Rough Treatment (14 page)

Once he’d got that policeman out of his hair, shut Deleval in a room with a typewriter and a ream of paper to do some more rewrites he had no intention of using, he had got on top of things. Costume and makeup had got their collective finger out, there had been a surprising absence of boom shadows, those artists who had forgotten their lines had covered with others just as good. When they finally wrapped, all of the scheduled scenes had been shot, along with one held in reserve, and they’d run through the first scenes from tomorrow’s order.

Freeman Davis, when he arrived, had been tanned from a week filming a chocolate commercial in Morocco and was affably on his best behavior. Keen to take the chance of working with one of the real pros in the business; when he said that he showed a line of perfectly capped teeth. Harold had shaken his hand with equally feigned enthusiasm before Mackenzie had whisked Freeman away to look at the material they’d shot so far.

Poor bastard! Harold had thought.

He was in such a good mood when he left the studio that, for the first time in ages, he actually felt like getting laid. Even by Maria. After dinner they could start in on a second bottle of wine, and he would find one of those videos he’d bought in Streatham High Street.

He was in such a good mood he didn’t spot Stafford until it was almost too late.

Hands in the pockets of his parka, one leg crossed behind the other and balanced on the toe of his trainers, Alan Stafford was leaning against the side of a transit van and waiting. Harold slewed to a halt even as Stafford’s head turned. He ducked back fast between a pair of matching Volvos, uncertain if he’d been fast enough. He wanted to wait, peer round the car and check, but instead he was walking fast, faster, running now, making a wide curve through the rows of parked cars, working his way round to where his own Citroën waited. Hasty glances over his shoulder told him that Stafford was not following; maybe his reactions had been quick enough and Stafford hadn’t seen him at all. By now it was dark, getting darker, he would have been little more than a shape, nothing to mark him out, register.

Jesus! thought Harold. I oughtn’t to be carrying this much weight. Last week, was it? The week before? A designer he’d worked with on a couple of previous shows, he’d reached across the table for a cigarette and dropped face down into the linguine. Forty-seven years of age. Tragic!

“Harold.”

At the sound of the voice, Harold Roy’s mouth opened, his eyes closed, adrenalin raced through his body. Alan Stafford stepped out from alongside the Citroën, the dull orange of the overhead light shining oddly off his angular face inside the hood of the parka.

“What’s the matter, Harold?”

“Nothing, I …”

“You didn’t want to meet me.”

“No, I …”

“Avoiding me.”

“Alan, no, I didn’t know you were … I didn’t see you.”

“You didn’t
see
me?”

“No.”

“Just ran fifty yards to keep out of my way.”

“That’s not true.”

“You always go back to your car that way.”

“Yes. No. I …”

“Exercise for you, Harold. Jogging.” He reached out and caught hold of Harold with forefinger and thumb, a roll of flesh through the fine denim of his shirt. “No more than you need, Harold. Dangerous to be carrying so much weight, a man of your years …” he gave the flesh a sudden tweak, “… your appetites.”

“Yes, I, I know, funnily enough, I was just thinking …”

“What, Harold?”

“The same.”

“Huh?”

“The same, same as you’re saying, I ought to … do … some … exercise.”

Stafford brought his thumb and finger even closer and more painfully together before releasing his grip and letting his arm swing back down to his side.

“How’s our secret?” Stafford asked, smiling; edging closer. Two men, walking close to one another, talking excitedly, passed within fifteen yards of them; Harold almost called out.

“Still safe?” Stafford persisted.

Harold nodded.

“Safe and sound.”

“Of course.”

“Inside your safe.”

“Yes. Where else …?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Harold. Don’t sound so worried. It’s just that I’ll be needing it.”

“Soon?”

“Tomorrow. The day after. I’m not certain yet, but soon. Good news, eh, Harold? You can get your share of the investment. Five percent, wasn’t that what we …?”

“Ten.”

“Oh, yes,” Stafford laughed. “Of course, ten. Ten percent interest on one kilo, you’re looking at … £1,200, Harold. That’s a lot of money to be made just for storage. A solid profit, even if you take it out in kind.”

“I know,” said Harold. His mouth was dry, like ashes gone cold. He prayed he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. Not for the first time in his life, he wished that he could act with a degree of conviction.

“A good enough deal for you not to get greedy.”

“Course it is.”

“That’s good, Harold.”

“Yes.”

“Good to hear.”

“This much to be made, there’s no call, that or anything else.”

He was close enough now for Harold to feel his breath on his face; smell—what?—cheese, cheap aftershave and, beneath that, what might be gin. Something pressed, hard, against the side of Harold’s leg, hard and metallic. Flinching, he wanted to look down but stopped himself, looking instead into Stafford’s face, searching for reason or meaning.

“The pub the other night,” Stafford said, “location. The bloke you were drinking with at the bar.”

“No one. I wasn’t. I talked to Mackenzie, a few minutes, nothing more.”

“In here again today. Seeing you.”

“That inspector …?”

“Resnick.”

“I never spoke to him before today.”

“Coincidence that he was in the pub, just a few stools away?”

“Must have been. I didn’t know, didn’t remember …”

Whatever was pressing against him pressed harder so that Harold had to choke back a shout of pain. Around them car doors were slamming, engines starting up. First one set of headlights then another swept over them and past.

“If I find you’ve been setting me up …”

“What reason could I have for doing that? Alan, listen …”

“That I don’t know yet. But I’m not taking chances.”

“Alan, look, I’ve told you before. This business with the police, it’s nothing to do with you, with … you know …”

A man with a heavy duffle coat stopped at the car immediately to Stafford’s left and unlocked his boot. He was whistling Butterfly’s first love song from Act One: Harold wished he were on a hillside overlooking Nagasaki, anywhere other than where he was.

Turning, the man nodded at Harold, who recognized his face but not his name. “Anything wrong?” the man said.

“No,” Harold said. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.” The man glanced sideways at Stafford, who had backed off beyond arm’s length. “I thought perhaps you had a flat battery, some problem like that.”

Harold’s tongue dampened his lower lip. “I’m fine,” he said. “The car’s fine.”

“Good.” The man nodded, turned and climbed into his car. Before he began to pull away, the sounds of an operatic overture filtered out into the dampening air.

“Eight o’clock, Harold. I’ll phone you. Tell you where to bring the stuff.”

“a.m.?”

“Bright and early. And, Harold …” Stafford patted the side pocket of his parka, “… if, for any reason, you don’t show up with what’s due to me, if anything’s out of line, I hope I don’t need to spell out what’s liable to happen.”

When Harold Roy ran the events through later in his mind, he could never clearly see Alan Stafford picking his way between the still-parked cars. What be could feel, with absolute recall, was the sharpness of the blade that moved upwards along the inside of his leg until it had been pressing against the heart of his groin.

Thirteen

Grabianski’s first thought was that the woman on the bed looked strangely familiar; his second told him it was Maria. The third, panic rising till he could taste it like bile at the back of his mouth, was that there had been a camera hidden in the Roys’ bedroom.

“Will you look at this?” Grice was sprawled across an easy chair, a large pack of salted peanuts, honeyed popcorn, a can of Diet Pepsi all within easy reach. “I’ve seen hotter things at the bottom of the freezer.”

“Where did you …?”

“Hey, come on now …”

“What the fuck …?”

“Grabianski, take it easy!”

On his feet, Gnice watched as his partner’s fingers fumbled for the proper control, found it at the third or fourth attempt and all three out-of-focus figures flicked from sight.

Grabianski stared at him, legs braced before the silenced television, the VCR. It wasn’t often Grice thought about the twenty pounds or so by which Grabianski outweighed him, the extra fitness, the speed: wasn’t often he’d felt the need.

“Look …” Grice began.

“No!”

“Look …”

“No. That’s you. Looking. You’re the looker here. You’re the fucking, what d’you call it?—yes—you’re the voyeur. No wonder this place already smells the way it does. Sitting around all day stuffing yourself with that junk, jerking off over …”

Grabianski came close: came close to catching Grice by the shoulders, hurling him back across the partly furnished room. Grice knew it. Knew, also, when the moment had passed, anger falling back across his partner’s eyes.

“Where did you get this anyway?”

“The set? I went out and hired it. Rent them both together, it’s as cheap as pissing.”

“The video—the tape.”

“You know where we got that.”

Grabianski’s hands fell away to his sides. “Shit!” He turned away and walked towards the window, hesitated, moved towards the door.

“Jerry,” Grice said, following after him, “let me get you a drink. Here, look, while you were busy I did a little stocking up.”

In the middle of the kitchen floor a cardboard box held half a dozen bottles of spirits, two four-packs of beer. Tins of soup and sardines, two loaves of wrapped, sliced bread stood on the work surface, close by the gas hob.

Grice bent towards the box. “Scotch? Vodka? I got vodka, two kinds. I can never remember which it is you like best.”

“Forget it.”

“I just bought it.”

“Forget it.”

“Okay.”

Grice shrugged his shoulders, gave a little shake of the head. He had brought through his Diet Pepsi with him and now he poured what was left into a glass and added a finger of scotch.

“It’s the tape from the safe, right?” Grabianski said.

“Right”

“Jesus!”

“If it’s any consolation, she didn’t look as if she was having a lot of fun.” In fact, Grice thought, she looked as though she had the hump. He kept the thought to himself; right then, he didn’t think Grabianski would appreciate the joke.

“Anyway, Jerry,” Grice said after a couple of moments, “how was it? How’d it go?”

Grabianski stared back at him stonily.

“No, I mean when you made her the proposition, how did it go down?”

“Lloyd Fossey, sir.” Millington had met Resnick in the small, sloping car park and was walking close alongside him, into the station. “Last time I saw him, he was living in the middle of a terraced street out in Sutton, stone-cladding on the front wall and a van parked out front with his own name misspelt on the side panel. Now he’s got a detached house out towards Burton Joyce and, according to the bloke across the road, he’s driving an F-reg. Audi.”

“Come on in the world,” said Resnick, starting up the stairs.

“Moved into this place nine months back, not far short of three hundred thousand.”

I wish someone would offer that for mine, thought Resnick. Half of that. Anything.

“No matter if he’s mortgaged up the wazoo,” Millington pushed open the door to the CID office and stood aside to let Resnick pass through, “he’s got to have found a lot of cash from somewhere.”

“And you don’t think he acquired it servicing security systems?”

“Electronic surveillance consultant, that’s what Fossey introduced himself as when he moved in. Looks as though he’s using his own place for demonstrations. Lift a crocus out of the flower bed and you’ll be up to your ears in alarm bells.”

“Crocus?” said Resnick.

“Unnatural this year, sir, the weather. False spring.”

Right, thought Resnick, I’ve known a few of those too. At the back of the room, Patel had paused in typing up a report and was trying to catch his eye. Divine, chair tilted back on its rear legs, was listening with the telephone to his ear, a bored expression on his face.

“And Fossey?” Resnick asked.

“Honeymoon, sir. Expected back the day after tomorrow.”

“Canary Islands?” suggested Resnick. “Turkey?”

Millington shook his head. “Benidorm.”

“At least it’s not Skegness.”

“Close your eyes, sir, difficult to tell the difference. So they say.”

Resnick knew that Millington drove his wife and kids each summer to Devon, each autumn a week with his wife’s parents somewhere north of Aberdeen. The Christmas she had gone off on a three-city tour of Russia, Millington had stayed home and dressed the tree.

“Sir,” said Patel.

“A minute,” said Resnick, holding up a hand, fingers spread wide.