by Tony White
Rex knew what that meant.
Wow.
Susan had been the perfect antidote to the shitstorms at work. Rex was aware of his tendency – wasn’t it everyone’s? – to practically canonise any new lover or romantic interest, but right now, as far as he was concerned, Susan really could do no wrong. Whether that was their lazy breakfast in bed the Saturday lunchtime just gone, listening to a Congolese rumba show, of all things, that she had somehow found on the radio, or her persuading him to pop into Richer Sounds to buy a new flat-screen TV and ditch the old cathode-ray tube model – something that he then wished he’d done years ago – Rex didn’t know what he was going to do without her. Of course there were always shitstorms at work and Rex had always weathered them, but the eager anticipation of a romantic date later on was definitely the best way to get through the most tedious or testing day.
And there was no shortage of those. At the moment it seemed every day was a total bastard. With the SiC inspection due to start tomorrow, everyone in the building from Detective Chief Superintendent Tabitha Churchill on down was now officially on tenterhooks. Everyone was twitchy, the whole place under heavy manners, and not without reason, because for the foreseeable future Holborn Police Station would have company. So – in Lollo’s words – it was time to get the best china out.
If the inspections at Ealing and Paddington Green were anything to go by – and they’d all been poring over the reports – there would be a couple of team leaders from Her Majesty’s Inspectorates – one from Prisons, the other Constabulary – plus three or four inspectors, again drawn from both directorates, and most likely the HMIP would be bringing along a couple of researchers and a healthcare inspector, while, not to be left out, the Care Quality Commission would probably want some bodies in there too. So that would be anything from eight to a dozen-strong team, with an agreed schedule of work – all questionnaire this, and ‘intrusive dip sample’ that – but also, in Lollo’s memorable words, ‘with absolute Cate fucking Blanchett to go anywhere and speak to anyone they bloody want to, from PC gaolers to custody sergeants to eighty-ones to convicted criminals who began their arrest journeys here.
‘They’ll be looking at Gnat’s Piss training, custody training, risk-assessment training, UFO-incidents training, pre-release risk-management training, you name it. So if they turn up wanting to speak to you, be frank and truthful and remember, fawn or flatter all you like, it won’t wash. So just knuckle down, speak when you’re spoken to, and get used to it. ’Cause if any of you lot show me up, I’ll fucking have you. Honour bright I will.’
He didn’t need to expand. No one who had ever seen Lollo angry or been on the receiving end wanted a repeat performance. It wasn’t just a pose. Detective Chief Inspector Jethro Lawrence made apoplexy an art form; made Sir Alex Ferguson look like a lightweight.
The only good thing was that there’d been no more noise on the Tennyson front. As Lollo had said, whatever that leak had been about, whether it had indeed been a shot across the bows, or something intended to do more substantial damage, they appeared to have got away with it this time. Although of course – as Rex told Lollo – just because they’d had the official all-clear from upstairs didn’t mean whoever it was had gone away or wouldn’t have another pop.
That much was certain, at least.
There’d always be someone wanting to have a pop.
‘Aye, there will that,’ said Lollo.
And they might be closer to home than you think, thought Rex.
It was six forty-five by the time he left the station, so he ran up the Falcon stairs two at a time. Quick shower and a shave and tidy the place up a bit before strolling along to meet Susan. He didn’t need to think about what he was going to wear, because he’d picked up a couple of new Fred Perrys in Lamb’s Conduit Street at lunchtime. When it came to buying Fred Perrys, ‘white or bright’ was Rex’s motto. Reach a certain age, he had discovered, and if you’re wearing a black Fred Perry people assume you’re the staff. Black Fred Perrys were a young man’s game. He’d given the ones he’d had to the charity shop and never bought another. Tonight was more rose-red than pastel-blue, he figured, so took that one out of the bag and laid it on the bed, along with a pair of off-white chinos and a black leather belt; navy deck shoes. He put the white wine in the fridge and a bottle of better-than-usual Australian Shiraz on the table with a couple of glasses, then he did the drying up and the putting away. He straightened the cushions, bleached the loo, and opened the smaller windows to air the place.
So when the knock on the door came, at least the flat was looking nice.
When the knock on the door came, he was having a shave.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
They knocked again, but harder this time.
Rex splashed his face.
They knocked again.
‘Coming,’ said Rex from the bathroom.
He walked across to the front door drying his hands and face, and looked through the spyhole.
Strange, he thought. What were Lollo and Eddie Webster doing coming around at this time?
Didn’t they know he was on a promise?
Then he saw the coat hangers on the stairs behind them.
Bill and Ben.
Why would— Oh, yeah.
Mob-handed, he thought.
Fuck.
30: CHARME (HORNBEAM)
Rex opened his front door before they could bash it down.
Lollo and Webster came in; the PCs stayed outside on the step.
‘Cup of tea?’ said Rex. ‘Coffee?’
‘Can I have a glass of water, please?’ said Eddie Webster.
‘Well, you can help yourself to that,’ said Rex. ‘You know where everything is.’
Webster let the cold-water tap run for a bit, and then filled a glass and took a taste. He made a face: ‘Got any ice?’
‘Yeah, guess where!’ said Rex. ‘And don’t tell me that the water tastes better in fucking Essex.’
‘Nowt for me, thanks,’ said Lollo, looking around. Was he admiring the place or doing the old six-point? Rex couldn’t tell. ‘You’ve got it looking nice,’ Lollo added, but that meant nothing. ‘I like that bird motif on your wallpaper. What’s that, then?’
‘Swifts,’ said Rex, remembering a sky filled with a continuously unfolding aerobatic display, the impossible geometries carved through the air by the tiny brown birds. ‘Thanks. Helen chose it back in the day, but they remind me of my childhood. It’s Sanderson’s.’
‘Eh?’
‘Sanderson’s, Lol. It’s the make. It’s 1930s, but Heal’s had a reproduction. Well, you fucking asked.’ He paused. ‘Anyway.’
DS Eddie Webster dropped a couple of ice cubes into his glass, and then shoved the tray back in the freezer compartment. ‘Expecting someone?’ he said, looking at the expensive bottle of Hornbeam Shiraz and the two glasses that were standing on a mat on Rex’s dining table. ‘You old fox.’
‘What?’ said Rex. ‘Do you think I drink fucking Buckfast like you? Course I’m fucking expecting someone. Or they’re expecting me. She. Susan, her name is. If that’s okay with you.’
‘Sit down, son,’ said Lollo, pulling a chair out from under the table. ‘We wanted a word.’
Webster put his glass of water on the table, then he picked up the Shiraz and the glasses and placed them on the side next to Rex’s newspaper – which was open at the Quick Crossword as usual – before sitting down himself.
Rex noticed something on the floor next to Webster. ‘I think you dropped something, Eddie,’ he said.
Webster looked down. ‘Oh fuck, yeah. Ear-plug. Thanks.’
He looked at Rex then patted his gut with both hands, like some Georgian John Bull. ‘Swimming. Helen’s orders.’
Rex didn’t have time to respond, because Lollo cleared his throat; drew a line.
The frivolities were over.
So this wasn’t a social visit, then.
But, truth be told, Rex
already knew that.
Rex already feared the worst.
The only question was, what did they have?
Had they made the connection with Couvoir?
Had something come up in the pre-SiC audit?
Had he overlooked something in the Tennyson paper trail, or worse: left tracks?
Had they found his finger-prints, digital or otherwise?
Say nothing, he thought.
See what they’ve got.
See who would speak first.
Because if this was what he thought it was, they’d have planned how to play it.
He’d done it himself enough times.
It was a simple matter of tactics, order of play: me then you, or whatever.
If Lollo spoke next and then handed over to Eddie, this would be about Terence and the Royal Palace Theatre.
If it was the other way around, it would be Tennyson. But then, if it was Tennyson, why were Bill and Ben here?
He didn’t relish either prospect, but the fact that it was these two – Lollo and Webster – and not a couple of plain-clothes from another station, or another service altogether, the fact that they were being polite rather than bundling him into a car, already meant that it wasn’t something more serious. Or if it were, that they were biding their time.
Perhaps they hadn’t got that yet. They might have, but then again, they could just be holding fire, digging around. Waiting to itemise a list of charges and then pounce. Don’t even think about that, Rex admonished himself. You’ll only invite Mr Freud along, and slip up. Just listen and see what they’ve got. Get them comfy and speak when you’re spoken to.
He had a word with himself. Be unafraid, he thought. Be very unafraid!
‘All set for tomorrow, then?’ he said, taking the seat that Detective Chief Inspector Lawrence had offered.
‘Are you gonna tell him, or am I?’ said Lollo.
Oh shit, thought Rex. They hadn’t seen through his elaborate set-dressing in the paint frame, had they? But then Webster spoke.
‘We saw your window was open, so we come up on the off-chance. Lollo thought you should know that it looks like your mate’s in the clear after all.’
Rex didn’t need to act relieved, but he almost had to stop himself from bursting out laughing. ‘That’s great!’ he said. ‘I knew it! I told you!’
‘Aye, you did,’ said Lollo. ‘I wanted you to know soon as.’
‘I knew it,’ said Rex, more quietly this time, clenching his fist. Then: ‘Hang on, what have I missed? Who was it, then?’
‘You’ll not believe it,’ said Lollo. ‘Turns out it were a copper.’
Rex shook his head in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘The victim,’ said Eddie. ‘A French copper. When Sue Stanza’s mob compared the DNA with the ENFSI datasets—’
Lollo interrupted: ‘Robert,’ he said (pronouncing it ‘Rob-air’), ‘is votre fucking uncle.’
‘So who is he, then?’ asked Rex. ‘This frog?’
‘Name’s Francis Coyvoor,’ said the Detective Chief Inspector.
‘It’s Couvoir, sir,’ said Eddie. ‘Fron-swah Coo-vwah.’
‘Anyroad, he’s an high-up from Paris,’ Lollo continued, ‘or used to be, until last week. Senior anti-terror. But that’s not the worst of it.’
‘There’s more?’ Rex asked.
‘Not half,’ said Lollo. ‘The knife—’
‘The billhook? Under the workbench?’ Rex asked.
‘Aye, the one you found,’ said Lollo. ‘It’s his, they reckon. Turns out to have his prints all over it. But it gets worse—’
Rex was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘What?’
‘Beggars belief, it does,’ said Lollo.
‘It looks like he cut – off – his – own – fucking – nose!’ said Eddie, chiming in with the gory bit like a kid unable to hide his delight in this grotesquery. ‘Can you fucking imagine how painful that would be? Oooh, it brings tears to my eyes, mate, I tell you.’
‘What? To spite his face?’ said Rex.
‘Summat like that,’ said Lollo, chuckling. ‘Fuck knows. Same time as he hung himself, they reckon, give or take.’
‘Jesus fuck!’ said Rex. Then: ‘Well, where the fuck was it, then? I didn’t see any spare fucking noses knocking about in there. Did you, Webbo?’
‘No, I fucking didn’t,’ said Eddie, laughing.
‘Rats must have taken it, Fuck Me reckon,’ said Lollo. ‘Old Sue Stanza. That’s her theory.’
‘Oh, no! You are fucking kidding!’ Eddie and Rex both recoiled in pantomime disgust, as if this vile scene were playing out on the table between them. ‘Uuuuurgh!’
‘We’ve had to bounce it up, of course,’ said Lollo. ‘Diplomatic channels, in’t it. Turns out he’d gone AWOL from Paris a few days before. Hopped on fucking Eurostar. Some sort of breakdown, they reckon: PTSD. Gone on a bit of a spending spree while he’s been here and all. Using his cards all over. Bond Street, Chelsea, you name it. We’ve got him on CCTV, the lot. Exemplary record otherwise.’
Like hell, thought Rex, but he just said, ‘Why the Royal fucking Palace? Why not just—’
‘What? Check into a cheap motel and blow his brains out with his standard-issue, like every other fucker?’
‘Something like that, yeah,’ said Rex.
‘Fuck knows,’ said Lollo. ‘He could have gone to Pamplona and got gored by a fucking bull, for all I care. What a needless waste, eh? Maybe he were just trying every door and by chance it were this one that opened. Apparently security on that stage door’s been on the blink for a bit. And it’s not as if your mate has any connection with France. We’ve checked. He’s not been there once. So it’s—’
‘Totally. Fucking. Random!’ said Eddie, brightly.
‘So you can tell your mate he’s off the hook,’ said Lollo. ‘Without a smudge on his name. Not that you’ve any idea where he is, of course.’
‘Course,’ said Rex, deadpan. ‘Jesus! Who’d have fucking thought it, eh?’
‘Turn-up, in’t it,’ said Lollo, standing up. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Cheers, sir,’ said Rex. ‘Case closed, then. Hoo-fucking-ray!’
‘Bright lad, that Jimmy Rattle,’ said Lollo, nodding in the general direction of the coat hangers outside as Rex showed him to the door. ‘Him and Binder Singh. Bloody Bill and Ben, eh? They remind me of you two. “The Likely Lads”, we used to call you. D’you know that? Always mucking about, you were. Long time ago now, eh? Anyroad, I’m glad you put all that business with Helen behind you. It is behind you, in’t it?’
Rex nodded and shrugged. ‘Yeah.’ And he meant it. He wasn’t going to play a lovelorn Demetrius to Helen’s disinterested Hermia any longer.
Eddie nodded too. ‘Yeah, ’s ancient history, sir.’
‘Champion,’ said Lollo. ‘’Cause I was thinking of asking you two to take young Rattle and Singh under your wings a bit; mentoring or whatnot. Me and Eddie were gonna take them for a pint or two up at The Queen’s Larder and then have a bite of pizza to celebrate. Or Cagneys, if they’re full. My treat. Plus, you know: SiC tomorrow. Condemned man, and all that. But it looks like you’ve got some plans of your own already, eh?’
Rex nodded.
‘Well, there’s no accounting for taste,’ said Lollo. Then, with a wink: ‘Lick ’er out for us, Kingsy, eh?’
‘Sir?’ said Rex.
‘What?’
Rex gave him the finger with both hands. ‘Fuck off, you Northern bastard!’
Once he’d shut the door behind them, Rex could hear Lollo singing as he walked down Falcon’s stairs.
‘“A dignified and potent officer”,’ he sang, ‘“whose functions are particularly vital!”’
It was something cheerful from The Mikado, one of Rex’s grandmother’s favourites, and he could hear Lollo’s voice fading – the gradual diminuendo – as he went further down the stairs:
Taken from the county jail,
By a set of curious
chances;
Liberated then on bail,
On my own recognisances.
He’s in a good fucking mood, thought Rex, shaking his head. He wasn’t the only one either. This evening’s supper with Susan was turning into a double celebration. Or was it a triple? He was losing count. Fucking Lollo! Rex wanted nothing more than to chin the cunt, but he’d have to be a bit cleverer than that; take it slowly. And right now, Rex had more important things to think about. For one thing, thanks to his fucking DCI, he was late.
He pulled on the new Perry and gave himself a quick spray of Floris. He used the letterbox to pull the door to behind him, like he always did, and then it was down the steps two at a time.
Rats, indeed!
Rex was good at thinking on his feet, and that was one of the best.
Taken by rats! Fuck me!
As he crossed over Southampton Row and walked along Bloomsbury Way towards Coptic Street – where Susan would be waiting by now – Rex knew perfectly well where Couvoir’s nose was. Wasn’t it an old Spike Milligan gag: ‘I have the body of an eighteen-year-old. I keep it in the fridge’?
Rex had nearly had a heart attack when Eddie had asked for ice. Webster might have got more than he’d bargained for if he’d dug around in the freezer compartment, behind the bag of frozen peas. That would have been Rex hoist with his own petard right there! It would have served him right, too, for not getting shot of them sooner, but he’d got away with it, again.
Got away with it for now.
He and Terence both.
Fucking hell.
But tonight was about Susan. He was looking forward to seeing what she’d bought in Agent Provocateur. Some sort of 1950s girdle thing, perhaps, and some black-seamed stockings? A half-cup bra from which it would be all the easier to scoop out those beautiful breasts of hers. Rex was looking forward to a big helping of Susan’s sugar tonight. Fuck the bread and olives. Fuck the dough balls. Fuck the Margheritas and the Napoletanas. Fuck the Four Seasons, the Formaggi and the Sloppy Giuseppe. Fuck the Fiorentinas and the Venezianas, the American Hots and the Sohos and the Giardinieras. Fuck the mixed salads and the coleslaw. Fuck the Classic and the Romana bases. Fuck all of that. Given half the chance, he would bend Susan over the table in her new Agent Provocateur underwear, spread her legs and fuck her right there in the ceramic-tiled interior of the Coptic Street Pizza Express.