Amphetamines and Pearls

by John Harvey

‘Coffee?’ I asked.

  ‘Please. White with sugar, if that’s all right.’

  It was and when I brought it through from the kitchen she was reading the newspaper, opened out at its centre pages.

  ‘They don’t waste much time, do they?’

  I put down the two cups on the small glass table and sat beside her. The middle of the spread was taken up with a large photograph of Candi Carter exposing as much flesh as her manager could persuade her would be good for her record sales. She was draped around the mast of a yacht, wearing the smallest of small bikinis. On the pants, slightly to the right of centre, were her initials, one C running through the other. Her mouth was parted and her tongue poked out, as it were, provocatively. Meat for the world’s meat market: now dead meat. Dead at the world’s table.

  The inch-deep headlines to the left of the page shouted out her murder. The text underneath said nothing in great detail, while it suggested a good deal more. Had she been waiting for a lover? Had she known her killer? What was the mystery of the woman in white alone in an anonymous flat?

  The right hand side listed the facts of her career—from teenage band singer in the provinces to international recording star—and gave the names of her currently available albums. For those who wanted to climb aboard another cult wagon.

  ‘Tasteful, isn’t it? Someone must have worked hard through the night to put all this …’ she held the paper up between two fingers as though it might be contagious … ‘muck together!’

  She stood up and flung the pages across the room. I looked up into her face, looking for the saving smile. This time she could not manage it. The tears fought their way past her will into the corners of her eyes, then sprung out on to her cheeks.

  ‘Scott!’

  The cry was despairing: as though she could hold in her anguish and her fears no longer. She half-fell, half-dived down into my arms and I was holding her tight, tight; her breath was warm against the inside of my neck and her face was damp and small against my shoulder. I sat like that until her breathing eased and the chest that pumped a plea through me had calmed; I sat and stroked her hair and all the time part of me wanted to be more than a million miles away.

  But when I had stepped aside at the door to let her through I had already made my move.

  I took her by the arms and held her away from me.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  She wiped at her face with a tissue, yellow and already overused. Again the smile.

  ‘Maybe another cup of coffee. If you’ve got the time.’

  Time. I had all the time in the world and then some. Time to live and time to die: time to get suckered into a few more beatings: time to be a fall-guy for murder even. What I didn’t have time for wasn’t worth having. And what I sensed Vonnie was going to offer wasn’t worth having either.

  ‘Why were you there, Scott? It says in the paper that you found the … the body. I didn’t think you had been seeing her. Any more than I had.’

  I was putting the coffee down as she said it and something about that last sentence made me spill it over into the saucers. Only slightly, but enough to notice. Why did she need to tell me that? I knew they hadn’t been on speaking terms for years.

  I went back into the kitchen to find something to wipe up the mess. Methodical. Neat, tidy … and suspicious. I’d been in this business too long.

  ‘She phoned me the night before last. Said she needed help—she wouldn’t say what over the phone.’ I went up to see her and …’

  Vonnie looked at me: ‘It must have been horrible!’

  ‘Dead bodies are never nice. Especially when they were people you knew.’ She was stirring her coffee absent-mindedly. ‘What do you want, Vonnie? Why did you come round?’

  She sat back, a little startled, and stopped playing with her spoon.

  ‘Scott! That doesn’t sound very nice. It makes it seem as if I wanted something from you.’ A pause. A smile. ‘I suppose I do … a little sympathy. I mean, you used to know her so well, and …’

  ‘… And I just happened to find her body.’

  The room struck very cold. I wanted to ask more questions but she was too close and the memory of her crying in my arms was too fresh. I got up and walked over to the sideboard; poured myself a whisky; drank it down. When it hit my stomach I spoke.

  ‘If you wanted sympathy what was wrong with your husband? All you had to do was roll over in bed and there he was. Instead you get up early, make yourself up smart, wear your most appealing clothes—while allowing for a little sisterly mortification in honour of the recently deceased—and get round here hotfoot so as to weep your pretty little tears all over my morning coffee. Why, Vonnie? Why?’

  At first I thought she might be going to start wailing all over again, then I thought she might try and smile her way out of it. But she was good. She stood straight up and came right at me.

  ‘Look, Scott The first I knew of Ann’s death was when I went downstairs early this morning and picked the newspaper up out of the hall. Nobody else had thought to tell me, though I suppose there was no reason why they should and I can’t think who would have done it anyway. I bring the paper back upstairs and then I find out she’s been murdered and that you, of all people, found her body. Martin’s still in bed sleeping—he had a late night. So I got dressed, left him a note, and came round to see you. I wanted someone to talk to, damn it!’

  ‘And more …’ I suggested.

  ‘All right! And more.’ She sat down, but she wouldn’t let me off the hook of her stare. ‘I want you to take the case.’

  ‘The case?’

  ‘Yes, the case. Isn’t that what you call it?’

  ‘Call what?’

  ‘What you do.’

  ‘Vonnie, all I do is try to make a living from walking round with my feet dragging in the sewers and my head even lower. If that’s what you call a case, then I guess that’s what I do.’

  ‘Then if that’s what you do, I’ll pay you to do it.’

  I went over to the easy chair and lowered myself into it, slowly. My bruises from the night before still hurt me; my head was singing out inside with warnings and snatches of old songs about dying; when I looked over at her still young body I felt suddenly old.

  ‘I’ll say it again, Vonnie. Why?’

  ‘Why? Come on, Scott, I thought you were the detective. I’m asking you because you were the one who found her and because you used to know her. Know her well.’ The look cut through me. ‘Surely if anyone can find out what happened, then it’s you.’

  I hauled myself forward in the chair. ‘Maybe. But why not just let the po …’

  ‘… The police don’t exactly have a very good record for solving murders at the moment, do they? And besides, there may be things they wouldn’t turn up, things they … Oh, Scott, I don’t know. I just feel that if you were looking as well then there might be more chance of getting to the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘Yes, the truth.’

  I had a horrible feeling that we were about to go into one of those Marx Brothers routines again. Only I had no doubt in my mind who was Groucho and that the dope who was being fooled by the dollar bill on the end of a piece of thread was me. The thing was I couldn’t see the face on the bill and I didn’t want to grab the thread yet for fear of breaking it.

  ‘If I agree, there’s the money. Your old man may not like the idea of his hard-earned cash going into my pockets.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I have some money of my own. I won’t even tell Martin.’

  I looked at her quizzically. For a girl who had come through my front door under the pretext of being all dewdrops and roses, she was rapidly becoming decidedly thorny.

  ‘Martin wouldn’t care. He’s too wrapped up in his own business to pay much attention to what I do.’

  It was said i
n a matter-of-fact way, without a trace of sarcasm or bitterness. But it was said. I filed it away under possibly useful information and went on.

  ‘I thought he was a librarian. I’d never thought of that as a totally absorbing occupation.’

  ‘He is a librarian. But lately he’s gone into partnership with somebody in the book trade. Rare editions, special bindings, that sort of thing. They do a lot of export trade. So, since he began doing that, he’s been twice as busy. Some weeks I hardly see him at all. But …’ She shrugged her shoulders and twitched her nose again. ‘… as long as he’s happy …’

  Vonnie’s voice trailed off. If she was playing for sympathy, then she sure as hell wasn’t going to get any. Only I didn’t know if she was—playing, I mean. I didn’t know what she was doing. I just wondered if she did.

  She was sitting down again and one of her smooth hands was holding the sleeve of my shirt.

  ‘Will you help?’

  Now was the time to be definite: now was the time to say no. To look her back straight between those smiling, pleading eyes and say no—politely, yet firmly—and show her back out of the door.

  Instead I heard myself saying, ‘Fifty pounds as a retainer. Then ten pounds a day, plus legitimate expenses.’

  She said, nothing. After a few seconds I got up and went over to the filing cabinet that served as desk and flower pot stand. Not that I had any flowers. But the stand gave the room an air of hope, at least. At least, that’s what I thought. Sometimes.

  I gave Vonnie her receipt and took her cheque. It was made out in a small, neat hand to Scott Mitchell. It was for fifty pounds only and at the bottom, in the right hand corner, was the signature—Veronica Innes.

  When she had gone I had got two-thirds of the way through making yet another pot of coffee before I realised that I didn’t want any more. I sat on the stool in the kitchen and looked idly at the pattern on the tiles. Martin’s name was Lambden. Her married name was Lambden. So why had she signed the cheque with her maiden name?

  4

  The room was at the back of an amusement arcade in Old Compton Street. From where I was standing, idly playing pin-ball and trying to look as though that was how I usually spent my lunch times, it appeared to be locked. At least, when a greasy looking drifter in a soiled afghan had tried it there had been no response. And there was no light showing through the glass above the door. It might have been the middle of the day, but if Maxie was in there he would have needed some light. In his moleish world he needed every bit of light he could get.

  I pulled back on the table and tried to jerk the ball on to some promising numbers. All I got was tilt. Still, I wasn’t the only poor player around. The guy across the room wasn’t having much luck either.

  Worn leather bum-freezer jacket, leather cap on his head, gloves stuck into his trouser belt. He sure was intent upon his pin-ball machine. Or was it the fact that he would be able to see me reflected in the glass behind, just as I could see him?

  Whatever the case, he sure as hell couldn’t play.

  Someone else tried Maxie’s door. They must have been in some kind of a hurry, for they kicked it real hard when it wouldn’t open. I figured the noise gave me an excuse to look round.

  When I saw him I wondered that the door had not given way. I had seen big men before but he was ridiculous. He had to be all of six foot eight and he weighed enough to start a whole new class of heavyweights. He wasn’t wearing over-much considering it was still what most normal people would consider cold; the only concession to the temperature was a brown woolly hat that was pulled down tight over his skull. He was as black as ebony and looked as if his idea of a little light exercise might be tearing telephone booths in two.

  I noticed that my fellow pin-ball devotee was looking at him in a rather awe-stricken way, too, but I guessed there was nothing surprising about that.

  He didn’t bother to look down on either of us; just once back at the door, then out.

  I wondered whether Maxie would be glad or sad he had missed his visitor. Maybe he’d be sad. Perhaps he was one of those happy giants you read about who are just like happy children inside: full of friendly fun. Only they often don’t know their own strength.

  I went back to my game; my interested companion went back to his. A few Greeks drifted in and then drifted out again: waiters without a table to serve: hairdressers without a head to work on. A young woman ran in, looked round breathlessly, swore once, then ran out. Apart from that it was quiet. Only the click and occasional buzz of the machines.

  When Maxie came back from what I guessed was his lunchtime drink, he shambled through the brightly lit arcade without apparently noticing either of us. Or anything else. His wispily balding head stuck out from the dirty collar of his coat like a disease. The scalp was pitted and scabbed under the few strands of greying hair. His puffed-up eyes were almost totally closed and little light showed from the slits that remained. Maxie was a walking sore, but he had worked this patch since before I had been a copper on the beat. He knew everything that happened in and around his arcade, whatever it might appear to the contrary. When he shuffled round, giving change or jabbing at machines with a screwdriver, he heard more than anyone thought he could, saw when others thought him almost blind.

  It wasn’t only the coloured prostitutes from South London who plied their trade in the evenings inside the warmth of the arcade. There were the pushers, also, using the freedom of movement that the place afforded. An envelope, a small roll of plastic, a phial: here anything could change hands for the right price.

  And the coppers on the beat kept on walking by, eyes averted, hands outstretched. Nothing changed.

  I gave Maxie time to scratch himself, then I went in. He hadn’t seen me for a long time but he recognised me straight away. I couldn’t tell whether or not he was pleased. Not that it would have mattered. Only the notes inside my wallet did that.

  ‘’Ello, Mitchell. Long time since you was this way. Thought you might ’ave give it all up. Become a salesman or somethin’.’

  His cackling laugh broke into a spluttering cough, which he quenched with a dirty piece of rag from his coat pocket.

  ‘Only one of us is a salesman, Maxie.’

  ‘You’re right there, Mitchell. No one would buy anything from an ex-copper.’ He laughed at his own joke and shuffled his feet. For a moment I thought he was going to break into a dance. Instead he came towards me and I took a step backwards to avoid the smell.

  ‘It’s information I want, Maxie. Not a close-up. Christ! When did you last have a bath?’

  ‘Bath, Mitchell?’ he chortled. ‘Bath? Why, none of me friends would know me.’

  ‘Okay, Maxie.’ I reached for my wallet and laid it on the table in front of him. Immediately he stopped laughing; money was no laughing matter.

  ‘Anything I can do, Mitchell, you know me.’ The words sounded like claws.

  I took out one note, then another. I held fast to them with my fingers pressed down on to the dirt of the table top.

  ‘If I wanted to get a steady supply of dope, where would I go?’

  ‘Well, that depends, don’t it. I mean there’s all kinds of dope nowadays. Depends how much money you got, too. But if you come in about ten tonight, then I’ll …’

  I reached across the table and lifted him off the ground by the collar of his coat. It was like running your fingers into thick grease. I pushed him away against the wall.

  ‘You heard me, Maxie. I said a steady supply. Not a quick jump from one of your friendly neighbourhood pushers that you’re busy getting a cut from. Good stuff, clean and reliable. Delivered quietly and respectably and without any awkward questions being asked. Maybe amphetamines, maybe something harder. Maybe heroin. I’m not sure.’

  He had pushed himself back from the far wall and was wheezing breath all over the table: but his tiny eyes were focused on the notes. I adde
d another two. Already that was two days of Vonnie’s money I had spent and I hadn’t started yet.

  He didn’t want to tell me but he didn’t want the notes to find their way back into my wallet either.

  ‘It’s difficult. Things are changing. There’s a lot of new muscle about. People are getting eased out and others are moving in. Some of the small-time blokes who use my place have stopped coming. Someone is out to tighten up on the market.’

  Maxie looked up at me and although I could not see into his eyes I knew that they were worried. Even frightened.

  The notes were on their way back inside the wallet and I was on my way to the door.

  ‘Wait. Give me a day. Come by again, say tomorrow. Around closing time. I’ll do what I can for you.’

  The last promise was accompanied by an outstretched, dirty hand. I put one five pound note into it and watched the fingers close round it as though they were starving.

  ‘The rest tomorrow, Maxie. If you’ve got the information.’

  I went out through the door. My friend in the leather jacket was no longer to be seen. Half way to the entrance I thought of something and went back.

  Maxie did not appear to have moved. Maybe he was drinking. Maybe not

  ‘Someone called to see you while I was waiting. About seven foot of Negro, all sewn together in one neat package. Anyone you know?’

  This time I didn’t need to see his eyes to know that he was afraid. The grubby fingers tightened round the note and screwed it tight into the palm of his hand.

  For a split second I almost felt sorry for him: then I went out.

  When I got out on to the street I saw the guy who had been playing pin-ball sitting across the way drinking coffee. He tried very hard to look innocently at the passers-by and not to notice me. I just wondered who was paying him and if they knew what a cheap deal they were getting for their money.

  My office was in Covent Garden. It had been there in the days of the vegetable market and when that had been moved out so that the site could be redeveloped I sort of got left behind. Somebody gave the orders to somebody else and all around me old buildings were sent crashing to the ground to make way for new bomb sites.