Authors: Christopher Fowler
Renfield shot her a sly look. ‘Of course, I only switched sides because I thought it might give me a chance with you.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Don’t use a double positive to suggest a negative—it makes you sound like a teenager.’
Longbright raised an eyebrow. If there was one thing everyone knew about Renfield, it was that he had no sense of humour. Had he just made a joke? Wonders would never cease. ‘If you’re going to keep flirting with me, Jack,’ she cautioned him, ‘you’d damn well better mean it.’
‘Oh, I mean it all right.’ He caught her gaze and held it until she broke away.
‘We used to make fun of you all the time. I mean, when you were with the Met.’ She always felt it was best to be honest. ‘We thought being a desk sergeant all those years had got to you. We knew we could tease you about your name, because you’d never read Bram Stoker’s
Dracula.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve read it now. I don’t think I’m quite the same bloke anymore. The Met feels a long way behind me.’
‘I know what you mean.’ Longbright smiled at the thought. ‘I think of those long nights collating records, avoiding male attention, doing my fitness training for postings on the Territorial Support Group, then drinking bottles of whisky left in the CID offices. I did a lot of ops for TSG, surveillance jobs lying on my stomach among the corpses of pigeons on the flat roof of some windy council block, peeping over the side of what seemed to be a cliff, looking down on some estate agent’s about to be robbed or watching some dozy drug dealer do business from his house. Not the best way to spend your life. The smell of bird shit cleared my sinuses, though. I never had a problem staying detached—I think we all had a good sense of black humour—but the work got to me at times. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoyed being operational. I still love pulling down a long shift. But John and Mr Bryant were my salvation.’
‘Some of the riots were bad,’ said Renfield. ‘I remember a lot of West End officers got hurt after an anti-capitalist clash in Oxford Street—they were sitting around the yard in bloody bandages, deathly quiet; it was like a field hospital. And the commissioner came round in plainclothes with his Personal Protection Officers, like some general inspecting the troops. I think one of the PPOs told him they wouldn’t be able to protect him, ’cause they all turned tail and walked out in the street. The Met took the fall for that particular outbreak of civil unrest, but it was really the economy that was the cause. I don’t want to see that happen again.’
It was the longest speech she had ever heard from Renfield. The sergeant had made an error of judgement in the course of his duty that had ultimately cost a life, and knew he would have to live with the mistake forever. He had been appointed a therapist, and although he had only recently started attending sessions, Longbright could already see he was changing.
‘Anyway, we talked about you as well,’ he told Longbright. ‘We had a nickname for you at the station.’
‘You did? What was it?’
‘Frostyknickers.’
‘Oh, cheers.’
‘But I always liked you.’
‘I can’t think why.’
‘You’re strong. There’s something real about you, sort of sturdy—’ Renfield broke off.
‘Sturdy
is not a word women long to hear used to describe them, Jack.’
‘Solid, then.’
‘You’re digging a hole for yourself.’
‘You know—
womanly
, only more of a—’ At the point where he enlisted the help of his hands in trying to describe her, she stopped him.
‘If you’re going to call me a rough diamond I’ll clout you.’
‘No. You’re more of a pearl than a diamond.’ Renfield did not realise that he was almost endearing when he was being honest. ‘There’s a soft lustre about you.’ He looked embarrassed now.
Longbright broke the awkwardness between them. ‘Jack, listen, one of us should stay here and wait for Dan.’
‘Why, where’s the other one going?’
Longbright held up the laminated ID card. ‘Highbury. Got a coin?’
Renfield flicked the ten-pence piece and slapped it on his wrist. ‘You call.’
‘Tails.’
‘Tails it is.’
‘I’ll go. I could do with the exercise.’ Longbright turned up her collar and stepped out into gently sifting rain.
22
GHOSTS OF VIOLENCE
A
s soon as Longbright was on her way, Renfield called Leslie Faraday to inform him of the day’s events. He was ashamed about having to sneak behind the Detective Sergeant’s back, and wondered how many days he would manage to avoid giving the Home Office any useful information.
Faraday:
You were supposed to call me last night, Renfield.
Renfield:
I couldn’t get away. Everyone was still in the office.
Faraday:
Couldn’t you have slipped out for five minutes? What have you got for me? Have there been any irregularities so far?
Renfield:
We’ve got an identity on the first body. The one in the freezer.
Faraday:
I’m not interested in the victim, I just need to know that you’ve caught someone. Have you?
Renfield:
No.
Faraday:
But you at least know who you’re looking for, yes?
Renfield:
Not exactly.
Faraday:
What do you mean, not exactly? Policing should be considered an exact science. Either you’re close to making an arrest, or you haven’t the faintest idea what you’re doing. Which is it?
Renfield:
We’re…
Renfield struggled with his conscience. He knew how much trouble he could make for the PCU, but was suddenly loath to do so. They had offered him unexpected support at a time when his career could have been destroyed.
Renfield:
… very close to making an arrest.
Faraday:
Oh. Well, then. Good. But you must let me know if anything goes wrong. I have to make reports too, you know.
Faraday was clearly disappointed that this was all he could offer, but was forced to accept the meagre information. Renfield signed off wondering how long he could hide the truth.
As the sergeant sat on the corner of Delaney’s bed in the gathering gloom, he thought about his hopeless situation. If he lied to Faraday, he would be exposed when the PCU failed to deliver. If he told the truth, news of his secret disclosures would soon reach the unit. If he asked Longbright on a date and she discovered that he was ratting on his colleagues behind her back, she would never talk to him again.
Forget it, Fat Boy
, he told himself.
She’s too good for you anyway
.
He had always wanted to do the right thing, but how many times had it placed him in a spot like this? It was the wayward guys who made friends, the womanizers, the hard drinkers, the ones who bent the law around themselves. The officers at his old station had nicknamed him Captain Bringdown because of his determination to play by the rules. The PCU had merely made a harmless literary joke out of his name before accepting him for who he was. Yes, he wanted to do the right thing, but perhaps this time the right thing was something different.
Meanwhile, DS Longbright found herself opposite the great letters sculpted in white concrete that spelled out the team
named ‘Arsenal.’ The new football grounds filled the skyline of the street like a great spaceship. Opposite, the remaining rows of shabby Victorian terraces stretched away uphill, from Drayton Park toward the horrors of North London’s crack-addled Blackstock Road.
Longbright checked the ID card, but spotted the builders’ outlet before needing to search for street numbers. She could hardly have missed it; picked out in the Gunners’ shades of red and white, K&B Decorating stood in homage to the team grounds that had existed in the area since 1913. A muscular boy with strong Grecian features was carrying in a delivery of planks and dropping them noisily inside the store. The ground floor was a confusion of sawdust and shouting.
‘It’s funny,’ the Greek boy told her. ‘Terry ain’t been in for more than a week, ’as ’e? Nobody knows where he is.’
‘Can you give me an exact day when you last saw him?’ ‘Monday before last, something like that. It’ll be on his work sheet.’
‘Didn’t any of you think to talk to the police?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.
‘The police?’ He almost laughed in her face. ‘Listen, love, the blokes here go a bit mad every now and again, then come back and pick up where they left off and nobody mentions it. Not worth going to the police about.’
‘They get paid by the number of days they do?’
‘Yeah, so if they don’t come in, it’s up to them, innit.’
‘Anyone been around to Delaney’s flat to check on him?’
‘Terry don’t like people going round there. His missus kicked him out of the house and I think he’s a bit ashamed of the place he’s renting. I told him he wouldn’t get back on his feet if he kept taking time off.’
‘So he’s done it before. Has he been here long?’
‘About four years. He had a couple of days off the last week he was here. Is he in trouble or what?’
‘You could say that. I need to know everything you know about him. If you can’t remember right now, that’s fine, call me first thing tomorrow morning.’ Longbright gave him one of the cards Bryant had printed up for everyone at Mornington Crescent, an odd little art deco number in black and silver that looked more like a calling card for an antiques store. She had crossed out the old address and hand-written the new one.
‘He’s not been hurt, has he?’
‘Why, you think he’s done something to deserve it?’
‘Terry? You’re joking.’ The young man called over his shoulder. ‘Oi, Jess, tell this lady what Terry’s like.’
‘One of the nicest blokes I’ve ever met,’ replied Jess. ‘If he was a bird I’d marry him.’ They all laughed.
‘Keeps his nose clean, does he?’ asked Longbright. ‘Stays out of trouble?’
‘Honest as the day is long. Always helping other people. That’s Terry’s trouble, if anything. Does charity work in his spare time. One of the best.’ It seemed that everyone in the shop agreed with that sentiment.
‘What did he do here?’
‘Painting, decorating, some building work, welding, a bit of demolition.’
‘Do you have a list of his most recent jobs?’
‘They’ll be in the book,’ said Jess. ‘Come with me.’
Dan Banbury was in many ways the PCU’s least likely member, in that there seemed to be nothing wrong with him. He was the married one who lived with a loving wife and a well-
adjusted ten-year-old son in the suburbs of South London. He was the unit’s voice of common sense, and had been selected for precisely this reason. However, he possessed a skill that singled him out as unusual: He had an almost preternatural ability to understand what had happened in a vacated room. He followed standard procedures, establishing a three-dimensional grid pattern at a crime scene to mark off prints and collect fibres for analysis, but above this he had an understanding of the way in which frightened humans confronted one another. He saw the shape of their fears and passions, the psychology of their actions, the way in which they translated their emotions into physical movement. The ghosts of violence were visible to him.
The extraordinary thing was that, until being asked to join the PCU, he had been entirely unconscious of this sensitivity. Bryant had found such a skill present in only a handful of forensic experts, and had campaigned for Banbury’s inclusion in the unit. He needed people who saw more deeply than those around them.
When Banbury entered Delaney’s flat, he quickly recognised four people: Terry Delaney, his girlfriend, his daughter and a stranger. Terry was the most noticeable. Signs of his occupancy were everywhere, from the newspaper he had folded back to read over breakfast, to the whiskers rinsed from his razor and imperfectly cleaned from the sink, to the toothpaste that had dried on his brush. The bed had been occupied by one, but there were magazines, titles that would be read by a woman in her mid-twenties, thrown onto the bedside table beside a half-emptied tub of makeup remover and a brush containing long hairs. She was a dyed blonde, untidy, and her habits had annoyed Terry. He kept his territory tidy and separate. The little girl had slept on the couch in the neutral zone of the lounge. A
single duvet was stored beneath it, together with her pyjamas, pink slippers, a jewelled hair clip.
But it was the stranger who interested Banbury most. Judging by the faint oily striation on the front door lock he had first tried to use a simple burglar’s tool to gain entrance, but had been defeated by the London bolt set in place on the inside of the door. He had gone down the hall and climbed out of the window, reaching around to the apartment’s bathroom casement. The carpet tiles at the end of the hall were rarely walked on, but the pile was slightly flattened at their edge, as if someone had reached out on tiptoe.
The conversion of the house into flats had placed the bathroom sill in a shaded corner behind a tree, and had left the second floor vulnerable. The window was awkward to access, but easy to open if you recognised the type of catch. This had been no ordinary burglar. He had not been looking to steal a CD player or a television. Anything heavy or awkwardly shaped would have proven difficult to manhandle across the building’s exterior. This thief was after something that he could pocket. He had ransacked the place without bothering to put anything back, but had not been able to avoid precision. He wanted Delaney to know that someone smart was onto him.
But then the householder had unexpectedly returned. He had unlocked the door from the hall, stepped inside, let the door swing shut behind him and stopped, confronted by his dismantled apartment.
And in the next room, the stranger had stopped, too. His search had suddenly ceased at this point. It had not been a good idea to wear workman’s boots because they had steel inlays, and were so heavy that they were easily discernible from any other marks on the carpet. Some criminals kept a specific pair of shoes to burgle in. Banbury would have liked to be able to access
FIT, the Footwear Intelligence Technology system that catalogued over 14,000 images of shoe print types. He crouched on the floor and looked for pattern, wear, size and damage features, but could not see enough detail with his naked eye.