Lucy sat close to him while they chose from the menu. She stayed next to him while she phoned through their order. He rubbed her back while she spoke. By the time the spotty seventeen-year-old on a scooter found their address with their order he had kissed her breasts for the first time in two years. They seemed bigger, softer, older and somehow a little sad. He wanted to gather them up and bury his face between them but his arms weren’t working too well, so she held them for him and he felt himself melt into the smooth warm skin.
The doorbell rang. The spotty adolescent was at the door.
They laughed and tacitly fell into the pattern of endless love established all those years before in a seaside hotel. They ate and drank and kissed and caressed and talked until, in the early hours of the morning, Gary brought Lucy to a climax. More skilfully than Tom he kept her on the very edge, unable to breathe lest she tip over into the glorious chaos of orgasm. Finally it was too much and she gave herself up to the gulping, heaving, sighing pleasure. Then she lay still in Gary’s aching arms.
His feeling of triumph was more satisfying than any orgasm he’d ever had. To play his wife’s body like an instrument made him feel like a man again. And she’d whispered his name, over and over. Was it to block out Shackleton? He physically moved to get away from the thought. As he did his penis touched Lucy’s hand. She was almost asleep but felt the pressure. She opened her eyes in the darkness. It was hard. Well, no, not hard but not the soft plum she had become used to. She moved her hand almost imperceptibly. He didn’t move away. She turned it so palm and fingers could encourage the timid life nudging against her.
Lucy didn’t have a huge repertoire of stimulation but she found herself determined to, at the very least, help him maintain his erection. She was astonished at her own inventiveness. Had Gary not been concentrating just as hard on the matter, literally in hand, he would have wondered if she’d used these techniques on Shackleton.
And then it came, out of nowhere, as if someone had switched on the electricity, a surge of excitement, a magnificent tightening and then … and then … Gary was taking air into his lungs but couldn’t release it. The veins on his neck and chest stood out, his face was a mask of determination. Lucy, without relinquishing her iron grip on him, straddled him and placed the tip of him inside her where her lips kissed him with tiny contractions. He shuddered, every muscle tense, rigid, still. She did it again, taking him deeper this time. He groaned but still didn’t breathe out. He was focused as if on the tip of a pin. Then she impaled herself fully, savouring the half-forgotten length of him. He reached up for her breasts, she bent towards him. And then the explosion. The massive ejaculation of unhappiness, illness and impotence. A fountain of glory pumped out of him. He was still a man.
He could hear his voice as if from a distance: ‘Oh God, oh bloody hell, oh God. Oh Lucy. Oh yes.’
Almost the same litany as for a winning goal.
Lucy bent down and kissed his face. Her hair felt cool. It was comforting, maternal, Gary smiled, Lucy the whore in bedsocks.
He felt himself drifting off, warm and shrinking safely beside her. He was murmuring as sleep overtook him.
Lucy put her ear to his lips: ‘Fuck you, Tom Shackleton.’
She rolled off him.
‘I wish,’ she said quietly as she sat on the side of his cripple bed.
Jenni and Tom dressed in silence for the ACPO dinner. Warwick University campus was hardly the home of haute couture but Jenni wasn’t going to let her standards slip. Especially not this year.
Tom hadn’t looked properly at his wife for weeks but tonight he did. She was standing in a peach satin thong preparing to put on her perfectly selected evening dress. She had always been slim, like a greyhound or a thoroughbred horse, but now … every bone jutted out, her ribs arced round and were topped by a ridge of sharp vertebrae. Her once fine bust hung down as she bent over, flapping, empty. And the skin hung off her buttocks leaving her profile flat and sexless. Tom looked away.
‘Ready?’
She obviously wasn’t.
‘I’ll see you in the bar.’
A few months before he wouldn’t have dared go without her for fear of the vitriol that would follow. Now he didn’t care and she knew it. A few times she’d tried tantrums that, to an outsider, would have warranted police intervention but not now. She knew she no longer had any power to cow and control him.
He went downstairs, indifferent to Jenni’s parting shot. In the bar were two country chiefs, good-natured men with comfortable, good-natured wives. People he was finding it easy to envy now. Unburdened with ambition, intelligence or good looks they’d got their jobs by default, simply by being the least worst solution. And they were happy, they’d never expected to get so far.
The older of the two called over, ‘Drink, Tom?’
The other chipped in, ‘Don’t do that, Terry – people will think you’re crawling. Is it true, Tom? You’re the new Tsar?’
Shackleton smiled his slowest, most seductive smile.
‘What can I tell you, George? Thanks, Terry, I’ll have a malt. Islay if they’ve got it. Thanks.’
The wives were keen he should join them but he stayed at the bar. The two old chiefs stood with him.
‘Well,’ said Terry raising his pint, ‘if it is true, congratulations. You’ll do well. Best man for the job.’
Shackleton was unexpectedly touched by the sincerity in the older man’s voice. Tom searched for an appropriate response and found the cupboard bare. He nodded and sipped his drink. They discussed the recent police review in a desultory manner until George told a fairly off-colour story about HM Inspector of Constabulary and a mushroom omelette by which time the bar had filled up and Tom was the object of focus. Nobody in the room doubted he was getting ‘the job’ and those with more than a year to serve were keen to make a good impression.
Tom’s eyes missed nothing, the insincerities, the fear, the resentment, and despite the dullness that had taken over his mind he felt a tingle of pleasure. This was the first stirring of real power.
And now the wives were flirting, putting in a word for their chiefs. Inviting him to their regions with promises of well, almost everything.
And then there were the ones who he’d never win over. Who were powerful enough in their own bailiwicks to think he wouldn’t be able to touch them. He lowered his eyes in case they saw how wrong they were.
There was a time when he’d been careful of his many enemies, wooing them and, if that didn’t work, making himself as inoffensive as possible. But now, not only did he not need any of them any more, he had dealt with the ultimate threat. It had been removed. And he had suffered the pain of the damned for that. The removal of subsequent hurdles would cause him no distress. He was as low as it was possible for a human being to be and that knowledge gave a certain security. But he wouldn’t forget George and Terry’s small kindness. They didn’t know how little he deserved it or how little unconsidered kindness he’d ever been given.
While he was considering the future with a glimmer of pleasure Jenni made her entrance. She was breathtaking. The dress disguised her excessive thinness, her make-up was flawless and she sparkled with something more than happiness to be in the company of bores.
Immediately she was surrounded by courtiers and she was magnificent. A vodka tonic was put into her hand by Suffolk (or was it Norfolk?); she rewarded him with a lightly blown kiss. Manchester wanted to monopolise her but had to give ground to Northumbria who wanted her to open a young offenders’ centre in Byker. She bestowed looks and words like gold and honey, raising the temperature of the room several degrees.
In retaliation the wives surrounded the handsome Tom Shackleton, eager to make this shy man smile, triumphant when he said, ‘That sounds nice,’ to a mooted visit or trip.
Tom and Jenni were indisputably reigning monarchs patiently watching their subjects jockeying for position in the new order.
Just outside the bar was an ante-room with a couple o
f tables at which the dissenters sat talking quietly. They had gathered round Barnard, the tall grey man whose mission in life it was to see Shackleton crash and burn.
The City of London Commissioner and the Police Service of Northern Ireland Chief Constable were diplomatically silent, listening with no sign of approval or disapproval while Barnard spoke.
‘I think we all agree it’s a good idea to have a national liaison officer, if you like. I mean NCIS has been good and no one wants the kind of balls-up we had over the Yorkshire Ripper with no bugger knowing what any other bugger was doing –’
He was interrupted by Sussex.
‘Yes, liaison and national databases are fine, but we’re looking at an FBI situation here and if we get a J. Edgar Hoover running it it’ll be worse than the Stasi.’
The City of London was gently patronising.
‘I think you’ll find, Eddie, the liberal lefties won’t let anyone get away with that any more.’
Eddie was sharp.
‘If you can find me a bleeding-heart liberal in any position of influence I’ll stop worrying.’
Barnard jumped in.
‘Carter would have been damned good in the job.’
They all murmured their agreement. After all, nothing had been proven and he was dead. Rumours of dirty tricks had found popular favour in all ranks.
‘You could be damned sure all he was interested in was a better police service. But this shyster …’
Barnard seemed at a loss for words to express his contempt.
‘He’ll be burrowing away into all of us. And he’s got a lot of scores to settle.’
‘What was that you were saying about the website?’ Sussex asked.
‘Oh yes.’ Barnard was in his element now. He paused to light a cheap cigar. ‘My daughter was doing her homework the other night – got a place at Oxford if she can get three As –’
‘And will she?’ asked the Irishman who, everyone knew, was a Jesus man, as Carter had been.
‘Quietly optimistic, Kieron. Anyway, she was surfing the net and found a website called Rumour Room. Come across it?’
The other men shook their heads.
‘Well, there’s a section on Geoffrey Carter, it seems. All about his life and death, then it says: “Did he fall or was he pushed? Cherchez La Femme. Not all little birds that lay eggs are cuckoos.” Would be great but …’
He stopped.
The faces around him showed no comprehension.
Sussex spoke.
‘But what?’
Barnard was irritated.
‘That’s it. That’s all there is. It’s from Macbeth, Janey said.’
The Irish man was cautious:
‘It’s Lady Macbeth. She’s saying how her husband would like to be the top man but lacks the will to get there. For “will” read “ruthless determination”.’
‘Good evening. Nice and quiet out here.’
Tom Shackleton stood in the doorway. They looked at him as if he was an apparition, then he said, ‘Don’t let me disturb you.’
The men created conversation. City of London asked Northern Ireland how things were over the water. There was some cautious teasing of the ostentatiously Catholic chief constable. They continued their conversation until Shackleton was, after another stiff round of pleasantries, safely back in the bar.
Sussex, a heavy, red-faced man, whose one distinguishing feature was that his blood was AB rhesus negative, was eager to get back to the subject.
‘So what have cuckoos got to do with it?’
Barnard shrugged.
‘Not sure. I’m not sure about any of it. But it’s interesting that there is speculation.’
The Northern Ireland man, who enjoyed a good pub quiz and had, in his younger day, had quite a crush on Irene Thomas, spoke.
‘It means a bird that isn’t a cuckoo planted that stuff in Carter’s house and waited for it to hatch out destroying – need I go on?’
Sussex was stumped.
‘So what’s the bird?’
The Northern Ireland man’s voice was so quiet his words were almost, but not quite, missed.
‘My guess is a wren.’
The Gnome had been held up and arrived only just in time for the hors d’oeuvres. He was seated at the top table between Jenni and what looked like a badly stuffed sofa. The sofa had a tiny, high-pitched voice and he had to lean close to her massively creased bosom to hear her. He couldn’t stop himself imagining the vast padding of slack flesh beneath the yards of flowered silk. It was a mesmerically horrible vision. He would have preferred to be placed between two of the few female chiefs and not just for sexual reasons.
Of all his duties as Home Secretary it was reform of the police that interested him most and his private passion to re-integrate the police with the communities they served included a theory that female-led constabularies were more likely to be sympathetic to the social pressures that caused young men, in particular, to fall out of the social equation. And, of course, there was the question of ethnic minorities, or the lack of them in senior ranks. He looked down the tables for Danny Marshall. He was surprised to find the young man staring at him, the expression on his face unreadable. The Gnome raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Danny made a small gesture towards the door and mouthed, ‘After?’
The Gnome, after a second’s consideration, nodded.
Jenni turned her attention to him after the main course, as was polite. The Gnome noted her slightly slurred speech and glassy expression, thinking she was drunk, then he noticed she was drinking mineral water. He leaned close to her – no smell of alcohol. He frowned slightly, a certain amount of high-stringing was acceptable in a wife but this was something he hadn’t seen before. He glanced across at Tom Shackleton – he was deep in conversation with one of the female chiefs, lucky man.
‘Are you all right?’ he said to Jenni.
‘I’m fine. Fabulous. Couldn’t be better. Why?’
‘No reason.’
He concentrated on his pudding while Jenni chattered. She had, in his experience, been prone to chattering in the past for effect and he could always detect the rapier beneath but now what she was saying seemed to have no point. He made a mental note to have a word with Shackleton after the meal. Couldn’t have a suspect wife, too risky.
He was relieved when it was time for the speeches and he was in sight of his official car and home. The evening had been a disappointment. No, Jenni Shackleton had been a disappointment. Her early vivaciousness had given way to a sort of lassitude and, occasionally, she seemed about to go to sleep.
‘I’m sorry. I took rather a lot of stuff to ward of the flu. I think I may have overdone it. But I did so want to be here tonight, for Tom.’
The Gnome was relieved, an overdose of Night Nurse he could cope with. The chairman – husband of the sofa – announced him. He stood up to sufficient but not overwhelming applause.
Five minutes later he came to the important part of his speech: ‘… And now, it is my great pleasure to announce’ – he looked at his watch – ‘just too late for anyone to catch the deadline for the last editions.’
Polite laughter.
‘But coinciding with a Downing Street press release, which, I think means full coverage on Today, and we all know what that means to the spin doctors.’
More polite laughter, but now with an edge of anticipation.
‘I would like to announce to you all the appointment of the first United Kingdom Anti-Crime Coordinator. On behalf of the government I would like to say how pleased we are that Tom Shackleton has accepted the post for an initial period of five years. Ladies and Gentlemen, Tom Shackleton.’
Tom rose and did not look round the room to see who was applauding wildly and who was sitting on their hands, he simply nodded to the Gnome and touched his lips – it could hardly be described as blowing a kiss – to Jenni. She sat as if she hadn’t heard. Away with whatever fairies were now colonising her head.
After t
he dinner it took the Gnome several minutes to get to the door. He had had a brief word with Shackleton, repeated his congratulations and quietly mentioned Jenni’s apparent ill health. Tom was quick to read the subtext. Don’t allow your wife to appear like that in public again. Good note, thought Shackleton, who was quickly swallowed up in a press of well-wishers and favour-seekers.
MacIntyre had forgotten Danny but Danny had not forgotten their silently proposed tryst. They walked together to the car.
‘What did you want to see me about, Mr Marshall?’
Danny was too personally involved to be careful or diplomatic.
‘Geoffrey Carter, sir.’
The Gnome stopped and looked at Danny. Danny ignored the warning in his expression.
‘He wasn’t a paedophile, Mr –’
The Gnome cut him off.
‘I admire your loyalty but it’s rather an academic question now.’
Danny stood in front of him.
‘I believe someone planted the magazines and those bugs in his house. Someone who needed him out of the way.’
The Gnome was ice cold.
‘And are you anything to do with the Rumour Room, Mr Marshall?’
Danny felt the blood go to his face and was grateful he was black.
‘I think I know who planted that stuff in his house and I think I –’
‘That’s enough, Mr Marshall. I’d hate to think of you compromising such a bright future for the sake of speculation. Geoffrey Carter was, sadly, a flawed personality. But now he’s dead we must let him rest in peace. Now … why don’t you come and see me, we’ll have lunch. Strictly confidentially, we’re thinking of a caretaker for the Met – give you the time to work up some muscle. A black commissioner is something, I think, London could do with within the next – what? Three years? Four, perhaps …’
The schoolboy in Danny wanted to go on regardless of the carrot and the veiled stick but the first black commissioner of the Met won.
The Crime Tsar Page 34