'Well, at least we have something in common,' she said, and the tone had changed back to what it had been at the start. Time to lose the wonder at the man and get back to business.
'What d'you mean, Babe?' he said, leaning back against his desk, standing right in front of her. Folded his arms, then unfolded them again when he realised it was bad body language.
'I mean this,' she said, and she took another step towards him, so that she was more or less in his face. 'This stops now. Everything, every last fucking thing. It stops now. And if it doesn't, you will reap the benefit of one of my big gestures. And if you don't know what I mean by that, then you're even more of a fucking idiot than you look.'
Another second or two standing in his face to hammer home the point.
'Cool,' he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
She turned and walked to the door.
'Big gesture?' he said.
She opened the door and turned back to face him.
'We've given the London 2012 account to Carter & Carter.'
Another pause and she was on her way. The door closed behind her. She had been playing her own game, had acted out every line. Having a bit of a laugh.
Orwell stared at the door for a few seconds, then walked forward into the space she had just vacated, trying to get the scent of her. Which he did. He breathed in. He closed his eyes, imagined she was still there.
'Getting closer,' he said quietly to himself, and he ran his hand through his hair.
Big gesture, he thought. Now that sounded like something he wanted to know more about.
Someone Else's Pain
Barney Thomson and Harlequin Sweetlips were having an enjoyable evening. Relaxed, amiable, no pressure. Almost as if there'd been a silent agreement between them not to worry about any events currently taking place, not to concern themselves with anything that had gone on in the past. A couple like any other. As they sat at dinner, they could've been an advert pair, doing a spot for indigestion tablets or any women's product you care to mention. Have Your Period And Eat Five Spice Peking Duck At The Same Time, With The All-New Ultra-Slim Limited Edition Capacity All-Evening Panty Liner. It Makes Sense, Because So Do You.
And there seemed to be no pressure about what would come after. No sexual tension in the air, no unspoken intangible about murder. They chatted amiably about the advertising business and the people you met who worked in advertising and the ridiculous concepts they created. They laughed, they talked, Barney did not feel threatened. He only thought about Daniella Monk eighty or ninety times, which isn't so much in the space of three hours.
And when the jasmine tea was done and dusted, they nodded to one another, walked down the stairs and back out into a wet, bustling London evening.
***
Daniella Monk leaned against the railings of St Giles-in-the-Field and looked up at the spire, the falling rain illuminated by the church spotlights. Despite the presence of seventeen police officers, and most of the area being sealed off, there were still a couple of guys shooting up in the grounds of the church; comfortable in the knowledge that they were unlikely to be interrupted by CID investigating a triple murder, with two of their own dead.
Monk had finally been able to leave the office at a little after seven, and had been able to spend a rare half hour at home – most of which time she'd spent contemplating calling Barney Thomson and managing to stop herself – before the phone rang. It hadn't been Barney, as she'd hoped it would be, and she'd been summoned to the latest murder scene.
She had spent the entire afternoon trying to locate Margie Crane. A lot of enquiries made, but no progress whatsoever.
Footsteps behind her and she was able for a short time to take her mind off Barney Thomson. Didn't turn, waited for Frankenstein to come alongside.
'They were good lads,' he said, resting his arms on the top of the railing, looking directly at the two middle-aged junkies and that day's dose.
'Yeah,' she said, immediately feeling guilty that she'd hardly given DCs Jobe and Knights a second thought. Hadn't met either of them before. Wondered if Frankenstein had, for all his good lads remark.
'Jobe had a kid. Three months,' said Frankenstein.
Monk closed her eyes, swallowed. Saw the baby sleeping soundly, the mother looking over the edge of the cot, tears in her eyes, breaking up. Was the joy ever worth the potential pain of all the things that could go wrong? Started to think about children, a weird broodiness, became aware that her thoughts always turned back to herself. Everybody else's problems were digested into how she would deal with that situation. Was she any more selfish than anyone else? She always kept it inside; the rest of the world would consider her compassionate. Only she knew the truth. Maybe everyone was the same.
More introspection out of someone else's pain.
'Told me the other day that his missus is struggling. You know, post-natal. Christ, what's this going to do for her? What chance has the kid got?'
'All right,' said Monk, sharply. Didn't want to think about DC Jobe's family. What good would it be to them, her thinking about their pain?
'It's a pish world,' said Frankenstein.
'Yeah,' said Monk.
They stood in the rain, watching one of the junkies drop his needle and loll over on his side, into the wet grass.
'Goldbeck managed to get the Archbishop's fingerprint from the knife used to kill Hemingway,' said Frankenstein quietly. As if he didn't want to admit it, didn't want it to have happened.
Monk didn't reply. It could have been worse, she was thinking. It could have been the Prime Minister's fingerprints this time. Or the Queen's. Did they have the Queen's fingerprints on their database, she wondered.
'We'll need to speak to Strumpet again. Crap,' he added, his voice tailing away. 'Look, did you speak to any of these comedians?' he said, deciding he had to stop sounding so abject, indicating the guys in the churchyard.
'Any that we could find. Surprisingly, none of them had anything to report.'
'Useless wankers,' muttered Frankenstein. 'Fucking useless.'
'It's just life,' said Monk.
'Very deep,' said Frankenstein.
'What was Wodehouse doing coming up a street like this with a woman?' said Monk. 'He was looking to get laid. Well, he got what was bloody coming to him. I spoke to those people, I told them the score, I told them to be careful. They all think they're invincible.'
Frankenstein nodded.
'Maybe you're right, Danno. And there's a three-month-old kid left fatherless because of it.'
'All right with the three-month-old kid, Sir,' said Monk.
Another pause. Monk tried to put thoughts of real life out of her head. The everyday crime, that wasn't real. It was just a job. Babies being left without fathers, that was real, that was pain. She knew all about that.
'You manage to get anything on the Crane woman?' asked Frankenstein.
'Nope,' she said. 'Disappeared like white nuns into the snow.'
He gave her a sideways glance.
'What the fuck does that mean?'
'Just a story I heard once.'
There was a pause. She turned and looked at him.
'You know,' said Frankenstein, 'I think that guy might be dead.'
Monk looked at him quizzically, wondering who he was talking about, then clicked and followed his gaze to the comedian slumped in the grass.
'Nah,' she said.
'Yeah,' said Frankenstein. 'I can tell. He's dead. Still, if he's lucky, someone'll find him in the morning. Come on, let's get out of this rain, get back to the station, you can tell me about the Crane.'
'Yeah,' said Monk, and they turned and walked back towards the murder scene, past the tent which was covering the area, an area which had already received a good wash down from the Heavens, long before the police had ever arrived.
***
Jude Orwell stayed in the office until nearly midnight, beavering away. One of only two of the BF&C collective left on the p
otential and speculative list of victims, he had been given pause by the news of Wodehouse's death, and had blithely accepted that there were now two police officers sitting outside his office. However, he had been energised by his visit from Taylor Bergerac, the smell, the beauty, the allure of her. Even more entranced than he had been whilst in his earlier shock & awe stage. His obsession scaling new heights, he no longer seemed to care about Wodehouse or the company. Not until he had been able to completely scratch this itch, not until he had been able to find out about Bergerac's Big Gesture, something which had captivated his imagination. Able, in his deluded infatuation, to ignore the fact that she'd told him to fuck off, and to ignore her tone and everything else she'd said. She had, undoubtedly, looked at him with wonder for a few seconds, and that was the moment he continued to play in his head. That was the moment onto which he would cling.
He sat at his laptop, devising new ways to impress, new ways to get the message of Jude Orwell over to a sceptical audience. This was his finest hour, no doubt, and success would be his. The next day, when she had met the full barrage of his latest stun & respect tactics, he would indeed find out about the exact nature of the Big Gesture. And once he had that out of the way, and once he had his mind and his life back, then he could put this new genius, these new fantastic ideas he was developing, this new culture of supreme promotion into the company itself, and he could sort out Anthony Waugh and even the legendary Thomas Bethlehem himself.
'Big Gesture,' he mumbled into his shadow, 'you will be mine.'
And you know, he was right.
***
God sat at a bar, nursing His second vodka tonic of the evening. Didn't want to overdo it, because for all the all-powerful deity aspects of His character, vodka still didn't sit well with Him. Sure, He could drink pints of the stuff, it wasn't like He was ever going to fall over drunk or start grabbing women and telling them He loved them. It just gave Him a killer of a headache in the morning. Killer.
A man came and sat beside Him, empty beer in his hand. God had seen him sitting alone at a table all night, steadily working his way through a crate of Miller. Had known the bloke would come and talk to Him, what with Him being God and all. Knew all the guy's problems. Wife having left him for the vicar; children grown up and away from home; banned from the golf club for repeatedly doctoring his medal cards; prostate trouble as a result of years of stress working in advertising. An empty life. And now he had decided, after a long evening sitting on his own, to come and talk to the fellow at the bar. People were drawn to God.
'You're looking a bit down there, Pal,' said God, thinking He might as well get on with it. Had already concluded three pieces of business this evening and was on a roll. All right, it wasn't exactly going to turn the world upside down, but God was, by nature, a big picture guy. Knew you had to think strategically. These things took time, and He had the patience.
The bloke – a stout chap by the name of Edwin Burrows – snorted and banged his bottle on the bar to order another.
'Wife?' asked God. 'Work? Kids?'
Burrows turned and looked into the eyes of God and saw a lot there.
'You're a perceptive fellow,' he said.
'Yeah,' said God.
'All three,' said Burrows quickly. 'All pissing three.'
'You want a way out, Bud?' asked God.
The next Miller appeared on the bar and Burrows rolled a couple of coins the way of the barkeep.
'You American?' asked Burrows.
'Not exactly,' said God. 'Picked up the accent watching too many movies.'
'Ouch,' said Burrows, and God shook His head, wishing He wouldn't make these stupid jokes about Himself.
God took a long drink, started contemplating a third, decided quickly against. Had a busy morning ahead of Him, couldn't risk having a head with a plague of tortured synapses.
'Right, Bud,' he said abruptly, 'I'm outta here. Tired, got a busy day coming up. You want a way out or not?'
'Sure,' said Burrows, 'who wouldn't?'
'Plenty of people,' said God. 'Lots of folk like to achieve things and work their way through problems themselves, without going for an easy fix.'
'That is so last century,' said Burrows.
'Yeah, whatever. Last chance.'
'What are you offering?'
'Anything,' said God. 'Kill the vicar maybe, give your wife syphilis, make your kids call every day and visit every month, turn your business around so that you can buy the golf club, even throw in a scratch handicap. And no more prostate problems. What d'you say?'
Burrows was stunned. He'd always known he'd been a heart-on-his-sleeve type of a guy, but this was insane. He surely didn't have golf-cheat written on his forehead.
'How much?' was all he said.
'Eternity in Heaven,' said God.
'Heaven?' said Burrows. 'Are you an angel? Cary Grant in The Bishop's Wife, something like that?'
'Hey,' said God, smiling, 'that was a great movie, wasn't it? Had a hand in some of the screenplay myself, you know. Quality work.'
Burrows nodded, took some beer, thinking it might help with understanding to whom he was talking.
'I'm no angel,' said God. 'I'm the line manager. So, what's it to be? Heaven or not?'
'Eh, yeah,' said Burrows. 'Seems sensible.'
'There's no rock music,' said God.
'Ella?'
'Sure, Bud.'
'All right. Can you give the wife HIV instead of syphilis?'
God shook His head. 'Sorry, fella, Satan's got the copyright on that one. All his work, can't help you out there. I could do something more classically painful and disfiguring. Leprosy, something like that.'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Burrows. 'Any generic STD should do the trick.'
'Cool,' said God. Burrows held out his hand, and they shook on it.
'I am outta here,' said God, and He downed the last of His vodka and headed for the streets. Burrows watched Him go, enjoying a tremendous feeling of well-being, a feeling which had, however, worn off by the time the following morning dawned, spinning and hungover. Nevertheless, by the end of that day, one of his children had visited, the other two had called, he had seven new clients, his wife had a bit of an itch, he'd gone round Wentworth in 71 with a lovely eagle at the last, and the vicar had died in a car accident.
The Elusive No Romance, No Hurt
One-fifteen in the morning and Monk finally got to walk away from the station, everything done for the early hours that could be. Head buzzing but extremely tired. Didn't want to go home. Five murders, all stabbings, seemingly by the same hand. They had a serial killer in town, and it was her job – amongst others – to catch her. With every murder the pressure would grow, and at every level of the department. Work was going to become intolerable until they caught this woman.
She needed company. She wanted to talk it over with someone, sit up until early morning discussing the case. At least it would help her take her mind off her latest love interest. Only, it was her latest love interest with whom she wanted to sit up late into the night talking.
Got into her car, turned on the ignition, stared straight ahead. Barney Thomson. At this time of night, only fifteen minutes from where she was. Likely to be alone. Would he be alone? He had loner written all over him. He might have women on occasion, but not late into the night. That's what she thought.
She pulled out of the station car park and headed north.
***
Seventeen minutes later she pulled the car up outside the apartment building, checked the address on the piece of paper and turned off the engine. Sat for a short time, composing herself, thinking about what she was doing. How stupid was she going to feel if he wasn't alone? Or worse, if he said that he was tired and didn't let her in at all? Nothing more humbling than leaving yourself open to rejection. She took a deep breath, concentrated on the signals she'd been getting from him, which she knew to be right, and got out of the car. Walked up a short path, stood at the entrance beside the short ro
w of buzzers. Barney Thomson, the name written in pen, third down. She hesitated again.
Heard a noise inside, as an inner door swung open. A woman's footsteps on tile, and then the outer door opened and suddenly Detective Sergeant Daniella Monk was two feet away from Harlequin Sweetlips, the murderer they had been seeking for the past few days.
Sweetlips looked at her. Monk recognised something in her eyes, but nothing tangible, nothing she could formulate into words. A photograph maybe. Seen the face before. She paused. There was something there, but neither of them recognised what it was. Suddenly Monk realised that Sweetlips was holding the door open, and she stepped forward to pass her.
'Thanks,' she said.
Sweetlips nodded. They finally dragged their eyes from one another, and then Sweetlips was gone and Monk walked into the building. Walked slowly, trying to identify why she'd just had the most enormous shiver convulse her body, and why she still had a feeling of great unease. Looked over her shoulder through the glass doors, but Sweetlips had vanished, and the night was cold and damp and menacing. Monk turned and walked quickly up the stairs.
Found Barney's door, another pause, final chance to walk away and not make an idiot of herself. Checked her watch. 1:37.
She rang the bell and it was only then that it occurred to her that the woman she'd met at the entrance might have been leaving Barney's apartment. Hot under the collar. Contemplated turning and walking quickly down the stairs. Get out the building before he answered. But then, if he came after her and saw who it was, how stupid was she going to come across? She had to stay.
The door opened. Barney Thomson in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, expecting Harlequin Sweetlips. His face showed it too and she knew he hadn't been asleep.
'Hello,' said Barney. 'This is, em, a bit weird.'
Monk looked down the stairs, turned back to him.
'Sorry, had she just left here?'
Barney didn't really know what to say to that, so he completely avoided the question, in true politician's style, although as with politicians, the answer was obvious from the evasion.
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