(1998) Denial (35 page)

She flared in anger, ‘Get out!’

Michael forced the door back a few inches. She was stronger than she looked and resisted hard. But he held steady, easing himself in.

‘Get out!’

Fear as well as anger in her face now. She smelt strongly of a classy perfume he did not recognise. Glaring at him, face to face, confrontational but nervous, unsure of her ground, she let him pass.

There was a staircase immediately in front of him and as he climbed it, her tone changed. ‘Brian!’ she warned. ‘Brian!’

He reached the landing and pushed open the door on his right, but that went into an empty kitchen and dining area. Down the short corridor he heard music, Luther Vandross singing, it was coming through an open door ahead of him. He walked in.

Dimmed lights. A candle burning on a bedside table; double bed with black satin sheets and lying on it, naked, cosseting an erection in his hands like some sad little Plasticine tower he had just made, was Brian Trussler.

As Michael entered the room, he dived for a sheet, pulling it over his midriff with a mixture of surprise and alarm. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Brian, I don’t – I couldn’t stop this man!’ the woman called behind him.

Michael marched over to the bed. ‘You didn’t have the courtesy to return my phone calls.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the woman then back at Trussler. ‘I think you’d rather hear what I have to say in private.’

‘You want to get the fuck out of here before I call the police?’ Trussler said.

‘Amanda Capstick,’ Michael said, and gave him enough time to absorb this. ‘You and I are going to have a chat about her – you want to ask your friend to leave the room? I don’t mind if she hears about her.’

Trussler’s eyes widened. He stared back at Michael warily, then he said, ‘Gina, five minutes, OK?’

She gave Michael a scalding look, glanced back at Trussler for reassurance, then went out.

‘Close the door,’ Trussler said.

Michael shut it.

Trussler heaved himself up in the bed. There was a half-empty tumbler containing what looked like whisky on the rocks on the table beside him, as well as an open packet of white powder and a clear Perspex biro casing with no innards. ‘What’s all this about?’

Michael glanced away, checking out the room. Erotic paintings, a massive mirror on the wall beside the bed. Maybe she was a hooker. Unlikely: hookers didn’t greet their clients the way she had him. He turned back to Trussler and studied his face carefully as he said, ‘My name’s Michael Tennent. Amanda and I have started going out. I last saw her on Sunday afternoon, when she went off to her sister for tea.’

‘Lara?’ he said, sharply.

‘Yes.’

‘You know that she’s missing.’

‘Her secretary told me. Yup.’

‘You don’t seem very concerned. Is she just one of a whole string of mistresses that you run?’

‘You have sixty seconds to get out of this house, Mr Tenby. OK?’

Michael scooped up the packet of white powder. Trussler sat up vigorously and made a grab for it, but Michael stepped back out of reach. ‘I’m a doctor, you little shit, OK? You want me to flush this down the toilet or take it to the police?’

Trussler rolled out of the bed and lunged at him. Michael parried his arm, the jolt sending the cocaine flying, and brought his foot hard up between Trussler’s legs. The film producer doubled up, making a metallic gurgling sound like water in a drain, pressed his hands to his crutch and rocked backwards and forwards, gasping.

Michael marched over to the phone, lifted the receiver. ‘Here, call the police – want me to do it for you?’

Trussler sat on the bed, naked, clutching his groin. His head lolled forward and he retched, but didn’t throw up. ‘What do you want?’ It came out as a hoarse gasp.

‘I want to know where Amanda is.’ Michael replaced the receiver.

Trussler closed his eyes. ‘Jesus, man,’ he lolled forward again, ‘she dumped me. I haven’t seen her for – I don’t know – two, three weeks.’

‘Why aren’t you more concerned?’

He opened his eyes again. ‘She’s a very independent lady. Needs a lot of space. That’s her way of coping with pressure.’

‘Has she disappeared before?’

‘I really think you’re overreacting, Mr Tenby. If you’ve been after her this obsessively, I’m not surprised she’s disappeared. She’s probably terrified of you.’

Michael looked at him with loathing. ‘It’s you she’s frightened of, shall we get that clear?’

Trussler pointed at the door. ‘Out. Now. You think she’s missing, go to the police, that’s what they’re for. Just what the hell do you think gives you the right to barge in here and start interrogating me?’

Michael grabbed the man’s thinning strands of hair and jerked him to his feet, pulling his face right up close to his own. ‘I’m in love with her,’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘That gives me the right to barge in anywhere. I’ll go
to the ends of the earth to find her and, my Christ, if I find that you’ve done anything to her, or there’s anything you know that you’re not telling me, I’m feeding your balls to your neighbour’s Burmese cat. Understand?’

Michael had to shake him twice before he nodded, and not until then did he release his grip on the man.

‘I love her, too,’ Trussler said.

‘Sure, I can see how concerned you are for her,’ Michael replied. ‘It was more important for you to come round here for a shag than return my call. My God, you’re
really concerned
, aren’t you?’

He turned and marched out of the room.

The car was falling apart. It smelt horrible. The M1 was horrible too, rain-lashed, roadworks, contraflow, red and white cones as far as the eye could see. An endless convoy of lorries kicking up spray that was denser than fog.

The wipers squeaked. Every few minutes the glove compartment lid would spring open and crack down on Glenn’s knees. A load of wiring dangled loose beneath the dash and he was careful to avoid getting his feet tangled in it. It took the CID about two years to trash a pool car, and this Vauxhall was on the wrong side of its third birthday. Someone had smoked two million cigarettes in here. More recently, last night probably, someone had thrown up in the back. At eight o’clock in the morning, Glenn didn’t know which was worse: the smell of the vomit or of the Dettol that had been splashed around to mask it.

Mike Harris drove. They were heading north, and the Watford Gap service station was coming up in a few minutes. They were stopping there for breakfast. Glenn was tired and hungry; he’d been up most of the night, scanning through two more books on post-mortems and thinking. When he finally lapsed into sleep, he dreamed of a woman with a plastic bag over her head, struggling for air.

Mike Harris had a strong, kind face. He was wise, solid, he knew the ropes, understood people, had long ago sussed how the world worked. He always reminded Glenn of the saying, ‘a good man in a tight corner’.

In cramped moulded chairs, they faced each other across an absurdly narrow Formica table. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, black pudding, fried bread, the works. While they ate, they talked. In half an hour they would
arrive at Luton and they’d be accompanied back to Hove by the prisoner turned informer, who was hopefully going to help them with their drugs case, Operation Skeet. Right now Glenn had his far more experienced colleague to himself, and he’d made use of the journey by giving him all the background to his concerns about Cora Burstridge.

Mike Harris scooped beans onto a slice of bacon and forked the heap into his mouth. While he was chewing he asked, ‘Did you go to Hannington’s where she bought the Babygro?’

‘No, I didn’t think of that,’ Glenn replied.

‘Whoever served her, they’d remember whether she was with someone or on her own.’

‘Good point. I’ll check that.’ Glenn drank some tea, and then said, ‘Mike, what do you really think? That I should accept what Digby said and drop it?’

‘No. If you really feel this strongly, do a G30 report and give it to the governor.’

‘DCI Gaylor?’

‘Yes, he’s a very accommodating guy. Put on the form all the inquiries you’ve done and the reasons why you believe this is suspicious – put down exactly what you told me. Tell him that if he can’t afford to spare you the time, you’ll work your two rest days this week, if you can just work solely on Cora Burstridge on those days. He might agree to that, so long as you don’t want to start spending money.’

‘On forensics?’

‘Absolutely.’ The detective constable looked at his watch. ‘Eat up, we’re running late.’

Glenn chewed a large slice of sausage. ‘I need Forensics to take some prints, and to look at a broken lock for me – I think that’s crucial,’ he said, a little despondently. ‘I need to have them there today, somehow, her daughter arrives tomorrow.’

They finished their breakfast in silence. Then, as they were walking past the slot machine arcade, Mike Harris said, ‘Look, I’ve been a copper for thirty years. When we get back, go and speak to Ron Sutton in SOCO in Brighton.
Mention my name and ask him if he’ll do you a favour. He owes me.’

Glenn thanked him. ‘I know him,’ he added. ‘Good bloke.’

They ran across the car park, through the torrenting rain, back to their car. As they drove down the slip-road, Mike Harris said, ‘Thursday night – you doing anything, or are you on lates?’

Glenn looked out through the rear window at the traffic. ‘No. I start lates next Monday.’

The detective accelerated hard, pulling out into a gap. ‘I’m going to a leaving do in London, chap I’ve known for years, did the initial CID course with him in ’seventy-nine. He’s been seconded to the National Criminal Intelligence Service. Should be a good evening, doing all the sights of London booze-wise and finishing up in Soho with a Chinese. Fancy joining me? Might be some good contacts – there’ll be some brass there. Never know who you might meet who could help your career one day.’

‘Yeah, I’d like to come, thanks, thanks a lot.’

‘Get a pink ticket from your wife.’

‘No problem,’ Glenn said, with bravado, although it
was
a problem. Ari wasn’t jealous, but she had a thing about men and stag nights.

As if reading his mind, Mike Harris said, ‘Tell her it’s work.’

‘We never lie to each other.’

‘You don’t have to lie.’

‘I’m not scared of her, or anything like that.’

Harris grinned and said nothing.

Soon Glenn couldn’t stick the grin any longer. ‘I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘Really I’m not!’

‘There’s a train from Hove station at five twenty. We’ll take that, OK?’

‘What do I wear?’

‘Anything that won’t show beer stains or lipstick.’

wednesday, 30 july 1997. 8.35 a.m
.

The Botvinnik queen’s rook defence! This is an incredibly old move! Deeper Blue used a variation of this in game three against Kasparov in 1997. And just now my friend Jurgen Jurgens, in Clearwater Springs, Florida, has used this same move
.

It is important to keep up my chess games on the Internet. Chess exercises the brain and I am worried about these gaps in my thinking that seem to be happening with more frequency. It’s quite scary that chunks of time can go by of which one has no recollection. I really cannot account for much of Monday. I forgot the woman – the thing – it! No water, no food, nothing
.

I’m not that bothered. Any bitch prepared to be penetrated by Dr Michael Tennent deserves whatever she gets
.

So maybe it wasn’t that I forgot the bitch, after all. Perhaps it was my subconscious taking over and punishing it by ignoring it. We should all let our inner voices take control from time to time. Let them have their say. We let them take control when we’re driving down the motorway sometimes, and they don’t do a bad job. Maybe we all need to have a little more faith in ourselves
.

Terence Goel must ask his psychiatrist about these memory lapses next time he sees him
.

The weather is bad this morning. Heavy rain. The thing doesn’t realise how lucky it is to be in a warm, dry place
.

I must ring my stockbroker today, haven’t spoken to him in a while. Lots of movements in the markets. And I need some groceries. I must buy some more of the solvent that removes grease from hands. Dismantling the bitch’s Alfa Romeo is hard work
.

So far it’s had it pretty cushy. I really haven’t been unpleasant to it at all, and I’ve given it no cause for alarm. It has a mattress,
food, drink, soapy water, a towel, nice-quality lavatory paper, life could be a lot worse for it
.

I wonder how Dr Michael Tennent will react tonight when he hears it scream?

The fat boy was telling a joke. He liked to use this time, before the teacher arrived, to tell unfunny jokes to the assembled class. His name was Martin Webber. Ginger hair, freckles, small ratty mouth, cheeks like hamster pouches. He told his jokes loudly in a squeaky, self-important voice.

The one he was telling now he had told before. Thomas Lamark remembered that, even if the rest of his class were too stupid to.

‘There was this Irishman called Paddy, who tried to commit suicide by jumping out of a basement!’

Thomas watched as everyone roared with laughter. He still failed to see what was funny. A man wanted to commit suicide. That was tragic, not funny. The man did not have enough intelligence to understand that to kill himself he needed to jump from a considerable height. The fact that the man was Irish seemed to add resonance.
Irish
was some kind of shorthand for inferiority or stupidity, but Thomas did not understand why it should be so.

‘Thomas doesn’t get it!’ said another boy, Justin Watts-Weston.

‘God, you’re such a thick bastard, Thomas!’ said Tony Dickinson, leaning right over his desk and sticking his face right in front of Thomas’s. ‘Thicko! Thicko! Thicko! Dwooorrrr! Dwoooorrrr! Dwoooorrrr!’

Dickinson had spiky fair hair, a snub nose and nasty little bulging eyes, like a frog. Thomas had been wondering for some weeks what would happen if he slit one of those eyes open with a razor. He had a razor blade inside his desk now, his Stanley knife for modelling. It would be so easy –