Thicker Than Water Page 15

  ‘Thank you, Mister Castor,’ Jean said, giving me a slightly awkward handshake. Tom didn’t put out his hand, and I didn’t feel inclined to offer mine.

  ‘Seriously,’ I said to Jean. ‘If you need me, call. I’m only an hour away.’

  She nodded.

  ‘He’ll be fine when he wakes up,’ Tom said, with brusque conviction.

  But Bic was still sleeping - or unconscious - when I left, and the ambulance still hadn’t arrived.

  I noticed as I walked past that Kenny’s door was now closed. That was good, as far as it went, but I wondered who was going around behind me, covering my tracks. I also wondered what business Gwillam could have with the Daniels family - and why it didn’t bear repeating.

  I was lost in thought as I walked down the stairs. But as I came level with the third-floor walkway, a movement at the corner of my eye made me turn my head. It had come from outside, from the walkway itself, which meant I was seeing it through the grimed glass of the swing-doors. What had made it noticeable was that there was a light out there - one of the few functioning street lamps - and whoever had moved had momentarily occulted it from my perspective: light-darkness-light, a Morse-code flash.

  I stopped and stared. There was a figure standing on the walkway, her back against the street light. Not a bad position to take up if you were watching Weston Block, because to anyone looking back you’d just be a backlit silhouette. But I knew the silhouette: I’d seen it only a day before, and the ponytail was a dead give-away. It was the woman I’d seen with Gwillam.

  I took an involuntary step forward. Despite the stern tone I’d taken with Nicky, I was itching to find out what Gwillam was up to down here. Maybe the ponytailed woman would be willing to give me a few hints if I did my Rudy-Basquiat-consulting-detective routine again. You never know until you try.

  But as I headed for the doors she saw me too. Her gaze had been fixed on the higher levels of the building: now it flicked down and caught the movement nearer to hand, and she was gone out of the circle of light before I even had the door open.

  I went after her at a flat run, along the full length of the walkway and into the gaping doors that led into the next tower block in the daisy chain.

  The doors facing me - doors that led out onto another stretch of walkway - were still swinging. I headed in that direction, but something - some mistrustful gene that’s probably a precious part of my Liverpudlian heritage - made me slow and listen for half a second even as I took the bait. It was half a second well invested: the woman’s rapid footsteps were clearly audible from the echoing stairwell off to my right, and from below me. I slewed round and followed, taking each flight of stairs in two giant strides.

  I guess Juliet is right about my aversion to planning: this kind of whimsical improvisation has got me into trouble more times than I care to count. But I only wanted to talk to the woman, in a spirit of bluff and intimidation, and maybe get a hint about how the Salisbury fitted into the Anathemata’s world-view. Plus my blood was up now: I was filled with the thrill of the chase.

  That was probably why I walked right into what was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. As I rounded the final bend, still a dozen or so steps above ground level, a big hand thrust itself out of the shadows in the dank lobby, grabbed a generous swathe of my lapels and hooked me through the air to slam me hard against the wall.

  It was Gwillam’s other friend: the tall, lean man with the planed and spirit-levelled face. He held me pinned against the wall with surprising strength, his hand pressing against my chest so hard that he squeezed the breath out of me like the air out of a bellows, making it impossible for me to inflate my lungs. He looked round inquiringly at the ponytailed woman, who was standing up against the street doors, which she’d pushed half open. She looked breathless and angry.

  ‘Scrape him off,’ she snapped. ‘Then fold and follow me.’

  The flat-faced man brought his face up close to mine, staring at me slightly quizzically with his head tilted first to one side, then to the other. His movements were staccato, punctuated by perfect stillness.

  ‘Bad boy,’ he said, in a voice that was both deep and hollow, like an oracle speaking from a cave or from the bottom of a well. His tone was detached, though, despite the disapproving words - and his mouth, as I’d noticed the day before when he was talking to Gwillam, moved all of a piece, as though his lower jaw, like a puppet’s, was a piece of wood hinged at the ends.

  I locked both of my hands on his one, and tried to lever it away or at least relieve some of the pressure so that I could draw a breath. Nothing doing: this guy wasn’t particularly thickset, but he was terrifyingly strong.

  ‘You - ’ he said, and he let the word linger while black dots clustered and spread behind my eyes. ‘ - really need to take a rest.’

  He pulled me back and slammed me forward again so that I crashed against the wall once, twice, three times. I tried to let my head sag forward, but on the third beat he got the angle just so and the back of my skull smacked off the wall, turning the black dots into impressive techni-colour Catherine wheels.

  There was one further impact, but it came from a different angle. I was dimly aware that the big man must have thrown me, or maybe just let me fall. Through the spiked fug of near-unconsciousness, I deduced that I was horizontal and used that as a clue to what it might take to get upright again. But my limbs had forgotten the effortless cooperation they’d developed over thirty-some years: I must have looked like Bambi on ice.

  Unfortunately, Flat-face had lingered to make sure I stayed down, and he seemed to take my trying to get up as a deliberate provocation. I saw his foot draw back for a kick, aimed squarely at my head. I raised a feeble, futile arm to fend it off.

  ‘That’s enough,’ said a voice from over by the street doors. ‘Leave him alone.’

  Flat-face lowered his foot and turned. Blinking my eyes semi-clear, I looked off in that direction too. The newcomer stood framed in the doorway, holding the double doors open with fully extended arms, but there was a querulous note in his voice that clashed badly with the dramatic pose. It wasn’t the voice of a man who knows he’s going to be obeyed.

  ‘Who says it’s enough?’ demanded Flat-face in a dangerous basso rumble.

  ‘I do, obviously.’ The newcomer took a step towards us. ‘I mean it, Feld. Look at me if you don’t believe me.’

  Flat-face stared down at the newcomer. I stared at him too and I probably would have gasped if I’d had any breath left to do it. The big man didn’t gasp: in fact he didn’t respond in any way that I could see. But after a moment or two he flexed his arms and adjusted his cuffs, first left and then right.

  ‘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 le
ft 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.’

  9

  ‘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 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 her 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. 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 tonight: because I thought you ought to know. The weather’s going to get colder.’