High John the Conqueror, page 14
‘Why were they so renowned round here? What was the micro-scene?’ I ask. ‘I love music and only half-registered the name. I don’t think I even knowingly heard them until today.’
‘I’m not surprised. They didn’t have any hits and wouldn’t have been rated in the music press or anywhere far out of this area, apart from Finland or Germany or somewhere like that, I think, where they used to tour. But in those days, you know, before YouTube and the internet, if you had an association with some place, then you owned the place. And not being able to easily hear the records, that was all part of it.’
Tamla takes the phone from me. ‘It says here that they met at school…’
‘Yeah, they started out as a stoner prog rock covers act at college — a cross between Hawkwind and Genesis. Fallgrief was one of the founders, and then I hear they went quiet for bit, before coming back reinvented as an acidy dance outfit, which is when I first remember them from.’
‘And apparently when Swillcut joins them as the DJ element, according to Wiki anyway,’ says Tamla giving the phone back to Christopherson.
‘That doesn’t surprise me, he doesn’t seem like public school material. I assume the college they all met at was a posh one?’ I ask.
‘Chafyn Down: our Eton. No good looking for any of our mispers there — a whole row of houses on Hanging Hill wouldn’t buy you a single term at that place.’
‘This is the public school near the hospital. It got into trouble for a racist bullying incident that made the news.’
‘Yeah, that’s the one. It’s become a serious playground for the kids of toffs now, but it used to have a reputation for being very arty and right-on. The band did their first gigs there, and the school opened up to the city, which was pretty unheard of in those days. It helped ’Orse, as they were of course known, become huge in the area, for a while anyway. I remember my sister going to a three-day winter solstice festival where they were playing, tied in to druid ceremonies and all that mystical carry-on. And also, later on, big tent raves, where they developed a new following. There was also some political activity on the side as well, Wessex regionalism. They were in with the Marquess of Bath for a while, who gave them a studio on his land. He even got an album on the uses of animal semen dedicated to him. Can’t remember the name of it, but it was something naughty and had a memorable cover with pair of bull’s bollocks on it.’
‘A piss-take, right?’ Tamla says.
‘Not at all. They weren’t exactly known for their sense of humour. It was pretty common for them to dedicate records to natural cycles, old gods, crop circles, you know, all that Wicker Man stuff. But it all went a little tits-up when they began to develop a bit of a reputation for seediness. Before that though, they could do little wrong round here.’ Christopherson beams. This is probably the most he has ever been able to say to us without gentle ridicule, mild derision and intense scepticism.
‘Seediness? How do you mean? Hard drugs?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, though truthfully, they always had a name for that, and in those days no one who knew about those things honestly gave a shit — our lot included. No, it was more underage sex. They had lots of young groupies. They even had a dodgy name for them, though I can’t remember what it was… maybe “the Owlets”? Anyway, they were always a bit on the old side for teenyboppers, if you know what I mean, and then one of the girls started complaining, and then they all piped up about being pawed and groped all the time.’
‘Did they go to law enforcement?’
‘I can’t remember, but their parents were all over the local papers. There was only so much these girls were prepared to put up with in the name of free love and the Earth Goddess, especially when they could take off and watch Ocean Colour Scene at the Guildhall and enjoy being molested by boys of their own age.’
‘So no one got into any official trouble, as far as you know?’
‘One bloke might have — the singer I think. He went to Thailand, ate his lover’s liver or some such, and died of AIDS in the can over there, but the others just melted away. The thing was, their manager, he was more famous than they were. He was a prefect at Chafyn, which is where and why he first started running their affairs.’
‘Let me guess: he’s Mungo Masters?’
‘Mungo Masters. Mr Toad. Spot on. What you got to understand about that bloke is he was kind of a cross between Rupert Murdoch, Jeffrey Archer and Andrew Lloyd Webber of this area, all rolled into one, a regular Messiah — making deals, writing musicals, buying and owning companies, shops and all sorts. Rumour was he made all the bad stuff around them go away, but to do it, they had to call it a day as band.’
‘But he doesn’t go away does he? He becomes a hedge funder and financier and massive political donor,’ says Tamla.
‘For sure. He owns that giant place on the Ringwood Road now, where the neighbours complain about helicopters coming and going. Yeah, he’s everywhere but here these days. Not much seen of him at his local…’
‘I bet you they could tell you some stories though,’ speculates Tamla.
Christopherson nods. ‘That they could.’
‘The local boy has come good,’ she says to me. ‘I always told you he’d one day justify his inclusion in the top drawer!’
‘As we’re in full flight, Dexter, I wonder whether our barman at the Hearse, The Well, wasn’t a fan or roadie of ’Orse back in the day, or perhaps their tour manager? Or maybe he drummed in the support band? Whatever his story, I’d be surprised if he isn’t known to our two chums up there in the antique market…’
‘More than likely. He has the air of someone who’s been a long time in rock ’n’ roll, doesn’t he?’
‘And while we’re at it, Lockheart as well… he may go way back to their glory days too — he’s about the right age. A groundsman at Chafyn? A bouncer at one of Masters’ Clubs?’
‘Why not? There’s only two degrees of separation between everyone here anyway. Honestly, boss, this is the way in. I think we’re on to something.’
‘Our problem is that their connections are with each other. That isn’t the same as their being connected to the disappearances. And as there is no reason why they’d be obliged to make their private connections public to us, there’s no a priori reason to suppose there is anything suspicious about our not knowing about their past lives… but…’
‘It’s gut, isn’t it?’ Tamla says.
‘Gut, yeah. It is a very thin line that separates the two worlds. Lockheart looks like the one who might have a foot in both.’
‘I bet you if we could just find him, we’d be able to prove it too,’ Christopherson gushes. ‘Where do you think he’s got to?’
‘My paranoia is still running riot with that one. I think someone has taken him in and is hiding him.’
‘And what did you make of the two ’Orsemen turned shopkeepers? Shady?’ Tamla asks.
‘Max would tell you otherwise, but Swillcut’s a cardcarrying jailbird if ever I saw one, and Fallgrief a gentleman thief who’d leave his glove on m’lady’s pillow after he’s swiped her diamonds. We can’t issue warrants on the basis of that, I realise, but with your cultural history lesson, and what I saw of those two beauties, I’d say going in hard with them would be rich in possibilities.’
‘What about going back up to the estates?’ Christopherson asks.
‘No point,’ says Tamla. ‘Max and I will cover that angle. Just as well to keep him busy doing something he enjoys.’
‘I’m done with that line anyway,’ I say. ‘Fuck it. Questioning families on the estates, the kids’ teachers, social workers, the lollipop lady and the bloke that runs the local off-licence — it’s all a distraction that will serve no purpose other than giving us more of what we already know, which is great big blank. These disappearances aren’t just about themselves. The answer to what’s caused them won’t be found within the usual ecosphere these people live their lives in.’
‘I agree,’ says Tamla.
‘Think about it, Dexter,’ I go on. ‘The problems these disappearances pose are simply too weird for us to fall back on experience for pointers, otherwise we’d already have this case. But there are no other cases like this. Pull out any part you like, the absence of bodies, the speed of the disappearances, the fact that all hell is breaking loose and we have people trying to tell us it isn’t… that’s not county lines, suicide pacts or unreported overdoses. It’s qualitatively different to anything we’ve encountered before. Even if we found that every one of the mispers had worked in the Purple Hearse or that they all knew Lockheart at one time or other, we’d still be stuck at the lowest rung of the ladder. The connection you found might be the first step towards actually scaling the thing. You’re showing us where we need to look, but it’ll only be worth doing if we move up the food chain.’
‘It’s an ask though, isn’t it? Fallgrief is a proper toff.’
‘Yeah. But remember “posh people are taking our children”?’ Tamla says. ‘If anyone is not scared of upsetting his betters, it’s our Terry.’
Christopherson folds his arms and blows through his teeth.
‘You know, I don’t think I have seen anyone as scared as some of that lot in the pub were. We could get nothing out of any of them. What’s new about that? But it was more than their just not wanting to talk to us.’
‘It was like they couldn’t help you even if they really wanted to?’ Tamla says.
‘That’s it. I don’t know of anything round here that scares people like that, or anything round here that everyone doesn’t already know about. And I’ve never seen a victim of a crime act as weird as that Pertwee lady — she was off the scale. We all know what Max is, and I’ll be the first to admit I’ve learnt a lot from him, but I’m with you on this, boss. I think you’re right. This case, or whatever it is we’re dealing with, it calls for something different in our response, because it is different.’
‘Which is why there’s no point rounding up the usual suspects or digging about in the usual places in the expectation that we’ll unearth some small detail that holds the key to the rest of it. I know it’s what we’re used to doing, but that kind of patience isn’t going to get us anywhere this time. We need to be bold, and if we could just establish why Lockheart wanted to make contact with Fallgrief or Swillcut, or more likely, cave their skulls in with that hammer as I think he was planning to do… then… I think we’d be close to prying the lid off dynamite. That’s how big I feel this could be.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Easy, Terry,’ says Tamla. ‘We all want jobs after this is over.’
‘We’ve got to strike upwards if we want to solve this thing.’
‘Sheesh,’ she says and grins in childish complicity.
‘Jesus, boss. What are you getting us into?’ Christopherson laughs nervously. ‘I mean, I suppose the worst that could happen is that we knock on a few doors we don’t normally go to and get told to piss off and mind our own business…’
‘That’s not the worst. Don’t kid yourself. If we’re right, but can’t prove anything, which is where we are at the moment, then it’ll go much, much worse for us than that. Think of the doors we’d be having to knock on. “Posh people are stealing our children,” remember? If we do this, there’s no point going halfway and being hung for lambs. We may as well turn the whole applecart over and stamp all over the apples.’
‘We’ve been burnt by conspiracies before,’ he objects.
‘Those were just accusations dating back however many decades. Now we have missing bodies. The most recent of which did its vanishing turn just a few hours ago, and at the rate they’re going, I bet you it won’t be the last. Whatever this is, we’re in the middle of it, and it seems to be reacting to our probing.’
‘Doesn’t that make the consequences of pointing the finger in the wrong direction even worse? Because what we’re accusing people of is downright bloody sinister. I mean, if I had to say what it was, I don’t know, probably kidnapping…?’
‘Be honest — it’s worse than that. I can hear you thinking it too.’
‘Yeah, but even hearing you say that makes me dizzy. The kind of people we’d be going after, I know we laugh about them all being closeted perverts and toilet traders, but we’re being serious now. This is serious… They couldn’t really be into all that, could they? And still have got to where they have in life… to be where they are, I mean. Important people…’
‘Why not?’
‘We joke about them, don’t we? Judges and politicians and dodgy millionaires… but I don’t even know what to call this, whatever it is we’re suggesting they’re doing. I mean, it’s not just regulation Purple Hearse shenanigans… what to even call it, boss? I don’t really want to be the one to go first. Ritual kidnapping and execution? It’s ridiculous isn’t it? It’s just too much. Once you say it, it just sounds too much to be really true…’
‘Not to me, Dexter,’ says Tamla.
Or to me either. I recall the exact time of day and spot when I first realised ‘too much’ was the truth. The blade of grass I was concentrating on had not done much that afternoon, yet once the wind changed direction, it was transformed into the tallest tree in the rainforest, a permanent feature of my memory to rival news of my father’s accident and the first time I was arrested. Our running gag that the suave bachelor who taught music and ran the chess club was a molester, an accusation invented without our ever seriously believing that our comedic speculations were the shadows cast by a reality too dark for us to recognise, still fell somewhere short of the facts. That day the adult world became as compromised as we had pretended it was, and there were no jokes. I had rebuffed the man’s amorous advances with the kind of language that would normally have led to expulsion and capital punishment, with a little spell in borstal in between. Naturally, I was terrified at what form of revenge would be exacted for this rejection, and I waited anxiously for a call to the headmaster’s office, despairing of being believed in an ‘I said-he did’ scenario that an adult would always win. Yet nothing happened to me, the incident was never raised again, and I remained at large and unpunished for calling a member of staff ‘a dirty cunt’. Both he and I had got away with it, and yet got away with nothing at all. That day I learnt that too much was as great a part of the truth as too little.
‘It is only too much to be true, until we can prove it,’ I say. ‘Then it’ll just be another fact about the world that everyone will pretend to have known about all along. Where we have to be careful is that before we’ve proved anything, the accusation’s worse than the crime, and if we’re not careful, we’ll be tarred with the stigma of what we’re looking for. In a country like this, where we’re still encouraged to pretend that six-foot public school boys that blush all the time are the standard of decency we should be held to, embarrassment and shame are the weapons your more refined villain will use against you, Dexter.’
‘How else do you think victims are kept in their place?’ Tamla says. ‘It’s an approach that guarantees stability, even if it means the guilty go free from time to time.’
‘I’m sure there is even literature out there justifying the outlook that makes all this possible,’ I say, putting my hand on Christopherson’s shoulder. ‘To talk about or acknowledge a crime is as bad, if not worse, than actually having committed it, because it’s more embarrassing. The crime happens in private, whereas the accusation occurs in public and so implicates an entire community of enablers. So I suggest, for now at least, we leave any talk of “ritual kidnapping” out of it. We make no references to what we think might actually be happening to these disappeared and restrict ourselves to employing our initiative by asking the right questions very politely.’
‘I guess that makes sense…’ he allows.
‘Anything more than that might be taken down and used as evidence against us. The hardest part is that, whoever we’re after, they still have “common sense” on their side. Madness like this isn’t supposed to happen.’
‘We’re not just up against toffs, Dexter,’ Tamla says, ‘but ways of thinking that have endured for centuries.’
‘Can’t we get common sense on our side, though?’ Christopherson asks.
‘Not yet,’ I reply. ‘People are going missing, but the rest of this story is still in our heads. We’re the heretics. Especially if we raise the spectre of the rich being part of a barely concealed conspiracy to steal children from low-income families and magically vanish them. Common sense also has a tendency towards harmless explanations, and benign conclusions, and hates batshit conspiracies. It hopes that eventually, after we’ve been laughed at and libelled, we’ll be steered from the complicated paths we’ve been down towards the same hackneyed conclusions as everyone else. I’m not saying it doesn’t sometimes have its uses — I drive cars and need to buy milk too — but to get to the bottom of how fucked up things really are, you need to get creative and leave sensible procedure dead in a ditch.’
Christopherson strokes his goatee and laughs nervously at me.
‘You’ve thought about this a lot.’
‘Trust me. Terry thinks of nothing else,’ grins Tamla.
‘So what about it?’ I ask.
‘Don’t include me in any of this,’ laughs Tamla. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on Max and trying to keep him out of trouble. This is between you two!’
Christopherson’s worry lines give way to a flash of insolence that holds my eye. ‘Shall we pay Mr Toad a visit, then?’
‘That’s my boy, Dexter. Let’s.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE FIGUREHEAD
Time is inevitability. Old Father Time is hungry. The more he consumes, the faster it goes. That’s why it’s so useful to have a bit of it to hand. Like drink, it doesn’t affect everyone in the same way; not everybody has to go off the grid, end up in A&E or combust in a puff of smoke. The Well’s seen some nutters gobble a load and sit in a chair and laugh their faces off — one bloke even got up and drove a car. That’s basically the area he’s aiming to land in, though if he did end up going the whole hog, or even any hog, and vanished into the tunnel of goats, well, that wouldn’t be the worst of all outcomes either.
