by John Harvey
‘Who hired him to tail you, Mitchell?’
I continued to look at the soles of his shoes. At times like that anything was better than having to stare continually at his face.
When I didn’t bite he went on, ‘Oh, but then you didn’t know anything about him, did you. I forgot.’
He swung his feet down suddenly and stood up. He moved round from behind the desk and the muscles in my body tensed. His hand came to rest alongside my shoulder at the back of my chair.
‘I’ll tell you something interesting, Mitchell. Cook was only a little man, a small man in many ways. He ran his business from a Victorian terraced house—car-hire with a single car and a little snooping on the side. Not an especially careful man by all accounts: if he had been careful he wouldn’t have got his head smashed in, would he? Not careful and yet you would have thought there would have been some record of business, even if only for tax.
‘Do you know—and this is going to take you by storm, pal—do you know there was nothing there.’
The hand moved a fraction closer to my back: I was aware of it tensing, then it moved away and he was back in his chair at the far side of the desk.
‘One of his kids—there were a whole mess of those—said her dad used to have a little red book in which he wrote down all his jobs. She looked for it and couldn’t find it. We looked and we couldn’t find it either.’
I had to ask. There was no way I couldn’t—not for my own peace of mind.
‘Was there no one else you could ask? Didn’t he have a wife or anything?’
Nothing for what seemed a long time. Gilmour went back to his pencil and began to doodle with it around the heel mark left on his blotter.
‘Interesting question, Mitchell. Interesting.’
The point of the pencil dug hard into the white paper; dug through it and snapped.
‘Sure he had a wife. When we went over to see her, after a constable had gone round with the news, this little girl came running up the road. Running and screaming. Ran right into us. Smack dab in the middle of us. She was crying and shouting and she didn’t make sense so we took her back with us to the house.
‘It was an old-fashioned house, with a bathroom added on at the back, out beyond the kitchen. The girl took us to the door and pointed: then she ran away.
‘The door was ajar. You could just see a shape, a shape hanging. When we opened the door we found Mrs Cook all right; hanging from the light flex in the centre of the room. One leg trailed over the bath, the other over the floor. The floor was wet: the front of her dress was stained.
‘When we found the rest of the kids in the upstairs part of the house they were sitting playing with some crayons. There was crayon everywhere—all over the floor, the wall, all over their hands and faces, in their mouths.
‘Two women pc’s came and cleaned them up and took them away. Now they’re in a home. Until they’re eighteen they’ll be in care.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘In care. Maybe they’ll be better off. It didn’t look as though they were getting too much care where they were.’
Tom Gilmour stood up and stared out of the window, down on to the street. My mind left the building, the country; settled in a camp for itinerant workers in California. I saw the faces and bellies of kids who hadn’t eaten a good meal for weeks. Saw the faces, the eyes, staring widely, wildly. Staring at a large pot full of stew made from bones of meat. Children fed on the Grapes of Wrath.
But fuck it! Children in another country, in another age, in a fucking movie! Why couldn’t I think of what was real, what was here and now. Why couldn’t I think of kids smearing each other with jam, kids asleep with foul dummies in their mouths, children who did nothing but whimper and cry?
What about a little reality, Mitchell? Too strong for you to take, huh? Too much for a big private eye with a Smith and Wesson under one arm and a hole where his heart should be?
Then Gilmour was asking me a question and I didn’t know how many times he had asked it before.
‘I said you wouldn’t know anything about an old guy called Maxie being killed some time late last night? An old guy who ran an amusement arcade?’
‘Sorry, Tom. I drove straight back from Nottingham and went to bed. As soon as I woke up I came round here. Why, anyway? Is there any reason why I should know him?’
‘Easy,’ Gilmour said. ‘Stay cool. I thought you claimed to work as a private investigator. I thought it was your job to know things like that.’
I smiled. He was the only English police inspector I knew who would tell anyone to stay cool and meant it seriously.
I followed up the smile with a question or two of my own.
‘I could do with some help, Tom. Nothing much, just a little information. About a man called Thurley, for instance. You know him?’
Gilmour thought for a moment.
‘Sure. He lost his kid. Girl of about sixteen. She went on the run from school and he thought she might be in the golden mile. I had some people look around, ask a few questions. We didn’t come up with anything. In cases like that we rarely do—unless we happen to strike lucky quick. I suggested he try you. I thought you might fancy a few days sleazing around the porn shops and strip clubs: besides, he looked as if he’d pay well. And you look as though you could use the money.’
I thanked him for the hand-out. Then asked if he knew anything else about Thurley.
‘Nothing. Seems he used to work in merchant banking and moved from there into various directorships. I don’t know any more than that. Why? Have you got any reason to suspect there’s any more?’
I showed him two empty hands: ‘Nothing. Except a feeling that he wasn’t all he seemed under the veneer. Could you run a check on him?’
Gilmour stood up. He had work to do, but I wasn’t quite ready to go.
‘And there’s a youngish feller who works for him. About twenty-five, long hair and moustache. Unless I’m mistaken he carries a gun in the holster under his jacket. Either that or he’s got a strange growth.’
Tom Gilmour was looking more interested now, though I didn’t get the impression I had rung any bells inside his head.
‘Thanks, Scott, I’ll ask around. Get someone to keep an eye open.’
I was on my way through the door when I let him have the last question.
‘A big black Negro—strictly maxi-size. How about him?’
This time the bell rang and the coins came rolling out for free.
‘Wilson Marley. Six eight. Over two hundred pounds and every one of them weighs killer. He’s working as muscle for a guy called Jupp, Frankie Jupp.
‘For years Jupp worked strictly around the East End—gambling, girls on the game, robbery with violence. Big in his way but limited. Now suddenly he’s putting feelers into the West End—and out of London altogether. The Drug Squad have been getting rumours for some time about Frankie moving some really hard stuff around. Hard and expensive. If he can do it, then it makes sense from his point of view.
‘If he can shut up the small guys dealing in cannabis and LSD and push stuff like cocaine, amphetamines and barbiturates then he stands to make a lot more money. But it’s a strange move for him and my guess is that there’s New York money behind it. Whatever he is up to, Marley is doing most of the footwork and most of the fistwork, too.
‘Anything you turn up about those boys, Scott, you’ll be doing me more than a favour. What I wouldn’t give to nail those mothers! But—Scott—take care. That Marley will take your head off as soon as spit in your eye.’
When I got across town to my office I had visitors again. Or rather a visitor. And she was prettier by far than on the last occasion.
Her hair was pulled down and back so that it just framed her face, which was pale and without an apparent trace of make-up. She wore a pale blue dress that clung to her above the waist and fell away loosely belo
w it. The neckline and the hem were ornamented with soft brown patterned leaves. She stood outside my door, looking very demure except for one thing: or two. Where the material clung to her breasts the nipples stood out as firm as stones. I wondered how precious they were. I wondered who she was out to tease—or make. I wondered if that someone were me, and if it was then I wondered why.
I pulled my keys from my pocket and went to unlock it; then I remembered that I didn’t need to do that. I had never locked it.
‘You could have come in,’ I said when we were inside.
She smiled faintly: ‘I did try the handle … but then I didn’t like to go in. I mean, it would have been prying, wouldn’t it?’
And again I caught myself wondering.
‘Have you found out anything, Scott?’
‘Very little, Vonnie, but I’ll tell you what I know.’
I told her about Howard and about her sister’s involvement in drugs. She didn’t seem in the least surprised at that; thought it only to be natural for the kind of life she was leading. And I supposed that she was right. I added that the murderer might be whoever had been supplying her with the dope. She nodded her head and said it sounded likely. What did I think I was going to do next.
I said that I wasn’t sure.
It seemed that she had ideas of her own.
She came and stood beside my chair so that her dress was close to my face. I had only to push out my tongue …
She eased her hand on to the shoulder of my jacket.
‘It must have been a shock for you, Scott, finding Ann like that. Alone in that room with just her picture on the wall for company.’
For the second time that morning I was aware of a hand moving close by my head. Only this time it began to stroke my neck, finger by delicate finger.
‘You were very fond of her, weren’t you, Scott. I can remember seeing you together when you brought her home to the house after taking her out. I can remember seeing you kiss her: I was only young at the time, really.’
The pressure from the fingers was stronger, their message more insistent. The phone rang. I leaned forward across the desk and lifted the receiver. When I spoke into it, Vonnie was standing away from the desk, taking a sudden interest in the faded carpet.
‘Scott Mitchell. Who is this?’
The voice at the other end of the line was educated, well-oiled and well-fed.
‘Ah, Mr Mitchell. I tried to contact you earlier, but no doubt you were out working.’
I coughed something down the phone which he could take for whatever he wanted to take it for.
‘I merely wondered whether you had come up with anything yet, Mr Mitchell. I do realise that you have had very little time …’
I interrupted: ‘You’re right, Mr Thurley, I have had very little time and every time something starts to happen I get interrupted.’
I sensed him bristle, but he covered well.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Mitchell. It was merely a parent’s anxiety, you know. I hope you didn’t mind my calling?’
‘Not at all, Mr Thurley. You do that anytime. Now if you will excuse me?’
He did so in a most polite fashion. I have rarely heard a telephone receiver put down with such good breeding.
Vonnie was sitting across from me, on top of the low filing cabinet. I couldn’t be sure how angry she was, but the paleness of her face was highlighted by two red spots by her cheekbones.
‘What did you say Martin was doing on the side?’
‘Scott! On the side makes it sound unpleasant, almost illegal.’
I gave her one of my best smiles. She returned with one of hers. Anyone watching from the centre of the room would have thought they were at Wimbledon.
‘He’s buying and selling books, Scott. Rare books, leather-bound ones—heavens, I don’t really know much about it.’
‘And whatever it is is keeping him pretty busy?’
‘Why, yes, he’s often late home, but what with his work in the library and this new thing …’
‘How long has it been going on?’
‘What do you mean?’
She looked alarmed and stood off the cabinet: her nipples were firm once more and she seemed to be breathing more strongly.
I stood up and faced her: I felt safer that way.
‘Come on, Vonnie, calm down. I mean Martin having to stay out working late for his new job?’
She relaxed a little: ‘Oh, I don’t know, Scott. Several months. But why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered how long a pretty girl like you had been on her own at nights. You could have called me, Vonnie. I would have kept you company—unless someone else was doing that job?’
The colour returned to her cheeks.
‘Scott, that’s not a very nice thing to suggest. Besides,’ she came and stood so close that if I breathed outwards a little harder I would have pushed her backwards, ‘you know that I was always the little stay-at-home. You can remember that, Scott, surely?’
I could but I didn’t want to remember it; not then with her that close to me. With the memory of her sister so close too. Memories of Ann—of Candi.
‘What about Martin, Vonnie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you sure it is always work that keeps him out late? Not somebody else?’
She was not quite so close to me now, but still close enough. She laughed up into my face and her breath was sweet and warm.
‘But Martin’s a librarian!’
She said it as though being a librarian shrouded him in a cloak of purity. She and I had obviously known different librarians: but that’s another story.
I looked at my watch. I said, ‘It’s nearly lunchtime, Vonnie.’
She reached out and took my arm in hers.
‘Does that mean you’re offering to buy me lunch, Scott Mitchell?’
I gave her arm a squeeze with mine. It was slender and small within my grip.
‘I’d love to, but I already have a date for lunch. Maybe some other time.’ I bent down and kissed the top of her head lightly. ‘Maybe the next time you’re checking on my progress.’
11
Today she was wearing a pink velour top and a brown skirt; a beautifully open smile and the badge that said ‘Jane’. I waited a while and she finished putting photographs and duplicated biographies into brown envelopes. She stood up and a large brunette came and took her place: strictly second division.
I held back the dragon and we walked out on to the busy street. It was good to pace alongside her as we cut through the crowds and made for lunch and an hour of getting to know each other. Something in the youth and vigour of her stride got through to me, something in the way she smiled at those who jostled past her. My blood pressure quickened, my ego jumped, my whole body felt as though it was fresh back from the health farm.
She took my arm as we turned the corner into Greek Street and as she did so the car swung hard towards us. I saw its sudden movement from the edge of one eye; I had probably heard its engine a second sooner. Whatever it was that warned me, I acted, and fast.
Jane I pushed into the doorway of a café; I pushed her and leapt backwards away from the spot the driver had calculated. The front slid across the pavement and the nearside bumper rammed itself into the wall. It dragged plaster for ten or fifteen yards, then pulled back and on to the road. The car accelerated and was gone into the lunchtime traffic.
I looked up from where I was sprawled on the pavement: a crowd had already begun to gather round me. It was incredible that no one else had been hurt: incredible that someone would try to make a hit at that time of day and in that way.
Somebody, somewhere must be getting very scared.
I allowed myself to be helped up and muttering thanks and platitudes about stupid, drunken drivers went into the café to find Jane. S
he was sitting at a table, with the Italian waiter doing a great job of restoring her confidence. She didn’t look any the worse for wear.
I went over and sat down beside her. The waiter hovered for a moment longer then went away. I held her hand and gave it a squeeze; I tried my drunken driver routine but it wouldn’t work on her.
‘Listen, someone was driving that car with a purpose so don’t try to tell me that it was an accident. Somebody wanted to hurt you badly … to kill you.’ She held my hand more tightly and looked hard at my face. ‘Just what sort of a man have I agreed to come out to lunch with, anyhow?’
I took one of my cards from my wallet and gave it to her; she didn’t exactly look impressed.
‘And I said you’d never make a detective! I thought your reactions back there on the pavement were pretty quick. Were you expecting that?’
‘At that particular moment in time, nothing was further from my mind. I was an ordinary guy taking an extraordinarily attractive girl out to lunch and feeling pretty pleased with himself into the bargain. I must have moved out of instinct.’
She gave my hand another squeeze: ‘Most people’s instincts are so slow that they would be on the way to the hospital by now. And so might I.’
She leaned across and kissed me. It sure was my day for getting a lot of attention, one way and another. The waiter was back by the table and for a moment I thought he was going to break into a bit of an old Italian love song. Instead he thrust a menu into my unoccupied hand and asked if we would like to see the wine list. I said no, ordered a carafe of red and freed my other hand for the important business of choosing a meal. Two meals. She was still there, after all. Many a young girl who had been pushed into the restaurant that way would have got up on her high horse and ridden out. Or would still be too nervous to order Uova Tonnate, followed by Vitello alia Genovese. I hoped my Lasagne would be as good as usual.
When we were drinking our coffee I asked her what she knew about Candi.
