by Mike Ripley
I sneaked downstairs as quietly as I could and turned the TV on, flipping the channels until I found an imported US sitcom with a loud laughter track. It wasn’t difficult; it was Friday night. Then I went to the ground floor bathroom, turned the shower on full and stripped off my clothes.
The shirt would have to go. I was in no fit state to even try and get the stains out if it, so I scrunched it up between my hands and nipped into the kitchen, pretty sure that there was enough background noise to cover me even if she turned off her shower.
From the cupboard under the sink I took a black bin liner and stuffed the shirt to the bottom, then looked around for rubbish to throw on top. There was nothing to find except some pizza cartons, an empty carton of orange juice, some egg shells, a carton of milk I’d forgotten to put back in the fridge two days before, a pile of junk mail, two empty wine bottles, the contents of three full ashtrays and four used coffee filters. It was like nobody had lived there for days.
I tied a knot in the top of the bag and opened the back door quietly (that is to say, checking I hadn’t set the alarms). The small rectangle of lawn outside the back door is what passes for our garden but in fact provides a sheltered living space for our dustbins. Neither Amy nor I had ever found any other good reason to go out there. Both plastic bins, typically, were full, but that was probably because I hadn’t put them out for collection whenever it was the bin men came to empty them. And there was another plastic bag, just like the one I was holding, tied at the neck with a twisted-over rubber band, crammed behind the bins.
I knew I hadn’t put it there and I hadn’t noticed it before, though that wasn’t saying much as I rarely ran security checks on our garbage, unlike most of the neighbours.
The lights were still on in the upstairs bathroom and I could hear water trickling down the outside pipes. She was certainly having a good hose down, and hopefully it would last while I opened up the bag by undoing the several dozen twists she’d put in the rubber band.
The bag contained only one thing, or rather, two. A light blue wool two-piece suit that I’d never seen before and would have sworn in court wasn’t part of Amy’s wardrobe. Had it not been for the fact that kindly old Len Turner had shown me a picture of her wearing it as she climbed into the Freelander.
I rubbered up the bag again and kicked it behind the bins. She was probably putting it out for recycling or to give to Oxfam, that was it. Nothing sinister.
‘And if you believe that, sunshine,’ I said quietly to myself, ‘you’ve had far too much to drink.’
Which was, of course, true, so I spent the next 20 minutes trying to shower the alcohol out of my pores and then another 20 minutes holding a pack of frozen peas from the freezer over the bridge of my nose whilst watching anxiously in the downstairs-bathroom mirror to see if the swelling would go down or the bruises paled back to flesh colour. Neither happened, so I crunched on a couple of Paracetamol, turned off the TV in the lounge (even though it was now on to the Friday night soft porn movie) and crept up the stairs to bed, fingers crossed, numerous explanations at the ready.
My luck held. Amy was already in bed and the light was off.
I pulled the hood of the bathrobe up over my head like a boxer and slipped under the duvet alongside her but so we were back-to-back. She was breathing deeply and rhythmically, but you can never be sure with women, as feigning deep sleep is a natural talent for them. I slipped over an exploratory hand and discovered she was wearing a night shirt of some sort, though I wasn’t aware she possessed one. It was a long one, too, reaching well below the knees. Which was unusual.
Now was not the time. Explanations could wait until the morning.
The best ones usually can.
Saturday started as it usually did, but once I had remembered where I was, I swung into action.
First thing was to check where Amy was, and an exploratory hand minesweeping down the far side of the bed confirmed she was up and about. Second thing was to check how I looked. So far, a fairly normal Saturday.
The bedroom mirror was kind to me for once.
There was an egg-shaped brown, green and blue bruise arcing from the bridge of my nose over my right eyebrow, but fortunately it was only the size of a wren’s egg. In a strange way, I felt rather disappointed, as it had hurt a lot more than it looked, but at least my nose didn’t click or bend out of shape when I wiggled it.
I could pass muster, or at least think of some good excuses. A wet shave and some clean clothes and Amy would never know the difference.
But I never got the shave, because Amy was in the shower.
Again.
I made do with a battery-operated shaver after taking four more Paracetamol with some orange juice to counteract the noise it made. The shave wasn’t perfect, but at least I didn’t draw any more blood. Once I’d brushed my teeth I felt almost presentable.
Amy was in the kitchen making coffee. She was wearing a long black shirt over wide white trousers – the sort Marlene Dietrich had been fond of. I could smell the shower gel on her even over the warm, damp coffee grounds in the cone filter, but her hair was dry and brushed, so she must have tied it up in the shower.
She had the radio on, so she didn’t hear me immediately, and then as she glided to the fridge for milk, I noticed that she wasn’t quite limping, but she was definitely not putting all her weight on her right leg.
‘What happened to your face?’ she said, still with her back to me.
Then I realised she could see me reflected in the chrome of the giant toaster we have but never use. (American friends have always laughed at us for putting toast under the grill instead of using the toaster, but how the hell else do you stop the cheese falling off?)
‘I was born with it,’ I said with a stage sigh. ‘What happened to your leg?’
She straightened up, but for a moment I thought she was stopping herself from rubbing her right knee. It was just an impression and maybe I imagined it.
‘Cramp, arthritis, rheumatism, I don’t know. Just driving all that way with the pedal to the metal. I must be getting old.’
‘Take the weight off, deary. You should look after yourself at your age,’ I said, pulling one of the high stools (which are really naff) from under the ‘breakfast bar’ (even naffer) that had come with the house, or so Amy had said, and that we’d never had the opportunity to throw away or even at somebody.
Amy kicked the stool out of her way, and if we’d been in a western, the shooting would have started then. Instead she came up to me and gently put her fingers on my forehead.
‘Did somebody hit you?’ she asked, examining the bruise. Like she was a doctor!
‘No,’ I said honestly. After all, I had hit something. Pointing out that it had been one of London’s premier tourist attractions might have broken the spell.
‘Tell me who did this and I’ll rip her liver out. How’s that for a deal?’
‘I was at a hen party …’
She flicked her fingers dismissively in front of my eyes and turned away to finish making the coffee.
‘Then you’re on your own there, son.’
I came up behind her and put my arms around her waist, and I have to admit that while I had dismissed her jibes about getting old, I had the treasonable thought that maybe she was getting, well, a bit plump. But then, only a bit. And maybe I was suddenly remembering Stella, who, whatever else had happened in her life, was still the same dress size as when I’d first met her.
‘Would you believe I was hit by a toilet door in Gerry’s Club? A door thrown open by a paranoid, naked male stripper who’d been hiding in there to get away from Stella Rudgard’s hen night guests, who had allowed his act to last a full 15 seconds? And all this by 3.30 on a Friday afternoon?’
She considered this for a full minute, then started to pour coffee into mugs.
‘Sounds reasonable,’ she said, and
handed me a mug. ‘So who’s Stella Rudgard?’
She looked me in the eyes when she said it, and I was sure it was a genuine question. I mean, she’s good, but then so am I.
‘Stella Rudgard as in Rudgard and Blugden, confidential enquiries. Our local private eyes, well, Shepherd’s Bush anyway. You know them. I did a job for them once.’
‘Oh yes, right, got it now. Did I ever meet her?’
‘Probably not. You’d remember if you had.’
‘She’s not the dumpy one with the glasses who could get away with it if she wore lots of black and loose, at least a size bigger than she is, instead of squeezing into a size smaller than she is? And lower heels.’
‘No, that’d be Veronica, her partner.’
‘So who’s this Stella getting married to then?’
Just when you think you’re getting away with it, in comes the trick question.
‘Er ... I’m not sure. I sort of forgot to ask, but it’s bound to be in the papers today or tomorrow. He’ll be rich if not famous.’
And if he was marrying Stella he would be famous, whether he wanted to be or not.
‘So you’ve been having a good time, then?’
‘So-so. How about you?’
‘Productive, you might say. I think I’ve got a steal on the Next Big Thing in terms of designers. He’s hooked, lined and almost signed up for some exclusive work. Drawback, of course, is he’s Welsh, but he’s young and innocent and that’s how I like them.’
‘The hit of Welsh Fashion Week, was he?’ I said in what I thought was a passable sing-song Welsh accent.
‘Christ, no. That was the whole point of me going down there. I’d been tipped off about this kid – his name’s Gwyn, by the way, 21 and bent as a nine-bob note – and when I saw his portfolio, I persuaded him to pull half his collection from the show.’
‘The good half, I presume, so that the opposition overlooked his potential,’ I said.
‘Hey, you’re good. You should be the detective, not this Stella person.’
Then she kissed the first and middle fingers of her right hand and placed them gently on my forehead, just above the bruise.
‘Poor baby. Did you miss me?’
‘Hardly noticed you were gone. I mean, I’ve been the only man at a hen night in Soho, I’ve had a few drinks with Duncan the Drunken and some old friends up in Barking and I even popped over to Hackney to see how Springsteen was doing.’
She didn’t flinch at the mention of Springsteen.
‘Still spitting bile, invective and feathers in equal proportions, I trust?’ she said.
‘Oh yes. And funnily enough, Duncan reckons that the BMW is repairable as long as we don’t mind him welding the back half on to a the front half of a Vauxhall Vectra and selling it to Latvia.’
She held up a hand in the Stop! sign.
‘I’ve told you, don’t go there. The car’s history, just let it go. Now what about Madrid?’
I did a double take at this jump in logic.
‘Madrid? As in Spain, right?’
She reached for the coffee pot to pour us a refill. I hear Starbucks do the same.
‘I did tell you,’ she said in her not-to-be-messed-with voice. ‘I’m flying to Madrid on Monday afternoon, be there all week, back Friday night or Saturday morning, depending on how it pans out. It’s a business trip but everybody knows the Spaniards don’t do serious business after about one in the afternoon, so – lots of free time. Why don’t you come along?’
‘Me? Won’t I cramp your style?’
‘Not if you stay in bed until one o’clock. That shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’
‘I suppose ... if I set my mind to it ... with severe mental discipline ... Oh shit!’
I’d slapped myself on the forehead, forgetting it was still a sensitive area, so the ‘Oh, shit’ really was genuine.
‘I’ve promised Dod – you remember Dod? He plays drums, trad jazz stuff, I’ve played with him before. He’s a mate of Duncan’s from Barking way. He’s asked me to stand in for a few nights whilst his regular trumpet player goes in for a vasectomy or something. A few nights next week. Starting Monday.’
It was thin, I know, but the best I could do on the spur of the moment.
‘I could tell him to find a sub, of course, but then I was his first choice, and it was kinda flattering in a way, as I haven’t done much recently.’
‘You haven’t played for ages!’ she exclaimed, though I don’t know why she was surprised. She was the one who’d banned me from rehearsing in Hampstead.
‘I know that; you know that. Dod doesn’t. Anyway, I was, like I said, flattered. Couldn’t say no. I mean, this could be my big comeback.’
‘Comeback to what? You have to have been somewhere before you can make a comeback.’
‘Not necessarily, think of … Anyway, jazz never dies.’
‘Your sort did, about 1930.’
‘Hey, that’s not fair. There’s nothing so potent as cheap live music, especially if the alternative is some spotty yoof giving himself carpol tunnel syndrome twisting two decks with vinyl on in opposite …’
The doorbell rang. Twice. It had to be the postman.
‘Let me get that,’ I said with a smile.
Amy went shopping for the rest of the day. What is it they say about when the going gets tough?
Not that it had – got tough, that is. Oh yes, she’d ranted about there not being a damned thing in the house to eat and so she was going to the nearest Sainsbury’s (once I’d given her directions) to stock up on decent stuff and she was definitely, quite definitely, going to make an effort to cook proper meals at regular times from now on. Well, just as soon as she got back from Madrid, that was. And when, two hours later, she’d returned and I’d help her unload the Freelander and put things away, including fresh vegetables in a special rack that I’d found in one of the kitchen units, she’d grabbed a high-energy muesli bar for lunch and announced that she just had to go up the West End and buy a few essentials for her trip to Madrid. And had Armstrong been parked in the drive all morning?
I had lied about that and told her a friend had driven him home from Gerry’s Club, whereas in fact I’d called a mini-cab as soon as she’d left for Sainsbury’s and tooled it down to Soho to rescue him.
Armstrong was back and in pride of place outside the house, annoying the neighbours.
Amy was back and out shopping.
All seemed right with the world.
She got back about six, loaded down with bags that read like a phone book of designers. Naturally, despite her best intentions, she was too shattered to actually start the new regime of wholesome cooking right now, so I did the decent thing and offered to nip out for a take-away Indian.
I picked up a couple of packs of Kingfisher lager and rented a video on the way back.
It turned out to be an almost perfect Saturday night, especially when Amy suggested we make it an early one, which we did, although she turned the lights off and insisted they stay off as soon as we got to the bedroom.
Which was unusual for her.
I’d had plenty of solo time (as we’re supposed to call it these days) while she was shopping to open what the postman had brought, recorded delivery, for me and I had managed to keep out of Amy’s sightline.
It was an official visiting order allowing me, nay, inviting me, to attend HM Prison Belmarsh to visit with prisoner Malcolm Fisher at times that were convenient to the said prison.
Spider had told me to expect one, but I was impressed how quickly it had arrived. Now all I had to do was check in with Spider and then wait for the phone call.
From prisoner Malcolm Fisher.
Mr Creosote.
I still hadn’t a clue who he was, but I had a nasty feeling he might be Welsh.
I had phoned St Chad’s w
hilst Amy was out shopping. If Warden Roberts answered, I was supposed to say I was Spider’s nephew and put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece to disguise my voice. Thankfully that didn’t have to happen, as whoever picked up the phone just grunted and then yelled ‘Spider!’ so loud I could hear the echoes down the line.
When he came on, I told Spider that the visiting order had arrived, and he said I was to meet him Sunday morning at 11.00 in St Chad’s Park. He would be walking Warden Roberts’ dog along the footpath by the playground near the north entrance.
Before I could ask if he’d be wearing a wire or if I should check the trees for snipers, he hung up on me.
Part of my grand plan seemed to be coming together at last. Problem was, I couldn’t really remember what the plan was, and then I remembered my notes, which were still on the floor of Armstrong.
While Amy was out, it seemed a good idea to get my filing system collated, or at least out of sight, as even Amy might wonder why the front of the cab was littered with inky napkins. As it happened, the first one I picked up was the sheet that said ‘GUN’, and I had an idea that I might be able to do something about that, even on a Saturday afternoon.
I didn’t think much of my chances of getting hold of DI Hood, unless the Met really was dishing out the overtime, but Keith Flowers had been arrested in Suffolk, and the police there might just have more time on their hands.
I got lucky. A very nice receptionist at the Suffolk police headquarters at Martlesham near Ispwich put me through to CID without any hassle, and the phone was picked up by a female Detective Constable called Priestley with a broad Suffolk accent.
I gave her my name and said I was ringing in connection with a car insurance claim, citing the reference number the cops had given me for that very purpose, resulting from a crime incident. I told her I knew that charges were pending against a certain Keith Flowers and no doubt it would all come out in court, but what I needed, or rather the nit-picking insurance company needed (and she knew exactly how annoying they could be), were details of the weapon used by Flowers. What sort of details? Well, I didn’t rightly know. I supposed they wanted to be sure I wasn’t just embellishing my claim, or just checking that it was a real gun not a toy, something like that. They hadn’t been terribly clear, but then insurance companies were never clear when it came to paying out, only when collecting their premiums. That, she said, was something I could say again.