‘No idea. Possibly. It’s a nice house.’
‘I’m glad our family will be able to get something out of that dreadful old quisling at last.’
‘There you go again. You can’t say the q-word over the vid either.’
‘Well, you know about such things.’
‘Yes I do. Remember Leila? Now, I want you to think back to when you knew him. Is there anything you think he might have wanted to give to me? Anything at all? I had a talk with him yesterday and he said he had something he had to hand me.’ He played her back the Admiral’s conversation. He watched her concentrating, her forehead wrinkled in thought. She was only fifty-five but she was starting to chalk up all the telltale signs of late-middle to old age.
‘You’re talking about him in the past tense. Is he dead?’ Horatio nodded. ‘Well, he must have been ninety at least, I can’t say I’m going to mourn. We never liked him.’
‘What do you make of the tape?’
‘I don’t know. Is it something to do with Aachen do you think?’ She leant forward and whispered, ‘If it’s anything damaging to the Commission do let me have a copy. I’d be able to find a good home for it.’
‘That’s enough!’ he barked. People turned on their barstools to stare at him. ‘Do not talk like that over the vid! I wish you’d learn how these things work. And dropping your voice makes no difference either.’
‘Well, you’re on a public phone and it’s been so long since I’ve been involved in politics I doubt they’re still interested in me. It would be a nice compliment if they still were! Anyway, you know perfectly well what I meant.’
‘I do and I’d better go before you say anything indictable. Might see you Saturday week.’
‘I’ll give your love to Dick and Marcia.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Have you thought what you are going to do with the Admiral’s bequest?’
‘No. But at least I can pay my Atgas bill now!’ As soon as the words left his tongue he knew his terrible faux pas. His mother’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry Mummy.’
‘Goodbye.’ She clicked off. Not angry, just sad. How bloody stupid and insensitive of him to mention that of all things.
Should he have contacted his half-brother when he was arrested? Dick’s legal firm had friends in high places. Not as high as he was making enemies though, and he didn’t really want to be under any obligation to him. Not after the way Dick and Marcia had reacted to the Leila thing. He thought of the ads Zetland & Dunbar put out. Horatio privately thought they summed up everything that was wrong with the new legal system:
‘Have you been verbally criticised, ridiculed, even insulted?’ – went one he particularly despised – ‘Has anyone said anything to you in the past seven years that left you upset, or capable of persuading a judge that you were? Then call Zetland & Dunbar on 01171 493 8000 in London or 010 322 222 6000 in Brussels. We’re faster on the draw than Hess & Oman and pay sexier rates than Cosworth & Blackwood. Remember, there’s nothing to pay if we take on your case; we just take a modest and negotiable percentage of your possibly VAST WINNINGS! A happy client of ours recently won 50,000 EUROS for having been called a right old cow. So call us now.’ Then came their famous jingle: ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can make you RICH!’
Although it wouldn’t make him rich, Horatio’s next call should result in a serious pay hike. Weaning would be delighted with this story. It had Snell of the Yard, a war hero, politics, murder, on-the-spot reporting – everything a news hack could ever ask for. He got through immediately on the vid-phone.
‘Roddy, I’ve got something very special for you.’ Weaning looked aggressive and angry. He jabbed a finger at him.
‘You’re off the case.’
‘I mean something very big. Murder. Could be political too.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss if you’ve got genocide. You’re off the case’.
What was he talking about? He’d very soon be eating his words. So Horatio persisted.
‘I’ve spent half a day in jail for this story.’
‘Don’t care. I’ve already discussed it with the editor. The decision’s final.’
‘This could be of national importance, Roddy.’
‘Don’t you use that word at me, it’s not one I recognise or allow in this office. These are taped phones for Christ’s sake! The word’s “regional”. You’re turning into a real liability, Lestoq. And this time, at last, the editor agrees. You academic types are all the same. I was right all along. You just can’t be trusted to behave professionally. How long have you been on the last Aachen article?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘How many hours have you put into it?’ Horatio totted them up.
‘Well, I’ve been working pretty much all out over the last five days. You know that, you told me to. Roddy, you have to hear me out. I’ve been in gaol today. It’s an amazing tale. The Admiral …’
‘I don’t want to hear it and I don’t care if you’ve been to Kazakhstan. You’ve contravened the Working Time Directive. You know you can only put in thirty-two hours a week and you’re already doing far more than that. And on May Day. Sunday’s double time, too. From the look of the work you’ve already submitted the Directive was contravened on the first two articles as well. Plus, I’m unhappy about your expenses. And your offensively lookist behaviour towards Ms Aldritt. You’re fired.’
‘It was you who told me to come in yesterday. And to come down here today. God knows I didn’t want to.’ He thought of Cleo.
‘Well, you don’t need to go anywhere for us from now on. Sorry, Lestoq, you’re an out-take. You could get this newsagency’s licence revoked. As it is, your own is not worth the microchip it’s being wiped off. You broke your contract by not revealing that you’d had sexual relations with a terrorist while an employee here two years ago. That sort of thing brings organisations like ours into disrepute. Plus your working hours run completely contrary’ – Horatio realised that Weaning was talking unnaturally slowly now, in an on-the-record sort of way – ‘to the Social Action Programme and the Working Time Directive 97/678. As a result Times Newsagencies have no alternative but to sever your engagement with us forthwith. Under your freelance contract you have no pension rights or indeed anything so much as a copper handshake. See you at the Tribunal. Goodbye.’
The screen went blank.
That was the authentic voice and look of a scared man, Horatio decided. Someone who’d been got at.
How had Weaning found out about Leila? He’d been promised complete secrecy as well as immunity if he told P.I.D. all he knew. His name had been covered by an ‘E’ notice and he’d testified to the court by one-way vid and voice alterer. How could Weaning know?
If even the mention of a political murder scoop hadn’t pricked up his hack’s ears, Weaning was acting for political, not managerial motives. Like every hack worth his salt, Weaning regularly contravened the Working Times Directive himself. But if he and the editor were being leant on so effectively, what chance was there of getting an article published elsewhere? No one but the underground press would touch it. And what credibility did they have?
The remark about licences being revoked was revealing, too. No one needed to tell Horatio how subservient the press had become after the Media Privacy Directives. Adopting French-style libel laws had meant that unless he got virtually a signed confession out of whoever was behind this, no one would dare print the story. What did he have anyhow? What actual evidence had he got? Nothing.
Once again he heard the distant barking of a black dog. He hadn’t taken any Pluszac for three days now. He must have one tonight. All he needed in this crisis was another turn like the one in the Hilary Term of his final year.
Cleo wasn’t at the office. He got her at home. She was working at her desk. She looked great. He decided not to mention anything. No point in scaring her unnecessarily or talking over the vid. He could ask her advice when they met.
‘What are y
ou doing for dinner tomorrow night?’
‘I’m going to The Last Days of Pompeii with a girlfriend.’
‘Could you blow her out?’
‘But I want to see it, it’s in Total Reality. Apparently you can actually feel the heat and ash and smell the lava and the fumes.’
‘You’d rather smell lava and fumes than have dinner with me, is that it?’ He was smiling but … ‘Well, what’s on offer?’
‘Anything you like, of course. If you want to see Pompeii we could do that. Or there’s a little place in Soho where they’re putting on private showings of Dustin Hoffman movies.’ He regretted it as soon as he’d said it.
‘Please try to remember sometimes what I do for a living, Horatio. How would it look if the place was raided and it turned out I’d been watching Hollywood films? Haven’t you read the Cultural Defence Directive 67/908? I ought to be demanding the name and address of this place.’ Chastened he quickly changed the subject.
‘Do you like Macanese food? We could go to Gerrard Street. Have you been to the new place, Memories of 1996?’
‘No, is it safe?’ There had been two triad killings in Chinatown that month. The last one in a restaurant across the road from Memories.
‘Yes, I think so.’ She should know. She was the cop.
‘I love Macanese food and I haven’t been there yet. Twenty-thirty?’
‘Fine. Tell no one at P.I.D. though.’
‘Very cloak-and-dagger. Why?’
‘I can’t say just now. Will you just promise?’ Her eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. She put down her pen.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble Horatio? What’s going on? Please tell me, I might be able to help. What’s wrong?’
He took a deep breath. His initial resolve not to burden her dissipated. If Marty had known immediately at P.I.D. she’d find out soon enough.
‘Are you alone?’
‘Well, you never really are with vids, but otherwise yes.’
‘I’ve been arrested. For a murder I didn’t commit.’
‘Is this some sort of sick joke? Because if so …’
‘No joke. I’m going to need your advice tomorrow night. By then I might have cleared one or two things up. Will you be there?’
‘What about tonight?’
‘Can’t do that. Or any earlier. But tomorrow night’s OK.’
‘Of course. See you there. Don’t tell me any more over the vid.’
‘I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have found out by then.’
‘See you then.’
What a woman! She hadn’t flinched, let alone demanded details. He danced a little victory jig in the bar, whooping inwardly. He might have lost his job and was soon to be a wanted man, but he was going to splash a couple of hundred or so on a slap-up with Cleo tomorrow night and the knowledge made him happy.
Back in the snug he told Marty about Weaning. He’d have to find another job. All Souls merely provided him with a room in college. If he moved back to Oxford he’d be able to save his London rent at least. Yet another career reversal. His mother had only his father’s naval pension, and he’d sponged off her long enough. He certainly couldn’t expect anything from Dick or Marcia.
The legacy had to come through. Which, Marty pointed out helpfully, it wouldn’t if he was found guilty of the Admiral’s murder. Marty offered him a couple of grand to tide him over until he got other work, adding, even more helpfully, that if tonight went badly there was a good chance that he’d be in for many years of completely free accommodation.
Realising how gloomy that sounded, Marty tried to cheer Horatio up by cross-questioning him about his extraordinary success with Cleo on Friday night. After a couple of feints it became clear that he would not be fobbed off.
‘She’s a cracking-looking girl of course, a superbabe. I won’t pretend I’m not flailingly jealous, Horror. I’ve fancied her like crazy ever since she came to P.I.D. But do watch out.’ Horatio was fully expecting to be warned about Tallboys, but Marty continued: ‘I work with her and I know. She’s tough. Bloody tough. And unscrupulous. And dangerous. She’s not like normal people. She puts everything into her job. And she didn’t get it through affirmative action either, like some people there. There’s no question of any gender quota with her, it was pure ability. When are you seeing her next?’
‘Tomorrow night.’ Marty nodded.
‘Let me put it this way, she’s one of our most zealous operatives.’
‘All of which serves merely to enhance my fascination, of course.’
‘Of course. You also ought to know she has a husband whose favourite hobbies are pulling off doves’ wings and breaking the vertebrae of small children.’
But Horatio was only half-listening. He was already thinking about tomorrow night and trying to remember a D.W.A-S.M. quotation: ‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale/Her infinite variety; other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry/Where most she satisfies …’
‘Come again?’
‘From Antony and Cleopatra. By William Shakespeare, Europe’s greatest poet, you ignorant git.’
‘And proud of it.’
Horatio changed the subject onto something the famously philistine Marty could be expected to know something about.
‘Were the E.R.M. really planning to blow up the Channel Bridge, as I read yesterday in my soaraway Sun?’
‘Off the record?’
‘Of course.’
‘We reckon it could be true. They’re taking the armed struggle up a notch. We think they’re looking for softer targets now. Why? What’s your interest? Thinking of a career in terrorism?’
‘Just that when I take Cleo on a quiet, romantic holiday to Sarajevo this summer I don’t want anything out of the ordinary to happen.’ Marty gave him a strange look.
‘I’d steer well clear of that lady if I were you. I mean it.’
Upstairs in one of the pub’s tiny bedrooms, Horatio considered his options. They were pathetically few. Only one avenue seemed worth exploring. The one with rhododendrons up it. Rewinding his pager interview, Horatio again heard the promise that the old man had made to draw up a memorandum for him. If he had done that, and the murderer had taken it, he was lost. But if it was still somewhere in the house, it might just provide the proof he needed, the sort that could be printed.
For all his instinctive cowardice, terror of the dark and fear of being caught by the police – or, even worse, the killer – Horatio could see no alternative to returning to the Rectory that night. At least he would have Marty, who would presumably be armed. If his release was rescinded tomorrow, he would soon be back in jail. He desperately needed any evidence he could find. He’d have years in prison to regret it if he missed this opportunity. So he set the alarm for 03.00 and slept the sleep of the innocent he was.
CHAPTER 11
03.00 MONDAY 3 MAY
The pager bleeped him awake. 03.00. Christ! What would this adventure do to his body clock?
03.00. The time his pager had been accessed after Marty’s party.
He remembered being told how, after the Food & Health Directive had made the public sale and consumption of fried fish and chips illegal and there had been riots in London and Liverpool, the Environmental Health Special Branch had hit the suspected rioters’ homes at 03.00.
It had been at 03.00 when Special Branch smashed his door down and dragged Leila away, naked and terrified.
Now he was going to enter a house which was by right probably his already, armed only with a torch. ‘ALL SOULS FELLOW TURNED BURGLAR.’ The title of his autobiography, or the splash in tomorrow’s Times?
He twitched the curtains apart. A half-moon. It was enough. He got dressed quickly and silently. Tiptoeing down the pub’s creaky main staircase as quietly as his bulk allowed, he put on his shoes outside the front door. It was cold and quiet and Marty was late.
Marty always was. As Horatio blew on his hands and then warmed them under hi
s armpits, he remembered how Marty had been late on the very first occasion they had met. It had been at house roll call at Westminster. ‘Frobisher!’ the housemaster had called for the third and final time, and a loud ‘Present!’ was heard from the back of the hall as Marty scampered in and sat cross-legged on the floor next to Horatio with an improbable tale about an escaped parakeet. By the end of term his excuses for lateness were legendary.
Just as Horatio was about to give up and go back inside, the door opened. Marty also had a torch and gloves.
Silently they made their way across the pub autopark to the Rectory drive. They took care to walk on the grass verge rather than the gravel, despite occasionally being swiped across the face by stray rhododendron branches.
Horatio was reminded of a line in P.G. Wodehouse – another favourite D.W.A-S.M. author placed on the ‘discouraged’ list after the Classlessness Directive – which argued that one cannot altogether despair of a country which produces lots of burglars, as it takes guts to prowl around strange houses at the dead of night looking for safes behind pictures.
The front door was locked and sealed. Thick yellow plastic tapes, reading ‘europol: do not enter’ criss-crossed it. Making their way carefully around the back of the house they reached the French windows of the drawing room. Preparing to smash a pane of glass with the torch to let themselves in, first Marty, then Horatio, flashed a torch beam inside. Horatio half expected to see the outline of the body taped across the sofa, as in old movies. But instead the silver shaft presented a very different sight.
The entire room had been wrecked.
The first thing he noticed was that the carpet had been torn up and sliced into one-metre squares. Every book from the shelves had been taken down, rifled through, their spines ripped off and flung on the floor. The bibliophile in Horatio wanted to cry ‘Sacrilege!’ at the top of his voice.
The desk he had phoned from, the mirror, and every single picture, print, photo and other article of furniture in the room had been systematically smashed to pieces. Then the pieces had been broken into smaller pieces.
The Aachen Memorandum Page 9
