Day 35

Keeping his smile hidden

“He did what?”

Lambert is incredulous, can’t hide his contempt.  And, something else.  What is it? That’s right, a tinge of jealousy.

“He called me, gave me a URL, says he’s found video of himself on YouTube, with the, who is it?  Er, the Hislops.  You know, the ones he claimed to be with the day Peter Johnson went missing.”

“Did he now?”  Lambert’s tone is tart, almost hurt.  He can’t figure out why he’s pissed off that Baker called Claire, but he is.

“So, want to come and have a look?”  Claire is already walking towards her desk before she’s finished her question, doesn’t even look over her shoulder to see if Lambert is following.

The video takes just a few moments to load in, the grey bar at the bottom of the square on the computer monitor that contains a grainy still image of three people arranged across a bed, indistinct, but obviously engaged in ‘adult content’.

They’ve already tried to view the video once, but found themselves locked out when they came to the warning:  “This video or group may contain content that is inappropriate for some users, as flagged by YouTube's user community.”  They’d tried signing up to an account but found themselves blocked by the police force’s own filtering software.  Eventually they’d had to get someone from IT over to help them.

“Fucking nanny state,” Frank had sub-vocalised to himself, relieved that he’d never followed his urge to try to log onto one of his own user accounts at work.

Obviously not sub enough, though.  “What was that, Frank?”

“Nothing.  Nothing.  Leave it.”  Frank blushed while Claire just looked at him.  Like she knew.

The grey bar is full.  Claire clicks on the ‘play’ arrowhead and the still image comes to life.  She’s sitting in her office chair while Lambert perches on the edge of her desk and leans in over her shoulder.  The vision has been filmed with a fixed camera.  It’s poor quality, and there are no heads in the frame except the woman in the middle, whose face is covered by long hair hanging down as she props herself on her arms, her head between another woman’s legs.  Behind the woman in the middle is a man, his legs between hers, hands holding her hips, pelvis making the motions of intercourse.  Doggy style.  This continues until the counter shows 1.52/1.56, at which point the camera begins to zoom out.  At 1.54/1.56 the face of the other woman, lying on her back, legs spread, comes into shot seconds before the vision stills and fades on the final image of the three participants, an unidentified man whose face is still out of shot, the woman in the middle, whose hair is still blocking her face. And.  The screen is darkened, but Lambert’s pretty sure he’s right.

“Diana Hislop.  Well bugger me.”

“Want to be the one in the middle, do you, Frank?”

“Huh.”

“Don’t worry about it.  Too slow, mate.”

“Oh, yes, I see.  No, well, um …”

Frank is uncharacteristically tongue tied.  Claire takes a look at the front of his pants, checking to see if he’s got a hard on.  Nothing that she can see, but he’s acting a bit sheepish.  Claire smiles up at Frank from her seat.  Beatific innocence, but wondering what it would take to get Frank to admit he’s enjoyed what he’s just seen.

“So, it looks like Baker’s story might be true after all.  What do you want to do now, Frank?”

“Guess we’d better go back and have another chat with Diana Hislop, see if her husband’s home this time as well.  Better give her a call first this time, make sure they’re home.”

This time Frank’s on the move while he’s talking.  He looks over his shoulder at Claire, who is fixed on her computer monitor, watching the video again.

“You coming?”

“Not just yet, Frank,” Claire says as she gets up from her seat to follow him.

Frank turns and keeps on walking, shaking his head, keeping his smile hidden from Claire.

A most enjoyable performance

Lakeside Drive is not like Frank remembers it from the last time he was here.  During the day, there’s more air, more space, but somehow the heat of the mid-afternoon sun compresses everything, sharpens all the angles, leaves the eye with less to see.  Without the benefit of artificial light, the obviously expensive houses look like the cheap contrivances that they are.

There are no cars parked in the driveway at number 53, but Frank and Claire know that both the Hislops are home, waiting for them.  Diana Hislop had been reluctant to receive Frank’s visit when he called, asking why they couldn’t do their business over the phone.  Frank had insisted, almost politely, but made it clear that he had something to talk about that both the Hislops would want to hear face to face, in real time.  So now here they are.  Frank rings the doorbell.  They wait.

The massive heat makes each of the fully sixty seconds that elapse between the bell’s chime and the door opening last at least five times their measure.  Sweat beads on the cops while they wait.

A man opens the door.  Mr Hislop is slim, with burnished nut-brown skin.  He’s wearing pale blue stubbies, very short, very unfashionable, and a short sleeved white shirt, open at the collar.  The two don’t quite go together and neither fit the clipped neatness of his greying moustache, the carefully manicured dye job of his ample and expensively styled hair.

“So, not at work today, then, Mr Hislop?”  Lambert always aims to put people offside.  First impressions are so very important.  “Mind if we come in?”

“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”

Mr Hislop’s accent is Australian, no mistaking, but his speech is as precise as his moustache and points to ancestors playing polo and having tiffin.  Lambert’s got his origins pegged as subcontinent:  India, maybe Pakistan?

“Mr Hislop, I spoke to your wife.  You’re expecting us.”  Lambert’s starting to get mad.

“I think it would be better if we came in, Mr Hislop.”  Claire steps forward from where she’s been standing just to one side of Lambert.  Mr Hislop fixes his eyes on her, says nothing.

“We’ll only be a short while,” Claire continues, “but I think it would be best if we could come inside.  We’ve got something we’d like to show you.”

With this, Mr Hislop turns to the side and opens the front door of his house wider so they can pass.  Lambert leads up the passageway to the family room that he recalls from his last visit, notices the photo that is still standing on the table in the entry as he passes.

“They still think they’re clean and clear,” Lambert thinks as he strides towards Mrs Hislop, who is seated on the lounge next to the dining table, one naked, tanned leg crossed over the other, a heeled sandal hanging lazily by the strap around her toes.  She doesn’t move to get up or greet him as he hoves into view, so Lambert breaks the air conditioned ice.

“Mrs Hislop, how interesting to see you again.”

“Mr, er, Detective, er …”

“It’s Lambert, Mrs Hislop.  Detective Senior Sergeant Lambert.  And this is my colleague, Detective Constable Martin.”

Neither Hislop speaks, not the seated Mrs Hislop, not her husband, who is still standing in the entry to the family room, behind the Detectives.  So Lambert continues.

“We’ve something we’d like to show you Mr and Mrs Hislop.  May we sit down?  Maybe at the table?  Claire,” Lambert motions to the table and Claire swings the strap of the case carrying her laptop off her right shoulder and takes a seat, busies herself with staring the machine up.

“What is this?  What’s this all about?”  Mr Hislop speaks as he moves over to the dining table.  Mrs Hislop remains in her seat.

“Well, Graham.  I can call you ‘Graham’ can’t I, Graham?”

Lambert continues when it’s obvious Mr Hislop has no answer to his question.  “Like I said to your wife, we’ve got something to show you.  Before we have a look though, how about we just recap the conversation I had with Mrs Hislop when I last came to visit?”

Lambert can’t quite slip into insidious Detective mode with Diana Hislop.  She’s just too hot and aloof for him to even begin to think about how to fuck with her mind.  “Now, I guess you’ve talked with your husband about my last visit, Mrs Hislop?  So, do either of you know someone called Chris Baker, maybe calls himself Christine?  A man who dresses as a woman?  A,” Lambert has trouble saying the next word, like his knowledge is an admission of an interest beyond the purely professional, “transvestite?”

“Mr Lambert,” Frank may not be able to fuck with her mind, but the choice of ‘Mr’ lets him know she’s willing to try to fuck with his, “we’ve been through all of this.  We don’t know anyone by that name.  We don’t know any transvestites, as interesting as that might be, and so we can’t help you.  And, yes, of course I talked with my husband about this.”  Mrs Hislop’s last eleven words are clipped with her rising anger.

“Mr Hislop?”  Frank turns to the husband, who is sitting at the dining table opposite Claire.

“I’ve nothing more to add, Detective.”

“Well, let’s have a look at what Constable Martin’s got for us, then, shall we?”  Lambert claps his hands together, rubs them as he speaks, like they’re all just about to sit down to a most enjoyable performance.

Mrs Hislop remains in her seat, but her husband turns his attention to the screen when Claire swivels the laptop around on its base so that all three seated at the table can see.  Lambert’s taken a seat at the head of the table.  For the full minute and fifty-six seconds that the video plays, neither police officer watches the screen.  Frank and Claire both watch Mr Hislop intently.  His face gives nothing obvious away, not even at a minute fifty-four, when his wife’s grainy face is revealed.

“Anyone want to watch it again?” Frank asks, having a fair idea what the response will be.

Graham Hislop just shakes his head.

“What about you, Diana?  Want to come and join the fun?”  Lambert’s got it now, he’s found it in himself to goad her.  Being reminded that Chris Baker’s had his head between her legs is enough to cool his passion.  Just enough, though, and not as much as he’d like.

Diana Hislop looks up at Lambert and still doesn’t move.  “Careful, Detective, you might just get a hard on.”  She smiles and the creases around her mouth and eyes remind him how old she really is.

“I’m not anything like you and your husband, Mrs Hislop.”  Frank’s voice is serious, all traces of his needling enjoyment erased.  “I’m not like you at all.”

Frank lets his look linger on Diana Hislop for an emphatic moment before turning back to the husband, at the same time deliberately turning his back on the wife.

“Mr Hislop, you won’t deny that’s your wife in the video?”  Frank’s continues with his sombre, businesslike tone.

“No.”  The word is precise, but said with barely enough breath to expel it from Mr Hislop’s mouth.

“Now, we can’t see the face of the other man in the video, but from the skin colour, I’m guessing it’s not you, Mr Hislop?”

Graham Hislop nods.  Barely.  There’s moisture in the corner of his left eye, maybe a tear, it’s hard to tell.

“So, where were you when this was filmed, Mr Hislop?”  Lambert leans forward as he asks this question.  Claire Martin is fiddling with the computer, eyes down, but listening intently and taking in the whole room.

“I made the video.”

The words are plain, unwrapped, quietly spoken, but they hang solidly in the room.  Claire sees Mrs Hislop sag almost imperceptibly in her seat as she hears the words. She uncrosses and then recrosses her legs the other way to regain her composure.

“OK.  So.  Who’s the, who’s the … woman in the middle?”  Detective Lambert strings his words out, partly for fear of breaking the spell and partly because he’s not sure how to describe the person he’s now certain is Chris Baker.

“That’s Christine,” Mr Hislop answers the Detective’s question immediately, confirming Lambert’s first impression of his heritage.

“Who’s Christine, Mr Hislop?”

“She’s someone we met on the Internet.  A man.  A transvestite.  Now, Detective, you can see why we’d want to keep this to ourselves.  We’ve done nothing wrong, we’re just ordinary people going about our lives.”  The words are beginning to stream out of Graham Hislop now.  “I’m sorry that we led you astray, but you can see why we’d want to keep this private.  No one needs to know about this.  We’ve got children, neighbours, jobs.  This is our business.  No one needs to know.”

“You’re sorry are you?”  Frank’s found his anger again.  It never retreats far.  “We’re looking for a twelve year old boy.  He went missing three weeks ago now.  You might have heard about it on the news.”  Sarcasm is back, too.  “We’re looking for the person or persons who might have taken the boy and, Chris Baker, the man in your video, is a person of major interest to us.”

Mr Hislop looks over at his wife and then back at the Detective.

“We had no idea.  Truly.  I’m sorry, so very sorry.”  Graham Hislop chooses not to speak for his wife.  “We just wanted to keep our lives private.”  He’s looking back at his wife again now, accusing and excluding while he speaks, “What can I do to help you.”

“Just tell me who the person on that video is.”

“I don’t know.  Some man.  We called him Christine.  I don’t know.  I never saw him except when he was dressed up.”

Frank takes out the photocopy of Chris Baker’s licence and shows it to Mr Hislop.

“That him?”

“Yes, yes, I think so.  I don’t know, it’s hard to tell.”

Frank swivels on his seat and leans towards Mrs Hislop holding out the creased paper.

“That him?”

“Yes,” is all she says.

Mister fucking squeaky clean

In the unmarked on the way back from Spring Lakes, the Detectives can’t agree on what to do next.

“Give him a call.  Let him know what we’ve found out.”

“What?  Nah.  No.  No.  What would we do that for?”  Lambert’s looking at Claire Martin from the Driver’s seat.  She motions with her eyes to the road.  He gives her a smile before snapping his head back to straight on with the bitumen.  He’s still smiling as Claire speaks again.

“Frank, the guy’s shitting himself.  We’ve put him in the frame for a possible child abduction and made him reveal his deepest secrets.  We’ve got to let him know his story checks out, that he’s in the clear.”

“Nup.  Nope.  I disagree.”  Frank’s trying to think of a reason why, because he knows what’s coming next.

“Why?”

Frank turns to look at Claire again.  “Geez, you don’t let go easy, do you?  We can’t just ring him up and let him know.  Got to get back to the station, do the paperwork and all.  You know that, Constable.  What, trying to get me to breach procedure now are you?”

“Fuck off, Frank.  Don’t be an idiot.  You can call Baker anytime you like.  Just dial the fucking number.”  She’s acting shitty, but they’re both still smiling.

“Ah, well, see, I can’t be dialling his number now.  I’m driving.  Wouldn’t want to get pulled over by plod.”

“Riiiight.  Detective Senior Sergeant Frank Lambert, mister fucking squeaky clean.  That’s not what it says on the back of the toilet door, you know.”

Frank does a double take, thinks she’s serious for half a second.

“Here. give me the phone.”  Claire reaches for the mobile in its cradle on the dash as she’s speaking.  Holds it in her left hand while she thumbs through her notebook, finds Chris Baker’s number.  By the time she’s returned the phone to the cradle, the sound of ringing is playing through the car’s speakers.

The anxiety he’s been living with

The phone’s been quiet since Tuesday, so when it rings on Thursday afternoon, Chris’s bowels turn to instant liquid.  Sweat streams down his face, his mouth dries.  He decides not to answer, lets it ring out.

The phone rings again.  This time Chris knows he must answer it.  But he’s on the toilet.  It rings out again.

Third time in about as many minutes and this time Chris answers before the noise stops sawing through him.

“Hello?”

“Baker.  It’s Detective Senior Sergeant Lambert.”

There’s a pause at Chris’s end.  Lambert’s been expecting it and he lets it go on.

Finally, “Um, yes?” is all Chris can muster in response.

“Baker.  Thought I’d better give you a call, check in with you, see how you’re doing.”

Lambert’s in the unmarked, on the hands free, Constable Claire Martin’s sitting next to him, listening to the conversation.  She’s stared at Lambert all through the pause.  He’s looked straight ahead, intent on his driving, hands on the wheel at ten and two.  Now she elbows him in the ribs.  Hard.

“Ooof!”

“What?  What was that?”  Chris is confused.  He thinks he can hear giggling on the line.  “Who is this?”

Now there’s a pause at Lambert’s end.  Lambert’s got a tear rolling down his face and neither occupant of the car can look at the other.  Then Claire Martin puts on a stern face, gestures with her eyes to the mobile phone sitting in its cradle on the dash.  She looks away quickly before she loses her composure again.

“Baker.  Sorry.  It’s Frank Lambert, Detective Lambert.  I’m in the car with Constable Martin.  We’ve just been to visit your friends.”

Chris says nothing.  He’s still not sure where this is going to end up.  He can feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

“We showed them the video, Chris, the one you told Constable Martin about from YouTube?”

Still Chris is saying nothing.

“Chris, they told us about your visit on the day of your accident.  We showed them the video and they identified you.  And themselves.”

“Um.  What?”  Chris is still confused, having difficulty with coherence.  He’s thinking he’s going to have to hang up any minute so he can empty his bowels again.

“Look, Baker,” Lambert’s getting impatient now.  He’s had his fun and Chris’s rabbit-in-the-spotlight act is beginning to piss him off.  “We went to visit your pervy little friends,” Claire Martin turns sharply and glares at Lambert.  Lambert breathes in, goes on.  “We went to visit your friends, in Spring Lakes.  They’ve verified your story, Chris.  We know where you were on the day of your accident.  Seems like you’re in the clear.”

Chris is processing the news.  He’s running through the Detective’s words, analysing their meaning.  “In the clear.”  “Seems like.”

“What do you mean?”  Chris knows it’s going to sound dumb, probably make the Detective explode, but he’s got to know.

“Fuck!”  Chris hears Lambert’s low-volume expletive, knows it’s not for him.  Waits.

“Baker, you’re in the clear.  No longer a person of interest.  Off the hook.  Is there another way you’d like me to say it?”

“No.  Thank you, Detective.”  Chris gets in quick this time, like he thinks if he waits, or asks any more questions, what he’s heard will be wrong, or the Detective will change his mind.

“All right, glad you understand.  Goodbye, Baker.  Look after yourself, matey.”

The phone goes dead.

As he sits holding onto the hand piece, Chris is surprised to find how similar the sensation of extreme relief is to the anxiety he’s been living with for the last week and a bit.

Chris is still, and still holding the phone, when he realises it’s ringing again.  He’s not sure how much time has passed since the Detective hung up and his first thought is not to answer.  He half believes that it will be Lambert telling him he’s back on the hook.  His body’s returned to high alert, the phone is slippery in his hands.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is that Chris?”

Chris doesn’t recognise the woman’s voice on the line.

“Yes?”

“Chris.  I got your name and number from a, er, a mutual acquaintance.”

“Yes?”

“Yup.  Look, I know you’re under investigation by the police.”

Chris’s instinct is to hang up.  But he can’t, because he’s too afraid to lose contact with this woman.  She knows he’s being investigated by the police.  What he can’t figure out is what this means.  The Detective’s just let him off.  Literally, just minutes ago.  Now he’s got someone on the line bringing it all back up again.  Talk about perverse!  But he’s afraid to lose touch.  If he does, he might never know whether he’s really in the clear.  The worry would kill him in the end.  So he keeps the line open.

Chris thinks for a moment that it might be the female Detective.  He remembers the laughter he thought he’d heard during his previous phone conversation.  Maybe they’ve called back, just to wind him up.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Tiffany Robson, Chris.”  She says it like he’s supposed to know who she is, but Chris’s got no idea.

“Who?”

“Tiffany Robson, Chris.  The newsreader.  From Channel Six.”

Now Chris knows this is a wind up.

“Who?”

“Tiffany Robson?  I’m the newsreader.  Channel Six.  You must’ve heard of me.”  Tiffany’s starting to get impatient.

“Really?”

“Yes, Chris, really.”

“How did you get my number?  What are you doing calling me?  Did the police give you my number?”

It’s not a big leap of logic to make and Tiffany’s prepared an answer to this question before making the call.

“As a journalist, I can’t reveal my sources, Mr Baker.  Would it be OK if I asked you a few questions?”  She switches to the more formal address to impress on Chris the truth behind her words.  Even though it’s bullshit.

“What about?”

“Well, I know the police have an interest in you, Chris,” Tiffany gets back to being more personal again, tries to be more personable.  “But I’m more interested in something else.”

“Something else?”

“Chris, don’t ask me how I know this, and I’m sorry to drop this on you.  I really am.  But I want to talk to you about being a transvestite.”

“What?”

Tiffany’s wondering if she’s talking to the right person.  Maybe Lambert’s set her up, payback for their last encounter over the serial killings a few years ago.  She tries again.

“I want to talk to you about being a transvestite, Chris.  I’m interested.  Interested in you.”

“What?  How do you know about that?”

Tiffany knows she’s on the right track now.  She runs the line again.  Softens it a bit this time.

“I’m sorry, Chris, I really can’t reveal my sources.  But it’s OK ...”  Tiffany stops to think, she can’t quite figure out what it is she can say to Chris Baker to make him believe that any of this is anything like OK.

Chris is saying nothing.  Waiting.  He still wants to hang up, but he can’t.  He’s still afraid that his nightmare with the police isn’t over and that this woman, whoever she is, will draw him back in if he doesn’t go along with whatever game this is she’s playing.

“Chris, I’m interested.  In you.  I don’t care about the cops or anything that’s going on with them.  I want to know about you.  I just want to talk to you about who you are.  I think it would make a great story, but first, I want to hear about you.  I don’t care if nothing comes out of it.  I’m just interested.”

Tiffany’s beginning to turn on the charm now.  She’s not sure she really is interested in this man she’s never met.  Right now, for Tiffany, it’s about her journalistic pride.  She’s just got to get him to agree to meet her.

“What’re you interested in?  Is that really you?”

“Yes, Chris, it’s me, Tiffany Robson.”

“Mmmmm?”  Chris is still sceptical.

“You, Chris.  I’m interested in you.  I want to know about your life.  I want to know about what it’s like to be you.  I’m interested.  I want to understand you.”

Chris is beginning to want to believe her.  He’s been desperate to be understood his whole life.

“So, how would this work?”

Tiffany knows she in.  Presses home the advantage as quick as she can.

“I want to meet Christine.  Just me.  No cameras, no one else.  I want to talk to her, to you.  I just want to talk.  Anything else, we can decide together.  I won’t do anything more than talk to you unless I’ve got your say so.”

“You just want to talk?”  Chris doesn’t say anything about Christine.  He’s still digesting that bit.

“That’s right, Chris.  That’s all I want to do.  I just want to meet you.  As Christine.”

“As Christine?”

“Yes.  Is that OK?”

Chris thinks for a long time.  This afternoon’s been ... God knows!  But it’s been something all right!  He calculates as many of the permutations as he can.  He thinks he’s probably actually talking to Tiffany Robson.  Definitely maybe.  If he is, she wants to meet him.  Meet Christine.  She’s already been outed in the worst imaginable way.  What else does he have to lose?

“Yes.”

“What was that, Chris?  Didn’t quite hear you.”

Chris thinks for a second that this is an opportunity, a sign that he should change his mind.  But he ploughs on, anyway.

“Yes,  Yes, OK, let’s meet and talk.

“OK.  Good.”  Tiffany’s relieved.  She’s got what she wanted.

They make arrangements for the next day.  Neither wants too much time to think about this.  Time to chicken out.