by Mick Herron
‘Joe –’
‘Dinah isn’t there. Zoë isn’t here. That doesn’t mean either of them are missing.’
‘Have you heard from her?’
‘There was a postcard,’ he admitted. ‘From London. With the last of the Mohicans on it.’
‘Dinah isn’t sending postcards.’
‘This child, she’s too young to write. Besides, how do you know? Would you be the one she sent postcards to?’
She didn’t answer.
‘You hardly know this girl. Let me guess, you’re mid-thirties, right?’
Early thirties. ‘Careful, Joe.’
‘Have a baby. It will change your life, I mean it. All your problems, all these mysteries, pouf, they’re gone. Your life will be happiness and nappies. They’re not incompatible.’
‘How many kids have you got, Joe?’
‘As many as I have paranoid fantasies.’
‘You’re supposed to be a detective, not an agony column.’
‘Hey, I solve problems. I don’t choose them.’
But talking to Joe, for all that, had helped, if only in demonstrating that it would take more than undiluted scorn to blow away her suspicions. Though maybe he’d come close to the truth, picking up on that rimat business: she’d only retained the fragment because of the picture: all those children, crowded in front of a big old house. Where was Dinah Singleton? A hundred times a day she wondered that. And all her other notions faded as she did, even the chilling memory she had told nobody about: that Gerard Inchon had threatened her in the dark, with only a sleeping husband for a witness.
In a notice on a board near the centre of the market, the council congratulated itself on the standard of busking it demanded. Today’s entertainment, though, was provided by a strange drunk woman with sharp ferrety features, playing the same four notes over and over on a recorder. She wore a woollen cap of bright, Latin American design, and her puppy – they all had puppies – was a brown, shivering wreck. These four notes trailed after Sarah as she wandered buying meat, vegetables, olives; not buying sweatshirts embossed with gargoyles. It only slowly dawned on her that the music was not the only thing following. That was the beginning of the panic.
First, she saw the man with the placard: a tall man in a dull grey suit, his trouser legs bunched around his ankles, a bowler hat perched on his head like an egg on a tray. Where his face should have been was a rubber mask. Looking tearfully at the world from between bow tie and bowler, Stan Laurel bowed low for her and walked on by, the large wooden sign he carried swaying ominously as he passed. Party Favours, it read. Fancy Dress, Balloons, Novelties. There was a whole industry based on such ephemera. Today, though, Sarah felt a slight shiver – a goose on her grave – as the living image of the dead comedian passed, large as life and twice as monochrome: it felt more than an advert; it felt a warning.
On the street outside the crowds were desperate as ever. On any given day, you could easily believe rationing had been introduced that morning. Manoeuvring though shoppers, the feeling grew upon her, as intangible yet certain as hearing her name whispered in a crowded room, that she was being followed. When she stopped and looked round, she couldn’t pick anyone out. But the feeling remained, went hand in hand with the music in her mind, the four erratic notes the small battered woman had played on her recorder. As if the tune had drifted from the market in her wake and dogged her now like one of those sick puppies.
The feeling grew gradually, but when the panic arrived it arrived full fledged, forcing her to stop dead, drop her shopping, take her left hand in her right and squeeze. It was years since she’d had one of these: a doom-attack; a paranoia fit; after her accident they’d arrived regularly, once every few weeks, but had faded with time. She’d never learned to control them. But knew, nevertheless, what to do now: find somewhere quiet to sit until the world ceased to be a hostile mass, became the usual whirl of busy people who had nothing to do with her. All she had to do was move. She released her hand, saw the purple indentation marks her nails had left, and could think of nowhere to go. Muttering people bumped into her. At the top of the street was a church, a grubby square, a couple of benches. Winos hung out there, like everywhere else, but it was close. Her bruised hands collected her shopping while she faked normality: breathe in, count down, breathe out. One step became another. There was a booth where you could buy coffee, but she gave it a miss and sat in the shade, where, in the space of ten minutes she noticed, repeatedly:
a female jogger in a purple tracksuit, her hair tied back so it bounced off her collar;
a dirty man in need of a shave, with an indestructible dog-end cupped in a scarred right hand;
a man in a used-car salesman’s coat, and a face that belonged on Gollum;
a teenage girl hugging a filthy child, waving a polystyrene cup in the face of everyone who passed;
and, this one only in her mind, a woman – herself – skydiving from the roof of a high terraced house, the lights of the city cartwheeling in her head as she turned over and over, and never hit the ground.
She was breathing hard now. It was a vision that recurred at moments of crisis; her own private ghost no rite of exorcism ever managed to lay. It happened, she said – not aloud – to the Other Sarah Tucker. But the only answer her mind gave was the same frightening picture from the same impossible angle: a woman – herself – skydiving from the roof of a high terraced house, the lights of the city cartwheeling in her head as she turned over and over, and never hit the ground.
‘Spare s’m change, miss? F’food like?’
It was just a voice from the never-ending street parade but it startled her anyway; she must have made some noise or other because he backed off, startled himself.
‘Wz only askin’.’
He had black teeth and a bruised head; his features were puffy with drink or assault.
‘Fuck off,’ she snarled.
‘Wz only askin’,’ he muttered again. But he backed off further, fucked off in fact, leaving her alone again and the skydiving picture shattered. In its place hard knowledge.
Which was this. In all the films, all the books, it was the little things gave you away: the typewriter with the raised T; the spare key still on its ledge above the door. With her, it was that damn palmtop. One switch flicked at no gain to herself, and Gerard knew she was digging, knew she knew what he had done. So now she sat on a crowded street, people milling every which way, and she was alone and frightened because Gerard knew, and had already killed two people and disappeared a third. Maybe more, because nothing about planting a bomb suggested you were an amateur: amateurs used kitchen knives. Gerard had blown people away for motives she hadn’t even thought about yet, and now she’d provided him with a reason for doing it to her. And this was a man who collected guns. Batten down the hatches, girl. You’ve got big trouble coming.
Just two days ago she’d been thinking there was entertainment value in this.
Her blouse clung to her now: she wore jeans, a blouse, a summer jacket; all light enough until fear had set in. Her shoes were no help: flat but narrow, running to a point at the tip, which ruled out breaking into a jog. And where would she run? Who was she running from? He’s got lots of money, this Gerard? Joe had asked. Enough so he doesn’t have to do his own dirty work? He could have hired anyone. They could all be in his pay.
Tall, mournful Stan Laurel bobbed past once more, and it seemed to Sarah that he picked her out for special scrutiny; that the living eyes behind the rubber mask found her out in her junkies’ corner, and recorded a secret amusement at the sight. She clutched her own hand again. A silly exercise, but it used to help, and could do no harm now. And nor could Stan Laurel. If anyone was watching her, it was somebody from the colourful now, not out of the black-and-white past.
There was an odd sort of comfort in this, though; knowing there was a real enemy, a specific danger. Whatever had happened in the past, whatever scars left on her imagination, it was not her own mind she had to fear
now: this was happening, and was therefore not without solution. There were rules for these situations, and number one was that you didn’t panic. She released her hand again, and studied the nail marks in the flesh: once, when she was younger, they’d have disappeared as she watched. But the self-inflicted pain had done the trick, and she felt ready to leave now. Gathering her shopping, she stood. With the dimming of the panic, knowledge of her essential safety gathered about her like an overcoat. Nothing could happen. This was important to remember. Here among the Monday morning shoppers, nothing would happen.
Home, then. She crossed the road and headed down St Michael’s Street. Not much more than a lane, this carried little in the way of traffic, and few pedestrians compared to the main shopping grid. Her bags were growing heavier by the step, and she stopped twice before the corner, rearranging them to achieve the perfect balance. Which would be the day, she thought rue- fully. Already her panic was strange to her, like a familiar object viewed from an unusual angle: a worm’s eye view of a cheese-grater. What had got into her? How likely could it be that Gerard was having her watched? On the one hand you could add up all that had happened: the bomb, the missing child, Gerard’s threat, all the rest. And on the other you took an ordinary day in the centre of Oxford, and a young (thank you) woman fetching the first of the week’s groceries. Nothing ever happened. There was a kind of middle-class privilege about lives like hers: for all the drama she hovered on the edge of, there would always be the home to go to, the food on the table, the bath before bedtime. Sinister strangers had their place, but only in guest appearances. Life was slow dying. Her bubble would burst like all bubbles, but not without the usual drawn-out ending: the doctor’s charts, the nurse’s warnings, the soft words spoken around a bed with fresh linen. Death didn’t happen on a side lane in the city. Cemetery Road was very long.
A car pulled up behind her and she jumped.
A man leaped out and disappeared into a printers’ shop. Sarah’s heart changed gear again; climbed right back down into first. Idiot she thought. Meaning herself, mostly, but also whoever that had been, who had no right to exist while she felt so fragile. All that equilibrium shot to pieces. She reached the corner, turned it, and bumped into Stan Laurel.
‘Sarah,’ he said.
She screamed, or tried to, or thought she did, but no sound came out: not much more than a hiccup. He’d already put one white-gloved hand out and taken her by the arm, while with the other he carefully leaned his placard against the wall.
Then he pulled his face off.
II
She wore a necklace of cubic wooden beads, like little dice but with letters, spelling WIGWAM. Which was probably fashion, but might just have been utilitarian: of all the people Sarah knew, the one most likely to need reminding of her own name was Wigwam.
‘I should have told you.’
‘You said he didn’t want people to know.’
‘He was embarrassed at first. A grown man dressing up. Then he was disappointed nobody recognized him.’
‘He wanted an Oscar?’
‘My performance, he calls it.’ Wigwam laughed. ‘My performance went very well today. I think he’s hoping a talent scout will clock him.’
‘If it’s being clocked he’s after, he almost had his wish. When he started pulling his mask off, he nearly got six kilos of assorted vegetables in his face.’
‘He was really sorry.’
‘So he kept saying.’ But Sarah had her doubts. There’d been a hint of malice in Rufus’s eyes when he’d seen how frightened she’d been; the kind of private glee a worm must feel when it turns. Though afterwards he’d hidden it, and complicated her attempts to pick her shopping up in his familiar ineffectual way. And then presumably reported in, because Wigwam had turned up before she’d been home ten minutes. ‘No harm done anyway.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Just a little on edge, that’s all.’
‘You’re not . . .’ Wigwam’s query trailed away, hardly worth the question mark.
‘Pregnant? No.’
‘Oh.’ With a carefully judged amount of sympathy in the tone: Wigwam was sorry, but aware that Sarah wasn’t. ‘Rufus and I are trying,’ she went on.
Several short remarks occurred to Sarah, any one of which could have destroyed their friendship. ‘Gosh,’ was what she said at last.
‘You think five’s too many, don’t you?’ said Wigwam, a little sadly.
‘I think one’s too many, sweetie. But that’s just me.’
‘At the moment.’
‘If you like.’ The kettle boiled, and she got up to pour. ‘I can see that Rufus might want one of his own,’ she said. ‘But won’t it make things awkward?’
‘Oh, he’s lovely with the kids. He really is.’
‘And that won’t change when he’s an actual father?’
‘Oh, no. It’ll strengthen the bond.’ Wigwam sounded like she’d memorized the manual. But still, she’d had the experience. What did Sarah know about children?
The phone rang in the other room, and she excused herself to answer it. Left to herself she could ignore a ringing phone, but Wigwam grew nervous in the face of such disrespect. What if it’s important? she’d say. A doctor, a policeman, the Queen. It was none of those, but it did turn out to be important.
‘Arimathea.’
‘What?’
‘Arimathea. As in Joseph of, no relation. It’s me, Joe.’
‘Hey Joe,’ she said automatically. ‘Rimat. Arimathea. Right.’
‘He was a merchant, a trader. Friend of the Christ family. You know, Jesus Christ, Mary Christ. Legend has it he supplied the tomb Jesus was laid in.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘He got it back. Plus, the story goes, he brought Jesus to England as a lad.’ Not a minute of research was being wasted here. ‘And did those feet in ancient times, and so forth. The Holy Grail passed into his keeping after the crucifixion. Basically, he was the gospels’ Mr Fixit.’
‘Did you get his phone number?’
‘All it took was a certain skill at crosswords and an encyclopedic knowledge of everything. There’s no need to thank me.’
‘You’re a genius. So now all we want –’
‘It’s in Surrey. Little place called, well, Littleton.’
‘A hospital?’
‘An orphanage.’
Behind her, Wigwam had come into the room. She was carrying Sarah’s tea and her expression said I Am Not Listening To This Conversation. She hovered uncertainly, a strange reversal: a waitress trying to catch the customer’s eye. And was definitely capable of interrogation afterwards, so Sarah wrapped Joe up quickly. ‘When do we go?’
‘Let’s not get excited, Sarah.’ She could picture him adopting his Wise Man expression. ‘What are we looking at here, really? He makes donations to an orphanage. You’re saying he supplies orphans too? That’s quite a leap.’
‘Maybe it’s some complicated tax dodge.’
‘You could save more money not bothering. I owe you, Sarah, but this, it was just a puzzle. A word game. It’s not something to get hyperactive over. Maybe I should have kept the answer to myself.’
‘I’m a big girl now.’
‘This is what troubles me.’
‘I’ll talk to you later, Joe. Thanks.’
‘Friend?’ asked Wigwam. On the off-chance, presumably, that it had been a wrong number.
Sarah took her tea. ‘Thanks. Somebody who did some work for me.’ Trying to make Joe sound like a jobbing plumber. ‘Do you want a biscuit to go with this?’
‘That’d be nice. He doesn’t do gardens, does he? This Joe of yours?’
‘I’d have to ask.’
‘Only I’ve a branch needs sawing down. It’s a bit high for Rufus.’
‘We’ve a ladder you can borrow.’
‘It’s safer going professional, isn’t it?’
Thus it was that, without actually having to lie or make false promises, Sarah arranged to ask
the Private Detective if he did gardens at four pounds an hour. Not long after Wigwam left, she was back on the phone. There was little else for her to do. She’d not yet had replies to last week’s letters.
‘Oxford Investigations.’
‘Joe, I want to take a look.’
‘So take a look. I’m stopping you?’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘I’m a tour guide? Sarah, I want wild goose, I hang around Port Meadow in the autumn. I want a drive in the country, I head for the Catskills.’
‘Cotswolds.’
‘Whatever. Surrey, I don’t touch. It holds bad memories. I had a dreadful case there once.’
‘Murder?’
‘Flu. And I’m busy at the moment, or I expect to be. Any day now.’
‘Okay.’
‘So I’m not going.’
‘Okay.’
The silence down the line was very loud. The humming of unsaid words snarled up in the wires.
‘This happens in films,’ he said at last. ‘One scene you get the man saying no way is he doing it. The very next he’s doing it. Whatever it happens to be.’
‘I’ve seen that,’ Sarah said.
‘But that’s not going to happen here.’
‘No, Joe.’
Whatever she had been expecting, the building was a brilliant cacophony of wings and crenellations, with small round towers jutting up at available corners, suggesting that it had been built to the specifications of a six-year-old. But all of it was tired, too; rain-streaked, mossed over in patches, and even in the bright sunshine looking like it suffered a chill. Or an ague, Sarah amended. Sometimes only the old words fit.
‘Miss Havisham’s wedding cake,’ Joe said.
‘Gormenghast,’ she countered.
‘Bit obvious,’ he muttered as they got out of the car.
Oxford to Littleton had been no drive in the country, involving enough plastic bollards to throw a ring around the moon, and barricades of metal signs conveying cryptic instructions, small sandbags slung over their crossbars like dead piglets. Joe proved both neat and nervous behind the wheel; choosing his lane and sticking to it, and assuming every other road user was a homicidal incompetent. This didn’t stop him talking. ‘I need my head examined,’ he’d said.