Thicker Than Water

’ Richie nodded emphatically. ‘Just had to get the timing right. He always did the Red Pepper on a Friday night, so I placed a call to the Greater Merseyside drug squad and told them exactly where and when to flash the bacon.’ He smiled even wider: he was evidently enjoying the memory. ‘And I’m going to get Steve, too,’ he said in a more meditative tone. ‘I’ve been following him for months and I finally struck gold. The stupid bastard is seeing prozzies down the Dock Road and I’m getting pictures of him d«ctue. oing it. When I’ve got a nice thick photo album’s worth, I’m going to send it in to his boss. Should fuck him over nicely, don’t you think?’

I nodded, because there was no way of disagreeing. ‘You blame them all, then?’ I said. ‘For - whatever happened to Anita?’

‘They hounded her from pillar to post,’ he said, grinding out the discarded dog-end with his heel as though it were a Seddon he’d inadvertently missed. ‘They wouldn’t let her rest. And then when they’d hounded her all the way back to that bastard down in Walworth, they walked away and let him kill her. Yes, Castor. I blame them all. I blame a lot of people. Don’t get me started.’

I was prepared to take that advice, but there was one more thing I needed to know. Well, two things, now that I thought about it.

‘Richie,’ I said. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but . . . it wasn’t you, was it? With the razor? You didn’t go down to the Smoke on a day return and - you know - do a bit more pruning?’"

"Richie gave a sardonic snort. ‘I wish,’ he said. ‘But I already told you, I’m no good at that stuff. I must be a throwback or something, mustn’t I? A Walton kid with no taste for aggro.’

He sounded like he meant it; and the accusation hadn’t got the smallest response beyond that weary, self-hating derision. ‘Okay,’ I said, feeling obscurely relieved. ‘Then answer me this and I’m out of your hair. Can you think of any reason why Kenny would have had a grudge against Matt? A big enough grudge that he’d frame him for murder? Because that was the last thing he did, as he was drowning in his own blood. And it seems like a strange . . .’

I tailed off into silence, because Richie was looking at me with enormous, astonished eyes.

‘Why Kenny would hate your brother?’ he echoed.

‘Yeah.’

‘Castor, who do you think you’re talking to? And what fucking tree did you just fall out of?’ Richie’s tone was pained and angry.

‘Okay,’ I said, cautiously. ‘I’m assuming those were rhetorical questions. You think there’s something obvious I’m missing, then? Something you know, and you think I should know, too?’

He stood up. ‘Here’s the thing,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me in that car. I already told you that. But if it had been, and if I was someone else instead of me - a macho psycho killer kind of someone, in the real Walton style - then I wouldn’t have stopped at Kenny.’

He brushed the grass off his jacket, wincing as the movement chafed his blistered finger.

‘I’d have killed your brother, too,’ he said.

Then he seemed to recollect where he was; or perhaps he read the expression on my face. Either way, his gaze fell from my face to the name on the he« naizeadstone we’d been leaning against, and he had the decency to look abashed.

‘Okay,’ he muttered. ‘Shitty thing to say. I’m sorry. It’s just - fucking priests, you know? Is there one of them out there who can—? Never mind. Forget it. There are degrees, aren’t there? Maybe he said a few Hail Marys and squared himself with God. But he’ll never square himself with me.’

He walked away before I could ask him what he meant by that. I was left staring at the gravestone, still feeling the ghost-echo of it against my back. Feeling as though her name had been burned on my skin, through the cool stone and through the fabric of my coat.

CATHERINE PAULINE CASTOR

BELOVED DAUGHTER AND SISTER

Just those words, and the two dates: the two dates so very close together.

My phone, which I’d set to vibrate, squirmed like a rat in my pocket, startling me out of a grim reverie. I put it to my ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Castor.’ I couldn’t place the voice at first, but the slight muffling effect caused by a fat lip gave me the clue I needed.

‘Gwillam. How’s life?’

He didn’t bother to answer. ‘You were right,’ was all he said. ‘Get back here as soon as you can, because we need to talk.’

The mix of old tragedies and current irritations made me curt. ‘Do we? About what?’

‘About the Salisbury. Come and save these people, Castor, because they’re in Hell. And I’m not strong enough to get them out.’

19

The towers were silent, and most of the lights were out. Here and there a single window blazed yellow-white, the random elevations and distances making the Salisbury seem like a constellation that nobody had got around to naming yet.