With one cigarette between his lips, and a second waiting between his fingers, it felt almost good. It was a scenario that made sense. Except that nobody else had been near when Lestrade said that to him. It had only been him and Lestrade with nobody around for a mile or so. So even if this fellow was a friend of Lestrade’s, he couldn’t have heard him say that. And if he had heard him, he’d surely have made his presence felt before now.
Castle’s head ached with all this thinking, all this anxious and fraught thinking.
Maybe it was the mother, maybe she was the one who knew Lestrade – some old flame perhaps. But again, what was the point of it? What did she want? How could she possibly know what Lestrade’s dying words were?
The boy had said them though, Castle was positive of that.
He was sure it couldn’t just be chance; the boy couldn’t just have stumbled across that combination of words. There was no way that little brat was old enough to have actually met Lestrade. What was he? Ten years old? (Castle had zero experience with children, and wouldn’t have claimed he could guess their ages if there were fifty guineas at stake). However his parents were. But then they couldn’t actually have heard Lestrade say that, could they? But if they did – then shit! They could cause all kinds of problems for him.
If you were a friend of Larry Castle’s, you might not have recognised him that night. You’d have expected him – even on his own – to walk with a relentless stride, to always wear his bully-boy smile and exude endless confidence.
The man who slunk through the darkness to his chalet that night, although physically reminiscent of Larry Castle, was a whole other person. His shoulders were hunched and there was no sparkle in the eye or smile for anybody. Even if an attractive girl had sashayed past, her chest jiggling for all the world to see, he’d probably have missed it. This man kept his head down and avoided all contact with passers-by, even the young pretty ones. He looked a timid nothing bloke, one who’d like to vanish, who wanted to be swept away.
Four
The following morning – before he had to pick up Betty – he hunted out the Montgomery’s chalet. It was in the next section to his, and with the new day, he strolled over confidently.
His energy had returned, he’d forced it up again. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had a plan to find out. It had come to him in the dark of the morning, before the birds sang, when all he could hear was the tide. And with a plan forefront in his mind, he’d rebuilt his confidence. He thought of everything that could go wrong, then dismissed it. Instead he considered all the reasons why it would go right and stiffened his resolve, convinced he was going to win yet again.
First thing, he’d shaved, washed and gone to the camp shop, arriving just as the ‘Open’ sign was turned around. He gave the pretence of such a good mood that he even flirted with the old dear serving.
He bought a model Messerschmitt, so the boy’s plane had something to actually fight. It was a plastic peace offering. What he’d do is go over and apologise. He’d do it with charm. Say he was sorry and hand over the gift, then have a little chat with the parents. As quickly as he could, he’d drop Lestrade’s name into the conversation and see what their reaction was. Observe which one flickered. Maybe they’d both give away recognition, and that was fine – as long as he knew what he was against.
One thing he always prided himself on was being a great poker player. He knew what stinking liars most people were.
As he reached their chalet, he straightened his bright red tie before gently rapping on the door. He wanted the sound to be soft, didn’t want to be the aggressive early morning visitor. No point putting them immediately on edge after all. Then, as he practised in the bathroom mirror, he smiled – a smile that was beautifully contrite – and waited with the model aeroplane box prominently in hand.
Nothing happened. There was no stirring, no sound from inside.
The prickly feeling came to the back of his neck that they’d seen him. That they’d looked out the window and, filthy cowards that they were, decided to crouch behind the settee.
His smile tightened his cheeks and he leant in and knocked on the door again, harder. What were they scared of? Surely having started this, they wanted to finish it.
There was no answer though.
Where the hell were they?
The plane was gripped tighter, leaving a sweaty palm print on the cardboard box. He knocked again, open-palmed banging now, a debt collector come calling. His smile reached his ears, his big sweaty hand forcing dents into that box. Where were they? What the hell was he supposed to do if that bloody door stayed shut? He smiled and waited and nothing happened apart from the perspiration stinging all around his torso.
“’Oo yuh looking for?” asked a voice to his side.
Castle turned slowly, suddenly conscious that his smile was dreadfully fake.
The woman staring at him was possibly young, but so hard faced she was already mired in old age. She wore nothing but a petticoat and an apron. Her arms and face were grey, her mud-coloured hair was pulled so tight it was a surprise she could blink. There was a yellowed stub of cigarette jammed unlit between her lopsided lips.
“’Oo yuh looking for?”
He shook his smile into a real smile, or as real a smile as he could give such a creature.
“I was looking for Mr and Mrs Montgomery.”
“Not there.”
“Yeah.” He glanced at the front door. “I was gathering that. Do you have any idea where they are?”
“Gone up the coast. Gone to look at ’em cathedrals. Not my idea of fun, but each to his own, ay?”
“‘Oo is it?” asked a deep Irish voice behind her.
“Just someone for ’em Montgomerys,” she yelled, answering, but her tone barbed like she had the hump with him or something.
“Any idea when they’ll be back?” asked Castle.
“Tonight.” She rolled that stub around in her lips. “Later on tonight. It’s that bloody coach trip the site is offering, loads of ’em bastards have gone. Can yuh imagine getting up at six in the morning to go see a bloody large church?”
“No,” he said honestly. “I really can’t. Thank you, Mrs. I’ll grab them when they get in.”
Her other half stepped out. A huge brute of an Irish navvy, bigger even that Castle. He had grey hair, red face, arms like carcasses of meat and an oddly smooth complexion. It was obvious Guinness did some of the things they claimed in those adverts. He stared at Castle with a hatred that seemed impersonal, as if he greeted everyone he met with sheer contempt.
Castle gave his most charming grin, thanked them again and then turned and walked quickly away.
This wasn’t a problem; he’d get them when they returned. For a heartbeat or two he’d thought the Montgomerys had checked out. Left the camp and returned to their real lives. That would have made things harder, but he’d have still got them – even if it meant tracking them to the Midlands and fixing an appointment to discuss bathrooms.
After all, they might be happy to toy with him now, but sooner or later they’d run low on funds – and then what would they do? Come to see their Uncle Larry, try to bleed him a little.
No. He wasn’t going to have it. Not at all.
It was best to sort it now, make sure they went home knowing never to bother him again. He could wait until tomorrow. He’d turn up with the plane and maybe throw in a bouquet for Mrs Montgomery and a bottle of scotch for Mr Montgomery. The last gifts they were going to get from him.
Until then, well, he had Betty to occupy him.
He put the plane back in his chalet, spic’d and span’d himself in the mirror, and headed out to greet her.
Five
Elizabeth Franklin got off the train in a particularly bad mood.
During the journey someone had recognised her. A member of the public had gone through the whole “Cor blimey” bit and asked for an autograph. But what Castle couldn’t understand – and never understood on these occa
sions – was whether she was irritated by the one person recognising her, or by the dozens of others who didn’t.
Certainly she hadn’t gone out of her way to resemble a normal member of the public. She wore an expensive red dress which clung to her shapely legs and crossed over her firm bosom. Her hair had been styled that morning and if it wasn’t too ridiculous to be true, he’d have suspected she’d gone all the way to the studio for make-up. And still, in the entire five hour train journey, only one of those people had had the gumption to recognise her.
What the bloody hell was wrong with the world?
As a distraction, as a way to soothe her irritation, or maybe just to annoy her further – he rarely peered too deeply into his motivations – Castle took Betty to a Lyons’ tea house. Making a fuss out of it, as beneficent as a man treating his lover to caviar and champagne at The Savoy, he bought her a cuppa and a slice of Angel cake. But despite his generosity it was soon apparent that she was in a bad mood all round.
“I received a call from Monty this morning” – Monty was her agent – “and you’ll never believe what he told me. He wants me to take a mother role. A mother role? Me? Okay, it would only be of a young child, a baby even – but look at me, do I look like I could be a mother?”
He smirked. Betty was twenty-four.
Fortunately oblivious to any amusement playing on his chops, she ploughed on. “I didn’t know what to say. I mean I know it’s a prominent role, certainly better than my last three, but two of those were younger sisters and one was the sparky best friend – how have I graduated to mother? It’s just insulting. It’s an insult, not just to me but to the general public. They’ve got used to seeing me young and vibrant, they’ve got used to me as the next big thing – how are they going to react if I bypass that and head straight to mother roles? I ask you.
“And – stupid, idiotic, foolish me – I made the mistake before I left of telling Geoffrey” – Geoffrey was her husband – “and he was delighted! He thought it was a good thing for me, something I should grab with both hands. You know why don’t you? It’s because he wants me to be a mother. He wants me to be at home with booties and a crib and goo-goo ga-ga. And I mean, that’s ridiculous! We haven’t been to bed in six months, if I suddenly have a baby whose does he reckon it’ll be? Surely he can’t imagine I’m enjoying the seaside air by myself – so why does he want me to be a mother? Why does he imagine at this time of my life – and with my looks – I could ever convince as a mother?”
There was something in her looks which wasn’t quite right for a leading lady. Even Castle had spotted that. Although, of course, he’d never have been stupid enough to tell her. She had an hour-glass figure and a beautiful oval face with wide ocean blue eyes, but there was something in the way she photographed which just wasn’t right. It was hard to explain, but it was as though she looked too intelligent and didn’t have the unbelievable glamour or jaw-dropping sexiness to offset that intelligence. Instead she stood there and looked smart. She was a woman who seemed like she read books, studied things, be the girl with the good idea. Maybe when they started making films about plucky girl reporters she’d get the lead. Until then she’d have to make do with smarter young sisters and best friends who saved the day. And now young mothers. She just didn’t have the oomph to explode on screen. Her fate was always to be standing at someone’s shoulder, no matter how much she hated it.
Letting her rant slip past him, he sat opposite her and drank his tea, ate his own slice of Angel cake. It was dry, but fairly tasty. The tea though was the usual watery piss. He thought of Paul Lestrade. This trip was the first time he’d thought of Lestrade in years. Oftentimes some memory of Lestrade would pop into the back of his noggin, but it was fleeting. There was no way he was going to concentrate on the man. It was so long ago, it didn’t matter anymore. So what if he owed a lot to Lestrade? He was never, ever going to see the bloke again, so why think of him?
They met in the army – two thin, good looking lads who stood together as if brothers. Unlike the boys they knew at school, they weren’t posted overseas. Instead they guarded bases in Britain – which meant they didn’t have the suntans or the wild tales of foreign ladies, but had a good monopoly on the local talent. Everybody else was away, so two handsome lads couldn’t fail but score. Even when the GIs were about, they could still make an appeal to patriotism and get the skirt to keep it British. From the moment they met, possibly from the moment they saw each other, they were tight. There was an instant recognition of kindred blood. Within weeks, these two young boys who’d never had a brother, now had a brother for life.
Lestrade was the fairer of the two. He was – incredible as it may seem – the chattier of the two. Back then Castle was a little shy, but six weeks of Lestrade cured that. He had a great eye for weakness, did Lestrade, and trained Castle in spotting the flaws in others. (Lestrade also had a mocking laugh, so harsh and grating it was close to a full frontal assault with scimitars – and no matter how much Castle found himself bonded with Lestrade, he never got used to that laugh). Most of his patter he learnt from Lestrade, most of his tricks and verbal gymnastics came that way.
Very swiftly they’d formed a great team. When they were off duty, they’d head into town and try to get some local girls, give a bit of lip to some local geezers (who were too old and too fat to get a real uniform) and then occasionally roll a tramp on the way home to the barracks. That was another thing he learnt from Lestrade: every rule which ever existed was there to be bent out of shape.
They were young, good looking soldiers – they could do anything they fucking wanted. Some drunken bastard gave them grief in a public house, they’d just wait for him later and smash a flower pot into his skull. If they were amorous but couldn’t be bothered going through the whole wine and wooing bit, then they just took a street lady and stole back the dosh at the end. They were the two best looking blokes in the barracks, the two most daring, the two young princes – admired and adored.
Yeah, some reprimands came their way, however their commanding officer – Lord bless the moustachioed git! – looked the other direction more often than not. They had a theory that during The First War, he’d been just like them. He may have grown the top-lip broom-handle since, but surely he’d been a lad too.
Betty was still talking when they left the teahouse, complaining without apparent end, totally convinced her problems were the world’s problems. That everybody else should drop what they were doing and make a big show of giving a crap.
The two of them had only walked ten yards, heading towards the pier, when – just out of sight at the head of an alleyway – he grabbed his hand to the back of her head and held her face into his. Her surprise gave way to a shudder, then she smiled at him nervously. He gripped her hard, knowing he was hurting her.
“Shut up!” he told her. “Stop your talking and just shut up! I’m not interested, I don’t care about any of this. We’re at the seaside, the sun is shining and you’ve still got your clothes on – how is any of what you’re saying important right now?”
He let go and her head jolted back, then after a few seconds when she stared at him frightened but so obviously excited, her face came forward again and she kissed him. She lurched hungrily to his lips, desperate and needy.
“Oh my spiv,” she said. “Oh my big, gorgeous, nasty spiv. My beautiful spiv!”
He caught his arm around her waist and led her, almost carried her, without any further conversation to his chalet.
That’s what he was there for. She had her husband – the good doctor – capering around and ministering to her every need (well not quite her every need, she’d long put a stop to that.) There was also Monty bolstering her ego whenever she demanded it. What she wanted from Castle were a few hard edges she could run into. Obviously he’d never really hurt her, she’d never be bruised by him – but in her world, where she was nearly always the most important person, she sometimes craved someone else to be the boss.
The doo
r had barely shut on his chalet when he dumped her on the bed and unceremoniously stripped her. That red dress yanked over her head, her sexy black underwear (gifts from him, he noticed with a grin) just ripped away.
She was a screamer.
It was mid-afternoon and the window was open and there were children about, but he didn’t care. Let them hear their fun. Let them create strange stories to explain away her cries. As long as he was happy, as long as she performed for him – what did it matter?
Six
“Do you love me?” she asked as they were getting ready for dinner. She was sitting pert in her petticoat in front of the dressing table mirror. “Do you?”
To be fair, he kept his nonchalance well. He eyed her reflection. “I don’t know,” he told her with a grin. “There’s a possibility, I suppose.”
Betty stopped brushing her hair and for a second looked as if she was going to hurl the heavy brush at him. She was always sparkier after sex. During, she allowed herself to submit – she enjoyed his control – but afterwards, well, she had a vibrant and sparkling personality (people had told her so all her life) and she needed to express it.
“Oh you’re so mean!” She pouted. “You really can be mean, you know that, Castle – so cruel.”
“That’s what you like about me, ain’t it?”
“I’m serious, Castle,” she said, turning to face him. “Do you? Because I think I’m falling in love with you, or could fall in love with you, and I’d hate to be the only one. I’d hate to be in love with you if you’re not in love with me – that just wouldn’t be fair.”
“What about your husband?”
“I don’t love him.”
“Does he love you though?”
“Of course he does!” she said, turning to his reflection. “But for him life just isn’t fair. It has never been fair and never will be and there you go. But life is fair for me, or should be fair for me. And so if I fell in love with you and you didn’t fall in love with me that would be so wrong.”
Death at the Seaside Page 3
