by John Hughes
A pianist called Roger. Oh my God – Roger Andrews!
My interest level instantly shot off the end of the scale. I was sitting next to one of the finest concert pianists of his generation. I’d seen him perform numerous times; at Prom concerts, Wigmore Hall recitals, and the Royal Festival Hall more than once. I had quite a few of his recordings. He hadn’t played in public for years. To be honest I thought he was dead. I suddenly felt nervous.
“Mr Andrews?” I said, tentatively.
“Correct. And you are?” I told him my name. “Delighted to meet you.”
I had absolutely no idea what to say next. Fortunately, he did, and apparently he’d been reading my mind.
“I bet you thought I was dead.”
“Not at all,” I lied.
“If you did you’d be halfway to the truth. I haven’t got long to go.”
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” I said, presuming he was making a general reference to the inevitability of old age. I presumed wrongly.
He tapped his chest. “Cancer. Slowly eating its way through my insides.”
What do you say to that? I said: “Oh dear.”
“I’ve got months rather than years. Won’t see the summer out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. I’ve had a good innings, a wonderful innings actually. It will be a relief. Cancer is extremely unpleasant and extremely painful at times. I don’t do pain.”
Without being prompted, Roger Andrews proceeded to tell me all about his life. The touring, the concerts, the orchestras he had performed with worldwide, the highs and the lows. He’d studied at the Royal College on a piano scholarship under Cyril Smith. I learned that he had really struggled in his early career. Gradually he had battled his way onto the circuit of concert recitals, often travelling to far flung parts of the country; a bit like being in rep is how he described it. Eventually the big break; a last minute replacement for Clifford Curzon in a Prom concert. He’d played Rachmaninov’s 2nd Piano Concerto in C minor, which in the fifties was still enjoying huge popularity off the back of Brief Encounter. It had been a huge success. After that the floodgates opened wide and his career flourished: recitals worldwide; televised concerts; tours with Previn, Solti and Haitink; several film appearances; lecture tours talking about the composer he specialised in interpreting most of all – Beethoven. He was in his eighties now and had retired from performing a decade ago, though still active as a teacher. He’d been battling cancer for two years, and was losing.
In return, and only when prompted, I told him about myself; a meagre, mundane, prosaic existence. It didn’t take long. Left university with a degree in music, slid into teaching because I hadn’t had the imagination to think of anything else; been there ever since. I didn’t tell him how much I hated it. Nor did I mention the divorce, or estrangement from my children, or my battle against depression, or being sectioned a few years back. I didn’t tell him because I was ashamed, and because I didn’t want to remember any of it.
In more general chat it transpired that we were both Midlanders; he from Lichfield, I from Cannock.
“Roger! Helloooo, Roger!” His wife appeared at the gate next to the bench.
The black dog came up to his master, wagging his tail furiously by way of a greeting. He got a pat in return. “Hello Ludwig, old chap. Good boy. Rosie, I’ve had a wonderful time chatting with this gentleman. Such an interesting and charming man. The time has flown by. We’re both music teachers… and Midlanders!”
“That’s nice. Come along now, we should be getting a move on.”
Roger Andrews stood up cautiously and held out a hand. “Goodbye,” he said as we shook. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” I replied. “I hardly said a word.”
“Oh dear, did I go on? I have that tendency. Hope I didn’t bore you or interfere with your peace and quiet.”
“Not at all!”
He leaned forward towards me and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “When I came along and sat next to you, I bet you thought Oh fuck it.”
“Of course not!” I said, lying again.
“I very much doubt we’ll meet again, so I shall say goodbye rather than cheerio.” He turned to walk away.
“Before you go,” I called. “There’s something I’d like you to explain, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“By all means. What is it?”
“Shorty Longbottom. You mentioned him when you first arrived. May I ask why?”
He chuckled. “Ah, the things that come into your head at random! Especially at my advanced age, you’ll discover that yourself one day. It was being here that did it, in Winston’s back yard, so to speak. Took me back to my childhood during the war. I saw Shorty Longbottom die.”
“Goodness, how?”
“He was testing a new plane, out of Brooklands – a Vickers Warwick. I used to have an uncle who lived in Walton-on-Thames. I was staying there with my parents at New Year in forty-five, just down the road from Brooklands. I saw the crash, at Haines Bridge. I heard the plane before I saw it, then watched it spin into the ground. Didn’t know who was in it at the time of course, but I found out later and read all about Shorty Longbottom. It wasn’t his fault, some sort of technical failure apparently. I was only twelve at the time and it had a profound effect on me. Such a hero, and he achieved so much with one thing and another… then dead at twenty-nine. Makes me wonder what my life achievement in almost three times as long represents. Paltry by comparison.”
He turned and started to walk away. I watched him make his way across the field, in the wake of Rosie. I felt almost tearful. There was he, questioning his life’s work in music against that of a man whose life had been honed and cut short by war. There was I, devoid of talent as a musician; a teacher by default because I didn’t have what it took to do anything better in music – the thing he had spent his life doing. He had lived the life I had only dreamed of. I would have swapped places in a flash, exchanging one year of his for twenty of mine, gladly.
And he had enjoyed my company, and I was an interesting man! In return I had lied to him, twice. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. Raw emotions were beginning to well up inside me. He’d touched upon a nerve and exposed it, and the pain was rapidly becoming acute. Self-doubt; anxiety; a feeling of worthlessness. Depression. My black dog. I even felt bad about selfishly claiming ownership of a crude metal bench.
He had reached the far side of the field. He waved without looking back. The dog was all around his legs. Ludwig. Of course, what else would a Beethoven aficionado call his pooch!
In a pleading, almost pathetic tone, I yelled out to him: “You can share my bench anytime you want, maestro!”
He didn’t hear a word.
Halitosis Henry
PC Madeley cleared his throat. “Sarge, don’t look now, but look who just walked in…” At a table in a corner behind the reception desk, Sergeant Andy Rudge was tapping away at his computer, struggling to top and tail a report for Superintendent Doyle that should have pinged into the boss’s inbox days ago. His brow furrowed with frustration at being advised to look and not to look at something at the same time. But that was young Madeley for you; illogical, inconsistent and at times downright contrary. The boy would go far.
He looked up, towards the entrance of the police station. Standing in the doorway was an all too familiar figure; a man in his late fifties who would have been the epitome of ordinariness – medium height, medium build, plain features, grey hair – were it not for the extraordinary clothes he was wearing. A battered trilby hat, a plaid jacket on top of a turquoise waistcoat, bright red corduroy trousers (several sizes too big so they sagged embarrassingly despite the best efforts of a well-worn belt), and round, thick lensed glasses that sported wide red rims. On his feet were scruffy Jesus sandals over badly worn socks, not a mat
ching pair. Topping it all, around his neck was wrapped a yellow Rupert Bear scarf, one end of which dangled on the floor and was black with engrained dirt. It was an appallingly tasteless combination of styles and colours; a sartorial shambles. The overall appearance was of someone who had pulled items at random from racks and shelves in a poorly managed charity shop, which was almost certainly the truth.
In his left hand, he held a dark grey briefcase with chrome edging and a number lock. A Samsonite.
Andy Rudge’s heart sank. Halitosis Henry – Hastings’ greatest police timewaster. If he became embroiled in a conversation, that would be an hour gone at least, just when he desperately needed space to catch up with his expanding backlog of paperwork.
“Madeley,” he muttered. “Get rid of him. Head him off at the pass.” He looked back at his computer screen and said a prayer to himself, hoping the profanities contained within would not automatically rule it as inadmissible by the Almighty.
He could not fail to overhear the conversation that ensued at the reception desk.
“Good morning,” said PC Madeley from behind the reception counter. “What can we do for you?”
“I want to speak to a sergeant or higher rank if available.”
“In connection with what?”
“A crime.”
“Is it something I can help with, sir?”
“No.”
“Do you wish to report a crime?”
“Yes.”
“Are the victim of a crime?’
“No, I have committed one.”
PC Madeley leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This wouldn’t by any chance be the same crime you came in about last week… shoplifting from W H Smith as I recall?”
“Waterstone’s. No.”
“Another crime then.”
“Yes.”
“What this time?’
“I can’t discuss it with you. I want to speak to a sergeant or higher.”
“I’m afraid there is no one available.”
Halitosis Henry pointed accusingly towards the man at the computer. “There’s one.”
“Sergeant Rudge is occupied at the moment.”
“No he’s not, he’s sitting at a computer.”
“That’s right, sir, he’s occupied on the computer.”
“Probably chatting on Facelift, or Twittle.”
“I can assure you he is not,” stated PC Madeley. “Are you sure I can’t help, if you have something to report? I’d be pleased to take the details.”
“No,” said Henry. Raising his voice and speaking clearly in the direction of Sergeant Rudge, he added: “I’ll wait until someone in authority is available.” He crossed the reception area to a row of three seats, sat in the centre one, spread out in either direction to mark his territory, then crossed his legs and arms.
PC Madeley sidled across to Sergeant Rudge. “Sarge…”
“I know, I know.” Andy Rudge locked his computer screen, sighing heavily. “I’ll see to it.” He stood up and made his way round the reception desk. “If I’m still over there in a quarter of an hour, invoke the PITA protocol.”
“Yes, Sarge.” PITA stood for Pain-In-The-Arse and the protocol involved being informed of a highly important phone call that required urgent attention.
“Make that ten minutes.”
“Sarge.”
Andy Rudge wandered over to Henry and squeezed onto the seat next to him. “Henry,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “How nice to see you. Must have been all of a week.”
“Good morning, Sergeant. Last Thursday actually.”
Andy Rudge reeled at the blast of foul breath that came his way and shuffled back a little in his seat. “That’s right. You were in here confessing to the theft of some books.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
“We phoned the store manager, you know. He checked his stock and confirmed that none of the titles you mentioned had gone missing.”
Henry appeared unfazed. “I might have got the names wrong. But I stole them. I’m guilty and prepared for the consequences. I’ll go to prison if necessary.”
Andy Rudge smiled. “We don’t send people to prison for stealing a few books, especially when there’s no evidence.”
“Well you should do. It’s a crime.”
“Be that as it may, we won’t be taking it any further.”
Henry looked disappointed.
“So how can we help, Henry? I’ve got a lot on at the moment and time is at a premium. What is it today?”
Henry peered around to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. “I want to make a confession.”
“I rather thought you might. What have you done this time… thieving again?”
“You could say that. Yes, thieving I suppose. Only far worse than last week.”
“Or the week before? A bottle of Jack Daniel’s from Morrisons.”
“Tesco Express.”
“Ah yes, I remember now. They couldn’t find anything missing either.”
“This is much worse. Serious stuff. You really will be locking me up this time.”
“Come on then, out with it. What have you done?”
“I’ve stolen some money.”
“How much?”
“A hundred thousand pounds.”
Andy Rudge whistled. “I’m impressed.”
“Well you shouldn’t be. It’s a serious criminal act.”
“It certainly is. What have you done, robbed a bank?”
“No, but I stole it off a man who did… sort of.”
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
Henry hesitated. “Can we go somewhere a bit more discreet?”
“This will do fine,” said Andy Rudge. “Fire away. But please, make it concise. Just tell me the facts.”
“Don’t you want to make notes?”
“Let’s hear it first.”
Henry thought for a moment and then began. “As you know, Sergeant Rudge, I live alone.”
“You do indeed.”
“I am also gay.”
“I know that too.”
“Well, last night I was in a bar… The Blue Diamond. I expect you know it.”
“By reputation. I’ve never been inside.”
“I’m not surprised, unless you’re of the same persuasion. It’s one of the places around here where I can go and be with my own, if you follow my drift.”
“I do.”
“Good.”
“Please get on with it,” said Andy Rudge impatiently.
“I am,” said Henry, somewhat peeved by this. “It’s all pertinent.”
“Okay, but do come to the point.”
“I met a man… in The Blue Diamond.”
“Name?”
“Joe.”
“Surname?”
“No idea.”
“Go on.”
“I’d never seen him before. We got chatting. He bought me a drink. Several in fact. One thing led to another and…”
“You took him home?”
“I did.”
“That’s no longer a crime these days, Henry, unless he was under age.”
“He was not. Younger than me but not that young. In his early thirties I’d say.”
“So tell me about the crime.”
“I’m coming to it. This man, Joe, he’d come down from London that same day. Must have left in a hurry because he only had a briefcase with him. No other luggage. I lent him a toothbrush and the next morning I offered him a change of clothes, but for some reason he declined.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Andy Rudge, looking Henry up and down and trying not to smirk.
Henry shrugged. “Anyway, while he was in the shower, I noticed his briefcase on the coffee t
able in the lounge. It wasn’t shut properly, and, being the inquisitive type, I thought I’d take a peep inside.”
“Is that the one?” asked Andy Rudge, pointing at Henry’s left hand.
“It is indeed.”
“What did you find inside?”
“Money. A lot of it.”
“A hundred thousand smackers?”
“That’s correct.”
“How do you know… did Joe tell you or did you count it?”
“Both.”
“And is the money in there now?”
“No, I left it at home. I just brought the briefcase along to show you, as evidence.”
“May I see?”
Henry handed over the briefcase. Sergeant Rudge tried to open the catches but it was locked. “The combination please?”
Henry looked around again to be sure no one was listening, then whispered: “One, two, three.”
“Not very imaginative and not very secure.”
“Blame Joe, not me,” said Henry.
“How do you know the combination?”
“Joe told me.”
“When? When did he tell you?”
“Actually, come to think of it, no he didn’t. He left the briefcase unlocked and so the combination was showing.”
Andy Rudge seemed unimpressed. He scrolled the tumblers round until they showed the numbers and opened the lid. The briefcase was empty. “And Joe. Where is he now?”
“Strangest thing. We had breakfast together, then he said he was popping out to buy some cigarettes… and he never came back.”
“What, and left all that money behind?”
Henry nodded.
“Did he say exactly where he got it?”
“When he saw that I’d looked in the briefcase, he was angry at first. Told me to mind my own business. But then he calmed down and told me about it. Apparently, he works, or worked I should say, for a businessman up in London. A sort of private banker who lends money to people and charges them interest.”
“A loan shark.”
“Something like that. Anyway, he deals in cash mainly and one of Joe’s jobs was to courier payments around, moving them from the office safe to a more secure one in the man’s basement.”
