‘Has he ever had an issue with alcohol before?’
The husband and wife looked at one another again. Tomek saw straight through it. ‘He used to binge a lot when he was younger,’ Daphne answered. ‘In his early twenties, you know. Blackout drunk. To the point where he was vomiting in his sleep. But we managed to get him out of that period of his life with God’s help, didn’t we, sweetheart?’
‘Yes,’ Roy replied. ‘He was a different man back then. He wasn’t our son. We hardly recognised him, so we took him into the church and made him go cold turkey.’
Clearly, the turkey wasn’t cold enough.
‘What’s the name of the pub he said he was at?’ Tomek asked.
‘The Prince Albert,’ Roy answered.
‘Unfortunate name for a pub, but I guess it makes sense, given everything.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Roy asked, accusation heavy in his tone.
Tomek hesitated, catching himself before he opened his mouth. Then he looked at Anna, who shook her head surreptitiously.
‘Forgive me. You don’t know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘About your son.’
‘What about him?’
Tomek leant back on the sofa, leaving Anna to explain. The news would be better coming from her. She was much more tactful when it came to this sort of thing.
‘Does the name Johnny Bra-vo mean anything to you?’
‘You mean the kids’ cartoon?’
‘Not quite. It’s the name of a drag act.’
‘A drag act…?’ Daphne repeated, realisation quickly dawning on her.
It took her husband a few seconds to catch up, and when he did, he leapt out of his seat.
‘Drag? Are you saying my son’s gay?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Tomek interrupted. ‘Perhaps he just enjoys dressing up as a woman.’
‘Yeah, but that means he’s fucking gay. My son, Johnny, gay!’
Just as Tomek was about to respond, Roy began pacing, shaking his head. Then he made a sudden move towards the patio doors and looked out onto the garden beyond, arms behind his back. Tomek’s first impression was that he was more upset about his son dressing up as a woman than he’d been about his daughter’s death.
‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ he said. ‘How long’s this been going on?’
‘I think that’s a discussion you need to have with your son. Right after we’ve finished with him, that is.’
Without warning, Roy punched the glass. Once, twice, three times, pounding his fist on the window. Then he turned round, grabbed the Chavin stone head, and launched it into the glass. The head bounced off the double glazing, cracking it slightly, then fell to the floor, landing in a mess of pieces.
‘What is it with this fucking family and fucking secrets?’ Roy yelled.
Yes indeed, Tomek thought as he rushed to calm the man. What is it with your family and secrets?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
All it had taken for Roy Whitaker to calm down was a single slap on the cheek from his wife. As if she’d knocked the devil and anger out of him. Shortly after, he’d returned to normal again. Realising that they had nothing more to add or to learn, Tomek and Anna left them to process the latest information about their son. But first they had a stop to make: a quick pit-stop at The Prince Albert. The pub had been first built in the early nineteen hundreds and resembled the Shakespeare Globe, with its white walls, wooden beams and thatched roof. Inside, the pub was equally archaic. The furniture was made from wood and looked as though it was handing out splinters at the same rate the bar was serving beers. The ceiling was too low and the wooden beams offered Tomek a chance to attempt an assault course he’d never tried before. A thick, cloying musty smell lingered in the air, and it was all thanks to one person: the man sitting in the corner, slouched in a chair, head forward, tucked into his chest, spittle dangling from his mouth, a half-empty glass of lager perched on the edge of a coaster. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Tomek would have assumed the man was dead.
‘Don’t worry,’ the bartender, a twenty-something bloke with the first showings of a mullet, called from across the bar. ‘I give him a nudge every hour just to make sure he ain’t croaked or nothing.’
Tomek looked at the beer glass. ‘How many’s he had?’
Shrugging, the bartender replied, ‘Since I’ve been here today, I’d say maybe about three-ish.’
‘And in total?’
Another shrug. ‘Ain’t been here as long as he has.’
‘Brilliant. Do you think maybe you should stop serving him?’
The young man raised his arms in mock surrender, admonishing himself of all blame and responsibilities. ‘I just do what I’m told. And if he wants a beer, then I pour him a beer. So long as he can pay, it ain’t a problem to us.’
‘His liver might have something to say about that.’
Tomek handed the glass to Anna and told her to take it to the bar. While she was there, she leant across to the bartender and quietly whispered in his ear. A word of warning, no doubt. Tomek pulled a seat from beneath the table, and as he sat, prodded Johnny Whitaker’s arm. The man’s body rippled and shook from the assault, but he didn’t move. Next, Tomek slapped him twice on the cheeks. Still nothing. Comatose, unconscious. It wasn’t until Tomek asked for a glass of water from the bar and threw it over him that he finally came to.
‘Wahblugarf,’ Johnny mumbled.
