by John Harvey
“I think you better come out with what you want.”
“I told you.”
“All you said, something about a …”
“A Rees Stanley, that’s right. Harold Roy.”
“That doesn’t tell me a thing.”
“Right. It’s you supposed to be telling me.”
Fossey shook his head, moved on, this time towards the double-glazed windows. There were three cherry trees set into the downward slope of the garden and they were threatening to break into blossom. Still January: it was absurd.
“Confidential,” Fossey said.
Millington laughed.
“Clients invite me into their homes, they expect confidentiality …”
Millington moved his head from side to side, still smiling. When he got to his feet and started to walk towards Fossey he knew that, physically, he could intimidate him. Less than six foot, but square-shouldered and heavy-chested, all Millington had to do was to keep on track and, unless he jumped clear, Fossey would disappear backwards on to his lawn.
In the event, the sergeant stopped six inches short. He hoped Fossey’s aftershave wasn’t as expensive as everything else, because if it was he’d been duped. Or maybe it was only the familiar smell of rising sweat.
“Records,” said Millington smoothly. “We were talking about records.”
“The office…”
“You don’t have an office; you work from home.”
“In the city. I’m opening an office in the city.”
“That’s not now, is it? Not yet.”
“Everything, all the files, they’re in transit.”
“In a pig’s ear!”
“Look …” He raised his hands, saw Millington’s expression, lowered them again.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you let me get back to you? Before the end of the day. This, em, Stanley. The other feller. I’ll check them through. Phone. You got my word.”
“Your word?”
“Yes.”
Millington’s face made it clear he’d as soon Fossey offered him a contagious disease. He stepped far enough back to give Fossey room to move.
“Most of your business,” Millington said, as Fossey was on his way back to the safety of his armchair, “where’d you say it comes from?”
“Advertising; Yellow Pages. Surprising the response from door-to-door shots.” He thought it was safe to go back to his tea. “What most of it is, word of mouth, personal recommendation.”
“Except for the ones who get turned over.”
“Sorry?”
“But, then, they’re not likely to be the ones that hire you anyway.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“Look…”
“You said that before.”
“So?”
“What I want to look at, you won’t show me.”
“I explained. I can’t.”
“Course not. In transit. Temporarily.”
“It’s not just that.”
“There’s the whole issue of confidentiality.”
“It’s all very well for you to make fun …”
“I’m not. No, I’m not. Professional man, professional help, like you say, privacy of their own homes. Puts you in a special position.”
“That’s right.”
“Delicate.”
Fossey’s hands were like moths against the sides of the chair, china of his cup, knife-edge crease of his pants.
“Makes you like a doctor, I suppose. Diagnosis. Confessional. A priest almost. All their little treasures; where they keep them safe.”
From beyond the door came the voice of Fossey’s wife, asking if everything was all right, did they want more water for the pot? Nobody answered.
“Let’s get back to recommendations,” said Millington. “That of your fellow professionals. Like-minded individuals. With the safety of the community at heart. There must be some useful contacts, you grease my palm, I’ll grease yours.”
“There’s no law …”
“Against it, no, there isn’t,” said Millington, fingers, as it were, tightly crossed behind his back.
“Of course,” said Fossey, careful now, “it happens from time to time.”
“Of course,” agreed Millington. And then, several silent moments later: “But nothing regular? No regular arrangements of that nature?”
Fossey’s hands slithered against each other; were he to lift cup from saucer now it would likely slip back through his fingers. “You get so’s you see someone doing a good job, given the chance, you tell people about it. Hope they’ll do the same for you.”
Millington nodded; waited.
“VG Security—I’ve done quite a bit with them. Obviously they’ve put in a good word for me, number of times. Can’t think of any … oh, yes, stupid, there’s this broker. Insurance.”
“Name?”
“Savage.”
“Put a lot of business your way, has he?”
“Quite a lot, yes.”
“Pay him for it?”
“Sorry?”
“You keep saying that, too.”
“I didn’t understand.”
“Yes, you did. What do you pay him? All these referrals.”
“I don’t … it depends. You know, whether it comes to anything. Sometimes, people, they just want to find out how to make their places more secure, then sort it out for themselves. Either that, or, minute they hear what it’s likely to cost, they don’t want to know.”
“Rees Stanley one of those, was he?”
“I told you, I don’t…”
“Wanted to increase his insurance, went to his broker for advice, broker makes suggestions, everyone demands improved security. All he’s got, let’s say, a box on the wall that says alarm but doesn’t connect to anything. You go along, suss it out, start talking electronic rays, video cameras, the whole works. Stanley’s got his winter holiday to think of, backs off sharpish, he’s been taking the risk for so long, why not a bit longer? So the burglar alarm he’s got doesn’t work, but lots of them are like that, who’s to know?”
“Okay,” said Fossey, back on his feet. “Out.”
“Don’t do it, Fossey,” said Millington, pushing himself up.
“I’m not wasting any more of my time and I’m not answering another question.”
“You mean without your solicitor.”
“I mean, I’m not answering another sodding question.” He jerked the lounge door open wide and stood away from it.
“Oh dear,” said Millington, smiling. “Oh dear, oh dear.”
“You’re not coming into my house, making snide insinuations …”
Millington was passing close enough to shoot out a hand and seize Fossey where his blazer was buttoned together. “Come a long way since Sutton-in-Ashfield, eh, Lloyd? Big house: big words. You’re right though; no more insinuations. Next time, the real thing.” He released his grip and deftly flicked the tip of Fossey’s nose. “Make those files available, do yourself a favor. Don’t make us go through all the performance of getting a warrant. Only makes us short-tempered.”
Mrs. Fossey was dusting something in the hall. It seemed ludicrous to Millington to call her Mrs. Anything. She was still a kid, a child playing grown-up games, playing house. Not so much older than his own. He wondered if there’d been an aisle, if her father had walked her down it, leaning on his arm.
“Thanks for the tea, love,” Millington said, opening the front door.
“Oh, that’s all right.” Her eyes were bright for a moment, then dulled as they turned away to where Lloyd Fossey stood at the entrance to the lounge.
“’Bye,” the sergeant said and closed the door behind him, eager to be in his motor and away. Sensing that he would be back.
Twenty-four
Mark Divine tore the edge from the free holiday offer that had been folded inside his morning paper and eased it between his teeth, high on the righ
t side. Trouble with sodding muesli was you spent till lunch time getting the bits out of your mouth and spitting them through the window. He turned up the car radio a notch as the Four Tops came on—still making it after all those years. Doing the same dances, too. He’d seen them on Top of the Pops: four portly, middle-aged men finger-clicking and spinning in circles. What would he be doing when he was the far side of forty? Living out somewhere like this, perhaps. Christ, no! All that gentility, all those lawn sprinklers and dogs with German brand names. Better another city altogether. Simon Mayo, now, he’d been a DJ on local radio and there he was, doing the breakfast show from London. Radio One, chatting away with whoever was reading the news and that girl, real sexy voice, the one who did the weather. What was her name? Roscoe? No, that was the Emperor, back when he’d been at primary school. Not Roscoe. Ruscoe. That was it. Sybil. Some mornings Divine wished it was television, so that he could see exactly what was going on in the studio; what it was that made her giggle like that.
A car started up and he turned down the volume again, but it wasn’t anything to get concerned about.
Maybe in five years, Divine thought, still poking soggy paper at his mouth, I’ll have my stripes and be down in the smoke. The Met. flying Squad. That’d be the thing. Him and Simon Mayo, both. High flyers.
Another car and this time it was the Citroën. Divine’s fingers flicked the key in the ignition and he moved off from the curb with a speed that left burn marks on the asphalt.
Harold Roy hadn’t cleared his drive before the unmarked police vehicle swung across in front of him and braked sharply, blocking his exit. If Harold hadn’t broken the habit of a lifetime and slotted the end of his seat-belt into place before turning on to the road, no way his head wouldn’t have smacked through the windscreen.
Divine was out of his seat and round by the Citroën before Harold Roy had stopped shaking. Standing there in his light gray suit, pale blue shirt, imitation-silk tie, making the sign with his fingers—wind down your window.
“What the hell …?”
Divine let his wallet fall open before the director’s eyes, someone doing a card trick. “DC Divine, sir. Just a few questions.”
“Questions? Is that any …?”
“Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir?”
“I don’t see …”
“Out of the car, sir.”
“I’ll get out when you’ve told me …”
Divine reached in and flipped up the lock, swung the door back fast. “Out!”
Come down a little hard, the boss had said; not often he encouraged Divine with that sort of leeway. Better make the most of it. Look at this one now, doesn’t know whether to be angry or humble. Puffy eyes, not enough sleep; wouldn’t take much to leave him in tears, shouldn’t wonder.
“Yes, Officer,” said Harold, pressed back against the side of his car, guts turning somersaults like a set without vertical hold.
That’s it, sunshine, smiled Divine to himself, grovel a little. “You’re aware a complaint’s been laid against you, sir? Assault.”
Maria had gone running to the window as soon as she’d heard the double wrench of brakes. Now there was Harold flapping his hands and talking nineteen to the dozen to some identikit policeman. She didn’t know why they bothered with plain clothes. At least the last one they’d sent out to her had been different, Asian, manners like bone china. Nice skin, she remembered that. Surprisingly slim fingers. Almost too shy to hold her stare. Little more than a boy, really.
Not like Grabianski.
The way he’d been when Harold had burst in on them, as if they had been talking about fitting double glazing instead of sharing a bath together in the middle of the afternoon.
We’ve got a lot to talk about.
He hadn’t meant himself and Maria, adultery, the temperature of the bathwater: he had meant business. Maria hoped that whatever was going on at the head of the drive, right then, had nothing to do with it. She tightened the belt of her robe and padded back to the kitchen; one glance at the clock and she was wondering when Grabianski, as he had promised, would call.
What was the attraction, Lynn Kellogg was thinking, and not for the first, not even the first dozen times, of buying a sweatshirt that featured an advertisement for something, somewhere you’d neither use nor see? Dorfmann’s Steel Tubing, the Best in the Midwest. University of Michigan. Ma Baker’s Peach Pies—baked with her own hungry hands. A little logo that read Levis, Pepe, Wrangler, that was enough. That was okay. Personally, though, she drew the line at Hard Core. The remarks that had followed her up the escalator in C & A, it wasn’t worth the hassle.
She picked up a striped collarless shirt and wondered what there was about it that made it worth £29.99. Caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, cheeks almost always redder than she’d have liked. The girl with the built-in blusher. If that young assistant didn’t take the smirk off his face, she might wander over and give him something to think about. A kid! Nineteen if he was a day. Gel on his hair, Paco Rabanne, the last of last summer’s duty-free, clinging to his neck and armpits, and dandruff on his shoulders.
Hey!
There was that girl again, moving fast, left to right close to the railing on the far side of the balcony, heading past Miss Selfridge and into Boots.
The assistant moved between two display stands, partly blocking her way. “Anything I can do?” he said sarcastically.
“Yes,” said Lynn, brushing past.
“Go on, then.”
“Grow up.”
Patel had become bored with counting the Porsches and Ferraris parked along the two roads that right-angled away from where he was standing. He had paced a couple of hundred yards in either direction, turning smartly to return, never letting the main door to the building out of his sight for long enough for anyone to walk out unnoticed. Keep well back, the inspector had said, don’t get yourself seen. For now, enough to establish that they’re on the premises; a good description of one, sketchy of the other.
He wasn’t certain how to play it if they came out together, even separately. If they’ve got bags, cases, if they look as if they’re pulling out altogether, Resnick had told him, call for back-up and don’t lose them. Otherwise … play it by ear, use that initiative of yours.
If there’d been more natural cover, it might have been easier. When he wasn’t on the move, Patel kept behind a bank of tall green dustbins, close to the wall dividing a block of modern flats from yet another rambling old house with turrets and deep bay windows.
A lot of joggers round here, Patel thought, as yet another went painfully past him, sweatpants sagging round his hips, spectacles held in place with a broad white band of elastic. True to the stereotype, he himself played squash and was good at it. Divine had seen him with his gear one time and challenged him; after twenty minutes of losing 9-0, 9-2, 9-1, Divine had faked a pulled calf muscle and limped off to the changing room. “What d’you expect?” he’d heard Divine expounding in the CID room the next day. “Game for bloody poofs!”
There it goes, bottle of perfume hidden for a moment beneath the over-long sleeve of her coat, and then lost in that capacious pocket. Keep out of sight, well back. That’s it, show an interest in some eyebrow pencil, fifteen shades of purple. Now move, move it!
The girl drifted around the end of the counter and at first Lynn didn’t think she had taken anything but when she looked again Lynn was ready to take bets there had been more silk scarves than that on display.
Where to now? Out beyond the store and the danger was she’d do a runner and that was the last Lynn would see of her, until the next time. But if her suspicions were correct, the girl wouldn’t be satisfied with so small a haul. Lynn doubled back on herself, feigning a sudden enthusiasm for a cherry red beret. Put that on her head and walk out into the street, people would mistake her for beetroot soup on legs.
Without hesitation, the girl walked up the shallow steps and back into the center, only this time Lynn was keeping
with her.
“Mrs. Roy?”
“What is it now?”
“I was just talking to your husband …”
“Congratulations.”
“You may know, a complaint’s been filed against him …”
“For punching that Mackenzie in the mouth. Not before time. I can’t imagine what got into him, but it’s the best thing Harold’s done for years.”
“What I wanted to talk to you about, though, was something different.”
“I have an appointment. I have to get ready.”
“You don’t think I could step inside?”
“No.”
“It might be easier.”
“I told you, I’ve things to do.”
“The neighbors …”
“D’you think I care about the neighbors?”
Divine didn’t suppose she did. He was wondering what it must be like, married to an overweight woman with a voice like a handsaw and a temper to match.
Maria Roy glanced down at the opening at the top of her robe, but did nothing about it. “Well,” she said, “are you going to stand there gawping at my tits all morning, or can we get this over with?”
Divine could take that kind of language from the girls who scurried and giggled their way from pub to pub, bar to bar every Friday evening, but when the woman was old enough to be his mother, he had problems.
“Well?” Maria repeated, making a show of shutting the door in the DC’s face.
“This statement you made about the burglary,” Divine said. “We have reason to believe you identified the wrong men.”
Sometimes when he was bored, Patel worked his way through the counties of England, with their county towns, the states of the American union, the capitals of the Eastern bloc countries, the winners of the world squash championship since 1965, the year in which he had been born. At others, he struggled to clear his mind of all such ephemera, facts and figures, empty it of everything save the rhythm of his own breathing and the sounds around him. Here, close to the heart of the city, it was amazing how many different natural sounds there were. Bird calls, for instance.
“Young man.”
