by Simon Mason
There was a crash as the table overturned, and Magee had nearly reached Garvie before Singh caught him in a rugby tackle. There was a cry—“I’ll kill you!”—then they went down together in a loud heap, Magee screaming, and Sergeant Hingley leaped forward, shouting for order. There was echoing chaos in the bare room, and to make it worse, at that moment three other men ran in suddenly through the doorway, a man in a suit and two police personnel, also bellowing for order, and hurled themselves into the struggle.
The noise grew louder and more chaotic.
And in all this uproar there was only one person who remained calm: Garvie Smith, standing apart and watching it all thoughtfully.
In the interrogation room, quiet now with the empty quietness that comes, like embarrassment, after loud noises, Detective Inspector Singh and Garvie Smith sat on opposite sides of the metal table, still lying overturned on the floor. Escorted by the security personnel, Magee had been taken away by his lawyer, who was furiously threatening to bring a case against the City Squad for gross dereliction of their legal obligations to safeguard detainees. Sergeant Hingley remained in the monitoring room. She had told Singh that Detective Inspector Dowell and the chief were on their way over and had asked that he stay in place until they arrived. She had not said anything to Garvie. She had given him a look.
Several minutes passed in silence.
Singh said quietly, “Why is it that mayhem accompanies you wherever you go?”
“It was important information,” Garvie said. “I just got it from my Polish contact. Thought you should know.”
“The investigation’s compromised. Prosecution risks being invalidated by police incompetence and illegality. Magee has gone free. His rights have been violated. What have you to say?”
“It’s a bummer.”
“I will be suspended,” Singh said. “Or perhaps even expelled from the force.”
“Yeah.”
“It doesn’t worry you. Why would it? You don’t even think of yourself. Do you understand what you’ve done? If what you just said is true, Magee’s a killer who specializes in hurting children, and you’ve given him reason to hold a grudge against you.”
Garvie said nothing.
“Well?” Singh said.
Garvie still said nothing.
Singh shouted suddenly: “I trusted you and you let me down! What have you got to say to that?”
Garvie finally lifted his head. “I’ve been stupid.”
Singh rolled his eyes. “That’s a minimal assessment of what you’ve been.”
“Vinnie as good as told me and I didn’t listen.”
Singh stared at him dumbly. “What?” he said at last. “What has Vinnie got to do with any of this?”
“What he said was, he saw them going down the access road toward the storage facility.”
“So?”
“They were going down the road, all right. But they weren’t going toward the storage facility.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were going away from the warehouse. Obvious, isn’t it?”
If Singh was going to reply, he was prevented by the sound of footsteps in the monitoring station next door. He said nothing, but slowly stood and adjusted his turban. He straightened up until he was standing to attention and stared at the far wall of the bare room, waiting for Dowell and the chief to appear.
They went in silence up the stairs, the chief first, Singh next, Dowell last, and across the open-plan area toward the chief’s office. All conversations in the Admin pods around them stopped. People put down their phones and stopped typing, and there was complete silence as they watched the three men go through. Before they reached his office, the chief stopped and turned, and Dowell went to stand at his side, and together they faced Singh, standing alone and comically upright in front of them, his back to the Admin staff watching it all in silence.
The chief waited a moment, then said quietly, “This is as far as you go. It’s far enough, don’t you think?”
Unconsciously, Singh braced himself.
The chief held out his hand, palm up. “Give me your badge.”
Singh took the wallet out of his pocket and handed it over, his hand trembling slightly, and the chief took it from him and handed it to Dowell.
“Sir,” Singh began, but the chief put up his hand.
“Take off your jacket,” he said in the same quiet voice.
The color drained out of Singh’s face. With fumbling fingers he undid the buttons of his tunic. He had to struggle to remove his arms from the jacket, the epaulets with their two silver pips crumpling, and the sleeves turning inside out, as he tugged himself free, and at last handed it over to the chief, who gave it to Dowell.
Singh stood there in his white shirt, looking more than half undressed. There was a long silence then in which he concentrated on maintaining his upright position, feeling all the time the pressure of the chief’s eyes on his, and the eyes of Admin on his back.
“Now your turban,” the chief said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.
Singh stood immobile. One of his legs began to shake. He couldn’t stop it. He was aware of his trouser leg buckling in and out as he stood there.
“It is regulation police issue, and carries the insignia which you are no longer entitled to wear,” the chief said. “Take it off and give it to me.”
With an almost crippling effort, Singh raised both arms and removed his turban. His hair, bunched into its joora knot, secured by its wooden comb, the kangha, felt loose and awkward on his head, as if it too felt the shame.
Handing over the turban, his hands shook so much he dropped it and had to bend down to pick it up, an act so suddenly difficult he felt he might faint before completing it. But he did not faint. He picked it up and handed it to the chief, who at once, almost negligently, passed it to Dowell and, turning, went into his office and closed the door behind him.
Dowell had already turned away, heading for his own office.
Singh continued to stand to attention for a few moments more; then, with steps so jerky it seemed he might actually fall, he staggered away toward the staircase, followed by the silent stares of Admin.
A few days passed. The weather continued fine. If anything, it got better. The sun shone carelessly on the fields, the trees, the sewage plant, on East Field industrial estate; it shone without a thought on Five Mile, Old Ditch Road kiddies’ playground, and Bulwarks Lane, where Garvie Smith was walking slowly homeward, wishing he wasn’t.
He took out his phone and dialed, and listened, as before, to the message. “Alex, mate,” he said, “what’s the problem? You got to call me. Do it now.”
Smudge came out of the burger place, chewing.
“Turned out nice,” he said when he could. “Going down Old Ditch Road later?”
Garvie shook his head.
“Still grounded?”
Garvie just sighed. He left Smudge and went on past Jamal’s, open again but still boarded up, and past the entrance to the alley that led to Zuzana’s flat, and on, more slowly still, across the road and down the street toward Flat 12 Eastwick Gardens, where Uncle Len would be waiting for him.
Uncle Len had moved into Eastwick Gardens for the duration of exam season. Partly this was the result of discussions between Uncle Len and personnel from the police legal department. Mainly, however, it was because Garvie’s mother was more upset than Garvie had ever seen her before. He had done his best to explain things, but in truth it was a tricky gig. Although he hadn’t actually missed an exam that day—a fact he had pointed out several times to both his mother and Uncle Len—it was inconveniently true that, on a regular school day, when he should have been in a math tutorial class, he had been apprehended trespassing in a high-security zone at the police center, where, it was alleged (without much opposition on his part) that he had, almost single-handedly, caused an extraordinary disturbance directly leading to the release of a major suspect in the Gimpel case and a substantial lawsuit b
eing brought against the police service. If he wasn’t solely to blame, it was only because he was a minor, and because a former member of the force, Detective Inspector Singh, apparently bore legal responsibility for his behavior.
So it was not entirely strange that Garvie’s mother was upset. But the level of her reaction was shocking. She had said hardly anything directly to Garvie. When she did speak she did not look at him; she turned away and muttered to the wall. Her eyes were wet, her face heavy with distress, and it seemed she no longer knew what to do with her hands, moving them about restlessly, putting them into the pockets of her nurse’s uniform and taking them out again, rubbing them together, hugging herself, as if searching continuously for relief. Garvie didn’t like remembering it, let alone seeing it. He went down the Driftway slowly, reluctantly reviewing the situation. His mother wasn’t the only one upset. Uncle Len was as bad, perhaps worse. It was fortunate for Garvie that his uncle disliked Dowell so much, or he might have followed up the man’s complaints of Garvie’s “constant interference in police matters” by really getting the nark on. He was narked enough as it was. Garvie had been forced to admit his persistent interest in the investigation into Pyotor Gimpel’s death, and to promise that it would cease immediately.
Garvie let himself into the flats and went slowly up the stairs to the top floor. “I’m stupid,” he said to the stairwell. “As stupid as Smudge, or almost. I must have forgotten how to think.”
Standing at the door to number 12, key in hand, he heard voices inside the apartment and paused for a moment. Listening to the murmured conversation beyond the door, he heard a tone he recognized at once, the tone of despair and disapproval that characterized most of the conversations between his mother and Uncle Len in the last few days.
By now he knew the script. His mother would be telling Uncle Len how shameful it was to think that sixteen years of bringing him up had led to this, and Uncle Len would be telling her that it wasn’t too late to enforce some purpose and discipline in Garvie’s life.
Sighing, he let himself into the flat, and the conversation stopped and was replaced by awkward silence. This too was familiar, a distressed and accusing hush. He dumped his jacket under the clothes pegs and went into the front room. In one of the armchairs was his mother. In the other was … Singh.
Garvie stood and stared.
“Sit down, Garvie,” his mother said.
It was a shock to see Singh out of uniform. The man sat upright and unsmiling in the Smiths’ second-best armchair, wearing an ugly brown suit, floral tie, and beige turban, looking small and out of place. He said nothing. Garvie didn’t say anything, either; he sat and waited.
“Garvie,” his mother said, “the inspector’s been kind enough to come and give us some news.”
Singh cleared his throat. “Yes. As I was saying, I heard this morning that our legal team won’t be seeking to prosecute after all.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll receive a youth caution, and a referral to the youth offending team.”
“Okay.”
“They may decide to offer a rehabilitation program.”
“All right.”
“The caution remains on your record but can only be accessed under certain circumstances.”
Garvie said nothing. He seemed mesmerized by Singh’s brown suit. His mother gave him a look. He said, “Okay. Thanks.”
His mother said, “Yes, thank you, Inspector. We’ve been worried not knowing what would happen. This is a big relief. Garvie, is there anything you want to say?”
“No.” He sat quiet and still, waiting.
She nodded at him, unsmiling. “It may be, Inspector, that this had to happen for Garvie to realize where his priorities lie.”
Singh nodded, cleared his throat. “Actually, there was something else I wanted to say before I go. Listen to me now, Garvie. It’s possible there will be a new case brought against Martin Magee for his involvement in the death of Anton Schnopper. I expect that new witness statements are being prepared. But no arrest will be made until absolutely everything is in place. Until that time Magee’s at liberty, on bail, subject to the usual monitoring. It’s very important now that you absolutely stop involving yourself in this matter. Is that understood?”
His mother was looking at him.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Singh got up and Garvie’s mother put out her hand and Singh held it briefly.
“Thank you for everything,” she said.
He nodded.
“And good luck,” she added.
He turned without comment and went out of the flat, a small man in a borrowed-looking brown suit.
After he had gone Garvie and his mother sat together.
“Mum,” he said.
She didn’t reply. She didn’t look at him, either.
“You called him ‘Inspector.’ Does that mean he’s still … ”
She got up without answering and went out of the living room into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
When Uncle Len arrived half an hour later Garvie was still sitting there, staring at his shoes. Without looking at Garvie, he went across to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. Then he came into the living room, sat opposite Garvie, and unfolded the evening edition of the local paper.
He read out loud. “Detective Inspector Singh, the officer accused of assaulting detainee Martin Magee, was today formally suspended without pay pending the result of a disciplinary inquiry into his conduct. City Squad is seeking a dishonorable discharge.”
Pausing, Uncle Len looked over the paper at Garvie. “I’d like to know who put this out,” he said. “It wasn’t formally briefed. I’d like to ask that Dowell if he had anything to do with it.”
He glared at Garvie. “And there are others,” he said, “who have something to answer for, even if their names have been kept out of the paper.”
Garvie was silent. He hung his head.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” his uncle said, “when your mother couldn’t force herself to even talk to you.” He folded the paper. “I hope this is the day you finally see sense,” he said. “When you realize you have to stop all this nonsense and do the right thing.”
Garvie got to his feet.
“That’s what it comes down to, Garvie,” his uncle said fiercely. “Think about your responsibilities. Forget everything else. Do the right thing. You hear me?”
Garvie sighed, nodded. He turned and went toward his room.
At ten o’clock Uncle Len was watching the television, Garvie’s mother had left for her shift, and Garvie was standing at the window in his room, thinking. His reflection stared back, as if silently interrogating him.
Do the right thing, his uncle had said.
A memory came to him, bright and noisy like all his memories, with the exact shapes of things and words in their right order. He was sitting on the fallen trunk of a tree among the bushes at the side of Top Pitch, smoking a Benson & Hedges and waiting for Pyotor, sitting cross-legged on the ground, to finish his vector-notation problems. Sunbeams dappled the leaves and there was a hushed distant noise of traffic and uplifting bursts of birdsong.
It was the fourth or fifth time they’d met there. Each time was the same; Pyotor insisted on it. Garvie set him problems, Pyotor attempted them, Garvie “marked” his answers. He called him genialnym matematyk or słabe matematyk, as appropriate. Pyotor insisted on that too. Garvie wondered what name Pyotor had for him.
He heard himself say, “Time’s up,” and saw Pyotor stop writing at once, and he knew even before he looked that Pyotor had gotten the problems wrong; his workings had been too hasty, too messy.
Glancing at the paper, blowing out smoke, he sighed.
“Słabe matematyk,” he said. “Vectors aren’t actually hard, you know. It’s just they’ve got two dimensions instead of one: magnitude and direction. That’s all there is to it.”
Pyotor didn’t say anything.
“What’s this?”
He put his finger on the vertical line of the diagram marked ã. “It’s ã sub y. Not ã sub x. Sub x is the horizontal component. You know that. It’s basic. Childish.”
Pyotor just blinked.
“And how do you find the magnitude of ã sub y?”
Again Pyotor made no reply.
“Opposite side to the angle, right? Basic trig. Sin is opposite over the hypotenuse. You know that too.”
Pyotor took off his glasses and slowly cleaned them and put them back on, and stared at Garvie expressionlessly.
“It’s not hard,” Garvie repeated. “You can do it. Why don’t you do it? I don’t get what’s confusing you.”
Pyotor blinked and stared. “It’s different,” he growled at last.
“Yeah. I just said. Two dimensions instead of one. It’s different—but it’s not hard.”
Pyotor suddenly began to breathe heavily. “I don’t like it,” he said loudly. “It’s two things at the same time.”
“Yeah. Which makes it easier. ’Cause if it’s in two dimensions you can break the problem down into two simpler problems before you put them back together again. Actually there’s nothing different about it. It’s normal. It’s the sort of stuff we all do every day of the week.”
Pyotor sat there completely silent, unmoving. Then he did an extraordinary thing. He smiled.
Garvie was so surprised he forgot to smoke. He had never seen him smile before; he hadn’t been aware that Pyotor could smile. It made him look suddenly old and cunning. He wasn’t smiling at Garvie. He seemed to have forgotten Garvie was there. He put his paper in his schoolbag, got to his feet, picked up his violin case, and turned to go.
“All right, then,” Garvie said after him. “I’m glad we got that sorted. I guess you’ll be off now.”
Pyotor was already going between the bushes along the path that led to Top Pitch.
“See you, then,” Garvie had said, but Pyotor hadn’t replied.
Now Garvie stood by his window, thinking.
