‘Six thousand …’ He paused. ‘That’s three thousand for me …’ he nodded at the parcel, ‘and three thousand for you …’
Evans sat back and looked out of the window. The ferry had gone. The harbour mouth was quite empty.
‘And where does this money come from?’ he said quietly.
Goodman leaned forward over the table, shaking the creases out of his napkin, very casual, full of bonhomie.
‘The city, Sergeant …’ He pushed the parcel towards Evans. ‘Here. Take it. It’s yours. And very well earned, if I may say so.’
Evans got up, and retrieved his paper from the window-sill. His beer was barely touched. He looked down at Goodman, at the parcel, the disgust and the contempt self-evident.
‘No thanks,’ he said.
He turned and walked away, bodychecking around the waitress juggling with a laden tray. Goodman watched him go, knowing that he’d made a terrible mistake, hearing the footsteps again, closer still.
Annie was back in the city by five-thirty, driving against the traffic flow. She let herself into the house. Gillespie was in the kitchen, reading a copy of the evening paper. He looked up as she walked in.
‘Short day again?’ he said. ‘I’m surrounded by women who do sod all.’
Annie ignored the dig, wondering who the other women might be, putting the kettle on, emptying the teapot. When she turned round, Gillespie was reaching for his jacket.
‘Something I said?’ she asked him.
Gillespie shook his head.
‘How’s that film of yours?’
Annie pulled a face, and told him what had happened, the compromises she’d had to make, the questions she hadn’t asked, the sheer ordinariness of it all. Goodman, she said, had been as unctuous as ever, an hour or so of pure flannel, answers so empty of meaning that even Bullock had noticed.
‘So what do you do about that?’ Gillespie asked, breaking off the crusty bits from a loaf he’d just bought.
‘We try again.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. After another wonderful sequence.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He looked up. ‘What’s that then?’
She told him about the Rotary Club, and the award they were making to Goodman. Dedication in the service of the city. With love and kisses and grateful thanks. Gillespie nodded.
‘It’s in the paper,’ he said. ‘Page three.’
‘I bet.’
Gillespie smiled. ‘This interview of yours,’ he said, ‘afterwards.’
‘Yes?’
‘Where would you do that?’
Annie looked at him, puzzled.
‘His office,’ she said, ‘why?’
Gillespie shrugged and made for the door.
‘Just wondered,’ he said.
He opened the door, and stepped back to let the cat in.
‘I’m round the corner,’ he said, ‘Digger’s Arms. If anyone calls.’
Joanna Goodman sat at her dressing table in the bedroom, putting on the last of her make-up. Marge was already downstairs, giving the children their tea. Across the landing she could hear Martin in the bathroom, listening to The Archers, splashing around with the sponge. He said they should be there by seven-thirty. It was already quarter-past.
She checked her make-up in the small hand-mirror, and reached across to open the wardrobe doors. There was a rackful of dresses inside, and she sifted through looking for something suitable, not too formal, not too casual, something to complement the occasion, something that would permit her to play the loyal consort for just one more night. Tomorrow, she’d decided, she would leave him. By tomorrow, it would all be over. Until then, though, she owed him a certain mute support.
She got up and pulled out a dress she’d had for years. It was black, nicely cut, with padded shoulders, and jet buttons she’d bought specially. She put it on and studied the effect in the full-length mirror. It made her look quietly attractive, cool, a woman in her own right, sure of herself. More important, it made her feel somehow safe, imposing a mood of its own, buffering her from the world outside.
She heard the bathroom door open. Footsteps crossed the landing. Martin appeared at the bedroom door. He was wearing a dressing gown. He looked preoccupied. He paused by the door, catching sight of her by the window. He smiled.
‘You look terrific,’ he said, ‘truly.’
She looked at him, realizing again what a child he was, how unaffected he could be. If only she could be sure of this Martin of hers. If only she could trust him to overcome all the silliness, and the greed, and the ambition, and the insecurity. If only he’d accept life in small portions, not reach out all the time for second helpings. She returned his smile, rueful, knowing that it would never be.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said, ‘I chose it for you.’
He slipped off the dressing gown, and opened his own wardrobe.
‘It’s black,’ he pointed out.
‘I know,’ she said.
Gillespie sat in the public bar in the Digger’s Arms. He’d borrowed the house copy of the local paper, picking up where he’d left off. He ran a finger down the classified ads, looking for likely boats, something to replace his beloved Harriet, once the insurance money came in. There was a seventeen-foot Dory for sale. It had a cabin and a new outboard. He shook his head. Small, he thought, limited range. Poor sea boat. He needed something bigger, something he could trust.
Gillespie glanced at his watch. It was already gone seven. Evans should have arrived by now. He’d have been home, talked to his wife, heard more about the incident on the doorstep, come looking. He’d be angry. He wouldn’t bother about the formalities. It would be strictly private, limited dialogue, Corps style. He carefully folded the paper, wondering whether he was still up to it. He’d watched Evans in the gym, seen him in action, acknowledged his strength and his courage. The boy had a real appetite for it. He could tell.
He called the barman, and ordered another bottle of Guinness. Afterwards, assuming they were both conscious, it might be different. Evans might ease up a little, the worst of it off his chest, might be prepared to look at the whole thing afresh. Back home, Annie gone, they might even sit down and talk, establish ground rules, see what might be possible. The sudden posting to Belize was obviously no coincidence. They wanted him gone, out of it, off the plot, and Evans would know it. Maybe he preferred it that way. Promotion in return for a discreet silence. Maybe not.
The barman finished pouring the Guinness, and Gillespie rummaged for the money for the drink. As he did so, he felt a pressure on his arm. He paused on the bar stool, easing it back, giving himself room. Evans stood there, civvies, light-weight shirt, well-cut slacks. He nodded, gruff, brisk.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘My shout.’
Albie Curtis carried the last of the big tins of white emulsion into Cartwright’s office, and put it on the carpet beside the other six. The cleaner in the corridor looked at him curiously.
‘He never mentioned any decorating,’ she said. ‘Not to me.’
Albie shrugged.
‘Not my problem, love,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about locking up.’
The woman hesitated a moment longer, not quite sure what to do, then unplugged the vacuum cleaner and went downstairs. Albie heard her moving around the big working area, straightening chairs, turning off lights, tidying up. Then came the click of the front door. He crossed to the window, watching her buttoning her coat, and putting up her umbrella against the thin rain drifting in again from the west.
Albie waited for her to walk away, then turned to the tins of paint. Using a silver letter opener from Cartwright’s desk, he prised the tops off all the tins, one after another. He let the tin lids topple onto the carpet, paint side down, neat white circles on the tasteful sea-green Wilton.
He picked up the first of the tins of paint, heavy, and then clambered onto Cartwright’s antique desk. Then he poured the tin vertically down, watching it splash over the polished walnut veneer and over the big leat
her chair, dripping down, onto the carpet below. He emptied the first tin and got off the desk. He opened Cartwright’s drawers, white footprints on the carpet, and stooped for the second tin. He filled both drawers, watching the pens and the diaries and the small collection of calculators disappear under a sea of white emulsion.
He circled the desk, the tin up-ended, a line of heavy drips. He pulled out the drawers in the filing cabinets, working from the top downwards, half a tin in each, the stuff cascading down through the files, puddling in the drawers. He threw an entire tinful at one wall, swamping the expensive wooden panelling. He threw another at the window, masking the remains of the daylight.
Finally, he threw what was left of the last tin at a picture on the other wall, a framed photo of Goodman and Cartwright at some official function or other, Goodman smiling at the camera, Cartwright presenting him with a cheque. The tin caught the print high on one side, shattering the glass. It hung drunkenly down, still secured to the wall, dripping white emulsion.
Albie looked at it, his head cocked to one side. A shard of glass had penetrated the photograph, severing Cartwright’s head from his body. Albie smiled. He rather like the effect. He wiped his hands on his jeans, and made for the door. By the door, he paused, retrieving Cartwright’s silver letter opener from the carpet. It was bent nearly double from opening the tins. He wiped off most of the paint on the curtain, and laid it carefully on Cartwright’s blotter. Dead centre.
Then he left.
Goodman’s address to the Rotary Club was short and graceful. He thanked the assembled members for giving him the award, and said that he accepted it on behalf of his entire team. He said that it was neither the time nor the place for political speeches, but he was glad that the deterrent had worked, and that the world had finally woken up to the folly of tempting providence. Never again, he hoped, would there ever be a call for a bunker and a curfew. What was needed now was a permanent reminder of the days they’d all lived through, of just how close a flirtation they’d all had with oblivion. The award they’d given him, and the feelings it represented, might be just such a reminder. He was glad to accept it, and gladder still to have survived.
He sat down. There was a wave of applause, the women clapping, the men banging the supper tables in approval. From her camera position at the back of the hall, Annie had to admit that it was a good piece, beautifully judged, and would make a fitting coda to her film. Bullock, God bless him, had been right. She watched Goodman up at the top table, accepting a congratulatory kiss from his wife. Perhaps the interview would go well, too. Perhaps, after all, there was still hope.
The cameraman was panning slowly across the packed tables, easing the faces into focus, capturing the pride, the satisfaction, their Controller, their city, their salvation, giving Annie a handsome shot to complete the sequence. When he’d finished, he nodded at the door.
‘We should set up in his office,’ she said, ‘he’ll be out of here soon.’
Gillespie and Evans sat in Gillespie’s car, thirty yards up the road, watching Annie and the cameraman emerging from the hall. They’d been talking for more than an hour. Evans had told him everything he knew. He’d told him about the days and nights with Goodman, the calls to the car phone, the half-hours outside the wine bar, the visits to the seafront flat. He’d put together the relationship in his own head, drawn his own conclusions from the evidence he’d seen first hand. The man had wanted out, he said. He’d had his nose in the trough, and he’d taken everything he could get, and now he was moving on. A month or two with his own family, his own missus, before something else turned up. Pathetic.
Gillespie had queried some of this, curious at the depth of Evans’s feelings, but the big Marine had simply shaken his head, confirming it all. The man was a right bastard, he said. He was cold, and he was callous, and when the going got really tough he’d pushed the poor bitch off the balcony. There’d obviously been some kind of fight. The bloke had come out of the flats in a right state, goon suit covered in blood, shaking like a leaf.
‘You remember those?’ Evans had said, ‘goon suits?’
Gillespie had nodded.
‘Don’t I just,’ he said, remembering the NBC gear he’d worn in the Corps, and his own hands, covered in the greasy dark green deposit, and the photos he’d seen that morning, those same dark marks blotching the girl’s throat and shoulders. Silly of him not to have made the connection before. Obvious really.
They’d driven to the hall in silence. Only when they were parked, waiting for the Rotary meeting to end, did Evans ask what Gillespie expected him to do, what he really wanted. Gillespie told him. A sworn statement, he’d said, a formal affidavit, admissible in court. Evans had looked at him and told him it was out of the question. No statements. No interviews. Nothing in cold print. He’d do what he could to help, but it had to be low profile, and it had to happen in the next three days. After that, he’d be away. Gillespie had thought about it, acknowledging Evans’ qualms with a grunt, masking his own disappointment. At first, he’d thought he was back to square one, nothing really solid, no proof, but now, watching Annie helping the cameraman stow equipment in the back of the Volvo, he wasn’t so sure. There might, just conceivably, be a way.
He glanced across at Evans. The windows were down in the car, and they could hear more applause, filling the hall. The doors onto the street opened, and Goodman appeared. Evans watched him carefully, the smile, the handshakes, the born politician easing his way out of yet another triumph.
‘Did you see the girl at all?’ Evans said quietly. ‘Afterwards?’
Gillespie nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Pathetic, wasn’t it? Poor bitch.’
‘Yes.’ Gillespie watched Annie conferring briefly with Goodman before getting in the Volvo and driving away. She looked pleased with herself. She was laughing. It must have gone well. He leaned forward and started the engine. Evans frowned.
‘What now?’ he said.
Gillespie looked across at him, pulling out onto the road.
‘One more call,’ he said, ‘then we’re through.’
Annie and the cameraman arrived at the Civic Centre and walked into the reception area. The security guard behind the desk had been warned about the filming and directed them to Goodman’s office on the fifth floor. There’d be others to come, she told him. She wasn’t quite sure how many.
In Goodman’s office, Annie chose the angle she wanted, while the cameraman prowled around, looking for power points for the lights. The other Volvo had arrived by now, and they both returned to the kerbside to help unload the gear.
Gillespie and Evans watched them from a side road fifty yards away. Gillespie had seen the lights go on in Goodman’s office, and knew more or less what would happen next. Soon, Goodman would arrive. His wife would probably be with him. They’d join the film crew in his office. And then they’d shoot that one last interview.
Evans lit another cigarette. Under the circumstances, Gillespie thought he was being remarkably patient. He glanced across at him.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what made you change your mind?’
‘About what?’
‘This. You. Me.’
Evans didn’t answer for a moment. Goodman’s car had arrived, parking behind the Volvos. Goodman got out and walked around the car to hold the door open for his wife. Evans was watching him.
‘Real gent,’ he said softly. ‘Look at him.’
Gillespie laughed.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘all part of the service.’
There was a silence. Goodman walked slowly across the square towards the Civic Centre, his footsteps on the flagstones echoing back from the surrounding buildings. He and his wife mounted the steps and disappeared through the revolving door. Evans flicked the remains of his cigarette into the darkness, prepared at last to answer Gillespie’s question.
‘He tried to bung me,’ he said. ‘Three thousand quid.’ He looked across at Gillespie. ‘The prat.’
; Annie was almost ready to shoot by the time Goodman and his wife arrived in the office. The lights were set up, the desk bathed in a soft tungsten glow. The tripod was levelled, and there was a new twenty-minute cassette on board. All that remained was a brief white balance for the camera, and a microphone to be attached to the lapel of Goodman’s suit. With luck, fingers crossed, they’d be away within half an hour.
Goodman stepped into the room, and introduced his wife. Annie shook her hand and showed her to a seat in the shadows at the edge of the room. It was the first time the two women had met. She’d originally asked Goodman for permission to approach his wife for a quite separate interview, but he’d said at once that he’d rather she didn’t. His wife had had a difficult time, he’d said. She’d been rather shaken by the experience, and he’d no desire to put her through it all over again. Now, looking at her, Annie wondered why. She seemed perfectly at ease, an attractive woman in a well-cut dress. A little quiet, perhaps. A little withdrawn. But utterly self-assured.
Goodman sat down behind the desk. The sound recordist clipped on a tiny Sony mike, and returned to the camera to adjust the sound levels. Annie checked the shot, making sure it gave her what she wanted. Through the viewfinder, in extreme close-up, Goodman looked strangely vulnerable. He kept glancing out to the left, out into the shadows, towards his wife. Annie lifted her head from the camera and followed his eyeline. His wife was watching him, totally expressionless. There was something wrong between them, but Annie had no way of knowing quite what it was. The sound recordist caught her eye and gave her the thumbs up. Annie reached for the clipboard and kicked the cameraman’s ankles.
‘Roll,’ she said softly.
The clipboard contained few surprises. She fed Goodman the simplest of questions, seeking the emotional response Bullock was so fond of, and he returned the compliment with a bravura performance. He spoke in a low, reflective voice, pausing to search for the right phrase, the difficult thought, opening himself up for the first time.
He talked about going to the brink, to the very edge, and looking over. He talked about pressure and pain, and the awful knowledge that you might soon have to lose what you most loved in life. Not life itself. Not the chore of living from day to day. But that handful of relationships that made life worth living. In that sense, he said quietly, those few days in September had been almost worthwhile. Because only then, in the bleakest of times, did you begin to learn the really hard things about yourself. What you’d done well, and what you’d done badly. How, in short, you’d chosen to conduct your life. The Emergency had been, for him, a profound experience. He’d hated most of it, but he’d treasured the lessons he’d learned since. There’d be a new start, he said. A new beginning.
Rules of Engagement Page 50