The Light of Day

  How could it have been like that? His last hug still warm on her.

  She’d become a hunter too, in Wimbledon. The missing part of our lives. She’d watched him, he’d watched her. Which way round did it work? Some moment must have come. And she, at least, must have known, when it came, that there weren’t any rules. Life happens outside the law.

  Did she love him—however it began? Did he love her? There’s no recipe, it’s not like cooking. It can last for life, it can burn out in months. He hadn’t wanted to be burnt.

  They walk in the woods. On Wimbledon Common. They fuck against a tree. But she’s still the student of English words.

  They were the best times, Sarah said, when they’d begun to teach each other: English for Serbo-Croat. The teacher being the student, starting from scratch. In the kitchen, the different words for food—“nutmeg,” “pumpkin”—or in Sarah’s study, overlooking the garden. The best times: learning each other’s language. Even the feeling that Kristina envied her. Was that so surprising? This study, this safe calm place. Translation work. The garden outside, wintry, littered with dead leaves. As if Sarah was what Kristina wanted to be.

  Well: that had come true. As near as could be. Her English was perfect. She had her degree. A qualified interpreter too. That passport of a skill.

  She’d even shared Sarah’s husband.

  “Toadstool,” he says. A mad word.

  She stoops (so I picture it: I’m watching, a detective, hidden by trees), pretends to eat, pretends to throw up. How will it end? Suppose she got pregnant—they both have the thought. But they both have the other thought too. How will it end? This is how it could end anyway—something like this. With poison, with death.

  They look at each other as if they’ve both eaten for real.

  To love is to be ready to lose, it’s not to have, to keep.

  So: she made her sacrifice? She was the one who always had to lose everything? Arriving—dispossessed again—in neutral Switzerland.

  What became of her? Where did she go? I could follow her too, track her down. An international assignment. Find out the truth: did she ever know?

  But that’s not my job, that’s not my case. That’s for that man over there, it’s his case. That’s for Bob to do.

  28

  Dyson did it. And if there were any justice …

  And I’m still shocked—the reverse of other people’s shock, the reverse of Rachel’s shock—at how the story, the crime almost, became how I’d shown myself to be a crooked cop and had to be made an example of, and not the story of how Lee Dyson had stabbed Ranjit Patel in his Handi-Store on Davis Road. Stabbed him three times, almost committed murder in fact (and not for the first time), but was going to walk free.

  But I’m still shocked at myself, it’s true.

  A Sunday evening. They called me out. September ’89. Helen had left home—so I couldn’t blame her. Needling me, pushing me near the edge. Remarks that stung. “You don’t see things.”

  So what am I saying? It would have been all Helen’s fault?

  Three witnesses—or none, depending on how a court would see it, and if it reached a court in the first place. But Dyson did it—his handiwork, as the saying goes—and now I had him. It ought to have been a sewn-up case.

  Ranjit Patel. But he’d passed out in seconds, and hadn’t been in a state to talk (it was touch and go) for two days. By which time … And any defence lawyer would have torn holes in the reliability of his memory. Even if he hadn’t said anyway (since it was Dyson): I don’t remember a thing.

  Mrs. Patel—Meera Patel. But she’d come on the scene, from behind the shop, just too late to see Dyson (if it was him). What she saw was her husband lying in a terrifying pool of blood (and Dyson, maybe—a blur that was hardly in her vision—disappearing through the door). Her first thought hadn’t been to look out onto the street—which seemed to have been surprisingly empty of passers-by—or to look down the passage leading to the Callaghan Estate. But she was ready enough, now, to testify that Dyson—she even knew his name—had abused and threatened both her and her husband several times before, had even once, though she wasn’t present, waved a knife at her husband. She was as ready to say it was Dyson as I was—and she was relying on me.

  Which, given the minimal forensic, left Kenny Mills. Given that the weapon was as yet unlocated, though it was reckoned to be a knife with at least a four-inch blade, given that Dyson (if it was him) had managed to lose it very efficiently, and, in the time it took for police and ambulance to get to the scene, had (to reconstruct) gone back to the Dyson place on the estate, put all his clothes in the washer (“So? It was wash-day”), disposed somehow of a pair of probably blood-stained trainers, put on fresh clothes, then set off for Mick Warren’s flat, across the estate, where, according to Warren, the two of them had been since seven, watching a match on TV.

  All this, a defence lawyer would say—all this in the time it took for police and ambulance to be on the scene…?

  Yes, if it was Dyson, yes.

  It left Kenny Mills, in Room Number One. Who wasn’t having a happy time. Who said he’d only gone up to the Patel shop for some cans and fags. Yes, up the passage from the estate, and he hadn’t seen a soul, and then he’d come upon Mrs. Patel with Mr. Patel bleeding and unconscious.

  I said he was lying and he said he wasn’t. Either way, he looked scared.

  Not one of the true hard-nuts. Not one of Dyson’s little core. On the edge—wanting to be let in, perhaps. Though not any more.

  Some cans and some fags, which he never got to buy. And for this innocent little errand, and though Meera Patel swore he’d walked in after she’d called 999—maybe a minute after she herself had come in from the back of the shop—he was hauled in by Uniformed and strip-searched, as if a four-inch knife might be hidden up his arse. Then grilled long into the night, including by DI Webb who arrived—from the Patel shop—at nine-fifteen.

  And took one look at Mills and had them haul in Dyson as well.

  It’s a well-known game. You have the two of them in and you play the one against the other, hoping for a quick result. Especially in those precious moments before either of them has a lawyer beside them, telling them when to shut up.

  Not so much detection as spinning plates. Till one breaks. But sometimes you just get impatient, you get excited—you get near the edge. The scent of a quick kill under your nose.

  Dyson did it, Mills didn’t—I knew that. But I didn’t have to tell him. I even believed the beer and fags. The only bit I didn’t believe was that he’d come up the passage from the estate—at just that time—without seeing Dyson coming the other way.

  More than one reason he was looking scared.

  “You didn’t see anyone—coming the other way, from the shop?”

  “No.”

  “Lee Dyson, for example.”

  “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “Yeh?”

  “Yes, because if you say you didn’t see Dyson you’re smack in the frame.”

  “I never got there till after. That woman—”

  “Mrs. Patel? Yes, that’s what she said. But maybe she was confused. She thought her husband was dying. He still might die, you know. And, maybe, she was scared of you.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yes. Wasn’t that the idea—the old idea? Scare them. See how far it could go. You, Dyson and the others. Scare them a little, scare them a lot. You look scared yourself, Kenny.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You wouldn’t have stuck a knife in Ranjit Patel, would you? Not by yourself. But you were there when Dyson did. Let’s suppose. And that put you in shit. But then you came back. Smart—and not so smart. You thought you’d clear yourself, you’d make it look as though you’d just arrived—”

  “That wasn’t how—”

  “How? How what, Kenny? What are you saying? You really did it yourself?” “Piss off.”

  “So who did? If you didn’t, why are you looking s
o scared?”

  “Fuck off.”

  Interview rooms. Grey boxes. There’s a point where they can become like clearings in the forest. The thrashing and gnashing could start. There’s a tape running and a DC sitting in, but you can forget both are there.

  “Shall I tell you something? We’ve got Dyson in here right now. Just along the way.”

  You watch their eyes closely.

  “But—we’ll keep you apart.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “You’re scared of Dyson, aren’t you? That’s okay, that’s sensible. Dyson’s scary. I’d be scared of Dyson—but I’m a cop. It’s your chance, Kenny. While the two of you are here. You nail him first. One of you walks, one of you gets to stay.”

  It’s what I said. On the tape.

  “He did it, didn’t he? You were there.”

  “No.”

  “You were with him.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Okay. You weren’t there, you weren’t with him. Here’s another story—tell me if it’s any better. Yes, you went to get some beer and fags. No, you didn’t do a thing wrong. You were just going to get some beer and fags. But you saw Dyson coming the other way, down that passage. Bad timing. Or good timing—maybe. He looked pretty fired up, didn’t he, and you couldn’t step out of his way, could you? And he couldn’t step out of yours. Just the two of you. So he grabs you and he tells you what he’s done. He’s full of it. I’m prepared to bet he even waved the knife in your face. He’s a nutcase, isn’t he, Kenny? Off his fucking head. And he tells you that you never saw him. He tells you that you never saw him and that you should piss off out of it. And he disappears fast himself.

  “Then you’ve got a choice, haven’t you? Big choice. Disappear yourself, that’s the easier option. But you reckon—smart thinking—that if you do that and it comes back round to you again, you’re an accessory. So you walked on. You walked on to clear yourself, but you walked on for another reason—let’s hope. You’ll say you never saw Dyson anyway, but you walked on for another reason. There was a man dying—maybe—just yards away. He still might die, Kenny. You did the right thing. You didn’t piss off. A different kind of bottle. You behaved like a good citizen. You get points for that. You don’t need a brief, Kenny. Sometimes briefs take ages to arrive …”

  I watched his eyes. You can tell. Ninety-five per cent true. Sometimes it’s not detection. It’s being in the picture. As if I’d been standing there all along, watching, in that passage.

  “A good story? You haven’t said anything. If you like, we could make it your statement. You could sign. And I’ll make another bet. If you don’t have a better story and Dyson gets to know you went on to that shop, he’ll stick you right in it, that’s for sure.”

  Interview rooms. They can be like another world. I got up, turned my back, looked, hands in pockets, at the wall. Like the teacher when the class is doing the test. But I think my heart was thumping, measuring the silence. Those first few hours. Dyson, at last.

  If you look away, it’s sometimes when they talk. But the silence dragged on, thick with Kenny’s thinking.

  Finally I said, “Okay, I’m going to speak to Dyson.”

  Kenny said, “Stop.”

  29

  I sit on the bench. Not yet noon. Time to kill. But if I leave soon and take it slowly … And I always allow time, I’m never late. As if I’ll earn privileges, too, for good behaviour.

  The usual routine: park in the side road, walk first in a different direction. Not that I’m ashamed. Ashamed to be seen to be a visitor, a prison visitor. For God’s sake, I’d be over that by now.

  And anyway: the most precious moments of my life.

  Twice a month they see me. An old hand by now, a regular. His home from home. A women’s prison. Something must keep him coming back, coming back for more. When you think about it, it can only be one thing …

  And he can’t be her husband, can he?

  “George” they call me. Or “Georgie-Porgie.” Or sometimes, because of the “homework” they know I hand in and collect, they call me “The Schoolboy” or “The Teacher’s Pet.” And they all know as they frisk me (they can’t touch you in certain places, they have to get a male warder) that I was a cop once, a DI. Now I’m a private dick.

  A regular. Never misses a fortnight.

  But I was so nervous, those first times, of being late. So she might think—what? That she’d been stood up? Though she wasn’t thinking much at all, then, wanting to be like ice.

  So nervous, I’ve long since got into the habit of being early. A bite to eat first. I walk, the other way, to the main road. It’s “Snacketeria” usually, which, despite the name, does good stuff.

  “What was it today, George? The mozzarella and grilled vegetables? Or the spicy ham?”

  She wants to know these things. Every detail, every crumb. Life outside. As if I can live it for her, ordinary blessed life. The smell of good coffee. Lunchtime bustle. A sandwich, well made.

  It was a good sign when she started to ask (a little like Helen): what was I cooking, what was I eating? A good sign when she said: the food’s crap in here.

  It might be a good spot to munch a sandwich, right here. A bench against a sunny wall. It’s what benches are for: a bench, a sandwich. But can you eat, should you, do they let you, in a cemetery? Crumbs for the dead.

  What do the dead most wish for—if they’re watching? The feathery warmth of a November sun on their eyelids? The taste of fresh bread?

  Bob could tell me. But how do you ask?

  • • •

  Patel was lucky. Stabbed, scarred—out of action for months—but alive. He’ll have known what it’s like to come back from the dead.

  Lucky? Well, yes and no. Enough to make him put aside the smaller factor: that he never got any justice. The law let him down. And he and his wife would finally quit that shop—that shop that had become part fort anyway, trading post and fort, in enemy territory.

  Even though he would say to me it was Dyson, no mistake. He’d got a good look.

  Well, we had him, Mr. Patel—I had him for you. But we had to let him go. A police fuck-up. Twisting the rules. Perverting the course of—

  I went in to see him. A big bunch of flowers. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d spat.

  A cop gets the boot, Dyson goes free. Patel gets the nightmares and the scars.

  As it happens, Mr. Patel, my life is pretty much in pieces too, pretty much up the spout—if it’s any consolation.

  But I couldn’t say that. Nor could I say to him: There was a moment, Mr. Patel, a mad blood-thirsty moment when I actually hoped—so much the worse for Dyson—you might die.

  30

  I went along to Dyson. Room Number Two. He should have been stewing, but Dyson wasn’t the kind who stewed. The face like some soft stone.

  His brief was there beside him. Who’d be Dyson’s brief?

  I said, “We’ve got Kenny Mills in here as well.”

  Not a flicker.

  “That cunt.”

  “We had to bring him in. He was there, you see. He’d walked into the shop. He must almost have been there when it happened.”

  I watched Dyson’s face.

  “So—have you arrested the cunt?”

  “I’ve been chatting to him. The thing is, he says he saw you. Before he got there. He says he saw you coming away from Patel’s shop.”

  Not a flicker again. Just something clicking into place at the back of his eyes, as if it was Kenny he was looking at, not me.

  “How could he have done if I was round at Mick Warren’s watching the game?”

  They were searching Warren’s place still. As if they’d find a blood-stained knife stuffed down the sofa.

  His brief was quick. “Do I understand correctly? Your other witness has made a statement to this effect? A statement on the record?”

  “Yes.”

  A small word, but the tape picked it up.

  “My client and I would like
to consult.”

  I went back to Number One. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the chase can all be over inside four walls. Sometimes it’s you who gets caught.

  The duty solicitor was there. I didn’t like the look on his face.

  I switched on the tape.

  “Okay, Kenny, you’ve done a good night’s work …”

  His brief said, “Mr. Mills wishes to withdraw the statement he’s made.”

  I looked at Kenny. Kenny looked at the table. So: more scared of Dyson than of me. With justice maybe.

  “Mr. Mills informs me that none of the words in the statement he’s made are his.”

  I looked at the lawyer. You cunt.

  “They were not volunteered by him. Mr. Mills alleges that he was coerced into making his statement by intimidation and deceit.”

  It’s true. That’s how the tape might show it.

  “Kenny—” I said.

  He gave me a quick look. A brave look, in a way, a brave coward’s look.

  I’ll swear it still, to this day. Everything was true. Ninety-five per cent. Even the bloody knife waved in his face.

  But looks don’t get picked up by the tape.

  I couldn’t say it in front of the brief, with the tape listening. I made my eyes say it: He’ll get you anyway, Kenny.

  But he wouldn’t get him. Since Kenny would get Dyson off. The two of them would crow about how they’d got me. Kenny would move in with the big boys now.

  The brief saw it, I think. And Ross, the DC, must have done. That I was on the edge, I was teetering. But the tape doesn’t pick up teeterings either.

  And still the hope—the hopeless hope—that Dyson might cave in anyhow.

  The smell of interview rooms, like contaminated zones.

  I went back to Number Two, with Ross. The gist of Dyson’s chat with his brief? I knew it. Try it out first: call the fucking copper’s bluff.

  And now he could even say—and did—he was the victim of police malpractice.

  But Dyson wasn’t a victim of anything—take it from an old DI. A victim-maker, a victimizer, full-stop. None of that sob-stuff victim-makers are supposed to be victims of: deprived upbringing, etcetera etcetera. He stabbed Patel because he wanted to, wanted to and did.