Death Angels

34

“WE DON’T DO ANYTHlNG FOR BLACK PEOPLE ANYMORE,” ADDAE Sawyerr said. “All the employment subsidies are gone.”

Sawyerr ran a consulting firm from an office above the Brixton Road Pizza Hut, where Winter had met him. He’d invited Winter upstairs to chat.

“But blacks aren’t the only ones who live here,” Winter said.

“We’re in the majority.” Sawyerr had come to London from Ghana many years earlier. “But whites hang around the street corners too.”

“You mentioned that downstairs.”

“I can see them from this window. Come and look.”

Winter went and stood beside him. Sawyerr was on his toes and Winter had to crouch down.

“There are always a few of them outside Red Records, right across the street,” Sawyerr said. “It’s one of the new places.”

“I’m planning to go there next.”

“They won’t tell you anything in there.”

“Then I’ll just have to listen to some jazz.”

“Nobody reveals anything in Brixton.”

“People are afraid everywhere.”

“Maybe so.”

“Show me somebody who has the guts to tell you what they know,” Winter said.

Sawyerr shrugged. He was talking about his world, in his way. “There’s terrific potential around here, with all the knowledge and skills people have, but little of it ever gets used. This is Europe ’s biggest center for black culture. We should be bringing others here to see and experience it.”

Winter said good-bye and walked down the creaky steps. The smell of strong spices and disinfectants was everywhere. Lysol, Winter thought.

Earlier, he had wandered among the arcades in the food market, the largest in Europe for Africans and Caribbeans. The odor of animal flesh filled his nostrils; the floor was greasy and slippery with blood and guts. This is the real soul food, he thought: cow’s feet, goat’s and pig’s intestines, hairy clumps of bull’s testicles, mangoes, okra, chili peppers.

Now he handed a photo of Per Malmström to the clerk at Red Records.

“So many tourists come into this place,” the clerk said.

“He might have been with someone else.”

The clerk looked at the photo and shook his head. “I really couldn’t tell you. We’re the center of the world again. We get customers from all over.”

“Lots of whites?”

“Just look around. What do you see?”

That afternoon, they drove over to talk with the Hilliers. Winter thought he was getting to know the city landscape, but maybe it was just because all the buildings looked so much alike.

“I was supposed to stay home today and catch up on unread reports,” Macdonald said. “But you know how it is.”

“Monotonous,” Winter said.

“Monotonous isn’t the word for it. When you’ve been on a case this long, you end up with a stack of papers a mile high. You can only take in a certain amount of information at a time. After that your instincts start to play tricks on you.”

“Is that what you go on? Your instincts?”

Macdonald gave a short laugh that sounded like someone pushing an ice scraper across the roof of the car. “Isn’t that why you came to London?” He glanced quickly at Winter. “Instinct might be our most important asset. That and intuition, deciphering the subtext of what people say, either right away or later on.”

“Procedure takes us halfway there. After that, we need something more, something else.”

“Sounds profound.”

“But don’t you have to be at the scene of the crime?”

“We have an on-duty system. Eight teams rotate for one week at a time. From Tuesday to Tuesday, starting at seven in the morning.”

“Not ideal.”

“No, but people can’t always be available.”

“You might be in the middle of another investigation too.”

“Absolutely.”

“But if you’re on duty and another team takes over after four or five hours, you’ve spent all that time for nothing.”

“Yeah, that happens occasionally.”

“It’s wasted.”

“Not a good situation, I agree.”

“Who’s on duty this week?”

“Yours truly.”

“And still nothing new has turned up.”

The trains came and went outside the Hilliers’ house. Nothing had changed. Winston sat on the couch and the room reeked of booze. Karen appeared with a tray. Winston took three glasses and filled them to the rim with whisky. Macdonald nodded in Winter’s direction and they sat down.

Winston placed their glasses in front of them. “I have nothing more to say,” he announced.

“We’re doing all we can, and it’s going to pay off eventually,” Winter said.

“That’s what he told me too.” Winston pointed at Macdonald.

“He was right.”

“Were you the one who called from Sweden?”

“No, it was another investigator.”

“His English was good. Studies have shown that encounters with police personnel are critical for both victims and survivors.”

Winter nodded.

“A supportive attitude on the part of the police has been shown to be a protective factor against depression, whereas negative reactions by the police at an acute stage appear to contribute to deeper despair.” Winston said this in a monotone, gazing to Winter’s right as if he were reading from a teleprompter mounted on a camera.

“Do you think we’ve been slighting you in some way, Mr. Hillier?” Winter asked.

“Police can exacerbate the difficulties of victims by making them feel guilty or afraid,” Winston droned.

Macdonald turned to Karen. “You haven’t found anything else that belonged to Geoff, have you? Like a letter, for example?”

“The victim’s emotional needs may conflict with the search by the police for detailed information about the crime.” Winston took another drink.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Winter said.

Macdonald shook his head discreetly and glanced over at the door.

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Karen said.

“See what you’ve done,” Winston said. “You’ve gotten my wife to apologize again.”

“We really wanted to help,” Karen said.

“Help? What are you talking about?” Winston asked.

Macdonald and Winter stood up.

“We’d like to come back again if that’s possible,” Macdonald said.

“I’d rather spread my wings and fly to Coventry,” Winston said.

Macdonald swung the car out on the street. “Pub time?”

“Sure.”

“Skilled waitresses trained in dealing with people who have suffered as the result of crime or its consequences can help the police,” Macdonald said.

Christian plugged his Discman into the TV speakers. The owner’s son would hear Beenie Man when he passed by. Christian felt sorry for him. He had given him a friendly nod, but the poor soul looked straight ahead like he was walking a tightrope.

It was getting late. The CDs the distributor had given him were good, but he already knew that, and he grew tired of them after a while. The guy wasn’t going to show up, and that was just as well.

He could go out tonight, down to Brixton Academy or the Fridge, where he’d already been twice. He would take the distributor along if he ever came, but he must have been there before.

He heard the owner’s son shuffle by again. He’s gotten as far as the banister, Christian thought. After that he always scrapes against the door. I’ve seen the marks. I bet it’s been going on for years.

The door rattled. So he’s come after all, Christian thought. Wonder if he brought the chick along. Good thing I bought some beer.

When he opened the door, a strange man stood on the other side with a smile on his face. Christian thought he must have come to the wrong room. Then he saw that the man was wearing a Rasta wig, or a long black wig that he had twisted some Rasta curls into.

What a weird prank.

The distributor was inside now. He closed the door behind him and started to rummage around in his duffel bag.