Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  Proctor shoved his door open and jumped out onto the pavement. ‘Hey,’ he held his hands up in a placatory gesture, ‘it’s very scary when you fight with yourself like that!’

  ‘Another word out of you,’ she poked Froggy’s nose, ‘and you’re going in the glove compartment!’ She stuffed him back into her belt, closed her cloak and flopped back in her seat with a heavy sigh.

  ‘Is it safe to come in now?’ She ignored Proctor as he climbed slowly back behind the wheel. When she still didn’t speak, he took a tobacco pouch from his pocket, extracted a rolled cigarette and lit it. She glanced over when she smelled the pungent smoke.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘How could I possibly know what you’re thinking?’

  ‘Can I have some, please?’ He passed her the joint. She took a deep drag, then another. ‘Thanks,’ she spluttered. ‘Behind that yellow door,’ and she pointed across the street, ‘is a girl I used to worship, until my father tried to shag her when I was sixteen. She was beautiful, and I used to look up to her so much, and now she’s only twenty-five, but she’s lying half-dead in a wheelchair. And her mother has just told me that she was my father’s mistress. And then she told me that my mother was really his second wife – I never knew he had a first one.’ She took a final drag and handed back the joint.

  ‘My,’ Proctor took a puff, ‘that is complicated.’

  ‘I need to see her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father’s first wife – if she’s still alive.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the only way a woman ever finds out the truth is by asking another woman.’

  ‘Yeah… men are nothin’ but a shower of lying bastards.’ He started the engine. ‘So where is this mystery woman?’

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘You Takin’ the piss?’

  ‘Someplace in Scotland beginning with “Pit”.’

  ‘You are Takin’ the piss!’

  ‘That’s all Monica knows, except that she was called Evelyn, she was an artist and she probably remarried.’

  ‘I’ll just punch that information into my sat-nav and we’ll be on our merry way.’

  She opened her door. ‘I’ll find her myself.’

  ‘Wait! Wait! Don’t start that again – I’ll help you, okay? Get back in the van! Was it Pitlochry, do you think that’s where she meant?’

  ‘Is Pitlochry a fishing village?’

  ‘Not unless they’ve moved it fifty miles closer to the sea since the last time I was there.’

  ‘She said it’s a fishing village beginning with “Pit”.’

  ‘Are you sure? There is a place near… naw. It couldnae be.’

  Annalise closed her eyes. Proctor felt sorry for her – she looked too young to be carrying whatever strange burden was pressing down on her. He put the joint between his lips and popped the van into gear.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he muttered, ‘I’m not doing much for the next six months…’

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, but he refuses to go away.’

  ‘Ellen, I’ve seen my last patient for the day and we have a lengthy waiting list. If he has a referral, give him an appointment for the autumn.’ Grumpily, Dr Charles Seabon Passmore, BSc., MPhil., FRCPysch., dropped the receiver of his desk phone into its cradle. As soon as he did, it rang again. He snatched it.

  ‘For god’s sake woman, what?’

  ‘Doctor, he says he’s here on police business.’

  Passmore felt as if he’d been hit in the face with a wet towel. ‘Umm… all right then, get Karla to show him up.’

  Passmore’s mind raced but formed no coherent thoughts before Karla Lutze admitted a man and a woman into his surgery. The man was very small, in his late fifties and wore spectacles and an exhausted navy suit. The woman was a complete mismatch; about twenty, she was a goddess, with shoulder-length, blonde hair and a naughty black cocktail dress. Lutze watched to see whether Passmore would run his hand through his silver hair. He did. Smiling, she left, closing the door.

  The little man solicitously guided the young woman to the corner with the sofas, where she sat and folded a pair of endless legs. A retired civil servant seeking treatment for his wayward daughter, perhaps? The man approached Passmore’s desk.

  ‘Timmins,’ he said in a soft northern accent. He did not offer to shake hands. Reluctantly, Passmore looked away from the girl. ‘You’re Dr Charles Passmore?’ Passmore nodded. ‘Do you drive a silver-grey Lexus LS, registration number Y302 VDK?’

  ‘Why, yes I do.’ Passmore half-stood and peered out the window. ‘Bloody thing hasn’t been stolen, has it?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. A car of that make and registration has been noted in the vicinity of King’s Cross station several times over the past few weeks.’

  ‘Errr… my London flat is in Highgate. I drive home past King’s Cross every night.’

  ‘And I’m sure your wife Harriet, who lives in your six-bedroom luxury converted barn in Moulton St Mary, Norfolk, is fully aware of your habit?’

  ‘H-habit?’

  ‘Some evenings, you don’t just drive past King’s Cross. Some evenings, you stop and you invite women into your car; the kind of women who work the streets around King’s Cross. Sometimes, they stay in your car for five minutes and then get out again, having transacted their business. Sometimes, they leave with you, presumably for a less hurried engagement.’

  Passmore jumped up, shaking with indignation. ‘Now see here! You can’t just barge into my surgery and make outrageous accusations! This is unbelievable! I’m the most highly paid psychiatrist in Britain and I can assure you that I have never in my–’

  Timmins produced a photograph from his jacket and held it under Passmore’s nose. It was black and white, but it was his car all right, and they’d even caught a tart climbing into it. Passmore deflated back into his chair.

  ‘W-what is this?’ he whispered. ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘I’m not a policeman, Doctor, although I was for many years and I still have contacts. The vice squad watches King’s Cross more closely than most punters imagine. But usually they wait until they’ve snapped you several times before they swoop.’

  Passmore reached for his wallet. ‘Err… well, I certainly consider that to be an extremely valuable piece of advice…’

  ‘I’m not here for money; I want information.’

  ‘Oh? What about?’

  ‘About one of your patients.’

  ‘But that’s impossible! The relationship between a psychiatrist and his–’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Timmins held up a doll-size hand, ‘I don’t want her entire medical history, just the precise details of her last conversation with you. Most of all, I need to know who she might turn to at a time of distress – friends and family, that sort of thing.’

  Passsmore guessed. ‘You’re from the press, aren’t you? Look, I can’t tell you anything about Annalise Palatine! I’d be–’ he reached for his phone, but with sudden, unexpected strength, Timmins snapped a little hand out and seized his wrist.

  ‘I’m not from the press, Doctor, quite the opposite – the nature of my inquiry is extremely private. But I am asking about Annalise Palatine.’ Still holding Passmore’s wrist, he reached into his suit pocket, produced a mobile phone and held up the display. ‘This is your home telephone number, isn’t it? Your home in Norfolk, not your Highgate flat. Your wife Harriet – is she likely to be there right now?’

  ‘I… I… I have no idea!’

  ‘We could always find out.’

  ‘W-why are you doing this to me?’

  Timmins released his arm and lowered the mobile. ‘Or, we could find out what Nicola here has in her bag. Nicola!’ he called across the room, ‘can you join us for a moment, please? I doubt,’ he murmured, ‘if Nicola is her real name.’ Hips swinging, the young woman obeyed. ‘Nicola, please show Dr Passmore what you’ve got in your bag.’ Nicola’s heavily glossed lips split into a cheeky s
mile as she opened her diamante clutch bag and, leaning forward much more than was necessary, placed a rolled-up bundle of banknotes, a box of Durex and a foil of Viagra onto Passmore’s desk. The doctor’s eyes were a battleground between fear and astonishment.

  ‘Nicola’s fee,’ Timmins continued, ‘has been paid for the next twelve hours by the principal in this matter and I imagine that she charges an awful lot more than the girls at King’s Cross. But as with everything else in life, I supppose you pay for what you get.’ Nicola grinned. ‘Thank you, Nicola. Now please wait outside.’ Deftly, the woman swept the items back into her bag and sashayed out the door.

  ‘W-who is the p-principal in this matter?’

  ‘That’s not important. What is important is that Nicola has two thousand pounds which is yours to spend any way you like – take her to dinner, take her to your flat, take her to a nice hotel. Take her to Paris, for all I care. Or,’ and he raised his mobile again, ‘we can see if Harriet is at home in Moulton St Mary…’

  Passmore buried his face in his hands.

  Two hours later, as daylight was fading, Donnie Driscoll stepped from a black taxi outside his home in Camden. It was a great neighbourhood for faces; Donnie was looking forward to freshening up with a few fat lines then strolling down to the Hawley Arms, to soak up some glory. Who knows, Kate might be there, or Sienna, or if it came to the worst, that silly Peaches creature. In spite of the stitches in his cheek – because of the stitches in his cheek – it had been a great day. A snap press conference at the hospital, then he’d negotiated a tidy sum with the News of the World for an in-depth weekend exclusive. Every cloud, eh?

  As he paid the cabbie, he noticed a furniture lorry parked close by and wondered who was moving into which house and whether they were famous. The taxi drove off and a removal man with thick, black eyebrows and a golden earring sticking out from under a beanie hat waved a clipboard at him.

  ‘S’cuse me mate – I got somefink for number firty-eight!’

  ‘Thirty-eight? Hey man – that’s me!’

  ‘You Mr Driscoll?’

  ‘Yeah! What you got?’

  The punch came so fast, he didn’t even see it. But he felt it; his nose and mouth exploded in an excruciating blood-ball and he folded backwards. Before he hit the road, gloved hands seized his arms. The removal man hoisted him across his back and tossed him into the lorry like a sack of potatoes. Only now did Driscoll see that it was empty, apart from the mattresses strapped around its interior walls. As he lay stunned, the removal man rummaged through his jacket and took his mobile phone. Driscoll thought he was being mugged until the man slammed the roller door down. A padlock rattled into place and, a few moments later, the engine started with an almighty judder. Driscoll tried to stand up, but the lorry moved off and he fell down again. He tried to shout but only succeeded in spraying the dusty floor with crimson spots from his shattered mouth. With a sickening sense of panic, he realised that this was no ordinary mugging.

  At the same time, Monica Goddard was opening her yellow door to her second unexpected caller of the day. She even thought that it might be Annalise back again already, but instead, a little bespectacled man stood on her steps. He held up a wallet, showing a silver badge beside a very official-looking ID card.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you; my name is Timmins, of the CID… Mrs Goddard, is it?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions, if I may, about a possible missing person.’

  14

  When she woke, they were on a motorway and the sky had filled with darkening clouds. Slow piano music seeped from the dimly lit radio; Mozart’s Twenty-third, she thought, but wasn’t sure. She peeped over at Proctor. He had another joint in his mouth and looked tired. Something was wrong. She felt around her tummy – Froggy was gone!

  ‘Where is he?’ She jumped upright. ‘What have you done with him?’

  ‘Relax.’ Proctor nodded at the dashboard. Froggy was on top of it, pressed face-first against the windscreen. She grabbed him and hugged him tight. ‘He said he was car sick, so I put him up where he could see the road and not puke on ma seats.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. Strangely, the cuddly toy doesn’t say very much when you’re asleep. In fact, it says bugger-all. I was going to toss it out the window to see if it would cry for help.’

  Annalise noticed a mobile phone on the dashboard, close to where Froggy had been set. She wound down her window, snatched it and threw it out.

  ‘Hey!’ Proctor yelled and braked hard, but a lorry behind them honked furiously so he couldn’t stop. A cacophony of horns and headlights flew past them as the van picked up speed again. ‘What the hell did you do that for? That phone had all ma contacts in it!’

  Froggy sneered. ‘Number one, keep your hands off me, fallguy. Number two, I still don’t trust you.’

  ‘Stop that freaky shit!’ Proctor barked. ‘Ya better start talking like a normal person or this is gonna be a very short trip!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Froggy rasped. ‘You’re permanently stoned, so, go on, lay your version of normality on us, fallguy – we can’t wait!’

  Proctor appeared to sulk in silence for a minute, but really he was thinking of a way to stop the soft-toy nonsense. Obviously, confrontation was not the answer, so he changed tack.

  ‘Your frog didn’t talk when you were sleeping… but you did.’

  ‘Did I?’ She asked in her own voice, and Proctor notched up a small inner victory. ‘Er… what did I say?’

  ‘You kept saying “darling sweetheart”, over and over. Is that your coochee name for Emerson?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Your boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t have a boyfriend!’

  ‘An ex-boyfriend?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Goody, I love this game. Is it animal, vegetable or mineral?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anyone – I must have been dreaming.’

  He smiled. ‘Were you dreaming about olive oil and a set of steel nipple clamps? ’Cos you mentioned those too…’

  She laughed. ‘He’s perfectly foul, isn’t he, Froggy?’

  Froggy croaked. ‘Actually, I wanna hear more about the steel nipple clamps…’

  ‘You’re just a pair of lewd, crude men.’ She stretched and looked around. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘See that orange glow on the clouds? That’s Leicester.’

  ‘Wow. Is Leicester near Scotland?’

  ‘No, Leicester is not near Scotland. Leicester is over two hundred miles not near Scotland.’

  ‘Oh. I need a wee.’

  ‘I warned you to go before we left!’ he admonished, which made her laugh again. ‘Actually, I could do with a pitstop myself, but when the cops are lookin’ for folk, motorway service stations come top of the list.’

  ‘This cloak has a hood…’ She demonstrated.

  ‘Aye, no one will notice you in that, especially if there’s a Harry Potter convention in the vicinity.’

  ‘Let’s see if I can find something for you.’ She knelt up in her seat and rummaged through the rear sleeping area. This was home to a few crusty duvets and some badly embroidered cushions, but eventually she came up with a peaked cap. It was black and battered with a logo that read ‘Whitesnake’. Proudly, she held it up.

  ‘This can hide your face from the CCTV.’

  ‘Whitesnake? Gimme a break!’

  ‘What’s wrong with Whitesnake?’

  ‘What d’you mean, what’s wrong wi’ Whitesnake?’

  ‘What is Whitesnake?’

  ‘Only the worst heavy metal band of all time!’

  ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘White… snake. Geddit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Crap heavy metal bands aren’t exactly known for the subtlety of their sexual subtexts and Whitesnake were complete Spinal Tap. David Coverdale started them when he left Deep Purple, but he wasn’t even Deep Purple’s best singer, that had to be Ian Gillan.’
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  ‘For a band you hate, you seem to know a lot about them.’

  He nodded at the radio. ‘I prefer easy listenin’, in ma old age.’

  She tossed the cap in his lap. ‘Well, I’m sorry I have no “Mendelssohn is your Daddy” hats; it’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Nothin’ with Raith Rovers back there, I take it?’

  ‘What sort of music did they play?’

  He rubbed his face. ‘Christ help me… they’re a football team, love; a football team.’

  ‘Let’s play I-spy!’ Froggy piped up.

  ‘Let’s not.’

  ‘I spy with my little eye, something beginning with R!’

  ‘Road?’ Annalise suggested.

  ‘No! Arsehole!’

  Oh ha-ha,’ Proctor sneered, ‘you’re ever so witty when you’re hiding behind that stupid frog. We’ll stop at the next service station and get food and petrol, but then we need to figure out where to spend the night.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cos you might get recognised if we book into a hotel.’

  ‘I meant, why is that a problem, when we have a camper van?’

  ‘Eh… would you be cool with that? It doesn’t exactly have separate sleeping quarters.’

  ‘I trust you. Froggy doesn’t, but I think I do.’

  ‘If just under half the popular vote was good enough for George Bush, then it’s good enough for me…’

  They encountered no problems at the service station, but, even so, Proctor insisted on driving on afterwards for quite some distance. He left the motorway to travel up the eastern side of England along an A-road that took them past a gigantic spotlit sculpture of a human figure with aeroplane wings – the Angel of the North. Then, he steered in the dark down a succession of country roads until he found a track into a forest. He followed this to a lonely car park, hemmed in by black pines and vaulted by stars.

  Annalise put Froggy to bed, tucking him under a blanket at the back of the van, whilst Proctor looked on sceptically but quietly. Then, with the side door open to the night, they lit a candle and ate the food they’d bought at the service station - an apple and a little cheese for her; a cold sausage roll and a bag of boiled sweets for him. They demolished a bottle of supermarket wine then Annalise opened another.