“Drink up. You don’t want to be late.”
“Right. Cheers.” Black finished his beer with a prodigious swallow. “I’d best be off then. See you Monday.”
After Black had gone, Powell sat for a few minutes lost in thought, blissfully unaware of the consequences of his failure to take up the Detective-Sergeant’s offer of hospitality. Eventually, he stirred and wandered over to the bar to fetch another pint.
CHAPTER 2
Powell’s favorite barmaid was in attendance that night, a young Canadian named Jill Burroughs, with whom he had struck up a professional relationship of sorts over the past few months: She dispensed the beer, and he drank it. She was pretty and personable and had a direct, guileless manner that Powell found refreshing. She had been working her way across Europe when she met a young man, a student at London University. She’d been living with him for about six months now. Powell and Jill had hit it off the moment they realized they had something in common, when she mentioned she was Canadian, and he’d told her about Marion and the boys. He supposed if he had a daughter, he would want her to be like Jill.
“I’ll have another, please.”
“Drowning our sorrows, are we, Chief Superintendent?”
“Just lubricating the little gray cells.”
“I see.” She slowly pulled the tap handle, filling a pint glass with foaming bitter. She placed it on the bar and looked at him. “Heard from the family recently?”
“Got a letter last week. I’ll probably ring on the weekend.”
“That’s nice. That’ll be one-sixty-five, please.”
He fumbled for the coins. “Have your pound of flesh,” he muttered jokingly.
He left the pub about nine-thirty and crossed Windmill Street to the K2 Tandoori. The proprietor, Rashid Jamal, was in a state of obvious agitation. The restaurant was packed, but Rashid seemed oblivious.
He accosted Powell at the door and whispered mysteriously, “I am needing your advice, my friend. I’ll join you at your table in a moment.”
Rashid returned a few minutes later with a large bottle of Cobra lager for Powell and an orange squash for himself. He sat down, his dark eyes blazing with a feverish intensity. “Have you seen this—this outrage?” He thrust over a crumpled clipping taken from one of the less uplifting Sunday tabloids. He sat fuming silently as Powell unfolded it and began to read.
It was a particularly scathing review of the K2 by a pompous and universally despised restaurant critic named Clive Morton:
Whilst slumming in Charlotte Street last week, I made the mistake of stopping in at the K2 Tandoori for dinner. In retrospect, the sign in the window should have warned me off: “Open seven days a week except Sunday.” Not only is the proprietor, one R. Jamal, apparently unable to compose a coherent sentence in English, neither, it seems, can he read his Curry Club recipe book. The tandoori chicken was done like an old Wellington, the mint chutney was insipid and watery, and the okra had the slimy demeanor of the tinned species. Furthermore, I have little doubt that my companion’s “lamb” started out life in an alley off Gerrard Street. Definitely one to avoid unless you have just come from a rugby match, having consumed ten or twelve pints, and only then because you will at least have the assurance that you and your meal will soon part company.
Powell handed the clipping back without a word.
“Slander, lies, untruths—it is an unspeakable abomination!” Rashid erupted. “If he ever comes here again, I will slice off his tiny bits and roast them in the tandoor. Ha! Let him review that!”
Several of the neighboring tables erupted in spontaneous applause.
Rashid bowed his head in a dramatic gesture of acknowledgment.
Powell smiled. “You see. Nobody really pays any attention to Clive Morton—the only reason they keep him on is to sell newspapers. I hear he’s persona non grata in most of the decent restaurants in town.”
Rashid appeared unconvinced. “Nonetheless, my friend, I am deeply wounded. I have devoted myself to my art, my restaurant. It is for me a point of honor. It is … my life.”
Rashid was something of a prima donna in his own right and was arguably as opinionated as the restaurant critic, which only made things worse. Powell decided that a tangential approach would be best under the circumstances. He looked at his friend. “You can’t imagine how much I look forward to these evenings, when I can forget my cares for a few hours, get together with an old friend, and indulge myself in the best Indian food in all of London.”
His words had the desired effect. Rashid’s eyes glistened and he was unable to speak for a few seconds. “Thank you, Erskine,” he said eventually in a solemn voice. “I had forgotten for a moment my loyal customers. And my dear friends.” He got to his feet with a flourish, once again the charming host. “Now, then. I shall bring you some pappadams while you consider the menu.” He clapped his hands. “Ali! Another Cobra for Mr. Powell.”
It was nearly eleven-thirty when Powell, fully replete, emerged from the K2 faced with the rather complicated problem of how to get home. The pubs were out, and there were still a few people in the street. He stared at his watch, trying to think coherently. The last train for Surbiton left Waterloo Station at 23:47. Or was it 23:54? He considered his options: try to find a cab or take the tube. He decided that the walk to Goodge Street Station would do him good. He should just be able to make—
“All dressed up and no place to go?”
It was Jill Burroughs just off work.
“On my way home, Jill. How ’bout you?”
“Same.” She eyed him suspiciously. “What time does your train leave?”
“Oh, I’ve got about twenty minutes,” Powell replied cheerily, or as near to it as he could manage under the circumstances.
“You’ll never make it!”
Powell considered this possibility for a moment. “I’ll take a hotel room then.”
“Nonsense. Come home with me. Stephen is away for the weekend. I can put you up on the sofa. You can catch a train first thing in the morning.”
Powell recalled vaguely that Jill and her boyfriend shared a flat somewhere in Bloomsbury. He hesitated. He felt a bit silly.
Jill smiled. “I don’t bite, Chief Superintendent.”
Powell laughed. “All right, thanks.” He took her arm. “Lead the way, Miss Burroughs. And, by the way, you can call me Powell.”
The next morning, Powell awoke in Jill Burroughs’s Bloomsbury flat with a head several sizes too large. Morning sunlight filtered through lacy curtains and the aroma of bacon and coffee stirred his senses. It took him a few moments to get his bearings. He was lying on a lumpy sofa under a duvet. He could see his clothes heaped on a chair across the room. He reached under the duvet and felt his shorts. Thank heavens for small mercies, he thought. He had little recollection of how exactly he’d got where he now found himself. He vaguely recalled walking down Windmill Street with Jill singing “Mellow Yellow,” but that was about it. He winced at a sudden clanging of kitchen utensils.
A moment later, Jill popped her head into the sitting room. “Back in the land of the living, are we?” she chirped.
Powell groaned.
“Up you get—you can’t lie in bed all day. Breakfast will be ready in a jiff.”
When the coast was clear, Powell dragged himself to his feet and, moving stiffly, managed to dress in twenty seconds flat. He located the loo down a short hallway, and when he emerged five minutes later, looking half-civilized, Jill was laying their breakfast on a tiny table in the kitchen, complete with a vase of cut flowers. She looked fresh and vibrant as she bustled purposefully about, contrasting markedly with Powell’s present state of being. Her long brown hair was tied back and she wore a loose blue jumper.
“You’ll make someone a good wife,” Powell remarked dangerously.
She smiled sweetly. “You’ll be doing the washing up, don’t you worry.”
Powell pulled a face and gulped down his coffee. “Bloody marvelous,” he sighed as J
ill refilled his cup. “You don’t know how hard it is to get a decent cup of coffee in London.”
“I get the beans at Starbucks in Shaftesbury Avenue. It reminds me of home, I guess.” There was a hint of something in her voice.
They ate in silence, Powell feeling a little self-conscious. “In case you’re wondering,” he said eventually, “I don’t make a habit of sleeping in strange beds.”
“Of course you don’t.” She hesitated. “But you should look after yourself. I mean, what would your wife think?”
What indeed? he wondered.
She suddenly looked embarrassed. “I-I’m sorry—it’s none of my business. I’m beginning to sound like my mother.”
Powell smiled ruefully. “Think nothing of it, Jill. I’m well aware of my frailties, believe me.”
The tension released, Jill laughed. “You were certainly in good form last night.”
Powell had no idea what she was talking about and decided it would be best not to ask. He was dying for a cigarette and tried to suppress the urge. He anointed another piece of toast with marmalade. “Er, any plans for the weekend?”
“Nothing special. My boyfriend’s away at his parents’ place in the country. I’ll probably stick fairly close to home. I’ve got to work tonight.”
“Where do his parents live?”
“In Shropshire somewhere. From what I hear, they own half the county.”
“Oh?” Powell remarked significantly.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I didn’t go with him?”
“The thought never crossed my mind,” he lied.
She hesitated. “What the hell? I could use a little fatherly advice. Stephen’s parents wanted him to go to Oxford, so they’re not happy about him being in London in the first place.”
“A highly overrated institution,” Powell observed.
“And I get the impression that I don’t quite come up to their standards.”
“What does Stephen think about all this?”
“I think he’s fond of me …”
“Fond of you?”
She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if we’re really right for each other.” Her eyes met his. “Tell me, Powell, what would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be the faithful compass that still points to thee.”
Jill looked thoughtful. “Follow my heart, you mean?”
“Something like that.”
She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “How did you ever become a cop, anyway?”
“That, my girl, is a long story. I’ll tell you about it over the washing up.”
Half an hour later, they stood on the doorstep of her flat for an awkward moment. “Thank you, Jill. You’ve been very kind. I’d like to repay you in some way …”
Her eyes twinkled. “Don’t be silly. You already have. Now, hurry or you’ll miss your train. I’ll see you at the pub.”
Powell waved as he stepped from the mews into Gower Street. He stopped to light a cigarette, contemplating a jolly weekend spreading manure.
CHAPTER 3
He sat smoking a joint in his bed-sit in King’s Cross. The tiny room was littered with clothing, books, and dirty dishes. The place smelled of damp and stale semen. The one small window looked out on the vast tract of desolate ground north of the railway station. A radio blared tinnily somewhere.
He stared at the blank page on the table in front of him. He tried to concentrate, to translate the jumbled images in his head into words on paper, but nothing happened. Turn off that frigging radio, have to think, have to write, he thought, growing increasingly agitated. He knew they wanted him to come crawling back mother father frigging teachers can’t make a living writing that crap be sensible for God’s sake—“Sod them all!” he screamed, throwing the notebook against the wall. One of the pages came loose and drifted crazily to the floor like a stricken butterfly.
He sat immobile for several minutes, letting his mind drift. You can’t force the creative process, he told himself, just need to give it a rest, that’s all. Think about something else. He had a girl, hadn’t he? That was all that really mattered. He thought about her long brown hair and slim body and fantasized about what he’d like to do to her. His eyes were faraway now. He knew that she barely knew he existed, didn’t understand what he was about, but he had a plan to change all that, something so breathtaking in its conception that she would have no choice but to take notice. Then he would have her all to himself. He sucked on the joint again, fingers trembling, and held it in for a long time. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift and curl into spiral clouds illuminated by the shafts of golden light streaming through the window.
It was a typical night at the Fitzrovia Tavern. The kind of night in late April when a raw wind off the North Sea sweeps down Charlotte Street, impelling both the virtuous and the not-so-virtuous to seek refuge in the nearest pub. There was the usual crowd in attendance, and as Jill Burroughs worked behind the bar, mechanically drawing pints and mixing drinks, she realized for the first time since she had been in London that the novelty was beginning to wear off. And now that she thought about it, the sentiment applied equally to her boyfriend, her job, and even to her decision to travel before going back to university. She was in a rotten mood, she couldn’t deny it—
There was a loud commotion in the front of the bar. “Did he think he could fob me off like I was a tourist from a coach?” roared a large red-faced man with a perfectly coifed mane of white hair who was holding forth at a crowded table by the window. “When I demanded to know how he could serve such filth, the bloody Frog had the cheek to ask me to leave. When he reads my review on Sunday, he’ll know who he’s dealing with, by God! It’ll be bloody Agincourt all over again!” As the table erupted in laughter, Clive Morton, restaurant critic and self-styled bon vivant fixed his eyes on Jill. “Pull me old handle again, would you, love?” he called out.
“Pull it yourself,” she muttered under her breath as she filled another glass with beer. Or, better yet, she thought, get one of your minions to do it for you. Celia Cross, the proprietor of the Fitzrovia, had told her to watch out for Morton when he had arrived a little over an hour ago. The word was he’d been banned from his drinking club in Dean Street and was now reduced to performing for the plebs. He had come in alone and appeared at first to be waiting for someone. It wasn’t long, however, before he was joined by a crowd of hangerson. Jill recognized a couple of media types and one or two others whom she couldn’t place but who looked vaguely familiar. Clive Morton clearly reveled in being the center of attention. Jill plonked the glass down on the bar.
“You’re not going to make me come over there, are you, love?” he asked loudly.
“That’ll be one-sixty-five, please,” Jill said frostily.
“You’ll have to train her better than that, Clive,” someone quipped.
Morton got unsteadily to his feet and lurched over to the bar. He scattered a handful of change in Jill’s direction. “You should be nicer to me. I could do things for you, y’know.” He leered unpleasantly.
His eyes seemed unnaturally bright and his manner was infused with a slightly manic quality that Jill suspected was fueled by more than alcohol. She glared at him. “What did you have in mind exactly?”
“Show you a bit of the good life. For starters.”
“And what’s for afters—me?”
He smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, love.”
“Will there be anything else?” she said between clenched teeth.
Morton’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll be the first to know, I promise you.” He picked up his glass and made his way back to his table, spilling beer on the carpet as he went.
As Jill turned to get a bag of crisps for another customer, she sensed someone’s eyes on her back. She turned slowly around. He was sitting by himself at his usual table in the corner, staring at her. When he realized he had been caught in the act, he got visibly flustered and started
scribbling in the notebook he always carried with him.
The pasty-faced young man with the curly black hair (Jill thought of him as “the Poet”) obviously had a crush on her. He came in two or three nights a week for a couple of hours and pretended not to watch her. Whenever she served him, he seemed extremely self-conscious, to the point of incoherence, barely able to string two words together. One night when she was clearing his table, she’d found a crumpled sheet of paper he had left behind. It was a love poem of sorts, or at least a painful attempt at one. More disconcerting was its explicitly erotic content, because she had no doubt it was intended for her. She supposed he was harmless enough, not some sort of deranged stalker or anything like that, but it was beginning to wear on her nerves. She wondered if she should have kept the poem, as evidence or something … With an effort she forced her mind off this train of thought. I’m just being silly, she chided herself. She started at the sound of her name.
“Jill, love, you’re as white as a sheet! You’re not sickening are you?” It was Celia Cross, her employer.
Jill smiled wanly. “Just got a bit of a headache, that’s all. I’ll be all right.”
“That one’s not bothering you, is ’e?” The publican threw a disgusted glance at Clive Morton’s table.
Jill grimaced. “Don’t worry, I’m used to his type. I—” She was about to explain about the Poet but decided it could wait for a better time. Her head had begun to pound now, to the point where she could hardly think straight.
Celia examined her from head to toe, an expression of fond concern on her face. “Look, love, why don’t you go ’ome and get a good night’s sleep—do you a world of good,” she pronounced, having made her diagnosis. “Raymond and I can manage.”
“Thanks, Celia. I’ll make it up next week.”
“Don’t be silly. Now off you go,” she admonished.
A few minutes later, Jill was walking home down Windmill Street. The darkened street, lined with shops and art galleries, was deserted at this time of night, and she felt vaguely uneasy. She paused, shivering convulsively. I’m probably just coming down with a bug, she told herself. She started walking again, fixing her attention on the streetlamp lighting the corner up ahead. In the distance, she could see the lights of the traffic in the Tottenham Court Road. It had started to rain, so she began to hurry. She stopped in the reassuring pool of light beneath the streetlamp and looked up at the rain slanting like silver tinsel against the sky and began to open her umbrella. Suddenly she froze.
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