Calibre

20

Brant and Porter crossed the street, saw the curtain move in the lower window of Crew’s house, and Brant said:

‘Someone’s home.’

Porter nodded, asked:

‘What’s your gut telling you, this the guy?’

‘Yeah, this is him.’

They rang the bell and almost immediately it was opened. A man in his forties stood there, dressed in a waistcoat, pants suit, white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He was plain looking, not one feature to distinguish him, a face in the crowd. Full head of neat brown hair, regular features, average height. Slim build and a tension now in his body. To be expected, anyone opens the door to cops, you’re tense. He said:

‘Yes?’

Polite quiet voice but with confidence in it. They showed their warrant cards, gave their names, said:

‘We’re looking to eliminate people from our enquires, and your name came up.’

He studied them then asked:

‘What enquiries are those?’

Porter looked back at the street, asked:

‘Sir, might we do this inside?’

He nodded, stood aside, and they went in. The main characteristic of the place was how silent it was. He led them into a study lined with books, hundreds of them, shelves covering every wall. Brant said:

‘You like to read.’

Crew put his hand through his hair, said:

‘Who’s got the time?’

His voice was subdued, cultured, but with a trace of authority. He indicated two armchairs, said:

‘Please, sit down. Get you a drink? I’m about to have something myself.’

They said no, without the thanks, and while he fixed himself a scotch and soda, Brant walked along the shelves and made small sounds like ‘Hah.’ It was impossible to tell if he approved or not. Porter asked:

‘You just finished work?’

Crew dragged his eyes from Brant, said:

Yes, I am, as they say, something in the city.’

Porter found that annoyingly smug and let it show a little, asked:

‘And that would be what exactly?’

Crew smiled, a smile of tolerance, asked:

You don’t already know?’

Porter was very testy now, said:

‘If I knew, would I be persisting?’

Brant appeared oblivious to their wrangling, continued to book crawl, taking a volume down, putting it back.

Crew said:

‘I’m an accountant, have a small office in the city. Here’s my card, with the address.’

Porter took it, didn’t look at it, asked:

‘You know why we’re here?’

Crew sat, took a slow sip of his scotch, seemed to enjoy it, then:

‘I feel sure you’ll get to it, lucky you guys don’t work on a rate.’

Brant took a book down, said:

‘Here’s an interesting title, “The Killer Inside Me,” think I might borrow it?’

Crew shook his head, said:

‘Breaks up my collection, so I don’t lend books.’

Brant seemed amused, went:

‘Ah, go on.’

Crew looked at Porter, said:

‘Your sergeant doesn’t seem to understand “no”.’

Finally Porter got to ease a bit, said:

‘Oh, he understands it, it’s just he never accepts it.’

Brant left the book on the table, and Crew said:

‘Could you put it back where it was?’

Brant fingered the spine, said:

‘Seems well-worn, well-thumbed as you book lovers say’

He put it back down. Crew waited and Porter said:

‘You keep a diary, Mr. Crew?’

‘Of course.’

They were surprised, had expected all sorts of denials, evasions, and for a moment, they were lost for a reply. Then Porter asked:

‘Mind if I see it, sir?’

Crew stood up, moved to the phone, said:

‘I wonder if I should perhaps call legal help?’

Brant was all charm, his voice friendly, went:

‘That is of course your right but you show us the diary, we clear up a misunderstanding, and we’re outa here. You go back to your scotch and soda and chill, no harm done.’

Crew frowned, asked:

‘What is the misunderstanding?’

Porter took up the flow:

‘A young lady, claims to be your… significant other, says she saw you mention an act of violence in your diary’

Crew seemed astounded, said:

‘Mandy, the… working girl I’ve had… am… recourse to… once or twice. That’s why you’re here. Good lord, clues must be scarce. The Met running out of actual crimes?’

Porter moved right up close to Crew, said:

‘Three years she says, and you move her in across the street, hardly a casual deal, is it, Mr Crew?’

Crew laughed, a short bark, said:

‘The word of a hooker, that’s going to be solid.’

Brant asked:

‘The diary?’

Crew went to his desk, a fine oak affair, and picked a leather volume up, tossed it to Porter, said,

‘Enjoy.’

Porter flicked through it, looked up, said:

‘This is your business diary; there’s nothing personal here.’

Crew fixed another drink, less soda, said:

‘For me, business is personal.’

Porter let that sit, then asked:

‘How do you feel about manners?’

Crew looked puzzled, said:

‘What on earth does that mean?’

Brant joined in, said:

‘It’s not a real difficult question, like, do you think they matter in the world, how we treat each other, is that a factor for you?’

Then Crew put his hand in the air, went:

‘As Oprah says, “I’m having a light bulb moment.” This is about that Manners guy, is that it? You think I might be the guy?’

Brant asked:

‘Are you?’

Crew said:

‘I’d like you to leave now. See, I’m asking politely, lots of manners, which is more than I can say for either of you.’

Porter moved towards the door, but Brant hadn’t moved. He stared at Crew, asked:

‘I can understand a guy using hookers, hell, it’s part of the whole consumer society. But what I don’t get is, you’ve got lots of cash. You look reasonably okay, yeah?’

Crew waited then asked:

‘Is there a question there?’

Brant now began to move towards Porter, nodding, said:

‘Well, it’s not really a question, but given all I’ve said, how the hell did you go and pick such an ugly cunt?’

Then they were outside, and the door closed behind them. Brant lit a cig, said:

‘You think he really watches Oprah?’

Porter was still looking at the door, said:

‘Lots of guys watch her.’

‘It’s a gay thing, right?’

They’d got to Clapham Common. Brant put his hand in his pocket, took out a book, said:

‘Now let’s see what the deal with this is, why he was so keen for us not to see it.’

He had The Killer Inside Me in his hand. Porter yet again was astonished, went:

You nicked it, jeez. You think he won’t notice?’

Brant was flicking through the book, said:

‘I want him to notice.’

Porter said:

‘There’s a nice cafe down here, they do really good coffee, you coming?’

He was.

Porter ordered a decaff latte and looked to Brant, who ordered a double espresso. Said he’d have the caffeine that Porter was skipping, oh, and bring him some really disgusting sticky, creamy bun.

Porter said:

‘Are you serious about the pastry? The waitress doesn’t know whether you’re kidding or not.’

Brant, stuck in the book, said he was as serious as murder.