Peter Robinson - The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Got that?”

The boy nodded, mouth open.

“Can’t drink that real ale stuff, myself,” Burgess said, putting his hand to his stomach. “Gives me gas.” He shouted after the boy. “And bring us a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and some pork scratchings!”

They settled in the corner with their drinks and snacks, Burgess smacked his lips and took a long swig of ice-cold lager. “Ah, aren’t we just living in wonderful times, Banksy?” he said. “Can’t you smell the change?”

“All I can smell is last night’s stale cigarette smoke,” said Banks, lighting up.

Burgess took out a Tom Thumb cigar and lit it. “You’ve no imagination, that’s your problem,” he said, thrusting the cigar in Banks’s general direction. “It’s all there. There for the taking. And don’t think I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, either. I came up the hard way. My old man was a barrow boy. I’ve got no time for all these whiners and moaners. If you can’t do well for yourself in this day and age, then you’re well and truly fucked. Great times to be alive, Banksy.”

“Bollocks,” said Banks. “We’re midway through the eighties. All we’ve had so far are race riots, a pointless war and a long miners’ strike. Even the music’s crap.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective. You’re just not looking at it the right way. We won the race riots, we won the war and we won the fucking miners’ strike. That’s the way to look at it! And what’s wrong with Madonna, apart from those hairy armpits?” He gestured over to the boy, who was hovering nervously by the bar. “Another two of these,” he said, raising his glass. “And put some Madonna on the jukebox.”

Oh, God, not again, thought Banks, when “Into the Groove” started up. “Let’s agree to differ,” he said. “Why have you brought me here? Not that it isn’t a pleasure to drink fine ale and argue politics on a summer afternoon. With a body lying in a bath of blood round the corner.”

Burgess tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You have a way of putting things, Banksy,” he said, “that could put a bloke right off his stroke.”

“Norman Stafford, MP,” Banks reminded him. The barman scurried over with two more pints and apologized for spilling a drop of Burgess’s lager.

“It’s all right, son,” Burgess said. “You can make it up next time. And...” He gestured to the boy to lean in and lowered his voice, “we’re depending on you to keep an eye open. Nobody gets in until we’ve finished here, right? Hush, hush.”

The boy returned to the bar like a man with a mission.

“It’ll give him something to talk to his mates about,” Burgess said with a wink. “Now, where were we?”

“Stafford.”

“Ah, yes.” He tapped a length of ash from his Tom Thumb.

“You believe it’s suicide?”

“I do,” said Burgess. “And the police surgeon agreed, too. I’m sure the forensic evidence will confirm it.”

“So there is to be an investigation?”

“Of course. Where do you think we are? Russia?”

“Only I got the impression there were certain things you wanted to hush up.”

Burgess rubbed the side of his nose. “As I said, Stafford wasn’t a major player. Mostly he worked behind the scenes. Committees. Planning. That sort of thing. Very important job these days, nonetheless, what with all the new developments in and around the city. But he was an MP and I think even you would agree that the last thing we need right now are headlines in the papers screaming, ‘Tory MP in Soho sex murder scandal!’ or something along those lines. Especially in the aftermath of all the bad press the government’s been getting over the miners’ strike.”

“So what do you propose?”

“A simple solution. Your case goes down as solved. You know who did it. I know who did it. The public at large just knows that a minor MP has committed suicide. Been suffering depression on and off for years, ever since his daughter died and his wife left him. That sort of thing. Get him a lot of sympathy. Apparently it wasn’t his first suicide attempt, you know.”

“Only his first successful one. But how will the public know the case is solved? How do the girls know to stop worrying? How do they know justice has been done?”

“Interesting concerns,” mused Burgess. “I’m not saying I’d voice them myself, but interesting.”

“And?”

“Well, strictly speaking, you won’t have a name to name. That’s a given. But it won’t be the first time, will it? Remember when everyone thought Freddie Mills killed himself because he was Jack the Stripper, the bloke who killed all those prossies in the midsixties?”

“A bit before my time,” said Banks.

“Mine, too. But don’t you know your history? The point is, officially he didn’t leave a note, but there’s a myth around the Met that he did, and that he confessed to the killings.”

“That doesn’t help us, though, does it? Not if you’re going to whitewash Norman Stafford.”

“Oh, don’t be so awkward. As I said, you won’t have a convenient name to tie a hidden confession to, but don’t underestimate the powers of rumor, Banksy. Word of mouth. Especially around Soho. All it takes is for word to get out from someone in the know that we were on to chummie and he fled to the continent, where he committed suicide, or got shot by the Froggy police or whatever. People love conspiracy theories. It wouldn’t be five minutes before everyone in the Soho porn trade breathed easy and felt all self-righteous again.”

“That’s preposterous,” said Banks. “We’ve got our killer — if the note can be proven to be authentic. Why not go public with it?”

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Burgess gritted his teeth in anger. “Come on, Banksy, I’m giving you a chance here. You can claim hush-up as long as no names are named. You can use it to your advantage.”

“Do you think people are so stupid that they won’t link Stafford’s suicide to your proposed cover-up?”

“Yes, I do. Who was it said nobody ever went broke underestimating the stupidity of the British public?”

“H. L. Mencken,” said Banks. “And it was underestimating the taste of the American public.”

“Smart-arse.”

“So back to my original question. How are you going to do this?”

“I’m not, Banksy. You are. In fact, it’s already done. Signed, sealed, stamped and delivered. This is just me being polite and treating you to a couple of drinks. As far as we’re concerned, that’s the Metropolitan Police, including your boss and his boss, all the way up to the assistant commissioner, and as far as the home secretary is concerned, too, it’s a done deal. Norman Stafford committed suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed due to depression, and he will be duly mourned. They’re already printing off the results of the coroner’s inquest. The nut job who murdered two prostitutes in Soho has disappeared overseas under hot pursuit, is believed dead, and can’t be named for legal reasons. Never the twain shall meet. By the time you get back to your office, West End Central will be buzzing with the rumor.” He finished his drink, stood up and loomed over the table. “And if I were you, Banksy, I’d have my end-of-case celebration tonight, just like normal, get pissed as a newt and forget all about it. Hell, I might even drop by for a pint, myself. I could do with a night on the town.”

And with that, he was gone. Banks lit another cigarette and swirled the remains of his drink. It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. There were worse things than a little misdirection. Plenty went on that the public didn’t know about, and it wouldn’t necessarily do them any good if they did. He balked at it in principle but, in his way, Burgess was right; it didn’t matter. The important thing was that the killer was dead and the killings would stop. Justice had been served, even if it hadn’t been seen to be served.