‘Could we step inside the station, sir?’ Duniec said. To anyone standing within earshot, it didn’t sound much like a question . . .
The man who called himself Des Beattie was packing his bag.He tore the ring-pull from another can of McEwan’s and gulped from the can. The photographs were lying on the bed. He paused in his packing and studied the photos again. Cooke with Duncan Webster. Cooke with Mrs Webster. Cooke looking very comfortable with Mrs Webster. Cooke looking extremely uncomfortable with Duncan Webster, looking like maybe he owed the man money, money he couldn’t hope to repay. But that wasn’t Cooke’s problem. No, Cooke’s problem was the wife. Look at the two of them: touching, kissing. With Mr Webster, Cooke looked more like a business acquaintance than anything; but with Mrs Webster he looked like a very close friend indeed.
Whether Webster knew or not, he couldn’t tell. But the daughter had known. Gillian Webster had found out about Cooke and her mother, about their affair. Christ, and she was Daddy’s little daughter, wasn’t she? When she’d spoken to him of her home life, hoping to ingratiate herself, hoping he wouldn’t harm someone he knew as a real person rather than an item (yes, she’d been clever all right), when she had done this, she had spoken always of her father first, her mother second. Daddy, Daddy, Daddy: it had always been Daddy. While Mother had remained just that: ‘Mother’.
All those hours she’d been alone, those hours with little to do but struggle against her bonds, little to think about but . . . but how to turn this little adventure to her own advantage. She would set up Bernard Cooke. She must have known his company was in trouble, giving him the motive. Who would suspect she’d lie about something like this? No one, no one would know except three people: Cooke himself, the mother, and the real kidnapper. Cooke would protest his innocence, but it was his word against Gillian’s. Mrs Webster . . . what could she say without revealing the extent of her ties to Cooke? And as for the kidnapper . . . well, was he going to come forward to help Cooke? Of course not!
It was true, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to do anything. He was going to leave this town and never return. With Cooke inside, the heat would be off, the police would stop checking airports and seaports. Yes, a foreign holiday, somewhere sunny and dry, not like this cold miserable island where he worked. He could stop by a travel agent’s tomorrow. On the plane out, he’d order champagne and drink to poor Bernard Cooke.
That was that.
He opened another can and picked up the photo, the one of Cooke and Mrs Webster kissing. The more he looked at it, the more he saw that he could be wrong. What if it was just a friendly kiss? These types, types like Mrs Webster, they could get overfamiliar. What if it had nothing to do with the mother? What if . . . what if it had to do with Gillian instead? She’d told him, ‘Daddy doesn’t like it when I bring home older men.’ Could there have been something between Gillian and Bernard Cooke? Maybe he’d broken it off and she was out for his blood . . .
Wait, think a bit. If Cooke was single, it wouldn’t work. It only worked if he was married and had to hide the relationship. His head began spinning, and he tried to stand up. How could he be sure? How could he be sure that Cooke and Mrs Webster or Cooke and Gillian had been an item?
He caught that word ‘item’ and smiled. If they’d been an item, people would have seen them together, somewhere they felt safe from Mr Webster. Maybe that was why Cooke started using the pub across from the estate more often; nothing to do with his financial troubles. It should be easy enough to check. He’d go there now, on his way out of town. He thought of Stefan Duniec. Stefan, who probably wasn’t fit to report on a flower show, never mind a police inquiry. There were some real thick bastards in the world, when you thought about it.
Jesus, weren’t there just.
It was five o’clock when he walked into the bar. As he’d hoped, the shift had changed. The barman was new. What’s more, Arthur had moved on. Good: they’d have thought it more than a little off, the Lancastrian returning to ask questions about Cooke and some woman.The beer he’d drunk in his room had given him a taste, so he ordered a double Armagnac with a half of lager to chase it down. Fuel for the long drive ahead. The bar was medium-busy with workers on their way home from the estate. He sat on the same stool as earlier, and made a show of checking his watch and keeping an eye on the door.
‘Waiting on someone?’ the new barman dutifully asked.
‘Bernard Cooke. I thought we arranged to meet at five.’
The barman tried the name. ‘Don’t think I know him.’
‘He’s a lunchtime regular.’
‘I never do lunchtime.’
He nodded miserably and finished the Armagnac. It burned him all the way down. One last time then: ‘He usually has a woman with him, a bit of posh.’
The barman shrugged and went back to wiping glasses.
‘Thanks anyway.’ He finished the lager and had another idea. It was a bit late, but worth a try. As he pushed open the door to the outside world, he met resistance. It was Arthur, coming in. Arthur looked surprised. Beattie switched to a north-west accent.
‘Hello, Arthur.’
‘Thought you were off to the wide blue yonder.’
‘Just heading back now. I’ve been hearing Cooke has a fancy piece.’ He winked. ‘That’s an expensive hobby, no wonder he’s gone broke.’
Arthur just stared, as though listening to a ghost. There was almost . . . it wasn’t shock, it was more like fear in his eyes.
Beattie persisted. ‘Nice looker, by the sound of her.’
‘Eh?’
‘They used to come in here.’
‘Did they?’
Was the man pissed? Maybe those crosswords had addled his brain. Beattie felt good and mellow.
‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘See you around.’
Arthur seemed to perk up. ‘Oh, right you are. Take care now.’
‘I will, Arthur, I will.’
The secretary, having faithfully placed a dustcover over the computer, was putting on her coat when he arrived. She looked daggers at him, and he raised his hands in surrender.‘I’ll only take a minute,’ he said. He hadn’t really expected her to still be here. How much paperwork could an empty factory produce? The reporters had vanished from outside, along with most of the cars on the estate.
‘You’re persistent,’ she said. ‘He’s not here.’
‘It was you I wanted to speak to.’
‘Oh?’
He stepped forward and produced the photo from his pocket, the one of Cooke and Mrs Webster kissing.
‘Is your boss married?’ he asked.
She smiled sourly. ‘I knew you weren’t a rep.’
‘Did I say I was? So what’s the answer? A simple yes or no.’
‘What business is it of yours?’
He gave a fumey sigh. ‘I can find out. It’s not difficult.’
‘Off you go then and find out.’
‘Did you know he was having an affair?’
‘It’s only an affair if the person’s married.’
‘Oh? So Cooke’s a bachelor then?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘Mrs Webster’s married though.’ He was seeking a reaction, any reaction. ‘Her daughter’s single.’
‘Get out.’ Her voice was colder than the lager he’d just consumed.
‘Let me guess,’ he persisted. ‘You had the hots for him yourself, maybe he was stringing you along . . .’
She picked up the receiver.
‘All right, I’m going.’ He put the photo back in his pocket. ‘But remember, you don’t owe him anything. It’s him that owes you. Just give me a yes or no: is he married?’
She started punching telephone buttons, so he left. She was breathing hard, but didn’t let it show. She stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. Then she was connected. ‘Police?’ she said. ‘I want to speak to Chief Superintendent Lancaster . . .’
Outside, he sat in his car, thinking about the man called Arthur, the se
cretary, and Stefan Duniec. Then he got out again and started looking for another car. Any car would do, so long as it had a car phone.
Lancaster put down the receiver and looked towards the two people sitting across the desk from him.‘That was your secretary, Mr Cooke.’ Bernard Cooke nodded: he’d gathered as much already. ‘Our man has just turned up again, asking if you’re married and implying you’ve been having an affair with Mrs Webster.’ He looked at the young woman next to Cooke. ‘Or even with you, Gillian.’
Gillian Webster snorted. Lancaster was smiling.
‘Looks like it’s worked,’ he said. I hate puzzles. Those three words had set the whole game in motion. And the game was about to end: right result, right team. ‘He had a photo with him,’ he went on, turning back to Bernard Cooke. ‘You and Gillian’s mother on the veranda at her home.’
‘That Sunday drinks party,’ Cooke decided.
‘The Minute Man was watching.’
‘He thinks Cora and I are lovers?’
‘He’s putting two and two together and making five, luckily for us. If that photo had just shown the two of you talking, he might not have suspected anything.’
‘Whereas as it is . . .’
‘He thinks he knows why Gillian’s set you up. It couldn’t have worked out better.’
Gillian Webster turned to Cooke. ‘Kissing my mother on the veranda?’
Cooke tried a nervous smile. Lancaster shifted in his chair. He was nervous for all sorts of reasons. The Minute Man had to solve puzzles, even if that meant conjuring an answer out of the thinnest stuff. Lancaster had invented the conundrum, hoping his adversary would be irritated by it . . . and drawn towards it. Someone even suggested the Minute Man might pose as a reporter - a suitable disguise for showing interest in the case . . .
There was a knock at the door, and a young man came in. Lancaster introduced him.
‘I don’t think either of you has met Detective Constable Duniec.’ Duniec nodded a greeting, but Gillian’s mind was on the idea of Cooke and her mother. ‘Well, Stefan?’ Lancaster asked.
The look on Duniec’s face was bad news.
‘He paid his bill and left over an hour ago.’
Lancaster nodded. ‘He’s been back to the Forester’s, a regular called Arthur just phoned to tell me. And he paid another visit to the factory.’
‘We know his car, sir, red Fiesta, there’s a call out for it.’
‘All exit roads are covered, aren’t they?’
Duniec nodded.
‘Then all we can do is wait.’
Lancaster tried to look relaxed. Bernard Cooke had been doubtful of the plan at first, but as a friend of Gillian’s he’d gone along with it. After all, partly it had been her idea. She was looking pale again. She’d been ordered to rest by the doctors, but had insisted on sticking around. The phone rang again. Lancaster snatched the call.
‘Red Fiesta,’ he said afterwards. ‘Sighted heading for Lower Traherne.’ He fixed his eyes on Gillian. ‘Looks like he’s heading out to your home.’ Then he turned to Duniec. ‘Get on to it, Stefan.’ Duniec nodded and left the room.
This eventuality, too, had been covered. The Websters were in a local hotel, under plainclothes protection. A driver and unmarked car were waiting outside to take Gillian back there. The Minute Man was driving into a trap.
The phone rang yet again, and Lancaster picked it up, glad of something to do. He listened for a moment, a muscle going rigid in his jaw. When he spoke, it was in a dry voice. ‘Put him through, will you? And try to get a trace.’ He then pushed a button on the telephone and replaced the receiver. A small integral speaker crackled into life. A female voice said, ‘You’re through, caller.’ Lancaster swallowed and spoke.
‘Hello?’
‘Superintendent Lancaster?’
‘Speaking.’
Lancaster watched Gillian. She was staring at the telephone. What little colour she had vanished from her face.
‘Don’t bother with a trace, Tom. I won’t be on long, you know that.’
‘We get a dozen cranks a day saying they’re the Minute Man.’
‘You know who I am, Tom.’
‘Why are you phoning?’
‘Because you’ve got the wrong man.’
Lancaster looked to Gillian and Cooke. She looked ready to leap from her seat, while Cooke seemed pinned against the back of his as if by G-force.
‘Have we?’
‘Yes. She’s set him up.’
‘Who has?’
‘The girl.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘He’s having an affair with her mother. She wants revenge.’
Lancaster forced a laugh. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘I know. I know all of it now.’
The line went dead.
‘Christ,’ Cooke said. Lancaster checked with the switchboard, but the Minute Man hadn’t been on long enough to give them a chance. In fact, he’d been on the line for scarcely a minute . . .
Lancaster got to his feet. ‘I wonder if he still plans to visit Lower Traherne? One way to find out . . .’
‘I’m coming too,’ said Cooke, rising shakily to his feet. Gillian was still staring at the telephone. Neither man needed confirmation that she had recognised the voice. When Lancaster touched her shoulder she flinched.
‘Come on, Gillian,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you back to the hotel.’
They opened the back door of the car for her and she got in. The engine was running and the car moved off at once, through the car park, past the usual ruck of reporters and cameras, and out of the iron gates of Castle Lane police station. She didn’t want to go to the hotel, not really. She wanted to go home, to Lower Traherne. But she doubted the police driver could be persuaded to take her there. She noticed a walkie talkie on the floor by his feet. Or maybe it was a portable phone. Whatever happened at the house, she’d hear of it. He was looking at her in the rearview mirror. When she looked back, he gave her a reassuring smile. Then she noticed they’d passed the regular turning.‘We should have gone left there.’
He was still smiling. The car was building up speed. Gillian felt a lump swell in her throat, the fear nearly choking her.
‘I know it all now,’ he said quietly. ‘The way Lancaster spoke, that confirmed it. Oh yes, that balanced both sides of the ledger quite nicely.’
She swallowed, shifting the blockage. ‘Where’s the driver?’
‘I’m the driver.’
‘The policeman.’
‘You think he’s in the boot?’ He shook his head. ‘I told him his chief wanted him in the press room.’
She was relaxing a little. His voice was calm. It had been calm all the time she’d been his captive. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Lower Traherne.’
‘What?’
‘I’m taking you home, Gillian.’
‘But why?’
He shrugged. ‘Just to show them I can.’
She thought for a moment. While she was thinking, he spoke again.
‘It was good, very good, nearly had me fooled. Except for one scared bloke in a pub . . .’
She felt the words tumble from her mouth, like someone else was speaking. ‘They’ve got the exit roads covered, and there are police at the house, inside and outside. You’ll never—’
‘It’s all right, Gillian. You’ll see, both sides will balance.’
‘What do you mean, balance?’
So for the rest of the journey, the Minute Man tried to explain to her his own particular theories of the principles of accounts.
The Only True Comedian
I suppose, looking back, my schooldays were to blame. Or maybe it was my parents’ genes, which had left me the smallest boy in my year. The popular boys all seemed to be the tough ones, the sporty ones, the ones who weren’t shy, who were good-looking.I didn’t really fit the bill. So instead I became the comedian. Of course, they weren’t laughing with me - they were laughing at
me. I knew it even then, as I told my jokes and made my silly faces and did my funny walks. They told me I was off my head, said I was potty. I didn’t mind: at least they were talking to me. At least they were noticing me.
Which meant I was allowed to participate in their games, or at least watch from the periphery, which was my favoured spot anyway. Watching them, I was able to learn. I learned which kids and teachers I could make fun of. I’d go for the younger kids, even spottier and uglier than I was, or for one of the unlovely girls who stood by the playground railings, sad looks on their faces. Oh, I was ferocious with anyone who couldn’t bite back. It was how I stayed part of the gang.
The other problem was, I wasn’t stupid, but when I became a member of Black Alec’s gang, I had to pretend to be less clever than I was. And this pretence could only be carried off if I started slipping in class, answering questions wrongly when I knew the right answers, my test marks dropping. The deputy head had a word with me. I think she could see there was a problem, she just couldn’t figure out what it was. My parents were summoned to the school for a discussion. They started to take notice of me too, helping with homework and revision. Still I refused to fulfil my potential. Sometimes I would slip up, and answer some question which had stumped everyone else. At these times, the teacher would peer at me, wondering what was going on.
Eventually I was taken to hospital for tests on my brain. They glued all these electrodes to my head. Three washings later, my hair still felt sticky, and the results had failed to throw up any incongruities. When the final exams came, I was in a quandary. We’d all have left school by the time the results were posted. So if I wanted to, I could do as well as I liked. But something made me stay in character; maybe it was the thought that though I was leaving school, the gang would still be there, hanging around their favoured street corner, yelling abuse at cars and pedestrians, running down to the park with a carrier-bag of beer. It was a community I understood, and my chosen role made me unique within it. I was ‘Joker’ or ‘The Comedian’. I wasn’t expected to take part in the occasional massed battles with other gangs. I proved myself by telling jokes and stories, by deriding other gangs (especially with reference to their personal hygiene and sexual habits), and by improving my range of impressions.