Falls the Shadow

by Mark Timlin

‘I’m helping the station on another matter.’

  ‘Helping? I suppose that’s one way of describing what you do. Stay there, I’ll talk to you later.’

  I did as I was told. But somehow my eyes kept coming back to that ear lying on the top of the desk in front of me. Another of the plainclothes guys was a scenes of crime officer, SOCO. He went out to his car and brought back a black leather briefcase from which he took out a pair of thin rubber gloves. He opened the Jiffy with a pair of long tweezers. He was a witty type of guy in his own way. ‘You Pete Day?’ he asked.

  Day nodded and lit another of my cigarettes. I did the same.

  ‘Bit early for Christmas presents.’ The SOCO squinted into the envelope and said, ‘There’s a piece of paper in here.’

  ‘Let’s see it then,’ said Charlie Harper. ‘Don’t piss about, Jack.’

  He put the tweezers into the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. It was stained with blood and a paler, lighter liquid which had dried an obscene rusty yellowy-pink on the paper. I felt my guts rumble and had to look away. The smoke suddenly tasted sour in my mouth and I stubbed out the cigarette.

  Jack unfolded the paper carefully with rubber-covered fingers, only touching it at the edges. He read it and grunted. ‘Fan mail, Pete,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve got a friend.’

  ‘Read it, Jack,’ said Harper patiently. You get used to clowns in his business. If not, you don’t last long.

  Jack cleared his throat, like he was about to make an Oscar acceptance speech. ‘“Dear Pete,”’ he read, ‘“you didn’t believe me tonight when we talked. I was very upset by your attitude. I only wanted to be friendly. Maybe you’ll believe me now. I’ll call you again soon.” It’s signed John. Well, not signed, it’s all typed. Same machine as did the label on the bag it came in, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Christ!’ I said. And it all came back to me. John. John from Stockwell. The crazy who’d called on Monday night and told Day that he enjoyed killing people.

  ‘You know this John?’ asked Harper, looking first at me then at Day. The other coppers were all looking at us too, as if we might have arranged for the ear to be delivered. Like a pizza.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ said Day. ‘He called the show. First on Monday, then again last night.’

  ‘Do you remember what he said?’ asked Harper.

  ‘He said he liked killing, the first time. I cut him off.’

  ‘Seems he took it personally,’ said Jack, pulling off his rubber gloves and reaching for the telephone. ‘And cut something off himself. It might be better to humour him in future.’ Then to Charlie Harper, ‘I’m going to get this over to forensic. It’ll make their night.’ Then to no one in particular, ‘How do you get a line out on this?’

  ‘Dial nine,’ said Day. ‘Then the number you want.’

  ‘What did he say last night?’ Harper asked.

  Day explained that John had told him he had sent him a present. He gestured at the ear as he said it. But he had thought that John was referring to the box of shit that had come from Sector 88.

  Harper said that he knew all about that.

  ‘So it looks like two separate groups are sending you things through the mail,’ Harper concluded, with a look that said: what’s it like to be Mr Popular? ‘Do you remember anything else about the calls?’

  Day shook his head. ‘No. But my engineer might think of something. I only spoke to the guy for a few seconds. He was just another nut. Do you know how many of those phone in each week?’

  Harper said nothing.

  ‘It’ll be on the log, won’t it?’ I said. I was trying hard to make some useful contribution to the situation.

  ‘Do what?’ Harper said.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Day. ‘We record everything that goes out on air. We keep the recordings for three months. In case we want to repeat something, or there’s a complaint or a court case or something. The calls will be on Monday’s and last night’s tapes. You can hear them for yourself.’ He looked up at the clock. It was seven minutes to twelve. ‘I’m on soon.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to it?’ said Tim the newsreader.

  ‘This bloke’s going to call me,’ said Day. ‘I’d better be there… Sergeant?’ He looked over at the policeman for confirmation.

  Harper looked at the other officers then back at Day. ‘Can you handle it?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had quite a shock.’

  ‘He wants to talk. To talk to me.’

  ‘If he calls,’ I said. ‘You were pretty rough on him last night.’

  ‘If he calls, he’ll want to talk to me,’ said Day. ‘And I think he will. He might get mad if I’m not there.’

  ‘And God knows how he’d behave if he got mad. Huh, Pete? He might do something really desperate,’ said Jack who was hanging on the phone and still examining the ear that lay on the desk as if he didn’t want to part with it. Like a kid with a new toy. Personally I wished he’d just put it in an evidence bag and get the thing out of the room.

  Harper made up his mind. ‘Do it, Peter,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to be in the studio with you. If he calls we’ll try and get a trace on the call.’

  Whenever they try stunts like that in films, it always works. In real life it rarely does. Men like John are suss enough to use a public phone and by the time the police get there, the receiver will be swinging at the end of its cable like a hanged man. I looked at the ear, and Harper, and Tim, and Peter Day, and Jack, and the other coppers in the room, and I felt the horror again. I wondered how Peter Day could bear to do it. The last thing I’d’ve wanted to do right then was to talk to some crazy fucker who sent parts of bodies through the post like greetings cards.

  Jack stayed in the office, and Harper ordered two of the uniforms to secure the room after he’d taken the ear to forensic. The rest of us went up the stairs to the studio. Day, Tim and Charlie Harper took the lead, and the other two coppers were close behind. I was last.

  Stretch was leaning against the door to the engineer’s booth next to Studio Two. ‘Cutting it fine, bro,’ he said. I don’t suppose he knew he’d made a joke. Even the sight of the coppers pounding up the stairs didn’t faze him. He just shrugged and went into his booth. Day leaned his head in after him.

  ‘Let’s get this show on the road, Stretch,’ he said. ‘There’s a whole lot of shit going down. It’s a different kind of show tonight. Load up some music. I’ll talk to you in a minute.’ Stretch nodded and began to sort through a pile of CDs on his desk, but never asked why.

  Our little posse trooped into the studio behind Day. The clock said three to eleven. ‘Fast’ Eddie Felton, who DJ’d the previous show, was wrapping up. He had no idea what had been happening downstairs, and sounded perfectly normal. Tim went up to his cupboard to read the news. Day sat at the console and slipped a pair of headphones round his neck. Two to twelve. Eddie signed off and on came a commercial for a local carpet shop, followed by another for a car dealer in Clapham. One to twelve. A station announcement and a promo for the breakfast show. Thirty seconds to go, and a short promo for the programme, and Tim came in smoothly with the headlines. The studio was full of people. Too full for Day, and there was too much noise. ‘Shut up,’ he ordered. We did. He was captain of the ship, and he knew it. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s too crowded in here. I feel like shit. This is not going to work. Charlie, Nick, you stay. The rest of you, get out. The switchboard’s next door.’

  ‘Why him?’ said Harper, gesturing to me.

  ‘He’s a friend,’ said Day, and looked at me with eyes that were full of such desolation I had to look away. ‘I need a friend right now.’

  ‘OK,’ said Harper reluctantly. ‘But, remember, if this John character calls, keep him talking.’

  ‘He’ll call,’ Day said.

  ‘Frank,’ said Harper to the other plainclothesman, ‘get in the other room on to
the switchboard and make sure that the phone people know what’s going on. We don’t want to miss this joker, and we haven’t got much time. You know what the code is?’ He was referring to the special codes that the police use when they need co-operation from Telecom. Frank nodded, and he and the other uniformed officer went in to join Stretch.

  Day flipped the toggle on the intercom and said, ‘Stretch, these gentlemen will be needing your help. Just do what they say. They’ll tell you why. OK?’

  Stretch didn’t look happy about his domain being invaded, but nodded nevertheless. Day knocked the toggle off, and I saw Frank speak to Stretch and get straight on to the phone that went through the station’s main switchboard. Tim finished reading the news and went on to the weather. Stretch was talking on the phone-in switchboard, and flipped down the toggle on his mike and came through to Day’s headphones. I picked up the spare set and held them so that both Harper and I could listen. ‘There’s people calling in already,’ he said.

  ‘Anyone named John?’ Day asked.

  Stretch shook his head behind the glass.

  ‘What music you got on the deck?’

  ‘Moonglow.’

  The theme from the film Picnic, starring William Holden and Kim Novak, 1956. I could play Trivial Pursuit for money.

  Upstairs, Tim introduced the show and, without introduction, Stretch cued in Moonglow. As the tune played we watched him answering the phone. I could see his lips moving but couldn’t hear his voice. As the lush strings of the record faded he flipped down his mike toggle and said, ‘I’ve got that geezer on the dog. John.’

  Day looked at Charlie Harper and said, ‘Told you.’ The policeman stood up and went and opened the studio door and whispered something to the other uniformed copper who was standing outside. Then he turned to Day and pointed his index finger at him. Day looked through the glass into the control room. ‘Stick him through, Stretch,’ he said. ‘Let’s boogie.’ He was hanging tough. Pretending to be cold and hard. But he was shaking like a shitting dog, and I’d seen that look in his eyes when he’d said he needed a friend. I heard the click of the connection in my earphones and Day pushed up the volume on his mike and said, ‘John?’

  ‘You sound strange, Peter,’ said a voice I recognised as the caller from the two previous nights. Even now, I can still hear that voice inside my head.

  ‘Frog in my throat, John,’ said Day. ‘Thanks for calling. How are you tonight?’

  ‘Fine,’ he replied. ‘Nice tune you were playing. It quite takes me back.’

  ‘Me too, John. Me too,’ said Day. ‘So speak to me. Share your thoughts.’

  ‘Did you ever see that film, Peter?’ said John. ‘The film that music came from.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Day.

  ‘I saw it when I was a kid,’ said John. ‘I was in love with Kim Novak then.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Day. He glanced over at Harper and me, and I saw that look in his eyes again.

  ‘She looked like Kim Novak,’ said John.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’

  I remembered the blond hair and blood on Day’s fingers and tasted vomit in the back of my throat. I could tell he remembered too by the way he instinctively wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

  ‘Don’t you, Peter?’ said John after a moment, and his voice was as distant as the Milky Way, and as close as a lover’s kiss.

  ‘I know,’ said Day. ‘Who was she, John?’

  ‘Just someone I met.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the world, Peter. There are a lot of people like her. In the world. Have you told the police?’

  I was beginning to wonder what this conversation sounded like to the listening public. They probably thought Day was off his rocker. ‘What do you think, John?’ he asked.

  ‘I think you have. I think they’re in there with you trying to trace this call. Tell them to dream on. You’ll never catch me. But now I think we’ve spoken enough for tonight. I’ll call you again tomorrow. Have a nice night. Sweet dreams.’ And we were listening to dead air. Then the dialling tone. Day closed the transmission mike, and slipped in the cart for a thirty-second commercial, and that was that. He pressed down the toggle on the internal mike.

  ‘Stretch, cue up some music. You drive me. Just tell me what you’re going to play and I’ll introduce it. I think I’m going to have to talk to Mr Harper here. Choose mellow kit. Keep it sweet and low. Did you get that call on tape?’

  ‘Every word,’ Stretch came back. ‘Is it true?’ The copper in the other room must have told him.

  Day nodded through the glass.

  ‘Heavy shit,’ said Stretch.

  ‘Music,’ said Day. ‘Close down the switchboard. Let reception take all the garbage.’

  Stretch nodded then his voice came through the speakers. ‘Blue Velvet by The Clovers.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Day said, and re-opened the transmission mike. ‘Tonight is a different kind of night,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to take any more phone calls this evening. I think that one was enough. So no more talk, just music. Music like they don’t make any more. And first off, the mellowest version of Blue Velvet from Atlantic Records, New York City 1955. The Clovers.’ The music started and he cut the mike.

  ‘Very good,’ said Harper. ‘You’re a pro.’

  ‘That’s my job,’ said Day. ‘I feel like I’ve just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. When this show is finished I’m going to collapse. Any luck with tracing the call?’

  ‘I’ll find out.’ Harper stood up and went outside.

  Day looked at me. ‘Fuck!’ he said. ‘Why us?’

  There was no answer to that. Harper came back and answered Day’s and my enquiring looks. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He’s still out there.’

  ‘That’s a pleasant thought,’ I said.

  Somehow Day got through the next hour. Stretch chose the music just right. He timed it and the commercials perfectly. He worked out that if he played a long track about four minutes to one, went straight into a commercial break, then the news and weather, more commercials and back for another long track, Day could get an eleven-minute break off air around the hour. At four minutes to exactly Day introduced Careless Love by Ray Charles and left his chair. He was sweating and begged me for another cigarette.

  Tony Hillerman was waiting in the corridor outside. He didn’t look like the happiest man in the world. Someone must have called him in or else he’d been listening to the show. All three of us walked along to the fire exit, climbed the back stairs to the roof and Day and I lit a cigarette each. Charlie Harper followed us a minute later. I leant against part of the air-conditioning unit that towered over the roof and tried not to listen as they talked at Day. I looked across the railway lines towards town. The night was cold and getting colder.

  He was out there, John or whatever the hell his name really was. John the ear cutter. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe he was listening to the sweet music that Stretch was playing. Maybe he was stalking another victim. Or maybe he already had one in some blood-stained room that echoed with her screams, drowning out the sound of Ray Charles on the radio.

  12

  Hillerman had nearly given himself a coronary. He demanded to know why Day had let John from Stockwell on air. He tried to explain, but Hillerman wouldn’t listen. Charlie Harper butted in and shut him up.

  ‘I asked Peter to talk to him,’ he said.

  ‘This is my station,’ said Hillerman. ‘I’m in control of programming.’

  Programming! I ask you.

  ‘Leave it, Tony,’ said Day. ‘I wanted to take the call.’

  ‘Do you realise this could close the station down?’ Hillerman retorted.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Day, throwing the cigarette down on the roof and crushing it with his shoe.

  ‘Just you wait and see,’ said Hillerman, ra
ther petulantly I thought.

  ‘I’ll do that little thing,’ said Day. ‘But meanwhile I’ve got a show to finish.’ We went back, and he and Stretch put together a music programme as they went along. Meanwhile, downstairs all hell was breaking loose. The first call came from one of the tabloids. Someone had telephoned a reporter after hearing the show, and he had telephoned a contact at Brixton police station. The word was out around the corridors and the reporter came straight on looking for someone to talk to. Tony Hillerman took the call. He tried to squirm out of telling the truth, but a mixture of clever questioning by the reporter and Hillerman’s own stupidity let the story out. By six am Sunset were reporting on the hourly news bulletins a censored version of what had happened.

  An hour later the street outside was full of reporters and radio and TV news teams. Peter Day and I were still in the building waiting for the results of a hastily convened board meeting. Though why I should have bothered to wait, I don’t know. I just thought that Peter needed someone in his corner. Plus, of course, I’m naturally nosy.

  The board decided to pull the programme immediately. They pulled Day too. ‘Fully paid leave of absence’ they called it.

  Meanwhile Charlie Harper arranged for all the station’s post to be re-routed and checked by the police before it got to the building.

  After Day heard that he was off the air, he, Harper and I sat in the production office. Harper got on the phone to the police laboratory. When he was finished, I asked: ‘So?’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So what did they find out?’

  ‘Now why should I tell you? You shouldn’t even be here by rights.’

  ‘Would you rather I was outside talking to the press?’ I asked.

  Harper gave me a dirty look.

  ‘Well, would you?’ I pressed.

  ‘Obviously not, Mr Sharman.’

  ‘Look, I’m on your side,’ I said. ‘I’m being paid by the station to look into another matter…’

  ‘I am aware of why you’re here.’

  ‘Fine. And I’m telling you that all this is too heavy for me. I’m not going to step on anyone’s toes, but I think Peter deserves to know what’s going on at least. He helped you out by talking to this loony and now he’s paying the price. If you want me to go, I will, but he’ll only tell me as soon as we see each other again.’