‘This makes four.’
‘All shot in the head.’
‘Was he shot in the head?’
‘Who was he? What’s his name?’
‘Why don’t you do something to protect the public?’
Stryker raised his voice above the returning flood of questions. ‘As far as we know the public are not at risk. It is your police who are at risk. We are accustomed to risks, that’s our job. We are doing everything possible to catch the perpetrator . . .’
He was losing. He was sinking.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What steps are you taking?’
‘What about the public?’
He could feel himself growing angry, felt the pressure building up in his skull. He knew his face was getting red, and he felt Toscarelli move up beside him on one side, Pinsky and Neilson on the other. For some reason, this seemed to amuse the reporters. The questions changed tone.
‘Who are those guys?’
‘Are they your bodyguards?’
‘Are you going to put bodyguards on the police?’
‘Are the police going into hiding?’
‘Why haven’t you called in the FBI?’
‘Why don’t you get Rambo?’
‘Hey, maybe it is Rambo?’
‘Why don’t you catch this guy?’
‘Why don’t you stop him?’
At that moment the ambulance started up its siren and began to move slowly out of the entrance to the car park and through the crowd. The driver blew his horn at the vans and cars of the television stations which were blocking his way, and people began to surge toward the ambulance to get a look inside. The television people ran toward the cars of the forensic team who were emerging from the car park carrying their mysterious and ever-fascinating black cases. Only a few newspapermen remained behind with Stryker and the others.
One of them, an old hand named Ballinger, smiled wryly up at Stryker, who was wiping his face with his handkerchief.
‘Anything we can do to help, Jack? We’ve got a lot of space to fill, we’ll put in anything you like. We also have one hell of a library – it’s at your disposal,’
Stryker smiled down at him, weakly. ‘We could try advertising for the bastard. “Free offer – come in with your hands up and we’ll give you a brand-new toaster-oven plus a year’s supply of waffles”. What do you think?’
‘I think I feel sorry for you,’ Ballinger said. He looked at the others. ‘I think I feel sorry for all of you.’
‘Welcome to the club,’ Neilson said.
FOUR
Stryker woke up the next morning in a very bad mood.
It was not improved by the prospect of his court appearance at nine o’clock. That is, he was called for nine – the chances were he would hang around for hours and say nothing.
And then he couldn’t find a parking space.
The courtroom was crowded with spectators who had fought their way in and were not prepared to leave. Reporters overflowed the press area and filled the outer hall, jostling with photographers both freelance and assigned, waiting for the arrival of the defendant.
Harry Bronkowsky was a big, bad man, and big, bad men are news – especially when they’ve been caught to rights on a Murder One charge. The judge was happy – he loved getting his name in the papers. The reporters were happy – they loved a juicy story. The DA was happy – he loved a certain conviction.
Stryker was not happy.
Nor was anybody else in the Police Department.
But the witness schedule said Lt J. E. Stryker, and he had to tell his story, which was simple and vital to the prosecution, because it was Stryker and his team who had broken the case and made the arrests.
Not that they had enjoyed it – in clearing up the case they had also uncovered a dirty cop, and now the Department was on trial in the media as much as the accused in court.
That there are rotten cops surprises no-one.
The surprise is that there are so few of them.
Detective Lieutenant Tim Leary was one of the few.
When you deal with filth every day, when you see that filth enriching itself, living high and laughing, when you have so many opportunities to do the same, it is inevitable that some men falter, go over, go under.
There were many police officers attending Bronkowsky’s trial in one capacity or another, and there wasn’t one of them who hadn’t transgressed, looked the other way over something small, given the benefit of the doubt where there was really no doubt, perhaps out of hope, perhaps for a favour done or paid for, perhaps out of laziness, perhaps even out of ignorance. It happens. But they had drawn their personal line. It wasn’t always the same line, but it always said I go this far and no more. And they had stuck to it.
So they looked at Leary with the loathing of those who recognise something of themselves in another, with the zeal of reformed drunks who have triumphed over the bottle. They had stopped, he had not. Theirs was not a noble attitude, for mixed with their sense of justice was fear and self-doubt and the impulse, always, to protect the Department.
They had caught Leary mouth open, hand out, and morals lacking. Big, balding, and wearing an eight-hundred-dollar suit, he claimed it was (a) a lie, (b) a mistake, (c) a one- off instance, and (d) entrapment. It was the daily testimony of his former colleagues that seemed to anger him the most, and from his seat in the rear of the court he muttered frequently of what he could say about other cops, other scams, other broken trusts and honours if and when he was called to the stand.
As it happened, the District Attorney was trying to avoid calling Leary to the stand. He might strengthen the prosecution case by doing so, but putting him up there would also mean offering him to the defence for cross-examination, and that way lay all kinds of holes in the net for Bronkowsky’s lawyers to jump through. It had happened several times before. This time the DA wanted Bronkowsky put away for good. So Leary stayed in the back of the court and glowered, his story untold, his self-justifications unexpressed. There would be time enough for those when his tribunal was called – but then the dirty linen would be hidden behind closed doors. Only the result would be made public.
Bronkowsky was on trial now.
And they were going to get him at last.
Stryker finished his testimony by eleven o’clock. As he went down the aisle, other cops who were testifying that day smiled at him sympathetically.
Leary wasn’t one of them.
‘Now I understand,’ Kate said, half to herself, as the coach turned down what looked to her like a private drive but which proved to be a small country lane.
The man seated next to her turned his head. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What Browning meant about being in England now that April’s there – here. It’s glorious.’
He smiled, glanced beyond her at the passing landscape, and nodded. ‘It’s glorious, all right – and very unusual. Spring in England is usually just a slightly warmer version of winter, which is wet, grey, and incredibly depressing. I admit, however, that when we do it, we do it right.’
The coach rounded a curve and to the right and left the young green lawns of the village through which they were passing were dotted with random swathes and daubs of bright, clear yellow.
‘And there are Wordsworth’s daffodils. I can’t stand it,’ Kate said, knowing she sounded like a schoolgirl but unable to stop herself. She had dreamed for years of coming to England and now she was here. Instead of the disappointment for which she had braced herself, there was just what there should have been, everywhere she looked. It was spring, it was England, and it was all so right.
His smile became a grin. ‘The weatherman says it’s going to continue. Mind you, he’s usually wrong. You may see the real England yet.’
‘And that is?’
‘Water, wat
er, everywhere, driving us to drink. I daresay the per capita consumption of wellies must be higher here than anywhere in the world.’
‘Wellies?’ It must be some kind of drink, she thought.
‘I believe you call them “gumboots”.’ He pushed his sliding glasses back into place and extended a hand. ‘I’m Richard Cotterell. And you are Kate Trevorne.’
She was startled. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I asked. Immediately I saw you this morning, I asked.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘You should be – you looked absolutely dreadful. Jet lag?’
‘Nightmares.’
‘If you tell me your dreams, I’ll tell you mine. That is a threat, by the way.’
She laughed. ‘Point taken.’ She looked out of the window again.
‘I understand you’re going to be talking to us about Shakespearian murders.’
‘As if you didn’t know all about them already. I felt quite inadequate as soon as I heard the level of erudition at dinner last night. It’s quite ridiculous to think an upstart American can tell any member of this august British gathering anything about Shakespeare.’
‘Piffle.’
‘My goodness – you actually say it.’
‘Piffle? In my tutorials I have used it frequently. I don’t know about your students, but mine speak practically nothing else. Splendid word, piffle.’ He grinned again, causing all the lines of his face to curve upward toward his dark blue eyes.
Kate gasped suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord – Richard Cotterell. I didn’t make the connection. In Love With Language. It was absolutely wonderful – I’ve made it required reading for all my students.’
‘On behalf of my publisher, my agent, and myself, I thank you,’ he said, going pink across his cheekbones.
‘Well, it isn’t often someone bridges the great divide between academia and the real world,’ Kate said briskly, sensing his embarrassment.
‘It was frowned on in some circles here,’ Richard said. ‘Not the done thing, you know, talking about language as if it might actually have something to do with everyday life.’
She chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. I teach two courses in Crime Fiction and there are some who think that’s malarky.’
‘You really say it!’ he said.
‘Malarky? Of course – it’s American for piffle.’
He smiled. ‘So it is.’
They rode on in companionable silence. Kate glanced sideways at him. He was very attractive in a tweedy, bony way, with a good strong jawline and a touch of grey in his dark brown hair. She liked the shape of his head and hands, and the slow mellow sound of his voice. Richard Cotterell, hey? Who would have thought it? I thought he’d be a prissy professor with a pince-nez and dandruff, and he’s really quite young and – what was that English word I heard someone use last night? – ah, yes – he’s really quite dishy.
She settled back in her seat and looked out at the landscape she had longed for so many years to see. Here am I, Kate Trevorne, an ordinary girl from the Middle West, sitting next to one of England’s most famous academics, on a bus for goodness’ sake, trundling along a rolling English road, with daffodils in the hedgerows and swallows in the sky, on my way to Stratford-on-Avon, where I am going to make a speech, about Shakespeare for crying out loud, to all these brilliant people. I must be dreaming. I must be out of my mind. She glanced at Richard Cotterell’s profile out of the corner of her eye. And I must be sensible, she concluded, turning back resolutely to the landscape.
They passed a bright, modern Texaco station, followed by a bright, modern shopping centre, followed by a bright, modern housing development. Oh, England, my England, stop before it’s too late, she mourned. But that was selfish. People had a right to decent plumbing, easy shopping, and every convenience. The day she volunteered to live in a poky, dirty, dark but picturesque little cottage with an outside toilet – and leave it like that – would be the day she could demand that everyone else did too. Then, as the coach rounded yet another corner, revealing an ancient pub with a thatched roof and pots of bright geraniums in the windows, she sighed with pleasure.
How very lovely it could be, and how grateful she was for every corner that had been kept that way.
After a while, Richard spoke again. ‘I think we should have dinner together, tonight.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I think we should begin an Anglo-American exchange of piffle as soon as possible. Are you married?’
‘No, but—’
‘Neither am I, at the moment. I don’t want to hear about the “but”, by the way. You have to eat tonight, so do I – there is no earthly reason why we shouldn’t eat at the same table, is there?’
‘No, but—’
‘I told you, I am not interested in “but”. I am interested in you. Dinner – yes or no?’
‘What happens if I say no?’
‘I will cry out loudly. I will snivel and abase myself at your feet. I will ravel my sleeves. I will twine straws in my hair and eat worms, which I always carry with me in case of rejection. I will lie down in the aisle and kick and scream all the way from here to Stratford.’ He did not look at her, but kept his eyes on the back of the seat ahead.
‘Well,’ Kate said, slowly. ‘We can’t have that, can we?’
Stryker had been at his desk for nearly an hour after lunch when Tos walked in carrying a file.
‘Hey, you remember that drunk they found in the alley off French Street a few days ago?’ Tos asked, as he sat down on the opposite side of the desk.
‘Yeah.’ Stryker was deep in paperwork, as usual, and hating it. All cops hate paperwork, but Stryker hated it more than most, because doing it required him to sit still for more than three minutes at a time. This was against his religion.
‘We had nothing on him, so we sent his fingerprints to Washington.’
‘Routine,’ Stryker muttered.
‘Sure. We just got the report back. Guy’s name is Gabriel Lucas Hawthorne. Turns out he’s on our side.’
Stryker wrote another two sentences before what Toscarelli had said penetrated. He looked up to find his friend regarding him patiently.
‘The dead guy on French Street?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He was a cop?’
‘Sort of. Says here he was a federal investigator. They’re sending somebody over.’
‘I’ll bet they are,’ Stryker said. ‘What the hell was a federal investigator doing on French Street dressed as a bum?’
‘Well, now, I’ve got a theory about that,’ Tos said.
‘You would,’ Stryker grumbled, and leaned back in his chair to listen. His chair creaked, and he sighed. Tos’s face wore that peculiar expression he had when entering the realm of fantasy. Far-off, and far-in, the ancient face of the story-teller.
‘Irresistible impulse,’ Tos pronounced, finally. He looked as if this settled everything.
‘You what?’
‘Yeah.’ Tos leaned forward. ‘He had an irresistible impulse to be a bum. Sort of a secret yen to stink and dress badly and stagger around in the street and fall down a lot. But he couldn’t do it in Washington because somebody might recognise him, which would be embarrassing and probably bad for his promotion prospects, so he comes over here and tries it on. He likes it. It’s wonderful – what he always wanted. No shining shoes, no brass hassle, just really scummy slobbishness. He stays. Then he—’
‘Very funny,’ Stryker interrupted.
‘You don’t like my theory?’ Tos was deeply hurt and he wanted Stryker to know that. He struck his chest with a soft fist.
‘I think there might be another explanation,’ Stryker said, wryly.
‘Well, of course there’s another explanation – but will it have any insight?’ Tos wanted to know. ‘Will it have any flair?’
&nbs
p; ‘Probably not.’
‘Well, there you are.’ Tos thought for a moment. He raised a finger. ‘What about leprechauns?’
‘Leprechauns?’
‘Say he was transported by leprechauns and—’
‘I appreciate your efforts to brighten my day, but can we get serious, here?’
‘It is kind of funny, in a way, though,’ Tos said, leaning back. ‘It’s another cop-killing, isn’t it?’
‘How could it be? We didn’t even know he was a cop – so how could the killer know?’
‘No connection, hey?’
‘Definitely not.’
Tos grinned. ‘I wish you wouldn’t use words like definitely – they make me nervous.’
At first they figured her for a lawyer.
Or a witness.
Maybe a victim?
How about a victim’s wife?
Whatever – she made Neilson spill coffee all over his shoes, and even Pinsky turned his swivel chair for a look as she passed through on her way to Stryker’s office.
About five foot nine, a Leonine mass of deep red hair, and the kind of pale grey eyes that have smoke-rings of black around the irises. She wore a severely cut charcoal grey suit that did little to hide a voluptuous figure, black stockings (‘O God,’ murmured Neilson), and slender high heels. She carried a briefcase under one arm and walked with the long, powerful strides of someone who probably ran ten miles every morning before breakfast.
‘Lieutenant Stryker?’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Dana Marchant.’ She produced her identification. ‘I believe you have one of our people in your morgue.’ Her handshake was cool, dry, firm.
‘Yes, so we’ve been told. I’m sorry.’
‘So are we. He was a good officer.’ Her tone made the standard tribute sound unconvincing.
‘Was he Irish?’ Tos asked, clearly unnerved.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing,’ Stryker said, hurriedly. ‘I believe his name was Hawthorne?’
‘Gabriel Hawthorne, yes.’ She seemed to savour the names. ‘I’m assigned to work with you on the investigation. It’s been okayed higher up.’ She unzipped her briefcase and produced a sheaf of print. ‘If you like, I can make the formal identification for the coroner. I worked with Hawthorne several times. He has no living relatives.’
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