Thicker Than Water (19 page)

‘I’ll take advice,’ he said in the same deep voice.

‘You do that,’ the other man agreed.

I watched Flat-face groggily from my floor-level ringside seat as he stepped carefully around the newcomer, staring at him the while as if to show that his readiness for mayhem hadn’t abated by a single degree. Then he walked out into the night, opening the doors by the novel expedient of slamming his head into them so hard that they flew back to their full extent. They hit the wall on either side like a pistol shot in badly synched stereo.

My rescuer helped me to my feet, which took a couple of attempts because I was embarrassingly weak and groggy after my recent anoxic experiences.

‘Out for a late-night walk?’ I asked sardonically.

He shrugged. ‘Just be thankful I was here. You make friends everywhere you go, don’t you, Felix? You really should think twice before coming into a place like this at night.’

There were lights going on up above us now, and faces peering over the banisters on the upper levels. Only a natural impulse towards self-preservation had prevented anyone from coming down and seeing what all the noise was about, but it could only be a matter of moments. Better to have this conversation somewhere else, far from the madding crowd: especially considering how spectacularly madding they could get around here. We left Weston Block, our shoes crunching on broken glass.

‘Well, it’s good of you to take an interest,’ I said as I led the way between the towers, heading north across the estate. ‘But any place that’s good enough for you and your friend Gwillam is good enough for me.’ Considering he’d probably just saved my life, the satisfaction I took in his startled expression was a little ungenerous. But I was starting to see a pattern, and it was one I liked even less than red and green Paisley.

There was one final broad flight of steps that led down from the concrete plain towards the New Kent Road. I took it, limping slightly, and my rescuer followed me.

‘I thought you gave up the pastoral stuff,’ I muttered over my shoulder.

‘Where you’re concerned, Felix?’ Matt answered with a sorrowful inflection. ‘I think I’ll always be my brother’s keeper.’

‘You’ve got a visitor’ were the first words that Pen said when she opened the door to me. Then she noticed Matt, standing in the puddle of moonlight behind me. ‘Oh,’ she appended, without enthusiasm. She walked away, leaving the door open behind her.

We came out of the warm sticky night into the warm sticky hallway, and followed Pen downstairs into her chthonic domain.
Tales From Topographic Oceans
was playing softly from below us, the occasional crack and hiss making it clear that we were listening to vinyl being played on Pen’s old Dual 2.2 turntable. Gary Coldwood was sitting on the shapeless leather sofa with a glass of brandy in his hand. Edgar and Arthur perched on the sofa’s back on either side of him, clearly acting as chaperones. They needn’t have worried: Gary is in love with his job.

He set the glass down as we came into the room so that he could look more like a copper when he stood up and scowled at me.

‘Two reports came in at Uxbridge Road within ten minutes of each other, Fix,’ he said, as I crossed the room and uncorked the brandy bottle. ‘Both from the Salisbury Estate. A breaking and entering and an affray. Would you know anything about ^ork either of those?’

The brandy burned as it trickled down my throat – and since Pen hadn’t seen fit to put out the good stuff I let it trickle fairly liberally. Then I set the bottle down and belched, more for effect than anything. I noticed a smear of blood on the neck of the bottle where my hand had held it: I’d scraped my palms when I went down the second time, and they were raw and stinging. ‘Gary Coldwood,’ I said, hooking a thumb over my shoulder, ‘Matthew Castor.
Father
Matthew Castor. My big brother. I don’t think you’ve ever met. Gary’s a cop, Matty: you’d better get an alibi ready.’

Gary refused to be deflected, but he looked at Matt with unmistakable interest. ‘Two men fled the scene,’ he pursued grimly. ‘One was described as wearing a long coat of some kind – maybe a mac or a heavy overcoat. So, second time of asking: were you there? If you were, I need to know about it. I may be able to come between you and the shit-storm if I know what it is you’ve done.’

‘I may occasionally enter, but I never break,’ I said, slumping down on the sofa because standing up was feeling like a real effort. ‘And I’ve been with my brother all evening. He’s a man of the cloth, did I say? Sit down, Matt, you’re making the place look untidy. Pen, have you got any antiseptic salve or anything?’

‘I’ve got cider vinegar,’ Pen said, heading for the kitchen. ‘That’ll do just as well.’

‘And make me smell like a bag of chips,’ I said, glumly.

‘Fix—’ Coldwood was glaring down at me.

‘Gary.’ I stared back, deadpan. ‘I’ve been down in that neck of the woods tonight, I won’t deny it. I was there for quite a while, so you’ll find no shortage of people who can give you my description. But you know how peaceable a soul I am. I wouldn’t dream of getting involved in an affray, even if I was invited. I’m just sniffing around, trying to figure out what it was that Kenny was trying to tell me. How’s he doing, by the way? Dead or alive?’

Gary swore, coarsely and caustically. ‘Sniffing around,’ he repeated, with biting emphasis. ‘It
was
you, wasn’t it? You broke into the house of a man you might end up charged with murdering.’

‘I just told you I didn’t, and I’m sticking to that. So Kenny is—?’

‘No change. But the longer he stays in the coma, the less likely he is to recover. Did you at least wear gloves?’

‘For a quiet evening walk with my brother, the priest? Of course not. We’ve had our differences in the past, but it’s never come to blows. And if it ever does, I think it’s likely to be a bare-knuckle fight.’

Gary shook his head in grim wonderment. ‘Are you insane?’ he asked me.

‘Are you?’ I countered equably. ‘Two calls come in from right next door to your crime scene and you come here? Why aren’t you getting a head start on Basquiat the big blonde battering ram, Gary? You’re not letting h c noander steal the case out from under your nose, are you?’

‘I’m fucking homicide, Fix,’ Gary almost yelled. ‘Burglary and random bottlings are as relevant to my working day as minding your own business is to yours. I only came here because I can read the bloody signs by now. I had this vivid sense of you drawing yourself a tall pint of razor blades and getting ready to take the first swig. Tell me I’m wrong and I’ll walk right out of here. Go ahead.’

I considered him in silence. Pen came back into the room carrying a bottle of vinegar and some torn-off lengths of kitchen towel: also a couple more glasses for the booze.

‘Right,’ Coldwood said, tersely. ‘Thought so.’

I wadded up the kitchen towel and applied vinegar to my abraded hands – noticing in the process that the palms were still itching insanely. Edgar and Arthur bated at the intense, pungent smell, but they were usually present when Pen did her witchy conjurations, so they were used to worse. Coldwood, meanwhile, had finally turned to Matt who was still hovering uneasily by the doorway. He gave him a perfunctory handshake.

‘Pleased to meet you, father,’ he said. ‘You’re the oldest, right?’

‘Just Matt,’ said Matt. ‘I’m three years older than Felix, yes.’

‘And where did this evening walk of yours take you, besides the Salisbury Estate?’

Matt thought about this for a long moment. ‘Nowhere else,’ he said at last. ‘I met Felix there. I was already passing – walking – I was in the area. I heard the sound of a fight and intervened.’

‘A fight?’ Coldwood’s expression of exaggerated surprise was straight out of the silent movies. ‘You found Fix involved in a fight? And him so peaceable? No wonder he looks like an elephant wiped its arse with him.’

I dropped the vinegar-soaked kitchen towel onto the table and went for the brandy bottle again, but Pen intercepted me, grabbing hold of my wrists and turning them over so she could view the damage. ‘How do they feel?’ she asked.

‘Painful,’ I said. ‘And mildly pickled.’

‘I’ll make you a sulphur poultice later,’ she promised.

‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and die from gangrene.’

Pretending to be offended, Pen released my wrists and made a gesture that told me I was divorced from her mercy and goodwill. I took the opportunity to pour myself some more liquor. ‘Tell me about the lab data, Gary,’ I said. ‘Have you got any better idea of what happened in that car?’

Coldwood grimaced and didn’t answer. I refreshed his glass and pushed it across the table towards him.

‘Two men,’ I prompted. ‘One of them was Kenny. chemht= The other one wasn’t me.’

‘Two men,’ Coldwood agreed, picking up the glass and taking a solid swig. ‘Two men
besides
Seddon. All three of them touch the razor at different times – lots of different times, shifting their grip. It looks as though the razor was a major fucking talking point.’

‘Do we know whether it belonged to Kenny or one of these other guys?’

He shook his head. ‘No idea. But if it belonged to one of the killers – I mean, the assailants – then he definitely used it mainly for shaving.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that anyone who knew how to handle a malky wouldn’t have made such a frigging dog’s breakfast of it. To look at the wounds, you’d think Seddon had been done over with a potato peeler. And then switched to a tin-opener for the actual kill. Sorry, father.’

Matt did look a little pale and introspective. He’d sat down at last, on the huge wooden chest in the corner, as far removed from these discussions as he could get. He swallowed audibly. I was going to tell him where the bathroom was, forestalling any further degradation of Pen’s already grimy carpet, but Gary was still talking and I didn’t want to interrupt in case it was hard to get him started again. ‘We’ve got some fibres,’ he said, ‘from the other guys’ clothes. No footprints, though. The car was parked on a slope, with the bias towards the driver’s side. Easy enough to bypass the blood if you go in and out by the passenger door. But with the fingerprints and the other bits and pieces, there’s no margin for error.’

‘So we’ll know these guys when we find them,’ I summarised.

‘Which
we
is this?’ Gary went and leaned against the fireplace as though putting some distance between himself and me. ‘You don’t work for me any more, Fix. Ruth Basquiat doesn’t see you as part of any we. And she’s I/C on the case now, so you’d better not expect any favours.’

‘Basquiat is—?’ I echoed. This wasn’t good news. ‘When did that happen?’

He shrugged. ‘As soon as we hauled you in for questioning. You heard me backing off on that. Basquiat thinks the conflict of interest is deep enough to be fundamental, and she was prepared to bring the
DCI
in. She’s not seeing you as the chief suspect, but she wants to be free to go wherever this takes her. She told me not to get in her way.’

‘And you took that?’ I was incredulous.

‘Yeah. I did.’ Coldwood’s tone was harsh. ‘Because she’s right. Look at it from her point of view – which the
DCI
is bound to share if he’s got half a brain. If you are involved somehow, then she knows you’ll try to play me. And if it’s anyone else then the big question at trial will be why we didn’t go after you properly out of the gate. We’ll look about as bent as a nine-bob note, and razor-boy will walk on a technicality. Either way I’m a defence lawyer’s wet dream. So there you go. I’m still dancing but Ruth is leading. And that – before you ask – is the other reason I came here cn Idretonight: because I thought you ought to know. The weather’s going to get colder.’

I mulled that unpalatable fact over for a moment or two: brandy didn’t sweeten it.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the warning. Listen, Gary, you’re already digging into Kenny’s past, presumably. Any leads there? You know what happened to his wife and kid, right?’

‘Common-law wife,’ Coldwood corrected me. ‘She’s
MIA
. Walked out on him a year or so back, according to the neighbours. The son belonged to her, not to him, and he’s dead. We’re still getting the details.’

‘Would that include calling up the autopsy report?’ I asked.

Coldwood shrugged and raised his eyes to Heaven.

‘Could I get a copy of that?’

‘For Christ’s sake, Fix!’

‘All right, all right. No harm in asking. What do you make of the other wounds on Kenny’s arms? The older ones?’

‘Botched suicide attempt? Wouldn’t be too surprising, would it? When you think about what he’s been through . . .’

‘I think he might have been self-harming,’ I said.

Coldwood stared at me.

‘Why do you think that?’ he asked.

‘Because I – sorry, because whoever broke into the flat found a hurt-kit in the bedroom. Not the boy’s bedroom. Kenny’s.’

‘We already went over that room.’

I blew out my cheeks. ‘Yeah, but I bet you did it politely. It isn’t a crime scene, and Kenny isn’t a suspect. I almost missed it myself.’

‘You keep defaulting back to that first-person stuff, Fix,’ Gary pointed out testily. ‘Work on it. So are you saying that Seddon—?’

Matt stood up abruptly. ‘I am finding all this talk . . . unnerving,’ he confessed. ‘I think I might leave now. I’m teaching at a seminary in Cheam and I have a very full day tomorrow. If you don’t mind—’

‘I do mind,’ I said firmly. ‘Come on, Matt, we haven’t seen each other in, what, must be a year and a half. And I bet you hear a lot worse in the confessional.’

‘Well, I was leaving anyway,’ Gary said, putting his empty glass down. ‘I’ve got to be on my feet again in four hours. Mind how you go, Fix. And keep your fingers crossed that the floating-pronoun burglar didn’t leave too many prints behind him in Seddon’s gaff. Even my C2s can’t be relied on to miss everything that’s under their noses. I’ll tell them to take another stroll around that cl an mbedroom.’

He thanked Pen for the booze and hospitality and let himself out. And then there were three.

‘So how are you doing, Matt?’ Pen asked my brother. ‘I didn’t know you were teaching now.’