Kill and Tell (22 page)

The whites of Mako’s almond eyes are pink and a clump of tissue juts from the tight fist of her right hand. The computer screen shows
The News
front page. According to Nick Absolom’s live feed, Louis Consadine committed suicide whilst on remand at Pentonville and as a result his confession is in aspic. Absolom speculates this might suit the police. Staffe knows otherwise.

 ‘Where is Curtis?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mako bows her head and the computer screen lapses to a screensaver, of Curtis and Mako at the seaside. They are drinking champagne and are poised to swallow oysters. But he can tell, from the aspect of the shore, that this is not Margate.

Staffe moves the mouse and goes into Settings, sees the machine is programmed to time out after five minutes. ‘Curtis searched for this article. He’s here.’ He takes a deep breath, sniffs the air and leans back, raises his voice, ‘I can stay all day, if I have to.’

Mako looks at the ground. She is afraid.

The door to the bathroom creaks and Curtis enters, closing the door behind him.

‘It’s a hell of a price to pay,’ says Staffe, nodding at the computer’s breaking news.

Curtis can barely speak. One by one, the syllables utter, like cracking toffee. ‘That is my brother.’

He slumps onto a bean bag by the window, puts his head in his hands and when Mako goes to him, he shrugs her away. Into his hands, he says, ‘I want to be alone.’

Staffe leans on the window-sill, blocking the light. ‘You have to explain what Louis said.’

‘That’s your job.’

Staffe feels his skin bristle. The device on his wrist shows 115. Far too high for a resting pulse. ‘My job is to select the truth from what people tell me. He didn’t know it, but Louis told me the truth when he said he shot Jadus.’

‘He shouldn’t have,’ says Curtis.

‘He said he pumped two bullets into his chest. That’s a lie.’

‘What?’

‘But it led to the truth.’ Staffe goes down on his haunches. ‘You killed Jadus so Louis didn’t have to. That’s a brave thing to do, isn’t it?’

‘Fuck you!’

‘But you let Louis admit it. When it came to it, the coward in you is just too big, isn’t it?’

A phone sounds. It is dull, coming through the door to the bedroom. All three of them look around. The phone stops ringing.

‘What’s that?’ says Staffe, standing. ‘Is someone there?’ He calls out, ‘Come out!’

Mako scuttles to the door, hissing at Staffe, ‘Leave him alone. He’s done nothing.’

‘I’ll call you,’ says Curtis, as she leaves, and as that door closes, so the bedroom door opens, its frame filled by Brandon Latymer.

In one hand, he holds a bottle of red wine, patting it against the open palm of his other. The tempo is steady and Brandon doesn’t blink. He seems to have it all worked out, says, ‘You been warned time enough, inspector. What makes you think you have the right? This is a step too far, intruding on my friend’s grief like this.’

‘I know who killed Jadus.’

‘And so do I. They’re saying poor Louis was driven to take his own life, but me and you know that’s not so. That poor boy didn’t have the strength to do that. He was helped along the way by your man inside.’

‘You’re the one with people on the inside, Brandon.’

‘From what I hear, your man didn’t cover his tracks so well.’

Staffe says, ‘There’s only one reason Louis would lie about killing Jadus.’

‘You scared the livin’ shit outa him.’

‘That poor boy had no life without his big brother. That’s how you raised him, am I right, Curtis?’

‘You know shit,’ says Curtis.

‘You’ve no right being here,’ says Brandon, taking a step towards Staffe. ‘You didn’t even announce yourself when you came in. Your man Pulford, and now you, have been harassing us for months now. We’re all pent up.’ Brandon grabs Curtis by the hair on his temple. ‘Stand up, man.’

Curtis yelps and grimaces, but he stands up.

Brandon thrusts the bottle into Curtis’s hand. ‘I saw it. As God is my witness, I saw what happened, and so did Mako. I came in as it was happening.’

‘The GA knows you were already here.’

‘Don’t you worry about the GA. The GA knows what’s what.’ Brandon whispers into Curtis’s ear and the fear crashes down, into his eyes. He takes a tighter clench on the neck of the bottle.

‘Don’t do it, Curtis. I know it was a gangland execution and you were coerced. You did it so your little brother didn’t have to.’

‘What the fuck you talking about? Curtis here was by the beach with a friend,’ says Brandon.

‘Louis was only fifteen, that was the plan, right? Just in case you couldn’t pin it on Pulford. But you just couldn’t let him do it, am I right, Curtis? When it mattered, your heart prevailed over that amazing mind of yours.’

‘Do it, Curt,’ says Brandon.

Curtis Consadine’s eyes glaze. He says, ‘You should have left him alone. He did nothing wrong, but you kept coming for him.’ Curtis takes a step towards Staffe, who raises his hands, anticipating the blow, but Curtis is young and strong and the bottle comes down hard and cracks the bone in his forearm and Staffe falls back into the window. The window smashes and he hears it tear his jacket and skin, jagging into his arm with a flash of pain. He is leaning out of the window. The breeze is warm.

Curtis steps forward again.

‘Push him out!’ shouts Brandon.

The pain from the cracked bone in his forearm shoots up one side of Staffe’s body and the jagging cut sears through the other. His heart stops as Curtis comes towards him, reaching for his neck. He tries to defend himself, but his muscles are limp, his energy ebbing away. Curtis smashes the bottle against the frame of the window and wine sprays red.

Curtis grips him tight and is pushing him now. He sees the sky. Pigeons flap way up and the broken neck of the bottle comes at him and he raises a hand.

Staffe hears a crash and thinks it must be him going all the way through the window, and then he sees Curtis’s eyes go even wider.

Brandon shouts, ‘Fuck!’ and there’s another crashing sound and Curtis releases his grip and Staffe falls. He falls away from Curtis and he knows this is it. He waits to feel the air beneath him and to maybe twist and see the ground, then feel the impact, the crunch of bones, but something holds him, pulls him back and he feels flesh on his face and arms around him and someone familiar whispers his name. They say, ‘Staffe,’ soft and gentle and they press their lips to his face, and finally, he knows who it is.

‘Josie,’ he says, letting her hold him, surrendering as she lowers him gently to the floor, where he sits in the broken glass and the wine and his own blood, thicker, redder. He looks up at her.

She kneels beside him and puts her hand to his cheek and says, ‘You fool.’

Over her shoulder, he sees six men in body armour wrestling Curtis Consadine and Brandon Latymer to the floor. Latymer is advising them of his version of his rights as Rimmer reads them aloud.

‘How did you know?’ he says, to Josie.

She holds his wrist, taps the device. ‘Tracker. It was Rimmer’s idea.’ She leans close to him, whispers, ‘He’s not what he seems.’

Staffe breathes in her scent, feels his body go loose and he surrenders as she holds him tight, her cheek pressed into his.

The doctor peers over his pince-nez glasses and snips the thread to the last of the eighteen stitches he has just put in Staffe’s arm. He takes hold of the wrist of the other arm and Staffe bites his lip. ‘We need to get this in a pot.’

‘Can it wait an hour?’ says Staffe. He turns to Josie. ‘We’ve got to get to Pentonville and make sure Pulford knows we’ve got Curtis Consadine all stitched up.’

‘There’s a car waiting outside, sir,’ says Josie. ‘I’ll go and see Pulford. You stay here and get yourself sorted. You look a wreck.’

‘I’m coming,’ says Staffe. ‘And somebody’s going to have to get hold of that e.gang member in there. What’s he called? Salmon?’

‘They call him Beef. I’ll call the governor.’

Staffe tries to pull on his shirt, but he can’t bend his arm. Josie helps him and the sleeves flap, where the doctor had to cut them open, to dress the wound then stitch him up.

On the way out, Staffe sees Rimmer waiting by a coffee machine, talking to a nurse. He goes across, says, ‘Thanks, Frank. It was good of you, I suppose – to keep track. Beyond the call.’

‘My old man used to say nothing was beyond the call. He ever say that to you?’

Staffe nods. ‘Well, it was a brave and decent thing to do.’

‘You look like you need a few nights in here.’

‘I’ve got to see Pulford.’

‘They won’t let you in, but I could come with you. I know the guys on reception up there. They’re OK.’

‘Thanks, Frank. I’d appreciate that.’

‘Let me do the talking, hey? This once.’

Josie joins them, says, ‘I can’t get through to the governor and the phone on the wing won’t pick up.’

Rimmer looks at his watch. ‘It’s Recreation.’

The smell of six hundred men is something you can’t escape. You can isolate six hundred hard and desperate men from society; you can even separate them from each other, but even through concrete and steel, a collective will prevails. Never, in his long weeks here in Pentonville, has Pulford sensed such menace, so he tried to stay in his cell, but his psychologist said he had to socialise and Crawshaw told him he’d be on another Governor’s if he didn’t do as he was told. Going into a trial, that’s something he can’t afford.

In the corners of the unit, men gather in twos and threes and the talk of suicide spreads. Pulford waits to be let into his pad.

‘Suicide,’ says his next-door, an Asian lad called Asif. ‘Your boy, they reckon.’

‘I don’t have a boy.’

‘His confession’s your ticket out, pussy,’ says Asif.

Pulford looks down, sees Beef coming up the stairs. He is wired, looking around for something, his eyes burning and when he sees Pulford, he mouths the words, ‘Fuck you.’

Pulford calls to Crawshaw, ‘You letting me in my pad, or what?’

Asif says, ‘He tops himself just after he confessed your crime? Fuck, man, that’s good for you.’

‘Mister Crawshaw!’ shouts Pulford. ‘Let me in!’

Now, Crawshaw comes along the landing, swinging his keys on a chain from his thick leather belt. He catches them expertly and in one sweep, puts the key to the lock, opens Pulford’s door and ushers Pulford in, but Beef appears before Pulford can close the door and Pulford glimpses a new expression on Crawshaw’s face. It is humane. He looks afraid and he wonders what hold Beef and his gang must have over the PO.

‘You can’t touch me,’ says Pulford, looking Beef in the eye. Something smells. A new smell, of rubber. It smells like Durex and Pulford watches as Beef pulls out a pair of thin, flesh-coloured rubber gloves.

‘Put these on,’ says Beef, offering Pulford the gloves.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t need to know why.’

Pulford shakes his head. ‘Louis didn’t kill Jadus.’

‘You should fuckin’ know. But he’s dead now and he can’t take his confession back, can he? That suits you, right? That’s reason enough for you to shut him up proper.’ Beef tosses the gloves onto Pulford’s bed and takes out a small brown bottle with capsules in it. He puts it under the mattress on the top bunk.

‘What are they?’

Beef reaches behind him, delves into his pants, brings out a paring knife and points at the gloves. ‘Put the fucking gloves on.’

Pulford realises why Beef wants him to wear the gloves, why the pills are under his mattress. Pulling the gloves on, he keeps his eyes on the sharp blade of Beef’s paring knife. He looks quickly up at Beef, sees his eyes are dead. He seems to be on the very edge. Pulford says, ‘Louis was a good boy, you know. He never harmed anyone. It’s a shame he didn’t have his brother’s brains.’

‘The fuck you know about Curtis?’

‘Curtis?’ says Pulford, feeling something click. He has the second glove in his hand now, stretching it. ‘We can be better than this.’

‘Can’t be better than what I’m dealt,’ says Beef.

Pulford grips the middle finger of the glove and stretches the rubber, aiming it at Beef’s eye. He lets go of the glove with his left hand and the ribbed elastic of the wristband pings into Beef’s eye.

‘Fuck!’ he says, holding his eye, dropping the knife.

Pulford stoops, reaches for the knife but Beef lashes out with his foot, catching Pulford on the jaw. The bone cracks, but he clasps the knife tight, lunging out and thrusting the blade into Beef’s thigh. The blade goes ‘Phiss’ as it cuts through flesh and tissue and squelches as he pulls it out. Beef raises his hands, half martial arts, half boxer, his grey sweat-bottoms turning instantly maroon as the blood flows. Pulford takes a step back.

‘You better mean this, man.’ Beef steps towards Pulford, who backs away. A key rattles in the door. ‘You going to have to kill me, to stop me.’

The door opens and Crawshaw shouts, ‘Drop the fucking knife, Pulford.’

Beef says, ‘My man cut your fucking dog up with a knife just like that.’ Beef steps forward, pulling back to punch Pulford, who raises his hands, jabbing out with his left, holding the knife back, and he takes a blow to the head and falls back against the wall, but he pushes himself off and Beef keeps coming and Crawshaw keeps shouting and Beef is all over Pulford now, with his throat in both hands, staring wide-eyed into Pulford, whispering with rank breath, ‘Do it, pussy. Do it,’ and as the air backs up into his lungs and his throat screams with pain, Pulford tries desperately to stop himself jabbing out with the knife. He can only hear the drumming of blood inside his own head now and his hands are wet, cloying.

He puts the knife to Beef’s throat and watches as the point of the steel presses into the flesh.

‘Enough!’ Crawshaw is standing in the door.

Pulford looks at him, sees the same fear in the PO’s face that he saw before.

‘Do it,’ hisses Beef.

Pulford looks down into Beef’s eyes, sees no fear. It is almost as if Beef has seen into what lies on the other side and knows he can take it.

‘Do it,’ he whispers.

Pulford grips the handle of the knife even firmer and closes his eyes. He pictures what they must have done to his dog, his mother’s sadness. He thinks of the sacrifices his mother made and what she would say to him if she was here now.

‘Do it,’ implores Beef.

Pulford thinks about what he still wants from life: everything that could lie ahead – in here and beyond. Slowly, he opens his eyes. Slowly, his grip on the knife relents and he rolls away, hears the knife fall to the floor and Crawshaw rushes across, twists him.

The traffic is slow, as ever, on City Road but up ahead, the thick three lanes begin to separate, making way for a flashing emergency vehicle coming up behind, siren blaring, and Staffe shouts to the cabbie, ‘Get in its slipstream. Follow it, man!’

They chase the ambulance all the way up to the prison, and Staffe’s heart sinks when it turns right, up to the prison gates. He, Josie and Rimmer watch as the driver barks into his radio, gesticulating at the POs on the gate to open up, let them in.

‘Do you think it’s anything to do with Pulford?’ says Rimmer.

‘I’ll ask at the gate,’ says Josie.

‘I’ll come with you,’ says Rimmer.

Staffe watches them go, but his heart is so heavy already. He fears the worst for Pulford, so close to making it out.

Slowly, Rimmer and Josie make their way back from the gate. Her head is bowed, his face is grim.

‘It’s Pulford,’ says Staffe. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ says Josie, not looking him in the face.

The gates glide open and the ambulance goes through, high-revving and clearly a matter of life and death.

‘Is Pulford in there?’

‘Levi Salmon has been assaulted. It was in Pulford’s cell.’

Behind them, screaming up onto the prison forecourt, a police car screeches to a halt. The uniformed men run up to the prison gates and they are let through straight away.

‘What the hell can we do now?’ says Josie.

‘We make the Curtis Consadine conviction stick,’ says Rimmer.

‘It’s not looking good for Pulford, though. They won’t let him back into the Force if he assaulted Levi Salmon,’ says Staffe.

‘Maybe that’s not what he wants,’ says Josie. ‘You saved him. Remember that. You found Curtis Consadine. He’ll be all right.’

‘Let me take it from here, Will,’ says Rimmer. ‘It calls for a cold heart.’

Staffe smiles. ‘A cool head, Frank.’ Standing, he says to Josie, ‘Keep me posted. Every step of the way.’

‘You’re going to stand back?’

‘I know the score. Pulford needs all the help he can get and I’m probably bad news right now.’

On the corner, he pauses, looks back at Josie and their eyes lock. Rimmer has turned away, talking into his phone, and Staffe raises a finger to his lips, winks at her.

Rimmer seems to have found a couple of new gears during the course of this case and Staffe wonders if that will put his own future in jeopardy. He feels sick and empty, deep in the pit of his stomach, as he contemplates his future, but a part of that emptiness is wanting to be with her. Can it be so?