Vince stood naked in the living room. The gun was in his hand. It was a Smith & Wesson, a big heavy black thing. It was jammed up and rusted, hadn’t been oiled or used for an age, so he couldn’t even tell if it was loaded. He didn’t like guns. Didn’t like the feel of them or what they did. He carried it over to the big black bureau, opened a drawer and put it inside.
He then padded back into the bedroom and slipped under the sheets alongside Bobbie. She was fully awake: arms outstretched behind her, gripping the struts of the headboard, a sated smile transforming her face. The bad dream was vanquished, the memory of what they’d just done still fresh.
‘The gun – is that the one your husband was given to look after?’
She didn’t look at him, but said languidly, ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Say what?’
‘Husband.’
‘Well, you are still married.’
‘What is the statute of limitations on that?’
‘There isn’t. There’s only death and divorce.’
She smiled and said, ‘I’ll look into the latter.’
‘Keep messing with guns, you’ll be looking at the former. Is it loaded?’
‘I’ve never used it.’
‘Don’t try. If it is loaded, it’ll blow up in your face. Want to tell me about it?’
‘The gun? I don’t know anything about—’
‘The dream.’
‘Oh, the nightmare.’
‘The nightmare.’
‘The usual,’ she sighed, closing her eyes. She was obviously used to it and bored with it. It held no surprises for her now. It was just tiring – truly tiring – and no longer terrifying. Or that’s what she told herself, unconvincingly, whenever she awoke from it. Dismissing it thus helped to take the power out of it.
‘Who was climbing the stairs this time, Jack or your father?’
Her eyes opened and, still looking up at the stripy canopy, she pointedly said, ‘Stepfather.’
‘Sorry, stepfather. Well …?’
She thought about it, then turned to him. ‘You.’
‘Me?’
‘Well, you were the one who walked through the door.’
‘I’m your nightmare?’
‘No. My dreamboat.’ Bobbie leaned forward and bit him on the nose, then pretended to kiss it better. She sat up, reached over to the bedside table, and fished a cigarette out of the packet that lay in a heavy crystal ashtray along with her lighter. With the curtains open, there was enough moonlight for Vince to examine her body: svelte, flawless, taut skin, nipples like bullets, no unsightly bulges or ripples. She then glanced around and caught him looking. She smiled, confident in her nakedness, knowing she looked good, knowing she didn’t have to grab at the sheets to cover herself. She lit up the cigarette, took the heavy crystal ashtray and rested it on Vince’s chest. Bobbie took a long drag of the cigarette, lay back and exhaled slowly, sending a jet of smoke up into the canopy. ‘To be honest,’ she said reflectively, ‘I don’t know who it was, because I woke up. I always wake up.’
‘Do you always sleepwalk?’
‘Sometimes.’ She then creased her brow, as if puzzled by her own actions. ‘But it’s the first time I’ve woken up with a gun in my hand. I forgot I even had it. Jack didn’t know about it, and he certainly wouldn’t have been happy about it. He didn’t keep a gun in the house in case the place was searched.’ She took another long draw of the cigarette and blew out three perfectly formed smoke rings to join the gathering fog above them.
Vince watched them float up and smiled. He’d never seen a girl do that before; it was considered a boy’s trick. The smoke hung in the airless room, swirling around, encircling them. It gave the bed, the room, the moment, an ethereal feel.
Staring up at those clouds of smoke, Bobbie said, ‘They say that if you dream you’re falling from a great height, say Beachy Head, and if in your dream you hit the ground, you never wake up. Although, how the hell would they know that?’
Vince smiled. Great minds … ‘More pertinently,’ he said, ‘I heard that if you shoot people who walk through doors, you swing for it.’
‘But I was asleep.’
‘Technically you were, but by the time the police arrived, there was a good chance you’d be awake.’
‘Sleepwalking, that’s a good alibi. I’ll remember that one.’ She kissed him. ‘I wouldn’t shoot you. You’re far too gorgeous.’ She stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette, took the crystal ashtray and put it back on the bedside table and lay back next to him. Her fingertips glided over the smooth firmness of his chest and shoulders, over the defined ridges of his biceps. She could feel him tense as her hand passed over him, as she had known all men react when touched: chest out, stomach in. She smiled at their predictable vanity, and settled her head on his chest.
‘Did you see the girl, Wendy?’ asked Vince solemnly.
Bobbie let out a slow, sad sigh. ‘I saw her. And your friend Machin was there. He made some snide comments about you, so I’ve got the feeling he knows about us.’
‘I guarantee he does,’ Vince said, without any surprise. ‘He’s probably had me followed ever since I got here. Tell me about Wendy, though.’
‘It was horrible. Machin wouldn’t let me touch her and, to be honest, I’m glad. I don’t think I even could have. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Do you know what was so horrible about it?’
‘I saw her, Bobbie. I know what you mean.’
‘No, you don’t. They’d obviously cleaned her up, brushed her hair, tried to make … to make her look presentable, I suppose. What was so horrible was that she looked as if she belonged there. She seemed at peace – like she was always meant to be dead.’
Vince withdrew his arm from around Bobbie’s shoulder. The luminous markers on his watch told him it was ten past midnight. ‘Shit!’ he said, throwing back the sheets and springing out of bed.
‘Where are you going?’
He ran out to the living room where his discarded clothes lay.
Bobbie sat up and called out, ‘Vincent!’
‘Got an appointment with Murray the Head!’ he said, pulling on his trousers.
‘The Head?!’
‘Yeah, you know him?’
‘Of course! I know his girlfriend, too!’
‘The Volcano?!’
Vince was almost dressed when Bobbie came into the living room. She sat on the arm of a chair and watched him slide his broad shoulders into his jacket, then said, ‘Valerie, she’s quite a character.’
Vince looked around and noticed she was wearing Jack’s monogrammed towelling robe. That nettled him. He wondered why she still wore it, did it still hold his smell? Did it remind her of him? Bring him closer to her?
‘Why are you seeing Murray?’ she asked.
Vince headed for the front door. ‘I’ll tell you when I get back. I won’t be long.’ He turned around and looked at her, unable to hide his irritation. ‘That robe, it looks ugly on you.’
She frowned, then glanced down at the big embroidered initials, JR, as if noticing them for the first time. She had unthinkingly grabbed it off the back of the bedroom door where it hung. But she understood his irritation, knowing how she would have felt the same if the shoe was on the other foot.
CHAPTER 22
THE VOLCANO
‘Swordfish!’
‘Ahhch! Enough! We’ve changed the password!’ replied the static voice of Long George, over the intercom.
Vince cursed under his breath then growled impatiently, ‘I’ve got no time for this, Long George. Let me in!’
‘A clue. We’re still keeping it fishy, but we’re going Kosher!’
‘Er … spring mops? Salted herrings? Lox?’
Crackling over the intercom, as Long George laughed. ‘Gefilte fish, you schmendrick! The new password is Gefilte—’
‘Gefilte fish!’
Vince entered the top-floor room to find Murray the Head sitting at a card
table. No surprise there. What was surprising was what he was doing. His right hand was spread out on the green baize, while his left hand held a small brush with which the Head was carefully painting his nails. A bottle of clear nail varnish sat next to an emery board, which in turn sat next to a small pile of powdered nail.
‘You’re late,’ said the Head, not looking up from his paint job.
Un-fucking-believable, thought Vince as he watched the Head deep in concentration. ‘Sorry, Murray. What colour is that?’
‘It’s transparent,’ he replied, glancing up at Vince to administer an admonishing look. ‘What do you take me for?’ Vince’s return expression was that of a blank canvas. The Head focused back on the job ‘at hand’. ‘Just puts a nice shine on them. You can tell a lot about a man from his hands, Detective.’
‘Yeah, I know. And I can also tell you haven’t done an honest day’s work in your life. Whilst we’re talking about paint jobs, you got it?’
‘Wouldn’t be sitting here, if I didn’t.’
Vince gave the room a cursory scope, but saw nothing that looked like the purloined painting. ‘Where is it?’
‘Sit down. What’s your rush?’
Vince sat down at the table, his back to the door. Not his favourite position in these circumstances, but it was the only available chair.
The Head admired his handiwork, then daintily put the brush back in its pot and screwed it securely shut. He blew the nail powder off the table. Fanned his hands up in front of his face, puckered his lips and dried his nails with a steady stream of breath.
‘Everything go OK?’
‘Like a dream. Your mark, Tobin, went to the bar, Valerie sashayed over, worked her magic and kept the mug tied up for an hour. She let the poetry happen, had him eating out of her hand: marriage proposals, foreign travel, breakfast at Tiffany’s. He was falling all over himself to impress, claimed he was connected to a big player in Soho with friends in show business, movie business, music business. Name of Duval – you know him?’
‘You know that I know him, Murray.’
‘You didn’t tell me Tobin was an ex-copper.’
‘You didn’t ask. I’m surprised he blabbed.’
‘When the Volcano works a fella, they blab, they give her their whole life story. They volunteer information they didn’t even know they had, just to smell the air around her, get lost in her eyes, dream about those lips and stare at those tits.’
‘I bet. Are you going to put a full point on the end of all this?’
‘My point is, I don’t want to get in bad with the bogies. I want to be in good with the bogies. That’s why I did what I did, Detective Treadwell.’
‘Eddie Tobin’s retired. He now does some muscle work for Duval. He’s as much used to you as a back pocket in a sock. Me? I’m still gainfully in Her Majesty’s constabulary.’
‘But not in good standing, I hear.’
‘What do you hear?’
‘That you were sent down to Brighton because of some discrepancies in something that may or may not have occurred.’
Vince weighed up how much the Head knew. And realized the most important thing, he didn’t know the truth. So he played it cooler than a big old bowl of gazpacho.
‘That’s what the painting’s for – to put me back in good standing. Good standing better than ever. Do you have it or not?’
The Head contemplated the young detective. Whatever he saw there, it must have passed muster, because he called out, ‘Valerie!’
Vince heard the door open, and glanced around to see the Volcano framed in the doorway. A curvaceous peg in a square hole.
‘How are you, sweetie?’
‘I’m good, Valerie,’ said Vince, while doing what she wanted, what her presence and figure demanded: giving her the once-over – twice! There was a costume change since he had seen her last. She had become more demure since her date with Tobin. That outfit had been borderline obscene: a black, sheer spray-on job with strategically placed embroidered fig-leaf details – Vince counted three of them. This outfit was tame in comparison: a clinging emerald-green gown to go with her eyes and set alight the flame-red hair; with a neckline that swooped, swooped, then swooped some more; and when the swooping was done, just for the hell of it, swooped again. If the painting was concealed about her person, he didn’t know where, or even dare to think.
Vince ventured, ‘So … where’s it stashed?’
‘Frisk me and find out.’
Vince looked back to the Head for counsel.
The Head gave the Volcano the nod. Before Vince could look around, a freckled and fleshy arm wrapped itself around his shoulder, her wrist holding a diamond, emerald and ruby bracelet, her flawless fingers docking some serious rocks that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a movie star … say, Zsa Zsa Gabor? She placed a rolled-up canvas on the table. Vince smelled her cocktail breath on him as she leaned in and nuzzled his neck. She worked her way around to his ears and sniffed him some more. Vince kept on looking at the Head, who was smiling not winningly but knowingly, showing his full set of smoker’s ivory-coloured teeth.
The Volcano purred, ‘Mmm … Chanel No. 5. Had you down more as a Guerlain man. Reminds me of a certain little lady I know. One Bobbie LaVita.’
Vince kept looking at the Head, who kept smiling and showing him his teeth.
‘Bobbie sends her regards,’ said Vince.
The Volcano moved around and sat on the table, blocking Vince’s view of the Head. ‘She’s a sweetie, too. I had the hots for her myself. She doesn’t play, though. And Murray is so old-fashioned that way, aren’t you, baby?’
The disembodied voice of the Head came through: ‘I don’t mind you dyking off, baby plum, just as long as I’m in the room when it happens.’ He leaned around the fleshpot partition, winked at Vince and announced, ‘She likes you. Valerie the Volcano and Bobbie LaVita? Now that’s a picture worth painting. Better than the shit I just lifted.’
The Volcano, not taking her eyes off Vince, who in turn couldn’t take his eyes off her cleavage, because it was parked right in front of him, licked her cherry-red lips and said, ‘That can be arranged, Murray. How about you, gorgeous?’
Vince sat as far back in his chair as possible without causing offence. He didn’t nod, because it would have been like a fly nosing into the Venus trap; he’d never get out. ‘Is this the permissive society I’ve been reading about?’ he asked.
The Volcano gave a chesty, breast-juddering laugh. ‘I like him, Murray!’ she said, running her fingers through Vince’s black hair. ‘He looks like Tony Curtis.’ Her finger then traced his profile, running down his smooth forehead, his nose, flicking his bottom lip, then moving around the dimple that sat in the centre of his chin. ‘Or is he more of a Kirk Douglas?’
Vince, far from impervious to the Volcano’s ample charms, was getting hot under the collar. He did a nervous clearing of his throat, and said, ‘Sounds like I’m in Spartacus, whoever I am.’
Vince heard a slap, flat palm against satin. Valerie jolted, sat bolt upright, twisted around to the Head and glared. ‘Murray!’ He’d just slapped the ample yet delectable derrière that was spilling over on to his side of the table.
‘You’re embarrassing the boy, sugar plum.’
The Volcano took it for what it was: her cue to dismount the table. Vince took it for what it was: playtime was over, back to business. The Head had stopped smiling and fixed Vince with a firm but benevolent gaze. ‘You’re playing with fire, my young friend.’
‘Tobin’s no trouble, Murray. Let me handle him.’
‘I’m not talking about Tobin. I’m talking about Jack. He likes that girl, likes her a lot.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
‘Yeah, downstairs, five minutes ago.’
Vince’s heart jumped into his mouth. The Head wasn’t smiling.
‘Murray, don’t tease the boy,’ said the Volcano.
‘I like the boy, baby plum. I’m just doing him a favour. Giving him t
he SP.’
With his heart out of his mouth and back in its designated spot, Vince said, ‘Thanks for your concern. I was working on the theory known as “out of sight out of mind”.’
The Head sucked at his teeth. ‘Some theory. I hope it works for you. Anyways, it’s your business. And our business is concluded. I’ve done my part, just need to make sure you keep up your end of the deal.’ The Head reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out a box of Swan Vesta matches and put it carefully on the table.
Vince frowned. Then he cracked a wide smile, devoid of mirth, indicating just disbelief and a question: ‘You’re fucking kidding me?’
‘Would I kid you?’ Murray said, sliding open the sleeve of the yellow box. Inside were matches – or, on closer inspection, a plastic facade of matches.
Vince leaned forward for a closer inspection.
The Head dipped in a freshly varnished finger and something clicked into place, and the device started …
‘…A certain Tory politician got caught with his trousers down in company with some brass. Nothing unusual there. What was unusual is that he’d filmed it. For posterity, I can only imagine. But the brass was also having it off with the Russian fellow, a diplomat who was sidelining for the KGB. He knew about the film and wanted it. And he was prepared to pay top rouble for it. The Russki taped our whole conversation in a device secreted in a Swan Vesta matchbox …’
Vince had heard enough, and the Head switched the device off.
‘Bang to rights, I’d say if I was criminally minded. Which I am. Did I neglect to mention that I picked the Russian’s pocket after our little tête-à-tête? Well, I couldn’t have him walking around with my voice in a matchbox, could I? Never know whose hands it might fall into. You just can’t trust people these days. Just in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get that film for the Russki. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle before I start doing dirty work for the commies. I’m a free-market patriot at heart.’
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