Willing Flesh (34 page)

He holds up a small fish. ‘Nothing like the real thing. The catches we landed in Turkey, fresh from the sea.’

Imogen says, ‘It’s still the same – over there.’

‘Nothing is the same.’ Taki finishes his whitebait. ‘What good can come from this?’

‘We have to think about the greater things,’ says Imogen. ‘Do you think they will get the Russian before I go back?’

‘I don’t understand how you can fight so hard for this and then return to the shadows.’

‘It is what’s right. It’s what we strove for and not as if we have a choice. There is no free will, here, Taki.’

This saddens him. If anybody’s spirit was born to be free, it is Imogen’s. He thinks about accidents of birth, raises his glass. ‘To the Howerds,’ he says.

Imogen says, ‘To what is right.’

‘And if there is a slip, between the stirrup and the ground, as you say?’

‘I will confess.’

‘To your priest?’

She laughs. ‘That will happen, come what may.’

The waiter brings Imogen’s sole and Markary’s calamari. He lifts a forkful to his mouth, tastes the sea. The flesh is tender, perfect and melting. He closes his eyes and sees the Black Sea, the sun dipping to a more eastern west. ‘How is Mark?’ he asks.

Imogen reaches down, picks up a small, hand-sewn clutch bag, produces a six-by-four photograph and shows it to Taki. The young boy with the dark skin and the mop of jet-black hair and the straight nose smiles into the camera.

Taki takes it but Imogen grabs it back, returns it to the bag. ‘I’m afraid you can’t have it,’ she says.

‘But I’m his father.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like, Imogen.’

‘Oh, I do. But you shouldn’t worry. I love him enough for the both of us.’

‘Too much can be as bad as too little, don’t you think?’

‘We need to love, Marky, but we have to take it when and where we find it.’

Twenty-eight

Staffe swivels in his chair, turns his back on Pulford and stares loosely into the windblown snow above Cloth Fair. The words garble. The truth beyond them rings untrue.

Blears is dead. He took his own life as if he were both pig and slayer.

‘There’s better news, though, sir,’ says Pulford.

‘Better? Is that an appropriate term?’

‘For the case, yes. We can hook Tchancov up to the development in Suffolk. The registered address and company secretary of Vodblu match to a Magellan Holdings. Magellan has registered a charge against the land up there. It relates to a profit-share agreement. Do you think he was extorting Howerd? Shall I bring him in?’

‘I’ll pay him a visit.’

‘Why would you do that?’ says Pennington, coming into the room, twirling a pen between his fingers. He stands next to Staffe, planting a palm on his DI’s shoulder.

Staffe explains what he knows to Pennington, shows him the photograph of young Ludmilla and the charge sheets for the Shostavic rape.

‘I think that maybe Elena was blackmailing Howerd, on Tchancov’s behalf, to get him a fatter share of the profits in Aldesworth Country Town. He’s supplying all the immigrant labour up there, making millions. He scared off the big UK contractors to get the job.’

‘They’d never testify to that,’ says Pennington.

‘Elena came to avenge her sister.’ Staffe taps the photograph of Ludmilla Shostavic, and closes his eyes, recalls the first time he saw Elena Danya: pale and naked; beautiful and dead. ‘She came with her brother, Bobo. She was trying to turn the tables on Tchancov.’ Staffe picks up the charge sheets and slams them back down on his desk.

‘You have nothing to prove that she was blackmailing Tchancov or Howerd.’

Staffe has been in a quandary all the way from Saltburgh, and now, with heavy blood, he goes to his filing cabinet, reaches deep, puts his hand on the envelope marked
PRIVAT
in Elena Danya’s hand. But in the moment, he thinks better, lets go of the envelope.

Pennington says, ‘You’re just making all this up.’

‘The truth is, sir, I can’t prove Danya was blackmailing anybody. I need to speak to Bobo. He’s the only one who can prove it was Tchancov behind everything.’

Pennington stands, picks up the photograph and Vassily Tchancov’s rape charges and discharge from the army; gives them a final once-over. ‘I’ve made some enquiries of my own. You’re right about Tchancov – he is under pressure. His cousin is coming to live in London.’

‘Uncle Ludo’s son?’

Pennington nods. ‘Nikolai. Quite the bastard, by all accounts; he could buy and sell Vassily with his small change.’ He pats his DI on the shoulder. The contact is soft, implies with great force that Pennington wouldn’t want to be Staffe.

*

As Staffe passes through reception, Jombaugh says, ‘Somebody to see you, Staffe,’ pointing, as if to say, ‘rather you …’

Brendan Stone sits, still as death. When he sees Staffe, his eyelids flutter.

‘You’ve heard?’ says Brendan, looking at the floor. ‘About the bastard killed my Rebeccah.’

‘He topped himself, Brendan.’

‘You sure about that?’ Stone looks up, his eyes are wet, his lips pursed to nothing.

‘I’ve seen the coroner’s report.’

Brendan taps a rolled-up copy of
The News
’s morning edition against his thigh. ‘I was thinking why he’d kill my Rebeccah. I been making my own enquiries.’ His eyes are dark and hollow; they blink, fast, and he bites his lip. He doesn’t want to cry. Not here, of all places.

‘I only know what’s in front of me, Brendan. Have you got something for me?’

‘I’ve got more friends in Pentonville than you’ve got in this world, you bastard,’ says Brendan. ‘What have you got for me?’ His voice is cracking. His fists are clenched.

‘I said before, the law has to run its course.’

‘I want the one that done my Rebeccah, the one that …’ His head drops and his shoulders shake.

Staffe wraps his arms around Brendan Stone. The man is hard as war but he weeps like a Latin widow, incanting beneath his breath, within his sobs, over and over, ‘six times … six times …’

His nose and cheeks and mouth are wet with tears, his voice like porridge, thick with the mucus of grief. Stone interlocks his fingers on the back of Staffe’s neck and pulls until their foreheads rub. Staffe tries to pull away, but he can’t.

Brendan Stone’s words are warm.

Ten minutes later, walking down Cheapside and calling Janine, what Brendan said is stuck like silt in Staffe’s mind. ‘Give him me. He stuck my Rebeccah and he’s out there. I
know
. I
know
!’

*

Pulford is with Staffe in the niche he was in just twenty-four hours ago – before Blears had committed suicide; before they knew why Bobo Bogdanovich and Elena had come to England.

They go up to Bobo’s floor. It is dusk and this is dead time on the junkie streets. Everyone is done for the day and only animals can be heard, the occasional clatter or curse from within the domestic as they pass along the deck.

‘I don’t see how Bobo could work for Tchancov, not if he raped Bobo’s sister,’ says Pulford.

‘They were working to a plan.’

‘How do we know it’s him?’ says Pulford.

‘He’s in the photograph. It’s clearly him.’

Pulford says, ‘But how do we know the girl is Ludmilla Shostavic? There’s nothing to say the photograph and the charges have anything to do with each other.’

They reach Bobo’s door. Staffe pats Pulford on the shoulder. ‘Good point, sergeant.’ He knocks and there is no reply. ‘You have the warrant?’

Pulford shows him the document.

They knock and there is no reply, so Staffe brings out his ring of keys. On the third attempt, the lock yields and Staffe stands to one side, lets Pulford lead.

This time there is no smell of furniture polish. No such luck. Even in the hallway, the smell of drains is thick and sweet and ripe and Pulford pulls up the neck of his sweater, over his nose.

Staffe says, ‘Shit. We’re too late.’

‘Bobo,’ calls Pulford, opening the bathroom door, sees nothing is inside. Not the source of the smell. He advances slowly towards the bedroom door and lingers.

‘You want me to go in?’ says Staffe.

Pulford shakes his head and turns the handle, breathing deep as he does, looking at the floor, breaking himself in, gently.

He sees Bobo’s shoes, first, just inches from the ground. They sway, the slightest degree, by the draught from the door.

The smell is tight as a headlock.

Pulford takes a step forwards and Staffe says, ‘Come away. Leave this to Forensics. Just check for a note. Go through the drawers. Here.’ He hands Pulford a pair of plastic mitts.

‘I should have called the station, got someone round here last night.’

‘You were with Josie. They’d have killed him come what may, David. Thank God you didn’t get caught in the middle of it.’

Together, they go through all Bobo’s effects. It doesn’t take long. Everything is gone, save a note – in Russian, signed
Bogdanovich
. When Pulford hands it to him, Staffe says, softly, ‘Bastards.’

They step outside and close the door.

‘Stay here and wait for the SOCOs.’

‘Where are you going?’ asks Pulford.

Staffe puts heavy hands on each of Pulford’s shoulders and crinkles his eyes. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about this. We’ll get these bastards.’

‘Please tell me, sir. Where are you going?’

‘Shoving my head where it doesn’t belong.’

*

Sylvie doesn’t take the usual pleasure as she applies the last stroke of varnish to the violin carcass. It is walnut, as Staffe had suggested, and it looks just fine. She has some good wine in the fridge for such occasions: the culmination of design, cutting and gluing, sanding and varnishing, the fretting and the acoustics. ‘You leave a little of yourself in there,’ Shivorski, her maestro, once told her. It feels truer than ever tonight.

She turns off the light and makes her way downstairs. She will drink the wine and flop in front of the telly. She may wake late and find him in the house. When he poaches her eggs, soft-yolked and teardrop-shaped, she feels certain that he loves her – despite any evidence to the contrary.

On the sofa, she curls her legs under her bottom and takes a sip of wine. The phone rings, which startles her.

It is her father.

‘I’m engaged, Dad,’ she says.

‘Who to?’ says her dad, deadpan.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘You pregnant?’

‘Dad!’

‘You want babies, though. I’m not getting any younger. Your mother – she …’

‘Oh, Dad, don’t. Are you pleased for me?’

‘You’ll be your own boss, won’t you, love? You were always your own boss.’

‘I still am.’

‘That’s my girl. Now tell me what you want for Christmas.’

‘It’s OK, Dad.’ She knows he has precious little put by.

‘Don’t worry about me. This is a big day. My girl.’

‘I’ll come see you, Christmas dinner – don’t forget. We’ll both come.’

When they are done, she feels sad. She should call her father more, she knows – but she always feels low, after, feels – if she is honest with herself – that it is only a matter of time before she turns into her mother. It is not his fault, but if she doesn’t see or speak to him, that possibility seems more remote.