Thicker Than Water

15

The interview suite at Cromwell Road reminded me of the classrooms at the Alsop Comprehensive School for Boys, where I spent the years between changing up from short trousers and leaving home. The resemblance wasn’t immediately obvious, because the classrooms at Alsop mostly had windows whereas the Cromwell Road interview rooms are below ground and therefore don’t. And you never had to be swiped in through the doors at Alsop by a burly constable wearing a hundredweight of ironmongery at his belt. Moreover, the teachers at Alsop were for the most part saintly men and women who got little reward for plucking the flowers of higher learning and strewing them at our ungrateful feet: you’d be hard put to it to find a saint in a London cop shop, unless he’d just been done for resisting arrest.

So I suppose it was just the institutional thing: not quite ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here’, but the feeling that you’re handing over some portion of your life into someone else’s hands, to be tagged and bagged and given back to you later, maybe, if they can find it again and if it’s still identifiable as yours. Fatalism descends on you like a stifling woolly blanket as the door closes behind you.

Gary Coldwood was sitting in a tubular steel chair with a red plastic seat — some kind of Platonic archetype of cheap, nasty, totally disposable furniture. But he stood up as I came into the room.

The surroundings were sparse. Just a table and two chairs, a green plastic wastebasket and, for some reason that escaped me, a poster on the far wall advertising all the many benefits of using a condom. When having sex, I assumed, rather than, say, for piping crème de chantilly or impromptu party decorations.

‘Go and get Matthew Castor from the remand cells,’ Gary said to the cop with the keys. ‘Sign him in here for thirty minutes on my bounce code. Seven-thirteen.’

The uniform hesitated. ‘Can’t use these rooms for visits, sarge,’ he said, in a timid tone that sounded like it didn’t know what it was doing in his square-jawed, bushy-bearded mouth.

‘It’s not a visit,’ Gary said. ‘It’s an interview.’

The uniform still didn’t seem entirely happy. He shot a look at me that spoke twenty-seven volumes plus an appendix. ‘But, you know, for an interview,’ he said. ‘If there’s a civilian observer, you’ve got to fill in a–’

‘What civilian do you mean?’ Gary asked mildly.

The constable thought this through, and eventually got there. ‘Right you are, sarge,’ he said, in a nudge-nudge-wink-wink kind of voice, and he went on his way.

‘Thanks,’ I said to Coldwood.

‘You’re welcome.’

‘And thanks for the heads-up, too, you duplicitous bastard.’

Coldwood nodded. ‘Which is why we’re in here,’ he said, ‘and all on our lonesomes. Get it out of your system, Fix.’

‘You fucking knew she was going after Matt.’ I thrust a finger at his face. ‘You knew it, and you didn’t tell me.’

Gary nodded. ‘Right. I knew it. Did you?’

‘No!’ I exploded. ‘If I’d had the slightest fucking inkling, I’d have warned him. And I’d have kept my mouth shut in front of you and your better half, you back-stabbing little pig-farmer.’

‘I’m going to have to smack you,’ Gary admonished me.

‘On an interview?’

‘You had the marks when you came in. You’ve seen how reliable a witness PC Dennison is.’

‘Gary, why the fuck didn’t you at least give me a–’

‘Because it’s an open and shut case,’ Gary said. ‘And your best bet, if you really had nothing to do with it, was to stay well clear. Whereas if I’d told you we were about to arrest your brother, you’d have gone barging in like a fuckwit, probably got yourself seen tampering with the evidence and ended up on a bloody conspiracy charge. Because what you’re short on, Fix — what you do not have even a bastard trace of — is peripheral vision. You only see what you’re going for, and you walk right into every bleeding thing else.’

Gary had been talking in his usual voice when he started that little speech, but he was shouting when he got to the end of it. I opened my mouth to shout back, and — to my complete and absolute amazement — he was as good as his word. He clocked me a solid one on the mouth.

It wasn’t hard enough to knock me down, but it made me stagger. I blinked twice and shook my head. Licking my lips, I tasted blood. ‘Son of a bitch,’ I growled, and I started forward with my fists up. But Gary just stood there, staring me down, and after a moment I let my hands fall again.

‘Are you ready to listen to reason now?’ he asked.

I spat on the floor — a thick red gobbet — then met his gaze. ‘Have you got any?’

Gary breathed out heavily. ‘What I’ve got, Fix, is evidence. Which I’m about to share with you out of the goodness of my heart — unless you piss me off so much that I sign off early and forget you’re stuck in here until the morning. If you’re interested, sit down and shut up. Otherwise, say something really clever and sarcastic and I’ll be happy to leave you to it.’

After a moment’s painfully weighted silence, I sat down in the other chair, giving him a shrug and a wave.

‘The writing on the windscreen,’ Gary said.

‘Points to me,’ I observed.

‘No. It doesn’t.’

‘What, you know another F. Castor, Gary?’

‘We put the lab boys on it, Fix. The letters had been washed or smeared away, but the oil traces from Seddon’s fingertip were still there on the glass. He didn’t write “Felix Castor”. He wrote “Father Castor”.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words fled away into my hind-brain and my mouth just hung open, waiting for them to come back.

‘So then we looked at your brother’s movements,’ Gary said. ‘He was seen leaving that Saint Bon Appetit place around midnight, although he’d previously told a colleague that he was turning in for the night. We’ve got his car on CCTV twice, once in Streatham and once at Herne Hill. And — get this, Fix — the priest in the room next to his is woken up at four the next morning by the sound of someone crying. Loud, uncontrollable sobbing, in his own words, coming from Matthew’s room. And he’s prepared to go on record that it was Father Castor he was hearing.’

I found a word floating somewhere in the void that seemed as though it might be relevant and serviceable. ‘Circumstantial,’ I said. ‘It’s all circumstantial.’

‘Maybe it is,’ Gary allowed. ‘But it was enough to get us a warrant. And the Basilisk was careful to shake you first, before she went in, just in case the forensics didn’t play. She got your statement, which placed Matthew Castor at the Salisbury both before and after the fact.’

I shook my head in protest. ‘Not before. I couldn’t eyewitness him before. I just said he was with Gwillam, and Gwillam–’

‘None of it matters, Fix.’ Gary cut across me impatiently. ‘Because the forensics did play out. Matthew’s fingerprints and boot print match, a hundred per cent. And this just in — we shagged the phone records for the place where Matthew teaches. Him and Seddon were gabbing away every day for a week before the killing. They met up in that car, and your brother brought a straight razor with him. He brought an accomplice, too, and we’re still working on that. But we’ve got him, Fix. If he’s innocent, then this is a fit-up so immaculate that only God could have pulled it off.’

And that was out of the question, of course, because God loves Matt. He loves all His little children, of course, but Matt is actually on His team. I just sat there, not saying a word, and Gary sat there watching me, until PC Dennison swiped the door lock again and then leaned inside to hold the door open for Matt.

Matt was a mess: unshaven, red-eyed, his hair up in a tousled Stan Laurel peak. They’d left him his own clothes but had taken his shoelaces and his belt. Being put on suicide watch must be particularly hard for a practising Catholic.

‘Felix,’ he mumbled. ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming. I’m — it’s all been a little crazy, since–’

He faltered into silence, blinking fast as he stared at me with pleading, bewildered eyes. I got up and crossed the room to him. Neither of us was ever very big on physical shows of affection — something we got from Dad — and Matt would have cringed if I’d tried to hug him, but I put my hands on his shoulders and squeezed: a clumsy, truncated gesture of solidarity that he didn’t even seem to notice.

‘It’s okay, Matt,’ I said, going against both the evidence and common sense. ‘It’s going to be okay.’

Coldwood made for the door. ‘Knock on the glass when you’re done,’ he said, brusquely. PC Dennison was still holding the door open: Gary swept through and he let it fall to again with the decisive clunk of a solid mortice lock that I could probably have identified just from the sound if my mind hadn’t been otherwise occupied.

‘I need to sit,’ Matt said, and I stood aside so he could get to the chair. He lowered himself into it a little too carefully for my liking.

‘Are you all right?’ I demanded.

‘I’m fine,’ Matt said. ‘But my side is a little sore, where one of the police constables kicked me.’

Indignation flared inside me like heartburn. ‘They worked you over?’

Matt shook his head emphatically. ‘No. I fought them. I panicked, I suppose. I punched one of them in the face. It was a disgusting thing to do. They had to . . . subdue me. I wasn’t really in control of my own actions.’

I closed my eyes and massaged them with the heel of my hand. It was too much to take in. ‘How long ago was this?’ I asked. ‘Have they let you see a lawyer?’

‘I haven’t asked for one, Felix. I don’t . . . I have no experience in these matters.’

‘Well, I do,’ I said. ‘Say nothing, Matt. Not until you’re behind a protective wall of sharks. I’ll call Nicky Heath and get him to recommend someone. In the meantime you just . . .’ I ran out of steam mid-sentence again. ‘How the fuck did this happen?’ I asked, lamely.

Matt looked at me briefly, then back down at his own lap. ‘They came to Saint Bonaventure’s,’ he said. ‘I was teaching, but they waited until the end of the session, for which I’m very grateful. Then they asked if they could speak to me, in private, and I took them into the clerestory, which is only used on Sundays. And then they — told me they were arresting me. For Kenny’s murder. It was about seven o’clock, I think. I don’t really remember. No, it must have been earlier if I was still in a lesson.’

‘Fuck!’ The invective was for Basquiat and Coldwood. They must have gone straight from me to Matt. Basquiat probably had the warrant in her pocket the whole time she was talking to me.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Tell me about it. You and Kenny hooked up. How? They’ve got you in the car, and that’s their strongest piece of evidence right there. Tell me what happened, and we’ll see what we can do to beat this — thing.’

This time Matt looked at me for a lot longer. ‘You haven’t asked me the obvious question, Felix,’ he pointed out.

I laughed without a trace of humour. ‘You mean whether or not you did it? I grew up with you, Matt. Remember? If I had to ask, I wouldn’t be here. Tell me what you were doing in the car.’

Matt finally lowered his eyes again. ‘I can’t,’ he said, simply. He folded his hands in his lap, like a saint accepting martyrdom. It was only a gesture, but it set alarm bells off in various parts of my skull: this really wasn’t the time to turn the other cheek. In my experience, that time doesn’t come very often.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked, angrily. ‘Why not?’

‘I just can’t.’

‘Then tell me how you and Kenny hooked up. What you talked about.’

‘Kenny . . . called me. Suggested that we should meet.’ Matt spoke slowly, as though choosing his words with care. A jury wouldn’t have been impressed.

‘Out of the blue?’ I said, falling automatically into the role of prosecutor.

‘Yes. No. Not entirely,’ Matt said, floundering slightly. ‘We’d met a year before, by chance, so he knew I was in London. I don’t know how he got the phone number of Saint Bonaventure’s, but I suppose it’s not that hard to find. The faculty lists must be online somewhere.’

‘So Kenny called you. Why did you say yes, Matt? You couldn’t have wanted to see him again. I thought we all got more than enough of him when we were kids.’

Matt drew in a long breath and then let it out again, shuddering audibly. ‘He said he could help me,’ he said. ‘With something–’ Abruptly he jumped to his feet and walked away from me. A few steps brought him to the far wall, where he had to stop. He put up his hands as though to support himself. His right hand happened to fall on the let’s-all-wear-condoms poster, and I thought incongruously of the oath they make you take when you give evidence, with your hand on the holy text of your choice. I solemnly swear . . .

‘Matt,’ I said urgently. ‘I’m on your side. What are you afraid of?’

He bowed his head, shoulders hunched. His voice was thick and barely audible, as though his mouth was full of something choking and hot and he had to try to speak through it. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said again.

‘I know that!’

‘But I think I did something — worse.’

The words made a space for themselves as they fell: made the dead silence that followed them seem like a police-incident barrier around their sprawled, unlovely outline. Nothing to see here. Keep moving. It’s all over.

‘Worse than murder?’ I said, as soon as felt like I could muster a detached, sardonic tone again.

Matt turned to look at me, a strained and terrible grin on his face as tears welled up in his eyes. ‘Worse than murdering Kenny? Yes. Oh yes. A lot worse than that. God help me, Fix. Oh God help me.’ He raised his hands to his face as though he was going to bury them in it, but instead he just clamped them on either side of his forehead and held them there, rocking slightly backwards and forwards in an autistic pantomime of grief and pain.

This time I did throw my arms around him, if only to stop that scary display. Violent shudders were running through him like peristaltic waves.

‘It will be all right,’ I said again, between my teeth. ‘But you’ve got to trust me, Matt. You think the room is bugged? They don’t do that, because it would shoot the case down as soon as they tried to use it in evidence. And Coldwood wouldn’t pull that shit on me in any case. What is it you think you’ve done?’

‘I can’t–’ Matt moaned. He lowered his head onto my shoulder, not for comfort but as though he was about to faint and couldn’t hold it upright any more. ‘I just — what I’ve done is–’

He didn’t seem able to make it any further. The next word couldn’t be ‘unforgivable’ of course: all sins can be forgiven if they’re truly repented of, and it’s never too late. For Christ did call the thief upon the cross, and offered him comfort.

Matt was far from comfort right then: he was host to some terrible secret that was ricocheting around inside him like a bullet, breaking everything it touched.

‘Tell me,’ I said again. But if there’d ever been a moment when he was going to do that, it seemed to have passed. He pulled himself away from me, raised up his hands to ward me off.

‘Don’t let Mum know,’ he choked out. ‘Don’t let anyone know.’

I threw out my hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘That a Roman Catholic priest has been arrested for killing someone with a straight-edged razor? Matt, it’s going to come out. It can’t be hidden. Gary may be able to run a bit of interference for us, but as soon as you show up on a court docket you’re front-page news. The only way you can help yourself is to tell me the truth.’

He was still crying, but the shuddering had stopped now: he was visibly getting himself under control, one piece at a time.

‘No,’ he said at last.

‘Why?’ I yelled, beyond all patience. ‘Even if you’re right — even if what you’ve done is worse than murder — you ought to confess it. That’s how the drill works, right? You confess, you do your penance, the world goes on. Whereas if you keep your mouth shut, you’re probably looking at twenty to life.’

Matt didn’t seem to have heard me. He went back to his chair and sat down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. His expression had come back to something like calm, although it was a calm of balanced forces: the stillness of a man whose limbs are tied to horses pulling in opposite directions.

‘Don’t let her come here,’ he said, and I guessed he was talking about Mum.

‘I’m not making you any promises,’ I said grimly. ‘Not unless you let me in on this. What did Kenny want with you, Matt? And what did you want with him? What’s this really about? Gwillam? Did Gwillam set this up?’

‘I’m not with Gwillam,’ Matt muttered, and I could see from his face that he was telling the truth. ‘They approached me once. That’s how I knew Feld, and how I was able to call him off when he attacked you. But the Anathemata only wanted me because of my name. Your name. They thought I might have the same — skills — that you have. When they found out that wasn’t the case, they lost interest. This was years ago. I haven’t seen any of those people since.’

‘Then why—?’ I began, but Matt made a brusque gesture and cut across me.

‘No more questions, Felix. I appreciate you coming here. I — was glad to see your face, and you’ve given me strength to bear this. But you can’t help me now.’

He put the matter beyond debate by banging on the glass and summoning PC Dennison to take him back to his cell. Matt went without looking at me again, or saying goodbye. I don’t think he trusted himself to do either of those things with dignity.

Coldwood waited until Dennison was clear and then let himself back into the room.

‘How did that go?’ he asked.

‘Like a bastard picnic, Gary. Why wouldn’t it?’

He blew out his cheeks, shrugged. ‘His faith will be a comfort to him. And believe it or not, he does have a guardian angel.’

‘Meaning you?’

‘He lamped a copper. Priest or no priest, he would have had it a lot harder if I hadn’t put the tupp nicht out on him.’

He was right. I knew that. But I still couldn’t bring myself to thank him right then. ‘Drop you anywhere?’ he asked as we walked together up the badly lit stairs to the ground floor and the reception area.

‘I’ll walk,’ I said. Just bravado, of course, but I didn’t feel like taking Gary’s charity right then.

‘I’m not your enemy, Fix,’ he told me.

‘You said.’

‘And I’m still here if you need anything I’m in a position to give.’

I walked out into the night without bothering to answer.

There was no point going back to the hospital. I’d left a few bits and pieces there, but nothing I couldn’t pick up again on the move. My coat was on my back and my whistle was in my coat. The rest was just details, really. I knew where I had to go, and more or less what I’d do when I got there.

I took a cab back to Pen’s, found her still out on the town, so I borrowed an overnight bag from her wardrobe and left her a note. But while I was writing it, I thought of another piece of unfinished business that was hanging over me. And since I didn’t know how long I’d be away for, now seemed like the best — if not the only — time to do it.

I went down to the kitchen and found Pen’s car keys where she always left them, in the bowl of dusty imitation fruit on top of the Welsh dresser. Ten minutes later I was driving around the North Circular towards Wembley.

I called Juliet while I was en route to tell her where we were going, and who we’d see when we got there. She didn’t ask for any further details. ‘I’ll be ready,’ was all she said.

Juliet and Susan live in a minuscule terraced house in Royal Oak that had formerly belonged to Susan’s mother. It had been a tip in old Mrs Book’s day, but they’ve done it up really nicely now — although I suspect, without any evidence beyond the obvious, that all the nesting instincts are on Susan’s side. It’s hard to imagine Juliet with a paint roller in her hand. Someone’s still-beating heart is more her speed.

When I knocked on the door, Susan Book answered. Her face was a little troubled.

‘Jules is just coming, Felix,’ she said. ‘But are you sure you need her for this? It’s very late.’

I reflected for a moment on the implications of this: that succubi tend to prefer early bedtimes, possibly with a mug of cocoa, and might get peaky and over-tired if they stayed up past midnight. Of course, being the person who shared Juliet’s bed was bound to give you very strong opinions about how much time she spent in it.

‘It was kind of her call, Sue,’ I said. ‘I’m visiting an old acquaintance, and Juliet told me a while back that she wanted in.’

Susan still didn’t look altogether chipper about the whole deal, which made me wonder if she’d already quizzed Juliet about it and failed to get a straight answer.

‘It shouldn’t take us long,’ I promised. ‘I just want to deliver a message.’

Susan looked at me doubtfully. ‘But who to?’ she demanded.

‘Someone who isn’t going to want to sit still and listen. But there shouldn’t be any trouble. The someone in question won’t make too many waves because this will be at his own place, where he’s got to worry about keeping up appearances.’

‘I’m here,’ Juliet said, walking down the stairs at that exact moment. I was relieved, because any further questions were neatly forestalled.

Susan stood aside to let Juliet walk on by. A glance passed between them.

‘I’ll just be an hour,’ Juliet said. ‘Perhaps an hour and a half. If you’re still awake when I get back, I’ll massage your back.’

A series of mostly pornographic images flashed on my inner eye, but I strove manfully to censor them for decency and good taste.

Susan nodded and the two women kissed. It went on for long enough that I had to take an interest in the wallpaper so as not to feel like a voyeur.

‘Let’s go,’ Juliet said, when she had sole possession of her own lips again.

Susan squeezed her hand, gave her a slightly brittle smile. ‘See you later,’ she said.

On the A1081, as we breached the M25 ring and headed north towards St Albans, Juliet broke the silence that had fallen between us.

‘You’re making no progress,’ she said.

‘At the Salisbury? No, you’re right. I’m getting nowhere fast.’

‘And you blame me.’

I thought about that one. ‘I wish you’d picked another time to get strong and silent on me,’ I admitted. ‘This has turned into a fucking nightmare.’

‘But still you invited me to come with you tonight.’

‘Well, you asked. And to be honest, I might need the back-up. He’s a whimsical little sod, and he’s got it into his head that we’re playing on different teams.’

‘Is he wrong?’

‘Usually, no. But this time, I think I might be able to bring him round to my way of thinking.’

Juliet digested that statement for a moment or two, various emotions passing over her expressive face. The last time Juliet and Gwillam had crossed swords, he’d managed to get the drop on her with a Bible reading — the Good Book being to him what a tin whistle is to me. It had rankled with her for a long time afterwards, because it meant that she’d been in his power, however briefly. He might even have been able to banish her to wherever demons go after they’re exorcised, which is nowhere good: or possibly just nowhere, full stop.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing him again,’ she said at last. ‘It will be . . . interesting.’

‘But I don’t want any trouble unless he starts it,’ I clarified. ‘This is a public-information campaign, not a vendetta.’

Juliet looked at me with detached curiosity. ‘And why is that, Castor?’

‘Because he’s more use to me as an ally right now than as a corpse,’ I said bluntly.

‘And if he refuses to be an ally?’

‘Then we’ll have to see.’

Church Street turned out to be a very narrow road in the middle of a bewildering one-way system at the further end of St Albans High Street. I left Pen’s car illegally parked in front of some gates that led God knew where, and we looked for the Rosewell Ecumenical Trust. It was a modest-looking building that seemed to have been made by knocking two old workmen’s cottages into one structure. The sober, black-painted door looked fairly solid, but came equipped with both a bell and a knocker. I applied myself to both.

While we waited for an answer, Juliet examined the wards that were nailed to the doorposts and the stay-not painted on the wall. They were intended to deter the dead, and the undead, from entering this place.

‘Anything likely to slow you down?’ I asked.

She shook her head brusquely. ‘Not for a moment. They make my skin itch a little, but they won’t keep me out.’

There was a sound from inside of bolts being drawn. A very unecumenical face stared out at us: pug-ugly and brimming with surly suspicion, topped with black hair in a military-length razor cut.

‘Yes?’ it said.

‘We’re here to see Father Gwillam,’ I said, giving him a beaming smile.

He tried to shut the door in our faces, so Juliet slammed it back into his. Then she pushed him up against the wall of the narrow vestibule and I walked on in past him. He rallied, driving a punch into Juliet’s kidneys that actually made her frown slightly. She gripped his throat, slapped him across the face hard enough to make his head snap round a full ninety degrees, and then pitched him out into the street where he fetched up in a heap against a parked car. Its sidelights started to flash and it wailed on a rising pitch as its alarm went off.

Juliet closed the door on the intrusive sound. I looked around me. The ground-floor layout of the place was what an estate agent would have described as deceptively spacious: we were in a hall with a tiled floor, from which three doors opened off. The decor was High Victorian, which in the Catholic Church almost passes for contemporary. The inadequate light came from uplighters high up on the walls and from a heavy and unlovely wrought-iron chandelier suspended from three evenly spaced chains.

I kicked open the first door, seeing a roomful of books beyond and smelling the contemplation-and-dust smell of a library or study. The second was a broom cupboard. I was going for the third when running footsteps sounded from our right: we turned to see two men coming down the stairs towards us. One of them was Gwillam, a book in his hand and a pair of reading glasses on his nose. The other was a slight, bald man in a plain black suit, whose teeth were bared in a subtle but permanent snarl.

Gwillam opened his mouth to speak, but he was too late because Baldy was already in the air, launching a flying kick towards Juliet’s face. Not a bad opening gambit, all things considered, but when his leading foot reached its intended destination, Juliet wasn’t there any more. She leaned sideways, her movements seeming almost lazy because they were so perfectly timed that there was no need for haste. Her right arm flicked out and flexed at the elbow, intersecting the bald man’s trajectory and punctuating his leap with a queasily suggestive impact sound. He jackknifed in mid-air, his forward momentum catastrophically sabotaged, and hit the floor in a rolling heap of limbs. He didn’t get up again.

Gwillam’s gaze was locked on Juliet’s face. He recognised her at once, on a level deeper than sight: he knew her for what she was. He began to intone as he descended the stairs towards us, his voice an octave lower than its normal register. ‘Would you tarry for them till they were full grown? They found a plain, in the land of Shinar, and they dwelt there. The right hand of the Lord hath done–’

‘One more word,’ Juliet said, unconcerned but a little stern, ‘and you’ll die where you stand.’

Gwillam fell silent. He was good, and he was quick, but he knew he couldn’t complete an exorcism before Juliet reached him. He’d only managed to bind her last time because neither of us had seen his particular MO before.

But he lowered the book, allowing us to see that he was holding something else in his other hand. It was a handgun.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You won’t touch me.’

Juliet stared at the gun for a moment in silence. Then she laughed softly, richly. ‘Is that for me or for yourself, servant of Heaven?’ she murmured deep in her throat. ‘Either way, the distance between us is too small for it to matter. Perhaps if it were already pointed at your head, and your finger on the trigger, you could pulverise your own brain while your purpose still held. But see, you stand there listening to me, and seeing me, and smelling me, and it’s already too late. So now –’ her voice had sunk to an insinuating whisper, and her eyes narrowed as she spoke ‘what will you do?’

Gwillam was staring at Juliet in fixed astonishment. His mouth had fallen open a little way, as though he’d been about to speak and then been struck by some insight that took his breath away. He made a strangled sound that had no consonants in it.

‘Come to me,’ Juliet said, raising her hand.

Gwillam came, stumbling down the stairs with a rocking gait. His movements were as stiff and uncoordinated as a zombie’s: so much of his mind was taken up with Juliet that there was barely enough left to handle basic motor functions. He walked right up to her, and then stopped when she raised a hand to signal that he’d come close enough.

She stood facing him, her breasts thrust forward, her head on one side in a parody of coquetry. They stared into each other’s eyes, and for a long time neither of them moved. A lazy, terrible smile spread slowly over Juliet’s face: Gwillam’s breathing became louder and more laboured with each gulp of air he took.

‘You may love God, Thomas,’ Juliet growled, ‘but now you’ve learned a different love. I hope you think of me often. And I know that whenever you think of me, God will be far from you.’

The joke was getting a little thin. I’d needed Juliet to get me in here, and I guess I’d known all along that she wasn’t going to let Gwillam go with a warning. Maybe I was looking for a little payback myself, for the hurt the good father had put on me already, but I wasn’t comfortable watching this sado-psycho-surgery.

‘Break it up,’ I told Juliet.

‘When I’m finished. Kneel, Thomas. Kneel and pray to me.’

Gwillam was about to comply when I punched him in the mouth and sent him sprawling. The gun flew out of his hand and clunked away end over end into a corner.

Juliet shot me a look of pure rage, which was actually something of a relief. I didn’t want to feel what she’d just made Gwillam feel: I’d been there, and seeing it happen to him had brought the whole thing back: the seismic, heart-stopping lust, the almost unbearable pleasure, and the black abyss of cold turkey afterwards.

‘Your point’s made,’ I said. ‘My turn. My show.’

Did you ever play cards for money? And if you did, can you remember a time at the end of a desperate night when you bet everything you had on a lousy hand, knowing the only way you could win was if everyone else bought the bluff?

That was me right then. Except that I knew Juliet wouldn’t buy it for a moment, because she could smell my fear the way dogs are supposed to be able to. So actually I was betting on something else, and the odds were pretty easy to calculate: two years on Earth, against fifteen millennia in Hell.

My number came up.

After maybe five or six seconds — long enough for most of the late 1980s to flash before my eyes — Juliet relaxed and shrugged. She shot Gwillam one last glance, where he lay at the foot of the stairs, and he gave a ragged moan as her gaze swept over him, as though he’d just been lashed raw and her stare was a splash of vinegar on his open wounds. ‘I’ll wait in the car,’ she said, and walked away, stepping over Baldy’s sprawled unconscious body.

I got Gwillam into a sitting position. His breathing was still uneven and his eyes wouldn’t focus at first. I half-led and half-carried him through into the study, dumped him into a chair that looked like an eighteenth-century antique, and while I was doing that I noticed a decanter of brandy standing on a dresser. I poured a shot, which I managed to get down Gwillam’s throat after three tries: I took one myself, too, purely for medicinal purposes.

Slowly the good father came back to himself, anger and hatred filling the void left by his recently discovered passion.

‘You consort with demons, Castor,’ he sobbed, his voice breaking. ‘This one, this succubus, and even worse. You think we don’t know that you took Asmodeus from his cell? You profane this place and imperil your soul.’

‘My soul?’ I touched the dressing on my cheek, made a half-shrug with just the one hand. ‘Well, I’m gambling on a deathbed conversion, so I’m hoping I’ve got a bit of leeway yet.’

Gwillam had been staring at the empty brandy glass. Now he looked up at me, his pale face streaked with sweat. ‘Without sincere repentance,’ he said, ‘I can promise you, God won’t listen to your apologies. Some sins are mortal.’

I leaned down to bring my face in close to his.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘They are. And being as stupid as a hatful of arseholes is one of them. You screwed up, you sanctimonious fuckwit. I thought I’d stop by and tell you that before things at the Salisbury get even worse than they are. Because I’ve got other places to be and this was your mess before it was mine.’

From somewhere, Gwillam found the strength to stand. He thrust his face into mine, his eyes wide and his face white with rage. ‘You persist in thinking that, don’t you, Castor? That the whole world is full of the waste products of other people’s mistakes? That your role in life is to clean them up, and take the thanks for it? But Asmodeus alone is proof enough to refute that.’

‘I’m all that’s keeping Asmodeus locked down,’ I pointed out, wiping a little spittle from my face.

Gwillam’s eyes narrowed. ‘You took that monster from a place where he was safely contained,’ he said. ‘Under control. Who knows what you’ve started? Or what we’ll have to do to stop it if it gets away from you. Because it will be us, Castor. It will be the soldiers of God — the ones with an actual vocation — who clear up after your mistakes. Just as it has been through the world, down through the ages. We watch, we weigh, we decide, and then we act. You simply cut out the first three stages of that process!’

As he spoke, something clicked into place. Watch? Weigh?

‘You had a tail on me,’ I said.

Gwillam gave a choking laugh. ‘Is that meant to be an accusation? Yes, we followed you — as soon as the Mulbridge woman deigned to alert us to what you’d done. If she’d called us at once — but there’s no point in repining after the fact. God works in his own way — and although you didn’t lead us to Rafael Ditko, you did lead us to the Salisbury, and to William Daniels. We don’t trawl the sink estates of the world looking for miracles. God made you an instrument of his light and truth. He does that, whether you like it or not.’

Gwillam smiled coldly. His composure was coming back to him at a steady trickle, bringing with it the unshakeable sense of his own rectitude.

‘The situation at the Salisbury,’ he said, ‘is one that a faithless man like you can’t understand. So there’s nothing to be gained by discussing it.’

By way of answer, I held up my right hand, fingers spread. The red, inflamed flesh in the centre of my palm was clearly visible. Gwillam’s eyes widened as he stared at it.

‘And that’s after only a few hours on the estate,’ I said. ‘How holy do you think I’ll be if I rent a flat there?’

Gwillam started to speak, but I rode right over him. ‘You should have been like your namesake, Father Thomas, and looked for a little more proof before you threw up your hands and started singing hosannas. You find a boy with wounds in his hands and you think he’s a saint in waiting, right?’

‘I won’t discuss–’

‘Don’t waste my fucking time. You already said the boy’s name, and his mother told me you were there. She just couldn’t bring herself to tell me why, but then she was seeing Bic’s wounds as part and parcel of the other sick shit that was going on in his life. It must have stuck in her throat a bit when you told her it was good news from Heaven.’

Gwillam was silent for a moment, but he found his voice again soon enough. ‘The appearance of the stigmata is a miracle,’ he said. ‘One that recurs down the centuries, as a sign of Christ’s manifested blessing.’

‘Either that or hysteria,’ I said. ‘Only this time — this time, Gwillam, it isn’t either of those things. It’s a demon.’

He stared at me in amazement, and then in undisguised scorn.

‘A demon?’ he echoed.

‘Yeah.’ I nodded. ‘A demon that loves wounds. That seems to live in wounds, somehow. Some poor kid who was into self-harm summoned it. I think he did it without even meaning to, just by being on its wavelength. It makes people cut themselves, or other people. It fills their dreams and their waking minds with the eagerness to see blood spilled. And it makes blood well up from healthy flesh, as though there were wounds there. That’s what Bic has got. A curse, not a blessing. Unless Jesus has got a really fucked-up way of showing that he loves us.’

I took the thick wodge of Nicky’s printouts from my inside pocket and let them fall on the carpet in front of Gwillam. ‘Read it,’ I suggested, ‘and weep. And after that, go and fucking do something.’

I left him sitting there, visibly reassembling the armour of his righteousness. No way of telling whether he’d believe me or not, but if he did there were things he could do while I was away to stop the situation at the Salisbury from reaching a crisis point. It was better than nothing, anyway.

As we drove back into London, Juliet maintained a thoughtful silence. I did the same thing, for a while, but then I thought what the hell: we were already on rockier ground than we’d been at any time since she decided to live on Earth instead of killing me. What did I have to lose by pushing the boat out a little further?

‘Is this thing a friend of yours?’ I asked.

I didn’t look around, but I felt the pressure of her gaze on me.

‘I mean,’ I said, ‘don’t get me wrong here, okay? If this is another of those off-limits topics, just tell me. But if it’s not, I wouldn’t mind knowing. Does this thing that makes people cut themselves into ribbons so it can nest in the torn flesh go way back with you? Is it a friend of the family? Did it bounce you on its knee when you were a little girl?’

We’d gone another couple of miles before she spoke, and I’d stopped waiting for an answer.

‘They’re called the Oleuthroi. And I’ve never met this one before. In fact, I haven’t seen any of his breed for twelve centuries. And the last one I saw was an adult, very old, enormous, that I and my sisters rousted up in the fields of Varhedre and killed for sport.’ Juliet’s voice was eerily distant, as if thinking about the past had carried her back there in some way.

‘They’re very rare,’ she said, and then paused. ‘Now. Now they’re rare. It wasn’t always so.’

‘And what, you’re into conservation? They’re an endangered species?’

Juliet was silent for a while.

‘I tried my hand at exorcising this thing before I came away from the estate,’ she said at last, returning her gaze to the road ahead. ‘Without result. I’ve told you what I can, Castor. More than I should. Be grateful. Or at the very least, be quiet.’

We said no more to each other. When I pulled up in front of Susan’s house, Juliet got out without saying a word: I thought, but couldn’t be sure, that I saw her turning away from Susan’s door and heading off into the night, which embraced her as eagerly as ever.

By the time I got back to Pen’s, it was after midnight. I called Jean Daniels, which I should have done from the hospital: to explain why I hadn’t been in touch and to ask her how Bic was.

More or less the same, was the answer. He slept a lot, and when he was awake he drifted in and out of his right mind — talking in his own voice one moment and in a strange polyglot growl the next. He hadn’t tried to hurt anyone, but he was unmistakably still possessed.

‘And now you’re going away?’ Jean asked, dismayed.

‘For a day,’ I said. ‘Two days, tops. I’m looking for Anita Yeats. I think she might know something that could help both your son and my brother.’

‘Know something about what, Mister Castor?’ Jean demanded. She sounded plaintive, and it made my stomach churn to be letting her down like this.

‘Two separate somethings,’ I admitted. ‘About Kenny’s death, and about Mark’s hobby. She’s the only person I haven’t managed to talk to, and there’s one obvious place where she might have gone.’

‘Which is?’

‘Home. Liverpool. But I’ll come and see Bic as soon as I’m back. Unless you want to get someone else in, which I’ll understand. I swear to God, Jean, I’ll see this through if you still want me to. I just — have to do this other thing first.’

‘We can’t afford to get anyone else,’ Jean said, her tone bleak. ‘Come as soon as you can, Mister Castor.’

She hung up, and I finished packing, wondering how late the last train would go. They’d probably run through the night, I thought. But then I was overcome with weariness: my brain felt like it had been scraped clean with wire wool, and my chest was throbbing again. I had to sit down until the pain and weakness passed.

I woke late in the morning to find Pen putting a cup of coffee on the bedside table — next to a double chocolate muffin with a lit sparkler embedded in it.

‘Welcome home,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ I muttered, sitting up slowly. Christ on a crutch, I thought. Losing half a day wasn’t an auspicious start to the quest.

‘You slept in your clothes,’ Pen observed.

‘Didn’t mean to sleep at all,’ I muttered, taking a scalding sip of coffee.

I told her about Matt, and she filled the pauses with expletives. ‘Murder my arse!’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Your brother would do ten Hail Marys if he farted in a lift!’

‘True,’ I admitted.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m going to find Anita Yeats,’ I said. ‘All I’ve got is random facts that don’t connect. I think she might be the one person who can join the dots for me. Can you lend me some cash, Pen?’

There was a square tin box in the kitchen that had once contained tea, or at least said it had. Now it contained ten-pound notes, stored up by Pen against a rainy day. She assessed the current storm at a hundred quid, counting the notes into my hand one at a time. Then, after a short tussle with her conscience, she forked over the rest. ‘Just bring me back what you don’t spend,’ she said.

She dropped me off at Turnpike Lane station, and from there it was a short hop down the Piccadilly Line to Kings Cross. Trains for Liverpool were three or four to the hour, according to the Virgin Trains website, so there was no need to book.

Can’t help? I thought.

Fucking try me, Matty.