McEnery looked up from her desk as Mo walked into the station.
‘Hello, Boss,’ she said, ‘sorry to drag you from your sickbed.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Mo, ‘just a belly bug. Either that or my Mum’s baking. Had me up half the night. It’s worn off now. How’s our friend?’
‘He came round late last night. Medical have given him ten stitches across the scalp. No fracture, which is pretty amazing. They didn’t need to keep him in another night, although there seems to be some mild amnesia. They brought him in here after lunch. He’s in number five.’
‘What kind of amnesia?’
‘Can’t remember name, address or family.’
‘Convenient for them.’
‘Doctor Stuart said it was possibly some kind of compensation – that he might be protecting himself from the shock.’
‘Has Timson or anyone been in questioning him?’
‘No-one. He’s been asleep, but he rallied about an hour ago, when I took him some tea, so I thought it best to ring you and let you talk to him first.’
‘Good girl. I’ll go in now.’
‘It’s a bit embarrassing, really.’
‘What is?’
‘Well. I dunno. The way it’s all turned out, with chance playing into our hands.’
‘Never mind.’ Mo’s manner had hardened. ‘We’ve got him – that’s the main thing.’
McEnery raised an eyebrow and passed her the keys from a board that hung beneath the desk.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘a letter came for you this morning.’ She proffered the envelope. Mo took it, then walked aside and opened it. She recognized the rough handwriting at once.
From: The Squat, Pollock House, 123, Jackson Road, London NW1 (Behind Marylebone shunting yard). Forgive hasty departure and nasty message. This little pig says she’s sorry. Come and say it’s all right, tonight (Thursday) at tennish. Your loving Sister.
‘Happy Birthday late,’ the back said.
Feeling a rush of blood to her face, Mo folded the note as quickly as she had opened it and, thrusting it into her pocket, walked downstairs to the basement. She let herself into the corridor of the detention area and leant against the cold bricks for a few seconds to check her breathing. The surroundings soon killed her smile for her.
The detention area had recently been refurbished and was clean and impersonal as a hospital. The cells upset her. Something sinister about the way each had the essentials – bed, light, toilet and basin – and yet all adapted for the ‘safety’ of both prisoner and keeper. The toilet had no seat, its tank was inside the wall and the flush was automatic. The radiator was boxed away beneath the built-in bed and automatic. The table and chair were fixed to the floor. The light was built into the ceiling and operated from outside. The first time Mo had seen inside a new cell, she’d thought immediately of a story she’d read as a kid where a boy climbed through his washbasin mirror and found a world similar to his own in general respects, yet eerily different in detail.
Mo stopped outside the fifth door, pressed a button and spoke into a grille in the wall when a green light shone.
‘Barry? Yeah, I’m going into number five now. If I’m not out in ten minutes, come and find me, there’s a love.’ She unlocked the door and went in.
He lay on the bed staring up at the low ceiling. They’d given him a shave in Medical, on the scalp as well as the face, so they could put in the stitches. As Mo sat down in the chair, he turned his head and stared at her.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Faithe. How’s the head?’
‘How can I tell when there isn’t a mirror?’
The voice was educated, as she’d expected. It was also dead and tired.
‘How does it feel?’
‘How would you expect?’
‘Point taken. I’m feeling rotten too, so I won’t keep you long. Just a few questions. What can you tell me about Marina Stazinopolos, Papas Mercouri, Katya Garcia, Seamus O’Leary and Millicent Du Cann?’
He swung himself around into a sitting position and stared back at her.
‘Apart from the fact that they’re all Catholic, they’re a bunch of fakes. Rather, they are; Du Cann was – being dead.’
‘How d’you mean “fakes”?’
‘They make a fortune telling fortunes and telling fortunes is one of the oldest con-tricks in the history of mankind.’
‘You don’t believe in it?’
‘Correct.’
‘Sensible fella. Then why did you break into each of these persons’ flats and steal or destroy items connected with their work?’
‘Not because I believed.’
‘So you admit you committed each burglary?’
‘It would be a lie to deny it.’
‘You’d be prepared to admit to each charge of burglary in court?’
‘Of course.’
‘What do you know about the warehouses in Sandridge Road, Finchley?’
‘I committed an act of arson in one a couple of nights ago, as I recall, which resulted in an accidental death.’
‘Why haven’t you asked for a lawyer yet?’
‘Because my case is plainly indefensible.’
‘Did you break into each property because you had some kind of a grudge against these people? Did you disapprove of them as “fakes”?’
‘I disapproved of them, but my actions bore no taint of personal malice or moral judgement.’ He winced minutely and passed a hand across the stripe of shaven, tapestried scalp.
‘Can you take this, or shall I came back later?’
‘No. Just a twinge. I won’t bore you with details of my work. Suffice it to say that I am, I was, an academic in a field situated somewhere between theology and history. In the course of researching my next book – research that started, let me see, some five or six months ago – I made an alarming discovery. Doubtless this’ll seem unlikely to you. It did to me at the time …’ He stopped suddenly.
‘Go on.’
‘There’s no point in my telling you all this. I’ve admitted guilt. Further details would be irrelevant.’
‘Detection’s over now. This is on private time. You’ve got me interested.’
‘That wasn’t detection, it was a bloody catechism.’
‘You what?’
‘Never mind.’ He smiled for a second and sighed. As he continued, tears began to brim in his eyes and run down his cheeks. He didn’t seem to notice. Mo had seen many a grown man cry in this room. It seemed to be a result of relaxing. ‘I was following up some ideas a colleague of mine had had concerning the powers of mass-hypnosis.’
‘Yeah. I saw the book on your desk.’
‘You’ve been to my house already?’
‘Yes.’
‘How amusing.’
‘Went there on Thursday morning.’
‘Yeah.’ She opened her notebook and found the word. ‘What does “psychosomatic” mean, then?’
‘Induced by the power of mind. I was delving into the history of the apocalypse concept, and various men’s views of how the world would end. Then I got side-tracked, at least, it seemed like a side-track at the time, into the realms of prediction by astrology, the Tarot and so forth. It had struck me that, given the idea that something must happen, and given the will – possibly subconscious – for it to take place, the human mind could order its own destiny to a remarkable extent. My colleague had already applied this theory to political genius and the way in which a will to dominate can rise so effortlessly to domination.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I simply applied this concept on a racial scale to prophecy, and deduced that, theoretically, the human race could will itself to an end simply by a preoccupation with the Apocalypse, with a sense of ending. The horror started when I visited a cross-section of the “profession” or read their books. By a disgusting coincidence, patterns of upheaval, an immense change, such as could be taken to refer to the end of the world were lined up right the way across the board as it were. The palmists don’t have much to do with the Jehovah’s Witnesses, who in turn don’t have much traffic with the Tarot readers or the astrologers, but in visiting such people and in doing some supportive “prediction” of my own by their techniques, I saw …’ He broke off, startled by the realization that he was weeping. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, in the same dead voice that he had used all along, and wiped his face and eyes with a handkerchief. When he looked up from doing this his face was quite calm.
Mo’s first impulse was to laugh. There had been such a promising build-up, starting with the discovery of that fat Greek baggage strapped to her chair, that the final motive rang out stupidly in the blankness of the cell. There was something in his dignity that killed the impulse however, and she found herself gazing back in sincere, nervous curiosity, and asking,
‘When’s it going to happen, then?’
‘Tonight. In a few hours. Now I am very tired. Do you think I might …?’ He lay back on the bed and returned to his staring at the ceiling. There was a knock at the door.
‘Boss?’
‘It’s OK, Barry. Nearly through, thanks.’ She slid a hand into her pocket and felt Hope’s letter. ‘That’s why you don’t care, isn’t it?’ she went on. She thought of the huge house in that row of huge houses in NW3, and of the dolly-bird’s photo. He stared at the ceiling.
‘That’s right,’ he said.
Mo stood and walked over to the bed. When he snatched her hand she didn’t flinch. He was helpless. She could break his arm if he tried anything. He snatched her hand and pulled her palm against his cheek. His face was twisted with sobs. His stringy body shook. The hand that wasn’t holding hers clenched and writhed at his side. She sat on the bench beside him, watching his tortured features, letting him press her hand. His face was all bone. He was racked with one last spasm. A faint, wet sighing issued from the back of his throat. The silent wail past, she laid a hand, gentle, on his shoulder.
‘Here,’ she asked, ‘is there anything you want?’
He controlled himself with a deep intake of breath. ‘Can I trust you?’ he managed.
‘I’m all you’ve got. They don’t listen in.’
‘There were several things of mine in my coat and trouser pockets. When I arrived here, that girl with the dreadful hair locked them up somewhere just outside the door. I was pretending to be asleep; I heard everything.’
‘Well?’ asked Mo, with a ghost of a smile.
‘There’s a letter from my wife with some pills in it. Could you bring it to me?’
Mo stared for a while at the empty man who stared at the ceiling, and breathed, ‘Yeah. You’ve earned it.’
She drew her hand from his grasp, and stood. She let herself into the corridor. She glanced along its length. No-one to be seen. She unlocked the small cupboard set into the wall beside the cell door. It said ‘FIVE’ on it. The coat dangled from a hook and the contents of its pockets were set out on a shelf. Mo made a quick mental note of what was there, then snatched the envelope and locked the door. He didn’t move as she set them on the bed beside his head, but he thanked her and said that he didn’t feel like any supper.
‘That’s all right, my lovely. ‘Course you don’t. We won’t disturb you till the morning.’ She left quietly and locked him in. Outside she pressed the button and spoke into the grille.
‘Barry? Mo. I’ve finished in there now. While I remember, he’s feeling pretty terrible and he doesn’t want anything else tonight so you can tell Bella to leave him off her tea list, OK?’
She walked back to the office, sat at her desk, and quickly typed out a list of the personal belongings, save the letter and pills. Then she took it next door. McEnery was sipping a cup of tea.
‘Tea. Yes, please.’
‘OK, Boss,’ said McEnery.
‘Bad girl, by the way.’
‘What have I done now?’
‘Forgot to make a check-list didn’t we?’ She waved the piece of paper. ‘Most unlike you.’
‘Oh Christ! I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. Lucky I thought to check. I’ve done one here, but file it away will you, and put a copy of it back inside his locker when you’ve a second?’