“This woman had crucifixes in her ears,” Jackson said to the receptionist. “Crosses.” He took a pen from her desk and drew a crucifix on a pad of paper and pointed at his ears. “Earrings,” he said, like yours, he pointed toward the silver hoops in the recep-tionist’s ears. She looked at him as if he were mad. Marijut had told him that she didn’t recall seeing any girl with crucifix earrings. His description, “Five six, hundred twenty pounds, blond hair,” could easily have fitted half the girls she knew. “Me, for ex-ample,” she said. Or the receptionist.
Jackson tapped the computer monitor and said, “Let’s look in here.”The girl gave him a surly glare and then scrolled idly down the screen.
“What do you want her for?” the girl asked.
“I don’t want her
for
anything. I want to know if she’s on your books.” Jackson craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the screen. The girl opened a file that looked like a CV, there was a thumb-nail photograph in the top left-hand corner, but she closed it down immediately. “Stop,” he said. “Go back, go back to that last one.” It was her, he could swear it was her. His dead girl.
“She doesn’t work for us anymore,” the receptionist said. She gave a little hiccup of laughter as if she were making a joke. “Her contract is terminated.” She clicked the files shut with an air of fi-nality and turned off the screen.
“This woman I’m looking for,” he enunciated each word slowly and clearly, “this woman is dead.” Jackson made a slashing move-ment across his throat. The girl shrank away from him. He wasn’t very good at miming. He could have done with Julia’s help, no one played charades with as much enthusiasm as Julia, except per-haps for Marlee. How
did
you portray dead? He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the Housekeeper was standing in front of him, regarding him quizzi
cally. “He says he’s courier,” the girl at the computer said sarcastically. “Does he?” the Housekeeper said. “I’m looking for someone,” Jackson said stoutly, “a girl who’s
gone missing.” “What’s her name?” the Housekeeper asked. “I don’t know.” “You’re looking for someone and you don’t know who she is?” “I can give you someone else,” the girl at the computer screen
offered. “I don’t want someone else,” Jackson said. “What kind of agency
are
you?”
The girl leaned closer to him over the desk and, giving Jackson a predatory kind of smile, said, “What kind of agency would you like us to be?”
“N
o room at the inn,” the policewoman assigned to look after Martin said. They were sitting in a car outside the police mortuary, waiting while a civilian on the radio back at head-quarters tried to find him somewhere to stay for the night. He couldn’t sleep among the aftermath of the carnage in his “active-crime-scene” house, wouldn’t have wanted to if he could. “You don’t have any friends you could stay the night with?” the police-woman asked. No, he didn’t. She gave him a sympathetic look. There was his brother in the Borders, of course, but there was little in the way of sanctuary to be had in his household, and he doubted he would be welcome there, anyway.
“Clare” (“PC Clare Deponio”) looked like one of the police-women who had come to Paul Bradley’s aid yesterday, but they all looked alike in their uniforms. The police car was parked almost exactly where the Honda and the Peugeot had faced off against each other yesterday. Who would have thought that event would have faded into such insignificance?
“The Festival,” Clare said, coming off the radio, “no hotel rooms anywhere, apparently.”
Superintendent Campbell had handed Martin over to someone only slightly more menial (“Detective Chief Inspector Colin Sutherland”). Sutherland took (“accompanied”) Martin from his own house to a police station, where Martin had his fingerprints taken—it was exactly like the Society of Authors’ tour—the inspector said it was “for comparison,” but after that it stopped being like the Society of Authors’ tour because they gave him a white paper boilersuit to wear and took all his clothes away while they put him in an interview room and questioned him for a long time about his relationship with Richard Mott and his whereabouts at the time of Richard’s death. Martin felt like a convict. He was given tea and biscuits—Rich Tea, to denote his change in status. Pink wafers and chocolate bourbons for the innocent members of the Society of Authors, plain Rich Tea for people who spent drugged nights in dodgy hotel rooms with men.
(“So you and Mr. Bradley slept together? In the same bed?”)
He still hadn’t mentioned the gun. Inspector Sutherland enjoyed pretending to be baffled. “I’m having trouble getting my head round this, Mr. Canning— you saved a stranger’s life, you spent the night with him, but he disappeared before dawn. Meanwhile, in your own house, your friend was being bludgeoned to death.”
Paul Bradley had an address in London, Martin remembered the nurse in A and E copying it down, the same address that he had watched him write in the hotel register.
“The Met are looking into it for us,” Sutherland said. Sutherland reminded Martin of someone, but he couldn’t think who. He had this unsettling way of smiling at inappropriate mo-ments so that Martin, who tended to smile when he was smiled at, found himself responding with an inane grin to statements such as,
“Mr. Mott’s skull was shattered by a blunt instrument.”
A female detective sergeant sat next to Sutherland. She was silent throughout, like a mute. There was a mirror on the wall, and Martin wondered if it was two-way. He couldn’t think why else you would have a mirror in an interview room. Was someone in the looking-glass world watching him dunk his convict-grade biscuit into his tea?
“He did exist,” Martin said.
“No one’s doubting his
existence
, Mr. Canning,” Sutherland said, like a pedantic philosopher. Martin missed Superintendent Camp-bell’s amiable “Martin,” as if they were old acquaintances. “He was involved in a road-rage incident,” Sutherland continued. He smiled and paused rather pointedly before saying, “The same one you claim you yourself were.”
“I was,” Martin said. “I made a statement.”
“The incident was logged just after midday yesterday. The vic-tim—your Paul Bradley—was treated at the Royal Infirmary for a minor head injury, he signed the register of the Four Clans. Hun-dreds of people saw him during the course of yesterday, his exis-tence is not in doubt. The problem is—” Another well-timed pause for a smile. It stretched the edges of his face, the Cheshire Cat would have struggled in a contest with Chief Inspector Sutherland. “The problem, Mr. Canning, is that no one remembers
you
.”
“The police took a statement from me at the hospital.”
“But after that?”
“I was with Paul Bradley.”
There was a knock on the door, and a constable came in and put a piece of paper on the desk in front of the silent sergeant. She read what was on the paper, her sphinxlike features revealing nothing, and then passed the paper over to Sutherland.
“The mysterious Mr. Bradley,” Sutherland murmured.
“He’s real,” Martin protested. “His name’s in the hotel register.”
“Yours isn’t, though, is it?” He waved the piece of paper at Martin. “We asked the Met to check the address that Paul Bradley gave, and it turns out it’s a row of lockups. The mysterious Mr. Bradley doesn’t seem to exist after all.”
The previously silent female detective leaned forward suddenly and said to Martin, earnestly, as if she wanted to help him, as if she were a therapist or a counselor, “Were you and Richard Mott lovers, Martin? Did you have a tiff?”
“A tiff?”
“An argument that got out of hand, escalated into violence? Was he jealous that you had gone to a hotel with another man?”
“It wasn’t like that. It was
nothing
like that!” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. He wished people would stop asking him questions.
“Or, let me run this by you,” Inspector Sutherland suggested amiably, “you were involved in a gay lovers’ threesome that went horribly wrong.”
R
ichard Mott’s parents had traveled up from Milton Keynes to identify their son. Richard had a whole repertoire of jokes in his routine about his parents, about their politics, their religion, their bad taste. None of the things he said about them onstage seemed pertinent to the heartbroken, bewildered couple grieving in the police mortuary. The identity of the corpse had become a vexed issue for the police. Reluctant to expose the Motts to the full horror of what had happened to their son, they had muddled matters more by showing them the flatlined Rolex that Richard had taken from Martin. They had cried with relief because it “definitely wasn’t Richard’s.”
They showed the watch to Martin, and he said yes, it belonged to him (there was a crack across the glass, he tried to imagine how that might have happened), and Mr. Mott shouted, “There you are, you see!” pointing at Martin as if this were proof that he was the dead man rather than their son. Richard Mott seemed to have appropriated everything that belonged to Martin, including his identity.
“We could wait for dental records,” Sutherland murmured to Martin, “but that would take some time, and the whole thing has become so...
confused
.” Martin knew he was being asked to step up and didn’t really see how he could not.
Be a man
. Do as you would unto others. The meek shall inherit the earth. He wanted Sutherland to think well of him, so after a considerable briefing—
“You have to prepare yourself for a shock”
and
“The injuries are very unpleasant”
—he was taken into the small room that smelled not only of antiseptic but also of something sweet and unpleasant, and there, beneath a white sheet, were the battered remains of Richard Mott. Neither better nor worse than he had imagined. Simply different, and in some way artificial, as if Richard Mott had been made up for a film. Martin thought of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video, but it was definitely Richard. There was no doubt at all about that. Martin waited to be over-come by the horror of it, wondered if he would faint or vomit, but none of these things happened, he just found himself feeling grateful that it was Richard Mott lying there and not himself. Worse things had, after all, happened to him than viewing Richard Mott’s corpse.
“There but for fortune,” Sutherland said.
“I don’t understand,” Martin puzzled, “who identified me as Richard Mott? Who identified Richard Mott as me?” It depended on which way you looked at it, he supposed.
“I believe it was your brother, Mr. Canning,” Sutherland said.
“My
brother?
” His own brother had identified him wrongly? Somehow that said everything about what was wrong with their relationship.
Sutherland tapped his wrist, Martin wondered if it was a Ma-sonic gesture of some kind, but he said, “The watch, we showed him your watch, Martin. It was an informal ID, we would have got to the truth eventually.”
“I’d better phone him,” Martin said.
“Probably.”
I
t had proved to be an odd kind of conversation (“I’m not dead, Chris, the police made a mistake”) that hadn’t gone well. Christopher was still driving home. “I’m just passing Haddington,” he said as if his geographical location were relevant. “Wait a minute, I’m not on the hands-free.” This was followed by the noise of fum-bling, a curse that seemed to indicate the phone had been dropped, scrabbling, and, finally, “Wouldn’t want to get pulled over by a fucking policeman.” Martin wondered if Sutherland, sitting across a desk from him, heard this slur.
Christopher proceeded to run through a range of emotions— disbelief, shock, disappointment, and finally an irritable “For fuck’s sake, Martin,” as if Martin had committed some kind of de-ranged prank. Martin supposed his brother had spent the previous couple of hours of bereavement getting used to the idea of being in possession of Martin’s copyright for the next seventy years, to say nothing of the Merchiston house.
Thank goodness they hadn’t phoned his mother down in East-bourne. He tried to imagine how his mother would have responded to the news of his death. He expected she would have been underwhelmed.
T
he anonymous civilian came back on the phone, and Clare rolled her eyes at the news that they were still having trouble finding him a room for the night.
“You would think,” she said, a sentence that apparently didn’t need completing. Martin sighed and said, “I think I know a place that will have vacancies.”
“It’s all been a bit of a cock-up, hasn’t it?” Clare said cheerfully to Martin. “It made the papers, you know.Your death.”
“My death,” Martin echoed. His death had been pronounced. A murder is announced. It was like a witch doctor laying a curse on him, dooming him to invisibility or death. Isn’t that what happened? The witch doctor told you that you were going to die, so you did, by the power of suggestion rather than any actual ability on his part to hex, but the means were moot when the result was certain.
Martin asked Clare to stop at a newsagent on George Street, one good thing about being in a police car, perhaps the only good thing, was the fact that they could stop anywhere they wanted. LOCAL WRITER MURDERED, he read out to her from the
Evening News
as he climbed back into the car. “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he added.
“Well, yes,” she said, puzzled, “because you’re not actually dead, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” he agreed. There was a photograph beneath the headline, it looked like some kind of poor-quality holiday snap that Martin couldn’t recollect ever seeing before, and he wondered where on earth they had got it from.
The traffic forced them to a halt outside the Assembly Rooms, where a poster announcing a gala benefit for Amnesty still displayed Richard Mott’s name, in smallish print near the bottom of the bill.
Clare took the opportunity to scan the newspaper. “You’re quite famous,” she said, sounding surprised.
“Alex Blake, whose real name was Martin Canning, trained for the priesthood before becoming a religious studies teacher,”
Clare continued,
“. . . turned his hand to writing late in life.”