Bodies (23 page)

“Did they connect the two things?”

“Not at first. They thought it was the Strip à la Wild West, naturally. But then nobody came out of
Bodies
, and they waited and waited, and still nobody came out, and finally Vince went in, heard nothing, went upstairs, saw the bodies, and then ran for his life.”

“Did he realize who it was who'd done it?”

“Yes. He knew Leonides. Vince is an old Soho hand.”

“Did he realize he was one of the intended victims?”

“He didn't
know
—he could never be sure. But he had a bloody good idea. He didn't come within a mile of Windlesham Street from then on. They had to keep quiet about it, of course, because if they let on to us they'd spoil their own game. And apart from that they were dead scared. Someone who'd just wiped out four people wasn't going to balk at a fifth and a sixth. For a time they were very frightened people.”

“Will they make good witnesses, though?” asked Jan.

“No. We're a little bit worried about that. We'll use Haggarty rather than Spivey, but even so he's not a type
my
jury is going to love and trust. Still, he's the best we've got, and in fact everything he says will be gospel truth. I don't think there's any doubt we'll get a conviction.”

“I'm sorry for the little girl,” said Jan. “First that awful experience, then the boyfriend killing himself, then Father taken from her as well.”

“Yes,” I said. “Under all that, she's bearing up remarkably well. It's good that we probably won't need to use her in the trial. I think in fact the losing of Father may prove a blessing in disguise: Leonides was a patriarch without the real patriarchal equipment—more bluster than authority. I think the process of growing up may be easier without him. I'm afraid poor Nikos would never have come to much. By all accounts he was a neurotic boy, smothered by his father who was still fighting the Greek Civil War, and full of mad macho notions the boy could never have lived up to. Maybe that's why he took the
news the way he did. I'm as sorry for that boy as for anyone. Poor Maria, poor Nikos—poor Denny, even. It was a sad, sorry case, but I think Maria and her mother are going to come out of it all right.”

“There's something else I wanted to talk to you about,” said Charlie, draining his can.

“I know.”

“You can't. It's something different. I've never mentioned it.”

“You want to talk about joining the police force.”

“Damn it, how did you—?”

“Oh, come on, Charlie. You've been smart-arsing it throughout this case. Give me credit for some native powers of observation just this once. It's been obvious to me for weeks.”

“Well,” said Charlie, rather miffed, “tell me what, you think.”

I had anticipated it, and had thought about it.

“We'll skip the bit where I tell you that policing isn't all fun and raids and arrests, and dressing up and pretending, like it's been for you these last few weeks—right?”

“Right. Mostly undressing and pretending, actually.”

“We can't skip the bit where I tell you it's nearly all slog, ninety percent of it, sheer bloody tedium. And when it isn't, it's less likely to be exciting than just plain nasty. Stomach-turning, very often. And don't tell me you've got a strong stomach, because you just can't know. You've only seen one stiff in your life, and that was a nice clean one.”

“Point taken. But I think I could cope.”

“Have you thought about all the racist talk you'll have to put up with?”

“So—where's the difference from now?”

“Not just from the public—from colleagues: the chap with you on the beat, the blokes you drink with in the canteen.”

“Where's the difference?”

“People expect the police to be different.”

“I don't. You're not bleeding clergymen. It's just a job. It's pretty much the same inside the Force as outside, I reckon.”

“That's a point of view,” I admitted. “We don't get the police we deserve, we get the police we
are.
Have you got the necessary educational qualifications?”

Charlie shot me the sort of look that reminded me that he'd struck me as a distinctly formidable character when I'd seen him first.

“Do you
mind?
I thought
everyone
had the educational qualifications you demand for the police,” he said nastily.

“Well—if it were up to me, I'd say Welcome to the Police,” I said.

“Oh—I haven't made up my mind,” said Charlie, going all hard-to-get. “There's other possibilities. I may have got the bug for the posing game. Who knows what offers I may get when the next issue of
Fly
comes out?”

“That magazine will be a grave embarrassment to you, once you're in the Force,” I said, ignoring his coyness.

“Crap. I won't be the first policeman to have done embarrassing things in the line of duty. At least I didn't have to go into drag.”

“Tell me,” said Jan. “When you were involved in the case, who did you
guess
had done it? Obviously you wouldn't guess Mr. Leonides, because there was nothing to connect him with it till right at the end. Who did you
guess?”

“Policemen don't
guess
like that,” I said. “Except in their sleepless-night reveries.”

“Bullshit,” said Jan. “Anyway, who did you pick on in your reveries?”

“Todd Masterman,” I said. “Though it did occur to me once that Denny Crabtree's mum had the guts to do it. And was just slightly bonkers on one subject, but perfectly compos otherwise.”

“Who did
you
guess?” Jan asked Charlie.

“Mick Spivey. But that was pure emotion, pure distaste for the guy. I knew he hadn't got the guts to do anything like that. I suppose if I'd thought about it, I'd have plumped for Masterman as well.”

“Funny—I'd have plumped for Phil Fennilow,” said Jan. “He sounded so yucky-looking, and then he obviously fitted well into his grubby occupation—and it
is
grubby, whatever you may say. He was at the very centre of the business, yet you never seem to have considered him, Perry.”

“I suppose—as with Leonides—it was because I'd known him before. It's funny—silly—but if you've known them in some other connection, you never think they're going to pop up as murderers.”

“Oh, of course, you met him when you were on that Vice Squad job, didn't you? Actually talked to him.”

“Yes. We talked in a pub.”

“He doesn't sound like the sort of person you'd normally talk to in a pub. What did you talk
about?”

I looked daggers at Jan. What a wonderful instinct she has for the tender spot.

“Well, if you must know,” I said with dignity, “we were both in this pub and he approached me . . . ”

“Yes?”

“Actually he asked me if I'd care to be photographed for
Bodies
magazine.”

Charlie let out a yelp of laughter, then threw himself hugely around in his chair, squirming with delight, and throwing back his head in a series of delighted chortles.

“Man!” he said, wiping his eyes. “That must have been some time ago!”

I could have killed him. Next day I got back into a serious teaming programme at the Scotland Yard gym.

Robert Barnard (1936-2013) was awarded the Malice Domestic Award for Lifetime Achievement and the Nero Wolfe Award, as well as the Agatha and Macavity awards. An eight-time Edgar nominee, he was a member of Britain's distinguished Detection Club, and, in May 2003, he received the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award for lifetime achievement in mystery writing. His most recent novel,
Charitable Body
, was published by Scribner in 2012.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1986 Robert Barnard

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ISBN: 978-1-4767-3720-1 (eBook)