Peter Corris - The January Zone

January waved his free hand. ‘I don’t expect you to have any results yet. I’ve come to put you in the full picture. It hasn’t been easy, believe me.’

‘I don’t know what you mean?’

Karen drank half her mug in a swig. ‘The hardest part is getting away from the press and the minders. ‘That’s partly how Peter got so drunk. We were out-waiting a reporter.’

‘They’re never around when you want ‘em,’. January said bitterly. ‘You can’t get the buggers to actually read anything you write or quote you accurately. But give them a sniff of death and they’ll wipe your arse and souvenir the paper.’

‘Well, I assume you’ve shaken them now,’ I said. I don’t reckon you’d be going around pissed like that if anybody important was about. Pardon my paranoia.’

‘Yeah, I’ve shaken them for now. They’ve got their first photo of Karen, though. That’ll keep them busy for a while and give them something to chew on.’

‘I’ve got a husband,’ Karen said.

I drank some more coffee and wished I could put some brandy in it but it didn’t seem diplomatic just then. ‘Well, reporters’ve got wives. They’re understanding. The reporters that is, not the wives.’

‘Karen’s husband has connections with the other side. It’s going to get sticky.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘I’m going to marry her.’

‘Sticky,’ I said.

January finished his coffee and poured some more. Either he hadn’t been as drunk as he’d seemed or he had terrific powers of recovery. I had to admit I was interested. Here was abstemious Peter January, notorious womaniser, darling of the media, drunk, talking about marriage and running down the fourth estate. Karen Weiner was an athletic-looking woman with blonde hair drawn back and the sort of features that seemed to be produced, in some mysterious way, by expensive schools and plenty of international travel. She was more tanned than most for the time of year and when I leaned closer to her to get some more coffee I could smell expensive perfume. Something about her bothered me.

‘I don’t think he should marry me,’ she said. ‘I’d like it but it’s not necessary.’

January shook his head and looked stubborn. I started to feel puzzled about my role in things. It had been a long time since a private detective had had anything useful to do with a divorce. I dropped a spoon, bent down to pick it up and saw the light gold chain around her ankle above the strap of her white shoe. Things clicked into place; it was a chain like the one Cyn used to wear and that was who she reminded me of, at least in the exteriors-accent, hair, perfume and ankle chain.

‘I don’t get it, Peter. I thought I was looking into the bombing, checking on your fan mail. I…’

‘You are but there’s other things you should know.’

‘About you and Karen here. Fine with me. Congratulations, but it’s getting late and I’m not sleeping too well lately and I…’

‘This is serious!’ January’s voice had a whipcrack in it. ‘I’ve got enemies in the party-bastards who’d like to see me buried.’

‘Why?’

‘All sorts of reasons. My sort of politics is bad news for marginal seats for one thing. Some of them think about their majorities and nothing else.’

‘And you don’t have to think about yours,’ Karen said.

‘Right’

‘You’re not telling me someone in a swinging seat would try to kill you?’

‘No, but he might talk to someone who would.’

‘Such as?’

‘Have you ever heard of Airey Neave?’

I thought quickly: British polly, something to do with the Nuremberg trials. Killed in the House of Commons carpark by a bomb. ‘Yes, sure. He was Minister for Northern Ireland and the IRA got him.’

‘Not everyone believes that,’ January said.

‘What do they believe?’

‘There’s a theory that the IRA is really run by the British secret service. That they’ve infiltrated both sides-the IRA and the Unionists-and they keep the fire burning.’

‘Why?’ I was beginning to feel I couldn’t delay the brandy much longer.

‘To keep Belfast on tap as a training ground for the British army in street fighting. It certainly works that way-the Brits cleaned up everything in sight in Port Stanley with a minimum of fuss. Other Europeans send soldiers to Belfast to see how its done.’

‘Is there any evidence for this, Peter?’ Karen said.

‘Not hard evidence. Inference.’

‘What about the Brighton bombing?’ I said. ‘The secret service wouldn’t go along with that, would they?’

January smiled. ‘They didn’t get anyone important, did they? Didn’t harm a hair of Maggie’s head.’

Karen licked her lips which were full and dark around very white teeth. ‘What about Mountbatten?’ she said.

‘There’s two views on that. One, who cares? What did he matter? The other view is that occasionally a mad dog element in the IRA gets out of control and does something on its own. They get pulled into place later after the damage is done.’

It was late at night when conspiracy theories have most appeal. ‘Or they bungled something.’ I said. ‘Secret Services are full of idiots, think of ours.’

‘I am,’ January said.

‘I’ve met some of them through Clive,’ Karen said. ‘That’s my husband. Talk about thick…’

I was beginning to get January’s drift and I didn’t like it. It made me wish I was working on a nice, safe come-with-me-while-I-deliver-this-money case. ‘What was the point about Airey Neave? He was the Minister for Northern Ireland. If all this stuff was going on he’d have known about it.’

January fiddled with the ends of his tie. ‘What if he knew about it and wouldn’t go along with it?’

‘Fuck,’ Karen said. She’d evidently learned a thing or two since private school.

January looked at her. ‘Who bombed Airey Neave if that’s the way it was?’

‘The British spooks,’ Karen breathed.

‘Right,’ January said.

I slept late and awoke physically and mentally uneasy. January and Karen Weiner had stayed a while longer and I’d had a brandy or two as the talk went on. Karen had turned out to be one of those can-do people you read about but seldom meet. She was all for tackling the problem head-on-calling in the top intelligence men and the top police and putting pressure on all over the place to squeeze out the truth. All this came out in a passionate stream. January had looked at her with amusement.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of rocking the boat?’

She’d looked at him blankly. That’s when I had the first brandy; the other two refused.

‘What’s wrong with kicking a few heads?’ I’d said. ‘It’s one of the skills of the trade, isn’t it?’

‘It could be anything. It could be designed to discredit me and a panic move in the wrong direction could do that. It could be a long-range operation to set me up in some way. This could be just a softener.’

Karen had given up passionate argument in favour of physicality. She’d moved over to his chair and grasped his arm, pulling it close to her body. The thing between them was real.

‘So what can you do, darling?’

January had stroked her hair. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I think I need Hardy to circle around and sniff.’

I didn’t mind the dog imagery. Dogs are tenacious and loyal and no dumber than most people; very few of them drink brandy before going to sleep. When

Sammy Weiss called a bit before 11 o’clock I wasn’t feeling stimulated. Weiss sounded fine, as if he’d gone to bed early with a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking.

‘You’re going to do lunch with Tobin at the Bourbon Brasserie at 12.30. Smart work, eh?’