Kissing the Dragon - 11. Breaking News

After Monday’s excitement, Tuesday comes and goes without turbulence. No calls, no visits, no drama, just a quietly pleasant day at home catching up on correspondence and personal reading. Before going to sleep that night, I remember to hunt out my tennis kit and track shoes for my match with Kit and pack them into a sports bag. I also check the graphite tungsten racquet stuffed away unused for six months to make sure it will not break on me within the first five minutes. Fortunately everything is in perfect working order and my only worry now is how badly Kit is going to beat me. Having the match to look forward has kept me on an even keel.

By Wednesday morning I wake hoping my life maintains the same calm and normality. Even though I have no need to rise early to go into school, I head down the stairs to share breakfast with Billy. As I reach the bottom step, he comes out of the kitchen to confront me, an expression of astonishment on his face.

“Have you heard? On the news?”

Frozen in place in the step, I stare at him. Realisation transforms his face, given away either by my expression of guilt or my lack of response.

“You knew,” he says, the wheel spinning, the hamster finally getting some exercise. “That’s why Action Man was here Monday night. You’re the local man helping the police with their enquiries.”

In response, I tilt my head, grimace and nod.

“They—the police—warned me not to say anything to anyone. But guess who’s suspect number one?”

Where most people might react with astonishment, horror or perhaps even a little bit of sympathy, Billy roars with laughter.

“You? As if. Cool though,” he says, and then his eyes open wide and he combs a hand through his hair. “Wow. Are we going to be on TV?”

“Billy,” I chide. “Denny was murdered.”

“Yeah, I know,” he replies, his smile slipping. “Darling the way he trade-trolled those ponds at night I’m surprised he didn’t get his comeuppance sooner. There are nasty grizzlies hanging out in that woodland backroom. And some aren’t there for fun, some are there to break in their queer-bashing knuckle dusters.”

“What do you mean?”

“God, Colin. You can be really naive for a senior citizen,” he adds, as the house phone starts ringing. He heads back into the kitchen and I follow as he continues. “Dirty old happyjacker was notorious for haunting Casham Woods. Usually pissed as a fart. Taking home anything that would stick to his stilettos. I know I’m not exactly a saint, but at least I’m not that desperate.”

Apart from surprise at how much Billy knows about Denny’s nocturnal activities—which goes some way to explain why Denny had become something of a demimonde among our circle of friends—I also realise from what he says that the police have disclosed no information about the possibility of a break-in. Perhaps they still have doubts. And if Billy is right, that Denny often frequented the woods, then perhaps Chaudhary is wrong. Maybe the blood on the carpet and Denny’s murder are unconnected. Hard to believe, though.

“I’m surprised you haven’t cited a potential conspiracy theory. Some vendetta by a competing tailor, perhaps?”

As I round the kitchen island, Billy’s mouth twists into a faux-sweet smile as he holds out the phone to me.

“For you, Myra.”

I frown at the device in his hand. What idiot calls at seven in the morning? Surely the press are not awake already.

“Sounds like a long distance call, dear heart,” he says, reading my mind and tossing the phone at me. Immediately, my thoughts swing to Vaughan and my stomach clenches in anticipation. Billy must read my expression of concern because he adds, “and no, it’s not Yawn. At least it doesn’t sound like him.”

Barefoot, I stride into the den. In case it is Vaughan, the last thing I want is Billy listening in, judging my responses and then giving me the inevitable lecture.

“Hello?” I say, and hear the distant echo of my own voice.

“Mr McGunn?” comes a foreign sounding voice.

“McCann, yes.”

“Hold please. For Mr Porster,” says the voice, before I can ask who on earth is Mr Porster. Or was it pornstar, I think, smirking to myself? Suddenly, though, my brain engages and my heart sinks when I realise the person is referring to the surname Forster. Vaughan Forster.

“Colin?” comes his voice, a little tinny and echoey down the line, but unmistakable.

Staring at the front bay window, words freeze in my throat. Feelings become a confusion of anger and sorrow. Why is he not here with me? Why is he not helping me through this nightmare? I take a few breaths to try to ground myself. Luckily he cannot see me because my vision has become a blur.

“Cole? Are you there?” comes his voice again.

“Yes,” I say quickly before clearing my throat. “I am. I’m here. I—where are you?”

“Manila. Shit, this is a terrible line. Sorry. How are you holding up?”

For a moment I wonder what he is talking about, but then I remember the email I sent to him.

“You got my message?”

“Christ, Cole,” he says. Use of his pet name for me and the concern in his voice almost breaks me again. “What’s going on?”

“I know,” I say, barely controlled. “Look what happens when you’re not here to take care of me.”

The words are meant to be light-hearted but speaking them aloud tips me over the edge and I cover the phone to swallow the sob that involuntarily escapes me.

“Come on, Cole,” he says, the concern still in his voice. Did he hear me? I hope not. “You know I have to go where the work takes me. If I’m ever going to make partner.”

“I know, I know,” I say. Hearing those engraved lines again helps to ground me. “I’m only joking.”

“Poor bloody Denny,” he says, back to the point of the call. “Do they have any leads?”

“Apart from me, you mean?”

“Cole. If they’re leaning on you, if they’re making your life a misery, I will call Benny right now and—“

“No. It’s fine Vaughan. I’m handling it.”

I had met Benny once, the partner in their firm Carrow Watson who deals with criminal law. A bulldog of a man in stature with a personality to match and a razor shape legal mind. Vaughan goes quiet for a moment. He knows not to press me.

“Derek Partridge said they’re still not actually sure what happened,” he says.

“You’ve spoken to Derek?” I ask slightly affronted, before I can check myself. But I cannot stop myself feeling irritated that he has talked to Derek before me. Neither can I understand why Derek has not called me. He was my college friend long before he and Vaughan ever met.

“He tracked me down through work. Denny made him the executor to his estate after Alfie passed away. Had a couple of questions for me. Poor bastard had the police grilling him for hours.”

“Welcome to the club.”

“Poor you,” he sighs. “Did they give you a hard time?”

“British police force. Not known for their bedside manner.”

“How was he that night? Denny?”

“Sloshed but articulate. Had quite the cosy chat on the way home. Did you hear about his friend Tony.”

“I did. I meant to tell you. His friend Roland texted me a couple of weeks ago. You remember him? From that dinner party?”

Roland. That was the name of Tony’s friend. And I cannot help the niggling jealous thought creeping into my head that people had more reason to keep in touch with Vaughan than with me.

“Hard to forget. Life and soul of the dinner party. They were Denny’s friends, weren’t they?”

“Alfie’s. One of his pet projects. But I think Denny stayed in touch.”

During his later life, Alfie had volunteered in a gay outreach programme, trying to help those in the sex trade to rehabilitate back into normal life. From the little we heard, Roland and Tony had been a lost cause. But Alfie had persevered nonetheless. They had certainly been lively and entertaining dinner guests.

“Why does Roland have your number?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

“Denny asked if he could give it to him. A while back. I helped the lad out. Legal problems with his landlord,” he says, before getting back on track. “More to the point, how are you holding up, Cole?”

“Okay. Bit like the AA right now. One day at a time. How’s the deal going?”

“Should be closing at the end of the month. No doubt we’ll be pulling all-nighters next week in readiness. Although these things do have a tendency to drag on,” he says, and I mumble sympathy remembering the occasional two or three days and nights Vaughan used to disappear to work on complex transactions. On a couple of evenings, when he was actually in town, I would drop by his office on my way home, at Vaughan’s request and to the delight of his team, with a selection of hot drinks and fresh sandwiches. “But there’ll be lucrative spin-off work from this, no doubt.”

He rambles on about the people he is working with and I half listen while examining the front curtains. Eventually he realises he is talking too much.

“Listen Vaughan. Before you go, can you let me have Roland’s number? I want to send him my condolences about Tony.”

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll zap it through now. By the way, expect a call from Derek. Him and Hugh are arranging a dinner party for a few old friends the weekend after next, in memory of Denny. In their cottage down in Dorset. They’re going to invite you to stay over.”

“Are they now?”

“You should go. It’s the day before the funeral which is being held down that way. I’m sure it’ll do you good to get a change of scenery.”

“We’ll see.”

He knows there is no way I am joining a gathering alone to face a slew of questions not only about Denny but also about him. A small pause follows into which I want to say so much, but decide on something innocuous.

“The weird thing is that Denny seemed pretty optimistic about life. He talked about selling up and moving down to Brighton.”

“Please Cole,” says Vaughan. “He’d been saying that ever since Alfie’s funeral. Always putting things off. He’d promised to visit Paul and Christian in Australia over and over again. Sometimes we just have to get our arses into gear and drive our lives forward, before we run out of road.”

Even though I should know Vaughan better, it feels as though his comments are meant for me.

“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask instead. “Moving forward?”

“Look Colin, I need to—“ he begins, after a heavy sigh, before being interrupted at his end. “Shit, sorry. Got the client on the other line. I’ll try to call you over the weekend.”

When I return to the kitchen, Billy peers up from texting on his phone. On seeing me, he stops what he is doing and places his phone face down onto the counter top.

“And?”

”Vaughan.”

“Shit. sorry. It didn’t sound like him. Are you okay?”

“Not your fault. And I’m fine.”

“Bollocks Colin. Talk.”

Dropping back down onto a stool at the kitchen island, I give him the briefest details of our conversation, keeping things upbeat. As I speak, he listens unspeaking while getting himself ready to head off to work. His parting words at the kitchen door come as a surprise.

“Darling, the man is no saint. Not now, nor back when he was living here.”

“I never said he was,” I say, to his retreating back, and then ponder what he means. But before I can ask, the front door slams closed behind him.

Once alone again, I put the house phone back into the holder and begin to clean up the kitchen, to keep my hands busy. What did Billy mean? Vaughan would never have fooled around behind my back. He is a better man than that. Admittedly, we were not as intimate towards the end but I trusted him without reservation. I shake my head and push any lingering doubts away, deciding to challenge Billy later. Washing the few breakfast items in the sink, I peer out through the kitchen window, where patches of snow still linger, where a peaceful frost has settled on the garden lawn, and where bush branches steam and drip slowly under the tepid heat of the early morning sun. Bold as brass, a lone robin hops around the lawn, pecking at paltry specks of bread and seed, reminding me to put more out. Bringing me out of my reverie, my mobile phone pings twice sporadically from the table. Finishing up, I dry my hands on the tea towel and grab the device. Two messages, one from Vaughan and one displaying Kit’s name. Even though Vaughan’s will most likely only contain Roland’s details, my heart gives a small lurch.

- FYI attached: Roland contact details

Masking disappointment with a one shoulder shrug, I open Kit’s message.

- Morning Tiger. Court B. 7-8pm tonite. See you 6:45pm. Bring your best game! K

Reading his words brings a much appreciated crinkle to my mouth and, on instinct, I check for my tennis bag sitting in the corner of the room, already packed and ready to go. The promise of a game of tennis, a meal and conversation is enough to elevate me to a better mood. Closing the message I save the contact file containing Roland’s details. My mind returns to the previous night, to the intimidating DC Whitehead, and I wonder if I should even bother following up about Tony. But things left out of place will always drive me to distraction. I decide to take the initiative, and once showered and changed, will sit down and call DS Chaudhary on the number she gave me. After drying the last of the dishes and giving the kitchen a quick appraisal, I am about to head for a shower when the house phone rings.

“Mr McCann?” comes a friendly and attractive female voice.

“Speaking.”

“This is Linda Barber from the Surrey Gazette. I’d like to talk to you about the murder of Denny Harrison.”

And so it begins.

As anticipated, she asks me general questions about Denny; how long I have known him, what is my relationship to him. When she starts to ask less factual questions such as who I think killed him, I keep my answers short and noncommittal. The exercise is surprisingly tiring and even when I try to end the call early, stating other business demands, she manages to persuade me to continue talking.

After finally putting down the phone with a sigh of annoyance, I immediately call Mrs Greenfield and tell her not to come over in the afternoon. Wednesday is normally the day she cleans house and irons. Fine when I am working, but having been at home all week, the place is spotless, all household chores up to date. After I finish the call I head straight for the shower. Under the refreshing waters, I mull over what I am going to tell Chaudhary about Tony. Rather than call her, I make the decision to kill two birds with one stone, take myself out of the house away from the chance of more calls from reporters, and head into Croxburgh town centre to see Chaudhary in person.

***

Ironically enough, Croxburgh Police Station sits directly opposite Denny’s family run tailor shop, Harrison & Son, and other nondescript retail outlets along the high street. Clearly a municipal building, the red brick facade could as easily pass as a primary school, the only telling feature being the recognisable blue and white police sign to the right of the steps. Inside, the expressionless duty sergeant greets me with usual official politeness and informs me that Detective Sergeant Chaudhary is indeed in the building. After phoning her, he indicates a bench seat against the far wall where an old woman in a soiled coat and scarf is camped out, surrounded by equally filthy plastic shopping bags.

To pass the time, I cross to the noticeboard erected next to a vending machine and check for spelling and grammar mistakes on the public announcement posters, as is my habit. While standing there I happen to glance sideways through a heavy glass-panelled side door leading into the heart of the building and detect a couple of figures lumbering towards me. Heavily engaged in conversation, neither has seen me yet. One is in uniform but the other is instantly recognisable. DC Whitehead. My first instinct is to step to the side of the vending machine, close to the noticeboard and out of sight. If challenged, I can pretend I did not see him. But after Monday night’s torment, I decide to stand my ground. On hearing the door swing and the conversation stop, I sense a figure come to a halt beside me.

“Well, well. Mr McCann. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Even though annoyance bubbles inside on hearing the voice, I turn as casually as I can and plaster on a perfunctory smile. If he has made up his mind about my guilt, that is his problem. I know I am innocent, and moreover, have my rights along with every other law-abiding, tax-paying citizen.

“You don’t. I’m here to see your superior.”

Although only a few boys I have taught both here and in East Barton have ever outflanked me in size and stature, none of those had the intimidating bearing of this hostile detective. Which is why I fight to keep my nerve. Once he processes my response, his eyes narrow in on me.

“About what?”

“That’s between the detective and me.”

“Let me guess. You’re here to confess more accidental omissions. Like the fact that you’re already working on an escape plan to the other side of the planet. South America, if I’m not mistaken. All calmly arranged while your dear old friend was turning into an ice popsicle.”

“That’s not why—,” I begin, blindsided again. How could he possibly know about the Buenos Aires application? Are they monitoring my email? “I knew nothing about that job opportunity until Friday morning—“

“How convenient.”

“Convenient!” I snap, anger rising suddenly. “You want to know what’s convenient? It’s how you seem to be focusing all your energies on pinning this murder on me. Lazy and narrow minded police work, I’d call that. Wouldn’t you, Detective Constable?”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, McCann. We’re exploring other avenues. But then suddenly something else pops up, another withheld fact, that leads us right back to you. Like your plan to skip the country.”

“I am not skipping—! I didn’t mention anything because I didn’t even consider the relevance. But as you clearly doubt my word, and if it’s such an issue, I can give you the contact details of the colleague who recommended the role. He’ll confirm my story.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve mentioned to him, or the college, that you’re currently the prime suspect in a murder investigation. That kind of thing always looks good on a resume.”

And with those words, I fold my arms and bring my temper under control. I refuse to let this ape get to me. However, I have also made up my mind that as soon as I leave this place, I will email Vaughan to accept his offer of legal aid.

“Ben,” calls the voice of his counterpart, who has stopped at the door of an interview room, and eyes me quizzically.

“In a minute, Todd,” says Whitehead, without taking his glare from me. “Listen. Whatever information you have, DS Chaudhary will fill me in later anyway.”

“And I’m sure she’ll do a much better job explaining than I would.”

“Don’t be a prick, McCann. Both of us are—“

“DC Whitehead,” comes the thunderous voice of someone from the bowels of the room. “In here now.”

“My, my. Sound like you’re in demand.”

“I’m serious, McCann,” he rumbles, a scowl on his face as as he turns to go. “Either you start cooperating, or this is not going to end well for you,”

“Cooperating!” I call, to his retreating back. And just like that my anger bubbles like a boiled kettle. How the heck does this man manage to bring out the worst in me. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”

Without another word or a backward glance, the interview room closes behind him. Anger has flushed my cheeks again, and I fold my arms tightly and slump back against the wall. Start cooperating? Grilled at school and at home, and now coming to the police station in my own time to voice some concerns. Part of me wonders why this Neanderthal irks me so much when I suppose he is only doing his job. But I am not used to being on the receiving end of hard talk. By the time the duty sergeant comes to fetch me and points me towards another interview room, I have calmed down again. Somewhat more welcoming than those I see on television shows, I make myself comfortable in a cushioned plastic chair on the far side of the plastic table. While checking messages on my mobile phone a familiar voice draws my attention.

“Hello, Mr McCann. What can I do for you?”

Without taking her gaze from me, Detective Sergeant Chaudhary uses her shoulder to close the door behind her. She looks ever the professional, dressed in a deep mauve trouser suit and lavender blouse, but still sporting the same sensible black shoes. Today she wears her hair down which underscores her femininity as does the subtle application of make-up, golden eyeshadow accentuating her milk chocolate skin, copper lipstick around an open smile, at once genuine and calming. I have the impression that she is about to go off duty.

“You told me to speak to you if I thought of anything. And something came back to me from my conversation with Denny. It may not be relevant but I expect you’ll be able to decide that. It’s something that popped into my head after your visit. And you told me to talk to you directly, so I didn’t mention anything to DC Whitehead just now, or on Monday night.”

“Monday night?” says Chaudhary, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Yes,” I say, and then stop myself as I remember Janine telling me about Whitehead being on probation. Finally my chance has come to get my own back on Whitehead, to drop into the conversation about his unofficial and unwarranted visit. In all good conscience, however, I am not in the habit of throwing people to the lions, no matter how antagonistic they are. “Didn’t he mention that we bumped into each other?”

“No, he didn’t,” she says, eyeing me warily. “Where was this?”

“Um. Along my road,” I say, keeping the white lie as credible as possible.

“Yes, of course. That makes sense,” she says, and nods her head in understanding as though she is expecting this reply. “And what did you talk about?”

“Not much. My break in. And he took the opportunity to clear up a few things that were obviously bothering him.”

“Did he now. And you were fine with that?”

“Perfectly. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I see,” she says, assessing me, a shadow of a reprimand shaping her mouth. “DC Whitehead can be a little unorthodox at times, but he’s a good copper.”

“I’m sure he is,” I say, my face a blank canvass. In their world of subtle threats and intimidation, I had no doubt that Whitehead is highly regarded. I simply have an irrational desire to speak to a rational person.

“But?” she asks quietly, smiling and taking a seat opposite me.

“Let’s just say he doesn’t have your bedside manner.”

Instead of answering my question, she smiles and opens her hands on the table. “Okay. So let’s hear it.”

“It’s about a conversation Denny and I had the night he was killed. Something that came back to me. He mentioned that he’d recently been to see a friend. Someone I’d met once at a dinner party. This young lad is, or rather was, a male escort. His name was Tony and no doubt, if you’ve done your homework, you would have found his contact details in Denny’s mobile phone or a phonebook. Anyway, Denny told me that Tony had overdosed on heroin a few days after he’d been to see him. I was surprised I remembered him. The dinner party was over four years ago. But what stuck in my mind was that Tony was staunchly anti-drugs. And I finally remembered the reason. His younger sister had fallen in with a bad lot and died from an overdose of crack. He talked about giving a lot of his free time to supporting anti-drug organisations such as the UK arm of Drug Watch International. So it seems inconceivable that someone so resolutely opposed to drugs could die that way.”

“He was a rent boy, you say?” asks Chaudhary, an eyebrow raised. “Who you met four years ago?”

“Yes, but—“

“Not exactly the kind of profession one associates with clean living. And four years is a long time, Mr McCann.”

“I know, I know,” I say, expelling a sigh. “Denny thought the same thing. But the point is, Sergeant, the boy appeared genuine. I deal with kids every day, many not that much younger, and I can tell when they’re serious about something, when it’s not just a phase. And I am no expert, but I’d imagine that someone who had never used drugs, but who intimately knew the risks and dangers involved, is unlikely to start up the habit. Moreover, doesn’t it seem a little suspicious that not long after his visit, Denny is also found dead?”

“Are you saying you think the deaths are related?”

“I don’t know. But isn’t it worth checking?”

Chaudhary gives me her world weary scrutiny which at the same time says nothing and everything. I have no doubt Whitehead would have been more vocal in his derision.

“Anyway, I’ll leave it with you to decide,” I say, as I begin to push my chair away from the table, but then stop. “By the way, am I still a suspect?”

“Of course not,” says Chaudhary, looking up with surprise. “Didn’t DC Whitehead fill you in? First of all, when we spoke to Mrs Wong she remembered you. But then she also told us a Mr Grant of 23 Cyder Drive—the opposite side of the road from you—had been waiting in the restaurant for his order. Apparently he left just after you and trailed you home through the snow. We checked with him and he confirms seeing you enter your house at ten twenty-eight. The man was quite precise about that. So you have a concrete alibi.”

I fall back in my chair with relief. Thanks to Whitehead’s impromptu interrogation, Monday night had been sleepless, spent tossing and turning, fearing costly legal bills, court appearances, and possibly even a prison sentence, but definitely the end of a career I have worked so hard at since college.

“And DC Whitehead knew this?”

“It was DC Whitehead who interviewed Mr Grant on Monday night. Probably how you managed to bump into each other. Why? Is there a problem?”

“No,” I say, a little too quickly, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. “No problem at all. But can I ask your advice on something?”

“If you think I can help.”

“The press has already started to call. How should I handle them?”

“That was inevitable. We’re already being contacted ourselves.”

Yes, I ponder with some irritation, and the police force not only has considerable experience dealing with this kind of thing, but a whole department to deal with the media.

“Dorothy Humphreys told me to keep things brief and factual.”

She had actually been referring to how I manage the police, but the information seems equally relevant.

“Good advice. And don’t be pressurised into giving an opinion. Keep things objective. If it’s any consolation, this is hardly front page news for the nationals. In a week they’ll have moved on to something else. A word of caution, though. If they start to invade your privacy, you know, if you find anyone lingering around your premises or in your front garden, give me a call immediately. I’m serious about this, Mr McCann.”

I smile in gratitude at her words. Feels as though I need someone in authority on my side right now.

“I hope it won’t come to that, but thanks anyway,” I say, before standing. “You’ve been really helpful, detective.”

At least I have said my piece. With that off my conscience, I decide to relax and mentally prepare myself for my game of tennis.