Newsdeath
Page 8
Huckle didn’t have anything to say. He felt distinctly uneasy. He looked back up towards the street, but it was in complete silence. Somewhere he could hear the noise of traffic, but there was nothing moving nearby. In a building across the road he fancied he saw someone watching, but as he turned to peer up he realized that it was merely an old lady taking a last look out on to this bleak evening before drawing the curtains of her room. He turned back to Winston. ‘Well, go on, ring the bell then …’ he said, more nervously than irritably.
Winston grinned up at him, recognizing Huckle’s frame of mind, and pleased that it wasn’t only he who felt uneasy. He rang a short jangling burst on the bell and listened. Nothing. He looked again at Huckle. Huckle turned his lips down in an attitude which signified philosophical acceptance. He was half glad that there was nobody in.
Winston, however, was overcoming his nerves. It was absurd, he reasoned to himself, to be frightened of some little pornographer just because he lived in a dark basement flat. He rang the bell again, this time longer and more firmly and with a greater degree of impatience. Again they listened for some sounds from inside the house.
‘I think he’s in there and doesn’t want to talk to us,’ said Winston at last, turning towards Huckle. He tried his hand on the door-knob. It was locked, but above it was a cracked pane of glass in the window part of the door. Gently Winston pushed forward on the glass, a small piece not more than a few inches square just above the door-knob.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Huckle hissed in surprise. At that moment the glass gave way in the rotting frame and fell inwards with a slight tinkle. ‘We’ll be done for breaking and entering.’
Winston shook his head; indicating that they both listen carefully. Then he put his ear to the broken window and listened again, at the same time putting one finger to his lips.
Winston turned back to him: ‘Nothing.’ He looked disappointed. Huckle knew it was time he took control of the situation. If Winston wasn’t scared how could he be?
He stepped forward: ‘You’re sure this bloke is a porno merchant?’
Winston nodded: ‘And he was frightened, wasn’t he? You heard him, too.’
‘Right. Come on,’ said Huckle, and sliding his hand through the broken window he felt inside for the door latch. It was a Yale lock. Without much difficulty he managed to turn it and free the door, which swung inwards against his pressure, causing him to cut his hand slightly on the jagged edge of the glass. A spring of blood erupted on to his skin and as he raised his arm to examine it some ran down the inside of his shirt sleeve. Carefully he pressed a handkerchief against the wound.
Together the two men stepped inside the corridor and allowed the door to swing closed behind them. The smell of cats was now stifling. In the light from the street lamp Huckle could make out the door to the front room, a couple of paces down the black and white linoleum of the otherwise bare corridor. He jerked his head forward in an indication that Winston should follow, and tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. ‘Hello,’ he called, and was immediately embarrassed because his voice cracked as he spoke. Winston grinned in the dark behind him. ‘Hello,’ this time he called again, more resonantly. Nothing. Huckle pushed the door and it opened gently. Still half worried that he might be caught for burglary he decided that at least they ought to advertise their presence a little. Feeling inside the room and along the door frame he discovered the light switch and turned it downwards.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said after a moment’s pause. ‘I think we’ve come too late for the orgy.’
Winston pushed towards him into the room, and whistled in surprise. He had half been expecting another bare basement room of lino and damp, peeling walls, but suddenly he was standing in Aladdin’s Grotto. Huckle stepped aside allowing Winston to move past him. Instead of there being one small front room, virtually the whole basement of the house had been turned into what they imagined must be a bordello, or at least Joe Chambers’s idea of a bordello. Everywhere there were divans, couches and cushions, spread across a deep pile Indian rug, while the square walls had been curved off so that the whole room, which was fully thirty-five feet long and twenty feet wide, had a dimly-lit roundness to it. The two men stepped further inside. The light was low, but there were several large lamps standing on tough iron tripod legs, with black cables running from them to sockets in the walls. Kneeling down Huckle flicked a wall plug switch and a lamp came on, casting a brilliant whiteness on to one of the divans in the centre of the room, and at the same time peripherally illuminating a huge blown-up picture of a naked woman sitting astride a young man, both of whom were managing to reveal those organs with which they were purporting to be servicing each other.
Winston looked at the picture, and then cocked his head on one side to work out the geometry of their position. ‘How did they do that, d’you think?’
‘I don’t think your Angela would like me to tell you,’ said Huckle. Now that the lights were on and he could see his way about he was feeling less nervous. He picked his way around the large room, stepping over cables and between lamps while he studied all manner of things carnal: a dildo left like a lone banana in a fruit bowl; a whip with little leather knots on the end of the lashes; some scanty panties with a gaping hole at the place where they should have been most protective; a pack of playing cards, with fifty-two playful positions; a collection of leather objects which resembled a small saddle and girth and a head bridle; a rubber ring, the purpose of which he couldn’t fathom; a copy of a German magazine on the front of which were pictures of ladies built like a series of strategically joined pyramids; and lastly an enormous circular bed, covered only by one crumpled and soiled dark blue sheet.
Turning on another lamp he looked around again. Above the bed was a mirror, while on a cheap sideboard at the back of the room, hidden from view by a strategically placed screen, was a selection of jars of make-up, over-night tan stuff, powder puffs, a large and well-fingered jar of Vaseline, a bottle that appeared to contain fake blood, a carton of contraceptives, and several rolls of Kodak 35-mm film. Above the sideboard were the large aluminium cans in which movies are stored, standing end to end on a shelf. Retracing his steps back down the room to the still silent Winston, Huckle smiled, for want of knowing what other expression might be more suitable: ‘I think,’ he said loftily, adding comic drama to his tone, ‘I think that your Joe Chambers is a bit of a dirty bugger.’
Winston smiled. He still felt nervous about being in there at all. The shock of seeing all this equipment had made him forget momentarily about the PUMA connection but he had the inhibitions of a man unused to trespassing.
‘British enterprise,’ continued Huckle. ‘He’s got a regular little cottage industry going here.’
‘Where d’you think he is?’
Huckle shook his head: ‘He’s probably gone home to his suburban wife and kids. The Rotary meets on a Tuesday night.’
For all his levity Huckle was again beginning to feel butterflies in his stomach. He walked to the door and listened again. There was still nothing to be heard. He looked down the dank corridor, feeling as though he were Alice stepping back through the looking glass. At the end was another doorway. He walked towards it; Winston followed, not a pace behind. Gently Huckle tapped on it. And waited. Above the door was a sign that said, ‘Dark Room: Keep out when the red light is on.’ His heart drumming he pulled open the door.
Until his eyes became accustomed to the blackness of the dark room he could see nothing. Feeling vulnerable in his blindness he stepped slightly to one side so that his figure didn’t block the light coming from the studio. Then as his eyes focused again he screamed, and stepping back smashed into Winston’s arms. ‘Oh God … God …’ His stomach was churning up inside him. There, before him, slouched over the dark room sink, was the body of a man, young, thin, fair-haired, propped up by an iron lamp stand, so that he appeared to be looking at something under the water. But it was his neck that made Huckle heave. It had
been slit open from the extremity of one side of the jaw bone to the other.
Chapter Seven
The police from Notting Hill were in Westbourne Grove Close within five minutes. Winston hadn’t even seen the corpse. As he had been about to push past to see what was in the dark room, Huckle had begun to vomit, and after holding his friend up he had rushed into the studio in search of a telephone. Even as he was dialling 999 he had a mental picture of himself doing just that, and wondered how many hundred times he had seen this particular scene acted out on television. And then it seemed that almost before he had had time to put down the telephone, and get Huckle to the basement steps for some fresh air, the police were upon them.
While the police went downstairs to see for themselves, Winston helped Huckle up the steps away from the smell of wet cat fur. At the top they stopped and sat down together. For some reason Huckle felt like crying. He was embarrassed that he had made such an exhibition of himself in front of Winston. For the second time in three nights a constable asked him if he was all right. Again he nodded. But suddenly he felt cold, and he noticed how once again a street which had seemed so silent just a little while before was now awakening as though from some uncaring sleep. Curtains in the windows opposite began to blink open so that the occupants of these dingy homes might better see the drama below them.
Strangely neither he nor Winston spoke to one another. Each was busy with his own thoughts. After about fifteen minutes sitting on the steps, during which time the area had gradually accumulated police cars and their occupants from all over northwest London, a plain clothes detective asked the two reporters how they had come to find the body and what they had been doing in the basement. Huckle had been anticipating this.
‘I think it would be better if we didn’t talk until we’ve discussed this with Commander Howlett of the Bomb Squad,’ he said, as politely as he could, knowing how deeply felt were rivalries between local police and Scotland Yard.
The detective looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, rather brusquely. ‘I’m the enquiring officer at the scene of this murder … and that’s what it is, murder. And I’d like you to answer some questions.’
Winston looked towards Huckle for guidance. Huckle shook his head again.
‘Look, I’m not trying to be difficult. But I do honestly think you should get in touch with Howlett … or Detective-Superintendent Kinney … the same department.’
The detective paused for a moment, trying to decide whether he had just run up against a couple of smart guys. ‘Look,’ he said at last, ‘I think you’d both better come back to the station with us.’
Huckle nodded. ‘I think so, too.’
Howlett and Kinney arrived together at ten-thirty, having once again been dragged away from their homes. For two hours before that Huckle and Winston had been kept in a bare interview room watched over by a couple of constables, and served with constant cups of tea. There were further attempts to question them at first, but when the policy was suddenly changed Huckle realized that his insistence upon seeing Howlett had been accepted by someone in greater authority than the Notting Hill CID.
Before Howlett got there Huckle had tried to imagine how the otter-face would react when he heard about Joe Chambers and his own presence in the studio, but when he did arrive he gave no indication of his private thoughts. Instead he simply asked one of the constables to leave the room and then, while Kinney took notes, he encouraged Winston and then Huckle to explain their mission to Westbourne Grove Close. Winston told most of it in precise and clear terms, a clarity which Huckle marvelled at considering the evening’s events. When it came to the discovery of the body Huckle added his part. Throughout Howlett listened carefully, prodding for further details occasionally, and being particularly persistent that Winston should give him the names of his contacts with the laboratories, which Winston refused to do without first getting permission. At the end he sat back and stared at the two men with ill-disguised derision. Almost before he spoke Huckle realized the line his berating was bound to take, and he was prepared for it.
‘So, you thought you’d start playing at being detectives, did you …?’
‘No,’ said Huckle. ‘We thought we’d start playing at being reporters.’
‘And does being a reporter mean breaking and entering?’ Howlett’s sarcasm was as thick as a coat of marmalade.
Huckle sighed. Winston looked towards him for some kind of leadership, and knowing this Huckle felt stronger than he might had he been alone. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘if you want to charge the pair of us with breaking and entering … go ahead. Go on, charge us, and see what good it does you. So far we’ve co-operated with you lot pretty well, Two days ago I saw a girl get out of the car that blew up but that hasn’t appeared in the paper yet because you asked me to sit on it while you made enquiries. Fair enough. Glad to help. Then today half Fleet Street got hold of copies of the PUMA manifesto, but because you asked the Press to play it down no one ran it. Now they’re both bloody good stories, but we obeyed the rules. Sometimes I think we’d be a bloody sight better journalists if we did go around breaking and entering now and again. Tonight Winston thought … no, he didn’t think, he knew he was on to a story. So, like a good reporter he came looking for it. That’s what we’re paid to do. Co-operation runs two ways, you know. It isn’t just a packet of pound notes stuffed into manilla envelopes and sent to half the bobbies in London every Friday night. Now if you want to charge us go ahead. But I’m going to call our lawyer. He ought to be involved in this …’
When Howlett answered his voice was very low, a rasping sound that came through clenched jaw muscles. ‘I don’t think that you two understand yet quite what you’re interfering in. We are dealing with a highly organized terrorist group, whose expressed target is people in your own profession, possibly more elevated people than yourselves but journalists just the same. We’re dealing with people who think nothing of maiming and murdering. You saw what happened to Joe Chambers. He got his throat cut from ear to ear so that his head was wobbling off his shoulders when the boys back there tried to move him. He got involved with PUMA. And look where it got him. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He turned to Winston, who was regarding him coolly as though he were trying to remember every line spoken in case he might be able to use it in some future story.
Winston didn’t even bother to nod, but Huckle was in as soon as Howlett had stopped speaking. ‘You mean that Joe Chambers was PUMA’s second victim?’ He couched his question in deliberately provocative journalese.
Howlett regarded Huckle coldly. ‘You know I can’t say any such thing for certain. What we do know, if your friend Mr Collins’s theory is correct, is that Chambers may have been involved with these terrorists and that when he realized what he was into he became frightened. We’ve no idea who killed him, or why he was killed. He was in a tricky line of business so he was always liable to get himself into trouble one way or another. It may be a complete coincidence, and your theory, Mr Collins, may be all just so much huey. Anyway, we’ll be checking out every aspect of it within the next day or so …’
He seemed to want to continue talking, but remembering Huckle’s attack upon him a few minutes earlier he stopped himself. Instead he stood up. Kinney stopped taking notes and stood up, too. Huckle wondered to himself if the whole conversation had been secretly tape-recorded for the sake of accuracy.
‘If you don’t mind, gentlemen,’ Howlett was being very formal and stiff again, ‘another officer will now take statements from you concerning tonight’s incident … one of the Notting Hill CID. It’s their manor, you see. And now I’ll say good night to you.’ And with that he left the room, followed closely by Kinney.
‘What’s going on?’ Winston asked Huckle.
Huckle shrugged his shoulders and smiled: ‘Mysterious are the ways of the Lord and also of the law. I think they’re probably chastising us for meddling in what they think is their line of things.’
‘Yes, please,’ said Huckle.
Once again they went through every last detail of the phone call and their trip to the flat. Once again Winston said he could only give the name of his contacts if his contacts agreed, which he would know by tomorrow. This aggravated the enquiring officer no end, but there was nothing he could do, since Howlett had obviously briefed him to go easy on them.
And so at a quarter to four in the morning, after their fingerprints had been taken, the two journalists found themselves being driven home in a police car, both completely wiped-out emotionally and physically: Winston, silent, stared through the window at the driving rain; while Huckle’s mind turned cartwheels over a vision of a man with his throat slit stooping over a washbasin.
Huckle was the first to be dropped off. Neither he nor Winston spoke on the drive home, nor when they parted. A half smile between the two men was enough to reaffirm that the ordeal of the night was over. In the foyer of Chelsea Cloisters the doorman slumped, sleeping in his hard-backed wooden chair, his legs sprawled out like the stuffed and formless limbs which children stick on to their guys in November. For a moment Huckle thought of clapping his hands in front of the man’s rubbery face, blotched from a lifetime of too much liver mismanagement, but considering the complications which might ensue were the unfortunate man to have a coronary, he walked softly past him and towards the lift.
Exhaustion was now a physical burden. At the fifth floor the lift doors slid open and he walked slowly towards his flat, along the corridor and round the corner. Tumbling slightly from tiredness he opened his front door and stepped into his hallway. The flat was in darkness. He stretched, and took off his coat. And then he stopped. Something was different. He could sense it. Menace leapt back into his mind and he froze in his tracks, his face arched into a mask of surprise. Afraid to turn on the light, he tried to reason with himself. What was it that was so different? He looked around in the dark. There was nothing. Yet still he knew someone had been there. Suddenly he noticed that his breath was coming in gasps, and he purposely tried to correct it, breathing in deeply through his nose.