He Died with His Eyes Open Read online

  'Well, I still think you're mixed up in this Staniland case,' I said.

  ' You'll have a job proving it.'

  'You short of money, Harvey?' I said. It was a question that fazed people like Harvey: If he said he wasn't, I might start digging into where he'd got it. If he said he was, I might try to find out what ideas he had about filling the gap. In the end he said: 'Who isn't short of it?'

  'A few hundred would always come in handy, wouldn't it?'

  'Staniland was broke.'

  'No, he wasn't. Not till right at the end, anyway.'

  'How do you know?'

  'All I'll tell you is this,' I said. 'Staniland did a lot of writing, did you know?'

  'No, I didn't. I didn't know anything about him, I tell you.'

  'And I mean a lot of writing,' I said. 'And he recorded a lot on cassettes, too. And guess who's got it all? That's right—I have, over at the Factory.'

  He turned white. 'You find my name on any of it?'

  'There's a description that could fit you. Like the orange hairs on your arms.' I gazed at them pointedly.

  'That won't get you far,' said Fenton. 'Thousands of men have orange hair on their arms. And anyway, one middle-aged drunken nut droning away on a cassette don't add up to anything much.'

  'Even so,' I said, 'don't fly off to Morocco for any sunshine without letting me know.' I scribbled the number of the Factory down and passed it to him. 'Okay, on your bike. You're still clean until I can prove you aren't.' We got up. 'I've enjoyed our little talk.'

  'Likewise,' he said, moving away, 'I don't think.'

  When I got out into the street I saw someone standing by my car.

  'Well,' I said. 'If it isn't the businessman.'

  'You still want in on our deal?' said the Asian boy.

  'Sure,' I said. 'Let's get round to Romilly Place.'

  When we arrived he was out of the car and up over the street wall. He whispered from the top: Wait there.' I got out of the car, but I didn't hear anything until the street door of number seven squeaked open.

  'Okay, come in,' he breathed. He shut us inside, then bolted the door. 'The light's bin cut off'

  'Doesn't matter,' I said, 'I've got a flashlight.' I shone it on the filthy stairs.

  'I've got the gear,' he said.

  'Another time,' I said, 'I've changed my mind.' I gave him a twenty-pound note.

  He examined it in the torchlight. 'Paying me to get lost, are you?'

  'You should care.'

  'You know something?' he said. 'I believe you're a copper.' When I didn't say anything he said: 'You gointer bust me?'

  'Lucky for you I've got other things on my mind,' I said. 'But you want to be careful how you push smack to strangers, otherwise you won't be on the street much longer.'

  'Maybe I could bust you,' he whispered thoughtfully.

  'Don't let your amazing brilliance go to your head,' I said. 'Coppers stick to each other like shit to a blanket, you can't win, you ought to know that by now.'

  'Anyway, fancy taking money off a copper. Usually it's the other way round, you bribe them.'

  'Don't let's go into principles,' I said. 'Just take the twenty and fuck off. It's like any other money, it spends.'

  'Okay,' he said, 'see you.'

  As soon as he had gone I looked round the rooms on the ground floor. There were three of them. It looked as if the landlord had had his quarters down here. There were all the signs that he and whoever he had lived with had left in a hurry. Torn paper and old rent books were spread all over the floor, there was a stripped bedstead with one leg jacked up on a brick; a urine stain in the centre of the mattress curled importantly in the material like the dirty oval frame of an old picture; a stock of horror comics had toppled over in a corner. The room opposite was the same except that the wallpaper was peeling off and it stank worse because the bucket that had been used to piss in hadn't been emptied. 'Christ,' I muttered, 'who'd be a copper?' The back room had been converted into a bathroom and toilet; a rat slid up the wall as I opened the door, with a flick of its fat tail. I was surprised no squatters had moved in; maybe the news hadn't had a chance to do the rounds yet.

  I went up the stairs quickly, but trod on the side next the wall to stop them creaking—there might just still be guests. I needn't have worried: nothing followed me up the stairwell but a smell of garbage. The second door I came to, I sent in and shone the torch round. I was sure it was Staniland's room; any copper can tell where the law's been, they turn everything over twice. All the same I went over it again. Bowman's men were always in a hurry; they had too much work on their hands.

  I went to the window to open it and get some air, but it was nailed shut, so I stood in the middle of the bare linoleum floor and wondered what it must have been like, Staniland and Barbara living there together—when she was home. Home! There was the cookette in the corner by the window, just as he had described it; there, too, was the sink with the cracked mirror over it where she had fixed her face nonchalantly after he had hit her with the shoe. There was the bedding on the floor where he had muttered his passion for her, and where she had lain back, flicking through the pages of Playgirl, while he drunkenly tried to force her thighs apart. I don't believe in ghosts, but that room was thick with death, jostling me in the half dark; the dead man seemed to groan after me to avenge him. This room was in an appalling state, too. The weather was dry at the moment, otherwise I bet it rained in. Large parts of the ceiling plaster had long ago dropped off in the damp, exposing the laths; doubtless any lead there had been on the roof had been ripped off, and probably half the tiles too.

  There was a cupboard in the corner next to the mattress; when I tried it, I found it was still locked. I kicked it open. There were a few clothes inside, mostly women's, and some dirty shirts and underwear on the floor. I found nothing in any of the pockets except a 2p piece; above the clothes-rail in the cupboard, though, was a shelf with six cassettes lying at the back, with the names of hard rock groups on them. I took those.

  I searched the place again, but found nothing more.

  I left, hoping the council would tear down the whole of Romilly Place one day, when they stopped screaming politics at each other and got on with the job the ratepayers had voted them in for.

  15

  'Your name Spark? Arthur Spark?'

  'That's me, mate,' said the man indifferently, not looking up from his plate.

  'I want to talk to you.'

  'What for? I don't know you from my tenth pube.'

  I showed him my warrant card and discreetly, so that no one at the other tables could see it. That made him put his knife and fork down. 'Oh, Christ, yeah. Yeah, okay, but c'n I get on with my nosh? I'm on shift at two.'

  'Eat.'

  'All right,' he said, 'what's it down to? I just drive a truck for a living, I aven't done nothing.'

  'No one's saying you have. You were married to a woman, maiden name Barbara Ethel Smith?'

  'So what if I was? We're divorced.'

  'Long time?'

  'Must be goin on five year.'

  'Any kids?'

  'What? With her?' He laughed bitterly 'You must be joking.

  All the time we was together she was on the pill.'

  'When was the last time you saw her?'

  He turned obstinate. 'Don't know. Can't remember.'

  'Look,' I said, 'you're not in any shtuck, so why look for bother by withholding information?'

  He thought about that. 'If she's in bother, I don't want to say anything that'll get her in deeper.'

  'Nobody's saying she's in bother,' I said. 'All I'm trying to do is trace her and ask her some questions. I had my work cut out tracing you.'

  'What do you want to question her about?'

  I leaned closer towards him across the table. We were in a transport cafe not far from the Hole in the Wall by Waterloo Station. It was bright in there, dinner hour, a fine day; the Formica tables were packed with lorry-drivers eating the meat, mash and two v
eg, washed down with a pot of tea. He bit into a slice of Wonderloaf with marge on it.

  'She'd got mixed up with a bloke who wound up dead in some shrubbery over in West Five last Friday. Very dead.'

  'Murder?'

  'That's right.'

  'I wouldn't have thought Babsie'd've done that,' said Spark. 'She never lost her cool. She had too much bleedin cool if you arst me. Cool. She was fucking freezing, mate.'

  'Still, she was mixed up with this man; you can see why I want to talk to her, can't you?' I showed him Staniland's picture. When he had recovered from it, he thought some more. 'Well, I don't know where she lives, squire, if that's what you mean. But I've heard she does the clubs this side of the river. Old Kent Road, the Elephant, you know.'

  'Where've you heard that from?'

  'Some of my mates have seen her in them, ones that used to know us when we was together. I've remarried, got two little kiddies, so I've no money to throw round in them places, never mind the punch-ups. I can handle myself all right, but it's when they get the knives and shivs out and you find you've got half your face missing.'

  'Any particular club?'

  He sighed. 'You people do go on and on, don't you?'

  'That's what we draw the ratepayers' money for.'

  'You tried a pub called the Agincourt, down Greenwich way?'

  'Yes.'

  'Not very helpful in there, "are they?'

  'They would have been if I'd leaned on them harder,' I said, 'only I'm not all that keen on throwing my weight about, it's the quickest way of shutting them up.'

  That got him more on my side. 'She used to be over at the Hard Rock Club, down by Surrey Docks,' he said at last, 'but that was a while back. Still, you might try it. It's rough in there, but they, like, do a bird for a geezer, see? Mind, as I say, I never see her. The wife wouldn't stand for it, that's only natural, ain't it?' He looked at the clock. 'Christ, I only got fifteen minutes, then I gotter go. You can't take a chance with a job these days—not with three million folks on the dole.'

  'This won't take long,' I said. 'Did your ex work the clubs while you were married to her?'

  He nodded. 'She bin on em since she was a kid. But it wasn't that I minded so much—what drove me mad was the way she had blokes back at the house, bold as fucking brass, while I was out at work. Any number of em, right under the neighbours' noses. Christ, I even caught er at it one time. I didn't half give er a whack, but it didn't do no good, and I'm not one for thumpin women anyway. Talking of clubs,' he added, 'we met at one. She was a real knockout at eighteen, Babsie was, I can tell you—she'd got style. We started goin together, but I never could really make sense of her. She was a Banana girl—didn't ave no mum or dad. She was like a one-off. Got all her marbles an that, I'm not sayin she adn't, but you could just never get right through to her. Like if you arst er where your dinner was, she'd stare through you like she adn't really heard you, that sort of thing. Unnerved me, it did.'

  'Go on.'

  'Well, anyway, one day I arst er would she. Would she marry me, I mean. Christ, she went bleedin potty. You can stuff your bleedin marriage, she said, I don't want no kids nor a mortgage or any of that crap. But we'll ave a good fuck (scuse me) if you like—I can't think why you never arst me before, she said. Well, you could've knocked me flat. I'm a man that likes a charver if ever there was one, but my life, that put me right off—I couldn't 've got it up that time, not if she'd bin Clordia Cardinal. Still, come to a rub, we did get married, and what a bleedin carve-up, as I say. I was on the buses in them days, the 137 route out of Clapham there. It got to be a nightmare with me, that job; once I knew she was carryin on with other fellers I started nearly missing stops wonderin what the hell was goin on at home an that—I ad to pack it in at the death. I said to myself, this as got to stop, Arthur, otherwise you are gointer go fuckin barmy. So one night I just faced er with it, it was a Sunday, and you know what she said? Okay okay, she said, keep your syrup on, I can't think why you hung on this long. Well, I said to er, you really are just scum, Babsie, ain't you? Ah, cut it out, she says, and with that she packs just one case of clothes an says you can keep all the rest of the gear, cunt, be seein you. It was hell the first few weeks she was gone; but then suddenly I woke up one morning feelin better; I don't know why. So I got out of bed (I'd bin spending a lot of time in the pit, mopin), ad a wash an shave, went down to the local depot of National Carriers, an got this job. I'd rather bore up the M1 with the radio on anyhow than grind round central London all day in a bus.

  Mind, I'm not sayin London Transport weren't good employers, look after their people an such, but you get too many fights on the buses now, specially at night. Anyway, come to a rub, I never looked back; I met my wife an we've got the two lovely kiddies an a house put Plumstead way. I just hear about Babsie from my mates now an then, like I said—but I never seen er again, not from that day to "this, an that's all I c'n tell you.'

  16

  'I'm sorry to trouble you like this, Mr. Viner, and thank you for asking me to lunch. It wasn't necessary.'

  'Oh, it's no trouble, and it's quite unusual, having lunch with a police officer. Let's sit down and have some. It'll be pretty vile, I'm afraid.'

  'Our own canteen's nothing to write home about,' I said.

  We were in the BBC cafeteria out at Wood Lane. The surrounding tables were occupied by perennially young men. Some of them were producers, while others just, looked exactly like producers. There were some pretty girls sitting around as well who looked as if they, too, fitted into the organization in some suitably vague way. Anyway, everyone looked very, very secure in his talent. Viner came back with our lunches on a tray and doubtfully tackled his main course, corned beef and gherkins. When I brought up the subject of Staniland he said: 'I've always had a very soft spot for Charles. He isn't in any trouble, I hope?'

  'Not anymore,' I said. 'I'm afraid he was beaten to death last Friday.'

  'Oh, God,' he said, his mouth dropping open. 'Why?'

  'That's what I've got to find out. And who.'

  'Why come to me, though? I haven't seen Charles for two years.'

  'I've come to you because he wrote about you. We found a lot of his writing and some cassettes he'd recorded. I'm following up every name in them; it's all I've got to go on. I just want to talk to anyone who knew him; I'm trying to get any kind of line on him I can.'

  'Yes,' said Viner, 'yes, of course. I understand.' He was only about thirty, but I liked him. He looked as if he had brains.

  'According to Staniland,' I said, 'the BBC took him on as a scriptwriter. Why at forty-eight? Seems a bit old.'

  'He'd submitted a play for television,' Viner said. 'They didn't do it, of course, it was far too good.'

  'I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

  'You wouldn't unless you worked here,' said Viner. 'It did what good work usually does—it hit out too hard. It was set in South London, which fascinated him. The play was about tarts, blacks, clubs, drugs and riots; it also blasted the trendies. It was called 'A Nasty Story', a tide he'd borrowed from Dostoevsky. I was asked to read it, and I was the only person who told them, look, you've got to do it. Of course they wouldn't. Still, they liked his dialogue enough to give him a trial as an assistant scriptwriter, and he ended up working with me on serials. I liked him a lot. He could be bloody funny—and did he have talent! For writing? Really masses! He could take a ten-page scene, reduce it to fifty lines of dialogue, and the whole meaning sprang out at you.' He hesitated. 'When he was on form, that is.'

  'Oh, yes?'

  'Well, he drank,' said Viner, 'and I mean he really drank. The Beeb's idea of drinking in the office is an occasional pale ale— Charles's was a bottle of Scotch a day. Or two. Mind, he never passed out; his eyes just used to turn inward. I remember he was sick into his handkerchief once, but he was never incoherent, even. The bottle would be on his desk out in the open, and if a passing bigwig didn't like it—well, Charies had rather a sharp tongue.'

  'Even so,'
I said, 'he struck me as pretty vulnerable.'

  'Well, yes, he had a skin fewer than most of us. The two things that really reduced him to pulp were boredom and his relations with women.'

  'He certainly didn't have much luck with them.'

  'Oh, I don't know,' said Viner. 'His wife Margo was all right. Attractive, too. She used to come out here and pick him up sometimes.'

  'The name Barbara Spark mean anything to you?'

  'I'm afraid not. Who is she?'

  'A woman he knew that I'd like to have a word with. Anyway, never mind, go on.'

  'Well, after a time, Charles started to get more and more restless here. I can quite understand why, of course—-he wanted to write his own stuff, the work he was doing for us showed him his own talent. But there's no room for that kind of thing at Auntie's. Instead—-I don't know if you've watched any of a frightful historical series that's just been repeated?'

  'Yes, I got an eyeful of it on the box the other night. It was about some king.'

  'That's right, the private life of Edward the Confessor. Charles nicknamed it The Pincushion People because the clothes were so ridiculous. He and I had to write the script for it, and it's been repeated. God knows why—its ratings are awful. Anyway, one day Charles said to me: "I just can't stand these ghastly Pincushion scripts we're doing anymore; they're even more depressing than that comedy we tackled, 'Billy Ballpoint'." "There's nothing we can do about it now," I said. "Oh, don't be so feeble," he said. "Here, pass me that story line." "It's too late to rewrite all that," I shouted at him, "it's been approved, everyone'll have a fit." "All the better reason for rewriting it totally," he said. Next day he had finished one episode. "Here, read it," he said. Christ, I've never laughed so much in my life. Poor old Edward the Confessor, who after all had never been strong on laughs, had been turned totally inside out. One abrupt twist, and he'd turned the whole thing into a farce. "You may be mad," I said when I had finished it, "but you're completely wasted in here—you should be writing gags for a top-line comedian, you'd make a fortune. But it'll never do," I added, throwing it back at him, "they'd crucify you upstairs." "They'll do that anyway sooner or later," he said, "so they might as well get on with it."Whereupon he took it upstairs and slung it in somebody's in-tray. Well, nothing happens in a hurry here, as you probably know; everything's decided by committees all terrified of doing the wrong thing. However, they sent for him a while later, and down he came, duly crucified, and looking cheerful. "Well, they've done it to me," he laughed, rubbing his hands. "I'm fired, thank God. It was worth it, too—-that ghastly trendy-leftie producer burst into tears when I told him what I thought of the approved script." "But what are you going to do now?" I said. "Get pissed on my severance cheque," he said. "You're not busy, so ring for a cab and let's go up to the Dead Piano Club in Ken Church Street.'"