The Drowning Ground (2 page)

‘What?'

‘Shotgun. You're going to be working with Shotgun.'

‘Who's Shotgun?'

‘Downes, of course.' Irwin laughed and lowered his voice. ‘That's what we call him 'round here. Not to his face, mind.'

‘Strange nickname,' Graves said quietly, not liking it all that much. ‘What did he do? Shoot someone?' he added a little nervously.

Douglas shrugged. ‘Don't know,' he said thoughtfully. ‘He could have.' He laughed. ‘You wouldn't know with 'im. Not in a million years. Keeps himself to himself and there's no telling. Not like most of them 'round here,' he said loudly, looking around the canteen. ‘But that's what we call him. For as long as I can remember anyway.'

‘You reckon he'll last long?' Irwin said, peering at Graves.

‘Hard to tell,' Douglas said and smiled again.

‘Last?' Graves said.

‘You're his third since Len got sick,' Irwin announced. ‘And Len's only been sick for … what is it? Two months now, is it?'

‘Three.'

‘He got rid of them,' Graves said. ‘But why?'

Irwin shrugged. ‘Pretty good lads as well. Good laugh that Mark fella was anyway, wasn't he?'

‘Oh, he was all right,' Douglas said without enthusiasm.

‘I didn't know,' Graves said quietly and immediately on edge. ‘No one told me.' He put his fork down on his plate. Suddenly not hungry. Almost straightaway he started to think of Oxford. Of course, the super must have known when he had called him into his office. This wasn't a lifeline at all.

When Graves's superintendent back in Oxford had told him that he would be working with another senior officer, elsewhere, in just two weeks' time, he had been waiting for it. All the same, the news had surprised him, because it had happened so fast. Officially they couldn't get rid of him. He hadn't done anything wrong. The contemptuous backward glances of his old colleagues in Oxford had lost none of their sting as he remembered the long walk back to his desk from the super's office.

Graves smiled despite himself and shook his head. His own exile had been handled so smoothly that you couldn't help but admire it in a way. If this Downes got rid of him as well, then … well, it was all over, wasn't it? He'd probably be looking at demotion at the very least, or they'd find another way to get him out.

‘Okay,' Graves said, deciding suddenly to try the direct approach, ‘is there anything I should know, so that I don't end up like the other two?'

There was a pause. Irwin leant back in his chair and seemed to study him. ‘Well,' he said finally, ‘he's quite formal. Polite. But he can go absolutely bananas when he feels like it … he's … I don't know. Keeps to himself, like I said. Never comes in here much,' he said, looking at the small queue by the till. ‘And he used to be famous.'

‘Famous?' Graves said.

‘Oh, come off it,' Douglas said. ‘Hardly. Well known maybe.'

‘Up in London,' Irwin said. ‘But that was before he came here, of course.'

‘But you must know already,' Douglas said, ‘that he's not from around here, right?'

‘Well, I did hear something,' Graves said.

‘He's from over in South America somewhere,' Douglas said vaguely. ‘He's an Argie, ain't he,' he said without malice. ‘One of them Argies.'

‘Argentina?'

‘Yes, yes, Argentina,' Douglas said impatiently.

‘But how on earth did he end up here? Here in –'

‘The middle of nowhere, you mean,' Douglas said, but he did not seem remotely offended. ‘No idea.'

‘He can be a sly old bugger when he feels like it.' Irwin reached for his jacket on the back of his chair. ‘You know what that lot are like. Just look at that Maradona fella.'

‘Cheating bastard,' Douglas said automatically.

Well, actually, Graves thought, he didn't know what they were like at all, and he had never had the slightest interest in football. Not even during the World Cup. Argentina: he tried to conjure up some kind of mental image, but his mind remained almost completely blank. Aside from the Falkland Islands and a few stray chords of tango from a film he had forgotten, there wasn't much at all.

After lunch, he was at his desk once more, familiarizing himself with timetables, duty rosters, expenses forms and punching in more phone numbers, including the coroner's office in Cheltenham, the victim support unit, hospitals and the forensic laboratory. At 4.00, he was still waiting to meet his new DCI. In the absence of anything more to do, he slid along past his own desk, until he was behind the desk in front of his.

It was cluttered with files and papers, and there was an old Styrofoam cup half filled with strong-looking black coffee. Most of the desks had a scattering of personal items pinned to the sides of the panelled walls or to the shelves. The desk opposite his own had no such bits and pieces. Or at least it didn't seem that way at first. Graves began to look more closely. Pinned neatly to the partition between the desks was a photo. The picture was in colour and quite large, and looked like it had once been the front page of an old magazine. A lithe and unmistakably foreign football player wearing a red-and-white shirt and black shorts was jumping with a great deal of grace over another player's outstretched legs. His eyes were fixed intently on the ball at his feet. The pitch itself seemed to be covered in white confetti, and streamers covered the touchline. Around the pitch was a seething cauldron of caged violence. Half the fans were gleefully spinning their shirts in the air above them, while standing before them was a line of tough-looking policemen carrying guns. Hanging on to the top of the tall metal fence that separated them was a lean, young man. His legs swung nonchalantly from the ten-foot drop on either side. Smoke from flares was everywhere. Reddish flames pushed liquidly outwards, spraying the shoulders of the crowd with sparks.

The headline was in the same shade of dark red as the stripes on the player's shirt, and there were a few other headlines at the side of the page in yellow. They were all written in Spanish. Graves tried to read them as best he could. He tried to say the words out loud but stumbled over them.
La revancha esperada,
or something like that. Whatever that meant. He tried again. It sounded even worse this time around.

‘“The anticipated rematch”,' came a quiet voice from behind him.

Graves closed his eyes for a second, wincing like the defender in the picture, and then turned around. The man looked amused. He motioned to the picture and pointed with his index finger at the headline.

‘That's what it means.' His finger moved down towards the striker. ‘And this player here. You know who he is?' he said hopefully. ‘You recognize him maybe?'

‘I'm afraid not,' Graves said.

‘That's Enzo Francescoli. The Prince, they call him. He won five league titles and the Copa Libertadores in 1996 for River Plate football club,' he said, and nodded in deep satisfaction.

‘Oh,' Graves said. ‘Right.' He tried to look suitably impressed. ‘The Copa –'

‘Libertadores,' the man finished for him.

Graves looked at him. The first thing he noticed was the scar. It began at the very top of his forehead and ran deep and white almost straight beneath his thick but closely cropped black hair. Must have needed a lot of stitches, Graves thought, trying not to look at it and wondering how he'd got it. He was very brown despite the cold. He was around forty or forty-one years old and taller than Graves by a couple of inches, which put him at six foot one.

He pointed to the picture again. ‘You see this,' he said, touching a flag that looked like it had been made of enough sheets to supply a small hospital. On it was written
Los Borrachos del Tablón.
‘
Barra brava.
Hooligans,' he said with the faintest trace of what could have been fondness in his voice.

With some regret, he turned away from the picture and stared directly at Graves. In a moment his expression had changed to one of businesslike neutrality. There was a distant and detached look in his eye. It happened so quickly that Graves had the sudden feeling that he was gazing at a mask.

The man put out his hand. ‘I'm Downes,' he said.

2

It was cold outside and as usual I was freezing. As I walked along the side of the village green, towards the welcoming lights of the pub, I saw a big old American car: a Falcon, by the looks of it. I hadn't seen one like it for years. I'd been thinking about my new sergeant, but the moment I saw the car I forgot all about him and about everything else too. A sleek outline to begin with and then an almost luminous flash of silver. It nosed its way through the night, fumes rising into the air from its exhaust. I stood still.

Yes, it was a Ford Falcon. Its huge engine let out a throaty roar as it went sliding along; its back fins sliced through the wintery air. It passed me by, and then it drew to a languorous stop at the traffic lights near the empty shops. There were two men sitting in front, though I could not make out their faces. The long, sleek bonnet of the car shook slightly. The pace of my heartbeat quickened as I watched it. My fists opened and closed, clenched and squeezed the air. I blinked and rubbed the back of my neck.

The traffic lights changed and, ever so slowly, it moved off. I held my breath and didn't move a muscle until the car had finally disappeared from view. I grunted, and my lips drew down in a hard angular line. Then I climbed the steps of the pub, hearing the familiar, happy, muffled murmur of the people inside, and ran my fingers through my hair.

The usual suspects were sitting in a far corner near the pool table. Their coats and scarves were piled up on a bench near the dartboard. I waved to them in a distracted kind of way, and then I weaved my way around the tables, heading straight for the fireplace in the middle near the windows.

For a while I stared at the fire licking against the throat of the chimney. My mind drifted, and I began to think about that car again. It had been a while since I'd seen one of those. I still felt slightly on edge. I started thinking about home again, and about the Falcon nosing its way along the streets as it had searched for me all those years ago.

With some effort, I stopped thinking about it and the image of the car slowly faded as I warmed up. I moved stiffly away from the fire towards the bar and, finally feeling warm, let out a contented sigh and shook off my coat. I ordered a pint, chatted for a while with Des the barman, bought him a drink and then headed over to the three men gathered around the table.

‘So we were thinking next Thursday night,' said Richard in his usual hesitant murmur as I drew up a chair. ‘Think you can swing it, William? Be round your place around 7.00, 7.30.'

For a moment my mind was completely blank, and it must have shown on my face, but then Gavin cut in. ‘Nice try, Richard, but he won't fall for it. No one goes into that house; not even the postman gets in there.'

‘He's got his very own harem tucked away, that's why,' Henry said from the head of the table and winked lewdly. ‘Ain't that right, Will?'

I smiled and changed the subject. After all, they were used to me by now. When I owed someone a dinner, I took them out to a restaurant. I'm not a good cook. They seem to take my lack of domestic hospitality in their stride. Sometimes I'm absolutely convinced that whenever they think of me, they imagine me doing a tango with a rose clutched firmly in my teeth. But then that's not even tango; it's flamenco. And there's nothing quaint about tango. Tango was born in the slums of my ancestors. It was born in the bars around the docks, amidst the pandemonium and brawls of the old city. It isn't quaint at all.

I sat looking at my friends. I wondered how long they'd survive back home. Or what they would really think of it. Actually, I think that it would drive them mad after a while. Out here, in the quaint ceaseless calm of an English village, it is hard to imagine a life beyond. From the outside, everything seems to make sense. Everything has its place.

My friends are open and unsuspecting. There is none of the natural suspicion of the Argentinian. It was almost the first thing I noticed about them: the feeling that you are going to get ripped off, robbed or walked over unless you are careful is almost entirely absent. For me, it's unbelievable in a way. Here, if things don't work out, you shrug and come back later. If something doesn't work back home, there is almost always a riot. People start shouting and knocking on office doors. You have to make a lot of noise if you're to have any hope of getting anything done or getting what you want. It took me years before I stopped thinking someone was lurking near my front door, trying to get in. Years before I stopped rolling up cash and stuffing it deep down inside my pockets for fear of pickpockets. Habits like that are a pleasure to leave behind, but it's hard for me to keep a level of restrained indifference when things go wrong, or when someone gets in my way. I want to go for the jugular and cause a fuss. Mix things up a bit and let off a bit of steam in a public place.

There is a word for it back home. For the sense of constant chaos.
Un quilombo.
It translates literally as ‘A brothel!' But it really means the mess arising from a disaster. An unsolvable problem.
¡Que quilombo!
‘What a mess!' It's an old expression and used almost constantly. A personal disaster. A political scandal. Hyper-inflation. The lights go out.
¡Que quilombo!

The Argentinian knows from experience that things will go wrong. He does not trust the mechanic, the builder, the plumber, the electrician, the politician, the policeman, the judge or the accountant. He expects to get ripped off. It is the natural way of things. Police are the worst criminal gang in the world. Better off with a robber than a policeman. Never trust a policeman. Never let one in your house unless you can help it. They are
coimeros:
bribe-takers in league with gangsters and sometimes killers. And as for the politicians: they make the police look like little children when it comes to stealing.