‘Mr Pearson? That’s not a good idea. You might find it . . .’
I held his elbow and turned him to face the bears. A technician was working on the instrument panel inside the plinth, and the mother bear gave a skittish twitch, as if ducking another bullet. I said: ‘I need to see the whole picture. My father died in your store, Tom. You owe it to me and the bears.’
WE STOOD IN the narrow chamber behind the fire hose, the high-pressure pump and gas cylinders next to us. The hose would project a stream of foam at the pedestrian decks and smother any burning debris that fell from the roof. Leaning through the open hatch, I could see the observation platform, the mezzanine deck and the entire concourse.
‘Good. Tell me, Tom, how did Christie get in here?’
Carradine straightened his tortured body. The sweat from his hands left damp prints on the metal wall. ‘The fire crews have key cards. Christie must have stolen one from their locker room.’
‘It’s a miracle he made it here.’ We had emerged from a maze of service corridors, tunnels and freight elevators. ‘It’s not easy to find. Did Christie have a friend on the inside?’
‘Unthinkable, Mr Pearson.’ Carradine stared at me, shocked by the thought. ‘Christie is very devious. He was always hanging around.’
‘All the same, no one actually saw him fire the weapon. How did he smuggle it in here?’
‘Sergeant Falconer told me he hid it behind the gas cylinders.’
‘Sergeant Falconer? For someone so uptight she gets around . . .’
‘Two women leaving the staff toilet saw Christie run to the emergency exit. Several people recognized him in the car park.’
‘They all knew him?’
‘He’s a local troublemaker, a very nasty type.’
‘That’s the problem.’ I moved the foam gun in its gimbals, training the brass barrel on the bears. ‘All that screaming and panic—anyone running away would look like an assassin. Especially the local misfit.’
‘He’s guilty, Mr Pearson.’ Carradine nodded vigorously, his confidence returning. ‘They’ll convict him.’
I GAZED DOWN at the mezzanine, wondering what had drawn my father to a property developer’s pitch. Beyond the exhibition space, separated by chromium rails and a security gate, was a small television studio. There was a hospitality area of black leather sofas, and a circle of cameras and lighting arrays grouped around a commentator’s desk and the guest banquettes.
‘Consumer affairs programme,’ Carradine explained. ‘It’s very popular. Customers come on, talk about their shopping experiences. The Metro-Centre has its own cable channel. In the evenings we have higher ratings than BBC2.’
‘People go home and watch programmes about shopping?’
‘More than shopping, Mr Pearson. Health and lifestyle issues, sports, current affairs, key local concerns like asylum seekers . . .’
A monitor in the control room had come on, and a familiar face appeared, with the same deep tan and sympathetic smile that I had seen on the giant screens at the football stadium.
THE FACE FOLLOWED us around the dome, its sunbed charm glowing from the television screen in Carradine’s office, a windowless space deep in the dome’s administration area. As I sipped a double espresso, glad to sink my nose in its reassuring vapour, Carradine sorted through the photographs he had pulled from his filing cabinet.
He and his assistants had spent endless hours editing out any bloodstains or panic-filled faces. The surveillance-camera stills he passed to me showed a retreat as calm and heroic as Dunkirk, younger customers helping the elderly, uniformed staff guiding children towards their grateful parents. Spilled shopping bags, scattered groceries, a screaming three-year-old with a blood-smeared face were all cropped and consigned to that vast amnesia that the consumer world reserved for the past. At the sales counter, the human race’s greatest confrontation with existence, there were no yesterdays, no history to be relived, only an intense transactional present.
I dropped the photos on Carradine’s desk and turned to the television screen where the suntanned presenter was interviewing housewives about their experiences with a new reusable cat litter. I guessed that the recorded clip would not be appearing on air.
‘I’ve seen him before,’ I told Carradine. ‘Years ago. EastEnders, The Bill. He tended to play paedophiles and widowers who’d murdered their wives . . . it’s that faint shiftiness.’
‘David Cruise.’ At the sound of the name Carradine straightened his shoulders. ‘He runs the Metro-Centre cable channel. He’s very popular, our customers like him.’
‘I bet. He fronted a few product launches for us. I remember a cinema ad for a new micro-car. He was too big to get into it and we had to drop him. The television screen is small enough for him.’
‘He’s good. We’re all glad he’s here. The local constituency chairman thinks he’d make a great Member of Parliament.’
‘He would. Today’s politics is tailor-made for him. Smiles leaking everywhere, mood music, the sales campaign that gets rid of the need for a product. Even the shiftiness. People like to be conned. It reminds them that everything is a game. No disrespect—’
There was a rapid knock on the door and Carradine’s secretary burst in. Close to tears, she spoke urgently to Carradine, then paused by the door as he picked up his telephone.
‘Christie? What do you mean?’ As he listened he struck his mouth with the palm of his hand. ‘When? The court? Mr Pearson is here. How do I explain that?’
He held the receiver in one hand and carefully depressed the cradle with the other, staring at the photographs on his desk.
‘Tom? What’s the problem?’ I walked around the desk. ‘Family news?’
‘Your family.’ Carradine pointed the receiver at me. ‘Duncan Christie.’
‘What about him? Is he dead? Don’t tell me he hanged himself in his cell?’
‘He’s alive.’ Carradine stepped back, trying to leave as much space as possible between us. He stared in a level way at me, unsure whether I would be able to cope with his news. For the first time he no longer looked like a teenager. ‘Very much alive. There was a special court hearing this morning. It just ended. The magistrate discharged him. He ruled there was no case to answer.’
‘How? I don’t believe it.’ I seized the telephone receiver from Carradine and pressed it hard into its cradle, trying to silence this absurd oracle. ‘It’s a hoax. Or a cock-up, some legal blunder. They’re talking about a different case.’
‘No. It’s Duncan Christie. The Crown Prosecution Service offered no evidence. The police withdrew their charges. Three witnesses have come forward, saying they saw Christie in the South Gate entrance hall when the shots were fired. They picked him out in a line-up. Christie was nowhere near the mezzanine. I’m sorry, Mr Pearson . . .’
I turned away, and stared at the presenter still smiling and teasing his housewives. I felt dazed, but I noticed that David Cruise preferred his left profile, which concealed the receding hairline above his right temple. In an almost reassuring way, his soft and ingratiating presence offered the only reality in the absurd world that my father’s death and the Metro-Centre had created between them.
6
GOING HOME
I EXPECTED TO FIND a noisy crowd outside the magistrates’ court, but the police outnumbered the few spectators. Passers-by paused on the pavement opposite the court, but the last of the photographers were packing away their equipment, deprived of their target.