Sanderson.
DCI Sanderson was standing in the door; next to him was a policeman with chest armour. The door had been kicked open. The chest-armoured cop had a gun.
'Shot, Richman.'
'Sir.'
Sanderson reached a hand down and pulled the journalist to his feet. But when he stood up he felt his knees go, trembling and buckling with the fear and the shock; he crumpled to the floor again. He was staring at Tomasky's body. The head had been blown apart, by a sidelong shot, at close range. The skull was in pieces. Actual pieces scattered across the hallway.
Then he sensed the wetness on his face. Smeary wetness. He had Tomasky's blood and maybe his brains on his face. His throat tightened with nausea as he stood; without a word to the policemen he hurled himself upstairs to the bathroom, where he averted himself from the mirror: he didn't want to see himself covered with brains and blood. Splashing water and more water on his face, he used a box of tissues, and half a bottle of handsoap, and finally he rinsed and nearly gagged, and rinsed again.
Now he checked the mirror. His face was clean. But there was something stuck in his cheek, lodged in its own little wound. Like a small piece of glass, burrowed in his flesh. Leaning close to the mirror he plucked the thing from his cheek.
It was one of Tomasky's teeth.
'League of Polish Families.'
The voice was familiar. DCI Sanderson was standing right behind, at the hallway door.
'What?'
'Tomasky. We've been watching the bastard for a while. Sorry it got that close. We've been monitoring his calls — but he slipped out of the building — '
'You — '
'Sorry, mate. Had to use lethal force. Waited too long — '
Simon's hands were still trembling with fear. He extended one into the air, experimentally. Watched it shaking. He grabbed a towel and dried his face. Trying to be calm and manly. Largely failing.
'Why did you suspect him?'
Sanderson offered a sad, sympathetic smile.
'Odd little things. The knotting. Remember that?'
'Yes.'
'You found out it was a witch torture, in an hour. Tomasky didn't. I put him on the job before you, and he turned up nothing like that. Yet he was a smart copper. That didn't quite…fit.' The DCI pointed at Simon's face. 'You're still bleeding.'
He switched his attention to the mirror once more. The wound where the tooth had impacted was indeed bleeding. But not badly. Rifling the bathroom cabinet, he found some cotton wool. He swabbed himself with water, then rinsed the woollen bud. White wool, red wool, clear water, stained water. Blood in the water. Sanderson carried on talking.
'When I noted that — the knotting, I mean — that's when I took an interest. I remembered he was keen to be assigned to this case in the first place. Very very keen. And then we found he was taking certain calls that were meant for me, and not telling me, like the call from Edith Tait. And he wasn't following up other leads, either. So we looked into his background…'
The journalist gestured at Sanderson. He wanted to get out of the bathroom. He wanted to get out of the house. He could hear voices downstairs. More policemen, presumably. An ambulance outside, come to take the body away.
They stepped out onto the landing and leaned over the banister, looking down at the hall. The body was still lying there: with paramedics bustling around. Big splashes of blood, like bright red paint, were flung across the polished wooden floor. That wooden floor was Suzie's pride and joy. Simon wondered, incongruously, how angry she would be: about her floor.
'You said about his background?'
'Yeah.' Sanderson nodded. 'Likesay, Polish. Came here with his family about ten years ago. A cleanskin. No record of anything suspicious, even trained as a priest. Or monk. But his dad was big in the League of Polish Families. And his brother worked for Radio Maryja.'
'They are?'
'Hard right nationalist groups, ultra Catholic political parties. Linked to the Front National in France and various Catholic sects, like Pope Pius the Tenth. Lots of them perfectly legitimate but with…radical right agendas. At the edges anyway.'
'So he was a Nazi?'
'Nah. These outfits, from what we can tell, are not really Nazi. More hearth and home. The blessed Virgin Mary and a nice big army. They don't really go in for kicking shit out of black people. Or killing Anglo-Irish journalists. Not normally anyway.'
'I don't understand it.'
'Nor do I, mate, nor do I.' He squinted Simon's way, assessingly. 'But there may be some link…you know, your witch theory. It alerted us. We're still checking Tomasky out. He was a passionate churchgoer. Witches and churches, churches and witches? Who knows.'
'So you listened in on the phone call I made to him?'
'We did,' Sanderson answered. 'He must have thought you were onto something, when you rang him, something he wanted hidden. So his only choice was to take you out.'
'The Cagots?'
'Yup. The gist of your call with Tomasky. And these poor bastards in France? Very interesting. What the fuck is all this about?'
'Sorry?'
The DCI looked momentarily sober, verging on reflective. Even maudlin. 'Remember what I said way back? How right I was.'
'What?'
'This isn't any old fish and chip job, Quinn, this isn't a fish and chip job. This is something else. Who the heck knows…' His vigour returned. 'OK. Let's get sorted. Nuff rabbiting. Come on, we need to debrief you, Quinn. Then, I am afraid — '
'What — ?'
'We're gonna assign you protection. Just for the while. And your close family.'
They descended the rest of the stairs. Past the body of Tomasky. Tip toeing through the bloodsplashes, apologizing to the paramedics and SOC photographers. The grey drizzly air of late September was enlivening. The sun was battling to be seen through the clouds.
Sanderson opened a car door for Simon, who climbed in. Sanderson sat alongside, in the back. The car began the long journey to New Scotland Yard. Finchley, Hampstead, Belsize Park.
'And,' Sanderson said, 'we will protect your family as well. Your mum and dad, Conor and Suzie will be with you…'
'You're putting armed guards on my mother and father?'
Sanderson confirmed this with a curt 'Yep', then he leaned and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'Cummings, this traffic is a bitch. Try St John's Wood?'
'Right you are, sir.'
He turned back to Simon. 'So that's it, wife and kid, mum and dad, there's no one else they can use. Right?'
The journalist nodded, then turned and stared out of the police car window, at the ordinariness of London. Red car yellow car white lorry. Pushchairs. Supermarkets. Bus stops. A knife three millimetres from his eye, a man bellowing with rage, forcing the knife down.
He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to rub away the horror.
'You will feel weird for a time,' Sanderson said, quite gently. 'I'm afraid you better get used to it.'
'Post-traumatic stress?'
