Thin Men, Paper Suits

by Tin Larrick

  “Be like every other Friday night.”

  There was a murmur of laughter.

  “Well, if you don’t get detained, we’re in trouble. Fortunately, Dane’s new face actually works in your favour.”

  “What about you?” Nat asked in a small voice. “How many conference delegates get into rumbles bad enough to need a CT scan?”

  “At least one. Don’t worry about me, Nat. You sorted the baby?”

  “Ready and waiting.”

  Dane hawked up a gobbet of blood onto the concrete floor. “Isn’t that a really obvious place to hide drugs? They do it all the time on the telly.” He leaned his head against the metal wall, and Nat replaced the makeshift compress against his head.

  “Doesn’t happen, not unless they have some decent intel. If everything else is kosher, they can’t stand the grief they get when they make mothers take off a baby’s nappy. By the way, you’ve just spat your DNA all over the floor. Burn it, will you, Vince?

  “Then I'll walk through,” I said as Vincent lit a rag and held it to the red splash. “Dane, Vince, it’s important that you don't get called over and searched until I’ve gone past. If you’re called to have your baggage checked and I’m still behind you, then it will give the other officers a chance to refocus on the other passengers. Just keep them talking in the channel until I've actually gone past. Vince, give it some lip, make him want to ruin your holiday.”

  “How many will there be?” Natalie’s voice was calm.

  “Two, possibly three. Four at worst. Right, now remember, do not interact till we’re at the house. You still don’t know each other till you take your separate routes out of Gatwick. Dane, Vince, take the train. Nat, Henry, take a cab. I’ve got my car at Gatwick, so I’ll pick it up, and we’ll meet at the house at eleven tomorrow night, where we’ll either celebrate or wonder if the fucker that got caught will bubble the rest of us up.”

  Silence.

  “That was a joke.”

  Someone – I think it was Dane – coughed.

  “Right, that's pretty much everything. Anybody got any questions?”

  I looked round at the others, tried to make out their faces in the gloom. Dane was now huddled in a corner, blowing his hands furiously. Vince was smoking, a crack in the door cutting light across his face. Henry was standing in the shadows, motionless, probably the sort of guy who could sleep upright. Nat was sitting next to Dane, stroking his hair.

  They were silent. I could feel their expectant eyes boring into me, placing faith in me, trusting me that it would all go smoothly. I hoped I wouldn’t fuck it up.

  “Okay then, that’s that. Let’s change.”

  Dane hauled himself up, pulled on his baseball cap, puffer jacket, earrings, and that was his costume complete. Vincent was similar, except he was sans hat, to showcase the new skinhead, and he also had his lower lip and tongue pierced. They looked great. Neither of them had shaved for a week, and they looked rough, boisterous, and hard as fuck. Dane’s obliterated visage enhanced the image nicely. Perfect.

  Henry had changed into a rollneck with a knitted tanktop over it. He wore a corduroy blazer on top of that. His false passport showed him as the Reverend Phil Burns, and with the bushy brown beard and the soft watery eyes, he looked gentle, unassuming, and every bit the padre.

  Nat had put her legs away, and already looked coy enough to be a nicely domesticated housebat, so she was sorted. I put on the trousers and shoes of the suit, then we began attaching the shit to my body. It was uncomfortable as buggery – especially with the unexpected addition of some undoubtedly cracked ribs – but with the shirt and jacket, it didn’t show.

  “Okay, we set?” Heads nodded. “Let’s go.”

  We walked out of the lock-up, across the barren estate and towards the train station. Nat linked her arm through mine as we walked.

  “Kenley,” she said softly. “It’ll go all right, won’t it?”

  “Of course it will. Nobody’s a grass.”

  *

  6

  Dutch customs was a doddle. They laughed and joked with us; we didn’t even get a frisk. Not a dog anywhere, nairy a firearm in sight. Small flight: we walked out across the tarmac apron of the airfield onto the plane.

  The second we hit Schiphol we broke away from each other and would not utter another word till we were at the safe house. Different seats on the plane, everyone sinking into their role nicely. Dane turned back to look at me once, but I lifted my briefcase lid so I couldn’t see him.

  My stomach lurched just as the plane began its descent into Gatwick. I could feel myself breaking sweat. The rustle of the polythene below my shirt sounded deafening to me.

  The landing was bumpy. I needed to piss badly. Too late, no time. I got up quickly off the plane, and my seat at the front meant I was the first out. I heard the murmur of noise and activity behind me as people began to scrabble for the bits in the overhead lockers.

  I marched to baggage claim, first there. Nervous, more nervous than I had been the first two times I had done it. I felt like everybody was looking at my face, which they probably were, dammit.

  I felt Dane and Vince approach round the other side of the conveyor, already mouthing off and attracting attention. Nice going, lads. Henry appeared a few feet away from me, waiting for the luggage. I guessed Nat was behind, out of sight of the green channel.

  I cast a wary eye over to the UKBA contingent. There was only one officer that I could see. That was good news. He was leaning on the partition between freedom and underwear embarrassment, and looked bored as hell. I looked back to my luggage.

  Henry’s luggage came first. He took one bag, then let the other one circle till Dane and Vincent had theirs. My suitcase came round. I took it, and waited. Dane and Vincent had theirs. Waiting for Henry and Nat’s last one. Dadadadadadum. Where is it?

  There. Henry took it and walked back out of sight. I checked the time and bent to do up my shoelaces – the signal. Dane and Vincent got it on cue and began singing drunkenly. They lurched off towards the green channel.

  The UKBA officer stood upright as they approached. I hadn’t moved yet – I wanted to make sure they got pulled. The Customs officer held up a hand to them.

  “Just a minute, lads.”

  “Problem, Your Honour?” Vincent jeered.

  “Where have you two been, then?”

  “Amsterdam!” they chorused, then let out a bassy football cheer in unison.

  “On business or pleasure?”

  “What the fuck do you think?” Dane hollered.

  “What happened to your face, my friend?”

  “You should see the other geezers. Taught them fucking Dutch twats a lesson or two.”

  “Would you lads mind if we took a look through your luggage?”

  Paydirt. I made my move, praying Nat and Henry weren’t too far behind.

  “Yeah, fucking would mind, as it happens. What for? We ain’t carrying anything.”

  “I’m afraid I’d like to see for myself.”

  I got closer. They timed it just right, I don’t know how, and capitulated at just the right time. I walked past. The Customs guy was oblivious.

  “All right then, mate. But you’re gonna be disappointed.”

  The Customs man gave a weary nod, then barked into his radio for some assistance, which came in the form of some heavyset colleagues who frogmarched my two now-rather-subdued stooges into a side room. I felt a bit sorry for them.

  I walked through the empty, brightly-lit channel, towards the double doors, freedom, profit and retirement. The adrenaline surged, and the polythene next to my skin turned greasy with my sweat.

  The double doors of the arrivals hall flew open from the outside. I frowned – the red No Entry signs were patently obvious. Suspicion became unease became outright fear as six men and women came running into the green channel. The men were big, wearing thick fleeces and jarhead haircuts. All of them wore jeans and black hi-top Magnum boots. The real chiller, however, was
the ID cards around their necks.

  My stomach sank into my shoes as they surrounded me, shouting various things I didn’t catch. Like an idiot, I put my hands up, even though I saw no weapons. One of them went behind me and slammed a boot into the small of my back. My head flew back and I went sprawling on the cold, hard floor, thinking – why didn’t that cannabis resin cushion my fall?

  Pain flashed through my upper body, and then again as my arms were pulled behind me and locked tight. Then the snap of cold metal around my wrists and hands up and down my body for a prostrate search, fingers hesitating, pressing and feeling when they reached the crackly strips under my shirt.

  Now the risky bit was over, they were nice as pie. They hauled me to my feet. My body hurt even more after the little manoeuvre, and disco lights flashed on and off in front of my eyes; for a moment, I was sure I was going to pass out. I couldn’t see any of the others, but prayed they were okay.

  “Good morning, sir. We are officers from Operation Solitaire, a joint-agency border agency initiative to tackle the importation of illegal drugs. You’re under arrest.”

  The speaker was female. As she cautioned me, I gradually got my vision and wind back, and then wished I hadn’t.

  Sure, her face was scrubbed of make-up. Sure, her blonde hair was tied up into a tight government-regulation bun. Sure, she wore the sturdy asexual gear of a plainclothes drugs officer, but there was absolutely no mistaking her.

  No mistaking Nancy, the prostitute who had offered to sell me her bounty.

  ****

  Cry Havoc by Tin Larrick

  Helen Canavan clutched the red-and-white picnic cloth to her breast. Her face blanched, as if the vibrancy of the forest had sucked all the colour from her, but she did not scream; she was not the type. Rather, her basic functions became focused on trying to extrapolate sense from the horror she was hoping desperately had not befallen her. Her breath came in huge panicked gasps; she felt like she was in a car whose brakes had failed rolling down a steep hill.

  A few feet away, her husband stood under a canopy of firs, the sun creating mottled patchwork patterns on his face.

  “Maggie!” he yelled, his fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching by his side. “Maggie!” Colin Canavan paced up and down in a small circle, not knowing what to do next; not knowing what one should do.

  “She… she was only here a moment ago,” Helen said, more to herself than her husband.

  Friston Forest was warm and bathed in sunlight. There were several other picnickers walking past. Some of them slowed as they passed, alarmed by the panicked edge to Colin Canavan’s voice.

  Colin was of tidy build and almost impossibly neat, although his crisp linen shirt was growing dark with patches of sweat as he returned to the site of their picnic.

  He squatted beside his wife and rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  “I can’t see her,” he said in a shaky voice.

  “My poor baby,” Helen whimpered.

  “It’ll be okay… we’ll find her,” he said, his neatly-trimmed moustache quivering.

  “You won’t find her here!” Helen shrieked. “You have to go look for her!”

  “I… I know. I’m going.”

  Helen’s voice dropped an octave. “Should we… call the police?”

  Colin closed his eyes for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. I think we must. You do it. I’ll go and search.”

  “Everything okay?” said a voice.

  Colin turned to see a huge man in a light yellow Hawaiian shirt looking at the Canavans with concern. The silver hair above his florid complexion was like iron filings on top of a red balloon, and made him appear closer to fifty than forty.

  “It’s… it’s our daughter,” Colin said to the man. “She’s wandered off. We can’t find her.”

  “How long has she been missing?” the man asked.

  “About twenty minutes,” Colin said.

  “Okay,” the man said. He rubbed his chin as he thought about it for a second, the faded tattoos on his forearm flexing as he did so. “We’ll help you look. Me and my Jackie. We’ll help you look. What does she look like?”

  “She’s six years old, blonde hair. Quite a deep tan. Hair in bunches, pink floral summer dress…” Colin’s voice hitched as he spoke.

  Behind him, Helen began to sob hopelessly.

  The man knelt down beside her.

  “Listen to me, love. I know you’re thinking the worst right now, but she’s been gone twenty minutes. We’ve got every chance of finding her, but we’ve got to act. Save your tears for later. She’s going to need you.”

  Without looking up, Helen nodded.

  Colin went off into the forest. The large man went back to his wife and told her about what had happened. Six more people encircled them, and the man addressed them also. Within seconds the group dispersed with determined expressions, and went in search of Maggie Canavan.

  On the picnic blanket, Helen, strengthened slightly by the support shown by the strangers, managed to regain some elements of control. She took some deep breaths and pulled herself to her feet. She was a proud woman, not usually given to hysteria; when she raised herself to her full height she had two inches on her husband and an almost regal countenance.

  She smoothed down the front of her blue summer dress and pulled her long hair into a ponytail, a practical move intended to demonstrate that she was equal to whatever lay ahead. That nice man in the Hawaiian shirt had been right. Her daughter was going to need her.

  Less than two minutes later, however, Colin returned to the clearing, his face contorted with pain. Helen’s imploring eyes widened. Colin didn’t speak, but held up his left hand. The palm was spattered with blood.

  Helen gasped and her knees buckled, but she managed to control herself long enough to pull a cellular phone from her canvas bag and punch in 999 on the keypad.

  *

  Within fifteen minutes Friston Forest was swarming with police. The South Wealden patrol had been first on the scene, followed promptly by a supervisor and reinforcements from Eastbourne, Seaford and Newhaven. The air came alive with radio transmissions, while uniformed officers congregated in the car park awaiting instruction. The discovery of blood had brought the incident under the control of the CID, and the area of the picnic blanket was now a crime scene; tuna sandwiches and strawberries cordoned off by blue tape awaiting the meticulous attention of Scenes-of-Crime Officers. Overhead, the rotors of the police helicopter thudded across the sky.

  A wiry detective sergeant by the name of Jack Hermitage Boswell was attempting the almost-contradictory task of eliciting pressing Helen Canavan for information while simultaneously trying to appear sympathetic to her plight. Moreover, he was trying to reassure the Canavans that all resources were being deployed to search for their daughter.

  Boswell was a thirty-eight year-old widower and psychology graduate who had been in the CID for all but two of his eighteen years’ service. He had a silver-and-black prep-school haircut and not an ounce of fat anywhere on him; as such, he was the only person in the forest wearing more than one layer. It being a Sunday, this consisted of jeans and an open-necked white shirt under a thin cotton summer jacket.

  “Mrs Canavan, we have officers, including dog handlers and specialist search teams, coming from all corners of the Division. Further support is also being provided by our neighbouring Forces, and we will shortly...”

  “We have to find her. She‘s injured. She must be scared to death,” Helen wailed. “She might be in some paedophile’s car… oh God.”

  The large man in the Hawaiian shirt approached Boswell, who looked like a pencil next to a multi-coloured mountain.

  “Sergeant, anyone can see that you haven’t got enough officers to properly search this forest,” he said quietly. “Make use of us. There’s at least fifty of us here, ready and willing to help.” The large man waved an arm towards the steadily-growing group of concerned onlookers.

  Boswell thought for a moment,
and then nodded.

  “Okay. But it must be a co-ordinated effort. I want you all to go up to the car park and await instructions. If you are going to help, it must be directed by our search strategy.”

  The large man nodded and returned to the group. After repeating Boswell’s instruction, the group filed up to the car park.

  Privately, Boswell had reservations about citizens assisting the police effort. Over-zealousness and lack of confidence in the police often meant they thought they could do a better job, and the results were haphazard at best. But, given the massive level of interest this hunt would attract, that was a risk Boswell was prepared to take. Turning away volunteers was not an act likely to endear him to the Canavans, the public – or the press.

  As if on cue, the thudding of the police helicopter was augmented by a second, slightly less rapid beating. The Canavans and Boswell looked up and saw a TV news helicopter hovering over the forest.

  *

  The images being transmitted back to the media stations were impressive indeed – lines of uniformed police officers marching alongside a line of private citizens which was now a hundred-strong, all unified in their common purpose to discharge their civic duties and locate this little girl. The citizens linked arms as they combed the forest, eyes straining for any glimpse of Maggie Canavan’s pretty pink dress.

  Boswell checked his watch while the search continued. It was now two hours since the Canavans last saw their daughter. This was long enough for most police officers to privately conclude that any missing child of that age was probably injured and immobile – or worse.

  This was not aired to the Canavans – ‘keeping an open mind’ was the party line. Nonetheless, the elapsed time had brought forth a secondary wave of resources –

  the Canavans had been assigned a Family Liaison Officer – as in all homicide inquiries – to guide them through the investigative process and support them as each passing minute only caused their hope to dwindle.

  Boswell stared at the Canavans as they sat at a nearby picnic table. Their faces were blank, in stark contrast to the earnest expression of the FLO as she relayed optimistic platitudes and skilfully avoided the direct question that kept being repeated: “Do you think she’s dead?”