Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth

Chapter 12

IT WASN’T THE first time someone had pulled a gun in the office, but it was the first time someone had pulled a gun and then burst into tears. You never stop learning on this job. I spent five minutes reassuring Calamity about the Butch Cassidy slip; it was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone. We arranged to meet later at Sospan’s to review the Hoffmann case and discuss tactics for dealing with the Pieman. In the meantime I had an appointment with Police Commander Llunos. He’d asked to see me, in the strangest of places: St Michael’s Church.

He was sitting in the back pew, looking unhappy. He always looked glum, but this was different: not the usual world-weary existential disgust of the long-serving cop, the one that comes as standard issue along with the sarcasm and the stained raincoat; today he just looked unhappy.

I slid into the pew alongside him. ‘Come to take Him in for questioning, eh?’

‘Who?’

‘God.’

‘My mother’s sick,’ he said. ‘She’s had a minor stroke.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Yes. I’ve had to take some leave.’

‘I guess it’s pretty serious?’

‘They usually are, aren’t they?’ He considered with a puzzled look. ‘I don’t understand the human body. Normally it’s so tough, it never fails to surprise you what it can do. People who should be dead hang on for years purely out of guts or will power, you know. And yet a stroke, it’s just a vein popping in the brain, isn’t it? You’d think something like that could wait till after Christmas.’

We both said nothing for a while. When the silence got too oppressive I said, ‘I ran into your replacement at the Chinese. Nice fellow.’

Llunos made a slight upward jerk of his head in acknowledgement. ‘Yes, nice. He loves you.’

‘I noticed that.’

‘He’s not the sort of guy a smart guy makes a monkey of, so the first thing you do is make a monkey of him.’

‘Did I do that?’

‘And a monkey of me, too.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Erw Watcyns,’ said Llunos. ‘He’s from the Cardiff Sweeney, which means he thinks everyone else, including me, is a bumbling, carrot-crunching amateur. He’s especially fond of private detectives, particularly smart ones like you.’

‘I didn’t say a dickey-bird to him. Isn’t this a strange conversation to be having in a church?’

‘This building is about the only place left where a conversation like this might do any good.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

‘You think us cops are really dumb, don’t you? You hide it well most of the time, but things like that have a way of revealing themselves.’

‘I’m sorry about your mum, but giving me a hard time won’t make her better.’

‘I told him you were OK, I tried to protect you, but you had to go and do it, didn’t you.’

‘Do what?’

‘How long have you been working in this business? A long time, right? And you know better than anyone that there are certain things I let you get away with and certain things I don’t. Not because I’m an asshole but because I’ve got bosses to watch out for, too. And one of the things you don’t get away with is working a murder case. Finding lost cats or cheating spouses, even missing persons, I don’t care. Help yourself: you’ll be doing me a favour. But murder? That’s different and you know it. But I know you have to make a living, and I know sometimes you start a case that looks like a lost cat and before you know where you are you’re embroiled in a murder enquiry. It happens a lot in this town. You don’t seek it; it seeks you. I understand that and so from time to time I pretend not to notice. You don’t shout about it and I’ll just carry on thinking that’s a lost cat you’re looking for. Plenty of times I take heat to protect you and you never even know about it. Sometimes I’ve even come close to losing my job because of you. A lot of the big guys in the Bureau don’t like peepers. They dislike them with an intensity that is frankly not healthy, especially for you. But you still go on practising, and on more than one occasion the reason is I protected you. And all I ask is you don’t go around sticking your snout into murder cases and when you can’t avoid it you don’t advertise the fact. So what do you do? You put a fucking ad in the paper.’ He turned to me with a withering look. My stomach bubbled as I realised what he was driving at.

‘Llunos, I didn’t publish that ad.’

‘No, I know. It was the Queen of Denmark. Soon as I saw it I knew this would be your final joke. You can take the piss out of me and live to tell the tale. But not this guy. Not Erw Watcyns. He may be crazy, but he’s not stupid. He’s had plenty of runins with private operatives like yourself. Most of them are now ex-private operatives, and some of them are ex-human beings. So he knows the score. He knows all about this crap you lot come out with about protecting client privacy. That’s the bit we hate most, you see. It’s not enough that you have to trample all over the crime scene, contaminate evidence and break the law to get to witnesses before us; you have to tell us to sod off as well when we come along and say pretty please can you tell us who you’re working for; not because we’re nosy but because it might have a material connection with the dead guy. He knows all about that. If I hate it you can rest assured he is extremely unpartial to it. So hey! what do you do? You set the scene up. Oh yes, you’re just itching for that moment, aren’t you? When he asks you for the name of your client. He asks even though he knows you won’t give it, but he still has to ask. But this time is different. You say, “Of course I’ll give it to you, I’m a law-abiding citizen and it is my duty to assist the police. I’ll tell you who the client is. It’s the Queen of Fucking Denmark.”’ He shook his head in sad disbelief. ‘When you placed the ad you probably didn’t know you’d be dealing with him. That’s where being smart gets you. That’s one scene I’m glad I won’t have to watch. The final act of Louie Knight. It’s been a good show but it’s over now, folks, back to your lives.’

‘I’ll keep out of his way.’

‘It’s too late for that, my friend. Too late. He’ll be on his way to get into your way pretty soon, I’d guess. Just as soon as he sifts through the witness statements and finds out they were in your office a few days ago.’

‘Who?’

‘The Moth Brothers.’

My stomach churned again but it had gone ice cold.

‘Or rather the two layabouts formerly known as the Moth Brothers. They were dragged out of the harbour last night. They’d been for a bit of involuntary scuba diving.’

Llunos’s beeper went. He glanced down, grimaced and said, ‘It’s the hospital; I’ve got to go. If I were you I’d make my peace with the bloke who owns this place. He’s the only friend you’ve got now.’

I watched him leave and pondered his parting words. I thought about the Soldiers for Jesus and their vision of Heaven – like Blaenau Ffestiniog. No one wants a God like that. God is Santa Claus for grown-ups, not a misery-guts, not an asshole; we’ve got enough of those in town already. I didn’t believe; but the guy I didn’t believe in wasn’t like that. He was a warm, smiling chap, overflowing with benevolence; someone you looked up to with the same bafflement and confused wonder and absolute trust that you had for the giants who put you on your potty when you were two. He was a nice guy who would make it all right; who understood; the one guy you never had to explain your screw-ups to. He smelled good, too: of pews and old hassocks, floor polish and musty velvet drapes, of candle wax and mildewed pages. He resided in the tranquillity that can fill even the heart of an unbeliever in old churches, where the eye and the spirit are soothed by the flicker of golden candlelight and the gentle but vivid hues from the stained-glass good guys above the altar. And the great thing about Him was, He was human. You could feel sorry for Him. I knew there could be only one reason why He let us suffer like this: He can’t find a way to stop it. Like a roller-coaster ride that gets too scary, there’s no way off. He set it in motion and now He’s as helpless as the rest of us.

I wandered down to Sospan’s, still dazed and pained by Llunos’s words. Calamity was there and recommended the special.

‘It’s the Paddington Bear,’ said Sospan. ‘A special all-in-one breakfast ice based on the morning ritual of the eponymous bear. Marmalade and cocoa.’

I ordered one.

‘I think now is definitely time to call in the Pinkertons,’ said Calamity.

‘I had a feeling you might say that.’

‘They’d have the resources to deal with something like this – that’s the beauty of a preferred associate relationship.’

‘I’ve got the resources to deal with a Pieman: a pair of shoes.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Pair of shoes. That’s all you need to walk up a flight of stairs and kick a man’s backside.’

‘Are you mad? You can’t just barge in on a Pieman.’

‘Why not?’

‘Didn’t you hear what he said?’

‘Oh, I heard what he said. It’s just I didn’t believe all that much of it.’

‘You don’t believe we’ve got a Pieman?’

‘I believe we’ve got a man across the road who eats pies; I saw him get winched up and I’ve seen the pies. If the act of eating pies makes you a Pieman, then, sure, we’ve got one. I don’t believe he’s a spy or an assassin or a custodian or whatever nonsense that crazy Jew said. It’s just a set-up.’

‘Set-up for what?’

‘I don’t know. I have no idea; but I do know I don’t trust a single word that crazy man says. If he told me he was standing in front of me talking to me I wouldn’t believe him.’

‘Why don’t we just take a look?’

‘The same reason I don’t take a look when someone tells me there’s a ghost in the room: I’m not giving him the satisfaction. Especially as I have a feeling he wants us to go across there for reasons of his own, which will probably get us into trouble if we fall for them.’

‘Boy, it’s a good job the Pinkertons can’t hear you talking like this.’

‘They’d probably agree.’

‘Shows how much you know.’

‘And you know better?’

‘I’ve been reading about it, about their m.o. They wouldn’t just barge in and frighten Hoffmann off. They’re smart.’

‘And I’m not?’

‘I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is they’d never do that.’

‘What would they do?’

‘The first thing they’d do is do nothing. That’s rule number one. Whatever you do, don’t make it worse. Then you consider your options. Maybe case the joint. I was thinking we could buy time by staging an argument in front of the incident board – you throw a tin of paint at me, and it goes over the board. That way we can take it down without arousing his suspicion.’

‘Why don’t we forget about the Pinkertons for the time being?’

‘After what the girl in Lampeter said? She practically confirmed it. Absalom was trying to find the granddaughter of Etta Place and Sundance. In Aberystwyth! How can you say just forget about it?’

‘Please give it a rest. This isn’t their case, it’s ours; and despite the generous measure of autonomy I give you, I’m still the boss.’

She opened her mouth to protest but saw my expression and thought better of it.

Eeyore turned up a few minutes later and seeing the look of pain on my face, asked, ‘What’s up?’

Calamity, misunderstanding, said, ‘We’ve got a Pieman.’

‘What’s that?’ he said and so she explained.

‘I don’t think I’ve heard of one of those before,’ said Eeyore.

‘That’s because they’re pretty rare,’ said Calamity. ‘We have to proceed with great subtlety; otherwise you can frighten the Pieman off. The best way to handle a Pieman—’

‘The best way is to walk right up there and kick his ass,’ I said.

‘Don’t be crazy!’ said Calamity. ‘Do that and you’ll ruin everything. You’ll spook Hoffmann and then we’ll never find out who . . .’ The words petered out.

‘Who what?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Who what?’

‘Who . . . who Hoffmann is.’

‘I know what you were going to say. You were going to say “Butch Cassidy” or “Sundance” or something.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘You were. I thought I told you not to mention the Pinkertons again, but all I’ve heard from you on this case is Butch Cassidy this and Sundance that.’

‘Louie, that’s not true.’

‘You just couldn’t do it, could you?’ I was still upset about Llunos and the Queen of Denmark. But as so often in life it is someone else who pays the bill. This time Calamity.

‘Louie, I—’

‘You just wouldn’t listen. You had to go on and on. Well, let me tell you something. When you set up your own outfit you can be associate partners with whoever you want, but for the time being it says “Louie Knight” on the door and the only associate partner we’ve got is Captain Morgan. I’m sorry if it cramps your style, but those are the rules and if you don’t like them you can always walk away.’

‘Right,’ said Calamity. She looked at me, mouth clenched tightly, eyes smarting with the beginning of tears. ‘Right, then, I will.’

We watched her walk up the Prom towards the office and Sospan said, ‘Don’t worry, Louie, things will be better around here once he comes.’

I said nothing and then, as the import of his words made an impression, asked ‘Who?’

‘Our redeemer.’

I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and anger. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘When he comes to redeem us.’

‘Who’s going to do that?

‘Who do you think?’ Sospan shrugged slightly as if to disassociate himself from the words. ‘That’s what people are saying, isn’t it? He who is coming to save us. . . . Hoffmann.’

‘Hoffmann?’

‘It means Hopeman in German, you see. That’s what folk are saying. They’ve worked it out. It’s a message to us. He’s coming.’

‘Hoffmann’s coming?’

‘He’s going to redeem us, Louie. Hopeman. Everything is going to be all right.’