Living Proof r-7

by John Harvey

  Farleigh had Joined them for a swift half in their local before driving to a little place he favoured just this side of Loughborough; very nice smoked mackerel with gooseberry sauce. By twenty past two, he had been steering the Granada into the car park at the University School of Agriculture, Sutton Bonington.

  Whenever people asked his line of work, more often than not he would temper sales executive with a wink and a self-deprecating smile: fifteen years in fertilisers, best make sure you're sitting downwind.

  He had been back in the city by six and by seven had written up his sales reports, called his secretary on her home number and checked his appointments for tomorrow, thought about phoning his wife got halfway through dialling the number before deciding against it.

  One of the things he couldn't stand, men who behaved as if they were on some kind of leash.

  Peter Farleigh sucked in his stomach beneath the hotel towel, made a fist to circle steam from the mirror and leaned forward to examine his face; he could leave shaving till morning. A splash of aftershave would do.

  Dry, he put on clean socks, underpants and shirt, the same suit and tie. In the lounge bar, he ordered a G amp; T, evinced enough of an interest in the forthcoming test series to have the waist coated barman smiling, tipped in the rest of his tonic and carried his glass over to a table near the smoked-glass window. Blurs of light passed along the street outside, trailing orange smoke.

  When Farleigh turned his head, she was sitting across from him, relaxed into one of the easy chairs near the piano, leaning back.

  Black dress, dark hair curling away from the nape of her neck.

  Thirty? Thirty-three? He watched as she bent forward to pick up her bag, the way the button-through dress eased itself a little higher above her knees when she sat back. Oblivious to anyone around her, the woman tapped a cigarette from the pack, clicked her lighter, no response, gave it a shake and tried again, 102 finally dropped the lighter back inside her bag and began rummaging for a match.

  "Here," Farleigh said, walking towards her.

  "Allow me."

  "Thanks." Perfume, red nails matching the dark of her lipstick; smoke that moved soft across her face.

  "Staying here at the hotel?"

  Shaking her head, she smiled.

  "No. I'm meeting a friend."

  Back at his seat, Farleigh thumbed through the menu, vacillating between the steak and the salmon. A light- toned Afro-Caribbean sat down at the piano and almost immediately began with

  "Over the Rainbow', sleeves of his lightweight cream jacket pushed high above his wrists. For some moments, Farleigh was nagged by the thought that he had missed his daughter's birthday; once they were off at university, it was so difficult to keep tabs. At the edge of his vision, the woman shifted her position casually, leaning forward to the ashtray and back, crossing and recrossing her legs.

  If she looks at me when I get up, Farleigh thought, I'll speak to her again. Instead, her head was turned towards the pianist, who had eased the microphone over the keyboard and was lightly crooning, The and Mrs Jones'. For God's sake, Farleigh told himself, stop being so bloody pathetic!

  In the dining room, he decided fish twice in one day wasn't a good idea and ordered the steak. One bite and he knew that hadn't been a good idea either.

  "Everything satisfactory, sir?"

  "Fine, thank you."

  As compensation, he sent back his glass of house red and ordered a bottle of good Bordeaux. Before now he'd paid the earth for stuff that tasted more like the copper sulphate fungicide known to the trade his trade as Bordeaux Mixture, but this was the real thing.

  By the time he had risen to his feet, one bottle later, his head was slightly muzzy and it had taken him a while to realise that the dark-haired woman from the bar was now sitting at a corner table of the restaurant, evidently still alone.

  That's all right, Farieigh lectured himself, keep on walking; couple of phone calls, early night Just as long as she doesn't look up. But it hadn't even taken that The woman was surprised when Farieigh stopped beside her table.

  "At least you made the right choice," he said, nodding towards her plate.

  I'm sorry? "

  "The salmon. I had the steak. Like the proverbial, I'm afraid."

  "The proverbial what?" There was just a hint of lipstick, dark against the white of her teeth.

  Old boots. "

  Farieigh smiled and she smiled back with her eyes; she was older, he decided, than he had first thought, but not by too much. Still the right side of forty.

  It was never an issue," she was saying.

  "The steak. I'm vegetarian."

  Ah. "

  All that stuff they pump into the poor animals, mad cow disease and everything. " She smiled, more fully this time.

  "Perhaps you think that's foolish?"

  Not at all. " Things I could tell you, he was thinking, put you off your food for a lifetime.

  "What happened?" he asked, indicating the empty chair.

  Vaguely, she waved a hand.

  "Oh, you know…"

  "It's difficult to imagine."

  "What's that?"

  "Anyone standing you up."

  He had hoped for some response, a laugh, an explanation. Instead, she looked down at her plate and pushed at a piece of pink flesh with the edge of her fork. Farieigh knew he had blown it.

  "Well, enjoy the rest of your meal."

  She waited until he had almost turned away.

  "Why don't you sit down? Join me for a drink. "

  Twenty

  Curtis Woolfe's film had been well received. Of course, there were always those who wanted nothing more than the latest glossy mishmash of unarmed combat and special effects, and who found anything pre-seventies slow and dull and boring.

  "Nothing happens," they would say, mooching down to the bar for their designer lager. Nothing happens. Well, nobody's head came off, nobody's blood spurted a perfect technicolour parabola across the screen, nobody humped naked in the shower or the kitchen sink; there was no Chuck, or Steven, or Cynthia, no Jean Claude, Arnie, or Sly; not even (the heavens forfend) Bruce Willis. But the moment when Albert Dekker steps into the darkness of his hotel room, twists the key in the lock behind him, slides the bolt and turns back into the room to see Martha Mac Vicar feral face illuminated through the slanting blinds by the light across the street, still had most of the audience catching its breath. The smile that died in her eyes as her teeth bit down into her lower lip.

  In the auditorium, Curtis Wooife had been pleased with the audience's reaction and had answered questions with self-deprecating charm. What had it been like working with Mitchum?

  "Delightful, especially when he was stoned." Who was the most beautiful femme fatale'1.

  "Gail Russell ask John Wayne." What was his favourite film noirl

  "Aside from my own. Out of the Past." Why hadn't he made a film in over twenty years?

  "Nobody asked me."

  Here in Sonny's restaurant, he was even more relaxed. Gesticulating over the food in his assumed Gallic manner, almost anxious to talk about the other films in the season, Wooife was lavish in his praise for Tyrell and the festival.

  Resnick had arrived early, drunk a Beck's alone at the large reserved table and been about to leave when, through the curved corner window, he had seen Mollie Hansen leading the group along Carlton Street, past the George Hotel. There were a dozen of them in all, Dorothy Birdwell the last to arrive, leaning on Marius Gooding's arm. Cathy Jordan, her hair trimmed back and partly covered by a black velvet beret, had taken a seat alongside Resnick; her husband, facing them, sat beside Mollie.

  "So how was the film?" Resnick asked, starting on his second beer.

  Cathy Jordan speared a piece of bread, spread it lavishly with butter and took a generous bite.

  "I had an aunt once, lived all her life in this town near Jackson, Wyoming. So small it didn't even rate a pimple on the map. You could turn up there any time, day or night, unannou
nced, nothing in her store cupboard to speak of, yet inside half an hour you'd find yourself sitting down to the tastiest snack you could ever have imagined." She brushed a crumb from the side of her mouth and tried the wine.

  "Well, Curtis's film was like that.

  Considering what he had to work with, it was a small miracle. " She lifted the menu towards the light.

  "How d'you think this rack of lamb would be? I'm good and tired of steak and chicken."

  Across the city in his hotel, Peter Farleigh and the dark- haired woman were back in the bar. Michelle – she had told him that was her name, Michelle had developed a taste for blue cocktails afloat with tinned fruit and Farleigh had kept pace with her, drinking brandy now and talking in a voice that was just this side of loud. On and on about crop yields, fertilisers, EEC farming subsidies.

  When Michelle's eyes began to glaze over he changed the topic to his family, his three kids the one at university, the one who was already an accountant, the one who had gone off with a bunch of travellers and sent them marigold teas and pictures from the I-ching.

  The pianist had trawled his way from Cats to Carousel and eventually given way to piped music: bland arrangements of the Beatles for saxophone, six strings and a drum machine.

  From behind the bar, a voice called last orders. Farleigh looked hard at Michelle and she looked away; he let his hand drift down towards her leg and with a look she stopped it well short of her knee.

  "I hope, Peter, you're not going to make a move on me."

  "I'm sorry, no, look, I…" He could feel his face reddening and that only made it redden more. What was he doing sitting there, blushing like a schoolboy whose mother had chosen the wrong moment to come into the room?

  "What was going to be the next step, Peter?" She was leaning towards him, almost touching her shoulder to his arm.

  "Asking me up to your room?"

  Look. "

  "Well…?"

  "Michelle, I…" Suddenly he became aware of his own sweat, sweet and rancid; the muscles of his stomach tightened and refused to let go.

  "Was that it?" her voice rising.

  "Because if it was, Peter, well, I have to say you'd have been disappointed."

  Farleigh was certain everyone else in the bar could hear.

  "All right, look, it's been a nice evening, let's just forget it."

  Forget it? "

  Yes. " He pushed an almost empty packet of cigarettes down into his pocket, brushed the heel of his hand across the eyebrow of his right eye.

  "I think that's best, don't you?"

  "Best?"

  "Yes." Standing now, while she leaned back into the comfort of the chair and surveyed him with amused eyes.

  Peter? "

  "Mmm?"

  "You know I'm teasing you, don't you?"

  He could still smell himself, hear his own breath.

  "I am teasing you."

  "Yes, well, like I say…" All the while, backing away.

  "I would if you asked me1 mean, I would like to… go with you, you know, to your room."

  Farieigh looked clumsily round. A man with a shock of almost pure white hair was staring back at him from a stool at the corner of the bar. As Farieigh continued to look, the man smiled, more a simper than a smile, and Farieigh quickly looked away.

  "Unless," Michelle said, 'you've changed your mind. "

  He sat back down. There was a mole, a small one he hadn't noticed before, just to the right of her cheek, and her eyes, what would you call that shade of brown?

  She inclined her head towards him.

  "Have you changed your mind?"

  The answer, not instant.

  "No."

  "Good. Let's not waste any more time, then, down here." She was on her feet now, holding out her hand.

  Peter took it, but as soon as he was standing she pulled it away.

  "After you."

  As they were waiting for the lift, she slipped her arm through his.

  Another couple stood waiting, a little behind them, younger, the woman fidgeting with the cuff-links on the man's right sleeve. They had been out to some formal occasion and were wearing evening dress.

  The woman was pretty in an obvious kind of way and somehow reminded Farieigh of his daughter, not the one at university, the other one.

  The one who sent him tea and blessings and whom he rarely saw. She was wearing a silver dress cut low and once they were in the lift, despite Michelle's proximity, he found it difficult not to stare at the tops of her breasts.

  "A hundred and fifty," Michelle said.

  At first, Farleigh wasn't even sure she was talking to him.

  "A hundred and fifty."

  "What about it?"

  "That's what it'll cost' " What? "

  The. For the rest of the right A hundred and fifty pounds. "

  Farleigh was still staring at the young woman, unable to look at Michelle. The young man, embarrassed, was staring at the buttons beside the lift door.

  "Well?" Michelle said.

  "Don't you think I'm worth it?"

  Close to Farleigh, the young woman suddenly threw back her head and laughed. The lift stopped at the sixth floor and the couple Scrambled out. After a moment, the doors sighed shut and the lift continued its ascent "I thought you knew," Michelle said. Farleigh shook his head and she smiled.

  "Knew that I was working."

  "No, how could I?"

  The lift stopped again and they got out into the empty corridor.

  "What did you think was going on then?"

  "I don't know. I suppose I just thought, you know…"

  "That I'd let you pick me up? That I fancied you?"

  "Yes."

  "Marvellous, isn't it?" Michelle said.

  "The way we deceive ourselves."

  Threading through the sounds of the restaurant, the voice of a woman singing

  "Someone to Watch Over Me." Resnick thought it might be Carmen McCrea, but he 110 couldn't be sure. Whoever had decided, ten years or so ago, that jazz was a good accompaniment to fashionable eating, he felt he owed them a vote of thanks.

  Beside him, Cathy Jordan was tucking into an unhealthy portion of sticky toffee pudding, while Resnick, with unusual restraint, confined himself to his second large espresso.

  "See that?" With her spoon, she made a dismissive flicking gesture across the table.

  "Lothario in action."

  Oblivious, Frank Cariucci was engaging Mollie Hansen in intense conversation; if he got any closer he would be eating his creme caramel out of her lap.

  "Doesn't bother you?" Resnick asked.

  Cathy glanced across at them and then away.

  "Not any more." The look in her eyes suggested she might almost mean it.

  "Besides, that young woman can handle herself."

  Resnick drew breath slowly and nodded. About that, he thought she was right. Along the table, Dorothy By-dwell, back upright, head tilted forward, sat quite asleep.

  "That was all it took," Frank Cariucci was saying to Mollie, 'a little investment here, little advertising there. One minute I'm the guy who won silver snatching the big one at the Games, face all over the sports pages for weeks. The Olympics, right? A big deal. "

  Mollie yawned.

  "A while after that," Frank said, 'things got kinda slow. That's till I met Cathy there. Married her. Wake up and what am I? Mr Cathy Jordan, that's what. "

  Oh, God, thought Mollie, here we go. Another everyday story of emasculation. Tennessee Williams without the style.

  "I could only take that for so long," Frank was saying.

  "I knew I had to do something for myself. Something big. So I look around, talk a little here, a little there, a favour to be called in, you know what I mean? Now here I am, heading up the fastest-growing catering franchise on the West Coast. Shops everywhere, those little carts, signs Cariucci's cappuccino, the coffee with muscle. Truckers pull over and drink my stuff without there's guys looking at 'em strange for drinking someth
ing with a fancy name, bunch of froth on top. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "I understand," Mollie said quietly, 'if you don't take your fucking hand off my leg, I'm going to stick this fork right through it' There was a scar on one of her breasts, curving beneath it, a thin ridged line, small and white. Peter Farleigh lay on his back and Michelle knelt above him, straddling his thighs. She was still wearing skimpy bikini pants. They had fooled around for a while earlier, Michelle finding some baby oil in her bag, and now a small pool of it floated in one of the folds of his stomach, glistening a little in the light from the window, the only light in the room.

  "Are you ready?" she said.

  She could see he was ready.

  "All right," she said, 'just a minute. " And leaned sideways, reaching down again to where her bag lay beside the bed.

  Bloody condoms, Farleigh thought, shifting his position to accommodate her move. Still, better safe than sorry.

  But then he saw what was in her hand, the look in her eyes, and he knew that wasn't true.

  Twenty-one

  Resnick had just walked into the CID room when the call came in, Millington picking up and listening only long enough to beckon him over, pass the phone across.

  "Right," Resnick said, a minute later.

  "We've got a body. Graham, you come with me. Mark…"

  "Boss?"

  "I shall need you and Kevin knocking on a few doors."

  Divine didn't need telling twice.

  "How about Lynn?" Millington asked. They were in the corridor, heading for the stairs.

  "Seeing the shrink, isn't she? Could always get her to cancel. Reschedule."

  "For the sake of fifty minutes? No, I don't think so."

  Millington pushed open the rear door to the car park. "How long till all this psycho babble business is over and done with, that's what I'd like to know?"

  "Graham," Resnick said, with a slow shake of the head, "I doubt it ever is."

  To say the body was in the bath was not quite accurate. The left arm and leg and most of the trunk were hanging inside, the right leg outside, trailing at an awkward angle to the floor. The right arm stretched along the bath's rim, the head resting, open-mouthed, against the crook of the elbow. From the position alone, it was unclear whether the dead man had been trying to climb into the bath or crawl out.