Peter Corris - The January Zone

The useful gentleman turned out to be one Robert Klip who had filmed the proceedings in the courtyard from a balcony above with his Sony TV camera.

‘At Mrs Clephane’s invitation,’ he said quickly. ‘You can check with her.’

‘I have,’ Spinoza said. ‘She asked you to give us your fullest cooperation.’

Klip was a tall, thin man, almost bald and with devoted eyes and a sensitive mouth. ‘For her,’ he said, ‘anything.’

We experts who hadn’t managed to prevent an old man from being fried, exchanged glances.

‘Just give us the film, Mr Klip,’ Borg said. ‘We’ll give you a receipt and make sure your property is returned to you.’

Klip ejected the cassette. ‘Is that all?’

‘You’ve been a great help.’ Spinoza took the cassette. ‘I’ll leave the receipt to you. Mr Borg.’

Borg scowled and dug into his jacket pockets. Spinoza handled the cassette reverently. ‘We can go and look at pictures now, Cliff.’

‘Right. I want to take Trudi back to the hotel first and find out what’s happening to January. Where is she?’

Trudi came out of the apartment carrying her empty glass. She was pale but looked composed. ‘Peter’s staying in hospital until tomorrow. He’ll go straight from there to the Senate hearing and straight from that to the plane.’

‘God,’ I said. ‘Can he walk?’

She laughed. ‘He could run if he wanted to. This is all theatrics.’

‘It’s fine,’ Spinoza said. ‘We can mount real good security at the hospital. Keep everybody out.’

‘Except the TV and the reporters.’ Trudi said.

I drained my glass. ‘We’ve got business, Trudi. Want to go back to the hotel?’

‘What d’you mean?’ she flared. ‘ You’ve got business? I’m still working. I have to go to the hospital and orchestrate the performance.’

‘Okay, okay. We’ll take you.’

‘I’ll get a cab.’ She slammed the glass down and walked off.

‘What hospital?’ I yelled.

‘Be Georgetown University from here,’ Spinoza said.

I stumbled on a champagne bottle and picked it up. Half-full. I resisted the impulse to take a swig. ‘Are you married, Billy?’

Spinoza tugged at his tuft. ‘I don’t know. My wife went off to Mexico a year back. Maybe I’m still married, maybe I’m divorced, maybe I’m a father, maybe I’m a widower. I don’t know. Let’s go.’

We cleared another inquisitive cop and brushed past two reporters who were having a hard time finding anyone to talk to.

‘What about you? You married?’

‘Not for 10 years.’

We walked towards the Merc. The fire engine had gone and the blue lights on the remaining police cars had stopped flashing.

‘And would they be the best years of your young life?’

I waited while he unlocked the car and thought about it. I remembered the good times with Cyn; the holidays and the tennis and the few quiet nights, very few. Then the wandering years with the excited meetings and things turning sour within days, sometimes hours. Then Helen and the promises and the problems.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t say they were.’

My stay in Washington was becoming more and more unreal. I had a hankering to go into a house or flat where someone really lived and to see somebody do something that could be called normal work. This time I plunged back into the institutional world January had been visiting. The world of desk attendants, silent elevators and plush carpets. It was a vast steel and glass building with tinted windows and concealed interior lighting. I had the feeling that all the mirrors were two way and all the glass was bullet-proof, but that was probably just because I was getting the Washington blues.

After being cleared and checked and re-cleared, we were admitted to a room full of screens and consoles and whirling discs. It was like a computer warehouse with little bunches of salesmen and customers clustered around in certain spots. The air conditioning seemed a trifle high and I sweated. My suspect eye didn’t like the fluorescent light. A white-coated man introduced himself, in a thick Southern drawl, as Heseltine and took the cassette from Spinoza.

‘Be careful,’ Billy said.

‘I’m always careful… sir.’ He was pale and soft-looking with pinkish eyes behind tinted glasses.

‘We’d also like to do a description ID, Heseltine,’ Spinoza said. I thought I caught a flash of antagonism in the White Rabbit face. Maybe I did, because Spinoza added with a touch of acid: ‘If that’s all right with you?’

Heseltine checked on the clipboard he was carrying, nodded and became super-efficient. ‘We’ll do the lift from the tape first. Over here, please.’

He walked to a long, low-slung machine, put the cassette into a slot, pressed a button and an image appeared on a screen. The picture was just like on a large TV set, thinned out with a grainy quality. Heseltine fiddled with knobs and switches and the picture cleared suddenly.

‘We can freeze, magnify, alter the colour balance. Do jus’ about anything you want…’ He checked the clipboard. ‘Mist’ Hardy.’

‘Run it,’ Spinoza said. ‘Let’s see if you can run it.’

Klip was a pretty good hand with a video camera; the high elevation of the camera made the film hard to adjust to at first, but he had used the zoom to good purpose and he’d moved about on the balcony, getting different angles on the throng below.

‘That’s him. Hold it!’ I pointed to a man behind the table; he was tall and blonde, wearing a cream-coloured suit. His hair fell forward over his forehead and he tended to keep his head down. Heseltine advanced the picture frame by frame and he eventually got a fairly clear shot, almost front on with the head almost up.

‘Will that do?’ Heseltine said.

‘Sure,’ Spinoza said. ‘That’s fine.’

Heseltine flicked switches and pressed buttons. Nothing happened on screen but there were deep stirrings in the heart of the machine. When he was happy, Heseltine released the film and it moved on.

‘I take it these two weren’t the same guys as in the car?’ Spinoza took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. Heseltine moved the chair away with his foot.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Quite different.’ I kept my eyes on the screen as the courtyard buzzed. I saw Trudi whisper in January’s ear. The Minister nodded and smiled. ‘There, but it’s not good.’ I saw the sound technician half-concealed behind a tall woman in a flowing silk dress. The film crept forward and some of the billowing material fell away.

‘You got lucky,’ Heseltine said. ‘Well, almos’ lucky.’

Just as the man came into view behind the dress he moved which threw a shadow across the lower part of his face.

‘Mark it,’ Spinoza said. ‘Let’s see if there’s anything better.’

There wasn’t. I saw myself move towards the technician and confusion break out among the VIPs, then the film jerked and shook and there was a shot of trees and sky as the cameraman reacted to the flash. Heseltine went back; he enlarged the image until it disappeared into a blur and then went back searching for the clearest definition. Eventually he got

a clear view of the upper part of the face and an impression of the rest. ‘Doubtful, but it’s the best we’ll do. I’ll cut and print. You can use the computer over there for the description ID.’

He got busy with his toy and Billy sat me down behind a keyboard and monitor. He punched some keys over my shoulder and a series of questions came up. The computer asked me to describe the men I’d seen in the car according to various categories. I tapped in the answers as best I could. Spinoza tapped ‘Send’ and the computer hummed softly.