The Crime Tsar

by Nichola McAuliffe

  They talked as if their mouths were full of thorns until Eleri could decently say she was tired and going to bed. Life would continue normally. She would find understanding. He would be innocent until proven guilty. But they both knew, Eleri lying awake, staring into the darkness, and Geoffrey hiding in the darkness downstairs, drinking, that paedophilia was the one crime that contaminated simply by being spoken.

  Jenni was in her bathroom. The search of the house had, according to Lucy, been disturbingly thorough. But Lucy had ensured that everything was put back in exactly the right place.

  She was kneeling on the tiled floor, naked. On the sink surround was the pale dust of a cocaine hit, waiting for a slim finger to wipe it up. Her eyes were bright, caterpillar green, glazed with the drug. She was concentrating on a picture of Geoffrey Carter in the paper. He was captioned simply ‘ACPO spokesman on drugs’. She spat on his handsome face and wished him dead. A curse for all seasons.

  Nothing had been said about Carter since they’d got back from Spain. The papers were a sea of international misery, the radio and television news silent. So her mood swung between supreme confidence and shaking fearful doubt but this … this must catch him. Trip him up on his confident stroll to success.

  She reached for a tissue. Tom had asked her if she had hay fever; she’d said yes but she knew it was the coke. Small price to pay for such power. Now all she had to do was find patience and wait.

  There was a knock on the bathroom door. Her heart did a strange manoeuvre that seemed to involve engorging with blood and then expelling it by a contraction sideways. It felt like the cumbersome discharge of a loose bowel.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Lucy … dinner’s ready.’

  Jenni arranged her voice on the edge of an emotional precipice.

  ‘I’m not hungry, sorry. It’s just the shock. I know I should but I can’t get over it – I can’t bear the thought of those things being found in our house …’

  Lucy retreated, unsure whether to offer a tray or a boiled egg. Downstairs she stood confused for a moment, in the hallway. She knew Gary would be watching for her, that he’d have seen Shackleton come home.

  When Jenni phoned to plead with her to come over and keep her company Gary had wanted her to say no but Jenni sounded almost hysterical. Almost out of control, talking rapidly and breathlessly, she begged Lucy to sit with her. Knowing Shackleton was at work Gary eventually told her to go over but to be back before he was due home. Lucy, nodding obediently and wearing her most ovine look, went. Gary stared at the house opposite until it started to get dark.

  Lucy rang and said Jenni had asked her to cook dinner and she hadn’t the heart to say no. Gary couldn’t stop his arm going into spasm as he put down the phone. It lay on the floor whining at him for a while, then went silent. Should he press his emergency button?

  ‘Hello, Gary dear? Hello? Have you had a fall, dear? Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, I’m fine, I just set off my alarm while trying out position one hundred and three of the Kama Sutra.’

  No, he didn’t press the easy-size-for-cripples-to-use red button hung round his neck, he just sat staring at the blind house opposite, waiting for his wife.

  Lucy had cooked the lamb strips with couscous and red pepper. She didn’t know what it was supposed to look like when it was ready so she just did her best. It was already drying up when Jenni decided she didn’t want it but that didn’t surprise her – Jenni’s behaviour was even more odd since Spain. Lucy thought psychotic but suspected herself of wishful thinking.

  She stood in the hall knowing she should go and simply leave the food. She’d done what she was asked to do and Jenni had given her £25 for the extra time. What else was there? She opened the front door as Shackleton’s car drew up. She knew Gary was watching but didn’t look across at the gaping uncurtained window. She went back into the house and waited. It seemed for ever until he came in.

  ‘I’ve just cooked dinner. Jenni asked me to, but she doesn’t want any. She’s upstairs.’

  He put down his attaché case.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She followed him to the door of the living room, unwilling to go in, in sight of Gary.

  ‘Shall I warm it up? And serve it?’

  ‘No. No thanks, Lucy.’

  She knew he wanted her to go.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  He was stung by her accuracy.

  ‘No. No, of course not. Have a drink. It’s just been a long day.’

  She still hovered by the door.

  ‘Any news on the bug?’ she asked.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Are you all right … Tom?’

  When he looked up at her he seemed to have tears in his eyes.

  She frowned, trying to see if he did without going further into the room.

  ‘Tom, what’s happened? Tell me. Come into the kitchen.’

  Shackleton hesitated then, picking up the decanter of Scotch, followed her. They sat down either side of the kitchen table.

  ‘You remember Geoffrey Carter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s being investigated for possession of paedophile material.’

  Lucy didn’t know what to say. So she waited.

  ‘Lucy … oh Lucy … I don’t know what to do.’

  The tears in his eyes blinded him but they couldn’t fall. There was no release after a lifetime of control. She wanted to put her arms around him, to take away the pain, but there was something … an anger? Some violence in him that kept her away. He stood up and wiped his face with a piece of kitchen roll.

  ‘You’d better go.’

  ‘Can I help, Tom?’

  He shook his head. She ignored her instinct and crept up behind him, putting her arms round his waist, resting her face against his back.

  The pain in her wrist was so unexpected she was almost distant from it for the moments it took for him to twist round and put her arm up behind her, the back of her hand against her shoulder blade. He slammed her, face down, on the table an inch from the couscous and leaned his weight on her.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  She felt him push up her skirt, felt him put his hand on her knickers, thumb inside the elastic, ready to tear them.

  ‘Is this it? Is this what you’re after, Lucy? Is this what you want me to do?’

  He turned her over again, on to her back, grabbing her arms and pulling her close to him. His face was contorted. He stroked her hair back from her face.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Lucy, I’m so sorry. I’m not worth this. Believe me. I can’t give you anything. I told you I couldn’t give you anything –’

  ‘I never asked you for anything –’ Lucy managed to say.

  ‘Please, Lucy. I’m so far into this, I can’t get back. Go home. Go home to Gary. Please. There is nothing in me that deserves you. Jenni’s right, I am a bastard. Go back to Gary, please. I’ve made my bed, Lucy. I’ve got to lie in it.’ That mantra again.

  ‘What’s happened, Tom? Let me help you, please.’

  He let go of her and took a deep breath.

  ‘You can’t, Lucy.’ He stepped away, formal again. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll see you out.’

  They walked to the front door in silence. He opened it and Lucy went out turning to speak to him but the door was closed, silently, as she turned.

  Gary watched and was glad.

  Shackleton drank half the whisky before he found the courage to go upstairs. Jenni’s light was out, he couldn’t see it under her door. What would she say if the door opened and he went in? That used to be the signal he wanted sex. She’d get up and put a towel on the bed. He winced at the memory. The light was never turned on and he left her immediately after. She had never asked him to stay. Not like Lucy, clinging to him, her body pressed against his in sleep. Needing him. He shook his head.

  He opened the door and listened for her breathing. Silence. Blackness.

  ‘Come in, Tom.’

&nb
sp; She turned on the bedside lamp. He was struck afresh by her extraordinary delicate beauty and was astonished to think of his bulk crushing her. Making babies. Thrusting and gasping. Seemed like a long time ago. Thank God it was.

  ‘Carter’s being investigated. They found kiddie porn in his house.’

  At last. The devil had more patience than any damned saint. Jenni’s stained-glass eyes were wide with disbelief.

  ‘God, how awful. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No.’

  He didn’t know what to say next.

  ‘Jenni …? Did you … were you …? It’s too much, Jenni, you’ve gone too far. Carter’s no paedophile.’

  Jenni was sitting up now as straight as a cobra before striking.

  ‘Well, you’d better tell everyone then. I’m sure they’ll believe you. Whoever “they” are.’

  She was cold and still; he knew he couldn’t win against her.

  ‘You put that stuff in his house, didn’t you?’

  ‘What stuff? What are you talking about?’

  She watched his fatal weakness and embryo moral courage raging in him.

  ‘You can’t do this, Jenni. You’ll destroy him.’

  She was scornful – to her the idea of Tom Shackleton developing a conscience was laughable.

  ‘What are you going to do then, Tom? Call a press conference and tell them you and your wife framed him so her rather dim husband could get his new job? Grow up.’

  Suddenly the strength went out of him. He visibly slumped.

  ‘Oh God, Jenni, what have you done?’

  ‘What have we done? We have simply moved an obstacle. Look, I’m sure it’ll sort itself out. Might make him a stronger person.’ She thought this was terribly amusing. ‘We all need a challenge. Oh, go to bed, Tom – it’ll all look better in the morning.’

  She turned out the light and her husband was dismissed.

  All night Shackleton sat drinking and thinking. What could he do? Tell the world his wife planted those magazines? Say he’d done it? Say nothing but stick by Carter? Drop him and hope they’d never meet again? For the first time in his life someone else’s pain was hurting him.

  Jenni slept sweetly, without drugs, for the first time in months.

  Carter hadn’t shaved or washed or slept. It was three weeks since the destruction of his life began. At first he went in to the office, a combination of defiance and innocence giving him strength. But this was a new Tuesday, the day after judgement. Strange it should be a Tuesday, an insignificant little day, tucked away under the lowering ledge of Monday.

  Suddenly his calls were not returned, the investigation was not to be fast-tracked, the phone had stopped ringing. And Eleri was gone.

  He sat in the kitchen watching the rain, surrounded by if onlys. It wasn’t the depressing drizzle his mood required but a vigorous sunlit downpour.

  If only Eleri had called him after she’d spoken to Jenni. If only he’d stopped himself keeping those pictures. What did he want them for? He’d long since stopped looking at them, long since stopped needing to reassure himself he didn’t find them attractive. If only he’d thrown them out. But now the waters were muddy. The mind of the public would make no nice distinctions. If only he’d denied all knowledge. If only.

  Yesterday he’d been told the hard disc of his computer had revealed its secrets and there was irrefutable evidence of visits to child sex sites. Knowing his innocence Carter demanded to know when. Grudgingly the date was given. A Saturday. His work diary gave no clues as to where he was that day. He had to wait until he got home after a day of uncertainty and doubt about his movements that day. The satellite football game. Jenni and Tom.

  In his struggle to maintain a veneer of careless normality he hadn’t had the energy for home life and had begun to shut Eleri and the boys out, sinking into introspection every evening. But his wife, with a strength born of desperation, pulled him back to life.

  On Sunday, only two days before but seeming like a distant mirage, Eleri had insisted he and Peter spend some time together. The papers had begun to carry small, carefully worded pieces about the investigation and Peter was becoming very agitated on his father’s behalf. They decided to go fishing, leaving before dawn. Both felt excited, Carter the child and Peter the father in the darkness.

  ‘Dad … stop it, behave yourself.’

  Carter was drawing a stick man with his finger on the opaque windscreen of a neighbour’s car.

  ‘And do up your coat, it’s cold.’

  Carter laughed out loud and put his arm around the slight shoulders of his son. He squatted down suddenly under a cherry-pink street light, taking the boy’s hands in his.

  ‘Peter. I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit … funny with you this last couple of weeks. I don’t mean to be grumpy or anything. It’s just I’ve got a lot on at the moment, at work.’

  The boy pursed his lips, frowned and looked down, his black curly hair veiling his expression. This was his serious face: Carter knew better than to smile at its desperate earnestness.

  ‘Is it because of the investigation?’

  Carter was so surprised he just nodded.

  ‘Have you done something wrong, Dad?’

  ‘No, Peter. How do you know about the investigation?’

  ‘Freddie said his dad said it was in the paper that they’d found some stuff at our house. But I don’t understand why that’s bad. Is it bad?’

  He wanted to reassure, he wanted to be a proper father and deliver his son from evil. But the Almighty could no more intervene for Christ than Carter could now for his child.

  ‘Yes, it’s bad, Peter. But I promise, whatever you hear, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Cross your heart and hope to die?’

  ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  Peter arranged his features into an approximation of adult reassurance.

  ‘That’s all right then,’ he said, nodding solemnly.

  Carter wanted to put his arms round him and hug him until the boy’s childish warmth thawed his frozen soul, but this was men’s stuff and men didn’t get soppy.

  They walked towards the river.

  ‘Peter?’

  ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘I love you best in all the world.’

  ‘Except for …?’

  ‘No. No except for.’

  That Sunday was perfect. After, it seemed to Carter, it had been perfect for a reason.

  On Monday morning the phone rang as Carter was leaving the house. Alexander was being particularly difficult and it was taking all Eleri’s skill to keep him under control. Peter had gone to school so Carter signalled his driver to wait and answered.

  ‘Mr Carter?’ The voice was Scottish, very polite.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning. My name’s Jimmy Mackay from the News.’

  Carter knew this was going to happen but it didn’t make him feel any less sick. He made himself sound cheerful, interested. Innocent.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Mackay, how can I help you?’

  Mackay’s voice was full of apology, his tone implying this was all a horrible mix-up and he’d rather be doing the fish prices than making this phone call.

  ‘Mr Carter, you’re obviously aware, and, please forgive me, but the rumours are growing.’ He said it again with weary emphasis on the ‘are’. ‘The rumours are growing. Do you not think it’s about time, now, for you to actually set the record straight, one way or the other –’

  Carter wanted to slam the phone down. He controlled himself, even put a little regretful laugh into his voice.

  ‘Mr Mackay, I understand your question but I’m about to get into my car. Why don’t you ring my press office and if you give them your questions, I’m sure you’ll get an answer.’

  Mr Mackay sounded a little more hard-edged.

  ‘But would those answers be satisfactory to the questions that are being asked?’

  Carter was angry now. As angry as any of this had made him. He
took a deep breath, afraid of what he might say. When he spoke he was the Chief Constable.

  ‘Mr Mackay, I’ve given you enough time, I’m late for a meeting at Headquarters –’

  Mackay was immediately solicitous.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I quite understand, of course. My apologies.’

  Carter was pleased; the man had backed off at his official tone. Carter relaxed.

  The voice went on. ‘One last question. Are you a paedophile or not?’

  If the reporter said any more Carter didn’t hear it as he dropped the phone. Dropped it, almost threw it away. As if the voice coming out of it was some infection. Then he realised he was the infection in other people’s minds.

  He replaced the phone on its cradle. He could hear a faint Lilliputian ‘Hello? Mr Carter? Are you there?’ as he did so.

  The perfection of the day before was already as distant as the Boer War.

  He knew the whispering about him was building steadily and he was finding very quickly who his real friends were. They were pathetically few.

  Arriving at police headquarters he was glad to see Danny. After his initial flicker of doubt the deputy had put on a fine show of solidarity. Carter was grateful but aware that it was good politics. If, when, he was cleared, Danny’s position would be questionable if he was seen to be judging his boss now. No, Carter knew it was as much pragmatism as belief. Probably more.

  The day dragged on with meetings and the minutiae of running an empire. The supportive phone calls had dribbled away to nothing after the first week. It was just suspended animation now. He had suspected he’d been abandoned by the puppet masters but when the call was put through by his carefully neutral secretary it was still a shock.