The Evidence

by Christopher Priest

  But I was calm. I was a trained cop. I would be calm throughout. I had prepared for many weeks and travelled a long way to achieve this. I had researched, had timed every move and action, factored in alternatives, errors. If there were any slips I had backups ready.

  Hari Harsent was the brains behind the original deal. Hari had made us rich, but I knew he was greedy now for more. I was probably next on his list. Greed put us all at risk, as Lew had discovered, fifteen years earlier. Hari had taken his share of that result, he had his pay as a cop, and the bar he ran in Ewwel Town was a business that brought in more. None of it was enough for him. For some, having more is never enough.

  The physical layout of Hari’s bar was this. On the ground floor was the small stage where the music acts performed, with a raised section, lights, power sockets, and so on. There was a cleared space for a crowd, or for dancing. Around the edge were seats and a few tables. The area behind the bar was where the staff area, kitchen, toilets, etc., were situated. On the floor above, Hari’s personal space was directly over the bar. When not on police operations he relaxed there every evening a band was playing. He stayed out of the way, listening on large relay speakers. He played the music loud. He rarely, never, went down to the bar while the band was playing. He was alone, stayed alone, deep in a big chair, drinking hard from a table littered with bottles.

  At the end of every gig, while the bar was still open, Hari would go downstairs, talk to the bar staff, see some of the regulars, chat to the band members, perhaps share a drink with them. All this I knew.

  I checked my preparations one more time, then I slipped out of the hotel without being seen, into the humid night. Once I was on the main street, music blared from doorways and windows, and from small speakers attached above the stalls of street traders. Crowds surged by. Prostitutes were on every corner. The smell of spicy meat smoking on the charcoal braziers of the vendors was appetizing. I walked on. I was not noticed. Who in the crowd would see me or recognize me?

  I followed my planned route. It was about half a kilometre from the hotel to Hari’s bar. I was tempted to hurry but I was sticking to my plan. I maintained a steady pace because I did not want to get out of breath.

  I came to the square where Hari had his bar, went to the building and pushed through the doors. A support band was playing, not well. The place was full but not yet crowded. Most of the people were much younger than me. I had not thought of that. I felt prominent for being older. I bought a glass of beer, but I held it without drinking more than a couple of sips. I made eye contact with no one. The support band were coming to the end of their set. They were running late, but I could wait.

  They cleared away their kit – the roadies of the headline band moved in quickly to set up their sound and lights. I waited, watching how they worked, connecting the amplifiers, playback, and so on. Soon, the band members themselves moved to the platform, and started a sound check. That was my cue.

  I put down my beer and followed the signs to the toilets, beyond a double swing door. I walked past them and pushed open a door marked Private. Behind this was a staircase. I went up one step at a time. There was a thick carpet. The top three steps turned and opened straight into Hari’s room. He was in his chair, alert, upright. He had heard me coming. For a moment I was uncertain: he had a mass of wild hair, and a bushy beard. His undercover image.

  He recognized me at once. Of course he would know who I was.

  ‘I expected you here one of these days, Enver. But you can go now – we agreed never to meet. Leave now!’

  ‘Never to meet in public. That’s what we said. There’s no one here.’

  Sounds from the bar were being relayed through the loudspeakers: shouted conversations over the background recorded music, glasses and bottles clinking, bangs and random amplified notes from the band’s instruments as they were set up. The drummer kept pounding at his bass.

  ‘You’re here for a reason. What is it?’

  ‘We had a deal, Hari. We agreed on it, said we would stick to it. It was fair to us all and it was going to set us up for life. But you killed Willer, you broke the deal!’

  ‘It was already broken, when Lew Antterland broke it.’

  ‘That was a long time ago. You didn’t have to shoot Willer.’ I noticed then that there was a baseball bat leaning against the side of his chair. I pointed to it. ‘Is that Lew’s?’ I said. I could see the sports club badge still attached to the stock, close to the maker’s stencil. ‘I gave him that as a present when he left school.’

  Hari reached down and took hold of the bat. He laid it on his lap, hands cradling it.

  ‘I found it in his house. Want to have a close look at his suicide weapon? Real close?’

  Anger coursed through me – Hari had also tensed.

  ‘You know Lew didn’t kill himself!’ I said loudly, against the noise from below. ‘How did you get hold of his bat? All the evidence was being held by the police on Hames.’

  ‘They released it, let me have it. The inquest was over, the verdict made sense to them. They could close the file. I went to Lew’s house one day, when things had quietened down.’

  ‘You had no right to do that! I should have been told! It belonged to my son!’

  ‘Yeah, well – you never were much of a father to him, were you, Enver? I thought having the bat might be useful in this place, and with the work I do. People like you come up those stairs more often than I like. I need to have something by my side, to settle arguments.’

  ‘You can put it down, Hari.’

  ‘No – you’re here for an argument.’ He had not moved from his chair, but his hold on the baseball bat was steady. ‘Tell me what you want.’

  ‘I want to know why you killed Willer.’

  ‘You know exactly why. He murdered Lew, took the money. I was pissed with him.’

  ‘Five years later?’

  ‘I wanted to be sure. I thought for a while you might step in and do it yourself. Willer was also your son, your responsibility. But then my assignments were changed, and getting to Salay Sekonda became something I had to do while I could still travel. He knew too much, and I needed the money to buy this place. You were paid off too, so what’s your complaint?’

  I said: ‘No complaint, Hari. But I didn’t want or need the money enough to have my only remaining son killed.’

  ‘Maybe now it’s different. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Cops aren’t paid too well, as we both know.’

  ‘I’m thinking ahead to retirement,’ I said. ‘The money counts, yes. Next year I’m going to want a bigger share of the deal.’

  ‘You won’t get it from me.’

  Hari braced suddenly, and he stood up. I took an unguarded step back. I realized he was still strong, easy with his movements. I was younger than him, but his undercover work had clearly kept him fitter, more active. I had a stiff hip, a lower back I had strained too often. My right shoulder was weak. I could not raise myself out of a chair like that any more – I had to shift my weight, get my legs in the right position, lever myself up. The days when I ran in pursuit of wrongdoers were long over. I was an office cop now, working out the remaining years.

  Hari was hefting the baseball bat in an aggressive way.

  ‘Keep your distance, Hari,’ I said, alarmed by the speed of his response.

  At that moment there was a howling noise from the speakers, as someone downstairs grabbed the microphone. Holding it too close to his mouth, and speaking too loudly so that every breath was a harsh rasping noise, the man began some kind of heavily distorted announcement about the band who were about to play, which group would be coming to a later gig at the end of the week, a ticket-only event, something about where the tickets were available, then a list of the names who wanted songs dedicated to them tonight, mostly women’s names, on and on . . .

  Hari and I stared at each other across the room, I could not believe he was once the friend I had known, the ideal of a trusted cop, looked up to by everyone who worke
d under him. He was an inspector now, my superior officer in theory and reality, but his special duties had made him look like a dishevelled, dissolute wreck, a transgressor. As the voice downstairs broke off, Hari shrugged as if to indicate he heard something like that every night. Still neither of us moved. I was aware I was only a single step away from the top of the stairs, that if Hari made a rush at me I should fall or be knocked backwards. But to move forward would seem to be initiating something.

  As the microphone downstairs rattled back into its stand, Hari said: ‘Are you here because my wife sent you? Do you still work with her?’

  ‘No – she doesn’t know. No one knows. We’re both on the force, but I never see her. We agreed not to meet when other people were around, remember?’

  ‘And you can arrange that?’

  ‘She’s senior management. We stay clear of each other.’

  From below, a thudding drum beat, a jangling electric guitar. The sound of the band exploded into the room. A vocalist started shouting la-la-la sounds in time with the music. The building resonated with bass notes.

  I pulled the gun from the deep pocket of my trainer pants, releasing the safety in the same motion. I held it in my right hand, pointing at Hari. It was not how I had imagined it would be. Hari swung the baseball bat above his shoulders, stepped with shocking speed towards me. There was no doubt what he would do if he reached me. We were about three metres apart. I pulled the trigger.

  Even drowned by the sound of the rock music, the gun’s discharge sounded loud. The weapon jerked in my hand, wrenching my weak shoulder. I missed! Hari was almost on me!

  I took the gun in both hands, fired again at close range, no time to aim. This time I hit him in the shoulder, pushing him violently backwards and away from me, spinning him around, making him fall. The baseball bat twisted in the air and landed on the floor.

  Hari doubled up in pain, but he was trying to crawl, squirming across the floor towards the top of the stairs. He was yelling.

  I moved back from him. Blood was already pumping from his arm, his shoulder. I was shocked by how the blood surged unstoppably out of him. I hadn’t expected that. I wanted none of it on me. It was appalling! I had to finish him off. I fired a third shot! I was desperate, frightened, certain someone would come rushing up the stairs to investigate. I missed him again, but he was on the floor. It was difficult to hit a low, moving target. Now he had changed direction and was crawling towards me. I wanted him nowhere near me. I had to avoid getting his blood on me at all costs.

  He was yelling something at me, but his voice was distorted by pain and on the speakers the vocalist was chanting the words of the song. I was shocked by the ferocity and anguish of Hari’s expression. With his good arm he tried to grab my ankle, but I leapt out of the way just in time.

  I saw the baseball bat – it was within reach. Hari saw me looking, saw me stretching my hand towards it, and with a tremendous twist of his body he rolled over to it. I grabbed it, then swung it at him like a club, catching him a glancing blow on the side of the head. He howled in pain, but managed to raise himself into a crouching position. I knew with an extra surge of terror that if he was able to take hold of me, if only with one hand, he would certainly go on to kill me. I swung the bat again at his head – it hit him hard but it did not slow him. Then a third blow. This time I brought the bat down from above on the front of his head, using all my strength.

  I felt something breaking. I thought it was the bat splintering, but then I saw the thick, dark blood erupting horribly from the top of his head, just above his face. Hari fell back again, and was still. Then he rolled in an agonized spasm, turning on one side. I tossed aside the bat. which rolled across the floor.

  I fired a fourth bullet into Hari’s chest, aiming at his heart, but leapt back and away as if propelled by the recoil.

  He did not react to the shot. He was unconscious or already dead.

  Everything changed.

  Horror and fear filled me. Now he was still. I was appalled by what had happened, what I had had to do, how difficult it was to kill a man. The blood was spreading in a thick pool around Hari’s head and shoulders. I had no idea.

  My instinct was to flee, throw aside the gun, rush down the stairs, push through the crowd in the bar, escape to the street.

  The rock music thudded and screeched on. I was paralysed. I could not look at Hari. I was still terrified of him. In case he moved.

  Fragments of my plan returned. I noticed that one of the bullet cases I had fired was on the floor, now being overtaken by Hari’s spreading blood. I leaned over it, kicked it away from the blood with my foot, rolled it by pressing on the thin carpet, trying to wipe away some of the blood.

  I had discharged four rounds. I looked around for the other three cartridge cases, dreading that they too had been covered by the flood, or that Hari’s body had fallen on them, or that they had simply bounced and rolled somewhere I could not see or reach them. I was able to spot two of them straight away, but the fourth eluded me. I had to bend down, constantly terrified that someone downstairs had heard the noise of the violent struggle and would come up to investigate. Kneeling, I stretched out across the floor, feeling and groping for the small metal cylinder.

  Then I saw it – it too had been overtaken by the spreading of Hari’s blood. Once again I rolled the casing out with my foot, and made a rudimentary attempt to clean it by wiping it on the carpet. I had Hari’s blood on my gloves, on my shoes.

  I held in my right hand all the cases from the four bullets I had fired. With the other hand I reached down into the deep pocket of the trainer pants, located the cases I had picked up at the range, and scattered them on the floor around Hari’s body. Two of them fell into the pool of blood. I then clicked the safety catch on and slipped the gun down into the same pocket, together with the cases I had used.

  I took off the cotton gloves and stuffed them into the same pocket. From the other I pulled out a clean pair.

  The band was coming to the end of the number with a series of crashing climactic chords. I hurried away, down the stairs, pushed through the connecting door and entered the bar through the swing doors. No one turned to look at me. I pressed through the crush and made it to the street. As the door closed behind me everyone was cheering and waving their arms towards the stage.

  I was in shock from what I had done. It was the first time I had fired a gun with intent, the first time I had killed. And the club. I could not forget the feeling of violently swinging the club against Hari’s head. I had done that. The memory would haunt me forever. Hari was someone I had known for many years, a colleague, a friend even, an important part of the plan we had devised, married to a senior colleague.

  Superintendent Harsent, when the news reached her, would know immediately that I was the killer. It didn’t matter what steps I took to eradicate the evidence – she would know. She and Hari had separated some time earlier when he began undercover work, but they never completed a divorce. She could destroy me. She was the main weakness in my plan, but I pinned my hopes on the fact that she was as guilty as me. If she used her insider knowledge to incriminate me she would lose as much as I would.

  I could depend on that. I had to depend on that.

  The small square outside Hari’s bar was closed to traffic, and a crowd of young people were enjoying the hot night while the music spilled out. Many were standing, but others were sitting on the patch of grass in the centre of the square. I saw one of the vendors waiting beside his brazier, and in spite of the bloody crime I had just committed the smell of the spicy food was almost irresistible.

  I hurried from the square and followed my planned route through side streets and alleys, heading towards my hotel and the harbour beyond. Away from the area of Hari’s bar the streets were more crowded. Traffic drove by slowly, weaving between people sauntering in the roadways. The vehicles made a racket and left a stink of exhaust fumes.

  I felt the weight of the gun and the empty bullet cases in
my pants pocket, knocking against my thigh with every step, a steadily beating reminder of the horror of what I had done. I tried to control the fear that was in me. I was certain that by now someone would have found Hari’s body. The police would be called and they would immediately start searching for whoever had killed him. I was listening for the sound of sirens as I went swiftly along, but there was too much loud music being played everywhere. I felt prominent because I was a stranger in the town, and because most of the people who were out in the streets that night looked decades younger than me.

  I struggled to be calm. I told myself, saying the words under my breath, that all would be well when I had dealt with the gun.

  But I had not expected so much blood. I knew without looking that my slip-on shoes had been in the spilled blood as I searched for the spent cases. My trainer pants too – I had been kneeling. I imagined a trail of incriminating bloody footprints following me. Had any of Hari’s blood spurted on to my shirt? I did not dare to look back or down. And there was blood on the cotton gloves, which I was wearing when I picked up the bullet cases. These gloves were now stuffed into my pocket with the four casings. I imagined traces of blood seeping out through the cheap synthetic material of the trainer pants.

  And although I was wearing a fresh pair of white gloves, had there been some of Hari’s blood on my hands when I pulled them on? Were traces of that blood even now oozing through the glove material?

  I did not look, could not risk looking. Worse, I could not risk discovering the truth.

  Stay calm, stay calm. It became a mantra. I could not have regrets. I could not think myself wrong.

  I reached the harbour area. The largest part was the main port for the inter-island ferries, as well as the longer haul passenger and cargo services. A tall ferry, blazing with deck and navigation lights, was slowly approaching the terminal. Another was already departing, heading out across the sea.

  There was also a small harbour where the local fishing fleet was based, its outer wall facing the open sea. This quay was sparsely lit at night. It was a quiet period in the harbour as most of the fishing vessels went out at night. I could see the ice and auction shed on the shore – all lights were off.