by John Harvey
Cathy was in the shower when he got back, between the groans and the splashes singing one of those old Brill Building songs by Carole King, Neil Sedaka, one of those. Later that day was when Shots on the Page, the literary segment of the festival, began, and she would be at her busiest, fans simpering round her for autographs coming off with the same stupid questions "Who are your favourite mystery writers, Ms Jordan?"
"Where do you get all your ideas?",
"Just how much of you is there in Annie Q. Jones? Is she really you?" One major difference between them, Frank knew for sure, no way his wife was a dyke.
The water stopped and a few moments later Cathy came through from the shower, a towel about her hair.
"Jesus H. Christ!" Carlucci whistled in wonder.
"You still got a great body, you know that?"
"Frank," Cathy smiled, her voice slipping into the mock-innocent tone with which she often teased him, 'you didn't drown. You're back. "
For once, Frank refused the bait.
"Maybe it's 'cause you never had kids, I don't know, but you're in as great shape now as when you was twenty-one."
"Bullshitter! You didn't know me when I was twenty- one."
Carlucd laughed.
"More's the pity." He cupped one of her buttocks with his hand and she slapped him away.
"Hey, you don't want to get felt up, shouldn't walk around that way."
"What's that, Frank, rape defence A? Your honour, she was asking for it' " What you talking, rape? Husband pats his wife's ass, that's not even sexual harassment. Not even today. "
Cathy pulled on a pair of white underpants and began sorting through her tights.
"I know, Frank, you're right. It's just, well, sometimes I have difficulty remembering that you're my husband, I mean."
"Listen," said Frank, serious now.
"I ever force myself upon you?"
Cathy straightened away from the bed.
"No, Frank, I can't say you have. Not recently anyway. Not since that time in Atlanta I broke your nose."
"You didn't break my nose. A few seconds maybe, it was out of joint.
Hey, you ev^n helped pop it back, remember? " / " And got snot and blood all up my arm for my trouble. "
She had her back to him, snapping on a brassiere, and he waited until she turned, wondering if she were really mad, remembering. She didn't look mad. Standing there. white bra with some cleavage and a little lace, blue jeans, even with her snarled-up hair, she looked great He told her so.
"Look," he said.
"I'm serious. You don't think we could…" Eyes straying towards the bed.
126 "Come on, Frank. I just got out the shower. And I've got this radio interview in less than half an hour. Mollie's coming by to pick me up."
Right, thought Frank, always something. He tossed her the paper and Cathy caught most of it, the second section sliding from the bed down to the floor.
"Maybe you should take a look at this before you go.
Hung on to your front page spot, but only just. I'll see you later," he said and left the room.
The piece describing the affray in the bookshop was boxed towards the bottom of the page, two columns. Beneath the headline, STAR US CRIME WRITER ATTACKED, Cathy Jordan's face smiled out from one of her standard issue publicity shots.
"Presumed feminist protest…" it read. And: "Although clearly shaken by the unprovoked assault, the visiting best-selling American author insisted she would not be curtailing her very full programme during the city's top film and fiction festival. This evening. Miss Jordan is appearing on a Shots on the Page panel discussing the future of crime fiction. 9 Terrific, Cathy thought, every weirdo and closet voyeur coming out of the woodwork, eager to see what I'm going to get doused in this time.
But she didn't think about that for long; her eyes kept being pulled back to the top of the page: Police Probe Hotel Slaying. DEAD MAN FOUND NAKED IN BATH
Police launched a major inquiry today after the body of 53-year-old Wymeswood man, Peter Farleigh, was found in his hotel room earlier this morning. Farleigh, a married man with three grown-up children, who worked as a sales executive for Myerson Chemical and Fertiliser, had been stabbed a number of times in the chest and abdomen. His body was discovered when Mane- Elisabeth Fourier, a maid employed by the hotel, entered Mr Farleigh's room. She found Mr Farleigh's naked body lying in the heavily blood-stained bath.
Miss Fourier, who is nineteen, and studying English here in the city, works at the hotel on a part-time basis. She is understood to have been sedated and treated for shock.
An incident room has been set up at Canning Circus police station and the inquiry is being headed by Det Insp Charlie Resnick.
A police spokesman said they were not sure if there was any link between Mr Farleigh's murder and a recent incident in which an unidentified man, apparently naked, was found with stab wounds in the Alfreton Road area of the city. This man, whose injuries were treated at Queen's Medical Centre, has since disappeared without trace.
Forensic experts are continuing to examine the room in which Mr Farleigh was found for clues and a postmortem examination will be carried out by Home Office pathologist Prof Arthur Parkinson.
Det Insp Resnick declined to give any further details of the death until the post-mortem has been carried out, or to 128 detail any lines of inquiry being followed.
Speaking from her five-bed roomed detached home in the village ofWymeswood, a grief-stricken Sarah Farleigh said,
"Peter was a model husband and a perfect father to our children. We are all heartbroken at the news of what has happened."
Well, Cathy Jordan thought, that puts the occasional pot of paint into perspective, doesn't it? She slid a green silk shirt from its hanger in the wardrobe and held it against herself in front of the mirror. Radio, for God's sake, she was about to do radio. What did it matter what she looked like? Now that he had his very own murder inquiry, she doubted that good old Charlie Resnick would have much time left over to think about her.
Mollie Hansen was waiting for her in the lobby, one of Cathy's books and a folder of publicity material under one arm.
"The car's waiting. It isn't far."
"Fine. And, look, I hope you made it clear. I'll talk about anything but that stupidity with the paint."
"Of course," Mollie said, holding open the door.
"I've spoken to the producer twice."
Cathy Jordan sat in front of the goose-neck microphone, a plastic cup of water near her right hand. Across the broad desk, the morning presenter picked his way through several cassettes before finding the trail for that evening's live broadcast from Mansfield Civic Centre and slotting it into place. A recording of
"Up, Up and Away' by the Fifth Dimension was coming to an end. He had already checked Cathy's voice for level.
"More music later. But now I've been joined here in the studio by the American crime writer Cathy Jordan, one of the people most responsible for the amazing increase in the popularity of women in this field. Good morning, Cathy."
"Hi."
Tell me, Cathy, while it's true that your books have proved almost as popular here as back home in the States, this hasn't been without some opposition. I believe, for instance, there was an incident yesterday involving some paint. "
Twenty-four The questions didn't finish there.
Even without the additional publicity, the hotel's principal convention room would have been full for Cathy Jordan's evening panel, but, as things had developed, it was close to overflowing.
Delegates who had been unable to get seats were standing at both back and sides, or leaning against ledges and walls; several more were sitting cross-legged between the front row and the platform. Cathy, herself, was sitting to the left of Maxim Jakubowski, the chairman; the young Scottish writer, ian Rankin, sat, toying with his water glass, alongside her. On the chairman's right, Dorothy Birdwell and the tall figure of South Londoner and ex-Who roadie. Mark Timlin, sat in unlikely alliance.
"Excuse me, I have a question…" The voice was articulate, middle-class, used to making itself heard.
"I have a question for Ms Jordan…" From the chair, Jakubowski leaned forward and acknowledged the speaker from the floor.
The woman was standing now, a few seats in from the central aisle near the back of the room rimless glasses, greying hair pulled back, a perfectly unexceptional print dress. Alongside Jakubowski, Cathy Jordan had poured water into her glass; everything had been going smoothly up to now, as predictable as discussions on the future of crime fiction tended to be.
"I should like to ask Ms Jordan if she shares my concerns about the way women are increasingly being represented in crime fiction?"
Cathy sipped her water and counted to ten. ian Rankin coughed and winked.
"Here we go," he whispered.
Cathy set down her glass.
"Well," she said, 'doesn't that depend on what those concerns are? "
"Those of most women."
"Most women?"
Yes. "
There was an uneasy stirring amongst sections of the audience; some, having heard of the bookshop incident, had come anticipating conflict and so far had been disappointed, others were inwardly flinching, steeling themselves against embarrassment.
Cathy took her time, waiting until the hum of expectation had faded into an expectant silence.
"Now I don't know, of course, how you're calibrating " most". I mean, is that most women in this country? This city? Or are you claiming to speak for most women in this room?" She paused and looked slowly around and heard a few disclaimers from amongst the crowd.
"Maybe, you mean most of your own little circle of friends?"
There was a sprinkling of laughter, mostly self-conscious, during which the questioner stepped out into the aisle. For the first time, Cathy caught Man us Gooding's eye. He was sitting four rows back, staring not at Dorothy Birdwell, but at her, staring hard.
^No," the questioner was replying, her voice louder now, more openly aggressive.
"I mean any women. All women."
Again there were mumbles of dissent, but not many, not enough to deflect shouts of acclamation which seemed to come strategically from around the room. Cathy glanced towards the chairman, who un demonstratively shook his head, happy to let things proceed.
"I'm speaking for any woman who has any sense of her own strength or dignity, her own independence or sexuality…"
"Oh, come on!" Cathy Jordan said.
"Spare us the speeches."
'. and who could not fail to be appalled and threatened by the excessively violent way. "
"Always did like a bit of violence myself," Timlin said, as much to himself as anyone else.
Dorothy Birdwell, much like the Dormouse in Alice, seemed to be sleeping.
'. the violent ways in which you and others like you, serve up women as a series of passive victims at the hands of men. "
"Hang on a minute now," Cathy protested, as ian Rankin leaned towards her with a few words of encouragement.
Amongst the growing hubbub, a handful of people were heading for the exits and a number of women half a dozen now, several others prepared to join them were on their feet and pointing towards the platform.
"I intend to make my point…"
"You made your point." Cathy said, louder now, close to losing her temper.
"The same old tired point I've heard half a hundred times before. Women as victims. Poor damned women! What is the matter with you? Don't you live in the real world?"
Some of those standing had begun a slow hand clap drowning Cathy's words. The expression on the questioner's face was a satisfied sneer.
Marius had still not taken his eyes from Cathy's face.
"Pick up a paper," Cathy said into the din, so close to the microphone that it distorted her voice.
"Any paper, switch on the news^ what do you see? Women are victims. You think I invented that?
You think I made it happen? "
"Yes!" they chorused back.
"Yes!"
Cathy Jordan sat back with the gasp of mock surprise and shook her head.
"Every time you attack a woman in your books…" another voice from another part of die room.
"Every time you rape, or kill, or maim…"
"Rape? "
Yes, you. You! You! You! "
Beside Cathy, Ian Rankin was shaking his head in a mixture of bewilderment and anger, and at the far end of the table. Mark Timlin was smiling happily. Dorothy Birdwell had awoken and, like the Dormouse in Alice, was looking around in dazed surprise. The chairman tapped a warning on the end of his microphone, but to no avail.
"Every time you do those things, one woman to another…"
Cathy Jordan was on her feet, pointing.
"I do not do those things."
"Yes, you do!" It was the original questioner, closer to the stage now and pointing.
"And as long as you go on perpetrating this myth of female weakness, it will go on happening."
"That's a crock of shit!"
"Is it? Is it, Ms Jordan? Well, I hope next time you open your paper and read about some poor fifteen-year-old, or some old woman of eighty being raped and beaten, you should think about that a little more carefully."
"Jesus!" said Cathy, slamming back down into her chair.
"I don't believe this is happening."
"All right," Jakubowski said, raising both hands in an appeal for calm.
"Thank you very much, thank you very much indeed. I'm sure we all appreciate your point, but now I feel we should move on. Yes, thank you, there's someone over there…"
Cathy continued to sit there, taking no further part in the discussion, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of her as her anger began slowly to subside.
Twenty-five The photographs of Peter Farleigh had been enlarged and pinned, head height, to the wall. Slightly below them, to left and to right, the other, earlier, non-fatal victims: Paul Pynchon, from Hinckley, stabbed in the red-light district near the Waterloo Road; Marco Fabrioni, beaten and tied up on the Forest; Gerry McKimber, the sales rep stabbed in his hotel room; a quick drawing from memory of the still-anonymous man who had disappeared from hospital after being found, stabbed and naked, on the Alfreton Road. The one they were now, thanks to the rare flash of inspiration from Divine, calling Polo after his sock.
Maps, dates, approximate times.
Details of wounds, weapons used.
Data.
Three colour ten by eights of Marlene Kinoulton, left profile, right profile, full face: the woman identified by the waiter in the hotel where Farleigh had been killed.
There were twenty officers in the room, most with mugs or styrofoam cups of tea. Players' Silk Cut between their fingers, Benson King Size; expectation adhering to the walls like yellow smoke.
Skelton, straight-backed, stood near the main door, watching. His responsibility, not his show. Resnick rose purposefully to his feet.
"Pynchon, Fabrioni, McKimber, Polo, Farleigh: five stabbings, one fatal. Five male victims, all of them and this is not entirely confirmed, but I think we can assume it for now engaged in some kind of sexual activity involving prostitution."
Resnick paused, making sure of everyone's attention.
"Now if we look at where the attacks took place, they break down into two basic groups: outside, in the red-light area, and inside, in one hotel or other. From that first group, two attacks those on Pynchon and on the Italian were carried out by more than one person, male as well as female, and the injuries received were more general.
Personally, I think we can disregard these as having any direct connection with Peter Farleigh's murder. Our friend. Polo, I'm not so sure about.
"We think he was running from his attacker, that's the only reasonable assumption, and that would place the attack in the same general area as those on Pynchon and Fabrioni. But what have we got?
A single wound, no more. Nothing to suggest
the kind of group attack that took place in the earlier cases. So, let's presume, one assailant. All the other evidence suggests a woman, some kind of assignation that went wrong. Likely, but only conjecture. The wound is interesting, though; a single blow with a sharp implement, most likely a knife, in an area that closely corresponds to where most of the stab wounds in Farleigh's body were found. So, although Polo's stabbing is the incident about which we know least, and therefore it might be convenient to push it to the back of our minds, I don't want that to happen. Not yet. It may connect. "
He paused, glanced over towards Skelton, who avoided his eyes and fidgeted instead with the knot of his tie. What did that mean, Resnick wondered? That I'm going on too long and he's bored? Or does he think I've got it wrong? Barking up the wrong tree? Maybe his tie was simply too tight.
"Now," Resnick said, moving towards the photographs, heads turning to watch as he pointed with the first two fingers of his right hand.
"These pair, McKimber and Farleigh, this is where our main focus has to be. Look at the similarities. Both men attacked in hotel rooms, attacked with knives, stabbed more than once. In both instances, the most likely scenario, the assailant was a woman. A woman who was there for the purposes of prostitution, though it's only in McKimber's case we know that for a fact."
Lynn Kellogg's arm was raised.
"Surely, sir, we don't even know that?
The woman he claims stabbed him, she's never been identified. "
"That's right."
"So, he could be lying. I mean, we've only his word."
"Right, he stabbed himself," Divine called out, sarcastically.
"No," Lynn snapped back.
"But it could have been a man, right. A boy.
Men are prostitutes too, you know. "
"Okay," Resnick raised his hand for silence.
"We're going to be talking to McKimber again. I'm seeing him myself. I'll bear what you've said in mind. You're right, it wants double-checking. No harm."