Talking to the Dead (36 page)

“What was it again?” he says. “Bastard, thieving, wish-he’d-go-and-top-himself Penry? That was your phrase, I think.”

“Drown,” I say. “It was drown himself.”

“He’s just come in downstairs. Wants to plead guilty apparently.”

“Does he? Ha!” Some noise like that anyway. Not a real word. I’m trying to figure out what this means, and I get up to go, grabbing my bag and a book from my desk drawer.

“I’ll see you again soon, will I?” says Brydon, who doesn’t want me to rush off.

“Yes. Not this evening. I can’t do this evening, I’ve got family coming round for dinner. The day after tomorrow? Are you free?”

“I am, yes. Subject to operational requirements.”

“Then, subject to operational requirements, you’ve got yourself a date, Sarge.”

I rush off downstairs.

If you want to plead guilty, you notify the court, not the police station. If Penry came here, it was to send me a message. I waste a minute or two trying to find out where he is, or was, and discover that he came in, spoke briefly to the duty officer, then walked out again.

I go outside. Which way? Our offices occupy one of the best addresses in Central Cardiff. We’re a stone’s throw from City Hall, the Welsh Assembly Government, Cardiff Uni, the National Museum, the Crown Court, and loads else. But if Penry wanted to see me, he’d make himself easy to find. That probably means one of the two parks. Either Bute Park the other side of the tennis courts or the various different bits of green space which make up Cathays. I choose Cathays. Alexandra Gardens, the one with the war memorials and the roses. Ghosts enumerated in bland official stone. I can see that appealing to Penry’s sense of humor. Either that, or I just like the ghosts.

I walk over there, then walk up the park from the south end. It’s a warm day, though overcast, and with a firm wind pulling inland from the sea. Not comfortable weather. Weather that hasn’t made peace with itself. There are a few picnickers, but Penry isn’t one of them.

I find him at the top end, on a bench. Drinking take-out coffee from a paper cup. He has a brown paper bag next to him, with another coffee cup in it.

“For you,” he says, passing it over. “I forgot you don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay. Thank you.” I take it.

Now we’re here, I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. Anyway, it seems to me the ball is in his court.

“I saw the thing in the
Mail
this morning,” he says.

“That’s people power for you.”

“Yeah. And a little birdie tells me that the good folks of Gwent have got Fletcher nailed as a coke dealer.”

“That’s very naughty. Dealing coke.”

“What are you going to do?”

I shrug. I’m not very focused on Fletcher at the moment. April has most of my attention. Still, a civil question deserves a civil answer, as my granny used to say.

“Don’t know. Find him. Catch him. Arrest him. Prosecute him. You might be cellmates, you never know.”

“I doubt it. I’ve got a lawyer who says I’m very sympathetic. Police hero wounded in the line of duty. Lots of flashbacks. Difficult stuff psychologically. Poor lad needs a bit of support, but doesn’t get it. Goes off the rails. Feels awful. I’m going to try to cry on the witness stand, but I don’t know how that’ll come off.”

“You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.”

“What do you reckon I’ll get? Two years? Maybe out in one. Worst-case scenario. An open prison too, probably.”

I don’t say anything to that. For a while we just sit, letting the wind comb through the park, looking for answers. It’s Penry who breaks the silence.

“He might be dead already. Hard to arrest a dead man.”

“Oh, I don’t know. At least they don’t run.” I pause. Penry knows more about this than I do, and most of what I “know” is supposition. “Can I just check a couple of things with you? First, has Fletcher really been as stupid as I think he has?”

“Oh yes.”

“And he’s as dangerous as I think he is? Dangerous on his own, I mean.”

“On his own, he’s about as dangerous as my old nan. Not even. My nan had more balls than he does. Or did. Whichever.”

I nod. Good. It’s nice to have those things confirmed.

Penry asks, “Do you know where he is?”

“No. Not exactly. But out west somewhere. Beyond Milford Haven. Why? Do you know?”

“No, not exactly, but you’ve got it about right. I know the place you’re after is right on the coast, like not even a minute’s walk away. That’s all I know.”

“You’ve never been?”

“Not my cup of tea, any of that. I didn’t want to see it.”

“You had his key. His phone number. You could check his emails.”

“Listen,
he
wanted me involved. I refused. He gave me cash, his phone details, his email passwords, his bloody door key. He begged me.”

“You kept the cash, though.”

“That bloody conservatory. I don’t even like the bugger.”

The bugger that was purchased fifteen weeks after Rattigan’s death. Money that had come from Fletcher, not Brendan Rattigan.

“It wouldn’t look good in court.”

“Fuck, Fiona,
none
of it would look good in court. But I didn’t help them. Either of them.”

I raise my eyebrows at that. I don’t believe him.

“Listen, forget courts. Just you and me.”

I nod. “Okay.”

“It started—pure chance. I was in Butetown. Saw some idiot drive his Aston there. Interested to see what kind of idiot stepped out. It was Rattigan. I recognized him. Talked to one or two of the girls. I found out everything, and he knew I’d found out. I think it could even have been Mancini who told him.”

“So you started to blackmail him? It wasn’t operational advice, it was just blackmail?” Somehow that feels worse.

“Not really. That’s the stupid thing. It was hardly even that. Rich bastard knows I know, and starts giving me money. Invites me to the racecourse. We find we actually like each other. Rich bastard, corrupt copper.”

“But you weren’t corrupt. Or hadn’t been.”

Up till now, we haven’t really been looking at each other. We’ve been staring out at the park, letting the world spin on its axis, doing what it does. But now Penry wants my gaze as well as my attention. He touches me on the shoulder and gets me to look at him. I do that, investigating his features more carefully than I ever have done before. The tough cop act is only half of Penry, maybe less. The bigger chunk of him is more solemn, more thoughtful.

“You’re right. I’d been a good cop. That thing about crying on the stand, it’s not all crap. I
did
feel cut off from the police service, as it happens. One moment, I was the bee’s knees, the kipper’s knickers. Medals from her Her Maj and letters of commendation from the Home Secretary. Next thing, it’s just a monthly pension and invites to the annual police dinner. I was disoriented for a while. Rattigan felt like a way out.”

“A way out—?” I begin, but Penry stops me.

“I know. People died. Don’t think I don’t know. That’s why I started ripping off the school. A cry for help. Isn’t that pathetic? I’ve turned into the sort of person I used to hate.”

I don’t answer or push the point. Penry’s immortal soul is not my concern.

The wind travels inland from the sea. Hurrying up from the south. Rushing about, confused by the city, peering in every nook and cranny, rustling leaves, moving picnic blankets, blowing up skirts and dresses. A wicked wind, a restless wind.

“Then Rattigan dies.”

“Yes. I thought that was it, and so it was, really. Fletcher—well, he was just as much of an arsehole, but he wasn’t fun to hang around with.”

“But?”

“But nothing. Fletcher wanted me in. He thought I’d jump at the chance. But I didn’t. I’ve only been into his house once, and that was to tell him he was a fuckwit.”

“Did you hit him?”

“No. Wish I had, though.”

“Me too.”

There’s more I want to ask, but Penry touches my arm and points. “See that man there?”

It’s a man in a suit. Forty-something. Pleased with himself.

I clock the man, then look back at Penry.

“Ivor Harris,” he tells me. “Ivor Harris, M.P. North Glamorgan. A Tory.”

I shrug. “The Conservative Party is legal, you know. Even in Wales.”

“You want to know his first name? It’s Piers. Posh Piers. He changed to his middle name because he thought it would attract more votes.”

“So? That’s allowed too.”

“Best buddies with Brendan Rattigan. Coke snorters. And he knew. Not the whole thing, maybe, but he knew enough.”

“You don’t know that.”

I wonder for a second how Penry knew that posh Piers would come a-wandering by, then realize that he didn’t. We’ve got our backs to the National Assembly. This park belongs to the ranks of the powerful. You probably couldn’t spend an hour or two here and not find someone who used to hang out with Brendan Rattigan.

“I
do
know that. Rattigan couldn’t get high without boasting about it. And Ivor bloody Harris is an M.P. Brian bloody Penry is a criminal.”

“Same difference.”

He laughs. “Yeah, fair enough.” He lets that comment die away, then adds another. “Do you want to know how much personal income tax Rattigan paid?”

“I didn’t, but I do now.”

“Nineteen percent in the U.K. Nothing at all overseas. And most of his income came from overseas. He probably averaged under ten percent in taxes. Because he’s rich and has clever lawyers. Brendan Rattigan, Ivor Harris’s buddy.”

“Yeah, but it’s better, isn’t it? Being like us, I mean. Ordinary work, ordinary money, ordinary tax.”

Penry laughs. “Ordinary criminal, ordinary jail time.”

“Yes, that too. Even that.”

Penry’s done with his coffee. He scrunches it up. He can have mine, if he wants more, but he doesn’t. The top rate of tax in the U.K. is 50 percent. Even those of us on ordinary salaries pay double Rattigan’s average rate of 10 percent.

“Weird thing is, I’m a bit scared of prison. I didn’t think I would be.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know.”

“I’ll visit you, if you like.”

“Would you? Really?”

I nod. “If you like.”

“I would like. Yes, I would.”

The more I know Penry, the more I like him, despite all that he’s done and not done. We sit on the bench and stare out into the park. Harris has gone from view now. No more M.P.s to despise.

“Here. I’ve got something for you.”

I give him the book that I took from my desk drawer before coming out. It’s
My First Book of Piano Classics.

“I didn’t know if you were into classics more, or pop stuff. I thought maybe the classics.”

He’s touched. Genuinely moved. I only got the book on the off chance. I’d intended to mail it, but hadn’t got round to it.

“Thanks, Fiona.”

“Fi.”

“Fi? Thanks, Fi. I’ll let you know how I get on.”

“I’ll want a recital.”

He nods. We’re in silence for a moment, but he knows what I’m about to ask and he’s here to tell me.

“Fletcher. That place, where he is now.”

I nod. “Yes?”

“It’s a white house, or shack, or something. A little tower or something. I only saw a photo once, and I didn’t look for long. But I know it’s white. And beyond Milford Haven. And very close to the beach.”

“Mooring?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“You had a sailing club T-shirt on the time I came to your house.”

“Did I? Never been sailing though. I haven’t been there.”

“Okay.” I believe him.

“I’ll come with you, if you like. I’m not much use for most things, but I know how to hit people.”

I laugh out loud at that. I don’t tell him that I’ve practiced stamping his testicles to pulp.

“I’ll be okay. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. And it’s only one man, isn’t it? One that your old nan could take out.”

“You hope.”

I stand up. I chuck my still-full coffee cup into a trash barrel.

Penry nods farewell. “Good luck, sweetheart. You might be like me, but don’t become me.”

I grin at him, looking braver than I feel. “I’ll be okay. And good luck yourself.”

When I leave him, he’s still on the bench, the book open in front of him, his fingers practicing movements on an invisible keyboard.

38

The mortuary visit with D.I. Hughes isn’t as fun as the one with D.C.I. Jackson three weeks ago. Hughes and Price do have a boring contest, and Hughes comes out of it much better than I’d expected. Price scores heavily with his sheer torrents of uninteresting detail, but Hughes counters with that depressive hostile thing he does, an adaptable technique and one that really works for him. In the end, I can’t call a winner. There’s no knockout, and the judges will have to make a decision on points.

By the time they’re done, I’ve filled twenty-one pages of my notebook. I’m rustling like taffeta, just like the first time.

The room we’re in contains Stacey Edwards on a proper autopsy bench, and the two Mancinis on gurneys. They were only wheeled in here so Price could make one or two points of comparison between the corpses. They’re all going to be burned tomorrow. Released up through a chimney into the sky. The weather tomorrow is forecast to be like today. Windy, dry, hot, overcast. A good day to be burned, I reckon. The wind will give little April her freedom at last. Freedom and light.

Finally, finally, neither Price nor Hughes can think of anything else that’s worth saying. We cover the bodies and leave the room.

I look down at my watch.

“Gosh, is that the time?” There’s a big hospital clock on the wall which says that it is. Six o’clock, near as dammit. “I’m meeting someone for a drink. Thank you so much, Dr. Price.” He gets a handshake; then to Hughes, “If it’s okay, sir, I’ll touch base with you tomorrow. I’ll have my notes typed up first thing.”

“That’s fine … Fiona.” It took him a moment to remember my name, but he got there soon enough. He’s forgiven. “See you tomorrow.”

I rush off to the women’s changing area, gown flapping, boots galumphing. Behind me, the two men stroll through to their section, still talking.

My heart is doing a thousand beats a minute, and it’s welcome to them all. I yank off my gown. My fingers are trembling so hard it’s actually difficult for me to undo it properly and I end up just ripping it off. Kick my boots off, slip my shoes on, and edge back toward the reception area, listening. The men are in their changing area, doing whatever they’re doing.