The Thing Itself

FORTY-SIX

Kate Simpson was sitting on Sarah Gilchrist’s balcony waiting for her coffee to cool. The sun had come out between the showers but she still felt shivery. Frankly, she was terrified at the thought of going to prison for what she’d done to the man who had attacked her. And mortified that her actions had got Sarah suspended. And furious with her father for visiting this upon her. Otherwise, she was fine.

She gave a small smile and reached for her coffee. Her phone rang. Bob Watts.

‘How are you coping?’ he said.

‘I’m trying to stay calm,’ she said. She was surprised to hear the shakiness in her voice and to feel herself welling up.

‘Kate, Sarah and I are going to follow up a lead in France about the Milldean Massacre. We’ve located Bernie Grimes. Wondered if you wanted to come along.’

‘France?’ Kate was surprised. ‘I–I don’t know. Following up leads isn’t really my thing.’

‘We’re just a bit concerned about leaving you alone.’

Kate felt tears coming.

‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, a little breathy. ‘I’ll use a kitchen knife next time.’

Watts laughed but still sounded anxious when he said: ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ she said, her voice stronger, the tearful moment gone. ‘But thanks for worrying about me.’

‘We shouldn’t be more than a couple of days,’ Watts said. ‘You know, having a focus might be a good idea. When are you back at Southern Shores Radio?’

‘I’m not sure that provides any kind of focus.’

Watts was silent for a moment, then: ‘Listen. I’ve got a load more files on the Brighton Trunk Murders. The files that were supposed to be destroyed in the sixties?’

Kate had done all the research into the Trunk Murder papers that had turned up some months earlier in the Royal Pavilion. She had made a radio documentary about it.

‘How come?’ she said.

‘Long story, to do with John Hathaway’s father. They’ve been sitting in the boot of my car. Plus I’ve got some more stuff of my dad’s. You interested?’

‘Sure. Can you get them to me?’

‘I can come to Brighton tomorrow.’

Kate was conscious of her ragged breath.

‘Will you do me a favour?’ he continued. ‘Check out particularly three people: Martin Charteris, Eric Knowles and Tony Mancini.’

‘Tony Mancini is the other trunk murder — the two aren’t connected.’

‘I know but there’s something going on between him and Charteris — and, in fact, there’s another Mancini, an Antonio “Baby” Mancini, who’s a real Soho gangster. He worked for the Sabini brothers.’

‘I think there’s stuff about him in the Brighton Tony Mancini file. The two got muddled. Who are the other two?’

‘Charteris is a petty crook but maybe more. Knowles — I’m not sure what he is. But I definitely want to find out.’

Radislav was wearing dark glasses and a lime-green suit that made his skin tone even more ghastly. Even from a distance, Tingley could see that he was grinning. The gap between the cages narrowed. Radislav was standing feet apart, both hands resting lightly on the bar in front of him, and he was looking straight at Tingley. Tingley half-expected him to wave.

Before, Tingley had never felt fear. But now, this thing in his belly. .

He tried to take a deep breath. Half made it. Radislav is not a monster, he said to himself; he is just a man.

He looked down. He was nearing the part of the descent where the cages were only about twenty feet above a rocky scree. He was approaching another pylon. Tingley noted the small platform at the top and the steel ladder going up its spine. He looked across at Radislav’s grey face.

The two cages drew closer.

Radislav was almost level and staring directly at him, still smiling his skull’s-head smile. Tingley heard bird song, the girl’s shrieks, the dislocated voice of the radio commentator coming from above and below him. Radislav was near enough for Tingley to see the grey at his temples, the gold screw in the hinge of his sunglasses, his right hand moving inside his jacket.

Radislav was reaching for a gun.

Tingley reached behind him to take his own gun from its holster. He gauged the distance between the two cages and kept his eyes on Radislav’s jacket.

His cage was swaying. Radislav was fumbling, getting a grip on something. Then the hand withdrew. First, the cuff of his cream shirt with the glitter of its cufflink in the sunshine. The thin, pale wrist. The hand.

Tingley couldn’t seem to release his gun from its holster. He was totally off balance, the cage swaying alarmingly. His eyes saw a drunken kaleidoscope of rock, trees, shingle roof and blue sky. He fell to the floor of his cage.

He lay curled there for what seemed an age but was only a few moments. He couldn’t quite believe he’d been shot but the massive punch in his chest, the blood he could feel soaking him. .

No second shot came. Tingley straightened and looked over his shoulder. Radislav’s cage was about five yards above him and moving away. Radislav had his back to Tingley, facing up the mountain. His left elbow was raised. Tingley saw a plume of smoke and smelled the acrid smell of freshly burning tobacco.

Then a siren sounded and the long necklace of cages jerked to a halt.