Holloway Falls (29 page)

They waited a long time for him to continue.

‘He’s doing it all again,’ said Lenny. ‘He’s recruiting. Just to show us that he can.’

The Caliburn Hotel stood close to King’s Cross station, about half an hour’s cold, brisk walk from Highbury. Along Upper Street, the dark shop windows were arrayed with Christmas decorations. The bars were softly incandescent and crammed full of the fashionable young. Broken glass like cracked ice littered the paving stones outside the Angel. In the streets and squares behind King’s Cross, it was darker and colder, like an Arctic night. Prostitutes huddled together for warmth under streetlights. Cars slowed but did not stop.

Anticipating a promised urban renewal that had yet to occur, the Caliburn was a members-only establishment renovated from three derelict town houses. Its door was an anonymous portal in the street. It was necessary to announce their arrival through an intercom set in the wall. With an angry buzz of the latch, they were admitted into a long, plain corridor with a black slate floor and halogen lamps set flush to the ceiling.

Reception was on the first floor. They walked through whispering, smoked-glass doors into a stark, modernist lobby.

The receptionist stood behind an asymmetric desk. Lenny announced himself and notified the receptionist of his appointment with Mr Dryden.

The receptionist referred to an LCD screen, tapped something into a keyboard.

‘We’re a bit early,’ said Lenny.

The receptionist spoke without looking up.

‘That’s not a problem,’ he said. ‘Mr Dryden is expecting you in the bar. If you’d like to go through and wait?’

The bar was sumptuous and kitsch. Like a casino, it lacked windows. Perhaps in another incarnation it had been a gentlemen’s games room. Close to the bar itself were arranged several tables and chairs constructed from luscious, vaguely erotic curves and undulations. The walls were lined with heavy, velvet sofas. Although there was room to comfortably accommodate perhaps forty people, tonight the bar was almost empty. It contained a smattering of the Islington Curious. They huddled over wine glasses, talked in hushed monotones.

Holloway, Lenny and Shepherd set some organically shaped, red chairs round a low, kidney-shaped table. A young waiter came and took their order.

As he rolled a cigarette, Lenny’s hands shook.

Holloway met Shepherd’s eyes. Shepherd glanced away.

Lenny lit the cigarette with a book of Caliburn Hotel, London matches.

The waiter brought their drinks to the table. He set each one down on a little paper doily with a scalloped edge. He set down a crackle-glazed, white ceramic bowl of peanuts and a crackle-glazed, black ceramic bowl of Bombay mix. Then he tucked the tray under his arm and went back to continue his conversation with the Australian barman. The Australian’s accent but not his words carried across the muted room.

Holloway said: ‘What time is it?’

Lenny glanced at his watch.

‘Eleven. Just past.’

‘What if he’s early?’

‘He won’t be.’

‘But what if he is?’

Lenny crushed the half-smoked cigarette in the clean pewter ashtray. He massaged his forehead above the eyes.

‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, just—you know. Take your position.’

Holloway sipped his Coke. Musical tinkle of ice cubes.

‘It won’t take him long,’ he said, ‘to work out what you’re doing.’

‘Trust me,’ said Lenny. ‘It’ll play. He’s too interested in publicity to worry if we’re genuine or not. He’ll see what he wants to see: another opportunity to get himself in print. He’s as subject to Dryden’s First Law as the rest of us.’

Lenny made a sour face, as if the irony was acid in his stomach.

Holloway glanced again at the door.

‘And what if Lincoln shows?’

Lenny said: ‘For God’s
sake
, Will. Relax.’

Holloway stood. He drained his Coke. Set the empty glass on the table. A slice of limp, pale lemon in its base, over the shrapnel of ice. He was perfectly calm.

‘I’ll just—’ he said.

‘You do that,’ said Lenny. ‘Whatever.’

Holloway went to the bar. He ordered another Coke from the Australian barman. He was pleased to see the barman wore a scrubby goatee beard on his chin and that his blond hair was in a ponytail. He hoped he was having a good time in London. He paid cash; tipped heavily, more than the price of the Coke. The barman bounced the coin in his fist and closed his fingers round it.

‘Cheers, mate.’

Then Holloway seated himself in a far corner of the room, close to the fire doors in the corner. Somebody had left a newspaper on a nearby chair. He lifted and tried to read it. It was a
Daily Telegraph
.

He watched the door, in case someone entered who might be Henry Lincoln. He hoped he showed. There were questions to be asked that he had not discussed with Lenny.

He hoped he’d know him if he did arrive. He had only a mental image to go by. He toyed with the lock-knife in his pocket.

They had arranged to meet Dryden in the bar at 11.45. He was a little more than half an hour late. When the doors opened, Holloway was shaking with caffeine and sugar.

Dryden pushed the doors aside. The Islington Curious broke off their discussions for a moment and looked up.

Dryden saw Lenny from the doorway. He waved, then took his gloves off. Fiona Wright, the doctor who’d appeared on stage, accompanied him to the table. She wore a camel-coloured, ankle-length cashmere coat.

‘Lenny, I take it,’ said Dryden. He extended his hand. His cheeks were red with cold.

Lenny stood and shook his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘And you. This is Fiona.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘And you.’

She unbuckled the coat, removed it, folded it over the crook of an elbow.

Dryden’s gaze fell on Shepherd. A grin split his face like an axe wound.

‘
Mate
,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’

Shepherd made himself smile. He half stood in the awkward chair and extended his hand.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Dryden’s hand was strong and cold.

He seemed genuinely pleased to see Shepherd.

‘How are you getting on?’

He unwound his scarf and took off his overcoat.

‘Very well,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not so bad.’

‘You look well,’ said Dryden. ‘So. What brings you along tonight?’

Lenny interjected.

‘Mr Shepherd will also be contributing to the magazine.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Dryden. He grinned, and hung his folded coat over the back of the chair. ‘They got to you, too, did they?’

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

He had an odd feeling. He glanced at the door as if somebody had walked in. But there was nobody there.

Dryden pulled back a chair. Fiona Wright thanked him and sat, hanging her coat over the back of the seat and setting her handbag down on the floor. Then Dryden hiked his trouser legs and took a seat beside her. The red velvet, upholstered chair encased his head like a throne.

He leaned forward, looked over his shoulder and lifted a hand to summon the waiter. He ordered them a round of drinks. Same again for Lenny and Shepherd.

The waiter sloped silently off.

Then Dryden said: ‘So. Tell me again about this magazine.’

‘It’s called
Teflon Samizdat
,’ said Lenny.

‘Right,’ said Dryden. ‘Good name. Where does it come from?’

‘What—the name? I made it up.’

‘Right. And it’s a—’ He took from his pocket a much-folded copy of the press release Lenny had mocked up on the Macintosh. He held it up to the light. He squinted. ‘It’s a what what?’

‘It’s an Alternative Libertarian Manifesto,’ said Lenny.

‘Is it, indeed? And what’s an alternative libertarian, when he’s at home?’

Lenny forced a smile.

‘
Teflon Samizdat
has a radical semiotic agenda,’ he said.

‘I see,’ said Dryden.

He nodded encouragingly.

‘—which is to expose the intellectual flaccidity of the so-called radical left and the so-called radical right.’

‘What—’ said Dryden. ‘Every
month
?’

‘Quarterly.’

Dryden was fighting a smile.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. Then he said: ‘You don’t
look
like a radical semiotician.’

‘Well, that’s sort of the
point
.’

‘Steady on, son,’ said Dryden. ‘We haven’t started yet.’

He boggled his eyes. Then, merrily, he held Lenny’s gaze. Lenny looked away.

The drinks arrived.

‘Right,’ said Lenny. Across the room, he and Holloway shared a glance. Dryden didn’t seem to notice. He sipped from his whiskey and ginger.

Lenny said: ‘Shall we begin?’

He placed a Dictaphone on the table.

‘Ready when you are,’ said Dryden. He reached into his own pocket and set on the table a Dictaphone of the same make and model as Lenny’s.

He savoured Lenny’s expression.

He said: ‘Nothing personal. This is a tip I picked up from Tony Benn, just to let you know what a terrible mistake it would be to misquote me. Legally, I mean. Not that you would, I know. It would upset your crusading agenda.’

Dryden and the doctor shared a glance. She picked up her wine and sipped. She looked away.

Lenny swallowed.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We saw the
Hot Zombie Revue
tonight.’

‘Good stuff. Hope you enjoyed it.’

‘I’m not sure
enjoyed
would be the right word.’

‘Perhaps not. Did you find it stimulating?’ He grinned. So many teeth. ‘Semiotically.’

‘Certainly it made me reflect.’

Dryden laughed.

‘It did that, did it? It made you reflect? Well—I expect that’s a compliment, coming from a radical semiotician.’

Lenny blushed. His voice was weak and he had to cough and start the sentence again.

‘
It’s a Wonderful Life
,’
he said.

‘What?’ said Dryden.

‘The Friends of George Bailey,’ said Lenny.

Dryden tugged at his bristly grey throat.

He said: ‘Is this a Dadaist interview? Or are we playing word association?’

Lenny swallowed and licked his lips. He said: ‘The murderer of Joanne Grayling privately used various references to the 1947 Frank Capra film,
It’s a Wonderful Life
. For example, his email address was bedford.falls. Bedford Falls is the name of the town that features in the story, from which the hero cannot escape. That hero is called George Bailey. It is a matter of public record that the killer of Joanne Grayling signed his communications, including those from bedford.falls, as “the Friends of George Bailey”.’

Dryden’s circular eyes widened to their full button circumference. He bit down on his lower lip. His beard was grey and bristly as a boar. One meaty hand squeezed at his thigh. He seemed to be waiting. He smiled. The smile faltered. Then it spread across his face again and he barked with laughter.

‘The what of who did what?’ he said.

Lenny repeated what he’d said, word for word.

Dryden looked from left to right. He said: ‘What is this—like an Ali G thing? Candid Camera?’ He half stood in the chair and looked around the room. ‘Are you filming this, or something?’ He sat down. He looked indulgent and beguiled. He waved his hand for Lenny to proceed. He said: ‘I think I’d better let you go on with this.’

Lenny caught Holloway’s eye and nodded. Holloway folded the second-hand
Daily Telegraph
, which he had been twisting in his hands like a dishrag. He wiped his palms on his thighs and began to make his way across the bar. He kept out of Dryden’s line of vision.

‘The kidnapper of Joanne Grayling—’ Lenny began.

‘The kidnapper of—?’

(Shepherd heard somebody say his name. It sounded like his father.

He looked to the door.)

‘Joanne Grayling,’ said Lenny. ‘She was the victim of a murder that took place in Bristol earlier this year. Her mutilation had a certain cultic significance. Her whereabouts were successfully predicted by Mr Shepherd.’

Dryden’s gaze went from Lenny to Shepherd.

‘Successfully?’ he said.

Shepherd looked away.

‘It is also a matter of public record,’ said Lenny, ‘that the kidnapper of Joanne Grayling used the distinctive phrase “nowhere, forever” in his final communication to the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. To my knowledge, you have used this phrase twice: once, during a press conference shortly before Christmas, 1999. And once to my friend Mr Shepherd, shortly after you appeared together on—’

‘Of course I’ve used it,’ said Dryden. ‘It’s
my
phrase. I use it all the time. But I don’t have a
monopoly
on it. And I talk about
It’s a Wonderful Life
every night in my show. It’s my favourite film, for God’s sake. It makes me cry. You’d know that, if you’d stayed for the end.’

‘We saw enough.’

‘Enough for what?’

‘Enough to confirm our suspicions.’

Dryden’s voice had ridden up the scale.

‘Suspicions of
what
?’

‘In addition to emulating the murderous cultist, Jim Jones, something you later claimed to have been a joke, you head a secret, probably satanic cult, which seeks to emulate and surpass the so-called Manson Family murders of the late 1960s. These murders are seeped in your personal symbolism. It’s yet another matter of public record that in your Sussex base of operations, you daily used
It’s a Wonderful Life
to illustrate your apocalyptic liturgy. For whatever reason, however ironically you might claim it to be,
It’s a Wonderful Life
is your
Helter Skelter
; an allegory of Armageddon, of death and rebirth. When you dispatched your acolyte or acolytes to ritualistically slaughter the prostitute, Joanne Grayling, they were instructed to use specific references to this text. Additionally, you sought the symbolic, politically motivated sacrifice of a pig, namely a police officer, namely Detective Sergeant William Holloway.’

Dryden and the doctor exchanged looks. She widened her eyes.