by Mark Timlin
‘Did you hate him too?’ I asked.
‘No. He kept me in luxury. I wasn’t crazy about him. I saw what he’d done to my mother but I didn’t really understand. She never stopped though. What with that, and the drink, and the men, she ended up hating herself I think.’
‘Men?’
‘Oh, there were lots. She was an attractive woman until the end, and there are plenty of lonely men in hotels.’
She smoked continuously between courses as she spoke, stubbing out half-smoked cigarettes into the ashtray. When she wasn’t smoking or eating or knocking back glasses of booze, she sat twisting her napkin in both hands. I sat opposite her, quietly, letting her tell her story in her own time.
‘It sounds bad.’
‘It was.’
‘You don’t have to tell me any more.’ I could see that poor little kid, all alone in a mausoleum of a hotel with only a drunk for company, cutting out articles about a man she’d never met.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more. Then my mother died, and I flipped out. I’d seen drugs around since I was so big. My mother smoked dope to mellow out the booze. I can’t remember when I first stole a drink, but I had my first joint when I was eleven. First coke at fourteen. First smack at sixteen. I lost my virginity when I was twelve and by the time Mother died I was strung out like forty miles of bad road. I got worse, then I got better. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to lose that bloody Australian accent I’d picked up from the lowlifes around, and speak like my mother. I wanted to work in England and meet my father as an equal. So I went to drama school.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No, not just like that. I’d had no formal education, no bits of paper. I had to suck some dick to get in, but get in I did. I’d vowed not to touch the money that my father had left in my mother’s bank account for me, but I needed it for the exorbitant fees. After I graduated I came to London to meet him and pay the money back.’
‘And?’
‘And I took to the old sod,’ she said and tears filled her eyes. ‘But I was never going to be a great actress, not like I wanted to be. And my father was so generous, in the end I found it easier to move into Curzon Street with the family when they were staying there, and the castle when they weren’t.’
‘Castle?’
‘Yes, the castle in Hampshire. At Gun Street. The family spends part of the year there, or they used to before my father died. I don’t know what will happen now.’
‘An honest to God castle?’ I persisted.
‘Yes, twelfth century.’
I was definitely impressed. ‘And now something’s wrong,’ I said. ‘Apart from the obvious.’
‘Yes. Since my father died, someone’s been calling me on the telephone.’
‘Who?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘What kind of calls?’
‘Threatening, I suppose you’d say.’
‘Threatening what?’
‘That unless I paid whoever’s calling a lot of money, he’d kill me.’
‘And you’ve no idea who’s making these calls?’
‘No.’
‘Does the name Lorimar mean anything to you?’
She thought about it without a spark of recognition. ‘Apart from the production company that makes Dallas, no. Why?’
‘No reason,’ I said.
‘So that’s why I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘You haven’t told Elizabeth?’
‘No, but I know she’s guessed something is wrong. She told me about you, and who you are, and how you’d met.’
‘You know about that?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it was rather my fault. I taught her, you see. The girl was so straight when I met her. I started shoplifting a long time ago. Hotel shops are so easy to rob. I had plenty of practice. Is that awful?’
‘I’m not exactly Snow White myself.’
‘I know. I knew you’d understand. Anyway, when Liz told me about your meeting, and showed me your card, I sort of put in her head to go and see you. I hope I didn’t do wrong.’
‘It would have been handy to know there were death threats involved,’ I said.
‘That’s why we’re dining alone tonight, Nick. Normally Liz would have been here whether she had things to do or not. But I convinced her that it would be better tête-à-tête, as it were.’
‘I’m sure you can be very convincing,’ I said.
‘I’d do anything to convince you to protect me from whoever’s making these threats.’
‘Anything?’ I asked.
‘Anything in the world you can think of.’ And her hand fluttered on my arm and her eyelashes fluttered over her beautiful blue eyes.
‘Catherine, I think you’ve got a deal,’ I said.
‘Will you promise?’ she asked.
I smiled. I felt a bit like a yo-yo on the end of a piece of string. ‘Of course,’ I said, and changed the subject. ‘Hadn’t we better go soon? You’re supposed to be at the reception early.’
She looked at her watch. ‘Yes, you’re right. Will you get the bill, please?’
I attracted the attention of the greeter and he conjured up the waiter who conjured up the bill which was about as long as the invoice for the Great Wall of China. Catherine paid with a gold Amex and no trace of embarrassment. A new woman if ever I saw one. I let her pay with no trace of embarrassment either. I was more than eager to be a new man.
She left a tip that would have paid for a decent meal at my favourite local Chinese and the waiter brought her card and her coat. I let him help her put it on, told her to wait for a minute and went looking for Vincent. He was parked on a bus stop opposite the restaurant. I waved him over with a rather more imperious gesture than was really necessary, and I saw his lips move through the open window as he drove across through a gap in the traffic. When he pulled up I told him to stay where he was and went back for Catherine. I led her from the chill of the restaurant through the thick atmosphere of the late evening and into the passenger compartment of the freezing car. Flu was a certainty, and a spot of indigestion from too many noodles a distinct possibility. I hurried her to the car like I imagined heavy-duty bodyguards treat their charges. I didn’t really expect anything to happen, but I was being paid for my time and Catherine had paid for the dinner so I thought I’d better do something in exchange for the meal.
I climbed aboard and sat on the fold-down seat facing her. We drove with the park on our left, through the underpass at Hyde Park Corner, down Piccadilly, swung left into Shaftesbury Avenue, left again into Wardour Street, then right at Compton Street and into Dean Street. It was just before ten when we slid to a halt opposite the Crypt and nearly full dark, although the air had that luminous look that it sometimes gets in London in summer as the day’s heat rises from the pavements.
I checked the street through the tinted glass, opened the door, stepped out into the night and soaked my shirt again. I swear it was getting hotter as the night got older.
I helped Catherine out of the car, feeling her breast touch my arm briefly, and walked her across the pavement towards the entrance to the club. There were cars parked down both sides of the street and suddenly a dark, male figure sprang up from behind one, right into our path. Catherine screamed and turned towards me in terror. I saw that the man was holding something in his hand with a pistol grip. It was all confusion for a moment. The street was crowded and people were stopping and bumping into each other to see what all the excitement was about. I grabbed Catherine and pushed her out of my way. I saw her almost fall in those ridiculous shoes. I straight-armed the geezer and I heard him gasp as I hit him. I tugged whatever he was carrying out of his hand and threw it across the pavement, then I spun him round and ran him hard up against the closest wall with a satisfying crunch. I put an arm lock on him and forced him down to his knees. I heard the skin peeling from his face as it ran down the brickwork. It all took less than five seconds. I heard the
door of the Rolls slam and Vincent’s boots pound on the road as he ran across to see what was going on. I held my man down, then Vincent said, ‘I think you’d better let him go.’
I eased off and whoever I was holding moaned in pain. I looked round and Vincent was standing, holding a camera in his hand. He pressed a button and a repeater flash went off like a strobe light. I felt like a complete berk and Vincent knew it. ‘Fancied a snap, did you?’ he asked softly.
And that was that. I helped the paparazzi to his feet and tried my best to dust him down. His face was a mess, it was bloody and starting to bruise and his dignity was in about the same shape. I stood there sweating in a mixture of heat and embarrassment in front of the gawping crowd.
Catherine pushed through and I turned to explain.
‘Nick, are you all right?’ she gasped. ‘Oh, you were wonderful. I was so frightened. I thought that man had a gun.’ She turned on the photographer. ‘For whom do you work?’ she demanded. Thank God for elocution classes, I thought.
‘I’m freelance, Miss Pike,’ he said.
‘I think you’d better send me the bill personally for any damages.’ Then she leant closer so that only the four of us could hear, and said in pure Australian, ‘But don’t try and stitch me up or you’ll be chasing me through the courts for ever, or maybe I’ll send Nick here to pay you a visit, you little cunt.’
The look on his face was beautiful, and it was mirrored on Vincent’s. I realised what she had meant when she said she’d grown up fast. Fast and tough, a real chip off the old block. I’m sure Sir Robert would have been proud of her. I walked over and took the camera from Vincent’s grasp and gave it back to the photographer.
The Roller was blocking the street and there were drivers freaking out all the way back to Cambridge Circus. I turned to Vincent and said, ‘You’d better move on. I’ll give you a call on the car phone when we need you.’
He gave me a look of pure disgust as he walked away. I shrugged and turned and followed Catherine into the club where Elizabeth was standing by the reception desk, tapping her fingernails on the top. I could see that she was well pissed off.
‘I’m going to the loo to repair my face,’ said Catherine. ‘Why don’t you look after Liz. She looks as if her knicker elastic just broke.’
I could see what she meant. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
‘You’ll find me in the bar,’ said Catherine and wobbled off on her spikes. I went over to Elizabeth Pike.
‘What’s the story?’ I asked, although all I really wanted to know was the location of the bar.
‘That prick Barrington hasn’t shown and the people here aren’t happy.’
‘Who’s Barrington?’ I asked.
‘The PR for the magazine.’
‘Where is he?’
‘How the hell do I know? You’re the detective. You tell me.’
‘I love it when you scold me,’ I said.
‘No silly jokes, Mr Sharman. This is serious. And what the hell was going on outside?
I explained and she shook her head. I thought I was due a scolding again, but suddenly there was a big commotion at the door and a tall, skinny geezer came bursting through dragging a pretty brunette behind him. I looked at Elizabeth.
‘Barrington?’
The look on her face was answer enough.
6
The publicist was a long-haired article whose locks had been caught up in an elastic band and pulled tightly back into a single bunch. Personally I’ve always had great difficulty relating to mature men with ponytails, but that’s my problem. What’s more, he was wearing a better suit than mine, his shirt had cost twenty quid more than my shirt, and his tie had cost more than my shirt alone. Even the shine on his shoes made my heart ache, so I concentrated on the girl who had come in with him. She was a real blinder, not very tall, but with a figure that could knock your eyes out and a mane of hair as black as the inside of a crow’s eyelid that reached almost down to her waist. She wasn’t trying to hide her light under a bushel either. The dress she was wearing was a shiny, ruched number in electric blue. It was tighter than a sausage skin, well off the shoulder and ended up just below her crotch.
‘Down, boy,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Just keeping an eye out for concealed weapons.’
She gave me a look that could have peeled paint. I gave her a boyish grin back, but somehow lately I think my boyishness is wearing a bit thin.
‘I’d better get on with my job,’ I said.
She nodded and turned to the publicist. ‘Barrington!’ she yelled. ‘Get into the bar, now.’
‘Hello, boss,’ said Barrington. ‘I’ll take a rain check on the drinky if you don’t mind, I’m a bit late and there’s masses to do,’
‘No drinky, Barrington. Talky. And right now. I don’t want to talk to you out here. I want some privacy.’
Barrington pulled a face and followed her through to the bar where staff were still putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the reception.
‘And leave the bimbo behind. This is business,’ said the guv’nor over her shoulder as she went.
I turned and looked at the brunette who’d arrived with Barrington. She returned my look and said, ‘Don’t take it too much to heart. I’m sure she’ll let you in later.’
I gave her another look. ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Off the cuff. Why don’t we leave them to it and get a drink? I’m sure we can find a corner out of their way.’
‘Yeah, all right, why not?’
‘I’ll take care of this young lady,’ I said to Elizabeth’s and Barrington’s retreating backs. They ignored me. I shrugged and pulled a face at the girl. ‘Do you think that means they approve of the idea?’
‘Couldn’t give a fuck. Just lead me to the juice.’
The more I saw of this girl, the more I liked her.
We walked together to the bar. ‘What do you want?’
‘A cottage in the country and a BMW,’ she replied. ‘What the fuck do you think I want? Something to get me off, of course.’
A right shrinking violet, I thought. ‘Anything in particular or shall I amaze you with my powers of perspicacity?’
‘Is that like Malibu?’
‘Better and better,’ I said. ‘Do you go into training for this?’
For the first time she cracked her face and gave me a view of her teeth. ‘No, it just comes naturally. I’ll have a Killer Zombie.’
I beckoned the barman over. He was a muscular clone, all brush cut and big moustache, wearing a white shirt, bow tie and black pants so tight you could see his appendix scar. ‘A Killer Zombie please and a pint of mild for my mother,’ I said. The girl gave me a tight-faced, deadpan smile.
The barman didn’t smile at all. ‘I’m sorry, sir, we don’t serve mild ale.’
‘Make it a large vodka and orange juice instead.’
‘A Killer Zombie and a large Screwdriver,’ he said. ‘Yes, sir.’
While he was preparing the drinks, I turned back to the girl and asked her name.
‘Fiona.’
‘Are you with him?’
‘Who?’
‘Barrington,’ I replied patiently.
‘What do you mean, with him?’
‘Is he your boy friend?’
‘Piss off … that prat? Not likely. I’m working here tonight.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘No.’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘No.’
‘You really don’t know what I do?’
‘No.’
‘This,’ she said, and tugged the ruched top of her dress down to her waist exposing her breasts. I didn’t know quite where to look. It seemed that everywhere I went that day women were flashing their flesh at me.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Page three,’ she explained. ‘I’m a topless model. I’m famous.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. The barman who was just brin
ging our drinks didn’t turn a hair. He’d probably rather have seen my chest. She pulled the top of her dress up again and wriggled around until it was comfortable, then dumped the umbrella and fruit and plastic crap in her drink in a sticky mess on the top of the bar and sank half of it in one gulp.
‘I’d better have another two of those,’ I said to the barman. ‘And bring me another vodka while you’re at it.’
He went off to do as he was told and out of the corner of my eye I saw Elizabeth giving me the evil eye from down the bar where she was talking to Barrington.
‘I’ll remember next time,’ I said.
‘Yeah, you’d better. I’m in the Sun tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be sure to buy a copy. Perhaps you can autograph it for me.’
‘What?’
‘The paper.’
‘Oh, is that all?’
‘For now.’
‘What’s your name then?’ Fiona asked.
‘Nick.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Not a lot,’ I replied.
She looked me up and down. ‘I can imagine. What are you doing here, then?’
It was a good question, and I improvised. ‘I’m doing a spot of work on behalf of Sir Robert Pike’s estate, and as I’m staying at the Pikes’ house they invited me along.’ It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth.
‘Christ, you’re privileged.’
‘Am I?’
‘Maybe not. The old boy was okay. I met him a couple of times. It was a shame about him. But the kids, not a patch. They’re a stuck-up lot.’
‘Are they?’
‘You heard the way Miss Elizabeth,’ she heavily accentuated the word “Miss”, ‘spoke to Barrington. There was no need for that. He’s not so bad. A bit of a pain maybe. But I’ll tell you this, he could handle one of these thrashes in his sleep. And the other one, Miss Catherine, ain’t much better.’ She stopped and looked at me hard. ‘You’re not knocking one of them off, are you?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Me and Barrington are in enough trouble as it is, without me putting my big foot in it.’ She lurched closer to me and I saw that the pupils of her eyes were as big as saucers. ‘You wouldn’t have any luck with that Elizabeth anyway, from what I hear, but the other, the blonde. You could be all right with her.’