“As I said, he seemed fine. Why? D’you think he killed himself, or something?”
“It’s early days yet, Mr Larkin,” said Umpleby, looking pointedly in Grice’s direction, “but from what we can piece together so far, it seems as if the fire did indeed start in Mr Houchen’s flat. Antiquated gas supply. Maybe that whisky you mentioned made him clumsy with lighting it. That’s only a theory, of course, but it seems the most logical at the moment.”
“Right.”
They fell silent again. A question popped into Larkin’s head; he decided not to ask it. Instead he slowly sipped his tea, trying to look relaxed.
“So there’s nothing more you can tell us, Mr Larkin?” asked Umpleby.
“Nothing that’s not in the article,” he replied.
“Well, in that case …” Umpleby stood up, followed by Grice. He handed his mug back to Larkin – Grice’s tea sat on the floor, untouched. “Thanks for the hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.”
“Any time,” said Larkin.
Grice sidled past him on his way to the door. As he went he curled his lip at Larkin. It could have been anything, a sneer, a smile or an Elvis Presley impersonation. Larkin gave a solemn wink in return.
As he reached the door, Umpleby paused and turned. “Mr Larkin?” There was a glint in his eye as he spoke. “Perhaps our remarks about your chosen profession were tactless. So if you think there’s something we should know, something perhaps omitted from your article — ” He produced a business card. “You know where to find us.”
The door shut and Larkin stood alone in the hall. Something was going on, their manner told him that, but he didn’t have a clue as to what it was. He was just glad he’d trusted his instincts and kept quiet.
He looked at his watch. It wasn’t worth going to bed. With a sigh he padded back to the kitchen, to microwave the remains of his discarded supper for breakfast.
Bolland was wrapping up his eulogy. Prior to this morning, the office staff had believed Houchen to be just another overweight, sweaty photographer: Bolland’s words left them wondering how they could have failed to notice the true Houchen; the crusading ambassador for truth and justice, blessed with a Gandhi-like wisdom. Larkin shook his head in disbelief.
The meeting broke up. Slowly, people drifted back to their workstations. Bolland surveyed the office, accepted that applause would not be forthcoming, and motioned Larkin into his office.
“Twice in two days I’ve been in here, Dave,” said Larkin, attempting to perch on the chrome and leather construction. “Tongues will wag.”
“Tongues can do what they bloody well want.”
“Like that, is it?”
“Yes it is,” said Bolland, leaning forward. “I’ve had the police round here, asking questions.”
“So have I,” said Larkin.
“Then catch me up on the investigation, Stephen.”
“Pardon?” said Larkin. Either Bolland had been picking up hip but obscure slang from American cop shows, or he was fighting a losing grammatical battle.
“Just tell me what’s been going on,” he demanded irritably. “Was Houchen into something he shouldn’t have been?”
“I know as much as you, Dave,” said Larkin, comfortably, finding it easier to lie to Bolland than to the police.
“What did you tell the police?”
“That he seemed perfectly normal. That he asked me round to his place to share a bottle of malt. They reckon he was pissed and playing with the gas fire.”
Bolland nodded twice in succession, the corners of his mouth pulled down. “And what d’you think, Stephen?”
“I think Houchen must have been sharing his flat with Eskimos to want the fire on in the middle of July.”
“Did you mention that to them?”
“No.”
Bolland frowned. “Why not?”
“Why d’you think? If they reckon he wanted the fire on in this weather then they’re either thicker than they look – which would be hard – or they’re lying.”
“So why would they lie, Stephen?”
“Why does anyone lie?” Larkin leaned forward. “Look. Houchen left a message on my answerphone. Actually he left several. Said he’d discovered something, needed to see me. The last message ended really abruptly – too abruptly. Next thing Houchen’s dead – and the police don’t suspect foul play.”
“Perhaps they would have done if you’d told them this.”
“I didn’t want to. Those two couldn’t find their arses with both hands. And they pissed me off. The last thing I was going to do was confide in them.”
Bolland fell silent; Larkin could almost hear him thinking. When he eventually looked up, a flame had ignited behind his eyes. “D’you think there’s a story here?”
“I don’t know. But it’s worth looking into.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” said Bolland, the fire now dancing. “Stop whatever you’re working on and do this instead. I’m giving you carte blanche. If you find something, I’m backing you to the hilt. If you don’t, all you’ve been doing is misleading the police.”
Larkin shrugged. “There’s a first for a journalist.”
“Exactly. But that’s strictly your business. Fair enough?”
Larkin smiled. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you didn’t think there was something for me to find.”
Bolland gave a snort that could have been either a laugh or a fly trapped in his nostril. He sat back, put his hands behind his head and sighed. “Bloody shame, though. Waste of a good photographer.”
“I believe you mentioned that earlier. At some length.”
“Yes, well … I had to say something. It was expected.”
Larkin nodded, straight-faced.
“I suppose we’ll need a replacement.”
“Yeah,” said Larkin. Suddenly a smile spread across his features. “I know a photographer.”
“I know lots of photographers, Stephen.”
Larkin grinned. “Yeah, but this one’s special. He’s good. And – we’ve worked together in the past.”
Bolland furrowed his brow and looked at Larkin suspiciously. “I don’t like the sound of this, Stephen. Who is it?”
“An old mate of mine. We’ve – been through a few scrapes.”
Bolland was looking decidedly dubious now. “And can we rely on him?”
Larkin gave a short, hard laugh. “Trust me. Dave.”
8: Old Friends
Larkin sat back on the bench and breathed in deeply. Leazes Park on a warm summer’s day wasn’t a bad place to be. His bench was directly in front of the lake where children larked about on pedal boats, laughing and pushing, fooling around, shoving each other: their hurt disappearing quicker than money on a Friday night.
Toddlers played with absorption, their mothers close by. Precoital couples indulged in surreptitious foreplay on the grass; horny puffed-up pigeons cooed each other on. Office workers – jackets off, collar buttons undone – ate pre-packed sandwiches and planned utopian futures for themselves – until their mental alarm clocks told them lunchtime was over, the mortgage had to be paid, and the desk was beckoning.
Larkin stretched out his arms along the back of the bench and crossed his legs. A city idyll. An idle city. Post-industrial Eden.
He didn’t fully buy into the scene before him, though; he knew every garden had its predators. Wherever children gathered so did child abusers, and Peeping Toms cruised sunbathers; an innocent movement or gesture was often the trigger a potential rapist needed to put theory into practice.
It was the way Larkin viewed things – life glimpsed sidelong, from the corner of his eye, with darkness only a blink away. It didn’t do much good to the inside of his head, but he couldn’t help it. He knew what went on. The monsters didn’t just come out at night; the brighter the sun, the darker the shadows.
It was now one o’clock in the afternoon and he still hadn’t had any sleep since the night before last. The first thing he’d done after leaving Bolland’s
office was rifle through Houchen’s desk. He didn’t know what he was looking for in particular: some clue. Something. An address book, a slip of paper with a phone number on it. A signed confession to be opened in the event of his death. If only. All he found was some photographic accessory junk, an ancient Robert Ludlum paperback and a collection of festering Mars Bar wrappers. Not a great deal to go on.
There was nothing left of Houchen’s flat. And he hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife for months. Dead end. Larkin couldn’t even contact Pauline the tranny hooker – Houchen had been the one with her number.
Realising he was getting nowhere fast, Larkin had sat at his desk to formulate a plan of action. To get a result for Jane and look into Houchen’s death was too much for one person to do effectively. He began to make notes, piecing together ideas, developing them, scheming. Twenty minutes later he looked at the lengthy scrawl on his notepad and knew what he had to do. It was time to work the phone and call in favours.
Phone calls made and the rest of the morning free, Larkin had decided to take a long shot. The transvestite-loving politician was due to open a new old people’s home in Felling: it was the journalistic equivalent of a graveyard shift, but Larkin went along anyway. He found the man desperately trying to turn the opening into a major PR event: pressing flesh, dunking biscuits into cups of tea for the few cameras that were there, whooping with laughter at the feeblest of jokes. The meagre collection of local journalists that were trailing him couldn’t have shown less enthusiasm if they’d been at a Yawning Festival.
As soon as the man saw Larkin at the back of the tiny crowd, his jaw – along with his mask of fake hilarity – dropped. Larkin beckoned him over. The politician attempted to excuse himself in a jocular manner, graciously detatching himself from the senile old woman he had been attempting to cosy up to (who apparently believed him to be her son) and then coming straight across to where Larkin stood, waiting.
“Read the papers this morning?” Larkin had asked before the man had a chance to speak.
The man nodded hastily, summoning up bluster. “Now if you think—”
“That you had anything to do with my partner’s death?” Larkin finished the sentence for him. “Then you’d better tell me. It’s in your own interests.”
The councillor began to shake. He turned his back on the crowd and spoke in an urgent whisper. “I had nothing to do with it! Nothing! I didn’t even know his name until I saw it under the picture in the paper. I swear, I swear I had nothing to do with it. Honestly!”
Larkin doubted that the man had ever been honest in his life. “D’you know who did?”
“No! No, I don’t. I haven’t heard a thing, honestly.”
“Don’t keep saying that. You’re a politician.”
“But I didn’t. I didn’t. And I don’t know who did.”
The pleading of the man struck Larkin as desperately pathetic, but something in his voice rang true. Larkin wasn’t quite ready to let him go, though.
“What about Pauline? She been in touch?”
The man actually turned white. “No. I doubt I’ll ever see her again.” His last statement echoed both relief and loss.
“OK,” said Larkin, “I believe you. I think. But if you hear anything, I want to know about it.”
“How will I find you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”
Larkin turned and faced the mass of people waiting, though not eagerly, for the politician’s return. The bewildered old woman he had been sharing a custard cream with was drifting back towards him, calling out a name that wasn’t his.
“Don’t fancy yours much,” said Larkin, and gave the politician a wink. “Keep fighting the good fight. I’ll call you when I need you.”
The politician had been a long shot, Larkin knew, but he had had to try. Now he sat in the park waiting for the first of his phone calls to come to something. Waiting to meet The Prof.
Larkin had been wary about asking his old mate for help; their last attempt at working together had left them both tortured and hospitalised – in The Prof’s case, nearly dead. He had survived, thankfully, but with a laborious walk and a disfigured right hand to show for it. And those were just the visible scars.
In addition to his physical disabilities, his mind had taken a long time to heal. It was doubtful that The Prof’s mind could have been considered normal to begin with, but he was now left with a noticeable vagueness; stopping talking in mid-conversation, gazing into the middle distance.
Yet The Prof’s near-death experience had been a boon to him. For years he had believed he was on a personal spiritual quest, ingesting hallucinogens and other mind-altering chemicals by the bucketful, performing arcane peyote-fuelled rituals in search of a shamanistic wisdom. He now believed his emergence from the coma had signified a spiritual rebirth: a reaffirmation of his personal purpose and destiny. Now all he had to discover was what that purpose was.
As Larkin looked beyond the duck pond to the tennis courts, he saw a figure making its tortuous way towards him. The Prof. Although The Prof refused to let Larkin take any blame for his predicament (he claimed he had known exactly what he was getting into) Larkin still felt a pang of guilt as the figure moved up the hill. The Prof spotted Larkin, smiled, and wandered over.
He was wearing small round glasses, with clip-on flip-up shades, button-up long-john vest, old baggy Levis held up by red braces, trainers and a huge overcoat. On his cropped head, for good measure, sat a white sunhat. He sat down next to Larkin.
“What’s that on your head?” asked Larkin.
“A sunhat,” replied The Prof, surprised he had to state the obvious. “It stops the rays from penetrating.” And The Prof nodded to himself, pleased with the wisdom of his statement.
“What about the coat? Is that for keeping the rays out too?”
“No. That’s because it’s cold in the library.”
“But you’re not in the library.”
The Prof’s brow creased in concentration. “Hmm. Always a flaw in the argument.”
Larkin shook his head. “So how are you, anyway?”
“Fine, Stephen. And yourself?”
“OK.” They both sat back, enjoying the sun.
“I saw your name in the paper this morning,” said The Prof casually. “Bad news.”
“Yeah,” said Larkin, although he hadn’t really had time to think what Houchen’s death meant to him. He didn’t feel guilty – he didn’t think he was to blame. He certainly wasn’t heartbroken – apart from working out of the same office, and their little night-time activity, he had hardly known the man. His death had been a blow, true; but he would get over it, move forward. He had done so before, with people he’d cared far more for than he had for Houchen.
“Anyway,” said Larkin, “it just seems to have been – one of those things. But that’s not why I wanted to see you today. I need your help.”
A shadow crossed The Prof’s features. “Help?”
“No, don’t worry – not you personally. I wouldn’t ask anything like that of you again.”
The Prof nodded sagely.
“I need to get in touch with Ezz. I haven’t seen him around lately. D’you know where he is?”
The Prof pondered. “He’s out now, so he should be around. When d’you want him for?”
“As soon as possible. Today. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” The Prof opened his mouth to speak again. He had a curious look on his face, as if he wanted to ask a question but didn’t want to hear the answer. “What d’you want him for?”
Larkin smiled slightly. “I think it’s best that you don’t know.”
“If it’s Ezz I presume it’s illegal and potentially dangerous.”
Larkin didn’t argue.
The Prof sat back. “There’s a fish that lives in the Amazon,” he began. Larkin stared at him, nonplussed. He had no way of knowing whether or not this might be relevant.
The Prof continued. “A
fish which, if a tribesman urinates in the water, jumps up the stream of urine and lodges itself inside the penis by embedding sharp prongs inside the shaft. It’s impossible to remove, at least without mutilation.” The Prof subsided into silence; he seemed satisfied. Larkin looked puzzled.
“Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“So why tell me?”
“It’s obvious. A parable, if you like. I don’t want to stop you – just make sure you know what you’re exposing yourself to.”
Larkin nodded doubtfully. Was it imagination, or did he feel a slight discomfort in his groin? Slowly they began to talk, two old friends shooting the breeze. They didn’t mention Larkin’s urgent need for Ezz. Eventually The Prof got to his feet.
“Well – must be off.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“Yes, Stephen. Endlessly interesting. They’ve opened a cyber cafe. I spend days in there, on the Internet.”
“I bet you do.”
The Prof became thoughtful. “Y’know, I think that’s the next step. Slowly we’ll lose the use of our bodies and end up as no more than brains plugged into machines. Wouldn’t that be something? Man and machine combined to create a new life form. A higher being. Beautiful.” A wistful smile spread across his features. “Beautiful.”
“If you say so, Prof.”
“Oh, I do.” He case an unconcious glance down the length of his maimed body. “Believe me, it is a union devoutly to be wished.”
After leaving The Prof, Larkin decided to kill the rest of the afternoon in a bar. He felt he’d earned it. The one he chose was carved out of the front of a shopping mall down from the Haymarket; it was open-fronted and afforded a good view of the street. The wooden decor and mismatched furnishings made it look like the shopping centre – if not the city centre – had been built around it. It was only on closer inspection that the computerised tills, electric pumps and CD jukebox gave it away. It also claimed to be genuine Irish – if old photographs of Cork and irritating diggly-diggly songs on the jukebox could be considered genuine.
He had phoned Jane from his mobile to tell her that he would hopefully soon have some news for her, but she hadn’t been there. The phone had been answered by another woman; Larkin hadn’t left a message.
Little Triggers Page 7
