Suffer the Children (23 page)

‘Jesus!’ says Staffe. ‘What is it?’ The screen is cut into four segments. Top right is the photograph of Karl Colquhoun. Bottom left is Montefiore. Bottom right is a blur that Staffe can’t make sense of but in the top-left quadrant is an image which Staffe has never seen before. It is a face he feels he should know, but doesn’t.

‘You don’t recognise her? Top left?’ says Pulford.

‘I do and I don’t.’

The woman’s face is hard and pale. Her hair is blonde, the skin grey. Her eyes are closed but pain is written all over her still features. ‘I’m pretty sure this is an autopsy photograph. See the slab in the background?’

‘It’s not …’

‘It’s Lotte Stensson, sir.’

‘What the hell is this site?’

‘Look,’ says Pulford, pointing to the web address at the top of the page.
vengeancevictims.com

‘Victims?’ says Staffe.

‘VABBA?’ says Pulford.

‘What’s going on in this bottom right section?’

‘I can’t make sense of it but I think that’s the point. It’s not decided yet.’

‘Oh my God,’ says Staffe.

‘They want us to see it here first, sir. It’s going to be a live execution.’

‘Can you find out where this site is coming from?’

‘I’ve got a techie working on it, but I didn’t know if you wanted it to get back to Pennington.’

Staffe’s pocket vibrates. The telephone screen tells him he has missed calls: Sylvie and Pennington. He curses under his breath and calls Pennington. Even though it’s nearly midnight, his boss sounds bright as a button.

‘Aah, Staffe! You’ve got one hell of a sense of timing.’

‘I’m sorry it’s so late, sir.’

‘No. I was about to call you. I need to see you at the station. We’ve got a problem. Quite a problem.’

‘There’s something I need to tell you, sir. About a website.’

‘Vengeance something dot com?’

‘What!’

‘We’ve got the
News
to thank, Will. I’ve got Nicholas Absolom here with me now. They’re being civilised about the whole thing, Will. Very civilised. But I
would
like you to get here as soon as you can. Absolutely as soon as you can.’

Pennington hangs up and Staffe can imagine him showing a brave face to Absolom, the forced smile straining to break into a snarl. Suddenly, Staffe feels the booze catching up.

Nick Absolom is heroin thin in a skinny-fit Paul Smith suit: legs crossed in the manner of a faux intellectual and his hooded eyes slightly shut. He talks through a pursed, superior smile and regularly reinstates the centre parting of his fop’s hair with a slow sweep of his left hand. He says, ‘I have to tell you, Inspector Wagstaffe, I think this should be our front page.’ He reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and unfolds a tabloid-sized piece of paper with a photograph of the website and a headline:

Underneath the image of the website is the strapline:

Staffe takes the sample page from Absolom and scrutinises it. He swallows his pride, says to Absolom, ‘It’s good of you to pull it. In the public interest.’

‘It’s not in the public interest,’ says Absolom.

Pennington sighs.

‘You know how incendiary it is out there. How did you get hold of this anyway?’

‘I’m an investigator, just as much as you.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Absolom.’

‘Staffe!’ shouts Pennington.

Staffe scans the front page mock-up.

He looks long and hard at Absolom, who stares him down in turn. Neither man gives an inch. Neither blinks. Pennington sucks hard on a plastic cigarette. Eventually, the silence snaps.

Absolom says, ‘Say what you like, the public have a right to know. I’m only representing conventional wisdom.’

‘Isn’t it convenient that it just happens to be raising your profile. Climbing over dead bodies to get yourself on to the ladder. How gallant of you.’

‘Are you talking about the bodies of child molesters set free by the state? Well I do apologise. Maybe we should do more to protect the likes of Karl Colquhoun and Guy Montefiore and Lotte Stensson.’

‘Lotte Stensson! How do you know about her?’

‘I don’t doubt that you’re probably quite good at your job, Inspector Wagstaffe. But that’s not to say I can’t be too. She’s right there in the top-left corner of the web page. It’s not rocket science.’

‘How exactly did you get hold of that web address?’

‘We’re a long way from me having to tell you that. And you’d have to disprove that I happened to simply stumble across it.’

Staffe looks back at the front page, reads again about the slow death of the victims and wonders how much Absolom might know about VABBA.

‘You should thank Mr Absolom, Will,’ says Pennington. ‘This has bought us some time to regroup.’

Regroup
? thinks Staffe, fearing the worst.

‘Will you be reassigning the case, Chief Inspector?’ says Absolom. ‘You did say we could have first run with the next big break on the case. This would be a start.’

‘You’re nothing but a muckraker,’ says Staffe.

‘I am simply establishing a debate about the nature of guilt and innocence.’

‘You’re inciting anarchy.’

‘And the release of known sex offenders into the community, simply because the pursuit of justice doesn’t meet your budget, doesn’t contribute to anarchy?’ Absolom snatches the front page off Staffe and stands up. He’s not smug. He looks genuinely angry and slowly folds the page back, sliding it into his pocket. ‘You were lucky this time.’ He looks at Pennington. ‘If this had anything to do with justice, anything at all, you’d be choking on my words over your cornflakes tomorrow morning. Now, can I assume that this case is being reassigned?’

Pennington nods. He gives Staffe a resigned look. ‘Detective Inspector Wagstaffe will remain attached to the case but it is now under the control of AMIP.’

‘The Area Major Investigation Pool? Who will be in charge?’

‘DI Smethurst.’

‘Of the Met? And where will it be based?’

‘Hammersmith.’

‘What would you like to say to my readers, should they ask why it took so long for the Met to take the lead on this case?’

‘Synergy,’ interrupts Staffe. ‘Evidence has emerged connecting the murder of Karl Colquhoun to a case which the Met allowed to lapse. Three years ago. You can ask Smethurst if you want any more.’ Staffe watches Absolom shake Pennington’s hand and leave. ‘So I’m off the case, then?’

‘Like I said, Smethurst will run the AMIP squad.’

‘I’ve just had another run-in with the e.Gang. I told you they know all about Sohan Kelly.’

‘He’s untouchable.’

‘Untouchable?’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Staffe. You can go.’

Staffe makes his way down through the building into the night. As he goes, he looks through the windows. Outside it is black, pinpricked with bits of life going on all over the city.

‘Did you sleep in those clothes, sir?’ says Josie in the entrance to the Queens Terrace flat. She is holding a brown paper bag and a copy of the
Sunday News
.

Staffe rubs the sleep from his eyes and goes back into the flat, calls out, ‘Don’t just stand there. Come in!’ In the kitchen, he puts mound after mound of coffee beans into his grinder. The machine roars and Staffe rubs his temples with his free hand then takes a slug of water from a Guinness pint pot.

‘Do you want one?’ he says, holding a white china mug up.

Josie nods and gives him a curious look, as if to say, ‘You’re supposed to be pissed off.’ ‘What will you do now Smethurst is in charge?’

‘It’s not about being in charge. It’s about catching this
person
before they get to whoever is in the bottom right-hand
corner
of that web page.’ He jabs his finger at the
News
’ front page. ‘What have the photoanalysts said about the images?’

‘Anybody could set the website up. It’s a ten-quid, standard web-camera lens. But get this. The original location where the domain address was bought, was Guy Montefiore’s computer. It was his landline.’

‘And they used his credit cards, too?’ says Staffe.

‘Yes.’

‘Where’s the transmission coming from?’

‘The image is too blurred. They reckon they’ve got some kind of gauze over the lens. But the techies think it might be a building, an outside shot. And it’s in our time zone. It came light the same time as London.’

‘Gauze?’ Staffe downs the rest of the pint of water, pours himself another. ‘What are you up to today?’

‘It’s Sunday, but I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter.’

‘How do you fancy breaking and entering?’ Staffe taps the back of a chair at the kitchen table, inviting Josie to sit down. ‘I’m going to grab a quick shower then we’ll get off.’

‘What are you going to do about Montefiore?’

‘Montefiore? Why would I do anything about him?’

‘Aah,’ says Josie. She looks at her feet, clearly embarrassed.

‘What’s happened? Josie?’

‘Last night, just after eleven, he was attacked, in his bed at the hospital. A porter disturbed them but they got away.’

‘The bastards! Pennington didn’t say a bloody word. I was with him last night. Sod them! Sod them all!’

As he goes into his bedroom, Josie can hear him banging and cursing, then a mobile phone rings and the place falls silent. Staffe speaks and closes a door and Josie is left to drink her coffee in a resounding lull. 

Staffe’s heart beats double time. ‘I don’t really know,’ he says. His stomach turns, slowly, super-slo-mo. He sits on the edge of the bath and takes a deep breath, feet tapping sixteen beats to the bar.

‘What made you call me?’ says Sylvie.

He stares blankly at the wall and sees the tiles as if for a first time. They are cheap and white but the border course is handmade, from Cordoba. He bought it from a shop in Acton when he first got the flat. When Sylvie saw the tiles she asked if they were his choice and said he had taste. ‘That’s obvious,’ he had said, running his hand up her back, pulling her towards him.

‘The Cordoban tiles are still here.’

‘What?’

‘I’m in the bathroom, Vee.’

‘Will, you’re being weird.’

‘You said you liked the tiles and I said …’

‘Have you been drinking? You’re not drinking again, are you, Will?’

‘I haven’t had a drink all day.’

‘Will!’

‘I’m joking.’

The line goes quiet and he thinks he can hear her sniff. She says, ‘I said you had taste and you said that was obvious. You touched me. I have to go, Will.’

‘I need to see you, that’s all.’

‘Will …’

The phone goes quiet. Just hearing her voice transports him back through the years. His words stick, like a nervous kiss. ‘What is it?’ he says.

‘If you wanted to see me, you should have just said.’ She says the time and place and the phone goes quiet again.

Staffe summons the courage, takes a deep breath, and says, ‘Sometimes, I really miss you, Vee.’ But the line is dead. He can’t fathom whether she heard him or not. 

Staffe and Josie drive east along Embankment. The sun is low and golden, casts long shadows down the road to Westminster. It could make you believe in a yellow-brick road; the queues for the Tate are already snaking down towards the river
promenade
. Staffe wishes that just once he could have an ordinary Sunday morning that took in the papers and a gallery; a late, long lunch in a dark pub on the river and then a fifties film or the cricket highlights.

Instead, he hangs a right at the Albert Bridge and winds his way against the traffic, on to Kennington Lane.

Josie says, ‘It’s over there. Above the estate agent’s. Take a right after the pizza place. It leads up to Cleaver Square. I used to have a boyfriend who lived there. We can get in the back way.’

Staffe wants to know about the boyfriend. Why they split up. Was he good to her? Maybe she cheated on him.

‘Here. Just here,’ she says.

Staffe parks, peruses his catch-all ring of keys. The back way in is easy enough. The entrance to a block of flats juts out and he obscures himself in its nook while he heaves himself up, scuffing his shoes as he clambers. He scrapes his shin on the ridge bricks but with a final effort he is over. The padlock on the gate is standard and Staffe soon finds a key on the ring that unlocks it. He lets Josie in and slides back the bolt.

Steel stairs lead to the first floor and as they climb, Cleaver Square comes into view. People walking dogs or sitting on the benches, lolling in pairs at the tables of the pub that’s not open yet. The higher they get, the more Staffe and Josie are exposed. Staffe knows if he’s caught, he’ll not just be off the case. Suddenly, he feels weak.

The first key he tries doesn’t get close, so he has to bend down, look into the aperture of the lock then inspect the keys.

‘Staffe!’ hisses Josie.

He puts the key to the lock and it goes all the way in, but it’s too late. Below, a man with a dog on the other side of the road has stopped while his dog takes a shit. He calls up, ‘Breaking in, are we? I should call the police.’ He’s smiling.

Staffe calls out, ‘We are police. And if you don’t clear that shit up, I’ll have you doing community service.’

The man’s smile goes and he looks down, forlorn, at the pile his dog has just produced. Staffe turns the key and pushes the door open. He looks down, watches the man scurry away, leaving the dog’s mess for somebody else to cope with.

Inside, three doors lead off the dark corridor with its
threadbare
brown carpet. The place is musty and Staffe opens the doors as he goes. There is a small kitchenette with two bugs in the washing-up bowl, then a toilet, and finally a large room with two floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on Kennington Lane.

‘This place hasn’t been used for months,’ says Josie.

‘Let’s hope it’s not been used since VABBA were here.’ He looks through the drawers of a cheaply veneered reproduction desk. ‘You check the filing cabinet.’ The drawers of the desk are empty, save a few paper clips and some dog-eared menus to the local takeaways.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling, sir.’ Josie drapes her short suede jacket on the back of a velour wingback. It slips off, unnoticed.

Staffe picks up the phone and gets a dead line. There is an old fax machine on a low table but it has no papers, in or out.

‘There’s nothing at all in these,’ says Josie.

‘What a waste of time,’ he says, looking at the desk. In its left pedestal are three drawers; he crouches down, pulls the empty drawer out completely and sets it down on the floor.

‘What are you doing?’

Staffe gets down on his knees and reaches into the drawer’s void with his outstretched hand, dragging his cupped palm back towards him. He feels scraps of paper on the rough plywood. The detritus will have fallen down the back of the drawer when it was once overloaded and he scoops it out. As he sifts,
cross-legged
on the floor, Josie stands by the window, pulls the dirty nets to one side and looks down for danger.

The pile of papers comprise yet more menus and an A5 VABBA flyer, a Tube map of London and a child’s picture of their school with matchstick figures waving and big yellow smiles on their faces. There is also a telephone bill, from 2006. He flips through the pages quickly and sees that the bill is itemised. He smiles to himself and slides it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Finally, there is the torn wedge of
cheque-book
stubs. He puts the stubs into his hip pocket and stands up, slides the drawer back into its void and says, ‘Nothing. Let’s go.’

They leave quickly, closing all the doors as they go. Josie peers through the narrow gap of the cagily opened outside door. Down below, standing outside the gate are two men in suits, looking up. They see Josie and she gasps.

‘What is it?’

‘There’s two men down there. They saw me. I think they’re waiting for us.’

‘Shit!’ He sighs and opens the door, shows Josie through. He follows her down the iron steps, raising a hand to the waiting men and sussing out who they are. He slides the bolt of the gate and goes on to the street, extending a hand to the older of the two men. ‘Wonderful day.’ The man takes his hand but before he can say anything, Staffe says, ‘You’re from the estate agency.’ He looks the man right in the eye and smiles. ‘You don’t remember me? We used to be the tenants. Just looking for a copy of the old lease.’

‘Ah. Right,’ says the older man.

‘We thought we’d better check,’ says the younger one,
looking
Josie up and down, fidgeting with his tie.

‘Better safe than sorry,’ says Staffe, thinking how desperate for business these poor souls must be, working on Sunday.

‘I thought we had all the keys,’ says the older man.

Staffe taps his pocket. ‘The lawyers said to give them back to them. They need to do an inventory.’ He crosses the street and waves a hand at them as he goes, walking past his car. He keeps going towards the square, touching the cheque stubs, and considers a good thing he could do. 

‘Will!’ says Marie, standing back from the Kilburn doorway and opening her arms, inviting him to hug her. She is beaming all over her face and for a moment, as she wraps her arms around him, he surrenders to the softness of her small body. Her head nestles in the crook of his neck and shoulder as she squeezes him.

‘I can’t say how glad I am, how pleased I am about you letting us use your place.’ She stands back and holds him, still, by the hips. ‘Come and say hello to Paolo.’

‘Marie, there’s something I need to do.’ He puts a hand in his jacket, fingers the fat cheque he has come to give her.

‘Me too.’ She holds his hand and leads him into the lounge. He can smell drink in her wake, even though it’s not yet midday. The sun streams into the lounge. Takeaway cartons litter the coffee table and there is a bottle of vodka on the floor by Paolo’s chair. Which is Staffe’s chair. The man who once beat his sister is sitting, one leg draped casually over the other and rolling a cigarette, in Staffe’s chair. It is an American-style spoonback he paid two hundred for, fifteen years ago.

‘Hi, Paolo.’ Staffe tries not to stare at the yellowing bruises.

‘Dude,’ says Paolo without getting up.

Staffe wants to tell him to be careful with his cigarettes on the chair but he thinks twice. Then he says, ‘Watch those cigarettes on the chair.’

‘Will!’

‘It’s valuable.’

‘Don’t be like this,’ says Marie.

‘No worries, man,’ says Paolo. His yellowed eyes hood down, heavy, and even though he is clearly southern European, he has an affected New World, upwards intonation to his speech.

‘I’m not being like anything, Marie.’

Marie retreats towards the door and beckons Staffe to follow her. ‘Can’t you see we’re happy!’ she hisses. ‘Can’t you be happy for us?’

‘I’d like nothing more,’ says Staffe. He takes hold of her hands with his and squeezes them softly. ‘Really. Believe me. I just worry about you.’

‘It sounds like you’re worrying about your furniture.’

He takes hold of the cuff of her loose-fitting, bright and swirly, long-sleeved hippy blouse and runs his hand up along her arm. The sleeve of the blouse ruches up, shows her pale, naked arm. He holds the sleeve up with his left arm and with the right he touches the yellowing bruise. ‘These didn’t come from the good fairy,’ he says.

‘I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Will, but he loves me and I love him. If you don’t want us here, we’ll go.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Sometimes, Will …’

His mobile rings. It’s Josie and he decides to ignore it.

‘I’m happy for you, Marie. Honestly I am. I just know what …’

‘And I know what you’re like, Will. You’re not exactly a role model when it comes to relationships, are you?’

He wants to tell her that he wishes he’d done more to help her when their parents were killed. He wants to have someone else to blame for the way she has turned out. ‘Marie …’ He hears a
whoosh!
And something hits him on the head. Something soft. At the top of the stairs, Harry is standing with his hands above his head as if he has scored the winning goal at Wembley.

Staffe holds out his arms and as Harry runs down the stairs, he drops to his knees. Harry launches himself from the fifth step and Staffe catches him. He holds his nephew tight and hears his own words vibrate on the boy’s head as he says into his ear, ‘You look after your mummy, Harry. Look after your mummy.’

He knows that if he gives her the money, Paolo will blow some of it. But he also knows that some of it will make things better for her and Harry. He cradles Harry in one arm and stands up, pulls out the cheque. ‘I want you to have this, Marie. Here, take it. Please.’

She looks at it, trying to be casual, but her eyes go wide. She narrows them as soon as she can. ‘It’s too much, Will.’

‘It’s for you and Harry.’