Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

‘Are you pissed?’

‘Eh?’

‘You sound a bit pissed down there. How many have you had?’

‘What are you? My fucking mother? I’m fine. See you tomorrow.’

He hung up, hoping he didn’t sound too inebriated. He’d been thinking about having another, but decided he’d better knock it on the head for now.

He didn’t know why he’d agreed to meet up with Murk. Even if it was an easy collar, in the end it was none of his business now that he was suspended, his future in the Force looking shaky to say the least. No-one likes a copper involved in controversy, least of all the politically sensitive Brass. But regardless of all that, that’s what Stegs Jenner still was. A copper. And a copper likes getting collars. Plus, it would give him something to do tomorrow. If Murk wasn’t being too cocky, it might even be quite a good afternoon.

He finished the last bit of his drink and put the glass on a shelf on the pillar he’d been leaning against, then headed out the door, trying to compose a few fitting sentences of commiseration for the recently bereaved widow.

It took Stegs close to half an hour to find the Vokerman household. He’d only ever been there once before, and this time had forgotten to bring the address or the directions with him. Or the flowers, come to that. He knew the number, and the rough location, but couldn’t think of the street name, so he’d had to tramp around the whole area until he’d come across it, quite by chance. A quiet residential road made up of bland but spacious 1940s semis in view of the Thames Valley University campus.

He walked along until he came to the house where his friend had lived for more than ten years. He stopped for a moment at the gate, recognizing the familiar yellow paint, then steadied himself before walking the three yards through the tiny but well-kept front garden up to the front door. A bunch of flowers wrapped in black paper had been placed in the porch. He knocked hard on the door.

A few seconds later he heard footsteps, and then it opened to reveal a tall, bespectacled gentleman with a kindly smile, a dog collar and not much hair. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

Stegs’s heart banged hard in his chest and he had to fight back a sudden urge to shriek loudly. ‘Yes,’ he said, as sombrely as possible. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Vokerman. I worked very closely with her husband.’

The vicar nodded slowly and wisely. Stegs doubted if he was more than a couple of years older than him, but he had the demeanour of a fifty-year-old. It probably went with the territory. He opened the door wider. ‘Please come in.’

‘My son.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My son. Sorry, I thought you were going to say “my son”. You know, “Please come in, my son.”’

‘I think that’s Catholics, Mr. .?’

‘Jenner. Mark Jenner.’ He had to think about that last one.

‘Come in, Mark. I am sure it’ll be a comfort for Gill to see you.’ He looked like he meant it too. Whatever you say about these Christians, they do try hard.

Stegs followed him through the hall and into the lounge, cursing himself for not being able to keep his mouth shut. Gill was in there, sitting in an armchair sipping a cup of tea. An older lady, with her grey hair tied into two huge buns like giant headphones round each ear, held onto Gill’s arm. She also had a cup of tea. On the wall was a large framed photo of Vokes, Gill and the two kids, all looking very happy as they smiled into the camera. Other photos of his former colleague and family adorned the walls and mantelpieces of the room. It was half past two. This time the previous afternoon the man of the house had been alive and well. Stegs almost burst into tears. Thank God he hadn’t had that fourth pint.

‘Hello, Gill,’ he said, stopping enough distance away from her so she wouldn’t smell the booze and fags. ‘I came round to say how sorry I am about your loss. He was a good man.’

‘Thank you, Mark,’ she said quietly, fixing him with a moderately disapproving look.

Stegs couldn’t help wondering what Vokes had ever seen in her. She was a very plain woman to look at and did nothing to try to minimize it. She wore no make-up, dressed very conservatively and had a shrewish personality. Vokes wouldn’t have won any good looks contests (he had a beard for a start), but he could have done a lot better than this.

‘Please take a seat. This is my mother.’

The mother nodded menacingly.

The vicar plonked himself next to the woman Stegs would only ever know as Mother, while he himself took a seat at the other end of the room, furthest away from Gill.

‘The police came round this morning,’ Gill said wearily, staring up towards the ceiling. ‘They talked for a long time but were unable to give me any details of how Paul died. Were you there?’

They all looked at him. The vicar was still smiling, or maybe that was just his normal expression. Stegs suddenly had a terrible desire to masturbate, to rush out of this room, lock himself in the toilet and pull one off at the wrist. It was a reaction he often got to speed, he wasn’t sure why. It was ironic, really, because amphetamines made it very difficult to get a hard-on, something that at that moment was proving quite useful. A tentpeg stiffy in a room like this would have been a disaster.

For a couple of seconds he didn’t answer as his thoughts shot off here and there, so she repeated the question.

‘Are you finding it difficult to talk about what happened, Mark?’ asked the vicar.

‘No, I’m fine. Really.’ He turned to Gill, putting on his most earnest expression. ‘I’m not allowed to make any comment about it either, I’m afraid, Gill,’ he said, trying to stop his teeth grinding. ‘All I can say is that I was part of the same operation, and that his death would have been very quick. Very quick indeed.’

The mother gasped. ‘The name of the Lord is a strong tower the righteous run into and are safe,’ she said stiffly. Whatever that was meant to mean.

The vicar nodded slowly. ‘These are very trying times,’ he said, which was a bit of a statement of the obvious. ‘We must all be strong.’

‘How are the children taking it?’ asked Stegs, unable to think of anything else to say.

‘Jacob is very upset, as you can imagine. Honey’s still too young to understand.’

‘Where are they at the moment?’

‘My dad’s looking after them.’

‘Kids are very resilient. Very, very resilient. They can get through this sort of thing. Yup, definitely. No problem.’

There was a long silence. Stegs felt himself sweating. The room was stifling.

‘I am the living bread which came down from heaven,’ said Mother. ‘If any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever.’

No thanks, thought Stegs, with an inner shudder.

‘Amen,’ said Gill quietly, and he saw tears form in her eyes.

He had to get out of there, he couldn’t handle it. There was a pressure building in his head that for some reason seemed far more intense than any of the situations he’d found himself in during his undercover activities. With the exception of Frank Rentners and the steam iron, of course.

‘You must be traumatized yourself, Mark,’ said the vicar gently. ‘You’ve lost a friend.’

‘We’ve all lost a friend,’ said Gill, and this time the floodgates opened. Mother squeezed her arm tightly before leaning over and giving her another encouraging quote from the Bible.

Stegs and the vicar exchanged sympathetic looks. ‘I’m sure I’ll be OK,’ he said.

‘These are trying times,’ the vicar repeated, ‘but with the help of the Lord we will get through them. Are you a Christian, Mark?’

‘I like to keep an open mind,’ said Stegs, thinking that this would be the easiest answer. It was yes, no and maybe all rolled into one, and hopefully strangled any further debate on the issue.