Those Who Feel Nothing

by Peter Guttridge

  ‘There you are then,’ Watts said.

  ‘The more important point is that Jimmy might be attempting something unlawful,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We can’t allow that.’ She looked at Watts. ‘I think we should detain him.’

  They both looked to the toilet at the rear of the bar in time to see Tingley exit and head straight for the back door to the pub.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Watts said.

  You have an address in your pocket. Phyllida gave it to you. You take a taxi. The driver is chatty but you don’t want to talk to her. You are remembering when you came round, trussed to a tree, in the temple in Angkor Wat. There was something unreal standing before you, pulsating in the moonlight.

  ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ a voice said close by. Westbrook, Michelle’s father. ‘We can’t let it be lost to posterity or destroyed by these barbaric Khmer Rouge.’

  ‘What is it?’ you said.

  ‘The Buddhist goddess Tara, the bodhisattva of compassion. Gilded bronze, eighth century AD. From Sri Lanka originally.’

  ‘What’s it doing in Cambodia?’

  ‘War booty, tribute – who knows? Nobody probably did know it was here until Francis Garnier came along.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ you said, as you tested your bindings.

  ‘A nineteenth-century explorer, in love with the Mekong. He was convinced the Mekong went all the way to China, and in 1866 he took two paddle-driven gunboats from Saigon upriver through the Mekong Delta to Cambodia. When his expedition reached Phnom Penh he docked the boats and took a small party across country to Angkor Wat. This party returned with a large crate.

  ‘The crate was loaded on the boat but the monsoons came so they were obliged to proceed up the Mekong in pirogues. Nobody is certain if the crate went with them or what its fate was because Garnier was killed in an ambush by the Black Flag.’

  ‘The Black Flag?’ you said.

  ‘The Vietnamese resistance to French rule,’ Westbrook said. ‘And the crate was never seen again.’

  You raised your chin at the statue. ‘This was in the crate?’

  Westbrook looked at the statue wreathed in moonlight. ‘Rumours of the crate’s survival have passed down through the centuries. You know the story of the Maltese Falcon?’

  You nod. ‘The jewel-encrusted bird.’

  ‘And modern treasure seekers have been tracking it down the centuries by sightings and rumours and written accounts.’

  ‘And that’s what has happened with this?’

  ‘This and what she is wearing on her head.’

  You shook your own head. ‘I can’t see. What is it?’

  ‘A helmet. Well, really a ceremonial crown. Emeralds, rubies, lapis and diamonds on hammered silver. Priceless.’

  ‘And you took both these from the National Museum?’

  ‘Nobody knew their value except me. So, yes, we took them – and a few Fabergé eggs.’

  ‘Where’s Michelle?’ you said.

  ‘She’s safe. She’s helping us in return for them not hurting you. The Boy Scout.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen to me?’ you said.

  ‘Nothing bad. We’re just going to leave you here. A resourceful fellow like you should be fine.’ He raised his voice. ‘You know, I’m lucky to be alive. Tall men always die first in prison camps.’

  ‘Really?’ you said.

  ‘Sure. We get treated worse by the guards. They are usually shorter and like humiliating us. Plus we have less fat on us so we starve quicker.’

  ‘Can I speak to Michelle?’

  He touched you. Barely.

  ‘I don’t think so. And, Jimmy, probably wisest to think of this as adieu. Not au revoir.’

  Gilchrist was in Watts’ car heading for the Marina. Watts had told her Tingley was looking for revenge.

  She was on the phone to Bellamy Heap, who was also in transit.

  ‘Who is this Jimmy Tingley?’ Heap said.

  ‘A lovely man,’ Gilchrist said, glancing at Watts. ‘But a lethal one.’

  ‘We’ve both dealt with those before, ma’am.’

  Gilchrist shook her head. ‘Not someone like Tingley. If you come across him, don’t even try.’

  ‘It’s our job, ma’am.’

  ‘We’re not up to it.’

  Heap was silent for a moment.

  ‘He’s much, much, much better than us,’ she added.

  ‘Speak for yourself, ma’am.’

  Gilchrist sighed.

  ‘Know your limits, Bellamy.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said and she could tell he was grinning.

  ‘Tell me about Youk’s rented flat.’

  ‘Just a room, ma’am. I’m heading over to his mother’s now.’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘I sent Constable Wade round to tell her.’

  ‘Sylvia? Good choice. She’s good with people.’

  And technology. PC Sylvia Wade had been invaluable as part of Gilchrist’s recent team investigating black magic goings-on in and around Brighton.

  ‘OK, Bellamy. Keep in touch.’

  ‘Ma’am – there is just one curious thing.’

  ‘We seem to be surrounded by curious things. Go on.’

  ‘His landlord had a photo of Agent Merivale on his computer. A snatched shot – I would guess taken from inside the Bath Arms.’

  ‘You recognized it?’

  ‘I recognized the antique shop he was going into.’

  Gilchrist closed her phone and looked at Watts.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Windsor’s skipper or major-domo or whatever he called him – the one who went into the antique shop today and didn’t come out – what does he look like?’

  ‘Klingman? Big, tanned, my sort of age.’

  ‘Looks like Jon Hamm?’

  ‘I don’t know who that is.’

  ‘Crew cut?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He glanced at her when she groaned. ‘Is that the sound of a penny dropping?’ he said.

  You get out of the taxi at the end of a street in Hove and scope it out. All quiet. You approach the house casually. It is in darkness. It looks shuttered up.

  There’s a man walking down the street towards you from the other direction. A few inches shorter, which puts him in the category of short-arse. He’s observant, you can see. A policeman?

  You slow. He’s counting house numbers. You’re pretty sure you’re both heading for the same place. This isn’t what you want. Legality isn’t going to work for you here.

  The man stops in front of the house you’re aiming for. You keep walking. He glances at you as you walk by. You’re conscious of his eyes on your back.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ You walk on. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Louder. Fuck the fucking fuck.

  You turn.

  ‘I was taught very early on in life not to talk to strangers,’ you say. The young man is shorter than you but you can see he’s in good shape. He has a shyness about him but there’s confidence in his eyes.

  ‘Mr Tingley, is it?’ he says. Oh dear.

  The man moves closer. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Bellamy Heap. We have friends in common. Detective Inspector Gilchrist and Police Commissioner Watts?’

  ‘That we do.’

  Heap flushes. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I need to detain you.’

  ‘You are detaining me and I need to get on.’

  ‘I need you to come with me,’ Heap says.

  You’re wondering how much of a fighter Heap is. You don’t want to hurt him more than necessary to get away and that will inhibit you. You know how to kill more than you know how to damage.

  ‘For what reason do you need me to come with you?’

  He’s now only three yards away from you. ‘Mine is not to reason why,’ Heap says.

  ‘Well, young man, I want you neither to do nor die. And I’m sorry. I can’t let you detain me.’

  Heap shrugged. ‘That’s my job.’

  You stand very still.

&nbs
p; ‘I know who you are, Bellamy. May I call you Bellamy?’ Heap gave the slightest of nods. ‘Thank you. Well, Bellamy. Don’t be a dick. Neither of us wants what is about to go down.’

  Heap shrugs again. ‘It is what it is.’

  You look down at your hands. ‘No. It’s not. It’s something else. Please walk away.’

  Heap shakes his head. ‘Can’t do that.’

  You look at your hands again. Close your eyes. You are aware of your phone ringing in your trouser pocket. Heap hears it too.

  ‘You want to answer that?’

  You shake your head. ‘It will wait.’

  Heap takes a torch from his belt. Except it’s not a torch. You recognize it as an incapacitating flashlight. You look at him warily.

  ‘We’ve been asked to trial this by Police Commissioner Watts.’

  You nod. ‘I’m not sure he intended you to trial it on me.’

  Nevertheless, you don’t want to be vomiting up your guts any time soon.

  ‘Why are you at this address?’ Heap says.

  ‘Why are you?’ you say.

  ‘I have to take a DNA sample and inform the woman who lives here that we may have found her son,’ Heap says. ‘Dead. What about you? Why are you here?’

  You look at Heap. He’s so fresh-faced.

  ‘Because the woman who lives here handles the Cambodian slave trade in the UK for a certain Sal Paradise and a certain Charles Windsor.’

  FIFTEEN

  Brighton Marina always reminded Watts of John Hathaway, the Last King of Brighton, with whom he’d had a curious relationship. Hathaway had had a bar here that had been burned to the ground by a barbaric Balkan gangster. There was no sign now it had ever existed.

  Watts saw the beautiful wooden boat at the near dock of the marina. The steam was up. It was bigger than he had realized, taking up three berths. Hathaway used to berth a boat here that he used for smuggling runs. Watts wondered whether Windsor’s participation in the Great Escape had been entirely altruistic. What cargo might he have smuggled in or out of England?

  Gilchrist was clearly having the same thought. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the ballast wasn’t made of bronze and sandstone – or those three things Jimmy mentioned but didn’t specify.’

  ‘Given that he went on the lam when your phone rang, you mean,’ Watts said.

  ‘Given that,’ she said.

  ‘How long before that warrant arrives?’ he said.

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘Could be hours.’

  ‘Of course, if there is believed to be a terrorist danger no warrant is needed.’

  Gilchrist gave him a slow look. ‘That still needs permission.’

  ‘Who from?’

  She smiled. ‘The police commissioner. Sir.’

  ‘Consider it given,’ he called back as he strode towards the boat.

  ‘But hang on,’ she said in a loud whisper as she headed after him. ‘You can’t be involved in anything operational.’

  ‘I’m not – I’m just there to ensure that the letter of the law is observed with regard to the Protection Against Terrorism Act.’ He turned and grinned. ‘You’re on your own, kiddo.’

  Heap follows as you walk round the back of the house.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he says quietly.

  You try the back door then break a pane of glass in it with your elbow. There is a curtain draped on the other side of the glass so the noise is not as bad as you feared. You put your hand through carefully and feel for a key in the lock. You’re in luck.

  DS Heap shuffles his feet as the door swings inward.

  ‘You coming in?’ you say back over your shoulder to him.

  You catch him shaking his head. ‘Can’t. I’m an officer of the law.’

  ‘I heard there was a burglary in progress. Shouldn’t you be investigating that?’

  Heap breaks the smallest smile. ‘I suppose I should.’

  He follows you in. ‘What you said—’

  You put your finger to your lips, cock an ear. The house is dark and silent. You are in the kitchen. There is a door ahead of you. A cellar door. It has four bolts on it.

  ‘Does that torch work just as a torch?’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ Heap says. He reaches into one of his capacious pockets. ‘This should do, though.’

  It’s a pencil torch but it will, indeed, do.

  You draw the bolts quietly. They are well oiled because, you can see, well used. You turn the key in the lock painfully slowly.

  ‘You wait here,’ you whisper as you pull the door open. ‘Watch my back.’

  Heap nods and you start slowly down the stairs.

  Gilchrist led the way up the gangplank. There was no sign of life on the deck although the fore-hold doors were open and the empty hook of a crane swayed over it in the wind.

  ‘Ahoy on deck,’ Watts muttered. ‘Coming on board.’

  ‘Ready or not,’ Gilchrist said more loudly.

  There was a tall, glossily varnished double door leading below, its brass handles gleaming. Watts stepped forward but Gilchrist held him back and reached for the handles.

  ‘You’re just observing, remember?’ she said.

  A short flight of polished steps led down into a cabin the size of a hotel suite. It was high ceilinged and should have been plush but Windsor had decorated austerely, as with his house. The room had dim wall-lights but a spotlight’s beam was directed from the ceiling down on a life-size, gleaming golden statue of a full-breasted woman. She was naked to the waist but a long lower garment covered her to her ankles. Her right hand was held out as if she was giving something; her left hand looked like it should be holding something. She shimmered in the light. She was beautiful.

  Another spotlight was directed to a glass case in which there was some kind of helmet. A third light illuminated a smaller case, the contents of which were obscured.

  Charles Windsor was standing in front of the statue, gazing at it. He turned when their steps clattered on the stairs and frowned. ‘I’m sure this is trespass,’ he said icily.

  ‘We have reason to believe terrorism is being aided by what is happening on this boat,’ Gilchrist said.

  Watts looked at her and raised an eyebrow. She almost shrugged – it was the best she could come up with.

  ‘Are you insane?’ Windsor said. He raised his voice. ‘Rogers, get in here.’

  Nothing happened.

  ‘What is that?’ Watts said, indicating the statue.

  ‘The goddess Tara in gilded bronze,’ Windsor said. He was clearly unable to keep his knowledge to himself as he continued: ‘It is solid cast, unlike the majority of bronze images that were cast on a clay core. It was gilded after it was cast.’

  Gilchrist stepped closer. The statue had a headdress with a surround like a flame encrusted with precious stones. She looked down into one of the glass cases. A gem-studded helmet was propped up inside. Windsor followed her look.

  ‘See those images on each side? That’s Tara again, in precious stone. In the centre is Amitayus, the Buddha of infinite life.’ He gestured to the statue. ‘This is her helmet.’

  He waved at the other glass case. ‘Fabergé eggs from Cambodia and Thailand. Frivolities, merely.’

  ‘And these are stolen goods, Mr Windsor?’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Haven’t we gone through all that once?’ he almost snarled. He raised his voice again. ‘Rogers, where the hell are you?’ Then he gestured at the helmet. ‘That beautiful object? It was in the local history section of the National Museum for decades. Those morons didn’t know what they had. I’m not talking about the Cambodians, I’m talking about the French. You know, a Frenchman designed the museum during the Great War. The French ran it until Cambodian independence in 1953 but they hadn’t a clue.

  ‘It was left to fall down during the Khmer Rouge period. Most of the people running it were killed. Bats colonised it. I’ve been trying to help since, as I told you, in collaboration with UNESCO, but ninety per cent of the c
ollection is in store in the basement. And every rainy season it floods. They have two thousand works on display and twelve thousand suffering water damage in the basement. They only got rid of the bats five years ago. So, please, spare me your “this stuff is better there than here” crap.’

  ‘I wasn’t making that point,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Do you know Sal Paradise?’ Watts intruded, also moving closer to Windsor.

  ‘I’m not good with names as I get older,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Cambodian fixer, smuggler, antiques dealer. Your Mr Rogers worked for him back in the day.’

  ‘Is that so? Rogers, where the hell are you?’

  ‘May still do so,’ Watts said. ‘As may you.’

  ‘Me work for somebody else?’ Windsor scowled and walked over to a wing-backed chair in the far corner of the cabin. He lowered himself into it. ‘Not for sixty years.’

  ‘Then maybe Paradise works for you,’ Watts said, joining Gilchrist in front of the statue.

  Windsor looked at his clasped hands, liver-spotted and gnarled. ‘You know, Cambodia has never come to terms with those Pol Pot years. How could it?’ He reached for a drink on the table beside the chair. ‘The Khmer Rouge left behind a devastated country. A quarter of the population killed. But there has been no closure. Successive governments have tried to ignore what happened. The Khmer Rouge period was only made part of the school curriculum in 2009.’

  ‘What about charging people with war crimes?’ Watts said, even as he knew this was a diversion.

  ‘The government was pressured by the west into setting up a war crimes tribunal back in 1996, to operate in partnership with the UN.’ Windsor scowled. ‘One hundred and fifty million dollars and nearly twenty years later it has prosecuted one case, with two more pending. A number of the European judges, representing the UN, have resigned in disgust at the way a couple of cases were handled that never came to trial. The cases involved a couple of men who switched sides in 1978 and now have positions of great power in the country.’

  Gilchrist was getting impatient. She also wondered where this man Rogers was.