‘Tomasky. We’ve been watching the bastard for a while. Sorry it got that close. We’ve been monitoring his calls – but he slipped out of the building –’
‘You –’
‘Sorry, mate. Had to use lethal force. Waited too long –’
Simon’s hands were still trembling with fear. He extended one into the air, experimentally. Watched it shaking. He grabbed a towel and dried his face. Trying to be calm and manly. Largely failing.
‘Why did you suspect him?’
Sanderson offered a sad, sympathetic smile.
‘Odd little things. The knotting. Remember that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You found out it was a witch torture, in an hour. Tomasky didn’t. I put him on the job before you, and he turned up nothing like that. Yet he was a smart copper. That didn’t quite…fit.’ The DCI pointed at Simon’s face. ‘You’re still bleeding.’
He switched his attention to the mirror once more. The wound where the tooth had impacted was indeed bleeding. But not badly. Rifling the bathroom cabinet, he found some cotton wool. He swabbed himself with water, then rinsed the woollen bud. White wool, red wool, clear water, stained water. Blood in the water. Sanderson carried on talking.
‘When I noted that – the knotting, I mean – that’s when I took an interest. I remembered he was keen to be assigned to this case in the first place. Very very keen. And then we found he was taking certain calls that were meant for me, and not telling me, like the call from Edith Tait. And he wasn’t following up other leads, either. So we looked into his background…’
The journalist gestured at Sanderson. He wanted to get out of the bathroom. He wanted to get out of the house. He could hear voices downstairs. More policemen, presumably. An ambulance outside, come to take the body away.
They stepped out onto the landing and leaned over the banister, looking down at the hall. The body was still lying there: with paramedics bustling around. Big splashes of blood, like bright red paint, were flung across the polished wooden floor. That wooden floor was Suzie’s pride and joy. Simon wondered, incongruously, how angry she would be: about her floor.
‘You said about his background?’
‘Yeah.’ Sanderson nodded. ‘Likesay, Polish. Came here with his family about ten years ago. A cleanskin. No record of anything suspicious, even trained as a priest. Or monk. But his dad was big in the League of Polish Families. And his brother worked for Radio Maryja.’
‘They are?’
‘Hard right nationalist groups, ultra Catholic political parties. Linked to the Front National in France and various Catholic sects, like Pope Pius the Tenth. Lots of them perfectly legitimate but with…radical right agendas. At the edges anyway.’
‘So he was a Nazi?’
‘Nah. These outfits, from what we can tell, are not really Nazi. More hearth and home. The blessed Virgin Mary and a nice big army. They don’t really go in for kicking shit out of black people. Or killing Anglo-Irish journalists. Not normally anyway.’
‘I don’t understand it.’
‘Nor do I, mate, nor do I.’ He squinted Simon’s way, assessingly. ‘But there may be some link…you know, your witch theory. It alerted us. We’re still checking Tomasky out. He was a passionate churchgoer. Witches and churches, churches and witches? Who knows.’
‘So you listened in on the phone call I made to him?’
‘We did,’ Sanderson answered. ‘He must have thought you were onto something, when you rang him, something he wanted hidden. So his only choice was to take you out.’
‘The Cagots?’
‘Yup. The gist of your call with Tomasky. And these poor bastards in France? Very interesting. What the fuck is all this about?’
‘Sorry?’
The DCI looked momentarily sober, verging on reflective. Even maudlin. ‘Remember what I said way back? How right I was.’
‘What?’
‘This isn’t any old fish and chip job, Quinn, this isn’t a fish and chip job. This is something else. Who the heck knows…’ His vigour returned. ‘OK. Let’s get sorted. Nuff rabbiting. Come on, we need to debrief you, Quinn. Then, I am afraid –’
‘What –?’
‘We’re gonna assign you protection. Just for the while. And your close family.’
They descended the rest of the stairs. Past the body of Tomasky. Tip toeing through the bloodsplashes, apologizing to the paramedics and SOC photographers. The grey drizzly air of late September was enlivening. The sun was battling to be seen through the clouds.
Sanderson opened a car door for Simon, who climbed in. Sanderson sat alongside, in the back. The car began the long journey to New Scotland Yard. Finchley, Hampstead, Belsize Park.