The Calling Page 3

  ‘This is a suspected homicide, Pavan.’

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘We can’t rule that out, of course, but I have another theory. As a matter of fact, the Battersea foot — as my colleague is affectionately calling it — has had rather more than its share of our attention. It intrigues me. Have you ever come across a case of spontaneous combustion?’

  ‘Of what? I thought that was a myth.’

  ‘A rare and strange event, Briony, which attracts mythologies. But it is a fully attested phenomenon. I’ll explain the chemistry to you some time.’

  ‘Well, I’ll take a bit of convincing on that one. You mentioned a blister on the heel ... Denis has found a shoe, caught against one of the posts under the Chelsea wharf. Size ten lace-up brogue, not much wear on the sole, newish, cheap leather. What size is the foot?’

  ‘Nine and a half.’

  ‘Perfect for an ill-fitting shoe. Thing is, Pavan, there’s the gas works at Sands End and the Lots Road power station. I’ve spoken to the management — no accidents reported. But if a body had been put into one of the incinerators at either of those sites, any remains would very likely have got into the Chelsea Creek and been washed into the Thames. So let’s say the Battersea foot has come along that way — it might well have lost its shoe as it collided with the posts on the Chelsea wharf. And the current would have caused it to wash up after the bend in the river, where the foreshore is shallowest. Seems to me that’s a much more likely scenario than spontaneous combustion.’

  ‘Then where is the sock?’ asked Pavan. ‘It would be normal to wear socks with brogue lace-up shoes.’

  ‘Not everyone dresses as elegantly as you. Shoes without socks is a fine English tradition, specially in summer. Did you get anywhere with the fingerprints?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact. A thumb and a forefinger. Ken took them over to C3 for checking.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll chase it.’

  She disconnected and dialled the number for the fingerprint bureau. They were working on it now, they said, and would call her back if they found a match. Briony put the phone down and thought for a minute, then went to find Denis in the CID room. ‘How have you been going with that checklist I gave you?’ she asked him.

  He gave a toneless laugh. ‘Oh, we’ve had great fun, Aidan and me. Poking round the incinerators in this weather. I’ve got a list for you of the ones we’ve had a look at.’

  ‘Bring it in to my office. And ask Aidan to come as well. I want to talk to both of you.’

  Aidan Silvera had already impressed her as a smart operator. He was Jamaican and had made his mark at Notting Hill doing community liaison work with the Carnival Development Committee, until his chief super started backing the petition against it. Silvera was unhappy about the change in policing policy. He got on the wrong side of his superiors and they’d gone out of their way to encourage the transfer — but so had she. Aidan was exactly the kind of person she needed on the Chelsea team. He and Denis were an unlikely pairing, but they seemed to have taken a liking to each other.

  Denis dropped into the armchair beside the desk, causing an audible puff of air to escape from the vinyl-encased foam. He fished in his pocket and produced a replica of the little padlock, shiny and new, with two tinny little keys swinging from it. ‘Standard hardware stock. Twenty-five pence. Oh — ’ the hand went back in his pocket ‘ — and here’s the receipt.’

  She wagged a finger. ‘I dunno, Denis. Unlicensed expenditure ... ’ She took the lock from him. ‘What do I want this for?’

  ‘I thought you might want to check the mechanism.’

  ‘I might prefer to wear it round my neck.’

  Aidan appeared in the doorway and tapped to signal his presence. She beckoned him in. He handed her the checklist she’d asked for and, seeing there was only one spare chair, walked across and leant against the window ledge. Aidan didn’t move like a copper, she noticed. He had the loose, a-rhythmic walk of a jazz musician.

  She scanned the handwritten pages. The two men had spent nearly a whole day just going through the hospitals and checking on the incinerators — the Chelsea and West, Brompton, Marsden, Lister, and of course the Royal, which alone had four. She moved to the next page. ‘You checked the art schools? Why?’

  Aidan chipped in. ‘Kilns. There’s kilns in the basement area, but that’s supposed to be kept locked except when the students are workin in there and the students are supposed to be under supervision. When they’re usin dangerous equipment, that is.’

  ‘Their most dangerous equipment’s what’s inside their heads,’ said Denis. ‘Should have seen some of the things they got put up around the walls in that place. Make your hair curl.’ He tapped his balding scalp.

  ‘Which particular hair you talking about?’ purred Aidan. Briony cut across the banter. ‘Taking all this lot, where would you look first?’

  ‘Lots Road power station,’ said Denis, without missing a beat. ‘You see, there.’ He pointed to the notes she was holding. ‘There’s eight gas-fired boilers in the boiler house. Temperatures up to 500° F. The ash gets taken across to the west yard in hopper wagons, then it goes off in barges along the creek. I mean, if you disposed of a body in there, nobody would have a hope in hell of finding any trace of it.’

  ‘Including us.’ She leant back in her chair.

  Aidan was scratching the back of his head, with an odd sort of grin on his face. ‘If there’s no trace left, how come a half of a leg turns up in the river?’

  Good question. Before she could attempt an answer, the phone rang on Briony’s desk. It was Ken Keagan, the lab liaison sergeant.

  ‘I’m at C3, ma’am,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a match on those fingerprints. Seems we’re dealing with a well-known customer. Leonard Dignall, age twenty-four. Released from Brixton thirteen days ago, Saturday 12th of June. Done four years of a five-year stretch; out on good behaviour.’

  ‘So what was he in for?’

  ‘Part of the Daltry gang.’

  ‘And he only got five years? I thought they were all in for life.’

  ‘Accessory. Pleaded he was young and misled.’

  ‘Well if there’s any whiff of the Daltry gang this will be a case for C1. Scores being settled, most probably.’

  She put the phone down and reported the news. ‘You two better get over to Brixton, see if they can identify that shoe. It would at least tell us whether Leonard Dignall is the corpse or just the one who snapped the padlock.’ She picked up the replica and held it between finger and thumb. ‘I don’t imagine this is prison property, do you?’

  5

  Once they were outside the gallery and across the road, Sharon turned back, gave a shout of triumph and jumped in the air. ‘I got out!’

  Zig responded with a dry laugh. ‘Yeah? And what have you got into?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Sharon, ‘Anyway, I owe you a big favour.’

  ‘Well you might be paying me back. Friend of mine’s gone missing. I have to find him.’

  ‘So were you looking for him in there?’ Sharon turned her head back towards the Tate, half expecting to see Terry galloping down the steps after her.

  ‘He goes there sometimes.’ They were turning into the Vauxhall Bridge Road, out of sight of the gallery.

  ‘What does he look like?’

  Ignoring the question, Zig stuck her hand out for the bus that was approaching. ‘If anybody hassles you,’ she said, ‘give them a look but don’t start talking.’

  The bus was full, so they had to hang on the straps in the centre aisle. Zig rode out the lurches by bouncing on her toes like the conductors, but Sharon couldn’t get the knack of that and besides, she was losing her nerve a bit with all the seated passengers staring at her.

  Two women on the other side of the aisle started talking — keeping their voices up so the people around them could have the benefit of what they said.

  ‘D
isgusting, innit? Coupla little scrubbers.’

  ‘What’s that the other one’s wearing? Rubber corset or something. I wonder if she’s got the rubber pants to go with it. That’s what my grandmother used to wear for incontinence.’

  That got a bit of a laugh, didn’t it? So they turned the volume up another notch. ‘What do they think they look like? If any daughter of mine went out in that get-up I’d give her the strap.’

  ‘I should think so. They deserve to be tarred and feathered.’

  An old man sitting behind them leant forward, smiling all over his red little face.

  ‘Looks like they’ve had a go at the tarrin’ and the featherin’ already eh?’ he said. Now practically everybody on the bus was laughing, but when Sharon glanced at Zig she was just staring out the window as if she hadn’t heard any of it.

  A lot more people got on at Victoria Station which meant Sharon was pushed right down, away from the running commentary, and ended up packed in so tight nobody could see her anymore. She was only five foot two and, wedged between two men whose shoulders were at the level of her face, it was all she could do to get enough air. Only just in time, she realised Zig was getting off the bus.

  Sharon pushed towards the doorway, setting off more remarks as she passed the fat woman again.

  ‘Good riddance!’ said the woman, loud enough for the whole busload to hear her.

  ‘I’d rather be tarred and feathered than turn into an ugly old cow like you,’ Sharon snapped back.

  She had to run to catch up with Zig, who was already walking on without showing any sign of interest in whether Sharon was following her or not.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘King’s Road.’

  But this street wasn’t like the King’s Road Sharon had read about in magazines. The shops seemed to be either derelict or they were like funny little living rooms opening onto the street, with their names put up in rough painted signs: The Sentry Box, Acme Attractions, Granny Takes a Trip. Then there was a place with a sign in huge pink plastic letters that just said SEX. In the window were two headless white dummies dressed in nothing but studded leather harnesses. A group of men were hanging around on the street outside.

  ‘I’m not going in there,’ Sharon said. ‘I don’t go in those kind of places.’ That caused the men a great deal of amusement.

  ‘Don’t be a pillock,’ said Zig. ‘You got no idea what kind of place this is. Come on. It’s a shop — that’s all.’ She went in and, given the expressions on the men’s faces, Sharon felt her best option was to follow.

  Zig was leaning against the counter, talking to a woman with lots of blonde hair piled high on top of her head and thick black lines painted around her eyes.

  ‘No luck, then?’ asked the woman.

  They lowered their voices and went on talking. Sharon felt she was being deliberately ignored, so she started to look around, taking in the shiny pink walls, the old jukebox, the pink and black curtain at the back. It was rubber, she realised, like Zig’s vest, and the pink stuff covering the walls was rubber as well.

  She was suspicious. If this was a shop, it must be a knocking shop. She hadn’t left home with the idea of going to work in one of those. She turned to see what was on the row of hangers along the wall behind her and pulled one of them out to take a closer look at the garment. It was a sort of t-shirt, but in soft black rubber that wobbled as she lifted it up. She put it back in its place and pulled out another one. This was completely different — a dirty grey cotton with rips across the front and no sleeves, but there were built-up ridges around the armholes. When Sharon recognised what they were — bits of old bicycle tyres — she laughed spontaneously.

  ‘You want to try that on?’ The shop assistant with the beehive was standing behind her now, hands on hips, looking as if she thought she was the Queen of Sheba. Sharon turned over the price tag and stopped laughing.

  ‘She’s skinny flint,’ said Zig. ‘Just done a bunker, haven’t you Sharon? Cut off all her supply lines. But here, look. What about these?’ She ducked behind the counter and came up with a pair of black boots. ‘Going cheap.’

  Sharon looked them over. They were leather, with thick rubber soles and a set of straps and buckles instead of a zip down the side. Obviously somebody had worn them around a bit and one of the straps was broken, but apart from that they were still in pretty good nick. She put one of them on. It was a size too big, but that wouldn’t matter.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I like them. But even if they are cheap I can’t afford them … ’

  A man appeared from behind the curtains and created a distraction by going over to the jukebox and pushing coins into it. One of them must have got stuck, and he started poking around with the end of a wire coat hanger, trying to unblock it.

  It’s your money that’s the problem,’ said Zig. It’s bent.’

  ‘Have to make me own entertainment then, won’t I?’ He turned, leaning against the machine. Any special requests?’

  ‘You can’t sing, Flak,’ Zig retorted.

  ‘How would you know?’ The man had a plainer look than most of the other people around here, Sharon was thinking. His hair was cut close, it was a natural drab brown, and he wore a pair of old tramp’s trousers with string around the waist. His only embellishment was a big round badge on his vest with a peace sign and the words GIVE DEFF A CHANCE.

  ‘You couldn’t sing “My Old Man’s a Dustman”,’ said Zig. ‘Not for quids.’

  ‘You could pay me not to.’

  He was answered with a swivel of the hip, as the Queen stalked behind the counter and began sorting through the stuff in Zig’s bag. ‘My old man’s a dustman,’ the bloke chanted hoarsely.

  Zig turned on him. ‘Shut up, Flak!’

  Flak hooked his thumbs into the waist of his trousers, head on one side. ‘Got to pay me to do that.’ He started up the chant again, with increased volume.

  My old man’s a dustman

  He lives in a council flat

  All he ever does is work

  Cos he’s a stupid prat.’

  Sharon giggled but the other two showed no reaction at all. The Queen spread the remains of Sharon’s uniform on the counter in front of her. ‘I’ll swap you the boots for this,’ she said. ‘Provided you get him out of here.’

  ‘Done.’ Zig grabbed her bag, gathered up the boots and thrust them at Sharon. ‘You owe me back the two quid. We’ll settle it later. Come on.’

  The man stepped across and stood in their way. ‘My old man’s a dustman.’ He had shifted his voice to a piercing falsetto. ‘He lives in a garden shed. All he ever does is work because he is brain dead.’

  ‘Move it, Flak!’ Zig ordered, but she was evidently enjoying the performance.

  Flak stood over her, his face close to hers. ‘What would brain deft look like, d’ya reckon? On a mass scale? I mean, how would it manifest itself? Because, see, I’m wondering if that’s what’s happened out there.’ He gestured over his shoulder, through the glass panel in the door. ‘Those zombies marching up and down the street with their carrier bags. It’s all over really, isn’t it, when it comes down to that. All this shopping, It’s like dreaming from the graveyard. A substitute for genuine brain function.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Zig put a hand on his chest. ‘Well this shop’s different. Now let’s go.’ As she pushed him backwards, Sharon opened the door behind him so he fell off the doorstep and out into the street. But it was a clever pratfall, which he instantly turned into an acrobat’s roll, springing back to his feet.

  ‘I’ll get you back for that,’ he said, grinning.

  6

  Briony stopped outside the station at Sloane Square to buy a Private Eye for Gareth. He’d told her it was the only thing he was missing about England since he’d taken up the job in Paris at the beginning of the year. ‘Gee thanks,’ she’d said dryly — to which his response was, ‘You’re not English, Bry, you’re Welsh. And don’t you forget it.’

  There’d
been a fair amount of tension between them over his move to Paris, which coincided with her return to London. So they had to disband the flat they’d taken together in Oxford and separate all their things. It felt like a divorce before they’d really had a chance to settle into a rhythm of living together and they were both in their different ways resentful, though there was no point blaming each other: both of them, after all, had decided to put their careers first.

  Seeing the crush of people around the barriers to the underground, Briony diverted her course into a little cafe overlooking the square and sat down to read the Private Eye herself, over a cup of tea. As she laughed at the cartoons, she realised she was seeing them through Gareth’s eyes. She could hear his voice in her head, reading out some of the mock headlines. Laughter was what they shared: a sense of the craziness of life that lightened the burden of what she had to witness in the job. Laughter and music, which was an obsession with Gareth. He’d have taken a liking to Aidan, she thought. They would instantly be on the same wavelength.

  *

  Flak led the way back up the King’s Road to a pub called the Roebuck, where there was a crowd gathered round the entrance, waiting for opening time. Sharon recognised amongst them the girl in the tartan skirt she’d seen with Zig on the Embankment. She was called Annie and seemed friendly.

  When they got inside, Annie started giving her the lowdown on some of the other people there, whom she divided into trendies (beneath contempt), locals, punks (not always obvious, since some of them, like Flak, were very plain dressers), and showbiz people. Those were the easiest to pick. There was a tall man with wavy blond hair standing at the bar who seemed to be attracting a lot of attention, partly because he was very good looking, and partly because he was talking loudly and calling everybody ‘darling’. His drinking companion was the other extreme: fat and squat with a terrible old suit on. Annie said the fat man was a jazz singer who’d made heaps of records.

  ‘And see him,’ she said, directing Sharon’s attention to a guy at the other end of the bar, who had a swastika tattooed on one side of his head where he’d shaved the hair off. ‘He’s a singer too. That’s Kaiser.’ She said the name in a way that suggested it was some big deal. Kaiser was talking to a smiling man with a denim cap on his head and a pint glass in his hand — or rather the man was talking to him, because the guy with the swastika didn’t seem to be doing any of the talking himself. A couple of minutes later, Sharon saw Flak go past and hiss something into Kaiser’s ear, with a venomous look on his face. Kaiser responded with a V sign and walked straight out of the pub.