The Spanish Game (9 page)

18

He should not have driven.

At the Savoy Ben had drunk the better part of a bottle of wine and a double vodka and tonic. Back home, he had finished off a can of lager and then poured himself a whisky when he couldn’t get to sleep. There had been wine with Alice at eleven and that shot of vodka at eight. As he turned the key in the ignition, he wondered if the police would let him off if they stopped him on the way to Paddington.

The journey touched on the absurd: four times he took wrong turnings, four times he had to pull over and consult an
A to Z
. Slush fizzed under the tyres of his car. Ben became lost in one-way systems, pulled down side streets which led him further and further from the flat. With the heating on and the chill air outside, the interior of the car quickly fogged up and he was constantly having to wipe the windscreen with the sleeve of his coat. At times he had to crouch close to the wheel and try to peer through the steamed-up glass; then his eyes would be dazzled by lights catching on the slick surface of the road and he feared losing control altogether. As his mind became numbed by the thick, drumming heat in the car, only the sure conviction that he wanted to witness the crime scene for himself, to get as close to his father as he could, drove Ben on.

He parked just after five thirty and had to walk two blocks towards the building where Keen had lived. An entire stretch of street had been cordoned off by the police with lengths of blue and white tape slung across the road. Three men wearing boiler suits and heavy overshoes were coming out of the entrance to the apartment building. Ben thought that he heard one of them laugh. A single light flashed blue in the road, strobing against London brick.

It was as if he was being controlled by forces outside of himself, a bank of instincts making decisions on his behalf. Ben ducked under the police tape and made his way towards a uniformed officer standing near the entrance. The presence of a stranger had unsettled them: Ben could hear the fractious static of voices breaking up on a radio concealed somewhere on the policeman’s uniform.

‘I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go into the building.’

He put a hand on Ben’s shoulder and it felt heavy, capable. The two men looked at one another.

‘I’m Benjamin Keen,’ Ben said. ‘I was his son.’

The policeman withdrew his arm like a static shock and took a step back towards the door.

‘The son,’ he replied, as if in the presence of something cursed. ‘I understood that one of my colleagues visited you at your house this evening.’

‘That’s right.’

‘We didn’t anticipate that you would come here.’

The policeman - Ben saw that his name was Marchant - stared across the street as if in need of assistance. Without looking directly at Ben he added, ‘Can I just say, sir, on behalf of all of us how very sorry I am…’

‘That’s kind. Thank you. Look…’ Ben’s voice was impatient as he asked: ‘Is there any way that I could just go up? I need to see my father. I need to find out what happened.’

‘I’m sorry, but we can’t allow ordinary members of the public…’ Marchant checked himself ‘… even close relatives such as yourself, access to the scene until the forensic examination has been completed. I’m sure you understand.’

A woman wearing a white boiler suit, holding a flash-mounted Nikon camera and a black Hi-8 video, came out of the building and walked across the street. Immediately behind her Ben noticed a man with a moustache dressed in civilian clothing, his dark hair cut short and neat to the scalp.

Stephen Taploe looked to his left and found himself staring directly into the eyes of Benjamin Keen. Already drained by shock, by the shame of losing a joe, he flinched and turned away.

‘That guy,’ Ben said. ‘He’s not part of the forensics. He’s wearing ordinary plain clothes. How come he’s allowed in?’

‘That’s one of our investigating officers,’ the policeman lied. He had first set eyes on Taploe just thirty minutes before, nodding him through under orders.

Uppity, dismissive, shrewd. Your classic grass skirt.

‘Why all the police?’ Ben was asking. ‘How come there are so many people?’

It was a question to which Marchant himself would have liked an answer. When the call had gone out about Christopher Keen, it seemed as if half of London had climbed out of bed.

‘Why don’t I take you over to our vehicle?’ he suggested, trying to deflect Ben’s question. ‘We can sit down there and I can introduce you to some of my colleagues.’

Ben nodded, as if gradually acknowledging the hopelessness of his situation. He spent the next thirty minutes inside a white police Transit van, sipping heavily sugared tea from a polystyrene cup. An older officer, rank of DCI, explained how a neighbour coming back from a party had noticed that his father’s door had been left ajar. He had discovered the body and immediately telephoned the police. No, they had no idea of a suspect: they were still at a very early stage in their enquiries. Yes, they would keep him apprised of any developments. Ben would be asked to identify the body in a few hours’ time and given the chance to answer any questions that might help to piece together his father’s last movements.

‘And may I add my sincere condolences, Benjamin,’ the DCI said. ‘This must be a very difficult time for you. Why don’t I have one of my colleagues take you home so you can have a shower or something before we take you up to the station?’

Almost as if somebody had been listening from outside, the back of the van opened up and Ben was introduced to a black policewoman whose thick leather gloves felt damp as he shook her hand.

‘Will you escort Mr Keen backto his house, Kathy?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘We’ll arrange for a car to come and pick you up at around ten.’

‘Fine,’ Ben said, now exhausted to the point of collapse. He wondered when he would ever sleep again. ‘Thanks for the tea,’ he said, and stepped down on to the road.

The street was now a trench of stunned activity. Ben experienced a strange kind of amazement that a new day was beginning, the city oblivious to his loss. Residents were emerging from nearby buildings, asking questions of uniformed officials, walking backwards as they stared up at the windows of the fourth floor, like boxers on the ropes. Marchant was still standing on the door, taking the names of everybody who entered or came out of the building.

Standing fifty metres away, beside a battered telephone box, Taploe watched Ben emerge from the van looking lost and broken. The policewoman ushered him down the street, under the taped cordon and, finally, to a car parked two blocks away that was just a shadow in the distance. Minutes later, Keen’s body was brought downstairs on a stretcher and placed in the back of an ambulance which drove slowly away in the direction of Edgware Road. Taploe watched this, listening to the appalled murmurings of the crowd, and wondered if he was witnessing the final act in his long and as yet undistinguished career.

Nevertheless, he sensed the remote possibility of second chance.
Clear the trail
, he told himself.
Distance yourself from the victim
. And from his coat pocket, Taploe extracted the Post-it note he had removed from the door frame. Tearing it into six separate pieces, he dropped the shreds into a storm drain and went in search of a cab.

19

When they had buried Carolyn, seven years before, Ben and Mark had floated through the funeral in a trance of grief. Mourners had drifted in and out of focus, approaching them tentatively, offering their whispered condolences. Now and again one of his mother’s friends would take Ben to one side, her eyes swelled and puffy with tears, and attempt to make sense of what had happened. These conversations were all eerily similar: the friend would do most of the talking, invariably relating an anecdote which conveyed Carolyn in a good light, touching on her bravery throughout the long illness, her sense of humour, or the loyalty she showed to close friends. Ben was not cynical about this; he realized that it was a necessary and inevitable part of what the second-rate shrinkhe had briefly visited described as ‘the grieving process’. But on each occasion he had the distinct impression that he was being taken aside not to be consoled but rather, by his sheer presence, to offer consolation to his mother’s friends. The entire afternoon was like a dumb show of the English stiff upper lip: Ben said and did all the right things, kept his emotions in checkfor the good of the crowd, and felt a strong determination not to let anyone down.

A few days after the service he had had dinner with a friend whose mother had also died of cancer. They agreed that funerals benefited only the deceased’s acquaintances and distant relatives, providing them with an opportunity to make a public display of grief and respect before returning home, where the sadness, in most cases, would quickly dissipate. For closer relatives - husbands, wives, sons, daughters - the sense of loss took far longer to kickin. Ben and Mark, who had watched in hospital as the life literally drained out of their mother, had mentally prepared themselves for a funeral. The hard part was to follow, pain like a slow puncture lasting months, years.

Yet their father’s funeral was quite different. At the service to commemorate the life of Christopher Keen, Ben felt like a stranger.

More than seventy people came to the crematorium outside Guildford, not one of whom he recognized. Ben met his uncle - Keen’s younger brother - for the first time since he had been a pageboy at his wedding in 1974. There were work colleagues from Divisar, old Foreign Office hands, distant cousins with second wives huddled in impenetrable groups. A man in his early sixties wearing spit-polished brogues and a Life Guards tie introduced himself to Ben as Mark’s godfather, an ‘old university chum’ of Keen’s.

‘I haven’t been all that good at keeping up,’ he explained, as if the broad, gutless smile which accompanied the remark would in some way make up for this. ‘Rather abnegated my godfatherly responsibilities, I’m afraid.’

The service had been arranged jointly by Jock McCreery, his father’s oldest friend from his days in MI6, and Mark, who had flown back from Moscow immediately. Ben had had little input: he had been too busy dealing with the police. This had left him with little opportunity to talk to his brother, and the two hours that it took them to drive against the morning rush hour to Guildford was the longest period of time they had spent together since Keen’s murder.

Alice sat in the back seat, fielding calls from the features desk on her mobile phone. To every member of staff she said the same thing - ‘I have to go to a funeral. Don’t worry. I’m meeting him this evening. I’ll ring you as soon as I get back’ - until Mark’s patience finally snapped and he told her to switch it off. For days they had existed in an atmosphere of stunned upheaval. In the hours leading up to Carolyn’s burial an odd kind of order had asserted itself, an innate knowledge of how to proceed. But this was quite different: there was no template for their situation.

The crematorium car park was already full, with only two or three spaces remaining by the time Mark pulled in. An elderly man and woman, dressed in what looked like their Sunday best, were eating sandwiches from the open boot of a Vauxhall Astra, blue plastic mugs of tea resting on the bumper. Ben held Alice’s hand as they walked slowly towards a low building with an emerald green roof surrounded by carefully tended lawns. McCreery, his black tie whipped up over his shoulder by a strong winter wind, strode out to meet them at a military clip.

‘Mark,’ he said, pumping his hand. He had an instantly forgettable face. ‘And you must be Benjamin. I’m so sorry about what’s happened. And Alice. How good to see you. They say it’ll just be a few minutes.’ There were two small waiting rooms on either side of the entrance to the main chapel building. Both were crammed with people, separate groups of mourners attending different services. Keen’s relatives and friends had gathered in the left-hand area in a room no bigger than a badminton court. Facing them, down a narrow corridor, a cluster of men and women, many of whom were weeping, were being spoken to in hushed tones by an undertaker with a practised face of condolence.

It was winter, but the waiting area was very hot. A service was being held in the chapel and the quiet melody of ‘Abide With Me’ fed into the narrow corridor, barely accompanied by singing. Two of Ben’s friends - Joe and Natalie - had offered to come with him as a gesture of support, and he regretted now that he had told them not to bother. Just to have someone to talkto, a familiar face other than Mark or Alice, would have consoled him slightly, given him someone to rely on.

‘May I introduce Christopher’s sons, Benjamin and Mark?’ McCreery was saying. His demeanour managed to combine an almost stately dignity with a concealed sense that he had more pressing matters at hand. ‘And Benjamin’s wife, Alice.’

McCreery had led them towards a group of five men, all of whom were in late middle-age and seemed, by their relaxed and close proximity, to have known one another for some time. Ben assumed they were Foreign Office, probably SIS, and felt an immediate antipathy towards all of them. As the handshakes flowed he noticed the tallest of the five men staring too long at Alice, his eyes drifting steadily towards her breasts, and he almost lashed out in frustration. He had experienced this so many times before, just walking beside her on the street or at parties for the
Standard
, men with tired marriages and Alice that friend of their daughter’s they’d always wanted to fuck. But at a
funeral
? Doesn’t it stop even
then
? Instead he deliberately caught the man’s eye and stared him down.

Beside him someone with a beard was saying, ‘I knew your father for many years. Liked him a lot. I’m so sorry for what’s happened.’

‘Thankyou,’ Mark told him.

Someone else asked, ‘Have there been any developments with the police?’ as if he were enquiring after the time.

‘Not really,’ Mark said. ‘There was nothing stolen from the flat, so they’re assuming it was premeditated. None of the neighbours have been able to come up with anything. Ben knows more about it than I do. He’s been under a lot of pressure.’

Five pairs of eyes settled on Mark’s dishevelled, self-evidently artistic younger brother as if to weigh up the veracity of this observation. The man standing nearest him said, ‘I’m sure,’ a remark which sounded unconvincing. Ben felt an obligation to say something, but was sapped of will. Then the tall man who had eyeballed Alice moved fractionally forward, smoothed down his hair and said, ‘Have you found the police helpful?’ His voice was candid and precise. ‘We were all of us in the Foreign Office, you know. I’d be only too glad to put you in touch with various people who might be able to give you a clearer picture of what steps are being taken to -‘

‘No,’ Ben told him, staring at the ground. He wanted to pull away the mask of their feigned concern. ‘The police have been fine. They’re just doing their job. We have a Family Liaison Officer assigned to the case…’ he nearly lost his train of thought ‘… and she acts as our contact with the police. That’s all working out as well as we could have hoped.’

Then, to his relief, the doors of the chapel opened and around a dozen mourners emerged into the corridor, some dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs, others supporting them as they walked outside into the dull light of late morning. Undertakers moved silently between the rooms, holding doors and nodding humbly as torpid organ music held in the air.

‘I think we’re next,’ Mark said, and Ben squeezed the slight bones of Alice’s hand. He had a feeling in his stomach like a stone resting on his soul.

‘Yes,’ said one of the men, touching the knot of his tie. ‘The service was scheduled to begin fifteen minutes ago.’

You got something else you’d rather be doing?
Ben was on the point of erupting, but checked his temper and glanced at Mark. His brother looked suddenly buckled by grief, his back slumped like an old man. McCreery appeared beside him.

‘You all right, fella?’ he asked, a consoling arm on Mark’s shoulder.

‘Oh, sure,’ Mark told him, straightening up. He could put on a good show when he needed to. ‘Sorry, Jock,’ he said. ‘I just wandered off there for a second.’

‘No problem,’ McCreery said. ‘No problem,’ and they moved towards the chapel.

Two undertakers were handing out service sheets on the door, their heads deferentially bowed. Ahead of them, to one side of the altar and resting on a raised platform at the mouth of what Ben took to be an incinerator, lay Keen’s coffin. Mark had picked it out, without asking for Ben’s approval, but he saw that he had made a good choice. Simple pale wood with a single bouquet of flowers resting on the lid. Yet the sight of it appalled him, bringing home all the finality of the act. His father’s contradictions, all the pain that he had caused, an unknown life just lying sealed up in a box.

‘You OK?’ Alice whispered, and he was grateful for her, for the simple beauty of her face and the comfort that it gave.

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘We should just keep an eye on brother.’

And they took their seats in the front row. Everything was moving smoothly. Ben heard the door closing quietly behind them, sealing in the chapel’s disinfectant smell, then he leaned forward at the pew and pretended to pray.