Rules of Engagement

by Hurley, Graham

  Goodman stirred again, turning over in the bed, reaching out for her. His eyes opened. He saw the sheets pulled back. He felt the hollow in the mattress, still warm from her body. He rolled over, seeing her standing by the window.

  ‘Darling …’ he murmured, ‘you’re up.’

  She said nothing for a long moment. Then she opened the small top window.

  ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ she said.

  Goodman looked at her for a long time.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, finally.

  ‘And you never told me.’

  ‘No …’ He paused, his voice still low. ‘How did you find out?’

  She turned back into the room and shivered, putting her arms around herself.

  ‘A man called Gillespie,’ she said. ‘He thought I ought to know.’

  Gillespie was back at the hospital at nine. He’d been on the phone to the pathologist since seven. She lived out in the country. He’d got her number from his detective friend, destroying what little there was left of the friendship. The pathologist had been sceptical at first, reluctant to commit herself, but he’d laid it all out for her, the last detail, and she’d finally agreed to give him a statement. She’d only talk about what she knew, the marks on the body, her own findings, typed up in the longer report she’d shown him in the office. The rest of it, the Scenes of Crime draft, the edited version of the report that Gillespie had shown her, were off limits. She’d talk about the facts. Nothing else.

  They met in the car park. She got into Gillespie’s car, and they drove through the rush hour traffic to Jenner’s office. Jenner was already waiting, deep in the book of instructions that went with the new dictaphone. The woman sat down at the desk, and Jenner pushed the record button, and Gillespie supplied the few prompts she needed. She’d brought with her a copy of her own post-mortem report, and she quoted from it verbatim, dictation speed, spelling one or two of the longer words. At the end, she refused Gillespie’s invitation to enlarge on the implication of the injuries, what they might indicate about cause and effect, and politely declined Jenner’s offer of coffee.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but I have to get on.’

  Gillespie drove her back to the hospital. Before she got out of the car, she opened her bag and produced a small white envelope. She gave it to him. He opened it. There were two photographs inside. They were both shots of Suzanne, close-ups, head and shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and a line of heavy stitches ran from the base of her neck to the foot of the print. The injuries on the right-hand side of her face, and the curious dark marks around her throat, were clearly visible. Gillespie studied the prints carefully. Cheap camera, he thought. Too much flash.

  ‘Who took these?’ he said.

  The woman reached for the door handle.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘After the post-mortem.’

  Gillespie looked at them again.

  ‘You must have been worried,’ he said.

  ‘I was.’ She opened the door. ‘And I still am. They should have called the Home Office in. Forensic post-mortem. Done it properly. The way I suggested.’

  ‘But they didn’t?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why you got your statement.’

  Goodman sat alone in his office. Fiona, as usual, had typed out a neat list of the day’s engagements: meetings in the morning, a lunch date with the city’s Publicity Chief, housing accounts review all afternoon, the Rotary Award in the evening. On each occasion, once again, he would be playing the Acting Chief Executive, Eric’s able young stand-in, the man hotly tipped for the very top.

  Already, he suspected that the word was out around the office. Eric had finally gone. The job would be advertised, of course. There’d be interviews, a short list, a brief but decent interval for consultation. But the final outcome, the name at the top of the list on the big board by the lifts on the ground floor, was never in doubt. His name might be mud in Whitehall. Quinn might rubbish him behind his back. But here, in the Civic Centre, he was king. The succession was secure. The job would be his.

  He reached for his coffee, smiling at the thought, trying again to rid his mind of that one single image that had haunted him since he’d woken up: his wife standing in the darkened room, reaching up for the top window. Gillespie, she’d said. A man called Gillespie.

  He reached for his pad, and a pen. He wrote the name down, studied it for a moment, wondering exactly what she’d meant. This morning over breakfast, his wife hadn’t said a word. He’d thought about a direct question, asking her straight out, but the kids were there, and in any case, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. Like toothache, it might just go away. Like rain, this gnawing sense of imminent disaster might simply stop.

  The phone began to trill on his desk. He picked it up. It was Bullock.

  ‘Morning,’ he said briskly.

  The other man grunted, coming at once to the point. He’d seen the film that Annie was making. He was pleased with the results. It was perceptive, and sympathetic, and profoundly moving. His only reservation was Goodman’s contribution. In all candour, he didn’t think he’d done himself justice. Perhaps he and Annie should try again, one last interview. There was a pause. Goodman looked out of the window. The rain was back again.

  ‘When?’ he said at last.

  ‘Tonight. After the Rotary thing.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where do you suggest?’

  Goodman looked round the office.

  ‘Here?’ he said. ‘Civic Centre?’

  ‘Done.’

  There was a pause. Goodman could hear the peck of typewriters in the background, and a woman’s voice yelling for some phone number. Then Bullock was back again. Annie would be in touch. He was, as ever, deeply grateful. The phone went dead. Goodman gazed down at his desk, still holding the receiver. Then he returned it to the base set and reached for his pad. That name again. Gillespie. He frowned, sure that the name was familiar. Davidson had mentioned it once. Something about a ‘K’ reference. A three-figure number. Two something. He tried to bring the number back, digging deep into his memory, then he shook his head, annoyed with himself. The name was a distraction. He had other things to think about. He looked down again at the pad, ripped off the top sheet of paper, screwed it into a tight ball, and dropped it neatly into the bin.

  By mid-morning, Gillespie was back outside Evans’ house. He parked opposite, very obvious, and sat in the car for a minute or two. The house was brand new, one of hundreds on a big private estate on the site of the city’s old airport. There were thick net curtains in the upstairs windows and a hanging basket outside the front door. A child’s tricycle lay upturned on the tiny drive.

  Gillespie got out of the car and walked across to the house. He rang the door bell twice and waited. The rain had stopped, but the concrete was wet underfoot. The door opened. A woman stood there. She was blonde, small, pretty. She was wearing a T-shirt. The T-shirt said ‘Marines Do It By Numbers’. Gillespie looked at it, wondering whether it was a joke.

  ‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

  Gillespie knew at once that she’d recognized him. The voice told him so. Flat and nasal, and very hostile. She must have seen him the previous evening. She must have been looking.

  ‘Name’s Gillespie,’ he said. ‘I’m after your husband.’

  ‘He’s gone to work.’

  ‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘When’s he back?’

  There was a silence. The woman looked at him. Within a minute or so, she’d be back onto the barracks. That bloke again, she’d be saying. That weirdo. For God’s sake. As if we haven’t got enough on our plates. She folded her arms.

  ‘I dunno,’ she said, ‘but I wouldn’t chance your arm, if I were you. I think he’s had enough.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘So do us a favour, eh?’ She began to shut the door. ‘Just leave us alone.’

  Gillespie put his foot in the door. Inside, he could
hear a baby crying. There was a new expression on the woman’s face. It was fear.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said, ‘whoever you are.’

  Gillespie nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘But tell him I called, will you?’

  He looked at her one final time, making sure that she understood, then turned and walked away. Back in his car, reaching for the ignition key, he could see her in the front room, the phone already to her ear, a small baby tucked into the other arm. Evans, he thought, a trickier proposition than he’d expected.

  Goodman walked quickly along the corridor, glancing over his shoulder. At the end of the corridor, he stopped outside an office door. The sign on the door, black letters on a yellow background, said simply Liaison.

  He knocked softly. Hearing no reply, he turned the handle, very slowly, taking his time. The door began to open. He glanced over his shoulder again, and stepped inside.

  The office was bare. There was a plain desk and a chair. There was a filing cabinet against the opposite wall. There was a row of telephone directories on a bookshelf, and a large map of the south of England. On the table was a monitor screen and a computer keyboard.

  Goodman sat down in front of the keyboard, and slid out a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. He unfolded the paper and laid it carefully on the desk. He eyed the keyboard and located the power switch. There was a flicker of static on the screen, and then a steady green glow.

  Glancing at the sheet of paper, he began to type instructions onto the keyboard, one serial after another, pausing to check as he went. Once, hearing footsteps in the corridor outside, he paused, hands immobile over the keyboard, the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. The footsteps receded, then disappeared. Silence again. He bent to the keyboard.

  The instructions complete, he leaned back in the chair and waited. There was a delay of perhaps fifteen seconds as the computer interfaced with the big mainframe in the basement at Queens Gate. Then lines of type began to strip across the screen. He read them as they appeared, avidly, relieved the ‘K’ reference had been correct, thankful his memory hadn’t, after all, let him down.

  The copy came to an end, a whole paragraph, twelve or so lines. He read it again, carefully, committing the details to memory. The Christian names, the date of the man’s birth, the date of his marriage, the name of his son. He read about the Falklands, the incidents on Mount Harriet, the MoD decision to countermand the medal. His eye raced on, the months in barracks at Plymouth, the Arctic exercises in Norway, the last full tour in Northern Ireland. He paused, the man’s career hitting the buffers in a small, remote country lane in County Armagh, a body lying dead at the roadside, furious activity at Lisburn, damage limitation, quiet precautionary briefings, and a collective sigh of relief when the man took the point and packed his bags and headed back to civilian life.

  Goodman blinked, scanning the details one final time, making quite sure there were no ambiguities. K reference 211. Sergeant David Gillespie. Commended on the Sniper Course. Applauded for his Falklands War. Schooled in the disciplined application of extreme violence. He switched off the screen and returned the sheet of paper to his pocket. The footsteps were there again, closer, but when he opened the door and checked the corridor outside, it was quite empty.

  Goodman returned to the fifth floor, hurried along the corridor, and in through the big outer office where Fiona had her desk.

  ‘Get me Harry Cartwright,’ he said, ‘right away.’ He paused. ‘Then the Marine Barracks. A Sergeant Evans.’

  Gillespie finally chose the flag irises, a huge bunch, more flowers than he’d ever bought in his life. He returned to the car and laid them carefully beside the bottle of Moët. He drove out of the multi-storey, away from the city centre, back into the maze of side streets, whistling his tuneless whistle. He parked across the street, collected the flowers and champagne, and rang the front door bell.

  For a minute or so, waiting, he wondered if he’d chosen the wrong morning. Then there were footsteps in the hall, and the scrape of bolts, and the door opened, and Sandra was standing there, blinking in the first sunshine of the day. She was wearing a long T-shirt and not much else. She looked as if Gillespie had interrupted something important. He beamed at her, holding out the flowers and the champagne. He felt about three years old.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, ‘little present.’

  Sandra looked at him, looked at the flowers, at the champagne, not quite able to believe it. She ran a hand through her hair. She smelled of bed.

  ‘What’s all that for?’ she said, dazed.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘in particular.’ He looked her up and down, then looked beyond her, along the hall. A man’s jacket hung on the banisters at the foot of the stairs. ‘I thought medics worked day and night,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Never got time off. What’s the matter with the man?’

  He pushed the presents into her arms, and reached forward, and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘Sorry to intrude,’ he said, ‘nothing personal.’

  He grinned at her again, and turned away, and walked down the path towards the car. Even after he’d crossed the road, and got in, and shut the door after him, Sandra could still hear the old tuneless whistle. Colonel Bogey, she thought, looking at the flowers. Nothing ever changes.

  Goodman met Harry Cartwright in a car park behind the Civic Centre. The little accountant was sitting behind the wheel of the big Mercedes, listening to an edition of Gardeners’ Question Time on the car radio. Goodman spotted him at once, picking his way between the rows of parked cars.

  Cartwright lowered his window and nodded a greeting. He wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Morning.’

  Goodman glanced down. There was a small brown parcel on the passenger seat, cocooned in sellotape. Cartwright picked it up and handed it out through the window.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Goodman.

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Cartwright drily. ‘Seven days, please.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The little man reached for the ignition. The engine started. The car pulled away. He hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. Goodman looked down at the parcel, weighing it in his hand. It was heavier than he’d expected. He smiled, and turned on his heel, and walked away.

  The calls to Evans finally found the Marine in a small, airless room in the barracks armoury. He looked up when the duty clerk called his name. He was holding out a telephone.

  Evans took the phone. He’d already had a brief conversation with his wife, telling her to lock the door and ignore all callers. If he saw the bloke in the Marina again, he told her, he’d sort him out. Now, he bent to the telephone. A girl’s voice, refined, hoitytoity.

  ‘Mr Goodman’s secretary here,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness we’ve found you.’

  Evans frowned. He’d never liked Goodman, not then, not now, and he resented people who tracked him down. He asked her what she wanted. The secretary said that Mr Goodman was out of the office, but had asked her to check whether Mr Evans was free for lunch. She named a pub on the harbourside. The invitation had a peremptory ring to it. He was clearly expected to accept. Evans glanced at his watch, wondering what on earth the man wanted.

  ‘When?’ he said.

  ‘One o’clock.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there.’

  Evans arrived at the rendezvous five minutes early. The pub had a small discreet restaurant with a fine view of the harbour mouth and a reputation for good seafood. Evans, still in uniform, sat at a table in the corner, reading a copy of the Daily Mirror, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He’d already made a private decision to consign whatever he knew about Goodman to the waste bin. He was glad of the promotion, and far too cynical not to suspect a tacit link with the events of a month back, but beyond that he wasn’t prepared to speculate. A year in Belize was enough penance for anyone. He didn’t see the point in inviting further attention.

 
Goodman arrived minutes later. He looked leaner than Evans remembered, fitter, suntanned. He was carrying a small brown parcel. He smiled a greeting and put a hand on Evans’ shoulder as the Marine began to get up.

  ‘Stay there,’ he said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  Goodman sat down, and they talked for a minute or two about nothing in particular, an awkward conversation, their lives divided rather than bonded by the three days and nights they’d spent together. Evans began to regret accepting the invitation, eyeing the parcel, wondering exactly what Goodman had in mind.

  Finally, once the waitress had fetched drinks from the bar and taken the order, Goodman raised his glass.

  ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I understand you made Sergeant.’

  Evans hesitated a moment, catching the tiny nuance in his voice, a suggestion that Goodman, somehow, might have had a hand in the promotion, a confirmation of his own hunch.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said guardedly. ‘Bit of a surprise, actually.’

  Goodman smiled.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  Evans raised his glass.

  ‘Cheers.’

  They drank in silence. A ferry churned past the window, one of the big, slab-sided boats that went to France. Goodman picked up the parcel, and offered it to Evans.

  ‘A little present,’ Goodman said lightly. ‘A personal thank you.’

  Evans looked at it.

  ‘A present?’ he said blankly.

  ‘Yes.’ Goodman paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘The Council, in their wisdom, have voted to give me … ah … a little gift. A token of their esteem, services rendered to the city during the recent … ah… troubles …’ He hesitated again. ‘Under the circumstances, I thought it only fair to … ah … share it …’ He smiled. ‘Comrades in arms …’

  Evans was still looking at the parcel.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Money, Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh?’ He glanced up at Goodman. ‘How much money?’