Washed Up

by Berry, Tony

  He took another stroll over to the drinks trolley, feeling the glare of Peter Jardine’s impatience boring into his back. He mulled over the names they’d discussed – Theophanous, Rosen, Carl West, Steve Delgado, Adriana, Lottie and even Melissa O’Grady whose death had set the entire train in motion.

  He waved the bottle towards the table, an invitation for the others to join him. No one accepted. Their looks were uniformly censorious. Bugger them, he needed a drink. Just a small one; to help him think. He recognised the force of Jardine’s argument but was convinced it lacked the right long-term solution. There were too many interlocking forces at play.

  ‘There is one answer,’ he offered.

  Their heads turned as one. He saw an awakening of interest erase the frowns clouding their faces. He twirled the glass in his hand, studying the pale golden liquid, stirring up its peaty aroma, considering his words, wondering whether he really did have the answer. It would mean rebuilding a fractured past, swallowing hurt pride. He set his glass down on the table and remained standing, composing his thoughts and words, noting the impatience of the others.

  Jardine was tapping the point of a pen on a small notebook he’d taken from his top pocket. Liz was studying her hands as she twisted the chunky tiger-eye ring around her finger. Only Marsha remained still, gazing unblinkingly at Bromo, as if willing him to speak. She got her wish. Bromo spread his palms flat on the table, pushing down and leaning forward.

  ‘Okay, Peter, you win,’’ he said. ‘We’ll call the police.’

  Jardine sat up, pressing into the chair’s padded back. A slight smile smoothed away the frown lines dividing his brow. The body language was that of a winner. He gave a single hard tap with his pen, as if signing off on Bromo’s agreement.

  ‘Good on you, Bromo,’ he said. ‘It’s the only way to go. Let the cops deal with it.’

  Bromo picked up his glass and took a sip. He focused on Jardine. This was between them. Liz and Marsha were reduced to spectators.

  ‘Yeah, that’s as maybe,’ he said.

  He measured his words carefully, speaking firmly, hoping to curb any more debate.

  ‘There are cops and there are cops,’ he said, staring fixedly at Jardine. ‘Maybe your cops are not my cops. Leave it to me to make the call.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘I think I know,’ said Liz.

  She turned her head to face Bromo, her eyes sending him a message that she knew much more than he was revealing to Jardine. He got the message loud and clear.

  ‘But you’re not telling, are you Liz?’

  He needed confirmation. She smiled, teasing and complicit, staying willfully silent for an anxious ten seconds in which Bromo wondered how much she knew and how much was based on rumour and guesswork. He watched her head move slowly from side to side, the loose russet ringlets of her hair hiding and revealing her smile, which had grown into a big grin, delightfully mischievous and tempting. And she knew it.

  ‘It’s all right, your secret’s safe for now,’ she said. ‘You go and make your call … and wish her well from me.’

  Bromo stilled any reaction with another sip of malt. Let her play her games. There would be no response from him to the puzzled looks being exchanged between Jardine and Marsha. His past indiscretions would stay under wraps, at least for now. Jardine stood and stretched. He cupped his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. Bromo moved alongside and extended his arm for a handshake.

  ‘Thanks, Pete, for what you did today.’

  His hand hung in the air for several seconds before Jardine clasped it in his. The gesture was not what Jardine had been expecting.

  ‘I got the impression you thought I’d stuffed up. Could have done more.’

  Bromo shrugged, dismissive. ‘Tired and cranky, that’s me. You played it safe, which is what we should all do. Surely they taught you that in the military. Bugger all that Boy’s Own Paper stuff and going over the top of the trenches. That’s for idiots. You did more than enough, and we’ve got vital information as a result.’

  He released Jardine’s hand and gave him a gentle dismissive pat on the back. They moved towards the door.

  ‘Go and get some shut-eye,’ said Bromo. ‘We don’t need you for now.’

  ‘How about later?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of hours. More likely tomorrow. It’s often wise not to rush these things. Let them relax, think all’s okay. Depends on my phone call to the cops.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I hope she’s still on speaking terms. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I guessed.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘Liz’s eyes speak volumes.’

  Bromo gave him a quizzical look. Was there something going on he hadn’t noticed?

  ‘Yes, they do,’ he agreed. ‘For now, however, the agenda’s strictly business.’

  Jardine turned the door handle, noting the gentle reprimand. ‘No other thought entered my head.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He stepped out into the courtyard. ‘Later then.’

  ‘Yes, later,’ said Bromo. ‘I think we might do a bit of brothel creeping.’

  THIRTY

  Liz persuaded Marsha to stay the night. There was little discussion. Liz spelt it out simply and succinctly. It was getting late, there was a long lonely drive ahead, it had been a physically and emotionally draining day. Marsha agreed on all points. She topped up her glass with a double slug of scotch, shrugged off her Drizabone, draped it over a chair and followed Liz through to the spare room.

  Bromo retreated to the far corner where Liz had set up a home office with long wide bench, bookshelves to the roofline and a king-size flat screen computer monitor, probably a necessity for viewing architectural plans. Or maybe she was into gaming. There was so much he didn’t know about her. He sat in a high-back revolving chair and busied himself with his phone.

  He sighed with irritation as Delia’s home number rang eight times and then clicked on to an answering machine. The brevity of its cryptic message caught him by surprise. He found himself fumbling for a response and being cut off in mid-flow as he tussled with selecting the appropriate words and tone of voice. Bromo didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. He needed her to get in touch, but for all the wrong reasons. This was business, not personal. He wanted her contacts and knowledge, not the touch of her hands or the seductive croak of her voice. The message he left was a garbled request for her to ring him when convenient. It lacked any of the warmth he felt and that he knew she would be looking for. He tried to convey a sense of urgency without getting too dramatic and ended up with something curt and far more coldly informal than he felt.

  Liz reappeared and moved towards the kitchen area. Bromo’s frustration and impatience were palpable.

  ‘Not having much luck?’ she said, expecting little more than Bromo’s grumpy response.

  ‘Bloody answering machine,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Maybe it’s one of those times when she doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

  His head jerked round to catch her expression, to gauge whether it was a throwaway line or a more calculated barb with meaning behind the bald words. He was too late. She had begun busying herself at the kitchen bench and her back was turned towards him.

  ‘I’ll try the mobile,’ he said.

  He glared at Liz’s unresponsive back, aware of his cranky mood and feeling challenged by her comment.

  ‘Then we’ll see if she wants to be disturbed.’

  Delia picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Bromo.

  ‘I know it’s you. Caller ID.’

  Bromo assessed her voice as sounding warm but cautious. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking, the way he wanted it to be. Nonetheless, he felt an immediate relief, his ill-temper fading.r />
  ‘Quite a surprise; it’s been a long time,’ Delia said, keeping it level.

  Bromo detected a mild reprimand but beyond that there was no hint of either pleasure or annoyance at his call.

  ‘Let me guess, at this time of night you’re either drunk and maudlin or you’re in deep shit and need some strings to be pulled.’

  She’d got his measure. As always. It had been that way from the beginning. She had stumbled into his life posing as a Goth-like clerk working for the local council. Only later had she revealed her true identity as a police undercover agent as they worked together to unravel corrupt dealings at City Hall.

  Bromo endured a turmoil of feelings whenever he recalled the moment their frequently brittle business relationship had turned to pleasure. A needy Delia had rushed him into his own bed for what she described as remedial sex and ended as a morning of tenderly passionate love-making. It was an emotional balm for two sets of shattered nerves after Gerry Nuyen had murdered his wife and then evaded Bromo’s clutches and plunged to his death on to the railway lines. After that, their relationship had sparked and stuttered like the engine of a vintage car – exciting them as it flared intermittently into life but leaving them to endure long periods of down-time.

  ‘I kept meaning to phone,’ said Bromo.

  It sounded lame and he knew it, yet he could think of no alternative. Anything else would be hypocritical, untrue. Those twin alarm bells of involvement and commitment were always ringing in the background. It seemed she heard the same tune.

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ said Delia. ‘So bloody busy and never in the same place for more than a week at a time.’

  At least she had an excuse.

  ‘So, what’s the problem? Nothing too murky I hope.’

  Bromo told her. Spelt out the entire story, keeping it tight and short but omitting none of the essentials. She said little and asked few questions until he had finished, but he knew he had her attention. He gave a brief précis of Jardine’s activities and came to an abrupt halt. He offered no embellishments and made no pleas. He knew one would be recognised for what it was worth, the other would be a waste of breath. He remembered her telling him her pet hates – chicken livers and bullshit artists. They were equally indigestible.

  ‘So that’s it?’ said Delia.

  Bromo wasn’t sure whether she was stating a fact or expressing disappointment. Maybe she expected something more personal; an acknowledgment of their intimacy.

  ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘A night in bed with you would be good.’

  There was a slight ripple of laughter in her voice.

  ‘But you’re there and I’m here …’

  Her voice tailed off. He knew better than to ask where she was or what she was doing. They’d been down that trail before and it always came to a dead end. He fumbled for a response but she saved him the trouble.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Business before pleasure. What you’ve told me is plenty. We’ll work on it.’

  ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

  ‘It was on the files. One case among many. We’re always juggling priorities. Things get pushed aside. Others take their place.’ Her voice softened. ‘You know what it’s like, Bromo. It can’t be helped.’

  He got the message. It kept a lid on any expectations he might have had. They were ships adrift on the sea, hoping to find a safe anchorage but wary of every harbour they passed. Who knew what pitfalls and limitations lurked once they stepped ashore. He decided to keep sailing.

  ‘So, the crims are keeping you as busy ever,’ he said.

  ‘And you’ve just changed the subject and added to the workload.’

  She spoke with an underlining chuckle, her voice lightening. Bromo interpreted it as relief that their personal issues had slipped off the agenda. It could even be she spoke for both of them. Maybe it was relief rather than regret that he, too, was feeling but would not admit to. He had to move on.

  ‘Does that mean we can count on your help?’

  ‘More like the other way around. We’ll take over and call you if we need you.’

  It was an official rebuke. He should have expected it. He would have said the same had any member of the public infringed on his territory in his days in the service. Bloody amateurs and do-gooders. Leave it to the professionals. We can screw up better than anyone and get paid for doing it.

  ‘You might need us more than you think,’ he countered. ‘Local knowledge and all that. We’ve got contacts and access.’

  Bromo gave her an outline of what he had in mind. At least she heard him out and made no comments until he’d finished. Even then she remained surprisingly positive, making suggestions rather than the objections he’d been expecting. There was compromise and fine-tuning as both drew deep from their operational experiences, Bromo finding skills that had lain unused for some years remained almost second nature.

  He pulled a scribbling pad across the desk and found a blank page. He made notes as he listened to Delia’s instructions, checking times and phone numbers and interjecting an occasional comment. There was no more idle chat. They became impersonal and serious, the creation of a briskly conceived plan of action. Twice Delia warned of the dangers, diversions that Bromo told her he considered as trips into the bleeding obvious. He needed no such warnings after today’s events, he informed her. Delia ignored him.

  ‘You don’t know everything, Bromo,’ she said. ‘You’ve got lots more to worry about than a couple of petty crooks taking pot-shots at you in the woods.’

  A bit of an understatement, thought Bromo, but he let it pass. She wasn’t the one who’d been hijacked into the forest by a maniac with a gun. She was on a roll and in command mode, her voice deeper and firmer, unaccepting of any resistance.

  ‘The wheels are in motion,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll get back to you – or you to me. Stay safe.’

  He was about to cut the connection when she sounded one more alarm.

  ‘Keep well clear of Vern Rosen,’ said Delia. ‘We’re told he’s on the loose. Also, he’s armed and very dangerous.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Bromo continued wrestling with Delia’s final warning after they said farewells that he reflected were brief and strangely formal. Perhaps he’d raised his hopes too high when making contact. Presuming and expecting too much at a personal level. Delia’s words troubled him, but they made sense. He recalled Grant Mayfield’s advice to give Rosen a wide berth and Rosen’s aggressive manner outside Number 85. A delinquent cop on some erratic course of mayhem was the last thing they needed.

  He tore his page of notes from the scribbling pad and picked up his glass, draining it in one gulp. Liz came across the room carrying a platter of cheese and biscuits, olives, pickled calamari, cherry tomatoes and dried fruit.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you need something to soak up the scotch.’

  He rarely associated scotch with food. He accepted the dictums of red wine with red meat and white wine with chicken and fish. But what did you have with scotch? Another scotch. He took the bottle and poured, aware of Liz watching him. He glanced up. Her look was definitely censorious, enough to make him take something from the plate to assuage her disapproving glare. He nibbled at a biscuit, studying its cracked edges after each bite as if it was some totally new taste experience. The scene reminded him of junior school, of being stood over and reprimanded by one of the dowdy stern-faced spinsters who believed education was best instilled by a rap over the knuckles. At least Liz was much easier on the eye and dressed far better than those school-day harridans. She could rap his knuckles anytime.

  He picked up an olive and speared a piece of sun-dried tomato. He noted his eating seemed to relax her. She leaned against the table, arms resting on its edge, making her breasts fall against the fabric of her dress and reveal the valley of her cleavage.

  ‘So, tell me, how’s the relationship going?’

  ‘We’re not the sort to have
relationships.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  She looked at him for an explanation, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Am I included in that or are you referring to you and your guardian angel?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘If the cap fits … all of us. Relationships are too damaging. Not so much for us, but for the other person.

  ‘So, I suppose we rely on having affairs.’

  He spread some creamy brie on to a biscuit.

  ‘We don’t even have affairs. They last too long, get messy. Again, there’s collateral damage.

  ‘Isn’t that something that happens in war?’

  ‘What do you think an affair is? It’s a battleground.’

  She egged him on. Whittling down the options.

  ‘So it all comes down to one-night stands.’

  ‘Hopefully not. Too bloody awful with all that messy morning-after business. No, Liz, people like us have interludes; much more emotion and meaning than one-night stands but cutting out before the tedium and duplicity that’s inevitable with an affair.’

  Bromo leaned forward, arms on thighs, clasping his glass between both hands, his eyes fixed on her. He felt his words hanging in the air between them, a deliberately high lob that left her uncertain how to play it. She strained back against the table, raising her head to look at the ceiling, then closing her eyes and breathing in deeply, her neck muscles showing up taut, her breasts becoming more prominent. Bromo stole an admiring glance before she lowered her head and opened her eyes. Whatever inner debate she’d been having had been resolved.

  ‘Dangerous territory, Bromo,’ she said.

  ‘Only if you ignore the risks.’

  ‘How did we get there?’

  ‘I think you were asking about relationships.’

  ‘I was; but yours, not mine.’

  He took another biscuit, covered it with cheese and squashed a piece of tomato on top. Liz eased forward off the table and moved in front of him. She leaned down to spear a segment of cheese from the platter, the low V-neck of her dress giving him an improved rerun of his earlier view into the firm and rounded cleavage. He held himself taut, resisting words or reaction. He watched her move slowly upright, eyes holding his, smiling, challenging, before she moved away, defusing the moment.