William Boyd - Ordinary Thunderstorms

Ingram rode the lift back to his office in deep thought. Why had Keegan lied? Of course, Wang could have come to the office and cancelled his Keegan meeting — but then Keegan would have said so, surely? No, everything pointed incontrovertibly to an afternoon meeting with Keegan at three o’clock on the day of Wang’s murder. What had it been about? What had been said? Why hadn’t Philip Wang come to see him?

♦

“What the hell’s it got to do with me?” Colonel Fryzer said impatiently, as he rearranged — ever so slightly — the vase of peonies, subject of his current still life.

“Nothing, Pa,” Ingram said, suppressing his own impatience, “I’m just using you as a kind of sounding board…” He decided to try flattery. “Get the benefit of your vast experience of the world.”

“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Ingram — you should know that by now. I detest it.”

“Sorry.”

“Your number two — what’s-his-name—”

“Keegan.”

“Keegan has lied to you. Ergo: he has something to hide. What could your Doctor Wang have said to him in that meeting? What would scare the shit out of Keegan?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What was this Wang chappie working on?”

“He’d spent the previous four days visiting the various hospitals where the clinical trials for a new drug we’re developing are taking place. Nothing unusual in that. The drug’s about to go for validation — here and in the US.”

“Is this Keegan involved in this validation process?”

“Absolutely. Very involved.”

The Colonel looked balefully at Ingram, then spread his hands. “This is your ghastly world, Ingram, not mine. Think. What could your Wang have said to Keegan that would upset him? There’s your answer.”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“At least you’re honest.”

There was a rap on the door and Fortunatus came in. Ingram felt almost shocked to see him.

“Dad, what’re you doing here?”

“Came to pick Pa’s brains. What about you?” Ingram kissed his son, who was wearing his usual infantryman-just-returned-from-combat outfit and, he noticed, had shaved his thinning hair to the shortest stubble.

“I’m taking Gramps to lunch.”

“I’ll be two seconds,” the Colonel said and disappeared into his bedroom.

The unoffered invitation hovered in the air, like a rebuke, Ingram thought, wondering if he should boldly suggest that he join them. He felt a strange emotion: three generations of Fryzers in the one small room but he realised neither his son nor his father wanted his company. He felt one of his burning itches start up on the crown of his head. He pressed hard on it with a forefinger.

“I’d love to join you,” he said, managing a rueful smile. “But I’ve got an exhibition.”

“You’re going to an exhibition?”

“No. I mean I’ve got an appointment.”

“Oh, right.”

The Colonel reappeared. “You still here, Ingram?”

SERGEANT DUKE PAUSED AT the door.

♦

“I wish you wouldn’t do this, Rita. Believe me—”

“I’ve got no choice, Sarge. Nobody will tell me anything. I can’t just walk away.”

“That’s exactly what you should do. Things are going on here you don’t understand.”

“Do you understand?” She confronted him, hands on hips, looking him in the eye, and he seemed to quail slightly.

“What would you do if you were in my position?” she said, forcefully, not letting him off the hook.

“It’s not my problem. I’m not meant to understand.”

He pushed the door to the meeting room open and Rita sensed she had won a small victory. She stepped in and Duke closed the door behind her. She exhaled, thinking — Chief Inspector Lockridge wouldn’t see me in his office. OK. He’s confining me to the meanest meeting room in Chelsea police station. Why?

The room was almost worthy of some paradigmatic status as ‘ROOM’ in a typological dictionary: a table, two chairs, a battered plastic Venetian blind, a blazing strip light in the ceiling, bare walls. She sat down and waited.

Lockridge bustled in, after a couple of minutes, some sort of cardboard file in his hand that, she knew, had nothing to do with her complaint, but was an indication of the business he had waiting after he had peremptorily dealt with her. They shook hands.

“Good to see you again,” he said, sitting down, not mentioning her name, then raised his hand as if she was about to interrupt (which she wasn’t). “This is off the record, by the way. I’m only doing this because of your good service here.”

“I don’t want any favours, sir,” Rita said, bravely. “I’m just looking for some answers.”

“Fire away,” Lockridge said with his uneven smile. His face looked as though it had been kicked askew in his youth by a horse or a bull, his jaw bent right, making him talk out of the side of his mouth. He was known in the station as ‘Twisted Kisser’. Rita banished this nickname from her mind as she detailed the events of her arrest of the unnamed man at Chelsea Bridge, and outlined the reasons behind her asking for this interview.

Lockridge sighed: “This was a matter of the highest security. Word came down to us. You stumbled in on something — something even I know nothing about. I was told that this man should go free. These things happen. Particularly in the current climate. Terrorism, insurgency, etcetera.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Rita said. “Fighting the same fight. Why can’t we share information — even of the most basic sort? If this man had shown me some ID, we might have been able to assist him. Even if he had told me, in so many words, what he was doing, what he was up to — then you and I wouldn’t be sitting in this room, sir.”

Lockridge smiled, patronisingly, Rita thought. “There are some operations that are so secret that…” he said, shrugged, and then left his sentence unfinished.

“So that’s your answer, sir?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was an ultra-secret security operation. This man I arrested was some kind of security operative.”

“So to speak, as it were.”

Rita drew a breath, inwardly, summoning her reserves of self-confidence, trying to quell her nervousness and keep any tremor out of her voice. “Because I’ll have to report this to the Borough Commander,” she said, unaggressively, she hoped. “And if he won’t help me I’ll have to go to the DPS. I arrested a man with two handguns on him. He was freed within twelve hours — no records, no statements, no prints, no DNA samples, as far as I can tell. The DPS will need to know where you stand.”

Lockridge’s twisted face seemed to contort further. Rage, she presumed.

“Our meeting is completely off the record,” he said.

“But I’m afraid you may have to speak to the DPS— on the record. Once I make my complaint.”

Lockridge stood up and picked up his prop-file. Mr Busy, trying to keep his rage under control.

“That would be extremely unwise, Constable.” There was a tremor in his voice now as he emphasised her rank.

“What happened to the weapons, sir?” She didn’t know what made her ask this. It was the first time she had thought about them.

Lockridge looked at her — suddenly very uncomfortable.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did they go to Forensics? They might help us.”

“We’re not looking for help. You don’t seem to have grasped that fact.”

He hadn’t answered her question. She knew she was beginning to anger him beyond countenance.

“Did they go to Amelia Street, sir? His two automatic pistols? Or did we let him take his guns away when we released him?” This was her killer blow, she knew. “We didn’t just give them back to him, did we, sir?…”