He Died with His Eyes Open (9 page)

I spent all afternoon in a state of misery and rage. 'I know you're going to ask me for money at some point,' I said to her. 'You're not much use for anything else, are you?' she answered.

That evening I was violent with her. It had been boiling up in me all day, but it began when she said: 'I'm bored. I'm getting up. I'm going out.'

'Out? Out where?'

'Just out.'

'To the Agincourt?'

'I don't know. Anyway, I shan't need you hanging around, you're enough to make a monkey weep. Just give me some money, a tenner'll do.'

'I haven't got much money. I haven't had a chance to cash a cheque.'

'I'll make some.'

'I wish you wouldn't say things like that. I wish you wouldn't even talk about going with other men. I'll tell you what, I'll come with you.'

'I said no.'

All at once my hands were in her hair, I don't even remember doing it, but I picked up one of her shoes and hit her on the side of the head with it. I've never done such a thing to anyone in my life before. She didn't scream or anything; she just lay back again on the mattress looking away from me, with blood running down her face.

'Well,' was all she said. 'Well, well.'

I knew I had lost any ground with her that I'd ever made.

'Now you won't go anywhere!' I shouted.

'Wrong,' she said. She put the bloody corner of the sheet to her head, got up, went over to the sink, dragging the sheet after her, and started cleaning herself up. She was naked, and her sex looked huge as she bent over the sink with her back to me. Her breasts looked awful, too; they always do when she isn't wearing a bra.

'I want you again,' I groaned in spite of myself. 'It isn't as if I were impotent.'

'You're worse than impotent,' she said into the mirror above the sink, 'you're a bore, Charlie. I'm fed up with you; who needs all that intellectual crap you go in for?'

'I'm sorry I hit you. I truly am.'

'No harm done,' she said, 'except to you.' She started dressing. 'You spend your life apologizing. You shouldn't. Never apologize. Never explain.'

'Where are you going?'

'Some club. Maybe an African club. I feel like some Africans, they're uncomplicated.'

'They're violent, those clubs.'

'I know what they're like,' she said, 'I've been working them since I was fifteen. Anyway, violence and pleasure— you can't have one without the other. You should know.' She added: 'You can stay in all night if you like; I shan't bring anyone back to this shithole. I shan't be back till tomorrow sometime anyway—maybe not till the day after, or the day after that.'

'Well, take your ten pounds,' I said.

'Fuck the ten pounds,' she said. She went out, slamming the door. It was a door you had to slam to shut it properly, but to me it sounded like an indefinite departure. It always did when she slammed it. The noise her high heels made on the staircase sounded final, too.

14

It was nine when I got to the Agincourt, and the place was full. The man with the face like a snake's was there, talking to a mild-looking bloke in glasses, but I couldn't see anyone who looked like the Laughing Cavalier. The governor wasn't there, either. When I asked the barman about him, he said he'd had to be hospitalized on account of his face, which had turned septic.

I ordered a pint of lager—it came up warm again—and leaned my back on the bar. In a corner not far off sat a lovely quartet of National Fronters. Two of them were mods and the third a rocker (normally they were mortal enemies); he had polished nails studded into his leather jacket and a Maltese cross round his neck on a silver chain. Satan sprouted cheerily up out of his collar, too, and licked at his left ear; I could visualize the patient tattooing sessions in a cell at Wandsworth. The fourth individual was studious-looking, about thirty. He wore rimless glasses, a pretty Fair Isle sweater, and longish blond hair combed neatly back like intellectual, well-brought-up boys used to have back in the sixties. He was drinking a fizzy lemonade, and it was obvious who was in charge of the meeting.

'Himmler, Heydrich and Goering were responsible for the exterminations,' studious was saying, 'not the Führer. The Führer was involved with running the war. The Führer just didn't
know
about them.'

'But you just said e was God,' objected one of the mods. 'If e was like God, God always knows what's going on. I know about that, we did a bit of God at school.'

'Next question?' said studious, ignoring him.

'Well, what are we gointer be actually left with,' said the other mod, 'when the National Socialist revolution's all over, like?'

'Just the British,' said studious. 'Pure white Britons.'

'Yeah,' said the rocker, 'well, talking of that, why don't we make a start? I'm bored in here. Why don't we go over to their club across the road and see if we c'n find a golly.'

I tapped him on the shoulder just as he was getting up. 'Just a minute, sonny;' I said. 'I'm joining you for a minute, isn't that nice of me?'

Studious began: 'Nobody—'

I said: 'In 1944 a German soldier took a snap of a little girl of five with her mother and sisters. Sort of family outing, you might say. They'd picked a lovely spot for it, too—walking up the road to the death camp at Treblinka. They'd had their ticket all paid by lovely, kind Hitler; they'd been standing in their own and other people's shit in a cattle-truck, mate, and all in the dark. Wasn't that a lovely holiday for them? And the best thing of all, my old darlings, was that at the end of the day they were told they were just going off for a bath, but that was a blag, see, because they was all gassed. Little girl of five and all.'

There was a short silence. Then the talkative mod tried an unaffected yawn and said: 'Well, we ain't got no kiddies,' and studious sneered: 'You should have been a public speaker, sport.'

'Well, I'm not,' I said, 'I'm a copper, and talking of deaths, I'm investigating a nasty one.' I got out the morgue shot of Staniland and flipped it on the table. But before anyone could say anything else, a voice behind me said: 'Might I just look at that?'

I twisted round in my chair and saw a big man, meaty, around forty, with orange hairs on his forearms, and on his head. He said to me: 'I'm Harvey Fenton. Did I hear you say you was fuzz?'

I gave him my warrant card to look at. He said: 'Things've got a bit sad when four lads can't have a quiet chat in a boozer without you lot butting in.'

'Oh, I don't know,' I said. 'They were lucky I didn't give them a chance to rabbit on some more—I might have had the whole lot of them for conspiracy.'

Fenton said: 'It's gettin like South Africa or something round here.'

'Better than Nazi Germany' I said. I said to the others: 'You lot can piss off and find another table. Better still, another pub.' I said to Fenton: 'Sit down, I want to talk to you.' I flipped the photograph across to him. 'Just have a look at it, will you? And don't tell me you don't know who he is, because you do.'

He studied the dreadful picture. 'Know him by sight,' he said, 'yes. E used to come in here. Pain in the arse. Name of Stan or something. What happened to him? Looks as if e'd bin hit with a truck.'

'No, he was beaten to death with a hammer,' I said. 'The knife went in, too, also the boot.'

'Oh, yes?' said Fenton. 'Sounds like he must've got up somebody's nose.' He picked his own nose absently. 'Anyway, what makes you think I can help you?'

'Let's say you fit a description.'

He looked straight at me. 'Now don't come the acid,' he said. He looked down and inspected what he had got out of his nose on the ball of his thumb.

'Well, I'm just asking questions at this stage,' I said, 'but we know it's murder. Anyone who thought we were going to accept it as a hit-and-run was either a half-wit or fucking cheeky.'

'Starsky and Hutch haven't a chance of keeping up with you,' said Fenton. He sniggered.

'One more remark like that,' I said, 'and you're going to make an enemy you don't really need. You've been in the building trade, haven't you?'

'How do you know that?'

'Because I've got a good memory,' I said, 'and now I know your name I know a lot more about you. You've got mates in the scrap-metal and transport business, as well as in clubs. Now I wonder if anyone not three million miles from this pub might have hammered Staniland to death, taken him over to Acton on wheels and dumped him in some bushes there. What do you think?'

'I think askin questions is dangerous,' said Fenton, 'that's what I think.'

'That what I say to myself every time I write out my resignation,' I said. 'But I always tear the letter up. Did you fuck Staniland's bird, by the way? They say you're a bit of a lad for that.'

'No,' he said. He sighed with hatred.

'I'm not all that surprised,' I said. 'For my money, you're just an old pouf at heart.'

Fenton clenched his fists on the table until the knuckles turned white. 'By Christ,' he said, 'it's a bloody lucky thing for you you are a copper, because if you hadn't of been, you might of been in a fair way to get yourself badly hurt.'

'You can cut that out, dear,' I said. 'With your form they'd weigh you off for seven if you squashed a fly.'

'We haven't met before, have we?'

'We don't need to have. Not with the file you've got. Every copper knows it by heart.'

He thought about that, then called across to the barman: 'Hey, top em up, Joe. On me.' The barman was busy serving, but he dropped everything to rush over with Fenton's round. 'Good boy!' said Fenton. 'Good lad. Fine!' He lifted his whisky. 'Cheers!' he said to me, grinning.

'Let's get into what you really had against Staniland,' I said.

'Nothing! He was just a drag.'

'You just took the piss out of him, is that it? You sure you didn't screw his bird?'

'Why should I bother? I've got my own birds. Anyway, if I had of screwed her, what difference would it of made?'

'Things might have got hairy,' I said. 'I'm really looking to see if you're not tied into this thing. Didn't you beat him up once? Out. behind the gents there?'

'No I didn't!'

'Little bits and pieces of things I've heard tell me you're lying.'

'Little bit and pieces of things add up to fuck all,' he said, 'specially in court.'

'You should know,' I said, 'you've had plenty of practice in there.'

'Well, I can't tell you anything at all.'

'Okay, then I'll tell you what,' I said, 'how'd you like to come over to the Factory with me now and tell Chief Inspector Bowman all the things you won't tell me? You'd get a sympathetic hearing from Bowman, you would—-he absolutely loves individuals like you.'

'I'm not mad about Poland Street,' he said, 'to be honest. They're a bit too keen on custom-built engineering over there.'

'Well, you'd better try harder answering some questions in that case,' I said. 'Here's one—do you know where the governor of this pub is? Fat bloke. Got his face hurt.'

'Seems he's gone,' said Fenton. 'Seems they don't think he'll be back.'

'Septic lip?'

'That's one way of putting it,' Fenton said. 'But I heard someone told him e chattered too much and to button it. But he couldn't find his needle, too bad.'

'Sounds like one for Lewisham to me,' I said. 'Could be "grievous bodily harm".'

'Now look,' he said. 'You're really into me, aren't you?' He took a long pull at his double Scotch, but he was calm. Yes, I thought, you're a dangerous bastard. 'You're not going to give me a john over that cunt's face, are you?'

'Well, I don't know,' I said. 'But if you do find there's a warrant out for you, it could be because you wouldn't cooperate with me over this Staniland business.'

'I keep telling you, he was just a pain, that's all.'

'So you never beat him up. Never screwed his bird. Just stood right back and took the mickey, but you never touched him. You were almost like mates.'

'That's right.'

'The governor here might crack and say the opposite, if he felt safe enough.'

'I don't think so,' said Fenton. 'Down to being into the river like he was, I believe he's by way of having a breakdown right now. Unreliable witness—the Public Prosecutors couldn't do anything with him.'

'The more you go on talking,' I said, 'the more you go on lying. It's funny with you. Now I'm convinced that Staniland died not half a square mile from here. Yet he was found right the way over in Acton.'

'I don't know West London at all,' said Fenton. He yawned.

'Well, if you don't, the A to Z street guide does. That's no problem.'

'Look,' shouted Fenton, 'I've ad about enough. You're trying to fit me up for this, aren't you?'

'I'm trying to find out who killed him,' I said, 'and I've got a funny idea I'm not doing badly at all.'

'Why pick on me? All I can tell you is that some of the lads in here—all right, I was one of them—asked this bloke quite nicely if he wouldn't mind patronizing some other establishment. He said no, he liked it here, and kept coming back legless, sometimes with that brass of his, and kept bending everybody's ear off. And that's all I know.'

'People ever call you the Laughing Cavalier?' I said.

'The what? No, never.'

'Funny, I can just see why people might, sometimes.' I lit a Palace filter. It tasted revolting; I only smoke them because I hope they might help me give it up. 'All right,' I said, 'we could go on like this all night, but we won't—I shan't come back for you till I've got a case.'

'If you can get one. I keep telling you, none of this is down to me.'

'Well, if I run out of folks to fit the hat, Harvey' I said, 'who knows, you might just have to do. After all, I wouldn't need a watertight case, not with the form you've got—it's as long as that arm of yours with the orange hairs on it.'

He didn't say anything, he just looked at me. He had started to look worried, and no wonder. I added: 'Do you and your mates go in for torture, by the way?'

'Christ,
no!'
he shouted. 'What do you think we are? Animals?'

'You bet that's what I think,' I said. 'After all, there was Williamson, you remember, the supergrass; you smashed both his legs with an iron bar and dumped him on the M20. Ten years' preventive detention you drew for that, I recall, only they paroled you after seven, what for I can't think.'