Willing Flesh (16 page)

Fifteen

Charged with the murder of Rebeccah Stone, Graham Blears is being held at Pentonville nick. Yesterday, Josie and Rimmer had corroborated the bellboy’s identification of Blears at the Thamesbank, and his fingering of the proven pervert at the line-up was immediate and unwavering. Mulplant has no criminal record and is in the first year of a sandwich degree in tourism at the University of South London. Josie and Rimmer feel he will stand up to any cross-examination Blears’ defence may concoct, but for the moment they are confining Blears’ charges to the Stone murder.

And as for Blears’ defence, he has no alibi for either murder. There are no witnesses from the Kennel yet, but Josie is hopeful that will change after the raid tonight, and this quest is aided by the fact that, so far, they have managed to keep both murders out of the papers. The hardcore doggers – those most likely to identify Blears – will be at the trough again tonight.

‘I can’t bear this,’ Blears says, hands pressed to his drawn, grey face, repeatedly lamenting the separation from his beloved Useless.

Tara Fleet is with Rimmer and Josie: a criminal psychologist specialising in sex-crime profiling, and a little older than Josie. Tara asks Blears if he prefers animals to people. He replies in the affirmative. ‘Especially women, Graham?’ Tara says.

Blears is clearly distracted and looks at Rimmer, studiously avoiding both Tara Fleet and Josie Chancellor. His eyes look fit to bleed. He says, ‘Oh, yes.’

Tara Fleet is like a dog with a bone. She is dressed in a Prince of Wales check suit, tailored to the shoulders and waist. Her golden hair is down in long curls. She forces a smile upon her stern face and waits for Blears to dare look at her, says, ‘Women put you here, didn’t they, Graham.’ She leans back, slowly, crossing her legs. His mouth has opened. ‘You’re well shot of them.’

He nods, repeats her words in a breathy, penitent’s moan. ‘Well shot.’ Blears looks at Josie, as if he has only just realised she is there. She smiles at him, wetting her lips. ‘This will be done soon, won’t it? I’ll know, soon, won’t I?’ he says.

‘Just as soon as you have told us everything.’

‘I want to see a priest.’

‘It’s that bad, is it, Graham?’ says Josie.

Blears blinks rapidly, looks at Rimmer, as if he is waking from a moment’s sleep. ‘Who are these women? I don’t have to speak to them. Get them out!’

‘Of course, Graham,’ says Rimmer, standing, walking across to him, crouching and whispering low, under the murmur of the tape machine, ‘You can have whatever you want. We can tell each other everything. And it will all be over. Then we can bring the priest.’

‘Can you have dogs in prison?’ Blears asked, his eyes ponding with tears.

Rimmer smiles and nods as Josie reaches down beneath her chair, producing six sealed plastic bags. In five of them are single pairs of knickers: some lacy, some plain; one, a thong. All of them, according to Forensics, are worn. In the sixth bag is a knife.

‘You know where we got these, don’t you, Graham?’

He nods, looking confused, and then he gasps as Josie puts
US Snuff
on the table.

‘The knife, I have to say, Graham, is a perfect match for the wounds on Rebeccah’s body.’

‘It’s not mine,’ he says, uncertainly. Graham squints. He is breathless. ‘I’m sure.’

*

Sylvie has a first violinist from the LSO going round at twelve and it could be a lucrative new commission. Good for her reputation, too, so Staffe makes his way, alone, to his Kilburn house. It’s not so long since he lived there – before he moved out to provide his sister with a base; immunity from her bad boyfriends and some solidity in life for her and Harry.

He is here for an afternoon with his nephew, but he can’t shift Rosa from his thoughts. What on earth is she doing in the phones of the two murdered women? Of course, that’s her game, too.

The sun has come out today, quickly melting the snow. He remembers last summer, shudders when he recalls that first time, with Rosa. He hasn’t seen her since. Now, he knows for sure, that must change.

As he walks up Shoot Up Hill, Staffe hears footsteps behind him, just out of kilter but at the same clip as his own. He slows. They slow. He speeds up and the echo dis appears. He makes to cross the road, unnecessarily, and checks behind him. Nothing. The street is empty. ‘Bloody fool,’ he says aloud, to himself. ‘Relax, why don’t you.’ It makes him smile.

Now on the wrong side of his old street, he can see right into his house. Harry is sitting in the window of his mother’s bedroom, rocking slightly and mouthing words. It cracks Staffe up and in the crisp winter chill, he hears himself laugh out loud, plumes of happy gas coming from his mouth. Harry has his Apple buds in and Staffe tries to imagine what he might be listening to: his father’s bad rock or his mother’s tortured singer-songwriters? Staffe gave him some Chet Baker the other week and plans to have him into Coleman Hawkins by next Christmas. The boy will be amazing, already is, and as Staffe pictures him growing up, his nephew sees him, jumps up and down and bangs the window. The glass warps and steams up in the brilliant December sun.

*

In the taxi up to Parliament Hill, Harry chit-chats away, updating Staffe on his new school and his football and his music. It softens Staffe’s heart to even contemplate that the young boy might be too bright for his own good. The driver chips in and Harry scoots across to the tipper seat. He talks briskly through the paying hole, telling the cabbie all about his favourite team and players and how the footballers are all paid too much and his team is Orient because they’re a proper team. The driver challenges him to go through the team. Harry scrunches up his face and slowly, surely, reels them off, from goalie to strikers.

‘I did it, Will! I did it!’ Harry spins round and is beaming, holding aloft the pound coin that he has won from the driver.

‘You got trouble on your hands there, governor,’ says the cabbie, smiling all over his face. They get out of the cab and Staffe watches Harry run off into the park, trailing the kite behind. He wonders at the power of innocents to bring joy into the city.

Then, hands come from nowhere. Cold on his face. Over his eyes.

His heart stops as he recalls the steps behind him on Shoot Up Hill and he spins round, the heart quickly catching up, double time. A familiar voice spears words towards him. ‘Guess who!’

Sylvie is beaming, bright-eyed. She says, ‘No need to worry, Will.
I
won’t harm you.’ Then she crouches, opens her arms and lets Harry come bowling back down the hill into her, dragging his kite behind him along the ground.

*

Two men, each with the collar to his overcoat turned up, stand on a knoll, looking across at Staffe, Sylvie and Harry. London towers glint in the low sun as if they might be silvery confections for a Christmas or wedding cake. DI Wagstaffe sprints away, holding the string to the kite aloft, and the young boy jumps and waves his arms, urging the kite to fly. After fifty yards, the kite loops and catches a gust and sweeps into the air. The young boy cheers and runs to the inspector, who tugs and tugs at the kite to get it high. He ties the string to the belt of the youngster’s jeans then holds his hands aloft in triumph, turning to the pretty woman. She claps her gloved hands and opens her arms, invites him to run to her, which he does.

She wraps her arms around his neck and turns to make sure the boy is not looking, then kisses him, full. Their heads move slowly, like clouds.

‘That’s him?’ says the elder of the two men, tall, barrel-chested and erect. He has a perfectly bald pate and a pencil moustache.

‘He doesn’t look like a detective inspector,’ says the lean, ruddy-faced, younger one – hints of soft Scouse in his voice. He adjusts his tie, turns his head towards the low sun and regards the scene around him.

‘They say he’s unorthodox,’ says the Elder.

The Younger says, ‘We’ll use that, to fuck him over.’

The silver Gherkin glints bright in the east, like a fat candle, alight. You can see it from the inspector’s office. But things look different from up here. You can see the whole picture.

*

In Pentonville, Rimmer and Tara Fleet watch Josie on a monitor. She is opposite Blears, alongside his solicitor. In observance of the ground rules for admissible evidence, it is more than six hours since Blears’ last intake of temazepam, as prescribed under expert medical advice. They are ready to roll.

Josie adjusts her skirt, an inch or three shorter than she would normally wear for work. Her tights are sheer. Minutes earlier, under prescription from Tara Fleet, she had applied lipstick, which she hardly ever wears.

Blears says, ‘Where is he?’

‘You do not have to say anything,’ says his solicitor.

‘I want Rimmer,’ says Blears.

‘You can have what you want, Graham. DI Rimmer is on his way. He just asked me to get things started.’ She slides a photograph across the table. ‘We took it this morning. DI Rimmer went over specially, to make sure she’s all right. Useless is with the police dogs up in Hendon. The best a dog can get,’ she beams, keeping her painted talon finger on the corner of the photograph of Blears’ dog. He touches it, too. He looks up at her and smiles: involuntary, lascivious.

‘It’s bad in here,’ he says. ‘They’re all evil.’

‘It’s better where Useless is,’ says Josie. ‘She’ll be fine, Graham. No matter what you tell us.’

‘This is irrelevant,’ says the solicitor.

Josie leans back in her chair, looks at Blears, who is staring at her legs. ‘How did you get on last night, with the priest?’

‘They talked sense,’ he says.

‘They?’

‘Said they believed in me. Said they understood.’ He looks up at Josie, eyes glazed and leaning slightly forward, almost as if he is about to collapse, his neck unable to support the weight above.

‘We all want to understand everything, Graham. That’s all.’

‘This is bullshit,’ says the solicitor.

‘That’s what
he
said,’ says Blears.

‘The priest?’ Josie uncrosses her legs, leans forward. ‘The priest said “bullshit”?’

‘No. The other one. He said that I had to believe in myself. He said the truth is the truth and I don’t have to make things up to make things better.’ Blears blinks, looks around the room.

‘The other one?’

Blears looks at Josie, then immediately down at his shoes. ‘He said, “It won’t end until we get the right man.” He said to believe in that. He asked me if I was him.’

‘The right man?’ says his solicitor.

‘Are you the right man, Graham?’ says Josie.

‘You don’t have to answer this question, Mr Blears,’ says his solicitor.

‘I don’t know,’ says Blears. He looks up, for the briefest glimpse, at Josie. Head down, he says, ‘That’s your job.’

The door opens and Rimmer comes in with Tara Fleet, says, ‘Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything?’ It’s the sign for Josie to leave.

Which she does, taking an escort back to reception, running the gamut of wolf-whistles and catcalls, the whole C-to-F of obscene invitations to copulate and fellate. Sodom puts his head above, too.

At the gate, she checks the visitors’ book and runs a finger down the list of entries from last night. At 19.00, Father O’Dwyer had signed in, and there, just below, she sees that, at 19.30, a DI Staffe had signed his name.

*

Staffe tries not to breathe in the low-rise air of the Atlee tenements. The smell of dogs and garbage cloys in his mouth and nose. There is no need to live like this, he thinks. Then reminds himself how little he knows.

Last night, he had called on Graham Blears who seemed sedated, who seemed to want to believe that he, Staffe, had been sent from God.

‘You’re here to save me?’ Blears had said, hollow-eyed as he sat in the plastic chair on the other side of the metal table, screwed to the concrete floor. ‘I have done some terrible things and my hour is come.’

‘You must save yourself, Graham,’ Staffe had said. ‘Tell me what you did. Forget the bullshit.’

‘I didn’t have the knife.’