Willing Flesh (40 page)

He manages to ablute and turns off his phone. When he emerges, he jokes about giving it a few minutes. The Elder doesn’t laugh, just says, ‘You are a man of your word?’

‘It’s all I have,’ says Staffe.

‘So you’ll bring the charges against A’Court – and only him.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And Leonard and Imogen?’

‘I have given you my word.’

*

Staffe leads the way back to London, Howerd driving Darius and Arabella in his Bentley, the Elder turning off when they get to the bottom of the A11, disappearing back into his secret world.

As they drive the empty roads, Staffe works out how he will accomplish a final summoning to justice of the man who killed Rebeccah. He laments what the Howerds have writ for poor Darius, how quickly he became dispensable, and didn’t even know, fully, why he was called upon to take Elena’s life. His bile rises.

But they hadn’t counted on Rebeccah. Hence, the Elder and the Younger – whatever circle they form a part of – digging up what Vassily Tchancov had left in his bloody wake. And when Graham Blears turned up … Manna from heaven.

By the time they get to Leadengate, Staffe has arranged for medics to be on the scene, fearing the worst for Sylvie. He leads Darius into the holding room, suggests that Arabella stay with him. ‘Love is a precious thing,’ he says to Leonard. ‘Regardless of who it is wasted on.’

Leonard manages a thin-lipped smile. He looks exhausted, as if he might agree to anything.

‘I need a few minutes with Darius,’ says Staffe.

‘How can I trust you?’ says Howerd.

‘Imogen and Roddy will be on their way now. You should call Waikman, get him down.’

Staffe closes the door on him, praying that this is the right thing, and calls Jombaugh. ‘Call me the moment Sir Ralph Waikman gets here.’

He turns his attention to Darius, who is holding Arabella. They touch each other like lovesick teenagers. Sad, that they got in so far above their heads.

‘You know, I wasn’t going to do it. I had thought I could, kidded myself I could, but when I got there …’

‘Do what, Darry?’ says Arabella.

‘… She fell. She fell against that fucking radiator. She was cut. What could I do?’

‘You could have helped her; not suffocated her. And you could have saved Graham Blears. Can you imagine his agonies? You did a terrible thing, Darius.’

Staffe watches the truth dawn on Arabella, who says, ‘Sir Ralph will make it all right, won’t he?’

Howerd comes in, goes to Darius and whispers in his ear.

Darius nods, forlorn, broken, says, ‘All I can hope is that I can somehow make amends, and that Arabella and her family don’t suffer unduly.’

‘What are you saying, Darry?’ says Arabella.

Darius looks at Howerd, who shakes his head. He says nothing more.

*

The Younger has Sylvie in the attic, had to carry her up, fireman style. At one point, he thought he might have to show her the back of his hand again, but she went quiet, must have seen the intent in his eyes. She is curled in a ball, under the hip window. The white spirit is poured on her jeans and the sleeves of her jumper, on the floor all around her for good measure. He takes out the matches, sniffs in, hard. It clears his sinuses, gives him a rush.

Looking at her, he can see the second dose of pills have taken effect. She will be dead to the world in a minute. Her eyes lid down, heavy, and he regrets that he has to do this. Equally, he knows that an unenforced threat is its own death sentence. It cannot ever be allowed. These are the terms of engagement.

His leg vibrates. He plunges his hand into his pocket, looks at the phone. Seeing it is the Elder, his heart gladdens, briefly. Perhaps the ether is bringing tidings that there is another way. He hasn’t killed often in his life. The first was a bomb-making Unionist in the North; tit for tat and twenty years ago, when he wasn’t even a man, and just a week before he first met the Elder. His heart beats fast.

‘Are you in the ambulance, still?’ says the Elder.

‘No. I’ve switched her. We’re ready to go.’

‘You mustn’t. We have what we want.’

‘What we want?’

‘Bring her to the station, to Leadengate.’

‘What has changed?’ Something inside the Younger subsides. A fast lifeform dies and he feels a vial of disappointment burst in his belly. He is ashamed of his own reaction, knows he will have to answer for it. ‘What has he said to you?’

‘The family is safe. He has what he wants.’

‘What is it that he wants?’ The Younger’s head feels foggy. ‘What have you given him?’

‘The murderer. It’s all that concerns him.’

The Younger thinks, ‘Which murderer?’ and suddenly feels as if a hand is upon his shoulder, a bead trained on the back of his head. It is as though time has turned and he is, once more, estranged on the Shankill Road – the day the Elder gifted him this life.

The Elder says, ‘Put her back in the ambulance and drive it to Leadengate Station. Clean yourself from it and go.’

‘Go where?’

‘I don’t need to know,’ says the Elder.

The phone clicks dead.

The Younger knows there is an opposite reaction to everything you do.

The Elder makes his way back to his car and promises himself that next Christmas, he will look in on his family. His daughter has a newborn baby he has only seen twice. He sighs as he points the key at his car. It jingles and he opens the door, clocking, as he gets in, the young sergeant in the car across the road. He spotted him as they came onto the Old Street roundabout. He reconciles himself. He will have to do what he must, whether the sergeant sees him or not. This will mean another spell away.

*

Sir Ralph Waikman pulls up his chair to talk to Darius A’Court. Howerd stands against the wall, arms crossed, looking on intently. He scrutinises Darius’s every move, seems impressed with the young man. If Staffe didn’t know Howerd, he might think there is an element of pride in Howerd’s expression.

Staffe says, ‘He has been read his rights. Do you want to hear it again?’

‘You have new evidence, I hear,’ says Sir Ralph. ‘I will need to see full disclosure, by the close of day.’

‘The bellboy identified Mr A’Court at the scene.’

‘Anything my client might have said will have to be reconsidered, I am afraid.’ Waikman leans forward, lowers his voice, says to Darius, ‘There will be no more duress.’ An ember of hope seems to glow in the young man’s eyes.

Howerd goes to Waikman, whispers in his ear.

‘Aaah. I see.’ The beknighted brief turns to Staffe and says, knowingly, ‘Do we have an understanding?’

‘I have spoken to the CPS. There is a will to bring this case to a speedy conclusion.’

Howerd nods, and when Sir Ralph looks back to his client, the hope seems all gone from Darius’s eyes.

Staffe says, to Waikman, ‘We have almost reached the end of this line.’

‘
This
line?’

Staffe realises he has to rekindle a threat. God knows where Sylvie is. He considers the strength – and the weaknesses – of his hand. ‘I don’t know how far to pursue this case, Sir Ralph. I have some interesting theories about your client’s motives.’

Howerd says, ‘And what about our agreement?’

Waikman says, ‘Interesting?’

‘I would like a few minutes with Mr Howerd.’

‘You have a proposal?’ says Waikman.

‘Oh, yes. I think you should be there, too.’

Staffe leads Howerd outside. ‘The fresh air will do you no harm,’ he says. ‘Imagine being on that boat – all the way to Biscay, and beyond. It would be nice if Imogen made it back to the Black Sea.’

‘You gave your word.’

‘I said I’d bring charges. And I said Imogen would be free to go.’

‘You have conditions?’ says Waikman.

‘You deceived me,’ says Howerd.

‘May I burn in hell for all eternity – such heinous bloody sins,’ says Staffe, his voice trembling. ‘I would happily send Roddy down for being an accessory, and you might quite easily die in prison if we ever uncovered all the conspiracy evidence.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Just like Graham Blears.’

‘Not quite the same,’ says Waikman, who is cool, aloof. ‘Such evidence is thin.’

‘But as you say, I gave my word,’ says Staffe. ‘And you gave me yours. Now where the bloody hell is my fiancée!’ he hisses, taking care none of the milling uniforms gets wind. ‘And while we’re here, I’ll remind you that I won’t rest until I have whoever killed Rebeccah Stone.’

In this instant, the doors to the station are battered open and a pair of community officers, decked out in bicycle helmets and high-vis vests, force their way into reception. ‘We need some medics,’ they say.

Between them, Sylvie is slumped, her legs dead, feet dragging on the parquet floor.

‘We found her outside – in an unmanned ambulance, would you believe? She’s out of it.’

Jombaugh steps in, taking a hold of Staffe, whispering in his ear, ‘You stay out of this. This is too close to home to make a scene.’

Staffe shrugs Jombaugh off and walks to Sylvie, wraps his arms around her, holds her tight, says, ‘You’re safe.’ He presses his face to her head, whispers, ‘It’s over.’ He can smell petrol, says, ‘What the hell have they done to you?’

Her hair is dank with sweat. She groans. ‘You lied.’ Her breath is sticky and he can smell her insides as she sighs, ‘Stay away from me.’

The medics come into reception from the First Aid room and Jombaugh takes a tight hold of Staffe. ‘The last thing she needs is more upset. Bide your time, Will. Do you want this all out in the open?’

Staffe jabs a finger at Leonard Howerd. ‘You know who killed Rebeccah, God damn you. I want a statement to prove it.’

‘If, hypothetically, my client were to do such a thing, the Crown might conceivably pursue Mr Howerd’s involvement,’ says Waikman.

‘Unless the perpetrator confessed. The confession would be enough for us,’ says Staffe. ‘There were times when men would fall on their swords. Now, we are more civilised, but you could imagine such a thing, Leonard,’ says Staffe, wrestling with how honourable he has been – when you look at what he allowed to happen to Sylvie and Brendan Stone. ‘This way you are tarnished with a single black sheep. Every family has one. Think about the secrets you can preserve.’

Sir Ralph whispers to Howerd and approaches Staffe, putting an arm around his shoulder, leading him back inside. As they go, Staffe turns to Howerd, says, ‘And there is one final thing I have to ask. A small matter – a private affair.’

As he tells them, he looks over their shoulders, to the holding room, where Sylvie was. But she is gone.

*

The Elder places the note on the mantel of his young accomplice’s fireplace. The handwriting is a perfect copy and will stick in court. He has been at this juncture once before, but was granted a pardon. This time, it is simply too grave. When you mess with police, there’s a price to pay. Otherwise, the files never close, and this is a file that has to close.

He looks out at the young sergeant’s parked Mondeo, three doors down. He checks the action of his Ruger revolver, a 101, chosen for its double action. You can’t be too careful when taking down a pro. Especially one of your own. Split seconds might stop the reflexes from killing them, and he blocks out how fond he is of this victim. Still nothing more than a terrace hooligan when they second met, when the young hoodlum saved this soldier’s life.

Since, he has fashioned that boy into what he is today. He has much to answer for. He checks the chamber for its .357 Magnums. With a heavy heart, he returns the cylinder and switches on the TV. The front sitting room flickers. Its glow should deceive the surveilling sergeant for a minute or so. It’s all he needs.

He slips out the back of John Parnell’s rented ground-floor apartment and across the gardens, knowing where its tenant, the Younger, will be: a final prayer before he fully disappears – if the Elder knows his man. Which he does.