Footsucker

Twenty-four

It was only a small item in the newspaper, the ‘In Brief’ column, hemmed in between an arson attack on a school for the blind and a paragraph about two road builders who’d raped a male hitchhiker. It said,

Mr Robert Kramer, a professional photographer, was found dead in his studio by cleaners this morning. Police say they are keeping an open mind about the cause of death and are anxious to interview friends and colleagues.

Horror and disbelief tumbled over each other in me. I read the item again. It wasn’t enough. I wanted details, a full report, descriptions of the body and the scene of the crime, all the available data about the time and means of death. I wanted to know what goes through a policeman’s ‘open mind’.

I didn’t want to believe it had anything to do with Harold. I hoped it was just a dreadful coincidence, and yet, given the way he’d talked that night, it was all too easy to believe it. I phoned his shop. It was a long time before he answered.

‘Kramer’s dead,’ I blurted.

‘Who?’ said Harold.

‘Come on, Harold, you know what I’m talking about.’

‘I don’t think I do,’ he said.

It occurred to me that maybe the police were already there, that they were listening in on the conversation, hence his reticence.

‘Is there somebody there?’ I asked.

‘Nobody here but me.’

‘Harold, what do you know about Kramer?’

‘I know nothing about anyone of that name.’

‘What are you playing at, Harold? I can’t believe you’re acting like this. Were you there? Did you …?’

I couldn’t bring myself to ask directly whether Harold had committed a murder. Some ludicrous sense of propriety was still in place.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Harold replied.

‘I don’t want to believe you did it,’ I said.

‘Nobody’s asking you to,’ Harold said flatly. ‘How could anyone think I killed a man I’ve neither met nor heard of.’

‘What are you saying, Harold?’

‘It might be better if we didn’t talk for a while,’ he said. ‘Not that we’ve had much in common since Catherine stopped seeing you.’

That was when I truly realized that Catherine’s absence meant as much to Harold as it did to me. If Harold had killed Kramer, and I still hoped to God that he hadn’t, he might like to pretend he’d done it as a favour to me, but it appeared now that he had pressing reasons of his own. It seemed to me that Kramer had taken Catherine away from Harold just as surely as he’d taken her away from me.

‘I’ll be going away for a little while,’ Harold continued. ‘Doing a bit of travelling. Going abroad.’

‘That’s as good as admitting that you did it,’ I said.

‘Not quite.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘It’s probably better if you don’t know that.’

‘What if I need to contact you?’

‘You’ll have no reason to contact me.’

‘I should go to the police about this,’ I said.

‘I think that wouldn’t be very clever of you,’ said Harold. ‘What would you tell them? That Harold Wilmer, a sad old shoemaker, got it into his head to kill a man? They’ll ask how you know, and you’ll have to tell them you were there, that the man stole your girlfriend, that you broke into his flat, that you had a fight. Not very clever at all.’

‘Harold, I can’t believe this.’

‘You don’t need to believe anything. All right? Just get on with your life, as I intend to. I’m going now. Goodbye.’

He put the phone down on me and when I immediately called back the line rang without being answered. I ran out of my house, into my car and drove to the shop. It wasn’t a quick drive at the best of times and the traffic was terrible. By the time I got there I wasn’t at all surprised to find that he’d gone. The shop was empty and locked. I pounded on the door until a couple of passers-by stopped and asked me what I wanted. I said nothing. I got in my car, put my foot down and drove. I didn’t know where I was going. Maybe I was heading for Heathrow, maybe I was driving around in the hope of seeing Harold wandering the streets, or in a taxi, making his getaway, leaving the scene of the crime, but it wasn’t long before I abandoned that absurd enterprise. Harold had gone. Harold Wilmer, the mild-mannered, murderous shoemaker, had done a very successful disappearing act.

Over the next couple of weeks I spent a lot of time combing the newspapers, looking for some follow-up piece, a report on the inquest, an announcement that a full-scale murder investigation had started, or alternatively that Kramer’s death had been declared an accident or suicide. But I found nothing. What was I to do? I couldn’t call the police and ask how they were getting on. All I could do was try to get on with my life and hope that no news was good news.

Of course, I tried to phone Catherine. It seemed to me that her command not to phone her meant nothing now that Kramer was dead. Not that it mattered anyway. I phoned but there was only the sound of a disconnected line. I went to her flat and got no reply on her bell, so I pressed a lot of the others, pretending I was the postman. People are very gullible. I eventually spoke through the entryphone to a neighbour, a trusting old lady, who told me that Catherine had moved out. I asked how long ago. Oh, maybe a couple of weeks. Had she left a forwarding address? No, but the neighbour had a feeling she might have gone back to America. Where, I asked. What city? What state? Could she even tell me north, south, east, or west? By now the neighbour had worked out that I wasn’t really the postman and put down her phone.

I was frustrated but I saw how it might be for the best. If Catherine had really left a couple of weeks ago then perhaps she wasn’t even aware that Kramer was dead. I don’t know why that pleased me so much.

I did find it strange that Catherine and Harold should both disappear at the same time, and for the briefest moment it occurred to me that they might possibly have gone away together. But, no, that made no sense at all. It had to be nothing more than coincidence.

Kramer’s death straightened me out a lot. I no longer wallowed in the misery of Catherine’s departure. Neither did I go around visiting prostitutes, picking up women, going to seminars on fetishism. I did my very best to lead a quiet, blameless life. It was dull stuff. It would have been nice to meet up with Mike and Natasha, but I was staying out of that one for the moment. Of course, I still had my archive and that remained a source of occasional pleasure, but whereas it had been a fluid, growing collection it now became fixed and static. I thought it safest not to add to it; no more interviewing in the street, no more snatched photographs, no more stolen shoes. I was trying not to act suspiciously. I was acting like a criminal, albeit a reformed one.

I was still occasionally tempted to go to the police. Yes, I would have had to confess to the break-in and to the fight with Kramer, but wouldn’t the mere fact of making a confession prove that I wasn’t the murderer? Well no, I could see that was a game of double and triple bluff, and would prove nothing. But wouldn’t my sheer innocence stand out? Surely the police would be able to tell I wasn’t the murderous type. But no, I didn’t believe that either. Innocent people are sometimes found guilty. People go to jail on the basis of far skimpier evidence than that against me. The chances of them catching Harold, believing and proving that he was the real killer, seemed slim. If the police were looking for a convenient hook on which to hang this murder I’d do just fine.

Then, one night, a stranger came to my door and I knew straight away he was police. In a curious way I was relieved. I knew it had to happen sooner or later. He was young and big, his blond hair was cropped to a post-harvest stubble and his clothes were too tight round his arms and thighs. The pint had been forced into a grey double-breasted half-pint suit.

‘I wonder if I can waste a couple of minutes of your time,’ he said in a surprisingly easy tone.

‘I am sort of busy,’ I replied, only too willing to put him off if he could be put off that easily.

But then he flashed his badge and looked as though he meant business. I didn’t hear what rank he was, not that it would have meant anything to me, but I caught the name Crawford and it was obvious that he was going to come in, invited or not.

‘This won’t take long,’ he said as he clumsily pushed past me into the hall. ‘Don’t worry. It’s about someone and something you probably don’t know anything about.’

For a moment I thought perhaps this visit had nothing at all to do with Kramer, that perhaps it was about stolen cars or the local neighbourhood watch. We walked into the living room and he sat down on the sofa, sprawled a little and blatantly looked round.

‘You live on your own, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘I knew it. You can always tell. It’s something to do with the room lacking a woman’s touch. You ever been married?’

‘No.’

‘But you’ve got a girlfriend?’

‘Not at the moment, no.’

I must have sounded overdefensive, though what was I defending myself against? Unspecified charges of sexual inadequacy? He saw me looking troubled and he slapped on a tight smile and waved a hand as if to say not to worry, it was all right by him, that wasn’t what he was here for, though he didn’t altogether convince me. He resumed his inspection of my décor.

‘It doesn’t look like a queer’s room either.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t,’ I said.

‘No. I know that you do have girlfriends. I know that you went out with Catherine for instance.’

‘You’re well informed,’ I said.

‘Not as well as I’d like to be. Anyway, you and Catherine didn’t last very long. Right?’

Things were happening too fast. Nothing was quite sinking in. I wanted to ask him who’d told him about me and Catherine, and whether he knew where she was, how I could get in contact with her, but that would have sounded desperate. I was too busy thinking this through to answer his question, but he waited for me.

‘Didn’t last long,’ he repeated.

‘Not long enough, no,’ I said.

‘Well, length isn’t everything.’

It felt like he was testing me. Was I the kind of man who laughed at oblique jokes about penis length? On this occasion I wasn’t. I pretended not to realize that he was joking, so he gave a laugh that was long, loud and dirty enough for both of us.

‘Would you describe it as a casual relationship?’ he asked when he’d finished laughing.

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘So it was a short-lived but intense affair?’

‘If you like, yes. Look, is this about Catherine? You said it was about someone I probably didn’t know.’

‘I’m gathering background, all right? So why did you split up?’

‘Is this really relevant?’

‘Obviously,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t be arsing around asking you irrelevant questions, would I, sir? Why did you split up?’

‘You’d have to ask her. It wasn’t my decision.’

‘We would if we knew where she was, but we don’t, and I assume you don’t either.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, and at that moment I was extremely glad I didn’t know. Having to tell this man her whereabouts would have been an act of terrible betrayal.

‘You don’t mind helping me like this, do you?’ he asked abruptly.

‘No, but if it’s about Catherine …’

‘It’s about someone called Robert Kramer. He was Catherine’s bloke after you. Your replacement.’

‘Is he in trouble?’ I asked, hoping I didn’t sound quite as transparent as I felt.

‘Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? No trouble for him, quite a lot of trouble for me. I’m surprised you didn’t see it in the paper.’

‘Why should I? But, I mean, that’s terrible, his death.’

‘So you didn’t know him?’

‘No.’

‘Ever see him? Speak to him? Tell him to get his hands off your woman?’

‘Not really my style,’ I said truthfully enough.

‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘You see your bird walking down the street on the arm of some new bloke, this bird who you’ve had a short, intense relationship with that you didn’t want to end. Well, it’d be pretty unnatural not to feel angry and pissed off about it, not to want to stick one on the little fucker, wouldn’t it?’

‘I felt things, but I didn’t feel like sticking one on him, no.’

‘Didn’t feel like killing him?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Not really, no. You don’t look the type. But I was wondering if you knew anything about Mr Kramer’s sexual proclivities.’

‘Why would I?’ I answered.

‘You might know through Catherine. I was thinking that maybe all three of you had some sexual proclivities in common.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m not saying anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just asking some routine questions.’

None of it sounded even remotely routine to me, but I said simply, ‘No, I don’t know anything about Kramer’s sexual proclivities.’

‘So you can’t be any help to us with his murder?’

‘His murder?’ I said slowly and deliberately, feigning shock and surprise, and hoping I wasn’t overdoing it. ‘You never said he was murdered.’

‘That’s true,’ Crawford agreed. ‘And you probably can’t tell us anything about the mutilation either.’

‘Jesus. What mutilation?’ This time the shock was real and I hoped it didn’t betray the inauthenticity of my previous reaction.

‘We don’t release that sort of stuff to the papers,’ Crawford said, like he was letting me in on a trick of the trade. ‘If you do, then you get a spate of copycat incidents. That’s amazing, isn’t it? Most murderers are so fucking unoriginal they can’t even think up their own way of killing someone. But put it in the papers that somebody’s going around chopping people’s heads off with a chain saw and they’re all at it.’

‘Somebody used a chain saw on this man Kramer?’

‘No. That’s just a for instance. I can’t tell you what form or forms of mutilation are involved, not that I think you’re likely to commit a copycat murder.’

By now I was well beyond being able to hide my reactions. It was bad enough to think that Harold had committed the murder, but mutilation was a whole new horror. I was sure that my face and body were sending all kinds of quisling signals about what I was really thinking and feeling. Then Crawford said, ‘So you didn’t do it, then? The murder.’

I was so taken by surprise that I had no time to consider my response. I just said, ‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ he replied, and in that simple phrase he conveyed a whole world of strength and anger and violence. He was warning me not to mess with him, not to take him for a fool, not to cross him. I felt like apologizing. Then he said, ‘How would it be if I sent a couple of lads to search this place?’

‘What for?’ I asked.

‘For clues, that sort of thing. How would you feel?’

‘Well, I’d object, frankly.’

‘Good,’ he said, putting a tick on some mental list. ‘I like that. Most ordinary, innocent people would object. If you’d told me to go ahead, that you had nothing to hide, then I’d have been very suspicious.’

I took some small satisfaction from knowing that I was behaving like an ordinary, innocent person, though that was not what I felt like.

‘Because, I mean,’ he continued, ‘everybody’s got something to hide, haven’t they? It might be a few porn videos or a secret diary or some ladies’ underwear. We’ve all got that certain little something, haven’t we?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose, I mean, no, not really, not in my case.’

‘There’s no need to be shy with me,’ Crawford said. ‘I’ve heard it all. And I’ve seen most of it. And as long as nobody gets hurt and as long as kids and drugs and animals aren’t involved, then who really cares? Some people want to drink each other’s piss, some want to shove their fists up each other’s backsides. There are blokes out there who like to have their foreskins nailed to the floorboards. Now you and I might think they’re sick, filthy sods who should be taken outside and given a good kicking, but, anyway, it’s a free country, isn’t it?’

I was so lost by now, so far out of my depth, so in need of time to collect my thoughts, so confused about what this man was saying, even more confused about what he actually meant, so unsure of what he wanted from me, that I could barely keep up with him. But now he was being nice to me again.

‘I can see you’re a decent bloke,’ he said. ‘I can see you’re not into all that weird stuff. But what about this Kramer? What was he into, eh?’

‘I’ve told you, I’ve no way of knowing.’

‘Not true,’ he said. ‘You know Catherine. You know what kind of thing she might go for. Do you think she’d go for something a bit kinky and dangerous?’

‘You’ll have to ask her,’ I said.

‘I’m asking you, cunt.’

All the aggression was there again, all the threats and veiled intentions. I was scared. I said, ‘Well, I don’t know, maybe. Yes, sometimes Catherine could be a bit … wild.’

I didn’t think that answer was going to satisfy him but he unexpectedly stood up and headed for the door.

‘Correct answer,’ he said, and suddenly he looked pleased, both with me and himself. ‘You know crime’s a strange thing. There are very few people who commit just one crime. In general one crime leads on inexorably to the next, like joining up the dots until the final picture appears.’

I must have been looking particularly blank, since he tried another way to make me understand.

‘Look at it like this, a man who commits armed raids on a post office isn’t too worried about having a TV licence or getting his car insured. You can be sure that the man who killed Kramer has committed other crimes too.’

This sounded like rubbish to me. As far as I knew, which was not far, Harold hadn’t ever committed any other crime.

‘Does that mean you’re looking for a man who hasn’t paid his TV licence?’

I wasn’t trying to be glib or tough, it just came out that way. Crawford had to think before he decided whether or not to be angry or insulted.

‘One more thing before I go. Have you got a pen and paper? I want to show you something.’

I handed him a piece of paper and a ballpoint and he drew the outline of a footprint with a lightning flash through it.

‘Any idea what that means?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘No, I didn’t think you would have. Well, that’s all right then. I’ll be on my way, but take care. I’ll be in touch.’

I was shaking by the time he left and he must have seen that. I hadn’t a clue what the session had really been about. He could hardly think I’d killed Kramer, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so easy on me. But I had been so thrown by his questions and his presence that he must surely have worked out that I knew more than I was telling. He obviously knew more than he was telling too, and I’d have given a lot to find out what. The fact that he hadn’t managed to talk to Catherine seemed to be infinitely in my favour.

But I was worried by his notions of criminal psychology. As far as I was concerned foot fetishism didn’t come into the same category as urolagnia, fisting and having your foreskin nailed to the floor, but I suspected Crawford saw things differently. Foot fetishism did indeed seem to be something that Catherine, Kramer and I had in common, but was that supposed to suggest that we had murder in common too? And why had he shown me the drawing of the footprint with a flash through it? That must mean he had some inkling of Harold’s involvement. Why hadn’t he said so?

Crawford scared me. He struck me as devious, vicious and not nearly as bright as he wanted to appear; a lethal combination. But how bright would he need to be to pin the murder on me? Making a clean breast of it seemed like even less of an option. I was on my own. I was the only suspect, the only witness and there was nobody in the whole world who was going to do anything to help me. I found that knowledge strangely invigorating.