He Died with His Eyes Open Page 3

  I rang Bowman and got him at home just as he was leaving for the Factory.

  'Staniland,' I said.

  'Well?'

  'Why did you give me that address in Battersea when he lived in Lewisham?'

  'I didn't know I had.'

  'Surely you knew the address where your blokes had picked up his gear from,' I said. 'His papers and tapes and so on.'

  'Why? Is it interesting?'

  'You're a cold-hearted bastard,' I said. 'What he taped you could listen to for a thousand years and have no pity for him.'

  'Cut out the Shakespeare,' he said. 'I've got a conference at ten for a million-pound breaking-and-entering. Anyway, did I play any of them? Did I have time? You're joking.'

  'I'll make you wish you never had,' I said, 'if I don't get better cooperation from you than this.'

  'Are you threatening me?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'Less of the casual cut and thrust, slap and tickle— more dedication to fact, like we learned in police college, week two.'

  'Okay, okay. Is that it?'

  'It is this time. But we're supposed to be one solid force.

  'That's why it's called a force,' I said. 'And the next time you just throw any old unverified blag off on me over a case I'm handling, you might just have a stumble on your next flight to the top.'

  He said incredulously: 'Are you telling me? Me? A chief inspector?'

  'Yes, I'm telling you,' I said. 'Murder outranks rank, so watch your step.'

  'Why don't you watch your blood pressure, Sergeant?' he said, and put the phone down.

  I looked at the dead receiver for a while. Before going out, I thought some more. It wasn't a routine killing—not a skinhead rolling and mugging job. Hatred—evil that Staniland had evoked in someone—had caused those deliberate, frightful injuries. Earlier in the morning I had heard on one of Staniland's tapes:

  You can go on for a long time explaining what life means to people, but do you still not understand that you're never going to get out of this alive? The question is, though, how are you going to die? Everyone has to face that. The problem is, how to do it consciously, deliberately, plan it up to the last moment, and record everything. The best thing would be if I could record what happened at the last moment, and after that moment. But someone else will have to fill that gap—if its ever filled.

  I played that part again. For a moment I wondered if he meant suicide. But however Staniland had met his death, it certainly hadn't been that way. Besides, I didn't think that that was what the passage meant. I reviewed what little I knew; the salient point was that he hadn't been killed where he was found. He couldn't have walked. It always came back to murder. As if by telepathy, the pathologist rang. 'I've done the autopsy.'

  'Well?'

  'His blood group is O negative... Look, what I really want to say is that he was even worse hurt than we thought when he came in. Both legs were broken, not just one—a fracture of the left kneecap, he couldn't have walked on it, as well as the multiple fracture of the right tibia. There's bruising to the medulla too, something I missed at first. Dislocation of the left shoulder, third and fourth ribs cracked on the same side.'

  'Christ, what did they do?' I said. 'Drop him from a building? An aircraft?'

  'No, no,' said the pathologist, 'it was a beating all right. I'd say you were still looking for that hammer, though the ribs and the kneecap might have been a kicking. Someone had a go with a knife, too; there's a long gash up his right arm that would have had to be stitched. So, hammer, knife and the boot—there would have had to be at least two of them, you can bank on that.' He stopped for breath.

  'Anything else?' I said.

  The man coughed. 'Well, lab tests show that he didn't die very quickly.'

  'I'm listening.'

  'They started with the fractures at the extremities, the fingers and hand, then the legs. Then he was hit in the right eye—it was nearly closed, you remember—there was extensive bruising. Then there was the knife wound. It looks to me as if it was thrown, the knife. Probably a flick-knife or kitchen— heavy, at any rate—say a twelve-centimetre blade. They, er, rather worked him over.'

  'What actually killed him?'

  'Oh, the blow to the brain, frontal lobe, without a doubt. Loss of consciousness aggravated by extensive bleeding. The fractures, shock. Then coma and death. That's all. I'm getting my report ready for the coroner now.'

  'Thanks, you've been a great help.'

  'No I haven't,' said the pathologist, 'so don't try and fool me.'

  'All right, I won't.'

  'Come round any time you feel I can't help you some more,' said the pathologist. He was young, like he said, and laughed in his nose the way people do when they feel they've made a terrifically good joke.

  I put the phone down. I felt sick, as if I had taken the beating. I put my head between my knees till the greyness in front of my eyes stopped and the buzzing in my ears cleared. I'd listened to hundreds of pathologists' reports, but none of them had ever affected me like this.

  When I felt better I found that I had been staring at a page of Staniland's writing that I must have kicked aside with my foot where it lay on the floor. It was in a dreadful ballpoint scrawl and read: 'I never ever want to see Barbara Spark again, she's bled me to death. My heart's empty, my brain's empty, she laughed at me the last time I had an orgasm.' The next paragraph must have been added later; anyway, it had been written with a different pen. 'How can anyone so beautiful be so bloody? How can any love as intense as mine die against this ice? 'There was a scribbled footnote:

  It makes me feel as if I were a woman writing like that, or Barbara herself—a tart, frigid with guilt or terror, wanting sex and loathing it simultaneously. Has my passion turned me into her? What are you trying to do, Charlie? Destroy yourself? Don't tell me you planned this! Death, yes—but love, passion, jealousy of a passing footstep in the street outside, this consumption of the blood, never. Fifty-one, fifty-one, and clowning to hide your grief and rage! You can't satisfy her? How can you satisfy a beauty that vanished as you entered it?

  The clown falls on his nose to a burst of laughter.

  It's ridiculous to say that he showed signs of a disintegrating personality, I thought; the man was perfectly sane. He was too sane, even.

  I got a Nicholson's street guide out from under a pile of books in the corner and pinpointed the address at Romilly Place where Staniland's bank manager had sent the letter. Then I got up and tipped everything that was in the battered suitcase which contained all that was left of Staniland out onto the floor. Underneath the masses of paper there were eight more cassettes. I picked one up at random and put it on. A hasty, troubled voice which I realized must be Staniland's said: 'Oh, God, I want to fuck you!'

  And a woman's voice replied wearily: 'Must you use that word? Why are you such a bore, Charlie?'

  There was a scream of agonized tape and nothing more on that side; I took it off, but not before I had played it over a few times more. Distressed though it was—and probably not sober— Staniland's voice was like his handwriting, intelligent and direct. I put on the other side of the cassette. Staniland said:

  I had a bad night in the Agincourt again; the Laughing Cavalier was in as usual. He always has a go at me, but I drink until I don't care. What does Barbara see in him? I see her looking at him when I glance at her in mirrors; she drags on a cigarette and gazes at him without expression from under her fat white eyelids, her legs crossed on her stool, sensuous and neutral. I'd do anything, anything, to keep her out of the place. But if she decides she wants to come that's the end of it—you can hardly argue that a girl who works the clubs should keep out of a public house.

  Later, after a pause, he went on:

  I've just come in from the Agincourt. The Laughing Cavalier didn't touch me, although I provoked him again by tying him down in a discussion about class. He took the piss, surrounded by his mates as usual. But he didn't touch me— there was only that time, a month ago, when he smack
ed me about with the flat of his hand out in the yard behind the gents. 'You going to the law about it, then?' he said when he had finished, stepping back. 'No,' I said, 'I'm going back inside for another pint. You sure you've finished?'

  'I'll finish you for good one of these days,' he answered, turning away.

  Earlier in the evening, Barbara had been in the pub with me. But she got fed up around a quarter to ten and left, saying she was going over to a club. Before she went, though, the Laughing Cavalier came up to her and put his arm round her waist, with me right next to them, daring me to do anything about it. He does it quite often, offhand, but it's enough to wake dreadful pangs of jealousy in me. Does he do it because he fancies her? Or simply because he hates me and wants to needle me?

  He's a horrible man—meaty, big. He's got a face like a lorry-driver who wants to overtake everything on the road. He's forty or so, and has orange hairs on his thick arms. When he's finished putting his arm round Barbara, treating me as if I weren't there, he lets go of her laughing, and gives her a friendly push on the shoulder. She shrugs, and all his mates laugh too, taking the tone from him. Then somebody buys a round and they all go over to the fruit machine. Afterwards I ask Barbara why she lets him put his arm round her like that; she shrugs again and says, why should she mind? I say, because I mind. She answers, then you should do something about it (smothering a laugh), if I'm your girl. But afterwards, back in our room, she says she's sorry. I say: 'Sorry for me, you mean?' 'Yes.' 'Can we make love, do you think?' I say, getting undressed. 'Depends,' she says. 'What on?' 'Could you get it up?' 'I don't know,' I say, 'I've had a lot to drink. I could get it up in the morning, though. I always can.' 'I never feel randy in the morning,' she says. 'What I'd really like now is a cuddle, Barbara.' 'Buy yourself a teddybear, then.' 'No, I need to be cuddled by you, badly; nobody but you will do. I love you, and I'm pretty frightened of life just now' 'I know you are, Charlie,' she says, 'and it shows.' What a courtship, I think. 'I'm too old for you, Barbara,' I say. 'Poor Charlie, I'm afraid you are. I only liked it with you when you used to tell me things, when we just used to lie side by side together in the dark.' 'But it isn't enough for me, Barbara, only lying there beside you. I love you too much; I love you with all my being.' 'All right, come on, then, let's see what you can do, if it'll keep you quiet.' After a while: 'Well, there you are, you see, Charlie, look, you can't do anything.' 'I'm trying, I'm trying, just let me try once more.' So I do, and I can't get it in, and there's a long silence from her while I'm trying and a sigh or two, and then in the end she says: 'Well, it's hopeless, Charlie. Come on, get off me, face facts.' 'It's the man in the pub, Barbara,' I say. 'What about him?' 'I can't seem to get him out of my head while I'm trying with you.' 'Are you frightened of him?' 'He hates me.' 'Don't provoke him, then, Charlie. Then he won't go for you.' 'If I didn't provoke him, then he'd know I was scared of him.' 'He knows anyway.' 'I don't know why, but he gets between my love for you.' 'Go to sleep, Charlie. Please.'

  So I go through the motions of falling asleep. I am in agony. Even to talk to myself about it like this is agony. I stare into the darkness all night, with my back towards Barbara, my cock lying useless in my right hand, trying not to let anything show.

  I switched the machine off and picked up the street guide again. Tapes? What do tapes mean in a court of law?

  6

  The Henry of Agincourt public house was in the middle of Greenwich Lane, and very antique it looked, too, compared to the high-rise blocks that surrounded it. A few West Indian heads hung glumly out of the windows in ballooning Rastafarian hats, and three men in jeans were watching a fourth dig a hole in the pavement to the strains of a tranny. The pub had painted medieval wooden beams at the front, and the sign displayed the monarch after whom it was named. He was wearing a large crown, a doubtful piece of armour and an expression of quiet, or possibly drunken confidence, and was peering up the road as if he had just seen a lot of Frenchmen. Someone very thin with a pointed iron hat on stood humbly beside him, trying to get his bow and arrow to fire, his metal foot planted on the word BEER.

  Inside, the place was built entirely of concrete, which nevertheless bore signs of attention from various demented customers. The bar was narrow, and behind it stood an unbelievably disagreeable-looking stout man, who had to be the governor. It was only a quarter past eleven in the morning; however, as I came in, he was helping himself to a triple vodka, obviously not his first of the day. Someone had recently cut the side of his face open, and the wound still had stitches in it. Apart from ourselves, the place was empty. When the governor saw me he started to shake violently and gulped off the vodka, setting the glass down on the counter with an uncontrollable slam.

  'What'll it be?' he said wearily.

  'I'll have a pint of the Kronenbourg.'

  'It's off'

  'The other stuff, then, with the long German name there.'

  'It's warm.'

  'I don't care, I'll have it just the same.'

  'Not if I don't feel like serving you, you won't,' he said in a threatening tone. He picked up a pint glass all the same, but had a good deal of difficulty holding it still under the tap. As it was, he didn't fill it quite to the top, and when I mentioned this he opened the tap full on with a furious gesture, causing another pint to go roaring down the drain.

  'That's for the ullage,' he remarked with mystical satisfaction, and pushed the glass across to me. He added: 'That'll be eighty-five pence.'

  'Seems a lot,' I said, giving him a pound.

  'A lot of what?' he said, glaring at me. 'A lot of beer, a lot of money, or a lot of fucking cheek?'

  'A lot of money.'

  'Look, if you don't like the price,' he said, 'why don't you just drink it up and piss off ?' He flexed his mottled forearms in their shirt-sleeves. 'You'd be well advised to.'

  'When I've asked you some questions maybe I will,' I said. 'I'm not knocked out by all the excitement in here, I must say.'

  'Questions?' the landlord repeated in a tone of disbelief. 'Questions? In this pub?'

  'That's right.'

  'The only people who dare ask questions in this pub,' said the governor, 'is the law, and even they don't bother overmuch.'

  'Really?' I said. I produced my warrant card. 'Well, funnily enough, fancy that, I am the law.'

  'Oh, Christ,' he said. He sank his forehead into a wobbling hand. 'I knew there was something about you. You're all I need. What is it this time? The punch-up we had in here Saturday night? There was only one geezer got badly cut besides me, and he didn't want to prosecute.'

  'It's nothing to do with that. It's about a man that was found dead last Friday night, and it turns out he used this pub a lot.'

  'That don't tie me into it!' shouted the governor, taking a step backwards.

  'I didn't say it did, I didn't say it didn't.'

  He screwed his eyes up tight and opened them; they were red and blue, like dartboards. 'I need another drink,' he said. 'How about you?'

  I shook my head. "This man's name was Charles Staniland,' I said, when he came back with it.

  He took a long swallow. 'Gotter show a profit,' he muttered, 'got to. Otherwise the brewers, they get uptight. An showing a profit here means I don't never know the customers by their names. Not down here. You'd be mad to,' he added with a ghastly smile. 'Mad!'

  I was getting restless with him. 'You won't show a profit if you don't cooperate with me,' I said, 'for the simple reason that you won't be here. One word from me to the boys over at Lewisham and bang goes your licence—we'll find a way.'

  'Oh, Christ,' he said. 'All right. You got his photo?'

  I pushed over a shot taken of Staniland dead.

  The landlord focused on it unsteadily, taking his time. 'Yeah,' he said at last, taking a quaff of vodka, 'that's Charlie all right. Made a mess of him, didn't they? Aven't seen im in a while, though, must be three or four days.'

  'Of course you haven't,' I said. 'He was in the morgue.'

  'Yea
h, well, that accounts for it.'

  'You're right,' I said, 'that's the sort of date you're bound to keep. Heavy drinker, was he?'

  'Whew! Heavy? What, him? Not half!'

  I was studying some words done in burnt poker-work behind him, above the cash register. I read: 'We'll fight em up, we'll fight em down, We'll fight for King, and fight for Crown. We'll stand and fight em till we die—But they'll NEVER drink Old England dry!'

  I felt the landlord was an example of this truth, if of no other. 'Any idea what he did for a living?' I asked.

  'Now look,' said the landlord, 'if I was silly enough to ask my customers things like that, I'd get some very funny answers, any one of which could put me in hospital for a month.'

  'He have any enemies?'

  'Enemies? In here? Cor, I should think so! Practically everyone in the place hated his guts. Rabbit on? I never heard anyone rabbit like he did. Charlie Staniland? Cor, I'll say!'

  'Plenty of people rabbit in a pub,' I said. 'That's what they're for. Why pick on him, do you think?'

  'Well, I don't do that much thinking,' said the landlord after some reflection. He turned his back on me to refill his glass. 'Ah, fuck, there's no ice again, never mind. No,' he resumed, 'thinkin don't pay in this trade, I don't find.'

  'But if you did think.'

  'Ah, well, if I did think, then if I did think about it, then I daresay I might think that is face just didn't bleedin well fit. Not that there was anythin particular about the way he looked—he just looked as if he might've bin happier up west somewhere.'

  'Well, that's where he was found, as a matter of fact,' I said, 'only rather far out—Acton way, West Five.'

  'Ad to be found somewhere, I suppose,' said the landlord. 'Funny sort of bloke, he was. Funny sort of voice, sort of upper crust, really. Stuck out like a sore thumb at a wedding, a voice like his did. Odd he's gone, though.'

  'Why odd?' I said. 'If nobody liked him?'

  'I don't rightly know,' he said. 'I never thought of it until now, of course. I only ad to bar him the once, and that was because he was that pissed he started to upset the other customers, and in particular a party of gentlemen that wanted to discuss something quietly in the corner there, a private matter.'