Pain of Death (20 page)

Tommy brings the suitcase downstairs, sets it by the front door and calls, ‘Sabine! It’s time.’

In the lounge, he pulls a drawer all the way from its housing in the Dutch dresser and he empties the contents, turns the drawer upside down and pulls away a taped passport inside a plastic bag. Tommy removes the secreted identity from the bag, trousers it and puts the drawer back, loads it.

‘Do I really have to go,
chérie
?’ says Sabine. Giselle is by her side.

‘I want mama,’ says Giselle.

‘We’ll have a special time,’ says Tommy, sinking to his knees and hugging his little girl. He whispers, ‘Go to your room, my
petit singe
.’ He tickles her under her chin and she giggles freely. In her eyes, you can see she has already forgotten that she was upset. Giselle nods and skips out of the room.

Sabine sobs. Tommy sits on the edge of the sofa and pulls her towards him. He listens to Giselle, playing upstairs, and runs his hands up his wife’s legs; all the way, under her
loose-fitting
Karen Millen dress. He bought it for her. She swears blind it is her favourite. He rests his head on her lump and says, ‘We’ve wished it so. We’ve wished it so long,
chérie
. Be strong. For Giselle and for me, be strong.’

She puts her hands on his face and he looks up, into her eyes.

He loves her so much and with his hands busy inside her clothes, he unclasps the hooks from the eyes on the rigmarole beneath her fine dress. Sometimes, people stop Sabine in the High Street and say they don’t know how she does it – to look the way she does when she is so pregnant. So elegant. To which Sabine smiles coyly, almost embarrassed.

Tommy continues to fumble, but he gets there in the end. With a final release and a gentle tug, he relieves Sabine of this sham burden. He pulls the lump down and she runs her hands over her flat stomach and sighs. They each look down at the bump that Tommy has placed on the floor. His tailor had run it up, had expanded it – once each month, for the last five months – to get her showing and to keep it that way.

Tommy hands Sabine her passport, equally false. He says, ‘When you come back, Giselle will have a baby brother.’

‘Your blood,’ she says, her eyes flitting as if there is so much to be wary of. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s in good hands. As healthy as you like.’

‘I wish I could see him.’ She runs her hands in Tommy’s hair. She does it roughly. He is such a big man. She can be rough as she likes and he doesn’t feel it. But that’s only half the truth. ‘We need to talk about him, Tommy. He’ll never be whole, not without his sister.’

‘He’ll have the perfect life, just you see.’

‘But I can’t see.’

‘Soon, they’ll be together. We’ll all be together. It’s a natural law. This is meant to be.’ He holds her by the hips.

She grabs his hair, tighter, and stoops down, kisses him on the mouth.

In the heart of the kiss, he says, ‘Did I ever let you down?’

‘No, never.’

Tommy thinks how, on God’s earth, will he be able to accomplish this beautiful thing, from the monster he has created.

*

‘Why do we need to see him?’ says Pulford.

Staffe raps the window again and recognises the tattooed man who walks slowly, squatly, to the entrance of the Rendezvous. ‘We need to know everything we possibly can about Kerry’s state of mind; how she was behaving in those last days, before she disappeared. I’ve a feeling those who loved her most turned against her.’

‘Who are you talking about? Bridget and Sean.’

‘And others. She had an uncle.’

Pulford clocks the door opening, over Staffe’s shoulder. He points and as Staffe turns, to see Phillip Ramone waiting as the minder unlocks the door, he whispers, ‘Tommy?’

The door opens. ‘We’ll go out, have some tea,’ says Ramone.

‘What’s wrong with your office?’ asks Pulford.

‘Don’t want us coming in a third time, hey, Phillip? Do you really think you’re being watched?’

‘What if I just want some air?’

‘It’s a free country,’ says Staffe, following Ramone through the alley that leads up to Berwick Street market where vendors shout and vans rev their engines, parp their horns, trying to squeeze between stalls.

Ramone weaves through the crowds, his silver, bouffant head raised high. Every few steps he nods at stallholders and punters alike, until just before the Blue Posts on the corner of Broadwick Street, where he goes through a door to an unmarked shop. Inside, the lighting is low and the air thick with smoke. In the far corner is a tiny counter with a giant urn. All along one wall, men sit in fours, playing cards and smoking and drinking tea. An aroma of whisky swirls in the smoke.

‘They’re smoking,’ says Pulford.

‘It’s someone’s home,’ says Ramone. ‘They’re allowed.’

They sit in the window and watch the busiest of life chug on by. Their tea is brought already sugared in thick china mugs. It reminds Staffe of being very young in a Lyons tea shop. His grandfather would take him and he would scoop knickerbocker glory from a tall, ridged glass with a
long-handled
silver spoon. His grandfather would tip whisky into his tea and smoke the whole time. Ladies would pinch young William’s cheek and pat down his parting, and whisper to his grandfather. He tries to remember what his parents were doing, for him to be out with his grandfather.

‘Tell me about Tommy, Mr Ramone. And all about Kerry, too – in those last days.’

‘You’re a dog with a bone. You want to kill a dog, you can give it a bone. One you’ve treated.’

‘Was she going off the rails?’

Ramone takes a sip of his tea. ‘This is good.’

‘Her family turned on her.’

‘You reckon she had a family, Inspector?’

‘My guess is Tommy helped her get that residency with you. But that was before he knew she was pregnant.’

‘Why would Tommy stick his neck out for a girl like Kerry?’

‘Don’t shit me, Phillip. You know. I know you know.’ Staffe gives Pulford a nod.

‘Even I know,’ says Pulford.

‘What do you know?’

‘That Tommy Given is Kerry’s uncle.’

‘Was,’ says Ramone. He puts out a cigarette, sips his tea and lights another. ‘I’m very fond of Tommy. He’s a better man than anyone gives him credit for, and I don’t believe it’s a crime to help out your flesh and blood.’

‘What did he do when he found out she was pregnant?’

‘He told me to pull the residency. Said it wasn’t right. Tommy knows right from wrong all right.’

‘And did you?’

‘We’d signed the contract. It was a tidy sum. I tried, but…’ Ramone shakes his head, takes in a lungful and a half, coughs up, like an engine that can’t catch the light. ‘She laughed, when I said to hand the contract back. She had a nasty laugh – like a knife. You can tell a lot about a person by their laugh. You can tell if they’re weak, or cocky, or if they don’t love themselves as much as they ought. And you can tell if they don’t know what life’s worth. But if you’re asking me if Tommy would harm a hair of that girl.’ He looks at Staffe, then back at Pulford, shaking his head, coughing again, and getting it to catch this time. ‘It’s a sad, sad world. But it’s not that sad. I hope to God.’

‘Did Tommy come round when he knew she was having twins?’

‘Twins?’

‘I know, Phillip.’

‘He wanted the best for her, is all I know.’ Phillip drags heavily on his cigarette and tips a glug of whisky into his tea. He drinks it down and looks out at his corner of London clinging to a better past. ‘This is some town, hey?’

‘Did you ever meet Kerry’s sister?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nor hair nor hide of her. Knowing what I do of Kerry, I’m amazed they didn’t break the mould.’

*

Staffe regards his own finger, a millimetre from the protruding plastic that is the bell. He also regards all the things he knows that he didn’t know the last time he was here, stood outside the mansion block on the Castelnau, a kidney-stone’s throw from the wrought Hammersmith Bridge.

If he presses the bell, she will come to him and the words will begin to spill. He could let someone else do it. Would it be such a cowardly route to take?

Staffe pulls his hand away. There had to be a nurse down there – in the tunnel: someone who knew how to usher new life into the world. And now, a baby is missing. There is powdered milk inside this place.

If he closes his eyes, which he does, he can see her in the half-light. At the height of their lovemaking, she had stopped, for an instant, and looked him dead in the eye, said, ‘I could.’ He had said, ‘What? Could what?’ and she had said, ‘I don’t, not yet. But I could.’

It could be love, he had thought. And then she had pulled him close to her, deeper inside her. Her skin was soft to the touch, but hard to the press. She tasted of nothing whatsoever but afterwards he could run his tongue around his mouth and find her again, like the smoke in your sweater after a bonfire.

He steps back, looks up and hopes that she is not in. He takes out his phone to call her, but sees he has a missed call, from Jasmine Cash. It seems as if it might have been a week or a month since he last met with Jasmine. He knows it will not be a good thing. But he makes the call.

‘I’m worried about Jadus,’ says Jasmine, without a ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you?’

‘He’s still holding that job down, isn’t he?’

‘It’s what I’m worried about.’

The line peters to silence and Staffe looks up to see if Eve’s curtains twitch. But there is no sign of life. ‘Go on,’ he says. ‘There’s something you have to tell me?’

‘I can trust you, right? I’ve called in confidence.’

‘I want Jadus to make it, you know that. Now, is there something you have to tell me?’

‘I have to tell you? I said I would. I promised.’

Staffe remembers. Jasmine said the promise and then said she didn’t need to. And now it is her that is broken, not the promise.

Behind him, the syrupy grunt of a taxi draws close and its brakes squeal. Staffe turns. From the taxi, Eve steps out and when she sees him, she smiles. Her instinct is to be pleased, but she must then see something in his face that makes a frown quickly assert itself.

‘Staffe?’ says Jasmine.

‘I have to go, Jasmine. But I’ll see him. I’ll call round.’

‘I think something’s going down. In fact, something
is
going down.’

‘Hello,’ says Eve.

‘I’ll see him tomorrow.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’ He hangs up.

They kiss. His hand on her hip. He doesn’t mean to, but he can feel her underwear beneath. A tiny clog of kohl has gathered on that bud of membrane in the corner of her eye. It’s called the … He can’t remember. Sylvie had told him what it is called and now he has forgotten.

‘This is a pleasant surprise,’ says Eve.

‘Pleasant?’

‘Maybe we can do better than that.’ She puts the key to the door.

‘Is it OK if I come in?’

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ She smiles at him and puts a hand to his face. She seems confident.

He follows Eve in and they go up. He waits in the kitchen whilst she changes out of her uniform, can hear the ghost rustle of clothes through her imperfectly closed bedroom door, then the draw and clasp of furniture. The shower runs. He mooches around the flat. Everything looks normal, sustainable.

It is painfully easy for him to imagine being a part of the domestic here. He can picture himself kicking off sheets, preparing them both a fast breakfast, reading her mood. He reaches for the cupboard, opens it. The powdered milk is gone. He rummages to the back, tries another cupboard, then another, looking over his shoulder.

He looks under the sink but there is not so much as a grain of SMA. He hears the gurgle of plumbing and tiptoes through the lounge and into the bedroom.

A child was here. He is sure. Yet now, his assumption seems quite preposterous. She has laid out bra and pants and thick tights on the bed, a white lambswool crew top and a short kilt, and he can see she will look just so inside it. On hands and knees, he looks under the bed, then hears the shower stop. His knees click as he stands, retreats, closing the door to its precise degree, and forming sentences of what he might say to her.

As he waits, sitting on her sofa, he can’t shake the clarity from his head.

‘What’s troubling you?’ She bends to kiss his cheek and her dressing gown falls open. She grabs it, quite coy, and takes a step back.

He looks at the slim rise of her legs but quickly averts. He knows he is about to forfeit that.

‘What’s wrong, Staffe? Something’s wrong.’

‘The powdered milk is gone.’

‘What powdered …?’ She moves away. ‘You’ve been looking. The last time you were here …’

‘Why was it here? And now it is gone.’

‘You’re a bastard.’

‘I’m not. Tell me why.’

‘You don’t have the right.’

‘Rights have been removed. There’s no such thing when people are murdered. A baby’s life is at risk here.’

‘What baby?’

‘Tell me about the milk, Eve.’

‘You’re in a world of your own. What use is it, whatever I say?’ She smiles, weak and trembling. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘You had Sean Degg’s number.’

‘I felt sorry for him. It’s a normal emotion. I don’t know how this happened to me. How did I get here?’

He takes a step towards her, reaches out and she lets him rest his hand on her shoulder. ‘We should get you a lawyer.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She looks at him with half-closed, weary eyes.