More Careless Talk

by David Barry

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  Graham stopped working at his computer, and swivelled to face Pran. ‘Whereabouts d’you live, Pran?’

  ‘Tunbridge Wells. On a good day it’s only forty-five minutes on the fast train to Cannon Street.’

  ‘You got your own place?’

  Pran nodded. ‘A flat.’

  ‘You married?’

  This was it. The questions Pran had been dreading. He breathed deeply, preparing himself for the revelation. ‘No,’ was all he could manage.

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  This was his opportunity to say “I live with my partner Alan”, as they’d agreed. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  ‘Not at the moment,’ he said, feeling his mouth getting drier.

  ‘So you live on your own.’

  He hesitated, feeling as if he wanted to swivel away from Graham’s probing stare. Eventually, in a voice that was almost inaudible, he said, ‘I share with a flatmate. It keeps the cost down.’

  But to Graham, this was just polite small-talk, and he returned his attention to his computer screen. ‘Very sensible. The prices of places these days.’

  Pran felt deeply ashamed. He could imagine what Alan would say about his weakness, and he dreaded facing the inevitable questions from his partner concerning his first day at work.

  He cleared his throat, braving himself for a small confession. Perhaps he could just drop a hint to Graham, leaving him to read between the lines about his relationship with Alan. Oh to hell with it! Why not tell him?

  ‘Graham,’ he began tentatively, ‘I think I ought to tell you...’

  Jenny, their manager, marched up to their desks. A tall, striking blonde, with high cheekbones and wearing heavy make-up, she could sometimes be intimidating. She often practised being one of the lads, but only when it suited her.

  ‘Why break the habits of a lifetime?’ she said, flashing Graham a smile, which she panned effortlessly to include Pran. ‘It’s time we were propping up the bar.’

  Graham grinned at her, then explained to Pran: ‘We invariably go to the boozer after work. To forget that it’s Monday.’

  Jenny stared at Pran. ‘It’s become a ritual. When we’re not working late, that is. D’you fancy joining us, Pran?’

  ‘If it’s just for a quickie.’

  Graham snorted. ‘And you might have time for a drink. Talking of which...’ He looked up at Jenny. ‘Have you clocked that new barman yet? Ooh, duckie!’

  Jenny sniggered. ‘I know. He’s a real screamer.’

  ‘He!’ Graham almost shouted. ‘Don’t you mean she?’

  ‘You’re right. Talk about camp. Oh blast! I forgot my laptop. And I’ve got a budget outline to work on. I’ll see you over the pub.’

  She swept out of the office. Grinning, Graham turned to Pran and said, ‘You couldn’t ask for a better manager. She’s all right is Jen. Oh, by the way: what were you going to say?’

  Pran frowned. ‘When?’

  ‘Just before Jen come into the office.’

  Pran stared down at his keyboard. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I mean ... I can’t remember now.’

  ***

  After drinking too much on Sunday night, Craig had overslept, and was hurriedly trying to make some coffee and toast before dashing off to open up the chippie, when the doorbell rang. And whoever was ringing it was assertive to the point of annoying, the way they kept their finger on the button. Craig strode out into the hall and threw the door open wide.

  ‘Yes?’ he snapped. But as soon as he saw them, he knew they were detectives. They showed him their warrant cards.

  ‘Mr. Thomas? I’m DI Brooking. This is DS Browning. Mind if we ask you a few questions?’

  Craig stared at them expressionlessly. In his mind he had rehearsed his responses, his stock answers, but this was different. For some reason unbeknown to Craig, this was no routine burglary enquiry from a low-ranking copper. This was the heavy brigade.

  ‘What about?’ he asked, after a brief pause.

  ‘Just a routine enquiry, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Can we talk inside?’

  Craig nodded and both brushed past him into the hall. He closed the door and showed them into his untidy combined living room and kitchen. He gestured towards chairs but they both ignored it and remained standing. The DI gave Craig a probing, hawk-like look before speaking.

  ‘D’you know a Tony Rice?’

  Craig paused slightly, as if trying to recall the name, but not overdoing it. ‘Oh yeah. He turned up at my chippie about six months ago. Driving a taxi, he was. I hadn’t seen him since I’d been inside. I didn’t know him that well.’

  ‘But you knew him well enough to nominate him for membership to the Working Men’s Club.’

  ‘Well, yeah. But that was six months ago. I ain’t seen much of him since then.’

  Did you go out on Saturday night?’

  ‘I went to my sister’s. To baby sit. Soon as I shut the chip shop I got a cab over there.’

  ‘What time d’you shut the shop?’

  ‘Just before nine. I usually get away before half-past. What’s this all about?’

  The DI ignored the question and let his eyes wander thoughtfully round the room. The sergeant produced a pen and notebook, saying: ‘How long did you baby sit at your sister’s?’

  ‘From nine-thirty onwards. I stayed the night. Maggie - that’s my sister - she never come home until the early hours.’

  ‘We’ll need your sister’s confirmation for this. Can you let us have her details?’

  Craig swallowed. His throat and lips felt dry and he needed some water. He was dehydrated after last night. ‘Yeah ... sure,’ he said, keeping his voice steady. ‘But what’s this about?’

  ‘We’re investigating a murder,’ said the DI, watching Craig’s reaction.

  ‘Murder?’ Craig almost whispered. ‘Who - ?’

  ‘Alexander Benton. The bar steward at your club. He was beaten to death last night when he disturbed an intruder.’

  Craig felt an unreal buzzing in his ears, and the two detective’s faces seemed to go out of focus, like a dream sequence in a film. His head was swimming and a dizziness overcame him, so that he had trouble standing upright, and reached a hand onto the formica table to steady himself.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ asked the sergeant, in a voice heavy with suspicion.

  Craig rubbed his eyes with a finger and thumb, trying to stem the flow of tears. ‘I can’t believe anyone could have done that to Alex,’ he said. ‘Everyone loved the geezer. Who could have done such a thing?’

  ‘That’s what we intend to find out,’ said the DI, staring hard at Craig.

  Nine

  ‘I’m home!’ Pran called out as he opened the front door, which led directly into the living room of their flat. Sitting on the sofa, a glass of white wine in his hand, Alan frowned as he looked up at Pran, then glanced pointedly at his watch.

  ‘I was expecting you at least half an hour ago. Had you forgotten we were going to the pictures at Trinity tonight?’

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, Pran said, ‘We’ve still got plenty of time.’

  ‘So how was your first day?’

  ‘Mm. Not bad,’ Pran said as he sipped his wine. ‘Very busy day. Straight in at the deep end.’

  ‘So what took you so long to get home?’

  ‘I went for a drink after work.’

  Alan gave him a long, hard look, waiting for an explanation.

  ‘I couldn’t get out of it, Al. It’s a real pub culture there.’

  ‘But why tonight, of all nights?

  ‘I was sort of railroaded into it.’ Pran settled on the sofa next to Alan. ‘Then I couldn’t get out of it. It’s the sort of place if you want to
get on, you have to network.’

  There was a pause, while a small, self-satisfied smile tugged the corners of Alan’s mouth. Pran guessed what was coming.

  ‘Still, no doubt the informal pub atmosphere gave you an opportunity to be open about your sexuality.’

  Pran stared into his wine glass, sniffed it, then took another sip.

  ‘Last week,’ said Alan, ‘when we went out for dinner, you promised you’d be open about it.’

  ‘It was difficult. It’s a real laddish culture. And you needn’t worry about my coming home late, because I won’t be going to the pub again. Not with that lot.’

  Alan shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’ve gone back on your word.’

  ‘I couldn’t help it.’

  ‘Yes you can. It’s about having the courage of your convictions, Pran.’

  ‘You weren’t there. You didn’t hear the constant pub banter, the poof jokes flying around.’

  Annoyed, Alan snatched the wine bottle and topped his glass up. ‘Oh come on! Spare me! Once they know who you really are, Pran, that’ll stop.’

  ‘I’m not so sure. You should have heard some of the things they were saying to this gay barman. Not directly to him, but he couldn’t fail to hear.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  Pran shrugged, and his mind was swamped by a grubby tiredness. But Alan was relentless, and wouldn’t let it rest.

  ‘You can’t just keep your head down, you know. It won’t work.’

  ‘It’s finding the right time.’

  ‘The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll get. You need to deal with it. Soon.’

  Pran felt like screaming. His neck and shoulders ached with tension, and he felt like slapping Alan. Sensing his partner’s pent up anger, Alan got up and moved towards the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve just got time to make us a sandwich before we go.’

  ‘What’s this film we’re seeing?’

  ‘Coriolanus.’

  ‘Oh great! Heavy, heavy Shakespeare. That’ll be a barrel of laughs.’

  ‘You’re such a philistine.’

  ‘I’d sooner see Titanic in 3D.’

  Alan smiled, a touch patronisingly. ‘And you’re such a child. It could be why I love you.’

  ***

  Under the pretext of popping out to the corner shop to buy a magazine, Vanessa slipped out of the house and called Jason from her mobile. After having tried him several times since Saturday, and being fobbed off by his answering machine, she was surprised when he answered with a cursory ‘Yes?’ after only one ring.

  ‘Jason,’ she said hurriedly, as if she expected him to hang up. ‘It’s Vanessa here. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

  A slight pause from his end, and then a quick intake of breath. Perhaps he’d been expecting someone else to call and she’d caught him unawares. But - she had to hand it to him - he recovered quickly. ‘Hello, sweetheart. Let me guess why you’re ringing. You’ve been wondering why I haven’t been in touch. Fact is, I’ve been up to my eyes. Work and all that.’

  ‘It’s the “all that” I’m interested in. Why did you see Nicky on Saturday?’

  ‘Well ... because it was already arranged. I mean, before you and I...’ He paused. ‘Have you both been talking about me? Comparing notes?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Nicky doesn’t know about you and me. She confided in me because she’s the one who’s supposed to be going out with you.’ Infuriatingly, he laughed suddenly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Well, I know we danced between the sheets on Saturday morning, just before I saw Nicky, but it takes two to tango, sweetheart.’

  ‘I feel really guilty now. I wish I’d never ... Nicky’s been in floods of tears. She knows something’s wrong.’

  ‘So what d’you want me to do about it?’

  Vanessa’s voice rose a little higher. ‘Well, for a start, you can tell me why you tape recorded her saying she’d slept with you.’

  ‘Oh, she told you about that, did she?’

  ‘You recorded me, as well.’

  Jason’s tone became defensive. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You told me it was a cordless razor. It was a tape recorder, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Vanessa began shouting. ‘You recorded me saying how I’d slept with you on such and such a date...’

  A couple walked by, giving Vanessa startled, surprised looks, before falling close against each other and giggling as they walked on.

  ‘Look,’ said Jason, ‘I swear before Almighty God...’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap, Jason. Just give me the truth.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t make a single tape recording when we were together.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  There was a brief pause before Jason said in a mid-Atlantic voice: ‘I’m outa this.’

  The line went dead. Vanessa gripped the phone tight. She felt like screaming, took great gulps of air, and eventually managed to control herself. As she stared at the mobile, she could imagine Jason’s grinning, cocky face at the other disconnected end. ‘I’ll get you for this, Jason, that’s a promise,’ she said. ‘I’ll have your balls cut off!

  Then she burst into tears.

  Ten

  Maggie, having just put the children to bed, came into the kitchen and stared at her brother, her eyes frosty. Craig was sitting slumped at the breakfast bar, shoulders hunched, his head cradled in his hands. He loathed uncomfortable silences, and would sooner have had a blazing argument any day, but his sister was not about to let him off the hook, and she took her time as she stood leaning back against the sink, her lips tight with anger. When she eventually spoke, her voice dug into Craig like a knife.

  ‘I’ve never known anyone as devious as you. The only reason you offered to baby sit for me was because you wanted an alibi. Sneaky little bastard.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Craig muttered lamely, avoiding her piercing glare.

  Maggie snorted contemptuously. ‘It’s a bit late for that. You’re involved in a murder enquiry.’

  His eyes moist, Craig looked up at his sister. ‘I had nothing to do with it, Maggs. Honest. Nothing at all.’

  ‘No? So why d’you need an alibi?’

  ‘Because of my track record.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You knew, didn’t you? You knew someone was going to rob that club.’

  Craig nodded slowly. ‘He’s a dangerous bloke. Not the sort of person you grass on.’

  ‘So how come you knew about it, if you weren’t in on it?’

  Craig shifted uncomfortably. ‘It was my idea. I sort of planted it in his brain ... without really meaning to. About six months ago, when I got a taxi to the club one night, this bloke picked me up ... used to be in the same cell block as me. Then he kept coming round to the chippie. Wanted to know if I was interested in doing a job. That’s when I told him how easy it was to do the club.’

  Maggie sighed despairingly. ‘Oh, Craig!’

  ‘I was desperate.’

  ‘Desperate? You had a job for Christ sake.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Working all God’s hours for five-fifty an hour.’

  ‘So what stopped you robbing the club six months ago?’

  ‘Well, I suppose I...’ Craig’s voice trailed off.

  ‘Let me guess. Gary died and I gave you the chippie. And that’s the only reason you decided to go straight. Am I right?’

  Craig brushed a single tear away from his eye before replying. ‘Maggs, I’m sorry. I never intended to rob the club. I really didn’t. It was fantasy time ... to get me through the day. I never thought...’

  ‘Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself,’ Maggie snapped. ‘
When I think how sneaky, how cunning you’ve been. Poor Daryl said he couldn’t sleep on Saturday night. Said a noise woke him up. And you read him a story at half-one in the morning, deliberately keeping him awake so that you had a cast iron alibi. He boasted about it to the policemen when they questioned us; he said he saw the time on his bedside alarm clock. Which you, no doubt, made sure he was aware of. Sneaky bastard, using my kids like that.’

  Craig stared at his sister with eyes that were glassy and pleading. ‘Maggs, tell me: what was I supposed to do? I was in a no-win situation. You’re overlooking the fact that I didn’t do nothing. I’m innocent.’

  ‘No, that’s right. You didn’t,’ Maggie said sarcastically. ‘You only planned it. Even if it was six months ago. And now a man’s been killed. And you know who killed him. So what are you going to do about it, Craig?’

  Craig shrugged helplessly. ‘You haven’t got any Paracetamol or Aspirin, have you? I’ve got a raging headache.’

  ***

  Nigel stared into his bedroom mirror, coughed and cleared his throat. ‘It’s irritating,’ he moaned, licking his fingers with a generous dollop of spittle and wiping them across a tuft of hair on the crown of his head. ‘I’m going to have to do something about it.’

  Jackie stood behind him, putting on her coat. ‘It hardly notices,’ she said. ‘I’m sure if you went back to the barber’s...’

  ‘I’m not going back there. They’re useless. Absolutely useless. And how d’you think this is going to look when we get married on Saturday?’

  ‘Oh, I do think you’re exaggerating, darling. Really - no one’s going to notice that little bit of sticky-up hair. If you hadn’t pointed it out to me, I would never have...’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ he wined petulantly. ‘I can see that it sticks up, and that’s what matters.’ He could feel the sprout of hair popping up again as it dried out. ‘I’m going to get Mike to cut it. And you’ll just have to lump it.’

  ‘Surely he’s not the only decent barber around.’

  ‘Hairdresser!’ Nigel snapped. ‘He’s a hairdresser. That’s why he cuts my hair properly. So that it doesn’t stick up at the back.’