The tragedy of the death is taken for granted, or ignored. The emotional impact on the people closest to the victim is only sketched in, or glossed over – after all, from the point of view of the plot the relatives are probably among the chief suspects.
In the more sophisticated thrillers of the modern age, the emphasis shifts and the background is ramped up. We learn of political shenanigans, of foreign powers, of secret police and secret societies, of traffickers, of rings of predatory sex perverts, of drug barons, of global corporations, of high and low life.
The psychological state of the criminal has become crucial: we become interested in the psychopathy of the serial killer, the weird obsessive life of the loner, the deadly methods of the professional assassin.
Where once the protagonist was a sleuth – a private eye, an amateur detective, a police officer working alone – now we are more likely to follow the enquiries of professionals who are to one side of the main action. The central character becomes a leading criminal lawyer, or a forensic pathologist, an academic criminologist, a journalist, a social worker.
But the existence of the dead victim, although often skilfully polished up and made subtle and unusual by the writer’s description, remains none the less a plot token. The killing provides the stimulus for the story, and the main story duly follows. The unique tragedy and dread of a sudden death is passed over quickly.
It is not the role of a thriller writer to lecture the reader on the awfulness of death. The reader anyway is not interested in that. Thrillers are written to divert, inform, create a sense of mystery or entertaining tension. People read books for pleasure, thrillers and crime novels no less.
Then there is the matter of the anticlimax.
Many thrillers or mysteries take the form of a puzzle. The inexplicable situation is the body that has been found, while the puzzle lies mainly in working out who was responsible for the killing. Suspects and motives abound. The sleuth slowly unpicks the facts. The solution is almost never obvious – the reader is snared by the idea of a puzzle, reads on, waiting for the moment of revelation.
Mystery writers are ingenious. Like the murderers they dream up, they weave a web of deception and misdirection, and also like the killers they drop occasional clues for the alert reader to seize upon – though rarely obvious enough for the reader to out-guess the author. It becomes something of a game, the writer and reader vying to come to the solution.
But isn’t the solution to a puzzle inherently unsatisfactory? A let-down, an anticlimax? The sleuth produces the astonishing truth, and we react to the cleverness or otherwise of the sleuth. We do not congratulate the murderer on his/her ingenuity, we do not pause to mourn the dead victim. We see the solution to a puzzle. We close the book.
This is of course an oversimplification. My ingenious colleagues frequently think of many ways to outpace the puzzle, to give it relevance beyond the story, to suggest a universality of mystery. Many thrillers do not provide a solution – my own books often avoid the scene of final revelation where the plot is explicated. The displacement of the protagonist to a less involved character, the forensic pathologist and so on, has the same effect of distancing the writer and the reader from the superficial mystery. It opens other possibilities about the characters and the crime they have been caught up in, or a deeper interpretation of the world the characters live in, as well as other facts and the relevance of the clues.
Many readers say they enjoy the puzzle, though. There are clearly no answers to this.
I have prepared the ground because I knew we were moving towards some kind of final confrontation.
I had slept well overnight and I was up and alert. I was waiting for Jo to call me from Salay Ewwel to tell me she was boarding one of the inter-island shuttle flights. But earlier in the morning Spoder used the landline to tell me that Enver Jeksid had discovered my address, and that he wanted Spoder to come with him to the house straight away. I told Spoder that I would not be there, that I was meeting Jo at the airport. But it seemed inevitable that sooner or later the story of the Dearth police and their string of old murders was going to come to a head.
I braced myself for an anticlimax, but not eagerly.
Jo was one of the first passengers to appear through the arrivals gate. She was laden down. She was tugging a large wheeled case I had not seen before, as well as her usual travelling bags. I rushed to help her, and we stood hugging for a long time.
In the car she talked excitedly of what she had done and achieved, the people she met, the project she was working on, the future plans.
‘Does this mean you will have to take more trips to Muriseay?’ I said.
‘Only occasionally. No more long visits, anyway. I’ll be submitting my designs online. It’s all worked out. We’ve shared software, and they’ve set up a protected internet page where we can discuss ideas. I’ll probably have to go back to the theatre for dress and technical rehearsals, and the opening, but mostly I’ll be working from home. When I go next time, you could come with me?’
Maybe I should. Long ago, Jo and I had agreed we would not routinely accompany each other on work trips away from home. There were a few exceptions, but most of our visits to festivals, artshow openings, conferences, gallery parties, conventions, etc., were taken alone. The trouble and intrusion of unnecessary work-related travel was most of what we wanted to avoid – my recent trip to Dearth was a case in point. It would have been a complete waste of time for Jo. But in recent months, now she was branching out, Jo had started taking on some adventurous and interesting commissions. She clearly wanted to share them with me. I was more than willing. It would be fun travelling with Jo when she was doing so well.
She showed me some coloured sketches she had made of the set designs she was working on. Because I was driving I could only glance at them while she held them up. I said I would look properly later.
We skirted around Raba City on the freeway, the glass towers of the financial district glittering in the sun.
I said: ‘I should warn you. When we get home we’re likely to be receiving some visitors.’
‘Not Spoder?’
‘Spoder, yes . . . and one other.’
‘Not today, Todd. Please put him off! I’ve been on planes for ages. I haven’t eaten a proper meal for hours, I want to shower, wash my hair, change my clothes—’
‘This is going to a be a short visit, I promise you. You don’t have to talk to him, even see him.’
‘No, Todd. I’m too tired and hungry to have Spoder around the house. I just want a quiet day at home. That bloody motorcycle.’
‘We can stop somewhere on the way and find something to eat. Then when we arrive home, you don’t have to see Spoder. I’ll take him out to the patio. I’ll get rid of him as soon as I can.’
‘Why not tell him to come back another day?’
‘It’s not possible this time.’
After a short silence, Jo said: ‘Is this something to do with those old murder cases you said you’ve been researching?’
‘Yes – but this is the end. I need just a few minutes, and he and the other person will be gone.’
‘Who is this other person?’
‘He’s called Enver Jeksid. Maybe I haven’t mentioned him to you before. He’s one of the police who was involved.’ I could not remember at that moment how much I had kept Jo abreast of the story. ‘I have to meet him – he’s come to Raba specially to see me. I’ll get rid of them both quickly.’
We stopped at a roadside restaurant we both knew well. Nothing more was said about the imminent visit. Sitting opposite her I could see she was elated by her successful trip, but that she was exhausted after the long flight. I knew and understood how Jo felt about my involvement with all those Dearth cops. I had said to her I would be concentrating on my novel again. I felt guilty, slightly deceitful. I did not want to ruin the pleasure of her return. It was an unfortunate clash of private life and work life, but not really even that. The Dearth murders, as I
now thought of them, had become a kind of displacement activity away from my writing, my real work life.
A little under an hour later we continued. It was not far to the house. As I turned the car into the access road that runs behind our house I saw a Raba City taxicab driving out. I paused to let it pass. When we reached our house we could see two men were standing outside, looking expectant, as if they had just hammered on the door.
One was of course Spoder – the other? If I had had a mental image of Enver Jeksid before then, it was replaced forever by the reality. Jeksid was a short man, slight of build. He had his back towards me when I first saw him, and when he turned he did so with physical awkwardness, as if he had a damaged hip or knee or foot. He was leaning on a metal cane. He had a small sand-coloured moustache, and his grey hair had thinned to a few patches across his narrow head.
Jo said: ‘Oh, please! I wish you hadn’t arranged this today, Todd.’
‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t set it up. Spoder called this morning, just as I was about to drive to the airport to collect you.’
‘I’m going to take a shower, and keep out of the way. I’ll see you later. Don’t offer them food, OK?’
She let herself out of the car, walked quickly past the two men, giving a brief smile of recognition to Spoder and a polite nod to Jeksid, then let herself in with her key. I followed her.
I led the two men through the house, then outside to the decked patio. I was mildly annoyed to discover that I had left the house without closing the large window door that led from my study to the patio. It was hanging wide open. When I pushed it closed, it swung open again on its hinges. For some reason it stubbed against the frame. I was trying not to regard Jeksid too closely, but I felt that nothing about his physical appearance could have been guessed from the account he wrote of Hari Harsent’s killing. But then why should it have done? He was describing what he did, not what he saw in the mirror. All the assumptions were mine.
He walked slowly, favouring his left side over the right. I wondered if he had suffered a stroke, or was just developing the physical weaknesses that often hit in later years. The other day I had estimated his present age at . . . what? Sixty-two, I thought, which was not by modern standards the depths of old age. He looked older than that, more frail.
I keep only the two folding chairs on the patio, as well as a low table, but remembering the promise of a short visit I had made to Jo I did not offer them seats. Jeksid stood close to the edge of the deck, leaning on his cane.
‘You’re Enver Jeksid,’ I said. ‘Former detective serjeant with the Dearth police.’
‘Yes.’ His voice was louder and clearer than I had expected.
‘Well, I am Todd Fremde and I understand you have been trying to find me. I must ask you to make this quick, as I have plans to spend the afternoon with my partner.’
Spoder spoke across me. ‘Sir, I should warn you that I believe Jeksid is carrying a weapon.’
Jeksid raised his arms, so that his jacket parted at the front. There was no belt holster around his waist. He lowered his arms quickly, placing his weight on his cane again.
‘No, I am not,’ he said. ‘He has no reason to suspect me of that. I am here because I want some information.’
‘He is wearing a shoulder holster under his jacket,’ Spoder said.
‘That’s not true,’ Jeksid said, but made no effort to disprove it.
‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what it is you want.’
‘My life has been ruined,’ he said. ‘I consider you to be partly to blame. Both my sons were murdered. Their mother left me for another man, someone much richer than me, and now she is dead too. I worked hard for the police for more than thirty years, but they cashiered me out of the force because they suspected me of what they called a serious transgression. I was believed to have killed another police officer, who was working undercover. They had absolutely no evidence I was involved, no proof. I was completely innocent. I was sacked without an honourable discharge. They even cancelled my pension. I moved away from my home island, Dearth, and since then I have lived peacefully on Salay Tielet, the third. I blame you for none of these events. But my only source of income is a private trust fund, and that has lost all its value. It is now worthless. I know you are responsible for that because you stole a software card from a hotel in Dearth City and have been using it to hack into the banks that support me.’
He was not telling the whole truth. I had read his confession – as Spoder had told me at the outset, it was not only an account of what he had done, but also a boastful claim about skilful concealment of evidence. If he was prevaricating about that now, what else was a distortion?
Spoder, standing to one side by the table, said: ‘There is some evidence that the high economy is recovering. Most banks are about to restore people’s accounts. I heard it on television this morning.’
‘No, that’s not true,’ Jeksid said. He turned back towards me. ‘And it’s irrelevant to what you have done to me. I’m bankrupt, and I need you to do something about it.’
‘I think it’s just a matter of time,’ Spoder said. ‘One of the biggest investment banks in Raba has discovered software errors that were probably responsible. Or partly responsible. This bank is the central lender for many of the trust funds and annuity holders.’
‘That’s too late for me. My money’s gone. I want payback.’
At that moment I heard the sound which I had recently come to associate with a woman I hoped never to see again: there was the loud growl of a highly tuned car engine, close to the house. I listened, hoping it was the souped-up sports car of one of the rich kids who from time to time drove at insane speeds along our streets, but this time the engine cut out.
I said: ‘Wait here!’
I hurried towards my study. The door was still open – I invariably kept it closed. As I went through and by habit pulled it behind me I heard the door banging against the frame. As soon as I was through the doorway my foot caught against a raised floorboard, standing proud from the rest of the floor by a couple of centimetres. I tripped and sprawled forward. I managed to catch hold of myself on the edge of my desk, so I did not crash to the floor. But who had moved my desk? It was normally never as close to the patio door as this. My desktop computer was where it should be, but the power lead was stretched tight from the socket on the wall to the back of the case. It usually lay untidily across my floor – I stepped over it a dozen times a day. It was a hazard now, stretched so tightly, so I tugged the cable out of the wall socket and laid it on the floor.
I hurried through the rest of the house. Who had opened the corridor windows? There was a mirror in the hallway, cracked from side to side: a jagged line across the pane, but the glass itself had not fallen out of the frame.
I rushed outside. Frejah’s black sportster had squeezed past my own car and was now stationary on the gravel hardstanding. The engine was not running, but the gull wing door on the driver’s side was fully raised. Frejah was inside, straining to clamber out. I went to stand beside her.
I said: ‘Would you like me to help you out of the car?’
‘This time, yes.’
‘Why are you here?’
‘You will find out. I’ve come for Jeksid. He’s carrying a huge grudge against you, as well as against me. You mustn’t listen to him.’
I gave her both my hands, and she used them to pull herself upright from the moulded car seat. I noticed that her damaged hand was still bandaged – she positioned it so that I gripped her wrist as I helped her up.
Once she was up she straightened her back and legs, but the imperious posture I had noticed when I first met her was gone. She hunched her shoulders, she held her head at a slight angle. She flashed a serious look at me, then went back towards the car. She leaned forward, reached inside. When she turned towards me again she was brandishing the gun I had seen stored in the car’s trunk.
She was not pointing it at me, but the sight of it was frightening. I
moved back from her.
‘Put that away, Frejah,’ I said. ‘You don’t need that.’
‘I need it,’ she said. ‘Jeksid is here, isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He killed my husband, and he carries a gun everywhere. I’m not going near him without this.’
‘He’s already denied that he’s carrying a gun.’
‘So am I. You’re imagining it. OK?’
She pushed brusquely away from me, past me, and went up the steps into my house. I followed her closely. At the far end, along the central corridor to the left, I could hear the sound of Jo playing music on the radio. The shower was running, but the door was still open. Frejah appeared to be about to set off in that direction.
I said, quickly, pointing towards my study: ‘If you want Jeksid, he’s this way.’
She walked ahead of me. I noticed she was limping. Jeksid limped too. I had a random thought: had Frejah sent two of her own goons to beat him up?
It was absurd. It was terrifying, but still absurd.
Two people old enough to know better, both becoming physically frail, both carrying loaded guns, heading for a confrontation in my house, on my patio, the place where I normally sat around in pursuit of doing nothing, and where Barmi liked to crawl on to my lap and fall warmly asleep. My house, my property – these people had no business here. My partner was in the house, unaware of what was going on.
I should take control of the situation, demand that they put down their weapons, tell them to get the hell out . . . but I felt ineffectual. I knew no more how to handle this real situation than I was able to write similar scenes convincingly in my fiction. People sometimes commended me for the cerebral nature of my plots, the internalizing, the insights into motives and feelings. What they did not know was that I shied away from the violent clichés that appeared in so many crime novels because I was hopeless at writing them. When details of criminal activities were needed I took some ideas from Spoder, wrote down what he told me, let him check the passage before I finalized the book.
The Evidence Page 27