by Adam Baron
I sat back and waited for a response but Sir Peter didn’t say anything. I took a big sip of my coffee before it went cold. I hate cold coffee.
‘The police don’t like serial killers,’ I continued. ‘Even if it’s only arse bandits as I can assure you they refer to gay men who are the target. They put a lot of people on it. That number was doubled when your brother was killed. It would have been increased anyway, but the fact that you are a prominent politician won’t have hurt things. Anything I could do would be a drop in the ocean compared to what is already happening.’
I relaxed into my armchair and threaded my fingers together. The waitress walked over with a coffee jug and refilled my cup. I should have known, in a place like that. As she refilled Sir Peter’s I gave myself a little ticking off. I was not being very kind. Something about him, his reserve perhaps, or simply his position as powerful politician, reversed to bereaved supplicant, made me want to be brutal with him. It seemed to be working; his face had a deeper, more introverted quality than his previous gravity. He smiled weakly at the waitress and then waited until she was quite a way off, serving a crumpled old man who looked suspiciously like Winston Churchill.
‘It isn’t that I doubt the police, Mr Rucker.’ There was a certain impatience in his voice. ‘I have visited the operations room, I have seen what they are doing.’
‘Then you must know how ineffective I would be. They have officers out asking every possible question in thousands of different places. More importantly they have forensics, DNA tests. That’s how this guy, assuming it is a guy, will be caught. Unfortunately you may have to wait until he does it again, maybe two or three times, but he’ll make a mistake before too long. They always do.’
‘I don’t doubt you, Mr Rucker.’ The irritation and impatience in his voice was overlaid by an increased imperative. ‘But you see, from my point of view, it doesn’t really matter what the police are doing. Edward was my brother. It matters to me what I am doing about it. I can’t just sit back, I have to do something. I can’t do nothing.’ The MP’s hands turned palm up and suddenly there was an appeal in his eyes, an honesty that I had not seen before.
‘I can understand that, sir. But if you already know that employing me is really a way of easing your conscience, of trying to do something, then you know how pointless it is because you haven’t done anything wrong and catching criminals is not your line. You’re a politician, not a detective. It was not your fault, how could it have been? Also, from my point of view, I really don’t want to spend my time on a fool’s errand because you feel helpless. I sympathize with you but I’m sorry, there really isn’t anything I can do.’
I stood up to go, but the MP let out a long sigh and pursed his lips against a swell of emotion.
‘Mr Rucker,’ he said. He was firm, his voice raised a little too loud. It stopped me. I sat back down again, resigned to hearing him out. I leant back in the armchair as he clasped his hands together and stared over his knuckles at me. I could see him around a table in a television studio, waiting for the jeers of a studio audience to die down.
‘Mr Rucker. There is something. Something else. The police listened when I mentioned it but I could tell they were just being polite, they didn’t believe me.’ He hesitated. ‘Mr Rucker, I heard what happened to my brother. I know the details. I was told there was evidence of sexual activity. With a man. My brother had been buggered before he was killed. I am well aware of this. But, Mr Rucker,’ he looked right at me, ‘one thing is wrong. I know that my brother was not a homosexual.’
His voice was lower now. He had regained control and was staring at me intently, his blue eyes not appealing to me but measured and precise, cold as an empty house. I suddenly lost all sympathy with him. So that’s what he cares about, just like the lorry driver’s wife.
‘Sir Peter,’ I said, ‘it maybe difficult for you—’
‘I know what you are going to say, Mr Rucker; that I am an old Tory bigot who can’t stand the fact that his brother was gay, who refuses to accept what the evidence so clearly displays. But you are wrong.’
‘I didn’t say—’
He cut me off. He leant forward towards me. ‘You are not gay,’ he said. He stated it flatly, like a logician beginning with a simple premise. ‘You’re not, are you?’
I looked at him, surprised, trying to work out where he was going.
‘No,’ I answered, ‘I’m not, but…’
’And my brother was not either. He would not have slept with a man. He was not a homosexual.’
I didn’t say anything. He could finish, then I could thank him for lunch, get up and leave.
‘Do you know how I can tell?’ he asked, his eyes fixing me now, sensing my irritation. I shrugged.
‘I can tell, Mr Rucker, because I am.’
* * *
The MP sat back and smiled to himself ruefully. The room was suddenly silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock which I hadn’t noticed before. Sir Peter seemed to be lost within himself for a second, seeing things which I couldn’t, things which seemed to bring him pleasure along with a dark, overshadowing wistfulness.
‘Do you know, Mr Rucker, you are only the third person I have ever told that particular piece of information to. I didn’t want to but somehow, ever since Edward was killed, being secretive doesn’t seem to matter any more. Finding out who killed him does.’ He smiled at me. ‘It is amazing how simple it is to say it. Before I told my wife it was much worse. And before I told Edward I was a wreck. I was almost forty years old and I was so terrified of what he would say I couldn’t eat for a week.’ He laughed sadly and waited for me to say something. I didn’t really know what.
‘How did he take it?’ I found myself asking.
‘Oh, brilliantly. He said he’d been waiting for me to tell him ever since he was sixteen and I was nineteen. He was relieved that I had.’
‘That must have meant a lot to you.’
‘It did. My wife, quite understandably, was not so generous. We had already begun to lead separate lives within the same house but she was scared that I would “come out”, as I believe they say, and it would humiliate her. She enjoys being the wife of a Minister you see, even an Opposition Minister as she puts it.’ He hesitated, and I waited for him to go on. ‘Diana told me never to mention it again. To anybody. But I did decide to tell Edward. After I had told him I was then able to confide in him, to tell him of my feelings. We had long chats about it and it made the burden a lot easier to bear, knowing I could talk about how I felt, that he understood me and I would never have to worry that he would tell anybody. It was a great relief. For some reason I found that I hardly ever needed to do anything about it after that, I didn’t need to take so many of the risks I was taking.’
The MP stopped for a second as the waitress came back over. She was either naturally very diligent or a member of the KGB. In the gap it afforded him the former Minister restored some of his reserve and when she was gone he said, ‘The point, you see, is that I know he wasn’t gay. We spoke about it and he told me he had never even thought about it for a second. He wasn’t lying to me, he had no reason to. He had no problem with my sexual preference and would not have had if it were his own. Edward was a lot more open, far more relaxed about life than I am.’
‘And you think it strange that he should be murdered by a serial killer specializing in homosexuals?’
‘I do. Even if it was the same man I feel that the police are blinkering themselves by insisting that my brother was gay, and that this one fits a neat pattern.’ I nodded my head reluctantly. The police do like things to be neat. They even go so far as making things neat when that is the last thing that they are. I’d done a fair bit of neatening myself in my time.
‘You told them Edward wasn’t gay?’ I asked.
‘I did, but I didn’t tell them how I knew. They were polite enough but I know they didn’t take any notice. They think I just want to lessen the political embarrassment of what happened.’
<
br /> I’d thought that myself earlier. I still wasn’t sure if that wasn’t the case.
’So, what you want is to employ somebody to explore the possibilities that you believe the police are overlooking.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t want a big organization because a big organization would just do what the police are doing. And they might not be, what you would call, discreet.’
‘Yes. I told DI Gold that I wanted to hire someone, an individual to help me. I didn’t expect to meet the resistance I am getting from you. DI Gold tried to talk me out of it, like you did, but when I told him I was determined, and would simply look in the Yellow Pages if he didn’t recommend someone, he came up with your name. I am aware that it may turn out to be a waste of my money, but while there is a chance that I may be able to contribute, I will. DI Gold told me that you usually find missing children at a flat fee, but that I might be able to engage you by the day.’
‘You might,’ I said.
And I thought about it.
There was a chance it would be worthwhile, a chance I could dig something up, although it wasn’t likely. It certainly wouldn’t hurt my bank balance to try and I could probably fit in my other work around it. Also, it was a challenge, a piece of real work. I didn’t know what to do, I was still shocked by what he had told me, or, rather, by the fact that he had told me it at all, here in this dusty, establishment boys’ club where such a revelation was completely incongruous. I found myself saying that I would do my best for him until I’d either found something interesting or couldn’t think of anything else to do. I told him he was almost definitely wasting his money and my time, but he seemed pleased. We discussed terms and then we stood up.
‘Mr Rucker,’ Sir Peter said, taking my hand. ‘Thank you. I trust that anything I have told you will be treated in confidence.’ He looked uneasy. ‘My wife, you see.’
I told him that he had nothing to worry about. He nodded his thanks. Then he snapped back into Uncle mode and told me some of the history of the club, as he showed me out of the room and back down the broad staircase, which looked even more impressive on the way down. He pointed out a portrait of the club founder, and one of his own grandfather, and he told me what their motto meant: diligence and discretion.
At the bottom of the staircase we passed the waitress with another jug of fresh coffee in her hand. I could have sworn she looked disappointed to see us leaving.
Chapter Three
The drive back to my office was about half an hour longer than the drive there and I vowed once again to leave my car at home and use the bus more. Or walk, that would have been just as quick. I finally made it back to Highbury Corner and drove along Highbury Grove with the park on my left. Through the naked trees I could see the last rash of tennis players battling bravely on the faded red courts. I turned right, into the forecourt of the Lindaeur Buildings, and after waving into the security booth I parked next to the front entrance. As was often the case the huge, stately building, put up in the thirties, reminded me of an ocean liner. I locked up the car and, ignoring the waiting lift, I jogged up the four flights.
When I opened up my office it was glaringly bright, the sun having just reached round far enough to beam straight in through the huge windows. I let the straw blind down to about halfway, which subdued it and gave the small room a strange, almost tropical ambience. My machine informed me that the time was two thirty-six, and that I had one message. It was Andy Gold, wondering if I had agreed to help the MP, and would I like to talk to him about it? I called him back at the station and arranged to meet him in The Albion at four. He sounded stressed. In the background I could hear the clatter of typewriters, the other phone lines going, and what sounded like a very irate old woman telling somebody that her little boy could not possibly have done anything like that. They’d framed him the first time, I heard her say, and now they wanted to do it again. I smiled to myself grimly at the memory of day upon day upon day spent sitting in that room, feeling just as harassed as Andy did now. I told him not to work too hard and hung up before getting his reply.
I’d jotted down a few notes earlier, at The Portman, in a small hardback notebook, and I took it out on my desk and made some more. I had been engaged by a Tory MP with more money than sense (a complaint common amongst Tory MPs) to find out who had killed his brother, because the MP did not believe the police were exploring every angle open to them. The murder seemed to be the work of a serial killer with a distaste, or a very strange taste, for homosexuals. But the MP did not believe his brother would have had any contact with a homosexual so it seemed strange to him that his brother should be a target for this person. The police did not think it strange. I was to look into the possibility that his brother was murdered by someone other than the apparent serial killer, or else that the serial killer did not confine himself to homosexuals at all. Simple enough. I wrote a list of things to do, and then went through to the cafe for a cup of coffee.
The cafe is run by Ally, a very bright, attractive Italian girl, and her English boyfriend Mike. The unit is about twice the size of mine, with four small tables and more potted plants than the place really has room for. From a small, adjoining kitchen, they knock out sandwiches, hot meals and espresso to people in the other units, and they also deliver to nearby businesses. They both work a lot harder than I do but always manage to be cheerful to their customers and to each other – no mean feat considering that they share a flat as well as a business. The cafe is very convenient for me, being only three doors along, and I’ll often leave a note on my door telling clients to wait in there for me if there’s a chance that I’ll be late. I have a spare coffee machine at my flat which I could bring along to my office if I wanted to, but I like Ally and Mike, so I don’t. I like the fact that they are there, and it doesn’t cost me much to contribute to their staying. Also, last Christmas, they had bought me my very own mug to use. It’s bigger than their normal ones and it has a picture of Kojak on the side, though whether this is a reference to my profession, or to my hairline, was not made clear to me.
I had Kojak in my hand as I approached the counter. Mike was in the kitchen washing up while Ally was clearing a table from the last of the lunch rush. Mike called out hi through the open door.
‘Been to see your bank manager, Bill?’ he asked, looking at my suit.
‘No, the Shadow Treasury Minister actually,’ I replied.
‘Blimey,’ he said, ‘your overdraft must be bigger than mine, mate!’
Ally put down the dirty plates she was carrying and smiled hello, before going round to the machine to pour me a black coffee.
Ally has the sort of smile that makes you wish sudden and calamitous death on her boyfriend, or at least that you didn’t like him so much. She also has the shiniest black curly hair, and huge bottomless eyes, dark as olives. She handed Kojak back to me and made a tick in her tally book. I took the coffee gingerly by the rim, and went to sit at the table she had just cleared.
I had an hour to kill before meeting Andy Gold. I spent it sipping the coffee and staring at Kojak’s everlasting lollipop, thinking about the seven years I had spent as a detective with the Islington Police. I had liked the job to begin with, and as I got higher up there always seemed some new aspect of the work to keep me interested. But then I got to the point where I seemed to be constantly battering my head against a mixture of a lack of resources to deal with the kind of criminals I wanted to deal with, and a lack of time to investigate anything properly. I came slowly to the conclusion that I was not employed to solve crimes and arrest their perpetrators, but as part of a political tool, a tool used to spread whitewash over the city so that the graffiti would not show through. At local election time the councillors would panic, and after a few words were whispered at the right cocktail parties there would be us, engaged in yet another useless crackdown on begging or street prostitution. Clean out an area, Harlesden say, by arresting a lot of very minor people, who get out after spending a night ins
ide, to set up somewhere else. All it ever did was piss off your snitches, and make it harder to find them when you needed information about anything really important. And we never got to deal with the biggest reason the homeless or the whores inhabit any particular spot of God’s green earth in any number; the pushers selling them crack pellets in Yorkie Bar foil, which they work all day and night scratching money together to buy. These guys would just disappear for a day or two and then they’d be back, leaning against shopfronts and lampposts, keeping on chewing, giving us the smile as we walked past. And the kids kept on selling themselves and the wheels kept on turning. After seven years I found myself both cynical and bored, with a mounting feeling of frustration.
I probably would have stuck it out though. I was still only in my late twenties, and at the time the feelings which I can articulate now usually just manifested themselves in a liking for the bottle and the kind of Need for Speed which was not the sort that Tom Cruise could have related to. I would probably have gone on for years, just like Andy Gold had done, getting more and more miserable about it, tied in by a mortgage and the hope of that next step up the ladder, getting further and further away from the reasons I joined up in the first place. You could say that my brother Luke saved me from that. I owe him my new status as a happy, well-adjusted, self-employed detective, with my own office and company vehicle. And I owe him a great deal more than that, so much more that if I try to think of a way to repay him it sends me insane.
