It was the kind of trace that should ideally have been fitted in with other enquiries because the fee was small and there would be a low ceiling on expenses. It had been an unimportant routine job. Murray Wilson kept his head down and climbed towards the old woman's voice; perhaps she would lose her nerve and retreat indoors. The light from the landing came down to meet him and the voice hissed, 'Mr Wilson, I've been watching for you coming.'
'It's late, Miss Timmey.'
'I heard it again, Mr Wilson.'
She caught a pinch of his coat sleeve in her tiny claw. Thinning white hair pulled tight to her skull, nose like a polished bone, she reminded him always of a bird. A wounded bird which fluttered against him on the shadowed landing: 'I heard the child cry out. Oh, it was awful, awful.'
'There's nothing wrong with the child in there, Miss Timmey.' He nodded at the flat opposite his own, and she put her finger to her lips. 'Oh, sshh. Sshh! It's the other child.' Deliberately, he raised the pitch of his voice. 'They have only one child and, believe me, I had a good look at her after you spoke to me.' It was stupid even to try to persuade her. She was old, touched with senility; she had never been married, never probably been with a man; and she had the bad luck to live next to a pair of the beautiful people, Moirhill version, the girl small and pale blonde, the man older, in his mid-twenties with very black curly hair, every time you saw them they looked glossy and replete, as if they had just got out of bed. They kept touching. Murray had seen them in the park, locked together on the grass, with the child matter of fact and cheerful playing round them.
It was little wonder they had driven old Miss Timmey demented. She kept hearing a child in pain and need of rescue; she had cast Murray for the part of white knight, which was his bad luck. He tried again. 'The girl's healthy. She's happy. She's as fat as she can roll. There's nothing wrong. Go to bed.'
Reluctantly, she edged towards the refuge of her own flat, the one in the middle.
'Please,' she whispered. 'They might be listening.'
'No,' he said, not lowering his voice. 'They'll be sleeping, and that's what I'm going to be doing in about ten minutes from now. And that's what you're going to do. Go inside. Lock your door. Make yourself a cup of tea. And go to bed.'
'But the child?'
'Is asleep in her bed.'
'But-'
Impatient, he interrupted, 'I hope for your sake that they're not listening,' and she shrank back, yet still hesitated so that it was only after what seemed to be a struggle that she could bring herself to close the door. It occurred to him that in her own way she had shown a lot of courage. It was a pity she had not found a better cause.
He looked at the two closed doors and then turned to open his own. Soon he would be asleep. The couple would be asleep entwined in one another's arms. Their plump little daughter would be asleep. He doubted if Miss Timmey would sleep.
He’d incorporated the banging on the door into his dream so that he surfaced with the confused impression it was the night in Memphis when Seidman got himself killed. The noise of traffic came and went and the banging stopped and then started up again louder than before. The pillow had got lost out of the bed and one side of his neck ached. The window showed as a dull glowing patch on the dark. Under it he could make out the shape of the sink and the single ugly line of the cold-water tap. The pilot light on the Ascot water heater offered a tiny blue reflection. With a groan he came fully awake and rolled out of bed.
The voice roared, ending on a bang, 'It's Eddy Stewart. I've brought you a present, Murray.' He took the chain off and opened the door. 'Close your mouth,' he said. 'I have a nervous neighbour.' Stewart was lying against the wall. He lifted his head and showed one eye shut and dried scabs of blood like tribal scars on the cheek underneath it. 'I need a kip for the night.'
'This isn't a doss-house,' Murray said, but he turned and led the way back into the kitchen where he had been sleeping. Yawning, he went over to the sink and turned on the water heater. The gas under the tank lit with a soft explosion. 'One coffee to sober up on and then out.' Behind him, he heard the creak of the rocker chair. 'That's where I sit, Eddy. Find somewhere else.'
'Somewhere else?' Stewart looked round without showing pleasure. The rocker he was sitting in was one of the old kind, with a fixed base and a spring; the back and arms were covered in faded green velvet; beside it a low table supported a chess board and an arrangement of pieces. As Murray continued to stare at him, he got up and took one of the two plain wooden chairs beside the kitchen table. Apart from a cooker beside the sink at the window end of the room, there was nothing else in the way of furniture. There were no pictures or photographs on the walls. 'This place needs a woman's touch.'
'I'll leave that to you, Eddy,' Murray said, taking a mug from a hook and putting in a couple of heaped spoonful’s of instant coffee.
Stewart rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands like a man who wanted to go to sleep. 'You should have seen this one tonight. We finished up in her flat. The place was practically empty. In the bedroom, there was just a mattress on the floor, know what I mean?'
'I've seen a room like that.' He put the cup of coffee between Stewart's elbows.
'But you haven't seen a woman like this one. She was black – smooth, smooth skin – Jesus, when you've been married as long as I have, you need to see a woman's belly without stretch marks. We made it on this mattress on the floor, and then she took off the evening dress, a long gown, red and cut low so that, you know, you could see her tits. And then she got this floor brush and she started marching up and down with it over her shoulder. I mean the bitch was stark naked, marching up and down and singing. Black as the earl of hell's waistcoat and singing, 'The Campbells are Coming'. She wanted me to get up and join her – 'shun, quick march, right turn – form bloody fours, I shouldn't be surprised. Mad! But what a body – black, did I say she was black? She'd even have made you forget you were a monk, Murray.'
'If you want to have a wet dream, go home,' Murray said, taking his seat in the rocker by the chess board. 'You know I don't listen to that stuff.'
Stewart wiped his hand across his mouth. 'You never had a pro? Don't try to kid a kidder. You forget I've known you a long time. I remember what you did when we were on the beat together twenty years ago. Before Billy Graham converted you.'
'Drink your coffee.'
Distracted for a moment, Stewart stared at his cup. 'Are you not having any?'
'I don't drink that muck. I'll have a cup of tea after I've got rid of you.'
'Oh, yeah. Scented tea from bloody China. You're an old maid, man.' Murray yawned and held up the fingers of his right hand. 'Five minutes.'
'I remember after you got converted how you rounded up the whores on Bath Street and walked them down to the Sally Ann’s at the corner of West Campbell Street. You made them stand there and sing hymns in their bare feet. And the rain was pissing down.'
'No, Eddy. You've got me mixed up with somebody else.'
Stewart gave him a grin of satisfaction. 'Is that right? Could be.'
'Why don't you go home to Lynda? She'll be waiting for you, God knows why.'
Stewart stopped smiling. 'When I said that bitch tonight was in evening dress, didn't you wonder why?'
'It's time for you to go home, Eddy.'
'I met her in the line of duty.' As he waited, Murray leaned forward, ignoring him, and slid the queen along one of the board's diagonals. 'I thought you might be interested. Are you not curious about what your wee brother gets up to?'
Looking up abruptly, Murray caught Stewart grimacing at him, pulling back his upper lip like a dog showing its teeth. As he watched, Stewart's face settled itself again into the habitual folds creased by tiredness and drink, familiar as a mask. The mask said: 'We've been targeting Blair Heathers.'
'So?'
'Heathers threw a party tonight. John Merchant was at it, your brother Malcolm's boss.'
'From what I hear a lot of people go to Heat
hers' parties.'
'That's right. And for the last month we've been taking a note of all of them. New name tonight, your brother Malcolm got his invitation.'
'And Irene?' Murray asked. The words were out before he could think about them. 'My brother's wife.'
'She was there. Only she left early. On her own. When she came out, she looked annoyed. Maybe they had a quarrel about something.'
'I wouldn't know,' Murray said.
'Give us time and we'll know,' Stewart said. The grin had come back. 'Everything goes on the big computer in the sky. Anyway, after another hour your brother came out.' He paused.
'With the black woman,' Murray said. It wasn't a question.
'You're such a quick bastard,' Stewart said in irritation. 'You should have been a detective. I went after them – being a friend of yours.'
'Did you recognise her?'
'She's new, but she works for Heathers all right. Not directly, of course. The little bastard may be a millionaire, but he came from Moirhill and he still has his contacts. He's never had any bother getting as many women as he needed to sweeten a deal.'
'What deal's he sweetening here?' Murray asked, but that was too direct.
'Come on, Murray. Peerse is my gaffer on this one. He'd cut my balls off if I told you anything. If I told anybody anything – but especially you. You know how he feels about you.'
'You want more coffee?' Murray asked.
'I wouldn't have time to drink it – not in five minutes.'
'Stay if you like. You can sleep in here. I'll sleep on the couch through there.'
'In the office, eh? Frightened I get a look in the filing cabinet?' The only secret of the filing cabinet, Murray thought, was how little was in it. He wondered if that was what Stewart meant. He said, 'You haven't explained how, if the woman came out with Malcolm, she finished up with you.'
'He changed his mind maybe.' Stewart stood up. 'Look, I think I'll go home right enough. I've got a little bit left to give the wife.' Because there was so little space, when Murray stood up he crowded close to Stewart. 'Not till you explain.'
'Suppose I shove you out of the way and walk out?'
'Don't be silly,' Murray said quietly. 'You couldn't have done that on your best day – and that was a long time ago.'
The big detective licked his lips. 'Take a joke, Murray. I'm not stupid enough to get into any go with you.' He glanced away. 'More sense than your brother – he got into a – he got a doing. Not from me!'
'No. You wouldn't be stupid enough to come here if it was you.'
'I followed the two of them. Your brother's wife had taken his car, so they took a taxi through the tunnel, got out on Moirhill Road. Maybe he'd changed his mind. They were talking and two plainclothes guys came over from across the street, they didn't see me. I recognised one of them – a young guy – you wouldn't know him, well after your time. But you'd know the type, a head-hanger. Whatever your brother said, this guy hit him once and put the boot in a couple of times when he went down. It wasn't any big deal. I came forward and broke it up. That's all there was to it.' Stewart shrugged. 'I did your brother a favour.'
'What happened then?'
'That was it. Your brother got a taxi. I took the girl home – since I'd stuck my nose in, I thought I'd combine business with pleasure. See if she'd talk.'
'Did she?'
Stewart shook his head. 'We're back to Peerse again, Murray. You're over the line. That's not your business.' After a moment, Murray nodded; accepting.
'It's a lousy job. You know that,' Stewart said unexpectedly. 'Did I ever tell you when I was a kid my mother went to see our local Councillor? She wanted to send me to a fee-paying school and went to ask him about it. He said to her, That kind of place isn't for people like you. Some fucking Socialist, eh?'
'John Merchant.'
'I have told you before. That wasn't yesterday... Now the bastard's in line to be Lord Provost. They'll make him a Sir – Sir John Merchant.' He laughed. 'Some fucking Socialist, eh?'
'And is Heathers going to make him rich?'
'You never stop trying, do you? I'm going home.' Murray walked him along the narrow corridor to the front door. Stewart took a step out on to the landing then turned back.
'I had to talk that plainclothes guy out of taking your brother into the shop. He wanted to give him a doing where he wouldn't be interrupted.' When there was no response, he tapped on the board that had been nailed across the upper panel of the door. 'What happened to your glass?'
'Kids.'
'Nice advert.' Lettered on the board were the words: Wilson Enquiry Agency – Discretion Guaranteed. 'Nowadays,' Murray said, 'who can control kids? If one of them grows up to be a bad debtor, then I'll get him.'
Stewart grinned. 'I did your brother a favour.'
'You told me.'
'And you – Peerse would break my back, if he knew I'd done you a favour.'
'Peerse!' Murray made the name sound like one of the swear words he avoided.
'Sure! But he's still my gaffer. Funny to think it was Peerse got the promotions.'
'Somebody has to be clever, Eddy.'
'Cleverer than you, Murray?'
'I got out. That's where I was clever.'
Stewart looked at the mended door and the dark passage beyond it.
'Yeah,' he said.
2 The Guard
TUESDAY, AUGUST 28TH 1988
The old Chambers Building filled one side of the Square. It had been built out of nineteenth-century riches and confidence. Murray had read up on it when he was a raw policeman on duty there, young and enough of a stranger to be excited by the city; and so, as he crossed the entrance hall, he knew that the marble under his feet was Numidian and black Irish. He knew that of the two giant nudes that guarded the main staircase one was named Purity and the other Honour. As he climbed, he knew the staircase was of marble and its balustrade of alabaster with pillars from Italy and Derbyshire. The mosaics on the wall had been imported from Venice; the lamps were copies of the one in St Mark's. From the old days, he remembered where the Committees met and went along a lobby roofed and lined with majolica from Staffordshire. There were rooms of satin-wood from Ceylon, amber-wood from South America and mahogany from Cuba and St Domingo. The city had levied tribute from the world, but then there had been giants on the earth in those days. 'You're in the wrong place,' Merchant said. 'Where are you looking for?'
It might have been the foreign inflection, still there despite the years of exile, which made the question sound abrupt; but it was, in any case, the tone Murray would have expected from him. Merchant had the reputation of being an arrogant man. He had been a power in the City Chambers for more than twenty years, and even after the Region had been set up preferred to spend as much of his time as possible in familiar surroundings rather than in the new bureaucracy's prematurely tarnished tower of concrete and glass. He remained to that extent a European of a certain kind, a man of taste. The narrow silver skull inclined again over the file of papers spread on the table before him. After a moment, he looked up as if in surprise and made a gesture of impatience. 'I really don't have time to waste.'
The windowless room was small, a side chamber off one of the lesser committee rooms, wood-panelled and smelling of wax polish. The table and four upright seats with green leather backs provided its only furniture. Murray took the seat that faced Merchant, and when he sat leaned forward with his elbows on the table. 'I'm Malcolm Wilson's brother,' he said, and felt the unwelcome anger pressing up for release.
'Malcolm Wilson,' Merchant repeated and, shutting his eyes, seemed to recall the name. 'A promising young man, he's the type who will go far.' He looked down again at the file in front of him. Unexpectedly, he sounded tired.
'If he takes your advice,' Murray said, 'he's going to go further than he expects to. Maybe, all of you are.'
Merchant leaned back. 'I think that is something you had better try to explain.'
Murray hesitated. He had thought thr
ough what he had to do, but caution suggested that he get what he wanted with as little pressure as possible. Whatever happened, by coming here and making an enemy of Merchant, he had probably finished himself in this city.
'I work as a private detective,' he began. 'It's part of my business to hear things. I have contacts.'
'Wait a minute.' Merchant rubbed a finger between his brows. 'Wilson's brother. Yes... you're older than he is. You were a policeman here in the city... You went off without the formality of a resignation. Some years later, you turned up in Manchester where you set yourself up as a detective. But you had been in the United States before that. You worked for a criminal called Seidman. And now you're back favouring us.'
'Seidman wasn't a criminal,' Murray said. It was foolish to have that as his first reaction – what difference could it make, this much later and so far away, to the memory of a good, brave man? 'But you've asked questions about me. Never mind whether the answers were right or not, that means you had to check up on me – because you had to check up on Malcolm. That means you've got him involved in something.'
'If I did ask questions about you,' Merchant said, but with the same touch of weariness he had shown when talking of Murray's past – like a parlour trick he was running through only out of old habit – 'who do you imagine gave me the answers? Anything I know about you, I learned from your brother.'
The Stranger Came Page 23