by Mike Ripley
‘Briefly, when she took a shower.’
I didn’t tell him that she had insisted on showering immediately after making love. That had thrown me for a minute, but then I’d thought that as the act itself had been so clinical, why shouldn’t she prefer a cold rub-down with a wire brush in preference to the more traditional sweet-nothing pillow talk? (And I hear rumours that some people still smoke afterwards.)
In any case, I was pretty sure she was going through my clothes and wallet, which were still in the bathroom, not that she’d find anything there. And it did give me the chance to pad a quick circuit around the flat.
‘And what did you find? What’s the matter? Who are you looking for?’
I shook my head. Maybe I’d just imagined that black BMW in the wing mirror.
‘Nothing. Nothing’s the matter and I found nothing in her flat.’
‘What’s the address of her gaff?’ He made a note in a flip-top notebook.
‘That was the interesting thing, of course,’ I said, knowing it would wind him up. ‘There was nothing to say who she was, where she worked, what she did when she wasn’t at work. No cheque-books, credit cards, photographs, nothing. And there was no flatmate either; or rather, he hasn’t been around for a few days.’
Prentice raised both eyebrows. ‘He?’
‘Yup. I had about three seconds in the spare bedroom, but it was a man’s room. And I think I know why she showed me earlier. I told you she had this attack at my place.’
‘Some allergy? Was it genuine?’
‘Oh yeah. When I took her back to her place to get her inhaler she made me wait outside. I thought at first she was just paranoid about me knowing where she lived, but what she was doing was improvising.’
‘Improvising?’
I pretended to look around the café. ‘Nice echo,’ I said, and he snorted ‘Get on with it.’
‘She knew she couldn’t stand it back at my place, so she changed plan and decided to use her own bedroom, but she had to clear away some of the obvious signs of male habitation. In the spare room, she’d stuffed a razor, a toothbrush and a can of shaving foam under the bedclothes. I deduced from their condition that they had not been used for four or five days.’
‘I’m impressed. Right little Sherlock, aren’t you?’
I didn’t tell him that I’d opened a drawer and found piles of unmistakably masculine socks and underpants.
‘So you think she had it in mind to seduce you right from the start?’ Prentice said with a hint of a leer.
‘I think she’s a very determined lady and when she sets her mind to something, she gets it. The thing that really upset her during her allergy attack was not the allergy; she knew all about that and what was causing it. It was not being in control of herself that really bugged her.’
‘Sigmund-bleedin’-Freud now as well as Sherlock Holmes! My, I did hit lucky with you, Roy, didn’t I?’
‘Don’t push it, Sergeant. I am not, repeat not, on your payroll, and unless you’ve got something for me, I’m not even in your debt.’
He looked at his notebook.
‘Ah yes, now, about that little favour you wanted. We’ve not had much luck I’m afraid. We’ve got this Zaria Inhadi – is that it? – as far back as the nursing agency that supplied her to the Aurora whatever-it-is rest home, but they’ve not kept her address from when she went on their books. They had references for her, though, and we’ll follow those up ... but it is Christmas Eve, you know.’
‘So I’d heard.’
He scribbled something on a page of the notebook and tore it out.
‘You can get me on one of these numbers over Christmas. Ring me on Boxing Day if you see anything going down.’
I folded the sheet of paper and put it in my wallet.
‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ I sighed.
‘You’re one of life’s Samaritans, Roy. Think of it like that.’
‘So who am I supposed to be the Good Samaritan to?’ I asked.
‘Me, of course.’ He smiled, then finally let the leer come through. ‘Are you sure this Lara bint didn’t just simply crave your body?’
‘No,’ I said carefully, as if considering the idea. ‘She didn’t really enjoy it.’
‘But did you?’
I looked at him wide-eyed.
‘Now, do I look like the sort to bonk and tell?’
I broke a Rule of Life then by going into the West End to finish my Christmas shopping on Christmas Eve. Between the last-minute shoppers and the office party-goers, I’d seen quieter riots. I spotted two turkeys in Selfridges Food Store bags that had been left at bus stops, and there was a trail of streamers and abandoned party hats that made the south side of Duke Street look like the scene of a terrorist airport massacre. In the side door of Littlewoods, a couple were getting as close to copulation as could physically happen while fully clothed. As I passed by, one of a pair of elderly women watching from the bus queue said, ‘I wonder if they’re married?’ and I said, ‘Yes, but not to each other,’ and they both roared with laughter.
By five o’clock, I’d had enough and loaded my shopping-bags into Armstrong. I treated myself to a cigarette to calm my nerves. Who was it said: when the going gets tough, the tough go shopping?
I meandered back eastwards, though the traffic wasn’t at all bad as most people had split for the holidays; the ones still in a fit state to drive, that is.
I had spent the rest of Sunday, after leaving Finchley, touring aimlessly trying to pick up Zaria’s trail. She hadn’t called back at Iris’s pub, and not only had the Leytonstone rest home not heard from her, but Sally the punk nurse had gone away for Christmas.
Perhaps it was just general frustration, not the least over the encounter with Lara, that made me careless. As I turned into Stuart Street, a black BMW pulled out from the kerb and stopped at an angle, blocking the road ahead. I stopped easily enough, with 20 yards to spare, and just had time for a couple of choice swear words before I found reverse.
That was as far as it went. I turned my head to look out of the rear window and got a really good view of the Transit van coming up behind, straddling the middle of the road. With traffic parked on both sides of the street, there was nowhere for me to go.
I reached around and made sure both front doors were locked – I knew the back ones were – and kept the engine running.
The van stopped up close, its headlights dazzling in the mirror until I bent it upward to kill the reflection. Ahead of me, the driver’s door of the BMW opened and a tall, thin Pakistani wearing a camel coat got out and walked straight towards me.
When he was five paces away, I revved Armstrong’s engines but kept my foot on the clutch and my hand on the handbrake. If I was lucky, I just might take him out before I ended up on the dashboard of the BMW.
Sunil – it had to be him – raised his hands, palms out, in a surrender gesture; but he only slowed his walk, he didn’t stop. He came right up to my window and put his right hand in his coat pocket.
I revved the engine again. If he produced a gun and shot me, at least I’d have a go at scratching his paintwork on the way out.
The hand came out with a white envelope. He slapped it once on the palm of his other hand, then offered it towards the window.
Ever so carefully I pulled down the window an inch. He thrust the envelope at me.
‘Take it. You’ve caused me too much embarrassment already. I’ll have the second instalment in a week’s time.’
That was all he said. Then he waved at the van behind me and I heard it reverse and the light filling Armstrong withdrew. He was halfway back to the BMW when I ripped the envelope open and saw the wedge of used ten-pound notes, and even the quickest of glances said we were talking thousands not hundreds.
I lowered the window and waved at him as he climbed into his car.
> ‘And a Merry Christmas to you too,’ I yelled.
It seemed the thing to say.
Two thousand five hundred pounds.
I counted it again, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Two thousand five hundred again.
Springsteen prowled across the floor in front of me, deliberately stepping from note to note.
‘Cat food,’ I told him, beaming inanely and pointing at the money.
He gave me a look as if I’d just confirmed his worst suspicions, and sat down just out of range and began to nibble a rear claw. When they do their own toenails, cats can be really gross.
All that money. All the shops shut and most of central London deserted because it was Christmas Eve.
I counted it again as I stuffed it into Hugh Brogan’s History of the United States, which had been converted into a fire-proof box safe with a small combination lock by Lenny the Lathe. Then I removed five of the notes and strolled around the corner to Stan at the local off-licence, without once looking over my shoulder.
Stan packed three bottles of champagne, one of tequila (replacement emergency present) and one of Bailey’s Irish Cream, which I knew Lisabeth liked, into a cardboard box for me.
‘Party, is it, then?’ he asked.
‘Not tonight, Stan.’
‘My God, you’re slipping.’
‘Could be. Been a bit busy lately and the old social life has indeed slipped a mite. I’ll be home in front of a log fire, roasting chestnuts and wrapping presents and watching a video.’
‘Which one?” He moved over to the display of video boxes on racks between the canned beers and the chocolate.
‘Got one, Stan, been saving it. Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.’
‘That’s not out on video yet,’ he frowned.
‘Never said it was a good copy, Stan,’ I winked.
For once, my evening went as planned. With one exception. Lara rang about 8.30 and asked if I could pick her up on Boxing Day at 6.00. I checked that she meant a.m. and, natch, she did and I negotiated up to 7.00 as there wouldn’t be any traffic and she said okay, but sulkily. And I said, ‘Merry Christmas,’ and she said, ‘Oh yes. Yes,’ like I was the first to point this out to her, and then she hung up. Comfort and joy; I don’t think.
I psyched myself down for what had become the traditional Christmas at Stuart Street. In Lisabeth’s book, if it happens once, it becomes a tradition, and I’d made the mistake of cooperating the previous year.
Throughout the evening there was much to-ing and fro-ing between flats, though it was nowhere near as interesting as it sounds. Basically Fenella would make some spurious excuse to come up and see me so that she could wrap Lisabeth’s presents, most of which she’d hidden in my flat. Half an hour later, Lisabeth would do the same. In between, I had to wrap theirs and sneak down to put them under the tree. This was even more complicated when we had Frank and Salome living upstairs and they did the same, but Doogie and Miranda were new and had been left to their own devices.
After the first bottle of champagne, I was having trouble negotiating the stairs, let alone wrapping anything, but I survived until midnight, when we were allowed by Lisabeth to stand round the tree and open one present each. There was even a card from the mysterious Mr Goodson, pinned up by the communal phone, which read ‘To all at No 9 from A Goodson,’ a bit like signing it ‘A Wellwisher.’ No-one knew where he spent Christmas and no-one had seen him leave the house.
On Christmas morning, I opened a tin of turkey catfood for Springsteen because it seemed traditional, and would have stuck a sprig of holly in it if I’d had one. I opened my presents, which Fenella had hidden from me as they’d arrived, and found a couple of interesting books, enough Body Shop male cosmetics (not tested on animals) to deal with a regiment of beards and skin problems, and, from an Irish friend, a pack of 200 Sweet Afton cigarettes that had come through the mail addressed to Duncan Torrens; Duncan Terrace and Torrens Street being the two roads nearest the Angel tube station. I knew that the third packet in the parcel, carefully re-wrapped, would contain a slab of finest Moroccan black dope.
When I heard the TV come on downstairs – Lisabeth insisted on having a carol service as background noise on the big day itself – I showered and dressed and, armed with another bottle of champagne from the fridge, trooped down to join the fun.
Lisabeth and Fenella, being veggies, substituted nut cutlets for turkey, although as a special dispensation, Fenella attempted to cook me a turkey breast fillet dotted with tarragon. It came out like a cardboard envelope with burnt lawn clippings for decoration, but it was the thought that counted. The Christmas pudding (with me in charge of flaming it with brandy – not a good move, that) was traditional, though, as were the mince pies and cream and about a zillion other calories in the form of chocolates, after-dinner mints, liqueurs, so fourth, so fifth.
By mid-afternoon, we had all three collapsed into various chairs, or across the floor in Fenella’s case, who had announced, ‘I feel another drunk front coming on,’ a line she’d learned from a visiting American friend of mine called Lewd Lulu. Eventually we pulled ourselves together enough for me to do the washing-up, and then we turned the sound on the TV right down, put on a record and broke out the Trivial Pursuit board. I won as always, though there were fewer tears than usual, then rolled a joint for us to share.
All in all, a fairly standard Christmas, no doubt typical of a million homes across the country.
‘You’re late,’ said Lara, climbing into the back of Armstrong.
‘Sorry. Had trouble starting; it’s the frost,’ I lied, although the weather had chilled down considerably. ‘Still, no problem traffic-wise, there’s absolutely zilch on the roads. Good Christmas?’
She didn’t answer.
‘The hunt starts gathering around ten, you know.’
‘Relax. We’ll zip round the M25 to the M11. There can’t be roadworks on Boxing Day, and nobody uses the M11 anyway.’
She sat back in her seat as I accelerated; you don’t have much choice in the matter in a taxi if the driver knows what he’s doing.
‘What’s in the bag?’
She had an airline bag on her knee and hadn’t let it go since she got in. I guessed it was a change of clothes, as she was kitted out for action in black ski-pants, canvas deck shoes and a brown duffle coat with hood.
‘Some things we might need.’ She held up a series of bottles and packets so I could see in the mirror. ‘Aniseed, pepper, oil of peppermint, marzipan …’
‘Marzipan?’
‘For the dogs. It masks scent.’
I’d heard that from my friend Trippy, whose one remaining ambition in life was to be the first drug-smuggler through the Channel Tunnel. And he was going to do it using a birthday cake with lots of marzipan on to fool the sniffer dogs at the Customs posts.
‘What about your … your allergy? Won’t the dogs affect you?’
‘Yes,’ she said coldly. ‘But we must learn to overcome physical weaknesses.’ I wondered if that was part of her Kateda mantra. ‘I have taken the appropriate drugs and I have my inhaler and we will all wear masks.’
She held up a white gauze mask on a metal frame, the sort that house painters and Japanese commuters use.
‘Do you have one?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll get you a scarf.’
‘Is it really necessary?’
‘Oh yes. Sometimes the Special Branch have people there taking photographs of us.’
I looked at her in the mirror and she stared me out, deadpan.
I felt a twinge of sympathy for her, but only a twinge. In her case, it wasn’t just paranoia; they really were after her.
We made the Reverend Bell’s rectory just after 9.00. A weak and watery sun had given up the job of trying to shine, and the frost was shimmering across the fields. Our breat
h steamed. It was what the hunters would call a good day for it. The foxes probably disagreed.
There was a motley collection of vehicles parked outside the rectory. Several motorbikes, a clutch of Citroen 2CVs, a minibus and two Morris Minors. Exactly what you might expect. All of them had stickers on the bumper or in the back windows, ranging from ‘Stop The Bloody Whaling’ to ‘One Planet, Don’t Abuse It.’ I bet none of them ran on unleaded.
Lara was out of Armstrong, bag over her shoulder and marching towards the front door before I’d killed the engine. I muttered, ‘Thanks for the lift,’ to myself and followed her.
Despite the weather, the front door was open and there was a general hubbub coming from the big, empty ballroom. Except it wasn’t empty, there must have been 40 to 50 people in there, of all shapes, sizes and ages. They were all white, I noticed, and almost certainly all middle-class. Two couples were clearly pensioners, which probably explained one of the Morris Minors outside; they’d bought it new. All of them were dressed in jeans and bungy coats against the cold, all had scarves or masks of some sort – in a couple of cases, Batman ones – hanging round their necks. As far as I knew, I was in the middle of the Second Regiment of the Queen’s Own Hunt Saboteurs.
There was a trestle-table by the French windows with two tea urns, and young Stephanie was dispensing cups of something hot and brown from them.
‘Hello,’ she said with a genuine smile. ‘I’m glad you could come. You’re fun.’
Which was the nicest thing anybody was to say to me all day.
She leaned over the table and offered me a chipped white mug.
‘It’s coffee, I think. Got any vodka?’
‘Not this early,’ I said. ‘Won’t your father go ape-shit if he finds you with this mob?’
‘Sole purpose of exercise,’ she said primly.
Lara had disappeared, so I circulated aimlessly, clutching the coffee mug in my palms for warmth. It was freezing in the ballroom, but nobody seemed to mind.