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It’s taken him a lot of careful study to get it just right. The others would laugh if they knew; they’d snort and snigger and give him funny looks, so he’s gone about his research carefully, casually.
Kent always made sure he had a good reason to go into Chandler’s office. He armed himself with pertinent questions, with files, with news, and he knocked on Chandler’s door, the plywood thin and hollow beneath his knuckles, the flimsiest of barriers between the DI and his men. Kent would wait, heart beating a little too fast, until he heard Chandler’s sharp, precise command to enter. The others always knock and go in straight away, without waiting for an invitation. Chandler always looks annoyed at the intrusion.
Kent would never dream of being so rude. He’s happy to wait. He likes waiting, likes the flutter of anticipation, likes the moment he answers Chandler’s summons and steps into the office, likes the warm glow in the pit of his stomach, half pleasure, half desire, that accompanies the knowledge that for the next few minutes, Chandler’s attention is focused solely on him.
So he asks a question, hands over a file, repeats the news—and while Chandler is considering his response or glancing through the report, Kent is able to study both the man and his environment.
It’s not always Chandler’s expensive suits that hold Kent’s interest. Sometimes it’s not even the way Chandler’s combed his hair, though Kent is attuned to the slightest difference in sweep and parting and styling product. Neither is it always Chandler’s choice of tie, or the amount of cologne he wears, or the shininess of his shoes, or how closely he’s shaved. The thing that fascinates Kent the most, the thing that he checks each time he enters the office, is the arrangement of objects across Chandler’s desk.
Kent remembers a memory game from junior school: twelve objects on a table, a minute to memorise them before they were covered by a cloth; one minute to recall what they were and in which order they sat. He was never any good at this game until the teacher told him not to try to remember each object individually, but instead to remember an object in relation to the others surrounding it.
Chandler would call it context. Miles would call it common sense.
Even with this knowledge, it takes Kent several visits to Chandler’s office before he’s certain he’s got the pattern right. He even jots it down on a neon pink Post-It, though he writes it in his own shorthand, a code he hopes only he can decipher.
Fountain pen. BlackBerry. Police badge. Wristwatch. Tiger balm.
Kent wonders at the logic behind this order. In the downtime when they’re not hunting for the new Ripper or exposing the fake Krays, when they’re collating cold cases and doing Sudoku, Kent constructs possibilities and ponders on motivation. Chandler places the fountain pen—Mont Blanc, a sleek black and gold bullet—first on his desk because he’s educated and likes to write. But this must be wrong, because Chandler is right-handed and the pen sits on his left-hand side.
The police badge is in the middle of the five objects. Kent thinks maybe the badge is in the middle because the police force has a kind of central importance in Chandler’s life. Certainly the DI doesn’t seem to have any social existence outside of work. Even the few occasions Chandler has invited Kent to the pub, it’s been for police business, not for pleasure.
The tiger balm occupies the only position that makes sense to Kent. If the rest of the line-up represents the sum of Chandler’s job, then stress is the only outcome, and the tiger balm is the only thing that seems to relieve the stress. Also, Kent thinks, the tiger balm is on the right, within easy reach.
As soon as he believes he knows the reasoning behind Chandler’s arrangement of objects across the desk, Kent takes the knowledge and tries to apply it to his own belongings. He spends time sharpening a box of HB pencils, then sets one of them on his desk in the empty space he’s cleared for it. The pencil looks wrong. It can’t compare with the heavyweight prestige of a Mont Blanc. Disappointed, Kent drops the pencil into a coffee mug he’s bought especially for the purpose. It joins the other pencils, all sharpened to wicked points, and now he can’t tell which pencil was his chosen one.
The thought disconcerts him, so he opens a drawer and takes out a pen. It’s a rollerball, not a fountain pen. It’s a 0.5, whatever that means. There’s something written in French along its shaft. Despite this, it’s not a good substitute for a Mont Blanc but it’s better than nothing.
Kent doesn’t want to set his police badge on the desk, so he lays out a pocket map of London instead. It represents his identity in the same way, after all. He turns the glossy pages until he finds the section mapping Whitechapel. He leaves a fingerprint over the square marking the location of the police station.
His wristwatch is next. Chandler’s watch has a black leather strap. It looks sleek and expensive. Kent’s watch was £49.99 from the Argos catalogue. It has a stretchy metallic cuff-strap that sometimes pinches the skin of his wrist.
Now he dips a hand into his inside jacket pocket and takes out his iPhone. He considered buying a BlackBerry, but he doesn’t get that many emails. He likes the apps on the iPhone, and it's easier to check Twitter, and he needs the touch screen to keep up with the new levels of Angry Birds.
Kent examines the items placed on his desk. They’re in the wrong order. They don’t mean anything. He can’t step outside himself and construct anything meaningful from this haphazard arrangement. Deep in thought, he starts to move the objects one at a time, sliding them across the desk like chess pieces on a board. Only four items, yet together they represent his personality, his duties as a police officer, his dreams. It’s important that he places them in the right order, in the order that would be most meaningful to Chandler.
A few more adjustments and he’s done. Map. Wristwatch. iPhone. Pen. Kent sits back and studies the arrangement one more time.
Miles stops by the desk. He’s holding a file, paper stuffed untidily inside it, a bulldog clip clamped over the top to hold the mess together. Miles looks at the objects lined up on Kent’s desk. He hesitates, looking as if he’s about to say something.
Kent straightens his spine, taking strength from the armour of his new suit, five hundred pounds from Fenwick’s in the sale—not as expensive as Chandler’s designer suits, of course, but more expensive than Miles’ favourite M&S slacks and jacket combination.
Miles looks at the objects laid out on the desk: map, watch, phone, pen. He looks at the empty space between the watch and the phone, the space now occupied by Kent’s nervous hands. Kent’s annoyed by Miles’ steady, silent perusal. Arranging his desk is supposed to bring peace of mind; instead, he feels embarrassed. He wants to justify himself, and in justifying himself, he knows he’ll sound protective of Chandler, and that would make everything too obvious, and Kent doesn’t think he could stand to be too obvious.
Another moment passes, and then Miles turns his head with an exhalation of breath that almost sounds like a sigh.
Kent stares at his desk, waiting for the sarcasm.
Miles bends closer, pitches his voice softer. “He’s got OCD.”
Surprise makes Kent look up. “I know.”
Miles almost smiles. “It’s not catching.”