High society (7 page)

THE LEMAN HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON

A
s Commander Leman got out of his car a figure emerged from the darkness. Leman sensed a second man behind him. He knew that it was possible that they had come to kill him. If they had, these would be his final thoughts. The faces of his wife and daughter sprang almost unbidden to the forefront of his mind. ‘Commander Leman?’

He knew the voice. ‘Detective Sergeant Archer?’ There was a pause. The shadowy figure had not expected to be so readily identified. ‘Why would you think that?’

‘Because I’ve listened to your voice on a number of occasions.’

‘Phone-tapping. Very naughty. Very inadmissable.’

‘Perhaps soon I shall have sufficient cause to apply for a warrant.’ The second figure spoke from behind him. ‘And perhaps soon your missus will have sufficient cause to put on black.’

Commander Leman did not turn round. ‘You may kill me if you wish. It isn’t a difficult thing to do. But know this. All that I’ve unearthed is contained within a file kept secretly with a colleague and addressed to the Chief Constable.’

‘If there was any proof in it you’d have already sent it.’

‘Certainly, that’s true. But if I were to be killed, then it seems likely that the Chief Constable would take a greater interest in my suspicions and the circumstantial evidence I’ve amassed. I’ve written a letter detailing those I think might want me dead. Your name is on it, DS Archer…And yours, DS Sharp.’ For the first time Leman turned round.

‘We ain’t thinking of killing you, Leman. Snitches and grasses like you ain’t worth the price of a bullet. But there’s another reason your wife might want to put on mourning. Same goes for you.’

‘Don’t your missus tell you about the phonecalls she gets? Calls concerning your daughter. Pretty little Anna. Sweet fifteen.’ Commander Leman tried with all his might to make his reply sound as convincing as any sentence he had ever uttered.

‘If any harm comes to any member of my family I shall kill you both.’

‘Oh no!’ Archer sneered. ‘I’m shittin’ myself. Nighty-night,

Commander Leman, and don’t forget: little Anna’s safety is in your hands.’

SAMANTHA’S FLAT, ISLINGTON

P
eter Paget had never felt so wonderful in his entire life. Astonishingly, and without warning, even the ever-present feelings of guilt that lay heavily in his stomach had disappeared. He had not a care in the world. Everything was beautiful. He had also developed a deep fascination with the tactile properties of water.

‘I can’t believe that I’ve lived for forty-three years on this planet and I’ve never understood the texture of water before…I mean really felt it. Do you understand what I mean, Sammy?’

‘It’s beautiful.’

That is so perfect, Sammy, the perfect word for the perfect thing. Water is beautiful.’

Sammy’s feet rested on Peter Paget’s shoulders; his were under her arms. The bath was not really built for two and yet for them it was just right; it seemed to mould itself so naturally to their bodies that it might have been designed around them.

‘I love you, Sammy, you’re the most perfectly wonderful human being in existence. No, I really mean that. You are truly, deeply and completely wonderful.’

‘You are too, Peter. It’s kind of awe inspiring how beautiful you are, it’s like you’ve been reborn into perfection.’

Eventually they got out of the bath and dried each other by the light of many candles. The towels felt like cotton wool. The lino on which they stood was exquisite to their feet, firm and delightfully smooth. They towelled each other gently for what seemed like a lifetime, a lifetime spent in heaven.

‘We have all night, beautiful Sammy, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Sam-an-the-e-e-r-r.’ He pronounced the syllables separately and luxuriously, tasting them on his tongue, feeling their weight, their shape. Experiencing the loveliness of her name. ‘There’s a late sitting at the house. Angela knows not to call.’

‘Your wife is lovely. She’s very, very beautiful.’

‘Yes she is, she’ve very, very, very beautiful.’

‘I think that if she was feeling as we do now, she’d understand.’

‘Yes, I believe she would.’

And he did believe it. Angela was lovely and she loved him and everything was all right.

Naked, they walked from the bathroom into Samantha’s living room, a room lit only by the rich, crimson, velvety light of a two bar electric fire. They drank deep from jugs of the purest glittering tap water. The hint of citrus imparted by the lemon slices was delicious in a way that Peter Paget had not previously experienced.

On the table Samantha’s little pill-box lay open. Inside, two tablets of E remained, the symbol of the dove embossed on their centres.

‘This stuff is amazing. Quite utterly wonderful. Why did I wait so long?’

‘No regrets, my love.’

She took up the pill-box. Beside the ecstasy lay a collection of small blue diamond-shaped pills. She placed one on her tongue and offered another to Peter Paget. ‘It’s Viagra.’

‘Viagra?’

‘Sure, everybody’s doing it. I like to make love on E but sometimes it’s not easy, it’s too intense, too much, so we’ll just take these, eat some fruit, put on some sounds, chill a little, and in an hour you can fuck me to heaven.’

ST HILDA’S CHURCH HALL, SOHO

L
ook, I know this is a long story, but I’ve got the conch, ‘aven’t I? I have to tell this story my way or it ain’t therapy, is it? Anyway, it’s a good story, the papers would pay a mint for it and you lot are getting it just because you’re alcoholics. How good is that? So where was I? Oh yeah, at the Brits. Well, you’ll never guess what happens next, you will never guess who comes knocking on me dressing-room door just as the A and R bloke’s bird was trying to wipe kiwifruit out of her arse…

‘Only a fookin’ copper! Only a Commander of Her Majesty’s Constabulary! Can you believe it? Backstage at the Brits! That’s like Islamic fookin’ Jihad turning up at a Barbra Streisand concert! A copper at the Brits! Fook me, if he’d had a sniffer dog with ‘im I reckon they’d have had to close down Top of the Pops for ten years till we all got out of prison. I were shitting meself. At first I thought the bastard had turned up to do me for kicking Emily out of the limo. I thought her dad, his Lordship, must have got me sentenced to be beheaded or whatever, but it turns out he had an appointment! My tosser of a tour manager comes in and tells me that I’d agreed to meet some cop and a poxy MP who wanted to talk about drug abuse. Well, fook me! There I am, coked and E’d up to me eyeballs, I’ve got a fruit-covered, half-naked bird who’s on one too, a bagful of the charlie on the table, and my tour manager wants me to talk to a copper and an MP.’

THE BRIT AWARDS, DOCKLANDS ARENA

P
eter Paget MP beamed proprietorially at Tommy. He felt that artists and singers were his type of people. He was an important person himself, after all, the politician of the hour, the man everybody was talking about. He had a right to be in Tommy Hanson’s dressing room. The only shame had been that he had been unable to persuade Hanson’s management to issue Samantha with a backstage pass. Still, he’d got her a seat for the ceremony, which had thrilled her no end. She was only twenty-three, after all. It was her culture that was being celebrated.

‘I am so grateful that you’ve agreed to see me, Mr Hanson — or perhaps I might call you Tommy? I’m Pete.’

‘Urn…OK. Yeah. Whatever.’

‘I feel certain that you and I share the same agenda on drugs, Tommy.’

‘Yeah, def, big time.’

‘Which is to protect children and young people from the consequences of drug use.’

With enforced casualness Tommy Hanson perched himself on the edge of the table, positioning himself between his two visitors and the open bag of cocaine. ‘Well yeah, for sure. Yeah, big up to that. I mean, like, we’ve got to get the kids off drugs, that’s like really really important. I mean, just say no, that’s my message.

Behind him Corkie finished adjusting her top and gathered up her little bag, a bag just big enough to hold a set of keys, a packet of Marlboro Lights, a wrap of cocaine and two Es. Tommy did his best to play the host, but of course he could not rise from his defensive position on the table. ‘This is…I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, love.’

‘Corkie.’

‘Corkie, right, yeah, well, um. See you, then, Corkie.’

‘See you, Tommy, it’s been mental.’

‘Yeah right…You’ve got a bit of star fruit in your hair.’

‘And half a kiwi in my knickers. Good luck tonight. I’ll be cheering.’

‘Thanks. See ya…’

Corkie left. Tommy turned once more to his unexpected guests.

‘Lovely girl. Known her all me life. So um…What were we talking about again?’

‘Young people and drugs.’

‘Yeah, right, we’ve really really got to get them off all that stuff. I really really believe that big time. That stuff is evil and it does your ‘ead in.’

Peter Paget smiled indulgently. Had this guy really managed to remain unaware of the media frenzy that his Private Member’s Bill had been causing? ‘Tommy, mate, I’m not talking about trying to get the kids off drugs.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No way. I mean that’s just not ever going to happen, is it?’

‘Um, in’t it? I thought that was the whole point of…I mean, in’t that what we’re all trying to…Look, what are we talking about?’

For the first time the policeman spoke up. ‘Mr Hanson, we believe it is time to accept the fact that young people take drugs and recognize that the most serious consequence of this is their involvement with criminals. We all know what the real side effects of drug use are.’

Tommy was swaying now, his hands gripping the side of the table on which he sat, his face a picture of hopeless, helpless concentration. ‘Yeah, right, ‘course we do…The munchies, right?’

‘I mean the social consequences.’

‘Well, that’s what I’m saying, in’t I? You try finding something to eat at five in the morning in this fookin’ country. Sometimes you have to drive miles and then all there is is kebabs or fookin’ petrol stations. In the States you can buy a car twenty-four hours a day. A fookin’ house if you want.’

‘I’m talking about associating with criminals, Mr Hanson. Even for weekend recreational users every night out means maintaining a direct financial relationship with dealers and pushers of deeply dubious character. These people are often violent, they charge extortionate prices for on the whole highly suspect products. Surely any sane person would agree that it is this aspect of drug use from which young people must be protected.’

‘Well, you’ve got that right. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve…I mean people I know have been ripped off.’

‘That’s the least of it. The unlucky minority who become full-time users are forced into lives of crime themselves in order to maintain their criminal habit.’

Peter Paget was fidgeting, clearly anxious to re-enter the conversation. ‘Some become crack whores.’

‘Crack whore’ was a term he had only recently come across. Samantha had heard it in an American film and Peter had found that it packed a terrific punch. ‘Well, yeah, absolutely. Right. Look…Sorry an’ all that, but where you going with all this? I mean, am I being thick or what?’

‘What we are advocating, Mr Hanson,’ continued the policeman, ‘is the legalization of drugs.’

‘Fook me, I thought you were a copper.’

‘I am. A copper who would like to wipe out the vast majority of the crime in this country by the changing of a single law.’

‘That’s brilliant. Fair play to you.’

‘But most people prefer to ignore the problem, pretend it doesn’t exist. We want to make people aware of the extent of drug use in this country. What we’re saying is that the law is making criminals of an entire generation and that we all have to suffer the consequences of their crimes. We need somebody, somebody young, very high profile, a hero, an icon, to associate with our cause, to come forward and admit to their own regular drug use and to that of their friends. Someone who will be completely upfront and cut through the bullshit, someone who will explain that he moves in a circle where drug use is an integral part of the recreational lifestyle. We need someone to talk about what their experiences of drugs were at school, at raves and at rock concerts. Someone to spark a national debate.’

ST HILDA’S CHURCH HALL, SOHO

Y
eah, just like Noel Gallagher did when he said getting on an E was like having a cup of tea. The only fookin’ debate he sparked was the entire press and politicians and cops and whatever crapping on his head from a very great height. They made him out to be some kind of irresponsible moron for saying what everyone knows anyways, which is that as far as the lads and lasses down my way are concerned, E is the new lager. But as it happens I wasn’t even thinking of the shit I’d be getting into if I agreed to be this daft twat’s stooge, because — get this —
I
didn’t believe a word he was saying. I was that strung out on charlie that I had that well-known ‘side effect’, as the cop would have put it, of suddenly being completely and utterly paranoid.

‘Honest, if you do enough coke — and any user will tell you there ain’t never ever enough — you can believe your own mum hates your guts and thinks your music’s crap. So obviously being a nose-bleeder from way back I was convinced that this was a sting, right? An entrapment or whatever. I reckoned that all I had to do was say, ‘Yeah, sure, I’ve been a coke’ead for years and all my old mates would be coke’eads too if they had the dosh but instead they’re all fookin’ up their ‘eads with dodgy speed,’ and about fifty Drug Squad goons would leap out of the beer fridge and stick me away for ever.

‘So, let me tell you, I ignored the MP bastard and gave my answer straight to the copper. Being’ very careful to enunciate every word.’

THE BRIT AWARDS, DOCKLANDS ARENA

I
don’t know what you’re talking about, pal. I never take drugs of any sort and my message to young people out there is ‘Just say no.’’ Peter Paget was about to attempt to argue the point, but Leman was a shrewd judge of character and knew not to waste his breath. ‘Well, in that case I can only thank you for your time, Mr Hanson, and wish you good luck at tonight’s ceremony…One piece of advice: I’d wipe your top lip before you go on if I were you.’