“Well, you know what a Luddite I am when it comes to computers,” Gristhorpe said. “But it could have been something obvious to her. She didn’t have to understand it fully, just recognize a reference, a name or something. Perhaps someone else she knew was involved?”
“Okay,” said Banks. “But we’re letting our imaginations run away with us. Would Clayton even be likely to enter such important information in his notebook? Anyway, I’ve got a simple suggestion: why don’t we bring Spinks in? See if we can’t get the truth out of him?”
“Good idea,” said Gristhorpe.
“And this time,” Banks added, “I think we might even have something to bargain with.”
II
Where was he? Swiss Cottage, that was it. London. The cash register rang and the swell of small-talk and laughter rolled up and down. He thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder from outside, feel the tension before the storm, that electrical smell in the air, like burning dust in church.
After the police set him free he had gone back home, pushed through the throng of reporters, then got in his car and driven off, leaving everything behind. He hadn’t known where he was heading, at least not consciously. Mostly, he was still in a daze over what had happened: not only his release, but the fact that someone must have deliberately set out to frame him.
And, as he told the police, the only person who hated him that much was Michelle.
They didn’t seem to suspect her-they were sure it was a man, for a start-but Owen knew her better. He wouldn’t put it past her. If she hadn’t done it herself she might have enlisted someone, used her sex to manipulate some poor, sick bastard, the way she did so well.
So with these thoughts half-formed, one moment seeming utterly fantastic and absurd and the next feeling so real they had to be true, he had found himself heading for London, and now he was drinking in Swiss Cottage, trying to pluck up courage to go and challenge Michelle directly.
He was interested to find out what she would have to say if he turned up on her doorstep. Even if she hadn’t engineered the murders to discredit him, she had slandered him in the newspapers. He knew that for a fact. Oh, yes. He was looking forward to hearing what she had to say for herself.
“Are you all right, mate?”
“Pardon?” It was the man next to him. He had turned his head in Owen’s direction.
“I said are you all right?”
“Yes, yes…fine.” Owen realized he must have been muttering to himself. The man gave him a suspicious look and turned away.
Time to go. It was nine o’clock. What day of the week? Tuesday? Wednesday? Did it really matter? There was a good chance she’d be in. People who work nine-to-five usually stay in on weeknights, or at least get home early.
He found the telephone and the well-thumbed directory hanging beside it. Some of the pages had been torn out or defaced with felt-tipped pens, but not the one that counted. He slid his finger down until he came to her name: Chappel. No first name, just the initials, M.E. Michelle Elizabeth. There was her number.
Owen’s chest tightened as he searched his pockets for a coin. He felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall a moment before dialing. Two men passed on their way out and gave him funny looks. When they had gone, he took four deep breaths to steady himself, picked up the phone, put the coin in and dialed. He let it ring once, twice, three times, four, and on the fifth ring a woman’s voice said, rather testily, “Yes, who is it?”
It was her voice. No doubt about it. Owen would recognize that reedy quality with its little-girlish hint of a lisp anywhere.
He held the phone away and heard her repeat the question more loudly-“Look, who is it?”
After he still said nothing, she said, “Pervert,” and hung up on him.
Owen looked at the receiver for a moment, then he smiled and walked out into the gathering storm.
III
John Spinks didn’t seem particularly surprised to find himself back at Eastvale nick shortly after dark that evening. As predicted, he had been at the Swainsdale Center bragging to his mates about how he spent the weekend in jail and gone up before the magistrate. The arrival of two large uniformed officers only added more credibility to his tales, and he got quite a laugh, the officers told Banks, when he stuck out his hands for the cuffs, just like he’d seen people do on television.
He did look surprised, however, to find himself in Banks’s office rather than a smelly interview room. And he looked even more surprised when Banks offered unlimited coffee, cigarettes and biscuits.
Gristhorpe and Banks had decided to tackle him together, to attempt a good-cop bad-cop approach. Spinks already knew Banks, but the superintendent was an unknown quantity, and though his baby blue eyes had instilled fear into more villains than a set of thumbscrews, Gristhorpe could appear the very model of benevolence. He also outranked Banks, which was another card to play. They had Stafford Oakes waiting in Gristhorpe’s own office, should their plan be successful.
“Right, John,” said Banks, “I won’t beat about the bush. You’re in trouble, a lot of trouble.”
Spinks sniffed as if trouble were his business. “Yeah, right.”
“Not only have we got you on taking and driving away,” Banks went on, “but when our men searched your house, they found sufficient quantities of crack cocaine, Ecstasy and LSD for us to bring some serious drug-dealing charges against you.”
“I told you, that stuff wasn’t mine.”
“Whose was it, then?”
“I don’t know her name. Just some slag spent the night there. She must’ve forgotten it.”
“You expect me to believe that someone would leave a fortune in drugs behind? In your bedroom? Come off it, John, that stuff’s yours until someone else claims it, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”
Spinks bit on his lower lip. He was starting to look less like a Hollywood dream-boy and more like a frightened teenager. A lock of hair slid over his eye; he started chewing his fingernails. Bravado could only take someone so far, Banks thought, but he knew it would be a mistake to act as if he were shooting fish in a barrel. Stupidity, along with stubbornness, can be valuable resources when all the big guns are turned on you. And they had served Spinks well for eighteen years.
“Got anything to say?” Banks asked.
Spinks shrugged. “I told you. It’s not mine. You can’t prove it is.”
“We can prove whatever we want,” Banks said. “A judge or a jury has only to take one look at you to throw away the key.”
“My brief says-”
“These legal-aid briefs are about as useful as a sieve in a flood, John. You ought to know that. Overworked and underpaid.”
“Yeah, well, my brief says you can’t pin it on me. The drugs.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “She did? That’s really bad news, John,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought things were pretty bad, but I didn’t realize that lawyers were setting up in practice before they even finished their degrees these days.”
“Ha fucking ha.”
The other chair creaked as Gristhorpe leaned forward. “My chief inspector might be acting a little harshly towards you, son,” he said. “See, it’s personal with him. He lost a son to drugs.”
Spinks squinted at Banks. “Tracy never said nothing about that.”
“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” said Banks quickly. They had decided to improvise according to responses and circumstances, but Gristhorpe had thrown him a spinner here. He smiled to himself. Why not? Play the game. As far as he knew, Brian was alive and well and still studying architecture in Portsmouth, but there was no reason for Spinks to know that.
“Like everyone his age,” Banks went on, “he thought he was immortal, indestructible. He thought it couldn’t happen to him. Anyone else, sure. But not him.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Now, I don’t give a tinker’s whether you smoke so much crack your brains blow out of your arsehole, but I do care very
much that you’re selling to others, especially to a crowd that at one time included my daughter. Do we understand one another?”
Spinks shifted in his chair. “What’s this all about? What you after? A confession? I’m not saying anything. My brief-”
“Fuck your brief,” said Banks, thumping the rickety metal desk. “And fuck you! Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Spinks looked rattled. Gristhorpe cut in again and said to Banks, “I don’t think it’s really appropriate to talk that way to Mr. Spinks, Chief Inspector,” he said. “I’m sure he understands you perfectly well.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Banks, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Got a bit carried away.” He fumbled for a cigarette and lit it.
“You his boss?” Spinks asked, turning, wide-eyed, to look at Gristhorpe. “He called you ‘sir.’”
“I thought I’d already made that clear,” Gristhorpe said, then he winked. “Don’t worry, son. I won’t let him off his leash.”
He looked back at Banks, who had removed his jacket and was loosening his tie. “He ought to be locked up, that one,” Spinks went on, emboldened. “And his mate. The fat one. Hit me once, he did. Bounced my nose off a fucking table.”
“Aye, well, people get carried away sometimes,” said Gristhorpe. “Stress of the job. The thing is, though, that he’s right in a way. You are in a lot of trouble. Right now, we’re about the only friends you’ve got.”
“Friends?”
“Yes,” said Banks, catching his attention again. “Believe it or not, John, I’m going to do you the biggest favor anyone’s ever done you in your life.”
Spinks narrowed his eyes. “Oh yeah? Why should I believe you?”
“You should. In years to come you might even thank me for it. You’re eighteen now, John, there’s no getting around that. With the kind of charges you’re looking at, you’ll go to jail, no doubt about it. Hard time. Now I know you’re a big boy, a tough guy and all the rest, but think about it. Think. It’s not only a matter of getting buggered morning, afternoon and evening, of giving blow-jobs at knife-point, maybe catching AIDS, but it’s a life of total deprivation, John. The food’s lousy, the plumbing stinks and there’s no-one to complain to. And when you get out-if you get out-however many years later, you’ll have lost a good part of your youth. All you’ll know is prison life. And you know what, John? You’ll be back in there like a flash. It’s called recidivism. Look it up, John. Call it a sort of death wish, but someone like you gets institutionalized and he can’t survive on the outside. He gets to need jail. And as for the blow-jobs and the buggery…” Banks shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you’d even get to like that after a while.”
Banks’s monologue produced no discernible effect on Spinks, as he had suspected it wouldn’t. It was intended only to soften him to the point of accepting a deal. Banks knew that Spinks was already doomed to exactly the kind of existence he had just laid out for him, but that he couldn’t, wouldn’t, recognize the fact, and wasn’t capable of making the changes necessary to avoid it.
No. What they were about to offer was simple, temporary relief, the chance for Spinks to walk free and keep on doing exactly what he was doing until the next time he got caught, if he didn’t kill himself or someone else first. A sprat to catch a mackerel. Very sad, but very true.
“So what is this big favor you’re going to do me?”
“First,” said Banks, “you’re going to tell us the truth about what happened last August. You’re going to tell us how you stole Michael Clayton’s car and his computer and exactly what happened after that.”
Spinks paled a little but stood his ground. “Why would I want to do something like that?”
“To avoid jail.”
“You mean confess to one crime and get off on another one?”
“Something like that.”
“Christ, you’re worse than the bloody criminals, you lot are.” He turned to Gristhorpe. “Can he do that?” he asked. “Has he got the authority?”
“I have,” said Gristhorpe softly. “I’m a superintendent, remember?”
“Don’t we need a lawyer or something?”
“What’s wrong, John?” said Banks. “Don’t trust us?”
“I don’t trust you. Anyway, why talk to the monkey when the organ-grinder’s here?”
Banks smiled. It was working. And he hadn’t denied stealing Clayton’s car yet.
“There’s a Crown attorney in the building,” said Gristhorpe, “and he can deal with the particulars about the charges and likely sentences, if you want to talk to him.”
Spinks squinted. “Maybe I’ll do that. What’s the deal?”
“You tell us what we want to know,” said Gristhorpe, “and we’ll see you stay out of jail. Dealing becomes simple possession.”
“That’s not enough. I want all charges dropped.”
Gristhorpe shook his head. “Sorry, son. We can’t do that. You see, the paperwork’s already in the system.”
“You can lose it.”
“Maybe the odd sheet or two,” said Gristhorpe. “But not all of it. The lawyer will explain it.”
Spinks sat silently, brow furrowed in thought.
Banks stood up. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said to Gristhorpe. “I told you it was no use. His brain’s so addled he doesn’t even recognize a piece of good fortune when he trips over it. Besides, it makes me puke sitting with a drug-dealing moron like him. Let him go to jail. He belongs there. Let him catch AIDS. See if I care.” And he headed towards the door.
“Wait, just a minute,” said Spinks, holding his hand up. “Hold your horses. I haven’t said anything yet.”
“That’s the problem,” said Gristhorpe. “You’d better make your mind up quickly, sonny. You don’t get chances like this every day. We can probably get it down to probation, maybe a bit of community service, but you can’t just walk away from it.”
Spinks glared at Banks, who stood scowling with his hand on the doorknob, then looked back at Gristhorpe, all benevolence and forgiveness. Then he put his feet on Banks’s desk. “All right,” he said. “All right. You’ve got a deal. Get the brief in.”
IV
Large raindrops blotched the pavement when Owen left the pub. Lightning flickered in the north and the thunder grumbled like God’s empty stomach. The drinkers out on the muggy street hurried inside before the deluge arrived.
Owen felt light-headed after all the drinks, and he knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. Booze had made him just brave and foolhardy enough to face Michelle.
He walked along the main road past pubs and shops open late, head bowed, jacket collar turned up in a futile attempt to keep dry. Shop-lights and street-lights smeared the pavement and gutter. Hair that had been damp with sweat before was now plastered to his skull by rain.
He had forgotten exactly where he parked his car, but it didn’t matter. Michelle’s place couldn’t be far.
He stopped a young couple coming out of a pub and asked them where her street was. They gave him directions as they fiddled with their umbrella. As he suspected, it was only a couple of hundred yards up the road, then left, short right and left again. He thanked them and walked on, aware of them standing watching him from behind.
Now he knew he was going to see her, his mind shot off in all directions. She wouldn’t want to let him in, of course, not after what she had tried to do to him, not after what she had said about him.
Did he feel reckless enough to break in? Maybe. He didn’t know. Given the address, her flat would probably be in one of those three- or four-story London houses. Perhaps if he waited outside for her to go out, approached her in the street…She might have to go to the shop or go out to meet someone. But it was a bit late in the evening for that. Maybe if he waited until one of the other tenants went in, he could get to the door before it locked and at least gain entry to the building.
A white sports car honked as he crossed a sidestreet against a red light. He flicked the driver
the V sign, then caught his foot on the curb and stumbled, bumping into an elderly man walking his dog in the rain. The man gave him a dirty look, adjusted his spectacles and walked on.
He turned left where the couple had told him to and found himself the only pedestrian in quiet backstreets. The houses were all about three stories high, divided into flats, with a buzzer and intercom by the front door. It wouldn’t be easy.
Many rooms were lit, some without curtains, and as he walked he looked in the windows and saw fragments of blue wall, the top corner of a bookshelf, a framed Dali print, an ornate chandelier, flickering television pictures, two people talking, a cat sitting on the window-sill watching the rain-a panorama of life.
The walk had taken some of the steam out of Owen, but he still wanted to see Michelle face to face, if only to watch her squirm as he accused her of her crimes.
He climbed the steps and looked at the list by the door. M.E. Chappel, Flat 4. Would that be on the first or second floor? He didn’t know. He crossed the street and looked up. Both second-floor windows were in darkness, as were those on the ground floor. On the first floor, bluish light filtered through the curtains of one, and the other was open to reveal a William Morris wallpaper design. That wasn’t Michelle at all. The blue room was more like her.
He stood in the shadows wondering what to do. Rain drummed down, an oily sheen on the street. He didn’t feel as brave now as he had on leaving the pub. The booze had worn off, and he had a headache. He needed another drink, but it was close to eleven; the pubs would be closing. Besides, Michelle would probably be going to bed soon. Now he was here, he couldn’t wait until tomorrow.
A man and a woman huddled together under an umbrella approached the house, turned up the path and climbed the steps. The way they walked, Owen guessed they were a little tipsy. Probably unemployed and didn’t have to go to work in the morning. He shrank back into the shadows. The man said something, and the woman laughed. She shook out her umbrella over the steps. It wasn’t Michelle.
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