by Ted Lewis
“I DON’T THINK,” JAMES said, “that at this stage we should do other than consider the possibility.”
“Why not?” I said. “Why not do it, and get it over with?”
“Because there’s no need, George. That’s why not.”
“There’d be nothing to it.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“Well then. One more Christian Soldier marching on a little too far.”
“Look, George,” James said. “There is no reason so to do. Ray and Glenda are not permanently missing, so, to begin with, he’s not going to discover their mortal remains, is he? He has to begin with those, doesn’t he, otherwise where can he go?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I mean,” James said, “he can be fitted up any time; the machinery is just waiting to be switched on. Why use it when we don’t need it? Remember the energy motto. Save It.”
I lit a cigarette.
“It’s Collins you should really be concerned about,” said James. “Parsons wouldn’t have came to see you if it weren’t for him.”
“I know,” I said.
“But that doesn’t mean to say,” James said, “that you should go tearing into him, either.”
I didn’t say anything.
“With the earlier business, and Farlow and the Sheps getting their balls burnt, things are very delicately balanced at the moment. We don’t want to add Parsons and/or subtract Dennis and get the scales tipping in the wrong direction, now do we?”
“No, we don’t, James,” I said. “But I don’t see what harm there’d be in fitting up Parsons. Christ, it’ll come to it eventually.”
“You’re absolutely right,” James said. “But just wait for something to give it cause. Let it happen in the natural order of things.”
THE SEA
SHE’S NOT BEEN AT either of the hotels, so I go to the motel.
At the desk, I pursue my usual enquiries, and although the money makes the desk clerk eager to help, she hasn’t been there, either.
So after I’ve been established in my room and ordered a tray carrying a bottle and a glass, I don’t use the phone by the bedside. Instead I go down into reception and try to get James on one of the pay phones. There’s still no reply.
I didn’t think there would be, not unless the midnight movie’s something he wants to see. I ring him at four more regular intervals; the fourth time I get through.
“It’s me,” I tell him.
“Yes,” he says.
“I may have had a visitor.”
“What kind?”
“Journalistic.”
“That’s a pity.”
“It looks like Sunday stuff. It could even appear tomorrow.”
“Oh dear.”
“If I’m right, I can’t go back to where I am. So I want you to phone O’Connell now. He’ll still be at the paper and he’ll know what all the other front pages are going to be by now.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”
“Get him on the phone but don’t talk to him there; get him round to your flat.”
“I think I’ll be able to do the job properly.”
“And if there’s nothing in tomorrow’s, give him anything he wants to find out whatever he can. It might even be one of the daily rags. If there’s anything, he’ll know about it.”
“Of course. When will you be calling again?”
“In an hour.”
I put the phone down and go back to my room, where the bottle is.
THE SMOKE
“THE TROUBLE IS,” MICKEY said, “we can’t really promote anybody to replace Ray. Not from that particular area, can we?”
“No,” I said. “It’d mean taking someone from somewhere else. Any ideas?”
“Not offhand. Some of them in similar lines in different branches of the business aren’t the world’s most discreet people. Luckily they only ever come as far up in the water as me so they don’t know a lot; but I wouldn’t fancy running an entrance examination on that crowd.”
“No,” I said. “The only real candidates for the job are in the straight business.”
“And that’s why they’re there; because they’re straight.”
“They’d bend very easily at the sight of a tenth of the money Ray was making.”
“And that’s the trouble,” said Mickey. “Like giving Indians fire water; we’d never know where we were with them.”
“Not like we did with Ray, of course.”
Mickey shrugged.
“We can’t win them all,” he said.
There was a silence.
“The only thing, for the moment,” I said, “is for you to look after it. For the time being.”
“Whatever you say,” Mickey said.
“I know it won’t cut into any of the other things you’re doing.”
“Oh, no. I’ll do it standing on my head.”
“The thing is,” I said, “at the same time you might be able to pick up something connected with Ray.”
“I thought Mrs. Fowler and you had agreed to let that lay for a while.”
“We have.”
Mickey smiled.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“But only sniff,” I said. “No pressure. I mean that.”
“I’ll just sniff,” he said. “On that you can rely.”
“I’m very glad to hear it,” I said.
THE SEA
WHEN I PHONE JAMES again, he says, “O’Connell’s here. Would you like to talk to him direct?”
I tell him that I would and O’Connell comes on the line.
“There is absolutely nothing,” he says.
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m absolutely certain. Not this week anyway. I’ve seen every single one. Not a thing. And as for the dailies, none of the papers in our group is doing it. And they’d have got their own team up there if the opposition was doing anything like this, trying to pick up the scraps.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive. You know what this business is like.”
“It must be next weekend, then.”
“Not necessarily. We’re all treading very lightly on the Law at the moment, since the last lot. I mean, we don’t want the great British public to think the police are all bloated capitalists, do we? And they’d be reminded of that if you go on the front pages again.”
“It wouldn’t stop this story.”
“Maybe. But I’ve never had a story break over my head, ever. I’ll let James know the second I hear anything.”
“Thanks.”
James comes back on the line.
“Make it absolutely clear that what you’re going to offer him is worth far more than Investigative Journalist of the Year.”
“Naturally. When will you phone again?”
“Tomorrow morning. After I’ve read the papers.”
“You seem pretty certain about this,” James says. “You’re sure you’re not—”
“No, I’m not fucking stir-crazy, James. Not yet.”
“All I was going to say was, perhaps you’re overreacting.”
“Do you know any of the facts?”
“No, but it might help if I did. And for the moment, where you are.”
“Not even you, James. You’re in charge, the businesses are still running nicely, thanks to you. But not even you, James.”
“Very well. I’ll hear from you in the morning, then.”
“You will. Thank you, James.”
Back in my room, I sit on the bed and refill my glass. I can just imagine them sitting there in James’s flat, drinking James’s best and my health, comfily mulling over my present state of mind.
I take another drink. It’s not their arses that are on the line. Fuck them, the pair of them.
THE SMOKE
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT you’re so worried about,” Collins said. “Ray and Glenda have merely gone missing. There were no charges pending, no reason why they shouldn’t
have gone away. So that avenue’s shut. And as they’ve not been topped, that avenue’s never even going to open.”
I looked at him without saying anything.
“I mean, that’s why I was so open with Parsons. There was no reason not to be. I just told him he was wasting his time. That it was right what I said, Ray and Glenda have genuinely gone on their holidays. I mean, knowing the way he is, would I risk going to him direct and giving him a load of horse shit?”
“Dennis,” I said, after a while, “did you know Jack Warner’s retired from Dixon of Dock Green?”
“Yes,” he said. “Why?”
I shook my head.
“Never mind,” I said. “Just do me one favour, will you?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Precisely that. I want you to do nothing. I want you to say nothing. For a while I don’t want you to do anything. Just sit behind your desk and only open your filing cabinet when you want to get your scotch out of it.”
“Look—”
“No, Dennis. Don’t do that either. Don’t even look. Just do nothing. Nothing.”
Collins was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Whatever you say.”
“Thanks, Dennis,” I said. “It’s a relief to hear you say that.”
THE SEA
IN THE distance, churchbells are ringing.
The motel room is even less charming in the Sunday morning light. But after I’ve had a few belts of scotch and I’ve gone through every single Sunday paper it doesn’t look quite so bad.
O’Connell was right. There is absolutely nothing. Not even on the sports pages.
Which doesn’t mean a thing. There’s always next weekend and the dailies.
I light a cigarette and reposition the pillows and sit there and consider things.
Of course, I could be entirely wrong. But I can only act as if I’m right, the way I’ve already acted.
The prospect of shipping everything cross-country to Wales doesn’t fill me with a great deal of pleasure. I’m not exactly in love with where I am at present, but the next move I make I want to make straight back into town. When James has soldered up a defence for me so solid they’d never even chance writing anything down on a charge sheet. Not that they would anyway without putting half the force up there in the dock with me. But justice has to be seen to be done; unseen, the formalities and the procedure have to be observed, but not by the public, nor even by its nominated prosecutor. Before my return as figurehead, James still has a great deal of work to do. But both of us are confident of the outcome. Until then I prefer to stay where I am.
Of course, Ibiza is out. The photographers will be at the villa in shifts even now.
Which, on a permanent basis, leaves Wales, and I don’t like the thought of it.
But at the moment, I’m in a variation of my day-to-day existence; suspending my animation until events beyond my control take their course. It’s a situation I’m not used to and it almost drives me mad.
But what else can I do? Just keep going through the time from minute to minute, instead of from hour to hour.
I sweep the papers off the bed and have a shower. I dress and leave the motel and after I’ve exhausted all the different possibilities of driving round Grimsby on a Sunday morning I park the car and make for the Monastic Habit, and not only because they do a passable Sunday lunch.
As I was hoping, the same fellow is on duty at the cocktail bar as was on duty when I’d seen the girl for the first time.
It’s just gone twelve and the restaurant is almost empty, and there’s no one at the cocktail bar but me. Which gives me plenty of time to buy him a few drinks and get him in a good mood. If they’d used a talented local artiste instead of one from the city, Derek, as he’s called, would know her.
But she wasn’t, and he doesn’t. I remind Derek about the conversation with the crossword-puzzle man.
“Now him I know,” says Derek. “A semi-regular. By that I mean, once a week. Hardly ever more than once a week. Funny you should have mentioned him doing his crossword. Now you mention it, he always does his crossword. Something I’d never thought of before.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Oh, I’ve no idea. Except, as I say, he comes in Fridays, once a week.”
“You don’t know what he does?”
“No idea.”
“He couldn’t be press; local, like?”
“Oh no, they don’t use here for their headquarters; they do their drinking in the King’s Head. No, he’s definitely not one of that lot. I’d say he worked in one of the shops in the precinct or he was a sales rep or something like that.”
“Yes, probably.”
“Any particular reason? Why you’re interested, I mean.”
“No, not really. It was just the girl. She was—well, you don’t get many pretty girls round here, do you?”
“You can say that again. I’ve worked all over, and this place is definitely bottom of the list. Still, I’ve got the Canaries lined up for summer. That’s something to look forward to; twice nightly there.”
“Knowing how you feel,” I say. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice her. I mean, the way I did.”
“Yeah. I know. Can’t figure that. I’m probably so used to clocking rubbish, I’ve got my blinds down on automatic.”
“Yes, probably,” I say to him, and get him to fix us a couple more drinks.
THE SMOKE
SVEN UNZIPPED HIS BRILLIANTLY coloured PVC windcheater and reached into the lining and put the envelope on the glass top of my table.
“Mr. Pedersen couldn’t be sure it’s the right one, but as it certainly isn’t to do with us or with any of the others, he thought you ought to have the chance to make sure yourself.”
“Thanks, Sven,” I said. “Thanks very much.”
“You’ve moved very quickly,” Jean said. “We’ll be telling him ourselves in due course, but you must thank Mr. Pedersen the minute you fly back.”
“I will.” Sven looked at his watch. “Couldn’t have made it if Mr. Pedersen hadn’t sent me in his own plane. Even now the early evening editions will be on to it. It’ll certainly be on TV tonight.”
“How did you manage to get there first?” Jean asked, while I took the photographs out of the envelope.
“Well, of course eventually we could have got the police photographs, but in this case we were very lucky. Mr. Pedersen had passed it down for people to be on the look out, right down to the gutter. I have to say, I didn’t personally think anything would turn up so soon. I didn’t expect carelessness; not straight away. But as you can see, it wasn’t carelessness at all. Well, not in that way.”
“No,” I said, looking at the photographs.
“So, we were lucky. We got this call from the hotel, saying it was a possibility, so I got right over. All I was intending to do was photograph her if she came out. But when I got there and checked at the desk I was told she’d had two visitors who’d been and gone. So I went up and found this and took these pictures. The police were there half an hour later.”
Jean walked round to my side of the table and picked up one of the photographs, one of the head close-ups. The one I was looking at was wider, taking in the whole room.
In this picture, Glenda was tied down, spreadeagled on the bed, covered in blood, most of her clothes torn off her, her throat cut. Her unpacked suitcases were on the shelf at the foot of the bed. In this picture the gag that had been forced down her throat was still in place; for easier identification, Sven had removed it before he’d taken the close-ups. But even with the gag, it was very definitely Glenda Hill.
“No doubt about it,” Jean said, flicking the photograph on to the glass surface and going to pour herself another drink.
“So we are right?” Sven said.
“Yes,” I said. “We are right.”
THE SEA
MONDAY AND TUESDAY COME and go. So does Wednesday. But the motel room doesn’t change; that remains the same,
and more so with the dragging of minutes.
I got out, but I have to come back again; the room is a hundred times worse than the bungalow to come back to.
But there is nothing in the papers. Nothing at all.
And I’m in constant touch with O’Connell via James, who assures me there is nothing, not a jot, nor will there be. James keeps telling me how absolutely one hundred percent certain O’Connell is, and to stop worrying. He tells me I’ll make myself ill.
If I told him the full story, one girl posing as two, perhaps he wouldn’t think I was so barmy. Perhaps he’d think I was more so.
Friday comes.
Again the papers are of no interest to me whatsoever.
So I prepare myself for the day outside and when I’ve done that I drive around for an hour or so, out in the country, inland across the tops of the gently swelling wolds. The day is clear and any stray clouds are soon shoved across the face of the sky by the hurrying wind.
But by late morning, before the lunchtime crowd has filled it out, I’m back at the Monastic Habit, but not at the restaurant cocktail bar, in one of the other bars through which everyone has to pass if they want to go in the restaurant.
I’ve positioned myself on the inside of the doorway, on one of the wall seats, myself and the entrance reflected in the wall mirrors opposite. Anyone coming through on their way to the bar won’t see me but I will see them. Derek is already in possession of half his readies and I hope he can remember his lines or he’ll be returning his advance unspent.
At about a quarter to one the crossword man comes in, slapping his newspaper at his thigh as he walks through into the cocktail bar.
I wait for another three-quarters of an hour. When he comes back, I can see him use the phone booth in the foyer reflected in the mirror opposite. When he’s finished his call, he goes out of the pub and out into the precinct.
I follow.
We’ve not been walking long when I realise he’s making for the multi-storey car park.
When he’s confirmed that, I don’t go in after him; there’s only one way out. I wait opposite, out of sight, and when his rust-coloured Cortina comes down the helter-skelter I make a note of his number.
