by Mark Timlin
I cleaned my teeth, shaved, took two more pain killers and put on a clean shirt, a tie with a pattern like an explosion in a fruit salad cannery and my grey suit. I wasn’t going to be jumping over any railings for the next few days and if there were any photographers still out front I wanted to look my best. I took cigarettes, lighter and a little folding cash and headed for the exit.
There was a pair of maggots festooned with enough Japanese hi-tech to up the UK balance of payments deficit by several thousand nicker hanging outside the house and they came to parade ready as I opened the front door. They clicked a few off before they realised I wasn’t one of the stars of the show. A third maggot with a miniature tape recorder came running up to me. I looked for his slime trail but he must have been wearing wellies.
‘Are you on the staff?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I came to line up the satellite dish. They’re having trouble getting MTV.’ I swear he looked towards the roof. As I body-swerved round him, one of the photographers gave me a look of recognition. ‘Is your name Sharman?’ he asked as I passed him.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Lord Lucan.’
‘Don’t mess around, mate. I recognise you.’ And he started firing his camera into my face.
‘Get that fucking thing away from me. I warn you,’ I said.
‘It’s my job.’
‘It’s your poxy face too, pal,’ I said. ‘Want to keep it?’
He backed away but kept pressing the button on his motor drive. The geezer with the tape recorder got the message and came after me. He looked a bit bewildered but realised that something was up and started asking the smudger who I was.
‘His name’s Sharman,’ the photographer said. ‘He’s a detective. His bird got blown up by some nutters last winter, you remember.’
That really pissed me off. ‘And remember what happened to them,’ I said.
The reporter stuck his tape machine under my nose. ‘What’s happening, Mr Sharman?’
I plucked the recorder out of his grasp and slung it into the road where a cab ran over it with a satisfying crunch. ‘That’s happening,’ I said.
‘Great.’ The photographer changed cameras and fired off more shots.
I walked over and grabbed him by the shirt collar and twisted it hard to cut off his air supply. ‘Fucking stop,’ I said.
‘All right, all right, mate,’ he choked. ‘Don’t get physical. I’ll stop.’
I gave up. The other geezer was snapping away and it was going to be too much trouble to chase him too. I couldn’t take on the whole world. I pushed the first guy away and walked off. The reporter was holding the wreckage of his Toshiba. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he screeched.
‘Send me the bill,’ I said and walked off.
They didn’t follow.
I walked east and turned past the Curzon cinema into Shepherd Market. I was at the pub by five to seven.
Endesleigh turned up at five to eight. I still could not believe that this guy was a detective inspector. ‘Been waiting long?’ he asked.
‘Not long enough to make a career of it.’
‘You look a bit pale.’
‘It’s the beer. Want one?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
I ordered him a cold Becks, which if it was like the ones I’d already drunk wouldn’t be. I couldn’t believe that in London, in the hottest summer for ten years, there seemed to be nowhere to get a cold bottle of beer.
‘Are you sure you’re old enough to drink?’ I asked when it arrived.
‘Be careful, Sharman. I have to take that shit at the factory, but not from you. I’m old enough to take you out of here and lock you up. Just remember that.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘This beer is warm,’ said Endesleigh.
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘Is there any ice?’
‘The machine’s broken.’
‘Dear, dear, dear.’ He lit a Benson and Hedges. ‘So what’s the SP?’
‘I had visitors last night.’
‘Who?’
‘A trio of gunslingers from down under.’
‘Do what?’
‘What I said.’
‘When the place was full of my men?’
‘Dead right.’
‘They had a bloody nerve.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And what exactly did they want?’
I told him the whole story. The whole, whole story, leaving nothing out. He listened and changed from Becks to Black Label and smoked his Bensons until I’d finished. ‘Well, that’s very interesting. Do you think they’re telling the truth?’ he asked as we waited for fresh drinks.
‘Who?’
‘The gorgeous girls from Curzon Street?’
‘It’s weird,’ I said, ‘but yes I do. If they were lying, why hire me?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’
‘I wanted to keep something back for a big finish.’
‘The big finish could be you, son,’ he said. ‘One way or another.’
I agreed, but didn’t say so.
‘So this bloke Lorimar has had the black on the Pike family for nearly twenty years?’ he asked after a moment.
‘On and off.’
‘And now the cupboard, if not bare, is at least locked.’
‘Temporarily.’
‘Could be years.’ He was silent for a minute or two and lit another cigarette. ‘Tell me what else you know about these Australian jokers?’
‘I’ve got no names, except Lorimar, and that’s probably fake if he was scamming the hotel trade. Elizabeth Pike’s private detectives in Australia couldn’t turn him up but I could try and find out.’
‘Do that, and I’ll check Interpol. He might have a record under that name in Australia. We’ll check Immigration and the airlines but, Christ, they might have been here for years.’
‘I wouldn’t waste your time,’ I said. ‘I bet they didn’t leave much of a trail.’
‘We’ve got to do something. There are some very senior officers getting extremely anxious about the outcome of this.’
‘And of course you’ve got to wear kid gloves yourself.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, are you going to tell the big brass what I’ve told you?’ I asked.
‘I’m not going to tell anyone. Normally I’d take a couple of chaps into that house and lean on those two until they cracked.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And they’d deny everything. And then bring in enough lawyers with enough paper to keep you filing for a year. These aren’t a couple of old scrubbers from the Aylesbury Estate, you know.’
‘I am aware of that,’ he said. And not too happy about it, by the look on his face.
‘I’ll help you out.’
‘Will you?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘It’s not your style.’
‘Give a dog a bad name, eh?’
He pursed his lips. ‘I took a look at your file today.’ He held the tips of his forefinger and thumb as far apart as they would go. ‘It’s this thick.’
‘Public enemy number one?’
‘Not quite, but nearly. I also spoke to an old friend of yours.’
‘Who?’
‘Danny Fox.’
‘How is he?’
‘Good. He’s thinking of going back into uniform.’
‘Promotion?’
‘That’s it. Down in the sticks.’
‘He’ll be a chief constable before you know it.’
‘I don’t doubt it. He speaks well of you, off the record.’
‘And on the record?’
‘He doesn’t want to know. He says you’re just the sort of skeleton in his cupboard that’ll stop him becoming a superintendent.’
I pulled a face.
‘He said you could have been a good copper apart from one or two character deficiencies.’
‘Like?’
‘Like you couldn’t tak
e orders, like you have too smart a mouth for your own good, like you developed a taste for certain illegal substances and latterly sticky fingers.’
I pulled another, longer face. Danny Fox had always known me too well.
‘He also said you’ve cleaned up your act apart from the odd lapse now and then, and that I could trust you, up to a point.’
‘Damned by faint praise.’
‘Well, you know Danny Fox.’
‘I do indeed. So?’
‘So I’ll take a chance and trust you up to a point.’
‘You might not be very popular.’
‘I’ll take the risk.’
‘If anything goes wrong, about as popular as a slug in a sandwich.’
He shrugged.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’ I looked up at the ceiling and lit another cigarette.
‘The trouble is, you don’t exactly help yourself.’
‘How?’
‘You shouldn’t carry a gun. It’ll get you into some trouble.’
‘Are you still holding that over me?’
‘Not if you come good with these Aussies and I make the collar. I’ll forgive and forget. I’ll get you next time.’
‘If there is a next time.’
‘With people like you, Sharman, there’s always a next time, count on it.’ He slid off his stool. ‘Thanks for the drink. Keep in touch.’ He left the pub and vanished into the night.
18
I finished my own drink and left the pub too. It was past ten and dark, but the temperature was still way up and the humidity was about eighty per cent. I could feel the moisture in the air like a hot towel opening my pores, and I imagined I could smell the sourness of my own sweat.
The narrow streets and alleys in the market were still packed with tourists and office workers who didn’t want to go home. Working girls and a bunch of raggity-arsed despatch riders in leathers or fluorescent cycling gear were draped over their bikes, drinking pints like it was going to become unfashionable at midnight.
I walked back to Curzon Street trying to avoid being jostled. It was a dipper’s dream and I didn’t fancy having my pockets picked as I went. I also didn’t want any damn drunk crashing into the cut on my side. There were a few dossers trying to get some kip in quiet doorways but both they and I knew that Curzon Street was a bad area for that sort of thing.
There were no reporters or photographers hanging around the front of the house. Obviously something more important had come up. I rang the doorbell and Constance answered. ‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘Miss Catherine would like to see you the minute you get in.’
‘I’m on my way up now.’
I went up in the lift and knocked on Catherine’s door. She answered stinking of gin and wearing a peach-coloured ostrich feather and silk dressing gown that would have given a conservationist apoplexy and the worms full employment for a year. She’d managed to hide the bruise I’d given her with make-up, and her face was only slightly swollen.
‘Pretty sexy,’ I said. ‘I hope it’s not for my benefit.’
‘Hardly,’ she shot back. ‘I’m glad you’ve bothered to show up. I thought you were my bodyguard. I’m all alone and need guarding.’
‘The only thing that needs guarding around here is the key to the liquor cabinet.’
‘Very funny. Where have you been?’
‘I had other fish to fry,’ I said. ‘But I’m back on the case as from now.’
‘I’m in your hands.’
‘Not literally, I hope.’
‘Not even metaphorically.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Close the windows and put on the air-conditioning. I’ll do the same in my rooms. Leave the connecting door unlocked and I’ll see you in the morning. I doubt if we’ll have visitors tonight, but it’s best to be safe.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Sleep tight,’ I said and went to my room. I checked any possible hiding places and closed and locked all the windows and drew the curtains. As I did so I looked up and saw a few thin, high clouds scudding across the sky and being drawn across the face of the moon like chiffon scarves. I switched on the air and as I felt the first icy draughts I took a bottle of gin, tonic, ice and lemon from the fridge, and collected two glasses and made a stiff gin and tonic in one. I sat on the sofa in my sitting room, turned down the lights and turned on the TV. I found a comfortable position and lit a cigarette. The late night news had plenty on the Pikes. It made interesting viewing, particularly as I knew the truth, or at least part of it.
Catherine knocked on the connecting door about twenty minutes later. I didn’t answer and she knocked again, then opened the door. I saw her body silhouetted through the thin material of her dressing gown as she stood in the doorway.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ I said. ‘I saved you some ice.’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘It never is, sweetheart,’
‘Don’t call me sweetheart, you sound like a trick.’
‘Pardon me, I’m sure.’
‘I’m scared,’ she said.
‘I told you I don’t think those guys will come back tonight. It’s tomorrow we have to worry about.’
‘I’m still scared.’
‘And you want the protection of my manly body. Don’t make me laugh. You can take care of yourself – you nearly killed me this afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘And that’s all it takes. “I’m sorry” and everything’s all right. Why don’t you go see Elizabeth?’
She shrugged. ‘She’s gone to bed. I don’t think she wants to see me.’
‘I don’t think I do either.’
‘Can’t you ever say anything nice? You’re just a bastard like all men.’
‘Do you want me to apologise for what I am?’
‘You should. You think I came in here to get laid. I only came for a bit of company.’
‘Get a dog.’
‘You fucking bastard.’ If she’d turned on the waterworks then I would have told her to get lost, but she just looked me straight in the eye. ‘That was a lousy thing to say.’
She was right. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I was.
‘I didn’t come here to get laid,’ she said. ‘I’ve been laid enough, thank you. I’ve had enough fucks to last a lifetime. What do I need you for? Or any man? I’ve had enough men to know what they’re good for. Not much I can tell you. Anyway, Nick, you’re looking at damaged goods.’ She posed in a mockery of provocation. She arched her spine and threw her head back, put one hand behind her head and caught her hair in a bunch, and licked her lips until they shone wetly in the half-light. I have to tell you she looked good. Too good to resist. ‘Damaged goods, Mister Private Eye.’ And then she did start to cry. A long mournful sound that raised the flesh on my back and made the short hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
I moved towards her but she waved me away and went into my bedroom. I didn’t follow her. What she was going through had to be handled alone, or not at all. When she wanted company she’d let me know.
I sat down, lit a cigarette and took a whack at the gin. It tasted oily and sweet and cold and I emptied my glass. I looked at the door, but left her alone and made a fresh drink. She came back into the room after about twenty minutes.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘I’ve had too many already.’
‘One more won’t make much difference then.’
‘Okay, just a weak one.’
I mixed her a little gin and a lot of ice and tonic and gave her the glass. She took it in both hands and sat on the sofa.
‘Sorry about all that,’ she said, and leant back against me. ‘Must we have the air-conditioning on in here?’
‘No, not if you don’t want it on.’ I went to the unit and fiddled with the controls and opened the french windows. It began to get warmer immediately.
‘That’s better,’ she said and patted the seat next to her. ‘Come and sit down.’
And even though I knew what was going to happen, and even after all we’d said, I went. As I sat she put down her glass and turned towards me. She said nothing and I said nothing in reply. She moved towards me and I could feel her body heat. She came into my arms. She felt slightly damp under the silk dressing gown she was wearing. Her mouth fastened onto mine like a leech onto a fat vein and she chewed at my lips like someone getting the last slivers of meat from a chop bone.
Did I respond? Did I ever. I held onto her like a drowning man holding onto a lifebelt. My hands began to caress her and she obviously liked it because she pulled up the skirt of her dressing gown and lifted her leg over mine and jammed her thigh into my groin and kept it there. She was both soft and hard under the smooth silk and as I ran my fingers down her back and over the rich curves of her bottom, the material was smooth with no bump of underwear.
We went at each other like slaughterhouse dogs.
It was sex, pure and simple. No talk or thought of love, no talk or thought of anything much. Just dirty, sweaty sex. It was filth and we both got off on it.
She made my body hum, too. We hardly spoke at all. We just let our nerve ends do the talking and the only sounds were more animal than human.
The sofa was too small and I dragged her into the bedroom. It was freezing in there. I slapped off the air-conditioning and tore off her silken robe and threw her onto the bed. I crawled all over her, and she crawled all over me and there wasn’t an inch of each other we didn’t explore.
When we called half time, there was no slice of orange, just a shared cigarette and more gin which we cooled with the remains from the ice bucket. When I lit the Silk Cut my hands were wet. I dried them on the bed sheets which were wetter. She draped herself in her robe which stuck to her body like a second skin, damp and dirty in the faint light from the other room.
She leaned over me with the cigarette in her mouth. The robe fell away from her breasts which were as damp and dirty as the silk she wore.
‘More,’ she said. Not begging or any of that shit. Just stating a fact. I took the cigarette from between her lips and dropped it into my glass where it hissed in the dregs of the gin.
We were caught in the grip of a vicious spiral of downwardly mobile hedonism that might not end until we self-destructed on some far-flung reef of carnal pleasure and were washed up on a bleached beach of cut glass, but we went along with it like kids after candy.
