'Cheers,' he said, raising his glass, and she nodded and took a sip. She shouldn't even have been there. She should have had a quick ten minute chat in his office, and then gone amongst the staff.
'What can you tell me about Hugo Fitzgerald?' she said, getting on with it.
'Not a lot,' said Orwell. 'Been with the company a couple of years, a while before I got there. Risen up through the ranks. Maybe not as fast as he ought, but he was getting there. Head of TV Contracts, one of the major positions.'
'So you dealt with him directly?'
'All the time.'
'How many staff does the company employ?'
'Two hundred and thirty-one.'
Monk took out a notebook and started jotting down, trying to obscure with her hand what she was writing.
'Fairly equal men and women?' she asked. There was no answer and she lifted her head. Orwell was looking a little uneasy. 'Equal numbers of men and women?' she repeated.
'Well, you know,' said Orwell, 'I don't believe these things are straightforward.'
'What does that mean?' she said. 'Either it's fairly equal or it's not.'
'Two hundred and eleven of the staff are male orientated.'
A clock ticked. A woman at the bar opened a bag of crisps.
'Male orientated. You mean they're men?'
'Yeah, they're men,' he said.
'So,' said Monk, 'the company employs twenty women. Right?'
'Yeah, Monk, you know, I want to say that that's about right. About twenty women,' he said.
Monk? Who did this guy think he was?
'And how many of those female orientated employees are secretaries or typists?' she asked.
Orwell nodded and took another long drink. It wasn't his company, but he was representing it here and now; and it wasn't as if he didn't agree with Bethlehem's recruitment policy.
'About one hundred percent,' he said.
'That would be all of them, then?' she said.
'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'all of them.'
'That's not exactly representative of today's workforce now, is it?'
'I don't know,' said Orwell. 'I mean, I don't know. Isn't it?'
'The company does not employ any women in executive positions, Mr Orwell. That's not representative.'
'Hey, look,' he said, 'apart from the lousy jobs that men won't do, we don't employ them in clerical positions either. We ain't biased.'
She closed her notebook.
'You're going to explain that,' she said.
Orwell leaned forward. Might as well be open, because this was a murder enquiry about Hugo Fitzgerald, not some trumped up complaint from the equal ops brigade.
'Look, bottom line is, Monk,' he said, 'and I don't mean this personally, but Mr Bethlehem believes that you can't trust women. That's the truth, and you know, I'm inclined to agree with him. Now this may be old fashioned, and you may not like it, but it's what I believe, so I'm owning the statement. Women are unreliable. They have loose tongues. They have no conception of discretion. I don't know if that's genetic, but it's the truth. Then there's the whole menstruation thing, and of course, the fundamental need to go and have a baby the minute they get into a position of responsibility. There are all sorts of issues going on with women.'
'I've heard about men from your planet,' she said.
'Hey, look, Monk,' he said, and she was about to smack his head open over the Monk thing, 'I know what you're thinking. A lot of men ain't much better, and I agree. Okay, we don't menstruate, and the baby thing's way off, but men have faults too. But lets park that for the moment. Basically, men are like dogs. You can read 'em like a book. Happy, pissed off, whatever, it's obvious. But women are like cats. You never know what they're thinking. They'll suck up when they want something, but they've always got their own agenda, and as soon as a better deal comes along, bad-a-bing, they're outta there.'
She took a long drink, holding his gaze throughout.
'Bad-a-bing,' she said.
'Look, it's Mr Bethlehem's company,' he said. 'He has to run it the way he thinks best. We interview women for jobs, course we do, and if ever we get an applicant we think is up for it, she'll be in there.'
'As long as she's had a hysterectomy?' said Monk, witheringly.
'Monk,' said Orwell, and she pursed her lips, 'it is what it is. You want another?'
She straightened her shoulders, until she realised she was pushing out her chest and that Neanderthal Man would probably take it as a come on. So she relaxed and rose to her feet, despite the fact that Orwell was not even half way through his pint.
'I'm going to get back to your office and speak to some of the people who worked with Fitzgerald,' she said.
'Sure thing,' said Orwell. 'Ask for Waugh in MAD, he'll be able to help you out.'
'Thanks,' said Monk, although she wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, and with a nod she turned and walked to the door.
'See you, Monk,' he said to her back She stopped, then turned back and returned to the table, stood over him, held his condescending gaze for a few seconds.
'If you call me Monk again,' she said, 'I'll rip your scrawny little dick off and stick it down your throat. You got that, dude?'
Orwell nodded, said nothing. Monk held his gaze, then walked quickly away, stepping out into the damp chill of a late morning in March.
At First Sight
Monk opened the door to the small shop on the tenth floor. Caught the view first, the main window staring along the Thames towards the barrier, then she looked at the man sitting in the barber's chair, feet on the floor, staring out into space. He didn't turn at the sound of the door. Long day, she presumed, not looking for any more customers. She waited, curious, but he didn't look round.
'Barney Thomson?' she said eventually.
Another second and then Barney turned to face her. Careworn face, eyes that had seen too much. She saw the same attractiveness that most women who saw Barney Thomson for the first time recognised; and she had the sudden shock of wondering if this was a moment such as Sergeant Khan had been talking about the day before.
'Aye,' he said. 'Hair cut?'
'Do I look like an employee?' she asked, her previous two hours in the building having given her a fair understanding of the few women who worked in the establishment.
'Fair point,' said Barney. 'You'll be the police sergeant that everyone's been talking about.'
'Yeah. Can I ask you a few questions?'
Barney gave a slow shrug of the shoulders in reply. There always seemed to be police officers in his life. Didn't make any difference to him anymore what they asked. Had felt the weight of the world on those shrugging shoulders all day, his premonition of the morning having turned out to be true. Fate would have its day once more.
'Take a seat,' he said.
'I'll stand,' she replied. She walked to the window and stood looking down at the murky waters of the river, turning her back on him. This guy was just a routine interview, all in the course of her enquiries; straight bat, ignore the attraction.
'You're employed by the company to do the hair of the staff?' she asked to start the ball rolling.
'You are in the police,' said Barney in reply.
She started to turn, but stopped herself.
'You could be freelance, getting paid for each individual job,' she said with a tone. 'I'm establishing that you're paid by the company, and the employees don't pay for the haircuts themselves.'
Barney smiled.
'Fair point,' he said. 'I'm paid a flat wage, the employees make appointments, they get their hair cut for free.'
'Any of them tip?' she asked, expecting that the type of person employed in this company would take the opportunity not to.
'Not yet,' said Barney.
'How long have you worked here?' she asked, this time venturing a glance over her shoulder. Caught his eye, saw that look again, confirmed the fact that there might be a thing there, and she turned away.
'This is my second day,' said
Barney.
This time she turned all the way round.
'You're kidding me?'
'Is that a disappointment to you?' asked Barney.
'What happened to the last barber?' said Monk.
'I'm the first.'
She held his gaze and then laughed, thinking of Frankenstein and his brilliant idea of her speaking to the guy who does the hair, and all the information he'd have at his fingertips.
'You've got a nice smile,' said Barney from nowhere, and it slowly faded from her lips.
'Thank you.'
Another look exchanged.
'Why are you telling me that?' she said suddenly.
'Because you have.'
'So how many haircuts have you done in the last two days?' she asked, again at a rush. Get the questions back on track, stop acting like an idiot.
'About twelve,' said Barney. 'Couldn't tell you all the names, but if you speak to Madonna on the front desk, she's probably got a note of them.'
And Monk found herself exercising that nice smile of hers again. Madonna on the front desk ...
'You do Hugo Fitzgerald?' she asked.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'Did a good job too. Complete waste.'
She slowly tapped a pen on the notebook she'd taken from her pocket, whilst standing at the window.
'Anyone talking about his murder today?' she asked.
Barney smiled again. Maybe he was enjoying the police interview this time. Maybe he was just enjoying it because of Daniella Monk. She could be asking him anything. All words would sound sweet from those lips.
Jesus, Barney, he thought, get a grip of yourself.
'Not in any proactive sense,' he said. 'There were no confessions, nor I'm afraid, any implicating of anyone else in the company. Bit disappointing really.'
Monk took the sarcasm this time, slipped the notebook into her pocket. The guy's second day on the job. What was the point? Maybe in a month's time, if they still hadn't got anywhere, he might be useful; might have heard something in those intervening weeks.
'I'll leave you to it,' she said. 'I should be getting back to the station.'
She took her eyes from his and walked past him to the door. Didn't turn, door open.
'D'you want to have dinner tonight?' said Barney to her back. Well, why not? Nothing ventured.
She paused, turned, a slight stiffening of the frame.
'Pardon me?' she said, although of course she had heard just fine and it was entirely a giving-herself-extra-time manoeuvre.
'Dinner?' said Barney. 'I went to a Japanese place last night. Thought I'd go back. Exceptional.'
She stalled, although this time just by staring at him a bit vaguely. You don't have to know someone to fall in love. It's in the look in the eyes, the smile, the words playing in your head.
'Can't,' she said automatically. Didn't know why. Defence mechanism. She contemplated some further explanation, but then decided that it wasn't necessary, and quickly turned once more and was gone.
Barney watched the door for a while, wondering if she was going to come back in, but knowing that she wouldn't. Still, he thought, as he looked out at the damn clouds, which were as bleak as they'd been a minute earlier, here he was, back in the old routine, and it was a fair bet that he'd be seeing more of Daniella Monk.
***
Matty Goldbeck, a strange little man who did things with powder and sprays and microscopes, one of the army of SOCOs who'd been all over the crime scene, walked into Frankenstein's office to find him sitting in the same position as Monk had left him some time earlier.
'Got a match on the fingerprints,' said Goldbeck. Not one for introductions.
'God, what happened?' said Frankenstein. 'Usually takes you comedians about six days to come up with that kind of stuff.'
'Fuck you,' said Goldbeck, going straight into the ready banter common between police officers and scientists.
'Yeah, whatever,' said Frankenstein. 'Anyone we know?'
Goldbeck looked down at the paper in his hands, bearing the two representations of the matching prints. He lifted his head and looked at Frankenstein.
'Sort of. You're not going to like it.'
'It's not my mother again, is it?'
'The Archbishop of Middlesex,' said Goldbeck, and he shrugged and tossed the piece of paper down onto Frankenstein's desk.
Frankenstein glanced up at Goldbeck.
'Why am I not going to like that? Why do you suppose I even give a shit? You think I'm religious or something? Jesus.'
'He's the PM's personal religious adviser.'
Frankenstein wanted to curse again and say that he didn't care, but it wasn't like that didn't make a difference. He closed his eyes. Why couldn't it just have been a straightforward brutal murder enquiry? Fun for everyone. In five seconds Goldbeck had introduced politics and religion.
'Fuck,' he said eventually. 'I don't know anything about that shit. Tell me.'
Goldbeck dragged a chair towards him with his right foot and sat down across the desk.
'You know about the whole turmoil within the Anglican church ... ' he began, but was stopped by the look on Frankenstein's face. 'Whatever. There's turmoil in the Anglican church. Factions. These people are bastards, brutal. Anyway, vicious religious infighting, go figure. They created a new Archbishopric last year, a kind of compromise position. Middlesex, based at St Paul's.'
'And he's adviser to the PM?' said Frankenstein.
'Yep.'
'And his fingerprints are all over the weapon that was used to murder Hugo Fitzgerald?'
'Yep.'
'Holy fucking crap,' said Frankenstein softly, voice deep with melancholic resignation. He sat forward, shoulders hunched, rested his forearms on the desk.
'Now, don't bite my arse off, but I have to ask. Are you sure?'
Goldbeck smirked. 'Fair question,' he said. 'Yes, I'm sure.'
Frankenstein let out another long sigh, slowly let his forehead drop to the desk. He banged it a couple of times then sat up straight, looked across the desk at Goldbeck.
'Jesus fucking Christ,' he said. 'I mean, for a start, why on earth do we have the fingerprints of an Anglican Archbishop on file in the first place?'
'He was stopped for drink driving a couple of years ago.'
'Ah.'
Frankenstein stood up, turned and looked through the small window out into the grey of a bleak afternoon in London.
'Bollocks.'
He heard Goldbeck push back his chair, and then the slow footsteps retreat from his office as Goldbeck threw a 'see you' over his shoulder. Frankenstein didn't turn. He looked out at the grey clouds, already beginning to accept that there was no way he possessed the delicacy which was going to be required in handling this situation.
The Remains Of Hugo Fitzgerald
Harlequin Sweetlips had had an excellent, exhilarating day. Still had the monumental rush, the blood pumping, sheer visceral excitement of the kill the night before. Could feel the stem of the wine glass smoothly penetrating the skull. That explicit moment of death, when the weapon is an extension of the hand and the arm and the intention and the desire, and it all becomes one. Better than any other feeling in the world.
She had walked the streets of the city all day, looking people in the eye, daring them to know what she had done, loving the thrill of knowing what no one else knew; that she was the killer about whom they were reading in the Standard.
She stepped into the bar and looked quickly around the room. Music not too loud, a decent crowd in, a few full tables, a couple of guys sitting at the bar. Had decided not to head back to Paris that evening, and didn't yet feel like going to her London home to sit alone in her apartment, no matter how impossibly chic it was. So, needed to sit in the company of her fantastic fellow man. Didn't have to talk to any of them, just didn't want to be alone. The demons came when she was alone, and they were forever nasty.
Demons are as demons do.
She approached the bar and sat down. Barman still b
usy with an order of two Buds and some horrible vodka mixer, the idea for which had been conjured up in the offices of the largest marketing organisation in London. He cast a glance her way, acknowledged her, and quickened the delivery of his current order so that he could get around to her. Didn't like to keep the ladies waiting, particularly ones who looked like Harlequin Sweetlips.
Given a few seconds to spare, she held her hands out in front of her and studied her nails. Delicious varnish, a very dark red. Each nail approximately half a centimetre from the end of the finger. Good quality uniformity across both hands, but then if you're going to pay £1700 for a manicure it's got to be a pretty damn good one. And underneath the top quality varnish, her fingers still shook; an imperceptible tremble. Wouldn't have known it was there, except that she could feel it. She knew her whole body was still shaking, from her heart to the ends of her toes. A good vibration, in tune with the buzzing in her head.
She caught the next man along at the bar staring at her, strange look in his eye. He turned away as soon as she noticed him, but she'd seen the light of recognition and it increased the pounding in her chest. It'd been a fleeting glance, less than a second, but she'd read it. She knew the human condition; she knew what went on in the minds of men. This bloke hadn't looked at her and thought the usual things that men thought when they saw Harlequin Sweetlips. He hadn't used his nanosecond to undress her or to wonder what kind of performance she'd put up in bed. He hadn't exercised a little guilt and included his wife or girlfriend in his ephemeral fantasy with this woman at the bar. He hadn't been thinking about sex in any form, which was the case with every other man she met. She was gorgeous and she gave off the vibe. But this guy hadn't got it, or if he had, he'd seen something else which had overridden it.
She swallowed. She let her hands rest on the bar. Tapped a fingernail on the counter. She don't like California, it's cold and it's damp ... Looked at the row of single malts behind the bar. Hadn't touched them in three years. Best not to now.
'What can I get you, love?'
Violently snapped from her reverie, so sudden that she felt it in the tension in her neck. She stared at the barman, taking a few seconds to focus; trying to get her mind off the troubled feeling which had immediately begun to haunt her with the glance from the man sitting three yards away, now toying with a bottle of Miller.
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