‘What did she earn?’
‘A hundred.’
‘Not bad for an hour, I guess.’ Bimbo sniffed and looked out of the window, watching the deserted streets. It had begun to rain, streaking the window, making the roadside buildings and houses seem surreal, like smeared paintings.
‘Nobody forced her, Bim. It’s her career.’
‘What? Oh yeah. You see their arms?’
‘No.’
‘Well streaked. I suppose shagging in front of a hundred people gets some money for dope, eh?’
‘It’s her life,’ said Adrian. ‘You studying for the priesthood now?’
‘I’m sick of it, Ade. The collectin’, the stag shows … all of it. I aint even sleepin’ good now.’
‘You need a drink.’
‘Nah. Just drop me off at the common. I got a chess game planned.’
‘I didn’t know you played chess. We could have played in the nick.’
‘I’m just learning.’
The car was a beauty and Bimbo settled back into the wide seat and stretched out his legs. Even the rainsodden London streets looked pleasant from the luxury of the Renault. ‘Watch this,’ said Adrian, as the car picked up speed. He opened the driver’s door and a metallic voice echoed eerily from the loudspeaker.
Front-door-not-shut.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Bimbo. ‘I dunno if I like that. Bit creepy innit?’
‘It tells you if you need petrol, or if your brakes are down, or if your lights aren’t working. Magic. Pure magic! Just under nineteen grand.’
‘Classy motor,’ agreed Bimbo.
‘Alvin said it was an old lady’s car. He wanted a Jag. I told him if he liked Jags so much maybe he ought to buy one himself. He got really upset. That was the tiff. But l didn’t mean it to sound like it did. It’s just that I always had to work to bring in the money. Alvin concentrated on his art. His paintings are nice, don’t get me wrong, but even I know they’re not great.’
‘Pull over, Ade.’
‘Why? Not boring you, am I?’
‘Just pull over and reverse up to them shops. I think I saw something.’
As the car came to a stop Bimbo climbed out and walked back to a shop doorway, where, in the shadows, it seemed that someone had dumped a bundle of old clothes. Bimbo knelt.
‘What is it?’ called Adrian from the car. Bimbo waved him over. An elderly black woman lay against the shop door. There was blood on the right side of her face. Adrian felt for her pulse.
‘She’s alive,’ he said. ‘Get her to the car.’
Bimbo straightened the woman’s legs. Her tights were torn, her knees badly grazed. She was big, maybe thirteen stone. Bimbo eased his left hand under the woman’s back, ready to lift her, then removed it. It was covered in blood.
‘I think she’s bin stabbed,’ he said.
‘Then move her quickly,’ snapped Adrian.
Bimbo pushed his arms under her shoulders and knees, took a deep breath and hauled the dead weight against his chest. Straightening his knees he staggered upright. At the car Adrian had spread a blanket across the back seat. Bimbo laid the woman gently on it.
The car roared away, the tyres shrieking against the sudden acceleration.
‘Charing Cross is nearest,’ said Bimbo, swinging to look at the passenger. Her face seemed grey, her mouth slack. Her false teeth had slipped and were half out of her mouth. Gently Bimbo removed them, wrapped them in a handkerchief and pocketed them.
Through three red lights the car thundered around Hammersmith Broadway and into the Fulham Palace Road. The huge hospital towered above them like a fortress. Adrian parked the car in front of the treble doors, and helped Bimbo pull the unconscious woman from the car. With a grunt Bimbo lifted her. Inside the huge reception area there was no one in sight. Blood was soaking Bimbo’s jeans.
At the far end was a line of lifts. Adrian ran forward and pressed the call button, and both men watched as the light above the doors slowly approached G. The lift door whispered open.
‘Which floor?’ asked Bimbo.
‘Stuffed if I know,’ admitted Adrian, pressing One.
The two men emerged to a seating area before a corridor. A student nurse walked out, and stopped in shock. ‘What’s happened?’
‘A mugging,’ said Adrian. ‘Get a doctor.’ He glanced down at the blood soaking Bimbo’s jeans. ‘And you’d better make it bloody fast, dear.’
‘Bring her through here,’ said the nurse.
Bimbo followed the girl into a square room filled with flowers, surrounding an empty bed. The wall was plastered with get well cards. He laid the woman down.
Within minutes a young Indian doctor entered the room, followed by two porters pushing a stretcher on wheels. Seconds later the woman was being rapidly carried towards the lifts. The nurse remained.
‘Where they goin’?’ asked Bimbo.
‘To the theatre.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the nurse. ‘Is she a friend?’
‘No, we just found her.’
‘I think she might die,’ admitted the girl.
Adrian lit a cigarette, and leaned back. He rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m knackered, Bim.’
‘Them things’ll kill ya.’
‘You never get out of this life alive, dear.’
‘Can’t argue with that.’
‘While I remember, here’s your cash.’ Adrian handed him thirty pounds.
The nurse brought them two cups of tea and a saucer for Adrian to use as an ashtray. ‘The doctor would like you to wait for a while,’ she said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘We was gonna wait anyway,’ said Bimbo.
‘We were?’ said Adrian. ‘Why?’
‘It wouldn’t be right not to.’
‘What does that mean? She doesn’t know us.’
‘There oughta be somebody who cares, you know? It aint right to be alone.’
‘She isn’t alone, Bim. There’s all these doctors and nurses. They bloody care.’
‘Nah. They see it all the time. Life and death don’t mean nuthin’. You don’t have to stay. I can get back on me own.’
‘If you think it’s important, of course I’ll stay. Do you want to pray or something?’
‘Wouldn’t do no harm, I suppose. What you supposed to say?’
‘I’ve no idea. Bit like a mental get well card isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know her name,’ said Bimbo. Adrian laughed.
‘Well, if there is a God, mate, I think he’ll probably know it.’
‘Her name’s Echo,’ said the nurse. ‘Echo Jerome. It was sewn in her coat. There’s a chapel if you want to say a few prayers.’
‘No, we’ll wait here, sweetheart,’ said Bimbo. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ she said, smiling. ‘When you want another, just come through.’ Adrian stretched himself out on the long sofa and closed his eyes. Bimbo sat quietly, staring at the blood congealing on his jeans.
Police constable Ian Fletcher had been on duty since 10 p.m., and he’d been partnered with Chris Field, which was a guarantee to put him in a bad mood. Field had two topics of conversation, sex and piles, and on particularly bad nights they merged into one topic. Fletcher stepped out of the lift at Charing Cross, Field behind him. There were two men in the waiting area, a queer with blond-streaked hair and a giant in a donkey jacket. Of course you couldn’t call them queers any more. Oh no! Now they were gays. It’s all bullshit, thought Fletcher. The queer was asleep. The giant nudged him. He awoke, saw the officers and whispered something that rhymed with luck. The giant stood, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. His jeans were soaked with dried blood.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Fletcher, adopting the deep, even tones rehears
ed by police officers weaned on Dixon of Dock Green. ‘I understand you found the lady.’
‘Yeah,’ said the giant. He had a broad, flat face and deep set eyes that set Fletcher to thinking of darkened alleyways and pickaxe handles.
‘Whereabouts was this, sir?’
The giant turned to the queer, who gave a full description of the area and the condition in which they found the woman.
‘Did you notice the knife wound?’
‘We noticed the blood,’ said the giant. ‘Guessed it was a knife.’
‘Were there any personal belongings? Bag or purse?’
‘No.’
‘Is that your Renault out front, sir?’
‘It’s mine,’ said the queer.
‘Better move it, sir. It’s in the ambulance bay.’
The queer moved off, which suited Fletcher. He turned back to the giant.
‘And why were you driving along the Broadway, sir?’
‘Is the old lady gonna make it?’
‘Too early to say. And you didn’t answer my question.’
‘No, I didn’t. It’s none of your fuckin’ business, son.’ Fletcher’s eyebrows rose, and he pulled his notebook clear of his breast pocket.
‘Name?’
‘John J. Jardine.’
‘Address, Mr Jardine?’
‘Flat four, 16a Maple Road.’
Field moved forward. ‘You didn’t see who did it?’
‘No.’
‘Go and call it in, Chris,’ said Fletcher, removing his peaked cap and sitting down. ‘Any chance of a tea, love?’ he called out to the nurse. She nodded. Turning back to the giant he decided to be conciliatory. ‘The questions are only routine, Mr Jardine.’
‘Yeah.’ The eyes remained cold.
‘You don’t like the police?’
‘I got nothin’ against ’em, son.’
‘Can I have your friend’s name?’
‘Ask him when he gets back.’
‘I’m asking you.’
The giant sat down, leaned back and closed his eyes. Fletcher blinked and reddened. ‘Perhaps you’d sooner answer questions down at the station?’
The giant sat up and slowly turned to the officer. ‘You just keep pushin’, son,’ he said. Fletcher was about to speak when the lift doors opened and the Indian doctor stepped into sight. He looked tired.
‘She is out of surgery,’ he told the giant. ‘I think she has a fighting chance. The knife blade wedged in the fatty tissue, and the head wound is not serious. But she lost a lot of blood.’
‘Thanks, doc. What do I owe ya?’
‘Owe me?’ asked the doctor, removing his glasses. ‘This is the National Health Service. You owe me nothing.’
‘Sure. Well … good work. I’ll see ya.’
‘Just a minute!’ called Fletcher as the giant moved into the lift.
‘You’ve got me name, son. Quit while you’re ahead.’ The doors slid shut.
‘An odd man,’ said the doctor. ‘Not someone to argue with.’
Fletcher grinned, sheepishly. ‘Not unless you were sitting in a tank.’
Sue Cater waited until morning conference was over, and the reporters had filed out. Then she approached Bateman.
‘Why shouldn’t I interview this Jardine?’ she asked.
Bateman smiled, which made him look considerably younger than his forty-two years. Then he swept his hand through his thinning brown hair. Sue Cater was a good reporter, and very observant, and she knew the news editor’s mannerisms well. When he smoothed his hair he was nervous. Her hopes lifted.
‘I’ve already told you twice,’ he said. ‘You want it in French?’
‘Because he’s a leg breaker and a nasty,’ mimicked Sue. ‘Is that Herald policy these days? We only touch nice stories.’
‘I didn’t say we wouldn’t interview him. What I said was you won’t do it.’
‘That’s sexism, Don.’
‘Oh,’ said Bateman, leaning back and grinning. ‘And when you flash your eyes, and flutter the lashes to get a story, that’s not using sex appeal? Which, I might add, in your case, is a considerable weapon.’
‘How come it never works on you?’
‘It does. I just hide it well.’
‘Don’t change the subject, Bateman! It’s my story. I should cover it.’
‘Sit down a minute,’ said Bateman, seriously. Sue sat, and leaned forward, placing her elbows on his desk.
‘The invasion of territorial space doesn’t bother me,’ said Bateman, amiably. ‘Anyway, it was me who loaned you the book on body language.’
Sue chuckled. ‘Come on then, give me the lecture. “You’re only nineteen, Sue, and you don’t appreciate the dangers involved in stories like these.” Am I close?’
‘Close enough. But there’s more. Firstly he won’t speak to you. Secondly, if you’re pushy – which you are – he might lose his temper. The story isn’t worth that to me. You interview Mrs Jerome. Andrew can see Jardine.’
‘It doesn’t matter if Andrew gets whacked in the mouth, l suppose?’
‘You’re right, it’s sexism.’
‘Let me ask you this: Is he more likely to hit Andrew or me?’ This time Bateman smoothed his hair with both hands, and Sue knew she had won.
‘I give in. Take Dick with you, in case he agrees to a picture – which I doubt.’ She grinned and rose to leave. ‘I expect you think I’m an old mother hen.’
‘I think you’re a lovely mother hen.’
‘You may learn something today, young lady,’ he told her.
Sleeting rain hosed the windows and Bimbo dismissed the idea of a morning run. Instead he pushed himself through a punishing series of press-ups, squats, sit-ups and weight work for over an hour. Boredom stopped him long before fatigue could set in.
He replaced the weights in the rear cupboard and sat by the window, looking out over the estate. Nothing moved in the rain. Bimbo transferred his gaze to the square living room and its bare walls. He ought to have put up pictures. Nice pictures. Happy. Like them Walt Disney posters with Thumper and Bambi. And that other one with Julie Andrews floating down from the sky holding an umbrella. Look good, they would. Brighten the place up a bit.
He switched on the kettle and dropped a teabag in a mug. A knock at the door made him curse. He knew. Esther was at work. Draping a towel round his neck he walked to the door and opened it.
In the hallway stood a young woman of around twenty. Her hair was light, streaked with blonde, and her face was pretty. She had a beauty spot on her right cheek, something like that Marilyn Monroe poster in Woolworths. She was wearing a raincoat that was drenched at the shoulders.
‘Mr Jardine?’
‘Yeah?’
‘My name is Susan Cater. I’m from the Herald. Could I have a few words with you?’
‘What about?’
‘The lady you rescued last night.’ She pulled a notebook from her pocket and opened it. ‘Mrs Jerome.’
‘Come in,’ he said, stepping aside.
‘I’m all right here,’ she said, and, for the first time, Bimbo noticed the edge of fear in her eyes. It irritated him, but he had long grown used to such reactions.
‘I aint in a mood to eat anybody today, and I got the kettle on for a cuppa.’ Leaving her, he wandered to the kitchen. ‘Put the fire on if you’re cold,’ he called. ‘You want tea?’
‘Thank you. White with two,’ came the voice from the living room. He brought her a mug and sat opposite her at the chipped table.
‘How is Mrs Jerome?’ he asked.
‘On the mend. Her son has come down from Doncaster. It seems she was in that doorway for around an hour. You saved her life.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘She’d like to meet you.’
‘Why?
’
‘To thank you.’
‘I don’t need no thanks.’
‘We’re doing a story and I’d like some details about you, if that’s all right.’
‘What sort of details?’
‘Background colour, really. Who is John Jardine? What sort of man is he? You know. I mean, you look like a weightlifter. Sort of. Weightlifter rescues pensioner, that kind of thing.’
‘You short of news this week?’
‘It’s a nice story.’
‘Well, I aint a weightlifter.’
‘No? What do you do?’
‘This and that. Sort of odd jobs really.’
‘You’re unemployed?’
‘Self employed. Pay me own stamp. I don’t believe in that social security. Makes ya lazy.’
‘You do some work for Mr Frank Reardon, I believe.’
Bimbo felt his irritation rise, and knew that it showed. The colour left the girl’s face. ‘Do you now?’
‘According to our files.’
‘Then you don’t really need to talk to me, do you?’
She put her notebook down and smiled. ‘This isn’t a hatchet job, Mr Jardine. Honestly. It’s just a nice story. Hard man rescues old lady.’
‘Go away and write it then,’ he said, standing.
‘I’d like to get it right.’
‘I thought you had me on file?’
‘Not at all. All we’ve got is some old court reports and sentences, and some background notes saying you’re a collector for Reardon. That doesn’t spell out a man who rescues old ladies.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Bimbo.
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t put this at all well.’
‘You put it well enough. Now leave.’
Reluctantly she stood. ‘Can I leave you my card?’
‘Sure.’
After she had gone he threw the card into a plastic wastepaper bin and returned to his chair by the window. He saw her climb into a car on the passenger side and watched the Escort pull away into the rain.
Hard man rescues old lady!
Bollocks!
Sergeant Don Dodds straightened his peaked cap as Constable Reynolds pulled the car into the kerb.
White Knight/Black Swan Page 4
