Crime in the Community

by Cecilia Peartree

  Chapter 8 A Colossal Fuss

  Two things almost made Christopher late for his afternoon shift at the supermarket. One, predictably, was a task Caroline found for him just as he was about to leave the house.

  ‘Faisal needs his football kit for tomorrow. You’d better put it in the wash.’

  Caroline sat at the kitchen table reading a magazine. At her elbow rested a cup of what she referred to as ‘tea’ but which Christopher knew was either a very strong herbal brew or more likely an alcoholic substance.

  ‘I’m just going out for my afternoon shift. I’ll do it later.’

  ‘Now!’ she said, hardly bothering to raise her voice, and threw the cup at him without even glancing up. Her aim was reasonable, but Christopher was just quick enough to predict where the cup would go and to get out of the way.

  ‘If he brings it downstairs, I’ll put it in when I get back.’

  She sighed heavily, but didn’t reply. He escaped while the going was good. Not that it was ever that good if you were on your way to a shift at a supermarket. But, Christopher told himself as he turned the corner and walked briskly down the main shopping street in Pitkirtly towards his goal, he was lucky to have a job at all, especially a local one, in these uncertain times. His wages, not far above the minimum, together with what was left of his redundancy money from his previous archives career, meant survival for him and the family. He didn’t like to think about what might happen when the redundancy money ran out.

  He suspected his friends and acquaintances, if they thought about him and his way of life at all, had completely the wrong idea about how well-off he was. Maybe they imagined he worked at the supermarket for fun. Ha! How wrong could they be?

  He was smiling to himself when he glanced up and noticed Young Dave at the other side of the road, by the knitting shop called ‘Granny Can Knit’ which everyone had thought for years was about to close down until the most recent outburst of knitting started. Now that people were decorating lamp-posts with knitting and making ridiculous knitted ornaments such as knitted hamburgers, Christopher supposed the place was thriving.

  At that moment Darren, the young man from the strategic meeting, appeared in the doorway carrying a large bag with the ‘Granny Can Knit’ logo. He paused to speak to Young Dave, and the large bag somehow changed hands while they were talking. Christopher was baffled. Had Young Dave been too embarrassed to go into the wool shop himself? But if that was the case, why had he chosen someone who seemed likely to be even more embarrassed? Why not someone like Mrs Stevenson, whose natural habitat would seem to be wool shops and similar establishments?

  The two men both glanced round furtively. Young Dave suddenly caught Christopher’s eye before he could look away and pretend not to have seen.

  Christopher waved cheerily.

  ‘For my mum!’ called Young Dave, holding up the bag triumphantly. ‘She’s knitting hats for sailors.’

  Almost certain he hadn’t heard properly, Christopher nodded and continued on down the road, puzzling as he went. He got into the supermarket just in time to hear the manager say, ‘… so if Chris Wilson’s late one more time –‘

  ‘What’s going to happen if I’m late?’ he said, shrugging on his overall. ‘Will it cause the extinction of all known life forms? Will we collide with Mars? Will the supermarket fall down? And please don’t call me Chris.’

  The manager, who had been at school with Christopher, sighed. ‘I wouldn’t call you it to your face. It’s a different story when you’re not here. You’re fair game then.’

  Christopher knew that, as the only one who really understood the computerised stock-taking system, he would have to do something really bad in order to get fired. He was still searching for just the right thing. Apparently it wasn’t enough to use big words to intimidate the customers, to be sarcastic to the girls on the tills and to ring in sick when Caroline had one of her binges.

  He half-expected, as he trudged back up the hill later in the afternoon at the end of his shift, that Simon Fairfax would be lying in wait for him on the way home to give events another twist. But the only person he recognised around the shopping area was Maisie Sue, whom he managed to sneak past as she studied the menu outside Pitkirtly’s only restaurant, which in a major advance for multi-culturalism, offered both Chinese and Indian cuisine. He thought he heard his name faintly borne on the breeze as he pushed on up the street, but he wasn’t going to make the mistake of turning round and catching anybody’s eye. The day had been trying enough without having to converse with Maisie Sue again as well.

  The day was about to get a lot more trying.

  He arrived home to hear a shouting match going on; it was suddenly one of those times when he wanted to get lost in his own dreams and fantasies. Marina and Caroline were having one of their colossal fights on the stairs. Or at least, Caroline was in the hall and Marina was on the landing, so the stairs were the no man's land where if you ventured, even to pick up the wounded, you were liable to be picked off by a sniper. Fortunately there weren't any wounded - yet.

  Christopher tried to get past Caroline and into the kitchen without being noticed, but it was of course impossible. Caroline swung round on him as he crossed the hall behind her.

  'So where do you think you've been? Out, I suppose,' she swept on, giving the word 'out' a strange and nasty intonation as if going out was something shameful. 'Out - away from all the problems of real life, as usual. I don't know why I bother.'

  Christopher didn't even reply but slid past her after all and opened the kitchen door.

  'That's right, disappear while I'm talking to you!' Caroline shrieked. It didn't make sense. Not much Caroline said these days made sense. Christopher had no idea what to do about it. He had tried talking to the doctor, but there wasn't time to explain the full horror of things, and the doctor had offered him anti-depressants, which were so irrelevant to the whole situation as to be more of an insult than a treatment, only going to show how little he had taken in of what Christopher had to say.

  He sat down at the kitchen table. He took Simon Fairfax's card out of his wallet and tried to decide whether to tear it up or not.

  Caroline stormed into the kitchen after him. He hoped she wouldn't start throwing things again. The last time she had done that, Mr Browning from next door had come round and threatened to report all of them to the Council, the police, the fire brigade and the Queen (more or less in that order) unless they stopped fighting and arguing. He had called them an ASBO family who belonged in a council house. Christopher had known Mr Browning for about thirty years, and had never until that moment suspected him of having such ingrained prejudices.

  'What's that?' said Caroline, grabbing Simon Fairfax's card and squinting to try and see it properly through the alcoholic haze.

  'It's a business card,' said Christopher.

  'Is it somebody from the Council poking their nose into our business?'

  'No, nothing like that.'

  'Well, they can take a running jump!' Caroline exploded, ripping the card in two and throwing it in the bin. Even though Christopher hadn't wanted the card, had no intention of getting in touch with Simon Fairfax about anything, and had himself considered whether to tear it up, he was furious with Caroline for doing exactly that. He had needed a bit longer to bring himself to do it.

  She started on the crockery next, banging it about in the sink and muttering to herself, and after that she turned on Christopher himself, shrieking and trying to tear his hair out. He took this fairly calmly, being used to it, and managed to get away with only a couple of scratches. Usually at this point she would slump at the kitchen table sobbing, and then go into a round of apologies which were in their own way just as unnerving as the temper tantrums.

  When she had got to this stage, Christopher got up wearily from the chair and went upstairs to check on the kids. Faisal was glued to his Playstation, compulsively killing aliens. The psychiatrist had advised giving the Playstation away, but Caroline had refu
sed to do this on the grounds that she had paid good money for it. Marina had locked her bedroom door and wasn't answering any of Christopher's questions.

  The front door-bell rang.

  Christopher went downstairs and opened the door. He could think of people he would have quite liked to see standing on the doorstep at this point - one of the Daves, for instance, or Mrs Stevenson, woolly hat and all - and others he had no strong opinions about either way. To find a couple of police officers there was a bit of a surprise. He wasn't sure yet if it would be a pleasant or unpleasant one. He had already been down to the police station in the past couple of days to repeat and sign his statement about Steve Paxman’s disappearance. But these were two different police officers, one male and one female.

  'Mr Wilson?' said the policeman in a neutral tone.

  'Yes,' he said.

  'Is Mrs Wilson at home?' said the policewoman.

  'No. I mean - there isn't a Mrs Wilson. Well, not any more. I mean, I'm divorced.'

  'Since when?'

  What on earth are they getting at, thought Christopher. Is this something to do with Deirdre? Has she had an accident? But they would contact Laurence, her current husband, wouldn't they?

  'What's this about?' he said. 'I've been divorced for fifteen years. Has something happened to Deirdre?'

  'But you live with a woman at the moment, don't you?' said the policewoman. 'And children?'

  'Yes, but - '

  Not knowing what it was all about, he was at a loss to know what to say next in case he incriminated himself or put his foot in it, with the latter being by far the more likely option.

  'So - is your partner at home?' said the policeman, a craquelure of impatience just starting to form on his polite facade.

  'No. I don't have a partner,' said Christopher, puzzled. 'The woman who lives here is Caroline Hussein. She's - '

  'May we see her, please?' said the policewoman.

  'If you like,' he said. 'She's in the kitchen. The kids are upstairs.'

  'If I may say so, sir,' said the policeman, 'you really don't do yourself any favours being so obstructive.'

  'I'm not - ' Christopher began, then shrugged his shoulders and led them into the house. The noise from the kitchen had stopped while he was upstairs, but he wasn't sure what they would find inside.

  'Caroline,' he said as he opened the door, 'there are two - oh, dear!'

  There was blood everywhere. It dripped off the palm of her hand on to the very attractive birch veneer laminate floor, having already, it seemed, dripped all down her front and on to her shoes, and the table, and the worktop where the kettle stood... The scene was one of a minor massacre. Even before the door was halfway open, the policeman was using his radio to call an ambulance while the woman officer pushed past Christopher and tended to Caroline with kitchen roll and sellotape.

  'Is there anything I can do?' said Christopher.

  'Just go and sit in the hall,' said the policeman firmly, giving Christopher rather a hostile glance. 'Don't leave the house. Don't call anybody.'

  'The kids.....?'

  'We'll get an officer in to be with them. Just sit down there for now. We're dealing with it.'

  The policeman continued to talk into his radio. Then they shut the kitchen door.

  Sirens outside, and paramedics and stretchers. Surely the children would hear all the din, even with their iPods and Playstations and other audio equipment turned up high. But they didn't come down, luckily, as Caroline, a composition in red and white with bloodstains and white, drained face, was carried away on a stretcher. Everything seemed to take a long time, and yet paradoxically the time passed quickly. The woman police officer had gone with Caroline in the ambulance and three more police officers arrived, two women and a man.

  The first policeman came out of the kitchen and spoke to Christopher, who had to ask him to repeat himself. Somehow shock had affected his hearing and other senses.

  'These two officers are from the family unit. They need to speak to the children. How many are there?'

  'Two - Marina and Faisal. They're upstairs. Marina won't want to come out though. And Faisal won't say anything. He never does.'

  'Never mind that. We still need to speak to them. They'll need to know.'

  'About Caroline?'

  'Why didn't you tell us she's your sister? - sir.' The 'sir' was all too obviously an after-thought.

  'You didn't ask me,' said Christopher indignantly. 'What made you come to the door anyway?'

  'We had a report of a disturbance.'

  'Was it Mr Browning from next door?'

  'I'm afraid I can't answer that, sir.'

  'Can I tell the kids about Caroline?'

  'We'll have to have officers present.'

  'That's all right,' said Christopher.

  'We'll do that as soon as they get here, then,' said the policeman. Christopher thought he detected a softening in the man's attitude, for whatever reason.

  There was a disturbance out in the front garden. The front door stood open but apparently there were officers out there keeping nosey neighbours at bay.

  '... can give you valuable information about events leading up to this...' said Mr Browning's voice, at its highest and most querulous.

  There was a more subdued muttering from one of the policemen.

  Mr Browning said, 'Of course I've always known he was violent - you can tell, you know. Something in the eyes... All nicey nicey but harbouring evil thoughts underneath it all.'

  More muttering from the officers of the law.

  Christopher had a sudden almost irresistible urge to go out to the doorstep and punch Mr Browning on the nose; however, he knew that this would not be a good time to take that kind of action. Later, he told himself, I can do it later; revenge is a dish best served cold. Perhaps that would give him time to think about administering poetic justice to Mr Browning instead - he could phone the police, for example, with an anonymous tip-off that there was a body buried under the rose bed. Mr Browning's roses were his pride and joy, so seeing them being dug up and trampled on by a heavy-footed murder squad would indeed be purgatory for him. Christopher allowed himself to smile in anticipation.

  'I'm surprised you can find anything to smile about in all this,' said the policeman.

  'I can't really,' he said. 'It was just a thought.'

  'Neighbours been bothering you?'

  'Mr Browning's a bit of a fusspot. Doesn't like noise.'

  'Ah,' said the policeman cryptically. 'There's always one.'

  Two more officers arrived, and Christopher was allowed to accompany them upstairs to speak to Marina and Faisal. He could tell that their ethnicity took the police by surprise and that they were having trouble working out the family relationships. He could have told them that the kids' father was an Iranian whom Caroline had met while she was an au pair in Iran twenty years before. Christopher’s understanding was that she and the children had narrowly escaped with their lives when he was imprisoned for alleged activities against the regime and that she had taken up drinking as a hobby to distract herself from the fact that her husband was in daily danger of being executed. Or at least, Caroline had used all of that to rationalise her alcohol dependency and unpredictable behavior. He had a feeling she had probably had the seeds of it inside all along – certainly when they were children she had been far more volatile than he had. On the other hand, that wouldn’t have been difficult since Christopher had been placid to the point of coma during the more boring parts of his childhood.

  But he didn't say any of that. As a mark of respect for the children's dual nationality and culture, he usually tried to refrain from saying anything derogatory about either their mother or about the Iranian regime, which he despised and feared. None of it was their fault.

  Predictably, Marina said far too much, in a colourful explosion of words which battered at everyone and rendered them incapable of speech themselves for a while; Faisal said nothing at all, and Christopher thought the police of
ficers might have to call in a child psychologist to try and break down his silence.

  Marina insisted on being taken straight to the hospital to see her mother, while Faisal hung back, not actually refusing to go but showing such reluctance that the new woman officer said to Christopher, 'You'd better stay here with him. We'll take Marina to see her mum - you look after the boy.'

  'We'll leave an officer with you,' said the policeman helpfully.

  'Come on, Faisal,' said Christopher awkwardly after they’d gone. 'Let's go and get something to eat.'

  They weren't allowed into the kitchen, which was still being examined by the scene of crime team or whatever it was called, but one of the officers outside the front door offered to go and get sandwiches for them, not even turning a hair at Christopher's request that Faisal shouldn’t have anything with either cheese or mayonnaise in it.

  'I've got kids of my own,' he said comfortably. 'One of them won't eat anything except cheese and the other won't eat anything with cheese in it. Kids! Get away with anything!'

  After a shaky start as far as the police were concerned, Christopher felt he was on more solid ground now. Like many law-abiding people he had felt the foundations of his world tremble when he imagined he might be on the wrong side of the law for the first time.

  He and Faisal went into the sitting-room. The television was still on as a reminder of Caroline. Christopher switched it off. He wasn't sure where he stood with Faisal.

  'Can we play chess while we're waiting for the sandwiches?' said Faisal. Christopher was taken aback. This was the nearest thing to a complete original sentence that he could recall Faisal speaking since the family had arrived in his house in the first place.

  He took the chess board down from a shelf, blew the dust off it and started to set out the pieces. By the time the sandwiches arrived, Faisal had already checkmated him once and was well on the way to doing it again. The policeman who had gone down to the supermarket said approvingly, 'Good idea, sir. Keep his mind off things.'

  The phone rang in the hall. A murmur of voices, then the first policeman put his head round the door.

  'There's a Mr McLean on the phone for you, sir. Want to take it now or will I tell him to call back later?'

  No end to the talents of the police, thought Christopher. Providing catering facilities, and now acting as his secretary. He looked from the chess board to Faisal's face, and made up his mind.

  'I'm just about to get checkmated again. I'll call him back when that's finished.'

  'It's not over until the fat lady sings,' said Faisal, surprising Christopher for the second time in fifteen minutes.

  After the third checkmate and the sandwiches, he judged that Faisal was ok enough to be left in the sitting-room with the first policeman while he went and rang Jock McLean back.

  'What's going on over there?' said Jock. 'It sounded as if there were people turning the place upside down.'

  'That's it, more or less,' said Christopher. 'It's the police. Caroline's been taken to hospital. It's - too difficult to explain just now.'

  'Drunk as a skunk, was she?' said Jock. 'Paralytic - sozzled - I believe one modern word is blootered.'

  'I hadn't heard that one,' said Christopher, for some reason starting to feel almost normal, despite the weirdness of the conversation.

  'So how did the police get involved?' said Jock. 'Did that Mr Browning stick his nose in again?'

  'No, it wasn't him. They're not saying who it was, though.'

  'I'll ask around,' said Jock, who was under the mistaken impression that he had contacts everywhere. In fact his only contacts were on the PLIF steering group and among the cleaning staff at his old school. On the other hand, maybe the cleaners would turn out to know what was going on, Christopher reflected. Jock had obtained some juicy titbits from them in his time.

  'OK,' said Christopher. 'Have you seen Amaryllis?'

  There was a pause.

  'When, today?' said Jock.

  'Well, yes,' said Christopher. So much had happened that it seemed ages since the day before - when quite a lot had happened too.

  'No,' said Jock in the long-drawn-out way that sounded as if he might mean 'yes'. Or maybe he was just tantalising Christopher. 'Why?'

  'No reason,' said Christopher. He wasn't sure why he had asked, except that he felt it might be useful to have Amaryllis on his side at the moment, even if only so that he could keep tabs on her and make sure she didn't do some way-out thing that would cause a lot more problems than it solved.

  Just at that point the back of his neck tingled. He glanced round at the empty hall with the closed doors all round it - the police had shut the front door now - and then up the stairs to the top landing. And froze.

  Amaryllis was waving and smiling at him from the top step.

  'Got to go,' he said to Jock, slammed the phone down on its rest and tried to signal Amaryllis to go away. Evidently his semaphore didn't work, for she started to come down the stairs.

  Christopher hurried to intercept her.

  'What are you doing here?' he said in a low voice, halfway up the stairs, desperately hoping the policemen would all stay where they were. 'How the hell did you get in anyway?'

  The first explanation that had popped into his head was that he had conjured her up just by thinking about her, but he told himself sternly not to be silly.

  'I just thought you might need a bit of help,' she said, smiling at him. 'After all, you gave me a hand last night.'

  Last night! Was it only last night he had battered in the panel under the sink in the old village hall and freed her from spider-infested captivity?

  'You can't be seen up here!' said Christopher urgently. 'Hide in there - go on, hurry up!'

  He more or less shoved her in through the door of the very small room he inhabited, usually only to sleep in it when he wasn’t kept awake by noise from Caroline, shut the door behind her, turned away and then turned back momentarily, panicking about what she might find in there if she poked about a bit. Oh well, she had to find out sooner or later what a boring geek he was even if she didn’t already know. He went back downstairs. Either she would wait meekly in there and he would let her out when the police had gone, or she wouldn’t. He had very little control over it either way.

  'What's going on up there?' said the first policeman, coming out of the sitting-room.

  'Nothing,' lied Christopher. 'I just went up to see if I could find another game to play. Faisal keeps beating me at chess, so I thought I might have a better chance at Monopoly.'

  Was that too much information? He held his breath.

  'He's got that in here and he’s already setting it up,' said the policeman, holding the door open for him. 'I'm not sure I'll have time to play though.'

  He sounded quite wistful, as if he would have liked playing Monopoly to be in his job description.

  'You could always start anyway,' said Christopher helpfully. 'Maybe Marina'll be back by the time you have to go.'

  'I don't know that she'll be back any time soon,' said the policeman as they went into the sitting-room. 'She was last seen sitting by her mum's bedside weeping and wailing.'

  'Oh, dear,' said Christopher. 'Sorry about that - I hope she isn't being too much of a pest.'

  'It's not your fault,' said the policeman, giving him an odd look.

  They started the game, and, predictably, the policeman had to leave just as he got a hotel on Old Kent Road, of which he was inordinately proud. The forensic team or whatever they were had finished in the kitchen, and Christopher and Faisal had the house to themselves. They had resumed the game, meticulously dividing up the policeman's assets between them, when Christopher suddenly remembered Amaryllis.

  'Going to get you a jumper,' he said to Faisal, and climbed the stairs two at a time.

  Amaryllis was deep in 'Now we are Six' - Christopher's childhood books were all sitting on a shelf above the computer.

  'It's funny,' she said, waving the book at him, 'I never read the
se when I was younger. Didn't appeal at all. It's not bad, though. Quirky.'

  'I'm in the middle of a game of Monopoly,' said Christopher. 'Just tell me what you're doing here.'

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  'I know who called the police.'

  'Was it Mr Browning after all?'

  'Who's that?.. No, it was your friend the customs officer.'

  'Simon whatshisname? I had a talk with him earlier. He seemed all right.'

  'I told you,' said Amaryllis, 'no such thing as a harmless bureaucrat.'

  'How do you know he called the police?'

  'I've been following him. I saw him talking to you this morning. I followed him after that.'

  'But why would you bother?'

  'It's just something I do. He came straight round to the end of this street and sat there in his car until the shouting and screaming started, and then called the police on his mobile and then drove off again. I waited a bit and then came in the bedroom window.'

  'The bedroom window?' Christopher couldn't help saying, conscious that his part in this conversation had consisted almost entirely of short sharp questions in a querulous tone.

  'Aren't you going to ask me why Simon Fairfax should call the police?' said Amaryllis.

  'All right then, why should he?'

  'He wants to get you into trouble so that he'll have a hold over you.'

  'Get me into - ?' Christopher started to say, then stopped, reconsidered and said, 'I'm not in trouble, so he'll be disappointed, won't he?'

  'Really?' she said, sounding sceptical. 'There aren't many people who would be so confident after what happened here.'

  'I haven't done anything wrong,' he said. 'And what do you want with me anyway? What makes you think you can help me at all?'

  'Well, I can play Monopoly,' she said, getting up from the swivel chair and putting 'Now we are Six' back on the shelf.