by Vic Robbie
‘What’s that?’ The thought of taking drugs repulsed him. ‘Cocaine?’
With a haughty expression, she snapped the vial shut and stowed it in her bag. ‘You’re silly. Drugs are illegal. I’m a good girl, I stick to my four doses of Qs every day. Well, more or less.’
And, seeing him staring at her, she bit her lip and turned away. ‘So, what if I take more now and again? It’s good for you, isn’t it? Promise me it’s our secret.’
Why was he wasting time freezing his butt off in an ancient motor with a dope-sniffing model waiting for someone who might not exist? Maybe if he took up her offer of Qs, he’d see the world as she did.
‘What will we do when he returns?’ The question was so quiet he struggled to hear.
He wasn’t sure if she was trembling at the thought of confronting him or because of the cold creeping into her bones. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle him.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Hold him until the cops get here. My brother will want to speak to him.’
Reaching over to the radio, he asked, ‘Do you mind if I turn this off?’ He liked September In The Rain, but not now.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Reminds me of the taxi. The radio was playing Summertime before it blew up.’
‘That’s the most popular tune of our time.’ She placed a reassuring hand on his thigh. ‘But you’re imagining it; the radio isn’t on.’
For almost two hours, they watched cars come and go, drunks staggering out of the bar and the odd embracing couple sneaking into the alley and re-emerging sometime later giggling. But there was no sign of the attacker, and his car remained. And all the time there was Dinah Washington.
‘Where is he?’ Solo asked in desperation.
After taking another dose of her qualoid, she smiled secretively and snuggled closer. ‘Just what I needed. Relaxed now, but cold. Put your arm around me.’
Not waiting for an answer, she drew closer and laid her head on his chest. ‘You’re weird but interesting. And I like your hair. Few men have hair these days.’
‘What do you mean?’
She stared not sure he was serious. ‘You know. Some time ago, way before I was born, pollution caused men to lose their hair, but not women for some reason. Subsequently, most males were born unable to have head hair. There are exceptions, Bernard at the restaurant is one, and you’re another.’ She ran a hand through his tangled hair and down its length until it rested on his shoulder.
‘Who are you, really?’ she asked, her voice muffled in the collar’s fur.
‘Just an ordinary guy struggling with reality.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This. You.’ He waved an arm. ‘It’s all strange.’
The way we keep meeting.
‘Sounds as if you’re lost?’
He nodded, not wanting to admit it.
‘Tell me, what do you believe in, Mr Hartington?’
Unable to come up with an answer, he didn’t reply.
‘Spirits, ghosts, other worlds, religion although that’s something you can no longer admit to?’ Her eyes pressed for an answer. ‘Or none of the above?’
He shrugged.
‘Sad. If you don’t believe in something, you’ve no soul.’
He looked away. ’Never mind me, what about you?’
‘Oh, yes, I believe in some things. For a start, there must be more than this.’
‘What?’
As if worried he might not understand, she hesitated before answering. ‘I believe I have a guardian, a spirit guide, call it what you like.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I can feel it.’
‘Can you see it, what form does it take?’ He felt a twinge of guilt that he was encouraging her to open up.
‘See nothing, just sense it, like a mood.’
‘A good feeling?’
‘Guess so. An inner warmth. Makes you think you’re expanding, stepping out of one world into another.’ She looked down at her gloved hands. ‘Is that crazy?’
He shook his head. After what he’d been through, nothing was crazy anymore. ‘Does it happen often?’
Reluctant to explain, she nodded and after hesitating continued, ‘Sometimes I’ve needed help, and it has been there for me.’
‘Do you ask it for help?’
‘When low or worried, I speak to it.’
‘So, it comes running to the rescue?’
She should ask it to find Becky.
‘Not exactly. You can’t summon it, but it knows when I need help. It doesn’t materialise; it’s a presence or a force like the wind. There are times I’ve got out of difficult situations I shouldn’t have.’
‘Do you feel it now?’
’No, don’t need it when I’ve got you.’ With a smile, she looked deep into his eyes, ending the discussion. Her hand touched the hard muscle of his arm. ‘You’re still in shape.’ She glanced away, silent for a moment. ‘Envy you.’
‘Why?’ He was surprised.
‘You have a brother.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but we haven’t got on for years. Only Becky’s abduction has brought us together, and I wouldn’t want that for anything.’
‘But he loves you.’
Embarrassed, he coughed weakly, ‘I doubt it.’
‘Saw it. Observe people when they think I’m not looking, and then you see the real person.’
He changed the subject. ‘But your mother—’
‘Told you she hated me. Made it clear every day I was the reason for everything wrong with her crappy life. The drugs. The drink. Losing her looks. Her inability to get a man. Said I was ugly.’ He could sense anger building up in her. ‘My fault.’
‘So, you left.’
‘Couldn’t take it anymore. Even had the stupid idea I’d try to find my father.’
‘You never knew him?’
‘Long gone before I entered the world. Supposed to be someone important, but it was probably another of her lies. Although one time I might have been close to him.’
‘How?’
‘One of my mammy’s favourite punishments was to put me in a small tent outside the trailer in all weathers. Sometimes for days on end. Would fasten the zip at the opening so I couldn’t get out, and all I saw was a few inches by lifting a corner of the canvas. This time I’d asked her if I could go to a school dance, and she flew into a monumental rage with all the usual insults that I was too ugly to go to a dance. Put me in my prison with a jacket and just a thin groundsheet and left me there.
‘A couple of limos drew up close by, and I peered out. There were three men, but the most I saw of them was up to their knees. The one who went into the trailer had shiny black shoes, and he complained they were getting muddy in the wet grass. Mammy knew him, and I heard them arguing for ten minutes before he left. Surprisingly, she came out to bring me back into the trailer, and I noticed a pile of banknotes by her purse. Maybe that was him.’
It started gentle at first, something they ignored but within minutes a distant rumbling threatened thunder and soon the rain cascaded down, so sharp it stung their skin.
‘Come on, let’s get some shelter in the bar,’ he shouted above the growl from the skies and pulled on her arm.
‘No,’ she shouted back. ‘I’m not leaving. He might return at any time. This is our only chance of getting him.’
‘Put your jacket over your head.’
‘No way, Daddy-O, the rain will ruin it.’
They sat in silence, willing the rain to stop or at least lessen in its intensity, and it drenched him, and every time he moved, he squelched on the upholstery. The downpour was so heavy he couldn’t see through the curtain of water and even squinting into the dark made little difference. If the killer returned now, they might miss him.
He glanced at Solo, noticing the determined set of her jaw, and it would have been appealing if it wasn’t so damn wet.
The hair was the first to go, falling from her crown in sodden ringlets. At first,
she pushed it back before accepting it was hopeless. The rain streaked her white face with rivulets of black and red as her exotic make-up dissolved under the deluge and ran into her eyes, and she tried to rub them dry.
‘Have you anything in your purse?’ he asked, turning to her.
He took some cotton wool from her and cleared the make-up from her forehead and her eyes. Most of it had run into the white powder on her cheeks, creating an almost Picasso effect. And, asking for more wool, he removed it like a fine art restorer wiping away centuries of grime from an old master to reveal the original colour and vitality of the canvas. With her geisha look, she was a striking woman, but with her sodden hair close to her head and her skin free of artificial products, she was beautiful.
‘There,’ he appraised his handiwork. ‘Good as new.’
‘That’s better,’ she replied, touching her cheek and looking vulnerable now her mask had been stripped away. She moved closer, laying her head on his chest, and within seconds drifted into sleep. And the slow rhythm of her breathing relegated the sound of rain spattering the dashboard as he kept watch.
One minute his eyes were concentrating on the car, the next the grey of dawn was creeping in, and the man’s car had gone.
She awoke with a start and scrambled onto her knees, pointing. ‘Where’s the car?’ And she turned, accusing. ‘You fell asleep.’
It added to his guilt that he’d let down Becky, exacerbated by not having checked with his brother for any developments.
Solo couldn’t conceal her anger and rummaged in her purse for keys, snapping at him, ‘You can get out. Know where he’ll have gone. Will drive there now.’
‘You can’t go on your own.’
‘Get out, you’re not much help if you’re falling asleep. When I’ve discovered where he is, I’ll contact you.’
She was angry, but he believed she was overdoing it. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
Her head slumped, and she looked ashamed. ‘The StatPol picked me up and asked questions about you,’ she explained, her voice faltering. ‘They’re looking for you. I told you they’ll find you through me. You’re not safe. It’s too dangerous to be with me.’
Reluctantly, he climbed out of the car, and it wended its way out of the parking lot. But there was no expected deep burbling growl of a V8, instead just a high-pitched electrical whine.
He didn’t want her doing this on her own. She needed protection from the StatPol. Once again, he looked at the alley and dread crawled across him like a fast-moving spider. Had the man deposited another body? Becky? He ran over and slowed at the entrance, preparing for what he might find.
It was empty apart from the detritus left by the previous evening’s drunks and vagabonds, but his relief reminded him of his inadequacy. He had to see his brother.
The lieutenant’s house in a respectable neighbourhood emphasised his position in the community. Only on this morning, the usual chatter of breakfast was almost funereal as Jane prepared a meal for her son and just a coffee for herself and her husband.
The lieutenant opened the door, and he followed him into the kitchen. As he entered, Jane greeted him with a wan welcome, and it appeared all her hope had deserted her. But she made him a coffee while the lieutenant gestured with his head to join him outside.
His brother had taken a pack of cigars with him and jammed one in the corner of his mouth. ‘There was another last night,’ and answered the questioning stare, ‘our man attempted another abduction.’
‘Attempted?’
‘He failed, thankfully. Targeted a girl, but luckily the babysitter was on the ball, disturbed him, and he ran off.’
‘And Becky?’
‘Nothing so far.’ He bit through the cigar, his eyes black holes of despair.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Solo parked the Chevy a couple of blocks from her apartment and went on foot, her fur collar turned up and a scarf over her head. After spending the night in the car with Headlock, she needed a shower and a change of clothes, but she couldn’t risk running into Ottomon’s men who might be watching her apartment.
She’d told Headlock about her encounter with the StatPol but omitted to say she’d agreed to deliver him to Trenton. She felt bad about that, but if she had, he’d never trust her again, and he needed all the help he could get to find his daughter.
Despite her success as a model, the eleventh-floor apartment wasn’t luxurious. It provided only a sliver of a view of the local racecourse, and it was all she could afford. Over the last few years, property prices had soared more than one hundred per cent, and only the rich could buy, and they let them out at exorbitant rents, paying a percentage of their profits to the twelve members of the Praesidium. Her monthly rent took half her modelling income, but there was little choice if she wanted to live in the city and not in the out-of-town communes. Only one bedroom, it was furnished with clothes and shoes and boots and bags. Every morning she promised tomorrow she’d tidy everything away and get her life in order, but not today.
Under the pretence of perusing magazines at a street corner booth, she surveyed the area. It didn’t take long to identify the watchers as they seemed unconcerned about being noticed. They’d parked two black cars close to the entrance, and men in dark suits patrolled the area talking into their radios.
Were they Ottomon’s men or StatPol? Calmly, she purchased a magazine and strolled back the way she’d come, returning to the car.
The traffic was light, and she made good time and pulled in down the road from the attacker’s house. His car wasn’t in the drive although the upstairs blinds were down. She deliberated whether to ring the doorbell but, if it was answered, what would she do then?
She’d contact Headlock and seek his advice. If he wasn’t at the restaurant at Fisherman’s Quay, someone might get a message to him. But when she called the restaurant, they didn’t appear to understand and didn’t recall a guy with shoulder-length blond hair and a muscular body. It would have been easier if he’d been here, but for the moment she had to dissuade him from meeting her again.
As there was no sign of life, she switched off the engine and wandered around the area with a sheaf of papers and a pen in hand under the guise of conducting a survey on improving local facilities. Many of the doors she knocked remained unanswered, but some opened, and she gleaned useful information.
Dr Skarab lived with his mother to whom he appeared devoted and was a scientist, working for the State, the neighbours whispered behind raised hands. If you had a State employee close by, you gave them a wide berth in case they learned something to use against you.
‘Is the mother an invalid?’ she asked one elderly neighbour eager to talk, especially to a nubile young woman who laughed at his jokes. Every time she made to leave, he called her back with another tidbit of information. The mother wasn’t bedridden but a late riser, never opening the upstairs blinds until late afternoon. The scientist, he said, regularly came and went, especially at night, and stayed away from home for several hours.
The old man, eager to keep her close, invited her in for a coffee, and she took up a vantage point from where she was able to watch the house’s front door.
To allay suspicion, she, at last, bid him farewell and drove off, only going around a corner and parking where she still had a good view of the house.
The scientist’s non-appearance troubled her. He might be at the location where he was holding Becky, and her sorrow for Headlock returned in waves as she tried to imagine his anguish.
Should she confront the scientist if he turned up now? But she soon discarded that idea. Someone capable of murder was too dangerous, even for a woman who boxed in the gym as part of her fitness regime.
As the day wore on, she kicked herself for wasting time.
This is a wild goose chase.
He might not be the killer and, while she sat here, Becky needed their help somewhere far away.
The fingers of dusk crept in around her and a car tu
rning into the drive brought her to her senses. She thought he’d returned, but it was only a taxi.
The moon, a brighter red now, illuminated an older woman leaving the house. By the style of her clothes and carefully coiffed hair and full make-up, she wasn’t going to a sewing circle.
She followed the taxi down to the coast, the sky lit by a light show of crisscrossing lasers. Once again, they were headed for Fisherman’s Quay. Everything appeared to be happening there. When this was over, she promised herself, I’m never going back there. I’ll party somewhere else.
The thought of hooking up with Headlock again excited her, but then she remembered he’d be putting his life in danger if he did.
As the taxi pulled up outside the bar, a car swerved across her path, and she had to take evasive action to avoid being sideswiped before parking in the shadows with a good view of the entrance. But the woman had disappeared.
Chapter Thirty-Five
For the umpteenth time, Headlock swung around on the barstool in Barney’s. He was troubled. Solo had stormed off, and now he couldn’t contact her. And he worried she’d become a target for the killer who could stop her identifying him.
He checked on new arrivals and recognised someone sitting in a booth on the other side of the room. Screwing up his eyes in the dim light, he sucked in his breath. It was the blonde, and she wasn’t alone. Perfectly made up, hair just right, a good figure and the angular face with a hardness to it.
Her poisoning him the other night had led to this, and he wanted to confront her. But now he faced more serious problems. Yet he still kept half an eye on her and as the night progressed her partner, drinking shorts, was becoming louder.
To make sure she didn’t recognise him, he pushed his trademark hair out of sight under a baseball cap borrowed from Barney who, when he’d arrived at the bar, raised a hand and extricated a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. ‘Got a call from a lady who said she worked for Jack Blake and told me to give this info to you as soon as possible. Wrote it down.’ He opened the note and peered at it. ‘Right, the alley’s records go back more than a hundred years. During that time eleven bodies have been murdered there or dumped.’ Barney attempted to decipher what he’d scrawled in a hurry. ‘Three identified as prostitutes and killers executed. The other eight were unidentified. Killers never apprehended. There.’ Pleased, he was about to return the note to his pocket when he raised a hand. ‘Wait. One other bit of info. First recorded killing. 1898.’