by David Thorne
I pick up my telephone and call the local paper; I know one of the reporters on it, a man named Jack who was a gifted student and debater at my school and who was on course for an illustrious career in journalism until Fleet Street’s wine bars became more important to him than the news floor. After drying out, he took a job closer to home, perhaps comforted by the familiarity of the stories he now covered. I have noticed his by-line on the paper’s coverage of Rosie’s disappearance; he has more experience than anybody else on the staff, even if his career has taken a drink-fuelled nose-dive, and he still gets the juicy stories. The receptionist transfers me and Jack picks up immediately; he sounds happy to hear from me.
‘Danny! The only person I know who can throw a career better than me.’
‘Hi, Jack. How are you?’
‘Yeah, good. Working on a story about a twenty-one-year-old dog. Know how old that makes him in human years?’ He does not wait for me to answer. ‘Hundred and forty-seven. Hang on.’ I hear silence for a few moments. Jack comes back on. ‘You hear that?’
‘No.’
‘Sound of the bottom of the barrel being scraped, Daniel. Long and hard.’
‘Listen, Jack, I need a favour.’
‘I’m skint, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘No, no it’s about Rosie O’Shaughnessy.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘What date did she go missing?’
‘Twenty-seventh July. Poor fucking kid.’
‘And, if you know, what was the last time she was seen? Exactly?’
Jack’s been a newsman for enough years to catch the scent of a story pretty quickly. ‘You got something?’ he asks, his version of humour put to one side for now.
‘Don’t know. Just, do you know the time?’
‘Tick.’ I hear papers rustling and Jack comes back on the line. ‘Yep. Ten-sixteen. Got the time from CCTV when she walked into the park. Never to be seen again,’ he adds in a cartoon-scary voice. ‘What have you got?’
‘Yeah, I’ve got to go,’ I say.
‘Come on. Top line?’
‘Call you back.’
‘You better.’
I hang up on Jack and look at my screen. I rewind the footage to the point where Rosie is hustled down the steps. The date stamped at the bottom reads 27.07, and the time is 10.55. Thirty-nine minutes after Rosie O’Shaughnessy was officially last seen alive.
20
‘WHERE’S YOUR GUV’NOR?’ I ask the young policeman, Dawson, the constable with attitude who had shoved Gabe into the interview room after his arrest, and eyeballed me on my doorstep when Hicklin had come to question me over my father’s assault. He was in uniform both times then but today he is wearing shorts, trainers, a Hollister T-shirt, and an irritating air of disdain. He ignores my question, taking in the view through his shades. A lot is said about the attitude of young people nowadays and I do not take any notice of most of it. But this young man exudes a sullen entitlement I cannot help but take against. I had called his boss, Hicklin, the day before but he had not been there; Dawson had sighed, grudgingly promised to pass on a message and I had explained that I had some information on the disappearance of Rosie O’Shaughnessy, but that I would only deal with Hicklin in person. He might have interrogated me on my doorstep that day but the way he had dealt with Gabe had impressed me; he exuded the air of a proper, old-school straight-down-the-line copper and it was him I trusted.
I told Dawson that I would meet Hicklin at the bandstand in Gaynes Park; although I trusted him, that trust was not unconditional and I did not want to meet him or any other policeman in anywhere but a public place. What I possessed, what I had discovered on those discs, had me feeling as exposed as a tethered goat in a jungle clearing. Baldwin had been the last person to see Rosie alive; did that mean he had been responsible for her death? What had she said to him in the police station that had caused him to walk her out before anybody else could hear? Was it worth killing for? All I wanted was to get rid of the discs and let the machinery of the state take over, grind Baldwin away to nothing, into a bad memory of our capacity for wickedness. This was bigger than me and I wanted nothing to do with it.
It was only when I arrived at Gaynes Park that I realised I was in the same place as Rosie had officially last been seen, though on reflection perhaps it was as appropriate a meeting place as any. Where better to deliver justice for her than in the park where she first disappeared?
Dawson is watching a trio of knights walk past, men dressed in leather tunics, chainmail, metal breastplates. We are surrounded by a medieval village of tents, suits of armour arrayed on the grass and pots of food cooking on open fires. There is a re-enactment of the Battle of Bosworth Field going on and the Houses of Lancaster and York are scheduled to meet in under an hour’s time. The gathered knights are in character and there is a cheery air of good-humoured antagonism, rustic and anachronistic epithets thrown carelessly through the bright sunshine. It is cruelly hot and the men must be suffering under their costumes and several are incongruously carrying bottles of Evian as they clump around, their swords and armour ringing with each footstep. Amongst these knights ordinary members of the public are strolling; the scene is bizarre and yet strangely reassuring, as if my community has been, for one day only, united by a shared eccentricity.
‘What the fuck do they think they look like?’ says Dawson.
‘Hicklin,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t he supposed to be here?’
‘Thing is,’ says Dawson, ‘he’s busy and he thinks you might be full of shit. So he’s sent me. When I could be watching the football. So thanks for that.’
As Dawson says this, he looks about him and there is something furtive in the way he glances around, as if he is expecting somebody and they are late, that I do not trust. ‘Anyway, what’ve you got?’ He nods at the canvas bag I am holding.
‘It’s…’ Why tell him? ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Nah go on. We’re here now.’
‘It’ll keep. Tell Hicklin I only deal with him.’ I turn to go. ‘Looks like we’ve all had our time wasted.’
‘Hang on, whoah,’ Dawson says, taking out his phone. ‘So fucking important, I’ll give him a bell.’ He takes his phone out of his pocket with one hand, calls a number, holds the other hand up to keep me where I am. A man in a red tunic and thigh-length boots walks up and good-naturedly puts a leather-gloved hand on Dawson’s shoulder.
‘No mobile telephony in the fifteenth century, young squire,’ he says in what he imagines to be a medieval accent, part Oliver Reed, part rural yokel. Dawson, phone still to his ear, digs out his warrant card and flips it open with one hand in the man’s smiling face.
‘Police. Fuck off,’ he says. I have an urge to cram his warrant card into his mouth. ‘Yeah, Dawson,’ he says into the phone. ‘Yeah, he’s got… Dunno what it is, won’t say. Nah, in a bag.’
I am backing away; I no longer want any part of this. He sees me leaving and holds his hand up, more urgently now, commanding. I ignore him and knock up against the back of a man in chainmail who is practising his sword strokes, carving figures of eight in the air, watched by some young kids. Dawson is walking towards me and we are in that moment when he is not yet chasing me and I am not yet running away; I keep backing away and he keeps advancing. There are people everywhere and tents and I catch my heel, almost trip on a guy rope. Dawson is shaking his head at me, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses. I turn and pick up my pace, past tables selling leatherware, pewter jewellery, crystals. There is a smell of frying burgers in the air. There are so many people I cannot walk in a straight line, have to pick a path between them. I look back and see that Dawson is still following me. As I turn, I glimpse something and do not believe what I see. I look again and there, emerging from between a hot dog van and a stall selling Thai food, is the policeman with the moustache from the workshop under the arches. He is walking towards me on a different trajectory to Dawson and now I have to change my direction, pick another escape route.
There is a roped-off arena for a jousting contest in my way and I skirt the edge, mingling with the people waiting for the show to start. I cannot see Dawson or the other policeman but I know that they cannot be far behind. I am looking for them and not looking where I am going and almost walk into a small child with its face painted like a tiger’s. I apologise and am about to turn when a genial voice from behind me says, ‘Now look who’s here,’ and even before I can turn I know it is Baldwin and that Hicklin never got my message and that I have been set up from the start.
‘Got something for me, have you?’ Baldwin says. Dawson and the thin-faced policeman break through the crowd and now I am surrounded, Baldwin behind me, the other two in front of me and either side. Baldwin is so close to me that I can feel his breath in my ear. It makes me shiver. I turn and I can see the pores in his skin, so defined in the bright sunlight that it is almost as if I am examining them under a microscope. His head seems even bigger this close up, on a different scale from other people’s. His doughy skin is loose and his eyes as incurious and free of emotion as a lizard’s. I have not seen him since he had me cuffed to the bench underneath the arches; I will my eyes to meet his, to not show the emotions I am experiencing, revulsion and fear and rage. Behind Baldwin is the policeman with the moustache and drinker’s face who is trying to control his own fury.
‘Where’s Gary?’ I ask.
Baldwin’s face twitches slightly and I know I have scored a point, sucker-punched him just like he had caught me off my guard in my office. But he recovers quickly.
‘How’s the finger? Giving you any trouble?’ He smiles guilelessly. I do not respond, do not know how to. He took my finger; he knows that he is so far ahead on points that there is no real contest.
‘You, son, are as much use as tits on a nun, know that?’ he says to Dawson. Dawson swallows, looks down at the grass at his feet. The other policeman chuckles. People have drawn back from the drama that is unfolding, sensing the aggression and confrontation in the air. Baldwin looks to be in his element.
‘Give me the bag,’ he says.
It is hopeless. Outnumbered by three policemen. I am a lawyer. We should be on the same side. I have no options. Yet I cannot simply hand the discs over.
Baldwin rolls his eyes. ‘Dawson. Make yourself useful.’
Dawson sees this as his opportunity to atone for his earlier failings. He saunters up, grins at me. ‘Bag.’
I ignore him, turn to Baldwin. ‘What did you do to her?’ I say. ‘You kill her?’
For an instant, I have Baldwin wobbling, back on the ropes, but he is not a man who can be rocked for long. He steps towards me, too close so that he is invading my space and it is all I can do to stand my ground, to not edge away. He leans in closer still and puts his mouth to my ear. I can feel the warmth of his breath now and I wait for whatever he wants to whisper to me but instead he just stands there, breathing softly into my ear and, just as I did underneath the arches as he caressed my face, I have the feeling that I am being violated in some subtle yet obscene way. The man has an animal force that disgusts me and that I do not know how to deal with. He exhales into my ear with a sigh that sounds almost post-orgasmic and sticks his tongue gently into my ear. I step quickly away, shaking my head and involuntarily shuddering. When I look at him, he is smiling, his eyes unfocused; his abuse of power seems to work on him like an aphrodisiac. Men or women, girls or boys, I believe it is all the same to him. The abuse of power is what turns him on, regardless of the victim.
I am still recoiling from his violation when Dawson snatches the bag from my hand. Baldwin smiles.
‘Now what are we going to do with you?’ he says.
‘Nothing,’ I say. I keep my voice steady, despite what Baldwin has just done to me.
‘Oh,’ Baldwin says. ‘Now I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Here? Now?’ I look around at the people surrounding us, every one a witness. Look back at Baldwin. Shake my head. As I shake it, I can feel his saliva, cold, inside my ear. I suppress a shiver. ‘I don’t think so.’
Baldwin clicks his tongue. ‘You, my boy, have got a target painted on your back. Big one. You know that?’
I do not answer, watch him.
‘And the thing with me is, I see a target? I never miss.’ He laughs, a short snort. ‘Never.’
Dawson hands the bag containing the discs to Baldwin deferentially. Baldwin takes it, smiles at me again, but there is no warmth in his eyes. I experience a moment of absolute stillness as I hold his gaze and an understanding passes between us that nothing is going to happen right now, but that we are not finished with each other. I back away then turn and walk towards the watching crowd and as I reach it the people part and I walk past knights, women in smocks, step over ropes holding their tents in place and keep walking until the crowd thins and I reach the gates of the park and walk back into the real world, free. At least for now.
21
CHANGING THE DRESSING on my finger is painful. I unwind the gauze and it comes off in stages, tacked to my skin by a yellow sticky fluid that is leaking through the black stitches of Major Butler. My finger is red and swollen and the end of it looks like a badly darned sock. I hold it under a warm tap and regard myself in the mirror. I look bleak and ugly and gazing at my reflection I get the impression I am trying to outstare a hard man and the thought makes me smile despite myself. The running water eventually cleans the stump of my finger; I do not have the will to touch it myself. I smear on some antiseptic cream and wrap it back up, gently.
I am in Gabe’s bathroom. I cannot go home. Baldwin is not going to go away; he might be sitting outside my house now, waiting for me to show. Or one of his men. I do not know what resources he commands, how many people he has working for him. Have no idea who I can trust. I realise that I have been standing still in front of the mirror for minutes, going over my options, trying to think of a way out. But I cannot find one.
*
Last night I had told Gabe about the footage, about seeing Rosie. He had no better idea than I did about what to do, but his lack of connection with the real world meant that he saw it as less of a problem than I did. Either let Baldwin get away with it, or deal with him, now, definitively. Like gunning for a policeman was no more problematic than attacking an insurgent camp, a question of logistics, tactics, nothing more. The question of justice for Rosie did not concern him; she was dead, so it did not matter any more. I am amazed by Gabe’s lack of sentiment, but I suspect that it is something the Army teaches you. Deal with problems, don’t waste time worrying about moral aspects. I wish I could do the same but I know that, just as I am haunted by my mother’s disappearance, so too will I be haunted by Rosie’s death.
‘This Baldwin,’ says Gabe.
‘Yeah?’
‘Listen, it’s like I said. The solution is simple. Do nothing, or get rid of him.’
‘Bit extreme?’
‘You see a middle ground?’
‘Nail him. Find evidence. That thing called justice our society is predicated on.’
Gabe laughs. ‘Christ. I never had you pinned for a crusader.’
‘I’m not. I’m a lawyer.’ I so want to believe in Gabe, believe he can help me. But this is not the way. ‘What I’m definitely not is a fucking assassin.’
‘Anyway, you had evidence. Then you lost it.’
‘Yeah. Thanks for the reminder.’
But Gabe is right. I have lost the discs incriminating Baldwin, and with it any kind of hold over him. He will get away with whatever it was he did to Rosie; he will do whatever he likes with me. The thought makes my hands clench; I want him brought to justice, crushed, destroyed. And I want justice for Rosie; I did not know her well, only by sight, but I am the sole person who knows what might have happened to her, and I have failed her. But these feelings of guilt and remorse have no practical value. The reality is that, without those discs, Baldwin can do whatever he likes. He is untouchable.
Gabe shrugs. ‘Just trying to help.’ He re
gards me levelly over the top of his coffee cup then looks away, nothing more to be done. Tough love indeed.
In my car on the way to my office I think about what Gabe said, and about my options. I am no angel but I am not in the business of knocking off policemen, regardless of what they might have done. I was telling the truth when I told Gabe that I wanted to bring Baldwin to justice; I just do not know how. Without the footage I have no evidence, and without any evidence I have nothing.
I am paranoid enough that I drive past my office twice to make sure that nobody is waiting for me, and park a street away. I have not done any work towards Halliday’s property purchase, and so spend the morning in the dull paper chasing of conveyancing, organising searches from the Land Registry and ordering surveyor’s reports. My heart is not in it but it is only work and I can see no point in antagonising Halliday, with all the other problems I have got at the moment. A day too late, I call Eddie to tell him about my progress, feed him some legal jargon, which he doesn’t understand but which seems to pacify him. I give him a timeframe of a fortnight to get everything in order which he tells me is much longer than Halliday expected but I can tell that he is pleased to be able to tell Halliday something, anything.
