Game of Stones

by David Maughan Brown

  ‘What phone calls?’

  ‘I keep being phoned at around 3.00am,’ Cameron replied. ‘Nobody says anything and I never even hear the phone being put down. I used to get death threats around that time of night quite frequently when I was in South Africa.’

  ‘I think I would probably be gibbering somewhere very far up the wall if that happened to me – never mind just being paranoid,’ Harriet said. ‘To change the subject – they will have taken your PC and any other electronic devices and will be analysing all your files even as we speak. Are they going to find anything on them that I should know about? Even minor things – like evidence that you have murdered someone.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Cameron replied. ‘They will find draft chapters of the book I am trying to write in the intervals between being arrested. But I’m pretty sure they must have had access to some of that already, most obviously my chapter on Forest Gate. The only way they could have known what I had said was by hacking my system, so I would guess that if they’ve taken my PC it will have been partly for show, and partly just to make my life as difficult as possible.’

  ‘Apart from Forest Gate, is there anything else they wouldn’t have been happy about?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘The police probably wouldn’t be happy about any book on overreaction,’ Cameron replied, ‘given that they are the past masters in the field. The only other chapter they won’t like is the outline – as of now just a series of jotted notes – of a chapter about the murder of Jean Charles de Menezes in July 2005. What kind of specially trained firearms officer thinks it is necessary to fire seven dum-dum bullets into someone’s head at point-blank range? The newspapers referred to the policeman as a ‘marksman’ – it doesn’t take much of a marksman to hit a target a few inches away. They particularly won’t like it that I always refer to “dum-dum” bullets – which is exactly what they are. They insist on calling them “jacketed hollow point” bullets, as if that was in any way different. Expanding bullets were outlawed by the Declaration of St Petersburg in 1868, and prohibited in international warfare by the Hague convention in 1899, and have been prohibited in all other kinds of armed conflict by the International Committee of the Red Cross. But it is apparently OK for them to be used by the Met.’

  ‘OK, OK, you don’t need to convince me,’ Harriet said, ‘I’ve never spoken up in favour of dum-dum bullets. Right now you need to go in, get dressed, get your things and organise somewhere to sleep tonight. I’m sorry I can’t offer to put you up.’

  ‘That is all sorted, thanks,’ Cameron said. ‘They allowed me to phone Brian after they had signed me out, while you were still busy talking to our worthy Inspectors. Did they have anything to say that I need to know about?’

  ‘No. I was doing most of the talking,’ Harriet replied. ‘Where does Brian live? I can give you a lift if you would like. Do you want me to come in with you now?’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine to go in on my own, thanks – that is if Mr Plod allows me in,’ Cameron answered. ‘It wouldn’t be good for your street cred to be seen alongside a man in his pyjamas as this time of the evening. Thanks very much for your help and support today. I hope I won’t need it again. I’ll just get dressed and pack enough for a few days in my backpack, then I can ride my bike round to Brian’s. I won’t need a lift but thanks, again, for the offer.’

  ‘Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need me,’ Harriet said. ‘And for God’s sake get rid of that gun.’

  ‘I certainly will – if it is still there,’ Cameron said. ‘Ciao.’

  ‘Bye, take care,’ Harriet said as she started the engine.

  Cameron felt naked and very much alone as he stood on the pavement watching the Lexus doing a U-turn and heading back the way they came. Harriet lifted her hand off the steering wheel to wave briefly as she left. As he turned and walked towards what was left of his front door, Cameron could see the twitching of net curtains on the living room windows of the houses on both sides. Well, they had watched him go, so they might as well watch him return. If nothing else, he had bracketed their day with some light entertainment that would keep them in gossip for a week or two.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Beaumont,’ the constable standing on the doorstep said as Cameron approached.

  Cameron had never seen him before, but he had probably been told that if a man turned up wearing pyjamas it was likely to be Mr Beaumont. Cameron didn’t need to show his passport to identify himself.

  ‘Good evening,’ Cameron answered. ‘Why are you still here? I was told that the police had finished searching my house.’

  ‘We have finished, Sir,’ came the reply, ‘but you will have noticed that your front door has been damaged and will not close properly. It has not been possible to organize for it to be repaired today, so I am here to ensure that your house is not looted. I’m afraid it will not be possible for you to sleep here tonight.’

  ‘Very considerate of you, I’m sure,’ said Cameron. ‘”Damaged” doesn’t quite do justice to what has been done to my front door – “smashed to pieces” would be closer to the mark. I’m not intending to sleep here. I’ve just come to collect a few things for the next day or two – including some clothes. May I go in?’

  ‘Mind where you walk,’ the policeman said, moving aside and waving Cameron in through the gap where the front door had once been.

  Cameron had assumed that the ‘mind where you walk’ had been a warning to him not to slip on broken glass or trip over what was left of the door and its frame. Those were the least of his problems: most of the floorboards had been ripped up, leaving gaping holes into which the majority of the books from the hall bookshelves had been scattered.

  Picking his way down the short hallway on the few planks that had been left, Cameron could see that his living-room had been wrecked. The destruction looked to be completely random, as though a class of eight year-olds had been plied with coffee, given several bags of sweets and a few crowbars, and then been invited to play Dave the Demolition-man, Bob the Builder’s brother. Half the floorboards in there had also been ripped up, most of the skirting boards had been torn out, and all the pictures were off the walls, as was much of the plaster. Stepping carefully from board to board, Cameron could see that the same devastation had been wreaked on his dining room and kitchen. The children had been having fun.

  The stairs were in better order than the ground floor. No doubt health and safety had dictated that safe passage must be left for the descent of whoever had been assigned to wreck the bedroom, study and bathroom. But any frustration at not being able to demolish the stairs had been taken out on the bedroom and study. The bed had been stripped, the mattress was on its side leaning up against the wall with gaping slits in it where it had been cut open in the quest for the elusive explosives. There was absolutely no chance whatever that the Sig Sauer would not have come to light.

  Why on earth, then, had not a single word been said about it?

  Chapter 11

  ‘I wish to God I’d just dropped the bloody thing over the side of the ship as we sailed out of Table Bay,’ Cameron said. ‘If ever there was a case of sentiment trumping reason, that was it.’

  ‘It was a bit eccentric,’ Brian agreed. ‘People tend to get sentimental about puppies, kittens and babies rather than handguns. But that is water under the bridge. You didn’t get rid of it; the police have found it during a raid on your house; they aren’t saying anything about it; and you obviously can’t ask them about it or report that it has been stolen. The question now is what next?’

  Cameron was nursing a mug of steaming tea across the table from Brian in the kitchen of the latter’s one-bedroom flat under the eaves of what must have been a steel magnate’s mansion before it had been carved into up-market flats. He had arrived ten minutes earlier, relieved not to see any sign of the white Volvo following him. His bike was safely locked in a lean-to tacked carbuncle-like to the side of th
e house, and his backpack and briefcase were on the chair beside him.

  ‘But why the hell would they keep shtum about it?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘I can only think of two possible reasons,’ Brian replied. ‘The first is that they are trying to trap you in some way – but I can’t imagine to what possible end. If they have found it, they have an open and shut case. They don’t like you and they could have you put away and out of their hair for several years.’

  ‘Don’t mince words just to stop me from worrying, will you,’ Cameron said. ‘And the second?’

  ‘The other possibility,’ Brian said, ‘is that the two people questioning you didn’t know about the gun. It’s possible that whoever found it just hung onto it and didn’t tell his superiors about it. I’ve no idea why anyone might do that.’

  Cameron could feel the familiar churning of his stomach. His mouth felt very dry so he tried to take a sip of his still too-hot tea and burnt his lip.

  ‘Fuck! That’s hot,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a bloody good idea why. Whoever finds it holds onto the gun because he wants to shoot me with it. He was wearing gloves when he found it, so the only DNA on it will be mine. I’ve just been arrested – twice in fact – and can be assumed to be feeling depressed about that. I have a history of mental illness – in so far as PTSD is a mental illness – which Neil would no doubt be called on to confirm. Neil could also confirm that I had a gun. Ergo I must have committed suicide. The perfect murder.’

  ‘Now you really are being paranoid,’ Brian said. ‘Handguns aren’t easy to come by in England. Whoever discovered it found himself in unexpected possession of a saleable commodity that would command a good price on the black market. He would know that you don’t have a licence for it – they would have checked up on whether you own any guns before they mounted their raid – and it would be a dead cert that you wouldn’t report it when you found it missing. So why not just hang onto it and sell it? It isn’t as if the police are so well paid that they can’t do with a bit of extra income on the side.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that is possible,’ Cameron said, feeling only marginally comforted. It seemed odd that he should feel a much stronger sense of impending doom as a result of their having said nothing about the gun than he had had when he was sure they were going to prosecute him for possessing it. ‘If they can lie the way they lied about Hillsborough, what is to stop them from stealing prohibited weapons and selling them? But I still….’

  Cameron was startled by the telephone. Brian got up to answer it before handing it over to Cameron.

  ‘Harriet – for you,’ he said.

  Cameron’s stomach gave another lurch. What had gone wrong now? Had they contacted his solicitor to tell her that they had found the gun and were coming to take him back into custody.

  ‘Hello, Cameron?’ Harriet said. ‘I just wanted to check that you got to Brian’s safely and that you are OK. You didn’t seem altogether with it today.’

  Harriet’s voice sounded much warmer when disconnected from the austere physical presence she had tailored to suit her profession.

  ‘Thanks for phoning,’ Cameron replied. ‘As it happens, I did feel quite detached a lot of the time today – a kind of out-of-body experience I occasionally get when I’m lecturing. It is as though I am looking down on what’s going on without being involved in any way. If you aren’t involved you can’t get too emotional about what is going on. Probably a good thing in this instance, as I might have lost my temper otherwise.’

  ‘Yes, best not to lose your temper with policemen,’ Harriet said. ‘OK. Well, as long as you are alright, I won’t keep you. I’ll make sure my office reminds you to report in to the police station when you need to, and I will let you know if there are any developments.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ Cameron said. ‘I really appreciate your help – and your taking the trouble to phone me.’

  ‘Just a courtesy call then?’ Brian asked as Cameron handed the receiver back to him. ‘She’s got a nice voice.’

  ‘Yes – I was just thinking that,’ Cameron said. ‘I think she is a lot warmer and more caring than her solicitor’s veneer makes her seem.’

  ‘I’m heading off to a conference at Limassol in Cyprus the day after tomorrow,’ Brian said. ‘You are very welcome to stay here until your house has been sorted out. I’ll be away for a couple of weeks as I’m tacking-on a week’s holiday after the conference.’

  ‘Isn’t it odd how important it is for academic conferences to be held in beach resorts,’ Cameron commented. ‘The sea air must help people’s concentration. That’s very kind of you, but this is only a one-bedroom flat and I have no idea whatever how long it will take to sort out the mess those bastards made of my house.’

  ‘The couch in the lounge is a sleeper-couch,’ Brian said. ‘It is very easy to pull the sleeper bit out and get it back in again. Nobody else is scheduled to use it for a few months, so it really won’t be a problem. You must obviously use the bedroom when I’m away.’

  ‘Thanks very much, that will be a huge help,’ Cameron said. ‘I really don’t fancy having to try to find somewhere else for an indeterminate length of time. I’ll obviously chip in for food.’

  ‘And beer,’ Brian said.

  ‘And beer, of course,’ Cameron said. ‘I was working on the assumption that beer was the main item on the menu.’

  It felt good to have company, and by the time Brian left two days later an easy routine had been established. There was a desk in the bedroom, so Cameron worked at the table in the living room. It only took a few seconds to ready the sleeper-couch for bed and, once the bed had been made in the morning, it could be folded away just as easily. They agreed to take turns cooking the evening meal.

  The day after Brian left, Cameron found a note from the department secretary in his pigeon-hole with a telephone number and a request for him to phone back as soon as possible. The number was unfamiliar, but the Leeds dialling-code wasn’t. Rapidly discounting a cold-call or anything work-related, Cameron concluded that Mutoni must have been trying to contact him – he hoped she was alright. He felt guilty that the police raid and its aftermath had pushed her to the back of his mind.

  It wasn’t Mutoni who answered the phone. It turned out to be her Leeds friend whose name, Cameron discovered, was Ellen.

  ‘Thanks very much for getting back to me,’ she said in a broad Yorkshire accent. ‘Have you seen Mutoni?’

  ‘Not since she left my house early in the morning a few days ago,’ Cameron replied. ‘I had assumed she was coming back to stay with you.’

  ‘She was supposed to be,’ Ellen said. ‘But she didn’t arrive at my place and, as far as I can gather, hasn’t been seen since. I knew she was going to see you and I hoped that she had stayed with you. She had given me your home phone number but there is no answer – I must have tried it about twenty times – and when I went to your house yesterday evening nobody answered the door.’

  ‘No,’ Cameron said. ‘I’m sorry. The police raided my house and pulled it apart so thoroughly that I’m not going to be able to live there for a while. That’s why there’s nobody there to open the door or answer the phone.’

  ‘Why did they raid your house?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘They said they had received information that I had turned my kitchen into an explosives factory,’ Cameron answered. ‘They appear to have been disappointed to find that I hadn’t. But they were also looking for Mutoni and seemed to expect to find her with me.’

  ‘Did they tell you why they were looking for her?’

  ‘No,’ Cameron replied. ‘They just parroted their stock answer: “I’m not at liberty to disclose”. It is entirely possible that nobody gave them any information. Following the worthy example of the South African Special Branch, they might well just have mounted their raid to intimidate and harass me. But, if somebody really did give them false information about me, it i
s equally possible that they have been given false information about Mutoni as well.’

  ‘But she told me that you had spoken to a policeman on your allotment who said he was looking for her to warn her about something. Do you think that was just a trick?’

  ‘No,’ Cameron, said after a pause. ‘He didn’t strike me as the tricky type – slow and ponderous, yes, but deceitful? No, I don’t think so. He seemed genuinely indignant that I rounded on him about Hillsborough when he was just trying to help Mutoni. He was adamant that nobody had asked him to go to her allotment to look for her, and I was inclined to believe him. If the police who raided my house were wanting to arrest her, it must have been because of something that happened after I spoke to Hudson.’

  ‘Unless Hudson isn’t a team player and was trying to warn her to keep out of the way of his colleagues,’ Ellen said.

  ‘That’s possible,’ Cameron conceded, ‘but it seems unlikely. Don’t any of her digs mates have any suggestions as to where she might have gone? They must have a pretty good idea who her friends are, and they won’t all live in Leeds or Sheffield.’

  ‘No, I’ve asked them,’ Ellen said. ‘Anyway I don’t think they will know any more than I do – probably a lot less in fact. There is an extensive Rwandan network in London, but Mutoni keeps as distant from them as possible as she doesn’t know who she can trust. I’m really afraid for her, Cameron. I think something must have happened to her after she left your house. I knew roughly what time to expect her, so I went to the station to meet her as a surprise – but she never arrived. I waited for three trains to arrive from Sheffield before I gave up. She normally phones me every day. She phoned me early in the morning after she had left your house – she didn’t want to wake you – and told me she was on her way. But I haven’t heard anything from her since.’