by JJ Marsh
“Which is ironic considering its origins.”
“Its origins, if you really want to revisit that topic, can be discussed in our next session. However, they are immaterial in the context of this discussion. Look at it for what it is now. It is and always has been a relationship based on truth. You have a responsibility to that.”
“I know.” Beatrice’s eyes stung and her voice sounded small.
“Another relationship based on truth is the one between you and me. So if I think you are not being entirely honest with me, I feel I have a responsibility to find out why.”
Her nose was running. She reached for the box of tissues with such familiarity, this could have been her own bedroom.
“Yes, okay, okay. You’re bloody right, as usual. I justified not telling him for all those reasons, but in fact, I want to keep this thing to myself. There’s no way I can get it taken on as a case; Hamilton won’t have it, so I’ll have to do this in my spare time. Howells is being deliberately obstructive, so I’ll just go behind his back. And I can’t tell Matthew, because he will fret for me, or want to help me, or try to stop me. And I don’t need any of that.”
“Are you planning to do this alone?”
“Not exactly. I have a neighbour who’s helping.”
“A neighbour. Who presumably knows Matthew?”
“Yes. A neighbour who knows him well and who’s mad keen to become Clouseau of the East End. I’m trying to rein him in, but it’s like trying to rationalise with a spring lamb.” She released an enormous sigh. “I have to tell Matthew, don’t I?”
“I can’t tell you what to do. I just want you to make decisions that are both right for now and for later. I have no doubt you know what the best thing is.”
“Yes. I do. James, I’m sorry for being so bloody awkward.”
James looked up from his notes with a frown.
“Beatrice Stubbs, if you break the terms of our contract one more time, you will be fined. We agreed, and you have had more verbal warnings than I care to count, that you need never apologise for yourself. Not in this room. Now look, we have five minutes left. So to practicalities.”
“Practicalities, yes. The mood balancers seem to be working and I take one daily. As for the diary, well, I’ve been busy, so I can’t say I’m up to date.”
“When do you take your medication, Beatrice?”
“Last thing at night.”
“The perfect time. Keep a notebook under your pill box. As you take the tablet, make a note of the day’s moods. Even if you write only one line, that will help us chart your emotional movements. Will you try?”
“Fair enough, I can manage that. Look James, thank you. You have phenomenal patience. You knew we’d need the whole hour, didn’t you?”
“Mostly when people announce there’s nothing to say, the opposite tends to be true. Please take care of yourself, Beatrice. See you in a fortnight?”
“I’ll look forward to it. Goodbye.”
It was true. Whenever she left James’s office, she couldn’t wait to return. As so often after one of his sessions, she felt like a power hose had cleaned the inside of her skull and she wanted to skip all the way back to the office. But she knew from experience such enthusiasm would be short-lived. Two weeks later and she would resent the trip to Islington. Dreading the illumination of dark and dusty emotional corners and anticipating her embarrassment at how, in only fourteen days, she had allowed her mind to get into such an appalling mess.
Chapter 12
Only three stops and they were already south of the river. Beatrice and Adrian came out of the Tube at London Bridge and walked through Borough Market, thankfully closed, otherwise Beatrice would never have dragged him away from the food stalls. He could waste an entire morning sniffing chanterelles and tasting goat’s cheese. She always insisted on taking this particular route when they had their Tate Nights. Walking along the South Bank, full of atmosphere both ancient and modern, was part of the whole soothing experience.
They dodged another cluster of guidebook-reading Nordic sorts and walked under the shadow of Southwark Cathedral. Beatrice waited till they had turned the corner before firing a question at her companion.
“How many people were in that group of tourists we just passed?”
Adrian faltered and made as if to turn but Beatrice wagged a finger.
“Just approximately. And if you can hazard a guess as to nationality, I’ll give you another point.”
“Six, I think. And they were all adults. As for nationality? British, possibly from Newcastle, judging by the accents.”
Beatrice sighed in mock despair. “Eight. Grandparents, parents and four children. Scandinavian, certainly, but I could have been no more specific than that until I saw the Swedish flag on the teenager’s backpack.”
Adrian didn’t seem particularly impressed. They passed The Golden Hinde and circumnavigated the queue outside The Clink before he spoke.
“I think you’re cheating. If I were actively detecting, right now, I’d keep my eyes open for anything relating to my case. Not wasting brain space with lots of irrelevant detail about Swiss tourists.”
“Swedish. How do you know exactly what is relevant to your case?”
“Here, probably nothing.” Passing Vinopolis, they stopped for a moment to admire Banksy’s artwork on the bridge. “But if I were in Wales, I’d be looking very carefully at anyone wearing boaty gear.”
“Boaty gear. I see the logic. Anything else? Which other angles would you use for such enquiries?” Beatrice increased the pressure.
Adrian rose to the challenge. “Apart from checking out boat people, I’d find out when the tide comes in, so I’d know when to wait for boats arriving in the dark.”
“Very astute.” The laughter and chat from the crowd outside The Anchor flowed over them as Adrian’s head flicked left and right, overtly taking in every detail. He expected another test, so Beatrice changed tack.
“It’s natural that men are less aware of their surroundings. You have a different kind of focus. Single-minded. Whereas women, from our hunting and gathering days, developed far better peripheral vision.”
“Beatrice, please don’t tell me you buy into all that hard-wired gender traits crap. You are an intelligent woman. Surely you cannot believe we have evolved so little from the days of the woolly mammoth.”
She laughed. “No, I don’t. No more than I believe in behaviour dictated by signs of the Zodiac. But I knew it would get your shackles up.”
It was Adrian’s turn to laugh. “Get my shackles up? That’s a Bea-line I’ve not heard before. As a matter of fact, I share far more typical characteristics with fellow Sagittarians than I do with cavemen. Oh, look at The Globe. I do love it when it’s all lit up.”
Beatrice stood beside him to admire the theatre, listening to the rush of the Thames at her back. The warm evening, the feeling of people making the most of their city, the anticipation of a couple of happy hours at the Tate Modern, followed by dinner at their favourite Thai, filled Beatrice with optimism. She bunted Adrian with a shoulder and they walked on towards the Millennium Bridge.
“So, which play was on at The Globe tonight?” asked Beatrice.
“Is that pertinent to a case involving criminal activity on a Welsh beach?”
“It’s pertinent to your powers of observation. You stared at the poster for several minutes so you must remember some of the detail. I’ll give you a clue. It’s a play by Marlowe and the title is just one word.”
Adrian’s face was a study of concentration as they approached the art gallery along gravel paths. Beatrice looked up at the immense edifice, crowned by its monolithic chimney, with a sense of admiration for its functionality, past and present.
“I remember! Cymbeline!” Adrian’s expression was triumphant.
“Tsk. That’s Shakespeare. It was Tamburlaine, twerp. Come on.”
“Tamburlaine Twerp is two words.”
After nosing around the Turbine Hall, they ma
de their way upstairs.
“Can we start on Level Three?” asked Adrian, leading the way to the escalator. “I want to feed my Surrealist urges.”
“You’re becoming fixated with weird types and I’m not at all sure it’s healthy. Yes, let’s start there but I do want to see some Impressionists this evening. I’ve had a hankering since Wales.” She held onto the handrail. How refreshing to just stop and stand still on an escalator rather than barging up on the left, tutting at tourists.
“Talking of Wales, have I convinced you yet?” He looked down at her from the step above as they travelled up two floors. The olive-green shirt looked most elegant against his tan. Summer suited him.
Beatrice decided it was time to be honest.
“I am most grateful for the photographs you managed to print from my phone, don’t get me wrong. And as I told you before, you have many of the right qualities I look for in a detective. Unfortunately, you lack training, experience and an understanding of protocols. So while I am happy to bend the rules by sharing information with you, I can’t possibly sanction your taking on a potential crime investigation. Not on your own.”
He didn’t answer, turning to look forwards as they neared the top. He walked ahead to the first room without waiting for her. Beatrice sighed. After all these years of neighbourly harmony, it would be a shame to fall out over such a situation. She wandered through various rooms and found him standing in front of Paul Klee’s Walpurgisnacht. The strange, scratched canvas of blue straw-like figures evoked bats and rituals and owls and paganism. It appealed to her in a way she couldn’t explain.
“I like it. Very witchy.”
Adrian smiled. “I hear the New York Times art critic said exactly the same.”
They moved on to Edward Wadsworth, Yves Tanguy and David Smith. Adrian seemed drawn to these juxtaposed angles, odd assemblages and curious compositions, in the style of de Chirico.
“They like sticking things together to create bizarre representations, don’t they? Sort of artistic Lego.”
Adrian shot her a sly look. “Perhaps it’s a male thing.”
Beatrice drifted away to Franz Roh’s Total Panic II, involving a rather well-drawn elephant scene, incorporating an apparently random bat and snail. Adrian joined her.
“Makes you want to hear the whole story, doesn’t it?”
She nodded. “Yes. Funny how these things can work on our emotions, despite not having a clue as to their true meaning.”
“Do you want to go stare at some pastels now?” he asked.
“When you’re ready. I have no wish to exacerbate your sulk.”
“I am ready, after our usual stop for Metamorphosis of Narcissus, and it’s not a sulk. I just feel a little disappointed that you don’t trust me.”
Beatrice frowned at him. “I do trust you. With all my secrets. Well, most of them. But I’m not prepared to put you in harm’s way. It’s lovely of you to offer to help, and I’m touched. The fact of the matter is, I can’t investigate, because I have to throw all my energies into catching this twisted sex offender. And if I can’t, you can’t either. It’s too dangerous. We have no idea what we’re dealing with.”
They stopped and gazed at the Dalí. Disregarding her lack of enthusiasm for Surrealism, she admired the wonderful use of light, echoes and reflection, the rich colours of the sky, and the always intriguing background detail. She never minded pausing for Narcissus.
Adrian sighed. “It does seem a real shame to let these thefts go unpunished. There could be something far worse behind the pictures. And all because you can’t get away from the Finsbury Park Flasher.”
“Yes, but when I’ve got him where he can do no further harm, I’ll insist on chasing any leads myself. And the evidence hasn’t been abandoned. Don’t forget, the Welsh police have all the facts, including your photos, and are still making enquiries.”
“You said yourself you had no faith in Inspector Howells.”
Beatrice acknowledged the truth of that. Perhaps she should share a little less with her nosy neighbour who forgot nothing, so long as it interested him.
“Well, never mind that now. At the moment, there’s nothing you or I can do about it. Just as soon as I am free to look into things myself, I’d be happy for you to join me. Does that pacify you?”
“A bit. OK, I’ve had my Surreal fix. Let’s go and see some Old Lady Art.”
Beatrice swiped at him with the back of her hand but he was already out of reach.
Chapter 13
Trouble with these girls is they think too much.
Rick rolled up the shutter without checking the window display. No need. Sign says ‘Sex Shop’ in pink and blue neon. A few vids, pair of handcuffs, crotchless drawers and your punter knows what he’s getting. Yeah, it looks tired, a bit sleazy, but who cares? When he finds the next shop girl, she can do a bit of dusting. Or not. Shiny shop front or shabby faded velvet, they’ll come. Heh, heh. They’ll always come. Maybe dirty makes them feel at home.
He’d not expected Caz to lose her bottle. Well disappointing. She was a cynic from the start; tats, studs and a tongue-lash he’d not heard the like of since Madam D. She understood money and sex. Or at least Rick thought she did. One of the few girls he trusted to handle herself without security. Saved him a packet. And now she’d quit. Bad news.
The door opened and the bell pinged as the first one arrived. Rick nodded at him and looked back to the computer. He never judged them. Not to their faces. These losers were his bread and butter. But how sad are you if you need wank-fodder at ten past nine? Geezer went straight in the back for the DVDs. Rick sighed as the door opened again.
Jason. Another wanker.
“Alright Rick?”
“Jase.”
Jason stood beside the soft-porn mag rack as if he was comfortable, but Rick saw his eyes flickering over the opposite wall. He was staring at nurse costumes, rubber gimp suits and lubricants with a giggly compulsion.
“I said I’d call you if I needed any deliveries, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, deffo. Just thought I’d pop in and see if you needed a hand, now Caz has pissed off.”
Rick didn’t look up from the screen. Jason was desperate to manage the shop. Desperate. And therefore the worst possible person to leave in charge. Like letting an alkie run your Ibizan beach bar.
“Nah, you’re alright, Jase. I got it sorted. I’ll give you a bell if I need anything.”
Another bloke came in, greeted them and made straight for the back room. Obviously a regular. The shop was doing decent trade, so all Rick needed to do was find a decent manager. Jase was still hanging about.
“Jase, I got work to do.”
“Yeah, sure, got it. I’m off then. Listen, why did Caz leave?”
Rick shook his head. “Dunno, mate. Maybe she’s got a bloke? Just said she’d had enough, is all.”
The phone started ringing and Jason finally pissed off out of it. Rick dealt with a coy query about lesbian films and a professional sales geezer trying to flog paperbacks of Mommy Porn. Could help the first, no chance with the second. Randy housewives don’t go to sex shops. Try Mothercare.
By lunchtime, he’d sold sixteen DVDs, a chocolate lubricant, a gold cock ring, thirteen mags for differing tastes and two Rabbits. Busy morning. He planned to close up over lunch and go to The Blue Posts for a pie and a pint. Five to one, the bell pinged and another punter turned up. Rick looked up to acknowledge the guy but he kept his head down. Classic. Baseball cap, shifty behaviour, no eye contact, just standing there looking at restraints. Rick waited for the bloke to decide and thought about Caz.
He missed her. Simple as. Always timed it so as he was here around eleven, brought her cakes and coffee and they had a laugh. Why would she up sticks and walk? He’d always treated her right and never tried it on. Not his type, anyway. And he had a funny feeling he wasn’t hers either. But she was a great laugh and a damn good manager. Shit. He knew she wouldn’t come back, not even for a raise. She’d gone
for good. He’d probably never see her again.
He was hungry, he needed a pint and there was a right pong in the air. This punter was giving off a chronic stink. Rick closed down the till and picked up his keys. The bloke carried on staring at the handcuffs. Rick recalled Caz’s voice. Sometimes, you look into someone’s eyes and you just know. No matter how much they spend, you don’t want any part of that world.
The stink was getting worse.
“Right then, sunshine. I’m off on my lunch break. Back about two. Unless you’ve already decided?”
The foul-smelling git looked over his shoulder, back at the display and slunk out the door, the bell signalling his departure. Rick shook his head. Not known for civilised small talk, your average pervert. He locked the door and bent under the counter to find the Febreze.
Chapter 14
“Classics Department, Professor Bailey?”
“Matthew, hello. This is Adrian speaking. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”
“Hello Adrian. No, not at all, it’s nice to hear from you.”
“I called you at home, at first. I thought one of the perks of university lecturing was a massive summer holiday. So I was surprised when your cleaner said you were in your campus office.”
“Not so much of a cleaner, more of an untidier. That was Tanya, my youngest. She’s using the library, hence my banishment. Er, is everything all right?”
“Oh yes. Beatrice is fine, don’t worry. We had dinner the other night, as you know. No, the reason for calling was simply to thank you for that heavenly Amarone.”
“Ah. The Tommaso Bussola. What did you think?”
“Dense. Both colour and nose and the palate goes on forever. Spices from entry to finish, but so well balanced.”
Adrian could hear Matthew smiling. “Quite. It’s powerful, impressively so, but has real elegance. Did you try it with duck?”
“No, I gave the wine centre stage. Supporting acts were some organic bresaola, parmigiano reggiano with a drop of balsamic vinegar and fresh crusty ciabatta. It was absolutely sublime. So much so that I couldn’t have shared it. I can’t thank you enough.”