‘You can say I expressed my deep regrets,’ I said. ‘Apart from that, no comment.’
I put down the phone and stared at the printed instructions. Ogilvie had been married less than two years and I had introduced him to his wife Janet, the daughter of an old family friend I’d become reacquainted with after quitting the army. They had been totally and ridiculously happy, a salving balm to those like me who had not found happiness in marriage. Only six days earlier I’d had dinner with them – Janet taking special care because of my influence at Owen’s workplace – and she had talked about the future, the large and happy future that stretched ahead.
I don’t know how long I stared blindly and bitterly at that oddly meaningless set of words, but presently McKittrick opened the glass door and said anxiously, ‘Are you all right, Mr Kemp?’
I turned and stepped out of the booth. ‘A friend has just died.’
‘Mr Ogilvie? I’m sorry.’
‘What do you know about it, McKittrick?’ My voice was edgy.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘You’d better be right,’ I said coldly. ‘For your own sake.’
FIVE
I
By the time I got down to the market, the feeling of numbness was beginning to wear off, replaced by a growing anger. Owen Ogilvie had died because Salton had died, and people were trying to push me around, to manipulate me. Roker tried it, McKittrick tried it and, I suspected, Hanna would try it next time I saw him. It only needed Stern to attempt a bit of leverage and that would more-or-less complete the roster. And apparently they all had different motives.
The only people who hadn’t twisted my arm were Negrini and Mrs Salton – and she wasn’t around to try.
The market sold local produce. At one time it was probably a practicable proposition, but with the rise of the supermarket it had declined into a tourist trap. There were more stalls selling gimcrack souvenirs than there were selling tomatoes, and more tourists than grocery shoppers. Still, it made a bustling spectacle for any traveller’s camera.
I found the Rainbow Rooms, a series of cool caverns, dim after the hard sunlight. About half the tables were occupied; I selected an empty one with two chairs and sat down. A waiter bustled up. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Rum and coke – twice.’
He brought the drinks in tall, ice-tinkling glasses and I sipped the cold liquid, spinning it out over, perhaps, fifteen minutes and brooding over my next move. I still had to look into the affairs of Salton Estates Ltd, which would mean coming up against Stern again.
I had just about given up on my mysterious telephonous friend and was reaching over for the other glass when the waiter whisked it from the table. ‘This way, sir,’ he said, and I got up and followed him into the dark recesses. He stopped at a shadowed alcove and put the glass on a table.
A bass voice rumbled, ‘Another drink for Mr Kemp.’
The waiter went away and I sat down facing a giant of a man. ‘I guess you thought I wouldn’t make the scene,’ he said. ‘You were clear – no tail.’
I looked around at nearby tables and realised we were isolated from view, but I was somewhat reassured by his chubby face and merry, twinkling eyes, and he wore a red shirt patterned with white flamingoes. Then he leaned forward and suddenly his eyes were not so merry. ‘But you were rapping with Jake McKittrick. What about?’
‘Why the hell should I tell you?’ I asked equably.
He laughed and his eyes twinkled again. ‘Good question. You been causing quite a stir on this little old island.’
‘You’re not the first to tell me that.’
‘I guess not. You were with the fuzz this morning. Give you much grief?’
‘I didn’t come here to discuss my affairs with you. What’s this about Salton?’
‘Well, man, that’s like … delicate. What about a bill?’
‘Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about bread, man – dough. One hundred dollars.’ He stopped. ‘Christ, I forget where I am. This British money’ll send me nuts. Forty British quids.’ He flashed me a grin. ‘You do say quids?’
‘It’s usually in the singular,’ I said. ‘But not this time.’ I began to get up. ‘I receive information but I don’t pay cash for it – especially not to someone I don’t know.’
He leaned forward and put a meaty hand on my shoulder. ‘Fold the gams, man.’ I assumed he meant I was to sit back down, so I did. ‘Make social. You can call me Joe.’
The waiter put a glass in front of me. He didn’t wait to be paid but went without asking. Joe said, ‘They’re converting into dollars here next year. Will I be glad.’
I sipped from the glass and said, ‘Salton.’
He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Pesky as that blue-ass fly.’ Suddenly he became brisk. ‘Okay, Mr Kemp, I’ll give you a freebie just because I like you. You go see Leotta Tomsson, ask her what she knew about David Salton. Ask her who pays the rent on that silk-lined pad.’
‘Leotta Tomsson. What address?’
‘For one bill, man?’
I laughed. ‘Nothing doing.’
‘A hard-nosed Britisher is worse than any damn Yankee,’ he complained, but he didn’t seem too put out. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you. Let’s talk a while first.’
‘What about?’
‘About what you think you’re doing here.’
‘Investigating an insurance case,’ I said. ‘I’ve just about finished.’
‘True?’
‘Read about it in the Chronicle tomorrow.’
‘I wouldn’t believe a thing in that piece of …’ He tailed off, then took a slug from his glass. ‘You level about Salton being croaked?’
‘For God’s sake!’ I said. ‘I don’t know where all this has come from. This bloody island is worse than an echo chamber.’
‘Folks are getting stirred up,’ he observed.
‘There was a riot outside my hotel this morning. Did you have anything to do with that?’
He laughed richly. ‘Why should I beat a drum for a liberal like Salton – a white one, at that?’
‘There was a murder,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t Salton.’
‘Ogilvie? That cat’s died?’
So he knew about the attack on Owen. I stared into the red depths of my glass. ‘This morning. Anything to tell me about it?’
‘Nix.’ He paused and nodded his head across the room. ‘That guy might tell you something if you ask him nice. I told you this place was real popular.’
I looked over at a small group on the other side, fussing around a central figure. ‘Who is it?’
‘Conyers. The big ugly guy in the middle.’
The Prime Minister of Campanilla was tall and imposing and had the telltale belly of the prosperous man. His acolytes had significant bulges under their armpits. I said, ‘You don’t approve?’
Joe sighed. ‘He’s lived in Government House so long he’s become part of the establishment. He’s what the liberals call a successful member of the native intelligentsia.’
Joe’s voice was sardonic and suddenly more cultured, and I wondered about him. ‘And he’s owned. Man, is he owned!’ His bitterness seemed to etch the dark air.
‘Cardew Street?’
Joe nodded and took another drink.
I said, ‘I was reading one of Salton’s speeches. He talked about Conyers and his hired bully boys. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Conyers don’t need no heavy gang – he’s got the whole of the fuzz.’ I noted that Joe had reverted to type. ‘But it’s like this, man. If it’s a matter of leaning on a guy when the fuzz can’t do it, then the word goes out. Not that Conyers has a private army or anything – just enough to be useful.’
‘You think that’s what happened to Ogilvie?’
Joe shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. Ask that cat over there.’
‘Maybe I will,’ I said grimly.
‘And maybe you’ll wind up in marb
le city with Ogilvie and Salton. Mr Kemp, why don’t you go home?’
‘I thought you wanted me to see this woman, Leotta Tomsson?’
‘A guy can change his mind, can’t he? Look, for a pinko you seem to be a nice guy. You don’t stand for no shit and you don’t give none. I’d hate to have to send white lilies.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I can find her from her name.’
The waiter trotted by and snapped his napkin so that it cracked softly. Joe stood up. ‘I gotta go,’ he said. ‘The heat’s arrived. Gregory Plaza, number 432. Marshalltown.’
It seemed impossible that so big a man could move so quickly and quietly. I stood up and looked around but he had disappeared, so I moved towards the street, where a car was pulling up outside. It looked official and I laid a bet with myself, which I won when the rear door opened and Superintendent Hanna got out.
He straightened up, then saw me and beckoned, so I went to meet him. ‘You can be a hard man to find,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know you were looking. Have you come to tell me about Ogilvie?’
‘You know?’
‘Jackson told me.’
‘He probably knew before I did,’ said Hanna sourly. He took a big handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘I want to talk to you and I might as well do it here. I could do with a drink.’
‘All right,’ I said, so he signalled to the driver of the car and we went inside and found a table. Hanna’s eyes were even sleepier and he seemed drawn. ‘You look tired.’
‘My wife’s not seeing much of me,’ he said.
‘Got any kids?’
‘Three – two boys and a girl.’ He looked out into the street at the empty space where his car had been. ‘Sorry about Ogilvie. About the arrangements: there’ll have to be a post-mortem.’
‘It had better not be Winstanley,’ I said coldly.
‘It won’t be. What about afterwards?’
‘The body had better be shipped back to England. Western and Continental will pick up the tab.’
‘I can see to that,’ he said.
‘Have you got any further in finding out who did it?’
‘Not much.’ He pointed. ‘It happened just there.’ I looked at the pavement ‘He came back on Negrini’s private ferry just before one in the morning. He walked up past here and then he was attacked. There were no witnesses but I’d say it was a gang bust – no one man could do that to another.’
‘Any ideas of who or why?’
‘No evidence of anything.’
‘That wasn’t my question,’ I said. ‘I asked if you had any ideas.’
Hanna looked at me with lazy, half-closed eyes, then turned as the waiter came up. ‘I’ll have a cold beer,’ he said. I ordered another rum and coke. When the waiter went away Hanna said abruptly, ‘You’re keeping bad company, Mr Kemp.’
‘Who?’ I asked, and jerked my thumb over my shoulder. ‘Conyers?’
Hanna turned and surveyed the room, then looked at me. ‘You’ve been talking to Joe Hawke,’ he said. ‘Gerry Negrini may be Mr Black but Joseph Leroy Hawke is Mr Black Power. What did he want?’
‘He seemed to think I’d proved that Salton was murdered,’ I said. ‘I disillusioned him.’
‘Lots of people seem to have got that idea. It’s causing us trouble.’
‘I saw some of it this morning outside the hotel. Your policemen weren’t very nice.’
‘Those people were breaking the law,’ said Hanna. ‘Do you approve of lawbreakers?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I think there are some damn fool laws.’
Hanna nodded. ‘I’m a cop and I’m employed to uphold the law – all of it. I can’t uphold those bits and pieces I approve of and let the rest go. Sure, there are foolish laws and I like them less than the average man because they cause me personal trouble. If I don’t like a law, I have to act like an ordinary citizen – use my vote to get rid of the politician who made it and elect another to change it.’
I said carefully, ‘It seemed to me that the coppers I saw this morning were working on a hair trigger. There was no real violence before they started in on the crowd. It looked to me like what is known in Chicago as a police riot.’
‘You’re right,’ said Hanna tiredly. ‘There are good cops and bad cops. But don’t blame me for it.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m just making light conversation until I find out why the hell I’m sitting here.’
The waiter came with the drinks and I paid him. Hanna said, ‘Joe Hawke.’
‘All right, let’s talk about Joe Hawke. He didn’t seem much to me.’
Hanna smiled sleepily. ‘So he gave you his Harlem soul brother routine. He likes to appear stupid but he’s about as stupid as Albert Einstein. He’s a good lawyer but he doesn’t practise here because he has no local qualifications. He’s a revolutionary – not one of your talk-talk boys, but an activist.’
‘Why don’t you deport him back to the States?’
‘Can’t. He’s a Campanillan citizen. Went to the States when he was eight years old. The State Department tossed him back when he got too troublesome. So I’m stuck with him and I have him on a list.’
‘What’s he done to be on a list?’
‘Not a thing,’ said Hanna, and took a deep draught of cold beer. ‘I have him there on principle.’ He put down the glass. ‘What do you know of our local politics?’
‘I seem to be learning more by the hour. Where is Joe Hawke on the political spectrum?’
‘Look, things have changed since you Brits gave up on the empire. There’s just as much radicalism in the colonies as anywhere else.’
‘Former colonies.’
‘Former colonies,’ he conceded. ‘Hawke is a radical, fiercely anti-government. He joined the People’s Party and went up fast. The PP was pretty radical before, but he’s pushing it towards revolution. That’s why he’s on my list – because revolutions mean blood. Besides,’ he added ironically, ‘they’re against the law.’
I thought about that, and about Hanna. The police uphold the laws, which means upholding the status quo. Those who want to break the mould of things as they are and shape what they perceive to be a better world tend to come into conflict with the police and regard them as enemies. The police, naturally enough, resent being called fascist pigs and there is an instant polarisation. I suppose in the event of civil disturbance in Moscow, the police engaged in defending the Communist status quo would also be called fascist pigs. A funny thought.
I said, ‘What about McKittrick?’
‘He was with Salton and the Campanillan Liberal Party. But he fell out with Salton and joined the PP at about the same time as Hawke. He and Hawke don’t get on too well: McKittrick thinks he’s too much of a wild man, while Hawke regards McKittrick as soft.’
‘And Conyers?’
Hanna smiled. ‘Conyers leads a conservative government – the businessmen’s party. The corporate interests would much rather deal with him than with the Liberals.’ He shrugged. ‘What did Joe Hawke really want?’
‘It’s a funny thing about Joe,’ I said. ‘I’ve come under pressure from some people suggesting I leave. One of them was pretty insistent about it. But you know what? I do believe Joe Hawke wants me to stay. How do you account for that?’
‘Because you mean trouble,’ said Hanna. ‘And he thrives on it. Those people on the streets this morning were the Liberals. They think Salton was murdered and they want to pin it on someone – preferably Conyers. Hawke doesn’t mind that at all.’ He scratched the side of his jaw. ‘At the same time, now that Salton’s dead, Conyers will win the election – and that’ll suit Joe Hawke too. He’d much rather there was a right-wing government to have a go at.’
‘Doesn’t his own party have a chance?’
‘Not a hope. Despite the name, there’s not enough popular support. There might be, though, given a few more years of Conyers. The opposition will have to come from somewhere – the Liberal Part
y’s a spent force without Salton.’
There was a sudden burst of laughter and cheering from the Conyers table and Hanna glanced across at them. Then he downed the last of his beer and gave me a meaningful look. ‘Policemen aren’t supposed to talk politics, and I haven’t been talking politics. Peace-keeping is my job and, as a realist, I’ve been assessing the situation. You understand what I mean?’
‘I understand.’ I felt better about Hanna. ‘Roker threatened me with deportation. Does he have that much pull?’
‘Oh, sure. You’re an embarrassment to the government.’
‘And how do you feel about that?’
‘What I said this morning still stands. I’m conducting an investigation into murder, and you’re to hold yourself available for further questioning.’
‘In spite of what Commissioner Barstow may say?’
Hanna frowned. ‘Leave Barstow to me.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Thanks.’
‘For what? I’ve not done a thing.’
I grinned at him. ‘Thanks, anyway.’ My instinct had been right. Hanna was a good copper who rebelled at seeing an investigation swept under the rug for political reasons. But I wouldn’t give a bent penny for his chances of promotion.
He stood up. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Kemp. I’ll buy the next when I have more time.’
I walked out with him and we stood on the pavement outside the Rainbow Rooms. ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Did you discover where Mrs Salton went?’
‘New York,’ he said simply. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I’ve already advised my office to settle with Mrs Salton, so that’s out of the way. Now I have to check into Salton Estates Ltd. My firm has a big stake in the business.’
He nodded. ‘As long as you stick to that, Mr Kemp, you’ll be all right. But don’t get underfoot on this Ogilvie thing – that’s my job.’
‘Okay, Superintendent. But if I stumble over the bastard by chance, you’re likely to have another corpse on your hands.’
His eyes flickered and he shook his head deliberately. ‘No. You shout “copper” and I’ll come running. Promise?’
‘All right, I promise.’ I took the business card he handed me.
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