Deformity?

25

At the end of the bizarre phone call, his hand weary from scribbling notes, Simon thanked David Martinez and clicked off, falling back on the bed, his eyes bright with thoughts and ideas.

Extraordinary. It was truly extraordinary. And the tension in the young man’s voice. What was he going through? What was happening down there, in the Pyrenees?

Whatever the answer, the phone call was a revelation. A breakthrough – and it needed celebrating. He almost ran downstairs. He needed to speak to Sanderson, and he needed a cup of triumphant coffee.

Spooning dark brown Colombian coffee grounds into the cafetiere, he called New Scotland Yard. It occurred to him, as he did so, that Sanderson might be angered by Simon’s persistent pursuit of the story; it occurred to him that Sanderson would be mightily interested in this latest information.

But he couldn’t reach Sanderson. Instead he was put through to Tomasky. The young DS seemed to listen with appreciative and gratifying interest; as he told the story, Simon felt almost exultant at his success. The best bit was the toes. They now had an explanation: the syndactyly. Yes.

Even as Simon explained his discoveries, he cursed himself for his own failure in not making this connection before – as soon as Emma Winyard had mentioned the Cagots, he should have looked them up! Then he could have strung the pearls himself: webbed toes. Cagots. The Pyrenees.

Still, he had at least got there in the end.

The coffee had brewed and the mug was full. It was Tomasky’s turn to talk, as the journalist sipped.

‘So, Simon,’ the DS said, ‘you’re saying these people, the…Cackots…’

‘Cagots. Ca-gots.’

‘Right. You’re saying these Cag…ots are all deformed? They all have webbed fingers or toes?’

‘Not all. But some, certainly – and it is one of the characteristics of the Cagots. Since medieval times. That’s why they were given the, ah, goose’s foot to wear. To symbolize and epitomize their malformation.’

‘Why? Why do they have webbed fingers and toes?’

‘Genetics. They are a mountain people, inbred! Deformities like this are common in isolated communities with smaller gene pools. They don’t get bred out. Fascinating right?’

‘Sure.’ Tomasky went quiet. Then he added. ‘And you’re saying our victims…are Cagots then. Someone is killing the Cag…ots?’

‘Seems that way, Andrew. We don’t know why, but we know that some of them are Cagots, and the ones who are Cagot and deformed get tortured. And the killings are happening all over. France, Britain, Canada.’ He paused. ‘And some of them are old, and they were in Occupied France during the war, maybe in this camp called Gurs. Maybe that’s what links them as well. And some of them have lots of money…’ Simon wanted to laugh at the bewildering evidence, but at least it was evidence. ‘I need to speak to Bob Sanderson. He needs to know this.’

‘Sure. I’m on it. I’ll tell the DCI as soon as I see him.’

‘Excellent. Thanks, Andrew.’

Simon rang off. He set down the mobile and stared out of the window. For half an hour he exulted in his discovery. Then his hymn of happiness was joined by the chime of the doorbell. The journalist breezed down the hall and opened the door. Behind it was Andrew Tomasky. Surprising.

‘Hello, DS. I thought -’

The policeman pushed through the door and kicked it shut behind. Simon stood back.

Tomasky had a knife.

26

Tomasky growled with anger as his first stab of the knife missed Simon’s neck – by an inch.

The journalist gasped as he sensed another slashing cut, and he swerved, again, batting away the blade – but Tomasky came at him for a third time, jumping forward, and this time he got a hand on his victim’s throat and the knife was aimed directly at an eye.

Choking and spitting, Simon caught the stabbing arm at the last moment. The knife was poised just millimetres from the pupil, shaking with the violence of their struggle.

Tomasky was thrusting down, his victim was holding the wrist and grinding the hand upwards. They were on the floor. The knife was too close to see, it was just a menacing silver blur in his vision: a looming greyness. The knifepoint came closer, the journalist shuddered – he was going to be blinded, then killed. Drilled into the brain through the optical bone.

His eye was blinking reflexively, shedding tears. Loud noises rumbled behind. The bladepoint trembled with the strength of two men opposed. Simon screamed and made a final effort to force the blade away, but he was losing the battle. He shut his eyes and waited for the steel to sink into the softness, popping open the eyeball, then crunching into his brain.

Then his face was covered with splattering wetness, like he’d been slapped with heavy blancmange: and suddenly Tomasky was just a body, dead weight, sagging down, and he forced the dead policeman off his chest and he stared upwards.

Sanderson.

DCI Sanderson was standing in the door; next to him was a policeman with chest armour. The door had been kicked open. The chest-armoured cop had a gun.

‘Shot, Richman.’

‘Sir.’

Sanderson reached a hand down and pulled the journalist to his feet. But when he stood up he felt his knees go, trembling and buckling with the fear and the shock; he crumpled to the floor again. He was staring at Tomasky’s body. The head had been blown apart, by a sidelong shot, at close range. The skull was in pieces. Actual pieces scattered across the hallway.

Then he sensed the wetness on his face. Smeary wetness. He had Tomasky’s blood and maybe his brains on his face. His throat tightened with nausea as he stood; without a word to the policemen he hurled himself upstairs to the bathroom, where he averted himself from the mirror: he didn’t want to see himself covered with brains and blood. Splashing water and more water on his face, he used a box of tissues, and half a bottle of handsoap, and finally he rinsed and nearly gagged, and rinsed again.

Now he checked the mirror. His face was clean. But there was something stuck in his cheek, lodged in its own little wound. Like a small piece of glass, burrowed in his flesh. Leaning close to the mirror he plucked the thing from his cheek.

It was one of Tomasky’s teeth.

‘League of Polish Families.’

The voice was familiar. DCI Sanderson was standing right behind, at the hallway door.

‘What?’

‘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…’