Page 77 of Fortune's Ashes
The knot of suspicion in my stomach was growing but I didn’t have all of the puzzle pieces – and those I had were not fitting together. ‘What about the night before the fire?’
‘What about it?’
I leaned forward on my toes. It was the night Alan Cobain had been set alight. I wanted to know where Stubman had been when that had happened. If he’d been at work, he couldn’t have killed Cobain. ‘Humour me.’
Stubman sighed. ‘Fine. My shift started earlier than usual because Max asked me to fill in for him. It was his birthday and he wanted to leave early so he could start partying. I don’t know why he bothered – apparently he turned up late to his own celebrations.’ His lip curled. ‘Whatever. And before you say anything, no, I wasn’t annoyed that I wasn’t invited. I was happy to fill in for him. I take my job seriously.’ His eyes narrowed, daring me to disagree.
I kept a straight face. The fact that he’d mentioned his lack of an invitation suggested that Stubman was very pissed off about it. I hadn’t realised he and Max were friends; they were very, very different.
Stubman continued. ‘One of the guests complained about their room and I had to move their suitcases to a different suite. Another guest gave me a decent tip. Nothing else interesting happened.’ He glared at me some more. ‘What else do you need? Do you want to know where I was when JFK was shot? Or if I faked the moon landings?’
He wasn’t old enough. I pulled back and thought about what he’d said.
‘Fucking supes,’ Stubman spat suddenly. ‘And fucking police. I hate the lot of you.’ He spun on his heel and marched back inside his flat, though he didn’t close the door.
I hesitated for a beat then followed him in. He had plonked himself in the centre of a sagging sofa and was fiddling with something underneath a cushion. I looked around. There was a television in the corner, displaying flickering pictures of an old black-and-white film. The walls were bare of any pictures and there was very little furniture. It was completely soulless, as if Stubman had only just moved in and was still waiting to unpack his belongings.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.
‘What does that have to do with anything?’
I shrugged and sat down gingerly on the single wooden chair next to the sofa; judging by the rings marking its wooden seat, it was normally used as a side table.
‘I moved in 2010,’ he said. ‘About thirteen years ago.’
I sat up straighter. ‘Which month?’
Stubman squinted. ‘Which month did I move in? September, I think.’
Adele Cunningham and Simon Carr had been murdered in August. That was when Quincy Carmichael had disappeared, too. And Quincy’s old business premises were only a stone’s throw away.
‘Why here?’ I asked him. ‘This is a supe community. You don’t like supes.’
His eyes shifted. ‘I got a good deal because I sublet it off a friend. I wouldn’t get anywhere else in London like this for the same price. Not even close.’
‘Who’s the friend?’
Stubman’s face twisted with fury. ‘Come after me all you like, but you’re not coming after my people too.’
‘I’m not coming after you. I only want to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
I kept my voice gentle. ‘The hotel you work at is in the supe community, right next to Supe Squad.’
‘I don’t work there any more, do I? The building’s been condemned. The hotel has gone because of you and your lot,’ he spat.
Again I waited. It worked. After several seconds passed, Stubman filled in the silence. ‘I didn’t plan things this way, but beggars can’t be fucking choosers, can they? I wanted to be in the police. The bellman job was supposed to be a stopgap but then the Met decided I wasn’t suitable.’
He scowled, directing his angry gaze towards me as if that were my fault. ‘I thought I’d go to evening school and get better grades to do something else, but I started working nights and…’ His voice trailed off. ‘Here I am fifteen years later, still stuck in the same dead-end job – and even that no longer exists.’
His shoulders slumped an inch. He raised his eyes to mine with bitter defiance. ‘I’m a failure, alright? I’ve failed at everything. Including life.’ He was not in a good place emotionally.
I licked my lips. ‘Why do you hate supes so much?’
This time he didn’t hesitate before answering. ‘Because you lot think you’re so fucking superior. You think because you’ve got money and strength and power that you’re better than the rest of us. You’re no better than I am! Just because I don’t have the right connections, or I wasn’t born into the right family, doesn’t make me less of a person than you are. This is my country. It’smycity. You lot don’t belong here.’
I stared at him, suddenly understanding a little more. Despite his best efforts, his life hadn’t gone the way he’d wanted it to. All around him he saw supes who, in his eyes, had everything they could possibly wish for while he had a shabby bare flat, a crappy job and very few prospects.
