The Natural Law

by Steve Attridge

  Cass and I looked at each other, both surprised. Alfred did a little jig, then said: “But how can I be so stupid with my own daughter? When I love her so much.”

  There was a pause as this sunk in, and then Cass exploded with laughter and hugged me. I winked at Alfred. It was alright. Where I singularly failed with my own daughter, a parrot had succeeded spectacularly. Clearly, I could learn a lot from him on how to conduct relationships. Now the ice had melted between us, Cass was keen to help with the case. I was equally keen for her not to, given the body count. I gave her something to do which I thought might help flush out our killer but keep her in the background. I gave her thirty pounds to buy a cheap mobile phone, register it under a false name, send me an anonymous message asking to meet me about Ocean Investment, and then destroy the phone. She left much happier than when she came in. An hour later I received a text: Meet me this evening at 8 pm. Highgate tube. Priory Gdns exit. Ocean Investment. The road ended in a cul-de-sac at the station so traffic could only approach and leave one way. And it was an entrance easy to observe. I hoped this might flush out Gladiator if he fell for it. I was still in a fog over this case, but at least I was moving and you might bump into someone in a fog. I also got a call from Mary King saying she needed to see me.

  As I left the university Ron was hiding behind a wheelie bin ready to ambush me. “Paul, I’ve been thinking,” he said.

  “A dangerous habit which you should discard immediately. If you’re not used to it then it might become addictive and pretty soon you’ll come to realise that most things are futile and suicide is the best option. Sometimes the only one.”

  “But I’ve realised I should be open to new experiences,” he said.

  “OK. Good luck, Ron.”

  “So I’m prepared to bite the bullet.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ve booked a hotel. Friday. Just outside Milton Keynes.”

  “Ron, I have to go.”

  “Away from prying eyes. We don’t want gossip.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You kissed me. I’d never thought of you that way, but I understand now what you were saying with that kiss. And after a lifetime of occasional heterosexual activity with my wife, I’m prepared to cross a new frontier. It might be just what I need.”

  He closed his eyes and puckered out his wet fishy lips for another kiss. What on earth was behind the hideous door I’d inadvertently opened in him?

  “Ron, I only kissed you to shut you up. To stop you blathering on about your drab, pointless problems.”

  He looked crestfallen. He wanted to cross a frontier and it turned out to be another ‘Stop’ sign, one of many in his life, I imagined.

  “But the hotel was forty nine pounds, dinner optional. I thought we’d go Dutch.”

  “Keep the hotel. Look.” I looked up a number in my phone. “Ring this number and ask for Roxy. She’s a good time girl. Tell her you want the full monty. She’ll charge you fifty quid and it’ll do you a damn sight more good than I could.”

  I left him looking at the number. I meet a lot of strange people in my line. Roxy is a nice girl. She’d be kind to Ron and be glad of the money.

  *

  The funeral was appalling. I sat at the back of the anonymous crematorium a few miles from Solihull, where Anna’s family still lived. Piped music. Sanitised. Death-in-its-Sunday-best. I counted forty two people, probably mostly family. I suspect that Anna had been a mystery to her parents and an absence in their lives. She had rarely spoken of them. She left home and that was it. I don’t think she even went back at Christmas. No one knew me there, of course. Nor did anyone ask who I was. Her mother was stoically shrouded in a black coat and hat and gloves, like a giant crow, and her father was eviscerated in his bones. I imagined being at Cass’s funeral and knew I would fall apart, as he was doing.

  The priest said that Anna, who had never shown the faintest interest in anything religious, had always loved Psalm twenty three. It is beautiful, and I say that as one who finds the idea of God gratuitously offensive and an affront to human intelligence. Her father’s lips followed the words tremblingly: The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I felt I should go to him and say, ‘Your daughter was a beautiful young woman who deserved far better than me. It is my fault she is dead and anything you say or do will be less than I deserve.’ Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

  I put a hand to my cheek and to my surprise it was wet. The world in front of me blurred with tears. As I left I took out the little shell I’d taken from her flat and the bloody hair in the plastic envelope and made a promise. Anna, I will find him. I will never stop until I have hunted him down.

  Chapter XVI

  ‘Success is the ability to go from one failure to another with no loss of enthusiasm.’

  Winston Churchill

  The drive back to London was bleak. The world was full of rain. I wished I had better news to give to Mary King. I just had time to meet her at Marylebone before going to Highgate station. She bought me a coffee and we sat at the table where we’d first met. She looked under a lot of strain. There were faint blue patches under her eyes that hadn’t been there before. I decided against telling her the death count was accruing. There was no point in alarming her further. I assumed she wanted an update. She touched the cut on my cheek.

  “Goes with the job,” I said. “I have a few leads and I’m going to Prague in the hope of finding more. Andy was involved in illegal arms deals.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she said.

  I looked at her. How did she know and if she knew, why hadn’t she told me? She gave me a plastic bag. Inside were six sheets of paper with a child’s drawings on one side and on the other photographs of hi-tech weapons: Armatix Digital Revolver; KAC M110 Sniper Rifle; XM25 Smart Grenade; Launcher Magpul FMG-9 and others, some of which are still supposedly in the prototype phase. With global spending of nearly two hundred billion dollars on weapons every year, who knows what is being illegally tested by the rich on the world’s poor? There were dates on each sheet, roughly three weekly intervals since January of last year.

  “I found these under my son’s bed this morning. Andy must have given them to him. They’re all printed on our home computer, so I know they were Andy’s.”

  On one of the sheets was a biro-written address in Prague. I would bet my house, if I still had one, that I would find Ocean Investment there. She gave me a crumpled notebook.

  “I also found this in Andy’s things. He’d hidden it in the lining of an old sports bag.”

  A small notebook. A lot of doodles and horse racing notes. On the last page a heading: OCEAN SHIPMENTS PRAGUE TO AFGHANISTAN and a list of dates, which matched the dates on the weapons sheets. There were also three phone numbers. One I recognised as being Jimmy the Stump’s.

  “This is very helpful,” I said.

  She laid her right hand on my left.

  “I want this to be over,” she said. “It gets to me badly.”

  “Me too. And listen, from now on I don’t want paying.”

  She looked at me curiously.

  “Personal reasons,” I said.

  “Are there always personal reasons?”

  “I started doing this work in the hope of finding my father. It’s a long story. Another time.”

  “I hope you find him. But find Andy’s killer first.”

  We stood and she kissed me lightly on the cheek. She smelled of lavender and almonds. She looked at me closely and then kissed me again, this time on the lips, a feather stroke of tenderness and wanting.

  “When I said I wanted this to be over, I also meant…”

  “I know,” I said.

  There was something very sexy about h
er mix of vulnerability and forwardness. She also had wonderful legs, which I watched as she walked away. I had no intention of anything happening during this investigation, and even afterwards it would doubtless be a mistake. It usually is.

  *

  I sat in my car in Priory Gardens, parked behind a camper van but still with a good view of Highgate station entrance. It was dark and raining but the entrance was well lit. The coffee caravan on the left was closed. I could see anyone who arrived or left. The only places for someone to watch, other than the station entrance, would be from a house or behind the closed coffee van, or from a car. Clusters of commuters came out, then a pause, then more commuters. I scanned faces looking for someone who was also looking for someone. At ten minutes past eight I decided to try and make something happen. There was a waste bin near the entrance to the station. I rolled up a newspaper and got out of my car, walked to the bin, looked around as if I was expecting someone, then pretended to take a call on my mobile, and put the newspaper in the bin. I walked down the concrete steps and turned left as if going into the station, but stopped and turned. I waited a few moments, and then peered around the corner. No one. I ducked back and waited a minute, then looked again. Someone in a hooded blue bomber jacket, wearing gloves and loose jeans, had just retrieved the paper from the bin and was turning away. I started up the steps but some instinct told them – they half turned and then ran. I ran up the steps after them. It was dark and I got no glimpse of a face.

  Twenty yards down the road they got in the same black BMW I’d seen the day before. The car was facing the right way and the engine must have been left running because they were away in a second. I ran back to my car but by the time I’d got in and turned the car around, I knew it was too late. Damn it. If only they had turned another fraction at the station I might have glimpsed a face. However this time I did get a number plate. MRW 309B.

  As soon as I got back to the flat I traced the number plate on the DVLA website. It was a hire car firm. I rang them and pretended to be the hirer and that I’d lost the keys, but they asked a few security questions and then put down the phone. I phoned the two numbers in Andy’s notebook. The first was dead. On the second I got lucky. A voicemail message: “This is Hugh. Please leave a message after the tone.” The inimitable tone of a self-important politician which I recognised from such comedy programmes as Newsnight and Question Time. Hugh Dillsburgh. Now I had the connection between him and Andy King.

  The next day I got a new mobile. Hopefully this one wouldn’t be hacked. Not for the first time in this investigation I was completely wrong. A text beeped: Thanks for the newspaper. Congrats on new phone. Be in touch soon. Gladiator. In the afternoon I was flying to Prague. I decided to call in on Mum first to see if she’d rallied any more. Seeing Anna’s parents had made me think of Cass, but also about my own parents, including my father, wherever he was. If he was. As I approached Mum’s room I could hear her talking. She sounded animated and almost sane.

  “Back when it was proper stirrer. Sterilised milk. Creamy. And the milkman came in for a Christmas drink. Whisky. Kept his cap on. Moustache. Like that one with the cane bend over boy whatshisname Jammy Edwards that’s it.”

  Symon was with her. He was smiling at her and turned to me. No reaction. No flicker of guilt.

  “She’s positively garrulous,” he said. “Real chat we’re having, eh?”

  She smiled at him then looked at me as if I was a complete stranger. I felt an irrational jealousy that this shadow from my past could turn up after a lifetime and charm my senile mother into smiles and conversation of sorts. I swallowed the feeling, kissed Mum on the cheek and sat. I noticed that a few moments later she wiped her cheek with a tissue. Symon noticed too. Ten minutes later I stood and said we had to go, looking at Symon. He took the hint.

  Outside I turned on him.

  “What the hell are you doing? Turn up out of the blue and somehow animate Mum, but what happens when you sail away? I can’t do that. I’m in for the long haul.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said.

  “I am, you bastard. That’s why I’m so angry.”

  “This is really about Cass, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is. And I know nothing happened. I just want to savour the feeling of self-righteous fatherly indignation for a few more moments.”

  He smiled. Friendships shouldn’t be complicated like marriages, but this one seemed to be.

  “Actually I had an ulterior motive in coming to see your mum. I know she won’t say anything about your dad to you, but I thought she might to me.”

  “And did she?”

  “No. But she might.”

  “Pigs will fly.”

  We walked to our cars.

  “Any developments?” he asked.

  “Yes. A few. But quite honestly, I think I’m better solo.”

  “Understood. Let me know if you do want me to do anything.”

  “I will.”

  “I am your friend, you know, Paul. From what I’ve seen, just about the only one.”

  “I have Cass and a thousand dead voices. Oh, and Alfred.”

  “Who’s Alfred?”

  “A friend.”

  And so we parted. Difficult waters negotiated. He saw my small flight bag packed in the back of my car but asked nothing. I remembered again that this was one of the things I had always liked about him – he respected my need to keep secrets. When we were kids I convinced him I had the most precious object in the world, something I’d always craved, and it was hidden in the tiny cellar of our flat. He longed to pull the flap open and go down there, but never did. I pretended I’d gone out once, so I could see if he would satisfy his curiosity, and I watched through a crack in the kitchen door as he came from our little front room, looked down at the cellar flap, then went back and sat down. That’s when I knew he was a friend. Of course, I’d fabricated it all and there was nothing in the cellar. There never is.

  Chapter XVII

  ‘What is reality? Is it not merely a term for the philosopher to conjure with, behind which he may craftily conceal his ignorance?’

  John Grier Hibben

  The next day I called in at the university to cancel a few things and check on Alfred. He was having a coffee break with Mrs. Simpson.

  “This Alfred is more clever than ‘alf the people working ‘ere, Dr Rook,” she said.

  “I agree, Mrs. Simpson. The trouble is that’s not much of a compliment. There’s you and Alfred and I, and a lot of dead wood. And the new Head of Department, Audrey, is to thinking what Sweeney Todd was to hairdressing.”

  “She shouldn’t wear stripes. Not with those hips. Some are alright ‘ere. Mr Spinks in catering. ‘E’s a good ‘ead for figures, even with ‘is gammy leg,” she said. “I think ‘e wanted to be a paratrooper, but that bloody leg.”

  “I think therefore I am,” said Alfred, repeating another snippet he’d heard. Sometimes a single word would trigger a remembered phrase for him.

  A knock on the door and it opened and Mary King entered. She looked particularly sumptuous, I thought, in a red woollen dress and short black jacket. I knew she’d thought carefully about what to wear and, ludicrously, I was flattered. Mrs. Simpson was agog and sensed a something in the air.

  “Mrs. Simpson. This is Mary. A friend.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Simpson, barely avoiding a nudge-nudge-wink, “I’ll leave you to it then,” and left with a knowing smile at Mary.

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “You told me about your day job. I’m sorry, I know it’s against the rules but there was something else I had to tell you.”

  She looked nervous, even flustered. I made coffee and she sipped it, looking at Alfred, who had hopped to the window sill and was nibbling thoughtfully on a crispbread, watching us. I gave her a moment.

  “Andy knew something was up. He wasn’t bright but he had feeling. He said he felt he
was in danger. The thing is, and I can’t forgive myself for it, I told him he was being stupid. The next delivery was for a lot of money and I saw it as our way out, our meal ticket to Fiji. A new life. I sent him to his death and I needed to tell you that.”

  Her eyes filled. I don’t do grief counselling, not my job, but before I knew it I’d taken her hand.

  “No. You didn’t kill him. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “I sent him to his death,” said Alfred in a perfect imitation of Mary’s voice. She was taken by surprise and almost spilled her coffee.

  “He does that. He’s a perfect mimic,” I said.

  “Creepy,” she said.

  “I’ve grown fond of him, He belonged to Jimmy Mullins.”

  “I haven’t said anything. I don’t know anything. Just go away. Please. No, no.” Alfred said in a perfect and moving simulation of Jimmy’s voice.

  She clearly found Alfred too much, as if her grief was being mocked. I told her I was going to Prague and would let her know the outcome, as soon as there was one, and she left. At the door she kissed me lightly on the cheek. I almost held her close. I expected Alfred to wolf whistle, but he didn’t. I wondered if Mary’s children would like me. I would probably find them annoying, but Mary had wonderful legs.

  *

  At Gatwick airport I was sure I was being watched. Everywhere was eyes. The same man sitting near me in Costa Coffee was standing next to me in Dixons as I looked at the tablets and iPods and machines that all spoke to each other and were recreating the world into a jungle of barcodes and gratuitous communication. A two thousand pound dark grey suit. Expensive brown brogues. Short cropped greying hair, rimless steel spectacles. Already I didn’t like him. He looked like a Nazi dentist. I turned to him and said, “Choice is a bad thing. It confuses me.”