‘So you finally wound up your little tête-à-tête with the journalist?’ he muttered, having recognised the timbre of Doc’s voice from a distance.
‘I did,’ Doc nodded, ‘it’s been absolute bloody chaos out there. Wesley’s over at the Cop Shop. He got soundly thrashed by a local lad. And Furby’s back with a vengeance. This time…’ there was almost a chuckle in Doc’s voice, ‘this time posing as a medical practitioner.’
Herbie’s face remained blank. He found nothing to amuse him in Furby’s antics. Furby was a pest. At best.
‘Did you think to ask your source whether Wesley plans to press charges himself?’ Hooch enquired, a canny expression enveloping his features.
‘Course I did. He said he didn’t think so –and seemed rather surprised at it –which I was very happy with, as answers go.’
‘But Wesley never presses…’ Shoes interjected.
‘Exactly,’ Herbie turned on him, ‘that’s how he went about testing the calibre of our informant, you cretin.’
‘Ah.’ Shoes looked down, somewhat regretfully, at his hand again.
‘And so you swallowed all that crap he told you about Richard F and the toilet bowl?’ the blind man persisted.
Doc looked up. Herbie hadn’t been party to the earlier segments of his exposition. This meant… He rapidly mapped out the pub’s geography in his mind –distance between the men’s lavatories and the icy back beer patio where his conversation with The Source had been furtively undertaken (waves splashing against the shingle just a few feet behind them).
Hmmn
It wasn’t inconceivable that Herb’d been eavesdropping. He certainly didn’t trust him (forget what he’d said to Hooch, previously. He could be as full of bluster as the best of them. And if a certain level of disingenuousness was the price he had to pay to maintain his seniority –that peerless, nay legendary combination of involvement and fairness, distance and intimacy –then so be it.
Oh yes. It was all very finely judged. It was all riding on a thread. It was all so… so marginal, so tenuous. That was the whole point… that was the very bedrock of intelligent Following).
Doc couldn’t successfully shake the suspicion that Herbie had it in mind –had always had it in mind, frankly –to impose some spuriously… well, crass sense of… of… justice on the whole exquisitely convoluted Wesley equation. To curtail him. To make him comply in some way. To watch him, to oversee, to take an active pleasure in some sort of humbling. A submission. But Wesley would never submit. He just couldn’t. Because that would be the end of him –
The end of everything
(Herb took too much interest –point of fact –in all the money-making crap. The insignificant mechanics of the thing. Way too much interest. Tried to cover it up. Didn’t always succeed. Doc’d seen him interrogating the barstaff about backhanders earlier, under the spurious guise of something more piddling.)
To make Wesley comply. Like some kind of hard-faced but upstanding sheriff in one of those wild west books Wesley took such delight in reading.
But why, exactly? And was he outside the game or inside it?
That was the vital thing.
‘It was the sink, I reckon…’ Shoes interrupted, ‘I bet Furby was holding him over a sink full of water when Wes shot his arse back, unexpectedly, straightened up, and lifted Furby –face-first –into the mirror in front of them.’
Shoes rapidly re-enacted this manoeuvre, nearly knocking over his pint glass in the process. Hooch shot out his hand and rescued it, sucking on his teeth in fury.
‘It has to be that way,’ Shoes didn’t appear to notice, ‘nobody in their right mind hangs a mirror above a toilet. Not even an estate agent’d do that.’
‘Was there a gag?’ Hooch asked (keen to quickly dispel this strangely insidious agent/toilet image from his pristine consciousness).
Doc nodded, ‘A Welshman, an Englishman and some fella of dubious nationality, all locked up in this toilet cubicle together…’
A short, confused silence… then Shoes guffawed. Herbie smiled, thinly. Hooch scowled. Doc put up a hand to his hot cheek –
Cracking jokes now, eh?
Only two pints down…
Peter, Paul and Bloody Mary, that infernal booze must be getting to me
‘Ha very ha,’ Hooch enunciated crisply.
‘He did say there was tape, actually,’ Doc conceded, ‘brown tape.’
‘That’s classic Furby,’ Shoes purred, ‘that’s him alright’.
‘So he got hit in a pub…’ Hooch had his pad out and his pencil at the ready.
‘A bar. Saks. On the High Street…’
‘But he had a deal with The Smack, didn’t he? Wasn’t this place supposed to be his designated watering hole in Canvey? That’s why we’re all sitting here, after all, forking out wadfuls of cash to cover the astronomically over-inflated beer prices…’
Doc suddenly began talking again, over the top of Hooch’s complaining, ‘About nine o’clock it was. Two punches. Very nasty. Felled him both times, apparently. Wes’d just that second walked in there with the estate agent. The other guy powered in through the door straight after…’
‘Ouch,’ Shoes winced, ‘Double ouch, in fact.’
‘So what did you trade with the hack, to get all this stuff out of him?’ Herbie interrupted, feeling the table-top and making his way gradually back to his seat.
‘I told him that the local constabulary had visited Katherine Turpin’s at around nineteen-hundred hours this evening. I said I thought Wes was renting a room from her. I told him I thought it was about some of the stuff that went on in Rye over Christmas. Or maybe something to do with the Van Hougstraten prank in Brighton at New Year. All guesswork, to be honest, and stuff I’d’ve given to the website anyway. But he seemed satisfied with it.’
‘Used to be a local hero, that bloke,’ Herbie said.
‘Who did?’ Hooch appraised him, briefly.
‘The sneak did.’
‘Really?’ Hooch turned back to look at him a second time.
‘Bobby Mackenzie. Tennis champion. Always wears a raincoat. Notorious tit. Usually does the sports coverage for the local press. He’s obviously planning to expand his brief with this.’
‘Better him than that twat from the Express,’ Hooch grimaced, ‘or the slut from the Mirror, for that matter. She was a real handful. The Nationals are a bloody nightmare.’
‘Au contraire,’ Shoes interjected, ‘the local ones are hungrier. They’re the fuckers to watch out for.’
‘Point is,’ Doc pulled up a stool and sat down on it –
Piles
– ‘we’re going to have to be a little bit more flexible when it comes to information garnering while the website’s down. This guy’s a treat. He’s a fool. He has no background in Wesley. He’s not bothered by the Loiter. He’s out for what he can get but he won’t be a problem.’
‘In your opinion,’ Hooch muttered.
‘I think we’re always best off keeping schtum with the media,’ Shoes cautioned. ‘It’s a slippery old slope, otherwise, and it makes things tricky for Wesley to have the local press snapping at his heels every second he’s in a place.’
‘Fuck Wes,’ Hooch murmured, still scribbling.
‘Goes with the territory,’ Herbie added.
Snug on Shoes’ feet beneath the table, Dennis suddenly sat up and burp-yawned, noisily.
‘So tell us everything about the bar,’ Hooch turned a page and continued writing. ‘Where was Wes hit exactly, and what, if anything, was said?’
Doc took a sip of his pint and then brusquely back-handed his lips. ‘Uh… Well, like I said, Wes had just got in there, with the agent –the source said the agent’s name’s Edward, or Ted, and that he’s great pals with the Turpin girl –and then this other guy, a local, who goes by the name of…’ Doc inspected the palm of his hand where he’d scribbled down the details in biro, ‘Dewi. Spelled with an “e”. Welsh. Was in love with the Turpin girl before
all the problems with the graffiti and everything…’
‘The moose,’ Hooch interrupted, ‘from this morning. Gotta be. The shadow. The dusty one. The nut.’
‘The very same,’ Doc confirmed. ‘Anyhow, Wes’d barely got in there before this Dewi bloke came in after him and punched him twice. Felled him twice, too. Chin, cheek…’
‘Did he say anything,’ Shoes asked, ‘before he punched him?’
‘No. Not at first. But he did say something in the middle of the fight. He apparently shouted…’ Doc inspected his palm, ‘he said, Why are you tormenting my Katherine? Why won’t you leave her alone? Or something approximate.’
Hooch clucked under his breath. He hated approximations.
‘Turpin girl was always a slapper,’ Herbie picked up his pint glass, ‘she enjoys the notoriety. Her father left town after the scandal broke. And it was all something and nothing. Just a group of kids, gossiping. He was a great headmaster. Top class bloke. Marriage hit the rocks. The mother stayed on here for a while then went to Kenya. He’s up in Scotland, I believe. Runs an exclusive boys’ boarding school. They were Dutch, originally,’ he took a deep breath, ‘she can’t help herself, that one. The young lad’s wasting his time there.’
‘And did Wesley say anything back?’ Hooch asked, ignoring Herb’s soliloquy.
‘Nothing. Although later, outside, the young fella said he’d muttered something vague about not being able to sleep. And he mentioned a flower, very particularly. He mentioned a…’ Doc looked to his palm, ‘a gardenia.’
‘Fantastic’
Hooch liked this detail, ‘He was punch drunk, presumably. Might’ve let something slip relating to the Loiter in the heat of the moment.’
‘That’s what the lad thought, certainly.’
‘But what about Furby?’ Shoes interrupted. ‘How did Furby know we were all here in Canvey if the website’s down? Nobody else seems to have clicked yet. We usually have a crowd of at least thirty by Friday.’
‘Somebody must’ve told him,’ Hooch shrugged, ‘or he checked in on the site a couple of days back. Wesley’s location was definitely pinpointed then, although usually –by now –he’d’ve moved on.’
‘Last I knew,’ Herbie interjected, ‘he was in secure accommodation, somewhere in Hertfordshire.’
‘Somebody must’ve got him out of there,’ Hooch shrugged.
Doc frowned at this. ‘Good point, Hooch,’ he scratched his old ear with a gnarled finger, ‘but who? And why?’
‘We’re getting off the point Old Man,’ Hooch groaned, licking his pencil tip, ‘I need to know how Furby got Wesley tied up.’
‘Sicko,’ Shoes whispered, semi-ironically.
‘You should talk,’ Hooch sniped back.
‘And what about this girl,’ Herbie asked, ‘I don’t know anything about the girl. Who is she?’
‘Josephine Bean,’ Doc clarified, ‘fresh as a daisy. Only started Following at dawn today.’
‘A Behindling?’
‘Claims she is,’ Doc nodded.
‘I told you about the books,’ Shoes interrupted, ‘on the walk, before. The L’Amour. That was her idea.’
‘Oh yes,’ Herbie slowly recollected.
‘I think she is, anyway,’ Shoes drained his glass.
‘Pardon?’ (Hooch, with a belch.)
‘A Behindling. I think she’s to be trusted. I like her. She’s ballsy.’
‘And you’re so bloody discriminating, Shoes, eh?’
‘She’s from Southend. She works as a nurse,’ Doc enlightened The Blind Man, holding back his counsel on the other stuff.
‘She has some kind of profile as an environmental campaigner,’ Hooch added, ‘which I found a little bit… challenging.’
Doc gave him a warning look. Hooch didn’t catch it. Shoes caught it, though, and nudged Hooch for him.
‘What was that?’ Herbie asked, sensing the movement.
‘She works with sanitary products,’ Hooch smiled, glancing up and shrugging at the Old Man. Herbie wrinkled his nose. Doc tapped his own with his middle finger. Hooch grimaced.
‘But what did she do,’ Shoes interrupted, ‘to stop the fight?’
‘Well that’s the crazy bit,’ Doc explained. ‘She threatened to harm herself.’
‘Come again?’ Herbie frowned.
‘This Dewi guy –a big guy, I mean you’ve seen how big he is –he was preparing to smash into Wes for the third time. The source…’ Doc inspected his palm, ‘Bo… He said he thought he was going to kill him. He was probably exaggerating. And coincidentally, there was an off-duty cop in there… The one Hooch and I saw earlier outside the Turpin house. The woman. Knew Josephine Bean from their schooldays, it seems. They were in there having a drink together.’
‘Jesus H,’ Hooch shook his head, inspecting his notebook, ‘this is a bloody jigsaw.’
‘And she was getting ready to try and do something,’ Doc continued, ‘I mean the cop; to step in –when the Behindling…’
‘Or not, as the case may be,’ Hooch said.
‘This girl Josephine comes rushing forward, into the fray, soaking wet from the rain –he called her…’ Doc looked to his palm again, ‘the source called her… a little fury.
‘Anyway, she had a beer bottle in her hand. She smashed it open on a table-top, put the sharp end to her wrist and shouted…’
‘What?’ Shoes was plainly astonished by this.
‘shouted … uh… Stop or I’ll cut myself, I’ll cut myself… three or four times over. And then she starts to slash at her arm with the bottle. He said it looked bad for her. Drew a deal of blood, at any rate.’
‘Fucking madness,’ Shoes gasped.
‘You said it.’
‘And how did Dewi react?’ Herbie asked.
‘Like he’d been punched himself. Everybody was stunned. Even Wesley was stunned. But that might well’ve been concussion.’
‘I’m stunned,’ Shoes said, picking up his poker hand (his pint was finished).
‘Let’s get on to Furby,’ Hooch interrupted.
‘Well, Wes was punch drunk. The agent took him outside with the help of another chap. Thin man in a baseball cap. A stranger. Carrying a rucksack full of electronic stuff.’
‘A thin man, you say?’ Herbie butted in.
‘Apparently so.’
‘That’ll be the bloke on the boat,’ Shoes nudged Herbie, ‘he was thin and wearing a beige cap, wasn’t he?’
‘Uh… yes,’ Herbie responded, irritably.
‘And he had some kind of portable computer thing. Battery-fed, we imagined, since there was no power to speak of on the craft. Herb here heard it beeping,’ Shoes continued.
Herbie’s top row of teeth were methodically gnashing against his lower lip.
‘And the hack says he wasn’t local?’ Shoes enquired.
‘I think he did, yes,’ Doc nodded.
Herbie nodded to himself, irritably, yet smugly.
‘Who’s this, then?’ Hooch asked.
‘On the craft, by Wesley’s camp,’ Herbie explained, keeping it casual, ‘we had a little chat with him on the perimeter walk. It was nothing important. I thought he might be Wesley’s go-between, for the… for the negotiations…’ Herbie pulled a significant expression. He was obviously fishing.
Doc didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading, ‘I don’t recollect seeing him myself,’ he said, struggling to remember a thin man on the walk, ‘I saw some foreign-looking bloke, though, down by the river. But I was bloody whacked at that stage. It was foggy… you mean on that boat on stilts with the messed-up walkway, presumably?’
‘Yep.’
‘So who was he?’ Hooch looked up.
‘We don’t know,’ Shoes answered, glancing over to Herb who was distractedly tapping his stick on the floor. Doc observed his unease and resolved to follow it up, later.
‘Did they arrest the Welsh chap?’ Hooch asked.
‘Didn’t ask. I imagine they must’ve.’
‘Was he pissed?’
‘As a bloody newt, I imagine, but don’t quote me.’
‘And so Wes got carried outside and then Furby approached?’
‘It’s all a little confused,’ Doc said. ‘Some guy had his case stolen –by Furby –and he reported it to the policewoman. Furby used the bag to help him pose as a medical man.’
They all sniggered at this, except Shoes.
‘I hate that little prick,’ the Hippie murmured, with unusual vehemence.
‘God yes,’ Herbie turned to face him, ‘he broke your knee, didn’t he? During that whole moped catastrophe?’
‘Scooter.’
Shoes nodded, his hand now protectively stroking the fabric covering the affected area, ‘Ruined my Following habits for almost a year. Totally out of order.’
‘Nobody’s going to dispute the fact,’ Doc intervened, counselling reason, ‘that he’s the kind of person who gives Following a bad reputation. He even had a small run-in with…’ Doc paused –
My boy
Set fire to his tent when he refused to give him money for a taxi fare…
– then he shook his head, irritably, ‘anyway…’
He attempted to continue, inspecting his palm, clearing his throat.
The rest of the group caught up, became sober, exchanged looks.
‘So Furby stole a case and then posed as a doctor…’ Doc finally got back on track, ‘God only knows how he got Wes alone after that…’
‘The really odd thing is,’ Shoes interrupted, ‘that Wes doesn’t seem to have a problem with him. He tolerates Furby in a way that he doesn’t tolerate some of the others. Even after the knife attack.’
‘True.’
‘Recognises a fellow maniac,’ Hooch growled.
‘Landlord’s going to be pissed off,’ Shoes sighed, gazing over poignantly towards the bar (as if he’d only just that second become sensitive to his glass’s dryness), ‘if the website’s down and nobody knows to come in here. I guess Wes got some cash off him, up front, as usual.’
‘You could be right,’ Hooch conceded, disinterestedly.
Herbie tapped his stick again, excitedly. Hooch frowned. It wasn’t a relaxing sound.
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