Kill and Tell, page 24
Staffe shouts, ‘Don’t, Maurice.’
Maurice says to his uncle, ‘Please, uncle. Think of Maurizio. Think of him and his life and what you owe to me. You sent my father away. You ruined him. Let Maurizio enjoy his last days in peace, without this shame. They could prosecute him, still.’
‘I must tell the truth, figlio,’ says Carmelo.
‘Think of Maurizio in this life, not yourself in the next.’
‘This is for us all, in the next. We must do the right thing, no matter how late.’
Staffe comes to Carmelo, holds out a dictaphone as Carmelo begins to relate the events of 4 October 1936, and as he does, in the background, in words from another land, Father Penetti speaks the sacraments. As Carmelo tells his story, so Father Penetti concludes and with the viaticum still warm on his lips, Carmelo’s hand slips from his chest.
Thirty-nine
Rimmer and Pennington stand shoulder to shoulder, each regarding the front page of The News. A picture of Carmelo Trapani dominates. It was taken in the sixties and shows him sharp as a knife in a suit and fedora. Now, he is laid out in front of the two police, a pale and withered shadow of the man in the picture, all wired up to nutrients and antibiotics.
‘It’s very decent of you, Frank,’ says Pennington. ‘Letting Staffe interview Esther Myers.’
Rimmer nods, earnestly, trying not to smile, but inside, he is overwhelmingly happy. ‘We’re a team. And we should all be there when we get Abie Myers.’
‘We have enough evidence to convict him for the murder of Jacobo Sartori?’
‘We need to reverse Esther’s sectioning. The Crown is keen, but only if we can absolutely prove beyond reasonable doubt.’
‘So you need Maurizio Verdetti to testify?’
‘If he doesn’t, we’ll prosecute him for accessory and deception. Once we get Esther Myers under oath, she will do the right thing. David Myers was the love of her life.’
‘Abie’s brother?’
‘It was years later, when Esther discovered what happened to David that she supposedly went insane. Abie had plenty of influence so it was no problem to put her away.’
‘And we have the recording of Carmelo’s statement, too. Nice work by Staffe.’
‘I wonder how much quicker we might have solved this one, sir – had Staffe not been distracted.’
Pennington puts a hand on Rimmer’s shoulder blade, squeezes until Rimmer grimaces. ‘Your old man would be proud. Let’s keep it that way.’
*
Staffe runs up the Farringdon Road, checking his heart rate on the wrist device that Josie bought for him. He’s ticking over at more than 150, which should be his maximum. His T-shirt is drenched and his shins have started splinting but he’s in range of Leadengate now. He stops and leans against the craggy flint wall of St Barts church, waiting for the reading to tick down to 139. When it does, he kicks on for a final interval.
He wonders how long it will be before they can secure Pulford’s release, and how he will fare when he is back on Road. Will he even come back into the fold, given the way he has been treated? There’s every chance he’ll face a disciplinary, too, for his treatment of Jasmine Cash.
And what of Louis Consadine? He didn’t have it in him to take his own life, surely.
Staffe puts on a final spurt, the sweat pouring down his forehead and into his eyes. The salt stings and his heart burns. He checks the monitor as it clicks from 159 to 160 and he slows, jogging into the Leadengate car park. He leans on the bonnet of his battered Peugeot, just a few yards away from the clutch of Internal Investigations Officers sucking on cigarettes and untroubled by the rigours of the real world.
Staffe bends double, gulping for air. He can hear them laughing about something, probably him, but his thoughts have snagged. He can’t stop thinking about Louis Consadine.
The head of Internal Investigations comes across. ‘It’s us supposed to punish you, Staffe, not yourself.’
‘Very funny. Just trying to extend my life.’
‘So are we. But you don’t seem to listen.’
‘You should be pleased we got a confession from Jadus Golding’s killer. Surely, you wouldn’t want to see the wrong man convicted, for the sake of a little police work. You are aware the words can be used together? Police. Work.’
‘Now who’s being funny?’
‘It’s not fucking funny. You’d have seen Pulford sent down just because it suited the police to be seen to be addressing themselves. Can you imagine—’ Staffe slumps onto his haunches and clasps his chest.
‘You all right?’
‘Imagine Pulford—’ He struggles for air. ‘—shooting a man? Twice in his heart?’ Staffe recalls what Louis Consadine had said and done when he confessed. Two fingers on Staffe’s chest. ‘Brap Brap.’
‘It wasn’t the heart,’ says the man from Internal Investigations.
‘It was the stomach,’ says Staffe.
‘We need to speak to you, about precisely how you came to get that confession out of Louis Consadine. If there’s any hint of coercion—’
‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ says Staffe, standing, feeling light in the head.
‘Come on, we need to talk.’
All he can think of is what Louis Consadine said: ‘Brap! Brap! Two bullets straight to the heart.’ ‘It was the stomach, wasn’t it?’ says Staffe, seeing Josie coming down Cloth Fair and before she clocks him, he discerns a look of quiet despair in her eyes and he feels a yearning to save her from that. In this moment, he wants to go to her and wrap his arms around her.
‘Are you listening to me?’ says the man from Internal Investigations.
He waves to Josie and her eyes brighten as he walks towards her. ‘You’re running again.’
He wiggles the device on his wrist. ‘Within strict parameters.’ He takes hold of her arm. It is warm and soft, nutty brown still, from the summer. ‘If those guys from Internal ask where I’ve gone, say I’m going to see Nick Absolom at The News.’
Josie says softly, ‘You scare me.’
‘I have to go.’ He moves off, his hand sliding along her arm. Briefly, they hold hands and he hears a shout. He breaks into a jog, looking at Josie now, seeing a new angle of her jaw, the flow of her hair and the sun catching.
The men from Internal Investigations call after him as he runs between the slow-moving cars and buses, then down the steps from the Viaduct and up to Ludgate.
He is in a good cadence now, running in the gutter, between the traffic and the pedestrians, his thoughts synchronising with the rhythm of his stride. His heart is smooth and the truth comes, in glimpses and phrases.
Forty
The whites of Mako’s almond eyes are pink and a clump of tissue juts from the tight fist of her right hand. The computer screen shows The News front page. According to Nick Absolom’s live feed, Louis Consadine committed suicide whilst on remand at Pentonville and as a result his confession is in aspic. Absolom speculates this might suit the police. Staffe knows otherwise.
‘Where is Curtis?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mako bows her head and the computer screen lapses to a screensaver, of Curtis and Mako at the seaside. They are drinking champagne and are poised to swallow oysters. But he can tell, from the aspect of the shore, that this is not Margate.
Staffe moves the mouse and goes into Settings, sees the machine is programmed to time out after five minutes. ‘Curtis searched for this article. He’s here.’ He takes a deep breath, sniffs the air and leans back, raises his voice, ‘I can stay all day, if I have to.’
Mako looks at the ground. She is afraid.
The door to the bathroom creaks and Curtis enters, closing the door behind him.
‘It’s a hell of a price to pay,’ says Staffe, nodding at the computer’s breaking news.
Curtis can barely speak. One by one, the syllables utter, like cracking toffee. ‘That is my brother.’
He slumps onto a bean bag by the window, puts his head in his hands and when Mako goes to him, he shrugs her away. Into his hands, he says, ‘I want to be alone.’
Staffe leans on the window-sill, blocking the light. ‘You have to explain what Louis said.’
‘That’s your job.’
Staffe feels his skin bristle. The device on his wrist shows 115. Far too high for a resting pulse. ‘My job is to select the truth from what people tell me. He didn’t know it, but Louis told me the truth when he said he shot Jadus.’
‘He shouldn’t have,’ says Curtis.
‘He said he pumped two bullets into his chest. That’s a lie.’
‘What?’
‘But it led to the truth.’ Staffe goes down on his haunches. ‘You killed Jadus so Louis didn’t have to. That’s a brave thing to do, isn’t it?’
‘Fuck you!’
‘But you let Louis admit it. When it came to it, the coward in you is just too big, isn’t it?’
A phone sounds. It is dull, coming through the door to the bedroom. All three of them look around. The phone stops ringing.
‘What’s that?’ says Staffe, standing. ‘Is someone there?’ He calls out, ‘Come out!’
Mako scuttles to the door, hissing at Staffe, ‘Leave him alone. He’s done nothing.’
‘I’ll call you,’ says Curtis, as she leaves, and as that door closes, so the bedroom door opens, its frame filled by Brandon Latymer.
In one hand, he holds a bottle of red wine, patting it against the open palm of his other. The tempo is steady and Brandon doesn’t blink. He seems to have it all worked out, says, ‘You been warned time enough, inspector. What makes you think you have the right? This is a step too far, intruding on my friend’s grief like this.’
‘I know who killed Jadus.’
‘And so do I. They’re saying poor Louis was driven to take his own life, but me and you know that’s not so. That poor boy didn’t have the strength to do that. He was helped along the way by your man inside.’
‘You’re the one with people on the inside, Brandon.’
‘From what I hear, your man didn’t cover his tracks so well.’
Staffe says, ‘There’s only one reason Louis would lie about killing Jadus.’
‘You scared the livin’ shit outa him.’
‘That poor boy had no life without his big brother. That’s how you raised him, am I right, Curtis?’
‘You know shit,’ says Curtis.
‘You’ve no right being here,’ says Brandon, taking a step towards Staffe. ‘You didn’t even announce yourself when you came in. Your man Pulford, and now you, have been harassing us for months now. We’re all pent up.’ Brandon grabs Curtis by the hair on his temple. ‘Stand up, man.’
Curtis yelps and grimaces, but he stands up.
Brandon thrusts the bottle into Curtis’s hand. ‘I saw it. As God is my witness, I saw what happened, and so did Mako. I came in as it was happening.’
‘The GA knows you were already here.’
‘Don’t you worry about the GA. The GA knows what’s what.’ Brandon whispers into Curtis’s ear and the fear crashes down, into his eyes. He takes a tighter clench on the neck of the bottle.
‘Don’t do it, Curtis. I know it was a gangland execution and you were coerced. You did it so your little brother didn’t have to.’
‘What the fuck you talking about? Curtis here was by the beach with a friend,’ says Brandon.
‘Louis was only fifteen, that was the plan, right? Just in case you couldn’t pin it on Pulford. But you just couldn’t let him do it, am I right, Curtis? When it mattered, your heart prevailed over that amazing mind of yours.’
‘Do it, Curt,’ says Brandon.
Curtis Consadine’s eyes glaze. He says, ‘You should have left him alone. He did nothing wrong, but you kept coming for him.’ Curtis takes a step towards Staffe, who raises his hands, anticipating the blow, but Curtis is young and strong and the bottle comes down hard and cracks the bone in his forearm and Staffe falls back into the window. The window smashes and he hears it tear his jacket and skin, jagging into his arm with a flash of pain. He is leaning out of the window. The breeze is warm.
Curtis steps forward again.
‘Push him out!’ shouts Brandon.
The pain from the cracked bone in his forearm shoots up one side of Staffe’s body and the jagging cut sears through the other. His heart stops as Curtis comes towards him, reaching for his neck. He tries to defend himself, but his muscles are limp, his energy ebbing away. Curtis smashes the bottle against the frame of the window and wine sprays red.
Curtis grips him tight and is pushing him now. He sees the sky. Pigeons flap way up and the broken neck of the bottle comes at him and he raises a hand.
Staffe hears a crash and thinks it must be him going all the way through the window, and then he sees Curtis’s eyes go even wider.
Brandon shouts, ‘Fuck!’ and there’s another crashing sound and Curtis releases his grip and Staffe falls. He falls away from Curtis and he knows this is it. He waits to feel the air beneath him and to maybe twist and see the ground, then feel the impact, the crunch of bones, but something holds him, pulls him back and he feels flesh on his face and arms around him and someone familiar whispers his name. They say, ‘Staffe,’ soft and gentle and they press their lips to his face, and finally, he knows who it is.
‘Josie,’ he says, letting her hold him, surrendering as she lowers him gently to the floor, where he sits in the broken glass and the wine and his own blood, thicker, redder. He looks up at her.
She kneels beside him and puts her hand to his cheek and says, ‘You fool.’
Over her shoulder, he sees six men in body armour wrestling Curtis Consadine and Brandon Latymer to the floor. Latymer is advising them of his version of his rights as Rimmer reads them aloud.
‘How did you know?’ he says, to Josie.
She holds his wrist, taps the device. ‘Tracker. It was Rimmer’s idea.’ She leans close to him, whispers, ‘He’s not what he seems.’
Staffe breathes in her scent, feels his body go loose and he surrenders as she holds him tight, her cheek pressed into his.
Forty-one
The doctor peers over his pince-nez glasses and snips the thread to the last of the eighteen stitches he has just put in Staffe’s arm. He takes hold of the wrist of the other arm and Staffe bites his lip. ‘We need to get this in a pot.’
‘Can it wait an hour?’ says Staffe. He turns to Josie. ‘We’ve got to get to Pentonville and make sure Pulford knows we’ve got Curtis Consadine all stitched up.’
‘There’s a car waiting outside, sir,’ says Josie. ‘I’ll go and see Pulford. You stay here and get yourself sorted. You look a wreck.’
‘I’m coming,’ says Staffe. ‘And somebody’s going to have to get hold of that e.gang member in there. What’s he called? Salmon?’
‘They call him Beef. I’ll call the governor.’
Staffe tries to pull on his shirt, but he can’t bend his arm. Josie helps him and the sleeves flap, where the doctor had to cut them open, to dress the wound then stitch him up.
On the way out, Staffe sees Rimmer waiting by a coffee machine, talking to a nurse. He goes across, says, ‘Thanks, Frank. It was good of you, I suppose – to keep track. Beyond the call.’
‘My old man used to say nothing was beyond the call. He ever say that to you?’
Staffe nods. ‘Well, it was a brave and decent thing to do.’
‘You look like you need a few nights in here.’
‘I’ve got to see Pulford.’
‘They won’t let you in, but I could come with you. I know the guys on reception up there. They’re OK.’
‘Thanks, Frank. I’d appreciate that.’
‘Let me do the talking, hey? This once.’
Josie joins them, says, ‘I can’t get through to the governor and the phone on the wing won’t pick up.’
Rimmer looks at his watch. ‘It’s Recreation.’
*
The smell of six hundred men is something you can’t escape. You can isolate six hundred hard and desperate men from society; you can even separate them from each other, but even through concrete and steel, a collective will prevails. Never, in his long weeks here in Pentonville, has Pulford sensed such menace, so he tried to stay in his cell, but his psychologist said he had to socialise and Crawshaw told him he’d be on another Governor’s if he didn’t do as he was told. Going into a trial, that’s something he can’t afford.
In the corners of the unit, men gather in twos and threes and the talk of suicide spreads. Pulford waits to be let into his pad.
‘Suicide,’ says his next-door, an Asian lad called Asif. ‘Your boy, they reckon.’
‘I don’t have a boy.’
‘His confession’s your ticket out, pussy,’ says Asif.
Pulford looks down, sees Beef coming up the stairs. He is wired, looking around for something, his eyes burning and when he sees Pulford, he mouths the words, ‘Fuck you.’
Pulford calls to Crawshaw, ‘You letting me in my pad, or what?’
Asif says, ‘He tops himself just after he confessed your crime? Fuck, man, that’s good for you.’
‘Mister Crawshaw!’ shouts Pulford. ‘Let me in!’
Now, Crawshaw comes along the landing, swinging his keys on a chain from his thick leather belt. He catches them expertly and in one sweep, puts the key to the lock, opens Pulford’s door and ushers Pulford in, but Beef appears before Pulford can close the door and Pulford glimpses a new expression on Crawshaw’s face. It is humane. He looks afraid and he wonders what hold Beef and his gang must have over the PO.
‘You can’t touch me,’ says Pulford, looking Beef in the eye. Something smells. A new smell, of rubber. It smells like Durex and Pulford watches as Beef pulls out a pair of thin, flesh-coloured rubber gloves.
‘Put these on,’ says Beef, offering Pulford the gloves.
‘Why?’
‘You don’t need to know why.’
Pulford shakes his head. ‘Louis didn’t kill Jadus.’
