‘Worse than murder?’ I said, as soon as felt like I could muster a detached, sardonic tone again.
Matt turned to look at me, a strained and terrible grin on his face as tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Worse than murdering Kenny? Yes. Oh yes. A lot worse than that. God help me, Fix. Oh God help me.’ He raised his hands to his face as though he was going to bury them in it, but instead he just clamped them on either side of his forehead and held them there, rocking slightly backwards and forwards in an autistic pantomime of grief and pain.
This time I did throw my arms around him, if only to stop that scary display. Violent shudders were running through him like peristaltic waves.
‘It will be all right,’ I said again, between my teeth. ‘But you’ve got to trust me, Matt. You think the room is bugged? They don’t do that, because it would shoot the case down as soon as they tried to use it in evidence. And Coldwood wouldn’t pull that shit on me in any case. What is it you think you’ve done?’
‘I can’t–’ Matt moaned. He lowered his head onto my shoulder, not for comfort but as though he was about to faint and couldn’t hold it upright any more. ‘I just — what I’ve done is–’
He didn’t seem able to make it any further. The next word couldn’t be ‘unforgivable’ of course: all sins can be forgiven if they’re truly repented of, and it’s never too late.
Matt was far from comfort right then: he was host to some terrible secret that was ricocheting around inside him like a bullet, breaking everything it touched.
‘Tell me,’ I said again. But if there’d ever been a moment when he was going to do that, it seemed to have passed. He pulled himself away from me, raised up his hands to ward me off.
‘Don’t let Mum know,’ he choked out. ‘Don’t let anyone know.’
I threw out my hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘That a Roman Catholic priest has been arrested for killing someone with a straight-edged razor? Matt, it’s going to come out. It can’t be hidden. Gary may be able to run a bit of interference for us, but as soon as you show up on a court docket you’re front-page news. The only way you can help yourself is to tell me the truth.’
He was still crying, but the shuddering had stopped now: he was visibly getting himself under control, one piece at a time.
‘No,’ he said at last.
‘Why?’ I yelled, beyond all patience. ‘Even if you’re right — even if what you’ve done
Matt didn’t seem to have heard me. He went back to his chair and sat down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His expression had come back to something like calm, although it was a calm of balanced forces: the stillness of a man whose limbs are tied to horses pulling in opposite directions.
‘Don’t let her come here,’ he said, and I guessed he was talking about Mum.
‘I’m not making you any promises,’ I said grimly. ‘Not unless you let me in on this. What did Kenny want with you, Matt? And what did you want with him? What’s this really about? Gwillam? Did Gwillam set this up?’
‘I’m not with Gwillam,’ Matt muttered, and I could see from his face that he was telling the truth. ‘They approached me once. That’s how I knew Feld, and how I was able to call him off when he attacked you. But the Anathemata only wanted me because of my name. Your name. They thought I might have the same — skills — that you have. When they found out that wasn’t the case, they lost interest. This was years ago. I haven’t seen any of those people since.’
‘Then why—?’ I began, but Matt made a brusque gesture and cut across me.
‘No more questions, Felix. I appreciate you coming here. I — was glad to see your face, and you’ve given me strength to bear this. But you can’t help me now.’
He put the matter beyond debate by banging on the glass and summoning PC Dennison to take him back to his cell. Matt went without looking at me again, or saying goodbye. I don’t think he trusted himself to do either of those things with dignity.
Coldwood waited until Dennison was clear and then let himself back into the room.
‘How did that go?’ he asked.
‘Like a bastard picnic, Gary. Why wouldn’t it?’
He blew out his cheeks, shrugged. ‘His faith will be a comfort to him. And believe it or not, he does have a guardian angel.’
‘Meaning you?’
‘He lamped a copper. Priest or no priest, he would have had it a lot harder if I hadn’t put the
He was right. I knew that. But I still couldn’t bring myself to thank him right then. ‘Drop you anywhere?’ he asked as we walked together up the badly lit stairs to the ground floor and the reception area.
‘I’ll walk,’ I said. Just bravado, of course, but I didn’t feel like taking Gary’s charity right then.
‘I’m not your enemy, Fix,’ he told me.
‘You said.’
‘And I’m still here if you need anything I’m in a position to give.’
I walked out into the night without bothering to answer.
There was no point going back to the hospital. I’d left a few bits and pieces there, but nothing I couldn’t pick up again on the move. My coat was on my back and my whistle was in my coat. The rest was just details, really. I knew where I had to go, and more or less what I’d do when I got there.
I took a cab back to Pen’s, found her still out on the town, so I borrowed an overnight bag from her wardrobe and left her a note. But while I was writing it, I thought of another piece of unfinished business that was hanging over me. And since I didn’t know how long I’d be away for, now seemed like the best — if not the only — time to do it.
I went down to the kitchen and found Pen’s car keys where she always left them, in the bowl of dusty imitation fruit on top of the Welsh dresser. Ten minutes later I was driving around the North Circular towards Wembley.
I called Juliet while I was en route to tell her where we were going, and who we’d see when we got there. She didn’t ask for any further details. ‘I’ll be ready,’ was all she said.
Juliet and Susan live in a minuscule terraced house in Royal Oak that had formerly belonged to Susan’s mother. It had been a tip in old Mrs Book’s day, but they’ve done it up really nicely now — although I suspect, without any evidence beyond the obvious, that all the nesting instincts are on Susan’s side. It’s hard to imagine Juliet with a paint roller in her hand. Someone’s still-beating heart is more her speed.
When I knocked on the door, Susan Book answered. Her face was a little troubled.
‘Jules is just coming, Felix,’ she said. ‘But are you sure you need her for this? It’s very late.’
I reflected for a moment on the implications of this: that succubi tend to prefer early bedtimes, possibly with a mug of cocoa, and might get peaky and over-tired if they stayed up past midnight. Of course, being the person who shared Juliet’s bed was bound to give you very strong opinions about how much time she spent in it.
‘It was kind of her call, Sue,’ I said. ‘I’m visiting an old acquaintance, and Juliet told me a while back that she wanted in.’
Susan still didn’t look altogether chipper about the whole deal, which made me wonder if she’d already quizzed Juliet about it and failed to get a straight answer.
‘It shouldn’t take us long,’ I promised. ‘I just want to deliver a message.’
Susan looked at me doubtfully. ‘But who to?’ she demanded.
‘Someone who isn’t going to want to sit still and listen. But there shouldn’t be any trouble. The someone in question won’t make too many waves because this will be at his own place, where he’s got to worry about keeping up appearances.’
‘I’m here,’ Juliet said, walking down the stairs at that exact moment. I was relieved, because any further questions were neatly forestalled.
Susan stood aside to let Juliet walk on by. A glance passed between them.
‘I’ll just be an hour,’ Juliet said. ‘Perhaps an hour and a half. If you’re still awake when I get back, I’ll massage your back.’
A series of mostly pornographic images flashed on my inner eye, but I strove manfully to censor them for
