Pain of Death (13 page)

Josie is cold and the rough blanket scratches her legs. They have brought her a cup of tea and some cold toast, spread with bright yellow marge. She wolfs it down, then bangs at the door again, complaining that they haven’t made the phone call yet. Her head thumps and her mouth is still dry. She feels as if she could drink a bathful of water and still be thirsty. She slumps to the floor, runs her hands over the rough scabs on her knees.

They said she had tried to glass a police officer in a night club. Hence, the treatment.

She skews round and uses the tray to bang on the door for five, ten minutes. She loses sense of time, but eventually, the metal plate slides across the spyhole and she recognises the dark eyes of the sergeant who brought her food.

‘I’m sorry about what happened, but I want my phone call, Sarge.’

‘You’ve had it.’

‘Who did I call?’

‘Your dad.’

Josie doesn’t get on with her dad. Her dad is a treacherous, selfish, vain pig. She hasn’t called him in a year. She knows they are lying.

She brings her knees up to her breasts, holds herself and wonders what state she must have been in. But the door opens.

The duty sergeant stands over her. ‘What did you say?’

‘What did I say to him, Sarge? I’m curious. We don’t get on, me and my father.’

‘You called me “Sarge”.’

‘I’m one of you. I’m one of us, I mean. I told you that. Can I have some water?’

‘Not according to your ID.’

‘Who am I?’

The sergeant crouches down, says, ‘You were off your tits. You punched out a nineteen-year-old girl and you tried to glass one of my WPCs. It took four officers to get you out of that club.’

She looks down at what she is wearing, tries to cover herself up. She puts her hand on the sergeant’s knee and twists round, looks into his eyes, smiling. ‘Then you should charge me.’

‘What?’

‘Sounds like a Section 89.’

‘What?’

‘Surely, you know your ’96 Act. Or maybe she wasn’t in uniform, so you’re worried about mitigation. At least hit me with a Section 39. That would be the ’88 Act.’

‘Christ,’ says the sergeant.

‘What the hell did they give me?’ Josie stands up. ‘I need to be tested.’ She pulls down her skirt but its lycra content is too high and it recoils. ‘Let’s go.’

‘You’re going nowhere, young lady.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had the wool pulled over too many times to fall for that.’

‘Call Leadengate and ask for Sergeant Jombaugh or DS Pulford and check me out. Tell them what I look like.’

‘Is that really what you want?’ says the sergeant, allowing a smile and closing the door behind him as he goes.

*

It is early morning and although the sun is bright, it is still low in the sky. A pewter dew lies across Thames Ditton’s Green. Staffe is on his way down into Surrey whilst Pulford organises the knock along the Archibalds’ street. Seeing as how he was on the A3, and bearing in mind what Anton Troheagh had told him about the Kilbride sisters, he thought it only polite to call in on Bridget. And he had wanted to pull off the A3, to see if the knackered blue Beemer followed him. Looking around now, he can see no trace. Is he becoming paranoid?

A frost had missed by the barest degree and the house of Malcolm and Bridget Lamb is pretty as a picture. Pretty as a picture of a chocolate box.

Staffe knocks on the door and the sight of him is enough to bring a frown to Malcolm Lamb’s fresh face. Nonetheless, Malcolm can’t suppress a whole life of decency and he invites Staffe in.

Bridget is in the living room, sitting in her pyjamas with her knees tucked up in a bergère chair beneath a standard lamp and flicking through a soft-furnishings magazine. She says, ‘It would be nice if you had called. I suppose it’s one of your tricks, to catch people unawares.’

‘Why would I need tricks?’

‘I told you what I know.’

‘You didn’t tell me you went to see Grace.’

‘I hadn’t been, when I saw you.’

‘I can check the dates. And I will. You’d want me to check, wouldn’t you? To find the person who killed your sister.’

Bridget removes her spectacles and closes
Country Home
. She sighs. ‘You obviously have something to say.’ Turning to Malcolm, she says, ‘You have to prepare, love. You can leave us.’

‘Where are you going?’ says Staffe.

‘He has a church group,’ says Bridget. ‘Druggies.’

‘They are lost,’ says Malcolm.

Once Malcolm has gone, Staffe says, ‘I went to see Anton Troheagh. Mr Troheagh, to you, I guess.’

‘Kerry was his favourite.’

‘And you were Sean Degg’s – until Kerry came along.’

‘He was a predator.’

‘He loved her, though, didn’t he?’

‘I judge a tree by its fruit, Inspector. I don’t see much love in that fruit.’

‘This isn’t the best analogy, is it, Bridget?’ Staffe perches on the edge of a library chair, clasps his hands together. ‘Anton Troheagh told me you were expecting a baby while you were at school.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘But you must still resent Sean – leaving you in that state.’

‘I was weak, for a while. Time heals.’

‘It doesn’t heal everything, though, does it?’ Staffe wants to say more, but holds himself back, speculating that it must have been the dénouement of her pregnancy that had wreaked some kind of havoc on Bridget, preventing her from being a mother, now and for ever.

She says, ‘I have learned to trust in God’s will.’

‘It must have been hard for you not to hate the two of them.’

‘Hatred is not in my repertoire. I can only live as good a life as I can, and I have been rewarded with more love than poor Kerry ever brought on herself.’

‘Tell me about when you went to the hospital, to see Grace.’

For a moment, Bridget looks befuddled, as if she is trying to remember that day, what she might have said and to whom. ‘I can’t remember. I was upset. Surely you can understand that.’

‘I’m trying to understand why you wouldn’t tell me that you once carried Sean Degg’s child.’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘What did you see in Sean?’

‘I was a different person.’ She forces a smile. ‘I see it as a step on the road to salvation.’

‘Has he been in touch since I last saw you?’

‘Why would he?’ Bridget looks confused.

‘You’re his sister-in-law. He’s an only child and his parents are dead. His children are in care. You are as close a relative as the poor man has.’

‘They’re not his children.’

‘Grace is.’

Bridget bites her lip and her eyes glint. A weaker person might show a tear, but all Bridget does is open her magazine. Without looking at him, she says, ‘I don’t care for the way this is going. She was my sister, you know. My damned sister.’

‘I’ll show you out,’ says Malcolm, standing in the doorway with a light mac over his arm even though it is a fine day. ‘Please, there’s only so much she can take in one go.’

Staffe nods. On the way out, he looks back at Bridget. She is staring into nowhere, as if she can see something that is coming to get her. At the door, he says, ‘This won’t go away, not unless we can get hold of Sean.’

‘He’s still missing?’ asks Malcolm.

‘Without trace. Anything you or Bridget can tell us, and I wouldn’t have to be round here so much.’

‘He won’t be able to stay away from the babies, surely.’

‘Babies?’

‘You know,’ says Malcolm, opening the door. The day floods in. ‘He’s got the others, too.’

Miles and Maya aren’t babies. Perhaps they are to Malcolm. Babies, Staffe thinks, and he feels the gap in Bridget’s life – and Malcolm’s, too.

*

Pulford looks through the spyhole, scarcely believing what he sees. ‘That’s her,’ he says. ‘For fuck’s sake, what have you done to her?’

Josie sits on the bed below the high, barred window, shivering. Her knees are scabbed, her hands red raw, the knuckles scuffed. She is wearing a thin, red dress that barely reaches the top of her legs and the bodice of the dress is torn, revealing a black bra. Her make-up is smudged and smeared. Her hair looks big and brittle and broken.

‘Get her some clothes,’ Pulford says to the WPC behind him.

‘Where from?’

‘I don’t care. She’s one of us. Why the hell have you let her stay in this state? Let me in and then get her some clothes and a hot meal.’

‘She had a go at one of our WPCs. Tried to glass her – so you can get fucked. She’s a right bitch.’

‘Get her the bastard clothes!’ Pulford glares at her and hisses, ‘Have a word with your sarge. He’s in on the picture.’

When the bolt shoots and the door swings open, Josie sees Pulford and gasps. Pulford wraps his arms around her. Gradually, her body becomes less taut. He remembers when they were briefly together. She smells of drink and stale cigarette smoke. She doesn’t smoke. He says, ‘What did they do to you?’

‘What
did
they do to me?’ she asks.

‘You were drinking cider. Strong cider, according to the shop owner, by the Archibalds’ house. You were supposed to make yourself scarce. Remember?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then you ended up in a place called Scotty’s, out in Southend.’

‘Scotty’s? Never heard of it. Am I in trouble?’

‘We need to get you looked at. Tested, you know, and see what they gave you.’

‘Did I do what they said?’

‘You laid out a girl in the night club but she’s OK, and you went for a WPC.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘But we need to know how you got there. Can you remember anything?’

Josie shakes her head. ‘I got the cider. I remember that. I was waiting.’ She looks up at him. ‘I was waiting for you, and then you drove by. I wanted to wave, David.’ Josie surrenders to him again, says over and again, ‘You should have looked,’ like a little girl.

Suddenly, Pulford lets go of her. ‘Oh, God!’

She looks up, afraid. ‘What is it?’

‘I’ve got to call Staffe. He’s on his way to see Tommy Given. He’s going to shake it out of him. Wait here.’

‘Where would I go?’ she says, curling up on the bed, a soft smile smudged on her face now. By the time Pulford gets to reception, she is asleep.

*

Staffe recognises the type immediately. The suit is blue and his eyes are covered by a pair of Wayfarers. Leaning against Staffe’s Peugeot by the Green, the man flicks his cigarette into the gutter and stands erect.

‘What have I done now?’ says Staffe.

‘I’m taking you to Southfields.’

‘You’re not. Not now.’

‘I was told you were desperate to have a poke around.’

‘I am, but I’m going the other way.’

‘We’ll take your car. It’s best.’

‘I told you, I’m …’

The bonnet of his own car and the powdery sky and then his bonnet again swirl. Then his face is cold, on the metal of his Peugeot, and the side of his face is compressed. He is looking across the bonnet towards the Green and a searing pain is shooting down his shoulders and through his head. He tries to move, but he can’t. Now, he feels pressure behind his ears and he thinks he is going to black out. Just as he does, it is as if he is landing on feathers and when he opens his eyes, he is in the back of his own vehicle and the houses around the Green are moving, as if he were on a fairground horse. There is a deep voice alongside him, telling him he has a call.

*

As they come up over the cusp of Kingston Hill, Staffe has recovered his bearings, has absorbed the news that Josie Chancellor is being released from prison and that charges will not be pressed. And he has been told, by Pennington, that he is, under no circumstances, to go west along the A3. Tommy Given, for now, is still off limits.

‘I take it Crawford won’t be there,’ he says to the man in the blue suit, alongside him. He can’t work out if that is the one who assaulted him, or whether it was the driver. They both wear Wayfarer sunglasses.

‘We’ll catch up with her,’ says the passenger, clearly taking her continued absence to heart.

Staffe wonders whether his companions know anything of the ace that Lesley Crawford has put up Vernon Short’s sleeve. And is Lesley Crawford necessarily behind the threat to Cathy Killick?

Once in Southfields, the men in suits remain outside and Staffe is given the run of the house. He can have as long as he likes.

The kitchen is in keeping with the unspoiled, early Edwardian ethos. What was once the scullery still sports a gleaming, renovated black range, and it is clear that Lesley Crawford has lavished much love on the place.

Working his way from the larder, round the cupboards and sideboards, Staffe finds nothing of interest at all and moves to the dining room, then the lounge. It appears that Lesley Crawford keeps all her paperwork in an inlaid, deco secretaire. She maintains a modest credit balance in her current account and has the maximum in her ISA account. Her income seems to flow from a trust and yields her two thousand pounds per month. A copy of the trust document shows the estate is that of a Lieutenant-Colonel Bruce Crawford, and that Lesley has been the recipient for five years.

Staffe checks in the airing cupboard and under the beds, at the back of her drawers and every level of her three wardrobes. There is not an item out of place in this pristine and orderly house, not a thing to suggest that Lesley Crawford has any connection with any political cause, nor even the faintest interest in the plight of the ‘unborn population’. There is an invitation bearing the embossed crest of Sidney Sussex College inviting her to a Victorian Society dinner at the beginning of June and from the tick she has struck through ‘RSVP’, it would seem she has accepted. Staffe takes note, will check with the secretary if Vernon Short is also on the guest list.

He clambers up into the loft void, using the telescopic ladder. The loft is boarded and lit by a single, bare bulb. There are several suitcases, all empty, and boxes of
History Today
which go all the way back to the early sixties.

And there is a small tidy-box, the film of dust undisturbed on its buff-coloured cardboard. Staffe sits cross-legged, places the box in his lap, knowing this is his last hope of a connection between Lesley Crawford and Kerry Degg – or Zoe Bright.