by Zoe Sharp
“Terry,” I said. “Are you sure it's legit?” Something in my voice bothered him and I watched a myriad of expressions register across his rubber-like features.
“What?” he demanded, suddenly looking from me to the computer as though it had abruptly burst into flames. He scratched worriedly at his armpit. “Well, yeah,” he said, sounding anything but positive. He turned the computer over as if it might have “stolen” written on the underside. “Come on, what gives, Charlie?”
I explained about my conversation with Marc. “It just seems a bit of a big coincidence, that's all,” I said. “I don't know how much they cost, these lap-tops, but they won't be cheap. If they came by it by legal means, someone must have borrowed a barrow-load of videos at a few quid a time to owe you enough to do a straight swap.”
Terry smirked. “Ah, I wasn't born yesterday, “ he said, “I've been offered enough hooky gear in my time to be able to smell it.” He tapped the side of his nose to indicate it was very hush, hush. “But there's videos and then, there's videos.”
I said, oh yes in what I hoped was a knowing sort of way, and left it at that, but Terry wasn't to be deflected. He put the computer down. After a quick look round in a shifty manner guaranteed to make any casual observer sit up and take notice, he lifted up a false panel above the cab of the van, whipped out a video and handed it to me.
It wasn't in one of his usual cases, which are the same squint-inducing colour scheme as the van. This was in a very plain, rather cheap-looking wrapper. I forget the title now, but it was wincingly corny. I knew instantly that the film inside would contain a warbling sound track, repetitive dialogue, no plot to speak of and lots of writhing bodies filmed from angles that were gynaecological in their intensity.
I've seen one or two and they make me feel deeply uncomfortable. The dead look in the performers' eyes – I can't bring myself to call them actors – disturbs me. I can never believe that the people involved are doing that sort of thing from choice. They all look doped up to the eyeballs in any case. I pulled a face and handed the video back.
“It doesn't take long to build up a big bill when you're hiring two or three of these a week,” he said and named a price that made my eyebrows rise of their own accord.
“That's for renting them? For that money I'd want shares in the film company.” I was intrigued despite my distaste. “What's so special about them, or don't I want to know.”
Terry grinned and opened the box. The video inside had the title repeated on an otherwise plain label. “There you are,” he said. “No certificate. This little lot are hot off the boat from Spain and Amsterdam and they didn't come via the official board of censors. You wouldn't believe what's on half of ’em, sadomasochism stuff, animals and all sorts – but I draw the line at kids,” he said quickly, with the air of someone adopting a high moral tone. “If anyone gets caught with one, they didn't get it from me, that's for sure. They could throw away the key just for what I've got in the van at the moment.” He jerked a thumb at the false floor.
“So some guy hired out enough of these that he gave you a lap-top computer in payment?” I said again. I still found it hard to believe.
Terry nodded, grinning. “He's got a week to come up with the money, otherwise this goes straight into the small ads,” he said. “Although, actually, I might keep it. I've never had one of these before.” He picked up the portable again, fiddling around until he found the on/off button.
The little computer whined into life, making buzzing and clicking noises like an electronic budgie. He stared for a few moments at the screen, which was tilted away from me, jabbing a couple of buttons, his brows drawn down. “The cheating bugger,” he said.
“What's up?”
“It's asking me for the password. He never mentioned anything about passwords. Bloody hell.”
“Can't you go back and ask whoever it was you got it from what the right password is?” I said, peering over his shoulder.
“We didn't exactly part on good terms,” Terry admitted. “In fact, he probably did this on purpose. Bugger.”
I sighed. For someone who's obviously pretty successful in business, he can be very naive sometimes. He stood there looking at the little computer like a kid who's just had his new toy broken in the school playground by the class bully. I swear I saw his bottom lip quiver. Mind you, the way parts of his fleshy face tended to wobble out of sync with the rest of him when he moved quickly, it was difficult to tell.
A sudden thought seemed to occur to him. “Hey, are you still mates with that computer bloke up at the Uni?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.
I sighed again. No way did I want to help Terry get into a possibly nicked computer, given to him by some bloke in payment for illegal porn videos, but Terry's been a bit of a mate and I just couldn't stand the thought of the hurt look if I said no. Besides, I probably owed him a favour or two.
“OK,” I said. “I haven't seen Sam for ages, but I'll ask him if he could try and get round it for you, if you like?”
Terry looked relieved. He switched off the computer and folded the lid shut again. “Would you?” he said. “That'd be great. Tell you what, shall I leave it with you? If you can get your mate to have a play with it, I could pick it up later on in the week sometime.”
I agreed and he handed the machine across. It wasn't much bigger than a ream of A4 paper, and looked so innocuous. We hopped back out onto the street. He swung the Merc's side door shut and climbed into the cab. “I'll see you right for videos,” he called as he started the engine. I stuck the computer under my arm and walked back up the stairs to the flat.
***
When I got up the next morning the lap-top was where I'd left it on the coffee table. I worked round it for most of the morning, but eventually I couldn't put it off any longer.
I looked up the number of the university and dialled. After a short delay, they put me through to the right department. I asked whoever picked up for Sam, and the receiver was plonked down on a desktop. I heard someone calling, then cowboy-booted footsteps.
“Yeah?” His voice sounded bored. It was nearly lunchtime.
“Hi Sam, it's Charlie.”
“Oh, right!” he said, suddenly perking up. “Great to hear from you. When are we going out for another razz?”
I'd met Sam out one day in the Trough of Bowland. When the roads are quiet the Trough is fantastic biking country. In the summer I tend to go out there early in the morning when you can just get stuck into those long sweeping bends.
I was doing that at about six-thirty one Sunday morning when an old green 750cc Norton Commando appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to trample all over me. I gave chase, but I just haven't got the faith, or the courage, to hammer fully committed into blind corners and crests.
After a few miles he pulled in to a lay-by where there was a little burger caravan and I followed. The look on his face when I took my helmet off would have been worth a photograph. We had a brew, got to the point of exchanging phone numbers and met up regularly after that for a quick blast.
When Sam started suggesting we met up in the evenings, however, and without the bikes, I began to back off. He's a sweet bloke, but a touch on the sensitive side for my taste. Chaotic dark hair framing the long face of a Chaucer knight, with expressive dark eyes that follow you round the room like one of those Greenpeace posters against seal clubbing.
I suppose I knew he'd take things further if I gave him a sign, but I also knew the sparks were all on his side. I didn't think it was fair to let him believe anything might come of it, and I hadn't spoken to him for a few months.
Now, I explained about Terry's password-protected machine and asked if he thought there was anything he could suggest. I don't know exactly what it is that Sam does with computers, but he seems to be a bit of a whizz kid.
“Yeah, no problem,” he said. “I'll see what I can do. Most of these lap-tops aren't that difficult to get into. What's the make and model?”
I grabb
ed the computer and read off all the identifying marks I could find. “Shall I bring it round?” I asked.
“Er, well, you're just down on the quay, aren't you? Why don't I pop round to you tonight, about eight-thirty?” he said, adding quickly. “If that's OK, of course. I just thought it would save you carting it about strapped to the back of that bloody Jap rice-burner of yours.”
“At least my bike only burns oil, it doesn't dump most of it on the road,” I said. “Half eight is fine. I'll see you later.”
“Yeah, great. I'll look forward to it,” he said.
I put the phone down wondering if I'd done the right thing.
***
In the afternoon I packed my work-out clothes into my rucksack, climbed onto the Suzuki, and headed across town to the refuge.
I've been holding self-defence at the Shelseley Lodge Women's Refuge for the last couple of years. On paper, I suppose it doesn't make much financial sense to do so, but actually the arrangement suits us both quite well.
I teach there three times a week. The classes are open to all, and often people mix and match which days they attend, depending on their schedule. The residents of the Lodge are free to join in any time.
My regular students pay me their tuition fees direct, but Shelseley take the class fees themselves for their own people, if they charged them at all. Still, I didn't have to fork out for use of the venue, so I couldn't begrudge them my labours. Not for the work they were doing.
Shelseley Lodge had been turned into a women's refuge some time in the early seventies by the late mother of the present owner. Old Mrs Shelseley had used premature widowhood as the perfect opportunity to take in single mothers and battered wives as fast as she could make up camp beds for them. And if deserted husbands turned up in the middle of the night to kick up a fuss, she'd even been known to appear, a terrifying apparition with a shotgun and curlers, to show them the error of their ways. I'd never met her, but I thought she sounded wonderful.
I very much doubt that the new Mrs Shelseley knew one end of a shotgun from the other, but she was just as effective at shifting unwanted visitors. Ailsa had arrived temporarily at the Lodge as a trainee solicitor to offer advice to the residents on matters of divorce and child support.
She'd taken a fancy to the place in general – and the owner's son, Tristram in particular – and had stayed put. Although she's since given up the law and retrained as a counsellor, she can still spout enough legalese to put the fear of God into marauding men when the need arises.
I reached the entrance to the Lodge and turned the bike between a pair of red brick gateposts. The driveway was short and claimed to be gravel, but every summer the dandelions staged another covert incursion and I think they were finally winning the battle.
As always, there was a motley collection of cars sprawled in front of the impressive Victorian house. Where space was tight someone had even driven one of them onto the lawn, leaving gouges in the sodden grass like a mistreated billiard table.
I slid the bike into a gap near one of the elegantly proportioned bay-fronted windows, and killed the motor, pulling off my helmet. Into the quiet that followed came the raucous squeal of children at war. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried relentlessly.
The front door stood open as usual beneath a fanlight made from delicately-coloured glass in leaded panes. The matching panels in the door itself had long since fallen victim to one set of angry fists or another, and now consisted of reinforced safety glass. My boots echoed on the faded black and white tiles as I walked down the hallway, calling a hello as I went.
Ailsa stuck her head out of what was supposed to be their private sitting room and beckoned me through. When I went in I found Tris squeezed into a corner, trying to read a book on William Blake. Nearly all the other available chairs were taken up by a bedraggled-looking woman with bruised eyes and four young children.
“Hi Charlie,” Ailsa said brightly, subsiding her generous frame onto a seat, her loose Indian cotton dress billowing around her for a moment like a collapsing big top. “Won't be a moment. We're just trying to sort out these forms from the Social. Be a dear, Tristram, and put the kettle on.”
Out of his wife's line of sight, Tris sighed, carefully inserted a bookmark as he rose, and disappeared into the narrow kitchen. When I couldn't stand the scruffy round-eyed stares of the kids any longer, I went to join him.
Tris was standing at the sink, staring out into the garden at the lines of terry nappies, flapping like pennants. He was absently trying to dry a teapot with a towel that was too wet to make any difference.
“D'you want a hand?”
“Hmm?” He took a moment to bring his mind back on track. “Oh, yes please, Charlie. Sorry, miles away there.”
Ailsa had cut his hair again, I noticed. It looked like she'd done it with blunt nail scissors, by candlelight. There was a chunk missing over one ear, and half his fringe stood straight up in the air. Ailsa had all the hairdressing aptitude of a bottle-nosed dolphin, but Tris was too good natured to complain.
Left to his own devices he would have favoured something more in the romantic poet style but, he once explained to me with a weary smile, the proliferation of unwashed small children about the place made head lice a very real concern, and a short haircut a necessity.
He was still wearing his working uniform of a short-sleeved white tunic over black trousers, and he smelled of lavender, and orange blossom. When what had once been the drawing room hasn't been commandeered as an overflow bedroom, Tris uses it for aromatherapy massage.
The kettle on the hob began to scream and I lifted it off the heat with a slightly scorched oven glove. Between us we managed to load a tray with all the required equipment for tea and were manoeuvring our way back into the sitting room when the door into the hall swung open again.
A small boy in a football jersey shoved his head through the gap. “'Scuse me, Aunty Ailsa,” he said, a vision of angelic politeness, “but the filth's here.”
Ailsa smiled at him, taking the news of the arrival of the police without undue surprise. For one reason or another, they were regular visitors at Shelseley.
“OK love,” she said to him. “You'd better show them in. Oh, hello Tommy,” she went on when the first of two uniformed constables edged into the room, taking off their hats.
The young officer she'd addressed manfully stifled a blush at her familiarity, and tried to ignore a derisive glance from his colleague. The other man was the older of the two, though that wasn't saying much. Neither of them looked old enough to drive. Wasn't that supposed to be another sign that advanced age was creeping up on me? My God, I wasn't expecting that when I'd only just hit my quarter-century.
“Now then,” Ailsa said briskly, “what can we do for you this time, Tommy?”
From his expression, Tommy's dearest wish was that she'd stop calling him Tommy, but he decided to let it pass. It was his mate who spoke up instead.
“Actually, Mrs Shelseley, it isn't you we wanted to speak to today. It's Miss Fox.”
I'd been halfway through pouring a cup of tea, and the guilty start I gave at the mention of my own name sent a splatter of hot brown liquid over the table top. I glanced up quickly while Ailsa rescued her forms from the flood and sent Tris for a cloth.
I helped mop up, glad of the pause so I could rack my brains to try and come up with a suitable reason why the police were after me. The first thought that popped up was that it might be something to do with the hooky lap-top Terry had given me.
“Yes, that's me,” I said. “Why, what's the problem?”
Tommy's mate ignored the question. “Is there anywhere we can talk in private, Miss?” he asked.
Tris offered use of the drawing room and led us through, frowning. The room was huge. Clean and bright, with his massage couch set up in the centre and a stack of clean dark green towels on a rattan sofa to the side. Tris hastily shifted the towels so we had space to sit down, and left, still looking pensive.
“
So, what's the problem?” I said again when I was alone with the policemen.
Tommy's mate ignored my question a second time. He was really starting to become quite tiresome. Instead, he posed an unexpected one of his own. “Were you at the New Adelphi Club in Morecambe on Saturday evening?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling suddenly cold. I sank down onto the sofa Tris had cleared, and clamped my hands together in my lap.
Even as a kid I've always been more afraid of getting into trouble than of getting hurt. I frantically tried to think back over the weekend's events. I knew, logically, they couldn't possibly be here because of Terry's computer, and I couldn't find anything else that would call for two coppers to be tracking me down at work and giving me the third degree. “What's this all about?”
I'm always wary of the police. You ride a motorcycle and it tends to colour your view of the boys in blue. Still, I suppose it was a nice change to be greeted by a uniform whose opening gambit wasn't, “Are you aware of the national speed limit, madam?” Maybe, in this case, it would have been preferable.
I looked from one to the other. Tommy sat down at the other end of the sofa and tried a reassuring smile, but the other one paced round the room, poking along the bottles of Tris's essential oils and making little snorting noises to himself as he read the labels. “Look at this lot, Tom,” he said. “Frankincense, chamomile, ylang-ylang.” He picked one of the bottles off the shelf, turned it in his hand. “Sandalwood. What's that for, then?”
I dredged through my memory for Tris's explanations. I knew sandalwood was calming, a sedative and an aphrodisiac, but I wasn't going to tell him that. It also had antiseptic properties, and was good for dry skin. “Acne,” I said shortly.
He was still young enough for the terrors of rampant spots to be too close for comfort. He put the bottle back on the shelf quickly.
“Look,” I said, “I very much doubt you two are here for a guided tour of aromatherapy oils, so why don't we just cut to the chase?”