‘American woman,’ Marcus said. ‘This American woman rang me about half an hour ago. One of these who talks so fast you’re lucky if you can answer one question in three. Trying to find her sister, last heard of working at Falconer’s place. I met the girl, actually. Wanted to know about the Knoll. Told her about Annie.’
‘Oh, aye?’ If I can bring the High Knoll sunrise to Elham General, why can’t Mrs Willis fetch it to the bottom of the hill?
‘And, of course, she was involved in Falconer’s stupid dream survey and so she wanted to sleep at the Knoll, and I said, you know, best of luck but don’t expect a holy miracle. Now the girl’s written to her sister describing this horrific nightmare and … Oh, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve had a bellyful today. She told me she saw a black light over the Knoll.’
‘Americans are impressionable people, Marcus.’
‘No … Mrs Willis!’
‘A what?’
‘A black light. Over the Knoll.’
Andy shivered, clutching the housecoat to her throat.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Marcus said. ‘I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘OK, look. I’m coming down.’
‘You?’
‘I owe her everything, Marcus. I’ll talk to the hospital. I’ll get time off. I’ll be there tonight, all right?’
‘That’s bloody good of you, Anderson.’
‘Jesus God, it’s the least-A black light? ‘
‘I don’t know what she meant either,’ Marcus said. ‘But it does have an ominous ring of death to it, doesn’t it?’
XI
Riggs, the boss man, turned slowly and looked into space for a moment before inclining his head. He smiled with all the warmth of a polecat greeting a rabbit.
‘This is my dad, sir,’ Maiden said. ‘Norman.’
Riggs had a thinner man’s face. An oddly sensitive face with fine translucent skin; you could see tiny veins underneath, like the filaments in a light bulb. There was something extraterrestrial about Riggs; you always thought he could read your thoughts, and this struck you anew every time you saw him.
‘Honoured to meet you, sir.’ Norman hung around, like someone waiting to be called into the witness box. ‘Reading about you the other week. Now what did I read?’ He pretended to think for a second or two. ‘Jarvis. You nailed Terry Jarvis. I nicked his dad, must’ve been four times. John Karl Jarvis. GBH mostly. Aggravated burglary, once. By, that were a hard bugger …’
‘Family trait, Mr Maiden. Sit down. I’ll fetch another chair.’
‘I’ll get it, sir,’ Norman said, and he did.
Riggs sat. His narrow, bony face smiling at Norman with its full, genial mouth while its eyes remained cool, occasionally seeking out Norman’s boy.
Who stayed glazed, focused on nothing, smiling inanely from his bed. Playing damaged. Brain in dry dock. Attention-span of a goldfish.
‘You’re looking a bit blurred, Bobby,’ Riggs said. ‘You were lucky.’
‘So they tell me, sir.’
‘Oh, before I forget … Roger Gibbs, managing editor of the Messenger group, was asking me about a picture of you, recovering as it were. Perhaps the two of us together. I wasn’t too happy. Co-operate with the local press whenever you can, always been my motto as you know. But in this case, a wounded hero picture …’ Riggs shrugged. Well … up to you, Bobby.’
It was also, when you were in his presence, impossible to believe Riggs was bent. He always looked fully at you; he was always calm. One day soon, Riggs would be promoted and leave Elham. Within three years, he’d be an ACC, maybe even a chief constable, living a chief constable’s lifestyle and all of it paid for. A cottage here, a villa there and Tony Parker safely retired.
Face to face with Riggs, you knew he was never going to be nailed. He was direct, ruthless, efficient, had important friends; but he was also, oddly, a copper’s copper. Got results but never pinched the credit; the lads liked working for him. Nobody Maiden knew would have wanted Riggs to go down.
‘I was suggesting, sir,’ Norman said, ‘that he should make a list of all the toerags who had it in for him.’
‘Oh.’ Riggs lifted an eyebrow. ‘You think it was like that, do you, Mr Maiden?’
‘Copper gets knocked over, it’s not usually a drink-driver, sir.’
‘Not a drink-driver.’ Riggs pinched his nose. ‘What do you think about that, Bobby?’
‘I wouldn’t know, boss. Would I?’
‘Obviously not. You don’t remember anything, Mike Beattie tells me. Unless something’s come through.’
‘No. Not a thing.’
‘How long before you’re out?’
‘Few days.’
‘Some nerve damage, they’re saying. You may be walking around in a bit of a fog for a while.’
‘Should sort itself out, boss.’
‘Have to see, won’t we, Bobby?’
Norman looked at his watch. Maiden flashed him an imploring glance. Shit, Dad, don’t walk out on me. Whatever this bastard’s really come to say, I don’t want to hear it.
‘By heck,’ Norman said. ‘It’s nearly five o’clock. Be missing me train.’
Surprisingly, Riggs stood up. ‘Yes, I have an appointment, too. Speaking engagement.’ He made a wry face. ‘Magistrates’ Association annual dinner. Just wanted to make sure the lad was all right before I went home. Can I give you a lift, Mr Maiden?’
‘Very kind of you, sir, but I like to walk.’ Patting his stomach. ‘Don’t let retirement get the better of me.’
‘That’s the spirit. Well, I’ll see you again, Bobby.’
‘Thanks for looking in,’ said Maiden.
Watching the two of them, strolling companionably down the ward, smiling at other patients. The visit over almost before it had started.
What’s he going to do to me?
Coincidence.
Riggs and Maiden had arrived in Elham the very same week, Maiden direct from the Met, Riggs after four months in Kent, taking over from a DCI who was facing allegations of corruption. (Yes, he was that hard-faced.) Never thought they’d see each other again after the Met, but here they were.
Suspicions.
Once, when Riggs was a DI, he’d sought DS Maiden’s co-operation in fitting up this troublesome Animal Rights woman for an amateur parcel-bomb at a butcher’s shop in Fulham. Naturally, if the fit-up had gone ahead, it would have been entirely down to Maiden — Riggs merely turning a blind eye; this was how it worked.
Or — to be honest — how Maiden presumed it still worked. He’d never stopped watching Riggs, and he hadn’t got a thing that was rock-solid. Just the names of four small-timers fitted up by Parker’s crew, nicked by Riggs. Three of them figured it was safer to let it go, do their eighteen months, flit to some safer town on release. The other was Dean Clutton who’d topped himself on remand.
‘You stupid little twat!’
Maiden lurched; his eyes sprang open.
Norman Plod’s familiar, leathery breath on his face. Norman Plod hissing in his ear.
‘Dad? What about your train?’
‘Fuck the train.’
Maiden struggled to sit up, but Norman was leaning over him as if he’d just brought him down after a chase.
‘No bloody wonder you don’t remember owt.’ Voice loaded with contempt.
‘What did he say to you, Dad?’
‘Drink-driver. Drunk driver? Put me bloody size nines in it that time, didn’t I? Heh. Drunk bloody pedestrian, more like.’
‘Oh shit,’ Maiden said.
‘A good man, is Mr Riggs. A damn good senior officer. Better than you deserve. Telling me on the quiet. Copper to copper. Save me any more embarrassment.’
‘All right,’ Maiden said, ‘I’d had a few drinks.’
‘A few drinks. You bloody little toerag. Five Scotches and four pints. You were lucky you could bloody stand up.’
‘That’s not quite true, Dad. No beers.’
Norman looked down on him, breathing through his teeth. ‘You were in a club called the Saint Moritz, that right?’