57
‘Good Bait’. Dexter Gordon on tenor saxophone, stooping and slurping through the tune like a man sidestepping mud; the piano, distant behind him, sounding the notes like someone in a school hall more used to accompanying morning assembly, the morning hymn.
Cordon drank coffee as he listened, polished his shoes.
After two more days in London, when Jack Kiley’s hospitality was stretched almost to breaking point, he felt, by his lugubrious presence, Cordon had returned to Cornwall and the confines of his sail loft, the expanse of views across the bay. Returned to his post, his job, the small team of neighbourhood officers greeting him as if he’d barely been away.
‘Nice trip?’
‘Safari, was it? See the world?’
Cordon had seen the world, all right. Part of it, blinkers removed.
After a week of doing precious little but check back through the files, reading over what he’d missed, he was summoned first to Penzance, then to the Cornwall and Isles of Scilly Commander in Truro. Polished buttons, gold braid. The Commander, not Cordon.
‘Bit of a cowboy, all of a sudden, that’s what I hear.’
Cordon said nothing, read the commendations framed behind the Commander’s desk.
‘Letter here from someone called Frost, Serious Organised Crime Agency, gist of it seems to be you’ve been planting your size twelves where they’re not wanted, messing around with the big boys, organised crime. Suggests some kind of review, tighten the reins, a watching eye.’
‘Yes, sir.’
What else was he supposed to say?
‘What was it then, going off like that? Some kind of midlife crisis? Most people go out and buy a flash car they can’t afford, have an affair, a bit over the side. That what it was? A woman? Some woman involved?’
A slow shake of the head, knowing, resigned.
‘Christ, Cordon, I always had you down as someone, push came to bloody shove, could be relied upon. Bit of a barrack-room lawyer once in a while, but basically sensible. Know your own limitations.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You realise I could have your guts for garters over this. Disciplined and suspended and, most likely, cashiered out without as much as a farewell note?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any good reason I shouldn’t?’
‘No, sir. Not really.’
‘You stupid bastard!’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Commander gave Frost’s letter a second, cursory, glance. ‘How many years have you got in now?’
‘Twenty-five, sir.’
‘Pension in five more.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Want to throw that all away?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Good. Out of your system then, is it? Back down to earth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Take one more liberty, make one more false move, and I’ll have you hanging off the fucking yardarm, understood?’
It was understood.
Ten minutes more, a few niceties, a final final warning, and he was back out on the street. Tregolls Road. Time enough, before heading back, to nip down to Lemon Quay and look through the jazz section at HMV.
The Commander hadn’t needed to tell him, he’d been a bloody fool about that too.
Three days later, a card came from his son. Australia. A picture of what was it? A koala? He could at least have managed a landmark somewhere, a view of the Harbour Bridge, was that too much to ask?
Too late? Too late for whom? Or what?
And all — who was the all? And settled? Settled where? His son’s life remained largely a mystery, one he gave little or no sign of wishing Cordon to solve.
Cordon scrutinised the postmark, blurred by the rain and disappearing off the edge. Melbourne, is that what it said? He hadn’t known there was a plan to move. A new job, is that what it was? And how should he have known? Another card, perhaps? Some letter that had not been received.
Cordon propped the card up against one of the speakers.
Tried to imagine himself hunkered down on a flight more than halfway across the world and failed.
Work to be done, meanwhile. The theft of a camera from a Japanese tourist at Land’s End. A sighting, near St Just, of a thirty-eight-year-old man wanted in connection with a recall to prison. Theft of lobster pots at Portheras Cove.
He was only half listening that evening, a brief summary of the news. A police operation in London and the South-East involving the Serious and Organised Crime Agency and units from the Metropolitan Police. Angling the television screen round from the wall, he found Channel 4, Jon Snow. Some library footage of officers in full gear, flashing lights, speeding vans. A sudden edit, change of scene. ‘And here,’ Snow’s voice, ‘is the private airfield within sight of the Channel, from which this man, Anton Kosach, wanted for questioning in relation to charges of money laundering on a vast scale, is said to have, literally, taken flight and disappeared.’
The image of Kosach on the screen was clear, unmistakable.
Cordon’s first instinct, phone Letitia.
What for? Why? What would he say?
The only number he had, an old mobile. Out of commission when he tried it. No longer operational.
Kosach gone, so what? Done a bunk, leaving, presumably, Letitia and the boy. Nothing on the news to say otherwise. After fully fifteen minutes of telling himself there was little point, he rang Kiley.
‘Jack, I don’t suppose you’ve been watching the news?’
Kiley met him off the Paddington train.
‘Thought I’d bloody seen the last of you.’
Cordon gave a helpless shrug.
‘Never mind pissing off the few good contacts in the force I’ve got left, wheedling out answers to your bloody questions.’
‘Okay, Jack. I’m sorry, okay?’
Kiley shook his head.
‘So,’ Cordon said, ‘what do we know?’
‘Best I can tell, she was taken in for questioning. Kept overnight. What did she know about Kosach? Possible whereabouts, contacts, numbers, anything that might help trace where he’d gone. Disclaimed all knowledge, apparently, same with questions about his business, how he made his money. Didn’t know a thing. Spending the stuff, that was all she’d been interested in. That and bringing up his son.’
‘She’s not been arrested?’
‘Not up to yet. Volunteered what information she could.’
