He Died with His Eyes Open (Factory 1)

by Raymond, Derek

  Studious began: ‘Nobody—’

  I said: ‘In 1944 a German soldier took a snap of a little girl of five with her mother and sisters. Sort of family outing, you might say. They’d picked a lovely spot for it, too—walking up the road to the death camp at Treblinka. They’d had their ticket all paid by lovely, kind Hitler; they’d been standing in their own and other people’s shit in a cattle-truck, mate, and all in the dark. Wasn’t that a lovely holiday for them? And the best thing of all, my old darlings, was that at the end of the day they were told they were just going off for a bath, but that was a blag, see, because they was all gassed. Little girl of five and all.’

  There was a short silence. Then the talkative mod tried an unaffected yawn and said: ‘Well, we ain’t got no kiddies,’ and studious sneered: ‘You should have been a public speaker, sport.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ I said, ‘I’m a copper, and talking of deaths, I’m investigating a nasty one.’ I got out the morgue shot of Staniland and flipped it on the table. But before anyone could say anything else, a voice behind me said: ‘Might I just look at that?’

  I twisted round in my chair and saw a big man, meaty, around forty, with orange hairs on his forearms, and on his head. He said to me: ‘I’m Harvey Fenton. Did I hear you say you was fuzz?’

  I gave him my warrant card to look at. He said: ‘Things’ve got a bit sad when four lads can’t have a quiet chat in a boozer without you lot butting in.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They were lucky I didn’t give them a chance to rabbit on some more—I might have had the whole lot of them for conspiracy.’

  Fenton said: ‘It’s gettin like South Africa or something round here.’

  ‘Better than Nazi Germany,’ I said. I said to the others: ‘You lot can piss off and find another table. Better still, another pub.’ I said to Fenton: ‘Sit down, I want to talk to you.’ I flipped the photograph across to him. ‘Just have a look at it, will you? And don’t tell me you don’t know who he is, because you do.’

  He studied the dreadful picture. ‘Know him by sight,’ he said, ‘yes. E used to come in here. Pain in the arse. Name of Stan or something. What happened to him? Looks as if e’d bin hit with a truck.’

  ‘No, he was beaten to death with a hammer,’ I said. ‘The knife went in, too, also the boot.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said Fenton. ‘Sounds like he must’ve got up somebody’s nose.’ He picked his own nose absently. ‘Anyway, what makes you think I can help you?’

  ‘Let’s say you fit a description.’

  He looked straight at me. ‘Now don’t come the acid,’ he said. He looked down and inspected what he had got out of his nose on the ball of his thumb.

  ‘Well, I’m just asking questions at this stage,’ I said, ‘but we know it’s murder. Anyone who thought we were going to accept it as a hit-and-run was either a half-wit or fucking cheeky.’

  ‘Starsky and Hutch haven’t a chance of keeping up with you,’ said Fenton. He sniggered.

  ‘One more remark like that,’ I said, ‘and you’re going to make an enemy you don’t really need. You’ve been in the building trade, haven’t you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because I’ve got a good memory,’ I said, ‘and now I know your name I know a lot more about you. You’ve got mates in the scrap-metal and transport business, as well as in clubs. Now I wonder if anyone not three million miles from this pub might have hammered Staniland to death, taken him over to Acton on wheels and dumped him in some bushes there. What do you think?’

  ‘I think askin questions is dangerous,’ said Fenton, ‘that’s what I think.’

  ‘That what I say to myself everytime I write out my resignation,’ I said. ‘But I always tear the letter up. Did you fuck Staniland’s bird, by the way? They say you’re a bit of a lad for that.’

  ‘No,’ he said. He sighed with hatred.

  ‘I’m not all that surprised,’ I said. ‘For my money, you’re just an old pouf at heart.’

  Fenton clenched his fists on the table until the knuckles turned white. ‘By Christ,’ he said, ‘it’s a bloody lucky thing for you you are a copper, because if you hadn’t of been, you might of been in a fair way to get yourself badly hurt.’

  ‘You can cut that out, dear,’ I said. ‘With your form they’d weigh you off for seven if you squashed a fly.’

  ‘We haven’t met before, have we?’

  ‘We don’t need to have. Not with the file you’ve got. Every copper knows it by heart.’

  He thought about that, then called across to the barman: ‘Hey, top em up, Joe. On me.’ The barman was busy serving, but he dropped everything to rush over with Fenton’s round. ‘Good boy!’ said Fenton. ‘Good lad. Fine!’ He lifted his whisky. ‘Cheers!’ he said to me, grinning.

  ‘Let’s get into what you really had against Staniland,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing! He was just a drag.’

  ‘You just took the piss out of him, is that it? You sure you didn’t screw his bird?’

  ‘Why should I bother? I’ve got my own birds. Anyway, if I had of screwed her, what difference would it of made?’

  ‘Things might have got hairy,’ I said. ‘I’m really looking to see if you’re not tied into this thing. Didn’t you beat him up once? Out behind the gents there?’

  ‘No I didn’t!’

  ‘Little bits and pieces of things I’ve heard tell me you’re lying.’

  ‘Little bit and pieces of things add up to fuck all,’ he said, ‘specially in court.’

  ‘You should know,’ I said, ‘you’ve had plenty of practice in there.’

  ‘Well, I can’t tell you anything at all.’

  ‘Okay, then I’ll tell you what,’ I said, ‘how’d you like to come over to the Factory with me now and tell Chief Inspector Bowman all the things you won’t tell me? You’d get a sympathetic hearing from Bowman, you would—he absolutely loves individuals like you.’

  ‘I’m not mad about Poland Street,’ he said, ‘to be honest. They’re a bit too keen on custom-built engineering over there.’

  ‘Well, you’d better try harder answering some questions in that case,’ I said. ‘Here’s one—do you know where the governor of this pub is? Fat bloke. Got his face hurt.’

  ‘Seems he’s gone,’ said Fenton. ‘Seems they don’t think he’ll be back.’

  ‘Septic lip?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Fenton said. ‘But I heard someone told him e chattered too much and to button it. But he couldn’t find his needle, too bad.’

  ‘Sounds like one for Lewisham to me,’ I said. ‘Could be “grievous bodily harm”.’

  ‘Now look,’ he said. ‘You’re really into me, aren’t you?’ He took a long pull at his double Scotch, but he was calm. Yes, I thought, you’re a dangerous bastard. ‘You’re not going to give me a john over that cunt’s face, are you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But if you do find there’s a warrant out for you, it could be because you wouldn’t cooperate with me over this Staniland business.’

  ‘I keep telling you, he was just a pain, that’s all.’

  ‘So you never beat him up. Never screwed his bird. Just stood right back and took the mickey, but you never touched him. You were almost like mates.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The governor here might crack and say the opposite, if he felt safe enough.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Fenton. ‘Down to being into the river like he was, I believe he’s by way of having a breakdown right now. Unreliable witness—the Public Prosecutors couldn’t do anything with him.’

  ‘The more you go on talking,’ I said, ‘the more you go on lying. It’s funny with you. Now I’m convinced that Staniland died not half a square mile from here. Yet he was found right the way over in Acton.’

  ‘I don’t know West London at all,’ said Fenton. He yawned.

  ‘Well, if you don’t, the A to Z street guide does. That�
��s no problem.’

  ‘Look,’ shouted Fenton, ‘I’ve ad about enough. You’re trying to fit me up for this, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed him,’ I said, ‘and I’ve got a funny idea I’m not doing badly at all.’

  ‘Why pick on me? All I can tell you is that some of the lads in here—all right, I was one of them—asked this bloke quite nicely if he wouldn’t mind patronizing some other establish-ment. He said no, he liked it here, and kept coming back legless, sometimes with that brass of his, and kept bending everybody’s ear off. And that’s all I know.’

  ‘People ever call you the Laughing Cavalier?’ I said.

  ‘The what? No, never.’

  ‘Funny, I can just see why people might, sometimes.’ I lit a Palace filter. It tasted revolting; I only smoke them because I hope they might help me give it up. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘we could go on like this all night, but we won’t—I shan’t come back for you till I’ve got a case.’

  ‘If you can get one. I keep telling you, none of this is down to me.’

  ‘Well, if I run out of folks to fit the hat, Harvey,’ I said, ‘who knows, you might just have to do. After all, I wouldn’t need a watertight case, not with the form you’ve got—it’s as long as that arm of yours with the orange hairs on it.’

  He didn’t say anything, he just looked at me. He had started to look worried, and no wonder. I added: ‘Do you and your mates go in for torture, by the way?’

  ‘Christ, no!’ he shouted. ‘What do you think we are? Animals?’

  ‘You bet that’s what I think,’ I said. ‘After all, there was Williamson, you remember, the supergrass; you smashed both his legs with an iron bar and dumped him on the M20. Ten years’ preventive detention you drew for that, I recall, only they paroled you after seven, what for I can’t think.’

  ‘Look, that was different,’ said Fenton anxiously. ‘That time, I admit, it was squarely down to me—the ice cream grassed me over that Whitgift Street bank job.’

  ‘Well, I still think you’re mixed up in this Staniland case,’ I said.

  ‘You’ll have a job proving it.’

  ‘You short of money, Harvey?’ I said. It was a question that fazed people like Harvey. If he said he wasn’t, I might start digging into where he’d got it. If he said he was, I might try to find out what ideas he had about filling the gap. In the end he said: ‘Who isn’t short of it?’

  ‘A few hundred would always come in handy, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Staniland was broke.’

  ‘No, he wasn’t. Not till right at the end, anyway.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘All I’ll tell you is this,’ I said. ‘Staniland did a lot of writing, did you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t know anything about him, I tell you.’

  ‘And I mean a lot of writing,’ I said. ‘And he recorded a lot on cassettes, too. And guess who’s got it all? That’s right—I have, over at the Factory.’

  He turned white. ‘You find my name on any of it?’

  ‘There’s a description that could fit you. Like the orange hairs on your arms.’ I gazed at them pointedly.

  ‘That won’t get you far,’ said Fenton. ‘Thousands of men have orange hair on their arms. And anyway, one middle-aged drunken nut droning away on a cassette don’t add up to anything much.’

  ‘Even so,’ I said, ‘don’t fly off to Morocco for any sunshine without letting me know.’ I scribbled the number of the Factory down and passed it to him. ‘Okay, on your bike. You’re still clean until I can prove you aren’t.’ We got up. ‘I’ve enjoyed our little talk.’

  ‘Likewise,’ he said, moving away, ‘I don’t think.’

  When I got out into the street I saw someone standing by my car.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘If it isn’t the businessman.’

  ‘You still want in on our deal?’ said the Asian boy.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s get round to Romilly Place.’

  When we arrived he was out of the car and up over the street wall. He whispered from the top: ‘Wait there.’ I got out of the car, but I didn’t hear anything until the street door of number seven squeaked open.

  ‘Okay, come in,’ he breathed. He shut us inside, then bolted the door. ‘The light’s bin cut off.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a flashlight.’ I shone it on the filthy stairs.

  ‘I’ve got the gear,’ he said.

  ‘Another time,’ I said, ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ I gave him a twenty-pound note.

  He examined it in the torchlight. ‘Paying me to get lost, are you?’

  ‘You should care.’

  ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘I believe you’re a copper.’ When I didn’t say anything he said: ‘You gointer bust me?’

  ‘Lucky for you I’ve got other things on my mind,’ I said. ‘But you want to be careful how you push smack to strangers, otherwise you won’t be on the street much longer.’

  ‘Maybe I could bust you,’ he whispered thoughtfully.

  ‘Don’t let your amazing brilliance go to your head,’ I said. ‘Coppers stick to each other like shit to a blanket, you can’t win, you ought to know that by now.’

  ‘Anyway, fancy taking money off a copper. Usually it’s the other way round, you bribe them.’

  ‘Don’t let’s go into principles,’ I said. ‘Just take the twenty and fuck off. It’s like any other money, it spends.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘see you.’

  As soon as he had gone I looked round the rooms on the ground floor. There were three of them. It looked as if the landlord had had his quarters down here. There were all the signs that he and whoever he had lived with had left in a hurry. Torn paper and old rent books were spread all over the floor, there was a stripped bedstead with one leg jacked up on a brick; a urine stain in the centre of the mattress curled importantly in the material like the dirty oval frame of an old picture; a stock of horror comics had toppled over in a corner. The room opposite was the same except that the wallpaper was peeling off and it stank worse because the bucket that had been used to piss in hadn’t been emptied. ‘Christ,’ I muttered, ‘who’d be a copper?’ The back room had been converted into a bathroom and toilet; a rat slid up the wall as I opened the door, with a flick of its fat tail. I was surprised no squatters had moved in; maybe the news hadn’t had a chance to do the rounds yet.

  I went up the stairs quickly, but trod on the side next the wall to stop them creaking—there might just still be guests. I needn’t have worried: nothing followed me up the stairwell but a smell of garbage. The second door I came to, I sent in and shone the torch round. I was sure it was Staniland’s room; any copper can tell where the law’s been, they turn everything over twice. All the same I went over it again. Bowman’s men were always in a hurry; they had too much work on their hands.

  I went to the window to open it and get some air, but it was nailed shut, so I stood in the middle of the bare linoleum floor and wondered what it must have been like, Staniland and Barbara living there together—when she was home. Home! There was the cookette in the corner by the window, just as he had described it; there, too, was the sink with the cracked mirror over it where she had fixed her face nonchalantly after he had hit her with the shoe. There was the bedding on the floor where he had muttered his passion for her, and where she had lain back, flicking through the pages of Playgirl, while he drunkenly tried to force her thighs apart. I don’t believe in ghosts, but that room was thick with death, jostling me in the half dark; the dead man seemed to groan after me to avenge him. This room was in an appalling state, too. The weather was dry at the moment, otherwise I bet it rained in. Large parts of the ceiling plaster had long ago dropped off in the damp, exposing the laths; doubtless any lead there had been on the roof had been ripped off, and probably half the tiles too.

  There was a cupboard in the corner next to the mattress; when I tried it, I found it was still locke
d. I kicked it open. There were a few clothes inside, mostly women’s, and some dirty shirts and underwear on the floor. I found nothing in any of the pockets except a 2p piece; above the clothes-rail in the cupboard, though, was a shelf with six cassettes lying at the back, with the names of hard rock groups on them. I took those.

  I searched the place again, but found nothing more.

  I left, hoping the council would tear down the whole of Romilly Place one day, when they stopped screaming politics at each other and got on with the job the ratepayers had voted them in for.

  15

  ‘Your name Spark? Arthur Spark?’

  ‘That’s me, mate,’ said the man indifferently, not looking up from his plate.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What for? I don’t know you from my tenth pube.’

  I showed him my warrant card and discreetly, so that no one at the other tables could see it. That made him put his knife and fork down. ‘Oh, Christ, yeah. Yeah, okay, but c’n I get on with my nosh? I’m on shift at two.’

  ‘Eat.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what’s it down to? I just drive a truck for a living, I aven’t done nothing.’

  ‘No one’s saying you have. You were married to a woman, maiden name Barbara Ethel Smith?’

  ‘So what if I was? We’re divorced.’

  ‘Long time?’

  ‘Must be goin on five year.’

  ‘Any kids?’

  ‘What? With her?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘You must be joking.

  All the time we was together she was on the pill.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  He turned obstinate. ‘Don’t know. Can’t remember.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you’re not in any shtuck, so why look for bother by withholding information?’

  He thought about that. ‘If she’s in bother, I don’t want to say anything that’ll get her in deeper.’

  ‘Nobody’s saying she’s in bother,’ I said. ‘All I’m trying to do is trace her and ask her some questions. I had my work cut out tracing you.’