by Lauren White
The armed policeman lowers his gun from his head to his stomach and takes a step backwards, cursing, silently. He glances to his left at the senior officer in charge of this operation, Chief Inspector, Ray Barley. Barley coughs, in acknowledgement. His chest has the wet rattle of a smoker and actually he is dying for a fag. He takes off his own woollen mask so Mr Mountford can see his face and lights up. He is several years younger than the suave-looking man in front of him, yet he feels decades older, this morning, after being dragged before dawn from his bed.
We have reason to believe your car may have been used in a serious crime, he explains.
Mr Mountford's ebony face creases with incomprehension. A serious crime? What serious crime? When?
Does anyone have a spare set of keys to this car?
No, he answers, emphatically.
You haven't loaned it to anyone?
No, absolutely not. Would you mind telling me what is going on?
Barley draws deeply on his cigarette to stop himself coughing again. He exhales to the side to keep the smoke away from Mr Mountford.
This car was used in the attempted murder of two police officers in Leicester, in the early hours of this morning.
Mr Mountford laughs. Well, I know that's impossible. This car has been parked here all night. He is aware Barley is studying him, silently. Someone must have copied the plates, he suggests, offering them both an honourable way out of this.
Barley shakes his head, the sudden movement freeing a mousy forelock, which falls across his forehead. Perhaps, you could come with me for a moment, Mr Mountford, he says, smoothing his hair back into place as he leads the way towards the car. He points at the front wing. Can you tell me how and when these scratches and this dent were made?
Mr Mountford’s brown eyes widen. How did these get here? I have never seen them before.
Barley believes him. Mountford has been duped. Indeed, he is pretty sure by now somebody is making a fool out of them both
Did you happen to look at the mileage of the car when you last used it?
No, why would I? Mr Mountford sounds exasperated. Listen, officer, there must be some mistake. I left this car here at ten o'clock, last night, and now it is nine o'clock, the following morning, and it is still here, in exactly the same spot.
With scratches and a dent, you have never seen before?
He opens his mouth to object but Barley raises a hand to quieten him before he can suggest that someone must have hit his car, while it was parked here, or some such nonsense.
Feel the bonnet, sir.
Mr Mountford puts his palm gingerly on the polished surface. It is warm. His mind spins. I-I-I don't understand, officer. How can this be?
That's what we aim to find out, sir, Barley says, quietly. Could I have the keys, please?
He hands them to him.
We are going to have to check it for explosives first, he tells him.
Mr Mountford shakes his head. I can't believe this is real.
It won’t take long, sir. Please bear with us. It's just a precaution.
Two men in overalls move in. One has a sniffer dog on a leash. Mr Mountford turns away. He has no interest in watching this. He prefers to pretend it isn't happening.
It's clear, Gov, one of the men shouts, a few minutes later.
Barley dons a pair of latex gloves and opens the passenger door. Mr Mountford gasps when he looks, inside, over his shoulder. There is blood on the glove compartment.
Get the SOCOS in here, Smith, Barley calls to one of his masked men.
The car's owner is feeling queasy.
I'm sorry Mr Mountford but, when the scene of crime officers have finished here, we are going to have to take your car away for further forensic tests.
He is certain he has aged ten years since he left his house to travel to his chambers, in Lincoln’s Inn, less than ten minutes ago. His hand strays to his black, curly hair. Yes, of course, he mutters, wondering whether this police officer is judging him for not dealing with this more robustly.
Barley places his arm gently behind his back to guide him. Could we go inside and talk, sir?
Yes, of course, he repeats. That would be better. He is acutely aware by now that his neighbours are staring at him.
His wife, Hazel, a well groomed red head, a thousand beauty treatments younger than her husband, opens the door before they reach the gate.
What's going on, darling?
Mrs Mountford, could we all sit down? I need to ask you and your husband a few questions.
Mr Mountford and his wife lead the way into their living room. They sit side by side on the edge of a brown leather sofa, one of three in this long airy room. Barley takes the one opposite them. He covers the same territory, as before. Does anyone have a spare set of keys? Have the couple loaned the car to someone recently? They shake their heads.
Is there anyone who might want to try and involve you in this, Mr Mountford? An ex-client? Someone who might have a grudge against you or your wife?
I can’t think of anyone.
Mrs Mountford? Have you seen anything suspicious over the last few days; someone hanging around, perhaps?
There has been nobody, she assures him, quickly.
He smiles back at the couple. He will need them to examine every corner of their lives to see if the faces of these two men become visible. Please, it is important, he tells them. The men who did this are suspects in a series of murders. They visited a woman's house in the early hours of this morning and tried to kill her. Then, they almost mowed down two police officers as they got away. They're extremely dangerous. We want to make sure we catch them, before anyone else gets hurt.
SPRING
We've been watching him pacing up and down the pavement, outside the house, for the past half an hour, all the while talking to himself, urgently, firmly, as though needing to persuade himself of something. Blind to the flurries of cherry blossom stirring around him in the wind, his raincoat gapes open to reveal a baggy grey-green suit and khaki knitted tie, as he keeps his eyes firmly on the ground.
Carrie asks me: Do you think he is a schizophrenic?
Don't you ever read a newspaper? He is Karl Grüner, Gerte's boyfriend, I enlighten her.
What is he doing here?
I shrug. There's only one way to find out. Call him over.
We open the front door.
Excuse me, she calls to him across the garden, from the porch steps. Are you okay?
He starts at the sound of her voice but he approaches, walking slowly, reluctantly, even, up the path to the door.
I saw you through the window, Carrie continues, as he draws closer. You were looking a little lost. Why don't you come in for a moment?
I have no idea what I'm doing here, he says, staring up at her with a helpless expression. His arms are thrown wide, palms up, to emphasise the point he is making. He speaks slowly, deliberately, enunciating every syllable with care. Mounting the front steps, his eyes widen with shock when he focuses on Carrie’s face.
Yes, Kate Madding and I were, no are, no were, identical twins. She smiles, nervously. I suppose that just about sums up the difficulty of losing your identical twin. She steps back for him to enter. She’s dead. The word ricochets around the hallway where they are both now standing. You did know that?
Yes, I read about it in the paper, he says, softly. I'm sorry for your loss.
Do you want a coffee?
He follows her into the kitchen, a perplexed expression worrying his thin stain of a mouth. The rest of his face appears featureless, at first glance; a bland expanse of skin paling into mildew and stale milk-coloured coils of hair. His eyes should be startling to make up for this, but although unusual - they're green - it is such a watery shade, they're all but missed behind the steel rimmed glasses he wears. The red slash of his mouth is what calls attention to him but his lips are too wiry to really attract. They carry the asceticism of learning. Or is it moral rectitude? Both, maybe. He would be kind but not
passionate, thoughtful but not spontaneous, this man. A lousy snog if ever I saw one! The thought makes me feel guilty for fear that Gerte might come flying to his defence but she doesn’t materialise. I am relieved but not entirely surprised. She has shown less and less interest in him during his first few months of freedom. She has other matters on her mind. She wants to walk into the Light. She claims to have seen it, and really I have no reason to doubt her word. The only reason she hasn’t is because we need her to stake out the Weasel's Spanish house, in case he returns there. We have lost him, us and the police - lost them both, him and Dead-gorgeous. So, now in Spain, Leicester, and London, we wait; Gerte and Kerry, increasingly impatient with their earthly duties; Bim, Jackie, and I equally restless but still determined to shun the Light which has so far shunned us.
Carrie fills the kettle and sets two mugs on the table. Is instant, okay?
Karl laughs to himself.
Did I say something funny?
No, no. Instant is fine. It's just that...
What?
How did you know who I was?
My sister said it was you.
He nods as though this makes sense to him. Then, the muscles in his face tighten as the meaning sinks in. He avoids looking at her.
Carrie pours boiling water into their mugs and places a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits on the table. Please, let's sit, she suggests, pulling out a chair herself.
Karl sits down heavily opposite her and stares into the coffee in front of him.
You must think about her a lot...Gerte, your girlfriend, I mean.
His head shoots up, his eyes searching hers.
I used to dream about her all the time when I was in jail but not now. She has gone. It is a dead zone. His mouth slackens. No pun intended.
Kate really believed you'd done it, you know.
Well, I didn't.
Yes, yes, of course, we know that now. I can't imagine anything more terrible than being convicted of a murder you didn't commit.
You said she told you it was me, outside on the pavement. How could she? If she is...
Carrie grimaces. I told you - identical twins.
He eyes her, uncertainly, sizing her up; assessing her mental state, probably.
Ask him if he knows something which might help catch Gerte's killer, I prompt Carrie.
I was wondering whether you know anything which might point to your girlfriend’s killer.
No, nothing.
He sits back and runs his fingers through his hair.
So what does he think happened?
Do you have a theory about the murders?
Nothing that the police wouldn't have thought of already.
Oh, for heaven's sake, Carrie! Get him to spit out whatever it is that has brought him here before I lose my patience.
Would you mind telling me your theory? I'd really like to hear it. Carrie smiles at him, encouragingly.
It is so weird sitting here talking to you. It is like talking to her but you're different. Identical, but not. I don't know your name?
Carrie Hamilton. She holds her hand out to shake his and he grasps it, briefly.
Karl Grüner.
He sips his coffee. The key has to be the cars, don't you think? There's always a car involved. The bride's car is found by Humber Bridge. The other car disappears. Gerte is found in a car. They are all abducted while they're out driving.
The police think he is a mechanic.
Does he know the cars? Or does he choose them at random?
He works for a motoring organisation.
Karl slaps his forehead with his hand. That's how he does it then. I knew the cars were important. But, the cars are always okay. Does he fix them?
I don't know.
But, the police know who it is?
Yes. Well, one of them. They think there’s an accomplice.
And, they will catch them?
I imagine so, with any luck.
He sighs, deeply, his body sagging in his chair as he exhales. Then, it's over. I think that is what I came here to learn. Now, I can go back to Austria and live my life.
He doesn't even finish his coffee. He rises from the table and walks to the door, apologising for taking up Carrie’s time. He waits for her to open the door and bolts down the stairs.
I watch him walk briskly down the front path and onto the pavement, his shoulders hunched inside his raincoat. He is fooling himself. He won't get on with his life. Not, as before. I turn away.
Carrie asks me: What did he come for?
He couldn't keep away. He is as much a victim of this as Gerte and the others are, I tell her, bitterly. Then, I disappear, chased away by the sadness I feel for him.
I go to my office, the quietest place I can think of, during the daytime. Denise usually only comes there at night to work. The key is the cars, I repeat to myself. But, the Weasel was no longer a breakdown mechanic by the time Gerte and Bim were killed. He wasn't working in the UK, at all, as far as we know. He was in Spain. Well, coming and going to Spain. He still had the uniform though. Could he have pretended to be one? No, that's not it. Karl's right. The key is the cars. Not, the Weasel. Damn! Why didn't I think of this before?
Did you have any work done on your car in the month before you were murdered, Bim?
She considers my question, carefully, I hope.
No I don't think so, why?
Think, Bim, please, just think. This is very important.
I am, I am. It was a company car. They took care of everything. I never had to do a thing.
Did they use a particular garage to service their vehicles?
I don't know. I guess so. Mine was still under the manufacturer's warranty. It would have gone to an approved garage; somewhere with a concession for that brand, I suppose.
You never dropped it off, or picked it up, yourself?
No, it was picked up and delivered by the garage.
Picked up, and delivered, where?
Work. Home.
Which?
Both.
So the garage knew where you lived and where you worked.
Yes. Is that significant?
When was it serviced last?
I don't know.
You must do. Come on, Bim.
It must have been....
Yes?
I think it was a week or so before the party.
Are you serious? But, you said it hadn't been worked on.
It wasn't. There was nothing wrong with it. It was just a service.
And, you're sure this was “a week or so” before you went missing?
Yes, but I don't see what you're getting at. Are you saying there’s a connection?
Where did they drop it off?
At work.
Did you see who brought it?
Let me think. Yes, I must have. I seem to remember giving him a tip.
What did he look like?
I don't recall.
What was the name of the garage?
I don't know.
We're watching Cheryl dress a photograph she has been commissioned to take of a picnic, for one of the women's magazines. I am tempted to send the whole lot flying from the table onto the floor with frustration.
It's no good being angry with me, Kate. It's not my fault. I just don't remember.
It's nearly May, Bim, do you know what that means? We are six weeks away from gaining a new member of the team.
Okay, okay, let me concentrate. Don't move around so. You’re making me nervous.
I stay as still as I can and wait, impatiently. Well?
I'm getting something. He gave me a calendar, one of those washable plastic pocket ones. I think it had the name of the garage on the other side.
What did you do with it?
I probably threw it away. It was really tacky. And, it was already half way through the year. I didn't need, or want it.
I resist the temptation to scream. Someone in your company must keep a rec
ord of the garages they use, surely.
Our team assistant. And, actually I think I may have given her the calendar. I mean, she probably threw it away but I believe I may have dumped it on her desk.
Right then, here is what we are going to do. I am going to stay here with Cheryl, while you go off and take a look at this assistant’s desk.
Now?
No, tomorrow. Yes, of course, now.
Sophie won’t like it. She really hates people going through her desk.
It is not like she’s going to know, Bim. You're dead, remember? I won't tell her, if you don't. Okay?
She is very intuitive.
Just do it, please Bim - for me.
She disappears. I expect her to come straight back but she doesn't. By the time she eventually does return, I am on the point of abandoning Cheryl to go looking for her.
Where have you been?
You know where. It took longer than I thought. They have reorganised everything. Sophie is working for a different account team now. They have disbanded mine. How could Reece do that? It is as though I never was. I feel like I made no impression at all.
I'm sure you did, Bim. But, that is how life is. Those who are left are supposed to move on without us.
Then, why are we so concerned with them, when it is obvious they don't give a damn about us?
I don't know. We just are.
I don't think I want to stick around, if everything is going to change like this, Kate.
Why? Have you seen the Light?
No. Have you?
No.
We examine one another, glumly.
Kerry and Gerte have, Bim reminds me.
Yes, they told me too.
Do you want to stay here, Kate?
I'm not sure what I want. I never was sure, except about work. That is the only thing which meant anything to me while I was alive. And, that is all I have now I'm dead. Trying to catch these killers is what gives me definition. It allows me to recognise myself.
