SHEPHERD’S PIE IS all Larry Lister ever eats in his upper-valley bolt-hole. Maybe the occasional Fray Bentos from a tin for a treat.
Christmas alone: so what. He has a freezer full of ready meals and a microwave and chocolate and a bottle of brandy and plenty to smoke. Plenty to watch. He could stay for weeks if he wanted to – and in the past he has done just that. Gone to ground. The first time was a year or two after he had his accountant buy the place. The first allegations had just been made and though they had managed to keep it all out of the papers he didn’t feel like showing his face for a while. All that smiling made his jaw ache.
In his absence – he considers it an exile – he had lost out on a telethon job. It was for one of the high-number channels but still. It was work; he was wanted and when he finally returned to London it was only after spending two days on a sun-bed. Told everyone he had been in the Caribbean. St Lucia: bloody beautiful.
When the meal is cooked he plates it and then heads up to the attic. He still feels a little exhilarated and anxious after the film. The ending never fails to surprise him. It never loses the capacity to make his heart race.
He selects another tape from the archive. Not one from his special collection – a normal one. He chooses at random and puts it into the VHS.
These tapes he will get transferred to disc as soon he can. Better still he could make a call and have someone from the corporation do it. A ripe young intern.
He presses play and sits down to eat some of his shepherd’s pie. He stands and then takes a salt shaker from his pocket and taps it over his plate and then sits again.
The video contains a collection of some of his guest appearances – a compilation that he recalls was put together by a ripe young intern many years ago. The tape spans the ages; it traces the evolution of television from the monochrome innocence of the swinging sixties’ earliest days (Cathy and Rosko and Cilla and Diddy) through the vibrant technicoloured seventies (Tarrant and Tarby and Cliff and the Cornflake) and onto the anarchic eighties (Noel and Wrighty and Rod and Timmy) then the glossy nineties.
The nineties was when things really changed. That was when the new breed came in. They all seemed to be called Jamie and Robbie and Kat and Zoe. Maggie’s kids had grown but they didn’t have her sense. No. This lot came from the other camp – the politically correct lefty loons. Stage-school shitheads most of them. Poofters the rest. Cunts the lot of them. He knew for a fact that on more than one occasion they’d tried to have him ousted but he was still a draw even then and it seemed the public’s (bless them) opinion still counted for something. They couldn’t dump old Uncle Larry. Hell no. There would have been an uproar. There would have been petitions. There would have been editorials in the one or two papers whose editors he had fat files on. He would have made sure of that.
The first clip is of him on The Good Old Days. Live from the City Varieties in Leeds. A top show was The Good Old Days. A right laugh. He sees himself in a green suit that he has no recollection of ever owning but which dates the clip to around 1979. He’s gatecrashed a magician’s slot and is walking about the stage like a chicken. Mugging for the camera. The magician is cracking up. Nearly pissing himself he is. But there’s fear in the little fucker’s eyes too. Fear of being upstaged. A Lovely Larry Lister speciality is that. Get in there. Throw a few proverbial firecrackers. Give the stage manager hell. Leap onto the lap of an old dear in the front row then do one out the back door. Engine still running.
The nineties was when they all started to steal his livewire format and he started spending more and more time back up north. He had reconnected with Mr Hood then. Rekindled something that went way back to the dancehalls and youth clubs. Different days; different ways of doing things. A powerful figure even then was Hood. But unlike him he was not one for the limelight. No Hood was a back-room guy. A behind-the-scenes string-puller. A doer – and feared too. Many a man had fallen at the feet of Hood without him having to raise a fist. Fear was his tool and he wielded it well. He’d seen the same thing in Ronnie and Reggie when he joined them for wild nights a decade or so later at one of their supper clubs; the three of them sat there with a dolly bird each in their laps and cigars jammed between their teeth. Of course Ronnie preferred the other but everyone has their peccadilloes and proclivities.
On the tape the magician is bundling Larry into a box. They’re improvising the old sword-spearing routine. But they’re stretching it out with jokes and banter and all the while Larry still has a cigarette in his mouth and he is laid back now blowing smoke rings right up as the magician sticks the swords in and the audience are loving it – bloody loving it – because it’s good entertainment it’s harmless and it’s primetime and it’s what they deserve it’s what they want and there was no health-and-safety shit back then and as the last sword goes in Larry turns and winks to the camera and he finds himself repeating the line now through a mouthful of lukewarm mince and mashed potato alongside his old self and the studio audience: keep smiling and be lucky.
He had looked out for him had Hood. Been good to him. When he saw that Larry’s career was flagging he reached out and invited him on board as a silent partner and to make use of his showbiz and charity connections. In turn he took full advantage of the speciality services that Mr Hood was able to facilitate. Went a bit mad on it for a while actually.
There is a noise from the VHS player – a whirring and a clicking – and then the image on the screen jams. It is held there flickering – an audience shot – faces forever young frozen in time. His braying paying public. Larry puts down his plate and stands. He thumps the top of the video player and time begins again.
BRINDLE PARKS UP and walks around the hamlet. He stops and looks. He walks past every house and then he takes the back tracks. The ancient lanes that cut through fields and lead up hills and disappear into sunken holloways. He stops again and stands on stiles and checks the angles. There is a breeze and he feels the cold under his layers. The sky is like television static. The disorder of nature is unsettling. He wants to be at home sitting in the dark drinking tea.
He looks up the slopes and down the valley and he keeps looking back at the Muncy place.
When his feet have gone numb he heads up there.
He goes alone. They suggested that a uniformed officer goes with him – someone local; someone who Ray knows – but Brindle says no. No one local. That’s the last thing he needs.
When he answers it is obvious to Brindle that Ray Muncy has already been told someone is coming up. Someone from the city. A detective. Him.
He ushers Brindle in and the detective is surprised to see that Muncy’s house is a gaudy new-build complete with mock pillars and ostentatious fittings. It is as if it has been transported brick by brick from the footballers’-wives corridors of Essex or Cheshire all the way to the edge of this obscure cleft in the earth. It is a residence that appears at odds with the old stone farmhouses and sheep folds and cottages that define the area. Transplanted is the word that springs to his mind. Tasteless is another. A tasteless transplanted money trap.
It is also in disarray. There are clothes scattered about and damp towels and plates with half-eaten meals on them. The superficial mess puts Brindle on edge. He wants to realign everything. He wants to wipe every surface. Impose order. Sterilise.
Muncy leads him through to the spacious living room. On the walls hang a number of framed inspirational slogans bellowing motivational platitudes like FAILURE IS A LESSON – LEARN FROM IT and THERE IS NO ‘I’ IN TEAM BUT THERE IS A ME and A MAN SHOULD NEVER NEGLECT HIS FAMILY FOR BUSINESS – WALT DISNEY. The slogans are printed in a childlike rainbow-coloured font. Comic Sans notes Brindle.
Drink?
Brindle reaches into his inside pocket.
I’d appreciate it if you could pop this into a cup of hot water.
What is it? asks Muncy.
Earl Grey.
We’ve got Earl Grey.
This one’s a particular herbal infusion says Brindl
e.
Muncy looks at the bag in his hand as if it were a tiny dead bird or a court summons.
Herbal infusion?
Some Earl Grey triggers my asthma says Brindle.
When he has left the room the detective looks out of the window and then at the photos of Melanie Muncy. Melanie on a beach as a child. Melanie on a horse. Melanie on Ray’s shoulders in what he can see is the back garden of this house.
The view from the living-room window is stunning. From this elevation he can see down the full funnelled length of the valley to where it broadens out to the flatter land where the town nestles two or three miles away. The dale is a white tunnel now that is patchworked by the lines of the old stone walls and the road that snakes downhill. Ray Muncy returns with Brindle’s tea.
What department are you with?
Brindle hesitates. He wants to tell the truth. The department of darkness. Cold Storage: home of maimings and murders. Mad shit. The stuff that will send your head west if you let it. Babies buried alive and prostitutes used like lab rats. Torture chambers in mini-cab-office back rooms. Limbs and organs scattered one hundred miles all the way across from the East Riding up to Pendle. Snuff films and worse.
Missing persons he says.
Good says Muncy. They say you’re one of the best.
I will do everything I can to find your daughter.
Where are you staying?
I stayed last night at a pub in town.
Which one?
In the square.
The Magnet?
Yes said Brindle. That’s the one.
Bull Mason’s place. Have you met Roy Pinder? He’s top boy up here.
Not any more thinks Brindle. Instead he says: yes – briefly.
Muncy’s face strains at this. Brindle struggles to interpret the meaning.
Are you going to help with the search party?
No says the detective.
No? Why not?
My job is not to organise a search party. That’s down to the officers on the ground – those that know the land. Roy Pinder. To search you of course need to be meticulous but ultimately I think that it also involves a certain amount of luck. The needle in the haystack.
Now wait a minute—
Please don’t be offended Mr Muncy. My role is to gather information and piece it together. I use facts rather than luck. Why search for something before you know it is even there? My skills are more logistic and forensic. Of course the groundwork is important but I like to step back from the microscope and see the wider picture so to speak.
There’s no reason for her running off says Muncy. That I do know. No explanation for her going off and not coming back. And I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking about me aren’t you? I’m not stupid. You’re looking at me. You’re wondering.
Brindle blows on his tea. Muncy has left the bag in.
My job is to look at everything he says.
I bet you’ve done your homework though haven’t you? I know the statistics: how often it is that there’s a family member involved.
Involved in what?
Now it is Muncy who is hesitating.
You know. Wrongdoings. Disappearances. Murders.
Well we don’t even know that any wrong has been done Mr Muncy. Out of respect to you and your wife murder is not a word I would think of using at this stage. And also because it is unfounded.
Good says Muncy leaning forward. And I’ll tell you now son: I’ve got nothing to hide. Plenty have but not me. Ask around. They all know me in the valley. I’ve got my enemies yes but haven’t we all?
I don’t know says Brindle. Have we?
All men have enemies.
Brindle looks at the wall above Muncy’s head. Sees another framed slogan. SHORT-TERM THINKING IS A CRIME.
I’m not sure that’s entirely true says the detective.
Judge me by the enemies I have made. Roosevelt said that. I bet you’ve picked up a few in your game.
Game?
The crime game.
These enemies says Brindle.
I’ve misled you says Muncy backtracking. I’m talking about business stuff here. Minor things. Nothing to do with this. Nothing to do with my Melanie. I’m nervous that’s all. Not slept. Tongues wag around here that’s all. There’s them with their secrets but I like to be upfront.
What business is it that you’re in Mr Muncy?
I started out years back with an MOT garage. Ran that for years down in town. Or the edge of anyway. You wouldn’t think there was brass round here but there is. There is. Provide a unique service that folk will always want to use – that’s the key. Specialisation. So then I opened up a petrol station next door. Fuel: that’s where the real money is. People will always need fuel. I’ve invested in a few other projects since. I part-own a couple of cafes. A property investment in the city. And we’ve got the campsite out the back. That brings in buttons but it gives June something to do. Is this relevant?
Everything is relevant. Any business partners?
No.
Brindle sips his tea and then adjusts the knot on his tie. Says:
So you think she had no cause to run away?
Muncy shrugs.
No. Of course not.
Brindle takes out his notepad and thumbs through it.
And she goes to boarding school in –
Ripon.
Oh yes. Slater’s Girls School. Would you describe your relationship with your daughter as a good one?
Very good.
And with Melanie’s mother?
Me or Melanie?
Either. Both.
Fine says Muncy. Melanie’s at school now so things have changed of course. She boards in term time. She has changed.
Melanie or your wife?
Muncy ponders the question.
Well both I suppose.
Is Mrs Muncy here?
She’s resting. All of this has taken its toll.
I gather your wife was unwell already?
June is sensitive that’s all. She has a fragile disposition. Look – no offence – is this the best you can come up with lad? I’ve already gone through this with some of the boys.
The boys?
Yes says Muncy. Pinder sent some of his gorillas up for a gentle grilling but I thought you were here to actually do something.
Brindle looks at the picture frame on the mantelpiece. ADMIT YOUR MISTAKES AND THEN MOVE ON. He thumbs through his pad again.
And what about people in the valley he says.
What about them?
Get on well with them do you? Your neighbours.
Most of them are sheep.
Brindle raises an eyebrow.
Sheep?
Yes says Muncy. You know: like the animal.
Right says Brindle. How?
Most of them have been here all their lives. They just follow what their fathers did – and their fathers before them. Me – I like to strive for more. I’ve travelled as well you know. South America. The Far East. Florida three times.
Are there any people around here who strike you as suspicious Mr Muncy? Odd I mean.
Muncy snorts. Muncy laughs without smiling.
We’re all odd up here Detective. I would have thought they’d have warned you of that much.
Steven Rutter. Do you know him?
Of course I bloody do.
His name has been mentioned.
In respect to what?
In respect to this Mr Muncy. This investigation. Your daughter.
Muncy stands and smoothes down his hair. He pats it nervously.
Do you need more tea?
No says Brindle. How would you describe him?
Rutter? Shy. Keeps to himself which is just as well as he’s not big on hygiene. He’s a valley boy isn’t he. He’s part of the scenery if you know where to look. Odd as a cod and twice as smelly. But harmless.
How can you be sure?
I can’t says Muncy. No more than I can say you’re harm
less. But I will say this: I’ve known the lad a lot longer than I’ve known you and he’s never bothered me personally. I’d not exactly invite him in for tea or encourage him to join the Rotary but his business is his business just as mine is mine. Do you actually think he’s got something to do with this?
I think that everyone within a hundred-mile radius has to do with this until I’ve eliminated them says Brindle. Now can I see Melanie’s room?
You’re too late. They’ve already been in there too. The local lot.
They have?
Yes. Of course. June let them in; I’d rather have none of them coming anywhere near me.
Why? asks Brindle.
Muncy just shrugs and turns away.
You can’t trust any of them. Especially Roy Pinder. Watch him.
Have they touched anything? says Brindle.
I wouldn’t know. The place is a pig-sty.
I’d like to take a look. Muncy’s jaw tightens. He stands up and Brindle follows him. The staircase is curved. Above it there is a window to increase the natural light in the hallway. Muncy notices Brindle glance at it.
It gets dark otherwise he says. The girl’s room is a typical mess of clothes and posters. A suitcase on the floor with more clothes spilling out of it. A dresser with a mirror and make-up and photos. A teenage space.
Brindle looks at one of the framed pictures.
Who’s the lad?
Muncy shrugs.
Some pop star. She’s outgrown that stuff now.
How do you mean?
She left for school a girl and has come back a young woman. Even since the summer. She’s less impressed by anything. Harder to get on with.
I thought you said you had a great relationship.
We do says Muncy. You know what teenage girls are like though.
Brindle doesn’t reply. Decides to let Muncy speak.
Do you have kids Detective?
No.
Are you married?
No.
Not married?
No.
Any plans to get married?
No says Brindle.
You’re not into the idea?
Turning Blue Page 9