Falls the Shadow

by Mark Timlin

  I phoned the paper right away. ‘Nick,’ said Chas when I got through to his extension, ‘what’s going on? Is this Sunset thing anything to do with you?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to tell.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. Day almost had a fit on air last night. I’ve called the station, but they’re saying nothing.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘Don’t try and kid a kidder, Nick. I know when I’m being brushed off. I’m used to it. Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you that I had something on Sector 88?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh no, mate. A favour for a favour. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But not on the phone.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Lunchtime?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m free.’

  ‘Your tab.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You’re on expenses.’ So was I, but I’d already lost fifty of it to Stretch at pool.

  ‘I’ll toss you.’

  The way my luck was running, I’d lose. ‘Fair enough. Where?’

  ‘I’m feeling lucky, so as you’ll be paying let’s make it the Italian down by Streatham station?’

  ‘Good enough. One o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘See you then,’ I said and hung up.

  I kicked my heels round the office for the rest of the morning, then drove up to the restaurant and parked at the back of the station. When I got inside, Chas was already waiting for me. He was sitting at a table in the back, a martini cocktail in front of him with a green olive in it. ‘You’re ambitious,’ I said.

  He picked up a ten-pence piece from the table in front of him. ‘Call,’ he said, and flipped it into the air.

  ‘Heads,’ I said. He caught the coin and slapped it on to the back of his hand, then showed it to me. Tails it was. I’d been right about my luck. I shrugged and turned to the waiter who was hovering behind me. ‘Two more of those,’ I said. ‘Very dry.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Chas. ‘I’m going to enjoy this lunch.’

  We chatted inconsequentially until the drinks arrived. After my first mouthful of the smoky brew, Chas said, ‘Come on then, Nick, let’s have it.’

  ‘Off the record?’

  ‘Naturally. I’m surprised you have to ask. Come on, spit it out.’

  So I did. I told him everything I knew. What the hell? I was getting nowhere fast on my own, and I could trust Chas as far as I could trust any journalist. About the distance I could kick him uphill.

  As I was talking, the waiter came over to take our orders. Chas chose veal marsala, I had spaghetti with meat balls and a green salad. Chas ordered a bottle of the most expensive red wine on the list. Typical journalistic behaviour. He still had a touching faith in the concept of a free lunch. And in this case his faith was vindicated.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, when I’d finished and he was halfway through his second martini. ‘A nice little page three lead for Friday’s paper.’

  ‘Off the record,’ I reminded him. ‘Besides, it’s nothing, and you know it, mate. So what have you got for me?’

  ‘I’ve got a name, and the time and place for Sector 88’s next meeting.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘The name is Smith.’ He saw the look on my face. ‘OK, Nick,’ he said. ‘It’s probably a fake. But the meeting’s planned for Sunday night, eight o’clock. at the Masonic Hall in Norbury.’

  ‘Masonic Hall,’ I said. ‘That’s a laugh. How do you know?’

  ‘I have my sources. It’s kosher, believe me.’

  The waiter interrupted us by bringing the food and wine. When he was satisfied we had everything, and had done the usual boogie around the table with a three-foot-high pepper mill then split, I asked: ‘What about the story?’

  ‘What about it?’ Nick said innocently.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Am I going to use it, do you mean?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘If it was anybody else but you, probably. But you have this knack of blowing everything up, literally. No, I think I’ll wait ’til Monday. You will be going on Sunday, won’t you?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Don’t be coy, Nick. It doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll be going. Satisfied?’ He was right. Being coy didn’t suit me.

  ‘I think I might join you. Do you mind?’

  ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘I might even bring a photographer. Who knows what he might capture for posterity?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Shall we meet up first?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Seven o’clock in The Bull in Norbury,’ he said.

  ‘And I’ll expect you to put your hand in your pocket,’ I told him. ‘If I’m giving you copy, you can bloody well pay for it.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  ‘I have got one story you can use on Friday.’

  ‘What?’

  I took the picture of Prince out of my pocket and gave it to him. ‘Help out a lady in distress,’ I said. ‘Find her dog.’

  He looked up at the ceiling. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Come on, Chas. Let’s see the soft heart under the hardbitten exterior. Put a bit in the paper about it at the weekend. You know people love a sob story.’

  ‘And you’ll tell me any developments on the Sector 88 front?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘You’re twisting my arm, but I’ll do a human interest story. Give me her number and I’ll give her a ring. Can I keep the photo?’

  ‘Sure you can.’ I wrote down Sheila Cochran’s number on a paper napkin, and he put it and the photo into his pocket. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,’ I said.

  He pulled a face, called over the waiter and ordered chocolate gateau, coffee and brandy for dessert.

  We finished the meal without mentioning business again, just chatting about old times. When I’d paid the bill, I dropped Chas back at his office and drove to mine. The telephone began to ring when I got inside. I caught the call before the answering machine cut in. ‘Sharman,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Nick. Peter Day.’

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ I said. ‘What’s new?’

  ‘Not a lot. You?’

  ‘I might have something. Any more parcels today?’

  ‘No. I’ve just spoken to Hillerman. Everything’s fine. What have you got?’

  ‘A meeting of Sector 88, at the weekend. I’m going to go along.’

  ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘Why not? They don’t know me.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. I’ll busk it.’

  ‘Are you coming up tonight?’

  ‘Might as well, but we’ve got to stop meeting like this. People will talk.’

  ‘Very funny. Usual place?’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll catch you about nine.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Well done, by the way.’ And he rang off.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon trawling around for more information on Sector 88, but information on that particular nasty little cadre was as rare as hen’s teeth. I was glad I’d spoken to Chas, otherwise I’d’ve begun to feel that my detecting talents were pretty rare also.

  At seven I got into the car and drove to Herne Hill. There was a light on behind the front door of Sheila Cochran’s house again. I rang and she answered and invited me in and offered me tea. I accepted. The house was warm and cosy. It was pleasant to take time out there. She brought in th
e tray and gave me a cup, and offered me a cigarette. I accepted and said, ‘I’m glad you called. I tried to get you yesterday. I’ve found your husband.’

  ‘Well, that’s the bad news,’ she said. ‘Is there any good?’

  I shook my head. ‘He says he hasn’t seen Prince since he left here. There were no signs of a dog in his flat. I didn’t see the whole place, in fact he threw me out, but I was in the kitchen and if there was an animal in the place I’d’ve expected to see feeding bowls there. There was nothing.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked.

  ‘At a flat in a tower block in Kennington.’ I told her the address, but she didn’t make a note of it. I guessed he was off her Christmas card list. ‘He struck me as a not particularly pleasant man,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to mince words with me,’ she said. ‘I told you he was a bastard.’

  ‘Why did you marry him? I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I married him because I felt it was time to get married. Stupid or what?’

  ‘Not really. There are worse reasons.’

  ‘And better. But that’s in the past now. I don’t suppose you’ve managed to find out anything about Prince?’

  ‘I told you I might not,’ I said. ‘But I’ve spoken to a friend of mine. He works on the local paper. He told me he’d put in a piece about him this Friday. I gave him your number. I hope you don’t mind?’

  She smiled for the first time since I’d arrived, and once again it transformed her face. ‘Oh, that is good. I don’t mind in the least. Thank you, Mr Sharman.’

  ‘Call me Nick,’ I said.

  ‘All right, Nick, and you call me Sheila. I don’t know how to thank you. I could never have done that.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure.’

  ‘I was up at the dogs’ home again last night.’

  ‘No good?’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen, Sheila,’ I said. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should think about getting another dog.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But I can’t help thinking that one morning Prince’ll come scratching at the door to be let in for his breakfast.’

  ‘I hope so, Sheila,’ I said. ‘I really do.’

  ‘But it’s been a long time.’

  ‘Dogs are amazing creatures,’ I said. ‘You never know.’

  ‘No, you don’t, do you?’ she said. ‘More tea?’

  I took another cup and sat and chatted until well past eight when I told her I had another appointment, said my farewells and that I’d keep in close touch, and left.

  11

  I went to the car and drove to Brixton once more. I met Day as arranged and we settled into the pattern of the last couple of nights. A few drinks, nothing excessive, and a chat. We were like old friends by then, although he still refused to divulge much about his past. Naturally we talked about Sector 88, and the meeting on Sunday. And my going. Shortly before eleven we drank up and headed for the station. The night was chilly and the streets were quiet. Our footsteps echoed between the buildings as we went. Stan, the night security man, let us into the building. He nodded at me and said something inconsequential to Day. After a few seconds we went through to the production office to get coffee, and for Day to collect his post.

  That night there was the usual thin sheaf of envelopes which Day put into his jacket pocket unopened. He explained that he liked to read his mail when he got home from work in the small hours. There were also four packages. One was a cardboard album envelope. The other three were Jiffy bags. Two were twenty inches by twelve, with printed-out address labels and stickered with the names of major record companies. The other was eight by ten. His name and the station address were neatly typed on a small oblong white label on the front. He opened one of the larger Jiffys and pulled out a boxed set of Lightnin’ Hopkins CDs.

  ‘All right!’ he said. ‘Excellent. I’ve been waiting for these.’

  ‘Good stuff,’ I said.

  ‘The best,’ he replied and reached for the bag with the typed label. He pulled off the tape that sealed the end, and squeezed the edges of the envelope so that the flap opened like a mouth, and stuck his hand inside. He looked puzzled at what he found and pulled it out. At first I thought, as you might think, as you do think when something is such a surprise, such a shock, that you’re imagining it. My eyes wouldn’t actually believe what I was seeing in his hand, and my brain refused to compute what my eyes saw. I thought it was plastic or rubber. A joke shop fake. Anything but skin and flesh and gristle and dried blood.

  He screamed then, in that quiet office with only the sound of the old Mel Tormé record being broadcast drifting through the speakers to disturb it, and dropped what he found himself holding on the desk in front of me. He went to wipe off the sticky gunk of blood and hair that stuck to his fingers on his jeans. Then he realised what he was doing and stopped his hand six inches from his leg, stood and kicked back the chair he was sitting on so that it bounced off the wall behind him and tilted and fell on to the floor with a crash, and ran out of the office towards the nearest toilet. I could hear him retching through the two closed doors between us.

  I knew exactly how he felt. I sat transfixed and stared at the thing he had dropped on to the desk next to the box of CDs. It was a human ear. Small. A child’s or woman’s. Where it had been hacked off there was a rind of dried blood and blond hair. Through the pierced lobe was a silver ear ring. Attached to it by a smaller link was a tiny red cross. It was plastic or bone dyed crimson. I wasn’t going to touch it to find out which.

  As I sat there Day came back into the room. His face was green. Really green. I’ve never seen anyone’s skin that colour in my life. His eyes had sunk into their sockets and there were black circles around them. His hair was sweaty and the fringe was sticking to his forehead. He looked as if he’d been in the pub all day OD’ing on Jack Daniel’s with lager chasers. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked in a voice that I hardly recognised as my own. What a stupid question. It would be a while before either of us was all right again.

  He nodded as if it hurt to move his head. ‘Get Security,’ I said. He looked at me as if I’d started talking in a foreign language. ‘Peter,’ I said, ‘get your security man. Now.’ He shook his head, then nodded again and went to the desk closest to the door and picked up the telephone and punched out a three-figure number. ‘Stan,’ he said when it was picked up at the other end, ‘get into the production office.’ His voice sounded like he’d been kicked in the throat, but it didn’t tremble or shake.

  There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ said Day in answer to a question I couldn’t hear. ‘Get in here, Stan. Now.’ There was another, shorter pause then he lost his cool. ‘Fuck that shit!’ he screamed. ‘Get in here.’ And slammed down the receiver.

  The security man was through the door in less than ten seconds. Something of the way Day felt must have got through to him. I would have been surprised if it hadn’t. Day pointed at the desk and Stan’s eyes widened. ‘What the...?’

  ‘Call the police, Stan,’ I said, and looked at the clock on the office wall. 11.10. Fifty minutes to air time. Tony Bennett was singing about the good life through the speakers.

  Day looked at the clock too and picked up the phone again. He seemed to have regained some of his professional composure. He tapped out another three-digit number. When the phone was answered, he said: ‘Tim?’ A pause. ‘Come down to the production office, will you? Fast.’

  By this time Stan was on another phone. He was stuttering and gesticulating. I lit a cigarette. It tasted like death. It was death in a way, I suppose. I sucked down the smoke and wished for something alcoholic. Day took the packet out of my hand and lit one for himself. It was the first time I’d seen him smoke.

  Tim, who I later discovered was the newsreader, arrived and Day grabbed him. He showed him the ear and
Tim blanched. Just then the police started hammering at the front door and Stan split to answer it. Tim offered to take Day’s show, but he declined. Like I said, a real pro. Besides, something big was happening and he obviously wanted to be around.

  Stan brought the police through to the production office. The station was just around the corner, and I suppose Sunset Radio was quite important as far as local politics/community liaison was concerned. Also I imagine ears don’t get sent through the post every day.

  There were six coppers altogether in the first wave. A lot more were going to show up as the night went along. Three were uniform, three plainclothes. Obviously they’d been hanging around the station when the call went out, and all wanted to get in on the act. One of the plainclothes knew Peter Day. He was a Detective Sergeant by the name of Charlie Harper. Apparently he’d been on the show a couple of times fielding questions mainly asked by angry black people and women who thought that the police were racist, sexist, fascist thugs. Perhaps they were right, or partly right. Perhaps some policemen were. But the next time you get an ear through the post, I bet you call the cops before you call a black radical feminist group.

  Stan took one more look at what had been in the bag and left.

  Harper went straight to the desk and looked at the ear. He was a youngish thirty-five in a crumpled suit, with the face of someone who’d seen it all. He shook his head and went over to Day. ‘You look like shit,’ he said.

  ‘I feel worse.’

  ‘But not as bad as whoever belonged to that,’ said Harper, and gestured towards the desk.

  Day didn’t reply.

  Harper looked over at me, still sitting in the chair I’d been sitting in all along, feeling about as much good in the situation as a spare prick at a wedding. Less, in fact. ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Nick Sharman. He’s a private detective,’ replied Day.

  ‘So you’re Sharman,’ said Harper. ‘I’ve heard all about you. What are you doing here?’