by John Gardner
‘I’d better introduce myself,’ said the bigger blighter. ‘Superintendent Clyde. This is Sergeant Knowles.’
Bogies were the last thing I’d expected.
‘Policemen?’ My voice sounded like it used to when I was thirteen and almost innocent. It’s a funny thing about coppers, they always bring out the guilt in you. By rights, law abiding citizenry like us should feel a warm glow, akin to that which is supposed to follow the quaffing of the night-time milk drink, every time we come into contact with the law (or ‘lore’ as it is pronounced by merry David Frost the British television broadcaster).
So, you should be sitting back, happy and contented at the sight of the blue gents. But you do not. The minute one comes near, you have the inclination to split-arse in the opposite direction like an electric hare with an overdose of voltage. Leastways that’s how I feel.
On this occasion the word petrified comes most readily to mind. It is one thing to be confronted by a uniformed copper in the open, when seated at the driving wheel. There, one has a rough idea of what might have gone wrong. Like the big crumpled bit on the front of the car and the guy you can see in the driving mirror making a fist at you and jumping up and down as if he is doing his first naked foot walk across the burning coals.
Receiving two large detective-type fuzzy gents in your living-room is another matter.
I stood as though the roots of a solid English oak had gone spiralling down the inside of both tibiae, straight through the soles of my feet, cutting into the Axminster, ruining the pile and twining deep into the foundations.
‘You might say that,’ said Clyde in answer to my querulous ‘Policemen?’
‘Scotland Yard. Special Branch,’ he continued.
Me, I’m suspicious by nature. Having been screwed by so many for so much I like living proof including a sex test. ‘Can I see your…?’
‘Warrant Cards?’ he completed. Certainly.’
They thrust forward little cardboard ID cards encased in see-through plastic. It all looked very official but I couldn’t tell a Warrant Card from a weekly pass to the local movie house.
‘Sit down, won’t you.’ I made a sweeping gesture towards the couch and then realized that it was loaded with elderly copies of Playboy, Penthouse, Lords and other glossy stimuli. I grinned. ‘Take no notice of the mess.’ The tone was meant to convey that we creative intellectuals always live in turmoil and surrounded by the droppings of lesser mortals.
Clyde wrinkled his nose and removed some magazines as though they had been in contact with bubonic plague. Knowles lounged against the door muttering something about preferring to stand.
‘How’s the writing going?’ Clyde smiled like a vulture in a famine area. ‘Haven’t seen any new titles in the bookshops recently. What was the last one? Gascoigne...?’
‘Close,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Enjoy it?’
‘Never read any of them.’ His hand flipped like Nero giving the thumbs down. ‘Buy them for the wife, she thrives on them. Says she doesn’t know how this Gascoigne fellow stands the pace. All those women, he’d be blind in a week.’
‘Contact lenses,’ I explained with a smile that would have done justice to the Prime Minister after winning the election. ‘Wonderful things. Gascoigne’s vanity doesn’t allow for glasses.’
‘Does yours, Mr. Upsdale?’ Knowles paused in the act of lighting a cigarette. He was looking at me with X-ray eyes.
‘Does my what?’
‘Your vanity allow for glasses?’
‘I wear glasses, sure.’
‘You’re never photographed in them.’
‘So?’
‘So I think Mr. Knowles is trying to be subtle.’ Clyde patted his hair and stared hard at the highly polished toecaps of his shoes. ‘He’s really asking how much of you is in Gascoigne.’ He looked up straight into my face.
Why does everyone think you’re acting out your own fantasies if you write grotty little spy thrillers? They’d all asked it one time or another: How much of you is Gascoigne? What a bloody silly question. But they probably pulled the same one on Willie Shakespeare. Mr. Shakespeare I wonder if you’d tell us how much of Richard, Duke of Gloucester is really you?
Now I’m glad you asked me that, Ken. Really glad. The whole thing’s me of course. It’s not obvious simply because I happen to have this hump on my back and the old withered arm which makes holding the quill a shade tricky. Underneath this ordinary exterior there lurks a power-crazed paranoid. Incidentally I go for smothering small princes also. You might say that was a pastime of mine. That’s why we have this present shortage of small princes.
Shit. Now I had coppers asking me.
‘You must be joking,’ was all I could say.
‘No.’ Clyde still looked at me with unwavering gaze. ‘I gather that your character, Gascoigne, has a taste for ladies and luxury. I also gather that you are similarly inclined.’
‘This is luxury?’ I swung round to indicate the apartment.
‘The rent’s high.’ Knowles chipped in. ‘And when it’s tidied up I should imagine it’s quite a pad. That Hi-Fi cost you around one hundred and fifty quid and the coloured telly there comes close to four hundred. That’s just for starters.’
I began to feel more cross than frightened. ‘What’s all this got to do with your visit? Anything?’
‘Could be.’ Clyde was fishing in his pocket. Eventually he unearthed a copy of Bookpeople and began to flick through the pages.
‘If that’s the current edition I’ve…’
‘Got an article in it. Yes.’
I could see the thing. A bold heading THE FILTH or TREACHERY.
‘Can your devious mind equate this article with our visit?’ Clyde did his smiling bit again.
Knowles pushed himself away from the wall and looked at his watch, a gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual.
‘Don’t forget the phone call, Super.’
Clyde obviously did not have so many fiddles going. His watch was a battered Timex with a frayed leather strap. ‘Mind if Knowles uses your phone?’ He asked.
‘Help yourself. Be my guests.’ I hoped that the bank had honoured the cheque which the phone company had received twenty-four hours after their final demand came clumping through the letter box like a Bofors shell.
Knowles eased himself over the phone while Clyde explained. ‘We’re supposed to call in if we make contact. Saves them waiting up for us.’
‘I suppose tomorrow’s papers’ll describe this as MI5 Swoop On Author’s Luxury Home.’
‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment. Neither Knowles nor I have done any swooping lately.’ He paused for one of his timeless smiles. ‘By the way its DI5. They dropped the MI long ago.’
Knowles talked into the telephone. He worried me. Or, to be more accurate, his watch worried me. Chronometers like his cost a lot of scratch. Coppers are not overpaid, and even if he was getting a rake off somewhere, along the line he was unlikely to wear the proceeds on his wrist.
He finally ceased to talk, replaced the receiver, and returned to his job, propping up the wall.
Clyde’s eyes followed Knowles across the room, opened and closed like a Pentax shutter at 1/1000 sec, then panned back to me.
‘Any ideas?’ Clyde waved the magazine to remind me.
‘You’ve guessed. I’m Martin Bormann and you’ve come to claim the five pound voucher.’
Clyde sighed. ‘I think we’ll restrain the funnies, laddie. Do you really mean all you say in your article?’ He tapped the page spread out on his lap.
‘What in particular? Have I offended against the Official Secrets Act?’
Knowles laughed as if to himself.
‘No, but it could be arranged.’ Clyde tapped the magazine again. ‘You’re pretty vehement about Kit Styles. It’s the most outspoken piece yet to be published.’
‘That bother you? You’re a friend of his, huh?’
‘I knew Kit. So did Knowles. We all knew him.’
‘My article offen
ds you?’
‘No. It’s one way of looking at things. But it does have a bearing on what the more popular daily newspapers call the nations security. It could get you into trouble.’
I laughed. It came out like a twisted scream.
‘On the other hand,’ Clyde went on, ‘it might get you out of a lot of trouble.’
‘I’m not in any trouble.’
‘No?’ Knowles had a little black notebook in his hands. He glanced over at Clyde. Clyde nodded. Knowles cleared his throat and began to read.
‘Upsdale, Rex Arthur. Born: 14th February, 1926. Educated: St. Mark’s Grammar School, Paignton. Served with Royal Marine Commandos 1944-7. After demobilization joined editorial staff of Devonshire Chronicle. London representative 1957. Resigned in 1963 after publication of Gascoigne, First. Gross income from Gascoigne: First, including film rights, £32,000. After that, one book a year, gross takings dropping on the law of diminishing returns. Last publication, Gascoigne Close. Gross income to date £2,800.’
Knowles hesitated.
‘Go on,’ I prompted. These guys were here to put the pressure on. They were as much Special Branch as I was a second Tolstoy.
‘City and Borough Bank disclose an overdraft of £4,132 12s. 6d. Chester and Hymes department store have backdated accounts still outstanding at a figure of £549 7s. 4d. Central Credit show unpaid bills amounting to £748 18s. 7d. Sundry items including owed tax: £9,758 8s. 2d. Making a grand total of £15,189 6s. 7d.’
Clyde did his vulture imitation again. ‘That’s not trouble?’
‘A mere incidental.’ Jesus, was it really that much? ‘We have a movie deal and there are a couple more books...’
Clyde was shaking his head. ‘No.’ Very firmly. ‘No, you have no movie deal and the largest advance any publisher will offer you at this moment is £1,000.’
‘So? Half the country haven’t paid their bills. Why single me out? Come to that the whole nation’s in economic chaos.’
‘We haven’t singled you out, Mr. Upsdale. Quite the opposite. You can be of use to us and we, in turn, can be very generous.’
‘How generous.’ It slipped out as that wonderful fling to be flung loomed up.
‘That depends.’
‘You used to be a reasonable journalist.’ Knowles spoke quietly. ‘Can you still make like a reporter?’
‘For how long?’
‘About three days. A foreign assignment.’
That sounded dead glamorous. Back in the old days when I had worked for the Chronicle I used to have dreams about foreign assignments. Travelling light with the suitcase, typewriter and dirty grey raincoat. Scoop Upsdale reporting from Saigon, New York, Mexico. The hot hotel rooms and warm luscious women. Hang on a moment honey, don’t take ‘em off until I’ve phoned this story in. Get me London.
‘What sort of foreign assignment?’
‘An interview. One simple interview. We’ll even give you a list of questions to ask and a photographer to hold your hand.’
Clyde held up a restraining hand. ‘Just a moment. I want to remind you of something you signed some years ago.’ He began fumbling through his pockets: a man determined that his guest will offer to pay for the taxi. Eventually he unearthed his treasure, a clean white envelope from which he drew a crumpled official form.
I had no memory of ever signing the document but there was my scrawled signature and the date 7th January, 1945. The day on which the Royal Marines had seen fit to commission me, and the day on which I had signed the Official Secrets Act.
‘It still stands. Right?’ Clyde reached out to redeem the paper.
I nodded. It was all getting a bit beyond me.
‘We want you,’ he said without any undue emphasis, ‘to interview Kit Styles.’
‘Yes.’ I did not believe any of it. The whole thing was madness, but it might just provide a good plot for Gascoigne. A few names changed here and there.
‘There is a certain embarrassment,’ continued Clyde.
‘About Styles? I’ll say.’
‘Not just about the fact that he was one of our top security men and that he defected. You see we are not really certain about his knowledge of future policies.’
‘You mean you don’t know exactly how much classified information he took with him to Moscow?’
‘It’s oversimplifying it, but that’s roughly the situation.’
‘And you want me to go over there, interview him and ask him, for old time’s sake.’
‘Again oversimplifying, but that’s it.’
‘You’re off your flaming dot, mate.’
‘Please don’t speak to the Superintendent like that,’ Knowles muttered.
‘I’m not just speaking to him.’ My control was going. I really needed tender loving care. ‘I’m talking to both of you. You’re both bloody batchy.’
‘Now there’s a word I haven’t heard for years,’ says Clyde. ‘Why are we batchy, Mr. Upsdale?’
‘It’s idiotic. Right out of the Prussian Blue. Me and Styles. Afternoon tea in the Cherry Orchard Restaurant at GUM. The Kremlin by moonlight. Molotov cocktails for two and, by the way Kit, how much did you know about our future policy, the lads back in Whitehall are dying to know.’
‘There’s money in it.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Everything paid off. A clean sheet plus ten grand.’
‘No thank you.’ Imbecile that I was.
‘It’s either Styles or Christiansen.’ Knowles lit a cigarette.
‘Who the hell’s Christiansen?’
‘The High Court Bailiff.’
‘Threatening me now…’
‘Nobody’s threatening,’ cooed Clyde. ‘It’s just that we can provide you with the wherewithal. So it’s either us or the bailiff.’
‘This can’t be for real.’
‘Just listen quietly.’ Clyde looked revoltingly serious. ‘You will be provided with plenty of cover. Up to now, Styles has refused to talk to any Western journalist, but since reading your Bookpeople piece he has intimated that he will do a lengthy interview with you as long as there is the promise of publication in one of the major newspapers.’
‘Why me?’
‘He likes your style.’ Knowles was trying to be witty.
‘Like all of us, Styles is a vain man.’ Clyde was settling into a comfortable verbal stride. ‘Up until last week most of the stuff written about him has been factual and without real comment. You’re the first person to have a go. You’ve been highly caustic, no doubt he wants to neutralize you to some extent: answer some of your charges.’
‘But I’m not important.’
‘Quite. He sees you as easy meat. Kit always had charm.’
‘But...?’
‘How do you find out what we want to know?’
I nodded with some fervour.
‘You just ask the questions that we give you.’
‘Won’t he dodge the answers?’
There was a nasty grim secret buried in Clyde’s eyes. ‘The questions, Upsdale, have been prepared by three of the Department’s psychiatrists and two of our top intelligence evaluators. Believe me, even if he says “no comment” to every one we’ll still have what we want. Trust us.’
Trust them? Like traffic wardens and meter maids. I tried to make a sensible analysis. What would my old friend Gascoigne have done? Having asked the question I realized its absurdity.
‘What have I to lose?’ I said. My throat felt distinctly arid.
‘Good boy.’ Knowles looked human for a fraction of a second.
Clyde got up and nodded. ‘We’ll have to give you a crash course on some aspects of the assignment.’ He seemed a shade curt now. ‘Be ready to leave within the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Not so fast.’ I was being conned. I knew the feeling too well. The Styles bit was a lot of old na-na, any fool could tell that. But they had some use for me and I wasn’t going out into the wide blue yonder without at least one small taste more of the fleshpots. ‘
How long do you really reckon I’m going to be away?’
‘Ten days on the course. Three on the job. At the outside, say a couple of weeks.’
‘Then I have to settle one or two things…’ I left the end of the sentence blank so that he could fill the cheque.
‘How much?’
Some people can be so crude. I wondered how much he was good for.
‘A hundred? A hundred and fifty?’
‘A hundred.’ Clyde’s hand dipped into his coat once more and a very small parcel of fivers hit the centre of my favourite glass-topped table.
*
When they had gone I genuinely thought about running for it. But where can you go these days on one rotten hundred pounds? Anyway, if I was honest the whole thing intrigued me.
Towards the end of the afternoon I bathed my fattening body in warm water and anointed it with pungent oils and varied fragrances designed for men.
Around six-thirty, dressed in my sharpest suit, I headed out to the Terrazza because that was where Harry used to eat and old habits die hard.
After filling the gut with Antipasto di Salmone Affumicato, Polla alla Romana, and Pesche al Vino, which really means smoked salmon, chicken and peaches in wine, I got to ruminating that, with my palate, I might just as well have gone to any old nosh bar and gulped down eggs and chips. It’s frightening isn’t it? When you think of all these frozen and dried food manufacturers churning out boxes, cans and packets of grub each with a fancy name from far away places, and each with the same taste. Our kids are growing up thinking they have tasted the great delicacies of the world when they’d probably throw up if they swallowed the real thing. But that’s progress: the sly, quiet removal of a nation’s taste buds.
The next two hours I spent swinging. That is, having my hearing permanently injured by young men and women making frenzied noises on instruments and with their vocal chords, while other young men and young women moved their bodies as though they were making the invisible man (or woman, or both). The joint was small, dark and smelled of sweat and lobster bisque in equal proportions.
The scene finally shifted to a shaggy bed sitter in Chelsea. She was a girl I had known for a couple of years. In advertising. Bored, but she knew how to move it and at my age you need co-operation.
