by I K Watson
“Maybe it was the phone going, maybe Geoff getting hurt. I don’t know. Maybe we’ve been saved by the bell.”
“About going back to uniform?”
She offered him a tricky little smile that reminded him where it had started, then said simply, “Status Quo. My favourite band.” For just a moment she hesitated then said, “Gotta go,” and with a swirl of skirt she went and the door closed behind her and with a curious certainty, he knew that was the end of it.
At his table in the White Horse, partitioned by the stanchions, Rick Cole sat alone. It was well after closing – three, four, who counted? And the room was swimming. He’d come out to hear some noise, any noise, and even Chas Walker’s voice filtering in from the far end of the room was mildly satisfying.
He considered calling it a day, selling up, selling out, starting somewhere fresh. But he knew he wouldn’t. It was just Teacher’s talk. Come the winter’s late dawn he’d be back on the job, poking the bad men where it hurt.
He thought about Donna Fitzgerald at home with her fiance, and Anian Stanford in her single bed. He thought about his own bed and the wife who’d left it. Ex-wife, now, of course. He checked his watch. God knows why because he was thinking in years.
It had been a long time ago. Last he’d heard she was living in Sunshine on the California coast with her American husband, two kids and an outdoor swimming pool.
Now, where was it the San Andreas fault ran through? His smile was humourless as he nodded and emptied his glass.
He had blamed the job, and so had she. But that was crap. Staleness had grown into indifference and from there it was always going to be a matter of opportunity. And yet it had all started so well – his foot on the ladder in a job he loved, a quick promotion, the beat of London and a beautiful young wife. The future had never promised so much. “I’m leaving you,” she had said. “I never minded you being a policeman. I just didn’t want the house turned into a police station!” “Coppers aren’t normal,” she had said.
He’d had enough. He shook away the memories and levered himself out of the chair. He looked at the door – the exit to reality and a cold house – then at Big Billy’s excellent daughter, Diane, who stood behind the bar. She smiled and headed his way and made a fuss of cleaning his ashtray. Heavy veins ran the length of her long skinny arms. Nicotine-stained fingers bridged by her old wedding rings worked furiously with a duster.
“Hello, Princess,” he said.
“You off, Ricky? Can’t you handle it no more?” The H in handle was left behind somewhere between the river and Hackney. Rick Cole sighed and sat down again. While she hovered, looking down at him with a question in her eyes, he settled himself and lit a JPS. One for the road sounded good.
Chapter 29
a sexy, intoxicating feeling of danger. It was amazing what a bit of dollop could do. It wasn’t a man’s world after all. Men only thought they were in charge. He wondered whether other women knew about the power they possessed. Maybe they did. That would certainly answer a lot of questions. That was a thought.
The thought stayed with him and grew until, as he walked up the High Road – not forgetting, of course, the swing of his hips and newly acquired handbag – he was walking on air.
In The British Mr Lawrence was thinking about the gender-benders, the phthalates with their endocrine-disrupting chemicals that could be absorbed through the skin and were present in soaps and perfumes and deodorants and shampoos and just about everything that was made of plastic; even tablets from the doctors were coated in them. He nodded. Maybe they were the cause…
In The British the priest from The Church of our Blessed Virgin stood at the bar. He was in civvies. It was the first time the others had ever seen him in civvies. His face was flushed and he was clearly angry. They overheard him talking to the manager.
“Would you believe it? Could you believe it? Even I don’t believe it. Give me a large scotch. Make it a treble.”
“Ice?”
“Forget the rocks.”
“Water?”
“I washed already.”
Roger nodded and said, “Straight it is. So what is it you can’t believe, Father? Surely not your belief in…?”
“No, no, no, not that at all, at all. What I’m having trouble coming to terms with is that anyone could rob their own priest. They broke into the church and stole my best frock. My frock! My working clothes, would you believe! A curse on them all.”
Roger shook a sad head. “There’s trouble all over,” he said. “The late colonel was probably right in that it has to do with the ending of conscription. As a matter of interest, perhaps you can help me on another point, a point that has been troubling me? When God speaks to you is it in His voice or your own and, does he continue to talk to you even after you’ve taken the pills?”
The priest narrowed his eyes, then shook his head and said, “Make that two doubles, or whatever it is that four is called.”
Paul stood in The British like a common slapper but no one recognized him. Except for Mr Lawrence.
Just goes to show. There isn’t much difference. Just clothes and a smudge of eye shadow and lipstick. And some tissues down your chest. If only they knew, these geezers giving him the eye, wanting to give him something else. Bastards, mostly. If only these old men could see themselves, if only they knew how pathetic they looked as they strained for eye contact, conscious of every move they made in their alcoholic haze, flexing their flabby muscles, hiding their blemishes, pulling in their heavy beer bellies.
We girls should sympathize, really, and feel sad for them. How awful it must be to be old while the heart cries out to be young. How awful it was to be old in today’s rushing world. A world where there’s no such thing as maturity, not in the mind, where men’s thoughts are never seasoned or mellowed like a ripe cheese. Old wrinkled bodies with childish minds. Life’s a joke, innit? Only thing is, the punchline, death, ain’t so funny.
A tart, innI? An A-listed long-legged slapper.
And half the bar fancied him. And the other half was jealous. But the clothes…the clothes he wore, wonderful! The rich blue figure-hugging dress he’d nicked from Acadamy, the poxy air whistling up his legs, the soft lace moving against his…his… Check it out. He’d borrowed all that from…from…the model… Anthea. Right? And now he was excited just being alive. Just standing there. Being clocked by all the geezers. You wouldn’t believe the feeling. You wouldn’t believe it. It was like…exciting, being looked at like you were a celebrity or something. Madonna. Yeah.
Dressed like that, keeping in the shadows, it’s like chess, see? A solid move. A Yaya defence. A defensive move. A modern defence. Take your time, build, wait for a weakness, strengthen your position, wait and see what the opponent’s got in mind and then, go for it. Counterpunch. Crunch!
Together they walked back to the shop, the artist and his neophyte. Paul was getting used to the heels and had even fashioned something of a sashay. Being a tart, a crumpet, a…a…goddess, that’s it, was a doddle, a piece of cake. You just had to learn to moan about everything and men in particular. There was nothing to it at all. He would have to work on the voice and the quick and easy put-downs but they would come in time.
“Timing, Paul,” Mr Lawrence had told him. “Timing is important.” “Know what you mean. Keep the opposition. Like chess, see? Like the old Reti. Follow a plan. Endings. More important than anything else. They’re even more important than the openings, Mr Lawrence.” “I’ll take your word for that, young Paul, even though, in my experience, openings are pretty important. Off you go then. The woman from India is due at any moment.”
“India? I thought she was a Paki.”
“No difference, not really, just a border with a few thousand guns and the odd nuclear bomb.”
“Will you finish the painting?”
“Yes. Just the final detail. It won’t take long.”
“The final moves, eh? The end game, like I said, Innit?” As Paul went out the woman ca
me in. She didn’t recognize him, but then, why should she? Paul was Paula now, and dressed for the occasion.
Chapter 30
DS Sam Butler checked her handbag for a third time, making certain that the head of a tiny microphone was concealed beneath the flap. “Where did you get it,” she had asked.
“Don’t ask questions, girl,” he had answered.
He hid the quick cuffs and a small canister of CS spray beneath a flimsy headband she’d supplied. She had turned up half an hour earlier and he’d been freshly astonished at the sight of her in the loose flowing dress. Something in his chest fluttered. He tried to remain indifferent but he didn’t fool her, not for a moment.
“Sam…”
He started the car and turned toward the High Road, supermarket end.
“Sam, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For not realizing you cared.” he toothache.”
“I never meant to be frivolous with you, Sam, or to give you the wrong idea.”
“You didn’t.”
They met the High Road. He drove past the supermarket. The car park was full. People struggled with bulging trolleys full of Christmas crackers and fancy tins of sweets and a bottle of last-minute sherry for the old neighbour who might drop in. And the guys selling Christmas wrapping paper were running out of time – their voices were louder: twenty sheets for a quid.
“It’s been a tough lesson, and I’ve learned it late. You might think you’re in control but you never are. All it takes is a special person, a little smile, and all your planning can go out the window. Everything you hold dear becomes secondary and you’d put it all on the line. For a dream. You’re a special person, Anian.”
“Oh, Sam…”
On the left the lonely pet shop window slid by. In the distance the Carrington loomed. The pavements were packed. It was getting close. “OK, so let’s concentrate. We’ve been over it a dozen times, I know. This is a bad idea. We’re supposed to be experienced coppers.” “Sam, it’s now or never. We’re in too deep to pull out now.” He grunted.
“It’s my fault, I know. I got us into this but it’s too late to give up. And really, we’ve got nothing to lose. If nothing happens no one will ever know.”
His nod was reluctant. He wondered how on earth he had landed in such a position, blinded by a fantasy, a dream that in reality he would never have allowed to happen.
“Sam, don’t say anything, but this is going all the way, understand? Whatever it takes. Don’t you come blasting in unless I’m in big trouble.”
He nodded and said, “Go easy on the wine.”
“He’s not going to drug me.”
He made a left and then a sharp right into the dark run-down road behind the Gallery. The Doll’s House slid by on the left, the old office buildings were in front. He pulled to a slow stop.
“This is it.”
She turned to face him full on. She flicked him a little smile then she was opening the door, struggling out, leaning back in for her handbag.
“Be careful,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it if you got hurt.”
“I’m not getting hurt, Sam.”
Her eyes levelled on him for one more time, blinked, once, twice, and she murmured, “See you in a bit.”
And then she was off.
He turned and watched her walk away the way they’d come, the brown dress picking up a breeze, hugging her thighs enough to make him shiver. She didn’t look back. She turned left and, with a little skip, like a shooting star that was sudden and unexpected and excellent, she was gone.
Chapter 31
She breezed in and reminded him of the Indian subcontinent, colourful and exotic and enigmatic, full of riches and poverty, of strict morals and great wickedness, God’s own country, no less. And as with the country she had come from nowhere and was suddenly a major player, just one of the billion people, give or take, all wanting a piece of the action. Paul passed her on his way out but if she recognized him it didn’t show. Mr Lawrence locked the door behind her. “We won’t be disturbed,” he said.
“You’ve lost your assistants?”
“Paul is on an errand and Laura is asleep. She came in very late.” While he set up his trappings she flitted about the studio, glancing at the covers of huge books that contained prints by David Davis, Corot and Hobbema, peering through the grimy windows at the back of the shop, checking that the back door was unlocked, flicking through a pile of sketches that had been half-concealed by the wall curtain but not really looking at the sketches.
“Where does this lead?”
“The cellars. They housed the electricity meters until they were moved under the stairs. In Victorian times the coal was emptied through the pavement grating. The Victorian coal dust is still down there.”
He moved into the kitchen and pulled a red from the cupboard next to the sink.
“I’ve saved this till last,” he said, bringing out the crystal glasses. “Chianti. It’s one of my favourites. It’s dark and mysterious, like the Vatican itself. Indeed, just like you. If taste can have a past then this is it.”
“I’m not mysterious.”
“I’m talking about your looks.”
Glass in hand, she reached the sofa and asked, “Ready?” “Yes. Where shall we begin?”
“How about with Sandra? It’s odd… It’s odd, isn’t it, that Sandra should run away like that?”
“You’ve been listening to the news?”
“Yes, the local news. Your art class was mentioned.”
“People are always running away from something, sometimes themselves.”
“But she had nothing to hide, according to her husband.” “What would he know? Husbands are the last people to know. We’re all hiding something.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“We all have our secrets, my dear.”
“Not all of us. With some of us what you see is what you get.” He pushed in a darker shade around her eyes so that the mystery deepened.
He said, “Do you think I’m hiding something?”
“I have no doubt.”
“Anything in particular?”
“People talk…”
“Indeed they do, but most of what they say is rubbish. I suppose going deaf might have one consolation after all. You wouldn’t have to listen to the rubbish that was spoken.”
“I heard that you were in prison.”
“A long time ago.”
“What did you do?”
“I had a breakdown. It was a childhood thing that came home to roost. Or so the experts said. I hurt some people and they locked me up. I had what they call a personality disorder. It meant pills, lots of pills. I served my time and afterwards, became a voluntary patient for a while.”
“Did it help?”
“No. There was not a couch to be seen. We sat around in groups listening to each other’s problems. I decided I had enough of my own.” “And what now?”
“Now I am fine, just fine, if that’s what you mean. A little more cantankerous as I get older, I suppose, and perhaps a little more impatient, but that is all. I think it was a part of growing up. Some people take to dressing oddly and others to visiting gyms and things. But now? To paint. To go on painting. The finished product is not the objective. It’s the journey that counts. A lot of journeys are like that. Some of them go nowhere. They’re the best kind, I’ve always thought, when you’ve time to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the destination. But the lease on this place runs out soon and, although I have an option, I have not yet made a decision.”
“Where would you go?”
“Who knows?”
“But wouldn’t that be like running away?”
“Ah, we’ve come full circle. All the way back to Sandra.” “It is odd that she should run away like that.”
“Prenatal stress, perhaps.”
“In the first few weeks? I doubt that.”
“They interviewed her husband. He was on the television
. Terribly upset, of course. I don’t own a television but I saw it on Paul’s. When it came on he got quite excited and called me in.”
“I’m not surprised he’s upset.”
“Paul wasn’t upset. He was excited.”
“Not Paul. Sandra’s husband. Did the police come here?” “Of course. The art class was one of the last places she was seen.” “Not the last?”
“Obviously not. Someone else must have seen her, unless she fell down the pavement grating. Maybe I should check the cellar. They interviewed my lodger, Paul, but he couldn’t help. Then they asked me lots of questions. They knew about my previous problems. The police make a big thing about previous. Understandable, I suppose. They keep files, you see. Most people inside have been inside before. And more than once at that.”
“Gosh.”
“Yes. But I couldn’t help them either. She left. Simple as that. What more could I say? But I don’t know if they believed me. But I do wonder whether her husband is the father. Could it be she’s run off with the real father?”
“She would have told her sister. Sisters confide.”
“Do they? I haven’t got a sister so I wouldn’t know about that.” “You have a brother?”
“No, but I don’t suppose brothers confide either.”
“So for the moment this was where she was last seen. In here? I’m surprised the TV cameras didn’t come in here.”
“Goodness me. That would have been something. I might have been on the TV. That would have excited Paul even more. Probably a good thing it didn’t happen.”
“There’s still time.”
“I have a feeling there isn’t. But anyway, someone must have seen her leave. It’s early days yet. One of these cameras they’ve put up to spy on us and keep us safe will have caught her. She’ll turn up, a few pounds lighter, perhaps, but I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“I don’t know. With all that’s going on today, women being attacked in the street, the other missing women, Helen included, it’s all a bit of a coincidence.”