‘It’s on Reuters,’ Yong said. ‘Associated Press’s sending over a photographer, and they’ve rung from the mayor’s office saying NBC’s going to fly in a TV crew to do a story.’
Watkins shook his head. ‘Six thousand people die in a tidal wave in India and are mentioned in a single newsflash. One homosexual clown has a few limbs cut off and it’s a world event.’
Harry asked them to come into the conference room. He closed the door.
‘Andrew Kensington’s dead,’ he said.
Watkins and Yong stared at him in disbelief. In brief, direct terms Harry told them how they had found Andrew hanging from the ceiling in Otto Rechtnagel’s flat.
He looked them straight in the eye and his voice was unwavering. ‘We didn’t ring you because we wanted to be sure there wouldn’t be any leaks. Perhaps we ought to keep a lid on this for the time being.’
It struck him that it was easier to speak about this as a police matter. He could be objective and he knew how to deal with it. A body, a cause of death and a course of events, which they would try to keep under wraps. It kept Death – the stranger he didn’t know how to confront – at arm’s length for the moment.
‘OK,’ Watkins said, flustered. ‘Careful now. Let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions.’
He wiped the sweat off his top lip. ‘I’ll get McCormack. Shit, shit, shit. What have you done, Kensington? If the press gets a sniff of this . . .’ And Watkins was gone.
The three left behind sat listening to the fan’s lament.
‘He worked with us here in Homicide now and then,’ Lebie said. ‘He wasn’t really one of us, I suppose, nevertheless he was . . .’
‘A kind man,’ Yong said, studying the floor. ‘A kind man. He helped me when I was new here. He was . . . a kind man.’
McCormack agreed they should keep it under their hats. He was not at all happy, pacing up and down, heavier on his feet than usual, and his bushy eyebrows gathered like a grey trough of low pressure above his nose.
After the meeting Harry sat in Andrew’s chair and flicked through his notes. He didn’t glean much, just a few addresses, a couple of phone numbers that turned out to be for garage workshops and some incomprehensible doodles on a sheet of paper. The drawers were as good as empty, just office equipment. Then Harry examined the two bunches of keys they had found on him. One had Andrew’s initials on the leather holder, so he assumed they were his private keys.
He picked up the phone and rang Birgitta. She was shocked, asked some questions, but left the talking to Harry.
‘I don’t understand,’ Harry said. ‘A guy I’ve known for little more than a week dies and I cry like a baby, while I couldn’t shed so much as a tear for my mother for five days. My mother, the greatest woman in the world! Where’s the logic to it?’
‘Logic?’ Birgitta said. ‘I doubt it has much to do with logic.’
‘Well, I just wanted to let you know. Keep it to yourself. Will I be getting a visit after you finish work?’
She hesitated. She was expecting a phone call from Sweden tonight. From her parents.
‘It’s my birthday,’ she said.
‘Many happy returns.’
Harry rang off. He sensed an old foe growling in his stomach.
Lebie and Harry headed towards Andrew Kensington’s home in Chatwick.
‘The number where the man hunts the bird . . .’ Harry began.
The sentence hung in the air between two sets of traffic lights.
‘You were saying . . .?’ Lebie said.
‘Nothing. I was just thinking about the show. I’m mystified by the bird number. It didn’t seem to have any point. A hunter who thinks he’s hunting a bird and suddenly discovers the prey is a cat, so a hunter is hunted. OK, but so what?’
After half an hour’s drive they reached Sydney Road, a nice street in a pleasant district.
‘Jeez, is this right?’ Harry said as they saw the house number they had been given by the HR department. It was a large brick house with a double garage, a well-tended lawn and a fountain at the front. A gravel path led to an impressive mahogany door. A young boy opened it after they had rung. He nodded gravely when they mentioned Andrew, pointed to himself and covered his mouth with a hand to show them he was mute. Then he took them round the back and pointed to a small, low brick building on the other side of the enormous garden. Had it been an English estate one might have called it the gatekeeper’s cottage.
‘We are going to go in,’ Harry said and noticed that he was over-articulating. As if there was something wrong with the boy’s hearing as well. ‘We’re . . . we were colleagues of Andrew. Andrew’s dead.’