Deep Sleep Read online

  ‘Well we are on the edge of the City,’ he said. ‘We might be mistaken for gents. Or management consultants.’

  ‘No way,’ said Collins. ‘Well you might. Not me. I look like a brick shithouse dressed in a suit. Feel a bit of a wally, too. No way,’ he repeated. He took a long gargle from the pint, his throat working until the glass was half empty, then put it down, obviously relieved.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the bloody City with one square mile of a thousand banks might be next bloody door, but Jesus, it’s a hundred miles from here. The City gets rebuilt; this just gets patchwork. Bet these geezers don’t come down here to do their shopping. Anyway, we haven’t got the right kind of suits. Mine cost fifty quid. Probably fell off the back of a lorry. Fair bit of that sort of gear passes through this pub, as it happens. Got mine in a sale.’

  ‘You must have canvassed this place before, by the sound of things?’

  ‘Oh yes, course. Bit of local gossip never comes amiss. Like Coronation Street, down here. Only don’t go repeating none of it to your DC Perry, might give him ideas. Had a word, we did, with a few of the shops round here. They got their ideas about Mr Carlton and Perry’s missus. Quite a disappointment she is, as well. Not fulfilling local expectation if you see what I mean. Lady in the grocer’s shop tells me she expected someone to catch them in bed long ago, even before his old woman snuffed it, but she never plays, Mrs Perry, I mean. Doesn’t even seem to know that old man Carlton had the hots for her as soon as she stepped in the door. Too busy to notice, but she was the only one didn’t. They like her round here. As much as they like anyone who hasn’t lived here for ever.’

  Bailey grunted. Collins took that as a benign hint, plucked from nowhere and told the story from the beginning.

  ‘Anyway, like I said. Christ, that went quick …’ The straight-sided pint glass was empty. Bailey did the honours and bought himself a whisky, to go with the half. He had never really liked beer beyond the first round and the habits of the navvies were catching.

  ‘Ta. It’s a bugger, this case, you know. Because it isn’t even a case, and whatever there was got screwed up in the first place. Tried to explain to your brief, but there it is. Police get called to break down a door because some wife’s gone AWOL, find her dead, but laid out so nice you’d think the undertaker’d already got there. So he radios in and gets the body shifted. Accidental death. Why not? No photos, no forensic, no nothing. No one’s broke in, no injury, no struggles, right? Pathologist just out of school, doesn’t give a fuck, does the necessary and gets a surprise. Some old-fashioned drug he’s heard of but don’t know nothing about. Funny, he thinks, but not enough to kill her, I don’t know why she was snorting it, do I? Which is what Davies thinks too, bit worried for his precious little chemist. Why? Because he’s the best there is round here. Delivers to little old ladies, he does, not that anyone pays him for it, but he seems a good bloke. Time for all of them, can’t get anyone here to say a bad word, know what I mean? Wife a bossy-boots, not unpopular, but not great either. Tries to stop our Mr Carlton from delivering to the old ladies, ordering in stock which don’t make a profit, all that kind of stuff. Swept the floor when the builders came in looking for blister cream and rubber gloves, bit of a pain really, but not so bad anyone hated her, kind in her own way. Thinks her husband the best thing since sliced bread, absolutely worships the ground he treads on. There you go.’ He took another, extraordinarily long draught at the beer in the glass. Bailey sat silent. He knew very well when not to interrupt a flow. Either beer or information, especially from a colleague having a bad day.

  ‘So, as I said, we’re fucking well scuppered. Because we never got the body, see? Because nobody looked in the first place and after that it’s all over bar the shouting if they don’t. We can’t prove anything from the scene and by the time anyone’s gone back for a second look, Carlton or whoever has had plenty of time to hoover the place, remove hairs, semen, anything like that. Not that there was any sign of sex on her, not a trace. Only he forgot to take the chloroform from under his kitchen sink, which was why he had to tell us about it. And his alibi’s not watertight. Which is all we have.’

  ‘What if someone can prove the chloroform couldn’t be self-administered? I mean, if it could be shown someone must have given it to her?’

  ‘So what? It means we really would be looking for a murderer, but who? She could have let in the local drug addict, that chap you found, and yes, I did know about it. She could have been knocking off one of the builders. Kimberley Perry could have slipped in and killed her, for that matter.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘No, as it happens, although she could have got in. There were spare keys to the Carltons’ flat in the pharmacy, and she had keys for the shop because she had to open up for herself and a relief chemist while he was gallivanting away, but she says she didn’t know about the flat keys. Anyway, I’ve given up thinking.’

  The straight glass was empty apart from a tracing of froth. Collins eased himself from the rickety table and over to a gap in the bar with the skill born of long practice, returning with two identical orders. The beer did not appear to have touched him. That’s what we’ve both learned, Bailey thought; how to drink. Pity DC Perry had missed out on such invaluable knowledge.

  ‘What do I say to your Miss West, then?’ Collins asked with mild belligerence. ‘How do I calm her down? Sorry, mustn’t make chauvinistic remarks. Maybe she doesn’t need calming down. Men and women created equal and all that. I’ve been sent on a course so I know. Told me not to denigrate the fair sex or call them rude names. Wait a minute, that’s not the same Helen West who got beaten up by some psychopath? Coupla years since? Your case, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bailey uncomfortably.

  ‘Stone me,’ said Collins. ‘The poor cow.’

  They parted on good terms, Collins sympathetic, if slightly incredulous when Bailey said he would linger where he was and shop on the market.

  ‘Apples and oranges, potatoes, that kind of thing,’ he said.

  ‘And a few pills from the chemist?’ Collins asked, his whole face a question mark.

  ‘Maybe. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Nope. Not this time. Tread on my toes any time you like as long as you tell me before it hurts.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bailey.

  Tom Perry, on strict instructions from his mother which applied, and were often ignored, on any of the rare days she could not arrange for him to be met, boarded the bus slightly ahead of the crowd leaving school, sat downstairs near the door and clutched the handrail until Herringbone Parade hove into sight. Then he ran down the road like a lamplighter, jumping over the rubbish which heralded the end of the market, closing down amid shouts and wind and darkness. His eyes darted left and right, looking for Daniel. Daniel, greeted with indifference, but somehow necessary to life, was always out here on market days, hoping for a tip, but it was difficult to see. Always so dark; you went out in darkness to be the first at school, you came back in the dark and you never, ever became used to being in the dark.

  By contrast, the shop made him twitch, an effect he noticed in others all the time. They came in here, blinking like moles, all except Mummy, who never minded the light, only complained about headaches and drank more tea to forestall the next, never noticing anything. He sat on the high stool by the counter, wishing she would give him the key and let him go home out of sight, eating a sweet, bored as usual. Sometimes he tested her, like now, holding a book upside-down to see if she would notice while a short queue formed at the counter. Tom rummaged in his torn satchel for entertainment, looking for another of the sweets swopped for apples, noticing that the metal helmet, which he carried everywhere, had worn an extra hole in the fabric. He took the thing out, laid it on his knee, and continued to forage elbow deep in the mess in the bottom of his bag. Mummy did the same with hers. Pip came out to the counter, speaking across Tom’s head.

  ‘Here you are, Mrs Jones: three times
a day, if you please …’ His eyes fell on the helmet.

  ‘Where’d you get that thing, Tom, old boy?’ The tone was jovial, the expression fixed in a smile.

  ‘Outside. At the back, I think. Maybe it was somewhere else. Don’t know.’ He wanted to say, what’s it to you where I got it, but any words, even tame words like these, provided the chance to put a sneer in his voice and imply the insolence he felt.

  ‘What a strange contraption. Thought you might have made it at school. Can I look?’

  Tom’s hands tightened on the metal hat he was going to give to Daddy.

  ‘No,’ he said, and pulled a face.

  Pip smiled and shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, old boy, suit yourself.’ He leant forward, and pinched Tom’s cheek playfully. Tom continued to smile, even when Pip’s red fingerprints remained livid on his skin. He fingered the metal, slowly, to stop himself yelping. Pip still stood there; it seemed imperative to behave as normal.

  ‘OK, then, at least tell me where you got it. Interesting.’

  Tom thought wildly. His mother was in earshot and he remembered the slapping from the last time he’d collected rubbish.

  ‘Daniel gave it me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure.’ He was beginning to shout and the louder he spoke the more he believed himself. Daniel never cared what anyone thought: let Daniel take the blame. He was immune.

  The eyes which held his own finally faltered, and turned away with a look of obscure satisfaction. ‘That’s right,’ said Pip. ‘I might have seen Daniel with something like that. Scavenger.’

  Tombo did not know what a scavenger was, but it sounded rude, made him defensive enough to want to confess the truth.

  ‘Have you seen Daniel today?’ Tom asked. ‘Only I thought he would be in, haven’t seen him …’

  There was a long pause. Tom was surprised to see Mister looking faintly uncomfortable.

  ‘Ask your mother,’ Uncle Pip said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘HOW’S your mother?’ Helen asked the man at the door.

  ‘Oh not so bad these days, Miss West. Better. She likes Christmas, see. Cheers her up.’

  There was something about buildings which made them unwell, welcoming or not. The disease of Helen’s office building was obvious. Stuck down a small side street, there was permanent twilight on account of the enormous block which stood opposite and stole what little light there was. The difference in the seasons was difficult to determine from inside, apart from the temperature fluctuating between two different kinds of heat, the dry and the cloying, hotter than average in winter. There were days when she could hardly bring herself to push open the door, shrugging off her coat as she did so. Full of petty economies elsewhere, this part of the Crown Prosecution Service was content to fry the staff alive with its central heating, rendering them zombie-like by midafternoon, while the most unfair thing about Redwood’s superior room was the fact that he was the only one actually able to open his window. The psychology behind this had the accidental effect of keeping them all out of doors rather than in, which Redwood encouraged. Real work was done in court where success or failure was manifest. Preparation and consideration always came second since they tended not to show.

  Helen saw the tinsel hung in the corridors, a coy reminder of goodwill. Mika had been busy and Helen’s heart sank lower with the first unavoidable signal of Christmas. Even in robust health, Helen hated Christmas. Christmas made men and women mad. Redwood would be infected and tonight was the first of the parties. Bailey’s party. Or at least, Bailey’s CID party, where they entertained the whole district. Where she would stick out like a sore thumb, the way she had last year and the year before. Unable, quite, to charm herself into some sort of acceptance or dull the nerves by getting drunk.

  Her carpet was like patchwork, and the office had once been a showroom. For some reason quite beyond the ken of any man, the original, cheerful blue and all pure wool carpet left by the previous incumbents had been torn up for replacement by inferior, all synthetic yellow. They had protested, stood on the carpet, yelled on the carpet, and in Helen’s case, even laid down on the carpet, but Acrilan now dwelt where wool had been and the door frames tingled with static electricity. Why the hell do I do this? she was saying to herself: why do I work in this crap heap when I could earn twice as much somewhere else? With a secretary and fresh flowers daily and luncheon vouchers and a free car … Because you would be doing nothing but guarding other people’s money, and you would be bored. That is, in general, what other, richer lawyers do.

  Right. No moaning then. No whinging about how awful it was to be thus employed but how nice, how wonderful it would be if it were not quite such a struggle. According to Helen’s calculations she spent half her life doing her job, with at least the other half devoted to the sheer mechanics of getting the simplest thing done. All that diplomacy, all that energy, like steam from a kettle, all spent creeping into the photocopying room, saying, would you mind terribly, come on, Dot, please … Or getting a letter typed, bended knees to a typist, blandishments and promises given like a tart. Prostitution was a useful analogy too when it came to getting major decisions made. Smile while you still got teeth. Convince the boss it was his idea, suggest, never dictate, wheedle, whinge, undermine with charm, talk as if talking were just invented, duck and dive, cajole, persuade, like a hockey player dribbling the ball up the long field to goal. That was the exhausting part, the time for losing judgement. Half a day, every day, coping with a hierarchy in order to do the simplest thing. In a place as hot as Hades.

  The end results, of course, were not rewards. Such as this morning. She looked at the watch Bailey had given her. She had been thinking of Bailey, not always calmly, ever since she had met him, in an office like this. At least he was an honest ally, some of the time, even though his present job had threatened to turn him into a bureaucrat. Before he found dying persons in unfashionable streets. Enough. None of that was going to help her survive Bailey’s party. She went into reception, where the man on the door was mopping his brow from the effort of greeting Dr Hazel.

  ‘You’ll know your way here by now, Sean. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Better each time you phone. Do we have to go and see that little man again? Wee piglet?’

  ‘Not yet. In theory, he takes all the decisions around here. We call him master.’ She was mimicking his brogue. In the lift, rising towards the welcome ventilation of Redwood’s room, Hazel grinned at her and frowned at his own reflection in the doors.

  ‘What’s that baggage you’re carrying?’ Helen demanded. Dr Hazel was armed with a small, bashed-about suitcase.

  ‘Change of clothes,’ he said. ‘In case you ask me to stay.’

  Redwood heard the sound of laughter going past his door, paused on his way towards his desk and sat down abruptly to polish his glasses. His once spacious office now contained three chipped desks, facing his own. Each one was covered with documents and the sight of them, as well as the sound of laughter, remained no more than a hollow suggestion of loneliness. Somewhere in all of this was the vain hope that the floor would sink into the basement and lose all this paper without trace. Bring him back to the camaraderie he had once enjoyed, and perhaps the blessed heat of the lower floors. His window was warped by winter, permanently open, and the back of his neck was frozen against the hackles he used to find rising occasionally round the hairline, all his instincts dulled by complaints and budget sheets, and Christmas too. He envied Helen West; he envied all the others. If she entered here, looking warm and flushed from the pleasures of meeting the public, he thought he would understand the meaning of the word murderous.

  ‘Murder,’ said Dr Hazel, ‘is what it was.’

  He had ended his peroration. They sat, Collins and Helen, facing him across a table in the messy basement room used for meetings and rudimentary library, both of them spellbound, Collins frankly shocked. His flushed skin told the tale of a celebration the night before, but he
maintained the bearing of a soldier. Hazel looked like a tramp, but for that moment and the half-hour before, he had commanded their attention like a maestro, and thought he would never forget it. On the table lay a report, complete with diagrams, computer models, references and lucid articulate prose. He knew, as he finished, that he would actually write the book he had always planned to write. The thought filled him with grave exultation.

  ‘I’d like to see you in the witness box, Doc. You’d slay ’em,’ said Collins.

  ‘Ah, now,’ said Hazel, putting up his hands in a warning gesture, a look of alarm crossing his face, ‘no one said anything about that. I doubt if …’

  ‘Say it again,’ Helen interrupted quickly. ‘About this thing.’ She pointed to the metal frame which sat atop the report.