The Touch

by Brian Lumley

  “Well, that’s good,” said Trask. “Because I was wanting to speak to you about our funding, which right now—”

  “I know,” the Minister cut him short. “You’re working on a shoestring budget. You’ve mentioned it previously, as have your predecessors before you—often. And I promise you I’ll bring it up at my very next meeting with the, er, the Lady Herself.”

  “The Lady?” Trask couldn’t help but grin. “You mean you’re not on first-name terms with Maggie Thatcher?”

  “Er, I prefer to call her the Prime Minister,” the Minister Responsible answered tersely. “Anyway, the funding of your organization isn’t what I’m here to talk about. So please don’t change the subject, Mr. Trask.”

  That’s better, Trask thought. No more Maggie, and no more Ben. First-name terms are out right across the board. Well, at least until he gets what he wants!

  But out loud he said, “How can I change the subject when I don’t know what the subject is?”

  “Sophistry!” the Minister snapped. “And time-wasting, too. So now can we get on with it?”

  Trask shrugged. “Sure, by all means. But let me guess: you want me to do you a favour, right?”

  “A-hmmm!” said the Minister, turning his head and casting a sharp glance over his shoulder, as if he thought to find one of Trask’s agents there, perhaps a telepath. “Well then, let’s say a favour for a favour. You scratch my back, and et cetera. Your funding gets looked into—I guarantee it—and you do a little something for me. A very little something.”

  Trask sighed, leaned forward across his desk, and propped his chin on a cupped hand. “Very well, so what’s your problem? But wait—let’s have one thing straight—I won’t be breaking the law for you!”

  “What? You won’t break . . . ?” The Minister puffed his cheeks out, grew red in the face, and snapped, “Mr. Trask! I—”

  “Just kidding!” Trask held up his hands. “My way of taking some of the agony out of it, that’s all.”

  “ ‘Agony’?” The Minister blinked, shook his head in a puzzled fashion.

  “Diplomacy isn’t my forte,” said Trask. “I haven’t got the time for it. Political correctness and ministerial double-talk: who needs it? Me, I’m down-to-earth; and you and I, we’d get on a whole lot better if you were, too.”

  The Minister cooled down; his eyes narrowed to blue slits, but after a while he nodded and said, “All right, I’ll tell you what I want. Not too long ago you received a report on a particularly gruesome murder—well, we assume it was murder—of one of the Government’s opposition ministers, a lesser-known Labour minister called Gregory Stamper. But as well as a member of the opposition, Stamper was—”

  “A very rich man,” Trask cut in. “He had shares in various precious-metals mining concerns; and as you point out, he died a bloody terrible death . . . with the emphasis firmly on bloody! Yes, I’ve read up on it and we’re investigating it, making what inquiries we can; but it’s only one of a great many tasks we’re involved with, including some that as yet you don’t know about. So what’s your special interest in this one?”

  For a moment the Minister Responsible looked uncomfortable, then said, “Actually, I’m not all that interested—except, of course, in my official capacity as the man appointed to oversee E-Branchs activities—but on this occasion I’m here on behalf of someone else.”

  “So,” said Trask, “in fact I’ll be doing this favour, whatever it is, to make you look good in the eyes of someone else?”

  “Please let me explain,” said the Minister. “But this time without the customary interruptions. George Samuels, a Metropolitan Police Officer and the son of an influential acquaintance, was the first man on the scene of Stamper’s murder when, during a routine mobile patrol, he undertook to investigate it.

  “Unusually young for his rank, a so-called whizz kid—but to be perfectly honest, a rather inexperienced Inspector of Police—Samuels’s reaction did not stand him in good stead with his superiors. In short, he fainted on sighting the corpse, corrupted and otherwise messed up the scene-of-crime, and in short order had a nervous breakdown. Already the butt of jokes, jibes, and other undignified comments from his peers, he found himself more or less ostracised. And in a fit of pique he quit.”

  Trask sighed. “I see. And his influential father wants him to reconsider, and probably wants him reinstated, which in some way involves E-Branch . . . but I don’t see how.”

  “Then I’ll tell you,” said the Minister. “Since recovering from his breakdown, George Samuels has seemed bent upon investigating this case in his own right—one might say as a private investigator, though he is not registered or qualified as such. Nevertheless he has come up with several interesting clues, and he’s aware that E-Branch is working toward the same end.”

  “He is?” said Trask. “And so much for our anonymity! Might I hazard a guess as to how Samuels knows about E-Branch? Can it be possible that our Minister Responsible—”

  But the Minister held up a hand to cut him off. “Ben, your branch and its work must always remain invisible to all unauthorized eyes. To George Samuels and his father you are simply an extension of our Security Services, whose works have overflowed into subsidiary branches. But when I was told of young Samuels’s interest, indeed his consuming interest in this case, it seemed only natural that I—”

  “That you offer to assist him by putting him on to us. And I can’t help noticing that I’m ‘Ben’ again! Okay, so how are we supposed to help him?”

  “Well,” said the Minister, “young Samuels is of the belief that he has useful information to impart, and he wants to share it with you in order to bring the murderer or murderers to justice. Also, he hopes to be there at the, er, ‘kill,’ if and when you arrest the perpetrators. Then, having helped in closing the case which caused his, er, downfall, he’ll feel fully justified in regaining his rank; he’ll be able to return to duty with his head held high.”

  Uttering a snort of annoyance, Trask said, “We always work alone; you know that. Also, as yet we have nothing to go on. We were waiting to see if the police could come up with some leads that we might then follow up. As you’re aware, when they dig up clues my agents can often verify them using their own less than orthodox methods. That’s what we’re here for, not to play nursemaid to some snot-nosed rich-kid policeman who’s lost his way!”

  “But you will help me out here? And in return rest assured that I will help you—at least with your budget?”

  “When am I supposed to speak to this Samuels?” said Trask, resignedly. “And remember, it can’t possibly be here. Our location in this hotel is top secret; it’s one part of our security that we simply can’t afford to compromise.” Then, narrowing his eyes to frown suspiciously at the other: “You haven’t actually told this Samuels or his father where we are, have you?”

  “No, only that you’re situated in central London, and that your branch has a special interest in cases such as the Stamper murder. As for meeting with George Samuels: that’s at your own discretion. I have his telephone number right here.” He fished in his pocket for a card.

  Trask nodded, accepted the card with Samuels’s number, and said, “Very well, I’ll see what I can do. But no promises. Anyway and however this works out, you’ll be able to tell Samuels’s daddy that we hope to benefit from his errant son’s assistance, and—who can say?—it might even prove to be the truth. But that’s about the size of it.”

  “Ben,” said the Minister, getting to his feet, “you are, as usual, most accommodating. And I thank you in advance.”

  “And in advance of sorting out our funding, I hope,” Trask growled. Then he buzzed for the Duty Officer, to see the Minister off the premises . . .

  At 7:00 that evening, Trask met ex-Inspector George Samuels in the hotel restaurant where they ordered an early evening meal. Also in attendance was Paul Garvey, specifically there to pick Samuel’s mind, while Trask of course would immediately know it if the ex-Inspector strayed an
inch from the truth.

  But from the start—from the moment Trask shook Samuels’s hand—he knew he wasn’t going to like the man, which premonition was borne out during the meeting. It wasn’t so much that Samuels lied; rather that he was pompous and misrepresented or overemphasised his own authority, while simultaneously playing down his breakdown as represented by the Minister Responsible. But still Trask heard him out.

  “I had been suffering from a very unpleasant stomach bug, which had left me rather vulnerable,” Samuels stated again. “It caught up with me at the scene of the crime. I passed out, yes,—but not from fear, I assure you, nor from the horror of the sight that greeted me in that room. And as for the two alleged paramedics who attended the scene with me, and the hotel’s so-called security officer: all three of them proved worse than useless and completely undisciplined. I’ve been told that following my collapse they treated me with unwarranted discourtesy, and I’ve heard it rumoured that they even hinted at my supposed ‘inefficiency’!”

  Trask nodded, glanced at his watch, and said, “Yes, I can see how that must have, er, hurt your feelings. But I’m a very busy man, Mr. Samuels, and I really must insist that we get to the point. Now that you’ve put us in the picture and we’re able to appreciate the opening sequence of events, maybe you’d like to tell us about your subsequent investigations. I’ve been told you have important information relevant to this case.”

  Samuels put down a forkful of fish, moved uneasily in his chair, and said, “I believe there’s been mention of my requirements in this matter, and that we should have an understanding, you and I.”

  Trask studied the man carefully. Samuels’s large ears were turning pink where he tried not to squirm, and a faint film of sweat gleamed on his brow. His grey eyes were nervous and given to fitful blinking, and his small cynical mouth twitched in one corner. He was obviously not yet completely recovered from his nervous breakdown.

  Finally Trask answered him. “An understanding? Someone has given you to understand . . . what, exactly?”

  “That if I’m h-helpful to you,” Samuels stammeringly answered, “you’ll be no less helpful to me. I need to be in on this case, Mr. . . . er . . . Xavier, was it? Forgive me, but it’s an unusual n-n-name.”

  “Xavier, yes,” Trask answered. “But ‘in on it’? How do you mean, in on it? Surely you understand that I have my own investigators?”

  “Of course. But I want to work with them; and in the light of my information I believe I deserve a measure of control over them. You see, er, Xavier, in order to prove my capabilities to my superiors—in order to reestablish, reassert myself, with no loss of personal esteem—I really need this case, and I—”

  “No way!” Trask snapped, cutting the other off with a negative wave of his hand. “Out of the question! You expect me to give you command over a team of my agents? That’s unheard of!”

  Samuels’s grey eyes began blinking again, more erratically than ever. “But I was assured that—”

  “Then whoever ‘assured’ you was mistaken. However, I will guarantee you this: if your information leads us to a successful conclusion, then you’ll get the credit. I would personally see to it. But as for actually working with you—letting you run a squad—that’s simply not on.”

  Samuels stopped blinking, dabbed at his forehead with his napkin, and stuttered, “Is that your l-l-last word on the subject?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Then we have nothing more to say!” Samuels jerked to his feet, and Paul Garvey rose with him. But:

  “Sit down!” Trask snapped.

  “What?” Samuels glared. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to? I’m an Inspector of Police, Mr. Xavier, and I don’t take my orders from you. You don’t have the power to—”

  “You’re an ex-Inspector,” Trask grated, cutting him short yet again. “You’re a bloody civilian, Samuels, and I have more power than you could possibly imagine! Now sit down, or I shall have Mr. Xavier here sit you down!”

  “Xavier?” Samuels gaped, his cynical mouth twitching and a thin trickle of sweat running down his forehead. “But I thought you were Xavier!”

  “We’re both Xavier,” Trask snapped, glancing at Garvey and giving him a sharp nod.

  Moving quickly around the table, the athletic Garvey made one of his grimaces, laid a hand on Samuels’s shoulder, and for the first time spoke. “Now don’t go making a fuss, George. Only raise your voice once and you’ll be speaking in a croak for the rest of the evening.”

  “Y-you dare threaten me?” Samuels gasped; but in any case, assisted by Garvey’s hand, he thumped heavily down again in his chair.

  “Threaten you? I’ll do more than that!” Trask snapped. “If you try to withhold valuable information in a murder case, I’ll arrest you! It’s tantamount to being an accomplice! What’s more, if you persist in wasting my time there’ll be no kudos for you, if or when we bring the perpetrators to book. So let’s have it, everything you know, and I want it now, at once.”

  “When I was back on my feet,” said Samuels, slumped in his seat and looking anything but back on his feet, “I determined to get away from the Met and work the case on my own. I didn’t want it bungled, but I did want it solved—if only for my own peace of mind. My God, if you’d seen the mess in that room . . . I mean, no one should get away with murdering a man in that fashion, whatever their reasons! God, but I have dreamed—not only dreamed but nightmared about that hotel—and about the terrible thing I saw in the corner of the room, that travesty of a man!

  “But at work: the sniggers, snide comments behind my back, sneering looks on the faces of my so-called superiors. Maybe I went back too soon, without giving myself time to recover from things—my previous illness, I mean—made worse by working myself too hard, and complicated by the shock of . . . of . . .

  “Anyway, I quit the Force and commenced my own investigations. I did still have one or two friends in New Scotland Yard, however, and one of them sent me a set of pictures taken by the security cameras at the airport hotel. Unfortunately these photographs aren’t much good, a lot of detail being lost due to the malfunctioning of the hotel’s electrical systems. But two hours earlier that night, prior to Stamper being found in that monstrous condition, he did have a visitor!

  “A visitor, yes: an extremely tall, very thin man—which was about as much as I could say about him, the pictures being so bad—but now I believe I know who he was, who he is! I’ll get to that in a moment . . .

  “Next, I had to find out if Stamper had enemies; here I’m talking about real enemies as opposed to people in the Conservative Party, currently in power. I tried to interview Stamper’s wife but she didn’t want to know. She’s a rather cold woman and had already given a statement to . . . well, to the police.

  “Obliged to rethink my strategy, I finally managed to come by Stamper’s diary, and—”

  But here Trask cut in, saying, “You what? Just like that, you ‘came by’ Gregory Stamper’s diary?”

  “Er, well yes,” Samuels replied after a moment’s thought. But his ears had reddened up again and his mouth was twitching furiously. “Please try to remember, I am, or was, an Inspector of Police. I have connections.”

  Trask glanced at the telepath, Paul Garvey, who nodded and said, “Yes, he certainly does have connections—with the criminal fraternity at that!”

  Samuels’s jaw dropped. “I b-b-beg your pardon!?”

  Garvey looked at Trask and said, “He hired a burglar. And you know, I can’t help wondering what George’s former employers would make of that! There’d be more than just a few sniggering noises behind his back, I’ll be bound!”

  Samuels’s jaw had dropped more yet. “How could you p-possibly know that?”

  “It’s our job to know such things,” said Trask, beginning to enjoy himself and feeling a little embarrassed by the fact.

  But by now there were several diners at their tables, and the Head of Branch cautioned Samuels: “Quietly now, but
do get on with it. Your, er, indiscretions are safe with us—so far.”

  Very much subdued, Samuels continued:

  “You may or may not know it, but despite that Stamper was well-to-do he was also a very heavy gambler; indeed, one might even say a degenerate gambler. That was one of the reasons his wife was leaving him. They hadn’t lived together for weeks and Stamper had moved into a hotel—but not the hotel in question. That was simply the venue for his meetings with . . . well, with the person I suspect. That person’s name was in his diary. And now it all gets a bit weird . . .” Here Samuels paused, as if he didn’t quite know how to continue.

  Trask raised an eyebrow and prompted him: “In our line of work we’re pretty much used to weird, George. Weird is what we do, so please go on.”

  “The other reason that Stamper and his wife were parting,” Samuels continued, “was that their infant son was sick. Indeed, he was more than sick; he’d been born with inoperable heart and lung problems. Some of the best doctors Stamper couldn’t afford had said it might be best to let nature take its course, and—”

  “Couldn’t afford?” Again Trask’s raised eyebrow.

  “His gambling,” Samuels explained. “Oh, Stamper had money in all kinds of ventures, shares, property, but precious little he could lay his hands on in short order. And his wife—a cold woman, as I’ve said—was demanding half of everything. Anyway, the child’s health or lack of it had caused tensions; these and Stamper’s gambling, dwindling resources, et cetera, had brought things to the boil. His wife—who Stamper seemingly loved very much—wanted out while she could still get her hands on half of whatever was left.”

  “All this was in his diary?” Trask didn’t think so.

  “No, not at all.” Samuels shook his head. “But as I think I’ve already explained, the police were carrying out an investigation—well, at least of the wife, the possibility that she might have hired someone to kill him—and I could still rely on my, er, friend—”

  “Your accomplice,” Garvey grunted.