The Crime Tsar (35 page)

‘What am I going to do? Leave home?'

Suddenly Gary didn't want to talk about it any more. The Gary with MS who was saintly and understanding was giving way to Gary the unfulfilled thug, the man who knew violence didn't solve anything but was prepared to give it a go.

He took refuge in the banal.

‘Go and put the kettle on, will you, Luce? All this emotion has parched me.'

Lucy turned to go.

‘And, Luce …? You won't be going over there again, will you?'

‘What do you mean?'

Gary's tone was harder.

‘What I said. You won't be cleaning there any more, or popping over for coffee with the lovely Jenni.'

‘But, Gary …' Lucy scrabbled round for the right words.

‘If we don't talk to them any more, it'll seem strange, won't it? And I've promised to do a big spring clean while they're in Barcelona.'

Gary knew then that it wasn't over; she was still besotted by Shackleton and, like an addict, petrified of letting her fantasy go. What was she hoping? That he'd leave Jenni? That they'd live happily ever after? No. Probably not. She was just hoping he'd change his mind.

Gary's anger with Shackleton was far greater than anything he felt for Lucy: his main emotion towards her was pity. He wondered where the love had gone, or was this love from a different angle? He
felt strangely detached, able to see the situation objectively: if he forbade Lucy to go there again, what hope would he have of being listened to? And if she did stop seeing him what kind of Lucy would he have to live with? Some miserable ghost drifting round the house twitching the curtains every time his car drew up.

If he knew Shackleton as well as he thought he did, Lucy would have served her purpose and Shackleton would be doing a fair amount of self-flagellation now. Less likely to want her again if she was always there than if she suddenly went from his life and he built up an image of her as the Lucy he lost and missed. Good psychology, but was it right? Was Shackleton as utterly incapable of sacrificing his ambition for affection as Gary thought he was? Yes. Gary knew the answer was yes. Lucy had been a fling, an exercise, probably just a biological release, and his rejection of her must be because she was becoming a threat to his equilibrium. Or simply something more interesting and less troublesome had come along.

Leaving her there, accusing him by her presence and reminding him of his slip-up would be better than keeping her away. Her availability would be guaranteed to keep Shackleton away from her.

He hoped.

For all his clinical approach to the problem it was just lack of a viable option that made him say, ‘OK, Lucy. But no more socialising, eh? All right?'

She agreed quickly.

‘Of course, Gary. I understand. I think you're right. Yes. But I'll carry on cleaning, but maybe only go over after he's gone to work. Yes?'

Gary was tired, he wanted to close his eyes and forget it all.

‘Put the kettle on, Lucy.'

‘Right. Right. Yes.' She went.

She knew all the things she should feel but as she stood, her hands on the work surface, waiting for the kettle to boil, the groan that built up inside her was released in the words, ‘Oh Tom …'

She hadn't heard the fat lady sing. But she suddenly saw and felt Gary as he'd been when they met. The first time they made love. As she poured the boiling water on the bags – Gary had always been fond of organic Darjeeling but now it was almost always supermarket own-brand sweepings – she remembered the surprise she'd felt when she first touched Gary intimately. She couldn't believe what
her fingers were feeling. It was enormous. Well, enormous in her limited experience, no not enormous in girth, but very long and with an inclination to one side in its final, triumphant two, or was it three, inches. And his stamina …

She added milk and two sugars for Gary. Black for herself, still dieting for the Chief Constable.

After the first two hours he'd asked if she minded if they took a break. A quarter of a glass of cheap chilled white wine and a cigarette. Then two and a half more hours of what the magazines of the time had coyly called foreplay. Sometimes heavy petting. Sounded like two overweight poodles. Then he'd asked her if he might put on a condom. As if asking if she'd mind him tuning in to the cricket. She hadn't watched as he expertly rolled it down that extraordinary length of enthusiasm – it had seemed slightly rude to look. And then …

‘Any chance of that tea before Christmas, Lou?'

She hadn't come on that first occasion; not because she wasn't excited by him but because she was watching him, enjoying the mounting surprise on his face, the pleasure building and bursting inside that strange rubber bag clinging to him closer even than her own flickering muscles.

Then he talked and they laughed and finally slept, together, entwined.

As she took the teas through she felt again the happiness she'd had watching him sleep. Maybe that's where her maternal feelings had been channelled, into watching men's sleeping faces as she held them close after they had emptied themselves into her.

‘What are you smiling at?' Gary asked as she put down his baby mug.

‘Was I? Nothing. Just thinking back.'

Gary watched her. He recognised the redness of her face and the base of her neck. She was thinking about sex. He doubted it involved him.

The hospital doctor, consultant, all loud voice and Garrick Club tie, had been bullish about Gary's chances of continuing to ‘satisfy the little woman'.

The MS specialist, a quietly spoken man with unpolished shoes, was more realistic and offered Gary a selection of pumps and pulleys and magic pills. But it wasn't just the body's mechanics for Gary. His
mind had made him impotent. He was revolting in his own eyes: how could anyone still want him? So the glory of his teens and twenties cowered in a wrinkle of skin under the eternal cotton of his pyjamas. And even though she sometimes, rarely now, pushed herself against him, lay down beside him, he couldn't let his fingers roam over her. He couldn't give her pleasure.

And now his hands weren't capable.

He wondered if he should be grateful she hadn't been shagging everyone from the milkman to Mr Chawla in the corner shop.

‘What are you thinking about?' Lucy's tone was gentle, nurse-like. She knew exactly what and knew she deserved his anger for asking.

‘Fuchsias,' he said. ‘I think I'd like some outside the patio doors. So I can see them from here.'

‘Yes. Good idea,' she said, dipping a low-fat chocolate biscuit into her tea.

The Gnome was listening to
Don Giovanni
when the phone rang. Listening to Thomas Allen he remembered the impact of the singer's sexuality when he'd seen him perform the role. The Don's obsession with the chase and Allen's obvious understanding were the perfect partnership. It was, without doubt, Robert MacIntyre's perfect opera.

He'd been dealing with his red boxes. His beloved and most satisfying red boxes. The reward he'd waited for for so long.

The run-up to the election had lacked tension other than that generated by the media. The opposition had been in such disarray it was almost embarrassing to talk them up as a threat. Of course on voting day everyone had had an attack of the jitters in case the hand of fate misdealt, but the landslide remained, even if it was from less than 30 per cent of the electorate. MacIntyre didn't mind – he saw nothing wrong in apathy if it worked to the government's advantage.

The day after the result the Prime Minister called him to Number 10 to offer him Home Secretary. He accepted and experienced the first perfect day of his life.

MacIntyre had known the idea of satisfaction, he'd had a taste of completion, but nothing prepared him for the rolling orgasm of power that the position gave him. Home Secretary. He loved it. It was, he felt, what God had made him for. Not Prime Minister, he
didn't want that: the vulgar showmanship now required wasn't his style at all. No, he'd found his niche and felt almost mellowed by the experience.

‘PM's on the phone,' Lizie called.

He picked up the handset on his desk. The voice on the other end was, as always, colloquial without being at ease.

‘Hi… Robbie … I've er, I've just seen the broadsheets. This guy Carter, what's he up to? What do you think? Bit of a loose cannon possibly?'

MacIntyre had realised that when he'd watched the interview but wanted to see to what extent the press would pick up on it. No point in overreacting if the media had something to distract it, but as usual the PM wanted control.

‘I don't think his views on decriminalisation necessarily make him a danger, Prime Minister.' MacIntyre detested first-name familiarity. ‘Why don't I have a word with him on Monday?'

‘Good idea. I mean, Robbie, this bloke's going to have to be with us as Crime Tsar, isn't he? On everything. Anyway, he's your man so as long as a word's enough. I don't know. Maybe we should think again. Look, I've got to go. Just give it some thought, eh, Robbie? Oh and all the best to Elizabeth.'

With Us. On Message. Singing From The Same Hymn Sheet. The mantra of contemporary success.

MacIntyre walked over to the window. The llamas, comical creatures, were jumping about like cartoons. He could see problems ahead with Mr Carter. It had been widely reported that he was to be the Crime Tsar, though not officially announced. He was respected by press, radio and television as an individual thinker. The government had garnered praise from usually critical areas for selecting someone not regarded as a Party poodle. But… MacIntyre realised there could be no but. No going back unless the PM and his advisers wanted to unleash a tornado of contemptuous criticism from the media. And that criticism would be deflected from Downing Street and on to him. The Home Secretary was responsible for this appointment. If a mess was created it would be seen to be his even though the decision to give Carter the job was made before his time.

A rock and a hard place.

He knew Carter would not be passed over without adding his own well-focused thoughts to the furore which would, inevitably, follow.
No, Mr Carter was, irrevocably, the first Crime Tsar, but a word in his ear would not go amiss. Not of warning exactly but simply advice. Yes. Just a little guidance. But he would always present a threat. That was not something the Gnome relished.

The door opened and Lizie came in carrying a tray. On it was a pot of tea, two cups and a freshly made Dundee cake.

‘Cup of tea and a slice of cake!'

They said it together, a juvenile chant, emphasising alternate words. Comforting and childish. The Gnome leaned across the dispatch box and kissed her cheek.

‘God, you're a temptress! Oh all right then, just five minutes, then I must get on.'

Jenni was more than usually on edge as they drove to the airport. She hadn't been sleeping properly since their visit to Geoffrey Carter and had taken to hoovering at 3 a.m. or packing and re-packing their luggage.

Shackleton broke the silence.

‘We need petrol. I'll stop at the next services.'

Jenni didn't react, he couldn't see her eyes behind the expensive sunglasses she wore. They went on in silence, Jenni twisting and untwisting a silk scarf between her freshly manicured hands. Shackleton drove into the green-canopied petrol station.

‘I need some water. And the loo.'

These were the first words Jenni had spoken since getting into the car.

He was anxious to please.

‘I'll get a bottle – oh, the toilet's out of order.'

‘For Christ's sake … toilet? Toilet? You're not at Kingsley Mixed Infants now. God!'

Shackleton continued to fill the tank. He recognised the rising hysteria in her voice and wanted to find a way round the looming confrontation.

‘Sorry,' he murmured.

‘Drive over to the restaurant.'

He paid for the petrol and then quietly obeyed.

Suddenly her mood lightened.

‘Come on, I'll buy you a sticky bun. There's plenty of time.'

She smiled at him.

He was pleasantly surprised by the evaporation of the thunder clouds but too wary to abandon his caution. They got out of the car and Jenni set off for the entrance. Shackleton paused to lock the car.

She turned back.

‘Where's your jacket?'

‘In the car.'

‘Aren't you going to put it on?'

He was confused.

‘No. It's a nice day. I don't need it.'

‘You look like a second-hand car salesman. Put your jacket on.'

‘No, I don't think so, Jenni, I don't need it. We'll only be five minutes …'

And then she snapped. The elegant, silk-clad woman six paces ahead of him suddenly transformed into a screaming banshee.

‘Why don't you respect me? You put your jacket on if you're with someone that matters. But I don't matter, do I? I'm just your wife. Put your jacket on. You're humiliating me! You bastard! You arrogant bastard!'

And with the half-dozen mums, dads and kids picking chips out of cardboard cones in the car-park watching, she threw herself at him with the mad strength of total fury. Her red-painted nails found no resistance in the skin of his cheeks. They pulled down his lower eyelids, making him look for an instant like a sad Saint Bernard. When she turned her back on him there was dark blood oozing from the wounds on his face.

He heard her say, ‘Put your jacket on,' as she disappeared through the automatic doors advertising family meals for £4.99.

Acutely aware of the stares from the puddingy children nearby, he bent to retrieve his jacket. He followed Jenni into the plastic restaurant. She held out a cup of tea to him.

A fat man tattooed with the key influences of his life, Mum, Evelyn, Love, Hate and 2 Para, walked up to Shackleton ignoring Jenni.

‘I'd smack ‘er one if I was you, mate. Give ‘er a good hiding. She'll not do that again.'