by Mark Raven
‘I would take you upstairs,’ he said, referring to the Border Agency’s Operations Room. ‘But we are on Severe at the moment, so no visitors.’
In security speak, Severe is one below Critical and one above Substantial. I’m told Moderate and Low featured so rarely these days that they were thinking of getting rid of them as categories. Never a dull moment in the War on Terror.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not nostalgic. How are things?’
‘The usual chaos,’ he said. ‘This Snowden thing isn’t helping. GCHQ is all in a tizzy. MI5 has got its knickers in a twist. And UKBA are like headless chickens over this new National Crime Agency coming in.’
‘Our very own FBI at last.’
‘People don’t realise how big it is going to be. Four thousand officers—mostly on secondment—half a billion budget. Replaces SOCA next month—about time too, in my opinion—plus child exploitation and online protection, IT and cyber crime, police training, Hendon, even parts of the Border Agency here. Causing no end of grief and back-watching, I can tell you.’
‘There has been hardly anything about it in the press,’ I said.
‘I know. All very low key. Under the radar. Top-brass hoped it would go away, I think.’
‘Did you apply?’ I asked. ‘For a secondment.’
‘You’re joking! Everyone had to be vetted.’
‘Didn’t stop you getting promoted,’ I said. ‘You were right, I was wrong.’
He stared at me for a long moment.
‘Whatever happened to the old Becket?’ he asked. ‘Your evil twin?’
‘Well, he mainly does matrimonials these days,’ I said. ‘And evidence reviews.’
Rosenberg looked sceptical, nodded at my bruised face.
‘Looks like dangerous work.’
I described the attack, leaving out the context, saying I was carrying £500 in cash.
Rosenberg appeared to believe about half it, but couldn’t be bothered to find out which half was true. He asked to see the CCTV stills, regarding them in the manner of an archivist or a curator in a museum: the definition of the image, the weight of the paper. The first showed two shaven headed men in suits walking towards the park gates with baseball bats. The second, Lee Herbert getting into the Range Rover. The third, the vehicle driving away. DS Singh hadn’t printed off the one with Becket being beaten to a pulp. Perhaps that was on the staff room wall.
‘Where did you get them?’ Rosenberg asked.
‘I can only assume they were attached to my statement by mistake.’
He laughed. ‘The British police must be the leakiest organisation in the world.’
I realised that DS Singh was taking some kind of risk in helping me. I wondered if the blonde constable had known what she’d delivered to me at Chichester station. Onto the copy of my statement, the CCTV photographs and Jenny Forbes-Marchant’s police interview notes had been carelessly stapled.
‘Makes you wonder why they ever try to cover things up.’
‘These guys who mugged you,’ Rosenberg said. ‘They don’t look much like muggers to me.’
‘The linings of their suits were red.’
‘Nice. And you think they could be foreign nationals?’
‘South African or Russian, perhaps.’
‘Arriving when?’
I counted back to the date of Sir Simeon Marchant’s death.
‘Sometime around the 19th or 20th. August.’
‘Why Gatwick?’
‘Close to Chichester,’ I said. ‘And I don’t know anyone at Heathrow.’
Rosenberg shook his head.
‘Honest, anyway. Well, I shall try Terminal 3, first off. That’s a lot of footage but the system is so quick these days.’
He made a note on the envelope.
‘These are copies,’ he said. ‘Do you need them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Copies of copies is no good for me. How about if I copy them and give you back the copies?’
‘Fine.’
He stood up.
‘Wait here.’
‘Can I borrow your phone? My battery’s gone.’
‘Sure.’
Rosenberg looked at me strangely and left. Never lie to a copper, I thought.
I looked around the concourse. People hurrying to make their flights, or killing time shopping for things they didn’t really need. The fake English pub, all dark wood and cheerful stained glass, was packed. No one paid me any attention. So I made a few phone calls, safe in the knowledge I could not be overheard.
I arrived in London just after eight and met Colin Littlemore on the concourse at Victoria Station. He was drinking from a Caffe Nero carton the size of a small bucket. Littlemore—he was never ‘Colin’ to me—was a known caffeine addict when he was not studying photographs of young boys, his other addiction. It was a compulsion, he assured me from time to time, which he was entirely cured of, in the thoroughly convincing manner of an Italian gourmand who tells you he doesn’t appreciate Tuscan truffles anymore. There was also something of the gourmand about Littlemore in girth if not in diet. As far as I knew he subsisted entirely on take-outs and TV dinners ordered online. This was because he rarely went out after dark, and when he did he got nosebleeds—usually from the sort of ex-con who can spot a nonce at thirty paces.
So it was quite a big thing for Littlemore to come and meet me at Victoria Station. It took several threats to get him there. Becket wasn’t proud of himself, but times were hard.
‘Chief Inspector Becket,’ he said in his oily manner. ‘Can I get you a four shot Cappuccino, perhaps?’
I didn’t want us to get off on the wrong foot, so I told him I’d rather eat my own liver. That was the other thing that annoyed me about Colin Littlemore; he still called me Chief Inspector Becket. It dated from the time I was investigating two undercover officers who had got so much into their roles as local hard men that they had trounced Littlemore and several thousand pounds’ worth of computers in his flat. That act, in itself, might not have been serious enough to be drawn to my attention had not, the following evening, one of the officers shot his colleague in the thigh, allegedly during a dispute over who got the final drumstick in a KFC Bargain Bucket. Like I say they were very much in role—presumably in the manner of the great Stanislavski or Lee Strasberg of the New York School—and I was therefore more interested in them than the child sex offender they had beaten up to impress some local youths.
Suffice to say, I had interviewed Littlemore for the best part of an afternoon in hospital, trying to get a hint at my characters’ motivations. By the end of it I felt like pulling the saline trip out of his arm and smothering Littlemore with his NHS pillow. (The one, as far as I could tell, he had never contributed to via the tax and social security system.) What Becket had done, however, was get the fat slob re-homed to a place in Pimlico where the locals didn’t know his background. Most of the other residents in the block were unemployed artists, so I told Littlemore to say he was writing a novel and his odd behaviour—late hours at the computer, shuffling down the corridor talking to himself, etc—would be accepted as the norm.
For this Becketian kindness, Littlemore was profoundly grateful. I also put some work his way from time to time, because, for all of his other faults, Littlemore was the sort of researcher who could find things out other people couldn’t. Entirely self-taught, he was also off the map as far as the security services were concerned. I intended to keep it that way and told him if he ever worked for anyone else I would set him up as quickly as a Kill the Paedos FaceBook page.
‘I haven’t got long, Littlemore,’ I said. ‘Walk with me to the Tube and I’ll tell you what I need you to do.’
Southwark. From where Chaucer’s pilgrims set out for Canterbury and these days an up and coming place, one where I was no longer surprised to meet such exotic creatures as Mrs Jenny Forbes-Marchant. I was not at the gallery by half past eight as arranged. But quarter to nine was close enough to save me from perio
d of exile in Siberia. Inside, I could see the last remaining guests poncing about with flutes of champagne or orange juice. Down a side street, the caterers were already packing their van. I went in.
In many ways it was a similar place to the Persimmon, as if galleries had their own generic set designer. Even the exhibition had the same air of restrained desperation. The search for novelty. But we were in Southwark, so the customers were more arty, less Arab, and the prices were about half of what they were chez Forbes-Marchant. I spotted her talking to a man in a black leather cap. He looked familiar, like he was an actor or journalist or some other talking head beamed into the Becket residence from time to time. But he couldn’t have been that important, as Jenny broke off her conversation as she soon as she saw me and headed me off before I got to the drinks table. It looked empty anyway.
‘Tom,’ she kissed me on both cheeks. ‘You made it!’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘I made it.’
She whispered, ‘I’ll just say my goodbyes. Hold this.’
I took her glass and watched her approach the hostess. They went through all the kissing business again, this time in farewell. I finished the drink and put it on a passing tray. There were no refills on offer. Obviously the buyers had all left and the gallery owner was just left with her rivals, the artist and sundry hangers-on. Dressed in the bizarre uniform of the London art-scene—burnt sienna was the new black that month—they chatted in little desperate groups, wondering where to go next. From their midst, a middle-aged man approached me. He was the only one in laughing distance dressed in a pinstripe suit and he still had a drink. He stuck out his hand formally.
‘Peter Forbes.’
There was something familiar about the rhythm of his voice. I studied him for a moment. He had a halo of dark curly hair above a forehead as wrinkled and challenged as a boxer dog. He was frowning at me like was a sculpture he didn’t quite understand.
I nodded over at Jenny Forbes-Marchant. ‘Any relation?’
‘Ex-husband. And you?’
‘No, we’ve never been married.’
That one fizzled out in the frost.
‘No, your name?’
‘Sorry,’ I held out my hand. ‘Tom Becket.’
‘Ah, the man who got her money back.’
The man is a phrase that has myriad meanings in the English class system. All of them derogatory. When people want to be polite—or patronising— they put ‘gentle’ between ‘the’ and ‘man.’ This is the gentleman who cleans one’s lavatory etc. Mr—er—Becket? He was the man who got Daddy’s money back.
‘Well, her father’s money,’ I said to Peter Forbes.
‘Jen tells me everything,’ he said.
‘That’s what ex-husbands are for.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s quite all right.’
He moved closer, smelling of aftershave and other forms of neat alcohol. He must have had the type of job where it was acceptable to sweat whisky at your colleagues all day. When people have that depth of reek before the watershed, there’s normally a problem. He appeared perplexed. I wondered what he was wondering. His eyes came in and out of focus, so I think he was wondering too.
‘Pardon?’
‘I said it is quite all right,’ I repeated. ‘But you really should not go round threatening people, Mr Forbes. It will get you rusticated.’
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Rusticated...’
‘No, not that! About threatening you...’
‘You rang me up a week ago, or thereabouts. Said I was to leave her alone.’ I nodded again in the direction of his ex-wife. ‘I must admit, I thought it was a proper threat. Until I met you. Where did you learn to speak like Stephen Hawking, by the way? Did you go to RADA or do you have an new App on your phone?’
Jenny Forbes-Marchant caught my eye, clocked her ex, who looked like he was about to spontaneously combust, and almost sprinted over. Not an easy thing to do in high heels.
‘Tom!’ she cried. ‘Tom, Tom, Tom, we must go or we will be late.’
And so, to the sound of the tom-toms we left.
Outside, she put her arm through mine and we walked in the direction of river. I wondered if she had agreed to see me just to make her ex-husband jealous—or just to irritate him. Stranger things had been known. It could not have been to drive him to drink; Peter Forbes was already there and parked up for the night.
Well, now I knew. I thought she had been unduly keen when I called her from the train. Unexpectedly in London tonight. Fancy a drink? Put the boot in on the old man. Whatever her motivation, now I was in her presence I doubted mine. She smelled good and leaned into me in a girlish manner. I thought, she is no longer my client; there’s nothing unethical about this.
‘What are we late for?’ I asked.
‘Oh,’ she laughed. ‘I told Peter you were taking me to the Tate. A little white lie. He never took me to such places, you see.’
I didn’t, but then you never do with matrimonials; all the usual rules of engagement go out of the window and land in the back garden with a thud.
She held onto my arm like a young girl, only heavier, and we walked through the deserted Southwark streets towards the river. Everything was shuttered for the night—the florist’s, the bookshop, a toyshop that sold wooden trains and little else—a free newspaper blew along the gutter for a while but it soon abandoned us.
Tate Modern was open for an evening event. Young staff dressed in sombre, economical black directed us with complicit art-world gestures as if they assumed we were on our way there. We were obviously the right demographic. Whatever was on, Jenny had already been and it was splendid. I wasn’t really listening—that sort of arty talk just washes over me—besides the river was before us now, a Prussian Blue expanse unravelling eastwards toward the Shard, and sundry other lighted baubles on the Christmas tree of capitalism. Music was in the air. A grand piano almost blocked Millennium Bridge, and we had to skirt around it while a young man played something short and jangly like Chopin to a crowd of bemused tourists.
‘Some busker!’ I remarked.
‘Silly!’ Jenny admonished, leaning into me. ‘That’s part of the Tate’s promotion.’
‘A wizard wheeze,’ I agreed.
Across the bridge, St Paul’s stood before us lit by several hundred spotlights. It looked like an alien spaceship had landed in the midst of the city, classical amongst the usual London mishmash of neo-Gothic and concrete, the wrong scale and dimensions, the wrong toy from God’s toy-box.
‘I’m not a great fan of Wren,’ she said, dismissing his life’s work.
‘Took him 32 years to build it,’ I said, knowing something about cathedrals. ‘That’s some commitment.’
‘Oh, I can see the commitment,’ she said.
I left it at that and looked around for a pub.
The nearest was all bare boards and advertising ‘real ale and fish-n-chips’. I did not have high hopes, but the beer turned out to be half decent. Jenny had her usual G&T, a double. My wallet considerably lighter—we were deep in tourist territory, after all—I led us to some barstools over by the window. A high, round table was between us. I thought it safer that way.
Jenny asked me about the Chichester attack and I watched her reaction. There was none, apart from putting her hand out to touch the stitches on my forehead. She told me she had come to see me in the hospital but had been turned away. She didn’t mention giving a statement to the police. Or anything about her brother at all. I showed her the CCTV photograph of the ‘muggers’ but she showed very little interest. Not even commenting on their suits. It was strange. But then, she was.
‘Did you see anyone like that in the theatre bar?’ I asked.
I knew it was a question the police had asked her. Thanks to DS Singh, I had Jenny Forbes-Marchant’s statement in my inside pocket. But if she remembered the question, she did not acknowledge it.
‘In the bar? Why would they be in the bar?’
&
nbsp; ‘Not to see Brecht, that’s for sure,’ I said. ‘Someone might have seen Mark hand over the £500. Followed me outside and mugged me.’
‘I don’t think so.’
She stared into space. Downed her drink and stood.
‘I’ll get these,’ she said.
I watched her sashay over to the bar. There was nothing furtive or dishonest in her mannerisms. Just sexy. You’re too old for this, Becket, I thought. You had your mid-life crisis a few years ago. An affair and a sports car. Now you are starting it all over again. Is that what you think you are doing?
Jenny was talking to the bar staff while checking her mobile phone for messages. The pub—if you could call it that—was almost empty now. Half past nine. Perhaps it would fill up after the Tate event finished. Then the two Polish girls serving Jenny would be overwhelmed by requests for exotic drinks. In the restaurant area, a tiny mouse scurried along under the tables, his back to the skirting boards. I felt for him; there were no scraps for me to feed on either. Change the subject, Becket. Change the record. I put the photos back in the envelope, as she returned.
‘Anyway, how’s it going with you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you know, good days and bad days.’
She described the arrangements for the funeral. The local vicar on Hayling Island was on holiday so the bishop had arranged a locum, who really was not at all suitable. Not at all. She had had to brief him about her father’s life at some length.
‘You're still grieving,’ I observed. ‘Putting a brave face on it.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ she replied, her eyes holding mine. ‘In some ways I feel I lost Daddy a long time ago.’
‘About the time he took up with his housekeeper?’
There was along pause while she stared out of the window. St Paul’s stared back. She gave in first.
‘Is it so obvious?’ she asked. Suddenly, she seemed very sober, on her guard. ‘No, actually when Mummy died. He took up with a number of females after that.’
Females was a bit like ‘the man’ when used—often by other females—in this way. You know the speaker is referring to women, but they keep the species indeterminate. This is to leave you in no doubt what they really mean. Female rabbit, female monkey, female dog—bitch.