Simon Beckett - Fine Lines

Anna’s colour had concentrated into two points of red on her cheeks. “Well, I suppose he spoke to some people, obviously. But he never used to go out of his way to talk to anyone. He only spoke to them if they came up to him first. Look, I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t like that!”

“Did he ever tell you what he talked about?”

“Yes, sometimes. It was always to do with his work.”

“But he never told you who he used to speak to?”

“I’ve told you, it wasn’t anyone in particular! He used to go and just.. just look, that’s all. And he’s not been for weeks, now anyway! If you don’t believe me, ask the university! They know all about it!”

“I’m sure they do. Did he ever stay out all night?”

“No, of course not!”

“Late, then?”

“No! I mean, sometimes it would be two o’clock, or something, but that’s all.”

“Have you any idea why he was interested in this particular field?”

Anna hesitated, searching for a concrete fact to repudiate the policeman’s insinuations. “He’s an anthropologist! That’s the sort of thing they do. He thought it was a... a worthwhile field of study, that’s all. The same as the other aspects of his thesis. This was only a part of it, you know.”

“Have you any homosexual friends?”

“No.”

“Did he keep notes about his visits to these clubs? A diary, perhaps?”

“He doesn’t keep a diary, but he makes notes about the clubs he visits,” Anna said. I felt my heart lurch again. That had never occurred to me.

“Are all his notes at the university?”

“Most of them, yes. Some of them are at the flat.”

“Would it be all right if we had a look at them?”

I could see Anna did not like the idea. I found myself wildly hoping she would refuse. “I suppose so,” she said, reluctantly. “But if you’re hoping to find anything incriminating, you’re wasting your time.”

“We’re not looking for anything incriminating, Miss. We only want to find out where he is, the same as you.” His tone was condescending.

“Well, trying to make out he’s gay isn’t going to do any good. I don’t know why he went, but it wasn’t because of that. I live with him, for God’s sake, don’t you think I’d know if he was?”

“I’m sure you would. But we’ve got to examine every possibility, haven’t we? It could be, for instance, that someone he met at one of these clubs knows where he is now.”

“You mean he might have run off with another man,” Anna said flatly.

“I don’t mean anything. At this stage I’m just keeping an open mind.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Look, Miss—”

“If that’s all, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve work to do.” She turned her back and walked away. I heard her footsteps going upstairs.

The policemen looked at each other. The sergeant shrugged with his eyebrows. The inspector turned to me. “Can you tell Miss Palmer we’ll be in touch about her boyfriend’s notes? We’d like to look at them as soon as possible.”

I nodded, trying to gather myself. I did not trust my voice. But I could not leave it at that. “Do you think this could have some bearing on his disappearance?” I asked.

Upset by Anna walking out, he tried to intimidate me. He stared for a moment without speaking. “I really don’t know, sir. Have you any ideas on the subject?”

“Me? Oh, no, not at all. Well, except that Marty didn’t strike me as being gay.”

“Well, then, perhaps he’s not. We’ll just have to see, won’t we, sir? Thank you for your time.” His tone was so exaggeratedly polite it bordered on parody.

“How did you find out about the nightclubs? Is it standard procedure?”

“Well, it is and it isn’t,” he said. “Mr. Westerman’s description was included with a bunch of missing teenage boys by accident. The gay community’s like a magnet for missing teenage boys. Amazing how many of them end up there. As it turned out, your Mr. Westerman was the only one our source recognised.” He smiled coldly. It seemed designed to try and intimidate more. “So you see, not all police cock-ups are bad ones, are they?”

On their way out, the sergeant stopped and studied a painting. “My wife would love that.” It was the first time he had spoken. “How much is it?” I told him. He looked at it again. “Jesus Christ.”

They left.

I knew now I could not put off telling Zeppo any longer. I telephoned him that evening. For once he answered almost straight away. He seemed in an irritatingly good mood.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the poor man’s Tate. What can I do for you? Don’t tell me you’ve done something else stupid, have you?”

“No I haven’t. But I think we’d better talk.”

“Why? Is Anna begging for it already?”

“Just come over as soon as you can. I’m at home.”

He became more serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Probably nothing, but you still ought to hear about it.”

“Hear about what? What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I hung up before he could say anything else. I knew that was the fastest way of getting him over, and took the receiver off the hook as an afterthought. I did not relish the prospect of facing him with the news, but I could not trust it to the telephone.

He wasted no time in coming. “So what’s happened?” he demanded, before I had even closed the door. I took a deep breath.

“The police came to the gallery today. It seems that someone has identified Marty from one of the gay clubs.”

Zeppo closed his eyes and put his head back. “Shit! Oh shift He slapped his hand against the wall.

“It’s not as bad as all that—”

“Like hell it’s not! Where did they see him?”

“Don’t worry, it wasn’t the same club you went to. It was another one.”

“You’re sure?”

“They said it was The Pink Flamingo. The one he went to regularly. That’s the only reason he was recognised. And even that was only by accident.” Zeppo’s hand was still on the wall. He was staring up at the ceiling. I went on quickly. “There’s no reason for them to link him to you. In fact, this could turn out for the best. From what the police were asking Anna, they seemed to think that Marty was homosexual, and that he might have run away with another man.”

Zeppo stopped gazing at the ceiling and looked at me. “Are you really that stupid? Turn out for the best? Do you know what’s going to happen now? Eh? They’re going to go around every gay club in London to see if anyone else remembers him. And what happens when they get to the club I met him in? Suppose someone there remembers seeing him with me?”

“That’s not very likely. It’s not as if Marty was the sort to stand out in a crowd.”

“No, but I fucking am!” He pushed himself off the wall at me. Spittle flecked my face. “What do we do if they flash his photograph, and some queer says, “Oh yes, I remember him, he was with this big, dark-haired hunk”? What the fuck do we do then?”

I tried to sound unconcerned. “Why should we do anything? If the worst comes to the worst, if they ask questions at that particular club, and if someone happens to remember a face from one night weeks ago, then even then all the police will have to go on will be that he was at a table with a tall, dark-haired man. Of which there are hundreds. You didn’t see anyone there you knew, did you?”

“No, but—”

“So let’s not get too hysterical, shall we? I know it’s a shock. It was for me at first. But then, once I had time to calm down and think about it, I realised that there was no reason for it to be. How long were you in there with Marty for? An hour? If that? I know you think you’re something special, Zeppo, but really, do you think you’re so good that even your companion will be remembered weeks after the event? If they even manage to find anyone who was there that night and saw you?”