Chapter 11 #2
“Listen,” he said, reaching into his blazer pocket and pulling out a card.
“We were a bit rough on you in there, but you know how it is, people don’t always remember what they actually remember if you don’t push them to get the facts straight.
But if you think of anything else, don’t call the station or Neuberger, gimme a bell, alright?
I’ll go easy on you. I’ve no bad blood over that nonsense with the Sweet murder. I’m a friendly ear if you need one.”
He smiled.
I pocketed the card and returned the smile as best I could.
He cocked his head. “I’ll go get that lift sorted for you.” He departed before I could react.
Instantly, the cubicle door opened. Simon stood there giving me a filthy look. “Why did you hide?” I asked.
Simon came forward and gripped my arm. “Is there anything you’re not telling the police? Please, Arden, be honest. Any dodgy shit you’ve been up to doesn’t matter to me.”
“What? No, of course not. Jesus, dodgy shit? What do you think I do?”
His face fell. “Sorry,” he said gently. “I should choose my words better. I apologise.” He turned and paced the room. “But there’s nothing?” he asked again after a few seconds.
“Simon, no. Why?”
Simon shook his head. He tapped Maslin’s card and gave a rictus grin. “Only you could pull in a police station.” He shook his head again and departed the room.
Wait, what?
In the end, it was Maslin himself who drove me home. An officer who had the conversation skills of a mannequin escorted me out to the car. In fact, I was fairly sure, from his oddly sallow skin, that he was a mannequin. A crash-test dummy come to life.
Maslin was waiting by the car. “I thought you were finding a uniformed officer?” I asked.
My crash-test dummy friend did too because he seemed perplexed by Maslin’s appearance, lounging on the side of the car. His enormous arms folded across his enormous chest.
“Orders from Top Dog,” Maslin said in a voice with zero inflection.
In my mind, a Top Dog was something quite different to what Maslin probably imagined.
Whichever East End pub he did his womanising in was probably not to my tastes.
It made me wonder if the Red Wagon on Bow Road was still around.
A guy from the dodgy pub I’d worked in as a student would go there after his shift to pick up divorced women in their forties.
‘Top Dog’, I assumed, was Neuberger. Keep an eye on the Foreign Homosexual Criminal. His eyes are too close together.
Maslin gestured for me to get in the front seat, which I did. Bone tiredness overtook me the moment I sat down. Home. Feed Kenny. Sleep.
He pulled out of the car park and onto the street, speeding up quickly. I forgot that police officers, particularly plain-clothes ones, got special training for defensive driving and therefore were all speed-demon maniacs behind the wheel.
“So, you knew Patel, you said?”
The question took me by surprise. Had I not spent twenty minutes in an interview room?
“Not well.”
“But you know his fiancé better, right?”
An image of the top of Simon’s head between my legs entered my mind. “He renovated my kitchen a few months ago.”
“Did you get a feel for him?”
Yeah, about six-and-a-half inches and thick as a bedpost. “In what way do you mean?” If he was probing for insights into Simon’s psyche, I could safely tell him honestly that I hadn’t the fucking foggiest. He’d slammed the door on that pathway sharpish.
Maslin gave me a look. Suddenly, I clicked what he meant. And why he was driving me home. I’m gay – Simon’s gay – ergo we must know each other, and ergo does he strike me as the type to kill his boyfriend?
My snooping around Arabella’s murder had resulted in one statistic coming up again and again. In an overwhelming percentage of murders, it was the person’s partner who did it.
Ollie had told me this at a candlelit French restaurant in London. I could see it with said ex. He was one of the few people I’d met that I could imagine battering to death with a kitchen implement.
“Simon’s very good at controlling his temper.”
We passed through fields and intersections and turned into the narrow lane down the back of Compney that ran to Winterborne Minster. For a man who’d just moved here, Maslin sure knew the shortcuts.
“Did you ever see him and Patel fight?”
“Nope.”
“Get an uncomfortable vibe off them? Like they were mad with each other?”
“I saw them together twice. And like I said, Simon is very good at controlling his temper.”
“How do you know that?”
Shit. Whatever I said would be too much. “He was around me when the Sweet case was happening. He was … calm.”
Maslin nodded.
“I can’t see Simon killing his boyfriend. Especially can’t see him shooting him in a car park,” I said.
“Because he’s calm?”
“Because Simon isn’t a psychopath.”
He shrugged. I had to concede that if the stats were right, very few murderers were psychopaths. They snapped and had a moment of madness. Tarquin was that. Well, his later actions rather undermined that theory, but the original premise stuck.
“Can I give some unsolicited advice?” I said. Whatever I was doing was the opposite of my usual plan with the police, which was to shut the fuck up as much as possible.
Maslin made a hand gesture indicating for me to proceed.
“Simon’s job. It’s complicated. Don’t expect co-operation or to be allowed to haul him over the coals. Cops or no cops. Murder or no. Some things are above even you lot.”
For the first time, Maslin looked at me with something other than anthropological curiosity. We were stopped at the intersection of Winterborne village green, waiting to turn right for the lane to my house. A tractor rattled past at the speed of anti-sound. I shrugged. “You’ll see.”
Even if he was the murderer, the establishment was not gonna let it be known. Maslin had swapped tower blocks for hay bales, but it was just as messy, this country idyll.
Conversation ended after that, for which I was grateful. Maslin was lost in his thoughts. Probably tossing up stats on partners killing their spouses versus whatever faction of Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service Simon fixed the IT systems for.
What I wasn’t grateful for was the photographers outside my house blocking the path. They didn’t even make room for the police car. One banged on the window as we passed. “Oi, Arden! Your brother a paedo then?”
Maslin parked as close as he could. “Do you want me to escort you? Knock some heads together?”
Last thing I needed. Though Maslin looked like he’d enjoy kicking the paps. His application form to the police probably listed ‘waylaying bunches of yobs’ under ‘Special Skills’. I shook my head. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Good luck,” he said as I made a run for it. About half a dozen photographers tried to accost me as I hot-footed it up the path to my house and slammed the door shut. Kenny came bounding towards me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, boy. I’m such a bad dog owner.” I put my head onto the thick fur around his neck and let him lick me. “Do you forgive me?” I asked and took further licking as a good sign.
“He was fine,” Sonia came in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel.
All the curtains were closed, I noticed.
Clearly, Sonia had been accosted earlier.
“Bit hungry and whiney, but he’d been a good boy and only done one very small wee on the kitchen floor, so at least it was easy to clean. ”
“You didn’t pee on the carpet for once? Good boy,” I said and kissed his fur. I stood up. Which was an effort.
Sonia noticed. “Mum sent me round with enough food to feed an army. Go shower and I’ll have a chilli con carne ready for you when you’re done.”
Ten minutes later, I was shovelling rice and beans into my mouth without tasting anything. “When was the last time you ate?” Sonia asked.
Did a sandwich count? I stopped to think. “I wanna say yesterday? Lunchtime?”
“Arden, that’s twenty-four hours without food. No wonder you always look like you’re about to collapse. That’s terrible for you.”
“I know, I know, but I’m never hungry so I … forget.”
“Christ, you should bottle that and sell it. You’d make a fortune.”
“I thought you said it was terrible.”
“And so is society. A pill to make you forget to eat would sadly sell a million on the first day.”
She nodded at my phone. “You gonna charge that?” It had died during the interview.
I spun the phone in a circle with my finger.
She looked at me. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head. “Anything else, please.”
“Okay, well, Mum gave me about twenty portions of this and an entire chicken and leek pie, and a nice apple crumble. So, don’t even think about not eating this week.”
“Thanks, Son.”
She smiled at me. “We all worry about you, Arden.”
“We?”
“Do you know how many calls I got last night about where you were? Nigella wanted hourly updates in case you turned up on my doorstep. I told her that you’d never even been to my house.”
I stopped eating and glanced at her. She gave me a look I couldn’t read.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?
No one saw you for months. Nigella was sending news on whether you were dead or alive based on your neighbours seeing you out for a run.
No one even knew you’d got a dog. And then this all happened, and you’ve run away every time. ”
I sat still for a long time. “S’just easier to get out of the way when shit hits the fan.
Force of habit. I’m not good with …” I took a long breath.
This was agonising. “Not good with … being exposed to things.” I gestured at the room, my life.
“You can probably work out why. It’s easier to leave and start again.
Or at least hide until it all blows over. ”
“You don’t need to do either. People care about you, Arden. I’ve been sitting here for months holding out my hand to be a friend and you never took it.”
I looked up at her from where I’d been staring at the table. “I’d like to be your friend.”
She grinned. “I’d love to be proper friends.” Her face darkened. “But don’t ever ask me to break into any more houses.”
She was never gonna let go of that, was she?
I went upstairs to sleep for a few hours, and Sonia said she’d give the house a quick spruce up (“It’s very obvious a single man lives here.”) and then depart. I was asleep when she left. I woke up mid-afternoon cocooned in a sweaty mess with Kenny, my perma-guard.
I had put off the inevitable long enough. I switched on my phone.
And instant barrage. No less than eleven voicemails, which I think was a record.
I deleted all of them without listening.
Some were from unrecognised numbers, which I didn’t want to know about.
Numerous texts and WhatsApps from everyone at the meeting last night were read and then left un-replied.
Once again, unrecognised numbers were deleted instantly.
Ollie had left three voicemails and numerous messages. I ignored them. If I replied, he’d jump all over me and want answers to questions that I barely knew.
There was a message from Guy. Arden, thank you for your text during the week. It meant a lot. I’m sorry this is happening to you. You don’t deserve it. X
“I don’t think my date’s happening,” I told Kenny. It looked like Guy and I had missed our shot.
The last person to contact me was Verity. Her last message was at 9 a.m. today. Call me when you can. Urgent.
A deep sigh emanated from me of its own accord.
I dialled her number.
“Arden, thank God. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Listen, good, okay. Look, I know this is bad, but we can fix it.”
“It’s a story, Vee. What happened to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ mantra?”
There was a pause. “What are you talking about – did you listen to any of my messages?”
“There were so many.”
“Jesus, Arden, I am doing everything I can to stop this, and you’re swanning about in a sulk!”
I leaned up. “What? I—”
“Donal and Ffion called a meeting for the first available moment this week. I’ve managed to hold them off until Tuesday so I can spend tomorrow seeing how things are sitting with the publishers, at least. They’re on the warpath.
Arden, they want to cancel your contract.
They think you’re bringing the agency into disrepute. ”
“What? They can’t do that!” I jumped off my bed and paced the room. “Verity, they can’t do that!”
“They can. They’re equity partners; equal and joint owners of the business. We make decisions together.”
They were going to take my career away. I was going to be dropped.
I didn’t have anything else. No matter what had happened over the past year, at least I’d had my bizarre fluke of a career to rely on to keep me occupied and well paid.
“What do I do? Should I come to London? Do they want me to beg? Do I have to grovel? I’m not proud, I’ll do it. ”
They couldn’t cancel my contract. If I lost Verity … would another agent even take me with the publicity I’d garnered over the past few months? Would anyone else put up with my reticence on social media and my standoffishness in the face of trying to market the books?
“Look, not all hope is lost. They’re not stupid. They know the business needs you. But … you know, there might be changes, stipulations. New clauses in your contract.”
“Do they want more money?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know. Arden, I’m going to bat for you, I promise. I’ll do everything I can, but for God’s sake, keep your head down and don’t do anything stupid. Maybe try and calm down a bit. Less manic.”
She hung up.
I was going to lose everything. I had rejected Ollie. Tarquin was a psychopath. Verity had clearly had enough of me. And everyone else was basing their assumptions about me on a tabloid article.
Did I have enough in savings to pay my mortgage for a while, at least?
I had lost track of my money over the past few months.
I think I was fine, in fact, I knew I had more than enough to live on for a few years, but the deep dread was crawling up my skin.
You were a poor, lonely little boy with no friends once. You’ll be that boy again.
I crawled up beside Kenny and waited for the night to come.