Faces in the Pool

by Jonathan Gash

  ‘It’s their ploy to keep us from that fucking ship.’ A taxi drew up. He rose, paused. ‘Sure you don’t know anything?’

  ‘Me?’ I thought, God, they’re double-shrewd in Blackpool.

  ‘You haven’t even looked at the scene. A bit odd. And you look like you’ve spent time in the water. Know why I sat here?’ When I didn’t answer, he said, ‘I wondered what the hell a bloke was doing with no jacket, his shirt caked with sea salt, no shoes, hands a mess, kipping on a prom bench.’

  ‘Dozing, that’s all.’

  ‘You have nothing to do with anything, right?’

  ‘That’s it.’ As he walked to the car I called, ‘Mate? What’s your name?’

  He stood looking back.

  ‘Frendolce, Jass Frendolce.’ He came back and gave me a card. ‘If you hear anything…Why exactly are you in such a state?’

  ‘My friends chucked me overboard.’ I stuck to lies, the way reporters do. ‘Somebody’s wedding.’

  He was unconvinced. ‘Gelt in it, if you can help.’

  ‘My friend Liza might be in touch.’ I squinted up at him. ‘Mate?’

  ‘Yes?’ He stopped.

  ‘Lend us a note?’ He gave the cadaverous grin of the cynic and made to walk off. I called, ‘Best investment you never made, Jass.’

  Pause. ‘How much do you need?’

  ‘Socks, sandals, breakfast and enough to telephone East Anglia. And the train fare.’

  ‘Where to?’ He scrutinised me, wary.

  ‘Manchester Free Trade Hall.’ I shrugged. ‘If you can’t, that’s OK. Don’t get yourself in trouble.’

  He gave me a couple of notes. ‘Got a name yourself?’

  ‘You’ll hear it from Liza.’

  ‘Ring me, OK?’

  He left. Caffs started opening. Getting on for eight o’clock, I crossed and had a mega-nosh.

  New socks and plastic sandals later, wearing a scarf with a Kiss Me Quick legend, cheese rolls in reserve, I rang Liza, gave her a potted summary, then caught the bus to Manchester. I slept all the way, warmer than I’d been all week.

  Manchester isn’t easy on strangers, though I was no stranger. I hung back to be last off the bus, and won a bloke’s hat off the rack. It felt as itchy as sandpaper. Warm, though.

  The Free Trade Hall was once the epicentre of the world, when Lancashire textiles ruled. It’s a walk from the bus station, where new trams – are they not really trains? – run along streets. I remember seeing old news photos of Mahatma Ghandi on that very spot. He was told the drop in exports of Manchester’s cotton dhotis was purely temporary. I’ll bet he thought, Yeah, right.

  Strolling in the lovely city’s centre, I lurked, like any criminal suspecting things were not quite right. I had a pal on Dartmoor doing time, who said that hesitation spells failure. He’ll be free in four years, extra delaying time. Still, I lurked. There’s truly nothing like Manchester’s grand old buildings. Spectacularly beautiful, they were created in the conviction that life was brilliant, as long as Manchesterturm was mankind’s sole faith and people worked for pennies. Half a century of meaningless conflicts that politicians swear are not really wars at all, have cured us all of that, and of the religions that go along with it.

  Finally, they started coming in their limousines, none with police, so they must still have been in the clear. And it was still legal to sell antiques. The plod must have been too busy with the Maeonia to pay the Faces any attention. Especially, I thought with bitterness, if most were diplomats. I found a newspaper and folded it.

  Counting, I got to forty-seven witnesses, gave them an hour, then entered. Lovely central walkway straight out of Dickens, walls and ceilings embellished with the industrial skills I love. Is that what Empire was?

  Signs To The Conference Room led me upstairs. Uniformed ploddites loitered with comatose vigilance. I followed the signs. The room was at the end of a corridor. I heard a babble of voices, as if the meeting was starting. A ploddite said, ‘You all right?’ No politeness for the likes of me in plastic sandals.

  ‘In here, is it?’

  He nodded. I stepped inside a room vacant except for Mr Kine. He looked up from his Guardian.

  ‘I always read at least one newspaper, Lovejoy, to get my bearings.’

  ‘It used to be the Manchester Guardian.’ I realised I’d been had all along. ‘Is it true they once banned Jews?’

  ‘History does things to the mind.’ He snapped, ‘Somebody turn that bloody racket off.’ It silenced. ‘Too little history leads to mistakes.’

  Nowhere to sit. ‘I’d kill for scrambled eggs on toast.’

  He raised is eyebrows in admonition. I went red and said, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘If you’d learnt anything at school, you’d have known the Maeonians conquered the ancient city of Lydia. Name of Hahn’s ship, the Maeonia?’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘The conquest of Lydia gave the king of the Maeonians the art of minting money, weaving, dyeing, inventions. Including’, he said with a smile from midwinter, ‘the Lydian mode of music, his particular love. I believe Beethoven composed an oddity, In The Lydian Mode. Was it Opus 132 in A?’

  ‘What is this to do with me?’

  ‘Didn’t you know? It’s in all the papers. The good ship Maeonia got wrecked on Blackpool’s North Pier. Dreadful. Know anything about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your apprentice, Miss Lydia, was dead on board. Hugo Hahn was battered to death. Your fingerprints were on everything.’

  ‘I remember Hugo. Best man at my wedding.’

  ‘In Somnell House.’ He eyed me, so affable he should have been in rep theatre. ‘Which you, Lovejoy, burnt down. Tragic. All those antiques inside.’

  ‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

  He sighed, so weary after his monstrous ten-minute day when he could have been at Goodwood Races quaffing champers.

  ‘Let’s stop this, Lovejoy. He stole your Lydia.’

  ‘She was never my Lydia.’

  ‘Shut it. You pirated the entire ship and killed him. Two birds with one stone, eh, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘He caught you at it. You took the chance to do her in too. Close?’

  ‘Not even near.’

  ‘Revenge plus unlimited profit. Does life get any sweeter for a bum like you, Lovejoy?’

  You have to be patient. ‘Mr Kine, you should leave your snooker club more often. You ploddites get delusions.’

  ‘Then explain what happened. I’m willing to listen.’

  ‘Got your recording box? Then here it is: I remember nothing of the past three days, from some accident. If you find out what I did, please let me know.’

  ‘I have witnesses.’

  ‘Can’t recall a thing.’

  He stood and gave me the arrest patter. I listened politely. It is the most absurd prattle ever, and I include Parliament. Formidable competition.

  ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention now something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  Could anything be sillier? If things weren’t dire, I’d have laughed. ‘May’ only means ‘maybe not’, so it’s heads or tails. And the bit about evidence is preposterous, because the prosecution – namely, the plod – don’t have to disclose all their evidence, even if they know it proves your innocence. Laws are only for the law-abiding. There’s none for the rest. Law is therefore a swizz.

  ‘Can I go now, Mr Kine?’

  ‘To the London nick, Lovejoy. With me.’

  ‘I get car sick, Mr Kine. Can I go by train, please?’

  His first hesitation. ‘Very well.’

  ‘I won’t run, I promise. Can I borrow a coat? And some grub?’

  ‘You’ll be looked after, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Ta, sir.’ The kindest words I’d received in a twelvemonth. Our policemen are wonderful.

  This thought recurred because my arrest w
as phoney. They have to serve you with a written notice, giving the name of the officer concerned and other crud. It’s their silly Code C under the Act. I could wander off any time.

  We caught the train at twenty minutes past twelve with two plain-clothes men. Mr Kine sat in a first class carriage, me opposite and the two suited goons between me and the aisle. I was served with a good meal, and wanted to sleep the sleep of the just. Do I keep saying that?

  Mr Kine kept up a desultory chat, asking things – Mortimer, Tinker, and what really happened at Somnell House to cause that terrible fire. Lucky old me, I couldn’t remember. I said I’d help his inquiries, and meant it most sincerely. The two guard plods seethed. It’s a sad reflection on humanity. I thought of telling Mr Kine to send them on one of those anger management courses. I asked them politely to wake me up if the ticket inspectors came by so I could explain why I didn’t have a legit ticket. Mr Kine finally told me to shut it.

  Euston, the train was on time. I was in the police nick before nightfall. Travelling in a Black Maria feels strange, like a great city is out there and inside it is almost silent. Mr Kine and his two nerks were replaced by uniformed ploddites. I thought of everyone except Lydia. My cell mattress was lumpy. A former inhabitant had tried to scrawl William Blake’s lines about Tyger tyger burning bright/In the forest of the night, but had petered out. It reminded me that lately an old folio of Blake’s watercolours, found in a Glasgow bookshop for a bawbee, was under the hammer in New York, expected price over 18 million zlotniks. ‘Cost a jam butty,’ the trade always grieves. Maybe I’d be lucky one day.

  Sleep’s always easy in clink. Being so safe, you see.

  After breakfast they told me my lawyer was coming to discuss bail. I told the screw I needed no lawyer, being innocent, and I hadn’t any money to bribe one.

  ‘Shut it, Lovejoy,’ the turnkey ordered. ‘LF Volkenheid, Inns of Court, is appointed.’

  ‘Who’ll pay? I’m broke.’

  ‘Friend guaranteed lawyer fees.’ He chuckled, a witticism coming. ‘Surprised you’ve got a friend.’ Harf-harf. He cautioned me, and took me down to the interview room.

  Four minutes later in walked Laura, radiant as ever. Stunned, I shook the hand she offered.

  ‘Volkenheid,’ she announced to uniformed plods. ‘Can I have a moment alone with my client, please?’

  ‘Right, lady.’ They were clearly influenced by a beautiful woman.

  ‘Please be on hand, in case he proves troublesome.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Lovejoy?’ She sat facing me as they left. Slowly I sat in the other chair, a tacky table between us. ‘I am your lawyer.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Your expenses will be paid in full. They are a present from your biggest fan.’ She opened her briefcase – the only item nicks fail to search. She brought out a sheaf of papers. I relaxed.

  ‘Fan? Who?’

  ‘Time for you to perform the only action I require.’

  She puzzled me. I’d never seen her so jubilant, like somebody opting for madness.

  ‘Look, Laura. I’ve no intention of spending my life going in and out of court to please you lawyers.’

  ‘You must accept, Lovejoy. I intend to apply to have you out on remand today.’

  ‘Sorry, Laura. I won’t trust anyone or anything except antiques from now on. So long.’ She gestured me down.

  ‘You entered into a contract with me, Lovejoy.’

  ‘To marry you? And divvy a load of antiques so you and Hero Hugo could abscond? Stealing the dreams and wealth of all your pals?’

  ‘Please do not be silly. That’s hysteria.’

  ‘Leaving me to burn to death in Somnell House?’

  ‘Stop it.’ No joy now, just a pale face with thin lips.

  ‘Killing my friend Tansy, you murdering cow?’

  ‘That was Lydia,’ she said dully. ‘You saw her.’

  ‘I couldn’t be sure, but she told me on the yacht.’

  She suddenly went like a pricked balloon, deflated and listless. ‘It’s astonishing how far a woman will go once she convinces herself. After Hugo first took her that night, she became utterly transported. Having’, she went on with spite, ‘found a real man to commit himself to her.’

  ‘Was she wrong?’

  ‘Hugo treated tarts like her as a joke. We used to laugh after he’d rogered some up-tight bitch. He’d go on about them, the things he made them do. They went delirious with sex.’

  ‘He fell for her? Was she wrong?’

  ‘I thought so, until I heard her and Hugo talking.’ She took an age to go on. ‘Then I knew he was going to leave with her. Can you imagine?’ Well, yes, I could. ‘She was younger, almost pretty, and she knew antiques. Maybe she told him lies, said she too could be a divvy. I don’t know.’

  ‘The Castells reneged on you, Laura?’ I was guessing now.

  ‘Spineless. Penny and Donna went to Eastwold as girls. When they heard Gentry’s lot killed Paltry, they chickened out.’

  ‘Your plan was hopeless from the beginning.’

  ‘Lydia went along with it all. Daniella got the Eastwold College list of past pupils, and told Tansy. Tansy’s mistake was to tell Lydia. They went to warn you at Lincoln. Lydia knew, oh yes, she knew.’

  ‘But poor Smethie did no wrong.’

  ‘That was Paltry’s fault. He was hustling in the George bar, overheard bits when I stayed there with Hugo.’ She barked a hyena’s laugh. ‘He tried to blackmail Hugo. Paltry told Smethie Hugo’s idea. It brought on the old man’s attack. You know the rest.’

  ‘So some were honest,’ I said.

  She almost smiled but habit was stronger. ‘Smethirst was an Anglo-Dutch burgher of Ceylon, Sri Lanka. He was the only honest one.’

  ‘Mmmh.’

  ‘Smethie’s daughter always hated Hugo, wouldn’t have anything to do with her traditions, her origins. Despicable.’

  ‘Two honest, then. Miss Farnacott and Mr Smethirst?’

  ‘And Mortimer.’

  ‘That’s good, then.’ I’d been waiting for that. The rest could get lost.

  ‘Won’t you accept my offer of bail? I guarantee your release. Mr Kine left absurd procedural holes in your arrest.’

  ‘No, ta. My releases never work, Laura.’

  She sighed. ‘Then it shall have to be here. Still, it will be worth it. After all, I’ve lost everything.’

  Out of her briefcase she hauled a heavy handgun, the sort you buy for 200 zlotniks down Streatham – or anywhere else these days, I suppose.

  The thing mesmerised me. I stared at it. A genuine shooter? I’d no idea where the safety catch was, or if the damned thing even had one.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Haven’t I made myself clear?’ She had kept her gloves on since she came in. Lawyers don’t do that, not visiting clients in clink.

  Nobody was recording this, lawyer-client confidentiality being a myth you have to pretend. I almost screamed. Where were the fucking plod?

  ‘There’s obviously something you haven’t heard, Laura.’ My voice quavered. New lies make it do that, especially when I never know what they’re going to be. ‘So I’ll accept your offer.’

  ‘Stop lying, Lovejoy. You were jealous of Hugo’s influence over Lydia. You heard of the Maeonia shipment and determined to wreak revenge.’

  I thought, People don’t ‘wreak revenge’ except in old Farnol books, any more than they say ‘swashbuckling’. She was off her head. I judged the distance to the door. What would the screws out there do if I yelled for help? Laugh their silly heads off, that’s what.

  Gloves don’t leave fingerprints. My hands could, if I were shot. She’d make sure of that. Wasn’t it Chekhov who said that if you write a play with a gun in it, it has to be fired or you’re a cheat? My breath felt hot.

  ‘People don’t say “wreak revenge” any more,’ I actually said.

  ‘Ah, but they act as if they did, Lovejoy.’

  She
was almost hugging herself, a little girl keeping an enormous secret from teacher. Desperately, I thought, This lunatic is my frigging wife, for God’s sake. My mind went funny.

  But maybe the plod were listening? I said, ‘What’s the idea of the gun?’

  ‘The charge will be laid against you in an hour, Lovejoy. You boarded the Maeonia to kill him and Lydia, to make off with the antiques.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  She looked dynamite, so attractive now she was into madness. Conviction adds radiance to women. They take on a lustrous quality. We men can’t do it.

  ‘How will you do it?’ I asked Laura.

  ‘I’ll wrestle with you, Lovejoy.’ Amused, she went on, ‘Screaming, of course. This gun will go off. The headline? Brave little woman struggled with a multiple killer.’

  ‘Then you’ll miss out, Laura.’

  ‘Miss out?’ Her features grew ugly. ‘Haven’t I lost everything?’

  ‘Who else have you killed?’ I thought back. ‘The girl your husband, Ted Moon, was supposed to have topped?’

  ‘Fionuella? She set her cap at Ted. He was always weak.’

  The last tile in the wall. I invented new lies, fables, untruths, thinking how to stop her fondling that gun. Her addiction was Hugo Hahn, so I invented –

  ‘What about Hugo, Laura?’ I said it with what I hoped passed for assurance. ‘His trial is next week.’

  ‘Hugo?’ Uncertainty showed in her eyes.

  ‘Look. I don’t want Hugo blaming me, with his flaming temper. Don’t muck me about. You were in on it with him. He told me so last night.’

  ‘Hugo’s dead, Lovejoy. You murdered him.’ But hope hung on.

  ‘He’s in Gonerstone,’ I managed. Having to make names up always tires me, because I forget them. ‘On the inter-prison phone link. I promised I’d give his lawyer Mr Smethirst’s recorded explanation. As long as Hugo promised he’d get me sprung.’

  ‘Hugo? Alive?’ Tears flowed from aghast eyes. It looked weird.

  ‘’Course.’ Impatience now, me acting away. ‘Will he keep his promise?’

  ‘Alive?’ She shone, blinding me. I’m always impressed by the power of a well-told lie. She seemed as if levitated. ‘It was…?’