by Moody, Susan
Milo was in full breathless, arse-licking mode and Chris Kearns was sucking it up. I realized that if I never saw either of them again, it would be too soon. And that was despite the smouldering appeal Milo had originally presented, and the main reason for me staying with the group in the first place.
Across the table from each other, Charlotte and I wore identical expressions of tedium, although we tried to hide it, she better than me. The room was noisy, the food disgusting. Toying with a Lamb Rogan Josh, I couldn’t help remembering an article I’d seen recently about an Indian restaurant kitchen where there were mice droppings everywhere, filthy pipes, rotting woodwork, raw meat stored in contaminated plastic bins, food three months out of date. My head began to pound. I felt nauseous.
Kearns asked me what I did and seemed genuinely interested when I described my anthologies. ‘I shall have to buy one,’ he said. ‘I’ve got various arty friends who would love a copy. What led you into this line of work?’
Again I explained.
‘Opted out of the police force?’ he said. ‘I’m not surprised. I imagine that becomes a bit soul-destroying after a while.’
‘If you’re in the CID, yes, it can. The sheer ugliness of the way people treat their fellow human beings is astonishing.’
‘Especially, I would think, if children or young people are involved.’
‘Precisely.’
He shook his head. ‘Some of the things you read about in the paper … some of the stuff people get away with these days … complete lack of empathy for others, we’re breeding monsters … it makes you despair. Or want to join a vigilante group. Make the punishment fit the crime, an eye for an eye, all that primitive biblical stuff.’
Despite my feelings about public lavatories, I was beginning to think he wasn’t as bad as I’d anticipated.
‘You’ve recently had a couple of rather grisly cases round here, haven’t you?’ he went on.
‘Grisly isn’t quite the word. Worse than that, in one instance.’ Although I hadn’t seen it, I had to shake the image of Tristan’s tortured body out of my head.
‘Nutters,’ he said. ‘The world is full of them. When I think of the number of—’
He was heading for a full-blown rant. ‘What led to you becoming an actor?’ I asked quickly.
‘The usual sort of thing. My father was an amateur comedian, played the local pubs on Friday nights, further round the coast from here, near Brighton. My mother sang semi-professionally. I grew up with public performance as part of the norm.’ He shrugged self-deprecatingly. ‘I was pretty hopeless at school – pretty hopeless at everything, when it came right down to it. Not stupid, just not good at schoolwork, discipline and so on. I call it the Churchill Syndrome: the great man was useless at school, and went on to achieve in later life.’
‘As you did.’
‘Eventually. The Army wouldn’t have me because I’m too short-sighted, the police wouldn’t have me because I’m too short.’ He shrugged again. ‘In desperation, I embarked on one of those government-sponsored training courses in plumbing, but my wrists were too weak, apprenticed myself to the butcher (allergic to raw meat), the baker (allergic to wheat flour), the candlestick maker (tallow brought me out in hives) and opted out of them all in short order. Got taken on by a garden maintenance company but suffered from hay fever, and gave that up the minute I could.’
‘Gosh …’ This was beginning to sound like a practise run for one of his stand-up routines.
‘Then there was the dairy farm, where I got kicked in the head by a cow and was concussed for a week, plus the chicken farm where I dropped a pallet holding a thousand eggs.’ He smiled wryly. ‘In the end, there didn’t seem be much option really, but to go back to my roots and try to follow in my father’s footsteps, the chicken farm providing a whole heap of material to work up into a routine for the pubs and clubs. And once I done a few gigs, the London lot started to come down to assess my performance and eventually one thing led to another, the way it so often does.’
‘Success at last.’
‘Right.’ He grinned. I had to admit he was engaging. ‘The abridged version of Chapters One to Ten of my autobiography! For free!’
Smiles and nods all round. After that, there didn’t seem a whole lot to say. For all his screen antics it seemed obvious that he was, like so many clowns, a melancholy personality at heart. Gradually the conversation began to peter out, and we sat in uneasy semi-silence until in desperation, I stood up.
‘Look, guys, I’m terribly sorry,’ I lied, avoiding Milo’s eye, ‘but I have to get home. My mother’s staying with me and I don’t like leaving the poor old dear alone for too long.’ Mary would have been spinning in her grave if she heard me describe her like that. Not that she was in it yet.
In an effort not to be too rude, I felt I had to ask if I could buy a copy of Kearns’ book, since he had a large bag of them beside his chair.
‘If you could sign it for my mother, Mary,’ I said piously. Kearns signed a copy with a flourish and handed it over, then refused to accept any payment, which I thought was decent of him. Perhaps he was aware that in the normal course of events, I would never have forked out for it, especially since I’d made it clear that I didn’t watch TV. He put an arm round my shoulders and planted a peck on my cheek. He smelled of whisky and stale tobacco.
I blew theatrical kisses – not my usual style! – and went away. I thought it very likely that I would bow out of the theatre group with immediate effect.
As I shut the front door of my flat behind me, my phone began to jitter inside my bag. I hoped very much it wasn’t going to be Milo Stanton wanting to know what was wrong with me, walking out like that. Pretty he might be, but frankly, I was discovering, not much else. Actors always seem to be too aware of themselves, especially the male kind, which means they’re not really aware of anyone else, except in the most superficial way.
‘Yes?’ I said off-puttingly.
‘DCI Alexandra Quick—’
‘Former.’
‘—I have followed the trail assiduously in the search for your Mr James Landis.’ It was Mr Sook.
‘And what have you found?’
‘Precisely nothing. I have drawn a complete blank. None of my colleagues in the various banks of Hong Kong know this name, nor do they believe this person has ever worked in their establishments.’
‘That’s very interesting, Mr Sook.’ Was this good news or bad news? I wasn’t sure. On the one hand it confirmed my feelings that the soi-disant Landises were lying through their teeth, for some reason as yet undefined. On the other, it meant that they had managed to cover their tracks in some way, and I, or DCI Alan Garside, would have to start all over again in trying to run them down.
‘How-ever,’ enunciated Mr Sook, leaning heavily on the last two syllables, ‘when I mentioned these eyes you spoke of, thyroid was the word I believe you used, there was instant success.’
‘That’s great!’
‘This Mr Landis is known far and wide in Hong Kong, although he operated under another name at that time, a pseudonym, if you will.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He was calling himself Jeremy Lockhart, and the reason he was known all round the colony was because of his gambling habit. He gambled, DCI Quick. He was an addict. Wherever bets could be placed, he placed them, until he had nothing more to gamble. He then disappeared from the gambling clubs, the gaming tables, the betting shops. People wondered whether he had died, or perhaps had returned to Europe. And then, suddenly, he reappeared at the tables with renewed funds. Of course there was only one conclusion to be drawn and we knew instantly what had happened.’
‘And what was that?’
‘He had fallen into the clutches of one of the many triad gangs which operate in Hong Kong.’ Mr Sook spoke with relish. Fallen into the clutches: it was the kind of phrase one might wait a lifetime for and never find an opportunity to use. ‘A colleague of mine believes it most likely that in Mr Lock
hart’s case, the triad in question was Wang Shing Wo. These dangerous people are involved in every possible form of criminal activity, from extortion to prostitution, from money-laundering to people-trafficking. Anything which will bring in good solid cash. And we are talking about multi-billions of dollars a year. I do not know if once recruited, you can ever get completely free of them.’
‘It sounds quite a frightening business.’
‘You are quite right, DCI Quick. And if you should break any of their rules, I can assure you that they will hunt you down. They are pitiless. Brutal and without mercy. These are people to stay away from.’
That would certainly explain the name change and the high security round the Landis house. ‘Mr Sook,’ I said. ‘You are a star! You have been most helpful. I cannot thank you enough.’ I noticed I was avoiding elisions, matching his brand of talk, and hoping I didn’t sound like I was taking the mickey. ‘I have another question.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Any way I can help I should be delighted to do so.’
‘Tristan Huber: does this name ring any bells with you?’
‘Huber, Huber.’ There was a fizz of excitement in his voice. ‘I have most definitely heard the name though I could not at the moment state in which context.’
‘If anything comes to mind, do please call me again,’ I urged. ‘It could be very important.’
‘I will make enquiries and come back to you.’ He paused then asked diffidently, ‘Would I be asking you to breach police regulations if I enquired as to the nature of the investigation on which you are currently working?’
‘It is murder, Mr Sook,’ I said. ‘Bloody murder.’
‘Oh, goodness me. This is most distressing.’
‘I could not agree with you more.’
FOURTEEN
‘That’s useful,’ Fliss Fairlight said, when I passed on the name of Jeremy Lockhart, late of Hong Kong. I didn’t mention the word Landis, after her previous reaction had resulted in a dead end. ‘Lockhart, eh?’ At the other end of the phone I could hear her fingers foxtrotting all over the keyboard of her computer. And then she stopped. ‘Uh-oh,’ she said. ‘No good, I’m afraid, Quick.’
‘Why not?’
‘Ever heard of a firewall?’
‘Of course.’
‘Two, one behind the other?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Or even three?’
‘Seriously tight security, in other words?’
‘Hold that thought.’
I got the message. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘How are Garside’s enquiries into Tristan Huber’s death going?’
‘They’re going like crazy. Trouble is, they’re not actually getting anywhere. But you know us well enough to be aware of what a fine body of men and women we are. I’m confident that as usual, we’ll get our man in the end.’
‘Is he looking in any particular direction?’
‘Disgruntled client was the first port of call – but you’d have to be pretty crazy to carve someone up like a Sunday roast because you didn’t care for the colour scheme he’d chosen for your back bedroom.’
There was a meaningful kind of silence. ‘What else?’ I said.
‘Quick, I know the guy was a good friend of yours, but there was something extremely dodgy about his business. And by extension, him.’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve already figured that out.’ There was a hollow feeling in my head, in the space that Tristan used to occupy. The long years of our friendship were necessarily being reshaped, reformulated. Whatever his mother might believe about her son, I would never be able to think of him in the same way again.
I was about to end the call when Fliss said, ‘By the way, Garside’s had the results of the autopsy.’
‘I imagine they’re pretty much what you’d expect, aren’t they? Death by extreme rendition, as they say.’
‘Yeah. Just one small detail: the forensic lab people noted that a couple of the … uh, if I’m going to be completely accurate and totally gross … slices cut from the body are considerably deep than others.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘None at all.’
‘Would these deeper cuts be in places where you might find a tat of some kind?’ I asked, snapping at a possibility like a trout at a fly. ‘Some form of marking your affiliations. Just like any urban street gang. Especially if the killer stroke killers wished to conceal any connection to, say, a Triad.’ Ever since my conversation with Mr Sook, the notion of an Asian criminal gang being responsible for Tristan’s death had been fermenting in my brain like saki.
‘It’s worth considering, I must say. But you’re reaching a bit, aren’t you?’
‘Consider it and come back to me if you reach any conclusion,’ I said. ‘Meanwhile, I’d say thank you for sharing, but I wish you hadn’t.’
Poor Tristan …
A triple firewall! What was it with the Landis/Lockharts? Mr Sook had spoken of the possibility that James Landis had become involved with one of the Hong Kong triads, which I knew operated worldwide. Perhaps the husband and wife had been offered some form of protection by MI5 or 6, in exchange for betraying organization leaders, or revealing secrets they should have kept to themselves. Dangerous tactics, from what I’d heard of the Triads. And Tristan had obviously had a connection to the Landis couple which I was already certain must have been a lot more than the conversion work on their tumbledown barn. In addition, something about the two of them was itching away at me like a hornet sting. Some detail I’d noticed without taking it in. Something I’d picked up on somewhere, recently.
I looked again at the photographs, but nothing hit me, though I could not help feeling it should. From my desk, I looked out to sea, where white caps were tumbling towards shore. Three or four intrepid little crafts from the sailing club had hoisted their sails, which were now lying almost flat in the wind. Seagulls stubbornly beat their wings against it as they headed for somewhere more sheltered. Flags smacked at their poles; fallen leaves gathered in piles under the trees. It was only mid-September and already it was feeling close to wintry.
I tugged on a thick jacket and walked down to see Sam Willoughby at the bookshop. His assistant was working in the shop today, so I suggested he take ten minutes off and join me for a coffee at one of the small café tables he had installed in a corner of the shop.
He gave me a hug. ‘Love to,’ he said, and came over with a cappuccino for me and an espresso for himself. ‘So, what’s new?’
‘I need to find something out and for various reasons can’t do it myself. Is there any chance you could do me a favour and do some probing?’ I said. I didn’t add that my main reason for delegating the task to him was my intense desire not to bump into Milo Stanton. I was sure he would jump at the chance, since I knew that it had always been one of his dreams to become Longbury’s answer to Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe, a man walking the mean streets who was not himself mean. Battling for truth and justice. Defending the poor and vulnerable and maidens in distress. Especially the latter. Not that I had any idea how many of those he came across in his line of work.
‘Sure.’ He looked eager. Ready to roll. ‘Just point me at it.’
‘I’d like to know more about the late Kevin Fuller, mature student working towards his PhD in Applied Mathematics. His likes and dislikes. Significant others, if such existed – probably male. Hobbies, interests, all the usual stuff. And any connection with Tristan Huber, other than the obvious one to do with refurbishing the student common rooms and bars.’
‘Won’t the boys in blue have already covered the same ground?’
‘I should hope so, by now. But I want more, if more exists. For instance, he was into extreme sports and I can’t help wondering why.’
‘Do you need to have a reason? Maybe he just liked the excitement. The nail-biting possibility of something going horribly wrong. That whole macho, death-defying thing.’ Sam waved his hands about. ‘Some people really do have a death wish. Besides … an applied mathematici
an? Perhaps he was trying to prove something. As it stands, it’s hardly dashingly masculine, is it?’
‘I suppose not.’ I gripped his fingers. Offered him my mega-smile. Watched him melt.
A woman was standing at the counter, waiting for her purchases to be wrapped and giving us the fish-eye.
‘Friend of yours?’ I asked, gesturing discreetly with my head. She produced a cold, cold smile. She certainly didn’t seem like a maiden in distress. When Sam looked over at her, she lit up and gave him a warm little wave. The kind which suggested that not only had the two of them shared many an intimate moment in the past, but also that they would be sharing many more in the years to come.
‘Not exactly.’ He flushed slightly and smoothed back his hair.
‘So inexactly, then.’ I sounded censorious even to my own ears, though I was well aware I had no right to do so. ‘How does that work?’
‘It works just fine, Alexandra,’ he said, cucumber-cool. ‘Now, how soon do you want this information on the late Kevin Fuller?’
Uh-oh. Consider yourself snubbed, Ms Quick. And deservedly, I had to admit. ‘As soon as you can get it to me.’
‘Right. I’ll go up the hill in the lunch hour.’ He touched my hand. ‘You can rely on me, ma’am.’
While he was up there, I intended to visit Major Horrocks yet again, to see what more, if anything, I could glean about Mr Harkness. Watching the customer exit the shop, with a last flirtatious glance at Sam over her shoulder, I was annoyed with myself. Sam’s private life was none of my business. Which is precisely how I wanted it.
When I pulled up outside Rattrays, the Major was standing in the garden with a pair of shears in his hand, his short grey hair stirring in the wind as he stared dispiritedly at a ragged box hedge. Leaves and twigs lay untidily at its foot.
‘Good afternoon, Alex,’ he said. He gestured at the tree. ‘What does that look like? Be honest.’
‘Um …’
‘A bird?’ he prompted.
‘Er …’
‘A swan?’
‘Definitely not. Unless it’s a swan lying on its side and nursing a hangover with its wings furled.’