by Tony White
Thankfully all of the other familial and funereal obligations, from house-clearance to bill payments, had been taken care of briskly and uncomplainingly by his maternal grandmother, who had also offered him the spare room in her two-bedroom house on the other side of Exeter. He might technically have been an orphan, then, but there had been no danger of his starving.
He had always got on well with his grandmother, and in many ways her place had felt like a home from home. Once they had cleared out Spenser Avenue, he had never visited the Burnthouse Lane Estate again, preferring to make a clean break and get on with it.
‘You don’t have to call me “Granny” any more,’ she’d once offered. ‘Call me Daisy. Everybody else does. Your mum did.’
He had carried on with his A-levels. Everyone had thought that was for the best. Often he and his grandmother would do the Guardian crossword together – the quick one. Rex remembered how he used to enjoy folding the paper inside out, bringing the back cover around to meet the front in order to expose the inside back page, home of the classifieds, of cartoons by Garry Trudeau and Steve Bell, and of the two daily crosswords; then folding it in half and in half again. Taking turns to fill it in, or to ask the other when they got stuck.
‘Eleven across,’ he might say. ‘Chauvinist; five letters?’
‘Bigot,’ she might say.
By the time they’d finished, the Quick Crossword and all the white space around it would be covered in a biro scrawl of answers and workings-out.
Or they might eat an early dinner on trays on their laps while watching the BBC News at twenty to six when he got back from sixth form. That way he could do more revision in the evenings. This was the summer of 1984, so the programme would have been dominated by the UK Miners’ Strike, the discovery of a cache of IRA weapons, or the Iran–Iraq War and the latest attack on international shipping in the Persian Gulf. It would not be unusual for them to be sitting in her living room, eating sausage and mash or macaroni cheese, while staring at footage of the aftermath of an IRA bomb explosion in London or Belfast, or while some imam, or perhaps the de facto Iranian commander-in-chief, Hashemi Rafsanjani, commented upon the latest atrocity in the Gulf.
Once the exams were finished, if he wasn’t going to Andy’s house to hang out and listen to records after dinner, he might stay and continue to watch the television at his grandmother’s for another couple of hours. There was usually a cartoon – Tom and Jerry or Droopy – on before the main evening’s programming, which might kick off with Top of the Pops or a film, or with Star Trek followed by Only Fools and Horses.
Looking back on it later, it would seem obvious that his grandmother had indulged him somewhat, treating him like a convalescent through that period of mourning. He had almost certainly been more traumatised by the double bereavement than he was aware. Selfishly, he had not at the time considered his grandmother’s own grief, her loss of a daughter, as particularly significant. Perhaps it had simply been that he needed more looking after, spoiling even. She would bring him breakfast in bed, for example, and forgive him the odd tantrum. But she was a good sport too, so would enjoy winding him up when the football was on by pretending that she didn’t understand the off-side rule, or – ever the drama critic – by rubbishing his favourite vintage American comedy programmes, The Phil Silvers Show or Get Smart, which were being rerun on a still young Channel 4.
During the first couple of years of college that followed – his new life in London – he had often thought of how his grandmother had helped him out when he really needed it. He had phoned a couple of times early on, but she had seemed— what was it: confused? distracted? Perhaps her daughter’s death had taken it out of her after all. He had thought of going back to see his grandmother, but had never done so, couldn’t face it. Wasn’t that why you moved to London: to make a clean break and start again? And it was only a matter of time, of course, before she too would croak. Had he been able to keep in touch, he might have gone to her funeral, might have given a succinct but heartfelt address – she would have liked that – but apart from that, he’d felt no desire ever to return to Exeter.
13: THON (TUNA)
Detective Sergeant Rex King could not quite believe that it was still only Saturday, so not even a week had gone by since his old Covent Garden drinking buddy, the painter, raconteur and bon-viveur-about-town Terence Hobbs, had been put squarely in the spotlight for the bizarre murder of an as yet unidentified male whose noseless body had been discovered in his studio, the so-called paint frame of the Royal Palace Theatre on Drury Lane. It was still just a few days, then, since it had become apparent to all that Hobbs might actually be on the run from the consequences of said murder. A few days that had also seen the resurrection of some ancient beef between Rex and his old colleague and the now husband of Rex’s ex-girlfriend Helen, DS Eddie Webster, who was touchy at the best of times, and who now just happened to also be leading the investigation into the murder at Terry’s place, and thus the hunt for Terry himself.
Added to this, the possible resurrection, as it were, of the Tennyson case, whether as a shot across the Met’s bows or not and on the eve of an SiC inspection, was the icing on the bloody cake. Having been a witness at the trial of the four officers who were acquitted of Trevor Tennyson’s murder following his death in custody, Rex was only too aware that there were those who considered the Met to be as institutionally racist as ever it was pre-Macpherson, and the deaths in custody or following other contact with the police of BAME clients as evidence of what amounted to racist murder; a policy of shoot to kill.
To a detective, the word ‘policy’ meant only one thing. It was the name of the file that you used to keep a record of a major investigation, to document strategic and other decisions made, and which might then be referred to in the construction of a case. This was a different thing entirely. Deaths in custody? Speaking from the inside, Rex could honestly say that there was no underlying conspiracy and no such policy, in the sense of a documented principle being publicly adopted, but was it so straightforward? The crossword fiend in Rex knew full well that a ‘policy’ could also mean a course of action adopted, a sequence of events ratified by default. There may well be a gulf – if not a whole world of difference – between decisions publicly stated and actions taken, but what was it someone had once said about a conspiracy? That it only needed two people to think the same; no actual collusion was necessary.
It was long before his time on the force, but Rex could remember watching television at his grandmother’s house around the time that a previous conspiracy to murder had been uncovered: the ‘Stalker Inquiry’ (named after its lead, Deputy Chief Constable John Stalker of the Manchester Police) into an alleged shoot-to-kill policy by security forces including the Royal Ulster Constabulary against members of the IRA and other republican paramilitary groups during the so-called ‘Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Even in the Irish Republic in 1972, troops guarding Leinster House in Dublin had been given orders to shoot to kill civilians protesting against the Dáil’s erosion of civil liberties relating to the Troubles. It was a policy that had been put into deadly and state-sanctioned practice, with executions across the six counties of the so-called ‘province’ – in Armagh and Antrim, in Tyrone and Fermanagh, in Derry and Down – and beyond; as far away as Gibraltar. There were those who said that the uncovering of that particular policy had also betrayed the hypocrisy of an establishment at war with itself too. Stalker himself was simultaneously briefed against, in what had seemed like a sustained attempt both to undermine the inquiry and to ruin his professional reputation.
Could the same happen now? Perhaps things had improved, or a similar campaign of vilification might have been visited upon Sir William Macpherson in the 1990s. But no, Macpherson had been a judge, not a policeman. If the shoot-to-kill inquiry had been led by a judge instead of a senior policeman, might the outcome have been different? Was that why it had been given to a policeman? Were policemen always the patsy, always destined to be s
hot – as it were – by both sides? It sometimes seemed so.
Rex King well remembered how the protestors who had crowded the public galleries during the trial of the ‘Tennyson Four’ had certainly seemed to believe that Trevor Tennyson’s death had been just a further tragic outcome of a de facto policy, one that had resulted in many deaths and which itself needed to be investigated. He wondered if the protestors’ calls for an overarching inquiry into deaths in custody such as Tennyson’s might ever be met. If so, it seemed to Rex that the measure of the sincerity of such an inquiry might be whether it were headed by a senior policeman or a judge.
And on, and on.
And such were the Tennyson-inspired thoughts that went through Rex’s mind that Saturday morning, as he pulled the front door to behind him at Falcon and jogged down the stairs. It was fair to say that he was in a bad mood.
At least a weekend slogging around on the investigation and trying to put Terry in the clear would take his mind off the SiC briefing that was coming up on Monday, and which heralded a far longer period of turmoil once the inspection itself got going. But after a night like he’d just had, and with the team meeting about to kick off at 10 o’clock, the only thing for it was to get a decent breakfast inside him, something to keep him going. A bacon sandwich wasn’t going to cut it today, nor his now usual ‘healthy’ poached-egg alternative. It would have to be the all-day breakfast – sausage, bacon, fried egg, mushrooms, beans and brown toast, ‘no tomato’ – plus some extra hash browns.
Perhaps because it was a bit later than usual – eight forty-five to his usual seven – or because it was a Saturday, Sid’s was busy, and taking his double espresso outside, Rex found he was going to have to share a table. The choice was between a bunch of belching builders in hi-vis and hard hats who were studying the Sun and the Racing Post, and a smartly dressed, professional-looking black woman who was eating a croissant and reading – what else? – the Saturday-morning edition of the Guardian. It was no contest. He’d hear enough about the racing once he got to work, it being Derby Day. No doubt there would be a sweepstake too.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked, pointing at the empty chairs with his own paper and doing his best to smile. ‘Are these ones taken?’
‘Not at all. Please,’ she said, then returned to her reading, but not for long.
‘Madame?’ said the waitress, setting a cappuccino down in front of her.
It was not long before his breakfast arrived too, and Rex set steadily about cleaning the plate, working his way in from the outside, saving the best – the egg yolk and the crispiest piece of bacon – for last. Sid’s all-day breakfast was as good as he remembered. He should do this more often. No, perhaps he shouldn’t. It was fine as a rare treat, though; better that way. He could still remember what it was like having a gut, lugging those extra two or three stone around, shirt buttons straining, and he didn’t miss it at all. He mopped up the bacon grease and the tomato sauce with the last piece of toast, accidentally catching the eye of his inadvertent companion. Shrugged, as if he’d been caught out.
‘You look as if you enjoyed that,’ she said, smiling.
‘Enjoyed it a bit too much, I think,’ he said. ‘That obvious, was it? They do good breakfasts here.’
‘So I see,’ she said, smiling, then: ‘I’ll have to come here more often.’
She went back to her paper, Rex to his coffee, though as he did so he snuck another look at her. Slim and with a pretty face and a short black bob, she was wearing a beige trouser suit and white open-necked blouse, which, together with the tasteful gold jewellery – a locket, perhaps, a bracelet and earrings – looked good against her dark skin. Then the penny dropped. Perhaps she hadn’t just been talking about the breakfast. Well, it was early, so he could be forgiven for being a bit slow. He put down his pen. The crossword wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Yes, you should,’ he said, smiling. ‘I’m Rex, by the way.’
‘Susan,’ she said.
‘So what brings you here, Susan?’
It turned out that she had just arrived in town because her niece was scheduled for an operation.
‘Oh dear,’ said Rex. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Great Ormond Street?’
She nodded.
‘Oh well. Couldn’t be in better hands, then, I suppose.’
‘Thanks, yes, I know,’ said Susan. ‘So they say. Anyway, I thought I should try and stay nearby for a few days. It’s a bit easier for me to take the time off at this time of year than it is for her mum. My sister. Lend a bit of moral support and some glossy magazines, you know. I’m not sure how long she’ll need to stay. Yesterday they said they’re not sure if she’s well enough to undergo the actual op. We’ll find out later.’
‘Fingers crossed, then,’ said Rex. ‘I hope it works out okay for you all.’
‘Thank you. Yes, I hope so too,’ she said. ‘Anyway, how about you?’
‘Oh, I live just around the corner and I work down the road,’ he said, wondering if he should leave it there, but then deciding it was better to get it out in the open. ‘Police.’
He paused to see if that would scare her off, like it sometimes did.
It didn’t, so he continued: ‘CID.’
‘I’m sorry, Rex,’ said Susan. ‘I probably should, but I’m not sure I even know what that stands for.’
‘Criminal Investigation Department,’ said Rex. ‘Detective Sergeant Rex King at your service.’
‘Detective, eh?’
‘Pays the mortgage. You know.’
‘That’s a great name,’ she said. ‘Rex King.’
‘Thanks. Yes, I know,’ said Rex. ‘My parents’ little joke.’
She could pay him all the compliments she wanted.
Susan lived in York – where she taught at the university – and had got the early train. ‘It’s cheaper if you leave before six.’
‘So you must get tired of everyone telling you that you don’t have a Yorkshire accent?’
Susan hadn’t grown up there, she told him, but they had moved there for her husband’s work. Rex was disappointed, though he did his best to maintain a neutral expression at this news of her marital status. Well, of course she would be married. It was Sod’s Law.
‘Then, after we divorced,’ she continued – while Rex cheered inwardly – ‘he moved away, but I found that all my friends were there, and I liked my job, so I stayed on.’
They chatted amiably for a while, but Rex was having to keep an eye on the time.
Susan’s Guardian was open at a feature plugging some forthcoming television documentary series about the seventeenth-century Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer, which was to be fronted by the popular young TV presenter and Fogarty family scion Tom.
‘Nepotism is alive and well, I see,’ said Rex.
‘Nepotism? It’s practically dynastic,’ said Susan, laughing. ‘These TV families: the Dimblebys, the Fogartys and the Snows! I mean, I suppose you could be charitable and say that of course it’s the world you grow up in. Not falling far from the tree, chip off the old block or whatever; but, I don’t know, it reminds me of— what was that line of Brian Sewell’s? Do you remember? When Alan Titchmarsh or someone – yes, it was – was presenting the Proms on the BBC, and Sewell sneered and said Titchmarsh was telling us everything he doesn’t know about classical music! Something like that. Funny. Though, in his defence, at least Titchmarsh had worked for it; didn’t have it handed to him on a plate.’
The puff piece included a reproduction of Vermeer’s ‘A Young Woman Seated at the Virginals’. It was one of several in the painter’s limited oeuvre that depicted this bulky, early keyboard, a kind of proto-piano.
‘Lovely painting, though,’ said Rex. ‘I’ve seen it, as it happens. Seen most of them. Remember there was that Vermeer blockbuster show in The Hague? Christ! Must be twenty-odd years ago now.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Susan. ‘I would have loved to have seen that. Well, you’ve got hidden depths. I bet not many of your CID co
lleagues could say as much.’
‘Well, you know. My girlfriend at the time, my ex, was an art teacher. Still is, as it goes. An art teacher, I mean. It was a romantic weekend in Amsterdam, you know. The Anne Frank House and a double-decker train to “Den Haag”. She’d booked it months ahead. Tiny paintings. There’s one at Kenwood,’ he said. ‘“The Guitar Player”. Do you know it?’
‘Really? No.’
‘That’s up the Highgate end of Hampstead Heath – Kenwood House. Worth a trip if you have time.’
‘Well, if not this visit, maybe next,’ said Susan.
As she picked the paper up to have a closer look at the image, a small spider fell out on to the table, then scurried off and dropped off the edge.
‘Money spider,’ said Rex. ‘We used to say that at school. Didn’t you? You were supposed to pick up the thread and spin it around your head and you’d—’
‘Be rich?’ said Susan, laughing again.
‘Something like that. Didn’t you use to do that?’
‘D’you think I’d still be a university lecturer if I had?’ she said. ‘With all that money?’
They paused for a beat or two. The brief lapse in conversation was filled with the rhythmic rumble of bass from the sound system in a passing car, which made their cups rattle lightly.
Rex smiled, shook his head. ‘Very funny,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling back.
It was getting on for ten. Reluctantly, Rex took a last swig of the now cold coffee.
‘That was a nice surprise,’ he said. ‘Meeting you.’ Then, raising the empty cup, he added, ‘I’d love to have another one’ – and he wished he really could – ‘but there’s a team meeting I have to be at which starts in about five minutes.’ He found himself reaching for the wallet in his back pocket, and handing her a card. ‘It was great to meet you,’ he said. ‘Listen, I don’t normally do this, and I don’t know how your visit is going to pan out, but if you do wind up being down here for a couple of days and you fancy getting a drink or dinner – or even just downloading – I’d love to continue our chat. That’s my mobile.’
