Vicious Circle

“No. He was using me as a sniffer dog.” She looked blank, so I dropped the metaphor. “My landlady Pen Bruckner sent him. I called her to ask if she could bring some antibiotics for Peace’s wounds. She called Fanke because he was posing as a doctor. Or maybe he is a doctor. Certainly some of his friends seem to be able to lay their hands on prescription drugs without too much trouble. Anyway, he told Pen he’d come along and help, and she bought it. She led Fanke right to us. Or right to Peace, which was what he wanted all along.”

“Peace’s wounds.”

“What?”

“You said you needed medicine for Peace’s wounds. How did he get hurt?”

I hesitated. I had her taking me seriously now, at least enough to walk it through, and I didn’t want to put too much of a strain on her credulity by talking about Catholic werewolves.

“Some guys set on him outside the Thames Collective,” I said, evading the issue of who and why and with what implements. “You can ask Reggie Tang about that. He must have seen at least some of what happened from up on the deck.”

“Okay. Say I swallow any of this, even for a moment. Where is Fanke now?”

I threw my arms wide. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Get some exorcists onto it, Basquiat. Not me, obviously: whoever else the Met calls in on murder cases. Get hold of something that belonged to Abbie and put them on her trail. Peace was blindsiding me because the Oriflamme had built-in camouflage. But she’s not in the Oriflamme anymore, so she ought to be easier to find now, unless—”

I didn’t finish that sentence. Unless it was already too late, was what I meant. Unless Abbie had been used up in a repetition of last Saturday’s ritual.

Basquiat was talking again. I had to wrench my mind off that train of thought and try to stay focused. “Do you know where we could lay our hands on anything that belonged to Abbie?” she was asking me.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I do. And bear in mind, if I was guilty, I wouldn’t be telling you this—because it makes me look even guiltier.”

“Go on.”

“At my office, in Craven Park Road—next to that kebab house I told you about. There’s a black plastic bag, full of toys and clothes. They all—”

“We already checked your office,” Basquiat interrupted, waving me silent. “The door had been smashed in, and you’d been turned over pretty thoroughly. There was nothing there.”

Damn. I groped around for inspiration. “My coat,” I said. “There was a doll’s head in the pocket—” Basquiat was shaking her head. It looked as though Fanke had outthought me all along the line.

Or maybe not. I remembered the golden chain wrapped around Peace’s wrist. Wrapped tightly, and clenched firmly in that meaty fist. Clenched tightly because it had already broken when Peace tore it from around the dead girl’s neck at the meeting house.

“When your men turned over the Oriflamme,” I said, “did they find any links from a gold chain?”

Basquiat’s eyes narrowed very slightly. She shook her head.

“Check again. They’d have to be small enough to miss. And maybe they could have fallen into a crack in the floor, or gotten into the seams of Peace’s clothes. That chain was hers. Abbie’s. She wore it every day for years. And it was broken, so it could have shed a link or two during the fight . . .”

The detective sergeant stood, briskly, crossed to the door and hammered on it. “I’m not saying I believe you,” she said over her shoulder. “I am saying I’ll check it.”

“Fast,” I told her. “Do it fast. I know Abbie already counts as dead in your book. But what Fanke has in mind for her is worse.”

“I said I’ll check it.”

The door opened and she stepped through without a word.

“Get me my phonecall!” I shouted after her. “Basquiat, get me my fucking phonecall!”

The door slammed shut.

But this time she’d listened—and relented. Barely ten minutes later the door opened again, and an orderly in a white coat wheeled in a payphone on a trolley. He walked right out again, and the cop who’d opened the door looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t have any money,” I reminded him.

He looked truculent. “Nothing in the rules says I’ve got to sub you, you cheeky fucker,” he grunted.

“Detective Sergeant Basquiat will pay you back,” I assured him. “And contrariwise, she’ll probably twist your bollocks off if her collar goes tits-up because you didn’t give me my statutory rights.”

He dug in his pocket and came up with a handful of silver, which he flung down on the floor. “There you go,” he sneered, and stalked out. The key turned in the lock.

There was a yellow pages on a wire shelf underneath the trolley. I looked under “Roman Catholic church,” found nothing, but under “Religious organizations” there were a number of places that looked vaguely promising. I eventually settled on a seminary in Vauxhall. I dialed the number, and a man’s voice said “Father Braithewaite,” in slightly plummy tones.