Page 9

J OEL brOUGHT THE THIRD round back from the bar. Fowler had offered to help, which was nice, Joel supposed, except that as a self-respecting Englishman he would need a lot fewer arms before he admitted he couldn’t carry two pints.

It might have been a bit rash to suggest a third round. Or the first drink. Or, in fact, the meal. Possibly, and he wasn’t going to rush to a decision on this one but possibly he was being a little reckless by behaving in a way that might be interpreted as flagrantly pursuing a Detective Sergeant. Some people might even call it near-suicidal stupidity.

On the other hand, Fowler had those liquid eyes, and when his mouth relaxed it was truly something special, and Joel had read his hand.

He responded differently to different hands, for reasons he couldn’t even identify, still less explain. Sometimes he got a vague, surface sense of a few traits, sometimes a deeper feeling of understanding. Sometimes, even, it was a powerful emotional response, or a bone-deep certainty, as if he could taste or smell the person. He’d never been hit with a wave of desire until Fowler.

It was absurd. You couldn’t get hot for handwriting. And yet he had, a response deep in the flesh, squeezing his lungs and tightening his groin. He’d sunk into the hand and felt all that discomfort and self-control to the point of pain and those bottled-up longings, and he’d wanted nothing more than to pop the writer’s cork.

It had been a bit of a bitch to realise that the writer was the aforesaid Detective Sergeant but, Joel felt with the confidence of a man two pints in, nothing was insuperable.

He made his way through the groups of drinkers and talkers, and deposited Fowler’s pint of bitter before taking his own from where his left arm clamped it to his side.

“Thanks,” Fowler said. “This is the last one, though. I’ve work tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. Can’t interfere with the strong arm of the law.”

“Long arm. Not strong.”

Your arms look strong enough , Joel thought, though he managed to keep that one to himself. “So it is. I suppose I was thinking of strong-arming people into things.”

“You usually seem to be,” Fowler said, but without offence, which was good, because Joel hadn’t precisely meant offence. He just tended to banter with bite, and all the more when he was nervous. “On the subject of arms...”

“Go on,” Joel said, as permission seemed to be required.

“What did you mean, you don’t want to get used to your prosthesis?”

“Sorry?”

“You said earlier that you didn’t want to, but you were still practising, and—I realise it’s none of my business. I just...” He paused a second. “I struggle to quite work you out.”

Does that mean you want to work me out? Joel felt the tingle all over. Down, boy.

“Ask away,” he said. “I’m very easy, really. A man of simple tastes.”

Fowler narrowed his eyes and lips fractionally, as he tended to do when Joel flirted. It still wasn’t clear if he was disapproving or stopping himself from responding.

“Prosthesis,” he reminded himself as much as Fowler. “Well. The thing is, they wouldn’t give me one for ages. I still had my right hand, and since all right-handers seem to be convinced that left-handers just do it for our own perverse entertainment, apparently I was barely disabled at all. And, in fairness, there were plenty of people in more need than me, but I didn’t ask to have my hand shot off and I do actually feel that the people responsible for the war should be responsible for the consequences. So I made a bit of a fuss and eventually got the hook affair, and it’s awful. I hate it. A hook , like the villain in that bloody play with the flying children.”

“It’s not that bad. You wouldn’t take your eye out if you scratched your nose.”

“It feels that bad when it’s strapped to me. And it’s not independent . It holds things adequately, but it’s a pain to open and close it, and it makes me feel ghastly. I don’t want it.”

“No,” Fowler said. He was listening closely, a little frown between his brows. “I see that, but is there an alternative? If you can’t learn to write with your right hand—and I take your word on that—what else is there?”

“A better prosthesis.” Joel didn’t usually talk about this, but then, people didn’t usually ask. “There’s a surgeon who’s developed an artificial hand with articulated fingers, operated by arm muscle movements. I’ve seen a film. Chaps using them to hold teacups, and drink from them. One of them takes a matchbox from his pocket, and a match out of the box. It’s not fast, of course, but it looks like a hand and it works independently. I want that.”

“Good God. That’s remarkable. How do you get one of those?”

“At vast cost. The inventor’s a German—oh, the irony—so I’d probably have to go out there to have it fitted, and the devices are ferociously expensive. I’m never getting one from the Government, I can tell you that.”

“So you’re saving up for it,” Fowler said. “Which is why you live in that rathole and do the graphology.”

Joel would have taken exception to the description of his home as a rathole if it had been less accurate. “I don’t know a better way to get the sort of money I need, except robbing a bank, which probably creates more problems than it solves.”

“Professionally speaking, I would advise against it. Do you think—” He stopped.

“Do I think it will help?” Joel asked. “Do I think it will feel like a hand rather than another ungainly artificial thing strapped to my arm? Do I think it will make me whole again, or persuade other people that I am?”

“Of course you’ve thought about it.”

Joel sighed. “I realise I might spend a fortune to get something that looks a bit more like a real hand and feels marginally less clunky, and discover I hate it just as much. I know that’s possible. But I still want to try.”

Fowler’s dark eyes were fixed on his. Joel said, “What?”

“I don’t know. I’ve done things because they feel like they might solve a problem, and then realised the problem is too big for any one thing to fix. You think it’s the solution until you get there and it turns out it’s just a plaster on a gaping wound.” He grimaced. “But sometimes you simply need to know you’ve tried, and now and again, things work. I hope you get your hand, and I hope it gives you everything you want from it.”

“Thank you,” Joel said, a slight wobble in his voice.

“And that’s why you’re working so hard with the current device? Getting your arm stronger?”

“I should have been doing exercises for years. You know how it is. But now I’m putting some money away, it makes sense to get the arm back in shape, so I’ll be ready.”

“Sensible,” Fowler said. “I suppose you’ve already had a lot of people assure you that there’s no shame in a war wound.”

“I have, yes. I’ve also had several people turn me down for jobs because why would they give themselves the mild inconvenience when there’s so many two-handed people available?”

“Supporting our wounded heroes is one of many things that people feel passionately must be done, by somebody else.”

“Ha,” Joel said. “I realise I’ve got to get used to where I am. I don’t want to be the bereaved person who insists there’s still hope, and becomes prey to quackery at every turn. It’s not going to grow back. But they are inventing all sorts of clever new devices—God knows there’s no lack of a market—so I intend to try for something better than I’ve got. That’s all.”

“Good for you,” Fowler said. “Damned good for you.”

He extended his pint glass. Joel tapped it with his own. They both drank, Joel contemplating his glass furiously because he’d given away perhaps a bit more than he’d wanted to.

He hated his self-consciousness about his injury, so he tried to act as if he didn’t feel it, including refusing to wear a wooden hand to fill out the empty sleeve-end. He would gladly thump anyone who sneered at the hook, even while it gave him the horrors. He hadn’t told anybody except his doctor about his plans to get hold of the German device, because I want a working wooden hand sounded like the stuff of fantasy.

And he’d just blurted it all out to Fowler. Prick.

They sat in the kind of silence you might expect when one party had just dumped a great lot of feelings on the table and the second party had no reason to care. Or at least that was how Joel felt, and he couldn’t seem to find a way back into the conversation. They’d been doing fine before—two pints’ worth of fine, chatting about this and that, sharing funny stories—and if his bloody hand had ruined it, he was going to kick himself for a week.

Then Fowler said, “So will you do it?”

“Do—?”

“The test.” He paused, then added, “I wish you would.”

“Because?” Joel said, and then, “Because you still don’t trust me. Not ‘still’. I mean, you don’t trust me. It’s always in the back of your mind that you think I’m a liar or a cheat or some kind of Svengali genius capable of setting up an elaborate deception scheme.”

“Not the last one. I’ve discarded that possibility.”

Joel eyed him malevolently. “I hope that was a compliment.”

“Look, you’re right,” Fowler said. “I can’t trust you, or I can’t quite trust you, not because of you, but because of what you purport to do. I’d like to believe it’s not a fraud, very much.” That had a ring of truth, and more than truth. It sounded almost yearning, and Fowler paused for a second before he went on. “But as you said, believing things because one would like them to be true is a fool’s game. So I hope you will do the test. I would like you to show me beyond all doubt that you really do have this remarkable gift, because then I will know how to think about you.”

“And where does that take us?” Joel asked, and the words came out challenging. “If you decide you can trust me—what happens then, Mr. Detective Sergeant?”

Fowler gave a little inhalation, just audible. Their eyes were locked. “Then, I suppose, we could address the fact that you don’t trust me.”

Joel paused on that for a moment, and finally said, “It’s not personal.”

“You have reason to distrust the police. I grasp that.”

I think you’re all right , Joel wanted to say. I really do. It’s just the little voice at the back of my mind, the one that told me to keep low on the battlefield, reminding me how fucked I could be if you’re not.

He met Fowler’s gaze, deliberately. He picked up his pint and drained it, gulping the beer down, then put it on the table with a decisive clink.

“Sod it,” he said. “I’m in.”

***

I T FELT A BIT OF AN anticlimax that he then had to wait over a week to hear anything more.

It was fine. He worked hard on the writing, and found he was adjusting to the drag and weight and inflexibility of the hook to the point where his handwriting was looking almost respectable. He did a lot of arm exercises, and he saw a fair few clients. His bank balance ticked gently upwards. Not fast enough—it might be two or three years yet—but if he became more widely known he could perhaps increase his rates. Or even get a steady income. Consultant to the Metropolitan Police drifted across his mind a couple of times.

And then Fowler finally sent him a note, making a three-hour appointment, and Joel tried very hard not to feel excited.

There would be eight papers to look through. Fowler would attend and write down his impressions, which he guaranteed would not be shown to anyone until the case was concluded, or used for any purpose but the test. It was a very professional note, written by hand. Joel read it about six times, sinking into the black letters, feeling the maelstrom of Fowler’s tensions and wants, and then gave up, rolled onto his bed, and put his right hand to urgent use. It still didn’t feel as good as the left had, but if anyone did a prosthetic for that specific function, Joel hadn’t heard about it.

He was undeniably nervous when Fowler arrived for their appointment on a dark grey Thursday afternoon. He hadn’t bought a new shirt or anything stupid like that, but he might have got his hair cut, and had a decent shave while he was there. He wanted to look good, and he wanted to get this right.

Not just for Fowler either. If he was deluding himself and simply making up his responses to handwriting he should know. He probably wouldn’t stop doing it, because what the blazes else was he to do, but he should know.

Fowler arrived right on time, of course. Joel couldn’t prevent himself smiling. “Hello, Detective Sergeant.”

“You really don’t have to call me that. How are you?”

“Very well. Tea? Kettle’s on.”

“I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.” Fowler looked around. “Suppose I sit at the table, to make notes?”

“And so I can’t read your face?”

“You couldn’t read my face if you tried, because I don’t know anything for you to read. There are eight pieces of writing in this envelope. Some of them are from suspects in the case, and some are from uninvolved people. Each was marked with a number by the officer on the case; I don’t know which is which. I propose that you assess each hand, and I’ll take notes. When you’ve done, put the papers back in the envelope, and I’ll put in my notes. We seal it, and both sign and date it across the seal, and it won’t be opened unless or until the case is solved.”

“Seems fair.” Joel felt distinctly jangly now.

“We’ve done our best to make this watertight. Which means, if you get it right, it’s going to be very hard to argue with your claims.”

That was hardly terrifying at all. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.”

He brought over the tea. Fowler handed him the papers and prepared a notepad. Joel took out the sheaf, feeling his heart thump, and looked at the first, which had a circled 1 in the corner.

“Number one,” he said after a while. Fowler had sat in absolute silence, not distracting him in the least except by existing, a dark masculine presence in the corner of his eye. “I can’t see anything much here. I think this is a woman, and she feels a little nervous as she’s writing. It’s a hugely conscientious hand, rather joyless. Dutiful. I don’t know if she’s much fun to be around, but absolutely nothing in this gives me the sense of someone who’d commit a serious crime: I’m not sure she’d lower herself to shoplifting, even. This was written after the crime, yes?”

“All of them were written afterwards.”

“I think, if she had done a bad thing, the thought would be overwhelming, even if she felt justified in it. She’d fret. I don’t see anything like that.”

Fowler was scribbling. “Is that it?”

“Yes, I think so. I am rather assuming this crime is big enough to make an impact, by the way.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation of a serious matter. Not shoplifting.”

“Good. All right, number two.” He let himself sink into the hand. “Well, he’s none too bright, is he? Deeply unimaginative, no empathy. I can’t imagine he’s much fun to work for. I’d guess he shouts a lot, he feels like a bully. Would I expect criminal behaviour? Oof. I think if you put him into the army he’d be a perfectly good soldier, and if you put him into a gang of racecourse terrorists he’d be good at that too. I don’t get any sense of guilt or fear here, but I don’t know if that’s because he’s done nothing wrong, or if he has but he doesn’t particularly think about it. He probably just goes along whatever path he’s on, like a wind-up toy. If I had to sum him up in two words, it would be No insight . Which, I have to tell you, makes him a blasted bad fit for this sort of test because if he doesn’t feel anything, I’m not going to feel it off him.”

Fowler took it all down without comment. Joel waited for him to finish. He was feeling a lot more nervous now.

“Three,” he said. “Oh. Oh, this...this is more interesting. This person—not sure of the sex, going to say he—is very tense when he’s writing this, but it’s a curious sort of tension. I can’t tell if he’s afraid or exhilarated, but that’s in the moment, because what he mostly is—it comes through every word—is resentful. Boiling with it. He’s, oh, clenched up and furious and....you know, if he did something about it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. This is, I don’t know, like a man turned down by a string of women, and if he’s married at all, he chose her as a poor second and despises her for saying yes to him. Or he’s been long overlooked for promotion—actually, that’s much more like it, there’s no sex drive here. Maybe even one of those church spinsters, if you know what I mean, someone who’s directed all their energy into an organisation or a protegee and isn’t getting the recognition they feel they deserve, and it’s acid on the soul.” He could really feel the personality now, the long-bridled, fermenting resentment. “This is a bitter, bitter person. I don’t know if you could tell it to talk to them, they’re all clenched up, but they’re absolutely seething inside.”

Fowler was watching him with those dark eyes. “Is this your pick?”

“It’s certainly someone who’s ripe for mischief, or rather spite, but I’d want to see the rest.”

Number four was a lacklustre read: perfectly pleasant and worried a lot. Joel couldn’t get anything more out of that. He made another round of tea before sitting back down to number five.

“Five. Hmph. This one’s got a problem. Gambling, maybe, or...drink, perhaps, but the writing doesn’t look shaky. Drugs? Might even be sex, I don’t know, but he’s not enjoying it much if it is. Again, I’m saying ‘he’ for convenience. He’s ashamed, but he would be, and there’s quite a lot of guilt and fear sloshing around, but I don’t think they’re new emotions to him at all. I’m honestly not getting much else outside the ruling compulsion. Mph. I wouldn’t look at this and say he’s definitely done something bad, but he’s a person in the grip of addiction, and that can lead people to do bad things and not really think about it that much because the habit comes first. Ugh. I wish I knew what sort of crime this was, because honestly, two, three, and five are all capable of something .”

Fowler wrote it all down. “Go on.”

“Six... Oh, well, this is better. Oh, I like her. Her? Definitely her. This is someone...goodness, I bet she was Head Girl.” In the corner of his eye, he saw Fowler’s head twitch, as if he’d started to look up. “Full of enthusiasm and positivity and absolutely determined to do a jolly good job of things. Real salt of the earth stuff. A thoroughly nice person, probably so nice you barely notice the iron will.” Fowler choked slightly. “Oh, definitely. Would she commit a crime? Quite possibly, if it needed doing. Beat a man to death with a lacrosse stick or a rolling pin, and then go straight to the police station to explain why it was a necessary and reasonable thing to have done. This isn’t a mean soul.”

That felt a bit better. He swigged tea and took up the next paper. “Seven. Oh.”

“Wh—”

Joel flapped his arm for silence, glaring at the paper he held as the impressions coalesced. “Oh, no, I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. I told you not to give me these people, for Christ’s sake!”

“What is it?” Fowler demanded.

“This is bad. This is someone—absolutely no moral compass. Ruthless. Entirely ruthless. I would not put a lot past him. I think he would do extraordinarily bad things with open eyes. I think...shit. I think he might have blood on his hands.” He stared at the uncaring loops of ink, awash with feelings he didn’t like. “I really think he might. There’s something so bad here, and he knows it, he’s embraced it, he’s relishing it, even, because it shows he’s superior to everyone else.”

“Superior?”

“It’s how he feels. Whether he should...” Joel made himself take a step back, trying to look beyond the dark. “It’s an educated hand, and he’s a clever man. He might be doing pretty well in life. Well, it’s probably easier if you’re not encumbered with feelings—except self-interest and vanity, he’s got plenty of those. Does it show? I don’t know. He might seem a perfectly normal fellow, but behind the mask there’s a sodding great void where a person should be. He does what he wants because what he wants is all that matters, and only he counts. That kind of superior. I don’t like it.” He shuddered. “Take a damn good look at this one. I don’t know if he did your particular crime, but he’s bloody well done something .”

He stopped there. Fowler’s pen scritched on a moment, taking it down. Joel waited for him to finish, and added, “And I did tell you not to bring me people like this.”

“I don’t know what the crime is,” Fowler pointed out. “But I also didn’t ask my colleague to avoid any specific type. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”

His hand had gone to the back of his neck. Joel flapped the last paper. “Forget it.”

Number eight read to be a thoroughly inoffensive sort of person who probably carried the collection plate in church, and knitted toys or mended children’s bicycles as a hobby. It was something of a relief. Joel shuffled the papers together, put them back in the envelope, and tossed it onto the table. “Well, there you go.”

“So, your conclusion?”

“Ugh. Two is very capable of doing bad things in a mindless sort of way, and five is an addict with all that entails. But three and seven are the ones that stand out. I’d say definitely seven except he’s quite clever and he’s got away with things before, so you might struggle to pin things on him. Three has the edge if it was poison pen letters or blackmail or forging a will, some sort of crime on paper, because of the personality. Is that hedging my bets too much?”

“It seems reasonable.” Fowler put his own notes into the envelope, sealed it and signed across the flap. Joel signed in his turn. “That was certainly interesting.”

“Let me know what happens, won’t you? And I don’t know if there’s anything you can do about number seven, but look into him. Because I bet someone has complained about him, and I think you should take it seriously.”

“Noted.” Fowler hesitated. “I will let you know what we discover; I don’t know when that might be. Well. Thanks.”

“Will I see you before then?”

He had not meant to say that. Fowler froze in his tracks.

“Uh,” Joel added. “I just—you know. If you fancy a pint? Or your Italian place sounded good. Not that— I just thought—” The words were propelling themselves out of his stupid mouth, apparently wanting him to sound like a needy idiot who courted policemen. “If you wanted.”

“Well—ongoing case.” Fowler raised the envelope as though Joel’s words were arrows and the paper a shield. “Probably best not.”

“No, of course. Find out I’m not a crook first.”

“I didn’t—”

“No, you’re quite right. Silly question,” Joel said. “Get the results and let me know as and when.”

“I think that’s best,” Fowler said. “Thanks for doing this. Oh, the money is on the table.”

I bet you say that to all the girls , Joel thought, but he’d fucked this up too much to say it. He glanced over and saw three pounds. “That’s too much. It only took an hour.”

“I booked three, so I paid for three. See you later.” Fowler made a sharp exit. Joel stared at the closed door for a while and then walked over and banged his head on it, hard.