In his office, Staffe reads Kerry’s school reports again, and her small volumes of poetry, handwritten in an immaculate, leaning hand within slim, hardbacked volumes, tied with mauve ribbons.
She had been a B student who did not apply herself in the least and was both easily led and a distraction to others. None of her teachers thought anything would come of her, save a Mr Troheagh who took Kerry for English and in the last two years of her education, urged her to stay on for the sixth form and to push herself to get into university. He said Kerry had a unique voice in her writing and a natural grasp of the power of words.
Staffe read one poem again, entitled ‘Blood on the Thorn’, about loving an older boy, possibly a man. The closer she got, the more it hurt, until finally the love became unbearable. It scarred. The symbolism of a girl changing into a woman, too fast, and still trapped in the body of a girl, is obvious.
Staffe wonders who the Thorn might be. Sean? Troheagh himself? Possibly. He makes a note to look up the teacher, but then drifts back to that night, maybe seven years after she wrote that poem, when she stood on stage and captivated a decadent audience with her bawdy songs and sultry voice, her tight bodice and bared secrets. And she would be discovered, too, by Phillip Ramone who would offer Kerry her chance in life.
He makes a tick under ‘Document removed’ and signs for it, slips the volume into his pocket and returns the rest of the documents to the box, takes it down to Jombaugh.
In the City, it is another mild day, after the long, hard winter. He calls Pulford, to see whether there have been any comings and goings at Lesley Crawford’s house.
His sergeant – displeased and tired and failing to see the point of his vigil – says nobody had come or gone, and asks if somebody else could take a turn. Staffe tells him ‘No’, hangs up, and turns to Josie. ‘Fancy a ride down to see Kerry’s sister, in Thames Ditton? I’ll treat you to lunch, by the river.’
‘You used to live down there.’
He can’t remember when he might have told her that.
*
Bridget Lamb gives her husband a chastising sideswipe of a look as he stands in the drawing-room doorway, looking at Josie a second too long. He asks if they want coffee or something a little stronger.
‘There’s no need for you to be involved in this,’ says Bridget. ‘There’s that shopping to do.’
Staffe says, ‘I think it would be good for Malcolm to sit in.’
Malcolm nods, sheepishly, and sits down beside Bridget.
‘Sean tells me that you and Kerry were adopted.’
‘How is that relevant?’ says Bridget.
‘Perhaps it’s not. But what interests me is why you didn’t tell me.’
‘Because it has no relevance.’
‘I’m trying my damnedest to understand her. You know that.’
‘So now you know.’
‘And we know she had been offered a residency at the Rendezvous in town. Are you
au fait
with the place?’
Bridget nods, crinkles her nose.
‘How would that make you feel?’
‘I don’t see how what I might feel has anything to do with what happened to Kerry. And it’s no business of yours.’
‘I need to understand you too, Bridget.’
‘You make her sound like a suspect, for God’s sake,’ says Malcolm.
Bridget shakes her head, disdainfully, at Malcolm.
‘I’ve been reading Kerry’s poems – from school. There was a teacher – a Mr Troheagh.’
Bridget looks at Malcolm again and her hands clasp tight.
‘When was the last time you saw Kerry?’ says Josie.
Bridget regards Josie with suspicion. ‘Not in a long time. She is in my prayers, of course.’
‘Did you go to the hospital?’
‘It wouldn’t have helped.’ She looks at Malcolm, who nods. ‘But Sean did come to see me, when she left him, in January. He thought she would be here. He said he was sure the baby was his this time and he said she was going to get rid of it.’
‘You would have been dead against her not having the baby?’ says Josie.
‘Wouldn’t anybody, who knew right from wrong? It was for her career. You can’t kill just to get a step ahead.’
‘Especially as you aren’t in the position to have a family,’ says Staffe. ‘That must make Kerry’s decision hard to handle.’
Malcolm glares at Staffe, tries to restrain himself, but can’t. It seems that a suppressed force has been released. He takes a step towards Staffe. ‘What gives you the right to pry so? You are a guest in my house, my parents’ house. They knew your parents and you might have deemed yourself superior to me, but we are adults now. Do you have no common decency? My wife has lost her sister and you come snooping like this. Not an ounce of decency, not an ounce!’ Malcolm is shaking. His chin is weak, trembling.
Staffe stands, looks slightly down on Malcolm. He recalls him as a frail boy, but dismisses that. ‘There’ll be no stone unturned here and let’s all pray that if we ask enough questions and look under enough stones, we might unearth some decency, for the sake of that baby. If she lives!’ He scribbles in his notebook for a minute, allowing the silence to stretch. He has a notion that Malcolm had a disease, a condition, at least. ‘I hope your wife is what she seems, Malcolm. I really do.’ He looks at Bridget. ‘You see, I know. Sean told me.’
Bridget looks quickly away and begins to shake. Malcolm puts his hand on her shoulder and she shrugs him away, says, ‘He told you what?’
Staffe takes a step towards Malcolm, puts a hand on his shoulder and says, looking at his watch, ‘Perhaps that drink might be in order. DC Chancellor and I will have tea.’
Staffe waits for Malcolm to go, then sits beside Bridget. He says, softly, ‘You have to tell your side of it.’
Bridget looks up, fierce determination in her eyes, her jaw set firm. In a clear, unwavering voice, she says, ‘I don’t have to do anything. Their lives don’t touch me. I’m not like them. Whatever he has said, take it with you. You’ll get nothing from me.’
‘Then we’ll do it the hard way. Shame, for Malcolm.’
‘He’s a good man,’ says Bridget.
‘We’ll see.’
On their way out, Staffe and Josie meet Malcolm coming out of the kitchen, carrying a tray. Nothing is said and each man looks as if he doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.
As they get in the car, Josie says, ‘What did Sean Degg tell you, sir?’
‘Oh, nothing. But Bridget did.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘That she and Sean have a secret. And she can’t have children.’
He drives them to the Alma, as he had promised, for a ploughman’s on the river, looking across to Hampton Court. Henry and all those wives and unborn heirs.
*
Sean has pulled his chair right up to the cot where Grace is lying, enclosed in a plastic dome against the germs of the world.
‘You need to tell me all about Bridget, Sean,’ says Staffe.
‘What would I know about Bridget?’ Sean Degg sighs, turns towards the baby’s monitors.
‘I’ve been thinking about why you would lie like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Telling my constable you’ve not seen Bridget in years.’
‘Did I?’
‘But you called round to see her when Kerry disappeared.’
‘I was only there ten minutes.’
‘It’s not looking good for you, Sean. You need to stop lying to us.’
‘All I can say is, I’d never harm Kerry. Why can’t you believe that?’
‘There’s something else you need to tell me.’
Sean stands up. He goes to the cot and puts his fingers to the glass bubble. He stoops, says to Grace, ‘I won’t be long, my darling.’ He turns to face Staffe and blows out his cheeks and smiles. ‘Let’s get some air. How is Bridget?’
‘You wouldn’t think she had lost a sister. I know they didn’t get on, but Kerry was her sister.’
Sean stops in the corridor, and a trolley is pushed by. He crouches, messing with his bootlaces. He curses. When he stands, he says, ‘Siblings can be like that. Bridget wasn’t the baby, not once Kerry came along. You got any fags?’
‘Gave them up.’
‘I used to roll them for Kerry. I miss that.’
Outside, they pass a newsagent and Sean says, ‘I’m going to get some bacca.’
Inside, Sean checks what he has in his pocket and keeps a fiver and loose change back. He offers the newsagent sixty quid, whispers, ‘You have a back way, don’t you? It goes onto the estate.’
‘None o’ your business.’
Sean looks back, sees the inspector looking up and down the street.
‘Sixty quid for you. Let me out the back. That bloke out there, he’s looking for me. I was with his wife, see. Look at the size of him. He’ll kill me.’
‘Maybe you deserve it.’
‘I didn’t know she was married. She’s a tart. Honest.’ Sean proffers the money and the newsagent shakes his head. ‘Somebody once fucked my missus.’ He smiles. ‘I beat the shit outa them both.’
‘In that case –’ Sean reaches carefully into his pocket. ‘– I’ll keep my money. Treat her to dinner, maybe.’
‘What?’
Sean pulls out the scalpel he had lifted from the trolley in the hospital corridor. He makes the smallest gesture towards the newsagent, who flinches. ‘Got it from hospital. It’s used. I’m a male nurse and this has plenty of germs. It’s not the cut that’ll do for you, it’s the disease.’
The newsagent nods, wide-eyed, sidles from behind the counter and goes into a passageway, unlocks the back door. Sean pushes the newsagent outside and follows him. ‘Lock it,’ he says, and the newsagent does. ‘Now, lie on your stomach and count to a thousand.’ Sean bends down, lifts the keys from the newsagent’s hand and jangles the bunch. ‘I can slip in the back any time I want. So don’t you say a fucking thing.’
Sean puts his boot on the newsagent’s wrist and nicks the fleshy pad at the base of his thumb with the scalpel. He presses with his boot and watches the blood come.
Staffe can’t believe that Sean Degg has slipped his net and he can’t quite fathom why he would do that, when he wasn’t even under arrest. He has replayed the conversation they were having about Bridget, but it only leads him back to his own bluff. There is no point going back to Bridget until he knows more about Sean, until he has spoken to Sean. In the meantime, he has come to see Kerry’s children.
The foster parents, John and Sheila Archibald, are more than enough to scare the bejesus out of any child, standing in the porch of their interwar semi on the outskirt sprawl that is the Finchley Road. All they need is a pitchfork and a pig out back to be straight from Hopper’s Midwest.
‘You don’t look like a policeman,’ says Mr Archibald, squinting at Staffe’s warrant card, his beige-coloured tongue poking out between his fat, wet, ox-blood lips.
‘The sooner they’re in, the sooner they’re gone,’ says Sheila. ‘And you won’t be dragging our name in no mud. Those poor children, they can’t choose their parents. Nobody can.’
‘We can choose the children,’ says John Archibald, a proud grin spreading. ‘But not their parents.’ He stands aside, waves Staffe and Josie into his home, as if it were the primest waterfront.
Staffe knows the Archibalds’ situation. According to Carly Kellerman of Social Services, they are serial fosterers. Their track record is untarnished and they take all ages. They are in it for the money, according to Carly, and, apparently, it’s not necessarily a bad thing for their itinerant and ever-changing subjects. They are pros.
‘This is Miles,’ says Sheila Archibald, passing the palm of her hand across his suede head. Miles looks up, glum. He wears short trousers and a polo shirt. His cheeks shine and his eyes don’t. Staffe thinks he looks like an evacuee.
‘Hello, sir,’ says Miles, avoiding Staffe’s eye. Not an ounce of sincerity.
Miles’s little sister, Maya, clutches onto Mrs Archibald’s perma-creased slacks. Sheila swirls the child’s ponytail in her fingers, absently. But she catches Staffe’s eye and says, ‘We brush it every night, don’t we, Maya?’
Josie sits on her haunches, eye level with the children. ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it? Aren’t you lucky?’
Miles shrugs and Maya scuttles round the back of her temporary mum, buries her face between Sheila’s knees.
Staffe takes a pound coin from his pocket and crouches alongside Josie, winking at Miles. He extends one arm, places the pound coin on his downturned hand and with the other, flicks it up his shirt cuff. It is disappeared. ‘Where’s it gone?’ he asks Miles.
Miles shakes his head, shows a gummy smile.
‘Maya, do you know where it is?’
Maya peers out from behind Sheila’s legs.
Staffe reaches across, letting the coin slip into the palm of his hand, putting it behind Maya’s ear and withdrawing his hand, holding the coin between his thumb and finger. ‘In Maya’s ear, all the time.’
‘Again!’ shouts Miles.
‘’Gain!’ shouts Maya.
Staffe repeats the trick, pulling the pound from down Miles’s nose, then out of Josie’s mouth and finally from behind the ear of an unimpressed Sheila Archibald. ‘Now, you show Josie your toys while I have a word with Mum and Dad.’
‘They call us Sheila and John. And it doesn’t do to get them excited,’ says Sheila.
Staffe watches the children go with Josie and says, ‘Does mum come round ever?’
John Archibald shakes his head. ‘Good thing, too.’
‘But the children must ask about her, if they know you’re not their parents.’
‘This isn’t
Little House on the Prairie
. We can’t get attached.’
‘You mean the children can’t.’
‘She came round once,’ says Sheila.
‘Just the once,’ says John, a hint of disapproval in the look he shoots at his wife. ‘She was in a state.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Worse. She ended up crying and the children heard. We didn’t let them see her, of course.’
‘Would you say she loved them?’
‘I don’t know what you mean by that,’ says Sheila. ‘She had another one on the way. That’s all I know. Women like her, they should be …’
‘Sheila.’ John Archibald goes to his wife, puts an arm around her. ‘We have been told she is dead. The children don’t know. I guess they’ll be up for adoption now.’
‘What about the father?’ asks Staffe. ‘You ever see him?’
They shake their heads in unison.
‘Or hear about him?’
‘Far as we know, there isn’t a father. That’s right, isn’t it, Sheila?’ says John Archibald.
‘I was talking about Sean Degg, Kerry’s husband.’
‘Aaah.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘I’m not sure we ever have.’
The Archibalds are clearly uneasy on the subject of the children’s father and Staffe can’t clearly recall if Sean ever mentioned visiting the Archibalds. Surely he must have. And if he did, why would they deny it?
‘What about the real father? Sean wasn’t the real father.’
‘We know,’ says Sheila.
‘We don’t know,’ says John, his lard-coloured face beginning to blotch. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Did Sean tell you he isn’t the father?’
‘No,’ says Sheila.
‘He’s not been here. That’s why. We don’t know anything about a father.’
‘I’ll need to ask the neighbours, show Sean’s photograph.’
‘We’re respectable people,’ says Sheila.
Staffe’s phone rings and he sees it is Jombaugh. He calls up to Josie, who comes to the top of the stairs, carrying Maya and holding Miles’s hand. Staffe says goodbye to the Archibalds, waves to the motherless children.
Outside, he calls Jombaugh back.
Jom says, ‘We’ve had the analysis back on the phone call we got, reporting the baby in the car park. It’s inconclusive. They can’t even tell the gender of the caller – it was heavily disguised and might have been warped on a tape machine or even a mobile phone. Apparently they can do that these days.’
‘Was it was recorded or live?’
‘Probably recorded.’
Staffe hangs up, thinking that a recorded message reinforces the level of premeditation, the professionalism of the crime.
On the drive back to the City, he thinks about what the Archibalds had said, and how. He says to Josie, ‘They know the bastard father. I know they do. Why wouldn’t they tell us?’
*
Staffe catches up on his texts as he has a cup of tea with Jombaugh in Leadengate’s reception. One is from Jasmine Cash about Jadus, saying he’s got a formal warning from probation for a failed employer’s report. She says he has a week to find a job, otherwise his parole will be in breach. Staffe curses, thinks of the home Jasmine Cash has made for Millie and her dad. Good intentions amount to Jack Shit if you haven’t got a job and a house and a family. You need all three to get straight – and stay that way. He feels an idiot for thinking he might be able to help.
Jombaugh takes a call of his own, nods across to Staffe with an upward jolt of the head.
‘Pennington?’ whispers Staffe.
Jombaugh nods, making a theatrical glum face.
Pennington isn’t wearing a jacket. A piece of A4 in front of him has a list of names and numbers on it, in his handwriting. On the face of it, it would appear that this DCI has spent at least some of the day tending to police work.
‘You can forget Sean Degg for a while, Staffe. Jesus Christ, how could you let him get away like that?’
‘I’m more interested in why he’d want to get away. But I’ll catch up with him soon.’
‘Not any time soon, you won’t.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘Bet your arse it has. Christ, this is getting nasty.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Just had a call from a DI Flint of South Liverpool CID. There’s another pregnant woman missing. You’re going up north, my man.’
‘My case is here. I need to talk to Phillip Ramone, and to all Kerry’s friends.’
‘Twenty-four weeks pregnant they reckon. It made the evening edition of their local rag.’
‘You think it’s related? How could it be?’
‘Half an hour ago, we got another letter from Breath of Life. They knew all about the woman. She’s called Zoe Bright.’
‘And what about the husband?’
‘Forget it, Staffe. He loves her to bits, apparently.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
‘She nearly died having their first baby. It didn’t survive.’
‘He loves her as much as Sean loved Kerry Degg?’
‘You make sure your team stays all over Lesley Crawford while you’re up there.’
‘There’s a couple of things I have to do first,’ says Staffe, thinking of Phillip Ramone.
‘There’s a train from Euston in an hour. They’ll be waiting for you at the other end.’
‘There’s a couple of things …’
Pennington leans forward and in his softest voice says, ‘Please, Will. Just this once, be a good lad.’