by Jane Goodall
Briony stood back out of the visibility range as Denis rang, then stepped forward to greet Vince first as he arrived at the door.
‘You remember me, Vince,’ she said, holding up her ID card. ‘And I’m sure you remember Denis. Can we come in a minute?’
‘I’m expecting someone at eleven,’ Vince replied, running a heavily ringed hand over his combed back hair.
‘Then we’ll get straight to the point, shall we?’ said Briony, walking in and picking the most upright chair to sit in. It was covered in fake zebra skin. ‘The blackout last night.’
Vince took his throne — a hanging chair in the centre of the room — while Denis remained standing, notebook at the ready.
‘I’ve had a report on that from my security officer,’ Vince began. ‘We’re getting a backup system installed for the electricity. Some of these new bands, they don’t have a clue, you see. It’s not that they’re using powerful equipment or anything, because they wouldn’t even know how — most of them. But they kick around and get their feet caught in the cables and — foof!’ He flicked his wrist and exposed a watch meant for public display. ‘But rest assured, we’re on to it.’
‘What exactly do you think was the matter last night, Vince? Who was playing?’ She held up a hand. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to tell us all the kooky names of the groups. We’ve got the list — I just want you to think about the particular band that was playing when the power went. That would have been Sudden Deff, is that right?’
‘According to my security officer, yes.’
‘What sort of an act do they do, then?’
Vince made a face. ‘I think “chaos” is the word they use for it. It’s all a lot of mouth, of course. I can’t see what there is to interest you in it, really
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ she said. ‘Who are they? What are their names?’
‘I dunno. John, John, John and John probably.’ He gave an exaggerated laugh. ‘They’re all called John, those punks, or every other one of them is. It’s sort of a standing joke.’
‘Is it now? Do you happen to know a John who’s responsible for this little publication?’ She held up a copy of Yeller.
‘Ah! The fanzines. There’s any number of those things. Spend your life trying to track down the brains behind all of them, but if it’s brains you’re looking for, it’d be slim pickings at the end of the trail.’
‘I asked you specifically, Vince, if you know who’s behind this particular enterprise.’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘All right. Let’s get back to the Suddens. I need names, Vince. Who signs up when they make the booking? I can’t imagine you’d be satisfied with just “John” written on the dotted line at the bottom of one of your contracts. Maybe we should take a look at the papers.’
Vince wagged a finger. ‘Now now Inspector. You haven’t got authority to go poking into my paperwork. You know that.’
‘But I could get it, Vince. You know that. So why not save us both a couple of trips round the mulberry bush.’
Anchoring himself with one foot on the ground, Vince set his chair moving in gentle circles. ‘Their manager’s a bloke called Flak. Signs himself Garry Flaxman, with an address in Slaidburn Street — parents’ address, of course, and you’d be very unlikely to find him there. But it shouldn’t be hard to track him down. He’s local and the sort of local everybody knows.’
‘Really? So what would they know about him?’
Vince started reversing his circles. ‘His dad was in show business. Used to do an act down at the Pheasantry with little Garry helping out. Pretty good act, from what I’ve heard. Conjuring. Garry picked up most of the sharper tricks — you know, all that fandango with the coins and the handkerchiefs, and the bunnies when they could keep them out of Grandma’s stew for long enough. Then he got himself a job in the circus and learnt some fancy stuff with fire and chains. Escapology is the trade name for it.’
Briony was making fast mental notes. ‘You said he’s the Suddens’ manager. Sounds to me like he’s more used to being on the stage than behind it. Is he part of the act?’ The watch flashed again, a sure sign that she had hit on a question Vince wasn’t so keen to answer. She leant back in her chair. ‘Tell us about it, Vince. We got plenty of time. Don’t worry about your guest. He’s welcome to join in the conversation when he arrives. Or she.’
The circling flattened into a sideways swing. ‘Flak does the escape act sometimes. But no fire. He’s been told we’re not licensed for that and if he starts any pyrotechnics he’s out on his ear with a reference that’ll get him barred from every licensed club in London.’
‘All right, so he doesn’t do fire. What does he do, then, to draw the crowds and blow your circuits?’
‘All I know is it’s some kind of escape act. I haven’t seen it, but the security staff tell me it involves winching himself up in chains or something. He calls it performance art. All part of life’s rich tapestry, Inspector.’ Vince stood up. ‘And rest assured we’re getting the power backup sorted out. He probably just dislodged a cable, but I’m not minded to have him turfed out for that. So far he’s been a perfectly acceptable client and I trust you’re not going to interfere with our business arrangements.’
‘Trust is a fine thing, isn’t it, Mr Telford? All right. We’ll let you get on with your social life.’
14
When Briony got back to the station there was a message from Steve. She sat at her desk, picked up the phone and let out a long, steady sigh as she dialled the number. He answered straightaway.
‘Briony. Clubs office tell me you had an incident down at the Triangle last night.’
‘Yes, we had an incident.’
‘Have you got anything to report?’
‘No, Steve, I haven’t. And do I have to expect you to come jumping in on every little thing that happens down this way now?’ She felt herself winding up for a confrontation. It was easier over the phone, and the morning had left her with more than a bit of pent-up frustration. Why shouldn’t he get the benefit of it? ‘I don’t particularly like the feeling of you looking over my shoulder, as a matter of fact. If you or Macready have got a case for me to investigate, I’ll investigate it. If you want information, ask for it. Don’t play games.’
Steve didn’t miss a beat. ‘Are you sure it’s not you playing games? I hear you’ve been sending scouts out to collect the fanzines.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘One of your best officers. Aidan Silvera. Just had a nice little chat with him on the phone.’
‘Aidan?’ Briony stopped for a moment to process this. ‘He’s not even due in at work yet.’
‘Then he’s early. As I said, one of your best officers.’
‘How come you know Aldan?’
‘I was called in last year to advise on the carnival situation at Notting Hill. Had a few very good discussions with him about it. Knows which way the wind’s blowing, does Aidan. Anyway, what’s in this new issue of Yeller? Any more happy snaps of Tremlay?’
‘Yes, the same one. But you’ll be pleased to know we don’t feature.’
‘Look. We need to go through that magazine with a fine-tooth comb. Or rather I do. I’ll drop round on my way to see Macready this afternoon and collect a copy.’
When she put the phone down, she realised she’d been clamping it against the side of her face and it had left her with a jaw ache. Surely she should have learned to deal with this kind of manipulation by now? Maybe it was all part of the same problem about asserting her authority — but hadn’t she just tried to do that? For some reason, it didn’t seem to work.
She got up and went over to the window, stretched her arms above her head and felt the pull through her shoulders and back. Then she bent forward and hung loose from her hips, taking slow, even breaths. One — two — three — four. She rolled back up through the spine, lifting her head last, and found she had made a decision. Phone Macready: that was the thing to do. If she had a
straight talk with him, she might at least get the ground rules sorted out. She still had the number for a direct call to his desk — a special privilege she’d so far resisted taking.
Picking up the phone again, she tossed it from hand to hand a couple of times before dialling through.
‘Williams!’ Briony could see in her mind’s eye the raised eyebrow, the half-smile. ‘I take it this is not a social call?’
‘I’ve been talking to Steve Latham, sir. Or rather, he’s been talking to me.’
‘Ah yes, the matter of the yellow pages.’
‘We’ve just picked up a new issue. Tremlay’s picture is inside the back cover.’
‘I see. And is there any repeat of the threat to certain members of Her Majesty’s police force?’
‘Not directly. Not that I can see.’
‘Very well.’ The brisk Aberdeen accent sharpened the diction on these two favourite words. The professional mask was back. ‘Pass it on to Latham. I’ll be seeing him this afternoon.’
‘Well actually, that’s why I’m ringing you, sir. I have to say I’m not happy about the way I’ve been briefed on this.’ There was silence on the other end of the line. ‘I feel in an awkward position.’ More silence. ‘I’m told I’m not on the case ... but I really don’t see how I can know about it and not do something about it, since all this seems to be happening in BD zone. If I come across new evidence, I can’t not follow up on it, if you see what I — ’
Macready cut her off. ‘The matter has been discussed with your detective chief superintendent, who recommended to me that you be spared the heat of this particular enquiry, in view of your already excessive case load. I agreed with him, but for different reasons. There could be risks for you because of your part in ending Maxwell Tremlay’s adventures.’
‘Steve Latham was equally involved in that case.’
‘As was I, Williams, if my memory serves me rightly. This is a matter on which you will have to defer to my judgement. However, I suggest we have a chat about the situation. I have a meeting at midday, but if you would care to come over here this afternoon at a quarter past three, I would have a little time to spare.’
Briony thought of Miss Jean Brodie’s comment about the headmistress seeking to intimidate people with the use of quarter hours. In the movie, it was said in an accent not unlike Macready’s.
What time was Steve’s appointment? It would be a bit awkward if she was going into Macready’s office as he was coming out.
It didn’t happen quite like that. Steve appeared in her doorway at half past twelve and asked her to go for lunch. Again she was struck by how hunched and tense he seemed. He always did look a bit that way, but she was in no doubt that this was something different.
‘What’s up?’ she asked spontaneously. She meant it as a personal question — after all, they’d known each other for years, been through some tough cases together. Even if he annoyed the hell out of her most of the time, she was attached to him in a funny sort of way.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. About me looking over your shoulder. I understand your need to be in control, seeing you’re probably gearing up for your next promotion and the fact that you’re a good card-carrying feminist and all that. But I’ve noticed you’re always very tense around me. I thought maybe we should talk about it.’
‘Me tense?’ She’d drawn breath to fire off a volley of home truths, but stopped herself. Looking at him standing there, jaw set, tapping rhythmically at the doorframe with a flexed palm, she knew there was something wrong. He had a habit of diagnosing his own problems by attributing them to someone else: that much she’d been able to figure out without the help of any psychology textbooks. She got up from her desk and grabbed her bag and keys. ‘Let’s get some lunch.’
The canteen was full and very noisy, and the ready-made plates of cheese and ham salad were sweating under their stretched plastic covers.
‘It always makes me suspect,’ said Steve, helping himself to dried-up liver and bacon from a metal tray, ‘that they train staff here for the autopsy room. Or vice versa.’ He held up the tongs for inspection. ‘And that these might have been forceps in a former life. What yer reckon?’
They found a table, free of humans but covered in messy plates, which they cleared onto the trolley. ‘I keep thinking I should start bringing my own lunch,’ she said.
Steve huffed. ‘You? I wouldn’t like to be dependent on the contents of your fridge for survival. I saw them once. It was a deeply pathetic sight. Now, about this Yeller business. I think I need to explain a couple of things to you.’ He sheared off a segment of liver and posted it in his mouth, then found himself chewing laboriously. Briony took the opportunity to head off the monologue.
‘How about I do a bit of explaining first? See, the Triangle’s one of our hot spots. We have to know what’s going on there, as a matter of course. I’m grateful to you for alerting me to this trade in fanzines and I intend to look into it, as part of the normal course of my work. As for the Tremlay connection, I’m happy to report anything I find direct to Macready, but as I said — ’ She was trying to pick the right words. ‘But as I said, I can’t have someone looking over my shoulder.’
‘“Someone” meaning yours truly.’ Steve pointed at his chest with his fork.
‘As I said.’
He carried on eating for a while, without responding further, then suddenly pushed his plate away. ‘I’m going to tell you something about Macready. You know he’s got this place in Hampstead? Backing onto the heath.’
Briony didn’t know anything of the sort. She realized she’d never actually thought about Macready having a home to go to, or a life of any sort outside work.
‘It’s a big house,’ Steve continued. ‘Must be worth a mint, though I don’t suppose that’s of any interest to him. A week ago it got broken into, while he was at work. Of course, the place has Yale locks, burglar alarm and all that, but somebody bypassed the lot. Disabled the alarm from the control box without leaving any fingerprints and managed to make an entry and an exit without any signs of breaking in. They must have done it about ten minutes after he left in the morning, because he got called up on the car intercom before he even arrived at work. Neighbours had rung the fire brigade. He raced straight back there and found a fire had blown out the windows of his study. The firemen got it under control but his study was an unholy mess, as you can imagine. Foam all over everything. Forensics were called in — Macready made sure Pavan’s in control of that — and the fire brigade did its own assessment. They reckon there was some kind of fuel in the blaze, to account for the concentration of heat and the speed at which it got going, but they couldn’t say what.’
Briony had been looking steadily at Steve throughout this narrative, and she knew there was more to come. ‘This happened a week ago?’ she said quietly. ‘And something’s happened to you, too, hasn’t it, Steve?’
He met her eye. ‘My flat in Islington was broken into last night. I went out to meet a friend. A date, to be explicit. The evening didn’t exactly work out and I got the 10.15 bus back to Islington. When I opened the front door, the flat was full of smoke. Someone had got in and set fire to my bed with an ordinary box of matches. There was an ugly black hole right in the middle, through all the blankets — this time it was a strategically controlled blaze.’
15
The two of them ended up travelling in the same car to Macready’s office in Paddington Green. Briony had decided to skip the ‘why didn’t you tell me in the first place’ routine. Time to unravel all that when they were in the same room together.
Steve was silent until they were approaching Paddington Station, then leant forward to talk to Aidan, who was driving. ‘Best if you stay on Bishop’s Bridge Road,’ he said. ‘Else you’ll get mixed up with all those taxis going to the station. You can drop us up the top there by the recreation ground. No need to wait.’
‘You given the orders now, is it?’ said Aidan cheerily. ‘Actin man
about the house. That right?’
‘Apparently,’ Briony chipped in. ‘But actually, Aidan, I think I would like you to wait.’
Steve raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, all right. But look, Briony — you’re going to have to let me see Macready first. Lay the groundwork. You can’t just go barging in when it’s me he’s expecting.’
There was no argument about that. She waited in the adjoining room while Steve was shown through to Macready’s office by an intimidating woman in a contoured grey suit. A secretary. Of course Macready would have a secretary. He’d gone up in the world, entering the realms where no one could get to you without passing through glass doors and fronting up to the keeper of the appointment book. The secretary didn’t actually ask who she was, so Briony just sat and studied the copy of Yeller, feeling the stern eye glancing rather too often in her direction. Steve emerged after about five minutes.
‘Okay, Briony,’ he said.
The stern glance became positively severe. ‘Excuse me,’ the woman addressed Steve. ‘Commander Macready has a three-fifteen appointment with Detective Inspector Williams. We must not keep him waiting, so I trust you won’t overrun your meeting time.’
Steve winked at Briony and slapped her on the back. ‘Come on, DI Williams,’ he said. ‘Lion’s waiting in his den.’
She walked into an office twice the size of any she’d seen so far in the Met, and there was Macready, seated at a massive desk near the far end, with a window behind him that looked out over the green.
‘So,’ he said, without rising to greet her as he usually did when she hadn’t seen him for a while. The eyebrows were arched high: he was annoyed. ‘Sit yourself down, Williams.’ She did so, aware of Steve’s gangly frame lapsing into a chair by the other side of the desk, and waited to be addressed. It was a long wait. Macready had a habit of using silences to make himself understood. For a second she caught Steve’s eye — the look of a fellow dog in the doghouse.