by Mark Dawson
‘We’ve been inundated with calls from the newspapers,’ Fulton says.
Wilson says, ‘You know there are reporters waiting for us outside?’
The thought of propelling myself through the window becomes more attractive; perhaps I might take a few of them out with me when I land.
‘I don’t think it’s you they want,’ I suggest.
‘The marketing department’s having to prepare a statement.’
‘Can I ask what it says?’
They all look at Hunter. He looks grim.
‘It announces the termination of your employment at White Hunter - effective immediately. You’ll be paid three months’ salary for your notice period, but I’d like you to clear your desk and be out of the office by three this afternoon.’
Finally, the axe falls. I’m almost relieved. A weight is lifted.
‘I think it’s fair to say some of us had already resolved that your position here was untenable,’ Fulton says, ‘after last week’s events.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘We’d appreciate an explanation,’ Wilson says. She seems upset that I’m taking this so well.
‘I’m sure you would,’ I say.
Wilson splutters. She’s been itching to spill my blood for a long time. Her cheeks are beetroot red and her hands are quivering with mild tremors. If she had her way this would end with a lynching and my head impaled on a spike in the lobby, as a warning to my peers: don’t fuck up.
‘Dawkins going to get my cases?’ I ask.
‘Well, yes, at least in the short term,’ Fulton explains. ‘He’s already looking after the Fey case. It made sense to give him the others. But you needn’t worry about that. It’s all in hand.’
‘Well, then, perhaps this is for the best,’ Hunter concludes. ‘We really didn’t have a choice, Daniel. You know the Law Society will strike you off for this, don’t you? There’s nothing else for it, not really - no choice.’
‘No, I quite understand,’ I say. ‘Nothing else for it.’
‘You’re a bloody disgrace,’ Wilson says.
‘That’s enough, Victoria,’ Tanner says sternly. ‘Just leave it.’
Wilson stares hard at him; he holds her eye until she looks away.
‘Are we finished?’ I say, standing up. My knees don’t seem strong enough to support my weight. I feel sure that they’re about to buckle.
Hunter nods gravely. ‘I think we are,’ he says. Finally, I open the door.
KNOW YOUR ENEMY
I’m sitting on a toilet seat in one of the cubicles, trying to regulate my breathing so as to take long, soothing lungfuls rather than short, asphyxiating gasps. I’m having only partial success, however. I wonder if I could be hyperventilating? I’m feeling drained and thirsty and then, without warning, sick. I raise the seat and bend over the bowl, and retch up my breakfast in lumpy red chunks followed by strings of icky phlegm.
I rinse out my mouth at the basins.
Another toilet flushes behind me and a door opens. ‘I heard the news,’ Dawkins says, exiting from that cubicle. I’m humiliated - he must have heard me puking up.
‘These things happen,’ I say evenly, teeth grinding.
‘Listen, no hard feelings? I wouldn’t want us to part on bad terms.’
He extends a chubby hand.
I’d like nothing more than to take that hand and drag him in nice and close, so I can grab him by the hair and drown him in a basin of icy cold water. Or flip him onto the floor and pummel his head against the tiles, spreading some of his blood on the floor. If I were prone to violence, it’d be tempting. Unfortunately, I’m not; thumping Dolan last night was an aberration, albeit an agreeable one.
‘Come on, Danny,’ he says, knowing perfectly well that I hate that truncated moniker, ‘let’s not fall out over this.’
‘You should’ve thought of that before you stole my cases,’ I say, leaving his hand hanging in mid-air.
His face wrinkles with disgust. ‘What’s happened to your breath?’ he says. ‘It smells odd - I don’t know – kind of fruity.’
‘Get lost,’ is all I say, leaving him to rinse his hands.
THE END OF AN ERA
Elizabeth gets to her feet anxiously when I return. ‘What happened?’
‘Could you get me a few packing crates?’ I ask. ‘I’ve got to clear my stuff out by three.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘As of -’ I check my watch - ‘fifteen minutes ago I ceased to be in the employ of White Hunter. I am now officially without a job.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she repeats. ‘They sacked you?’
I nod.
‘But what for? What did you do? I mean, I know you were a little late with some work for Ms Wilson, but that’s hardly a reason to fire you. Is it? I mean it can’t be.’
‘It doesn’t matter. My heart hasn’t been in this for a while. This is probably a blessing in disguise.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘I’ve got a couple of ideas,’ I say.
I squeeze her shoulder as I force out a smile and then hide in my room, ready to start dismantling this little, redundant corner of my life.
SETTLING A SCORE
There are things to do. Things I want to straighten out. I find my Dictaphone and slot in the tape from the interview with Vincent Haines. I’m going to make him pay. I back the tape up until I find the precise section I need and, thumbing the Dictaphone to play, I double-check it:
‘Jerks had a shit, straight-to-video movie planned,’ Vincent Haines says again. ‘My agent goofed and signed me up for it. She got her ass fired, let me tell you. Then Skin Trade came along and I decided it was a better vehicle for someone like me.’
Tim Renwick strolls past the office. He looks in at me and I stare him out until he moves on. I watch for him to move off, and then spool the tape forward a little and press play again.
‘We both know I probably am in breach of their precious fucking contract. But I’m just giving you the big picture. I leave it to my lawyers to decide what to leave in and what to leave out. That’s what I pay you for. If I say anything that’s not good for me, you can just strip it out. I never said it, right? And if this case goes to trial, and I hope to God it doesn’t, you can tell me exactly what I have to say to make the bad man go away. Got me?’
I’ve got him all right. I address an envelope, put the tape inside, and drop it in the post tray.
A CRY FOR HELP
The news of my dismissal travels fast. Several of my contemporaries pop by to commiserate, although they all want the full story so they can work out how easily it could have been them in my shoes. And of course they’re curious about my notoriety, although none of them has the nerve to ask me about it.
As I’m packing my law books into a crate, I notice that I’ve received voicemail. I punch in my password and play the message back on the squawk box.
‘Um, Daniel, it’s me - Brian - listen, I’ve gone and got myself into a bit of a fix and I could really do with your help. Um, they’re only going to let me make one call and I’ve only got another ten pence left so I can’t go into all the details and such like, but I was wondering - could you come over and help me out? I wouldn’t ask this usually but I think it’s pretty important and I don’t really have anyone else to go to, you know, no one else I trust anyway. Fuck, anyway, shit, my cash is running out, so, um, I’m at the same police station as last night. I guess you just ask for me at the desk or something, and, um, like, thanks and everything in advance, OK? I’ll see you in a bit. Bye. Oh, um, before I go, if Davey calls, you don’t know where I am. OK? You haven’t even heard from me. OK? See you then, bye.’
So: this is it. Brian’s finally been arrested. I’m not sure what to feel. If anything, a sense of relief; if he’s been arrested I won’t have to do anything with the voicemail cassette I’ve hidden at the back of my drawer nor will I have to report my knowledge of the photographs. If the police can manage w
ithout my information, I’ll be able to placate my itchy conscience and forget about the whole sorry mess.
I wonder if I should go to see him or whether it might be best just to erase the message and consign him to the past. If I follow through with my plan, I won’t even be here. I wrestle with the alternatives for a couple of minutes. Then I decide to go; maybe he didn’t do it, however bad it might look, and maybe the opportunity will present itself to ask him about the tapes. And I’m curious; I need to see him. He deserves the chance to put his side of the story to me. He’s earned at least that.
A FINAL PLEA FROM SCOTT DOLAN
More voicemail:
‘This is it. Last chance, Daniel. I’m gonna forget you punched me. I know, you were under pressure and you snapped. It’s understandable. It’s forgotten. I’m dropping the charges today, so you don’t need to worry about that. And listen - I want to talk to you very badly. More than before, now the story’s broken. The whole attack on Haines - I saw what happened and I know it was an accident, but it’s made you big news. Look, it’s made you a bit of a star. You’re gonna get offers from all the papers once they find out your details, so I’m laying my cards on the table now. If you agree to be interviewed exclusively by me I guarantee you, I absolutely promise, you’ll get sympathetic treatment. Plus I know I’m close to something really big with Brian Fey and John French. I know he’s involved in that death. Anyway, I’m not gonna call again. This is your last chance. If you don’t call, all bets are off. We’ll unleash the hounds. Goodbye.’
I wonder if now would be a good time to establish contact with this friend in the media. Maybe he could be useful to me. I dial his number and then wait for the call to connect.
SQUARING THE CIRCLE
On the way out of the office I run into Cohen. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Cohen says.
‘Of course you’re sorry. Now I’m not going to be around getting made up’s going to be a lot easier for you, isn’t it? Your friend will make sure you get in, won’t he? Jesus. I just hope you can live with your conscience.’
‘What’s the matter with you? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daniel.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Come on, Daniel - I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this before.’
‘I let you pull the wool over my eyes. But not any more.’
‘You’re not making sense. Listen - let’s meet for a drink. We have to talk properly. I don’t want us to part on bad terms.’
I say, exasperated, ‘Fine.’
We arrange to meet for a beer later in the week. I do this just so I can get out of here without a scene. I want this to be as easy and smooth as possible. This is an appointment I have no intention of keeping.
BRIAN’S STORY
I leave the office by the back entrance to avoid the mob of reporters waiting out front. By the time I arrive at the police station Brian is signing forms at the front desk and collecting his personal belongings. This is not what I’d been expecting. They bailed him? Lines of fatigue are etched around his eyes and he looks gaunter than usual. He actually looks old and tired.
‘They’re letting you out?’
‘Yes.’ His eyes flash with anger. ‘They finally believed me.’ He says this loud enough so that the desk sergeant can hear him.
Five minutes later and we’ve found a coffee shop, where we sit with steaming lattes and slices of carrot cake set down between us. He had said that he was famished. A flurry of snow is swirling up against the window and people are hurrying down into the underground. The day is short and twilight is already drawing in, the headlights of cars on the road glowing through the translucent flakes, little yellow bowls of brightness.
Brian is now wolfing down his cake, but I can’t bear the suspense. I take a sip of coffee and, attempting an innocuous introduction, say, ‘So what happened?’
He polishes off the last forkfuls as he explains. ‘They arrested me early this morning after I took Lisa to a hotel. They questioned me for hours.’
‘What did they ask you about?’ I ask artlessly, even though I already know.
‘About John.’
‘Go on.’
He looks out of the window into the white. ‘This isn’t easy,’ he says. ‘Before he died I’d started to stake out his house. I know it was stupid. But I just wanted to talk to him. We had things we needed to talk about.’
‘Like what?’
‘I can’t say.’ I look away.
‘He wouldn’t answer his phone so I just waited there for him, sometimes for ages at a time. Some of his neighbours spotted me.’ I remember the report in the newspaper. ‘When the police found out, they must’ve thought they were onto something. They traced the car back to me. I guess they figured I was worth talking to - plus they knew John and me didn’t always see eye to eye. We had an argument in America during a tour, ages ago - John punched me, I shoved him, he fell off a balcony and ended up with some broken ribs. It was just an accident but they went on and on and on about it.’
Brian tells me this quietly.
‘I’ve never forgiven myself for it. My temper again.’ I tighten my grip around the mug.
‘So the police started checking me out; said I’ve been followed for the past few days. They said they had someone watching us at the funeral - so they saw that argument with the others. Me hitting Martin, that was the final straw.’
He looks out, into the darkness of the street, thoughtful. ‘I know I was stupid to bug John like that,’ he says, ‘but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to talk to him, just to try and understand what happened between me and him. I could never get my head around it.’
Looking away from him, unable to hold his gaze, I ask, ‘Did you? I mean, did you talk to him?’
He swallows a final mouthful of cake. I’m holding my breath as I wait for him to speak.
Brian frowns, troubled, and then hesitantly - too hesitantly - shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t do it. I’d sit out there for hours playing things around in my head, not really paying attention to anything much, drinking, smoking, not thinking straight. I’d eventually get the courage up to go and knock on the door, but then I’d imagine what he’d say and I’d just lose my bottle.’
I look down at my plate, trying to hide my certainty that this isn’t true; I’ve seen the pictures that prove the lie. I try to not think about why he’s tendering this fiction, because the obvious answer - his guilt - is too compelling. It must be the reason. Why else lie to me now that he’s been discounted as a suspect? A cold shiver passes down my spine.
And I haven’t forgotten about the money used for my bail and the cash stolen from French’s house - those identical amounts.
Brian gazes outside to where a bus is wheezing alongside its stop. The storm has picked up, an abruptly fierce wind tossing light snow up from the ground, dervishes of swirling flakes. The street is almost empty now, the remaining few pedestrians clasping hats to their heads. Brian takes out a packet of cigarettes and taps one out. He offers it to me. I decline.
‘The thing is,’ he continues, fishing for his lighter, ‘I was outside his house the evening he died. I now can’t get the feeling out of my head that if I’d done something then I might’ve been able to stop him. I don’t know.’
I study his face. He lights the fag and the tip flares up briefly, casting an orange glow across his chin and mouth. I look for the clichéd signs of deceit - the darting eyes, the rapid blinking - but he just looks back wistfully at me. Sadly.
He can’t fool me: I know too much; I’ve seen too much.
I want to ask him about the photos and the tapes. I want to ask him about the money. I want to tell him that I know he’s lying, and why won’t he admit it?
Instead of bringing this up, I lamely ask, ‘So what happened then - with the police?’
‘They were convinced I hadn’t told them everything. Eventually I persuaded them that I was with someone else at the time they were telling me John died. They made
a few phone calls to check out my story, and when it held up they let me go.’
I guess at the alibi that he must have used. The false alibi. ‘You said you were with Lisa and Carmen?’
He nods. ‘We’d arranged to go out for a few drinks before meeting you at the party. I’d heard that the band were all going to be there, and I just needed some Dutch courage before I faced up to them. I thought the girls might as well come too.’
One final chance for him to come clean. I say, ‘So you weren’t outside when the police think he died?’ My tone is more suspicious than I intended.
His expression blurs, changes. He glares at me sourly, suddenly irritated. He says, ‘No, I wasn’t outside when the police think he was killed - I already told you that. Haven’t you been listening?’
‘I know you told me. It’s just that-’
Brian interrupts, voice swiftly raised. ‘It’s just that what? What? That you don’t believe me?’
‘I never said that.’
‘You didn’t fucking have to.’
‘Come on, Brian-’
‘Don’t patronize me,’ Brian snarls.
He slams his coffee cup down. The saucer cracks and hot coffee splashes back onto his hand. He swears, wipes it off on his trousers, gets up abruptly. He shakes his head, ‘I don’t believe this. I thought you of all people would believe me.’
I don’t say anything. He looms over me. His fists clench and unclench. The veins in his neck and under his chin are as tight as cords, bulging.
‘You’re just like everyone else. No one gives a shit about me any more. You only put up with me because this case looks good on your CV. Don’t think I don’t know.’
‘That’s not true.’