Mike Carey - Vicious Circle

Basquiat walked past me, forcing me to turn to follow her as she continued the lecture. This kind of browbeating by facts, figures and ballroom dancing is standard cop procedure. I was listening, but on a level underneath that there was a question I kept turning over and over in my mind with a kind of sick dread, more or less in time to the throbbing in my skull: what – or who – had been standing in the centre of the circle?

‘But there’s no way he’s got time to reload,’ Basquiat said, like a maths lecturer saying ‘Compute the angle.’ Her tone was still flat, but there was a kind of excitement or at least a kind of animation in her face. I could see she loved her job. And I wondered, briefly, whether a case like this might be a career-making deal for a young, upwardly mobile detective sergeant.

‘And he’s used up about six bullets just introducing himself,’ she went on, ‘so assuming he had a full clip when he came in he’s now got a couple of dozen shots left. If they rush him, which is what they’re doing, he’s in trouble. Fully automatic fire will scatter a crowd, but he doesn’t have any time to switch over and in any case anyone who doesn’t go down in that first sweep will be right on top of him and he’ll have nothing left to fight with except his bare hands.’

She scanned the floor, as if she was reading the story there. ‘Maybe he expected them to run. Maybe he’s surprised that they don’t get the message. He’s not scared, though, that’s for sure, because he walks to meet them. One – two – three.’ She pointed to a scuff mark on the floor in between two of the sheets of plastic. ‘He stops here. And then he does something very odd.’

‘He fires at the floor,’ I said. My throat was unpleasantly dry, and it came out as a croak.

Basquiat looked at me curiously. ‘That’s right,’ she said, acknowledging the point with a nod. ‘He does. And why does he do that, Mister Castor?’

I shrugged unconvincingly. I knew the answer, but I was still hoping I was wrong. ‘Warning shot?’

‘After shooting three people in the back? I don’t think so.’

Okay, what the fuck. If she was determined to make me dance . . . ‘The circle,’ I said tiredly. ‘He blasted a hole in the circle.’

‘I’m still asking why,’ said Basquiat. ‘It seems a strange thing to do. Can you shed any light on the reasoning?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, facing her stare as levelly as I could. ‘But maybe you’d like to tell me why I’m here first. It would help to know.’

Basquiat’s jaw tensed so hard that for a second I could see every muscle in her throat. ‘I’m surprised you have to ask.’ The words came out laden with something like anger, something like contempt. ‘You’re one of DS Coldwood’s regular informants – or so he says. And he uses you a lot in situations like this, isn’t that right? You tell him where someone’s died, and how they died, and how they’ve been getting along since.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s about it. So do you want a reading, detective?’

‘Not at this particular point in time, Mister Castor, no. Maybe later. What I’d like right now is an answer. How did you know that Abbie Torrington was dead?’

So there it was. It opened up inside my stomach like a pit, just waiting for one more word from Basquiat to fill it.

‘I’m an exorcist,’ I said.

‘So what, it’s a sparrow-in-the-market-place kind of deal?’ she spat, unconsciously echoing my own words to Gwillam. ‘Everyone who dies, you get to hear about it? How’s my grandad doing? Last time I checked, he was still okay, but maybe you can give me an update.’

She glared at me again. I was still trying to think of something to say when DC Fields lumbered up and handed her a note without so much as a glance in my direction. She took it, read it, and handed it back to him with a curt nod. He went away.

‘A man and a woman came into my office two days ago,’ I told Basquiat, as she turned her attention back to me. ‘They claimed to be Abbie’s parents. And they asked me to find her.’

‘To find her dead body ?’ The detective’s tone was incredulous.

‘No. To find her ghost.’

It didn’t sound much better. Before Basquiat could answer, I held up my hand in a kind of surrender. ‘Just tell me, sergeant, did Abbie Torrington die inside that circle?’

‘Yes,’ said Basquiat coldly. ‘She did. Stabbed through the heart by some sick fucks playing at witches and wizards.’ She came right up close to me, dropping her voice so that her next words would just be between the two of us. ‘We’ve got her body down at the morgue right now, and you can bet we’re going over it with a fine-toothed comb. And if I find out you were one of the people who killed her, Castor, no power on Earth is going to keep me from ripping your balls off. And then reading you your rights at great length while you bleed.’

The pit filled up: I thought it would fill with grief – grief for little Abbie, cut open like a side of meat as part of a Satanist ritual – but it turned out to be anger.

‘Let me read the scene,’ I told her, biting back a lot of other words that were clustering behind my teeth, trying to get out.

‘You are dreaming, my friend,’ Basquiat snarled, shaking her head. ‘Whatever impression I may have given you earlier, you’re a suspect here. I asked Coldwood to bring you over in case you turned out to be the type who falls apart and confesses at the scene of the crime. Might have saved us some time. But since you’re not, I’ll have to see how the evidence pans out. The only reason I’m not hauling you in and sweating you right now is because Gary vouches for you – or, more precisely, because he’s got you on the books as an informant, which means there’s inter-office paperwork to be filled in before I can get Fields to kick your teeth down your throat.’

‘You let Fields do your dirty work?’ I said. ‘I’m disappointed. Used to be, when you asked a cop for some strict discipline you could at least rely on personal service.’

Basquiat had been on the point of walking away, and she already had her back to me. She swivelled on her heel and dealt me a scything, sideways punch to the head. Since my head was close to meltdown and my balance was all to fuck, I went sprawling. I heard a tuneless whistle of appreciation from one side of the room, running footsteps from the other. Looking up blearily, I saw Gary Coldwood standing over me.

‘Mister Castor tripped on the protective sheeting,’ Basquiat said to him.

‘Yeah. I saw. But I think he’s got his sea legs now. I don’t see him tripping any more.’

‘Depends if he stays around me,’ said Basquiat. She knelt down and stared into my face. ‘I use Fields to do the softening up,’ she said. ‘All the detail work I’ll do myself.’

She walked away, and Coldwood helped me back into the vertical – or something close to it.

‘Let’s get you some fresh air,’ he muttered.

We went back out through the hall onto the street. I leaned against the front of the building, feeling the world turn around me.

‘She’s got this thing about kids,’ Coldwood explained. ‘Takes it personally when they get hurt. There was a pedo out in Kingston – guy who’d done time for raping a little boy, and it looked like he might be getting back into old habits. Fell down some stairs at his house while Basquiat was over there to run some questions past him. Broke his arm, did some serious damage to his back that he might never recover from. She booked him for assault: said he attacked her and went down the stairs when she used a judo throw in self-defence. Story stank, but who cares? He did another six months. Happy ending for everyone.’