The Evil that Men Do

by Jeanne M. Dams

  He looked a little surprised. ‘Yes, it is. They offered me the option of keeping it, and somehow I never got around to getting a new one.’

  ‘So if you sent emails to these people, sounding official as all get-out, and they got the impression you were still a senior police official . . .’

  ‘Impersonating a police officer is a serious offence, my dear.’

  ‘I know, but you wouldn’t be actually lying, just . . . allowing them to make an inference.’

  ‘You should have been a Jesuit, Dorothy,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Am I to call them, as well, allowing the same inference?’

  ‘No, I’ll do the phone calls.’

  ‘And what story will you spin for them?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. Did it never occur to you that I might simply use the truth, that we befriended him and want to see him?’

  ‘Never,’ he said with finality, and moved me aside so he could use the computer.

  I made more tea and sat sipping it while I thought about my next move. I would obviously have to make up a story that would get me through to someone trusted with making decisions, someone who could actually get me to Paul.

  I thought about masquerading as someone else, but I rejected that idea almost immediately. Changing identity these days is almost impossible. If I used my own mobile phone, they could easily trace it to me. If I used the landline at the cottage, they could not only find out who made the call, but where I was at the time. At least mobiles don’t suffer from that hazard, or at least I don’t think so. Good grief, though, considering that some of them are equipped with GPS systems, maybe . . . I shivered. Spying, as a profession, may soon die out, because anyone can do it these days. Privacy no longer exists.

  I looked around at our peaceful cottage, out in the lovely countryside, and thought about how absolutely anyone could find us here . . . and decided not to think about it. Paranoia is paralysing.

  Very well, I would have to be myself, Dorothy Martin. Anyone could of course find out quite a lot about Dorothy Martin: who I was married to, where I lived, probably my bank balance and which brand of underwear I prefer. That would take time, though, and somehow I couldn’t see anyone in Paul/Peter’s entourage being interested. So probably I could alter the facts just a little. I couldn’t disguise my American accent, so I would exaggerate it. I couldn’t hide my lack of knowledge of the current music scene, so I could pretend to even less understanding than I had.

  I would be . . . I would be an American grandmother, desperate to take something home . . . no, it was too easy for anyone to find out I lived in England. Something to give to a visiting teenage grandson, something he would really like. And I’d heard that Peter James was the newest music sensation (yes, I could lay that on really thick), and I wanted to give grandson Robert all his records . . . CDs . . . no, records, I’d use that term. It would reinforce my image as a sweet old lady who didn’t know anything about anything.

  In which image there was, as my mother used to say, more truth than poetry.

  Oh, well, it was a start. I’d play it by ear. I have a fertile imagination; surely I could supply any necessary embroidery as I went along.

  I took my mobile into the bedroom and shut the door. I couldn’t do this in front of Alan.

  It took five calls, to five different numbers, before I was able to talk to an actual human being. My loathing of phone trees grows at every encounter with them. I know no one who doesn’t hate them. Why, then, do they continue to spread?

  I went into my act. For some reason, when I try to produce an extremely American accent, it ends up sounding as if I grew up in Alabama, y’all. Oh, well. I know many people in America to whom all English accents sound alike, and they include Australian and South African in that group. Maybe all Americans sound alike to most Brits. I hoped so.

  ‘Is this Mr Peter James? Oh, his publicist! Oh, honey, I’m just so excited. I never thought I’d get to talk to someone as important as you. What? Oh, sorry, my name’s Dorothy Martin, that’s Mrs Frank Martin, and my grandson Robert’s comin’ to see me in two days, all the way from Mobile, and he’s just your biggest fan, oh, I mean Peter’s biggest fan . . . oh, you’ll have to excuse me, just babblin’ away . . . what? No, I live in England now, but he’s never been here before, and his birthday’s comin’ up, he’ll be sixteen . . . this trip is his birthday present from his folks, they can’t come, him bein’ the mayor of Mobile an’ all . . . no, Robert’s daddy’s the mayor . . . I’m not makin’ a lot o’ sense, am I, honey? Anyway, I wanted to give him somethin’ really special, and the very best thing I could think of is a whole set of Peter James’s records . . . what? Oh, sorry, what? CDs? Oh, how silly of me! I guess they haven’t called them records for a long time, have they, I’m gettin’ old and out o’ date.’ I giggled sickeningly. ‘So I thought, if I could buy him the set, and get Peter to sign his autograph on ’em, it’d be so special, you know? So I went out and got ’em yesterday, I hope I got ’em all, they were all they had at the store, anyway, and I’m just prayin’ I can come tomorrow and get Peter to sign . . . oh, dear me, that would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it? I never thought of you goin’ to all that trouble of mailin’ ’em to me. But, y’see, I’ve got ’em now, and I couldn’t send a package to you and get it back in time for his birthday, and . . . oh, dear! I was so hopin’ . . .’ I allowed my voice to crack a trifle, and sniffled. ‘Oh, I do hate to tell his daddy . . .’

  I allowed that to trail off artistically, and sniffed a little more. My fingers were crossed so hard my hands were beginning to cramp.

  I had allowed the poor fellow at the other end very few opportunities to get a word in edgewise, but now I let the silence lengthen. His voice finally came across the line. ‘Madam, are you still there?’

  I had an insane impulse to quote the wonderful line from The Producers: ‘I ain’t the madam, I’m the con-see-urge.’ I restrained myself. ‘Yes, I’m here.’ Sniff.

  ‘Are you anywhere near Birmingham?’

  ‘Why, yes, honey, I’m in . . . I’m not far away at all.’ I remembered in time that locations could possibly be checked. And ‘not far’ means something quite different to an American, accustomed to vast distances.

  ‘I can’t promise, you understand, but if you could be at my office tomorrow morning at ten, I think we could accommodate you.’

  I didn’t have to fake my excitement. ‘Oh, honey, that’s just so wonderful, my grandson will be over the moon, this is just so nice of you, oh, I’m so excited!’

  He gave me an address, said again, somewhat wearily, that he couldn’t make a firm promise, and rang off.

  I dropped the phone on the bed, turned for a tissue to wipe my brow, and saw Alan standing in the door.

  He clapped. ‘Outstanding performance, love! I take it back, Mrs Bernhardt. You shouldn’t have been a Jesuit. You should have been on the stage.’

  I fell back on to the pillows. ‘Not if one five-minute performance wipes me out. Do we still have any bourbon?’

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘I told him we could be in Birmingham by ten tomorrow morning,’ I said over a glass of wine, as we did not in fact have any bourbon. ‘Can we?’

  ‘Do you have the slightest idea where Birmingham is?’ Alan replied, smiling.

  ‘No, only that it’s north of here.’

  ‘Up the M5. Right now we could probably do it in an hour. At that time of day, what with rush hour traffic, we’d best allow three. Here, let me have the address.’

  He went to the computer and found the best route. The all-knowing oracle inside the box routed him by lesser roads than the motorway, and predicted a travel time of just under an hour. I took one look at the directions, with what looked like at least fifty roundabouts to navigate, and offered profound thanks that I wasn’t going to be the one driving.

  ‘Right,’ said Alan. ‘We’ll leave at seven, then. If we’re very lucky indeed with the traffic, and don’t get lost or encounter roadworks, we may have time for bre
akfast when we arrive. And exactly how are you going to handle this interview, my dear?’

  ‘Oh.’ I hadn’t thought about that. I was still euphoric about my getting this far. ‘Well. I guess I’ll have to go out and buy the wretched CDs first. Or will I have time to do that?’

  ‘O, what a tangled web we weave . . . I suppose you might, if we have all the luck I mentioned, and if we can find a shop open at that hour. WHSmith might have them.’

  ‘I hope so! I’d better make a list of them, so I’ll know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘And once you have them?’ Alan wasn’t letting me forget about this till morning, as I would much have preferred. I was getting extremely cold feet about the whole thing.

  ‘We march up to Mr What’s-his-name’s office and I tell him my name and ask to see Paul. Peter, I mean! And then after that . . . um. He’ll recognize us, of course, and we can tell him . . .’

  ‘Exactly. Tell him what?’

  ‘Oh, dear! Alan, what have I got us into?’

  For the difficulties of tomorrow’s proceedings were just coming home to me.

  We’d found Paul/Peter. We, or rather I, had an appointment to see him. But would there be any privacy at all? Or would he be surrounded by his retinue, and fans, and paparazzi, and goodness knows who-all?

  Would he in fact want to talk to us? He knew us only in connection with an unpleasant incident just after he had witnessed a murder, if we were right in that conjecture. He might well not even remember who we were. His mind had certainly been on something else, something that had put him almost into a state of shock. What could I, or we, say to him to persuade him to talk to us, and in private?

  ‘We’ll just have to tell him the truth,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to blurt it out in front of everybody who might be there, but I think we have to tell him Jo Carter is missing, and we need help in finding her.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ said Alan, taking pity on me. I was floundering, and he knew it. ‘You launch into your ditzy grandmother routine, and while he’s trying to remember where he’s seen you before, I’ll slip him a note, explaining why we need to talk with him at some length.’

  ‘Alan, that’s brilliant,’ I said with relief. ‘He’ll know how to manage his people. So now all we need to think about is exactly what information we need from him, and we can talk about that on the way tomorrow. Now, let’s have something to eat. Fretting always makes me hungry.’

  We set out early the next morning, with only coffee to bring us to some semblance of consciousness. I brought along a thermos of it, and after a few miles felt awake enough to consider our approach to Paul.

  ‘All right,’ I asked Alan. ‘What are you going to say in that note?’

  ‘I’ll keep it simple and brief, so he can read it instantly. Something like “Jo Carter is missing. Urgent we talk.” If any of what we have inferred is even remotely near the truth, that ought to catch his attention.’

  ‘And I’ll do a reprise of that disgusting act I put on yesterday. Loudly. I want to create enough distraction that no one will notice the note-passing.’

  We were tied up in traffic for a while in Birmingham. I stewed while Alan waited patiently behind lorries, avoided bicycles and buses, inched along trying to enter clogged roundabouts. The internal combustion engine is going to be the death of mankind one day, if not by inhalation of its toxic effluent, by apoplexy at its ability to create incredible congestion and inspire road rage.

  After what seemed to my overstretched nerves to be a week or so, we found the building we were looking for and, miraculously, a car park not too far away. Our first mission was to find some Peter James recordings, which proved to be easier than I had feared. A small music store featured his picture in the front window, and after parting with an exorbitant amount of money, I was the proud owner of a good deal of music I would hate. That transaction completed, we had nearly an hour to spare, so we went into the nearest café, which happened to be a Starbucks, and got some breakfast.

  ‘I don’t really like the idea of American chains taking over England,’ I said as I downed my latte and coffee cake, ‘but I have to admit this tastes good.’

  Alan smiled and sipped his espresso. He knew I was talking about trivialities to avoid thinking about what lay ahead.

  It still lacked fifteen minutes to the hour when I could sit no more. ‘Alan, let’s go. I know we’ll be early, but I can’t stand it one more minute. Do you have your note?’

  He patted his breast pocket. ‘Ready for your impersonation of a brash American?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  The building was newish, with very little grace or style, but efficient elevators. We were whisked to the seventh floor faster than I would have wished, and found the room number on a plain wooden door with no name.

  ‘After you.’ Alan gave me a slight bow and a look that told me clearly he knew exactly what I was feeling.

  The office was pleasant, but by no means luxurious. The reception desk, in curved blond oak, might have been an attempt at retro style, but I didn’t think it was. Somehow the effect was more garage sale. Not shabby, but definitely not showy.

  The desk was also unattended. In fact, there were no humans anywhere in sight, although voices could be heard in the background. They were loud and argumentative, and they were getting closer.

  A door opened, and a small riot erupted into the outer office. Only three men were talking, or yelling, but they were plainly upset.

  ‘How many times?! I tell you, I don’t know where the bloody hell he’s gone! Just left a note, didn’t say where, didn’t say when he’d be—’

  ‘Didn’t say anything about a contract, either, did he? What am I supposed to do with all these damn kids? They can’t do a session without—’

  ‘Find him, damn it! He’s got to be—’

  Alan cleared his throat. Loudly.

  One of the men spun around. ‘And who the bloody hell are you? We don’t run auditions here. Down the hall, 7316. And good luck, darlings.’

  Alan ignored the contempt in his voice. ‘This is my wife, Dorothy Martin. She has an appointment with Peter James.’

  The silence was so sudden I thought for a moment I’d gone deaf. Then the man who had spoken to us, the fat, bald one, turned to me with a look of menace. ‘Oh, you have an appointment with Peter, do you? I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me where he is?’

  I gulped. My prepared speech deserted me. ‘Um . . . I phoned yesterday about him signing some CDs for me. Ten o’clock, you said. Or somebody said.’

  ‘That was me,’ said the spotty young man in the purple shirt and the outrageous tie. ‘I remember you. You sound different.’

  ‘Never mind how the hell she sounded,’ said Baldy. ‘I don’t know who you are, madam, and I don’t bloody well care. I’ve got a recording session due to start in an hour, and my star’s gone missing!’

  EIGHTEEN

  I turned to Alan. He had adopted a very official look, and pulled out of his pocket, not the note he had planned to give Paul, but his identification.

  ‘Gentlemen, my name is Alan Nesbitt. I have retired from Her Majesty’s constabulary, but I still have some police powers. I think we had better sit down and talk about this situation.’

  ‘The police!’ said Baldy. His face was dangerously red. In fact his whole head looked like a ripe tomato. He spoke with a heavy American accent, and I thought he ought to have a cigar in one corner of his mouth. ‘I told you not to call the police! The publicity—’

  He was apparently addressing the spotty youth, who shouted, ‘I didn’t call anybody. When have I had time to call anybody? I only—’

  ‘Please!’ said Alan. He has a knack of sounding authoritative without raising his voice, reminding me of myself, back all those years ago when I taught nine-year-olds. ‘The lad is telling the truth. No one called me. I came here simply to accompany my wife. However, since I am here, and since I may know a good deal more about y
our missing singer than you do, we will get along better if we sit down and speak calmly. Are you expecting any other callers this morning?’

  Baldy raised his hands and looked at the ceiling as if imploring the Almighty. ‘Expecting any other callers, he says. Only the rest of the band, and the photographers, and the media, and God only knows who else. Why did I ever get in this business, why? Is it worth the agony, I ask you?’

  I’d had enough. ‘You got into it, sir,’ I said, summoning my own sit-down-and-shut-up voice, ‘because you thought you would make a great deal of money. I have no idea whether it’s worth it or not. What I do know is that a friend of mine is missing, and if your concern is merely the effect this will have on your ulcers and your bank balance, mine is for the well-being of one young man named Paul Jones or Peter James or whatever you want to call him. Now sit down and tell my husband what he wants to know.’

  Somewhat to my surprise, they all sat. Somebody’s mobile phone began to bleat out La donna è mobile. I looked up in surprise, and Baldy said, ‘Yeah, well, OK, I like other stuff, too. Culture freak, that’s me.’ He pulled the phone out of his pocket, looked at the display and put it away.

  ‘I won’t ask you to turn off your phones,’ said Alan, taking charge without any difficulty at all, ‘because an incoming call might be important to our inquiry. I will, however, ask you to set them to vibrate, so as to disturb us less, and we’ll lock the office door, if you don’t mind. I hope this won’t take long. I do realize you’re all busy.’

  ‘Not without Peter,’ growled the third young man, a nondescript fellow with thick glasses.

  ‘I have introduced myself, Alan Nesbitt, retired Chief Constable of Belleshire, and my wife, Dorothy Martin. Perhaps—’

  ‘Bit off your beat, aren’t you?’ That was Baldy.

  Alan just smiled. ‘I am, certainly. And I have very little authority even back on my home turf, now that I am retired. But a policeman is a bit like a clergyman, in that once we take office, we are, so to speak, in it for life. I assure you that, although I have no command in this or any other part of the country, I have the full cooperation of the local authorities. Right?’