He was back. “Bridget? Have you paid up? What are you doing? Come on.”
“Where?”
“The police station.”
In the car started to gabble, thanking him for everything he’d done and saying how much the poem had helped me in jail.
“Poem? What poem?” he said, swinging into Kensington Park Road.
“The ‘If’ poem—you know—force your heart and nerve and . . . oh God I’m really sorry you had to go all the way to Dubai, I’m so grateful, I . . .”
He stopped at the lights and turned to me.
“That’s absolutely fine,” he said gently. “Now stop autowittering gibberish. You’ve had a big shock. You need to calm down.”
Humph. Whole idea was he was supposed to notice how calm and centered I am, not be telling me to calm down. Tried to calm down, but was very difficult when all could think was: someone wants to kill me.
When we got to the police station it was slightly less like a TV drama because everything was tatty and dirty and nobody seemed the slightest bit interested in us. The police officer on the desk tried to make us wait in the waiting room but Mark insisted we were taken upstairs. We ended up sitting in a great big dingy office with nobody in it.
Mark made me tell him everything that had happened in Thailand, asking me if Jed had mentioned anyone he knew in the UK, if the packet had come with the normal post, if I’d noticed anyone strange hanging around since I got back.
Felt a bit stupid telling him about how trusting we’d been with Jed, thinking he was going to tell me off, but he was really sweet.
“The worst you and Shaz could be accused of was breathtaking stupidity,” he said. “You did very well in jail, I heard.”
Although he was being sweet, he wasn’t being . . . well it all seemed on a very businesslike footing, not like he wanted to get back together or talk about anything emotional.
“Do you think you’d better call work?” he said, looking at his watch.
My hand shot to my mouth. Tried to tell self it would not matter whether I still had a job or not if I was dead but it was twenty past ten!
“Don’t look like you’ve just accidentally eaten a child,” said Mark laughing. “For once you’ve got a decent excuse for your pathological lateness.”
I picked up the phone and dialed Richard Finch’s direct line. He answered straight away.
“Oooh, it’s Bridget, is it? Little Miss Celibacy? Two days back and she’s playing truant. Where are you, then? Shopping, are we?”
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. If you can. . .
“Playing with a candle, are we? Candles out, girls!” He made a loud popping noise.
Stared at phone in horror. Could not work out whether Richard Finch has always been like this and I was different, or whether he was getting into some terrible drug-induced downward spiral.
“Give it to me,” said Mark.
“No!” I said, grabbing the phone back and hissing, “I’m a person in my own right.”
“Of course you are, darling, just not in your own right mind,” murmured Mark.
Darling! He called me darling!
“Bridget? Fallen asleep again, have we? Where are you?” chortled Richard Finch.
“I’m in the police station.”
“Ooh, back on the rokeekoke cokee? Jolly good. Got some for me?” he chuckled.
“I’ve had a death threat.”
“Oooh! That’s a good one. You’ll get a death threat from me in a minute. Hahahaha. Police station, eh? That’s what I like to see. Nice stable drug-free respectable employees on my team.”
That was it. That was just about enough. I took a big breath.
“Richard,” I said grandly. “That, I’m afraid, is like the kettle calling the frying pan dirty bottom. Except that I haven’t got a dirty bottom because I don’t take drugs. Not like you. Anyway, I’m not coming back. Bye.” And I put the phone down. Hah! Hahahaha! I thought briefly before remembering the overdraft. And the magic mushrooms. Except not strictly drugs, as natural mushrooms.
Just then, a policeman appeared, rushing by and completely ignoring us. “Look!” said Mark banging his fist down on the desk. “We’ve got a girl with a live bullet with her name on it here. Can we see some action?”
The policeman stopped in his tracks. “Ooh, sorry,” he said huffily. “We’ve had a knifing in Notting Hill. I’m afraid we’re very busy with people who’ve already been murdered.” He tossed his head and flounced out.
Ten minutes later the detective who was supposed to be dealing with us came in with a computer printout.
“Hello. I’m DI Kirby,” he said without looking at us. He stared at the printout for a while, then up at me, raising his eyebrows.
“This is the Thailand file, I take it?” said Mark, looking over his shoulder. “Oh I see . . . that incident in . . .”
“Well, yes,” said the detective.
“No, no, that was just a piece of fillet steak,” said Mark.
Had forgotten about that. Six months ago my only contact with the police was to do with traffic offenses and since then I’d been up for suspected harboring of body parts, drug smuggling and now this.
The policeman was looking at Mark oddly.
“It was left in a shopping bag by my mother,” I explained, “and was starting to decay.”
“You see? There? And this is the Thai report,” Mark said, leaning over the form.
The detective put his arm around the form protectively, as if Mark was trying to copy his homework. Just then the phone rang. DI Kirby picked it up.
“I want to be next to the touchline,” he said in an exasperated voice. “What’s DI fucking Rogers doing there? OK, well, behind the goal then. What?” Could not believe it. They were talking about a football match.
“What did it say about Jed?” I whispered.
“ ‘Jed,’ he said his name was, did he?” scoffed Mark. “Roger Dwight, actually.”
“OK then, but I want to be behind the Arsenal goal in both halves. Well, I’ll switch. No, in front of the crowd. Sorry about that,” said DI Kirby, putting the phone down and assuming the sort of overcompensatory efficient air I identified totally with from when I am late for work. “Roger Dwight,” the detective said. “It’s kind of pointing that way, isn’t it?”
“I’d be very surprised if he’s managed to organize anything himself,” said Mark. “Not from Arabian custody.”
“Well, there are ways and means.”
Was absolutely infuriating the way Mark was talking to the policeman over my head. Almost as if I was some kind of bimbo or half-wit.
“Excuse me,” I said, bristling. “Could I possibly participate in this conversation?”
“Of course,” said Mark. “As long as you don’t bring up any kettles or frying pans.”
Saw the detective looking from one of us to the other with a puzzled expression.
“He could, I guess, have organized someone else to send,” said Mark, turning to the detective. “But it seems somewhat unlikely, foolhardy even, given . . .”
“Well, yes, in cases of this kind— Excuse me.” DI Kirby picked up the phone. “Right. Well, tell Harrow Road they’ve already got two detective inspectors at the game!” he said petulantly. “Yes. Well, tell DI Rimmington to eff off. Sorry, sir.” He put the phone down again and smiled masterfully.
“In cases of this kind . . . ?” I said.
“Yes, it’s unlikely that a person with serious intentions would advertise his—”
“You mean they’d just shoot her, right?” said Mark.
Oh God.
An hour later the package had gone off to be fingerprinted and DNA’d and I was still being questioned.
“Is there anyone outside from the Thai connection who has a gr
udge against you, young lady?” said DI Kirby. “An ex-lover perhaps, a rejected suitor?”
Was delighted by being called “young lady.” You see may not be in first flush of youth but . . .
“Bridget!” said Mark. “Pay attention! Is there anyone who might want to hurt you?”
“There are lots of people who have hurt me,” I said, looking at Mark and racking my brains. “Richard Finch. Daniel—but I don’t think either of them would do this,” I said uncertainly.
Did Daniel think I’d been talking about that night we were supposed to have dinner? Was he so annoyed about being rejected? Surely that would be a bit of an overreaction? But then maybe Sharon was right about fin-de-millennium males losing their roles.
“Bridget?” said Mark gently. “Whatever you’re thinking, I think you should tell DI Kirby.”
Was so embarrassing. Ended up going into whole Daniel lingerie and jacket evening while DI Kirby took down details with a poker face. Mark didn’t say anything when I was talking but he looked really angry. Noticed the detective kept looking hard at him.
“Have you been involved with any low-life characters at all?” said DI Kirby.
The only person I could think of was Uncle Geoffrey’s possible rent boy, but that was ridiculous because the rent boy didn’t know me from Adam.
“You’re going to have to move out of your flat. Is there anywhere you can go?”
“You can stay with me,” Mark said suddenly. My heart leapt. “In one of the spare rooms,” he added quickly.
“Could you give me a moment, sir,” said the detective inspector. Mark looked dropped on, then said, “Of course,” and abruptly left the room.
“I’m not sure staying with Mr. Darcy would be wise, miss,” said the detective, glancing at the door.
“Yeah, you might be right,” I said, thinking he was taking a fatherly interest and suggesting, as a man, that I should keep the air of mystery and unavailability and let Mark be the pursuer, but then I remembered was not supposed to be thinking like that anymore.
“What exactly is your past relationship with Mr. Darcy?”
“Well!” I said and started the story.
DI Kirby seemed oddly suspicious about the whole thing. The door opened again at the moment he was saying, “So Mr. Darcy just happened to be in the coffee bar, did he? On the morning you got the bullet?”
Mark came and stood in front of us.
“OK,” he said wearily, looking at me as if to say, “You are the source of all that is opposite to serene.” “Print me, DNA me, let’s get this out of the way.”
“Oh, I’m not saying it was you, sir,” said the detective hurriedly. “It’s just we have to eliminate the—”
“All right, all right,” said Mark. “Let’s go get on with it.”
* * *
13
Gaaah!
FRIDAY 5 SEPTEMBER, still
120 lbs., no. seconds since had sex: no longer care, no. of minutes stayed alive since death threat 34,800 (v.g.).
6 p.m. Shazzer’s flat. Looking out of window. It can’t be Mark Darcy. That’s ridiculous. It can’t be. It must be something to do with Jed. I mean, he’s probably got a whole ring of contacts here, desperate for drugs whom I have deprived of their livelihood. Or Daniel? But surely he wouldn’t do something like that. Maybe it’s just some nut. But a nut who knows my name and address? Someone wants to kill me. Someone has bothered to get a live bullet and engrave my name on it.
Must keep calm. Calm, calm. Yes. Must keep head when all around you . . . Wonder if they have bulletproof vests in Kookaï?
Wish Shaz would come back. Am all disorientated. Shazzer’s flat is tiny, and messy at the best of times, especially as all open-plan, but with two of them here the floor and every surface seems completely covered with Agent Provocateur bras, leopardskin ankle boots, Gucci carrier bags, faux Prada handbags, tiny Voyage cardigans and odd strappy shoes. V. confused. Maybe will find space somewhere and lie down.
After they took Mark away DI Kirby repeated that I mustn’t stay in my flat and took me back there to collect some things, but trouble was did not have anywhere to stay. Mum and Dad were still in rehab. Tom’s flat would have been ideal but couldn’t find his San Francisco number anywhere. Tried both Jude and Shaz at work but they were both out at lunch.
Was awful really. Was leaving messages everywhere while the police stamped around getting things to fingerprint and looking for clues.
“What’s this hole doing in the wall, miss?” said one of the policemen, as they wandered around, dusting things.
“Oh, it, um, got left,” I said vaguely. Just then the phone rang. Was Shaz who said I could stay and told me where spare key was hidden.
Think will have little sleep.
11:45 p.m. Wish did not keep waking up in night, though is v. comforting having Jude and Shaz asleep in the room too like babies. Was v. nice when they came home from work. Had pizzas and I went to sleep really early. No word from or about Mark Darcy. At least have got panic button. Is nice. Is remote control operated by a little suitcase. Just think if I press it lithe young policemen will come round in uniform to save me!!!! Mmm. Delicious thought . . . v. sleepy . . .
SATURDAY 6 SEPTEMBER
121 lbs., cigarettes 10, alcohol units 3, calories 4,255 (might as well enjoy life while still lucky enough to have it), minutes since had sex 16,005,124 (must, therefore do something about this).
6 p.m. Bit lonely now. Jude and Shaz went out shopping as said they had cabin fever. We tried ringing the police station, as am not allowed out without a policeman, but eventually, after forty-five minutes, we got through to a woman on central switchboard who said everyone was busy. Told Jude and Shaz definitely did not mind if they went out without me as long as they brought back a pizza. Ah. Telephone.
“Oh, hello, darling, it’s Mummy here.”
Mummy! Anyone would think I was about to do a poo-poo in her hand.
“Where are you, Mother?” I said.
“Oh, I’ve come out, darling.”
For a second I thought she was telling me she was a lesbian and was going to set up home with Uncle Geoffrey in a gay, sexless marriage of convenience.
“We’re back home. Everything’s sorted out and Daddy’s going to be fine. I don’t know! Drinking all that time in his shed when I thought it was the tomatoes. Mind you, Gordon Gomersall had exactly the same thing, you know, and Joy had no idea. It’s a disease, they say now.”
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Well, darling . . .” she began, then there was a kerfuffle and Dad came on the phone.
“It’s all right, love. I’ve just got to stay off the booze,” he said. “And they were trying to get Pam out of there from day one.”
“Why?” I said, a lurid vision of my mother seducing a procession of eighteen-year-old drug addicts loomed up before my eyes.
He chuckled. “They said she was too normal. Let me give you back.”
“Honestly, darling. It was all complete silly-daft nonsense charging these celebrity type of people loads of money to tell them things everybody knows already!”
“What kind of things?”
“Oooh, hang on. I’ll just turn the chicken over.”
I held the phone away from my ear, trying not to think about what kind of bizarre dish would involve an upside-down chicken.
“Oof. There we go.”
“What things did they tell you?”
“Well, in the mornings we all had to sit in a circle and say all kinds of silly things.”
“Like . . . ?”
“Oh, durrr! You know. My name’s Pam and I’m a whatever!”
What? I wondered . . . ever? Madly overconfident nightmare? Lump-free gravy obsessive? Girl-child torturess?
“The things they were coming out with! ‘Today I will be confident in myself, I will not worry about other people’s opinions of me.’ On and on and on. I mea
n, honestly, darling. If someone isn’t confident in themselves they’re not going to get anywhere, are they?” she said, roaring with laughter. “Durrr! Not confident in yourself! I don’t know! Why would anyone go around worrying about what anyone else is thinking about them?”
I looked worriedly from side to side. “So what did you say for your affirmations?”
“Oh, I wasn’t allowed to say anything. Well, actually I was, darling.”
“What? What did you have to say?”
Heard my dad laughing in the background. He sounded on good form, anyway. “Tell her, Pam.”
“Ufff. Well, I was supposed to say, ‘I will not allow overconfidence to blind me to reality’ and, ‘Today I will recognize my faults as well as my assets.’ I mean, it was completely ridiculous, darling. Anyway, must whizz, there’s the buzzer. So I’ll see you on Monday.”
“What?” I said.
“Don’t say what, say pardon, darling. I’ve made an appointment for you to have your colors done in Debenhams. I told you! Four o’clock.”
“But . . .” I mean, she didn’t. When did she tell me? January?
“Got to go, darling. The Enderburys are at the door.”
SUNDAY 7 SEPTEMBER
122 lbs., sq. feet of floor space not covered by bras, shoes, food, bottles or lipstick 0.
10 a.m. Hurrah! Another day, and still not dead. Hideous night, though. Felt really tired after I’d been talking to Mum, so checked all the doors were locked, climbed under confusion of Shazzer’s pants, camisoles and leopardskin throws and went to sleep. Didn’t hear them come in, then woke up at midnight to find them asleep. Is really starting to stink in here. Also, trouble is if wake up in night all can do is lie staring quietly at ceiling so as not to wake them up by knocking things over.
Ooh. Telephone. Best pick it up so as not to wake them.
“Well, they’ve realized I’m not a homicidal ex-lover.”
The Edge of Reason Page 26