by John Dalton
Sharon began to sort out the shopping. She did it in a very ordered and meticulous way and Des wondered if she was like that with her punters. The thought made him shudder.
‘What’s the talk among the girls?’
‘Well, there’s a feeling she was up to something, like she was doing something on the side and it blew up in her face.’
‘No ideas?’
‘Money, it had to do with making money. That’s all she ever talked about, making money and getting away.’
‘With Vin?’
Sharon made a face. ‘Vin was in the doghouse,’ she said.
‘So who?’
‘Sod knows. You’re gonna have to talk to Pauline about that.’
Nothing much there. Des left Sharon to her domesticity. House to clean, meals to prepare and kids to organize.
Pauline lived two streets down. Des took the opportunity for a short stroll in the sunshine and the rare chance to indulge in feeling good. A lover and a job all in one day. Can’t be bad. The feeling didn’t last. Pauline wasn’t at home. A chunky guy with a huge black moustache was. Des should’ve seen the potential for trouble, the way the guy squared up to him and glared, but Des was in the pink and slack because of it.
‘Hi there,’ Des said with a smirk. ‘I’m McGinlay, a private investigator, and I want to speak to Pauline.’
The man in the door didn’t reply, merely intensified his glare and somehow filled out the doorway more.
‘You get me, yeh? Pauline? I mean, that moustache, there is a mouth under it, isn’t there?’
‘Huh, snoopin after our Pauline, are yer? Fuckin private dick! We’ve had the soddin pigs round half a dozen times and I’ll be fucked if we want you!’
‘There is a mouth.’
‘Eh?’
‘Forget it. Look, I don’t want to speak to you –’
‘No one speaks to our Pauline without my say-so.’
‘Come on, chill out. This heavy macho thing, it’s movie stuff,’ Des quipped. It was one quip too many.
‘Fuckin smartarse!’ The man lifted up a slab hand and propped it on Des’s chest. ‘Well you just check this, dickface. No –’ and the guy began to push ‘– scumbag – little – snooper – comes knocking – on my – fuckin door – without good reason – or a fuckin invitation!’
Des suddenly found himself on the pavement, pressed up against a car. Only then did he begin to get seriously concerned and to think of protecting himself. Too late.
‘An just in case the message hasn’t got home’ – the guy pulled back his arm – ‘fuckin this might make it so!’
Des saw the fist coming but blocked to no avail. A solid thump hit him in the solar plexus. Des bent double, gasping for air. The steak sandwich in his stomach began to get ideas about reincarnation. Des teetered away on wobbly legs, and found a tree to hold on to.
‘An don’t fuckin well come back!’ he heard as he sought to breathe without retching at the same time. After a while, when most of the nausea had gone, Des began to feel angry. Not so much with the thug as with himself. ‘Slack,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Unprofessional. Five minutes on the job and I’m almost fucked!’ He picked himself up and gingerly went on his way.
* * *
Even on the third floor there was no horizon to see. Houses, factories and blocks of flats. For many years, Bertha had barely given the view a second thought. It was just there, ugly and to be ignored. But now she was looking, not seeing, and thinking that maybe one day she could be an observer of the sea instead. One day, the hidden horizon and those she knew with no horizons could be left behind. There was hope. It sat in a pile on the sofa like an unexpected guest. Five thousand pounds. It wasn’t enough to get you to the sea, to allow you to stay, but such a sum could well create more, and so hope was justified. Bertha left the window and sat down by the money. But how to make it grow? She had few financial skills; she didn’t know about much other than typing and that job she’d done so long ago. But maybe there was opportunity. What she once did, so did her daughter, and whatever Claudette was involved with, so Bertha could seek to exploit. But how? The phone quietly beeped its way into her thoughts.
‘Yes.’
‘Bertha, you didn’t give me any warning, did you?’
‘That you, Des?’
‘Yeh, a rather pissed off Des.’
‘What’s happened, sweetheart?’
‘You didn’t tell me about the walrus that minds Pauline.’
‘Have you got hurt or something?’
‘Nah, wounded pride mostly. But this git, he’s built like a tank and fires howitzers if you try to get past him.’
‘I thought you could handle yourself, Des.’
‘Yeh well . . . a bit out of practice, and softened up by you.’
‘We had a nice time, though.’
‘Something I’ll have to sort out, the pain and the pleasure of the job.’
‘Ha, don’t know if I like the sound of that.’
‘Don’t worry, but it would help if you could set up a meet with Pauline minus the bodyguard.’
‘I’ll fix that, but are you sure you’re OK? I wouldn’t like you to get hurt.’
‘Isn’t that what you’re paying me for?’
As she put the phone down, Bertha smiled. That makes a change, paying the man. She picked up the money and wrapped it ready for hiding. The plan was on its way. Bertha smiled again. Quite a coup for a secretary. A secret second life with a man to meet her every need. And, if the plan goes well, a way out to greater riches, an escape from the concrete sprawl to sensuous pleasures by the sea. Bertha pulled herself up sharp. She was fantasizing too far ahead. Yet she knew her daughter, had her suspicions and if proved right, there could well be more money to come. Bertha took the pile of notes into the bedroom, removed a few and then stashed them away. Tomorrow, new clothes and moving forward to past glories and maybe even sweet revenge . . .
* * *
‘I’m sorry about Barry, really. It’s just, well we’ve had a lot of hassle since Claudette was killed. What with the cops and all the talk, it’s buggered up my work and Barry’s dead pissed off about it. You must’ve been the last straw.’
‘Huh, cept he seemed to want to break my back.’
‘He can be a vicious bastard, I know. I really am sorry.’
Pauline was a small shapely woman with short black hair and an angular face where chin and cheekbones stood out strong. A mask-like face, never changing and never giving anything away. Des didn’t like Pauline but then Barry might’ve had something to do with that.
‘I could do without the crocodile tears.’
‘Your snout’s in dirty waters, Des, what d’you expect?’
‘Some bleeding sympathy for Claudette. Some desire to help catch her killer.’
‘We’ll do what we think it’s safe to do. You just rubbed Barry up the wrong way.’
‘Yeh, well remind me to get even.’
Des was back at the Earl with Pauline. A slack afternoon where the soundless TV flickered and two kids clattered pool at the end of the bar. Pauline lit up a cigarette, her waxy face immobile while her eyes were on full alert. A sharp tart, Des thought, a survivor and unlikely to end up with a snapped neck.
‘So what’s the view on Claudette’s death?’
‘Come on, I don’t know anything more than anyone else. They say she was on her way to come and see me but I never knew bout it.’
‘She didn’t arrange it?’
‘Course not. It was just some fuckin excuse she gave to Vin.’
‘The sort of excuse she’d use to go and see her fancy bloke?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Some bloke whose name begins with G?’
‘My, you are the detective.’
‘And G is for –?’
‘The going rate is fifty quid.’
‘Jesus . . .’
‘You’re using up my valuable work time.’
‘After what Barry did, you owe me!’
<
br /> ‘I reckon I should make something out of this mess. I’ve lost enough days’ work.’
Des sighed. There’s no way you argue with a woman like Pauline. He wearily reached into his back pocket. A sudden stab of pain hit him, but it wasn’t physical and it wasn’t Bertha. A holiday, a year or more back. Des could see it. Him and Miranda on a beach beneath tamarisk trees. A bottle of wine and knowing smiles. A bloody lifetime away.
‘OK, here’s the fifty. Spit out the poison, eh.’
‘His name’s Gary Marlow. I don’t know much about him, cept he was young, flash and sold coke to rich pricks round the hotels and stuff.’
‘Great. And was Claudette hot on him?’
‘Don’t know bout that but they’d got something together.’
‘How’d they meet?’
‘I never did work that out.’
‘And where is Gary now?’
‘South America, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘You reckon he did it?’
‘Bloody hell, what do you want for your fifty quid?’
Des sighed again. What did he want? He wanted a tamarisk tree, a bottle of wine and one of those knowing smiles.
9
It was his only way into the hotel scene. A friend of Miranda’s who he didn’t want to see. Des could only say What the hell? and insist to himself the worst was over. The High Park was four star. A modern cube faced with pink concrete and thin windows. A real bollock of an eyesore. Des eased into the cream and brown foyer and confronted the obligatory plastic smile.
‘I’m looking for Vera May Partington.’
‘Yes? One of the chambermaids. I believe she’s working at the moment.’
‘This is urgent, a family matter that can’t wait.’
‘Well, I suppose I could put a call out for her.’
Des put on his own big grin. The receptionist looked about eighteen and had susceptible eyes.
‘Do it,’ he soothed. ‘It’s your job, eh, make connections, help the world move on its way. I’ll be in the lounge.’
He settled into an armchair a whole room away from a group of blue suits taking coffee and spreadsheets. Des breathed deeply. This was the first friend of Miranda he’d met since the bust-up. He hadn’t wanted to see any of them ever again. But Vera May, maybe she wouldn’t be too bad. She never did have her finger on the button. Was writing some sort of novel apparently and working part time to make ends meet. When did they ever?
*
‘My God, it’s you!’ gasped Vera May.
‘Couldn’t be anyone else.’
‘I thought it was going to be my dad or something.’
‘A more interesting alternative, I hope.’
‘Des, it’s been some time.’
Vera May actually wore a black dress and a white apron. Des was quite taken with it; in fact, he was quite taken with her. She sat down next to him and Des suddenly became aware of a difference. No Miranda now, so he could fancy Vera May as much as he liked. There were compensations. And she was attractive. A smooth, flat face and a curled smile. A slim body with large breasts which seemed to tilt her forward. Des felt quite relaxed.
‘It’s nice to see you, Vera May.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but awfully unexpected. You’re the last person I’d’ve thought to see.’
‘Funny how that gets said. We see all kinds of strangers every day, but the people we know we don’t expect.’
‘You’re . . . you’re not here about –?’
‘She’s dead and buried as far as I’m concerned.’ Des wondered whether he’d said it too affirmatively.
‘Oh, so . . .’ Vera May began to shift uncomfortably in her seat.
‘Don’t worry, it’s my job. I’m here to snoop about the seedy side of hotel life.’
‘You mean you’re still doing investigating?’
‘Yeh, and I’m looking for a line on getting a snort of cocaine.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on, Des.’
‘You always were the last to know.’
Des filled in the bewildered Vera May with the broad details of the case. It still didn’t seem to click with her, like this was some elaborate, dubious tale Des was spinning. But finally, perhaps just deciding to go along with it, she suggested Des talk to the security manager. Vera May made a phone call at reception to arrange for him to come down, then returned and sat back down with disbelieving eyes.
‘You’ve never been propositioned for dope or whatever?’
‘No. In the daytime you hardly see the guests. It’s the male staff who always proposition me. With bedrooms everywhere, their heads are full of sex.’
‘You still going out with that geezer John?’
‘No, we bust up a while ago.’
‘Sign of the times.’
‘We’re still good friends, in fact he’s still living in the house. I think he wants me back.’
‘Sounds a bit tricky.’
‘It is, because I’m in love with someone else.’
‘Sounds quick.’
‘Yes, and stupid. I think this guy is raving mad.’
‘Different.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, I couldn’t help myself. He’s charismatic and I was on the rebound. I definitely reckon he’s a full-blown schizophrenic.’
‘You don’t seem too worried.’
‘Whatever. Fate’s as good as anything these days for guiding your life.’
‘Well, Vera May, you look good on it.’ And Des gave a beaming smile.
They promised to meet up for a drink. Des was tempted but thought they never would. She drifted off when the security guy turned up. Des turned his attention to Mr Parkes, another blue suit, and this one, he could tell, was an ex-cop.
‘I’m not a great believer in private investigators, Mr McGinlay, but since I’m private now, I guess there are grounds for co-operation.’
‘Discretion assured,’ Des said, ‘if you’ve any worries.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
Des gave an outline of his investigations and this seemed to impress the thin-faced Parkes. He twirled a gold pen in his fingers, his brown eyes staring unblinking at Des.
‘Now. We have this Gary Marlow toting gear to hotel clientele and a pro who was desperate for big money. Next step, what are the hotel angles?’
‘What are the police doing?’
‘Checking out lone perverts, I believe.’
‘Mmm, well, you’ll see no illicit dealings here, not that I’ve discovered anyway.’
‘Gary Marlow hasn’t a reputation?’
‘I haven’t heard, but I know these things go on.’
‘Yeh?’
‘Someone on the inside of the hotel, a porter or other member of staff acts as a go-between. So if a guest wants something special, the member of staff makes his connection outside and sets up a deal. It’s more usually sex rather than drugs. Maybe your Claudette was into that.’
‘It had crossed my mind, but she’d need a well-placed pimp for that.’
‘They exist, but as I say, I haven’t seen any of it. We’re not all that up-market as far as hotels go and the customers are pretty middle of the road.’
‘Know anybody else I could try?’
‘Oh yes, I think I know the man to see . . .’
Des left the hotel with slight reluctance. He’d got used to sitting in that anonymous lounge and, perversely, had felt quite at home. That’s what they’re about, hotels, making you feel at home, Des thought. And, somehow, being alone among strangers is kind of homely. Like there are no reminders. The grind of life suspended and you can lie back on your well-made bed, rootless and free.
Des smiled to himself and blinked up at the bright sky. Vera May was looking down at him from the fourth floor. It was strange sight, a memory glimpsed briefly, a life once touched ready to be filed away. He waved and then got in his car. A certain Harry Sharma awaited. Yeh, Miranda, who the hell was she?
* * *
There was somet
hing about the sun on the herb plants that made Vin think summer was on the wane. It didn’t quite have the strength and its light was a paler yellow. An indication that he would have to harvest soon. He smiled. It was a good observation, a country instinct. But he also felt a sense of relief. At any time someone could stumble upon his secret patch. Worry was always with him when he went to the canal. For some time he’d been considering buying high-power lamps and growing weed in his loft, but the outdoor option was too alluring. Less quality, more fret, but it was his patch of back home in the concrete city. Vin opened up his bag of fertilizer and started scattering the white granules at the base of his plants. He didn’t see the man leaning against a brick wall and rolling a joint for some time. Vin almost bumped into him before he turned suddenly and staggered back in shock.
‘Jesus fuck, man!’
And then came the familiar snigger, the childlike smile and Scobie flicking at a curl on his forehead. ‘It’s the man from Del Monte,’ he said.
Vin pulled himself together quickly. This was a serious situation. This was a man he would never want anywhere near one of his own operations. He put his hand in his pocket and fingered his knife.
‘How the hell you fin dis place, man?’
‘Saw you one time going down the cut and got curious.’
‘You follow me?’
‘Just watched where you went, the rest was easy. I mean, how could you miss this jungle?’
‘Dis ain’t nuttin to do wid you, Scobie.’
‘What’s it got to do with you, Vin? Anybody could’ve planted these . . . It’s Waterways land.’
‘You know dis is me lickle patch. It me business.’
Scobie finished rolling his spliff. ‘Thought I’d try out the goods.’ He lit up and set himself in the pose of a connoisseur. ‘Mmm, a little coarse on the throat and weak as piss, I’d say.’
‘Bugger off huh, Scobie.’
‘Still, you’ve got quite a lot of flower heads, so I guess they’d have a fair buzz.’
‘Come on, man, split.’
‘Why don’t we go fifty-fifty, eh? You never know in a place like this what might happen. Anyone could stumble on em and nick the lot, but for fifty-fifty, well, I could give some protection.’
Vin felt his spirits begin to sink to his knees. It was one hell of a shit situation and he could see nothing but hassle. Scobie would probably steal the lot, or just burn the crop for the fun of it. Whatever happened, he was sure Scobie would try to humiliate him. Humiliation – the word felt like a knife in his heart. Vin grabbed the handle of his own blade. He felt a sense of loathing, for himself and Scobie. But then something more dangerous entered his mind. This was his crop, his land; this was at the root of him. Vin pulled out his knife and lunged.