corner and she walks up to it, slouching, hands thrust in the pockets of the short jacket. It is cold, now the sun is down. There might be a frost tonight.

In the minimart, which does halal, she keeps an eye on the street. There’s every chance they will come by this way – from off the North Circular. She asks for a can of Diamond Power and the owner IDs her. For a second she feels a glow of satisfaction, but has to be careful not to let him see her warrant card as she fumbles in her purse.

She loiters in the shop doorway, as if its light might make her warm. She snaps the ring-pull and takes a sip, tries not to baulk as its sickly sour zings in her mouth and throat. She moves away, realising the doorway isn’t the place to be.

Josie leans on a wall obscured from the Archibalds’ street by a privet hedge. She can just about see the house if she takes a step back from the hedge and, as each car passes, she raises the can to her lips, sips a little. After a while, the supercharged cider laps up to her senses, makes her feel kind of happy, optimistic about the night. Tomorrow, she will text her mates. All of them. For sure. She will be a better friend.

A car approaches. It’s a Merc GL, she thinks. It rolls high and comes faster than the others did. She steps back, tight against the privet and raises the can, swigs for real. But she can’t help sneaking a peek. Her heart misses a beat. Her guts feel loose. She would remember Tommy Given anywhere.

He’s in the driver’s seat, alone.

Another car comes: fast, but not quite so fast. It is Pulford, which makes her happy and suddenly she feels stupid for getting herself worked up. All they need is to clock Tommy Given going into the Archibalds’. Nothing more.

She lowers her can and raises the peak of her cap, so he can see her, but he is on his phone, slowing now. Another car follows behind Pulford but turns off down the side street, parks up just past the shop. She wants to wave to Pulford, but knows she can’t and presses the half-empty can into the privet and moves off, towards the minimart. Tommy’s car has slowed right down outside the Archibalds’, its brake lights glowing red – but then they fizzle out and the car moves off. She’ll text Pulford from inside the shop. But what will she buy?

Josie stops by the entrance to the shop and looks in the window. She could get some gum, or a magazine –
Just Seventeen
or something like that. This makes her smile. She hears a voice, from behind.

‘Bad girl.’

Then she feels flesh on her face, her mouth; then the dullest pain, the slowest fall that has no landing. And straight away, she is in the land of Nod.