I was about to lay down some tough new rules regarding visiting and not visiting, when there were more feet on the stairs; honestly the place was busier than Piccadilly Circus and Joy stuck her head round the door, probably because there wasn’t much room to insert herself more fully, she looked worried.
“Stella, hi so glad you’re back. There’s a couple of men downstairs for you... didn’t like to use the phone in front of them. They’re um... Police. Is everything alright?” I heaved a sigh. No, everything wasn’t alright, I had a brief urge to pull a paper bag over my head and send Joy down to say I couldn’t see anybody today.
“Nothing to worry about,” I said to the concern in the rest of the room, “you know I worked with the police last year, it’s probably to do with that.” And abandoning tough new rules for the present, I turned back to my office, leaving my door open for the imminent visitation and rather impressed with how that last statement had sounded, although it wasn’t so much the police in general, more like one policeman and a reluctant one at that.
The familiar warmth of deep brown silence, tinged with pipe tobacco and aniseed surrounded me well before Boris came in, lowering his head to pass through the doorway. He was followed wheezily by Detective Inspector Cornwall who, in the smallish office, loomed bulkier than ever. When they talk about the ‘the thin blue line’, they’re not thinking about DI Cornwall. From behind my desk, arms folded, I eyed them with disfavour and Katerina growled softly, she was as pleased to see them as I was.
I indicated the chairs with a nod and Cornwall lowered himself, then heaved back up again to get at his pocket and a battered pack of Rothmans. He tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand whilst looking around. He was a man whose solid weight was firmly grounded in reality, but he was no fool either and, despite the fact I couldn’t say he and I had taken to each other, I was aware he was a conscientious, clever and ethical officer – at least by his own lights. I also knew his deceptively lazy, hooded gaze had taken in and stored every detail and he could, if required, have given a complete report of what, where and how every single thing in my office could be found – which was certainly more than I could.
He coughed heartily, preparatory to lighting up and the shirt beneath his open jacket strained as belly battled with buttons. Dealing with Boris and me went against every principle Cornwall held dear, with the exception of one – getting as many villains and nutters off the streets and behind bars as was humanly possible before he popped his clogs. And there could be no doubting we’d facilitated some great results for him; it was on the back of these he’d climbed the ladder from Sergeant to Inspector so swiftly.
Boris was fluidly folding his six-foot five thinness into the other chair and turned to the pall of smoke next to him with an almost imperceptible nose wrinkle.
“Stella’s recently married,’ he remarked, obviously feeling a bit of introductory small talk was called for in the face of my lukewarm welcome, “you met David, I believe?”
Cornwall nodded and said, “Congratulations,” thinking, ‘poor sod’, then regretting it as I frowned at him.
“Thanks,” I said. Boris allowed himself a lip twitch; he enjoyed my small exchanges with Cornwall rather more than he should. Early sixties now, his hair had receded a little more since I last saw him, making the shape and boniness of his head, atop his skeletal frame, even more pronounced. He always looked as if he was on day-pass from a medical lecture hall, a life-like, multi-jointed example for study. His mind, as ever, was completely closed and shuttered to me and would remain so until such time as he needed it not to be, although I knew, despite my own defences he, like the Peacocks, thought nothing of strolling into mine whenever he wanted. He wasn’t police at all, more as he’d once categorised it, an unofficial type of consultant.
“Well, this is all very nice,” I said, “but I’m guessing you’re not here for wedding gossip, and this is my first day back in the office. So, to avoid wasting time - mine and yours - can I say I’m really, really not getting involved in anything?” Boris crossed one lengthy leg over the other and shook his head reproachfully.
“Stella, so young, yet so cynical, we simply...” he was interrupted by Aunt Kitty who bustled in bearing a tray. Boris courteously stood again as she came in. Into her nineties now and still recovering from a near fatal stabbing, I personally thought a little less bustle might have been sensible, but Kitty had taken it upon herself to organise Simple Solutions’ hospitality from the get-go and showed no inclination to stop. She’d brought three cups of coffee, sugar and milk served separately and a plate of biscuits. She had enormous respect for the police although, as Cornwall immediately tapped ash into his saucer, I could see that being tested. She whipped away the sullied saucer, wiped and returned it, wordlessly placing the wastepaper bin right next to his chair as she left.
I raised an expectant eyebrow at Boris who in turn looked at Cornwall who developed a sudden fascination with a Bourbon biscuit. I saw clearly how extremely disgruntled he was. His mind was as untidy as his clothes and as stained - with things he’d seen over the years and wouldn’t ever un-see. He’d been unexpectedly press-ganged into this unplanned visit, so was being even more unforthcomingly uncooperative than usual because he was uncomfortable. He’d more or less rationalised his association with Boris, but Ruth, with whom he’d had previous dealings made him deeply uneasy, as did I, maybe because he wasn’t greatly in favour of women being involved in anything much outside the kitchen. Now, prompted by Boris, he grudgingly reached into the inner recesses of his jacket.
“All we’re asking,” said Boris, “is can you tell us anything about these? And then we’ll leave,” Cornwall leaned forward, depositing two small, rough edged scraps of cloth and a smattering of cigarette ash on my desk. When I didn’t move, Boris sighed.
“Just pick one up, I assure you, no involvement, just information, not remotely risky.” Which only goes to show; nobody ever gets everything right 100% of the time.
CHAPTER TEN
Each piece of cloth, one black one blue, appeared to have been roughly torn from a larger piece of material or garment. I assumed and was unimpressed that Rachael had told Boris about my reaction to her wretched book and like the cloth, I was torn. I wanted to touch it, confirm that what happened with the book was merely an unsettling but passing aberration. I also didn’t want to touch it in case it confirmed something else altogether.
“You know, you need to know.” Boris said softly in my head, easily following my train of thought. I didn’t look at him as I reached for the black cloth. And no, nothing: nada, zilch. I opened my mind, I had to make sure.
I was instantly swamped with Cornwall’s discomfort and impatience, then the cacophony of the thoughts of the women in the outer office. Beyond was the babble of people going about their daily business with every now and then, a surge of individual strong emotion, peaking and shrieking high above the surrounding minds. I shook my head, shrugged at Boris.
“Sorry, nothing at all, from this.” I said. He nodded and inclined his head towards the blue piece. The sooner I humoured him, the sooner he’d believe me and the sooner he’d go. I picked up the blue material to confirm and get rid, but dropped it immediately in distaste.
“What?” said Boris.
“You know what.”
“Well, I bloody don’t.” Cornwall shifted his bulk impatiently, made to grind out his cigarette on his saucer, thought better of it, and utilised the wastepaper bin. “Well?”
“Can you tell us, Stella please, what you got from that?”
“Anger,” I said. “bitterness, inferiority mixed with huge conceit, overwhelming hate, quantities of excitement and elation.”
“Elation?”
“Yes Boris, elation,” I snapped, “because whoever this man is, the first five emotions have combined to produce the last two.” Boris hadn’t moved but nevertheless there was a relaxing. He reached into his pocket for a small, white, crumpled paper bag and offered it across the desk.
“Aniseed ball?” I ignored the bag, as did Cornwall. Boris plucked out a sweet and placed it in his mouth, stored it in his cheek and returned bag to pocket. “Man or woman?” he said, looking at the cloth.
“Man.”
“Dead or alive?”
“Alive.”
“How so certain?” as with Ruth, the fact English wasn’t his first language showed very occasionally.
I shrugged. “No idea. I just know,” and then silently, because I thought there was probably only so much woo-woo Cornwall could take, I flicked a thought to Boris “Why so interested, you must have come across this before?”
“Naturally,” but he was lying. I raised an eyebrow and he added, “although only on its own, not in conjunction with other abilities.”
“Great, so even amongst us, I’m strange?”
“You’re not unique,” he said. I was amused by how much of a ‘don’t get too up yourself’ tone he was silently able to convey, “Of that I’m certain Stella, just maybe a little… unusual.” Cornwall watching was aware something was going on under his nose and didn’t like it. He made to speak but Boris absently held up a hand, indicated the piece of cloth and said aloud;
“Do you know who this is?”
“Oh sorry, did I not give a name and address?”
“Sarcasm; lowest form of wit. Do you want to know?”
“No.”
Cornwall ran out of the small amount of patience he’d been hanging on to. “Right,” he said, hauling himself out of his chair, “we finished here then?” Boris rose too,
“Hang on a moment,” I said, “why exactly did you come?”
“I wanted to see for myself whether what Rachael told me was correct.” He reached for the material scraps.
“And?” I said.
He handed the material to Cornwall, “Now I’ve seen.”
“The man.” I nodded towards where the material was re-concealed about Cornwall’s person. “I imagine he’s dangerous, it’s certainly what he wants to be.”
Boris answered indirectly, “Hate, bigotry, violence, it’s always there, sliming and simmering beneath the surface, it rises and falls, peaks and troughs.” Cornwall snorted in exasperation, obviously not an appreciator of the well-turned phrase. Boris, now well into his stride, continued, “You know, in truth, most of the hate-filled are simply followers but every now and then; every once in a blue moon, from the muck pile there crawls a leader. A leader draws the haters in, gives them direction, furthers motivation, facilitates. If you damage the leader you disable the followers.”
“And this is a leader?” I asked though I knew instinctively he was, in the elation that still sang sourly in my head there had been an overweening sense of destiny and entitlement. Boris had followed Cornwall to the door but threw a question over his shoulder,
“What would you say Stella, is the best way of dealing with such a man?” I answered silently, and he shook his head.
“Stella, Stella. Subtlety was never your strong point. No, rather than elimination I’d opt for humiliation. Think about it; elimination makes martyrs, humiliation makes fools.” I made to say something but he stopped me with a glance, “Yes, we know you want no involvement, we ask only for a listening role.”
“I’d already agreed to that,” I said.
“So, you should not worry. We will do what we need to do.”
“But...”
“Nothing more you need know right now.” As Cornwall opened the door, Boris turned with an afterthought, although I knew him well enough to know any afterthought was planned and timed. “We can still rely on you, can we, to continue to listen?”
”I said, I would.” He shut the door quietly behind him. Leaving me to ponder, not so much on what he’d said as what he hadn’t. Like Ruth, I had an aptitude for picking up on peaks of emotion, but because fear and anger generally trump laughter and joy, those sorts of peaks were rarely good news for anyone. When Ruth had first been unwell, she’d asked me to work with Boris. All that was required was to report any details and not get further involved. Sometimes that had worked well. Sometimes it hadn’t. A visit from Boris always unsettled me. It wasn’t that I wanted to know more, in fact, would have preferred to know a whole lot less. I was torn now though, the man that material had been close to, was dangerous. But on the other hand and not to be sneezed at were all my solemn assurances to David on steering clear of risk. I resolutely put Boris and Cornwall to the back of my mind and reverted to what I’d been doing before they arrived, setting out new visiting guidelines for relatives, but when I went out to tell them, they’d already gone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I’m ashamed to say I forgot about having a word with Joy until a few days later when I was ushering out a potential who I’d decided wasn’t going to graduate to client. I didn’t usually see people off the premises, but couldn’t wait to see the back of this one. There were clients I loved, some I wasn’t so keen on and others I wouldn’t touch with a barge pole. This chap fell firmly into the last category.
He’d made an appointment, for which he was forty-five minutes late and with no apology. When he’d been shown into my office and Brenda offered him a cup of coffee, he didn’t even bother looking at her, just shook his head and waved her away impatiently. She and I exchanged a look as she shut the door.
“Well now, little lady,” he said, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs wide, “this is your lucky day. Need your tender care and expert services.” He wiggled a suggestive eyebrow, “But don’t get overexcited, secretarial’s what I’m after.” I sighed; I’d come across his type before. Fifty, going on twelve, could make the shipping forecast sound smutty, apart from which he’d lost me at little lady.
I smiled politely and started to explain we weren’t taking on any more office service clients at present. He spoke over me,
“Listen up, what I want is help with my mail, loads of fan stuff I get. I need you sifting out the nutters, sending photos to the suckers and picking out the few that might do me any good. And don’t waste my time playing hard to get.” I started to repeat what I’d said, but he was in full, fruity flow, “I know how these things work little lady, you say you can’t do it; I’ll beg a bit, you agree reluctantly and lump something on top of the going rate because you’re doing me a favour. Well, you can skip that part. Chap at the golf club uses you. I know what he’s paying and I won’t pay over.” He paused for breath, allowing me to nip in and assure him he wouldn’t be paying over as he wouldn’t be paying at all. As I’d explained, we couldn’t help.
He was incredulous. “I don’t think you know who I bloody am, do you?” he leant forward, hands on spread knees. Broad-shouldered and heavy necked, he used his bulk to intimidate; frequently and successfully.
“I know exactly who you bloody are,” I said mildly. He was the straight-talking, near-the-knuckle, cheeky-chappie, micky-taking host of the TV quiz, Loggerheads, “but I’m afraid I still can’t help you.”
He got to his feet, bonhomie down the drain. “Well, you’ve wasted my time then haven’t you and I don’t think much to that. Tell you something for nothing, I’ll be spreading a word or two, mark my words, I can make things extremely uncomfortable for you and your oh-too-busy-business.” He probably could but I didn’t like him, didn’t like his tone and wouldn’t dream of asking any of the others to work with him.
I watched as he started to experience a certain amount of discomfort in the trouser area. There’s always an issue with that isn’t there? You can scratch a nose or an ear should the need arise but below stairs? Not so much. Strangely enough he wasn’t half as talkative headed out as he was headed in, and he was doing some funny things with his thighs. At the bottom of the stairs and before I said goodbye I alleviated the itch, though not before I’d hooked it in his mind to me and my office. Should he decide to spread a negative word, he’d be the one finding things extremely uncomfortable.
Joy was behind the reception desk as I shut the do
or decisively behind him. She was sorting holiday brochures into neat piles to go into the stands for Hilary, she made a face;
“Didn’t like him, he was all over me when he came in. Offered to give me his autograph, I said no thanks - think that gave him the hump.”
I grinned back at her, “Probably, but I didn’t take to him either. So,” I said, sitting myself on one of the reception chairs, “how’s married life?”
“Pretty wonderful actually. You?”
“Bit too soon to tell, but so far so good. How’s the house?”
She smiled, “Older than old fashioned at the moment, it was his parents’, don’t think it’d seen a paintbrush or fresh bit of wallpaper in years. But we’re going slowly, having fun choosing, so we can make it our own. Trevor’s got really good taste; much better than me at putting all the colours together.” While she was talking, I listened to what she was thinking. I wanted to reassure Hilary and Brenda and the truth was, Joy inside seemed as idyllically happy as Joy on the outside.
“If there’s so much to do, didn’t you think about selling and buying something new?” I asked.
“I suggested that, there’s a smashing new estate being built not far from us, all ultra-modern kitchens and bathrooms but Trevor wouldn’t hear of it. Anyway, he says I’ve got no idea about property values and in a few years when we’ve done it up, we’ll be able to sell ours at a much better price, you know, all the original features, fireplaces and that.”
I nodded, “Probably sensible. Meant to tell you, I like your hair.” She’d abandoned the short golden bob and let it grow past her shoulders. “It’s darker too, isn’t it?
She nodded, tucking an errant strand behind an ear, “Trevor thought it was too bright before, bit brassy, so I’ve toned it down a little. Still not sure about growing it though, it’s a lot more trouble in the mornings, but he won’t hear of me getting it cut.”
Stranger Still Page 7
