Despite the warmth of the bedclothes, Larkin froze. Fuck. Check the dates. The final entry in Mary’s diary: September. Four weeks ago. He got out of bed, reeling slightly, his hangover in remission, grabbed jeans, a T-shirt and went to Andy’s room. He pounded on the door for what seemed like a couple of centuries, his heart throbbing in his ribcage.
Eventually Andy came to the door, looking as bleary-eyed as Larkin, his eyes bloodshot and black-ringed, hair dishevelled.
Andy groaned. ‘Shit, man, you look terrible. As bad as I feel. Fuck happened to you?’
Larkin barged past him. ‘I need some info, Andy.’
‘Hey – wait a minute—’
Larkin was in the room. In bed was the barmaid from The Forth, the colour draining from her cheeks as she grabbed for the bedclothes.
‘Hello. Nice to see you again. Andy, I need all the stuff you got yesterday on the Edgell killing.’
‘What, now?’
‘Yes, now. Where is it?’
Andy sauntered over to the desk, tugging at his bathrobe for decency’s sake. He flicked through a pile of photocopies, handed a bundle to Larkin.
‘There you go, mate.’
‘Ta. See you later.’
And with that he dashed out, leaving Andy almost lost for words.
‘Don’t mention it …’
Larkin returned to his room to leaf through the stack of papers. When he found what he was looking for, he sat back as though he’d been walloped in the face with a wrecking ball.
The same date … As Fenwick was pulled away from Edgell’s body he had been shouting something. ‘I was just teaching the bastard a lesson. He shouldn’t have been on the wrong side …’
Larkin was trembling. Was it all just a massive coincidence? Or was ‘Terry’ really Gary Fenwick?
10: Mary’s Prayer
The rain was Sunday afternoon rain; non-committal, clammy and cold. Reminding the world that, on a Sunday, the city is the most depressing place on Earth. And the loneliest.
There was a time, in his youth, when a walk through a city of rain would have kindled a sense of romantic melancholy in Larkin. Not any more. He had been caught in too many downpours for that. He was wandering because he had nothing else to do. The Rainbow Club was due for a visit, but that wasn’t until later; Sir James Lascelles, too, but he hadn’t worked out how to approach him yet. There was someone else he had to talk to – but that was for the evening. So he walked.
His route had taken him up Dean Street, the Bigg Market, and onto Clayton Street. Cut-price, cheap-jack shops selling crap that nobody needed; everything a pound, unbeatable offers. Amusement arcades, packed with customers poor enough to start with and getting poorer by the minute. He walked past the second-hand record shop (closed), the dodgy jewellers. The bingo: twenty-four-hour fluorescent lights showering the area with fake money and neon stars, simultaneously colourful and depressing.
Over the traffic lights, past the end of Pink Lane. He turned left along the bottom of Westgate Road; finding nothing but closed motorbike dealers and rip-off secondhand clothing stores, he went in the opposite direction, past the Central station, into Mosely Street. He wandered down towards the quayside. It was the same route he’d taken on his first night back; the bleak daylight added nothing to it. The acid rain merely made the grey water greyer.
He had hoped that his stroll would instil some order into his mind, but all he had succeeded in doing was wearing down his shoe leather on the old unloveable streets, and allowing his past to reach out and grab him. His memories were so firmly ingrained in the stone and air of the place that he felt he was travelling through a city of ghosts.
He went back up the Side; the cobbled road and looming buildings made him feel like a character in someone else’s movie. He walked past the men’s toilets. A couple of young men in white jeans walked in; one of them eyeballed Larkin, gave him a little wave. Larkin shook his head. If they wanted to play Russian roulette in a toilet cubicle, then let them. Bugger all else to do on a bleak Sunday afternoon.
He walked past The Empress – a dodgy pub if ever there was one – and up by the side of the Cathedral. As he was rounding the corner, he saw Charlotte, wearing her black overcoat and a determined look. He instinctively ducked into a recess in the stone wall as she crossed the road heading straight towards him. At the last moment she veered to the left, out of his vision. He left it a beat, then tentatively looked round the corner. Gone. He breathed a little sigh of relief. Somehow he didn’t want their next meeting to be one of chance. Her sudden disappearance intrigued him, though; since she was no longer on the street she must have gone into the Cathedral. Telling himself he was curious, nothing else, he entered.
The last time he’d set foot in a church had been at Sophie and Joe’s funeral. Larkin’s faith in God, like everything else, had lapsed dramatically since then. He looked around. The usual high, vaulted roof, death-and-glory stained-glass windows, the air damp and chill. On an ancient table were piles of musty red prayer books. Leaflets hanging from a pinboard exhorted worshippers to Praise! and Rejoice! and explained where to find God in the inner city. Posters for a church disco billed it as a ‘Rave ’n’ Save!’. A slogan written in Gothic script – ‘TRUST IN THE LORD AND YOUR FELLOW MAN’ – sat above a heavily padlocked wooden donation box, chained to the wall, Larkin shook his head.
Dotted around the pews, a few souls were praying for salvation and accepting their destiny. Heads bowed, their lips mouthed silent words of supplication. No one seemed to be Praising! or Rejoicing!
It was in a pew that Larkin found Charlotte, shoulders slumped. He was disconcerted; of all the things he’d taken her for, a lost soul wasn’t one of them. Thinking an element of surprise would give him the edge, he sat down. Her eyes were screwed shut, her body hunched forward. As his weight hit the pew she glanced up; she didn’t seem recognise him. He spoke.
‘Didn’t think this would be your kind of place.’
She gave a double-take that would have been wonderfully comic it hadn’t been for the expression on her face. Larkin couldn’t tell if she was angry, shocked or suffering a heart attack. She took control of herself with a great effort and settled for being embarrassed.
‘Have you been following me?’ Her embarrassment was followed by outrage.
‘No. I was just walking and I saw you come down the Bigg Market.’ Silence. ‘I called out,’ he lied, ‘but you didn’t hear.’
She didn’t reply. So much for being in charge of the situation, Larkin thought.
‘Look … if it’s about last night,’ he said, ‘then I’m sorry. I haven’t … It was a shock. Everything happening at once, that’s all.’
‘That’s all right. I shouldn’t have rushed you.’ She spoke like a bad actor, reading her lines in monotone. She certainly didn’t sound as if she meant it.
‘So what are you doing here?’
She sighed, obviously not wanting to answer. ‘None of your business.’
‘Just interested.’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. And I don’t like you spying on me, either.’
‘Bye, Charlotte.’ Larkin made to go. If he stayed they’d only argue; he’d forgotten how infuriating she could be. She grabbed his arm.
‘No – don’t.’
She looked up at him, relaxed her grip. He slowly sat down. There was a long pause, during which Charlotte seemed to have something spiky stuck in her throat.
‘Sorry,’ she eventually vomited out.
Larkin nodded. She’d definitely broken the world record, as far as apologies went. He sat back; it was up to her now.
‘Have you read the diary yet?’ she blurted out.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘Not a barrel of laughs.’
‘I didn’t think it would be. What about Terry? Any clues?’
Larkin took a deep breath. ‘Well … I thought Terry might have been Gary Fenwick.’
Her stony expression became i
ncredulous. ‘Impossible …’
‘Yes, I know that now, I checked some cuttings. But I do think they knew each other.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t know yet. But I’ll keep looking.’
‘Good. Thank you.’ Charlotte sat back, her face impassive.
Larkin watched one sad old wretch leave her seat, genuflect, then shuffle out to be replaced by another.
‘You never did tell me what you were doing in here.’
She cast her eyes down, mumbled something at the hymn book in front of her.
‘Sorry?’
‘Mary. I started thinking about her. I got a bit upset.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So … I … came for a walk. And came in here. Just to let her know I was thinking of her. And to say a prayer for Mary.’
The confession seemed to be painful for her to make.
‘Like the song.’
‘What?’
‘“Mary’s Prayer”. By that Scottish group, what was it? – Danny Wilson. Good song.’
She looked at him like he’d just exposed himself. ‘Don’t be flippant.’
He thought of the diary. ‘I didn’t mean to be.’
They fell silent.
‘I’ve got to go.’ Charlotte stood up, then turned towards him. She said, as if at gunpoint, ‘Look, Charles will be away for a few more days. There’s a little drinks party on tomorrow night. Would … would you like to go?’ The monotone was back.
‘Well …’
‘Will you?’
‘Yeah. OK. I’ve got to cover Edgell’s funeral tomorrow, though.’
‘That’s all right. I’ll leave a message for you at your hotel.’ It seemed as if she’d suddenly run out of things to say. ‘I’ve got to go. Bye.’
And she was off, without even a backward glance at the altar. Larkin sat back and let out a sigh, glad that the awkwardness of seeing her again was over.
He got up, walked to the door and was about to exit, when he remembered the chained donation box. He paused, put his hand in his pocket, and tossed some loose change into the box. He looked up at the agonised figure, the face a mask of purity and suffering, the hands springing fresh blood, and dug into his pocket once more. He came up with a fiver, stuffed it through the slot, looked the crucifixion window in the eye, saw the misery of being human, and departed.
As he passed the Central station, Larkin had the irrational feeling he was being followed. He turned round quickly; no one on the pavement seemed to be paying him the slightest bit of attention. But suddenly, a white saloon car that had been crawling along the kerb shot out, did a U-turn and was away. Had that been his shadow? He looked after the car; he didn’t recognise it, couldn’t place the make, hadn’t even noticed the registration number. Reprimanding himself for his creeping paranoia, he kept walking.
He reached the traffic lights at Marlborough Crescent bus station, waited for green, and stepped into the road. Immediately the white car appeared as if from nowhere. And this time it was gunning straight for him. Larkin stood still, transfixed. He couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was happening. With a monumental effort, he put himself into motion and lurched to the left. The car swerved. To the right. The car swerved. Forcing himself to wait until the last possible minute, he ran for the side of the road. He leapt onto the pavement, narrowly missing the front of the car, and lay there, spread-eagled and winded. The car pulled out to avoid careering into the railings next to the traffic lights then roared away.
A small group of people began to cluster round Larkin’s prone body. He heard their voices coming and going, as if he were tuning in a transistor radio.
‘All right, pet?’
‘Drive like maniacs, don’t thuh?’
‘Kids, man.’
‘Aye, the Chronicle said so.’
‘– was a Lancia, an’ all.’
‘– smart, them. Ee, are you all right, pet?’
He blinked. Looming into his face was a rotund woman of about sixty with a furrowed brow.
‘Yeah, I—’
He gingerly struggled to his feet. He was at least eighteen inches taller than her.
‘Kids! Bloody kids. Bloody joyriders. Dreadful, in’t it? And the parents. I blame them. They just let them run wild.’
He stopped her tirade before she brought back the birch.
‘Did anyone get the number?’
Several shaken heads. People were drifting away, disappointed, now that Larkin was standing. The ghouls were retreating.
‘It was definitely a Lancia,’ said one man before walking off.
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the munchkin asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Yeah, thanks. I’m fine.’
He started to walk away, unsteadily, his heart pounding. Joyriders? Someone had just tried to kill him.
11: The Broken Doll
The hall was cavernous and dark. Fringed, fake-candled wall lamps waited to be lit and the maroon and black velveteen flock wallpaper seemed to absorb what little light there was. Lining the walls were plush velvet booths, giving the illusion of shabby intimacy. Chairs were stacked on tables; a woman wearing a cotton print dress and a lacquered hair-do was struggling to get them down. At the other end of the hall a hefty, balding man in a short-sleeved, polyester-mix shirt and tie combo was making heavy weather of opening up the bar. He was clunking crates of Britvic around so heavily that it was a wonder he wasn’t surrounded by a pool of tomato juice and broken glass. In the cathedral-like expanse of the hall, the bar was the altar: just right for a Sunday night.
Larkin was still pretty shaken after the incident with the Lancia. He badly wanted a drink, but had denied himself; he knew that just one wouldn’t have been enough. Instead he had walked round until he found the Rainbow Club. He looked dishevelled from the hangover and battered from the pavement, but he was still going strong. Thinking his brand of charm would work better on the woman than the man, he approached her.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ Her head sprang round brightly. She had round eyes, a wide mouth and was so cheerful that she must have had a natural Prozac gland in her body.
‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you could help me.’ Larkin looked round innocently. ‘This is the Rainbow Club, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it will be in a few hours. Frank – that’s my husband—’ she pointed to the barman, who was now wrestling with a knife and a lemon as if in preparation for a bizarre communion, ‘he and I run the club.’ She appraised Larkin. ‘Are you seeking membership?’ She sounded doubtful, clearly thinking he wouldn’t help to raise the tone of her clientele.
‘No, no. It’s … business.’
She didn’t hide her scepticism; the charm wasn’t working. He’d have to work fast to gain her trust. No hesitation, or she’d think he was lying. He drew Mary’s photo out of his inner pocket. ‘Do you know this woman?’
She looked at the photo. ‘Yes. She used to come here.’ She gave Larkin a quizzical look. ‘Could I ask who you are, please?’ She spoke with one of those sing-song Geordie accents that some women affect to make them sound middle-class.
‘I’m working for her solicitor. We’re trying to trace that man.’ He tapped Terry’s face.
‘Oh. Is he her son?’ she asked.
‘No, he’s her—’ Killer, thought Larkin. ‘Boyfriend. We think.’
‘We’re a club for middle-aged, divorced, separated or bereaved people. We provide a place where they can come together, share a common interest. Meet others in the same boat, help regain a bit of self-confidence. We treat them as our friends.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Larkin.
She looked at the photo again. ‘I haven’t seen him in here.’
‘We think she may have met him after she stopped coming here. We’re just checking. Can you remember anything about her?’
The woman suddenly froze. ‘I read about this. She killed herself, didn’t she?’ Her eyes grew to
the size of dinner plates.
‘Yes, I’m afraid she did.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, no. She didn’t make a will, you see,’ he was winging it now, ‘so we’re just making enquiries. Just routine.’
‘There won’t be any bad publicity for the club, will there? Only we’ve got our reputation to consider.’
Yes, thought Larkin; you treat them all as friends. ‘None at all.’
She subsided. ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t be much help. I didn’t get to know her very well, you see. She only came a few times – and when she did, she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself very much.’
‘Can you tell me what kind of person she seemed on first acquaintance? If there was anyone in particular she gravitated towards, that sort of thing.’
‘What can I say? She seemed pleasant enough, but she didn’t make friends with anyone special.’ The woman thought for a moment. ‘She didn’t seem to have much confidence when she first arrived, but by the time she stopped coming she seemed to have a lot more.’ She beamed beatifically, like a born-again Christian. ‘Perhaps the club did that!’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed Larkin. Realising he was down a dead end, he wanted to leave, but the woman had decided to talk.
‘That’s how I met Frank, you know.’ She gestured again to the martyred barman, this time struggling so intently to wipe the bar down that he was in danger of removing the formica veneer. She was still giving her testimony: ‘Two ships that passed in the night!’ She came back to the present. ‘That’s all I can tell you about … what was her name?’
‘Mary.’
‘Of course. Mary. Yes, very sad. Tragic. Perhaps if she’d stuck with the club it might not have happened.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said again. ‘What about the young man in the picture?’
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