"Trust me, Russell. You might."
"Is this part of your service?” An edge entered Candy's tone: He was a rich, rich man, and Joe was offering him advice? “Am I paying extra for this part?"
But Joe was already showing his palms in surrender. “Please, I didn't mean to offend. It happens, sometimes, that I get carried away. My wife—"
"You're married?"
"She's called Zoe. She likes to remind me of a case, this was a few years ago, when I got arrested while looking for a missing dog. It's a long story and I won't worry you with it now, but what I'm saying is that sometimes I go further than I should. Such as giving you unnecessary warnings just now. It's over-involvement, Russell, that's all. I don't wish to see you in awkward situations."
Candy looked like he felt he was already in one. “I appreciate that, Mr. Silvermann. Joe. Appreciate it in all senses. And I don't plan to do anything—untoward, anything untoward, with the information you've given me. It's security, that's all.” He fetched his chequebook from a drawer: not the one he'd deposited the videotape in. “If the bastard returns, I'll be prepared. And yes, you're right, it'll be a matter for the police.” He scribbled a cheque; didn't even appear to notice the sum he was scrawling. “And I don't have to ask you—"
"Discretion, of course, it's my middle name. Though not for banking purposes,” he added. “Thank you,” he said, taking the cheque.
He didn't see Faye Candy as Russell showed him out. Or anyone else: The multimillionaire did his own opening and waving away—there were those, no doubt, who'd regard this lack of staff as cheap, but Joe wasn't among them. He saw it, rather, as adding substance to the man's home life. Just him and lovely Faye, to protect whose reputation he'd secretly shelled out a hundred grand. Not to mention the substantial payment he'd made Joe himself. He'd called Faye's confession a proof of love, and his own behaviour showed this true of himself also: There was love in this house, Joe thought, as its door closed behind him. It would be a terrible shame if Mr. Candy endangered it by acting foolishly.
* * * *
Surveillance sounded like a French word, though whether that meant the French invented snooping probably depended on who you asked. Either way, Joe was in no position to throw stones. For the past two hours, while the evening died, he'd been sitting in his car surveilling a closed post office; closed in the sense that it wasn't open, and closed also in the sense that it had shut down some while ago, and had boards over its windows. There'd been little to see, though an hour back—long enough that he could think on it nostalgically as a crazy, fun-packed moment—a woman had passed with a Chihuahua shivering on a lead. Joe liked to think he could empathise, but there were limits. That anyone could walk into a dog shop, point at a Chihuahua, and say, “I want that one,” baffled him.
Darkness had painted the sky its favourite colour before anything happened to interest Joe. It was a car. The make escaped him: Cars didn't do much for Joe, which he conceded was a drawback in his chosen career, but he had the excuse right now that it was dark, and the car arrived lightless, and the streetlamps round this part of town—he was as far east as he could get and still claim to be in Oxford—weren't as maintained as they might be. But car schmar: Its details didn't matter. It cruised to a slow halt and its driver killed the engine. He got out, came round to the pavement, looked down at his hand, then back up at the deserted post office. Something about this scene, the slope of his shoulders broadcast, was wrong.
Joe nodded to himself twice, not without hope. He too emerged from his car. The sound of its door drew the other man's attention.
"You."
"It's me, yes."
"Your information—"
"Was not what it might have been. Russell, I'm sorry. There was no intention to deceive."
Russell Candy held out the piece of paper Joe had given him that morning. “Neil McKenzie? 24 Linden Road?"
"There was some intention to deceive,” Joe amended. “But for the best of possible reasons."
"This place looks like it's been closed for years."
"And to whose benefit?” Joe asked. “A post office, it's a lodestone of the community. A lodestone."
"That's not really the point, is it, Silvermann?"
"Please, the surname. It's an unfriendly approach.” Joe, standing close to Candy now, pointed at the empty building. “This, yes, was a ruse. But forgive me, your coat's lopsided.” He moved surprisingly quickly; his hand dipping into Candy's pocket before the man could stop him. What it came out with was small, black, leather, heavy, and had a strap at one end.
"Oh, Russell,” Joe said, more in sadness than reproach.
"That's not—"
Joe slipped the strap round his right hand; slapped the sap into his left. The noise echoed fleshily round the dark. “Not which? Not a toy? It certainly feels like it's made for harm.” He magicked it inside his coat. “Russell, I owe you an apology, yes. There is no Neil McKenzie. Or there is, rather, but that's not what he's called.” He nodded at the post office. “And that's not where he lives. I mean, you've noticed this already."
"You let him get away."
"No. I traced him.” He gave a small shrug. “There was help. Internet-wise, you know?"
It remained dark, but Joe could tell there were internal struggles occurring: anger and relief. Russell Candy was a battleground. Joe was glad the leather sap was no longer within his reach.
"But you've decided not to tell me who he is."
"For the good of all concerned."
"For his good, sure.” This with growing heat. “Not mine. What I want more than anything right now is—"
"More than love? More than marriage?"
"I have those already."
"But to keep them, that's the trick.” Joe tapped a hand against his breast; the pocket into which he'd slipped the sap. “You think violence in one area does not seep into another? It's dark here, Russell, and certainly, you could wreak vengeance then slip off unaccosted.” He thought about this, then said: “If McKenzie was here, I mean. And called McKenzie. But what I'm saying is, nobody walks unharmed from a beating. Not the victim. Not its perpetrator."
"You think I paid a hundred thousand for a lecture? I wanted his name."
"You paid a hundred thousand for a videotape, Russell. You paid me for a name. Generously, yes, but not a fortune."
"But—"
"You could hurt him, Russell, yes, hurt him badly. With your imposing physical presence. Plus your weapon. But he has knowledge, remember? About your lovely wife's past? And that's the one thing you can't take from him. Unless you planned more than a simple beating."
Candy began to speak, then changed his mind.
"And in that case, Russell, believe me, there would be no winners. There would be a dead blackmailer, yes, but also a sick worm burrowing into you, and it would burrow and burrow until there was nothing left inside, Russell—nothing at all, no love, no satisfactions. You think your marriage would survive? And that, like I say, is if you walk away unaccosted. If you don't....” Joe shrugged. He was still close to Candy: all this information as confidential as it was urgent. And while he shrugged, Candy shrank a little, as if Joe's as-yet-unspoken conclusions were already hitting home. “If you don't, it comes to nothing. Everything you wanted concealed will be out in the light. Everything your wife confessed—her proof of love—just a cheap noise in the tabloids."
Russell Candy shivered.
"Listen.” Joe briefly rested his hand on the man's shoulder. “Russell, listen. You want the truth? Go. This man, this blackmailer—yes, he's vicious, but who knows? Maybe he has needs, maybe this is the only escape he has. Okay, you don't care about his problems. But like I told you, he made no copies of the film. He'll take your money and disappear. His problems, well, now he has the resources to confront them. So Russell, go home to your lovely wife and put this behind you. It's over. The violence, your ugly weapon—Russell, trust me, you want no part of any of that. All the things you want, you already have."
&
nbsp; He came to a halt, aware that to go further would be to risk repeating himself. For a few moments—which felt much longer—the two men stood on the dark silent street; one of them reaching out tentatively, his hand just falling short of plucking the other's sleeve.
At last Candy said, “I can't stand the idea of him getting away with it."
"It's my belief that nobody gets away with anything,” Joe said, letting his hand drop back to his side. “Besides, I think what you mean is, you can't stand the idea of him knowing what he does."
"Yes. That too."
"But that fades to nothing, Russell, when you think of all he doesn't know. That your wife, your Faye, loves you enough to have risked everything—that she told you of this unfortunate film exactly when the information could have put your life together at risk. She trusted you. What is one little secret, lost to a stranger, compared to that?"
"If she hadn't told me, I'd never have believed the bastard,” Candy said.
"Of course you wouldn't."
Candy shivered again, as if aware how nearly disaster had kissed him. “He'd have had to show me the damn movie."
Joe wanted to know, but didn't dare ask. Candy told him anyway.
"I destroyed it,” he said flatly. “Burned it. Unwatched. I wish I could burn every copy."
"No one else will ever know. The coincidence, already, was huge. What were the chances, an eight-year-old film made for a ... specialist audience, and this young man being local, and recognising the wedding picture in the paper?” Joe shook his head, wearied by how unnecessary it had all been. “But he's gone. It's over. And if it isn't—if he ever makes contact again—you let me know. And I will take care of it."
For the first time, Candy looked Joe directly in the eye. “You're sure? It's over?"
"I'm sure,” Joe said firmly. Just the saying of it cemented it as fact. He was sure.
"Thank you, Joe."
"No need, no need.” Here was another Joe moment, only this time it was Joe himself in the grip of it. The successful conclusion of a case: It demanded the grand gesture. Fishing inside his coat, he produced the envelope containing Candy's cheque.
"Here—I insist. You were right, perfectly right. You wanted his name, you paid me for his name. Which I did not provide. I did not earn my fee."
"You did your job,” Candy said.
"But not what you asked. You wanted his name, his particulars. I thought it best you not have them. That was my decision. Not something you paid for."
"Joe—"
"Please—it would be a portrait of Madison. You follow the reference?"
Candy's bafflement glowed in the dark.
"The Long Goodbye. It's not important. But trust me, I cannot take your money.” To prove it, Joe tore the envelope in half. Then quartered it. It would have been satisfying to cast the pieces into the night, but hardly sociable. He stuffed them into his pocket instead, then extended a hand. “Russell. Trust me. All this, you can put it behind you. Your life is what happens from now on. Go home to your Faye."
Candy took Joe's hand in both his own. “Thank you."
"Please. I'm just glad things worked out."
They walked to their separate cars in the dark. Candy's started the first time, and disappeared smoothly into the night. Joe's gave him trouble, and it was twenty minutes before he could leave.
* * * *
There was a slow-burn conversion in process by which the city centre was being made more cosmopolitan, a metamorphosis most obvious in its cafes. The square behind the bus station boasted plenty, all with outside tables at which customers could read newspapers or chat with friends; an increasing number doing the latter via mobile phones. This was a passing fad, Joe had often mentioned in Zoe's hearing. Why cart round items of domestic equipment when we could be paying attention to people and nature and the happy accidents that make life worth living? Most people were best ignored, as far as Zoe was concerned, and nature wasn't at its best in an urban environment. As for happy accidents, she hadn't the faintest clue what Joe was on about.
The woman at this particular cafe had evidently not long finished a conversation: her chunky mobile sat beside a large cappuccino, which she raised to her lips as Zoe approached. Zoe put her espresso on the table. “Mind if I join you?"
"Oh—no, that's okay."
Though there were other, unoccupied tables nearby.
Zoe said, “I like your tattoo. A butterfly, yes?"
The woman looked at her.
"On your right shoulder? Or is it your left? I always get muddled when it's someone facing me."
"Is this a joke?"
"Oh, right. You're wearing a sweater.” Zoe took a sip of her espresso. “But if I could see your shoulder, it'd be a butterfly, wouldn't it?"
Faye Candy put her cup down. “Do we know each other?"
"Not in the flesh. But I admire your work."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Fourteen seconds. Pretty good. I was expecting that line when I mentioned the tattoo."
"I think you should leave."
Zoe said, “Let me ask you something. Girl meets boy. They fall in love. Girl then meets man. Man falls in love with girl. Man very rich. What's girl do?"
"You're annoying me. I'm going to call for help."
"Honey, I'm telling a story. An audience is the first thing I want. So anyway, of course you marry him. He's rich, for God's sake. You give up, what, two years? Three? Then one smart lawyer later, you're on easy street for life."
"You're a lunatic."
"I watched the film."
Faye Candy opened her mouth. Closed it again.
"Joe left it out. It was a point of principle with him not to watch it.” Zoe lit a cigarette. “It wasn't with me."
"Who are you?"
"Name's Zoe Boehm. And you want to know something? She does look a bit like you, the woman in the film. Even with the glittery wig and all that makeup. Not so much a stranger might notice, but a definite resemblance if you're looking for it. And there's the tattoo, of course. The clincher. But then, that's why you had yours done, isn't it?"
"You,” Faye Candy said slowly, “interfering bitch."
"Thanks. Let me tell you what I think happened. You marry the millionaire, of course. Who turns down a once-in-a-lifetime chance like that? And you promise your boyfriend it won't be forever, that you'll be coming back to him, only richer. Did he believe you?"
"It's true!"
"Maybe so. But he wanted a down payment, didn't he? Something to tide him over. And this is what the pair of you came up with. He didn't go looking for the film, did he? I mean, he'd already seen it, noted the resemblance. That's what gave him the idea."
"We'd watched it together,” Faye said. “Nothing wrong with that."
"Sure."
"He's a college porter. You know how much that's worth, being a college porter?"
"I'm guessing not a lot."
"But he's got talent. He's a writer. He writes all sorts—poems, stories."
"Blackmail notes. Was it his idea you got the tattoo? To put the resemblance beyond doubt?"
"I'm admitting nothing."
"And then you faked the cover, of course. Must have been fun. Bit of a gamble, because the woman on the box clearly isn't the woman in the film, but—and here's the beauty of it—it doesn't matter, does it? The rich man doesn't need to see the film. All that matters is he knows that it exists. Because Russell Candy's hardly going to think you confessed to making a blue movie if you didn't. Who in her right mind would do that, and put her wedding to a rich man at risk?"
She tapped ash into her empty coffee cup. “It took pluck, I'll give you that. He could have walked away. But he didn't, so you're home free. Candy knows the blackmail's for real, because you've told him about the movie. No way is he going to shout for the cops, when all that'll do is make your dirty secret public. No, the confession was a touch of genius. Poor sap probably thinks it proves you love him."
Fa
ye Candy said, “I'll be with him. One day."
It was clear she was talking about her beloved blackmailer.
Zoe ground her cigarette out. “The cheque Joe tore up was for a grand. You can make the replacement out to me. That's Zoe B-o-e-h-m. Don't worry, he'll get his share."
"Will you tell him?"
"Joe? I would if I thought he'd learn from it. But he's set in his ways."
"I meant Russell."
Zoe said, “I've got your boyfriend's name and address. Try another bite at the cherry and I'll blow you both out of the water. Otherwise, how you live your life's up to you. But you might want to get clear on the details in future."
"Meaning what?"
"You got the wrong arm. The woman in the film? Her tattoo's on her left shoulder. Yours is on your right."
She waited while Faye Candy wrote the cheque, then folded it and stowed it away inside her leather jacket. When she left, a chill breeze was just making itself felt, and cups were rattling in saucers around the square. But Zoe didn't look back, and was in the bank before the rain arrived.
(c)2008 by Mick Herron
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Fiction: THE PARSON AND THE HIGHWAYMAN by Judith Cutler
British author Judith Cutler is equally adept with both historical and contemporary settings. This time she's brought one of her series sleuths, Parson Tobias Campion, to life in a case from around 1810, involving the wrongful hanging of a poacher for armed robbery. Campion also takes the lead in Ms. Cutler's recent novel The Keeper of Secrets (Allison & Busby, January 2008).
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
William Scroggins, ragged, emaciated, balding, and bandy-legged, had very little in common with the heroic figure my sister Georgiana always wished would hold up the family coach. She regularly beguiled the long hours on the road from my father's country seat in Derbyshire to our London house by imagining just such an adventure.
The moonlight glinting on his pistols and his pearly teeth, his eyes a-twinkle through the slits in the mask, a romantic figure on a jet-black horse would appear before us, ready to seize the strongbox. One sight of dearest Georgiana, however, would smite his heart. Begging her to do him the honour of descending from the coach, he would fend off the heavily armed postilions and outriders, swing her across his saddle bow, and gallop off into the night.
EQMM, September-October 2008 Page 18
