Verismo Bliss Chapter 8

8.

There was a buzzing in his head: an annoying insect moving in and out of his brain that he just couldn’t swat. He dragged his eyelids open and felt a thin crust peeling away; it was his body’s way of saying he should keep his eyes closed. His body, as usual, was right, for as the light poured in, the pain spread outwards, down his neck and up to the top of his head. And there was still that fucking buzzing. He put his face into the pillow and smelled vanilla. Even through his pain he still managed to smile at the memory. Shit, memories were not good enough. They just made you long. Why couldn’t we freeze our lives at moments of happiness? Why was it all so ephemeral? Is time an intellectual concept or does it progress like an arrow? And does any of it really matter when that fucking buzzing won’t stop?
Buzzing. Shit, it was his smart. Harry roused himself enough to answer it.
‘Mr Reed?’
‘Ugh.’
‘Mr Reed, my name is Dr Tastao, I work as a consultant with your local surgery and I was wondering if you could come in for some tests. As you know you are one of the few men who are still fertile and you would be really helping the research into the infertility problem. Think how good it would make you feel to know that you were part of the cure. And of course we would pay you for your time.’
‘Now’s really not a good time…’
‘Let’s book an appointment. How about next Wednesday, say around 10 o’clock?’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘Think of your social responsibility, Mr Reed. What if the infertility spreads and less and less men can produce active sperm?’
‘A world without humans? Can’t say the thought upsets me unduly. Goodbye, Dr Tastao.’
The smart buzzed at him again the minute he hit disconnect.
‘This better be important.’
‘Harry, it’s Karl. We got another one.’
Details followed. Harry wasn’t even on the Covent Garden Ripper case anymore, was he? That didn’t seem to matter to Karl. Karl felt that with Harry’s intimate knowledge of Covent Garden he’d be an asset. If that argument was true then Karl should give advice to gynaecologists.
Somehow Harry managed to dress himself. He took some paracetamol, a Zehigh, and drank a pint of water. It was nine in the morning. He needed sleep. He needed to be wrapped up with Navaho, naked. He settled for cold water in the face and a brush of his teeth. There was a bruise forming on his arm and a pin prick of blood. He frowned. It was exactly like the mark left by an injection. Had Wat Tyler given him something? No point worrying about it now, he thought, pulling on a shirt.
When he stepped outside into Mercer Street the sun hit him like golden ingots. His eyes watered. The sky was white. There was a hush over the city, just a distant, muffled noise of car horns; it was as though the city was swathed in snowfall.
Harry made his way to the Piazza and then around to Bedford Street where he flashed his ID at the uniforms and made his way into the little garden in front of The Actors’ Church – although when Inigo Jones had designed it, he had known it as St Paul’s; that was before TV was invented, and people still believed in devils with horns and pitchforks. Maybe. Harry wasn’t there to see it, time being what it was. And once the luvvies moved into the area they claimed the church as their own. As if God went to matinees. It was a quaint little church with a brick red façade that faced into the garden with its two bells, clock face (stopped at 3.05 on some forgotten day) and an impressive plaster portico. The garden was in full bloom and well cared for. Benches boarded either side of the gravel path for weary Londoners to sit and pause during the mayhem of another city day. And now there was a tent, a white awning tent in one corner. Harry knew it wasn’t a marquee for the vicar’s tea party. He knew what was under there. Policemen, uniformed and un-uniformed, went about their jobs slowly and efficiently. Just another day at the office.
‘Harry, you look like shit.’
‘Thanks Karl. I feel shit.’
Karl laughed and slapped him on the back. ‘You really should cut down on the partying at your age. One is a lonely number. Two is a fun number. You need to settle down with a good woman’
‘Like you have?’
‘Sure, Harry, Melinda is such a rock. Especially with Fred the way he is. I really don’t know how I would’ve coped without Melinda’
‘How is Fred?’
‘I’m glad you asked, Harry.’ Karl said, producing a book of raffle tickets from his pocket. ‘Five pound a throw. All proceeds go towards getting Fred to see the specialist in Paris. Top prize a weekend away in Stratford for you and some lucky girl. Great hotel, I’ve stayed there myself.
‘You know, I know it’s awful to say,’ Karl said, moving closer to Harry, his voice dropping.. ‘But this infertility game is great for me. I really wouldn’t want to risk having another kid like Fred – love him to bits, but hard work, you know? I’m almost jealous over the infertile men. It would certainly have saved me money having the fucking snip done. Do you know what they charge now? Jesus, it’s astro-fucking-nomical, and when I enquired about it at the docs, fucking Christ on a bike, you’d have thought I just asked if I could screw his wife.’
For once Harry had some sympathy for him. ‘It’s the same with abortion. During the Sexual Involution nobody gave a shit if a woman walked into a doctor’s and asked for an abortion, now they are treated like lepers. Suddenly life seems more precious just because most men are firing blanks.’
‘I hated the Sexual Involution: worst time of my life. I was as randy as ever but all women wanted to do was talk about sexual politics and watch old Woody Allen movies.’
‘Weren’t you with Melinda then?’
‘That’s when I met her. She’s always enjoyed sex as much as me. I think that’s why we stuck.’
‘I liked the Sexual Involution. It took the pressure off. Women mostly just wanted to be friends and if you did have sex there was so little pleasure that it didn’t matter how you performed anyway.’
Karl lost interest in the conversation as a police officer, who Harry recognised as the woman from the Long Acre murder scene, brought a report and a coffee to him. She laced it with a flick of her hair, a lick of her lips and a twinkle in her eye. For fuck’s sake, Harry thought. What is it? What is it he has? Bugger, was it just jealousy, his hatred of Karl, after all?
There was a commotion at the entrance to the church grounds. It was the press, shouting questions and trying to get through the police cordon.
‘Leeches,’ Karl said, but absentmindedly, as his focus was more on the rear of the departing office. ‘Lovely girl, Hayley.’
‘Is this another Ripper case?’ Harry asked, suddenly remembering what he was doing there.’
‘Yeah, pretty sure, you wanna take a look?’
‘Not the way I’m feeling. Just give me the facts.’
‘First, you can help me. What do you know about this place?’
‘St Paul’s? You want a history lesson?’
‘Just recent.’
‘Over the past few years it’s been a working church, a mosque, a food kitchen, a home for winos and addicts and, until two years ago, boarded up and forsaken, pretty much a metaphor for religion as a whole. Then the old American actor Johnny Depp heard about the Actors’ Church, as it’s known, when he was over here treading the boards at the Globe, and was said to be disgusted at the way we Brits treat our heritage. The Friends of the Actors’ Church was duly formed and the restoration work began. I don’t think dead bodies in the garden are on the agenda.’
‘What about security?’
‘The gates are locked at night.’
‘Those gates are pretty high.’
‘Check out the back, where it faces the Piazza, the railing is about chest high there and it is often missing slats.’
Karl nodded. ‘Ok, so what we have is a middle aged man that goes by the name of Peter Milton. He’s from Cardiff and was in London for a business event. He was a supervisor at Mail Trak. Married. No children According to his ID card he ate at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand at around 8 o’clock, then had a drink at the Coal Hole around 10. He returned to his hotel, the Strand Palace, at 10:45 and then went out again around midnight. According to the electronic security on his hotel door anyway.’
‘Why walk into the Garden after midnight?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t know the area?’
‘Wouldn’t take him long to spot the signs of a bad area and turn back to the Strand. Did he have any cash on him?’
‘Yep. A bundle of Churchill’s, his ID and his smart. Robbery wasn’t the motive. He was savaged, but at least this one kept his head. It looks like the cut to his throat killed him but there are at least ten other wounds that could have been fatal. His face is fucked up bad and the groin area has come in for some special attention.’
‘A sexual motive?’
‘Who the fuck knows with these crazies? What I do know is that I’ve got to catch the bastard soon or those crazies,’ Karl said, gesturing with his head towards the journalists, ‘are going to start looking for someone to blame. And that’s usually the cops. See what you can find out Harry. I’m doing my best to get you access to the Met Network, but it could take a while.’
Harry chewed his lower lip. ‘If it is a crazy then we just have to wait for him or her to slip up. The trouble with crazies is they have no motive. I’ll see what I can do. Karl, you ever hear of the Bump Banger’s Club?’
‘Sure, it’s a pregnancy fetish fuck club. That your bag, Harry? Didn’t figure you as a preg porker.’
‘It’s to do with a case I’m working on. You know any members? I could do with an in.’
‘I think I know a couple of guys into that. I’ll let you know. Me, I prefer the model types, you know?’
‘You know why models are so thin, don’t you Karl? All the top fashion designers are faggots so they design clothes that they want their boyfriends to wear. I’ll see you round.’
As he left, one of the journalists who knew Harry, buttonholed him. ‘Harry, what’s the SP?’
Harry jerked his head at the guy and moved to a quieter part of the street. The journo was Gary Kent and he worked for The Guardian; Harry knew him of old, the guy was tenacious but not scandalous.
‘You got something for me, Harry?’
‘You scratch mine and I’ll scratch yours.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I was getting a sub-contract on this case until The Sun decided to turn this week’s crazed killer into a political hot potato. The powers that be want tight control of it so private dicks like me are out. You put some spiel in your rag about how this has nothing to do with politics and The Sun are just a bunch of racist right wing cunts (I’m sure somebody like yourself with a degree can put that in a more subtle way) and I’ll give you what I have.’
‘Sure, Harry, sure, let me have it.’
Harry let him have it. Not all of it; he left out mention of Ramona Noche and how her dad was using skin-sellers, and he certainly didn’t mention anything about Gwendolyn Falsham, who probably wasn’t related to the murders anyway. And what he had wasn’t a great deal, but Kent lapped up the grisly details of the murder scenes like a panting dog. Harry doubted that The Guardian would turn the tide of politics back in his direction enough to get him back on the pay roll, but every little helped.
Harry really needed a fry up and something to drink but he only had about fifteen minutes before Jack knocked off from his shift. He really needed to talk to Jack. When Harry got to the Strand Palace Hotel there was an old geezer on the door with glasses so thick that anyone with normal vision could probably see the canals on Mars with them.
‘Jack knocked off?’
‘I’ve just took over from him. He’ll be having his breakfast before going off.’
‘Perfect.’
Harry found Jack piling his plate in one of the three restaurants the hotel had.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Hey, Harry. Sure, help yourself. Hey, Bert, this guys with me, ok?
Harry’s stomach churned. He felt a little queasy but knew he had to eat. And the best thing for how he was feeling now was bacon, sausage, egg, hash brown, black pudding, toast and plenty of cool still water. The two men sat and ate and chewed the breeze about the coming football season and what chances England had in the World Cup the following summer. Jack was around fifty and had done just about any job that paid dosh, including a stint as a porn actor back when he was about twenty. He always claimed it was one of the hardest jobs he’d ever done. ‘Man, I tell you, that job teaches you more about self-control and mind over matter than any fuckin’ Buddhist guru ever could.’ He’d made a ton of coin and then got out because he ‘somehow felt my soul being eroded.’
‘Harry, you look like shit,’ Jack said, leaning back in his chair and taking a slurp on his coffee.
‘Everybody’s telling me that today. But you know what? I feel a whole lot better after that,’ he replied, pushing the empty plate to the side and downing another glass of water.
‘I take it that’s why you missed my messages. Out on a bender?’
‘Something like that. The guy she was with, he was a resident?’
‘Sure. I got his name and room number if you’re interested. I’m on the case.’
‘His name wouldn’t be Peter Milton, would it?’
‘Shit, you’re still in the game, Harry.’
Harry smiled. ‘Nah, just a lucky guess, or rather an unlucky one, for Peter Milton.’
‘Eh?’
‘I just left a crime scene where the cops are crawling over the corpse of the late Peter Milton.’
‘Fuck. I wondered what all those sirens were about.’
‘So, tell me what you saw last night.’
‘It was just before eleven. I saw this Peter Milton coming along the Strand with a young Rita Redhead. I knew him as a resident, had opened the door for him a few times, didn’t know his name but he’d spoken a couple of times to me. Friendly. Welsh accent. So I clocked them from a distance and knew it was the same girl you’d asked me about. I opened the door for them and she flashed me a smile that would have melted my heart if my fucking ex hadn’t turned it to stone. Anyway, I watched them go into the lobby and take the lift.’
‘Did they say anything to each other?’
‘Not that I noticed. He looked a little fidgety. She looked fine, like she was in charge. Not happy, but businesslike. So, anyways, after they had gone up I asked the concierge for the guys name and room, thinking you’d be impressed, but you got there before me, smart arse.
‘About an hour later she comes down alone and I open the door for her. I tell her it’s a beautiful night, trying to strike up conversation, maybe delay her ‘cos I don’t know if you are on your way or not, and she tells me that all nights are beautiful, but she isn’t smiling now and she looks like she has been crying. I ask her if she’s ok and she gives me a little smile and says, “Sure, it’s cool. Thanks for asking though.” And then she’s gone.
‘Maybe ten minutes later Mr Milton comes down and takes the air. He looks like the cat that got the cream. Says he’s going for a walk. I told him to mind the Garden this time of night and he heads off down the Strand, saying he was going to see Nelson at night.’
Harry put a Chaucer on the table. ‘That’s for your trouble and to do me a favour.’ Jack took the money without a word. ‘When the police come asking questions, tell them as much as you told me, except don’t mention me or that I was looking for the girl.’
‘Sure, Harry, no problems.’
Harry’s blood sugar was rising to normal levels but he needed sleep badly. He went back to the office, picked up a few things and then headed to Stockwell and a bed that called to him like a siren song.

When Harry finally came out of his sleep he felt a whole lot better. But he took another Zehigh, just to be sure. It was late afternoon. Kids were playing footy in Slade Gardens. Older teenagers were drinking cider and smoking. Harry checked his messages. There were a few from people wanting to hire him for drudge work, mainly checking up on potentially cheating partners. It was funny how, even in the Second Sexual Revolution with everybody free to do what they chose with their bodies, that everybody still wanted that special one, and when you found that special one it wasn’t long before one of the oldest and most destructive of human emotions reared its green head. There was a message from Carl saying he’d been in touch with a Bump Banger who might get him an in. And one from Ramona. She wanted him to confirm for Paolo’s dinner date. Harry confirmed, telling her he was looking forward to it.
He made himself a chilli con carne and slumped in front of the TV. There was fuck all on as per, but that was ok, he was in the right frame of mind for some mindless drivel. He watched a quiz show and then found an old John Wayne movie. Wayne was a reactionary Nazi, who would probably have liked to kill Red Injuns in real life, but he was a presence on screen, Harry couldn’t deny that.
Whilst Wayne saved the Caucasian race from the savages, Harry flicked through the glossy literature on Raf-Med that Barry the Butler had given him. Why did everybody in these glossy industry magazines all look beautiful, and all have wonderful smiles as though they were the luckiest people alive to be working for the company? Stupid question, Harry thought. What were they going to do, photograph the ugliest employees on a Monday morning? But maybe Raf-Med’s employees did have something more to smile about. For a start the company was one of only a handful left that offered a final salary pension scheme and full medical insurance, 30 days a year paid holiday and full use of a gym at its three main UK offices in Hammersmith, Leeds and Glasgow. But then with a profit last year of $950 million they could afford it. There was money to be made from illness. Raf-Med’s big earner was Zehigh and there was one brochure devoted exclusively to the drug and the way it had dragged the miserable from the depths of depression into happy, normal fulfilment i.e. good tax payers. And, of course, if you were a happy fulfilled person, why not have a top up of happiness? But Zehigh wasn’t the only money earner, by a long way. They had recently expanded into the beauty market and were aggressively marketing products to get rid of those ugly signs of aging, for both women and men. No more wrinkles. No more grey hairs. But the core of the business still remained pharmaceutical. Raf-Med manufactured cures for everything from headaches to athlete’s foot and everything in-between, the majority of it was over the counter stuff but they also did some work in prescription only drugs. And then there was Bliss. They had been given a government grant to research Bliss. They even manufactured it, but only for testing purposes at the moment. At the time of writing the ingredients of Bliss were being kept under wraps, but the reader was assured that they were all natural ingredients. Raf-Med scientists had discovered that Bliss stimulated the area around the base of the spine, which has long been known to improve and increase female ejaculation. One of the biggest problems with understanding how Bliss worked, the article said, was trying to understand the female orgasm in general. Why had evolution made the female orgasm? It made sense for men to orgasm, but why women?
Harry sighed. This was only a puzzle to evolutionary scientists because it didn’t fit in with evolutionary theories. Of course the point about sex being enjoyable for women didn’t make any sense from a biological point of view. If the whole point of existence was to procreate then it would make sense for women to feel the desire to be impregnated only. If you made them enjoy sex then they are going to want to fuck just for the pleasure and not the offspring. Harry shrugged. Life was stupid and made no sense. Get over it.
The magazines weren’t telling him anything, and John Wayne had killed the last of the pesky Injuns; maybe he should try and sift through what he knew about the murders and try and put together a theory. Wasn’t that what detectives did? But he was tired. He was tired of dead bodies and he didn’t think he’d be able to come up with any theories. Like he’d told Carr, with the crazies there was no logical theory, you just had to wait until they slipped up. What worried Harry was the Gwendolyn Falsham factor. Gwendolyn knew Barry Penny. Gwendolyn had been with Peter Milton the night he was murdered. Harry didn’t want there to be a connection. He wanted to find Gwendolyn. He wanted Gwendolyn to tell him to tell her father to go screw himself. He’d enjoy doing that. He wanted the murders and Gwen to be a coincidence. Gwendolyn was hiding in the Garden. The murderer was working his trade in the Garden. It wasn’t that big an area. It wasn’t too much of a leap to think that Gwendolyn could know somebody who was murdered by the Ripper. Hell, even two people wasn’t that much of a leap, was it?
Harry flicked to the back page of the Raf-Med magazine. There was a picture of a bright young thing with a bright wide smile. She was there to help him should he require any further information. She was the Junior Media and Marketing Officer at Raf-Med Leeds. She was Alison Graham. Harry would be sure to call her if he needed anything. Alison Graham? Alison Graham? Where had he heard that name before? The name nagged at him like a noisy neighbour, but he was too bushed to care. Alison Graham could wait - whoever she was.