by Jan Needle
Peter Smith showed his teeth. They were yellow.
‘Don’t be stupid, love. My name ain’t Father Christmas. I gets to fuck you, too.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
She wound the window down and threw the fag butt into the road.
‘Forty-five,’ she said.
‘Get stuffed.’
*
Bendigo Grill. Forbes and Rosanna.
Much to Rosanna’s surprise, Andrew did not drink anything with his lunch. She offered to buy a bottle of wine, but he shook his head.
‘If we’re going to do business,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to revise your opinion of me. Having once been married to a Scot, I know all about your hang-ups. I’m not an alcoholic, and I never have been. But there’s only one way to convince a Scots woman of that, and that is not to drink. I’ll have a Perrier water. Please.’
While he studied the menu, Rosanna studied the top of his head. He had a lot of hair, growing out of his scalp at every angle. It was light brown, and not very clean. She guessed his age at forty, perhaps a little older, but his general unkemptness made it difficult to judge. He was wearing a suit, and that too had seen better days. It was blue, not dark enough to ever have looked good, and like the rest of him, it was rumpled. His hands, holding the menu, were not working hands, but the nails were split and dirty. Washing up would sort that out, she thought tartly, then mocked the thought. The wee Scot of his dreams!
Forbes caught her studying.
‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Thinking a man needs mothering is the easiest route to finding yourself in bed with him. Curb yourself, Rosanna, curb yourself.’
She blushed.
‘I’m only reading the menu to impress you, that’s another thing,’ he said. ‘I always come here when I’m hungover. Their lasagne’s like aromatic concrete, you could plug a fashion-conscious dyke with it.’ He paused, the fraction of a beat. ‘What do you fancy?’
Rosanna fancied regaining the advantage, if she’d ever had it. She’d expected their conversation to be oblique and bantering, with a sexual sub-text, because that was the way such conversations went, in her experience. But Forbes’ technique – if technique it was – left her streets behind. Mocking her he undoubtedly was. But was it a seduction line?
‘She came from Govan, didn’t she?’ she said. ‘Your wife. Why did she leave you?’
‘Oh, nasty,’ Forbes replied. ‘Which big-mouthed ex mate do I have to thank for that?’
‘Oh come on! You can’t have all the attacking lines! It was Maurice, actually. Campbell. He sees you as a sort of honorary Scot.’
‘God spare the mark,’ said Andrew, soberly. Again the well-timed pause. ‘She died of cancer. I’m a widower.’
Not since she had been in love had Rosanna felt such complete mortification. Forbes’ eyes were on her, and he knew precisely the effect his words had had. His eyes were clear. You asked for that, they said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘That was stupid. That was really bloody stupid.’
He reached across the table and tapped the back of her hand with two of his fingers.
‘Maurice would have been too polite to say. People are, I’ve noticed. Even saying cancer scares them, in case it brings it on or something. Rosanna. I did that deliberately, you know. I don’t need mothering. It’s a warning. I do all right.’
They sat in silence for a while, occupying themselves with the food when it arrived. It was a business-like restaurant, with no suggestive wagglings of peppermills over Rosanna’s plate, and the food was good. Gradually, she relaxed.
After ten minutes she said, ‘Andrew, are you actually planning on helping me, I can’t stand the suspense. Do you think it’s worth it, there’s a story there?’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There might be. It’s worth a try. I’m doing bugger all else that’s interesting at the minute, that’s for sure. How are you for cash?’
‘Well you won’t have to keep me,’ said Rosanna. ‘But I’m not precisely loaded. You’re not – you weren’t thinking of charging for your services, were you?’
He hooted.
‘What a brilliant idea! I sometimes think I’ll have to do something to raise some ready cash, but no, I wasn’t. I’ve got enough to get me by for a month or so, and if we get somewhere we’ll find a market, won’t we? Luckily, my overheads are pretty low, which is the advantage of widowhood over divorce. But it could take time, and travel, plus a bit of bribery and corruption, and if we do run out of cash it’s finished, that’s the truth of it. When I need to pay the mortgage, I have to work. Real work. I do subbing shifts on the Sun and Daily Mail. It confuses Special Branch no end.’
After they had eaten, they strolled slowly down towards the centre. Rosanna, who did not know London well, found Stoke Newington and upper Islington alarmingly cosmopolitan and rather cramped, with lower, meaner buildings than Glasgow. But her interests lay elsewhere. As they walked, she tried to extract a schedule, or a pattern, or a plan. She wanted to know, simply, what they were going to do.
‘Right now,’ he said, as they walked across High Holborn, ‘we’re going for a drink.’ He caught her look. ‘That’s right, it’s not yet four o’clock. And if you complain, Miss Mouse…’
She bit her lip, mock ruefully.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I could actually do with one myself. It’s just that—’
‘You want to see some action? Well, this meeting’s by appointment, see? With a man I want you to meet, a man I think can help us. Ah, you say – I didn’t see you ring him up. No, I say – I didn’t. One of the little mysteries of the game.’
The man was Peter Jackson, and the appointment had been one of habit. Not having families, and having practically no interests outside their work, they shared a well-worn circuit with a fluctuating number of other people on the fringes. They were mostly men, and mostly connected with the law or breaking it. The Princess Louise was more a private spot for Forbes and Jackson, though. Jackson, not even sure that his friend would turn up, had bought Private Eye and was reading it in a corner. The first he knew of the company was when Forbes slid a full pint in behind the magazine for him. Jackson touched it with a finger-tip.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
He saw Rosanna, hovering shyly at Forbes’ elbow.
‘Christ,’ he added. ‘That period of mourning was a short one, mate. Going for the record?’
Andrew indicated the plush upholstered bench and Rosanna sat. She was holding half a pint of lager.
‘Rosanna Nixon,’ said Forbes to Jackson. ‘Sorry about the lager, she’s a Scot. This is Peter Jackson,’ he told Rosanna. ‘He’s an investigating officer with the Customs. Which information, naturally, is classified. It’s all right, Peter. You can trust her. She’s in the game. It looks as if the end of that jail siege up in Scotland was not so brilliant after all. The death or glory boys went in after dark and cocked it up, as usual. They killed somebody. Sixty-foot dive job, onto granite.’
The thin-faced Customs man did not bat an eyelid.
‘It didn’t say that in my paper,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Donald Sinclair do it single-handed? Or did he deny he did it single-handed, I can’t remember? Anyway, so what?’
The thing that fascinated Rosanna was the desultory nature of the conversation. When she spoke of James McGregor she got quite animated, and Jackson listened carefully – until he broke her off halfway and went to get some drinks. When he returned he moved into another topic, with Andrew joining in. This was not small-talk, either. She heard about Charles Lister, and a multimillion pound drugs operation, and a false arrest. In a Glasgow bar with journalists on a Saturday afternoon, she thought, we’d be onto mortgages and cars. Indeed, Forbes and Jackson treated their subject just as lightly. She was delighted.
‘What’s the score on Charlie?’ Andrew asked. ‘Have you pinpointed the opposition yet?’
‘Not centum per centum. I think we’ve spiked their guns, though. It’s gone to Foreign Office leve
l, and my man De Sallis might come over from Miami to add a bit of muscle if we need it. Any chance the Mets might have had to snatch him out of the Scar has been well and truly bolloxed. Side from anything else, they’d give themselves away. We’d know for sure.’
‘Sorry to be so ignorant,’ said Rosanna, ‘but am I understanding this? Are you saying the police tried to prevent the Customs arresting somebody? To help him to escape?’
‘Put it down to friendly rivalry,’ said Jackson. ‘It happens all the time. And what’s your next move on the McGregor thing? Infiltrate the SAS? Persuade the Prison Department to tell the truth for once? You’re too late to get Sinclair to admit he pushed the boy himself, he flew out this morning on his fact-finding tour. That’s the life, eh? Jetting round the world to look at other people’s cock-ups so that you can say that by comparison you’re doing not so bad. Prats.’
‘Right now,’ said Forbes, ‘we’re going to jump a cab and bugger off home. I’m beginning to feel the urge for a civilised evening’s drinking coming on. A bath first. A change of clothes. What about you?’ Jackson nodded.
‘Sounds OK. I’ve got to see an oppo first. Should be through by nine o’clock. Dog and Partridge?’
Rosanna was not mentioned, so she made no comment or assumptions. In the taxi she tried to ask Forbes what was their next move, but he told her it was now officially Saturday evening, and work was therefore banned. In the long, chilly living room of his house she tried to make some sense of the past few days. Particularly the past few hours.
‘Listen’, she said. ‘I don’t know if you’re expecting me, but I can’t come out this evening. Sorry.’
‘Oh aye?’ replied Forbes. He was sorting through a clothes horse near the front gas-fire, looking for a shirt. ‘Why’s that then? Got a date?’
‘No, not exactly. I mean, the people I’m staying with, they’re expecting me. We’ll have a meal I should think.’
‘What! Two meals in a day! You’ll lose your girlish figure if you don’t watch out. Where is it? Far away?’
‘Mm. Clapham.’
‘Drag. When we start working properly, you’re welcome to stay here, you know.’
He raised his head from the clothes maiden. Rosanna flushed.
‘I’m not sleeping with you. Sorry. If that’s what you mean.’
He kept a straight face.
‘No, I wasn’t meaning that. We can easily make another bed up. You’ll have noticed I have several. I’ve even got a new duvet for you. How about that?’
Rosanna, feeling foolish, turned away. Outside, the light was fading rapidly.
‘I don’t know how you manage it, Andrew, but you make me sound ridiculous. Everything I say sounds ridiculous. Even the reason I came here sounds ridiculous. Prisoners, and poison darts, and cover-ups. It sounds ridiculous. And now I refuse to sleep with you and you haven’t even thought of asking. Ridiculous.’
She became aware of him standing just behind her in the gloom. Her body tensed, involuntarily. But he pointed through the window, over her shoulder. His tone was conversational.
‘See that car over there? The old green Lada? How ridiculous would it sound if I told you it was watching us? How ridiculous would it sound if I told you it was the cause of a woman being stabbed to death, probably by the American we’ve been on about in the Princess Louise? How ridiculous would it sound if I said your photograph was probably on file, already, since you came hammering on my door this morning?’
Rosanna stared across and down the road at the Lada. It was squat and lumpy, with a vinyl top and a roof-rack. Inside, she thought she could just make out two human shapes. Why would men be sitting there, in the dark?
‘Where?’ she asked. ‘On file where?’
‘Who knows? Special Branch, MI5? The one thing you can be sure about in Britain is that you can never be sure. Jackson found out about the car for me after something happened. I’d never even noticed it. But even he’s not certain what it all adds up to. I wouldn’t be too surprised myself if Charlie Lister wasn’t working for the Brits. Maybe they want to get him out legitimately. Even if he did kill Alice Grogan. If he did.’
Rosanna moved back into the room. It was dark now, but she did not want a light on.
‘Alice Grogan,’ she said. ‘Is that the woman? The one you didn’t mourn for very long?’
‘There wasn’t much to mourn,’ said Forbes. He gave a short laugh. ‘Let it be a warning, though. Women have a habit of dying on me, don’t they? Get out while you can.’ He sighed, and followed her into the middle of the room. He switched the light on.
‘Of course your bloody tale’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘We live in a ridiculous age. But anyway, what does it matter if they used a drug or not? I wouldn’t be surprised if they imported a tribe of pygmies with poison blowpipes. They love their toys, these lads, they’re wedded to them. But it’s irrelevant. You’re telling me that somebody got killed, whether by accident or design, and the big lie’s under way as usual. A prisoner gets dead, his brother disappears, and nobody knows damn all. Rosanna, isn’t that enough? Do you want jam on it?’
For once, he had got animated. There was even colour in his cheeks. Seeing her look, Forbes turned away, grabbing up her coat from the back of a chair. He threw it at her, and she caught it.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Fuck off and let me bathe my body in ointments and exotic unguents. One of us might get lucky tonight, who knows? You go and share a bottle of Wincarnis with your respectable friends. You can take me for another lunch tomorrow, if you’re free.’
Outside, although it was not in her direction, Rosanna walked past the Lada, looking at it from the corner of her eyes. Inside were two men in boiler suits. They stared at her quite openly, and she was afraid.
*
Bowscar. Masters, Abbey, Cherry Orchard.
In the aftermath of his wife’s visit, Michael Masters was provoked almost beyond the edge of reason. He managed to control himself, and was delivered to his cell at last by his tormentors. Chris Abbey, Ted Taylor and Simon Petter, as a final gesture, pushed him through the door with enough force to knock over Alan Hughes, who was sitting at the table reading.
Jerrold, who was lying on his bed, swung his legs out, glaring balefully. Not, as the officers hoped, to start or join an attack, but to hinder Masters if he lost his temper and sprang for them. But Masters had won the battle with his rage five minutes before. He lay in a heap with Hughes, saying nothing, moving not at all. After a few insults about homosexuality, inevitably, the officers left. Hughes pulled himself slowly to his feet.
‘My my,’ he said. ‘Your relationship with Mr Abbey seems to be coming on a treat. What have you been up to this time?’
Masters stood. He was pale, and at the sight of his face Jerrold swung his legs back onto his bunk.
‘You leave the man alone,’ he told Alan Hughes. ‘I want to sleep. I don’t want no talking.’
Hughes picked the table up and retrieved his book. He sat down and found his page. He began to read. The silence of the prison, a noisy silence composed of distant clangs and yells, the booming of ancient heating pipes, the sighing of the wind, settled on the cell. Masters lay down on his back, regulating his breathing carefully. He had to keep his mouth open, to relieve the tension in his muscles. He felt on the verge of explosion or hysteria, or going mad. He almost wished he had jumped on Abbey.
Ordinarily, the incident would not have bothered him. He had the measure of Abbey and his clique, and he treated them with polite contempt. It was a technique he would have developed for himself, but Jerrold and Hughes were both past masters, and good tutors. The politeness was essential, the most important element, because it left the officers in the position of low-grade thugs if they used violence. Also, if it was done elegantly enough, it confused them, with the stupider ones sometimes believing it was real. Abbey was no fool, though, and he chose his moments carefully. After the visit from his wife, he had judged, Masters would be vulnerable.
&nb
sp; The incident had happened in the corridor outside the visiting room. When their half-hour was up, Masters and his thirty-odd companions had been herded out, and lined up along one wall. Along the opposite one were the next contingent, a mixture of hope and apprehension in their faces.
Abbey, surveying his little flock, had homed in on two prisoners, Michael Masters and Raymond Orchard, the tuft-haired homosexual. His psychology was excellent, because several others were suffering more visibly. A young deaf and dumb man was crying horribly, a snuffling, snoring sound, and a black of about fifty-five was punching rhythmically at the wall, ignoring or unaware of the blood flowing from his knuckles. Abbey took the homosexual first.
‘You,’ he said. ‘You disgust me, do you know that? I watched you, in there, with your little bum-boy. Touching fingers, trying to get your slimy little tongues in each other’s mouths. Are you in love?’
Raymond Orchard did not reply. He was a quiet man, and his eyes were dull with misery. The visit had been especial agony for him.
‘You must be, mustn’t you?’ said Abbey. ‘Too much in love to talk, I’ve heard of that. But you’re wasting yourself in here. You could make a fortune with an arse like yours, hasn’t that occurred to you? What you need’s a pimp.’
He laughed, and flicked Orchard’s cheek with his fingers. Few prisoners joined in, although there was little sympathy for Orchard in the jail. His lips were trembling, his face on the point of collapse.
‘I’ve had some interest expressed, I’m serious,’ Abbey continued. ‘Perhaps we could do a deal. You provide the orifice and I’ll provide the plugs. Twenty five per cent.’
Well satisfied with the effect he’d had, Abbey turned away. He spoke to Masters.
‘Talking of prostitutes, what a tasty little wife! What a lovely little knob-sucker, eh? Did you see her crying? Did you see the tears of shame? Mixing with the common bastards, was it? The sluts and snotty kids? The old lags and their slags? My God, Mister Masters, she must be proud of you!’
The knotted fist in Masters’ abdomen rose to his gorge and choked him. He put his hands behind his back, pressed them into the cold, painted brickwork. Sweat broke out again, as it had inside the room. A horrible nausea rose within him. Chris Abbey was impressed and pleased. He called to Petter and Ted Taylor.
