The Book of Evidence (27 page)

More policemen came in then by the front way, there seemed to be a large crowd of them, though they were in fact only four. O n e of them was the fellow 1 had seen standing at the harbour wall that morning, I recognised the raincoat. All were carrying guns, of assorted shapes and sizes. I was impressed. They ranged themselves around the walls, looking at me with a kind of bridling curiosity. T h e door to the hall stood open. Charlie made a m o v e in that direction and one of the policemen in a flat voice said: H a n g on. There was silence except for the faint, metallic nattering of police radios outside. We might have been awaiting the entrance of a sovereign. T h e person who came in at last was a surprise. He was a slight, boyish man of thirty or so, with sandy hair and transparent blue eyes. I noticed at once his hands and feet, which were small, almost dainty. He approached me at an angle somehow, looking at the floor with a peculiar little smile. His name, he said, was Haslet, Detective Inspector Haslet. (Hello, Gerry, hope you don't mind my mentioning your dainty hands — it's true, you know, they are.) T h e oddness of his manner — that smile, the oblique glance — was due, 1

realised* to shyness. A shy policeman! It was not what I had expected. He looked about him. There was a moment of awkwardness. No one seemed to k n o w quite what to do next. He turned his downcast eyes in my direction again.

Well, he said to no one in particular, are we right? Then all was briskness suddenly. T h e one with the machine-gun —

Sergeant H o g g , let's call him — stepped forward and, laying his weapon d o w n on the table, deftly clapped a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. (By the way, they are not as uncomfortable as they might seem — in fact, there was something about being manacled that I found almost

. soothing, as if it were a more natural state than that of untrammelled freedom.) Charlie frowned. Is that necessary, Inspector? he said. It was such a grand old line, and so splendidly delivered, with just the right degree of solemn hauteur, that for a second I thought it might elicit a small round of applause. I looked at him with renewed admiration. He had thrown o f f that infirm air of a minute or t w o ago, and looked, really, quite impressive there in his dark suit and silver wings of hair. Even his unshaven cheeks and tieless collar only served to give him the 190
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appearance of a statesman roused f r o m his bed to deal with s o m e g r a v e crisis in the affairs of the nation. Believe m e , I am sincere w h e n I say I a d m i r e his expertise as a quick-change artist. To place all faith in the mask, that seems to me n o w the true s t a m p of refined humanity. D i d I say that, or s o m e o n e else? No matter. I caught his eye, to s h o w h i m my appreciation, and to ask h i m — oh, to ask s o m e sort of pardon, I suppose. A f t e r w a r d s I worried that my glance m i g h t have seemed to h i m m o r e derisive than apologetic, for 1 think I must have w o r n a smirk t h r o u g h o u t that grotesque kitchen c o m e d y . His m o u t h w a s set g r i m l y , and a nerve w a s twitching in his j a w — he had every right to be furious — but in his eyes all I could see w a s a sort of d r e a m y sadness. T h e n H o g g p r o d d e d me in the back, and I was m a r c h e d quickly d o w n the hall and out into the dazzling light of afternoon.

T h e r e was a m o m e n t of confusion as the policemen milled on the p a v e m e n t , craning their s t u m p y necks and peering sharply this w a y and that about the harbour. W h a t did they expect, a rescue party? I noticed that they all w o r e running shoes, except Haslet, the g o o d country b o y , in his stout b r o w n brogues. O n e o f his m e n b u m p e d into him.

T o o m a n y cops spoil the capture, I said brightly. No one laughed, and Haslet pretended he had not heard. I thought it w a s awfully witty, of course. I w a s still in that m o o d of m a d elation, I cannot explain it. I seemed not to walk but b o u n d along, b r i m f u l of tigerish energy. Everything sparkled in the rinsed SI—SIT. T h e sunlight had a flickering, hallucinatory quality, and I felt I was seeing s o m e h o w into the very process of it, catching the photons themselves in flight. We crossed the road. T h e car I had seen f r o m the upstairs w i n d o w w a s still there, the windscreen stippled with raindrops. T h e t w o figures sitting in the front watched us with cautious curiosity as we went past. I 191
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laughed — they were not police, but a large man and his large missus, out for a Sunday spin. The woman, chewing slowly on a sweet, goggled at the handcuffs, and I raised my wrists to her in a friendly salute. H o g g poked me again between the shoulder-blades, and I almost stumbled, f could see I was going to have trouble with him.

There were two cars, unmarked and nondescript, a blue one and a black. T h e comedy of car-doors opening, like beetles' wings. I was put into the back seat with Sergeant H o g g on. one side of me and a big, baby-faced bruiser with red. hair on the other. Haslet leaned on the door. Did you caution him? he enquired mildly. There was silence. The two detectives
in
the front seat went very still, as if afraid to stir for fear of laughing. H o g g stared grimly before him, his mouth set
in
a thin line. Haslet sighed and walked away. T h e driver carefully started up the engine. Y o u have the right to remain silent blah blah blah, H o g g said venomously, without looking at me. Thank you, Sergeant, n I said. I thought this another splendid bit of repartee. We took o f f from the kerb with a squeal, leaving a puff of tyre-smoke behind us on the air. I wondered if Charlie was watching f r o m the window. I did not look back.

I pause to record that Helmut Behrens has died. Heart.

Dear me, this is turning into the B o o k of the Dead.

H o w well I remember that journey. I had never travelled so fast in a car. We fairly flew along, weaving through the sluggish Sunday traffic, roaring d o w n the inside lanes, taking corners on t w o wheels. It was very hot, with all the windows shut, and there was a musky, animal stink. T h e atmosphere bristled. I was entranced, filled with terror and

a kind of glee, hurtling a l o n g like this, packed in with these big, sweating, silent m e n , w h o sat staring at the road ahead with their arms tightly folded, clasping to them their excitement and their pent-up rage. I could feel them breathing. S p e e d soothed them: speed w a s violence. T h e sun shone in our eyes, a great, dense glare. 1 k n e w that at the slightest provocation they w o u l d set on me and beat me half to death, they w e r e just waiting for the chance.

E v e n this k n o w l e d g e , though, was bracing. I had never in my life been so entirely the centre of attention. F r o m n o w on I w o u l d be w a t c h e d over, I w o u l d be tended and fed and listened to, like a big, dangerous babe. No m o r e running, no m o r e hiding and waiting, no m o r e decisions. I s n u g g l e d d o w n between m y captors, enjoying the hot chafe of metal on my wrists. Y e t all the while another part of my m i n d w a s registering another version of things —

w a s thinking, for instance, of all that I w a s losing. I looked at the streets, the buildings, the people, as if for the last time. I, w h o am a c o u n t r y m a n at heart — yes, yes, it9s true

— and never really k n e w or cared for the city, even w h e n I lived here, had c o m e to love it n o w . L o v e ? T h a t is not a w o r d 1 use very often. Perhaps I m e a n something else. It w a s the loss, yes, the i m m i n e n t loss of — of what, 1 don*t k n o w . I w a s g o i n g to say,
of the community of men,
something solemn and grand like that, but when was I ever a part o f
that
gathering? All the same, as w e travelled along* s o m e deep cavern of my heart w a s filling up with the grief of renunciation and departure. I recall especially a spot, near the river, w h e r e we were held up for a minute by a faulty traffic light. It w a s a street of little houses w e d g e d between grey, featureless buildings, warehouses and the like. An old m a n sat on a window-sill, an infant played in the gutter with a g r i m y p u p . Lines of brilliant w a s h i n g w e r e strung like bunting across an alleyway. All 193
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was still. The light stayed red. And then, as if a secret lever somewhere had been pressed, the whole rackety little scene came slowly, shyly to life. First a green train passed over a red metal bridge. Then two doors in two houses opened at once, and two girls in their Sunday best stepped out into the sunlight. T h e infant crowed, the pup yapped. A plane flew overhead, and an instant later its shadow skimmed the street. The old man hopped o f f the window-sill with surprising sprightliness. There was a pause, as if for effect, and then, with a thrilling foghorn blast, there glided into view above the rooftops the white bridge and black smokestack of an enormous, stately ship. It was all so quaint, so innocent and eager, like an illustration from the cover of a child's geography book, that f wanted to laugh out loud, though if I had, I think what would have come out would have sounded more like a sob. The driver swore then, and drove on through the red light, and I turned my head quickly and saw the whole thing swirling away, bright girls and ship, child and dog, old man, that red bridge, swirling away, into the past.

The police station was a kind of mock-Renaissance palace with a high, grey, many-windowed stone front and an archway leading into a grim little yard where surely once there had been a gibbet. I was hauled brusquely out of the car and led through low doorways and along dim corridors. There was a Sunday-afternoon air of lethargy about the place, and a boarding-school smell. I confess I had expected that the building would be a g o g at my arrival, that there would be clerks and secretaries and policemen in their braces crowding the hallways to get a look at me, but hardly a soul was about, and the few who passed me by hardly looked at me, and I could not help feeling a little offended. We stopped in a gaunt, unpleasant room, and had to wait some minutes for Inspector Haslet 194
.

t o arrive. T w o tall w i n d o w s , e x t r e m e l y g r i m y , their l o w e r panes reinforced w i t h w i r e mesh, g a v e o n t o the y a r d . T h e r e w a s a scarred desk, a n d a n u m b e r of w o o d e n chairs. N o o n e sat. W e shuffled o u r feet and l o o k e d a t the ceiling. S o m e o n e cleared his throat. An elderly g u a r d in shirt-sleeves c a m e in. He w a s bald, and h a d a sweet, a l m o s t childlike smile. I noticed he w a s w e a r i n g a pair of thick black b o o t s , tightly laced a n d b u f f e d to a h i g h shine. T h e y w e r e a c o m f o r t i n g sight, those boots. In the c o m i n g days I w a s t o m e a s u r e m y captors b y their f o o t w e a r . B r o g u e s and b o o t s I felt I c o u l d trust, r u n n i n g shoes w e r e sinister.

Inspector Haslet's car arrived in the y a r d . O n c e again we s t o o d a b o u t a w a i t i n g his entrance. He c a m e in as before, w i t h the s a m e diffident half-smile. I s t o o d in front of the desk w h i l e he read o u t the charges. It w a s an o d d l y f o r m a l little c e r e m o n y . I w a s r e m i n d e d o f m y w e d d i n g d a y , and h a d to suppress a grin. T h e bald o l d g u a r d t y p e d o u t the c h a r g e sheet on an ancient u p r i g h t black m a c h i n e , as if he w e r e laboriously p i c k i n g o u t a tune on a p i a n o , the tip of his t o n g u e w e d g e d into a corner of his m o u t h . Wrhen Inspector Haslet asked if I h a d a n y t h i n g to say I s h o o k my head. I w o u l d not h a v e k n o w n w h e r e to begin. T h e n the ritual w a s o v e r . T h e r e w a s a k i n d of general relaxing, a n d the other detectives, e x c e p t H o g g , shuffled out. It w a s like the e n d o f M a s s . H o g g p r o d u c e d cigarettes, and offered the g r i n n i n g packet to Haslet a n d the g u a r d at the typewriter, and even, after a b r i e f hesitation, to m e . I felt I c o u l d n o t refuse. I tried n o t to c o u g h . Tell m e , I said to Haslet, h o w did y o u find m e ? He s h r u g g e d . He h a d the air of a s c h o o l b o y w h o has scored an e m b a r r a s s i n g l y high m a r k in his e x a m s . T h e girl in the p a p e r shop, he said. Y o u never read o n l y the o n e story, e v e r y d a y . A h , I said, yes, of course. It struck m e , h o w e v e r , as n o t at all c o n v i n c i n g .

"Was he c o v e r i n g up f o r B i n k i e Behrens, f o r A n n a , even?

195
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{He wasn't. They kept silent, to the end.) We smoked for a while, companionably. Twin shafts of sunlight leaned in the windows. A radio was squawking somewhere. I was suddenly, profoundly bored.

Listen, H o g g said, tell us, why
did
you do it?

I stared at him, startled, and at a loss. It was the one thing I had never asked myself, not with such simple, unavoidable force. Do you know, sergeant, I said, that's a very g o o d question. His expression did not change, indeed he seemed not to m o v e at all, except that his lank forelock lifted and fell, and for an instant I thought I had suffered a seizure, that something inside me, my liver, or a kidney, had burst of its own accord. More than anything else I felt amazement — that, and a curious, perverse satisfaction. I sank to my knees in a hot mist. 1

could not breathe. The elderly guard came from behind the desk and hauled me to my feet —
did
he say Oops-a™

daisy, surely I imagine it? — and led me, stumbling, through a door and down a corridor and shoved me into a noisome, cramped lavatory. I knelt over the bowl and puked up lumps of egg and greasy spuds and a string of curdled milk. The ache in my innards was extraordinary, I could not believe it, I, who should have known all about such things. When there was nothing left to vomit S lay dow

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n with my arms clasped around my knees. Ah yes, I thought, this is more like it, this is more what I expected, writhing on the floor in a filthy jakes with my guts on fire.