Kamal arrived to find his coffee on the table. He looked tired.
“I did a long shift yesterday,” he explained when I pointed it out. “Sorry I couldn’t make the funeral, my brother. How was it?”
“You didn’t miss anything.” I felt a constriction in my throat. “So, book sales aren’t enough to live on? You still need to work?”
“Ho ho ho. Very funny.” Last year he’d had a collection of his short stories published. It was well received, as they say, but apparently good reviews mean nothing in terms of sales. I’d read them out of duty: slices of life in which not a lot happens but much is implied. I enjoyed them but he wasn’t exactly giving Dan Brown a run for his money.
“The cleaners at a publishing firm earn more than most of the writers they publish,” he said. “Besides, I’d still work even if I didn’t need to. What would I write about otherwise? I see and hear all of life at the hospital, people are at their most vulnerable. You should hear the things patients tell you when you’re wheeling them about. And with the medical staff I’m like a fly on the wall. People tend to ignore porters and cleaners; it’s the perfect job for a writer.”
“That’s exactly why I want to pick your brains. I’m wondering whether you know any Filipino staff at the hospital?” He stroked his moustache, a recent accessory which in my view was an unfortunate appendage to his face – a view I’d shared with him freely and often, to no avail.
“I know a couple, yes. What do you want to know?”
“I’m guessing they have some sort of community outside work? Where do they hang out, what do they do for fun, that sort of thing.”
He nodded. “I have a bit of banter going with one of the nurses who works in the outpatient clinics. I could ask her. Is it for a case?”
“Not much of a case at the moment, but it’s the only place I can think to start.” We savoured our coffees. “Have you ever crossed paths with that TV surgeon, Bill Galbraith?” I asked him.
“No, he’s above my pay grade. They call him the Hugh Grant of surgery.”
“That makes sense. Do you hear any gossip?”
He shook his head. “Would you like me to ask around?”
“Discreetly.”
“Is there any other way?”
5
AFTER AGREEING TO MEET AT KAMAL’S THE FOLLOWING NIGHT before our regular poker game, I walked over to Densley’s garage to see what he was doing with my car. Densley’s was incongruously situated in a residential area off Mill Road with just enough room for two cars out front and one in the workshop. If I have to pay money to businesses I prefer to give it to those with the owner’s name on the front; they have more at stake and will usually do a good job. Densley was fighting a constant battle against the newer residents who believed having a car mechanic in their midst brought the value of their properties down – something that hadn’t concerned them when they’d bought their properties. On the other hand, he had developers offering him huge amounts of money to sell up so they could build a couple of homes on the plot and call them town houses.
But Densley had been there thirty years and wasn’t moving. When I got there my car was up on the ramp and someone was underneath, tinkering with it. I went into the small cubicle that was Densley’s office. He was fixing a form onto a clipboard which he placed on the wall with the corresponding car keys alongside some others. I spotted my familiar key fob: a small blue Swiss army knife which Olivia had given me. He looked surprised to see me, which was my intention.
“Alright, George? Did we call you?”
“No, that’s the problem.” He laughed.
“So you thought you’d come and make sure work was being carried out on your car.”
“Something like that.” He stood up, his ancient office chair gasping after too many years of service. He was a gangly fellow who I’d only ever seen in filthy dungarees. “I heard about your dad passing.” I nodded. “Condolences.”
“Thanks.”
“He brought his first car in here to be serviced, a Hillman Avenger.”
“Yes, I remember it.” We stood for a few seconds, thinking our own thoughts until he gestured through the dirty Perspex window that looked out onto the workshop.
“Well, as you can see, work is ongoing on your piece of crap. Do you want me to explain all the different ways it’s fucked?”
“No, I just want to know when it’ll be ready and how much all this is going to cost me.”
“My dear George, I believe I advised you to sell the thing and get something relatively new. But no, you wanted to resurrect the beast. Unfortunately it isn’t old enough to be a classic, but is old enough to be a pain and a drain.”
We went back and forth like this until I got out of him a commitment to have it ready by lunchtime Monday.
* * *
I left Densley’s and walked towards Parker’s Piece. A group of young men (language students judging by their appearance and shouts) were playing football. Some teenage girls sat in a circle on the grass, heads bowed, thumbs twitching, engrossed in their little screens. When I got to the other side of the green and crossed the road opposite the police station, a bicycle bell rang urgently and I stepped lively onto the kerb. The ringing resumed and I turned, preparing to engage with one of those aggressive cyclists who go around in a constant state of anger, looking for people to gesticulate at. It was Detective Inspector Stubbing, who stopped by the kerb. She looked different. Maybe her hair wasn’t pulled back so severely and maybe she’d put on some much-needed weight.
“Stubbing?”
“I thought that was you, Kocky.”
We had last parted as George and Vicky but that had been in a rare and misguided show of sentimentality at the end of that nasty case regarding Morley College, which had involved both my father and her then boss, now promoted to pastures new.
“They haven’t got rid of you then?” I said, gesturing at the squat brutal building behind her, ever more anachronistic among the shiny new apartments taking over Cambridge.
“I know where all the bodies are buried.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I gestured at her bicycle. “I know public services are being hit by austerity measures but do detectives now have to cycle to crime scenes?”
“I see your levels of wit haven’t improved. I’m on my way home as it happens. Trying to keep fit.” I still struggled with the idea that Stubbing actually had a home; I imagined her to be permanently moving between office, crime scene and suspects in a state of continuous sordidness. Much like myself. I was about to tell her she looked fit before I realised she might misconstrue it as an invitation to engage in verbal foreplay leading to God knows what. We stood awkwardly for a few seconds before I came up with some suitable small talk.
“You have a juicy case on, I hear. A dead kid.”
“Heard from your girlfriend, I suppose. I’m surprised – I didn’t think educated professional women were your type.”
How the hell did she know about Linda? “I don’t really have a type,” I said, despite my better judgement.
“It’s anyone who puts out, I’m guessing.” She smirked, then prepared to move off.
“Shouldn’t you be wearing a helmet, as an example to the rest of us?” Hardly the devastating parting shot I was looking for. She showed me her middle finger as she sped away. I walked on, feeling annoyed with myself that I let her get under my skin like that.
To get Stubbing out of my system I went for a pint at the Green Dragon on the river then stopped for groceries on the way home. Linda’s car was parked on my drive. She was busy scrolling through her Facebook newsfeed on her phone when I tapped on the window.
“Can’t you leave a key under a plant pot or something?” she asked when we were inside.
“I don’t have any plant pots,” I said, ignoring her real question. Childish, I know, but if she wanted to keep me out of the rest of her life, then I wasn’t going to hand over all of mine in a big hurry. Part of me was happy with this ad hoc arrange
ment, but part of me yearned for something more.
“Hungry?” I said, lifting the carrier bags. “I’ve got fresh pasta.”
After dinner Linda filled me in on some more details regarding the dead girl, although they were scant. She was a teenager, although the cause of death hadn’t been established, or at least hadn’t been released. “This is according to Vicky,” Linda said.
“You’re on first-name terms with Stubbing?” When she just shrugged I said, “I ran into her today, or rather she nearly ran into me.”
“That’s nice for you.”
“She seemed to know about us. Any ideas how?”
“She’s the police,” she said, smiling.
“Hmm. That makes it sound like we’re committing a crime.”
“When it’s good, yes.” She laughed when she saw my face. “You’re such a prude, Georgie.”
“Is that right?”
6
KAMAL SUBLET ONE OF HIS ROOMS TO PAY THE RENT AND HIS latest lodger was a pale young chap with wispy brown hair who nodded shyly in greeting as he squeezed past me to leave Kamal’s small flat. Kamal found most of his lodgers at Addenbrooke’s, advertising on the staff noticeboard. Nobody could afford their own place any more, even if they had proper jobs. This guy was a statistician or something, a recent graduate in his first job, or so Kamal told me as we went into his room. I sat at the two-person table under the window that looked out over Mill Road.
“Beer?”
I nodded and watched the street while he fetched them. Muslim men were heading towards the mosque off Mill Road for Friday evening prayers. The traffic was crawling at this hour and cycling commuters weaved amongst the stationary cars along the narrow road. I liked this road, the mix of people and the cafés and restaurants to go with it. Kamal loomed into view and handed me a sweating bottle of something from the Czech Republic.
“Cheers.” Behind him were floor-to-ceiling paperbacks on cheap bookcases sagging under the weight. He kept trying to lend me books to read, like Olivia had, presumably because he also thought I was culturally stunted. His choices were usually a better read than hers had been, which mostly seemed to have been written with the purpose of telling the reader how clever the writer was. He sat opposite and swigged his beer.
“So, I’ve got some good news for you.”
“Yes I know, I could tell from your voice on the phone. It’s why you’re not very good at the poker table.” He pulled a face and fondled his misconceived moustache. It was another poker tell that he had acquired with the lip hair and one I would keep to myself for a while.
“So,” he said. “I spoke to one of the Filipino nurses in Outpatients, and guess what’s happening this weekend?” He put the beer bottle to his mouth and guzzled.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. A beauty contest?” He coughed and spluttered, spraying beer all over the table. His eyes watered as he struggled for breath. “Easy, fella, it wasn’t that funny,” I said. He started to breathe.
“How did you know?” he rasped.
“Know what?”
“About the beauty contest?”
“What are you on about?”
“This weekend is Philippine Independence Day. It’s a big thing apparently, for the ex-pats, anyway. They’re celebrating in Cherry Hinton.”
“With a beauty contest?”
“A Little Miss Philippines pageant, to be exact, for girls. That’s just a part of it. They’ll be singing hymns at the church, and there’s bingo, a basketball tournament, a bring-and-buy sale, that sort of thing. I’ve been invited to the bring-and-buy on Sunday. You want to come?”
“Of course, although I’m not watching a parade of little girls.”
“Don’t worry, that’s on Saturday.”
I nodded, relieved. “My car’s out of action at the moment.”
“We’ll cycle; it’s not far. It’ll be a nightmare to park anyway.” He paused. “I’ve never seen you cycle. Have you even got a bicycle?”
“I’ve got my dad’s old sit-up-and-beg bike. Weighs a ton and needs some tidying up.”
“I’ll have a look at it. I’ve become a bit of a bike mechanic out of necessity.”
“That would be great.” I drained my bottle. “The others will be here soon. Shall we set up the table?”
A few hours later and we were collecting chips into their respective colours. It had been an unusually good game from my point of view; I came out on top by ten pounds. Nobody could lose more than twenty pounds and the winning wasn’t that important. It was an eclectic mix of people from different backgrounds that you wouldn’t normally find sitting together around a Cambridge dinner table – everyone was here just to play poker and engage in a bit of banter.
* * *
The next afternoon I was lying on the bed, naked, the sweat drying on my chest. Linda had already been in the shower and had gone to make some tea, or more likely open some wine since it was after five o’clock. It was good to hear kids playing outside for a change, in the same street I had. At the weekends our mothers used to kick us out of the house and we were only allowed back in for lunch. Nowadays they were in their bedrooms all day, talking to each other online. A breeze came through the window. I had that pleasant dreamy feeling you get just before you drop off. The doorbell ruined it. I sighed. I was damned if I was going to get dressed and then undressed again before showering – then I remembered that Linda was downstairs. Maybe it was just the kids. Who else are you going to play “ring and run” on if not the sad old guy who lives on his own with the overgrown garden and battered car? I heard the front door open and there were loud exclamations that only women can make when opening a door to someone they know. Who would call here who knew Linda? I resigned myself to not getting a glass of wine and dragged myself into the shower where I had to hang up the towel Linda had used. Domesticated she was not and in some respects I was glad she never stayed for more than a night at a time.
As I went downstairs, scrubbed and in my finest tracksuit bottoms and T-shirt with holes in it, I heard voices from the kitchen, one of them Linda’s, the other disturbingly familiar. I stepped in to see Linda and Stubbing sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of wine already half-demolished. Stubbing, her hair loose, looked me up and down in a manner that made me feel I was standing in my underwear. She was in her civvies, skinny jeans and a button-down shirt.
“Hello,” I managed, glancing at Linda for clues.
“Kocky,” said Stubbing, smirking. She never just smiled, always smirked.
“Kocky? Is that what you call him?” Linda asked her, smiling in a knowing manner I found unsettling.
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Linda. It’s not what you think. I misread his name once and it’s stuck.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, trying to regain ownership of my kitchen by finding a glass and pouring some wine.
“Vicky just came round to talk about work.”
As I turned I saw Stubbing give Linda a warning look. She stood up and smoothed down her jeans; she’d definitely put on some weight and it suited her. My eyes met hers and I knew she’d caught me looking.
“I was just going,” she said. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”
I forced a smile as Linda showed her out. There were lowered tones in the hall and some laughter before the door opened and closed. Linda reappeared.
“Sorry about that. She rang me and I asked her round.”
“I didn’t know you two were mates,” I said, refilling my glass.
“I didn’t know you two were either.”
“We’re not.”
“Well I didn’t tell her where you lived,” she said.
“I told you, we worked on a case together.”
She laughed. “Alright, whatever you say… Kocky.”
I shook my head. “Please don’t.”
She put her hand on my face. “Still hurts, eh, Georgie?”
“What can I say, she broke my heart. What did she want, anyway?”
&nb
sp; She moved to pick up her glass, her face serious. “I was just discussing my piece on the case, you know, the kid at Byron’s Pool?” I sat at the table, as did she.
“You were running it by her?”
“No. She wants me to write about it, but she’s acutely aware that it’s going to be read by the killer.”
“Killer?”
Linda grimaced and refilled her glass. “Look, I’m not supposed to talk about it. Anyway, there’s something else.”
“What?”
“I can’t really talk about it. Anyway, you’ll read it soon enough.”
“I must get some perks sleeping with the reporter. I won’t break the story, promise.”
She smiled. “There’s a London girl missing. Young, fourteen or fifteen. She was in Cambridge Tuesday and apparently never got home.”
“What was she doing up here?” I asked.
“She was at a medical students’ open day or something.”
“Sounds a bit young for medical school, doesn’t she?”
“Maybe they got the age wrong.”
“And Stubbing thinks the body at Byron’s Pool could be—”
“Vicky’s not making any connection.”
“Fair enough. I would advise caution, though, colluding with Stubbing.”
“She’s OK. She’s a good detective.”
“I didn’t say she wasn’t. But you’re the one who’ll be compromised as a journalist if you start running stuff by her.”
“I’m not running anything by her. I think I know what I’m doing, George,” she said. “I don’t tell you how to do your job, do I?”
I raised my hands in acceptance. “You’re right.” I got up to open the fridge, took in all the wasted space and closed it. “Takeaway for dinner?” I asked, but she was standing up.
“I’ve got plans, I’m afraid. Girls’ night out.”
7
KAMAL, AS PROMISED, DID A MAINTENANCE JOB ON MY BIKE which meant that Sunday mid-morning he and I cycled down to Cherry Hinton, previously a village in its own right, now a suburb of Cambridge. It was here that the Filipinos were celebrating Independence Day. We tied our bikes up near the Catholic church at the top of the high street. I was sweaty from riding the heavy bike, and had to pull my trousers from between my buttocks.
The Runaway Maid Page 3