29. There's a Difference Between Pink Floyd and Crass

It's like a David Mamet court scene down there

By which he means down here

“So, you went back to his because he wouldn’t go to the Railway to listen to Pink Floyd on the jukebox?” Waingard says.

“You’re missing the point,” Moses says. “My idea, my talking about the Floyd like that, it woke something in Aaron.” Vardaman is staring at Moses, wondering where his big bollocks have sprouted from. Must have been an excellent nap on his sofa this afternoon.

“Enlighten me, Moses,” Waingard says.

“I firmly believe we all have this core in our soul’s that responds to ideas of creativity,” Moses says, leaning over his pint and lighting a cigarette. “Most people have this crushed, numbed, voided, by the pressures of society, by the capitalist fetishization of stupidity. Boys, particularly. Boys and men. Reading, thinking, analysing, is idiotic, and I know Aaron would rather beat your brains out of your head than feel like he was being taught something. But when you light that room in the brain, that can burn bright. It can really make a difference to people.”

“You lit Aaron’s fire?” Waingard says.

Moses sucks his cigarette and the cherry throbs red.

“Let’s not overstate it,” Vardaman says.

“Okay, so Aaron didn’t want to walk over the footbridge,” says Moses. “And he didn’t want us to know why. But the way we were talking about music… his kind aren’t used to that sort of chatter. We inspired him.”

“Bit of a difference between Pink Floyd and Crass,” Waingard says.

She knows who Crass are? Moses tries to stop his one eyebrow from lifting.

“He wanted to join in,” Moses says. “On his own grass. So, his idea was to go back to his flat, talk about Crass the way we’d been talking about the Floyd.”

“And Bowie,” Vardaman says. “We’d been talking about Bowie that night.”

Moses smiles at Waingard as if apologising for his friend. “We always talk about Bowie.”

“Where is Aaron’s flat?” says Waingard.

“Rourke’s Place,” says Vardaman. “Halfway up that bastard hill.”

“And did you stay the night?”

Moses shifts in his seat.

“Oh, is this what you’re aiming at?” he says. “A gay three way gone wrong? You people have no imagination.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Waingard says. “Although now I am wondering about it.”

“No gay stuff,” says Vardaman. “At least not with us.”

Waingard cocks an eyebrow.

“With someone else?”

Moses looks at Vardaman. Don’t say it, he’s thinking, willing, praying. There’s nothing to be gained by doing this. Get a guy all wrapped up in this for no reason. And Moses is wondering about this Waingard. Not a regular cop. Some special investigative division. Probably with some government dispensation for brutal unconventionality. Don’t hand anyone over to her, Vardaman, she’ll string the guy up and torture a confession out of him.

“Just what this guy was telling us in the Dutch Rudder earlier,” Vardaman says.

“It was bollocks though,” says Moses.

“His name’s Bill,” Vardaman says. “Everyone calls him Bronco Bill. He comes in here, but you’ll find him down there easier I would’ve thought. Just go and ask him to tell you what he told us about Aaron. And definitely don’t ask him where he gets his nickname.” Vardaman nods at her with sympathetic eyes, but it’s not clear who exactly he’s feeling sorry for.

“I’ll check him out,” Waingard says.

“Look, it could be any number of people who did this,” Moses pleads, leaning forward again, as if his enthusiasm will erase Bronco Bill from Waingard’s mind. “Anybody. Look up and down that bar down there. Any one of those guys could have killed Aaron for any reason. You want the truth of the matter?” He looks Waingard deep in the eyes. “You should just let it go. I don’t know if you can do that, but you should…”

“No, that’s not usually something…”

“But you should just let it go. Nobody is missing Aaron…”

“Not really a part of my job, though…”

“Think about it…”

“Not really anything to think about…”

“Just saying…”

“Well… better you don’t…”

“Just saying…”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t…”

“Just saying…”

“What Mo is trying to say is you have your work cut out for you if you’re trying to cross names off of a suspect list,” says Vardaman. “He wasn’t liked.”

“Sometimes people get into dealing drugs in order to connect with people because they haven’t the skills to do bond with people,” Waingard says. “The irony being they aren’t really bonding with the people they have programmed in their second phone, no more than you’re bonding with the Pakistani guy behind the counter in your local cornershop.”

“You mean Mahfouz?” says Vardaman.

This seems to catch Waingard.

“You ever spend the night at Mahfouz’s flat, Mr Vardaman?” she says.

“No. But we’ve gotten drunk with him a few times. He likes a Jack Daniels and coke and a Lambert and Butler.”

“You’d accept that’s unusual though?” Waingard says.

Moses smiles a small, self-satisfied smile.