Click, Double-Click

by James Calum Campbell

  ‘Come in.’

  I showed them into the front room. They stood politely, waiting. In the brighter light I could see they were an odd couple. The man named Forster was tall and fit, short fair hair, middle thirties. Well dressed, up-market gumshoe. He gazed at me with an air of detached amusement. The other man might have been Forster’s father, an image of Forster two or three decades down a life fortified with booze to cope with the constant exposure to degradation. He was heavy and shambolic and his off-white suit was sweat-stained and crumpled as if he had slept in it. The eyes were slow and watchful. He was surveying my flat as if it were in escrow and he in real estate. He gave an appreciative grunt and said, ‘Nice unit.’ Australian. Maybe I had been too quick to let them in.

  ‘It’s rented – could I see your card again Major Forster?’ I hadn’t invited them to sit down and they hadn’t presumed to do so.

  ‘Of course. Keep it for reference.’

  He removed a card from his wallet. In a piece of dumb-crambo resembling a high wire act he took out a very expensive-looking gold fountain pen and scrawled an illegible endorsement, in racing-green ink, across the elaborately embossed card details. Then he carefully removed the top right corner of the card by ripping through a diagonal line of perforations. It was as if he were disabling a passport. Then he waved the card through the air to dry the ink and then handed it over. I read it line by line. ‘The rank of Major – that’s not a police rank.’

  ‘No. I’ve been seconded. I work for the Ministry of Defence.’ True enough. There on the card was the Whitehall address.

  ‘Which department?’

  ‘Antiterrorism falls within my jurisdiction. My bailiwick.’

  ‘I see. Dr Parkinson, do you have identification?’

  He fumbled around his suit and found his card, crumpled and dog-eared, in the lapel pocket. It read ‘Dr Ralph Parkinson PhD FRCPsych FRANZCP, Negotiations Pty.’ The address was the Maudsley Hospital in London. Under the contact details there was a jingle in italics:

  ‘You don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.’

  I said, ‘What’s the Maudsley got to do with this?’

  ‘I’ve also been seconded. I do some work for The Home Office.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Conciliation and arbitration.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I have a special interest in hostage situations.’

  ‘Your doctorate?’ I’d taken in the details of his card.

  ‘The Stockholm Syndrome.’

  He was a negotiator. The relevance still escaped me.

  We sat down.

  Major Forster said, ‘We just want to clarify a few things.’ ‘… just a few things.’ It was an echo from Down Under. Parkinson had a bass voice rich as matured Caboolture cheese and Hunter Valley merlot, dark and mellow, with hints of cinnamon and chocolate.

  ‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir.’

  ‘… quite a stir.’ It was like a duet from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

  ‘Trouble is, we haven’t been able to get past you. The trail runs cold with you. For example, we haven’t been able to find The Bottom Line on the Internet. D’you follow? Everything just peters out. The upshot is, if we are going to keep an eye on anybody, it’s you.’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look around?’ Forster smiled briefly and got up without waiting for a reply. ‘Dr Parkinson needs to crosscheck a few references.’ He disappeared into the foyer.

  ‘Now look here –’

  ‘No worries. The major’s very tidy. He won’t disturb a thing. You like crosswords yourself, doctor?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’

  ‘You any good?’

  ‘I’m not bad.’

  ‘An aficionado.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Bit of a buff.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘Ever make them up?’

  ‘Dr Parkinson, I did not compile The Bottom Line.’

  ‘You sure? You sure you aren’t Bletchley?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘If you say so. But you can see where I’m coming from. You’re all we have to go on, mate.’

  Forster slid silently back into the room. Parkinson looked up enquiringly and Forster shook his head. A platinum laptop, my Vaio, was under his arm. He handed a little cellophane bag of herbs over to Parkinson. Caitlin’s stash. Parkinson glanced at it, turning down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘This your shit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whose then?’

  I shrugged. ‘The previous tenant?’

  He grinned broadly at me. Forster tapped a finger on my laptop.

  ‘Mind if I borrow this?’

  ‘Yes as a matter of fact I do.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just the way it is.’

  ‘You can’t do this. Do you have a search warrant?’ It was a line I’d borrowed out of countless police dramas. I had no idea what a search warrant was.

  ‘We always have a search warrant. Our warrant is open-ended.’

  ‘That’s rubbish. This is theft. You can’t stroll in here and take my stuff. Without an order from a high court judge.’

  ‘We can get that, if you wish. Retrospectively.’

  ‘… retrospectively.’

  ‘I didn’t think we were living in a police state.’

  Forster raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling as if to question what on earth bloody kind of state I thought I did inhabit.

  ‘You’re on a mission, aren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been working outside the box. Pushing the envelope.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You’ve pushed the boat out. You’re flying a kite.’ Major Forster was not shy of mixing his metaphors. I couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t like it. The amused expression on his face vanished as quickly as a bullet from a gun barrel. He suddenly looked like a professional killer. Oh God – he’s in the SAS.

  Parkinson said, ‘Got any flat mates?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nobody staying with you?’

  ‘No.’ It was a measure of the completeness of Caitlin’s departure that I could say this with a degree of conviction. She had been scrupulously and fastidiously tidy as if she had wanted to obliterate any echo of her stay. And she had succeeded. Apart from the hash.

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Parkinson sniffed. ‘It’s just I thought I could detect the scent of a lady. Amouage if I’m not mistaken. You a poofter?’

  ‘Why don’t you mind your own bloody business?’

  ‘I guess that’s a no. I thought I could smell a Sheila. Not just the perfume. The smell of the stench behind the perfume. If you know what I mean. Must have been a visitor. It does tend to linger.’

  ‘Just exactly what government department did you say you represent?’

  ‘We’re a small department. Kind of a think tank. Loosely affiliated. Quango if you like.’

  ‘… quango.’

  ‘What are you called?’

  ‘We don’t have a name. It’s policy. Quite deliberate. We find we can work better that way. Anyway, thanks very much. You’ve been very co-operative. Should get this back to you pretty quickly. We’ll let ourselves out.’

  They moved out into the hall.

  ‘What happened to the fish?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can’t see any bubbles. Looks like asphyxiation.’

  Caitlin wouldn’t have done that.

  ‘Oh! One last thing. Meant to ask. Have you got a firearms licence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So I take it you don’t have any firearms then?’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘Mm. Thought not. Well. All the best! And take it easy. We’ll be keeping an eye on things.’

  ‘… things.’

  They stepped back out on to the landing. Major F
orster paused momentarily on the threshold. I had the odd sense that he was about to go out of his way to do me a favour. Over the years he and Parkinson would have perfected their hard man soft man double act. He was stepping momentarily out of role. ‘This pushing the boat out business … There is a tipping point. Cross it, and you have passed the point of no return.’

  He closed the door with exaggerated politeness. The flat resumed its customary quietude. Tallulah’s upended corpse ogled the ceiling.

  XXI

  It’s very subtle, the Monty Hall problem. Remember, three doors, two goats, one BMW. You choose your door. The compere opens another door to reveal a goat and offers you the chance to change your mind.

  There was a correspondence about it in The Herald not so long ago. A distinguished professor of mathematics wrote in rather snootily to pour scorn on people who felt it was worthwhile to change their minds. But he was wrong. Why? Why is it not just a fifty-fifty chance?

  Think of it this way. Say there aren’t three doors. Say there are a hundred. You make your choice and then the compere opens up ninety eight doors to reveal ninety eight goats. Then he asks you if you want to change your mind. Not only that: you get the chance to play the game a hundred times. Let’s say you play the game in that format a hundred times and each time you stick with your original decision. Then you play it another hundred times and each time you change your mind. Which strategy is going to win you the most BMWs?

  People don’t like to change their minds. It’s such an upheaval. It requires a relinquishment of all you hold dear. You don’t think the earth’s flat? You must be certifiable. There’s me, the enemy, and the authorities. I’m in the middle of a Monty Hall problem. We actually need a dramatis personae of five to re-enact this – a guest, a compere, and three people concealed behind doors. There’s me, Stobo-Bletchley, Forster-Parkinson, Caitlin, and the white-faced man in the black cape. I don’t even know whether I’m a guest, a host, or one of the prizes. I’d thought I was hunting Stobo-Bletchley but now I’m forced to change my mind. Stobo-Bletchley turns out to be simpatico but I have a distinctly queasy feeling about Forster-Parkinson. And all the while, like a fevered patient tossing and turning through a night of delirium, I try to force this conundrum into the template of the Monty Hall problem.

  Two things. The open door. And the dead fish. Caitlin wouldn’t have done that. She might have drowned Francesca but she would never have drowned Tallulah.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m blowing the demise of a carp way out of proportion.

  Please send me a text Caitlin.

  Text! In a distracted way I hunted round the flat for my ancient Holy Bible. And all the while I felt this terrible mounting sense of fury pitching in my guts. I had tried to warn them. I had acted in good faith. I had uncovered a potential health hazard much as a Community Medicine Specialist in the Department of Public Health might have detected a pathogen at large and advised everybody on simple hygiene measures. Forbes had dismissed it, Walkerburn had vacillated, the police had been positively antagonistic, Horton had clearly taken steps to harass me. And now, somehow or other, Caitlin and I were being harmed. I wasn’t going to stand idly by. I couldn’t get my thinking to join up. What had Stobo said? Matthew 16:13. I fumbled with the wafer-thin pages.

  When Jesus came into the coasts of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?

  And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets.

  He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?

  He had been right. Jesus had posed a quincunx before his disciples.

  And then it dawned on me. Horton had engineered all this, just as he had said he would. ‘Not only will I break you … I will destroy you!’ And he was doing so, with extraordinary expedition. In the course of an hour I had been suspended, removed from my work place, and now I was more or less under house arrest. Had he not done something similar to Stobo? Stobo had been removed from his classes, was also under house arrest, pending his tribunal, his show trial. Stobo had realised that Horton was the real enemy. He had dropped The Bottom Line and turned his attention to Horton. No! He had actually taken on the challenge of The Bottom Line. I must do the same. Stobo and me, we’re not going to take this lying down. Together, we can get back at Horton. A two-pronged attack. We could wreak havoc across his demesne. We could attack Clerk Maxwell.

  Because the fish is dead, Caitlin has to be in great danger.

  The phone gave a single yelp and I snatched it up.

  ‘Ally?’

  My heart sang.

  ‘Something’s come up. Where are you? No, don’t say. Can you meet me at Golf Echo Charlie Kilo Oscar – same place as last time don’t say where.’

  She sang some spoof melodramatic film music in a minor key ending on a triad.

  ‘Da da ra da … DAH ….’ Whatever spat we had had last night appeared to have been forgotten.

  ‘I’ll explain. Can you make it under an hour?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Don’t talk to anyone. Have you got money for a taxi?’

  ‘How can I tell the taxi man where to go without talking to him?’

  ‘Caitlin I haven’t got time. Be as quick as you can.’

  I hung up, suddenly consumed with a new anxiety. What if there were no aircraft available? I called the aero club. I got lucky. Aaron Jackson answered the phone. He was from Auckland, on the big OE. Maybe we could cut through some red tape.

  ‘Aaron! Alastair.’ I tried to sound as if I hadn’t a care in the world. We would have one of these kitsch-Kiwi conversations that seem to lack any sense of irony.

  ‘G’day mate!’

  ‘Can I borrow a 172?’

  ‘Oooh …’ I could see him pursing his lips, looking at the booking sheets. ‘They’re all out mate. Not an aircraft to be had.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Except the Slingsby.’

  ‘She’ll do.’

  ‘All yours. When d’you want her?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sweet.’ God bless New Zealand. ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘Tiree.’ It was the first destination that came into my head.

  ‘Mint.’

  ‘I’m taking my sister-in-law. Only she doesn’t know. Mystery tour.’ You fabricate a lie and immediately it starts to crumble and you need to shore it up.

  ‘Good as.’

  ‘Spotcha.’

  I left my car parked outside Thirlestane and got a taxi too. Why would I want to leave an audit trail? And as the taxi carried me west through Corstorphine towards the Maybury Roundabout and Ingliston I fidgeted in the back and thought, is this a step too far? Is this Major Forster’s tipping point?

  Caitlin had got there before me. I had a surge of relief when I caught sight of her profile. She was sitting quietly in the aero club coffee bar scanning a copy of Pilot magazine. There was a Christmas tree beside her, and some model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling were festooned in Christmas decorations. I had forgotten all about Advent. It had completely passed me by. Caitlin looked up and gave me one of these waves a girl does as if her hand is inside a glove puppet. So we were still friends. Jackson had gone flying. I would have to negotiate with the CFI. He didn’t know me, and he was an older, careful man.

  ‘You current?’

  ‘Yes.’ What a stroke of luck we had gone aerobating just a few days ago.

  ‘Got your licence and log book?’

  I handed them over. I tried to look nonchalant while all the time consumed with anxiety about the narrowing window of opportunity, the failing light. I might have been an escaped POW, handing my forged documents to the Gestapo. The CFI scrutinised them with his careful eyes, checking the medical certificate, checking the expiry dates. He checked my hours. ‘You’ve done a bit of flying.’ He flicked through the log book and looked at my type ratings on the back page. He read through the whole lis
t. ‘Have you filed a flight plan? Got your weather and Notams?’

  ‘Yes.’ Blatant lies, now.

  ‘Ah! A Nanchang. Chinese military training aircraft?’

  I nodded. ‘Same as a Yak.’ I had an image of one landing at dusk in Ardmore, with its high nose attitude, elegant as a pelican.

  He snapped the book shut and handed it back.

  ‘Have a good flight.’

  I had some difficulty prising Caitlin away from the guys. In the end I grabbed her by the wrist.

  ‘Ouch! You’re hurting me!’ I remember as we disappeared through the door the CFI gave me a sharp look.

  Airside, I got through the preliminaries as quickly as I could, Caitlin singing, ‘The magical mystery tour is coming to take you away!’ I parried her banter with monosyllables. We got in.

  ‘Buckle up.’

  ‘Fasten your seat belt, we’re in for a bumpy ride!’

  The engine sprang to life and I secured the cockpit and ran automatically through the ground checks, all the time thinking, how can I slip out of here without anybody noticing? How can I ensure we’re not missed until Christmas morning? How can I disappear off the radar screens without anybody alerting Search and Rescue?

  The joystick thumped against my thigh. The CFI had come out to the aircraft and was attracting my attention by waggling the aileron. My heart missed a beat. I was going to be grounded. I pulled the throttle back to idle and opened the canopy. He leapt up on to the wing root, his grey hair tousled in the slipstream. He was shouting to be heard, gesticulating at a map, flapping like a sheet on a blustery line.

  ‘The Princess Royal’s chopper’s at Faslane. There’s purple airspace all the way up to Oban.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll stay north of the Glasgow zone.’ This was panning out. I could become invisible. The CFI nodded, smiled briefly, and pulled the canopy over our heads, dropping it carefully it into place. I locked it, and he jumped clear.

  And now the careful, unobtrusive taxi out to the holding point. I told the tower we were off to Tiree, and we would vacate to the north-west. They weren’t particularly interested. They were preoccupied with the jet traffic and just wanted us out of the way. The delay waiting for some incoming traffic and then letting the London City shuttle go before us seemed interminable. Even after the jet was airborne we had to wait two minutes for the invisible jet turbulence to decay. Finally we were cleared and I flew out west and made a climbing turn to the right at 500 feet, kept climbing and, somewhere to the north-west of the Forth road and rail bridges, announcing my intention of switching frequency to Scottish Information on one two niner decimal eight seven, said goodbye to Edinburgh.