Chapter 7 #2
In the countryside, though, you’ll get a much better hearing if you’re a man of the cloth, which is why I never do it out here. Out here, it’s time for the old red rosette. That’s right. The one person guaranteed to be unwelcome in the deep Cotswolds: a local Labour candidate.
There is, of course, a risk that if people see a Labour councillor coming up the drive, they’ll pretend not to be in, lulling you into a false sense of security, so I wait to pin the rosette on until I’m safely on the porch and unobserved.
All of this, incidentally, is only made possible by the core principle of what I do, which is this: I fill the gaps in people’s minds.
I don’t mean to sound mystical about it, but whenever I have to do a bit of this character work, I just make sure I’m as similar as possible to what people expect.
That’s the real principle: act the part, and people will meet you more than halfway, because they’re already expecting something similar from you.
All you have to do is anticipate the kind of behaviour they’re anticipating, then stick to that.
If I stood in the middle of the street with a tabard and a big smile, I wouldn’t have to do anything else to convince people I was a charity mugger.
I tried it once as an experiment in Chelsea, and people started to swerve as though I had an exclusion zone around me, without any further effort on my part.
So now I’m wearing the most Labour-y clothes I had on me – a cheap shirt and dark jeans. I’m also wearing an earnest look and holding the Clipboard of Officialdom. Easy.
As I get to the dead man’s gates and press 0 to gain access – smearing the keypad as I go to kill Jonny’s fingerprints – I see I’m about to encounter the most naturally conservative people on the planet: the British police.
There are three cars on the drive that weren’t there last night.
Two chequered, the third a Jag fitted with one of the discreet blue lights used by the high-ups.
There’s no Bake Off-style marquee for forensics but I’m sure it won’t be long.
I wonder fleetingly whether the police and the Bake Off crew get their marquees from the same firm.
At this point, a good chunk of me thinks: Well, Al, you did your best to score that camera. But look at the place. No dice. Get out now, and start that new life in Andalucia you’ve always joked about.
And does the rest of me listen? No. My stupid body overrules my mind and carries me up the driveway, pulling my rosette from my pocket as I go. As I push the bell button, I realise – maybe I can get into the house. Maybe they haven’t found the camera yet, and I’ll be able to …
‘Yes?’
The door hasn’t opened. Standing at the side of the house is a man in his mid-fifties: sensible but cheap coat, polished school-style shoes, holding a crappy phone.
He also looks as unhappy as only a British detective can.
His sandy hair is making an aggrieved rearguard defence against the steady advance of a deeply scored forehead.
I give him my best Things Can Only Get Better smile and ‘Good morning! Am I speaking to the homeowner?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘My name’s Liam Baird, representing Labour’ – I gesture to the rosette – ‘although I hope I haven’t come at a bad time?’ I nod towards the police cars.
‘I’m afraid so. Although you could have been here at an even worse time.’
My smile is glassy as I reply: ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘The homeowner was murdered last night.’
I give what I feel is a very convincing gasp. ‘No.’
The detective nods. ‘Shot on his doorstep. Most un-Bridling.’
‘We haven’t had a murder here since … I can’t remember.’
He glances at me with interest. ‘You’re from round here?’
‘No.’ Shit. That was an avoidable error. ‘Several villages over. But this is awful.’
The detective looks at my rosette, and frowns. ‘What are you campaigning for?’
‘Local council elections.’
On hearing that, he somehow crinkles his brow even further. His forehead looks like a McCoy’s crisp sitting a maths exam. ‘There aren’t any local elections this year.’ Double shit.
‘By-election,’ I gabble. ‘Previous councillor resigned.’
He stays looking at my rosette for a second. Then his brow clears – or returns to its previous level of frown, at least – and he nods. ‘I see.’
‘Stress of the job, my predecessor said. I said, how stressful is it in Bridling, you know? I mean, clearly it was stressful for poor Mr …’ I look down at my empty clipboard. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any details for the homeowner. What was the name of the, er, deceased?’
He gives me a brisk nod; with any luck he’s completely forgotten me already. ‘Thanks for coming by, sir. You’ll appreciate we don’t have time for the spiel.’
‘Of course.’ That’s a mercy. I didn’t look up any Labour or local policies before getting out of the van.
My pitch was going to be ‘basic woolly fairness’, plus heat pumps.
The detective is already turning to go. But before he gets working again, I blurt out: ‘Anything unusual about the scene of the crime?’
He turns. ‘Sorry?’
‘Any … hot leads?’ Al, you ham.
‘We don’t discuss cases, sir. As I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
‘Of course.’
Then he leans towards me, looks around to make sure none of his colleagues have appeared outside the building, and says: ‘We’re all counting on you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘In the election.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course, yes. The election. We won’t let you down.’ And I’m so insanely relieved to find out he’s just a deep-cover Labour voter that I almost start to laugh.
Three minutes later, I get back to the van. As I clamber in, I shake my head at Elle’s expectant look. ‘No access. Cops already there. Ergo – no camera.’
Em speaks next. ‘Shall we get ourselves back to London?’
‘Yeah.’
We drive back in near silence. The one event en route is a phone call from an unknown number. What the hell? I think, and accept. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, boss, Mr Toad’s Motors here!’
‘Tariq?’
Tariq is fifteen years older than me, far wealthier, and has had a truly extraordinary life that he’s told me about on several occasions, but despite all that he still calls every one of his customers ‘boss’.
‘That’s it, Mr Al. Listen, I got some news. We’ve had someone snooping around looking for you.’
‘Who?’
‘Couldn’t say, boss. ’E was big, though. Big nasty fucker, you know what I mean? White man, looks like he got a bowling ball for a head. Two little eyes, one mean mouth, rest of him shiny and hard.’
‘When did he come by?’
‘Half-hour ago, maybe. He said he wanted to find out who rented this van from me.’
‘Did you tell him?’
There is a loud, long burst of profanity at the other end of the line. ‘Forgive me, Mr Al, but I wouldn’t be Mr Toad if I was shopping you all up every time someone asked a question, would I? I told him that van was nicked three weeks ago by some scumbag junkies we got round here.’
‘Thanks, Tariq.’ I had a hunch he was reliable, but there’s nothing like proof. ‘Is he still there?’
‘Nah. But I’d leave the van somewhere if I was you. Just ditch it, scratch it up a bit, whatever. Tell me where you left it, I’ll get the boys to pick it up like we just found it dumped somewhere. You know? Scatter a few needles round if you got any.’
‘Thank you so much, Tariq.’
‘My friend, it’s a pleasure.’ And then, because he is an entrepreneur to his core, he extracts another ￡200 from me for the recovery and repairs.
I tell the others the bad news. The bonus bad news, of course, is that now we have to park at least a mile away from our destination and walk the rest of the way back to Balfour Villas. I trust Tariq implicitly, but there’s no way I’m telling him where we’re staying.
We ditch the van on Warwick Avenue, and get a black cab across town. Then we break in all over again, and despite the shortcuts we left for ourselves, there’s a palpable weariness about the way we do it. Sleeping in a van will do that to you. My spine feels like a broken accordion.
Once we’re in, Elle volunteers to make a round of teas, and then we flop in the cavernous front parlour, all on different sofas.
We’re all a bit shaken, to be honest. I know I come across cocky, but I’ve never seen anyone killed before.
I’m a housebreaker, not a mobster. That moment – the moment of actual system shutdown, where Sausage Fingers’ eyes filmed over and his huge body became just a thing – it’s been living in my head rent-free, as the kids say, all last night and most of today.
Living rent-free. Ha ha. That’s how we got into this mess. I think I might be cracking up.
Em opens the batting. ‘So, the situation is this: we are the sole almost-witnesses to a murder that happened last night, of a man who’d just been threatening us, in a home we shouldn’t have been in.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the course of leaving, we left behind at least three incriminating pieces of evidence that we’d been there that night.’
‘Those are only the ones we thought of, but yes.’
‘And now we have inadvertently introduced ourselves to the police investigating the murder …’
‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘We agreed that trying to get the camera back was a good idea at the time. I didn’t hear any objections from you three.’
‘… and are apparently being tracked by a third party, if not the actual killer himself, who would not appear to have our best interests at heart.’
‘Yeah.’
Jonny chips in. ‘Whoever he is, this guy seems pretty good at tracking us down. We’ll be sitting ducks for him if we stay here.’
‘Maybe,’ Em concedes. ‘So we probably shouldn’t stay here indefinitely.’
I’ve been having my own thoughts about this. ‘I completely disagree. Assuming he can’t track us on a single cab ride across a city – he’s not a Jedi – this is the perfect place.’
‘Meaning?’