January was drunk but the woman with him was steely sober. She was taller than him, a few years younger and, right then, she seemed to be supplying the qualities January lacked. For one thing, she was in control of her speech.
‘Cliff, lissen, gotta talk…shit!’ He’d lurched in the doorway and hit his head against the jamb.
‘Mr Hardy,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Karen Weiner. Peter says he wants to talk to you. He’s in no condition to do it but he was going to make a scene in the restaurant unless he came here. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. Come in. I can sober him up and see what’s on his mind. Are you…ah…?’
‘Don’ worry, Cliff. Karen’s m’ right arm. Tell her anything.’
Karen Weiner and I supported January along the passage and through the sitting room to the kitchen.
‘Anything to drink comrade?’ he said.
‘Not for you.’ The woman took his weight easily all by herself. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
I pointed and she steered him, stripping off his suit jacket as she went. She wore a blouse and loose jacket, trousers with lots of belts and pockets, and high-heeled shoes. I heard a few protests from January as they went down the steps to the bathroom at the back of the house but there were chuckles in the sounds as if he was having fun protesting. I made coffee in the kitchen, kept an ear out for breaking glass and tried to tell myself that Peter January wouldn’t be the first drunken client
I’d had-wouldn’t be the 20th even and wouldn’t be the last.
When he reappeared January was still a mess but he looked steadier. The woman was carrying the jacket and waistcoat of his light grey suit; he’d slipped down his tie and had the shirt cuffs back in the way politicians like to do when they’re pretending to be one of the people. His thick hair was damp and his face was shiny but the slackness was gone from it and the artificial glitter that had been in his eyes was dimmed.
‘What did you do?’ I said. ‘Tell him to pretend he was going on “60 Minutes”?’
January dropped into a chair. ‘Don’t like me, do you, Hardy?’
‘I liked the way you handled yourself when the bomb went off. I like the way you want to stop us all from glowing in the dark. That’s enough.’
‘Yeah, I suppose it is. Did you say something about coffee?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Karen Weiner went out to the kitchen and I could hear her opening cupboards and clinking mugs as January and I looked at each other.
‘I’m scared,’ he said.
‘You must’ve been scared before. What about when you met Prince Charles?’
He ignored me. ‘I was scared in ‘Nam. I was scared the first time I stood up in court to speak and again when I got up in the House. But this is different. All of a sudden I feel outnumbered. I can feel the knives pointing at my back.’
‘Caesar complex,’ I said.
He drew his hand across his face as if he could rearrange his features to be the way he wanted. He wanted patience. ‘I knew you’d bullshit around for a while, but I’m serious.’
The woman came back with the coffee balanced on a breadboard that she’d wiped clean. She presented us with the mugs and put the milk and sugar where we could reach it. Then she sat down next to January-not too close, not too far away. He smiled at her as he sipped his coffee.
All I can say is that you’re bloody impatient,’ I said. ‘I’m setting up a meeting with the copper who…’
January waved his free hand. ‘I don’t expect you to have any results yet. I’ve come to put you in the full picture. It hasn’t been easy, believe me.’
‘I don’t know what you mean?’
Karen drank half her mug in a swig. ‘The hardest part is getting away from the press and the minders. ‘That’s partly how Peter got so drunk. We were out-waiting a reporter.’
‘They’re never around when you want ‘em,’. January said bitterly. ‘You can’t get the buggers to actually read anything you write or quote you accurately. But give them a sniff of death and they’ll wipe your arse and souvenir the paper.’
‘Well, I assume you’ve shaken them now,’ I said. I don’t reckon you’d be going around pissed like that if anybody important was about. Pardon my paranoia.’
‘Yeah, I’ve shaken them for now. They’ve got their first photo of Karen, though. That’ll keep them busy for a while and give them something to chew on.’
‘I’ve got a husband,’ Karen said.
I drank some more coffee and wished I could put some brandy in it but it didn’t seem diplomatic just then. ‘Well, reporters’ve got wives. They’re understanding. The reporters that is, not the wives.’
‘Karen’s husband has connections with the other side. It’s going to get sticky.’
‘Why?’ I said.
‘I’m going to marry her.’
‘Sticky,’ I said.
January finished his coffee and poured some more. Either he hadn’t been as drunk as he’d seemed or he had terrific powers of recovery. I had to admit I was interested. Here was abstemious Peter January, notorious womaniser, darling of the media, drunk, talking about marriage and running down the fourth estate. Karen Weiner was an athletic-looking woman with blonde hair drawn back and the sort of features that seemed to be produced, in some mysterious way, by expensive schools and plenty of international travel. She was more tanned than most for the time of year and when I leaned closer to her to get some more coffee I could smell expensive perfume. Something about her bothered me.
‘I don’t think he should marry me,’ she said. ‘I’d like it but it’s not necessary.’
January shook his head and looked stubborn. I started to feel puzzled about my role in things. It had been a long time since a private detective had had anything useful to do with a divorce. I dropped a spoon, bent down to pick it up and saw the light gold chain around her ankle above the strap of her white shoe. Things clicked into place; it was a chain like the one Cyn used to wear and that was who she reminded me of, at least in the exteriors-accent, hair, perfume and ankle chain.
‘I don’t get it, Peter. I thought I was looking into the bombing, checking on your fan mail. I…’
‘You are but there’s other things you should know.’
‘About you and Karen here. Fine with me. Congratulations, but it’s getting late and I’m not sleeping too well lately and I…’
‘This is serious!’ January’s voice had a whipcrack in it. ‘I’ve got enemies in the party-bastards who’d like to see me buried.’
‘Why?’
‘All sorts of reasons. My sort of politics is bad news for marginal seats for one thing. Some of them think about their majorities and nothing else.’
‘And you don’t have to think about yours,’ Karen said.
‘Right’
‘You’re not telling me someone in a swinging seat would try to kill you?’
‘No, but he might talk to someone who would.’
‘Such as?’
‘Have you ever heard of Airey Neave?’
I thought quickly: British polly, something to do with the Nuremberg trials. Killed in the House of Commons carpark by a bomb. ‘Yes, sure. He was Minister for Northern Ireland and the IRA got him.’
‘Not everyone believes that,’ January said.
‘What do they believe?’
‘There’s a theory that the IRA is really run by the British secret service. That they’ve infiltrated both sides-the IRA and the Unionists-and they keep the fire burning.’
‘Why?’ I was beginning to feel I couldn’t delay the brandy much longer.
‘To keep Belfast on tap as a training ground for the British army in street fighting. It certainly works that way-the Brits cleaned up everything in sight in Port Stanley with a minimum of fuss. Other Europeans send soldiers to Belfast to see how its done.’
‘Is there any evidence for this, Peter?’ Karen said.
‘Not hard evidence. Inference.’
‘What about the Brighton bombing?’ I said. ‘The secret service wouldn’t go along with that, would they?’
January smiled. ‘They didn’t get anyone important, did they? Didn’t harm a hair of Maggie’s head.’
Karen licked her lips which were full and dark around very white teeth. ‘What about Mountbatten?’ she said.
‘There’s two views on that. One, who cares? What did he matter? The other view is that occasionally a mad dog element in the IRA gets out of control and does something on its own. They get pulled into place later after the damage is done.’
It was late at night when conspiracy theories have most appeal. ‘Or they bungled something.’ I said. ‘Secret Services are full of idiots, think of ours.’
‘I am,’ January said.
‘I’ve met some of them through Clive,’ Karen said. ‘That’s my husband. Talk about thick…’
I was beginning to get January’s drift and I didn’t like it. It made me wish I was working on a nice, safe come-with-me-while-I-deliver-this-money case. ‘What was the point about Airey Neave? He was the Minister for Northern Ireland. If all this stuff was going on he’d have known about it.’
January fiddled with the ends of his tie. ‘What if he knew about it and wouldn’t go along with it?’
‘Fuck,’ Karen said. She’d evidently learned a thing or two since private school.
January looked at her. ‘Who bombed Airey Neave if that’s the way it was?’
‘The British spooks,’ Karen breathed.
‘Right,’ January said.