“That was when Andy said he’d find his own way home,” Moir said.
Larkin smiled. Andy hated police stations even more than he did. Besides which, Larkin knew for a fact that Andy would have been carrying at least two different kinds of illegal substances about his person. Andy had left Moir with Irvine and disappeared into the night.
“So, over a cup of tea, your man and me got talkin’,” said Moir. They had talked in general of their lives in the police, their upbringing in Scotland. All in the light tone of equals discussing work. Eventually, the conversation reached specifics, namely Moir’s reason for visiting London.
“I told him about Karen, how we were no nearer to findin’ her.”
Larkin said nothing.
“Oh, I know today was a dead end,” Moir said looking at Larkin. “Andy told me. But thanks for tryin’ though.”
Larkin nodded, keeping his eyes on the road.
Moir had told Irvine something similar. Irvine asked if there was anything he could do to help. “I said no, we’d tried everything. She was only on record the once, and that was a dead end.” Irvine asked if she could be using an alias.
“And that,” said Moir, barely able to contain his excitement, “is when the penny dropped. All this time I’ve been lookin’ for Karen Moir. But she had another name. A name she would only use out of spite.” Moir smiled. “Her stepfather’s name. Shapp.”
So they had punched the name Karen Shapp into the computer and come up with a match straight away. “Thank fuck she wasn’t called Jones,” Moir said, almost laughing.
“Good work, Henry,” Larkin said smiling. The name might have been another dead end, but Larkin didn’t mention that. For now, Moir had hope. And, although it might have just been false, to Moir it seemed better than no hope at all.
“I’ve got an address in Kentish Town,” Moir said, his features clouding slightly. “We can check it out tomorrow.”
“OK, then,” replied Larkin.
They drove on in silence after that, until a question formed in Larkin’s mind.
“Why did they have her on file? What was the charge?”
The cloud that had been moving over Moir’s features darkened and spread. “Soliciting. The place is a well-known knockin’ shop.” He sighed. “You never know, it might not be …” His voice trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete his thought.
“We’ll see tomorrow, Henry.”
Moir nodded. His earlier good mood seemed to be dissipating fast. “Aye.”
Larkin stole a glance at Moir as he drove. He didn’t want him to sink back into depression. “You look different, Henry. I can’t put my finger on it, but you look different.”
Moir reddened slightly. “New clothes,” he said. “Faye took me shopping today. Said I looked disgraceful.”
That was it, thought Larkin. New clothes. Moir still had on the same old overcoat, but underneath was a new sports jacket, polo shirt in what looked to be wool, dark trousers and shoes. The wardrobe, alongside Moir’s continuing reacquaintance with the bathroom, made him seem almost presentable.
“I’m astonished,” said Larkin. “I’ve never seen you look so good.”
“It’s Faye,” Moir mumbled, tongue tripping over his embarrassment, “she made me.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Aye,” said Moir. “She is.”
Larkin didn’t reply. The heartfelt tone of Moir’s voice had surprised him. He thought it best if he didn’t say anything more about her. He tried to change the subject, but was all out of diversionary topics of conversation. He just wanted to get home, have a shower and let his head hit the pillow. It had been a long, draining, day and he was tired. But the night was bringing on his old, familiar hollow feeling, an emptiness that was still gnawing at him. He would have to ignore it, live with it. There was nothing he could do about it at the moment.
He thought of Jackie Fairley. Although he’d only met her once, he had taken to her, admired her, as Kennedy had said. Her death was a loss. If he’d still had some faith, he would have offered up a prayer for her, as it was he just wished she was well, wherever she was. Thinking of her led him back to Faye. Would she still be up when he got back? And if she was, what, if anything, would happen? What did he want to happen? Would she, however temporarily, be able to banish the emptiness, the loneliness?
He didn’t know the answer to any of those questions, so he drove in silence. Moir didn’t seem to want to talk either, so they sat, each one lost in his own private, but tangentially intersecting, thoughts, all the way back to Clapham.
Back in the house, Moir went straight to bed. Larkin had his shower. Being tired but unable to sleep, he went into the kitchen to make himself a coffee. As he waited for the kettle to boil, he noticed what was on the draining board. The wine bottle Faye and Andy had been drinking from earlier was there, along with another one. Next to that sat a drained gin bottle. Faye’s way of coping with her own emptiness, her own loneliness, thought Larkin. It made him want to hold her all the more.
Coffee in hand, he made his way up the stairs to his room. As he did so, he paused on the landing outside Faye’s room. He could just make out the faint sounds of her deep breathing. She was asleep, alone.
With no option, he decided to do the same, and walked slowly up the stairs to the attic. His feet hit the bare boards as he went, and each time left a small, hollow slap in his wake. The sound didn’t reverberate, didn’t echo, and it wasn’t long before the house returned to darkness, and stillness, for the rest of the night.
The Love Shack
Larkin walked along the pavement, alert the whole time, yet trying not to look it, not to look conspicuous. A north London street just off Kentish Town Road, it consisted of old, terraced Victorian and Edwardian houses, some undergoing, or having undergone, renovation, some in a state of misplaced modernism, having gone the pebbledash and UPVC windows route, and the others allowing, or even actively encouraging, entropy to take its course. It was an ordinary street, quiet enough not to attract attention.
The address he wanted was about halfway along, next to a house that sat firmly in the precinct of the gentrification police: UPVC windows were being torn out and replaced with wooden sash ones, pebbledash was being ripped off, brickwork restored. The work was being done with care and pride and it made the house Larkin was after look even shabbier.
37 Priory End Lane had discoloured red brick, old rotting window frames that looked like they hadn’t been painted since the Suez crisis, and a replacement front door; solid, well-secured, windowless. No light could enter. Yellowed net curtains hung at the windows and they, along with an inch-thick coating of urban grime, obscured the view inside.
Larkin reached the house, paused to check it was the right one, and clocked an old, dowdy-looking pub on the next corner. He made his way across the road, and entered.
The pub, called ironically enough The Hope, was the kind of place where career alcoholics took their dreams to die. The decor obligingly reflected that. It had just gone eleven and there were only a handful of drinkers in the place: a few old men with ravaged faces and wasted bodies, close to celebrating their Golden Weddings, fifty years of being locked into a loveless marriage with alcohol – and a decidedly uncomfortable-looking Andy Brennan. Larkin bought a pint at the bar, withstood the landlord’s openly hostile stare, and went to join Andy.
“Nice place,” said Larkin, pulling up a stool so uncomfortable it could have been used as a form of punishment in a Catholic monastery. “Earthy ambience.”
“Fuckin’ dive,” Andy grumbled. “You see the look you got off that landlord? You’d think he’d be glad of the business. I mean, when his regulars peg it, he’ll be out of a job, won’t he?”
“Not like you to be so fussy.”
“Yeah, well I’ve got my pride.”
Larkin laughed. “No you haven’t.”
Andy was about to answer back but Larkin silenced him.
“Never mind that. We’ve g
ot work to do. What’s been happening?”
“I’ve been watchin’ that place. Number thirty-seven. I’ve watched them come, an I’ve watched them go. An’ yeah, you’re right. It’s a knockin’ shop.” He took a swig of beer, sighed. “Fuck, Henry must want her back pretty bad to put himself through this.”
Larkin nodded. He had phoned Andy on his mobile first thing in the morning and asked if he was still around Camden. Andy had started to make excuses for the disappearing act he’d pulled the night before – “Got talk in’ to this stunnin’ bird an’ before you know it I was back at her place givin’ it the old heave ho” – but Larkin waved them aside. He told Andy to stay where he was, gave him the address Irvine had provided them with and set him to work on surveillance. Andy had phoned back with his location and Larkin had arranged to meet him.
“How d’you reckon we should play this, then?” asked Andy.
“I think it’s best if only one of us goes in. I’ll do it.”
“And what’ll I do?” asked Andy in not so mock aggrievement.
“Wait here,” said Larkin, lips curling into a smile.
“Here?” squawked Andy, indignation rising, “with Cheerful Charlie over there givin’ me the evil eye all the time?”
“It’s a perfect surveillance spot. You can see the house, keep an eye on the street and give me a bell on my mobile if there’s anything I should know. And you’re here for back-up if I need you. Plus,” Larkin added, the smile back again, “you’re always telling me what a born and bred London boy you are. Well these are your people. This is your culture. Sit here and bond.”
“These aren’t my people!” Andy spat, distaste on his tongue. “I’m a south London boy. That’s my manor. It’s like askin’ you to go to Sunderland, innit?”
“This place has got much more class than anything in Sunderland. And anyway, you’re not a south London boy, Andy. You’re a farmer’s son from Hampshire.”
“Fuck off,” Andy said, arms crossed, mumbling into the table. “You’re just pissed off ’cos I scored last night an’ didn’t wait around for you.”
“You think there’s a lot of skill involved in getting a girl so drunk she agrees to have sex with you?” Larkin stood up. “And you’re not getting any younger, you know. All you’ll be getting soon are sympathy shags.”
Andy started to reply but Larkin cut him off. “Just stay here,” he said, “and keep your eyes peeled.”
Earlier that morning Larkin had emerged from his room, made his way downstairs and found Faye and Moir sitting at the kitchen table together. As soon as he entered they stopped talking, words falling off in mid-sentence, and looked at him, smiling politely. Too politely. Something didn’t feel right, thought Larkin.
“Morning,” he said.
They both replied.
“Henry’s been telling me about the new lead,” said Faye. “Sounds promising.”
“We don’t want to build our hopes up,” Moir replied.
“Henry’s right,” said Larkin. “It could be something, it could be nothing.” He poured himself a coffee and sat at the table.
They outlined their plans for the day. Moir had intended to accompany Larkin to Kentish Town but Larkin had dissuaded him from that idea. If Karen was there, he might not want to see the condition she was in, and she might not want to talk to him yet. He’d call Andy, ask him to help instead. Faye then volunteered to spend the day with Henry, do something together, keep him occupied. Moir’s eyes seemed to light up at the thought, and he gave an involuntary smile to Faye, which she returned.
There was something flowing between them, Larkin thought, some kind of exclusive bond he wasn’t part of. Moir smiling was an unusual sight in itself, like he was using muscles his face didn’t possess or at the very least was only rediscovering the use of. Like watching stone wrinkle and crack open. Larkin excused himself, took his coffee to his room, and phoned Andy.
He walked up the stairs feeling strange. He was happy that the two of them were getting along, but there was a much deeper feeling lurking around inside him. Something with a lashing shark’s tail, basking below the surface. Jealousy, perhaps? He didn’t know, and didn’t have time to dwell on it. Instead he sat on the bed, dialled Andy’s number, waited for him to answer, and started with the insults.
As Larkin aproached the house, he saw the door open. His first thought was to hide, not be seen, but he soon discarded it. Instead he moved quicker and reached the front gate just in time to see a nondescript middle-aged man wearing a cheap suit and a look of self-revulsion step over the threshold, blinking as the light hit him, pulling his fly shut. Larkin moved briskly up the well-rutted front path.
“Hold the door,” he said.
The man held the door open, studiously avoiding eye contact, then hurried off once he saw Larkin had it. Larkin entered, letting the door close behind him.
The hall looked, depressingly, just as he had expected it to. Woodchip-covered walls bulging and discoloured, lino cracked, worn and perishing. Despite a masking of cheap air freshener, the place smelt of damp, decay and something more unpleasant and all-pervading. Larkin knew what it was, he’d come across it before. The stink of humanity at its worst.
He heard sounds from down the hall, the echo of heels clacking on floorboards followed by a retching sound. He followed it.
At the back of the house, off to the right, was a room that could once have been the dining room. Now a double bed took centre spot, covered by a faded, stained, purple terrycloth candlewick with a junk shop bedside cabinet beside it. On the cabinet was an open packet of condoms, an aged tube of KY and a grubby, sticky-looking black vibrator. A Calor gas heater stood in the corner, an old disemboweled armchair beside it and a threadbare rug on the floor. Against one wall was an old wardrobe that had never seen better days. Thin, cheap curtains were drawn at the window, stopping any light from entering. They had been that way a long time; dust had gathered in the folds.
In another corner of the room was an old porcelain wash basin, and bent over that was a young, miniskirted girl, coughing a last mouthful of vomit down the sink. Larkin watched as she straightened up and reached for a bottle of mouthwash. It looked like a move she’d practised many times. She flung her head back, gargling with a capful, and Larkin chose that moment to knock on the door.
The sound startled the girl and she turned quickly, swallowing the mouthwash as she did so. Larkin got a good look at her.
Her hair was almost blonde, long and swept over to one side, her make-up looked like the work of an over-enthusiastic child mimicking an adult. Her clothes – mini-skirt barely covering her backside, slingbacks with impossibly high spike heels, blouse exposing both flat-chested cleavage and midriff – all looked like they’d come from the racks of Tart Express. There was no air of sexuality about her, she just looked tired, worn and used. Larkin’s stomach gave a sour lurch as he put her age at no higher than fourteen. Her eyes, teary from vomiting and probably something more, were now wide with fear.
“Sorry to startle you,” said Larkin, as affably as possible, “but the door was open. I just came in.”
Her fear subsided slightly. “You’re early,” she said in a broad, but wary, Yorkshire accent. “I’m not expectin’ you for another fifteen minutes.”
Larkin gave what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Sorry. D’you want me to wait?” He could see she was scared, so rather than worry her even more, he decided to play along, pretend to be her punter.
She quickly sketched a smile that didn’t reach her frightened, eyes and flung it in Larkin’s direction without making eye contact.
“No, since you’re here, you may as well stay. Welcome to the Love Shack.” She sounded as genuine and convincing as a Channel Five game show host. She walked round the bed towards him. “Sorry about that before.” She gestured to the sink. “Had a bad curry last night,” she lied.
Larkin nodded and thought of the man he had just bumped into, the one fidgeting with his zipper. He’d pu
t something down her throat, but Larkin doubted it had been curry. “Right,” he said, colluding with her in the lie.
“Let’s get it sorted out then,” she said, sitting on the bed, addressing her chipped, painted toe-nails. “Money before the honey, as they say. I’ve not seen you here before. This your first time, then?” She reached out, grimacing more than smiling, and began to inexpertly stroke his arm.
He tried to come back with an answer, but a sudden thought lodged itself, stubborn and unwelcome, in his mind. No, Larkin thought to himself, it’s not. There was a time, just after his wife died, when he didn’t want to be close to anyone, couldn’t stand anyone to be near him. Conversely, all he wanted was to put his arms around someone, to hold them, and be held in return. It had been his absolute nadir. He had wrapped himself in booze and pills for a while and that hadn’t worked, but one bleak night he had been so lonely, so lost in a haze of memory and alcohol, that he had found a prostitute who the bottle convinced him looked like his dead wife, and gone back to her place. He had wanted sex, wanted his body to feel pleasure again, wanted the warmth of a woman next to him, wanted intimacy. He had paid her, stripped, then collapsed on the bed, calling his wife’s name, sobbing, begging to be held. The woman, a hardened professional who had had enough maudlin drunks to last a lifetime, had held him until he had passed out, put him to bed, and gone off to work somewhere else. The next morning he had woken up twisted with self-revulsion, got up and left; but not before the prostitute had extracted full payment from him for staying the night. He had never visited a prostitute since that night. Until now.
“Look,” Larkin started hesitantly, trying to keep his voice as unthreatening as possible, “I’m not a punter.”
Fear returned to the girl’s eyes. She backed away to the corner of the room. “What you doin’ ’ere, then?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” Larkin continued, although the girl didn’t look convinced. He kept his voice slow and calm. “I’m just looking for a girl who used to live here. Work here, I don’t know. All I know is, this is the last address I’ve got for her. Her name’s Karen. Her surname was probably Shapp. Scottish.”
Candleland Page 9
