Living Proof r-7

by John Harvey

  "To who?" Norman Mann asked.

  "And about what?"

  "The landlord. See, the bloke as was up there moved out and he left it to us to let out the room." A few more shifty looks wove back and forth.

  "On his behalf, like."

  "And you forgot?"

  "No, well, we got someone in, all right…"

  Norman Mann laughed.

  "Just a bit slow in letting the landlord in on it?"

  "Something like that."

  "Well, I know how it is, lads," Mann said.

  "Busy life like yours.

  Going down the video shop, cadging fags, jerking off, signing on.

  Understandable, really, you've never quite found the time. " One of the youths sniggered; the others did not.

  "This unofficial tenant," Resnick said.

  "Got a name?"

  "Marlene."

  "Kinoulton?"

  "Yeah, that's right. Yes."

  There were footsteps outside and then Sharon walked into the room.

  "Back door was open. Didn't reckon anyone was about to do a runner."

  "Here," said the shaven youth.

  "How many more of you are there?"

  "Hundreds," Norman Mann grinned.

  "Thousands. We're taking over the fucking earth!"

  The room Marlene Kinoulton had rented was on the first floor at the back. No lights showed under the door and when Resnick knocked there was no response. A hasp had been fitted across the door and a padlock secured.

  "Have that off in two ticks," Norman Mann said, flicking it up with his forefinger.

  "And have anything we find ruled inadmissible by the court," Resnick said.

  "Let's wait for the morning, get a warrant."

  "Suit yourself." Norman Mann looked quite disappointed. He was more of a knock-'emdownand-reckontheconsequences-afterwards man himself.

  "I'll babysit the place the rest of the night," Sharon offered, once they were back downstairs.

  "If she's around, she might come back."

  "Good," Resnick said.

  "Thanks. I'll send Divine round to relieve you first thing. Meantime, I'll chase up a warrant. See what she's got in there, worth keeping a lock on."

  In the front room, Norman Mann took a swallow at the can of lager he'd popped open and set it back down with a grimace.

  "What you^ re scrounging off the DSS, ought to be able to afford better than that."

  Reaching round, he switched the TV set back on.

  "Thanks, lads. Thanks for inviting us into your home."

  Cathy Jordan woke early, with the creamy taste of another late-night supper still rich in her mouth. She lay without moving, aware of Frank's absence, accepting it without surprise. They had tried, in the time they had been together, handling her enforced absences, these trips to the conventions and booksellers of the world, in a number of ways. At root, however, there were two alternatives: he went with her or he stayed home. Cathy liked to claim she left the choice to him.

  If Frank waved her off at the airport with a hug and a kiss and a see-you-in-six-weeks, within days he would be calling her erratically around the clock, unable to settle; and she would return to smiles and flowers and rum ours of drunken nights and drunken days and always there would be messages from women Cathy had never previously heard of, backing up on the answering machine.

  Or he travelled with her, bemoaning the cappuccinos and gymnasia of the free world; frequently bored, listless, quick to take offence and give it. And there were mornings like this, Cathy waking to one side of the bed, the other un slept in and unsullied, and later, around lunchtime, Frank would reappear, without explanation, his expression daring her to ask. Which at first she had, and, of course, he had lied; or she had made assumptions, right or wrong, and he had responded with counter accusation and attack. It was after one of these, she had finally said,

  "Frank, I don't give a flying fuck what you do or who you do it to, but if I ever contract as much as the tiniest vaginal wart as a result of your fooling around, I will never -and I mean, never speak to you again."

  Sniping aside, not a great many words had been exchanged on the subject since.

  Cathy sat up and surprised herself by not wincing when her feet made contact with the hotel carpet. It had been past midnight when Curtis Wooife had insisted on buying several bottles of champagne and then doctoring everyone's glass with four-star brandy. For the umpteenth time he proposed a toast to David Tyrell and thanked him for, as he put it, restoring his life's work to the light of a new day. It didn't seem as if Curds was going to be a recluse any longer. Amongst the other rum ours which abounded was one that he had been asked to film Elmore Leonard's non-crime novel Touch, with Johnny Depp as Juvenal, the beautiful healer, bleeding from five stigmata on prime time television and Winona Ryder as the record promoter who falls in love with him.

  Cathy, who to date had fielded approaches, official and unofficial, from Kim Basinger, Sharon Stone, Amanda Donohoe, Melanie Griffith, Phoebe Cates, Jamie Lee Curtis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh to play Annie Q. Jones, had leaned across and warned Curtis not to hold his breath. In most cases, it was far better to bank the option fee and pray no one ever got around to making the movie.

  She was about to get into the shower when the phone rang and she lost her footing to the sudden thought that it was someone calling with the news that something had happened to Frank. Something bad. The skin along her arms pricked cold as she lifted the receiver. Frank, out on the town in a town where men where getting stabbed and worse.

  It wasn't Frank, or anything about him; it was Dorothy Birdwell, asking if Cathy would consider joining her for breakfast 226 Cathy drew breath.

  "Sure, Dorothy. Why not?" And she returned to the shower, relieved, surprised, wondering if there was a certain British etiquette to these occasions she was supposed to observe.

  Skelton and his wife were making brittle conversation over the toast and marmalade. Frank Carlucci had not been the only person to stay out all night unannounced. At a little after seven, Kate had phoned from Newark and said she was sorry, but she'd got stuck, missed the last train, missed the bus, there'd been some confusion and she'd missed her lift; it had been all right, though, she'd been able to stay with friends. She hoped they hadn't been too worried. Why, Skelton had asked, his temper conspicuously under wraps, had she not called to tell them this earlier, before the worrying had begun?

  Kate's explanation had been too complicated and devious to believe or follow.

  "What on earth was she doing in Newark in the first place?" Alice had demanded, tightening the belt to her dressing gown.

  Skelton had shaken his head; aside from a vague idea that they sold antiques, he had never been certain what people did in Newark anyway.

  "What time did she say she would be back?" Alice asked.

  "She didn't."

  He had been pouring another cup of rather tired tea, when the doorbell sounded.

  "There she is now," said Alice.

  "And she's forgotten her key."

  But it was Resnick, braving another episode of happy families in order to persuade Skelton to apply for a search warrant for the end terrace in Harcourt Road.

  "The whole house?" Skelton asked, when he had listened to Resnick's explanations.

  "Might as well. While we're about it' While Cathy Jordan's breakfast was heavy on the grains and fruit, heavy on the coffee, Dorothy Birdweu's order, carefully enunciated, was for one poached egg " And that's poached, mind, properly poached, not steamed' – on dry whole meal toast and a pot of Assam tea.

  "Cathy," Dorothy Birdwell said, once her egg had been delivered (a poor, shrivelled thing, in Cathy's opinion) to the table.

  "I may call you Cathy, may I?"

  "Sure, Dottie. That's fine." She could tell Dorothy didn't like that, but the older woman took it in her stride.

  "You know, dear, I am not the greatest fan of the kind of thing that you write."

>   "Dorothy, I know."

  "In fact, I would go so far as to say, in a way I find it quite pernicious. I mean, this may be old-fashioned of me, I'm sure that it is, but I do think there are certain standards we have a moral obligation to maintain."

  "Standards?" Great, Cathy thought she's invited me down to receive a lecture, a grande-dame rap across the knuckles.

  "Yes, dear. A certain morality."

  Cathy speared a prune.

  "Let me get this straight. Are we talking sex here?"

  "My dear, you mustn't think me a prude. Sex is fine, in its place, I'm sure we would both agree to that." (We would? Cathy thought, surprised.) "But its most intimate details, well, I don't think we need to have those spelled out for us, you see. Not in all their personal intricacies, at least And the violence we most certainly inflict upon one another, if I wish to learn of that, I can always read the newspaper though, of course, I prefer not to1 do not wish to find myself confronting it inside an otherwise charming work of entertainment You do see my point dear?" in polite company, Cathy wondered, what did you do with a pmne stone?

  Spit it out into your hand, or push it under your tongue and risk being accused of speaking with your mouth full. Either way, it didn't matter. Dorothy's question had been rhetorical.

  "But I do want to say that I think the way those ghastly women have been ganging up on you is perfectly dreadful. And in no way could I ever bring myself to support their actions." She fluttered her hands above the remains of her poached egg.

  "That silly business with the paint."

  Cathy nodded.

  "To say nothing of the rabbit."

  Dorothy inclined her head forward.

  "Yes, dear. It was about that I most particularly wanted to talk."

  "You did?" The antennae in Cathy's brain were beginning to stand up and point, but she couldn't yet tell in which direction. She set down her spoon and fork and waited.

  "Marius," Dorothy said earnestly, 'has always been such a sweet boy, so single-minded in his attentions. I really couldn't begin to tell you all the things he has done for me. " For a moment, Dorothy paused and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

  "But, I now realise, there are times when he has allowed his1 suppose the only word I can use is devotion his devotion for me to, well, blind his judgement." She sipped her tea, grimaced in a ladylike way and added just a touch more milk.

  "I am sorry, dear."

  Cathy didn't say anything: she couldn't immediately think of anything aside from the scatological and the profane to say. She stared across the table at the older writer instead and, in return, Dorothy Birdwell smiled one of her perfunctory smiles and tipped some more hot water from the metal jug into the teapot.

  "Are you telling me," Cathy finally got out, whispering because she was afraid anything else would be a shout, 'that it was Marius pulled that gross stunt with the rabbit dolled up as a fucking baby? "

  It was do good, the whispering hadn't worked; she was shouting now, not quite at the top of her voice, but loud enough to have half the dining room turning round and an assistant manager heading towards them at a fast trot "Yes," Dorothy said, head bowed, 'and I'm afraid that is not all. "

  "Not all? Not all? Jesus, what's the little creep done now?"

  "My dear, I can only assure you, you have my deepest sympathy and apologies."

  "Sympathy? Apologies?" Cathy was on her feet now, stepping back.

  "With all due respect, Dorothy, your apologies, my ass!"

  "Really, dear, I don't think this kind of a scene…"

  "No? Well, I don't give a fuck what you think. What I do give a fuck for is where in sweet hell is your little lap dog Marius?"

  "I dismissed him, of course. I'm afraid there was quite a little scene. He was very upset. Very. But in the circumstances, there was no way in which I could change my mind." Again, she paused.

  "I am sorry, dear, believe me."

  "Where," Cathy said, 'is Marius now? "

  "I can only imagine he's gone to the station…"

  Train station? He's heading for where? London? Where? "

  "Is everything all right?" the assistant manager asked. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "Keep out of my face," Cathy snapped.

  "Manchester," Dorothy Birdwell said.

  "He has a friend, I think, in Manchester."

  "Thanks," Cathy said, 'for the breakfast. Thanks," over her shoulder, as she hurried off towards the nearest phone, 'for everything."

  Resnick had just got back to his office, warrant signed and 230 delivered into his hand, when Millington beckoned him towards the phone he was holding.

  "Cathy Jordan, for you. Likely wants to know if you've finished her book."

  "Hello," Resnick said, and then listened. After not too many moments, he asked Cathy to stop, take several deep breaths and start again.

  Slowly.

  "Right," he said when she had finished.

  "Right. Yes." And, "Right." He passed the receiver back into Millingtbn's hand.

  "Graham," Resnick said, 'get on to the station. Manchester train, I think it's the one comes across from Norwich. Have it stopped. " He swivelled round to see who was available in the office. " Lynn, pick up this bloke at the railway station, I'll arrange back-up. Marius Gooding. Late thirties, five seven or eight, shortish hair, dark.

  Smart in an old-fashioned kind of way. Maybe a blue blazer. Keep it low key, just ask him in for questioning, that's all. "

  "What if he refuses?"

  "Arrest him."

  What charge? "

  "Threatening behaviour, that'll do. Okay?"

  "Right."

  Millington was still talking to the stationmaster; any immediate developments he could handle here. Divine and Naylor had already gone out to relieve Sharon at the house where Marlene Kinoulton had her room. As he left to follow them, Resnick patted his inside pocket, making sure the search warrant was in place.

  Forty-one They found: one three-quarter-length coat, navy blue; one leather jacket, hip-length, black, badly scuffed along one sleeve; five skirts, three short, one calf-length, one long; two sweaters; one white, ruffle-front shirt; one black- beaded fishnet top with fringing; eight other assorted tops, including two T-shirts and a blue silk blouse with what looked like blood on one sleeve; one black velvet suit; two pairs of jeans, Levi red tab and Gap denim; three pairs of ski pants, one badly torn, possibly cut; five pairs of ribbed woollen tights; seven pairs of regular tights, one red, one blue, mostly laddered or holed; three pairs of stockings, all black, two with seams; two pairs of cotton socks, off- white; eleven pairs of briefs, two of them crotchless; one black suspender belt; three brassieres; one bus tier one nurse's uniform, badly stained; one school gym slip bottle green.

  Two pairs of ankle boots, a brown and a bright red; one pair of black leather lace-up boots, knee-length; two pairs of trainers, Reebok and Adidas; seven pairs of shoes.

  Condoms: Durex Featherlite and Elite and Mates liquorice ribbed.

  K-Y lubricating jelly, three tubes.

  Vaseline.

  Body Shop body massage oil.

  Cotton buds. Smoker's toothpaste. Safeway frequency wash shampoo. A diaphragm. A pregnancy testing kit, unused. Soap. Boots face cream.

  Nail polish, seven different shades. Nail polish remover. One Philips electric 232 razor, lady's model. One set of make-up brushes. Navy eyeliner. Green mascara. Dejoria hand and body lotion. Aloe hair gel. Max Factor Brush-On Satin Blush. Princess Marcella Borghese Pink Marabu Blusher, hot pink. Three kohl pencils. Three bottles of aspirin. One packet of Nurofen. Lipsticks, seven ranging from Coral Reef to Vermilion. Panty liners. One box of tampons, extra absorbency, five remaining.

  Perfume. One plastic bottle of Tesco antiseptic mouthwash, peppermint flavour, family size.

  Paperback books: Dark Angel by Sally Beauman; The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris; Rosemary Conley's Hip and Thigh Diet, Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin; Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
.

  Assorted copies of Elle, Vanity Fair, She, Cosmopolitan, Fiesta and Men Only.

  One video tape of Sex Kittens Go Hawaii.

  Kleenex.

  An Aiwa radio-cassette player, with a copy of the Eurythmics' Greatest Hits inside. Assorted cassettes by Phil Collins, Chris Rea, Chris de Burgh and Tina Turner.

  One medium-size suitcase, a tan handbag, two imitation leather shoulder bags. Inside one of the bags, a purse containing forty-seven pence in change, several used tissues, a torn half-ticket for the Showcase cinema and a strip of four coloured head-and-shoulder photographs of an unsmiling Marlene Kinoulton.

  In a drawer, one Coke can, a hole punched through approximately one inch from the end, around which there were signs of burning. Two boxes of matches. A container of aluminium foil.

  In a buckled metal dustbin in the back yard, and partly covered by grey-black ashes, several fragments of dark material synthetic mixed with cotton singed, but not burnt.

  In the kitchen on the ground floor, somehow stuffed down behind the piece of narrow, laminated board that separated the washing machine from the swing-top rubbish bin, one dark blue, Ralph Lauren, wool and cotton mix sock with a red polo player logo.

  On its way to Liverpool, via Manchester, the twin- carriage train stopped at Langley Mill, Alfreton and Mansfield Parkway, Bolsover, Sheffield, Edale and Stock- port. At that moment, it had stopped within sight of the station, small knots of would-be passengers staring along the track towards it, checking their watches, the overhead clock, the monitor screens on which the slightly nickering green lettering announced no delay and clearly lied.

  Lynn almost approached the wrong man, before she spotted Marius, standing close to the window of the buffet, glancing distractedly at the copy of the Telegraph folded in his hand. He was wearing a blue blazer, grey trousers with a deep crease, black brogue shoes that shone. There was a smart, double-strapped, leather suitcase at his side.

  "Marius?" Lynn said softly, so softly that he only just heard.

  "Hmm? I'm sorry?" He looked at a youngish woman, with brown hair cut, he thought, rather savagely short. A round face that seemed, somehow, to have sunk, like early-punctured fruit.

  "Is your name Marius?"