‘Mr Pearson? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking . . .’
‘It’s all right, Tom. No need to worry.’ Trying to calm the young manager, I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘The hatchway on the third floor. I take it the shots came from there?’
‘That’s correct.’ Carradine steadied himself with a visible effort of will. He stiffened his neck and breathed deeply to a count of six. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this reconstruction. He spoke rapidly, as if reading from a press handout. ‘Two bursts of fire, at 2.17 p.m., before anyone realized what had happened. Witnesses say everyone stopped and listened to the echoes, thinking they were more shots.’
‘And then?’
‘Then? Total panic. All the down escalators were full, people on the upper floors were fighting to get into the lifts. It took us three days to identify all the shopping bags left behind. You can imagine the scene, Mr Pearson.’
‘Sadly, I can.’
‘Two people died instantly—Mrs Holden, a local pensioner, and a Mr Mickiewicz, a Polish visitor. Your father and fifteen others were wounded.’ Carradine clenched his fists, ignoring the shoppers who paused to listen to him, under the impression that he was leading a conducted tour. ‘It was so crowded, Mr Pearson. You have to understand the gunman couldn’t miss.’
‘That must have been his idea. The lunchtime surge.’ I gazed around the concourse, and imagined a gunman opening fire at random. ‘It’s surprising more people weren’t hit.’
‘Well . . .’ Carradine nodded ruefully as a middle-aged woman with two heavy shopping bags strained forward to whisper to him. ‘The bears were hit.’
‘The bears?’
‘The Three Bears . . . the Metro-Centre mascots. People were very affected . . .’
Carradine pointed to the centre of the concourse. On a circular plinth stood three giant teddy bears. The father bear was at least fifteen feet tall, his plump torso and limbs covered with a lustrous brown fur. Mother and baby bear stood beside him, paws raised to the shoppers, as if ready to make a consumer affairs announcement about the porridge supply.
‘Impressive,’ I said. ‘Completely bear-like. They look as if they can speak.’
‘They can’t speak, but they can move. They dance to the music. “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” was their favourite.’ Soberly, Carradine added: ‘We switched off the motors. Out of consideration . . .’
‘Sensitive of you. And the bears were hit? I’m glad they weren’t seriously injured.’
‘It was a close thing.’ Carradine pointed to the rounded abdomen of the mother bear, and to the left ear of the father bear. Darker squares of fur had been stitched over the original fabric, giving both creatures a rather rumpled look, as if they had been scuffling over the breakfast table. ‘Our customers were very upset. They sent in hundreds of letters, get-well cards . . .’
Without thinking, we had walked over to the bears. I noticed the cards decorating the plinth, many carrying messages in adult handwriting. There were flowers, a row of miniature teddy bears, one wearing a tiny St George’s shirt, and a dozen jars of honey and treacle.
Listening to myself, I said: ‘It’s almost a shrine.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Let’s move on.’ I beckoned Carradine away from the stuffed trio, though I was aware that my sympathy for the bears had brought us closer together. ‘It’s a pity about the bears, but they seem to be well cared for. Now, which of these escalators did my father take?’
‘He didn’t take an escalator, Mr Pearson.’
‘Sergeant Falconer said he was going up to the third floor. He bought his tobacco from a shop . . .’
‘Dunhill’s. But not that morning. He took the staircase to the exhibition area.’
A mezzanine deck jutted over the concourse between the ground and first floors, reached by a staircase with white rails. There was an observation platform where shoppers could rest and look down on the crowds below. A section of the mezzanine was a public gallery, hung with dioramas of new housing estates and science parks.
‘We donate the space to local businesses,’ Carradine explained. ‘It’s part of our public education programme.’
‘Enlightened of you.’ I waited for Carradine to inhale deeply. ‘Now, where was my father shot?’
Without speaking, Carradine pointed to the observation platform. He had begun to sweat copiously, and buttoned his jacket, trying to hide the damp stain under his tie. He watched me stiffly when I climbed the dozen steps to the platform, then turned and fixed his gaze on the giant bears.
I stood on the platform, almost expecting to see my father’s blood staining the metal floor. He had spent his last moments resting against the rail, tired by his walk to the Metro-Centre. The fire-control hatch was little more than twenty feet away, and I tried to imagine a bullet passing through my head. Following its possible track, I noticed a shallow groove in the railing. The staircase had been repainted, but I placed my index finger in the groove, taking the last pulse of my father’s life, a final contact with a man I never knew.
‘MR PEARSON—everything all right?’ Carradine was relieved that the tour was over, an ordeal he had clearly never anticipated. ‘If we go to my office . . .’
‘I’m fine. You’ve earned yourself a stiff drink. First, though, I need to take a look at the fire-control point.’
‘Mr Pearson? That’s not a good idea. You might find it . . .’
I held his elbow and turned him to face the bears. A technician was working on the instrument panel inside the plinth, and the mother bear gave a skittish twitch, as if ducking another bullet. I said: ‘I need to see the whole picture. My father died in your store, Tom. You owe it to me and the bears.’
WE STOOD IN the narrow chamber behind the fire hose, the high-pressure pump and gas cylinders next to us. The hose would project a stream of foam at the pedestrian decks and smother any burning debris that fell from the roof. Leaning through the open hatch, I could see the observation platform, the mezzanine deck and the entire concourse.
‘Good. Tell me, Tom, how did Christie get in here?’
Carradine straightened his tortured body. The sweat from his hands left damp prints on the metal wall. ‘The fire crews have key cards. Christie must have stolen one from their locker room.’
‘It’s a miracle he made it here.’ We had emerged from a maze of service corridors, tunnels and freight elevators. ‘It’s not easy to find. Did Christie have a friend on the inside?’
‘Unthinkable, Mr Pearson.’ Carradine stared at me, shocked by the thought. ‘Christie is very devious. He was always hanging around.’
‘All the same, no one actually saw him fire the weapon. How did he smuggle it in here?’
‘Sergeant Falconer told me he hid it behind the gas cylinders.’
‘Sergeant Falconer? For someone so uptight she gets around . . .’
‘Two women leaving the staff toilet saw Christie run to the emergency exit. Several people recognized him in the car park.’
‘They all knew him?’
‘He’s a local troublemaker, a very nasty type.’
‘That’s the problem.’ I moved the foam gun in its gimbals, training the brass barrel on the bears. ‘All that screaming and panic—anyone running away would look like an assassin. Especially the local misfit.’
‘He’s guilty, Mr Pearson.’ Carradine nodded vigorously, his confidence returning. ‘They’ll convict him.’
I GAZED DOWN at the mezzanine, wondering what had drawn my father to a property developer’s pitch. Beyond the exhibition space, separated by chromium rails and a security gate, was a small television studio. There was a hospitality area of black leather sofas, and a circle of cameras and lighting arrays grouped around a commentator’s desk and the guest banquettes.
‘Consumer affairs programme,’ Carradine explained. ‘It’s very popular. Customers come on, talk about their shopping experiences. The Metro-Centre has its own cable channel. In the evenings we have highe
r ratings than BBC2.’
‘People go home and watch programmes about shopping?’
‘More than shopping, Mr Pearson. Health and lifestyle issues, sports, current affairs, key local concerns like asylum seekers . . .’
A monitor in the control room had come on, and a familiar face appeared, with the same deep tan and sympathetic smile that I had seen on the giant screens at the football stadium.
THE FACE FOLLOWED us around the dome, its sunbed charm glowing from the television screen in Carradine’s office, a windowless space deep in the dome’s administration area. As I sipped a double espresso, glad to sink my nose in its reassuring vapour, Carradine sorted through the photographs he had pulled from his filing cabinet.
He and his assistants had spent endless hours editing out any bloodstains or panic-filled faces. The surveillance-camera stills he passed to me showed a retreat as calm and heroic as Dunkirk, younger customers helping the elderly, uniformed staff guiding children towards their grateful parents. Spilled shopping bags, scattered groceries, a screaming three-year-old with a blood-smeared face were all cropped and consigned to that vast amnesia that the consumer world reserved for the past. At the sales counter, the human race’s greatest confrontation with existence, there were no yesterdays, no history to be relived, only an intense transactional present.
I dropped the photos on Carradine’s desk and turned to the television screen where the suntanned presenter was interviewing housewives about their experiences with a new reusable cat litter. I guessed that the recorded clip would not be appearing on air.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ I told Carradine. ‘Years ago. EastEnders, The Bill. He tended to play paedophiles and widowers who’d murdered their wives . . . it’s that faint shiftiness.’
‘David Cruise.’ At the sound of the name Carradine straightened his shoulders. ‘He runs the Metro-Centre cable channel. He’s very popular, our customers like him.’
‘I bet. He fronted a few product launches for us. I remember a cinema ad for a new micro-car. He was too big to get into it and we had to drop him. The television screen is small enough for him.’
‘He’s good. We’re all glad he’s here. The local constituency chairman thinks he’d make a great Member of Parliament.’
‘He would. Today’s politics is tailor-made for him. Smiles leaking everywhere, mood music, the sales campaign that gets rid of the need for a product. Even the shiftiness. People like to be conned. It reminds them that everything is a game. No disrespect—’
There was a rapid knock on the door and Carradine’s secretary burst in. Close to tears, she spoke urgently to Carradine, then paused by the door as he picked up his telephone.
‘Christie? What do you mean?’ As he listened he struck his mouth with the palm of his hand. ‘When? The court? Mr Pearson is here. How do I explain that?’
He held the receiver in one hand and carefully depressed the cradle with the other, staring at the photographs on his desk.
‘Tom? What’s the problem?’ I walked around the desk. ‘Family news?’
‘Your family.’ Carradine pointed the receiver at me. ‘Duncan Christie.’
‘What about him? Is he dead? Don’t tell me he hanged himself in his cell?’
‘He’s alive.’ Carradine stepped back, trying to leave as much space as possible between us. He stared in a level way at me, unsure whether I would be able to cope with his news. For the first time he no longer looked like a teenager. ‘Very much alive. There was a special court hearing this morning. It just ended. The magistrate discharged him. He ruled there was no case to answer.’
‘How? I don’t believe it.’ I seized the telephone receiver from Carradine and pressed it hard into its cradle, trying to silence this absurd oracle. ‘It’s a hoax. Or a cock-up, some legal blunder. They’re talking about a different case.’
‘No. It’s Duncan Christie. The Crown Prosecution Service offered no evidence. The police withdrew their charges. Three witnesses have come forward, saying they saw Christie in the South Gate entrance hall when the shots were fired. They picked him out in a line-up. Christie was nowhere near the mezzanine. I’m sorry, Mr Pearson . . .’
I turned away, and stared at the presenter still smiling and teasing his housewives. I felt dazed, but I noticed that David Cruise preferred his left profile, which concealed the receding hairline above his right temple. In an almost reassuring way, his soft and ingratiating presence offered the only reality in the absurd world that my father’s death and the Metro-Centre had created between them.
6
GOING HOME
I EXPECTED TO FIND a noisy crowd outside the magistrates’ court, but the police outnumbered the few spectators. Passers-by paused on the pavement opposite the court, but the last of the photographers were packing away their equipment, deprived of their target.
Tuning to the local radio bulletin as I drove from the Metro-Centre, I heard the news confirmed. I drummed my fists on the steering wheel, certain that the law had tripped over itself. I had seen Christie close enough to punch him, and his lolling head and wandering eyes, a visible attempt to escape from himself, convinced me that he was guilty. Somehow I had to overturn this misguided and ludicrous decision. The large vacuum left in my life by my father’s murder had now been invaded by another vacuum.
I left the Jensen on a double yellow line, waving to the policeman who studiously said nothing when I walked past him. I was climbing the courthouse steps when I saw Sergeant Falconer emerging through the doors. She recognized me and began to turn away, pretending to adjust her hair. Unable to escape, she rallied herself and took my arm in a firm grip.
‘Mr Pearson . . . ?’ Her mind seemed miles away, but she steered me into the lobby, past three uniformed constables rocking on their heels. ‘You’ve heard? It’s quieter in here. The public . . .’
‘Don’t worry, they’ve all gone shopping. No one seems upset, or surprised.’
‘Believe me, it’s a complete surprise.’ Sergeant Falconer studied my face, relieved to find me on the edge of anger, an emotion with which her training had taught her to cope. She led me to a bench. ‘Let’s sit here. I’ll do my best to give you any details.’
‘Can’t we go in? Civic awareness, and all that. Everyone should observe a miscarriage of justice.’
‘The court is closed.’ She smiled in a sisterly way and touched my arm. ‘Mr Christie may be coming out soon. Is that all right . . . ?’
‘Fine. He’s innocent, isn’t he?’ I watched the constables sauntering about the steps, truncheons reluctantly sheathed, like salesmen deprived of their customers. Without thinking, I said: ‘The police sell violence.’
‘What?’
‘The idea of violence.’ I laughed to myself. ‘Sorry, Sergeant.’
‘You’re upset. It’s understandable.’
‘Well . . .’ I calmed myself, touched by her close interest. ‘Half an hour ago I was sure who had killed my father, and why. A mental patient with a grudge against a shopping mall. Now, suddenly, it’s a mystery again. Brooklands, the M25, these motorway towns. They’re damned strange places. Nothing is what it seems.’
‘That’s why people move here. The suburbs are the last great mystery.’
‘Is that the reason you’re leaving?’ I took her hand, surprised by its almost feverish warmth. There was an operation scar on the knuckle of her ring finger, the trace of an old tendon injury left by some hooligan with a beer bottle. Or had a tenacious engagement ring been surgically removed, her body holding on to a passion that her quirky mind repressed? Sergeant Falconer was wary and defensive, and not only about the confused police investigation into my father’s death. I knew that she wanted me out, safely back in central London, but I sensed that she wanted herself out, free from whatever web was spinning itself around her.
‘Mr Pearson? You fell asleep for a moment.’
‘Right. I’m sorry. These witnesses who came forward—who are they? Greens, hunt saboteurs, pot-smoking hippies?
I take it they’re friends of Christie’s. How reliable are they?’
‘Totally. No greens or hippies. They’re all people of good standing. Respectable local professionals—a doctor at Brooklands Hospital, a head teacher, the psychiatrist at the secure unit who treated Christie.’
‘His own psychiatrist?’
‘All of them saw him in the South Gate entrance hall when they heard the shooting. He was only a few feet away.’
‘They recognized Christie? What about the earlier witnesses?’
‘Unreliable. One or two people saw him running across the car park, but by then everybody was running away.’
‘So . . .’ I leaned back in sheer fatigue and stared at the heavy ceiling. ‘If Christie didn’t kill my father . . . ?’
‘Someone else did. Brooklands CID are working twenty-four hours a day. We’ll find him. Go back to London, Mr Pearson. You didn’t really know your father. It’s too late to start creating a whole lifetime’s memories of him.’
‘That’s a little callous, Sergeant. There’s always been a space in my life, and now I’m trying to fill it. One last thing. I saw you in Geoffrey Fairfax’s office after the riot at the police station. He read my father’s will and took me through his estate. When I left, you were heating milk for Mrs Christie’s daughter.’
‘So?’ Sergeant Falconer watched me in the coolest way. ‘I was part of the child protection unit assigned to Christie’s next of kin.’
‘In Fairfax’s office?’ I raised my hands to the air. ‘He claimed that he no longer represented Christie. But he’s still giving shelter to a murderer’s wife.’
‘Mr Fairfax had helped her before. With pocket money, hotel charges. He paid for her to take her baby on holiday. It’s called charity, Mr Pearson. The better-off people in Brooklands still try to help the less fortunate.’
‘Decent of them. Though Geoffrey Fairfax doesn’t strike me as the charitable type. Territorial Army, riding to hounds, shotgun next to his desk. From what I saw, he’s a bit of a fascist bully-boy. How on earth did he represent someone like Duncan Christie?’
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