Siren Song, page 27
He remained sceptical. ‘And how will that work?’ he said. He took a second photograph of the men as they were greeted by others emerging from a taxi. I sensed his growing interest at the sight of these new arrivals.
‘Who are they?’ I asked him.
‘Just the same old Great and the Good.’
He knew about my journey to Peterborough the following day with James Salter.
‘Bereavement counselling?’ I said.
‘The diploma’s got her name on it and everything. Perhaps she and Louise Brooks can hold a competition to see who can fill your grave fastest with their tears.’
‘Directly or indirectly, Fowler is responsible for three deaths. And as much as he might want everybody else to believe that I’m undertaking some kind of paid and misguided vendetta against him, those three people are still dead, and, one way or another, the blood’s still on his hands.’
He tutted and shook his head at the phrase. I’d already told him everything I’d learned in Leeds and my suspicions concerning Nicholson’s wife. He remained unconvinced, but said nothing to undermine my reasons for doing what we were about to do. I’d spent a mostly sleepless night trying to convince myself that I would still have turned up at Lister Court if he’d refused to come with me.
‘We ought to go,’ he said, tapping his watch.
We left the car and walked along Pease Court to the river, arriving at the warehouse from the opposite direction taken by all the others.
A man stood at the door welcoming the arrivals. I was relieved to see it wasn’t Marco.
There was no checklist of the invited, and the man on the door said, ‘Morning, gents,’ and stood aside as we entered. The group of councillors stood ahead of us. A waitress brought a tray of champagne flutes to us. We each took one and walked through into the room beyond.
Though unfinished, this was to be the restaurant dining area with its views over the river and its sodden, crumbling wharves. The concrete floor was covered with a vividly red carpet. Tables of food were laid out, and on the walls giant photographs showed what this and other developments would look like when completed.
I searched the room for Fowler or Webster, but saw neither.
We walked from one table to another. We spoke to some of the others there, pretending to know them, telling them how good it was to see them again. It was what they were accustomed to.
After ten minutes of this, there was a brief round of applause in the doorway and Fowler and Webster entered together. They were accompanied by several others, including Marco and Nikki.
Sunny and I stood to the rear of the room, our heads down, inspecting one of the models I had already seen in the Guildhall.
‘They look pleased with themselves,’ Sunny whispered.
‘They walk into a room and people applaud them. It can’t hurt.’
We’d already ascertained that there were no other members of the press in the room.
Seeing Fowler and Webster in the doorway, others began to applaud, and this grew until almost everyone in the room was clapping.
‘You’re right – that must do wonders for your self-esteem,’ Sunny said. He flicked over a tree on one of the models.
Fowler and Webster went to the far side of the room, where a low stage had been built, and climbed to the microphone which stood there.
Fowler stood this to one side and announced that he didn’t need it. Apparently, this was funny, and those standing closest to him laughed. He didn’t intend making a speech, he said, just a few words of welcome followed by a quick run-through of all they were there to celebrate.
Fowler’s welcome lasted fifteen minutes, and everyone in the room listened intently to what he said. When he’d finished, he introduced his partner, Webster, and there was more applause. Webster took Fowler’s place at the front of the low stage and repeated more or less what Fowler had just said.
While all this was happening, I watched Marco, who stood to one side of the stage, beside the door. Nikki stood close by. She handed out drinks, flirting with the men who took these from her. Marco led the applause on several occasions, occasionally whispering to those standing around him. He had not yet seen either Sunny or myself at the rear of the room.
Webster concluded his own speech with a promise to the gathered councillors that, between them, he and Fowler had only one goal in mind, and that it was a goal they shared with everyone who lived in Hull, and with all those leaders who had only the best interests of the city and its people at heart. It was as specific as he was prepared to be, and he was rewarded by the longest bout of applause yet.
After this, both Fowler and Webster left the stage and began to move around the room shaking hands. After several minutes, seeing that Fowler was at last coming towards where we stood, I told Sunny to turn away from him, allowing our eventual confrontation to come without warning.
I heard Fowler talking to one of the councillors, telling him how pleased he was that the man had been able to find the time in his busy schedule to attend. Fowler motioned to Nikki, who came to them and exchanged the councillor’s almost empty glass for a full one. He started talking about the model at which Sunny and I were standing, and the two men and Nikki came closer to us.
‘Showtime,’ Sunny said, and before I could tell him to wait, he turned, raised his camera and fired his flashgun directly into Fowler’s face when he was only two or three feet away from us. This caught Fowler by surprise and he raised his hand to shield himself.
‘We said no cameras,’ he said. ‘We were very clear on—’ He stopped speaking when he saw Sunny, and he looked from Sunny to me as I finally turned to face him.
‘No harm done,’ the councillor said appeasingly.
Fowler looked at me without speaking for a moment, and then he asked the councillor to excuse him. He needed to have a quick word with me. He motioned again to Nikki, who understood him perfectly, and who slid her arm through the councillor’s and led him away to another of the models.
I drank the last of the champagne in my glass and handed it to Fowler, who took it and then looked at it in his hand as though he had no idea how it had arrived there.
Sunny wound on his film and pretended to make adjustments to his camera, diverting Fowler’s attention and leaving him uncertain about which of us to speak to first.
‘You’re not welcome here, Mr Rivers. You neither, Mr Summers.’
‘We gathered that much,’ Sunny said.
‘So?’
‘So I’d like you to leave,’ Fowler said.
‘Yeah, right,’ Sunny said. ‘I just need to take a few more shots. Perhaps one of you and Webster together, your arms around each other’s shoulders. Perhaps I could even get one of the two of you licking each other’s arses. You know, like dogs.’
Fowler looked back to me. ‘I’m warning you,’ he said.
‘I know you are,’ I said. ‘You’ve been warning me ever since you broke into my office uninvited.’
‘This is a private celebration,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Anything you want to know, to ask me – to ask anyone – you’ll get your chance at the Guildhall in a week’s time.’
‘Oh, well, in that case, we’ll leave straight away and see you there,’ Sunny said. He picked up the tiny tree he had toppled and snapped it in half. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. He waved to a passing waitress and exchanged his own empty glass for a full one, which he emptied in a single swallow. Then he picked up a small white car from beside the broken tree and pushed it back and forth across his palm making the noise of its engine.
‘You will regret this, Mr Rivers,’ Fowler said to me, his face close to mine, his voice low.
A group of men arrived beside us, and he turned to speak to them. I introduced myself, saying I was an interior designer specializing in restaurants. One man said he looked forward to seeing the finished thing. I pretended to be offended and told him that it was already finished and that the only thing left to do was to put out the tables and chairs. The man looked uneasy at my remarks.
‘He’s joking,’ Fowler said, and sensing this sudden tension the man left us.
By then, Marco, alerted by Nikki, had come to stand a few feet behind Fowler.
‘Marco,’ I said. ‘Good to see you. How’s Nikki?’
‘Nikki’s fine,’ Fowler said.
I ignored him, continuing my conversation with Marco over Fowler’s shoulder. ‘Good job this little get-together was scheduled for today. Because if it had been yesterday, I wouldn’t have been able to make it. Had to go to Leeds, visit an old friend.’
‘What’s he talking about?’ Fowler said to Marco.
‘You don’t have to pretend not to know what I’m talking about,’ I said to Fowler.
Behind him, Marco looked suddenly and fleetingly anxious.
‘What?’ I said to him, exaggerating my surprise. ‘You mean Mr Fowler here really doesn’t know?’
‘Perhaps if you told me what you were talking about, Rivers,’ Fowler said to me.
‘A minute ago, you wanted us to leave. Is Marco going to throw us out? In front of all these people?’
Beside me, Sunny raised his camera and fired the flash into Marco’s face.
Marco said, ‘Fuck,’ loudly, and several of the men standing close to us turned and looked at him.
Fowler, too, cast him a glance, and Marco apologized to him.
‘No,’ Sunny said. ‘You should apologize to me. Tell him, Mr Fowler.’
‘Apologize,’ Fowler said.
Marco stood without speaking for several seconds.
‘He apologizes,’ Fowler said.
‘Wholeheartedly and unreservedly?’ Sunny said.
‘Of course.’
By then, Webster’s attention had also been attracted, and he came to stand beside Fowler. He knew immediately that something was wrong, that Sunny and I were unwelcome in the room. He put his arm around Fowler’s shoulders and asked him what was ‘occurring’.
Fowler whispered to him behind his hand.
‘What’s “occurring”,’ Sunny said, ‘is that Fowler’s pet monkey here swore at me, and Fowler was just apologizing for that. You are? No, don’t tell me – you must be monkey number two – Webster.’
Webster took his arm from around Fowler’s shoulders and moved a step closer to Sunny. ‘Mr Summers,’ he said in a whisper, ‘play whatever stupid fucking games you want to play – you and your stupid fucking friend here – but don’t fucking well play them with me or with my good friend Mr Fowler, because you’re never going to win. You’re a washed-up, useless fucking arsehole, and everybody here knows that.’
‘Everybody but me, apparently,’ Sunny said.
‘A useless fucking arsehole who is going to find himself in the deepest fucking pile of shit he’s ever found himself in if he doesn’t fuck off out of here.’ All the time he was speaking, Webster was smiling, and nothing he said was overheard by the men around us.
‘Well, if you put it like that,’ Sunny said, and fired his flash into Webster’s face.
But Webster refused to be goaded by this. ‘And you are?’ he said to me.
‘Me?’ I said. ‘I’m the man who’s about to go public with the news that your good friend – your partner – here is responsible for at least two, possibly three, deaths. And that’s “deaths” as in “murders”. And what’s more, Mr Webster, I’m going to do it either at or before – I haven’t decided yet – your big announcement next week. Me and the washed-up, useless fucking arsehole here have a lot in common, and one of those things we have in common is our understanding of exactly what kind of man your good friend Mr Fowler here really is.’
Webster considered this for a moment. ‘What’s he talking about?’ he said to Fowler.
Fowler raised his eyebrows and shook his head. ‘Not the time or the place,’ he said.
‘I asked you what he was talking about,’ Webster said.
‘The Helen Brooks thing. Rivers here is taking her mother’s money to stir things up and pretend to her that her daughter wasn’t the doped-up little slag everybody else knew her to be.’
‘I remember her,’ Webster said, smiling.
‘You should,’ Fowler said, his eyes still fixed on mine. ‘I seem to remember you and her spent a fair bit of time together. Showing her the sights, were you?’
Both men laughed, but there was a cold, uncertain edge to their laughter.
‘Is that seriously what all this is about, Rivers?’ Webster said to me. ‘Because if it is, you’re second only in the useless fucking arsehole stakes to this tosser here.’ He stopped his finger an inch from Sunny’s chest. ‘Make all the fucking accusations you like. Where’s your proof? And what the fuck do you think that fucking mess has got to do with any of this? You’re pushing your fucking luck, and you know it. You’ve got nothing on Fowler, nothing on any of us, and whatever you think you might have got, it’s all too late to do you any good now, so why don’t you do like you’ve been told to do and fuck off out of here and play your stupid fucking little detective games somewhere else.’
I waited for him to finish speaking. By then his voice was raised, and several of the men standing around us had finished their own conversations to listen to him. Fowler saw this and turned to talk to them. He signalled for more food and drink to be brought over.
Webster’s outburst suggested to me that he already knew what had happened to Helen Brooks all those months ago, and what it might imply regarding their current venture together. And he seemed as convinced as Fowler had always been that, whatever force my accusations might appear to carry, I still had nothing to back them up.
When Fowler had returned from the others, Marco whispered in his ear. Fowler, in turn, whispered to Webster.
It had surprised me to see how readily Fowler had given way to Webster, and how little he had done to try and restrain him.
‘That’s right,’ Webster said to me. ‘You’re giving the other daughter one. Bit fucking underhand that, isn’t it?’
‘You mean “unethical” or “compromising”,’ Sunny told him. ‘Not “underhand”.’ He continued to run the small white car back and forth across his palm.
‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ I said to him.
I turned back to Fowler. ‘You didn’t throw up your arms in complete surprise when I suggested you were responsible for, or complicit in, three murders,’ I said.
‘That’s because you talk a load of crap,’ Webster said before Fowler could answer me.
‘Sorry, but I was talking to Mr Fowler,’ I said. ‘I’ll try and make your part in all of this a little clearer when I’ve finished with him.’
‘Why should I respond?’ Fowler said to me. ‘If you think you’ve got evidence, take it to the law. Let them deal with it.’
It was what he’d been telling me all along.
‘I will,’ I said.
Webster moved even closer to me, until our chests were touching. ‘If you are giving the other daughter one, then that gives you and me something in common and—’
Fowler put a hand on his arm. ‘Let me deal with this,’ he said.
‘You should have dealt with all this a long time ago,’ Webster said angrily.
‘Boys, boys,’ Sunny said to them, and again he raised his camera and fired the flash.
‘You take one more fucking picture and I’m going to ram that fucking thing down your throat,’ Webster said. He pulled his arm from Fowler’s hand.
I could see that he was finally close to being unable to restrain himself.
‘Let’s hope the police don’t have to come searching through and then digging up too many of the properties Fowler is about to offload onto you,’ I said.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Searching for the bodies,’ I said. ‘They’re probably hidden somewhere in or under one of his houses. Christ, that would be inconvenient, to say the least.’ I was no more convinced of this than Webster was.
Fowler laughed. ‘There are no bodies. They were lost at sea. He’s just trying to wind you up.’
‘I know what he’s doing,’ Webster said, but for the first time, he seemed uncertain, unconvinced by what Fowler was telling him.
‘The evidence I take to the police may suggest otherwise,’ I said.
I caught Sunny’s glance; even he wasn’t certain what I was suggesting or why I’d said what I’d said. But before I could say anything else, Webster grabbed me by the throat and forced me backwards until my head hit the wall. I had been completely unprepared for this and I lost my balance, dropping my glass and fumbling to get my hands around Webster’s arm.
Beside me, Sunny took a succession of pictures.
Webster shouted at me as I struggled to free myself. Fowler, I saw, raised his arm, as though about to pull Webster away from me, but then thought better of the gesture and took a step backwards instead. Everyone else in the room stopped their own conversations to watch what was happening. Marco came to stand beside Fowler.
‘I’m not going to tell you again.’ Webster spat in my face.
Sunny stopped taking pictures. He grabbed Webster’s hand and prised it from my throat. ‘I think that was uncalled for, to say the least,’ he said. ‘And if I might give you a bit of advice – arsehole to arsehole, so to speak – I’d recommend you lay off the strong-arm tactics while half of the city councillors are looking on and somebody else is taking pictures of it all. Save all that kind of stuff for intimidating your tenants or your illegal workforce. Me and Mr Rivers, we’re made of sterner stuff.’ He relaxed his grip and Webster pulled his hand away and flexed his fingers.
I loosened my collar and struggled to catch my breath.
Fowler said something to Marco, who left us. Several of Webster’s own employees now stood watching us, ready to respond to his orders.
‘It isn’t going to happen,’ Fowler said to Webster. ‘Trust me. There’s nothing to look for, nowhere to look, and nobody to come looking. The law isn’t going to lift a finger, whatever Rivers might want to believe. They weren’t interested then and they aren’t interested now. You have my guarantee.’
Marco returned to stand beside him.
