The Cold Calling cc-1

by Phil Rickman

  ‘It was a little Georgian-style semi. In Baslow Road. Yeah, it was nice. For a while. And tidy.’

  Except for the night Liz had impaled four canvases, one after the other, on the pointed newel post at the top of the stairs. One after the other, with a stiff, crackly, ripping sound. That was when he’d taken the chance of a transfer to the Met. A new start, somewhere neither of them had connections, where they’d need to rely on each other.

  As it turned out, Liz had hated it. Hated her job at the huge, crazy London hospital. Liz wanted to come back. There was a vacancy for a DI in Elham Division; he’d walked into it. Back with the old crowd. Who resented him. Naturally.

  ‘Baslow Road,’ Suzanne mused. ‘I wouldn’t know where that is. Being a stranger.’ She followed him inside and he felt for the light switches, flipped all three, but only one greasy yellow bulb came on.

  ‘You’re right.’ Suzanne’s nose wrinkling as she took in the state of the hallway. ‘It is a bit of a shithole. You OK, Bobby? You’re not going to throw up, are you?’

  He said, ‘You’re not serious about this, are you?’

  ‘Course I’m serious. Why I came,’ Suzanne said. ‘Come on, let’s see them.’

  ‘All right.’ Despite the half-dozen whiskies, Bobby Maiden, on the last night of his life, was feeling almost shy as he propped the biggest canvas against the TV.

  This was weird. He couldn’t figure this out at all. Started out like a direct approach, now it was just very strange.

  Just as coppers in the Met above a certain rank could expect an invitation to join the Masons, in Elham there’d be a friendly, innocent overture from the Tony Parker organization. It was like a recognition of status. Almost above board.

  Because Maiden stayed off the police social circuit, it had been a long time coming. But now it was here, and it was strange.

  ‘Little haven you’ve created here.’ Suzanne ran a finger along the art books. Grinned. ‘Bobby’s burrow.’

  Maiden propped the other pictures against the table legs. Acrylics. And some watercolours, because there was less mess and they were easier to conceal if anybody turned up. Nobody at the nick had ever known about it.

  ‘Hey,’ Suzanne said. ‘Not what I was expecting. Where is it, Bobby? Morocco?’

  The big canvas had a full moon like a lamp over sand dunes.

  ‘Formby.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘The Liverpool Riviera. Costa del Shite.’

  ‘You make it look dead exotic. You’re an imaginative guy, aren’t you?’

  ‘What the defence lawyers say to me. Look, you don’t really want to see this crap. I thought we-’

  ‘I like the way you’ve done the colours of the sandhills. Like you can see colours in places the rest of us can’t.’

  Her coat was off and her hair had come all the way down. It was cold, as usual, in here and she had her arms entwined around her, pushing her breasts together. He shuddered with an unsuppressible spasm of longing. All wrong, of course. The very last thing you did was let them into your private life. If you could call this dump private, or what he had here a life.

  ‘… or is it Wainwright?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Guy who painted those night pictures,’ Suzanne said. ‘Greenish. With, like, full moons. They were Liverpool and industrial kind of places too, only he made them look dead romantic. Atkinson Wainwright? Tony’s really into him. He’s got three or four now. A couple, anyway.’

  ‘Grimshaw,’ Maiden said knowledgeably. Tony Parker was into Atkinson Grimshaw? As well as prostitution, gambling and drugs?

  Suzanne said, ‘Course, seeing this guy’s dead, his pictures are worth a stack, like your dad said, and a good investment. Still, Tony buys new things as well. If he likes them.’

  ‘And then he has the artist killed to make it worthwhile. You want some coffee? Wine?’

  Suzanne smiled. ‘He might like these. Might well like them.’

  He went still.

  ‘The moon and the sand,’ Suzanne said. ‘Tony’d go for that one, certainly.’

  The moon in the painting wobbled in the deep, green sky. Maiden was gripping the edge of the table as a voice from somewhere said, Careful. Be cool. Flush her out.

  ‘Forget the pictures,’ he said. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ Which made no sense; it was a ground floor flat.

  ‘No, I reckon …’ Suzanne stood back from the moon picture, pursing her lips. ‘I reckon, a picture like that, Tony would give … what? … seven grand? It’s the moon that does it. Tony’s ever so partial to a full moon.’

  He saw, for the first time, the mocking intelligence in the smoky eyes.

  ‘Cash, of course,’ Suzanne said coolly.

  He started to laugh.

  ‘So Tony wants me on his wall.’

  He couldn’t decide whether it was ridiculously naive or totally brilliant. Five whiskies said brilliant.

  ‘And what do I have to do?’

  Suzanne sat down. She chose the wooden garden chair by the gas fire, maybe making a point about the unnecessary frugality of his lifestyle.

  ‘You really his niece, Suzanne?’

  ‘You really an artist? See, I’m authorized to negotiate with artists. Policemen … that might be open to misinterpretation.’

  ‘What’s he looking for?’ His head felt as if it was floating away from his body. ‘Bit new to this game.’

  ‘Game, Bobby?’

  ‘Blind eye? Friend at court?’

  Seven grand … not a bad base. Seven grand could get you out of here. Seven grand could get you into a rented cottage somewhere damp and lonely. Seven grand could-

  Christ, you can’t help thinking about it, can you? Seven grand for a painting, take the money and run, run, run…

  ‘And maybe in a couple of months’ time,’ Suzanne said blandly, ‘if you were to come up with something else Tony wanted …’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘You’re the artist.’

  ‘Why don’t you spell it out?’ Maiden said easily. ‘We’re both grown-up people. Who else has he got on the wall? Biggish wall, is it?’

  ‘Look.’ She stood up, smiling at him, kindly, like an auntie. ‘Been a long night, lovey. You must be completely shagged out. You have a nice think about it. You know where to find me.’

  Picking up her silk jacket from the block pine coffee table, he moved towards her, knocking over the moon picture.

  ‘Who else besides Mr Riggs?’ he said.

  Shit. Couldn’t believe he’d said that. Too much to drink. Could feel it slipping through his hands like a fish, now, swimming away into the murk.

  ‘I just wouldn’t like to do anything the boss would seriously disapprove of.’

  Disastrous.

  ‘I’m not following you, Bobby.’ Slinking into the jacket, tucking her hair down the collar, shouldering her bag.

  He put his hand over hers on the door catch, noticing that the last light in the communal hall had finally expired, a dead bulb with a dark halo of cobwebs on a frayed wire.

  ‘Night night, Bobby.’ Suzanne’s voice was lower and harder as she detached his hand from the door. ‘All right?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘The night is positively embryonic. And you are-’

  Aw, forget it. You blew it. Worse still, you left yourself wide open.

  Members of the jury, the defendant has claimed that he took this woman back to his flat ‘to show her my paintings …’

  Stupid.

  The day before he retired from the Job, Barry Hutchins had said to Maiden, Some divisions, you find being a tiny bit bent is strongly advisable. Just a spot of oil on the wheels, a tweak on the steering.

  Let’s face it, most coppers are introduced to it not by villains but by other coppers. Starts in a small way, like being shown which cafes on your beat will give you a free coffee, which restaurants operate a twenty per cent police discount.

  Problem I found is, you never quite know whose toes you might be treadi
ng on by not accepting a bung. Know what I mean? You’re walking a tightrope in this town, now.

  He stood inside the door, listening for the sound of her feet in the hall. She hadn’t gone.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  He opened the door wide. No sound out there but his own voice dancing around the walls. But she hadn’t gone.

  ‘Suzanne?’ Maiden called softly into the darkness of the lobby. ‘Just confirm something for me, would you?’

  No reply.

  ‘Tell Tony thanks very much, but why would he need me when he’s got Riggs?’

  Once you’d soaked your boats in paraffin, you might as well apply the match.

  Martin Riggs. Hotshot from the Met brought in to clean up seedy little Midland town. On a promise. Super’s job if he does well, when old Stan White retires. And Riggs does extremely well, hoovering up a bunch of dealers, pimps, small-time hard men in no time at all.

  ‘Suzanne …?’

  Nothing. But he felt an odd tingle in the dark air.

  Always struck him as curiously coincidental that Riggs and Parker should arrive in town around the same time.

  And what an amazing clean-up rate. The Elham Messenger loved it. STREET-CRIME DOWN AGAIN. Loved him. POLICE CHIEF’S DRUG WAR PAYS OFF.

  ‘Everybody’s happy, Suzanne. Dealers working for one boss. Job security, long as nobody gets too greedy. And the toms … better working conditions, more respectable pimps. Much healthier all round.’

  ‘Not for everybody, Bobby. Not for you, the way you’re going on.’

  Even though it was still September, the lobby had a late autumnal damp-plaster smell.

  ‘Listen, Bobby. Just listen.’ Her voice was different. ‘Do yourself a favour. Shut the fuck up and make yourself scarce. You’re playing well out of your league. Can you-’

  Silence.

  Like she was afraid of being overheard.

  He switched off the light in the flat and slipped outside, found a patch of shadow and snuggled into it.

  Click, click of heels. Suzanne making for the front door. He slid after her, back to the wall.

  Think.

  Riggs will have confirmation now: Maiden knows. Maiden doesn’t like it. Maiden’s not up for a buy-off in regular instalments. Maiden’s not one of the lads. Maiden is well under the feet.

  ‘Bobby.’ Suzanne’s voice, very low. ‘Look. Go back in your flat and lock the door. You know what I’m saying?’

  He could see her shape now, in the doorway.

  ‘Bobby?’ From outside. ‘I’m not kidding. I like you, OK? I like you, you stupid sod. Can’t you get a transfer or something? Jesus, what a fucking mess.’

  Footsteps fading.

  Aye, go on, nancy, lock yourself in … go back to your painting.

  Not any more, Norman.

  Maiden came out quickly in a crouch. Didn’t make for the steps, edged instead around the side of the building where a short passageway ended in an iron gate. Bad move if that was where they were waiting but unless they’d checked out the building by daylight they wouldn’t be.

  Nobody grabbed him. His relief came out as a rough sob. He stayed in the passage, breathing in its acrid stale-piss air, until he heard her heels moving down the steps.

  At which he moved out into the overgrown, iron-railed garden.

  Because, God help him, he wanted to know who was waiting for her.

  He crept down the steps.

  Seeing Suzanne for the last time when she passed beneath a sodium streetlamp, he felt a confusing pang. How could he possibly …?

  Without the Gothic make-up? In different circumstances? Just the two of them, somewhere damp and lonely?

  The street was very still. Rundown Victorian villas turned into flats or boarded up. A derelict pub. No parked cars — double-yellow zone.

  Maiden came quietly down to the pavement. The streetlamps shimmered in oily puddles, the tarmac still pitted from a laying of new drains. No sign of Suzanne. He stepped off the kerb to peer further up the street.

  Out here his head was clearing. Pleasanter now. He began to stroll up the road, hands in his pockets, the essence of peat coming back to him. Damp and lonely. Funny thing, now Liz was gone, now he could go where he liked, he just hadn’t. He’d stayed in Elham, sorting out burglaries and domestic murders, occasionally going out with unsuitable women, building up the Tony Parker file on his home computer.

  Waiting for a break. Waiting for something to give. Wondering how it could all have gone so wrong. Thinking that if he could just nail Parker and Riggs he’d walk away from it.

  After fifteen wasted years.

  He stopped. There she was again. Across the street, under a dodgy streetlamp which kept flickering on and off, and even when it was on it wasn’t fully on, so you could almost see the filament in the bulb, a worm of blue-white light. She was standing under the lamp and seemed to be going on and off like the light; you saw her and then you didn’t.

  There was a roar. Two flat discs of greasy yellow spinning out of Telford Avenue. Turning to blinding white when they came round the corner.

  Suzanne screamed, and it was strange; her voice, in extremis, sounded bizarrely refined.

  ‘Oh Christ, Vic, no, for fuck’s sake …’

  The voice diverted him for a moment.

  The wrong moment.

  In the very next moment, his last conscious moment, two tail lights like dirty red pimples wobbled and blurred before a great and welcome silence came over him like a big, soft blanket.

  At 2.37 a.m., Detective Inspector Bobby Maiden died in hospital.

  II

  Guardi’s Deli was just around the block from the New York Courier.

  ‘I mean, Jesus,’ Grayle said, making for the window table. ‘You look at this realistically, I’m the one should be missing. Like, Ersula was always the intense, academic sister, and I’m the crazy bitch with the crystals and the Tarot cards and the Eye of Horus earrings.’

  Before Lyndon could even sit down, she was dumping her bag on the table.

  ‘Then she goes off to England.’ Pulling out the leaflet. ‘Then this.’

  The University of the Earth

  As we prepare to enter the Third Millennium, many of us feel the need for a deeper understanding of the land around us: how our distant ancestors related to their environment, and what that tells us about how we should respond to it.The countryside of Britain remains a great enigma. We are surrounded by the mysterious monuments of antiquity: megalithic remains, prehistoric burial mounds and chambers … the holy places of the past.In recent years, the study of such remains has appeared to become the preserve of a ‘New Age’ fringe, whose theories about ley lines and ‘earth-energies’ have been scorned by the archaeological establishment.The University of the Earth is the first serious attempt to bridge this gulf, by undertaking a formal but open-minded investigation of the mysteries in our landscape. The project is being steered by the eminent archaeologist and anthropologist Prof. Roger Falconer, presenter of the Channel Four programme Diggers.To help fund the University of the Earth project, and allow for the involvement of interested amateurs, a select series of summer schools has been scheduled, to be based at Prof. Falconer’s farm on the Welsh border, and involving lectures, practical work and expeditions to a number of key sites, including Stonehenge, Avebury, Silbury Hill and the Rollright Stones.Prof. Falconer says, ‘My twenty-five years of study have shown me that there are many lessons to be learned from our most remote ancestors. While I have little truck with nonsense about the Earth once being ruled by aliens or radiant beings from the lost continent of Atlantis, I do believe that the people of the Bronze Age in particular possessed certain skills, allied to a heightened perception of the natural world, of which most of us are no longer aware.‘It is one of the aims of the University of the Earth to study methods of working with the Earth and discover how effective they are in a scientific framework.‘Dowsing, for instance, not only for water but for archaeological remains, has been shown to be
surprisingly successful, and we shall be putting its practitioners to the test under survey conditions, as well as giving our guests an opportunity to see if they themselves possess the ability.‘While I am personally convinced that some dowsers have an extraordinary ability, other schemes and theories I find considerably less convincing. However, the spirit of the University of the Earth is one of exploration and my younger colleagues, Magda Ring and Adrian Fraser-Hale, will be conducting experiments on what we might call the outer fringes … notably, the Dream Survey, in which volunteers will sleep at ancient sites and record their dreams in an attempt to discover whether human consciousness is influenced by the alleged electromagnetic properties of stone monuments.‘Although its aims are serious, those of us involved in the University of the Earth have had a great deal of fun. The inevitable arguments between the archaeological purists and the ‘earth-mysteries’ enthusiasts have been essentially good-natured and suggest that we share a common goal: to uncover the deepest secrets of the distant past and use them to develop a more harmonious relationship between the human race and its native planet.’Early application for the University of the Earth summer schools is advisable, as places on the courses are strictly limited. Cost per head for one week is a basic …

  Lyndon McAffrey, sitting stately as a Supreme Court judge, put down the leaflet and ordered up some doughnuts.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You gotta admire the guy’s technique. Like, how we gonna persuade gullible rich folk to hand over megabucks for a week spent shovelling shit out of a trench? Hey, let’s tell ‘em they’re helping a famous TV star unlock the secrets of the universe.’

  Grayle thought this was a tad unfair. She’d called her father at Harvard, and he’d called up a friend at Oxford University about Professor Falconer and ascertained that, outside of television, the man was a respected academic with his name on about seventeen books.

  ‘Just he has the popular touch. Nice-looking, charming, dates actresses … like that.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Lyndon.

  ‘This makes him a shyster, necessarily?’

  ‘Well, no. It just don’t win him instant sympathy from fat old guys such as myself. So your sister is — what?’