Kiss Me Quick

by Miller, Danny

  ‘Bobbie, the blood? What happened?’

  ‘None so blind as those who cannot see,’ she recited and winked at him. ‘Well, he would say that now, wouldn’t he?’ It was a joke, and she was smiling, but it was underpinned by a steely dead-eyed coldness. She turned her attention back to the photo album.

  Vince looked about the room for clues to Pierce’s demise and spotted the carving knife on the floor. He bent down and picked it up, finding there was no blood on it. Then he noticed Pierce’s swordstick lying under the tall throne-like chair. No blood on that either. Pierce didn’t play by the Queensberry Rules, and most women don’t know them, anyway. None so blind as those …

  ‘Sit down with me, Vincent. We can look at my photos,’ trilled Bobbie in a childish cadence, unnecessarily shifting over to make space for him on the sofa.

  Too late. Vince had found his own photos. He bent down and picked up the torn glossy prints scattered on the floor. Realizing what they were, he put them on the coffee table and pieced them together. The evidence laid out in front of him, undeniable. He sank to his knees, not only to get a closer look but because he physically had to. His life had drained away from him and was now spilled all over the coffee table. He inhaled deep and sombre breaths and stared at the evidence before him, caught in black and white. He thought of the possibilities of the photos being mock-ups. With the right equipment, it’s easily done. While working Vice Squad he’d seen porno mags, photos of movie stars performing gross acts with smiles on their faces as if they were in a Lassie movie. But he knew these weren’t forged. He looked at himself, hoping he wouldn’t see himself there. But it was him, just as Eddie Tobin had said. Vince was kneeling directly over the man on the floor, his right hand raised, balled into a fist that was about to smash down into the waiting face of the projectionist. Vince wore a twisted scowl of righteous anger, during a moment frozen in time. A single frame of film. But what had happened next? That was what Vince couldn’t see.

  His mind raced ahead, writing a scenario for himself, putting himself in the dock and making his defence. He wasn’t a killer, he assured himself. He didn’t feel like a killer! But what did a killer feel like? Vince had sat in on interviews with real sociopaths, and the experience had always left him cold. Their moral compass was so out of sync with the rest of the world. They talked about their murders as if they were everyday and commonplace actions; couching the atrocities in emotionless language possessing the monotony of a read-out shopping list or an errand run. And then you had your schizophrenics, who remember nothing when they kill. They wash the blood off their hands and wake up forgetting it ever happened: a tabula rasa.

  Vince looked around the wreckage of the room, at the girl sitting on the red lips looking at the photo album. It all presented a surreal aspect of insanity. He thought of the good Dr Boehm, whose diagnosis not only had Vince pegged as schizophrenic sociopath but also a narcissist. He guessed that narcissists would like nothing better than to sit around looking at pictures of themselves, yet here Vince was looking at pictures of himself that he wished didn’t exist. And Bobbie was looking at pictures of herself that never did exist. Surreal insanity.

  Vince stood up, stamped the blood back into his feet and shook off the feeling of unreality. He paced around the coffee table displaying the photos and wanted to kick it over, but didn’t want to add to the carnage of the room, or the madness. He was determined not to get dragged under. Vince knew, somewhere deep down, that none of it was true. It was all a set-up. He knew that it was only telling him half the story. What about the girl on the screen? Where were the pictures of her in this collection? If she was alive, he could find her and thus discover the truth. She could tell them, how he was trying to save her. As for the projectionist, maybe he had been justified in killing him? Maybe he was merely defending himself? And if he did kill that sicko who was putting such vile obscenity up on the screen, then what of it? Maybe he was justified …

  The phone rang and broke his train of thought.

  ‘Don’t pick it up,’ said Bobbie firmly, her eyes suddenly alert. She put down the photo album and stood ready to block his way.

  He gave her a soothing smile. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he said, padding over to the phone.

  ‘Please …’ she said, following him, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get out now, leave now …’

  Vince unpeeled her arms from around his neck, then carefully picked the receiver up as if it was a stick of dynamite about to go off. He didn’t say a word, just listened hard. He heard panting – more like a dog than a human. The breathing was erratic, and the caller was trying to control it and put words in its place.

  ‘Hell … hello … hello?’ came the voice at the other end. There was interference on the line, a crackling static that broke the voice up.

  ‘Is … is … is anyone there?’

  The well-brought-up voice was unmistakable, no matter how hard the interference tried to distort it.

  ‘Terence?’ Vince asked.

  ‘Yes … s.’

  Vince took the phone from his ear, beat the earpiece against the hard edge of his lower palm, hoping to dislodge the static, then put it back to his ear. ‘Terence? Can you hear me?’

  ‘I can hear you.’

  ‘Where are you?

  ‘The harbour.’

  Terence sounded so faint and remote that Vince felt as if he himself should be saying, in a plummy BBC voice, ‘Go ahead, Hong Kong. We’re receiving you.’ Instead, he shouted down the blower: ‘’Fucksake, Terence, speak up! I can’t hear you!’

  ‘I’m in Shoreham harb—’

  Vince, loud and annoyed: ‘I got that part. What are you doing there, Terence?’

  ‘He’s here!’

  ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘Jack.’

  Vince gripped the stick of dynamite which had now just blown up in his ear. Then he tried to compose himself, not wanting to alert Bobbie to what he’d just heard. But he needed to double-check what he’d just heard.

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Jack Regent. I’ve seen him … Called the hotel, but you’ve not been there, so I called this number you gave me. You don’t mind, do you, Vince?’

  ‘No, Terence, I don’t mind. Tell me exactly what you saw.’

  ‘I was standing about thirty yards away, between the loading pallets. I was staking out the warehouse.’

  In normal circumstances, Vince would have raised a smile at Terence’s use of the term ‘staking out’, obviously culled from one of The Black Mask detective magazines he avidly read. But these weren’t normal circumstances, and this wasn’t the time for fictional heroics.

  ‘A car pulled up at the warehouse. It was American. No one got out. They waited for about a minute, then the warehouse doors opened, and they drove in.’

  ‘OK, you’re forty yards away—’

  ‘Thirty.’

  ‘Thirty, then. It’s dark. How do you know it was …?’ Vince, conscious of Bobbie listening, didn’t even want to use the pronoun him, because she’d instantly know who him was. Because there was only one him in this story.

  ‘I made my way along the quayside and spotted the man in the driving seat. He was wearing a hat, but he lit a cigarette. I then saw his face. It was Jack Regent.’

  Vince was concerned. ‘Did he see you?’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No no no, I was very careful.’

  ‘Terence, are you wearing those shoes with the Blakeys?!’

  ‘No, I thought of that, Vince. I’m on surveillance, so I wore my plimsolls.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Terence … get out of there.’

  ‘But it was him, Vince. It was—’

  ‘Get out of there. That’s an order!’

  Beep-beep-beep. The pips went.

  ‘Vince, I’ll call—’

  Vince, urgent. ‘Give me your number.’

  The line went dead.

  Vince paced around the r
oom, waiting for Terence to call him back. Bobbie was pacing after him.

  ‘I’m not giving up.’

  ‘Giving up what, Vincent?!’

  ‘Giving up who I am.’

  As soon as Vince put the phone down, Bobbie had said, ‘Jack’s here, isn’t he?’ She’d been watching him speaking on the phone with his back towards her, talking quietly, not giving anything away. She’d seen his back straighten, the muscles of his shoulders tighten. Even before Vince had shouted, ‘Get out of there!’ it was obvious.

  She demanded the truth, and eventually he told her. He saw fear invade her face, and heard anger disfigure her voice. Mixed emotions blending into pure hatred. He tried soothing her by insisting that he was going to get Jack and put him away for life so she’d never have to see him again. But that didn’t allay her fear, or assuage her raw hatred. Vince didn’t understand where this fresh burst of hatred came from, but he accepted it. He was getting used to not asking questions.

  ‘I came down here to do a job, Bobbie. I’m still a detective until I’m told otherwise.’

  ‘Even if it means ending up in the pay of the men you’re supposed to be going after? They’ve got you trapped now, Vincent. Your life’s not your own.’

  Vince stared at her, noticing her eyes – alert, lucid all of a sudden. ‘I’m not going through the rest of my life living in fear of something I don’t even know I’ve actually done.’

  She pointed to the pile of evidence on the table – the torn-up photos and said, ‘Those are just the stills. Pierce said they have the whole thing on film—’

  Vince cut in, ‘I know what they say, Bobbie!’

  ‘You’ve done your job, Vincent. It’s over. You came down to find a killer, and you found him. It’s you.’

  Vince’s head dropped and he couldn’t meet her gaze.

  She went over to him and clasped his face in her hands. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. It’s not true, it’s not true, Vincent. You’re a good man …’ she crooned, peppering his face with kisses. She felt guilty, knowing that Vince had given up all his secrets, while she still held on to her own. She had no right to throw it all back in his face. If Vince knew what she knew about Jack, then he’d have righteous justification in destroying him. She’d even expect Vince to do so. And that’s one reason she didn’t tell him. The other reason was clear to her: she felt ashamed at once having loved the man who had slain her parents and destroyed her childhood.

  Vince broke away from her and went over to the coffee table, collected the torn-up photos and headed into the kitchen. He put them all in the sink, took some matches and set them alight, watching his torn-up past turn brown, blacken, then curl up and die.

  CHAPTER 33

  THE WORLD’S PROP STORE

  A large case sat in the back of the Triumph Herald. Vince had helped Bobbie pack, knowing that, even in these circumstances, to ask anyone to pack a bag for a lifetime, especially a woman with a wardrobe so full and fancy as Bobbie’s, would be futile and time-consuming. He misjudged her, however, because she was fast and ruthless with her possessions. She packed only her own clothes. All the really expensive outfits were courtesy of Jack, and now she didn’t want them. She was ridding herself of the past, shedding the skin that signified Jack. The turquoise silk dress, her mother’s dress, was taken into the kitchen and placed on the funeral pyre that Vince had started with the photos, then unceremoniously lit. Vince noted that the phoenix brooch wasn’t pinned on the dress. He also noted how the burning of the garment, that last vestige of her mother, was not a problem for her. It rather surprised him, but he didn’t question it. And the photo album? Bobbie left it behind on the sofa. Before they turned out the lights and left the flat, Vince asked her if she was sure she had everything? Bobbie glanced at the photo album for a moment, then gave him a firm ‘Yes’ and they left.

  The rain beat down on the windscreen in a steady thrum as they made their way to the Seaview Hotel. It was the middle of the night and the coast road was empty of traffic. The street lights, distorted by the rain, lit up the long straight empty road in a bright orange hue, like an aeroplane runway.

  Vince glanced around at Bobbie, who was smiling. But it was a vacant smile; it had little joy about it and wasn’t pleasing to see. It was the same faraway and lost look she had carried on her face when he’d found her in the bath. She had been slipping intermittently in and out of it, ever since.

  ‘Bobbie? Bobbie?’ he called softly. Her head leaned against the window, but her eyes were closed and she was mumbling the lullaby again. It unnerved him seeing her like this. The bruising on her back, the destruction of the flat, he didn’t know exactly what had passed between her and Pierce, but a nightmare made flesh he imagined.

  They passed the West Pier, where some tramps were gathered under the available shelter, sharing a bottle. Standing by the railings, Vince thought he saw a man clasping what looked like grey sludge in his outstretched hands. He was yelling out to the almighty sea that was battering and tearing at the beach before him. Vince realized it was Billy ‘the Schnozz’ Riley, the tormented town crier, the ghost from his past. The rain had washed the curse from his forehead, and pulped the newspaper held in his hand, but he was still calling out the names of the town’s dead.

  Vince felt exhausted too. He felt as if he was out in the middle of that pitching sea, flailing around and trying to get ashore. Above him hovered the seabirds, big web-footed scavengers, waiting to pick his bones. And in front of him was Billy the Schnozz, calling out his name from his book of the dead.

  This brought his thoughts back around to Terence. Vince shook his head and rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel in frustration.

  Bobbie sat up from her reverie, suddenly alert. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Terence,’ he said solemnly. ‘He didn’t call me back.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t have change.’

  ‘He had change, believe me. Terence is an ex-boy scout,’ said Vince with a wry smile – though he didn’t know that for sure. ‘Terence is the kind of kid that always has spare change, stamps, maps, a compass, and his gloves sewn into the sleeves of his jacket.’

  They reached the Seaview Hotel and parked.

  ‘You told him to go home. I heard you.’

  ‘I know what I told him, Bobbie,’ said Vince, shaking his head at the dangerous impetuousness he and the young scribe shared. ‘But Terence is a stubborn little bastard, and sometimes he doesn’t really know what’s good for him.’

  There was no one at the reception desk of the Seaview Hotel. There was no one in the bar either. The entire place seemed deserted, eerily quiet. No sounds of people creaking about upstairs. Vince wondered if it was just him, seeing things that weren’t there, and not hearing things that were there. It was the middle of the night, after all. He rang the bell on the desk. No response.

  They went upstairs. He fished out his room key and opened the door. Vince hit the switch and saw that the room had been neatly made up. But sitting on top of the plump pillow on the bed were two small boxes, jewellery boxes. One was a hexagon-shaped ring box in green tooled leather, the other oblong-shaped in red leather. Vince and Bobbie, in almost comic unison, looked at each other with quizzical frowns. Then they opened the boxes. Vince found a gold pendant hanging from a gold chain, Bobbie found a gold signet ring. Realizing that the pendant was for the girl, the signet ring was for the boy, they wordlessly swapped over. Both items of jewellery carried the same engraved image: a Moor’s head. Vince picked up the two boxes and examined them, to find both were stamped, on the silk lining, with the name and address of Max Vogel’s antiques shop.

  Bobbie put the pendant around her neck, and examined more closely the engraving. ‘It’s the same as the picture you drew.’

  ‘It’s a gift from Jack,’ said Vince.

  She held the pendant in her hand, her eyes widening as the news sank in. The Moor’s head seemed to metamorphose into Jack’s head. She tore it roughly from her neck, the gold
links scattered as she threw it to the floor.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said in a resolute voice.

  Vince bent down, picked up the pendant and put it back in the box. He had not been a hundred per cent sure about Terence seeing Jack at the harbour – considering it was dark, there was a sea mist and it was raining. Whilst the young scribe wasn’t the type to make up stories, his writer’s imagination might lead him astray. But now Vince was sure that the Corsican was here.

  ‘I have to find Terence first. To make sure he’s OK.’

  ‘No, please, Vincent, let’s go. Let’s go now!’

  ‘I have to find him, Bobbie. I have to.’

  ‘Please—’

  Vince held her tightly in his arms and whispered in her ear, ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you trust me?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  He sat her down on the bed, then calmly, as if he was laying out the most routine of itineraries, he continued, ‘Then, here’s what we’re going to do. Now, listen …’

  Bobbie listened. It took some convincing her, but here’s what they did. Vince sat her down with her case in the bar of the hotel. She didn’t want to be left alone in the room, but the man who was tending both the bar and the desk had returned. Nothing sinister, he had just been taking a snooze. When Vince questioned him on who had been up to his room, he hadn’t seen anyone, nor had anyone asked for him. Vince believed him because he looked genuinely surprised when Vince showed him the gifts they had received. When the man offered to put the jewellery in the hotel safe for safe keeping, Vince handed over the two boxes, knowing that he would never return to collect them.

  Vince assured Bobbie that he would call her in thirty minutes. He was just going out to check on Terence, nothing more. He genuinely wasn’t going after Jack. And if he found out that Jack was in town, he would call his friend Ray Dryden, at Interpol, and let him deal with it. Having reassured her with everything she wanted to hear, he kissed her gently on the forehead, then departed.