Birdkill

by Alexander McNabb

  Kelly whistled. ‘Tom Parker? Oh, that’s the kiddie alright. Why on earth did you want to go and fuck with that old bastard, darling? He makes Tony Blair look like a Middle Eastern angel, he does.’

  ‘You know about him?

  ‘You got all afternoon?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ Mariam beamed delightedly and sipped her coffee. ‘We haven’t got an office to go to after all.’

  TEN

  Free as a Bird

  Mariam slid the card key into the door of the suite at the Syon Park Hilton. She hadn’t been to see Buddy for three days. She had to admit it was because he annoyed her. The potent mixture of self-righteousness, self-pity and just general, well, mopiness drove her to distraction. When she thought of what Robyn bore with fortitude and how much Buddy let the smallest things bring him down, she got even madder. The last time she’d been in the room he’d spent an hour complaining how he missed Hershey’s chocolate and how this goddam crummy hotel couldn’t get him any.

  Despite herself, she stopped off on the way over and now had a handbag stuffed with Hershey’s. The suite was quiet. She called out. ‘Buddy?’

  She knocked on his bedroom door. She pushed the door open. ‘Buddy?’

  The room was empty. There was a faint smell she recognised and couldn’t place. The bathroom door was ajar and she kicked it open in case he was playing silly buggers and planning to jump out with a ‘boo’ or something.

  Her eyes had barely had time to take in the nightmare abattoir scene before her gut revolted and the acid puke eruption hit her throat. She turned away, the strength left her legs and she fell to her knees. The image of Buddy’s pale, naked body persisted despite her screwed-shut eyes. He lay in a big free-standing ceramic bath tub filled with carmine gloop. The beige and cream tiled walls were splashed, the floor pooled with a pale blood and water mixture. The smell of rust was thick in the air. The gaping wound in his wrist was an obscene mouth with white drawn-back snarling lips and an exposed-bone grin. Another wave of retches hit her, stinking bile stringing to the floor.

  She stayed on all fours, her head down, for a small age. Finally, she staggered to her feet and struck out in search of the guest toilet. She sluiced her face, rinsing her mouth out. She dried herself, then crossed into the second bedroom where she still had her things, those she’d brought when she had first checked Buddy in. She cleaned her teeth, washed again.

  She straightened up, staring at herself in the mirror and willing herself to go back into the master room. She walked like an automaton. The stink of puke and blood hit her and her stomach rebelled. This time she kept it down, whatever was left. She dialled Clive Warren on her mobile. The number rang and rang. ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘Fucking answer.’

  It rang out. She dialled again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Listen to me. Buddy’s dead. I just found his body.’

  ‘Where are you? Hang on, don’t tell me. Let me call you back. Give me two minutes.’

  He rang off. She stood staring at the handset, her head swimming. She didn’t want to touch anything. She pulled her bag from where she’d dropped it on the floor and took it into her room. She closed the door against the stench and stood with her back against it.

  Just in case he got out of the bath and came knocking or something.

  The mobile rang and she jerked and nearly dropped it. She fumbled to slide the green icon. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Clive. Where are you?’

  ‘Syon Park Hilton, Room 204. He’s in the bath. His wrists have been slashed.’ She breathed in deeply. ‘There’s blood everywhere. I’m scared.’

  ‘Okay, listen to me. Call it into the police. Stay as calm as you can. Once they’re on the way, don’t touch anything. Lock the room behind you and go down to reception. Have a drink or something to calm yourself but make sure you’re in sight of the reception staff all the time. Don’t tell the staff what’s happened, in case they try and clean up or get in the way. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. That sound good?’

  ‘Okay.’

  She slipped the mobile into her bag and used the house phone to dial 999.

  Clive Warren stared around the lobby before he spotted her. She finished her scotch and stood to meet him.

  ‘Police here?’

  ‘Not yet. I called Adel. He’s on the way over.’

  ‘Adel?’

  ‘Sorry, Adel Ibrahim. He owns 3shoof. The room was booked in his name. He’s bringing his lawyer. He thinks that might be handy.’

  Warren searched her face. ‘That it might. Okay, so we wait. The best thing is to be as truthful as you can, but keep your Hamilton investigation to yourself. Try and be as vague as you can about Buddy and quite what he gave you.’

  ‘Our offices were trashed. Whoever did it took the server we used to store the files.’

  ‘Have you lost the information?’ Warren seemed relieved.

  ‘No. I had copies. The data’s safe. Just seems like nobody else is.’

  The wailing siren presaged the blue flashing lights. The squad car pulled up outside the lobby, two officers got out. As they came into the lobby an ambulance arrived. More sirens sounded in the distance.

  Warren went to meet them. ‘Hi. This is the young lady who found the body.’

  One of the policemen took off his cap to reveal silver hair. He had brown eyes, razor burns on his neck and smile marks arcing down from his nose to frame his mouth. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Clive Warren, a friend.’

  ‘Can I take your name, miss?’

  ‘Mariam Shadid.’

  ‘I’m PC Michael Evans. My colleague is PC Brian Wilkes. You said the body was in your room here when you called in to us. Can I ask if you know the person?’

  ‘Yes. I gave them his name, Buddy Kovak.’

  ‘We got that. US military.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Absent without leave.’

  Christ that was fast. She hadn’t told them that. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘No. It’s…’ Mariam wondered where to start. ‘More complicated than that. Shall we go up?’

  The receptionist came over to them. ‘I’m sorry, can I help?’

  ‘No thanks, not right now.’ Evans turned to Mariam. ‘We’ll follow you, miss.’

  She led the way to the lift, the two paramedics joined them. Arriving at the room, she held onto Warren’s arm for balance as she slid the card in.

  The door opened and Mariam stood back to let the police and paramedics into the room. She forced herself to follow them. The place stank just as bad as her memory. She heard a muttered ‘Christ.’

  Evans was calm. ‘Steady, there.’ He turned to the paramedics. ‘I don’t think you lads are needed here anymore. Brian, we’d best call in forensics.’

  Mariam spent most of the rest of the day in Hounslow police station. It had been a stormy affair what with Adel and Iain Carmichael, his lawyer battling the combative Detective Sergeant Farmer. Clive Warren had quietly stood by Mariam and she had come to appreciate his discreet strength. Farmer clearly wished Warren had never been involved and that was fine for Mariam, who had quickly come to the conclusion that Farmer was basically just a bully. His focused anger had washed up against Warren’s stoicism and certitude, the officer growing more frustrated with each bruising encounter.

  Farmer was balding, haggard-eyed and had thin lips. His long-fingered pianist’s hands had no finesse. He used anger like others used smiles, it was his first resort and his last. Anger sustained him, Mariam concluded. She wondered where so much fury came from. It had to be sexual. Frustration, oppression. Perhaps just boring repression. She wondered idly what he really liked. A stiletto in his arsehole, probably.

  He faced her across the table, Warren by her side. ‘I’m suspicious, me. Can’t help it. Suppose it comes with the job. Murdered US service personnel aren’t our usual problem. I’ve got Yanks hangin’ out me arse like piles right now. Their embassy’s red hot over t
his. I got the MoD and the foreign office and any other bugger who cares to pick up a phone currently jamming up our our switchboard and stopping us dealing with proper crimes.’

  ‘That’s hardly our issue.’ Warren rumbled.

  A spectator, Mariam wondered if he went all red-faced when he was being beasted by plump housewives in PVC basques.

  Farmer’s glance flew to him. ‘Did I say it was? No, our issue is why a hooky GI decides to kill himself in a bathroom hired by an Arab gossip site. That’s our issue.’

  Mariam rose to it. ‘What has this got to do with whether an Arab paid for the room?’

  Farmer sat back, palms raised. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to cast dispersions. But I can’t help it, I just don’t believe you. Every time I tap this case the sound comes back is something hollow. Tell me again, what was Mr Kovak giving you? Information-wise, I mean.’ His leer alone was incitement for a punch and Warren cast a cautionary glance at her.

  ‘He was giving us a wide-ranging dossier of information regarding US military operations in the Middle East that transcended the law.’

  ‘You mean broke.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well say, it then. Unlawful information.’

  ‘Information on unlawful operations.’ She wondered if there were a woman in his life. There was no ring on his finger. ‘I’m sorry, but can I ask, just out of curiosity. Are you unmarried or gay?’

  He stilled and Mariam felt the tension thrill through her. A muscle twitched in his cheek and she exulted over his confusion and the effort it took him to mask and manage his ferocity.

  ‘What if I charged you with his murder?’

  Warren spoke easily, his words tossed softly into the silence. ‘What if you prove she was in that hotel four to nine hours before the CCTV and key-card access systems confirmed she was? When she had alibis from two national daily newspapers? You’re wasting our time here, Farmer.’

  ‘It’s not your time’s being wasted. It’s ours. Police time. You’re withholding.’

  ‘We’re co-operating. We’ve given full statements, we’re clearly not accessories. So leave us go.’

  ‘I could hold you, right enough.’

  Warren leaned toward Farmer. Mariam quailed at the intensity of the man. His smile chilled her as he rumbled, ‘I really don’t think you want to do that.’

  ‘It would give me,’ Farmer’s grin was glacial. ‘An opportunity to further investigate your assertions. But I think we have detained you long enough. We’ll have plenty of time to follow up on our enquiries.’ His shiny-eyed regard switched to Mariam. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  Fuck. Drama or what? Mariam pushed her chair back. ‘Great. We’re only too happy to be of assistance.’

  She wished she owned a pair of stilettos…

  Robyn’s time out on the track had been a miraculous experience. It tethered her to reality, her hands, feet and eyes synchronised in a task that was utterly given to the here and now. Her entire intelligence focused on action and reaction; fighting with her survival instinct paired with her ability to rationalise. Two hours’ driving at the very edge of her abilities – and the TT’s, too – had honed her clamp-hold on reality.

  It had also cost her a new set of tyres, but that was a small enough price.

  Starting the new week Robyn was, as Mariam would put it, ‘good’. Her first Monday class were noisy, chatty and took a while to settle down. Fired by optimism, Robyn gave them time, joining in with the banter before calling them to order.

  ‘Right. Narrative. Today I’d like us to talk about narrative and culture. You might like to talk about England’s disastrous performance on the cricket field over the weekend, but that’s a narrative we’re all probably best advised to forget.’

  She let the amused murmur wash over her and wondered if she were a teacher or just a performance artist. The latter was fine, actually.

  ‘Why do we tell stories? It’s odd, isn’t it, that our parents tell us not to. And yet telling stories is inherent to human cultural development. We need to lie. We’re entertained by lies, panty pads make women more free, Disney princesses inspire us to live fuller lives. Burgers make us better mothers. We lie constantly, but what’s the difference between a lie and a story? Anyone? Jenny.’

  ‘A lie is obfuscation with an objective to misinform or conceal, a story is an entertainment.’

  ‘Okay, good start, but what about the stories we tell in, say, advertising. They have an objective, you could argue they misinform and conceal, too. But an ad agency guy would tell you it is a means to engage and inspire the consumer, which is surely an entertainment. Or what about authors like GK Chesterton or CS Lewis whose stories were effectively Catholic propaganda?’

  There were about five pairs of hands up now, Simon Dillon almost frantic as he vied for her attention. ‘Simon. What’s your view?’

  Robyn had learned fast that interactivity was the way to go – to define a theme for session and dive in to help them explore. It was a high risk strategy, it was easy to forget these were kids and yet they exhibited ferocious intellect that made the game a fast moving kaleidoscope of intellectual challenge. She’d come to love these sessions, although they drained her and left her exhausted at the end of the day.

  Simon stuttered when he was excited. ‘B-b-but even whe-when you tell any s-s-story you’re j-just creating o-o-opium for the p-people.’

  ‘All entertainment is panem et circenses.’ Bradley Innis piped up from the back, a pale-introverted boy of fourteen who had begun to come out of his shell since they had started these discussion-led sessions.

  Robyn was wondering where Martin Oakley had got to when the classroom door opened and he sauntered in. He placed a dead sparrow on her desk. ‘This is for you, Miss.’ He scuffled around the side of the classroom to take his place at the back.

  She stared at it, the poor little carcass with its fine plumage, the dark striations on the brown wings, the black patch down its chest which, in that moment of absolute focus reminded her incongruously of a mullah’s beard and took her back to Beirut for an instant. Standing, watching a car stop to let the white-bearded old man cross, the crazy patchwork of cables strung across the street, the sunlight on the faded buildings and the peak of Sannine rising up whitely above the city’s rooftops into the cobalt Mediterranean sky.

  The kids were quiet, waiting for her reaction. It was so fragile, its death needlessly cruel and, well, unfair. It was intended to unhinge her, yet another little piece of maliciousness from Martin. She decided she’d rob him of reward at any price. Robyn looked up at the class, found and met Martin’s stare.

  ‘Thank you, Martin. Why a bird? They’re free creatures, aren’t they?’

  ‘And stupid. Only the stupid are free. The more aware you are, the more fettered you become.’

  ‘And yet they’re beautiful.’

  ‘Yeah. Stupid and beautiful. Like a woman.’

  ‘And we’re free too, Martin. More free than you’ll ever know, child.’

  He dropped his gaze and she was possessed of an instant of savage triumph before guilt suffused her for being proud of beating a child down. Christ, where was her balance? It struck her he wasn’t looking at the floor but staring at the bird. She glanced down then caught his gaze, the dark eyes seemed to grow in his pale, rigid face. She felt her hand moving involuntarily to her blouse, the need to undo the buttons. She shuddered as feelings washed over her, intimations of blood, sex and death. Her fingers twisted at the first button. The bell rang and she was released, gasping. The kids left silently, staring at her. Jenny Wilson held back. ‘Are you okay, Miss?’

  ‘Yes, thanks Jenny. I’m fine.’

  Martin passed behind Jenny, grinning. The girl seemed about to say something, then nodded and left.

  Robyn collapsed into her chair and let the tears come.

  Mariam sat in the boardroom on the top floor of 3shoof’s offices, flanked by Kelly and Duprez. Adel Ibrahim and Alan Kingsthorpe perched opposite the three
journalists. Ibrahim carried an air of suppressed glee and was positively glowing.

  ‘Okay, here’s the result of my discussions with your respective editors. We’re going to focus our collective efforts on folder fifteen. Mariam will continue to pursue the Lebanese angles she has opened, while Brian will focus on the contacts he has at the Ministry of Defence. Matt will travel to Washington and pursue General Parker and the American angle to this. He will have support both from the Guardian and Telegraph Washington bureaux. Any questions?’

  Kelly’s arms were crossed. ‘Expenses.’

  ‘All reasonable expenses to be met by a pool established by the three media outlets. Your discretionary allowance is £600 per day, receipts to be provided. Beyond that, you’ll need sign off from Alan or one of your editors. Matt’s flights have been booked.’

  ‘Business class.’ It wasn’t a question from Duprez.

  ‘Of course.’ Ibrahim was expansive, but Mariam had already heard he was famously parsimonious with expenses and other incidentals. He’s playing with the big boys and wants to put on the Ritz, she thought. And then felt mean.

  ‘Thank you gentlemen. And lady.’

  The meeting broke up. Going down the stairs behind her, Kelly chuckled his dirty little chuckle. ‘Bet you ain’t no lady really, darling.’

  ‘Like you’ll ever find out.’

  The door to what they had come to call the ‘Safe Room’ was open, which was odd as they usually left it shut. Clive Warren was standing at the window looking down at the traffic, his mobile in his hand. He turned as they entered and grinned at Mariam.

  ‘Hello. I can’t get a Wi-Fi connection.’

  ‘It’s blocked in here. How did reception let you up?’

  ‘I charmed her.’