Chapter 27: Back of the Theatre

The small room at the back of the Dame Helen Mirren Theatre was providing Valerie Haste with much more useful evidence than she had found at the Dean Street hostel. There was a pair of handcuffs, one end locked to a heating pipe and obviously waiting for the guest who was going to be brought here. Valerie peered at the cuffs, there was a possibility of fingerprints on the shiny metal. It was next to a soiled mattress with a single coarse blanket folded up on it. There were bottles of water and packets of energy bars. It looked like they’d planned to keep Mrs Dangerfield here for a while. A bag contained rolls of duct tape and cable ties that looked like they had come from the same source as the ones found in Jim’s rucksack. Valerie couldn’t believe that they’d been so careless as to leave them there but perhaps they’d panicked when Jim was picked up and they’ felt they couldn’t risk coming back. She would have some plainclothes officers watch the place for a while but didn’t really expect anyone to try to recover the stuff. Maybe they’d just set Jim up and running like a clockwork mouse, and had left him to get on with it. That would match the way some of the other male dissident groups worked; they get the benefit of some gullible kid’s protest and they can move on to the next one. There was another bag. Valerie peered inside. There were two packets of condoms - again a match for the one’s that Jim had - plus, treasure of treasures, a receipt.

Great, thought Valerie, at least the girls from forensics have got something to work on.

And, until she had some answers back from them she had one other lead to follow up. The fact that one of the men mentioned by Jim had been called Stevie.

“Ms Higgs?” The caller at Marianne’s house smiled as she opened the door

“It’s Mrs Higgs, actually.” Marianne could sometimes be a little bit pompous. She didn’t like having, as she saw it, to deny her married status, especially to strangers.

“Well, yes. It was that I wanted to talk to you about. I’m Valerie Haste,” she showed Marianne her warrant card, “I’m with the MCF.” Valerie wasn’t hopeful about the likely results of the meeting. Higgs had only been mentioned in passing. It was more the oddness of the relationship that made her think it was worth following up. Husbands were pretty uncommon these days, after all.

“Oh, is this about poor Phyllis’s experience? That was awful. Are you any nearer finding the people responsible?”

“Possibly. Could I come in? I wanted to ask a few questions.”

“Of course. I’m not sure I can help though. I didn’t really know ----Wheeland was it? ----He was there a few times when I was visiting Phyllis but I don’t think I ever spoke to him.” Marianne showed the way into her lounge. The two of them sat down.

“No, I’m sure. No it was more Stephen Higgs I wanted to talk to you about.”

“My husband?”

Valerie was taken aback by the use of the word. It was so rarely heard these days. While she hadn’t expected Marianne to be secretive about the fact that she was married to a man, she hadn’t expected her to be quite so outspoken. “Err, yes.”

“Well? What’s the problem? And why aren’t you talking to him rather than me?”

“We will be Mrs Higgs.” Valerie was confused. It sounded like Marianne didn’t understand her legal responsibility for the man. After all, it was something that had been put in place in the early days of New Order when sponsors and spouses were put on the same legal footing. “But you do realise that in law, you have to answer for his conduct?”

“Well, I suppose so, formally.”

“Formally and actually, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s no problem. Let me put your mind at rest.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that Stephen,” Valerie couldn’t bring herself to talk about him as ‘Mister’ Higgs, “has been attending proscribed venues associated with male dissident groups.”

“Yes I would. I would think it quite ridiculous. In fact, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“I’m afraid it’s the case. We have CCTV evidence of him visiting a club in Soho where we know that unregulated videos were being shown. We also have a suggestion that he is linked to the group behind the incitement to kidnap Mrs Dangerfield.”

“I’m sorry. It’s quite ridiculous. You people may be used to dealing with all sorts of undesirables but we are not like that. My husband...”

“I’m sorry to interrupt Mrs Higgs. Do I take from this that you have what would have been called a ‘traditional’ marriage?”

“Most certainly. That is exactly what we do have!”

Valerie was getting more and more concerned. “And that would include Stephen having a degree of freedom?” Marianne nodded. “And the opportunity to conceal things from you if he wanted?”

“But why would he?...”

“Dissidents and criminals often wish to conceal things, Mrs Higgs. And I’m sure you’ll remember that married men used to be guilty of keeping plenty of secrets once upon a time. The only trouble is that back then you weren’t expected to know what he was up to and now, I’m afraid, you are. I will need whatever details you have of his whereabouts over the last six months. Where can I find him now?”

Stephen Higgs was standing in the check-out queue at the local store where he regularly shopped. He’d promised his wife that he’d pick up some food for that evening’s meal and he was unloading the contents of his trolley onto the checkout conveyor. The man at the till, one of twenty or so sponsored males that did almost all the work in the store apart from the managerial tasks, looked bored but greeted him, “Hullo Steve”.

Outside, Stephen saw two police cars, blue lights flashing, slam to a halt. Officers leapt out. He wondered who they were after.

A shout through a loud hailer told him. “Stephen Higgs! This is the police! Come out with your hands raised.”

Confused and not knowing why he was suddenly the target of police attention Stephen looked around. The man at the check-out suddenly found a reason to leave his till, pushing it shut and running round behind Stephen back into the shop.

Stephen reached the door of the store. “What is this?” he called to the officers.

“Just turn around and face the wall. Put your hands on the wall.”

Still wondering what was going on, Stephen did as he was told and found himself handcuffed and bundled into the back of one of the patrol cars. With his relatively protected home life, Stephen hadn’t ever been exposed to the sort of rough treatment routinely handed out to un-sponsored males. He had seen articles in the paper about how the “diligent officers from the Male Control Force” had dealt with this or that dissident inspired act, of course. Some felt that the MCF was bit over enthusiastic sometimes but generally the media supported their efforts. Stephen had never imagined that he’d be taken into custody by them. Why would he? After all he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

This question didn’t carry any weight with the officers in the patrol car. “Why the fuck would we care? We’re just asked to bring you in?”

“But what for?”

“How would we know? We’re just asked to pick you up. Maybe someone wants a chat? Maybe someone wanted to save you walking home but decided you could go via the station?”

“These handcuffs are painful.”

“Oh, sorry, Sir,” The police officers tone was sarcastic. “We forgot the ones with the soft lining today, didn’t we?”

Stephen sat back, realising that there wasn’t going to be anything gained by antagonising the policewomen further.

In the interview room at the police station, Stephen Higgs sat on a hard wooden chair beside a desk. A stony-faced uniformed officer watched from beside the door. Stephen looked up as Valerie Haste came in to the room. She didn’t say anything but flopped a thick file of papers down on the desk and sat down opposite Stephen staring at him.

Stephen spoke first, “Why am I here?”

“That’s a difficult question. I flunked philosophy at Police College.” She pulled two photographs from the folder. “Do you know who these people are?”

Stephen reached for the pictures. “Yes, of course. That’s Phyllis Dangerfield, she’s a friend of my wife. And, that’s, err, Jim Wheeland. I saw him with Fara Dangerfield a few times.”

“When did you last see him?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe three weeks ago. Look what is it you want?”

“Just for you to answer my questions.”

“Was that in Dean Street?”

“Dean Street?”

Valerie got to her feet and slapped Stephen’s head with the file. The officer at the door looked at the ceiling. “Asking a question is not fucking answering!” Stephen was startled by her sudden aggression.

“Maybe.”

“Did you see him in Dean Street?” Valerie hefted the file in her hands.

“Yes. Once.” Stephen admitted. Valerie sat down.

“What did you talk about?”