Gun Street Girl

by Mark Timlin

  ‘That sounds good to me.’

  ‘I’ll leave you alone now.’

  ‘All right,’ I replied. ‘I’ll just freshen up and I’ll be ready. Where is the conservatory, by the way?’

  ‘On the ground floor at the back of the house. If you ring,’ she showed me a brass bell push by the bed, ‘I’ll come and show you.’

  ‘I don’t want to be any trouble,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find it.’

  ‘No trouble,’ she replied. ‘But as you wish.’

  She smiled again, turned on her heel with a flounce of petticoat and left the room, closing the door behind her and leaving just a faint trace of sweet-scented soap behind.

  I put my case on the bed and opened it. I found my second gun and stashed it away on the top of the wardrobe, right at the back. It wouldn’t last a minute if someone good spun the drum. But I hoped that anyone who searched the room would be an amateur. I switched on the TV set in the bedroom, looking for the news, but it was too early so I left the set tuned to a quiz show and went and fixed myself a drink from the fridge. It was well stocked with beer and mixes and hard liquor in miniature bottles. There was a bucket of ice and freshly cut lemon and lime slices in a dish. I made myself a vodka and tonic. Listening to the bubbles hissing to the top of the glass made me feel cooler. My shirt was soaked from the journey so I unwrapped a fresh one and hung it on the back of the bathroom door. I filled the sink with lukewarm water and washed. I cleaned my teeth and rinsed my mouth out with a fresh drink, then dirtied it again with a fresh cigarette.

  The programme changed on the TV and I caught the beginning of the news as I put on a new pink shirt and re-knotted my tie. I put my jacket back on and took a gander in the wardrobe mirror. I didn’t look half bad, I thought, or half good for that matter. I stood for a moment at the window in the shadow of the Hilton looking up through a metal fire escape at the anonymous windows of the hotel, then left the suite wondering what my first evening as a private detective in residence would bring.

  I walked back down the corridor and decided to take the stairs to the ground floor. I looked down each hallway as I came to it and each was more ornate than the last.

  When I got to the ground floor, I headed away from the front door towards the back of the house. The place was furnished like a palace. It was full of antique furniture and the pictures on the walls were by people whose signatures were worth millions. The floors were covered by carpets so old and fine that their patterns were all but faded into memory. I kept walking and eventually came to a set of double doors standing ajar. I could hear faint music and I pushed the lefthand door open and found Elizabeth Pike.

  She was listening to Mahler playing on a radiogram that had been made when records were thick and breakable and twelve inches in diameter and the autochange had just been invented. There was a pile of them on top of the record player and their labels were printed with the names of record companies that had long ago vanished into history. The whole room was like something out of Raffles Hotel, Singapore, pre-war. Or at least what the movies would have us believe it was like. The furniture was made of cane and covered with jungle prints. There were indoor plants everywhere and a fan turned indolently to try and put some life into the heated air. There was a professional wet bar against one glass wall and the sun was caught among the bottles and glasses and winked at me suggestively. On top of the bar was a framed photograph of a man and a woman taken in the conservatory. The man I recognised as Sir Robert Pike. The woman was middle-aged with greying hair and startling blue eyes. I could see Elizabeth in twenty years’ time in her features.

  The conservatory ceiling was made of glass, but thankfully an awning had been drawn across to shield the inside from most of the rays. Even so it was very warm in there and smelled slightly of valves from the record player. I felt perspiration trickle down my back and soak my third shirt of the day. Elizabeth Pike was sitting on an overstuffed settee with her eyes closed, lost in the majesty of the music. On a low table in front of her was a glass of clear liquid over ice and a slice of lemon. She was dressed all in black again – a severely cut dress, buttoned to her neck, with black stockings and shoes similar to the ones she had worn to my office. Her hair was combed into a more gentle style than earlier, and it suited her better.

  I closed the door behind me with more force than was really necessary and as it slammed she opened her eyes. They were still the saddest, bluest things I’d ever seen. She rose in one graceful move and came to greet me.

  ‘Mr Sharman. Good evening. Let me turn the music off. I often listen at this time of day. This was my father’s favourite piece.’ She worked a lever at the side of the turntable and the playing arm ejected itself with a mechanical click. It was very quiet in the conservatory then. The sound of traffic from Park Lane was hardly a murmur. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

  ‘A vodka and tonic would be good.’

  She went to the bar and rattled ice cubes into a glass, added a slice of lemon without asking, poured a good measure of vodka over them, and topped up the glass with tonic water. I took the glass from her and picked up the photograph with the other hand.

  ‘My mother and father,’ said Elizabeth. She glanced at her watch. ‘Catherine will be joining us shortly. Please take good care of her. My father would have wanted that.’

  I nodded and heard footsteps from the hall outside and we both turned towards the door. It opened and I got my first sight of Catherine Pike in the flesh.

  And what a sight it was.

  The brief glimpse of her on the TV news hadn’t prepared me for the reality of the woman who entered the room.

  She was tall and built like your wildest dream come true. Her hair was blonde but mere words couldn’t describe it. It was tangled like the sheets on a bed where you’d just had the best fuck of your life. It probably cost a hundred quid to get it to look as untamed as it did. As she stepped into the early evening sunlight pouring through the conservatory windows it took the colour of the sun and became the sun and lit the room like a super nova. It was so bright I could almost feel the heat.

  She was wearing black too, but on her it looked more like a challenge than the colour of mourning. Her dress was short and tight, pulled off her shoulders, cut low to show off the tops of her breasts, and hugged her figure without a wrinkle. With the dress she wore sheer black stockings. By contrast, on her feet were a pair of savage pink Joan Crawford fuck-me shoes. The heels were high, five or six inches, and the toes were pointed like needles. Her skin was smooth and creamy and her eyes were blue. Almost the same colour as Elizabeth’s and her mother’s. I guessed that the eyes of Joanna Bennett with two ‘t’s had been similar. Obviously old Sir Robert went for blue eyes in a big way.

  ‘Catherine,’ said Elizabeth, ‘this is Nick Sharman. He will be staying with us for the foreseeable future. Mr Sharman, this is my sister Catherine.’

  ‘Hello, Mr Sharman.’ Catherine shook my hand. Her voice was deep and melodic, without a trace of accent, and her grip was firm and strong. But I got the feeling that as beautiful, and as beautifully groomed as she was, all was not right with her. I felt that she was keeping as firm a grip on herself as she was on my hand.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Pike,’ I said.

  Close up she showed more signs of stress. Under her expertly applied make-up there were lines of strain at the corners of her eyes, and I thought I could detect the hint of dark shadows under them. Was she just grieving the loss of a recently found father or was there, as Elizabeth had suggested, more to it than that?

  ‘It’s been a terrible time,’ she said and finally let go of my hand. ‘Liz spoke to me about …’ She hesitated. ‘Employing you, and I’m glad you’re here.’

  It was the first I’d heard about it and I looked at Elizabeth. ‘I got the impression I might not be very welcome, sticking my nose into such a recent tragedy.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m sure we both feel much better now you’re here.’
r />   ‘Thank you.’ I took a whack at the vodka and tonic.

  ‘Right,’ said Elizabeth and picked up her handbag. ‘Now that you two have met, I must be going. I have some last-minute arrangements to make for this evening, if I can track down the incompetents who are supposed to be working for us. I’ll meet you both at the Crypt later. Can you try to be there early, Catherine?’

  ‘Certainly. I’m sure that Mr Sharman will get me there in plenty of time if all you say about him is true.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ said Elizabeth as if it had only just occurred to her. ‘You’re in good hands. Until later then.’ And she left the room.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink, Miss Pike?’ I asked.

  ‘Please call me Catherine,’ she said. ‘And may I call you Nick?’

  I nodded. ‘Catherine it is then.’ Saying her Christian name was like tasting cream.

  ‘I’d love a drink. I’ll have a gin.’

  I did the honours. I poured her a large, cold one.

  ‘I must apologise for this,’ she said. ‘But as we’re eating out and going on, Liz let the servants have the evening off. I’m sorry we’re having to rough it.’

  Roughing it. I had to smile. It was about as rough as one of her nylons on a freshly waxed leg.

  ‘I’ve booked a table at Mr Chow’s. I hope that’s all right.’

  It was fine by me. I’ve always been partial to a Chinese. ‘Great,’ I said.

  She looked straight into my eyes for a moment. ‘I really am glad you’re here.’

  ‘Are you? Why?’

  ‘Because there’s something … ’ She paused.

  ‘Something you think I should know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  She raised her glass and took a drink. ‘But I’m not sure … ’ She stopped again, and suddenly looked scared. She moved slightly, and I couldn’t see her eyes for the light bursting through the glass behind her, making her the only solid thing in the room. Solid shadow, but that’s the only kind I know.

  I moved round so that I could see her features but the moment and the words had gone.

  She looked at her watch and, as you do, I looked at mine. It was six forty. As if on cue there was a discreet knock at the door and Vincent entered carrying a black silk evening coat which he laid carefully on the sofa.

  ‘The car is ready, miss.’ He looked at me as if I was a stubborn stain on its upholstery.

  ‘We’ll be right down.’

  Vincent backed out of the room and I drained my glass. Catherine picked up the coat and stood holding it. I took it from her and helped her into it. I could smell her perfume like fresh flowers in the hot air. But even in the heat I saw goose pimples on her skin and as my hand brushed her arm I felt their relatives rise on mine. I wondered if she was really scared, and if she was, of what, or whom.

  She looked over her shoulder and gave me a half-smile through her thick yellow hair and my goose pimples got goose pimples of their own.

  ‘The car is in the basement,’ she said. She walked in front of me as far as the door, then turned. ‘Do I look all right?’

  ‘You look just fine.’

  ‘Do you approve of my new shoes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, then hesitated. I didn’t know quite how to put it.

  ‘Oh, the colour,’ she said. ‘But we are going to a party, and you must remember, Nick, life goes on. My father wouldn’t want us to mourn for ever. It wasn’t his style.’

  With that she swept through the door and I followed her.

  We walked together to the lift and it dropped us into the fluorescently lit parking bay where the Rolls-Royce was waiting, idling gently, its exhaust fumes being dragged straight out by the ventilator fans to pollute the street. The bay was about sixty foot square and must once have been part of the cellars. It was low-ceilinged and echoed with our footsteps.

  Vincent sprang to open the car door and I followed Catherine from air-conditioning to air-conditioning. It looked like I wouldn’t be breathing much London air as long as I kept this job.

  Vincent drove to the bottom of a steep ramp and operated a switch on the dash. At the top of the ramp a corrugated metal door slid smoothly into the ceiling. Vincent touched the accelerator and the great car surged up the ramp. He swung it into a narrow mews at the back of the house, then left and left again into Curzon Street.

  We arrived in Knightsbridge at seven on the dot. We stepped from the cool of the Rolls into the heat of the street, then straight into air-conditioning again through the door of the restaurant. Much more of those kind of temperature fluctuations and I’d get the flu.

  We were met at the door by a Chinese geezer with an LA accent and shown to a table that was just far enough from the kitchen and the loos and just close enough to the window and the bar to make it the best in the place.

  Although it was early, the restaurant was already buzzing and the staff were turning away casual punters. We were given a table for four as if it was our right, and I guess it was. The other two settings were cleared without a murmur. I figured that when Catherine wanted a bit of elbow room that was precisely what she got.

  She ordered a large gin martini for herself and a vodka martini for me. I didn’t argue, but if she was trying to keep me alert she wasn’t making a very good job of it.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘I could be,’ I replied.

  ‘Good, I love the food here and I always get far too much. Would you like to order?’ she asked me as if I was her escort rather than an employee.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘I just might,’ she told me with a grin that made her look like a teenager.

  She went right through the card from first to last, sesame toast to toffee apples. I was glad I was hungry as dish after delicate dish started arriving, steaming and sizzling from the kitchens. Now I knew why we’d been given a table for four. We piled our bowls full of food and dived in, chopsticks rubbing together like crickets’ legs. Catherine ordered a bottle of Meursault to chase the dumplings down and we dived into that too. And when that was gone, she ordered another. We ploughed through course after course of the finest Pekinese cuisine. My head was beginning to swim from too much rich food and booze and I knew that we were still in for a long night. I’d probably regret it by morning, but what the hell.

  We finished up with coffee and liqueurs and by that time I was well loaded.

  She wasn’t doing too badly herself. As we ate and drank, we talked. And the more she sucked up the liquor, the more she told me, which suited me fine. I wanted to hear her side of the story. At first we talked about generalities and then specifics, and her situation in particular. ‘Did Liz tell you about me?’ she asked, as she dipped into a dish of prawns in black bean sauce.

  ‘Some,’ I said. ‘Some I knew.’

  ‘And what do you think you knew about me, Nick? Tell me, I’m interested.’

  ‘Only what I read in the papers.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in them.’

  ‘Not even Pike papers?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll leave you to work that out for yourself. So go on, tell me what you know about me.’

  ‘Very little really.’

  ‘Don’t be embarrassed.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Well then?’

  She’d asked for it, so I gave it to her. ‘You’re Sir Robert Pike’s illegitimate daughter,’ I said. ‘Your mother was sent to Australia when she was pregnant, with instructions never to return. You lived together in hotels until she died. You vanished, then turned up in London where your father accepted you into the bosom of his family, where you’ve been ever since. End of story.’

  ‘A very short history of my life. You left out a lot. Would you like me to fill in some of the details?’

  ‘Not if it upsets you.’

  ‘It does. But I’ll tell you anyway.’

  ‘Only if you want to.’

  ‘I
do, then I’ll tell you why I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘It was a very strange childhood. Hardly a childhood at all. Solitary, but always surrounded by people, grown-ups mostly. You were right about the hotel bit. From the time I was born until my mother died we never lived in a house, or even an apartment. Always hotels. Always moving. Eating room-service meals and having the beds made and towels changed for us. I don’t think my mother ever saw the inside of a supermarket. She only shopped for clothes. I was always around grown-ups, so I grew up fast. The only other children I ever met were hotel brats themselves. They weren’t the kind of hotels where normal children stayed. They were expensive, five star. My father looked after my mother very well financially. I’ve seen her bank statements. There was always an annual increase to take in inflation and the fact that I was getting older. But my mother was a good spender, I’ll give her that. She drank, you see, and you can spend an awful lot in hotel bars.’

  ‘What about school?’ I asked.

  ‘School.’ She laughed. ‘I never went. My mother was too drunk to make me. I hardly even registered. I would go a few times, then quit. The other kids seemed so juvenile, babyish. If the school boards got interested, we moved. Australia is a big place.’

  ‘But you must have had some kind of education.’

  ‘I educated myself. My mother taught me to read before she got too bad. I read the papers, and you’d be amazed the number of books you can find in a first-class hotel. I read Valley of the Dolls when I was eight, Anais Nin when I was ten, and as for Stephen King, Christ, I know his stuff backwards.’

  ‘And you kept a scrapbook.’

  ‘How the hell do you know about that? You certainly didn’t read about it in the newspapers. I suppose Elizabeth told you. Yes, my mother started it. She hated my father, and I think she collected scraps about him to feed the hatred. She soon forgot about it, though, and I kept it up. There was never a vast amount. He never went to Australia. Guess why? But the hotels generally had English and American papers. I got quite a lot in the end.’