by Adam Baron
I stopped dead. My hands tensed. Then I smiled. She really was something. You had to give it to her. On the floor in front of me was a pair of shoes. They were black and chunky, lying on their sides. Beyond them was a pair of jeans, left in a heap. My eyes moved up the deserted corridor. I could see a silk blouse, further along. Then, only yards from my door, I could just make out a bra, lying twisted on the floor like a snake that’s had two pretty good meals. I walked forward picking each item up in turn, loading them into my arms. Then I stopped again.
Hanging on the handle of my office door was a pair of black, lace panties.
I shook my head, and a grin split my face in spite of myself. I hadn’t seen her car. I turned the handle and pushed the door open. The heat hit me in a wave like stepping off a plane in Saudi and on it rode the rich sweet smell of her. She was lying on the sofabed, reading a fat novel she must have brought up with her. All I could see was a pair of eyelashes, blinking at me over the cover. For the second time that day I found myself leaning on a doorjamb.
‘Aren’t you hot?’
She put the book down and rested her chin on her hands, smiling sweetly. ‘It’s why I took my clothes off, desperado.’
I smiled back. ‘You could have turned the radiator off. Or opened the window.’
‘You know, I just didn’t think of that. You can do either if you like. Or else you can just take your clothes off too.’
‘Actually, Shulpa…’
‘Billy!’ she said. ‘You don’t really want to talk right now, do you?’
Chapter Nineteen
There were only two messages on the machine, but I didn’t get a chance to play them till the morning. It was bright and clear, the trees wet, dripping with the melt from another fall of snow that had come in the night. The first was a voice I didn’t recognize, a woman who called herself Cheryl and said she’d call back. I assumed she wanted me to look for a son or daughter. The second was a voice I did know.
‘Listen. You know who this is. I bought a different mobile, from a garage. Call me on 01777 377 334. I’m trusting you with this. I don’t know if the Bill can track it anyway, but I know they can’t if they don’t know the number.’ There was a pause. Draper was barking out orders as usual but I definitely detected a broad seam of doubt in his voice. ‘I want to say… thanks. You could have had me yesterday. Listen, if you saw the Standard you’ll know there are people out there who could be after me. They might have done that to Alison, I don’t know. Louise will let you know who they might be. So if you haven’t done yet, talk to her, go and see her. Please?’
Shulpa had left by then. We’d woken early, to the sound of opera. Not a radio but Mike in the cafe, practising his Italian. Shulpa stretched and smiled.
‘This thing’s comfortable. But, alas, I have to go to work. Is there a shower here?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Oh well, I’ve probably got time to go home first. Either that or smell of you all day.’
‘It’s something I’ve had to get used to.’
‘Me too, then. It’ll be nice, sitting listening to my ever-so-interesting boss talking about mergers, thinking of you. It might even keep him away from me for a while, the predatory smell of another man!’
‘Growl,’ I said.
I yawned, rolled out of bed and turned the heating on. It was then that it hit me; a heavy, dead feeling.
‘No shower,’ I said. ‘But one thing I can do is coffee.’
I pulled my jeans on and grabbed a tee-shirt from the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. I wandered down the hall and put my head into the cafe, nearly scaring Mike to death. He wasn’t used to customers being around at that time. Ally was taking the chairs off the tables. The espresso machine was yet to warm up but half a jug of filter coffee had dripped through and Mike poured me a cup.
‘Two, please,’ I said to him.
‘Two, is it? Working on something last night, were you?’
‘Michael. Leave Billy alone. And get that jealous look out of your eye.’
I took the cups from Mike and padded back down to my office. Shulpa was getting dressed. I set the cups down on my desk, refolded the sofabed and dumped the sheets behind it. We can always tell… you’re pretty damn transparent, you know. Shulpa was looking out of the window, fastening her blouse, taking the first warmth from the slowly stirring monster that was my radiator.
‘Oh wow,’ she said. She wiped a hand across the condensation on the glass. I picked up my coffee.
‘What is it?’
‘Here, come here. Quick. Can you see? Down there.’
Shulpa was almost whispering, a childlike thrill in her voice. She pointed through the dripping branches. I looked over her shoulder and nodded. It was the bird I’d noticed. It was ten, maybe fifteen feet away, sitting on a branch, preening again. Shocked almost, I looked at Shulpa.
‘I didn’t know you were into birds.’
‘My dad used to take me.’ Shulpa was still whispering. She looked caught out, embarrassed. ‘Me and Nicky, when he split up with our mother.’ She laughed. ‘Nicky used to moan like you wouldn’t believe. He hated it. But I love birds.’
I nodded my head, surprised. If I’d had to guess what Shulpa’s hobbies would be, birdwatching would have come just above stamp collecting and one below trainspotting. I had a sudden realization that really, I hardly knew her. I liked the fact that she could surprise me that way.
‘You never told me. You can take me – what’s it called? – twitching sometime.’
‘You do enough of that in your sleep. Did you know?’
I looked at the bird.
‘What is it? I’ve seen it before.’
‘Really? That means it might be nesting, though I don’t think so. I think it’s a shrike, but they’re rare, so I’m not sure.’
I put my hand on the back of her neck. ‘A shrike?’
‘I really think so. But you never normally see one in a city. It is a shrike. The butcher bird.’
‘Nice name.’
‘It’s beautiful, don’t you think?’
The bird stopped, as if it had suddenly realized something. I remembered its call, though now it was silent. ‘I do,’ I said.
‘Oh…’
The shrike flew down and away and Shulpa looked devastated for a second. I had an image of her, a little girl holding on to her father’s hand, and a wave of tenderness joined the other feelings I had for her. Nicky had told me that his parents had split up, but he’d never given away what he’d felt about it. I thought I saw it all on Shulpa’s face. Shulpa kissed me goodbye and left quickly, not touching her coffee.
* * *
I called Sal who told me she’d have the money for me at noon. I thought about what I could do for Nicky before then. Not a lot, in the daytime, though I could do some more ‘visiting’ later on. After going to Toby’s last night I didn’t really expect to find a bundle of cash under any of the bar staffs beds. I couldn’t believe anyone could be that stupid, but I still needed to check. One of his waitresses was new and had asked Nicky to show her his flat upstairs. Also, one of the sous-chefs had handed in his notice. Plus I had a feeling, a feeling about that little shit with the flick knife. There was plenty to think about, but not a whole lot I could do that early in the morning.
I looked at my watch. It was just before eight. If the police had been outside my house last night it wouldn’t be long before they showed up here. I wanted to call Draper, but I didn’t – I’d do that from a payphone. Hell knows what I’d tell the man about the progress I was making on his behalf. Haven’t got you off the hook yet Jack but your wife’s a bit lively, isn’t she? I also wanted to go and talk to some of Alison Everly’s neighbours, especially the woman who had found her body. But I couldn’t afford to be seen round there. Instead I shook my head and read through the biog I’d got from Janner, marrying up names in it with the information I’d been given by Louise. I tried to concentrate but I spent a while thinking about her. I wanted to cal
l her too and I didn’t want to call her. I’d only do it when I had something to tell her. If I called her now I knew that whatever practical reason I made up would be rubbish. I knew why I’d be calling her.
Louise Draper didn’t have a clue whether her husband was guilty or not of the murder of Alison Everly. Her doubt didn’t surprise me; it was based on self-defence. If she believed him and it came out that he’d done it, she’d hurt even more. I, however, had come round, with reluctance, to believing him. I just didn’t think he’d done it. He would have had to have been quick but it was something other than that, something intangible. The way he’d driven off that night, the way he spoke to me outside my flat. I just didn’t think it was him. I could, however, perfectly understand why he was keeping his head down. His prints were all over Alison’s flat and a policeman had almost definitely clocked his car. I could also understand why there had been a tremor in his voice on the machine that morning. It was because he didn’t know whether or not I was going to help him.
And I was his only hope.
I was just about finishing marrying up information when I heard footsteps, in the hall. I glanced up but didn’t take a lot of notice. I had been struck by two names, two names that had kept cropping up. A man with a lot to lose and a man with a lot to gain. I wrote both names down in my notebook, as if that would give me something solid, something definite to focus on. With the police looking for me I had to have something to deflect them with. I thought about Draper, wanting to sign with Villa. In my head I went through what I knew of the Bosman Ruling. A player who played out his contract was free to go elsewhere. To another club, who didn’t have to pay a fee for him. A small club could therefore build up a player only to lose him to a big set-up, they could be used as an unpaid training camp. I made a note to check it out on the Internet sometime.
The footsteps outside came nearer. They were hesitant, they stopped and moved on, as though the person making them was looking for an office number. For some reason I knew they were looking for me. I was right. Just as I was closing my notebook the footsteps stopped, right outside. After a second there was a light knock on the door.
I assumed it was the police. I walked over and pulled the door open.
‘Mr Rucker? You’re Billy Rucker, aren’t you?’ She looked down the hall the way she’d come, and then back at me. Then at one of my cards, held between thumb and index finger in her left hand.
‘Yes,’ I told her.
‘I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you. It’s Cheryl. Cheryl Johnson.’
I knew I’d heard the voice but the name meant nothing to me. The girl in front of me wore a Burberry print scarf in her hair and she put a hand behind her head to pull it off. Then I had it. She’d been at the football ground, first in a long leather coat, then in a bra and shorts. Now she had the coat back on. She wore a bright pink pashmina shawl over it, knotted at the neck.
‘I wanted to talk to you yesterday but…’ She looked down the hall again. I don’t know what she expected to see down there. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Yes. Of course. Can I get you some coffee?’
‘No,’ Cheryl said. ‘Thanks. I’ve been up all night. I must’ve drunk ten gallons of the stuff.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Please. Take a seat.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
I held a chair out for Cheryl and she sat, crossing long legs, using a sharp pink fingernail to dig out a speck of pencil from her eye.
‘I’m sorry it’s so hot in here. Take your coat off if you like.’
‘I’m fine. I’m freezing actually. You get colder when you don’t sleep, don’t you?’
I pushed the door to and walked round to the other side of the desk, intrigued. I sat down, opposite my visitor. From thirty feet a.m. and ten feet after dark Cheryl would have been quite a sexy girl. She was in her early twenties with an improbably pneumatic figure pumped up to straining point. Her face was thin and it was a little difficult to say what she actually looked like. Her problem skin was covered in a substratum of only vaguely flesh-coloured foundation that it would have taken Henrich Schliemann three days to get through. It was probably the first time in her life she’d been mistaken for the police. I asked what I could do for her.
‘You’re looking into what happened to Alison, aren’t you? I picked up one of your cards yesterday. I heard you speaking to the lads.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why, do you think you can help me with that?’
Cheryl was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her hands in her coat pockets. ‘You’re not the Bill, are you?’
I made a gesture to include my room. ‘No.’
‘Then who are you working for?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does if you’re working for one particular person, yes.’ Cheryl gave a nervous laugh, more like a cough.
‘I see,’ I nodded. ‘I can understand that. Well, I’m working for Jack Draper’s wife. Okay?’
She tilted her head down and looked at me. ‘Honest?’
‘Scouts’ honour.’
‘Then yes, it’s okay, if you’re working for her.’
Cheryl seemed reassured by what I told her and her fingers pulled at the knot of her shawl. Cheryl had light brown hair with new gold highlights and bright ginger eyes framed heavy with black. Her mouth was narrow, naturally open to reveal teeth that an American mother would have had straightened, giving her quite a tough appearance. She looked like she could take care of herself, but she also looked worried. I could see thoughts moving through her, filtering what she wanted to tell me like a basking shark. She ran her tongue over her teeth.
‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Sure.’
‘Great.’ She drew a pack of Marlborough Lights out of her coat pocket and tried to light one with a Bic. Her hand shook like she had Parkinson’s disease.
‘Christ, you are cold.’
‘Cold? That’s not cold. I’m fucking terrified is what I am.’
She left her pack on the table and pulled on her cigarette as if it were her last ever puff.
‘So. I take it you knew Alison.’
‘Yeah. I did.’ Cheryl nodded. ‘From different shoots, stuff like that. We was mates. I’m from Leyton like she is though I don’t live there now. We was with the same modelling agency. We’d go out sometimes, you know. I saw her at a lot of parties. Models get invited to things, Stringfellows, places like that…’
‘When you say models, what kind of work do you mean?’
Cheryl gave me a flat, cold stare. ‘I’m not Kate Moss. Glamour, mostly. Plus advertising, brochures, bike mags. I met Alison doing that.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Right. What was she like? I get the impression she was a pretty quiet girl.’
Cheryl nodded. ‘She could be, Alison. Needed geeing up sometimes. She was a bit fucked up. She had this terrible mother, never let her out when she was a kid. It really used to get to her. She used to hit her, the bitch. Alison left home when she was sixteen.’
I was puzzled. The newspapers all said she lived at home.
‘Yeah, that’s right. She went and lived back there, last year, when her mum got ill. I’d have forgotten about the bitch. But Alison was never like that, she let people use her. She stayed there nearly a year, till about three months before she died. Her mum got well, and I was really pleased when she moved out again.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘And how well did you know Jack Draper?’
‘From parties and stuff. There’s a footballer scene, would you believe? I really fancied him actually, but he wasn’t interested. Alison was a bit more classy than me if the truth be told, a bit more, what’s the word, demure.’
I tried not to nod. ‘Did you know she was seeing Draper?’
Cheryl shook her head. ‘No way. Big secret that was. I never thought Alison would get into anything like that. No way!’
Again I was puzzled. ‘Get into what? Seeing someone with a wife? Someone famous?’
�
�No,’ Cheryl said. ‘No. Well kind of. Do you recognize me at all?’
It was a strange question that came straight out of the blue. I looked at her but shook my head. I guessed she meant from her modelling work but as I was no longer fourteen I didn’t subscribe to those magazines.
‘No, you don’t look like the sort of bloke who buys the Sunday People. Probably read about famines in the Observer of a Sunday, don’t ya? I was in the People, ‘bout six months ago. Then a year before that.’
‘Modelling?’
‘Nah. I had an affair with a player. A footballer.’ She smiled. She had a dirty smile, full of relish. Her teeth were stained with coffee and nicotine. She told me the player’s name.
‘Sold my story. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ I said, surprised that I actually did have some sort of recollection of it. ‘Weren’t you…weren’t you seeing one of his teammates?’
‘Yep.’
‘At the same time?’
‘‘S’right.’
‘Didn’t he deny it, and try to sue?’
“S’it,’ Cheryl said. ‘Arrogant wanker. Thought he could just fuck me and forget it. We done him right up, we did.’
‘We? What do you mean by we?’
‘Me and the paper,’ Cheryl explained. She smiled again and shook her head.
‘How?’
‘How? Oh. We didn’t have any proof – ’ she laughed – ‘that he was shagging me. He was real careful. Never so much as looked at me in public. I tried all sorts to get him, even waking up in the night to snap him when he was asleep, but he always woke up and I’d have to shag him again. I told the paper all about what had been going on, but they were afraid he’d sue without any pictures. So the editor phones him and says he’s going to run the story anyway and he just laughs and threatens the lawyers. I’m going to sue your fucking teeth out, he said. Then he called me. He didn’t know I’d sold the story, he thought someone had just spotted us. He told me to deny everything and he promised me half the libel money. The thing was I was on the mobile at the time, sat in the People offices! We got it all on tape. Everyone cracked up, I can tell you.’
