Threats and Menaces

by Alan Scholefield

  ‘He’s not a boy! He’s nearly my age.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I still think of you as a young man so your friends are young too. Anyway, you should be pleased. One day no one will call you young. One day — ’

  She got a lump in her throat and stopped.

  He turned over a page but she wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘Why doesn’t he come round any more? You haven’t had a tiff, have you? He’s such a lovely person. So interested in your stamp albums. You’d be in your room for hours looking at stamps and listening to music. It was more than my life was worth to interrupt you! Remember?’

  He was staring at the paper, not seeing it.

  ‘Once I came in and you were so cross. I think that was when you were having one of your drawing evenings. Remember those?’

  ‘Of course I remember them! I haven’t got softening of the brain. For Christ’s sake, it was only last winter.’

  ‘Please don’t take His name in vain, Trevor. You know how I feel.’

  That was all he needed, a lecture about religion.

  ‘And the photography evenings. Dressing up in swimming costumes. My, you had fun.’

  Yes, we did, he thought. Specially once she’d taken her pill and gone to bed. Great fun. Terrific fun. His whole life had been centred round Douglas.

  ‘Why don’t you have Douglas round again, Trevor? It’s so much better for you than those videos.’

  Now, standing on the steps of Selbourne in the soggy heat, he thought: Why not?

  And the answer came pat: Because of that other bastard! That’s why not.

  He couldn’t even bring himself to think his name, much less speak it. Bastard… bastard… bastard…

  Why? he had asked Douglas. Why?

  He hadn’t replied except to open his shirt and show Trevor a gold chain. It was the finest workmanship he had ever seen. Gossamer. Must have cost a fortune.

  ‘You whore!’ Trevor had said.

  Douglas had laughed in his face. ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones but gold will never hurt me.’

  That had been the start of it. Now all they did was argue. Douglas would cross the square or Trevor would go to Rosemount, and they would hiss at each other.

  What if he went over and didn’t argue, didn’t accuse, didn’t bitch. Instead said, ‘I’m sorry, Duggie. I should never have said that. I love you and I want us to be together always.’

  And he would take Duggie something much better than a gold chain. He could go to Fortnums or Harrods, and buy him something terrific. Much more terrific than what the Bastard had given him. If Duggie wanted things then why not? Everybody was different.

  ‘Trevor!’

  He turned and saw Dory in the foyer. He didn’t like her. She was too clever by half. Spiteful too, if he knew anything. He’d heard her being rude to her father and to Mr Pargeter, but the old fool didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Trevor!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has the post been?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I do.’

  They stared at each other. She was a possible trouble-maker.

  Her mother was well known. She had influence. Trevor saw himself one of the great army of unemployed. And then where was he going to get the money to buy Duggie the presents he planned?

  ‘Second post’s been,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  He watched her get back into the elevator. Little Miss Smart-Arse, he thought.

  *

  Dusk. The evening star like a diamond in the sky.

  The park closed at dusk.

  She knew that because she had read the notice.

  People were leaving; the tired grass was blighted by their litter.

  She was staying.

  The park was her home now for it cost nothing to be there. If you had no money it was the only place you could go.

  The evening was warm and reminded her of home, except that she would have been surrounded by the noise of cicadas.

  She stood by the statue of Speke who had discovered the source of the White Nile.

  He had been dead a long time and she envied him.

  She wasn't afraid of the park but she was afraid of the house. She could never return to it.

  Never go back, her mother had said to her. It is always a mistake.

  But where to go?

  First she must find food. The bleeding had not started again and she limped carefully towards the Round Pond where children sailed their boats. They dropped their half-eaten sandwiches in the litter baskets. She had found food there before.

  And then?

  She did not want to think of a time called 'then’.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘This is nice,’ Lottie Silver said. ‘Our big son come to see us.’

  Leo bit into a sweet gherkin, a jar of which had been placed on the coffee table in front of him to accompany the chopped liver.

  ‘You want a little wine?’ Lottie was wearing a loose flowing dress in the heat, her face was flushed and her grey hair rumpled. ‘A little muscatel?’

  ‘Too sweet,’ Leo said. ‘I’ll have apple juice if you have any.’ Manfred said, ‘We (ve) always have Apfelsaft.’ He had come in from the music room when he heard his son arrive. In spite of the heat he was looking dapper in an off-white alpaca jacket and grey trousers. His Vandyke beard was neatly trimmed, his white hair combed back. He looked just a little like a smaller Jewish version of Sir Thomas Beecham, a likeness he was keen to foster. ‘In Austria we invented Apfelsaft.’

  ‘And such a small country, too,’ Leo said.

  Lottie came back. ‘Here you are. It’s nice and cold.’

  ‘You know those window-boxes and pots you used to have?’ Leo said. ‘Out on the balcony?’ He waved at the french doors leading from the sitting-room of his parents’ flat in West Hampstead. ‘You remember? When Dad started the little garden?’ ‘Not me,’ Manfred said. ‘Never. It was your mother. I don’t like gardening. Too much work.’ He examined his white piano-teacher’s hands.

  ‘Work?’ Lottie said. ‘You call it work looking after a few pansies?’

  ‘All that beheading.’

  ‘Speak English please.’ She smiled apologetically at Leo.

  ‘What is it then?’ Manfred said.

  ‘Dead-heading.’ She turned to Leo. ‘We have been here since before the War. Your father is not a genius at languages.’

  ‘The window-boxes,’ Leo said, steering the Austrian train back on to the tracks. ‘Could we have them if you don’t want them?’ ‘Your roof!’ Lottie said. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m going to make a garden up there.’

  ‘Your brother-in-law said the roof would collapse,’ Manfred said. ‘But what does Sidney know?’

  ‘He knows about houses,’ Lottie said, suddenly seeing Leo’s roof plunging down through the rest of the house like a runaway elevator.

  ‘He only knows how to sell houses,’ Leo said.

  ‘And not so good at that even,’ Manfred said.

  ‘In Vienna we had such a lovely garden,’ Lottie said reminiscently. ‘Oak trees. Apples. Pears.’

  ‘I think oaks are too big for a roof garden,’ Leo said. ‘But I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Don’t be smart with your mother.’

  Lottie patted Manfred on the cheek. ‘Why are you being so nice, Manfy? What do you want?’

  ‘Your mother wants to buy a new kitchen,’ Manfred said. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true. A grandmother. In a recession.’

  Lottie flushed crossly. ‘It is my money. I can do with it what I like.’

  ‘Custom built. Everything made of wood. Plastic is no longer good enough.’

  ‘A legacy.’ Lottie was defensive.

  ‘Your mother’s family has millionaires.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘A wine king from Gumpoldskirchen.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Do we disc
uss it like husband and wife?’ Manfred said selecting a pickle. ‘Does your mother say, what do you need? A new piano maybe? A holiday maybe? A new suit maybe? Nothing. A kitchen.’

  ‘For once I please myself,’ Lottie said. She turned to Manfred. ‘Why don’t you write some music. Get a little money for that. Then you can buy a new suit.’

  ‘What are you working on, Dad?’ Leo said taking the opportunity to change the subject.

  ‘Nothing!’ Lottie said. ‘He works on nothing. He says he will teach them a lesson.’

  ‘Who’s them?’

  ‘The Royal Philharmonic.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For refusing to play his Falklands Symphony.’

  ‘They had their chance,’ Manfred said.

  ‘Two choirs,’ Lottie said. ‘Full orchestra. Who needs it?

  ‘The window-boxes,’ Leo said hastily. ‘Then I’ve got to run.’ ‘Why run?’ Lottie asked. ‘You said Zoe’s with her father. You could stay the night.’

  ‘I wish I could but I’ve got to make some calls.’

  She sighed. ‘Let’s look in the box-room.’

  *

  ‘What are you looking at, Mr Pargeter?’

  The old man was leaning on the parapet of the roof garden, his binoculars trained at the upper floors of Rosemount.

  He started as she spoke. ‘God, Dory, you gave me a fright!’ ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was a lie. Her mother was having a bath and talking on the telephone. She never took less than half an hour for a bath and sometimes much longer.

  Dory looked at Rosemount. One of the windows on the twelfth floor was lighted and the curtains were open.

  ‘Seeing if I could spot Mr and Mrs Kestrel,’ Mr Pargeter said. It too was a lie and Dory knew it. It was too dark to see. In any case didn’t birds go to sleep at dusk?

  ‘You haven’t seen your golden oriole again, have you?’ He slipped the binoculars into his pocket.

  The accent on ‘your’ annoyed Dory but she decided not to be brisk with him.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘We need rain. I thought we might get it this evening.’ The air was hot and close.

  Dory did not reply. She wanted him to go.

  ‘When I was in Assam it rained all the time.’

  It all sounded rather lame to Dory. As though he was talking for the sake of talking.

  ‘I’m going down for my supper,’ he said. ‘Don’t lean over.’

  She heard the elevator start its downward journey, then she moved along the parapet and used her binoculars to look down at the house. The evening wasn’t quite dark yet and a street lamp near by spread its light over the front of the house.

  There were no lights on in the house itself and even with the glow from the street lamp the front door was an area of blackness. But in the middle of that area was a splash of white.

  She knew exactly what it was. It was a circular advertising a double-glazing company.

  She knew because her mother had got one too in her post. Dory had found it in the rubbish bin in the kitchen. And she had seen the postman place something similar in the post flap of the house. It had become caught and was still there.

  That had been hours ago.

  No one had removed it.

  Why not?

  *

  Macrae read the notice on the door of the building. It said, LYSANDER E. GOATER, MA, DD.

  That was all. It did not say what Lysander E. Goater did with his MA and his doctorate in divinity, but Macrae knew. He knew a great deal about Lysander Goater.

  The office building overlooked the green at Shepherd’s Bush and was jammed between a pizza joint and a dry cleaners.

  He rang the bell and a voice in the wall said, ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Is that Lysander E. Goater, Doctor of Divinity?’

  There was a long pause, then the voice said, ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Macrae. Remember me?’

  Again there was silence.

  ‘Don’t make me stand on the pavement, laddie, or I’ll whistle up a panda car and get the constable to put his boot through the door panels.’

  There was a buzzing noise and the door opened.

  Macrae closed it behind him. The ground floor was dark but a staircase led up to a lighted landing. A man was standing there looking down.

  ‘Good evening, Superintendent.’

  ‘Well, Lysander,’ Macrae said as he climbed the stairs. ‘Long time no see.’

  The Revd Goater led Macrae into a large office. ‘The Robson Healey murder.’

  ‘That’s the one, laddie.’

  Macrae sat down in a comfortable tweed-covered chair and looked around. There was a computer, filing cabinets and three telephones.

  Goater looked much as Macrae remembered him: small, black, neatly dressed, with a dark suit and a white clerical collar.

  ‘Are you preaching tonight?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Why the collar then?’

  ‘Don’t you think white looks good against my skin?’ The voice was educated and faintly amused.

  ‘Tell me something, Lysander, where’d you get all these degrees? It wasn’t Oxford.’

  ‘No, Mr Macrae, it wasn’t Oxford. There are other places, you know. Let’s see now.’ He glanced at two framed diplomas on the wall. ‘The MA comes from the University of Tipperary.’

  ‘And the DD?’

  ‘That was your own country. The University of Dunoon.’ ‘That’s a very famous one. Mail order, of course.’

  ‘Naturally. Postal order with application.’

  ‘They don’t worry about examinations.’

  ‘Not too much.’

  ‘You’re a crook, Lysander.’

  ‘We don’t say “crook” any longer, Mr Macrae. We deem it not to be politically correct. Morally challenged is the phrase.’ ‘Morally what?’

  The phone rang. Goater listened, brought up something on the computer screen which Macrae could not see, looked at his watch, and typed something. Then he said, ‘As long as you’re certain. Check in with me when you’re out again.’

  He put the phone down.

  ‘One of the girls?’ Macrae said.

  He nodded. ‘New system. I make them call me when they’ve checked the client’s ID. Then again when she’s finished and out of his room. There are a lot of nasty, violent men about, Mr Macrae.’ Macrae wondered if Rambo looked after Frenchy and his other girls equally well. He’d have to have a word with him.

  ‘But you haven’t come just to see how I run my business. You said at the time of the Healey murder that co-operation brought dividends. I co-operated. The dividend was supposed to be noninterference.’

  ‘I said a degree of non-interference. No one has a completely blank cheque. No one on my manor anyway.’

  ‘But I’m not on your manor, that is if you still work out of Cannon Row.’

  ‘You just worry about yourself, laddie. I’ll do all the other worrying.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need information.’

  ‘But I’m not an informant. That isn’t my style. The Healey case was force majeure.’

  ‘Look, I could close you up tomorrow. You know and I know you could open again somewhere else in a few days but think of the headache. New premises to find. All your software and all your files impounded. And all the money you’d need just to put it together again. Doesn’t that sound like force majeure?’

  ‘If that’s the way you put it, Superintendent, I’m all ears.’

  ‘Well, the punter I want to know about is one of your lot.’ ‘Someone in Holy Orders?!’

  ‘More than that. A bishop. And he’s black.’

  Goater smiled. ‘There you go again, Mr Macrae. We’re not black any more. We’re Afro-Caribbean.’

  ‘He’s from Africa and I think he calls himself sable.’

  ‘Goo
dness, that’s a new one. I thought sable was an antelope.’ ‘Why don’t we just go back to calling black black and white white — and not tell anyone?’

  ‘Why don’t we?’

  *

  It was nearly ten o’clock when Macrae reached home. He let himself into the house quietly so he would not wake Bobby and Margaret.

  But they were not asleep.

  He tiptoed up the stairs and listened outside their room.

  He heard Bobby’s voice say, ‘Tell us another one.’ Then Margaret saying, ‘Pl-e-e-e-a-s-e. We’ve never heard stories like yours.’

  Then Frenchy’s voice said, ‘Well, this better be the last. Your father’ll kill me if I keep you up. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, ‘there was a man called Rambo. That wasn’t his real name but it was the one the old bill knew him by. Anyway, this Rambo ran a string of girls in West London and one day one of the girls — ’

  Macrae hastily pushed open the door. Frenchy, in her working clothes, was sitting on the end of Margaret’s bed. Both the kids were bolt upright, their attention firmly fixed on her, their eyes wide, their mouths half open.

  As he entered the room their heads, like radar dishes, slowly swivelled towards him. The alert interest in their eyes flickered and died and instead they became filled with anger and irritation.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Eat your cereal,’ Adrienne Marvell said.

  ‘I don’t like bran,’ Dory said.

  ‘It’s good for you, it’s got fibre.’

  ‘I don’t like fibre. It makes me go to the toilet.’

  ‘That’s the general idea. And don’t say toilet. That’s what plumbers say.’

  ‘At school they say toilet.’

  ‘You’re not at school now. And I wish you wouldn’t argue. The holidays are going to seem very long if you argue all the time.’

  Her mother’s tone had changed and Dory decided on a strategic silence.

  They were in the blue-and-grey cool neat clean kitchen, a setting that fitted Adrienne perfectly. Dory poked her bran fibre about pretending she was eating it but in reality making it dissolve in the milk.

  Breakfast was often a time of attrition between the two of them and Dory frequently won. Adrienne would go off to work exhorting her to eat up and the moment she left Dory would pour the mess down the waste disposal and eat bread and jam instead.