Play Dead (10 page)

F
or the second time, Cass took a room in the same hotel as Harpur and Iles. That could be a help. It showed harmony of choice: they were the same sort of people as to taste and should therefore get on together OK. That is, if those two didn't feel hounded and tracked down by him, as reporters did hound and track down. He hoped he might bump into one of them or both in the bar or dining room and engineer a conversation. Cass could switch on smarm, charm, deference, croneyness, radiant integrity, or a couple of these, or three, or four, or a combination or permutations of the lot - whichever seemed most likely to further the blessed cause of an eventual page one David Lee Cass exclusive - ‘see also pages 6-7-8'. The tall headlines, prominent byline and space allocated would impress even Louise, though she'd offer no flattery. ‘God, the wordage,' she might say, ‘and to think the discovery of DNA took only one page in a mag.'

Cass had checked with a local reporter and found Iles and Harpur were installed as before in the Mayfield. Cass had met them then, though he wouldn't say either had been very friendly. He recalled that chats with the pair were likely to see the apparent main topic - say, murder of an undercover cop, and detectives' failure to investigate it properly - yes, this apparent main topic would get chucked while, as in Maud's note, the Assistant Chief screamed and frothed about Harpur having it off with Iles's wife in unsavoury, conspicuous settings such as a canal tow path, but pronounced ‘carnal' by Iles. Besides, Harpur and Iles had arrived in Larkspur to take its police force to bits, and they hadn't wanted some questing, mission-driven, snooping journo to foul things up by trying to do ditto. Those circumstances might be pretty similar now. But Cass took the room in the Mayfield just the same. ‘
Well, how pleasant to run into you like this, Mr Iles, Chief Superintendent Harpur. Are we on the same kind of project?
'

He didn't really know how he'd order his programme of inquiries, but there were two contacts he'd certainly have to make fairly early on. One was with the local reporter who'd told him about the hotel. She acted as a ‘stringer' for the
Epoch,
feeding the paper with information and rumour that might turn out strong enough for national coverage. Second, he must see the Larkspur police Press officer, an inspector, to get the approved line on what was happening. This would almost certainly turn out vastly useless, but protocol had to be followed, and occasionally, by accident, one of these designated mouthpieces would say something significant that could be followed up. Very occasionally.

Cass could anticipate the kind of responses he would get: ‘extremely happy to have the situation examined by the two distinguished officers from outside'; ‘will finally clear the air'; ‘nothing to hide'; ‘certain to draw a line in the sand and enable us to move on'; ‘full and positive cooperation with the two officers'; ‘sometimes a good thing to be given a fresh, uncluttered view of what might be overfamiliar matters to members of the host police force'; ‘assurance that if any faults are found there would be immediate and wholehearted corrective measures applied.'

In other words, more or less total bureaucratic, self-serving bollocks and obfuscation, but you couldn't expect an appointed spokesperson to admit their outfit stank and would be doing everything it could to conceal all rottenness and blight from those two professionally intrusive, virtue-touting, integrity-boasting Cowslip fuckers. And, of course, also from that other professionally intrusive fucker, David Lee Cass, who, however, knew the politesse wrinkles and came in to act sweet and obsequious, pretending that neither he nor the Press officer regarded the meeting as a farce though, in fact, both did. Investigative had its seemly, diplomatic rituals, its creepy arabesques.

Before seeing anyone, though, he hired a car and went out to take an update look at 14 Davant on Elms. Of course, he'd been here several times during the previous visit. He needed to get, or re-get, what he thought of as the ‘ambience' of the spot. If he did ever find out enough to write about the present situation for the
Epoch
he'd want his wholesome prose to evoke the dismal, stark murder setting, most likely alongside a picture of it. Louise would probably admit he did dismal very well, and might agree to stark also, if it was put to her.

He stood again at the spot on what should some day be a flagstone pavement where Tom Mallen, known as Tom Parry, had lurched when shot, had fallen, had somehow got back to his feet, staggered a few more steps, then took another bullet, had fallen once more and died. It was mud and rubble now, with an occasional small, brave flourish of weeds, just as it had been previously. He bent to look more closely at their leaves. If they'd been there on the night of the killing, might they show some blood stains? That would make a good line in any article he wrote: the classic, observant eye of the reporter fixed on a telling factor; the taint of human villainy on innocent Nature.

He realized, though, that the idea was mad. Would they be the same growth of leaves now as then? A botanist might be able to tell him, but he had no idea himself about the life cycle of weed leaves in harsh terrain. And, if the leaves
had
caught some of Tom's blood, it would have been noticed at the time and the plant dug out, perhaps as a possible exhibit to help prove the detail of his final tumble.

But then - good God! - he saw a gleam on one of the leaves, a wetness, a bright red streak. Incredible? The leaf was part of a small clump. When he tried to separate it from the rest with his fingers for a better view, he found his hand was smeared not just from the targeted leaf but some of the others in the clump. The plant sort of closed matily on his whole fist and lower arm, like one of those machines to self-measure blood pressure, as if it wanted to declare all-round comradeship - and what did a bit of blood matter; wouldn't it lubricate the cheery, fellowship gesture? And could this really be Mallen's blood, out here decorating low-grade foliage for months - unwashed off by rain, untrampled into the ground, still liquid? Had he, Cass, got right through to the, as it were, heart of the murder?

Cass remembered that, when killed, Mallen had been wearing an ‘I Love Torremolinos' T-shirt as part of his assumed identity, with the ‘love' not spelled out but represented by a picture, a picture of a red heart - a picture for the gunman to draw a bead on with his final shot, that
coup de grace
: a virtual heart but real cascading blood.

‘Excuse me, sir, what is it?'

When Cass stood straight again he saw a woman and a man watching him. It was the woman who had spoken. Cass said, ‘Nothing, really. The leaves, you know.'

‘No, I don't know. What about them?' she asked.

She was blunt and commanding. ‘How they survive in such ground,' Cass said.

‘You've hurt your hand, sir,' the man said. ‘We have a first-aid kit in the car. Shall I go and get some antiseptic and a bandage?'

‘I think I'll be all right,' Cass said. ‘But thanks. It's not much. A thorn.'

‘That kind of thing interests you, does it?' she said. ‘You're into flowers and weeds?'

‘Environmental matters can be fascinating,' he replied. He gave this thought some lavishness. ‘
So
fascinating.'

She said: ‘I'm Detective Inspector Laverick.' She had on a dark woollen suit, the skirt to calf length, a navy blouse, tan half-heel shoes. She'd be mid-thirties. She gave a little wave towards the man. ‘This is Detective Constable Ure.' He was younger - early twenties, maybe. He also wore a suit, grey, two-piece, single-breasted, with a county style, bold, crimson, yellow and tan check shirt and mottled, mauve tie with black lace-up shoes. She said, ‘There was an incident here last night. We're keeping an eye, hoping to run into witnesses who might be using the estate short-cut today.'

‘What kind of incident?' Cass said.

‘We're not sure. It's why we're here. May I ask who are you, sir?'

‘Cass,' he said. ‘David Lee Cass.'

‘The journalist?' Ure said. ‘I've seen some of your reports, haven't I? Investigative? Some just after the death of Tom Mallen?'

‘Were you here last night?' Laverick asked.

‘Because of the leaves, or anything else?' Ure said.

‘What happened?' Cass replied.

‘You're saying, are you, that you weren't here - if you didn't know of the incident?' she asked.

‘No, I wasn't,' Cass said.

‘You weren't here?' Ure said.

‘What happened?' he replied.

‘An incident,' she said.

‘Yes, I got that,' Cass said. Might this explain the blood? Perhaps, after all, it didn't date back to Mallen. How the hell could it, idiot?

‘Possibly some sort of violence. A member of the public made an emergency call,' she said.

‘You weren't in time to deal with the incident, whatever it was?' Cass asked.

‘The people concerned had run off, scared by the two-tone, probably. We're looking for them,' Ure said.

‘You say you were definitely not here last night?' she asked.

‘Definitely,' he said. ‘I'd remember.'

‘Please don't get smart,' she said.

‘But we don't know why you're here now,' Ure said.

‘The house might be an important element if I write something for my paper,' Cass said.

‘Number fourteen as murder house?' she asked.

‘I'm afraid that's how it's branded, yes,' Cass said.

‘Because of operators like you,' she replied. ‘Continually feeding people with references to it.'

‘But all that's old, isn't it?' Ure said. ‘People have heard everything there is to be said about the house.'

‘It's germane still,' Cass said.

‘Germane to what?' she asked.

‘The current scene,' he said.

‘Which?' Ure said.

‘He means the two visitors,' she said.

‘Oh, them,' Ure said.

‘But this doesn't explain you and the weeds,' she said.

‘When you mention “some sort of violence”, what, exactly?' he replied.

‘Possibly fighting - fighting on the floor, where we're standing,' she said. ‘Two men. One on top of the other. Almost certainly not sexual. Fully dressed. Not particularly young. One wielding what looked from a distance to be some sort of small weapon.'

‘The weapon not really glimpsed at all, but deduced from the arcing movement of the attacker's arm,' Ure said. ‘Probably too miniature to be a dagger.'

‘Just the same, there might have been injuries,' she said.

Blood? ‘But they were able to run off,' Cass said.

‘We'll take your address, please, in case further inquiries are needed,' she said.

‘I'm at the Mayfield,' Cass said.

‘Oh, like those two,' Ure said.

‘Have you got them under surveillance, then?' Cass said.

‘Are you in cahoots with the pair?' she replied.

‘Cahoots?' he said.

‘Looking after one another,' she said.

‘Looking after?' Cass said.

‘Do you have to echo?' she asked.

‘But they're police officers. I'm a reporter. We don't
look
after
each other.'

‘Sometimes there are relationships. You have nice chats with them, do you?' she said.

‘What sort of relationships?' Cass asked.

‘Mutuality,' she said.

‘Mutuality?' he said.

‘Oh, hell,' she hissed. ‘Like, you put only favourable stuff in the paper about them - Harpur, Iles - to help with
their
careers, and they'll favour you, on the quiet, with information they've collected, which will help
your
career. Looking after each other, you see.'

‘There's a proper procedure for information given to the Press and media,' Cass replied. ‘Every police force has an official Press officer.'

‘Wow!' she said.

‘You probably have a Press officer,' Cass said.

‘Sure,' she said.

‘I'll be seeking an interview with him, or her,' Cass said.

‘Her. About the indomitable leaves?' she asked.

‘One can rely on the material from a Press officer,' Cass replied.

‘The horse's mouth. But this horse can only give you and the other Press folk what has been OK'd by the management. And everyone gets the same. No scoops,' she said.

‘Accuracy is more important than the hunt for scoops,' Cass said.

‘Wow!' she replied. ‘But just in case there might be something exclusive flying about, you get into the same hotel as those two, right?'

‘A coincidence,' he said.

‘Wow!' she said. ‘If you should change hotels -
so
unlikely, but just in case - you'll let us know, won't you? You'll have the number of the nick - same as for the Press officer. I'm on extension three-four-one, Inspector Belinda Laverick. Or Detective Constable Gwyn Ure.'

‘I might get pulled off the story, of course,' he said.

‘I doubt it. Not now you've got yourself close to Harpur and Iles. No boss is going to waste that. And anyway, which
story
?

‘
Whatever develops,' he said.

‘This
story
could cause terrible damage to a good police force,' she said. ‘Do you ever think what harm you might be doing when you're chasing your
story
, and then writing it up in a style to dish out as much harm and injury as you can?'

‘I hope your wait's not fruitless and you get some leads to the people who were scrapping here last night,' Cass replied.

‘The wait hasn't been fruitless,' she said.

‘Oh?' he said.

‘No, we've learned you're here, in the city, doing one of your trawls again,' she said.