‘Write it down,’ Adrienne said acidly, ‘You’ll make a fortune.’ ‘One of us needs to, sweetness. Have they got in touch yet?’ ‘The police? No.’
‘Trevor says they will.’
‘Who cares what Trevor says?’
‘I don’t like Trevor,’ Dory said.
‘He and Douglas were argy-barging again,’ Max said. ‘Standing on the steps arguing. Couple of middle-aged queens. It doesn’t do much for the image.’
‘What image?’ Adrienne asked.
‘Of the apartment block. I mean when you have the bloody porters — ’
‘Max!’
‘Sorry. But you know what I mean. Having their little spats. There’s a good line for you. Trevor and Douglas robbing the rich to pay for their secret lifestyles.’
‘I’m sure my readers are just dying to focus on London doormen.’
‘In France they’re called concierges,’ Dory said.
‘What a brilliant child!’ Max said.
Adrienne rose, picked up her pen. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go and earn.’
Max made a face at Dory. ‘Isn’t Mummy clever? Where would we be without her?’
‘Up the creek without a paddle,’ Dory said.
‘Right.’
They took the elevator down to the ground floor. Trevor and Douglas were hissing at each other on the top step.
‘Like a pair of geese,’ Max said.
‘You said queens,’ Dory said. ‘You meant kings, didn’t you?’
‘That’s it, baby, kings.’
The two porters, each in a grey uniform, moved apart as Max and Dory came out of the big glass doors. Dory glanced across at the house. It was still closed up and lifeless. A postman paused for a moment at the front door then went on. His was the only movement in the square. People were staying indoors in the heat.
Dory had seen the Princess of the Pavement People come out early that morning. She had watched her from the roof garden limp slowly towards the park. She had not seen her come back. She couldn’t be certain she hadn’t but she didn’t think so. And the car was still parked in the street.
Max said, ‘I’m not dressed for the country.’
He was wearing a white linen suit which was fashionably crumpled, a flowered bow tie, and off-white buckskin shoes he had bought in New York.
They crossed the Bayswater Road and entered the park. ‘This isn’t the country,’ Dory said.
Her father looked down at a pile of fresh horse manure. ‘You could have fooled me. Where d’you want to go?’
‘Let’s walk.’
‘I don’t know where you’ve suddenly found this passion for exercise. You don’t get it from your mother or me.’
‘Maybe you’re not my father.’
‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’ He pointed at his feet. ‘That’s grass. I’ve seen it before.’
They walked hand in hand for several minutes, then he said, ‘Does Mummy have many friends?’
‘Where?’
‘At the flat.’
‘Men friends?’
‘Friend friends. People who visit her.’
‘Just you.’
They walked towards the fountains near the Marlborough Gate. On the slope above them Dory stopped abruptly.
‘What is it?’
There were dozens of people milling about near the fountains where the air was slightly damp and cooler.
‘I’ll race you,’ Dory said and dropped his hand.
‘Hey!’
But she was gone, hurtling down the slope. She hit the concrete area at full tilt but her view was impeded by people. From the top of the slope there had just been a flash of recognition. An orange-and-yellow headscarf. But now all she could see were dozens of people.
She felt a hand on her arm and froze. This was what her mother was always warning her about. She opened her mouth to yell. Max said, ‘You won. But for God’s sake no more races. OK?’ ‘OK’.
‘Let’s see if we can find some ice cream.’
Chapter Nine
They were at a standstill near the Angel, Islington. The traffic stretched out ahead of them and behind. Exhaust fumes scented the hot July air. When Leo looked out of the driver’s window all he could see was the massive wheel of a red London bus. When he turned the other way his view was blocked by the large figure of George Macrae.
There was something impermanent about the way Macrae sat in a car, Leo thought. It wasn’t as though he was sitting on the edge of the seat — that would have been almost impossible given his size — he just gave the impression of sitting on the edge. His whole attitude was one of truculence and barely concealed impatience — correction, Leo thought, there was nothing barely or concealed about his impatience. It was there like those almost invisible wisps of steam from a live but dormant volcano.
‘Why’d you want to come this way?’ Macrae said.
Leo had been expecting it, and several answers, witty and amusing, had already formed in his mind like, ‘It seemed a good idea at the time,’ or —
‘Eddie would never have got caught like this.’
Yes, he’d been expecting that too.
‘Eddie knew London like the back of his hand. Knew it better than any bloody cabbie.’
That was probably true, Leo thought. Eddie had known London well, but that still hadn’t stopped him from getting into traffic snarl-ups. Leo had listened many times to Macrae and Eddie bickering about routes. It was just something Macrae did in a car. Either he sat there reading the Daily Telegraph or he argued.
‘Sorry, guv’nor.’
It wasn’t Noel Coward but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. Anything for a quiet life.
‘You’d never pass the Knowledge,’ Macrae said. ‘Not in a million years.’
‘I’ve never wanted to be a taxi driver. Anyway we could have come by Underground or bus.’
‘What?’
Since the economy drive which precluded certain ranks of detectives from using police cars and drivers and ordering them instead to use public transport or their own cars, Macrae had made a great fuss of testing the different forms of transport and made Leo time each journey. It was his contention that having to wait for trains or buses was wasting police time. But when Leo’s watch proved that the London Underground was the speediest form of metropolitan transport, Macrae built into the timings imaginary fires, suicides, derailments, staff shortages and escalator breakdowns — which doubled them. He then decided they would go everywhere in Leo’s car. In other words he had his driver back.
Leo had welcomed this. Travelling with Macrae in public was wearing on the nerves.
The traffic moved on slowly and soon Leo was able to turn into quieter streets as they made for the borders of Islington and Stoke Newington. They entered an area of Turkish shops and restaurants where the air was heavy with the smell of charcoal-grilled kebabs and freshly baked pitta.
They passed a Turkish travel agency offering cheap flights and even cheaper bus tickets to Ankara and Istanbul.
‘There it is,’ Macrae said.
The building was painted electric blue and a large sign over its cavernous doors said CHILDREN OF THE LORD FIRST ALTERNATIVE CHURCH. On either side of the doors were words in raised lettering dating from the time the building was used for something else. These had been painted over but were still legible.
‘Aerial,’ Leo said as they stood in front of the church. Vincent… Norton… Rudge.’ He turned to Macrae. ‘Saints in the First Alternative Church?’
‘For a university graduate you’re a big disappointment. Didn’t they teach you anything about transport? These are names to conjure with, like the brontosaurus or the dodo. They’re extinct, laddie, gone forever. You’re looking at the finest names in motorbikes. This was a garage. Now it’s a church. That’s the way the world goes.’
They entered. There was still a faint smell of petrol and old engine oil as though it had seeped into the brickwork, which i
t probably had.
The church was small, a few pews, a few chairs, a small platform with a lectern, and a pedal harmonium. Dominating the room was a framed photograph of a plump black lady seated on a wooden throne. In the background were thorn trees and grass huts. She was wearing a muu-muu which left bare her large shiny shoulders. Around her neck she wore a diamond necklace, on her head a tiara. She was smiling and it reminded Leo of the smile on the face of Idi Amin.
A man was backing down the centre aisle of the church. He was wearing baggy blue trousers and an overshirt. ‘You tell him leave our women alone!’ he shouted to someone at the side of the room. ‘You tell him he do this or we cut off his parts!’
The recipient of these threats was a woman who emerged from the shadows. ‘Thank you, Mr Kamil. Thank you, and God bless you.’
The man turned and Leo saw he had a fierce black moustache.
‘Infidels!’ he shouted at the two detectives and then he was gone.
The woman came forward to meet them hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer. She was tall and young and blonde and was wearing a white shift.
‘My name is Darlene,’ she said in a strong Australian twang. ‘How may I help you?’
As she reached them, Leo noticed that she was barefooted and that the shift was soiled as though she had been sleeping in it.
Macrae introduced them. ‘Was that man theatening you?’
‘Oh, Mr Kamil becomes quite excited sometimes but we never worry about him.’
Macrae asked after Henry Chitambo. ‘He calls himself a bishop.’
‘We call him that,’ she chided gently. ‘He is Bishop Henry in our Church.’
‘Is he around?’ Macrae asked.
‘He’s in Bradford today. Seeking souls to save.’
‘Why Bradford? What have they done wrong?’
‘It’s where our other mission is.’
‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ Macrae said, wearily.
They sat on rickety chairs.
‘Who’s that?’ Leo said, pointing to the big photograph.
‘That is Mama, the founder and head of our Church. Isn’t she great?’
‘That’s Africa, isn’t it?’ Leo said. ‘I mean the grass huts… the landscape…’
‘Central Africa. That was taken when she was visiting her flock on the Mushipashi River. I met her there with Bishop Henry. He’s her son, you know. I’m the first non-sable to be admitted to the Church.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We don’t like using the words black and white.’
Her eyes were shining with pride and inner joy.
‘You’re Australian, aren’t you?’ Leo said.
‘How can you tell?’
‘There’s just the slightest accent.’
‘I was travelling down Africa. Back-packing, you know, with my English boyfriend Dennis. We’d been all through India and Nepal and those places. Searching… I didn’t know it then but I was searching for Mama. But Denny didn’t see it that way. He was immoral. Always trying to grope other women, if you know what I mean. Sables too. That’s what he was searching for. A good grope. So when I came on Mama and her Church and the Bishop and everything I knew I’d found what I’d been searching for.’ ‘And Denny?’ Leo said.
‘That pommie bastard took off with my camera and my Walkman and all my money.’
Macrae was becoming impatient again. ‘What about the bishop,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what’s he doing here? In this country?’
‘He’s a missionary.’ She was surprised at the question.
‘A what?’
‘Well, your Churches sent missionaries to Africa for hundreds of years. Now it’s the turn of the sables. Mama says the North is bad… bad… bad… So she has sent Bishop Henry to save your souls. And I came to help and serve him.’
The two men stared at her.
After a moment Macrae said, ‘When will he be back?’ ‘Tomorrow perhaps. Or the day after. What’s it about?’
‘There was a burglary in his flat in Bayswater a few weeks ago. He reported the loss of…’ He took out his notebook and began to flick over the pages.
‘The chalice,’ Darlene said. ‘The Zambezi Chalice. It was given to us by Mama.’
‘Aye. The Zambezi Chalice. Some sort of drinking vessel.’
‘Not drinking!’ Darlene was shocked. ‘We don’t drink from it. Just little sips. And only for the New Believers.’
‘Have you got many… New Believers?’ Leo asked.
‘Well… not what you might call many'
‘How many?’
‘If you must know, seven. But we work in the most difficult places. Mama wants to halt the spread of Islam. That’s why we opened a mission in Bradford.’
‘And here among the Turkish community,’ Macrae said.
‘Right.’
‘Don’t the Turks get a bit upset?’ Leo said.
‘A bit,’ Darlene admitted.
*
Trevor stood on the front steps of Selbourne and looked across the square to Rosemount. Through the foliage he could see the glittering glass security doors but could not tell if Douglas was inside. He assumed he was. Like Trevor, Douglas would now have finished his chores. He would have washed the front steps, vacuumed and dusted the foyer, cleaned the landings, emptied the ashtrays in the elevators, sprayed them with magnolia-scented disinfectant, and checked that the rubbish bins were closed and wheeled out to the alley at the back to be emptied the following morning.
Now he would be reading the paper and picking his teeth and waiting for the hot day to come to an end; like the chauffeurs who smoked the hours away in the square waiting for their employers to go somewhere — anywhere.
Should he? Yes… he should… Every part of him ached for Duggie… Nothing like it had ever happened to him before. And he knew that life without him was not worth living.
But what if — ?
The worst thing of all was humiliation. He couldn’t stand humiliation.
One of our evenings, Duggie, he might say. What about it, love? A bottle of brandy, a twist of Colombian Gold. Lying together on a rug in the open air, hearing the hum of a great city around them.
Magic.
His mother had mentioned Duggie that very morning.
He had been late for breakfast.
‘Oh, what a sleepy-head,’ she had said when he came into the little kitchen.
The council flat looked out over the tracks leading into Paddington Station. When he was a kid he had been able to spot train numbers from his bedroom window. Now trains bored him.
‘Don’t we say good morning?’ his mother had said.
Trevor had had too much vodka the night before and was feeling fragile.
‘Morning.’
‘Such a crosspatch.’
He ate his boiled egg while his mother watched. She was a large, spongy woman with glistening teeth — not her own — who wore heavy make-up and bleached her hair even though she was nearly seventy. Once upon a time she had worked for a short while on the cosmetics counter of a department store and for ever after described herself as a ‘beautician’.
The flat was only a ten-minute walk from Selbourne Square.
‘Lucky, Trev,’ Douglas used to say. At one time he had lived right out in Ruislip though now he had a small flat near Lisson Grove.
Trevor read the paper, aware that his mother was sipping her tea, watching and waiting for him to put it down so she could begin to talk.
‘I wish you wouldn’t read that paper,’ she said.
He ignored her.
‘Trevor!’
‘What?’
‘The paper. It’s rubbish.’
‘You always said you wanted me to read. Nagged at me to read. Even when I was little you said people who read were superior.’ ‘Books, yes, but not that. It’s got pictures of — ’
‘Naked girls?’
‘I don’t think that a young
man — ’
‘I’m not a young man. I’m thirty-five.’
‘You are to me. You always will be. Remember what your father used to call you?’
He turned the page of his newspaper.
‘Remember?’
She’d start to cry in a minute, he thought. She’d get what she called a ‘lump in the throat’. She was always crying. Music made her cry. Seeing the Queen on telly made her cry. So did the Queen Mum. Small dogs made her cry. Marching troops. Bagpipes… babies… weddings… The list was endless.
‘Trevor!’
‘Yeah. I remember.’
‘My little soldier.’ The word ‘soldier’ was smudged by a lump in her throat. ‘That’s when he gave you the toy rifle. You were four or five then. And he taught you to drill. Remember?’
‘Yeah. I remember.’
He didn’t really, but she’d mentioned it so often it had become real for him.
‘My little soldier! Oh, Trevor, if only we hadn’t lost him.’
‘Lost’ wasn’t quite the word, Trevor thought. Vanished… escaped… fled… scarpered…
He’d run off with a hairdresser from Bermondsey when Trevor was nine and they hadn’t seen or heard from him since. The curious thing was that his mother didn’t seem to hate him. She really did seem to believe that he was ‘lost’ as in shipwreck or battle although the nearest Lance-Corporal Tulley had ever got to war was the third row at the pictures. The Pay Corps wasn’t exactly the Light Brigade.
‘Trevor!’
‘What?’
‘Your hands!’
He curled his fingers into the palms of his hands in a gesture that had been automatic since he was a child.
She put down her cup and took his wrist. ‘Let me see.’ He uncurled his fingers. ‘Oh, Trevor.’ The nails were bitten down to the quicks.
‘You promised!’
‘I forget. It’s habit. It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Of course it does. It’s nerves. That’s what it is. It’s because you sit in your room all night looking at videos.’
‘I don’t. Not every night.’
‘Horror films. Monsters and ghosts and Frankenstones.’
‘Stein. Frankenstein. And there’s only one.’
Threats and Menaces (A Macrae and Silver Mystery Book 4) Page 6
