Gun Street Girl (16 page)

In through the hallway to a little desk with a bell.
The Archers
coming from enormous stereo speakers mounted over William Morris–style wallpaper.

I dinged the bell and a little old woman and her pointy-headed son appeared Mr. Benn-like from a side room. She was dressed in a blue cardigan and an apron that said Martini on it. He was got up like a 1950s teddy boy. “A pair of lovable eccentrics,” someone had written in the guest book. I didn't like the sound of that.

I introduced myself and Lawson. She looked us up and told us that we were expected and that all expenses had been paid. That board included breakfast but not lunch or dinner. That there were to be no guests after 10 p.m. That we had to be in no later than 11:15; otherwise we would be forced to pay an unspecified penalty. That all local and UK phone calls had to be paid for. That international calls were not allowed except in emergencies.

“That sounds reasonable,” I said.

She held out a pen.

“Inspector Sean Duffy,” I wrote in the book. She didn't notice the “Inspector,” but the name and the accent gave her a fond memory: “Of course, in my late husband's time we had a strict rule about Irishmen. He was very particular. Do you remember that, Jeffrey?”

“No Irish, no West Indians,” Jeffrey said.

“Oh yes, he was very particular was my Kenneth. You knew where he stood.”

“He was stood over there at the old bar, mostly,” Jeffrey said, and he and his mother both chuckled.

“Now, Mr. Duffy, it's the off-season at present, of course, so I can let you have the two rooms overlooking the garden—213, 214,” she said. “Keep the windows closed, mind. The squirrels will come in. We had a shocking incident two years ago with a gentleman from Norway.”

“Windows closed to keep out the squirrels. I'll remember that,” I said, and, resisting the urge to inquire further about the “shocking incident,” took the keys.

Mrs. Brown gave me a smile and in a confidential tone added: “These days, of course, it's the Pakistanis who are the real troublemakers, God love them. You wouldn't think it, but they are. It's the drink. They're not used to it. Oh dearie me no.”

“I don't think you'll have any problem with us,” I said, picking up my suitcase and putting the bottle of whiskey under one arm.

We went upstairs to a narrow landing.

“Half an hour to freshen up and then we'll get some food, OK, Lawson?” I said.

The lad nodded.

I put the key in the lock and went into the room. More faux William Morris wallpaper, a thick, dirty-looking, red carpet, an old-fashioned, uncomfortable-looking bed. Thick, mahogany dresser. New TV. Ancient radio. Push-up window that overlooked a rather lovely garden.

I undid the swivel lock and opened the window. An oak tree. A square of lawn. A tabby cat walking along a wall. An innocent-seeming squirrel sitting on a tree branch looking at me. I took in the autumnal air and, remembering to close the window, lay down on the heaving, springy bed.

I called Sara at the
Belfast Telegraph
. She answered on the third ring.

“Sara Prentice, Women's Page.”

“Guess where I am?”

“Who is this?”

“It's Sean.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in England.”

“What are you doing over there?”

“I'm on a case. The same case actually. Michael Kelly.”

“Really? I thought that was a suicide?”

“There may be further developments.”

“You'll keep me abreast of those developments, though, right?”

“Well, I've got to keep a lid on everything at the moment, but if something big's going to happen, you'll be the first to know.”

“Definitely keep me informed. You can call me any time . . . Look, Sean, I'm a bit swamped—”

“I'll let you go. I'll see you when I get back, yeah?”

“Sure.”

Phone in cradle.

She couldn't have got rid of me quicker
.

Bathroom.

Reflection.

Cadaverous cheeks, pale complexion, grey hairs, dull-witted, sleep-deprived eyes.

TV on. Carol's numbers: 25, 50, 75, 100, 3, 6. The target was 952.

No point in even trying.

Cold shower.

Walkman. Fast-forwarding through a Pogues knock-off band mix tape until I got the exact song I wanted:

Like the six men in Birmingham or the four in Guilford town,
The Old Bill will lift you and beat your knackers down,
The filth will get promotion and you'll be up the farm,
Your crime was being Irish, tho' you've done no one any harm . . .

Yeah, I know. A little on the nose. A little obvious. But you had to be there lying on the chintzy bed with that dick Atkins' smug smile still in your cerebral cortex.

I flipped on the TV and put the news on mute. The pictures were of young men in masks throwing stones and Molotovs in Belfast. I turned it off.

The phone was ringing. Sara? Push-back from Oxford CID?

Neither.

“Hello?”

“Sean, you're in Oxford!” It was Kate Albright from MI5.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing over here?”

“A case. I still work for the RUC, you know.”

“But you're thinking about our offer?”

“How did you find me? Are you watching me?”

“No! Of course not! . . . Well, maybe a little. Do you want to have dinner tonight?”

“Are you over here too?”

“Naturally. I'm at Chicksands. A little conference I'm running.”

“What's Chicksands?”

“Oh . . . you don't want to know. It's only up the road, though. Not a million miles away. Shall I treat you?”

“It's awkward . . . I'm with one of my trainee detective constables.”

“Is the redoubtable Sergeant McCrabban with you?”

“How do you even know about him?”

“I know a surprising amount about you and your colleagues, Sean.”

“That doesn't fill me with comfort.”

“It shouldn't. Are you on a per diem?”

“No, not really, it's . . .”

“That settles it. I know this wonderful little brasserie in North Oxford. I'll meet you all at the Eagle at seven.”

“No, really—”

“Bye, Sean!” and with that she hung up.

“Bugger,” I said, and, smiling, I put the phone back in its cradle.

13: GUN STREET GIRL

The front room of the Eagle and Child. A pint for Lawson, a vodka tonic for me. A sour, sawdusty smell. Obnoxious, good-looking male students. Ridiculously pretty female students.

With a pint of Theakston's already in him Lawson was displaying a not completely lovable chatty streak. “Big fan of Tolkien, actually,” he was saying. “Not so much for your man Lewis though. Bit too heavy on the God stuff for me . . . Same again, Inspector?”

“Why not.”

When he came he was carrying two pints and two packets of crisps and no vodka tonic. He took a big hungry gulp of his beer and launched straight back in: “Both of them were in the trenches—1917. Explains a lot. The violence, obviously. Lewis liked allegory. Aslan is Jesus, you know? Tolkien hated the form. He wanted to write an alternative mythology of Europe. People thought he was talking about the Nazis but he wasn't, he wasn't.”

“Fascinating. You're a smart lad. How come you never went to uni, Lawson?” I asked.

“Well, as I explained, sir, my heart was set on getting in here, and, uhm, I screwed up the interview. A-levels were coming up . . . and then the RUC recruitment officers came round the school and they said if I got an A and two Bs I could be inducted straight into the CID after the usual training and stuff.”

“And what did you get in your A-levels?” I asked, pretending that I hadn't already read his personnel file.

“I got three As. Four actually. Bit of a cheat, though, as I did maths and further maths. So, you know, it was a job and money and if I put in ten years I reckon I can always go back to uni as a mature student.”

I shook my head. “Nah, once you're hooked you're hooked, mate. You'll do twenty and at the end of that you'll be too burned out to do anything else. Spend the rest of your days fishing or playing golf. Either that or become a promotion junkie and try to make your way up the greasy pole: Chief Superintendent, Assistant Chief Constable, Chief Constable, knighthood.”

“I'm not interested in promotion. I just want to do good for the community.”

“Doing good, eh? I used to think like that. First month I'm on the job old Dickie Bently takes me aside to explain what ‘emotional leverage' is. Have you heard of that term, Lawson?”

“No, sir.”

“It's where you arrest a family member for a minor outstanding warrant to get information on your real suspect. Dickie explained by showing. Arrested a widowed father with four kids for a bum check he'd passed three years earlier. The dad was climbing the walls. Youngest was two years old and in the house alone. Course, Dickie arrested him under the Prevention of Terrorism Act: no phone call, no lawyer. We broke the dad and he told us all about his brother-in-law who was fencing stolen goods for the Provos. Dickie schooled me pretty quick in the ways of getting things done. It's not just ‘doing good'; sometimes it's doing bad too for the greater good, Lawson. It's a bastard of a job.”

“Yes, sir,” Lawson agreed glumly.

“And it's not just—” I began, but at that moment Kate waltzed into the Eagle and Child bringing an autumnal breeze, golden leaves, and a slight hint of perfume. She was wearing a tartan skirt and a sweater. Her hair was tightly coiffured. She kissed me on the cheek and introduced herself as an old friend. Lawson bought it but Crabbie would have been more dubious.

I gave Lawson a tenner and told him to get another round in. Kate wanted a gin and tonic—easy on the tonic.

When he'd gone Kate patted me on the knee.

“This is a nice surprise,” she said affectionately.

“Surprise I don't think.”

“He seems like a pleasant young man.”

“Lawson? He's the one you should be trying to recruit. Pretty sharp and green enough to be malleable.”

“It's lovely, isn't it, Oxford? Such a small world too. Last time I was here I was behind Iris Murdoch at Tesco.”

“She doesn't seem the Tesco type,” I said skeptically.

“So, what's this case you're working on?”

“As if you don't know that too.”

She smiled coyly. “Well, I did poke around a little bit. I hope you're not going to make waves over here, Sean.”

“Are there waves to make?”

“There are always waves to make.”

“Young Lawson thinks that the Thames Valley Police may be protecting an important member of the British establishment in the Anastasia Coleman case.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“As usual, Kate, I have an open mind.”

“Well, you're the detectives, not me, but frankly it sounds preposterous. The tabloids were all over that case.”

Lawson returned with the drinks.

“Were your ears burning, sweetie? We were just talking about you,” Kate said.

“You were?” he said, coloring quickly.

“Sean tells me that you think that the Thames Valley Constabulary may be conspiring to keep the truth from the public in the tragic case of Anastasia Coleman.”

Lawson looked at me to see whether it was OK to say anything.

“Kate works in, uh, law enforcement; you can speak freely in front of her,” I assured him.

Lawson told her his theory about Count Habsburg and Michael Kelly being the fall guys, but the mysterious “third man” getting off scot-free. A third man who, as a member of the Round Table Club, was a future mover and shaker or the son of a current mover and shaker.

Kate smiled and took a generous sip of her G&T. “Nothing would shock me about the Thames Valley Constabulary, but how they would have pulled the wool over the eyes of the coroner in the Anastasia Coleman affair is beyond me. Sir Bradford Wells was in Colditz, so I doubt very much whether he would have been successfully intimidated by a few bobbies in the Oxford police.”

Was that the reason for our little rendezvous tonight? To warn us off officially? Or was she speaking
obiter dicta
? Simply giving her own opinion. She was a very difficult woman to read.

She smiled and finished her drink. “I'll get the next one, lads.”

We finished the next round and Kate led us outside. The light rain had stopped and the street was full of people. That feeling again. That this was the normal world. A world without bombs and terrorists and suspicious packages. All these young people out having a good time. Carefree. Happy. No undercurrent. No tension. No sectarian cold war. It felt weird.

“Do we need a taxi?” I asked, spotting a black cab.

“No, no. We'll walk.”

We hoofed it up the Banbury Road to a place called Andre's.

It was quite exclusive, and Lawson and I felt underdressed in our sports jackets and shirts. No one actually offered to give us a tie, but we were the only men in the place without them.

Kate seemed to be well-known to Patrice, the elderly maître d'. She spoke to him in French, a tongue both Lawson and I knew well enough to understand our introduction as “her two gallant, handsome comrades in arms.”

An aperitif was produced along with three menus. Kate did the ordering, and extravagant dish followed extravagant dish. The wine flowed freely too.

The waiters, who, as a species, customarily looked on me with neutrality or even veiled hostility, were positively nice.

“It's a fine old place, isn't it? I saw Benjamin Britten in here once when I was a girl. And my father told me that this is where Epstein took The Beatles after their audition with Decca. Stopped off on the way back from Liverpool,” Kate said, winking at me.

“Look at you with the music references to get on my good side,” I said to her appreciatively.