Those Who Feel Nothing (5 page)

Bonkers. Just bonkers.

Watts was primarily a logical man. Much of the Bible made no sense. How could you accept the story of Adam and Eve or the fact that if God is omnipotent he allows such evil in the world? Watts couldn't. His late mum did. His mother had been vaguely religious and that ‘vaguely' had driven him nuts.

‘Even so,' she would say. ‘Even so – there's something there.'

‘Something evil,' Watts would reply. ‘God is a thorough-going uncaring sadist. He feels nothing for us.'

His mother had emotional intelligence but zero logical intelligence. She couldn't string an argument together to save her life. Bob, like his brother and his father, was fiercely logical, fiercely reductive.

When they were teenagers they used that logic to shred her opposition to their doing things she disapproved of. Usually the things they wanted to do were stupid and his mother instinctively knew that, but they beat her down with their logic.

How shameful his behaviour had been. And with his wife and children too. His estranged wife, Molly, was living out her fantasy in Canada with a guy she'd been having an affair with for two weeks a year over a decade. Good luck with that, he muttered sourly.

Of course, Molly blamed him for her daughter's descent into fundamentalism.

‘If you hadn't had that sordid affair with that policewoman,' she'd said during their most recent phone call.

‘I think our daughter's disenchantment began before then,' Watts said. ‘Perhaps your drinking had something to do with it.'

‘Fuck you,' his wife said. ‘My drinking came very late in the day – and it came because of you, incidentally.'

‘Maybe it was our arguing?'

‘Maybe it was just that you were never, ever fucking there?'

The line went dead. Before mobiles his wife had been a great smasher-of phones back down into their cradles. It must have been frustrating for her that slamming a mobile phone down would just break it. Now all she could do was make a click, even if it was with feeling.

Leaning against a tall marble fireplace, Rafferty looked like someone in a Noël Coward play, without the smoking jacket but with a paisley cravat. His head was tilted back so he was looking down his nose at them. Or would have been if Gilchrist hadn't been about a foot taller than him.

She introduced herself and Heap.

‘I know you, don't I?' Rafferty said to Gilchrist as he gestured for them to sit down on a deep sofa. He grinned wolfishly. ‘Ah yes. The PCC's girl.'

Heap glanced at Gilchrist.

‘Hardly,' Gilchrist said, hoping she hadn't flushed. She looked back at Heap. He seemed to be flushing on her behalf.

‘We wondered if you'd mind telling us where you were at about three this morning?' Heap said.

Rafferty stepped away from the fireplace and plonked himself in a wingback armchair. He crossed his legs and pointed at Heap.

‘And you – you investigated the theft of a picture from my gallery some months ago?'

‘The name is Detective Sergeant Heap, sir.'

‘A promotion for recovering my painting?'

Gilchrist saw Heap flush brighter. He was newly promoted. Gilchrist had brought him on to her team as detective constable to help investigate a sudden upsurge in black magic happenings in and around Brighton. He had proved so helpful she had immediately recommended him for promotion to detective sergeant.

Being Bellamy Heap, Boy Genius, he had done his sergeant's exams in three months instead of a year, and when Gilchrist's appointment as DI had been made permanent he had taken her slot as DS. Gilchrist had asked the chief constable to assign him to her. So here they were.

‘Three this morning, sir?' Heap said.

‘I was in bed, of course. I had an early start this morning – it was the launch of the Great Escape.'

Gilchrist frowned. ‘So you've been up some time?'

‘My dear, I went back to bed the minute I returned home.'

‘Detective Inspector will do nicely, thank you, Mr Rafferty,' Gilchrist said. She glanced through the open door at Roger in his sarong, looking busy in the kitchen. ‘Three in the morning – can anyone confirm you were in bed?'

Rafferty followed her glance. ‘Alas, no,' he said softly. ‘
Detective Inspector.
'

‘Did anyone borrow your car last night?'

‘Beautiful boy,' Rafferty called. ‘Did you borrow my car last night?'

Roger put down a cloth and shook his head.

Rafferty leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘He thinks he's a trucker – only likes driving lorries. Thinks it makes him butch.'

‘A car matching the description of yours was observed over the other side of the Downs in the middle of the night,' Heap said.

‘Matching the description of mine – you mean there is some doubt?'

‘Until CCTV footage has been analysed we can't be certain,' Gilchrist said.

Rafferty pushed his chest out and stuck his nose in the air again. Gilchrist wondered if such an action was the origin of
being stuck up
. She flicked a look at Bellamy Heap. He would undoubtedly know.

‘I don't understand why you have come to my house then,' Rafferty said coldly. ‘Is this not a little premature?'

Gilchrist glanced at Heap again.

‘Do you ever do your research at night?' Heap said.

‘My research?'

‘You write about Sussex graveyards, don't you?'

Rafferty clasped his hands primly on his knee. ‘You mean do I hang about in churchyards by the light of the silvery moon? In my younger days one or two of Brighton's town centre churchyards were popular as midnight trysting places. Frankly, I think everyone should have sex in a graveyard at least once in their lives – don't you, DI Gilchrist?' Gilchrist tried to keep her face expressionless. ‘But where are those blue remembered hills?'

‘That's a “no”, then,' Heap said.

Rafferty swung towards him. ‘Ah – the brains of the outfit. Do I hang about in churchyards? Not any more, and certainly
not
in Keymer.' Rafferty stood, hands clasped in front of him, nose in the air yet again. ‘So, officers, if I may go about my business you may go about yours.'

Gilchrist gave Heap the slightest of nods. They both remained seated.

‘Why did you mention Keymer, Mr Rafferty?' Heap said quietly.

Rafferty put a manicured finger to his lips. ‘I thought you mentioned it.'

Heap shook his head. ‘We merely said it was an incident over the other side of the Downs.'

‘I mentioned it randomly, then,' Rafferty said. ‘Keymer is, after all, over the other side of the Downs.'

‘So are many villages.'

Rafferty shrugged and tugged on his lower lip. ‘Keymer is the one I happen to know best. I have written about it at length.'

‘In which book?' Heap said.

Rafferty paused. ‘Not just in books,' he said airily. ‘In academic journals and specialist publications.'

‘So not in any of your books?'

Rafferty tried for an indignant expression. It didn't really work. ‘Of course, in my books. I've told you. It is probably the most important church in this area.'

Heap tilted his head. ‘Really?'

Rafferty shot him a superior look. ‘Yes. Really.'

‘Sorry if I sounded surprised, sir. In your major work on Sussex churchyards two years ago you give that honour to the small church of St Michael beside Plumpton College. Second was its sister church at Plumpton itself; then Clayton parish church. Ditchling gets quite a lengthy entry. Keymer gets a mention only in a footnote. In passing.'

Rafferty gave Heap a long look then glanced into the kitchen. Gilchrist followed his glance. Roger was no longer there.

‘Look,' Rafferty finally said. ‘I wasn't in Keymer churchyard in the middle of the night.'

Gilchrist slowly let out her breath.

‘We didn't say you were, Mr Rafferty,' Heap said. ‘I merely asked why you mentioned Keymer. We haven't mentioned Keymer at all.'

Heap stood now and for the first time he seemed quite tall. He began to tilt his head backwards then seemed to think better of it.

‘However, a car matching the description of your car was identified in Keymer at three this morning,' Gilchrist said. ‘The driver was acting strangely in the graveyard. He then assaulted a police officer and ran away. It's an intriguing coincidence that you seem to have Keymer on your mind.'

Heap took a step nearer to Rafferty.

‘Is there anything you want to say, sir?'

Rafferty held his look then cleared his throat.

‘I wish to contact my lawyer.'

I
t is brightly coloured, single storey, with rooms down six corridors radiating off the swimming pool in the central courtyard. Incense sticks burn everywhere. People, mostly half your age, lounge on piles of cushions in alcoves around the perimeter of the pool.

At the back of your room you have your own private pool in a small yard. It is little more than a plunge bath. The water is deep and cold.

You swim lengths in the main pool, aware of the stitches in your stomach when you do crawl and backstroke. The pool is pleasantly warm but heavily chlorinated. You finish with two lengths underwater, enjoying the play of sunlight across the tiles beneath you.

There is a bar next door to the motel serving western food. You love Cambodian food but your motel doesn't serve lunch and you don't want to travel too far afield. You sit at a table by the door, set out your cigarettes and lighter beside your right hand and order pizza and a triple vodka.

You watch two overweight, sweaty western men monkeying around with two petite, much younger Cambodian women. Every time the men grab at their buttocks or breasts the women giggle with pleasure but you see the looks that pass between them when the men are focused on their drinks.

Your pizza is pretty ropey but you ordered it for energy, not for taste. You approve of the fact that the vodka comes from the freezer. It is viscous; you take your time. Although you know it's the custom, you've never understood why anyone would want to down vodka or any other drink in one.

In the days when things had meaning for you, you loved a Hart Crane couplet: ‘Some men take their liquor slow and count the river's minute by the far brook's year'.

The two men are joined by two more, equally scuzzy, mean-looking westerners. They shoo the women away and huddle round a table. One of the new arrivals keeps his eyes on you. He looks handy. You focus on the television behind the bar. Or rather the mirror beside it through which you can watch the men.

It's depressing that these four men look such stereotypes of those who come to Cambodia for sex and drugs. Paedophiles, pimps and pushers. You have no doubt these men are all three. You wonder if they might lead you where you need to go.

Your plan is as yet ill-formed but before you head for Siem Reap you need to see how the land lies.

The two women are outside in the alley, talking quietly but rapidly, sucking on cocktails through straws, fiddling with their cheap-looking mobile phones. They are solemn-faced, unless they notice the men looking, in which case they break into big, false grins.

You don't speak Khmer, the main Cambodian language, but your French isn't bad and these women may have a smattering. You're not sure whether they are Cambodian or Vietnamese, but it doesn't matter as both countries were once
Indochine
and the French influence persists.

You pick up your cigarettes, lighter and vodka and step outside. You nod at the women. They give nervous smiles and glance at their men inside.

You ask in French how they are. They look anxious. A man is suddenly by your side. The handy one who was keeping his eye on you.

‘Help you, mate?' he asks with an accent that belongs somewhere in Bermondsey, not here in a back alley in Phnom Penh. Though maybe in the global village there's not much to choose between them.

‘Just passing the time of day with these ladies,' you say.

‘Wrong
ladies
to pass the time of day with.' The man gives a simulacrum of a smile. ‘They're spoken for.' He edges closer to you. ‘Might be able to help you out if you're looking for other female company, though. To pass as much time with as you can afford.'

You offer him a cigarette with a tilt of the packet. He shakes his head, the non-smile now a rictus.

‘You might be able to help me at that,' you say.

‘What do you need, brother?'

‘Paradise.'

He snorts. ‘We could all do with a bit of that. But are you meaning drugs, girls, boys or congress with a hairy fucking gorilla to reach that particular destination?'

‘Sal Paradise. I assume he still runs this town? I need to see him.'

The cockney's eyes are hooded so you can't read anything into his blank stare. However, you see the women exchange rapid glances then look down.

The man shrugs. ‘Never heard of him, brother. Sorry.'

Sal Paradise. Nobody knows his real name – at least, you don't. Italian possibly. Maybe French. Maybe not Italian or French at all. Nobody knows why he chose the name Salvatore ‘Sal' Paradise. You know it's the name French-Canadian Jack Kerouac gave to the narrator of
On The Road
, his one good novel. Though Jack's Italian wasn't up to making the last name ‘Paradiso'. Maybe the Paradise you're interested in was a Dharma bum who ended up here on his hitchhiking trail.

There is no way this man has not heard of Sal Paradise. In Cambodia Paradise has been The Man for damn near forty years. Home-grown
criminales
have tried to take him over; the government has tried to shut him down; Vietnamese wise guys have tried to put the pinch on him. He's seen them all off.

A certain amount of myth has accrued around him. Colonel Kurtz madness; Rambo righteousness; Fu Manchu sneakiness. All stereotypes. All wide of the mark. You met him thirty-five years ago. You were pleading.