Blood Substitute

by Margaret Duffy

  By a complete coincidence Patrick and I arrived in the foyer together. He was, I noted, as brown as ever and must have had his head freshly shaved because it possessed the polish of a freshly harvested conker.

  ‘Sorry about the complete balls-up,’ he said in my ear as we were checking in.

  ‘I waited for longer than you said,’ I whispered back.

  ‘I know, I saw what must have been your tail lights disappearing down the road.’

  I turned to him in real anguish. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’

  ‘That’s why I’m apologizing. I’d left the phone indoors and didn’t have a key on me. By the time I’d returned home and remembered where a spare was hidden then checked that the mobsters really had gone it was too late to call you back. I’d just left, in the van, when I saw half the Devon and Cornwall Force arriving. But I didn’t go back, which saved a lot of awkward questions.’

  ‘I bawled out Greenway,’ I said.

  ‘Good. I hope you didn’t bring the car.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Terry removed the bug.’

  ‘I can’t understand how these people were so close to us that they knew I’d left it at that garage in London.’

  I did not want to think about it and to lighten things I said, ‘What on earth did the children make of you?’

  ‘Vicky was a bit worried but the others thought it was great fun. Justin wants the ear-ring afterwards.’

  ‘And your parents?’

  ‘Dad saw me first as I was hanging around outside the rectory waiting for someone to turn up – you have our key – and asked me if I was an illegal immigrant. Several had been recently found hidden in a lorry in Bath. Needless to say, he’s now annoyed with me for making him look foolish.’

  John has always become annoyed with his son rather readily. ‘And your mother?’ I went on to ask.

  ‘Took one look at me and asked where the fancy-dress party was. Apparently my eyes are the wrong colour and Indian men don’t usually have ear-rings so I took it out.’

  He had written, in a flowing hand, something mostly illegible in the hotel register: I was sharing a room with His Eminence Squiggle Dash Three Loops.

  ‘It would appear that the CD ROMs hold details of just about all that goes on in this particular branch of the criminal outfit west of London, but not in the city itself,’ Patrick said later when we were sitting in an almost deserted lounge, the decor as faded as most of the clientèle, for what was ostensibly a briefing. ‘Not that it’s easy to work out exactly what’s happening because code names have been used for people and places. In its present state the info’s not a lot of use to us. I reckon we ought to get Miss Dean on to it seeing she used to work at Bletchley Park.’

  ‘I went to see her,’ I told him. ‘The only interesting thing I found out is that she heard Walthamsden mentioned in connection with an old cinema there that Ballinger and Co want to knock down. Oh, and all the men jokingly referred to one another as brothers-in-law so that might explain that anomaly.’

  ‘That’s interesting too as it suggests that whoever gave the Met the information had some connection with the gang.’

  ‘Are F9 saying anything about Robert Kennedy yet?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No, still no comment.’

  ‘That means he is missing. Unless he’s at Sheepwash.’

  ‘No, I was told that a couple of cops are at Sheepwash – to await any visitors.’

  ‘James is still going thorough hell then.’

  Patrick, who seemed subdued, did not give any indication that he had heard the remark. ‘You know, that’s not a bad idea – to get Miss Dean to have a look at the info. The computer bods have done all they can and even printed it all out.’

  ‘And then?’ I asked. ‘Has anything really been achieved this past week and a bit?’

  There was a little silence before Patrick said, ‘No, only me being turned into a rather poor copy of an Asian.’ He gave me a look that I remembered for a long time afterwards. ‘I missed you, your ideas, your flair.’ He paused. ‘Another thing is that I don’t think this SOCA venture of mine is going at all well. The very reason I left MI5 – threats to the family, the need for police protection at Hinton Littlemoor – is happening all over again. It can’t be allowed to go on.’

  ‘You’d die of boredom if you had a desk job.’

  ‘I might have to adapt to a quieter occupation, for the sake of everyone. Just be an ordinary copper.’

  ‘You do seem to have fielded some exceptionally poisonous criminals in the cases you’ve tackled over the years. Probably because you’ve been given the difficult jobs due to your reputation for success.’

  Although nothing had been said I knew that this was the last night we would stay at an hotel before we headed for Ernie O’Malley country in Walthamsden to try to find our quarry. I had an idea that Patrick did not really know what to do with me either and was not expecting for a moment that I would be asked to adopt a brown skin and a sari.

  ‘I just want to chuck it all in,’ Patrick suddenly said in a whisper. ‘Now.’

  Shocked, I decided to say nothing right then.

  ‘We have a little boy who is now behaving badly and turning into a bully at school,’ he continued. ‘A little boy who needs his dad to be around more often to occupy his mind with worthwhile things and take a strong line when he gets stroppy. Matthew and Katie’s real dad is dead and the one they’ve got now keeps going off and having adventures so he doesn’t get bored working at a desk all day. Worst of all, Vicky cried when she saw this scary stranger and called for Grandma.’ Patrick turned to face me and I was appalled to see that he too was crying. ‘Ingrid, I feel a complete shit.’

  ‘Abandon the case,’ I said decisively. ‘Resign from SOCA. Move from Devon to be nearer your parents. Be a family man again.’

  Nothing was said for a while, Patrick sobbing silently and privately and, sitting side by side on a large sofa, I put an arm around him. This day had had to come, when other responsibilities demanded priority.

  ‘There’s James,’ he said in a choked voice at last. ‘I promised him I’d do everything in my power to find his father.’

  ‘Then we abandon everything else on the case and do just that. But do tell Greenway.’

  He gazed at me, tears on his eyelashes. ‘You’re being very businesslike about this.’

  ‘I’m doing my oracle thing, aren’t I?’ I said, my own eyes misting with tears. I blinked them away.

  ‘And as my wife?’

  ‘I hate wives who employ emotional blackmail to make their husbands change their jobs.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  ‘This is about you,’ I told him. ‘About the rest of your life. About not regretting certain actions. About not being bitter. It’s very difficult for me to be so pragmatic but wives and children are the ones who suffer in the long run when men are bitter and keep wishing for the good old days.’

  ‘So if I decide just to look for Robert Kennedy, hoping the poor devil isn’t already dead, where do we start?’

  ‘By talking to a man by the name of Sydney Hellier, who is the founder of the Save Walthamsden Picture House Society.’

  As I had discovered, the society had a website and it was from this that I had gleaned the information. Imagining that I would be left keeping the powder dry while Patrick plunged alone into the criminal underworld I had already sent Mr Hellier an email asking if we might meet and have a chat about the cinema. In order to allay any suspicions that I was some kind of time-wasting nutter I had mentioned that I was an author. There was a reply when we returned to our hotel room.

  ‘He’s free tomorrow morning and suggests ten thirty,’ I called around the bathroom door, Patrick having a shower. ‘We need to have a look at this place, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, not that I’m expecting for one moment to find Kennedy. But while we’re there I suppose it’s worth mentioning Ballinger’s name.’

  I replied to the email in the affirmative
. Patrick’s initial reaction to my proposal had been lukewarm and if it had not been for his promise to Carrick would have probably been quite happy in his present mood to have collected the children and Carrie and gone home. Although I had come to the conclusion that what had happened was inevitable I had never seen him so negative before. Was I right to encourage him to carry on?

  Yes to that question: James was a friend of ours.

  ‘I get a real shock every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror,’ Patrick muttered when he came back into the room, scowling at himself in the one over the dressing table.

  ‘How long will it take to fade?’ I enquired.

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘I quite fancy you that colour.’

  ‘I thought we were going down to have something to eat.’

  ‘I didn’t necessarily mean right now, right this very minute.’

  He came over, sat on the bed and proceeded to kiss me silly.

  ‘Yes, OK,’ I murmured when he had undone my bathrobe, hands wandering everywhere.

  ‘Right now after all, then?’

  Fingers caressed between my thighs.

  ‘Now,’ I told him.

  Now it was, that glorious strength. My own desire for him apart, I wanted to give him something to be happy about.

  ‘They’ve knocked the old place around already,’ Sydney Hellier reported glumly. ‘And a few really nice pieces have been ripped out and sold, some of the light fittings, decorated glass panelling, stuff like that. All quite illegal, you know, because it’s listed. They’re hoping that when the planning people take a look at it they’ll say it isn’t worth saving. Are you hoping to write a book about the place?’

  Hellier lived in a modest semi-detached house that was creaking under the weight of heavy dark furniture that was anything but art-deco. He was younger than I had imagined; probably in his mid-forties and of a type that could be uncharitably labled as ‘geekish’. I had turned down the offer of coffee purely on the grounds that everything around me was remarkably grubby and a quick glimpse into the kitchen on our way to a rear living room had suggested the source of the house’s sour smell.

  ‘No,’ I said, in answer to the question. ‘I have to confess that although I’m delighted to add my name to your list of people who want the place saved my main interest is in those who are bent on destroying it.’

  My escort had remained on watch outside in the car, hired, the Range Rover having been deemed too distinctive in what was, courtesy of Ernie O’Malley and Co, a sensitive district as far as police departments, covert and otherwise, were concerned.

  ‘They could well be a bunch of crooks,’ I added.

  ‘And you’re doing research on them, like.’

  ‘That’s right. Has anyone connected to a prospective buyer been to see you about it?’

  ‘Oh, the blokes who want to knock it down and build flats – posh flats mind, not for folk round here – have been round. I told them it wasn’t my decision but the planning department’s. They couldn’t understand why folk want to keep the place.’

  Regrettably, I was finding myself fascinated by his loose and yellowing dentures. ‘Did they threaten you at all?’

  ‘No, but they looked like typical dodgy development bods; shifty. I was glad when they went.’

  ‘Were any names mentioned?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. It took me back a bit, seeing four of them standing on the doorstep.’

  ‘Who owns the place?’

  ‘The local authority. It was left in someone’s will to the borough to be used as some kind of community hall or theatre. It needs money spending on it, mind. We’re trying to get lottery funding. But it’ll be demolished, all right. So-called progress always wins.’

  ‘I’m particularly interested in a man who’s calling himself Steven Ballinger.’

  ‘Calling himself? It’s not his real name?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Never heard of him. What does he look like?’

  ‘He’s distinctive; very tall, thin, probably has a small head and speaks with a high-pitched voice. Has anyone like that been to see you?’

  ‘Er … no.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He was lying.

  ‘Mr Hellier, the man who fits that description is exceedingly dangerous. If he has been to see you there might be a risk to your own safety.’ I gave him a hard stare.

  ‘Well … er … that does sound a bit like one of our founder members, Lazlo Ivers. He’s a keyholder too.’

  ‘A keyholder?’

  ‘To the cinema.’ Hellier uttered a nervous false laugh. ‘Not my place.’

  ‘Well, it couldn’t possibly be him, could it?’ I chortled, heart thumping. ‘Would I be able to have a look at it? I mean, if I’m going to sign your petition it would be nice to know what I’m supporting.’

  ‘Yes, I allowed time this morning as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Is it all right if my colleague comes too? He’s thinking of making a donation actually.’

  ‘No bother.’

  The old picture house was a short drive away. I had already indicated to Patrick that I had learned something important by giving him a nudge. I then introduced him as ‘my friend Rahjeed’, the first thing that came into my head and for all I knew a brand of Indian drain cleaner. Rahjeed decided to go in for an English public school accent. This was not the time for quirkiness.

  Walthamsden is a pleasant enough area, but this particular street looked ripe for demolition, most buildings boarded up, the few that were inhabited sorry spectacles of peeling paint, disintegrating stucco and slipping roof slates. Every entrance to the houses presented an obstacle course of litter and overflowing refuse bins. We parked the car on a vacant plot of land – vacant but for fly-tipped rubbish – and got out into a warm breeze redolent of traffic fumes and tom cats, causing my well-bred companion to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

  ‘There’s European Union money ear-marked for the whole area,’ Sydney Hellier, who had noticed, told him eagerly. ‘It’s going to be turned into an Italian-style piazza, no traffic and with lots of little eateries. We want the cinema to be an art gallery-cum-theatre for local talent and events.’

  ‘It’ll cost millions,’ Patrick told him dismissively. ‘Where’s the rest of the money coming from?’

  ‘Grants, the heritage people. This place is rich in heritage. For example, that house over there was lived in by a man who invented the idea of flea circuses.’

  ‘God,’ Patrick said under his breath.

  Hellier briskly rummaged in his pocket for keys. We were, I saw with surprise, standing right outside the cimema, the front of which was almost completely obscured by bill boards covered in posters. It was impossible to tell what the building really looked like, seemingly squashed between those on either side, and I could not see any access into it at all. But there was, Hellier leading the way to one end and unlocking a padlock on a gate in a section of security fencing.

  We traipsed through the gate and on up what must have been the original steps into the building. Even these were falling to pieces – we were warned to look where we were going – and were scattered with broken tiles that had fallen from the facade. They had been rather beautiful tiles by the look of them.

  The main doors had been fitted with more padlocks and these took a while to undo as they were rusting. I gazed about, seeing the glass cases that had once housed the posters announcing forthcoming attractions, and an advert for Lyon’s ice cream almost faded out of existence.

  ‘My dad used to talk about going to the Saturday morning pictures,’ I said to myself. ‘Cartoons and Flash Gordon’s Trip to Mars.’

  ‘My father played polo on Saturdays,’ said Patrick loftily, well in character. ‘He had his own team.’

  I tried to imagine John on a polo pony and failed.

  Then the doors were open and we went into the foyer. It reeked of damp. As Hellier had said
, the interior had been knocked about – vandalized was a better description of what had happened. Even in the gloom it was fairly easy to see where decorative features had been ripped out because of the bare patches, holes even, in the mouldy plaster of the walls.

  ‘There’s no lights, the power’s off,’ Hellier told us. ‘But there’s a torch kept in a cupboard here if you want to go and have a punt round while I check all the outer doors are properly secured.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  Hellier went into what had been the ticket office. ‘Funny,’ he mutttered, moments later. ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘I have a flash lamp in the car,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ll get it.’

  Both men disappeared and I walked slowly towards one of the doors that led into the stalls, opened them and stared into the dark void beyond. Lazlo Ivers, said a voice inside my head. Lazlo Ivers. A good name for a scarecrow. We would have to be very careful or Sydney Hellier was a dead man. How would we get an address from him without arousing suspicion? We might even have to reveal our true identities and take him into protective custody.

  ‘The ghosts of film stars past,’ said Patrick very quietly behind me, jerking me from my thoughts.

  ‘Lazlo Ivers,’ I said under my breath. ‘A very tall man with a small head and a squeaky voice who belongs to the preservation group.’

  ‘I shall heap you with gold and elephants if it is him,’ said the sahib. We went in and he switched on the torch, which was a large one, illuminating a crumbling, cobwebby cave-like auditorium.

  ‘What did Greenway say when you said we were going to concentrate on finding Kennedy?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I just said we might have a lead on Ballinger and were coming here. It’s the truth.’

  ‘Yes, of course it is,’ I responded, deciding to defer further discussion.