The Conspiracy Theorist (15 page)

His face had gone serious.
 
It didn’t suit him.
 
I shrugged.
 
What can you say to people like that?

‘So, what do you do for kicks these
days, Mr Becket?
 
Besides beating
up a little kids?’

‘He wasn’t so little.’

‘He’s in the hospital, it says
here.
 
One, Djbril Mustapha.
 
Would you say it was racially
motivated?’

‘Here’s my card.
 
Ring that number please, officer, and
ask to speak to Anthony Carstairs QC.’

He whistled.
 
‘A silk that works weekends!
 
Now there’s a rarity.’

‘Just leave a message.
 
He’ll pick it up.’

I wasn’t so sure.
 
Hunt and Carstairs offered a 24-hour help
line, but I had never tested it myself.
 
The detective rose slowly.

‘Well if you would excuse me, sir.
 
I have some phone calls to make.’

He hobbled to the door leaving the
pungent aroma of sarcasm in his wake.

I
never saw him again.
 
DCI Richie
must have had a blue light on from whatever leisure activity he was engaged
in.
 
It could have been the golf
course but he was too extravagantly dressed even for that.
 
He wore a pink t-shirt under a black
leather jacket, tight black jeans and red Dr Marten boots.
 
With his shaven head and lack of height
he looked like a camp football hooligan, or the little one in Bronski Beat.

‘That was quick,’ I said.
 
‘Do you have my phone bugged?’

He smiled.
 
‘You're paranoid, Becket.
 
I’ve told you before you make assumptions.
 
The wrong ones.’

‘So enlighten me.’

‘We have you flagged on the
system.
 
Anyone lifts you, they
ring me personally,’ he looked pleased with himself.
 
‘And I came on my Harley.’

I resisted the temptation to comment on
that.

He looked down at the paperwork in his
hand.
 
He sat, but it didn’t make
much difference.

‘So, you couldn’t keep your nose out of
it?’

‘Out of what?
 
I thought there was no ‘it’, Richie.
 
I was beginning to agree with you, too.
 
Until someone beat me up.’

‘I heard about that.
 
How you gone about rattling the country
plods
’ cages.’

‘I would hardly describe DS Singh in
that way.
 
Nevertheless, he rang
you, did he?’

‘I’m asking the questions, Becket.
 
DS Singh told me that he had been
investigating the disappearance of one Lee Herbert.’

‘He was one of my attackers in
Chichester.’

‘Yes well, Sussex Police have been
interviewing his friends and a man fitting your description allegedly attacked
Herbert the night before in the same park.
 
Broke his index finger and half-strangled him.
 
Wasn’t
aikido
your thing, Becket?’

‘
Jujitsu
.
 
It is a purely defensive discipline.’

‘Now it seems you have
defended
yourself against a child,
repeat
a child
, who sat in your
car.
 
He’s just woken up, I hear.
 
Haven’t you heard of reasonable force?’

‘I have.
 
But he was no child.
 
He was old enough to be the accomplice in the killing of an eighty-seven
year old man.’

Then I banged on a bit about the link
between the two attacks.
 
Not for the
edification of DCI Richie, as I was sure he knew all about it and was fully
occupied not doing anything about it.
 

It was the thing I was always saying while
I was in the Met: deal with the crime in front of you.
 
Don’t let people go free so they can be
your grass or lead you unwittingly to bigger fish.
 
Once you do that the criminal justice system becomes
relative and people think it is a system you can play.
 
The worst part was that it made coppers
think like, and sometimes behave like, criminals.
 
Sometimes it made you think like the civil servants across
the river at MI5.
 
They will always
tell you there is a bigger picture.
 
But tell that to the woman raped by the informant who got off lightly
the week before.
 
I have been in interviews like that.
 
Victims ask you some uncomfortable
questions.

Clearly I was telling Richie nothing
new or arguments he had not rehearsed for himself in front of the bathroom
mirror.
 
He just didn’t agree with
me.

‘Finished?’

‘Here endeth the lesson.’

‘Change the record, Becket.’

‘Jimmy Somerville!’ I said.
 
‘Of Bronski Beat and
the Communards fame.
 
That’s
who you remind me of!’

Richie gave me a long, pitying look.

And he got up and left.

Haven’t
you heard of reasonable force?
 
I had.
 
But I was beginning to think that reason had not much to do
with my behaviour.

Time slipped by.
 
I considered my sins.
 
The next person who came through the
door was the antithesis of DCI Richie.
 
He was tall, lithe, black and carried himself like an athlete.
 
And he looked very, very pissed off
with me.
 

Reuben Symonds.

We
were parked in front of the St Pancras Grand Hotel, which is part of the
restored station’s neo-gothic facade.
 
The only difference was that where nineteenth century porters and
pickpockets had scurried, here were concierges who would park your car for you and,
out by the entrance, security men the size of small trucks who might or might
not let you in.
 
One of these had
waved Reuben Symonds through as he drove my Spider up the station
concourse.
 
He parked, got out and
stood staring down the Euston Road, his hands leaning on the wall, clenching
and unclenching his fists.

We hadn’t exchanged a word on the drive
from the police station.
 
He
insisted on driving and accelerated away more quickly than a car of the Alfa’s vintage
would have appreciated.
   
Now, I sat listening to her tick in irritation, and then got out and
walked over to him.

‘I know what you were trying to do,’ he
said.
 
‘Do you realise what it
would mean to get that boy arrested?’

I couldn’t say that I didn’t care,
because I found I did.
 
I had gone
to the Alconbury with no intention of hurting Djbril or Darren, and the sight
of the lad on the pavement being tended to by a female police constable was
something I felt ashamed of.
 
I
couldn’t win.
 
And now there was
nothing to be gained by showing weakness.

‘Yes, I wanted to get them booked, even
if it meant my car being smashed up.
 
Yes, I wanted them in the criminal justice system because then Richie
and you would have to do something about it.’

He turned and almost spat the words, ‘
Do what?
 
Do something about
what
exactly?
 
You're so full of shit!’

‘Tell me the truth,’ I said.
 
‘You lied to me, Reuben.’

‘Look at you!
 
You know fuck all,’ he said.
 
‘About me, about Djbril.
 
You know where he came from?
 
What it is like where he came
from?
 
Mogadishu,
man.
 
He’s seen more death
than you or I ever will.’

‘You lied to me about their
involvement.
 
You said they only
saw it.
 
You didn’t say they
stopped an old man on the street—just across there—while some
blokes came and beat the shit out of him.’

‘They didn’t know that was going to
happen.
 
How could they?’

‘I don’t know.
 
You tell me.
 
Because I’m interested.
 
You see a few days ago the same thing
happened to me.
 
Same routine... so
I'm very interested.
  
Get
it?
 
Once you’re an interested
party you have to do something about it.
 
That’s the way it works.’

Is that the way it works? I asked
myself.
 
Do you really believe your
own rhetoric, Becket?

Self-doubt must have flickered across
my face.
 
For a moment I thought he
was going to hit me.
 
There were
witnesses, plenty of them, but that is not what stopped him.
 
Reuben Symonds had the sort of
self-control that was hard won and highly valued.
 
It was something I did not possess, whatever side of the
argument I was on.

‘Look Becket, they don’t volunteer that
sort of information even to me.
 
Darren told Pete.
 
Pete told
me.
 
I can’t give that information
out to just anyone.
 
Unless no one
would talk to us at all.’

‘You should have told someone.’

‘I did.
 
I told Richie.
 
But he said it would complicate matters.’

‘Is that why the police didn’t press
charges against me?’

‘No, he’s a minor.
 
His mum didn’t press charges.
 
I saw her at the hospital.’

‘So it was you?’

‘No,’ he said patiently.
 
‘It was not me.
 
His mum saw the whole thing.
 
She doesn’t speak much English.
 
But between you and me she thought it might
do her son some good.
 
Knock some
sense into him.’

I turned and leaned back against the
wall.
 
The hotel loomed above
us.
 
Reuben Symonds glanced
up.
 
He got out his wallet.

‘She asked me to give this to
you.’
 
It was a fifty-pound note.

‘So they hadn’t spent it?’

‘This is it.
 
Evidence, of sorts.’

I took it from him, opened my own
wallet and counted out five tens. ‘Put it in the community chest, or
something.’

He smiled and took it off me.
 
He nodded up at the St Pancras Grand.

‘You know how much it costs to stay
here?
 
£400 per
night minimum.
 
That’s just
a room.
 
Breakfast will cost you
another twenty-five, each.
 
Dinner
what?
 
Fifty,
sixty, seventy?
 
Before you
add the wine.
 
I get people jobs
here—ex-cons, kids with no qualifications, people the government call ‘NEETs’.
 
Not in education or employment or
training.’
 
He laughed bitterly.
 
‘Know how much they pay them
in employment
?
 
Minimum wage or, if they are an Apprentice,
a hundred quid a week.
 
Where
does all the money go?
 
Not to
them, that’s for sure.
 
Sometimes,
I feel London
is
a game of
Monopoly
.’

He walked away and wandered down to see
the security guard on the gate.
 
He
didn’t look back or wave when I passed them minutes later and joined the
traffic on the Euston Road.

The
next day I did nothing.
 
I lay in
bed and I didn’t move.
 
I didn’t
get up and I didn’t make a cup of tea.
 
I didn’t toast any wholemeal bread or boil a pan of healthy but tasty porridge
oats.
 
I neglected to shower and I
didn’t shave.
 
I would not have
even bothered going to the toilet if my bladder had not gone radioactive on me.
 
It was Sunday.
 
The Cathedral called the faithful to
prayer with a persistent angelus, but I stayed put.
 
I had no reason to go anywhere and I didn’t want to talk to
anyone either.
 
Let alone God.
 
If I could have slept any longer I
would have.
 
But I was all
slept-out.
 
I had got home at eight
the previous evening and managed to sleep thirteen hours.
 
Some sort of Becket
record.
 
The dressing had come
off in the night but there was no blood on the pillows, so I left my stitches
exposed to the wholesome air.
 
In
the mirror I was beginning to look normal but, then, my norms were low, very
low.

Anthony Carstairs had left a message to
say that by the time he had got through to my friends in the Police of the
Metropolis, I had been released without charge and, by the way, thanks very
much for ruining a perfectly good lunch at a lovely little place in
Whitstable.
 

I dared not ring him back.
 
Wait till the next time you’re
arrested, Becket, I thought.

I shuddered at the recollection of the
day before.
 
Was that really
me
?
 
I asked
myself. In the cold light of day my behaviour seemed not only odd but also unreasonable.
 
Even if I scrunched up my eyes a bit
and winced, it still seemed pretty unprofessional and selfish.
 
There was no avoiding it.
 
So I got a bottle of Spitfire from the
fridge and watched an old war film on TV.
 
In it people were noble and did things with the very best of
intentions.
 
But it was easy.
 
As they kept saying: there was a war
on.
 

Halfway through, Meg called and started
to leave a message.
 
I surprised
myself by jumping up and taking the call.
 

‘I’m here.’

I hadn’t heard my voice all day and now
it sounded slightly desperate.

‘How did it go yesterday?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The drive home?’

At least the Met hadn’t rung her as
next-of-kin this time.
 
To say I
had been a naughty boy.
 
Arrested
for attacking another naughty boy.
 

‘Oh, an absolute nightmare.
 
Sheer weight of traffic, as they say.
 
But we made it.’

‘Did you?’ she seemed amused for some
reason.
 
‘Any news from
Chichester?’

‘Chichester?’

‘Your friend?
 
Mr Janovitz?’

‘I haven’t checked.
 
Christ!’
 
I felt even worse.
 

Silence at the other end.

‘Any news on the blood test?’ I asked.

‘I’m looking at it now.
 
Nothing.’

‘What, you mean: there’s nothing
there?’

‘Nothing they were looking for.’

‘Oh, well.
 
I must be ill after all.’

‘Thomas, are you serious?’

‘Of course not!’

Her silence invited a further
response.
 

‘I’m not ill, Meg.
 
Thanks for trying anyway.’

She seemed doubtful, ‘
What
were you expecting, Thomas?’

‘I don’t know.
 
An excuse perhaps.’

‘You seem even more down on yourself
today.
 
If that’s
possible.
 
Are you
drinking?’

‘Just beer.’

‘Not good with painkillers.’

‘I haven’t taken any.
 
They make me sleep.’

‘I know.
 
They
did
show up
in your bloods.’

There was more silence at the other
end.
 
I had forgotten about her
silences.

‘Meg?’

‘Sorry, just writing myself a
note.
 
Listen, I’ll ring Chichester
if you want.
 
When I get to
work.
 
They’ll be more forthcoming
with me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And Thomas?’

‘Yes?’

‘Take your prescribed medicines.’

‘Okay.’

‘And don’t drink.’

‘Yes, Meg.’

‘And
..
.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Everything.’

The
black and white movie played in the background.
 
People were still being very noble and displaying vast
reserves of stiff upper lip.
 
One
day, a pilot officer would be banging out a tune on the old Joanna in the pub
and the next his kite would be
cartwheeling
across
the airfield in a ball of white flame.
 
His girlfriend would shrug and get on with it.
 
My parents had been part of that world.
 
And Sir Simeon
Marchant.
 
Different times, Becket.
 
Different norms.

I took my prescribed medicines, washing
the pills down with the yeasty dregs of the Spitfire.

I thought of what Meg had said.
 
How can
everything
be your fault?
 
You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.
 
And yet Meg was right I did see things that way from time to
time.
 
People who criticised me
didn’t realise that I had got there before them and had already put the boot in
on myself.

Directorate
of Professional Standards.
 
Detective Chief Inspector, it says here... that you left under a bit of
a cloud... heard an officer you were investigating killed himself... Everyone
hates you, by the way.
 
What on
earth did you do to upset so many people?

‘I did my job,’ I said to the TV
screen.
 
‘I did my bloody job!’

His
name was Elliott Quinn.
 
Only a PC,
but he must have been good, because straight after basic training he was
fast-tracked to firearms and protection work.
 
Being single and ex-army, he had the right profile for long
and unsociable hours, along with the ability to shut off the part of his face
that would reveal his thoughts to senior officers.
 
Just what you needed when detailed to protect Ministers of
the Crown.
 
People liked him.
 
He was the yes-sir-no-sir type of
Protection Officer that politicians, particularly of the centre-left, loved to
have around them.
 

Before the cost-cutting at the Yard,
protection was the job of well-spoken Special Branch types—the sort of
coppers who drank red wine and knew not to use their knife as a spoon—now
the politicos got the likes of Elliott Quinn.
 
But, they liked his Belfast accent and the fact he didn’t
use it very often.
 
He never seemed
to be listening to their conversations, and on the one occasion a PPS asked him
his opinion on some matter, he declined to comment.
 
His colleagues never saw Quinn out of work, and it was
rumoured he was either gay or celibate.
 
They were wrong on both counts.

Quinn liked to mix business with
pleasure.
 
That was how he later
described it to ‘DCI Becket, sir’.
 
He started with the constituency press officer of the Minister of
Health.
 
They would ‘get it on’, as
Quinn called it, in the back of the ministerial limousine while the old idiot
was on stage explaining away his health cuts.
 
Then he moved onto the young wife of a junior Treasury
minister, while he was in Brussels discussing farming subsidies.
 
Then, the wife of a Cabinet Minister, a
Right Honourable with around the clock protection for immediate family.
 

Quinn said he was always interested in
the weaknesses of those on power—it had been the same in the Army—how
the Ruperts could not see what was going on right under their noses.
 
DCI Becket knew what he was talking about.
 
But I also remember thinking Elliott Quinn
stupid to think that a politician of all people would not find out—or be
told.
 
For the Met it was
‘discreditable conduct’ and Quinn was duly sanctioned.
 
He was taken off protection duties and
was moved to airport security.
 
It
was brushed under the carpet.
 
But I
thought the man unstable and not suitable to be hanging around a crowded
airport with an automatic weapon in his hands.
 

Unfortunately, not for the first time,
I was alone in that opinion.
 
Quinn
had atoned for his sins and undergone any number of Psych tests that underlined
his stability and fitness for duty.
 
Besides, as someone asked, had DCI Becket any idea of how much it cost
to train a firearms officer?
 
You
have got a number of them suspended already.

‘Yes, for shooting a member of the
public,’ I had pointed out.
 
‘I
feel Quinn could do the same.’

I was wrong.
 
One morning, PC Elliott Quinn of SO18 Aviation Security
Command had checked in to work at the police station at London Gatwick Airport,
was issued with his firearm as usual, gone to the rest area for a quick smoke,
he said, and calmly blown his head off.

Literally.
 
Just a body sitting on a bench and, where Quinn’s head
should have been,
some Plexiglas looking like it had been designed
by Marc Chagall
.

People were divided on the matter: the
top brass—few had had the three weeks firearms training that they
considered so expensive—made out it was an accident; his fellow coppers,
and my own union, were of the opinion that I had hounded him to death.
 

In my defence, I pointed out that Quinn
didn’t smoke—on my many interviews with him he told me he abhorred my
habit—and that he was clearly unstable.
 
If he was hounded by the likes of me, then he was easily
destabilised.
 
But no one was
listening; they were either busily protecting their own backs or engaged on a
witch-hunt against my unit.
 

I hung around for a year, so as not to
give them the satisfaction of pushing me out or sending me off to the naughty
corner with Interpol again.
 
But in
the next round of cuts, guess who got the offer of a generously enhanced early
pension?
 
Guess who got an offer he
couldn’t refuse?

About
4pm it started to rain, the sort of soft, fat rain that you get in late summer,
gently pattering on the car roofs in the street outside.
 
The cathedral was already lit up in the
gloom.
 
I dressed and went down to
the Spider.
 
The roof seemed secure
enough, but the last time any rain had got on the leather, she had smelled like
a wet dog for weeks.
 
I fired her
up and drove the half-mile to the garage where I kept her.
 
I emptied the glove compartment, and
rolled a cigarette.
 
I started
walking back but soon got fed up with the rain and, throwing away my sodden fag,
I stopped off for a drink.
 

It was a crowded pub, football on the
television, not the sort of place I normally frequented.
 
It took an age to be served and I had
too long to appraise the beers on offer—and reject them.
 
So I ordered
a double
malt and retreated to a corner.
 
At
least this will warm me up, I thought.

My case notes were as I had left them
outside Meg’s flat: Vincent Carmody’s suggestion that Prajapati’s wife had him
under surveillance
;
the oblique discussion of the
modus operandi of muggers in public spaces.

‘Town centre like that, too many variables,’
Carmody had said.
 
Question is: how do you minimise the
variables?