Rebuilding Coventry (18 page)

You
took that corner so dangerously fast,

You passed a red light,

So, gal, you ain’t

Passed.

Wayne whooped and slapped
the fourth man on the shoulders and said, ‘Burdock, you’re
beautiful.
I
know it’s gonna
work.
Fifty thousand dollars each and we can do it. Open
the first office in London, the time’s right.’

Their
meal arrived and Steel and Conroy and Wayne and Burdock fell onto the tiny
English steaks with grunts and blunt knives.

‘Hey,
ma’am,’ shouted Wayne to the waitress. ‘You gotta bottle of good French wine
there? We gotta celebration here.’

The
waitress brought a bottle of Niersteiner which, Dodo whispered, was German, but
the Americans didn’t know or didn’t notice. They were happily engaged in
singing little ditties about life’s more unpleasant aspects:

Yesterday,
all your troubles seemed so far away,

Now the cops have towed
your car away! …

32
The Good Policeman Horsefield

Sly had ordered the police
driver to pull over onto the hard shoulder of the motorway. They were just
outside Newport Pagnell. He confronted the young policeman as they swopped
places round the bonnet of the car.

‘What
are you, a nancy boy? What’s with this ninety miles an hour pussyfooting around
crap? I’m in a hurry, boy. This is a
murder
investigation.’

‘There’s
a lot of traffic on the road, sir,’ the young man said, looking at the lorries
hurtling by in unbroken convoys.

‘I’ll
show you how to manage bleedin’
traffic,’
snarled Sly. ‘Get in the
passenger seat.’

In the
back seat of the police car sat Detective Sergeant Horsefield. He had known
this was going to happen. Something like it always did. But he feared Inspector
Sly more than he feared death on the motorway, so he whispered a prayer to Our
Lady under his breath and braced his feet on the floor and closed his eyes. Sly
pulled straight out in front of a juggernaut, causing it to make an emergency
stop. Then he overtook (on the inside) a minibus full of brass band players and
swerved violently into the fast lane, where he stayed by means of the police
siren and by forcing the cars ahead to move out of his way. At times the
speedometer touched a hundred and twenty miles an hour.

Inside
the car nobody spoke. Horsefield wished now that he had made his will, as his
wife had often suggested. Horsefield was a nice man. He believed in the law and
justice, but not necessarily in that order. He had a degree and an educated
accent and, despite these handicaps, had made friends and even influenced
people in the police force. Horsefield was secretly and devoutly religious. He
said his prayers in the bathroom at night, kneeling on the bath mat and folding
his hands together like a child.

33
About to Land

Sidney Lambert was never
happier than when he was on an aeroplane: nobody could get to him. He had
food, drink; his beloved wife was sitting in the next seat; and, best of all,
throughout the flight there was the titillating threat of sudden death, which
always added a tang to life. Sidney leaned back in his seat, squashing the
person behind him. He and Ruth were wearing all white, essential for showing
off the tan to the October pasty faces back in England.

Above
his head, stowed away in the baggage cupboards, were the crudely painted
souvenir plates and bottles of
vinho verde
he’d bought in the duty-free
at Faro Airport. Ruth was wearing a new gold and diamond ring, a present for
being a good girl, which cost well above the allowance permitted by poxy
English Customs. So that was all right. He was happy, Ruth was happy and the
rest of the world could go and screw itself.

To tell
the truth he wouldn’t actually mind dying
now
— if he had to die — was
forced to by God. Yes, he’d choose
now.
Fold Ruth into his arms and go
down in the water, or up in the flames together. There’d be time for a last
drink, wouldn’t there? And if Ruth started screaming, he’d knock her out. He
didn’t need Ruth to be conscious, she just had to be
there.

Shame
about poor old Coy. What a poxy mess she’d got herself into! Still, it wasn’t
his mess. He’d do his best to help her, of course he would, but only up to a
point. Be fair. He and Ruth had their own lives to lead, and nothing was going
to get in the way of that. No way. If the police were at the airport it wouldn’t
bother him that much, not really. He’d talk his way out. Wouldn’t he? Christ.
Bloody
baby
started
crying.
He’d give it two minutes, no,
one
minute
and then he’d ring for the stewardess and complain. If there was one thing he
couldn’t
tolerate, stand,
it was a bloody baby crying. Good job Ruth had
been sensible, listened to reason about those abortions. Would they have had
foreign holidays, villas and private swimming pools if they had
babies
to
cart round, plus all the gubbins babies need? No. Course not. And would their
house be the immaculate white-carpeted little palace it was with toddlers
breaking the joint up? No way. Look how kids had ruined their wedding day,
shouting out in church and fartarsing about during the reception. He’d
told
Ruth’s
mother to put ‘strictly no children’ on the invitations, but the stupid
cow-faced bag had said it would ‘offend the mutual families’. He was glad that
Ruth had seen the light about her mother.

‘Right,
kid, you’ve got five seconds of screaming left before your Uncle Sidney presses
his buzzer. I mean for Jesus Christ on earth’s sake, the little moon-headed
bleeder’s travelling
free.
I’ve paid eighty-nine pounds return, twice.’

Ruth
tried to divert Sidney from the horrible noise. ‘Poor little kiddie,’ she
thought, ‘I’d soon stop it crying, bless it.’

‘Sidney,
how long before we get to Gatwick?’

‘An
hour.’

‘Lovely.
Thank you, Sidney.’

In a cafeteria at Gatwick
Airport Detective Sergeant Horsefield watched Detective Inspector Sly shovel
eggs, bacon, fried bread, mushrooms, baked beans, chips and bread and butter
into his rapacious mouth.

‘I’ve
seen wild boars with better manners,’ thought Horsefield. He picked at his own,
more austere, food and didn’t look up again until he’d eaten every leaf, pulse
and grain. Then he placed his knife and fork on the empty plate, as though they
were religious artefacts. Sly pulled a banana split towards him and plunged a
spoon into the baroque squirts of cream with which it was decorated. He spoke:

‘Ri—, ‘ets
ge— ‘orted.’

‘Sorry?’

Sly
swallowed four hundred and fifty calories and said: ‘I
said,
let’s get
sorted. His plane lands in forty-five minutes, right? So when we’ve had our
coffee we’ll liaise with the uniformed plods and airport security and sort out
who’s doing what, right? Are you listening, Horsefield? I said
right.’

‘Yes, I
heard you, sir.’

‘When I
say
right,
I’m asking you a
question;
and a question needs an
answer, right?’

‘Oh,
right, sir, right.’

‘Right.
What I’d
like
to do is arrest him on the plane.’.

‘Oh?’

‘Saw it
done on a film once. Very effective. Spy it was, trying to defecate to the
East.’

Horsefield
laughed. He was pleased and also relieved at this proof that Sly had a sense of
humour. However, Sly was not laughing.

‘What’s
so funny?’

‘To
defecate
to the East, sir.’

‘I’m
not with you, Horsefield. Defecating to the East is a serious matter. Right?’

‘Right!’

Horsefield’s
body imploded with suppressed laughter. Every orifice had to be slammed shut. Tight.
Keep it
in,
Horsefield. To laugh now could cost you promotion, early
retirement and a good pension.

‘So,
Horsefield, I
will
go on the plane and you can wait at Arrivals in case
that murdering bitch is daft enough to turn up with a bunch of daffs and a welcome
home kiss. Be back in a bit. Percy needs pointing.’

Sly
lumbered his way through the fragile café furniture towards the lavatory sign.
Horsefield laughed and laughed and laughed. The laughing policeman and no need
to put a penny in the slot, either. When he’d recovered himself Horsefield went
to a telephone and phoned home. His small son answered the phone.

‘This
is Matthew John James Horsefield speakin’ on the phone at the moment. Which
person do you want to have a talk to?’

Horsefield
laughed again at the thoroughness of the three-year-old’s telephone manner.

‘It’s
Daddy.’

“Lo
Dad, it’s Matthew John James Horsefield talkin’.’

‘Yes, I
know; you said. Is Mummy there?’

‘No,
she’s in the kitchen; there’s only me here.’

‘Can
you go and fetch Mummy?’

‘Yes.’

Horsefield
heard the receiver drop abruptly then heard it cracking against the wall as it
swung loose on its cord. How many times had he told that kid not to …?

‘Darling?’

‘Darling,
I just rang to tell you …’

‘Nothing
wrong?’

‘No,
Sly drove down, though!’

‘Oh,
poor you. ‘‘What are you cooking?’

‘Green
mashed potatoes and blue fish fingers.’

‘Oh.’

His
little son had watched a cookery item on children’s television. Horsefield had
gone out in his lunch break in the week and bought six bottles of food colouring.
His wife had told him off and accused him of spoiling the boy.

‘I’ll
have to go, Malcolm.’ Horsefield was touched, she rarely used his Christian
name. ‘The stove’s on and …’

‘Let me
say goodbye to Matthew.’

He
heard his son’s feet clumping across the parquet of the hall floor. He guessed
that he was still wearing his new winter boots, bought earlier that day.

“Bye
Matthew, see you tomorrow. ‘‘Why?’

‘Because
I’m far away, in London.’ ‘Why?’

‘Because
I’m at work.’

‘Why?’

‘To get
money to buy you new boots. That’s
it.
Matthew, don’t ask any more
questions.’

‘Why?’

‘Because
it drives me mad, you know it does. I’m going now. Tell Mummy I love her.’

‘Tell
Mummy I love her,’ Matthew repeated.

‘No,
tell Mummy
I
love her. Not you.’

His
wife came back on the phone. ‘You’ve made him cry! What did you say?’

‘I only
raised my voice!’

‘Malcolm!’

‘Oh
Barbara, what am I doing here? I want to be there, at home.’ Sly was making
manic faces through the plastic hood of the telephone booth. Horsefield
whispered,
‘I love you,’
and put the phone down.

Mrs
Horsefield was astonished at the urgency in her husband’s voice. She looked
forward very much indeed to his homecoming.

34
Transition

It didn’t take long for me
to become wildly excited by Gatwick Airport. It was the most romantic place I’d
ever visited. At the end of the tunnels and walkways were jungles and deserts
and ancient cities; there were possibilities. I asked Dodo how I could get a
passport.

‘It
would be difficult, but not impossibly so. Why, darling? Where do you want to
go?’

‘Anywhere,’
I said. I wanted to leave the ground and pierce the sky, and disappear inside
the clouds.

I’m
forty and I’ve never flown in an aeroplane; never driven a car; never, as an
adult, been to the theatre or been ice-skating; never played tennis or been to
a night-club; never eaten Chinese food in a Chinese restaurant, worn pretty
underwear or had a bank account or talked about sex, money and polities in
mixed company. What
is
the Dow Jones Index. I admit, I don’t know. I’m an
ignorant woman. How has this happened? When I was little I was considered
clever; I won certificates for cycling proficiency, swimming and hurdling. And
the books I used to read when I was sixteen! Adult books about important
issues. Why did I stop reading the books?

It’s
not Derek’s fault, it’s really not. It’s not Derek’s fault. And I’m not going
to blame John and Mary either; it’s my own fault. I became timid and quiet and
frightened of imposing myself Something has happened to me. Killing Gerald Fox has
broken the spell. I’m ready to fly. I know this is hard on Gerald Fox.