Rush of Blood

by Mark Billingham

  Dave swallowed fast. ‘Hang on, I haven’t finished this one yet.’

  ‘We can’t help it if you can’t keep up.’ Ed laughed and shook his head. ‘Right, Barry?’

  ‘Just have a half,’ Barry said.

  ‘No, I’ll have one,’ Dave said. He took another mouthful and, even though he still had over half a pint left, he held up his glass, shouted after Ed as he weaved his way towards the bar. ‘I’m fine …’

  The Sussex on Long Acre was as crowded as you might expect on a Saturday evening and they had been standing for a quarter of an hour before they’d been lucky enough to snag a small table in the corner. Leaning heads in to talk, they were no more than inches apart, but they still had to raise their voices to make themselves heard above the chatter and the ambient soft rock. It took Ed the best part of five minutes to get back with the drinks, during which time Dave looked around and said, ‘Reminds me why I don’t come into the West End if I can avoid it,’ and Barry said, ‘Right.’ They both looked around some more, then Barry took the opportunity to visit the gents while Dave made what headway he could with what was left of his drink.

  Back at the table, Ed tossed packets of crisps over then raised his pint. The three of them clinked glasses. Ed craned his neck to look at the group of young women squeezed round an adjacent table then turned back to make some comment and saw something on Dave’s face.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Dave smiled and took a sip. ‘I was just thinking about our last night in Sarasota, that’s all. When we drank to that girl and none of us knew what her name was.’

  ‘The Bonefish Grill,’ Barry said, nodding. ‘You remember how blinding that fish and chips was?’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Ed downed a third of his drink in one go. ‘We’re hardly likely to forget her name now, are we? Not now we’ve all been questioned by the Met’s finest.’

  ‘Right silly cow she was,’ Barry snarled. ‘Firing off stupid questions left, right and centre.’

  ‘What questions?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Same ones she asked you, I suppose.’

  ‘Yeah, course, but what were the really stupid ones?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, stuff about the girl. Had I seen her, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘We’d all seen her,’ Ed said, shaking his head and looking at Dave.

  ‘After she went missing, I mean.’

  Dave nodded. ‘Right, yeah. She mentioned that business about you not being at the beach or whatever when she talked to me and Maz. About you going to buy cigarettes or something …?’

  Barry turned to him. ‘She told you what we said in our interview? Isn’t that a breach of … I don’t know, privacy or whatever?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dave said.

  ‘That’s definitely out of order,’ Barry said. ‘I’ve a good mind to ring up her boss or something. I’m sure they aren’t allowed to do that. I mean you’ve got rights, haven’t you, that sort of thing?’ He saw that Ed was stifling a laugh and held out his hands. ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ed winked at Dave. ‘Just looks like somebody’s pissed off because they got caught out telling porkies, that’s all.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Barry said.

  ‘Sure you didn’t nip back into the village to hook up with one of those waitresses at the Oyster Bar?’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ Dave nudged Barry and nodded towards Ed. ‘You should have heard what she told us about you.’

  ‘What?’ Ed asked.

  Dave shrugged. ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  Ed stared at him, unsure for a moment or two, before he broke into a grin and said, ‘Piss off.’ He reached across to push clumsily at Dave’s shoulder.

  ‘Boot’s on the other foot now, mate,’ Barry said, laughing.

  Ed stayed leaning in and after signalling to the others to do the same, he inclined his head towards the girls at the adjacent table. ‘West End’s heaving with that sort on a Saturday night,’ he said. ‘Office girls out on the sniff.’

  Barry had a good look, making no attempt to hide the fact. ‘I don’t think they’re on the sniff for old men like you though.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’

  ‘You’re twenty years too old, mate.’

  ‘I can’t see any white sticks either,’ Dave said. ‘So I reckon you’re out of luck.’

  Ed flashed a sarcastic smile, then sat back shaking his head. ‘You pair are unbelievable,’ he said. ‘You seriously telling me you’d say no, given the chance?’

  ‘Not interested,’ Barry said. ‘Know which side my bread’s buttered.’

  ‘You’ve never played away from home?’

  Barry kept shaking his head, lowered it towards his glass.

  ‘Dave?’ Ed waited. ‘I mean, I know you’ve got no reason to want to …’

  Barry flashed Ed a hard look, but Ed ignored it.

  ‘No way,’ Dave said. ‘I’m a good boy.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Dave looked across at the girls. One of them caught him looking and he reddened slightly before turning back and grinning at Ed. ‘Well … I suppose it doesn’t do any harm to go window-shopping now and again, does it?’

  Barry laughed like he was unconvinced. Dave looked at him and Barry shook his head. Said, ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Well, the night is young,’ Ed said, rubbing his hands together. ‘And even if we aren’t, some of us aren’t quite dead below the waist yet. So drink up and let’s move on.’

  Barry looked at his watch.

  Ed was already out of his seat and downing what was left of his beer. A young couple, keen to grab the table, moved up to hover alongside him and he gave them the nod.

  ‘I can’t be too late,’ Dave said.

  Ed said, ‘Lightweights,’ and turned towards the door.

  The Imperial should only have been five minutes’ walk away, though it took somewhat longer than that to negotiate the crowds thronging Leicester Square and pushing towards Piccadilly Circus. Close as it was, the pub, tucked away on a side street, was a lot quieter than the Sussex had been and despite the occasional siren outside and the roars from passing stag nights, they could communicate without shouting or the need for exaggerated hand gestures.

  By ten o’clock they were five pints in apiece, though only Dave and Ed showed any real sign of it. Ed’s voice had become a little louder and the Midlands accent that bit more noticeable. Dave had grown quieter, pint on pint, while the smile – which sometimes seemed knowing and sometimes wholly innocent – had become more or less permanent.

  Barry just kept on drinking, his face perhaps a fraction more flushed than before. Seemingly happy enough to watch and chip in.

  ‘So what sort of season are United going to have then, Dave?’ Ed nodded to Barry, bringing him into it. ‘They bought wisely, you reckon?’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’ Dave asked.

  Ed laughed and Barry helped him out. They had been ribbing Dave about his distinctly part-time support for Manchester United, picking up where they had left off at Barry and Angie’s dinner party. Dave seemed to take it well enough, but he had clearly run out of comebacks.

  ‘We can always go back to talking about women,’ Ed said. ‘You’re obviously a bit more comfortable with that.’

  ‘What about politics or movies or something?’ Dave tilted his glass towards Ed. ‘What about books?’

  Ed ignored the question, looking around the bar. ‘Not quite as much talent in here, mind you.’

  ‘You’re totally cunt-struck,’ Barry said. ‘You know that?’

  Ed seemed happy enough with the description. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

  ‘How’s Sue feel about it?’

  ‘Keeps things interesting.’ Ed paused, like he wanted them to think about that, then leaned in. ‘I hope I don’t need to remind you two that what gets said on a boys’ night out stays on a boys’ night out.’

  Barry muttered, ‘Fine with me,’ and Dave
nodded. ‘I wonder what the girls talked about the other night,’ he said.

  ‘I think they were too busy putting the white wine away to talk about much of anything,’ Ed said. ‘Sue was totally hammered when she got back.’

  ‘When was this?’ Barry asked.

  ‘Yeah, Marina was pretty pissed as well,’ Dave said.

  Ed grinned. ‘Got lucky, did you?’

  Barry shook his head, confused. ‘When did the girls go out?’

  ‘When was it?’ Ed said. ‘Thursday?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Barry said.

  ‘Maybe Angie couldn’t make it or something,’ Dave suggested. He looked at Ed and both reached simultaneously for their glasses to cover the awkward pause.

  ‘Or maybe she’s keeping secrets,’ Ed said, when he’d put his glass down.

  Barry looked at him. Said, ‘We don’t work like that.’

  There was another pause.

  ‘Anyway, you all still on for dinner next Saturday?’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ Dave said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Barry said, quietly.

  ‘And let’s try not to spend the whole night talking about dead girls, shall we? Life goes on, you know?’ Ed looked at Barry. ‘I mean, no disrespect, but your missus seems a bit obsessed by it. Those pictures, what have you.’

  ‘She just wanted to help, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘I think I need to eat something,’ Dave said. ‘I didn’t have time for lunch.’

  ‘Let’s have one more in here,’ Ed said. ‘Then we can go and get some food.’

  Barry stood up to get the round in. He and Dave had been on lager all night, while Ed had been drinking Guinness. This time, Dave announced that he would have a pint of Guinness too.

  ‘You don’t need to do that,’ Barry said.

  ‘Do what?’

  Barry nodded towards Ed. ‘Have that just because he’s having it.’

  Dave reached for a beermat and began turning it over and over. His face was almost as red as Barry’s. ‘I fancy Guinness,’ he said.

  Barry took a step towards the bar and bumped into a teenager whose beer slopped on to the floor between them. Barry said, ‘Oi,’ and the teenager backed away, a hand raised.

  Ed raised his eyebrows at Dave and said, ‘Remind me not to piss him off too much, will you?’

  In the Maharajah on Rupert Street, Ed said, ‘I’ve always wanted to sleep with a black woman.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were choosy,’ Barry said.

  Ed ignored the comment and carried on looking at Dave. They had almost finished eating, but there was still food left in the serving dishes and fresh pints of Kingfisher in front of them. There was only one other table in the place occupied – three men in suits and ties eating in virtual silence – and the waiters hovered near the kitchen, as though waiting for all of them to leave.

  ‘I mean, I know Marina isn’t completely black.’

  ‘Mixed race,’ Dave said, chewing. He tore off a chunk of nan bread and dunked it in what he had left of the extra hot lamb jalfrezi he had insisted on ordering. ‘Her mum’s black.’

  ‘That’s the thing though. Even if it’s fifty-fifty, they’re always more black than white, aren’t they? They never think of themselves as white.’

  Dave shrugged and chewed.

  ‘So, come on then?’ Ed said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. They’re supposed to be better in the sack, aren’t they? More imaginative, whatever.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Barry said.

  ‘Noisier, too, that’s what I’ve heard.’

  For a few seconds, nobody said anything. The low-level Indian music that had been playing on repeat since they had arrived sounded suspiciously like a sitar version of ‘When You’re Smiling’. Ed had pointed this out when they sat down and he and Dave had pissed themselves laughing about it for almost a minute. Dave had been doing a lot more laughing in the last hour or so, had needed a puff from his inhaler on one occasion.

  Barry had not said very much.

  ‘Come on,’ Ed said. ‘Just between us …’

  ‘What gets said on a boys’ night out,’ Barry muttered.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Dave washed down his mouthful of food with a noisy slurp of beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sat back, grinning. He waited, enjoying the moment, then said, ‘Well, what can I tell you? They’re not wrong.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Ed said, clapping his hands together. ‘You jammy bastard.’

  Dave held up his hands. ‘I’ll say no more than that.’

  One of the hovering waiters came to the table and, without asking if they were finished, began clearing the plates away. All the time, aside from the occasional hiccup, Dave was still smiling and nodding, pleased with himself at having revealed something so apparently impressive.

  When the waiter had left, he said, ‘I’ll tell you something else. When that copper was interviewing us about the Sarasota business, she asked me what I thought had happened to the girl.’

  ‘Come again?’ Barry said.

  ‘She asked my opinion.’ He shrugged like it was no big deal. ‘You know, what my theory was.’

  ‘So, what is it?’ Ed asked.

  ‘That the killer took her in a car … pretty obvious.’ He had started off brightly enough, but he paused for a few seconds after taking a deep breath and finished his speech slowly, as though determined not to stumble over his words. ‘That he probably killed her straight away, because you know, that’s how it usually works. Not always, of course, but more often than not. Then we just bounced a few ideas off each other … the possibility that there might have been more than one person involved, a man and a woman working together even. That kind of thing.’

  Ed looked into his glass for a few seconds. Said, ‘All a bit far-fetched if you ask me.’

  ‘Why on earth’d you say all that?’ Barry asked.

  ‘She asked me,’ Dave said.

  ‘Why you though?’ Ed asked. He smiled thinly then answered his own question. ‘They probably had you pegged as a bit of a weirdo.’

  Dave’s smile was even thinner. ‘Or someone who knew what he was talking about.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ed said.

  Barry turned in his seat. ‘Why did you come out with all that shit?’

  ‘Who says it’s shit?’ Dave said.

  ‘You start spouting that stuff. I mean, where does that leave the rest of us?’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

  Barry puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. He looked at Ed. ‘I’m done.’

  ‘We were just talking, that’s all,’ Dave said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Ed was already turning away from him, waving towards the waiters and scribbling in the air.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Sue had booked a hair appointment good and early. The best part of two hours to style and get rid of the grey. In the forty-five minutes reading the magazines and waiting for the colour to take, she had been able to lose herself easily in the mindless tales of celebrities’ plastic surgery nightmares and reality TV tittle-tattle. Later though, her head back and the assistant stylist’s fingers working rhythmically at her scalp, she had closed her eyes and suddenly found herself thinking about the girl: her body bobbing in a cage of mangrove roots, tangled in weed, moving with the current.

  ‘Is this pressure all right for you?’

  Sue had grunted a yes.

  She had asked herself how accurate her imaginings were and decided that the pictures in her head were probably too … dreamy. There would be photographs somewhere and she even wondered if that was the sort of thing that eventually surfaced on the internet. She’d heard stories about the victims of car crashes and executions. If not, there would be descriptions out there, almost certainly. Hadn’t the body been discovered by somebody out kayaking or something? He would have given a statement of course
, spoken to the press too, she imagined, and the TV people. If there were, then she guessed that Angie would have tracked them down online. Would have printed them out most likely and filed them away in a big, brightly coloured ring-binder with her collection of newspaper reports and duplicates of the holiday snaps she had sent to the police.

  Sue would not have been surprised to see Angie turn up later on with a bottle of wine in one hand and nicely bound copies for each of them in the other.

  ‘Water temperature OK for you …?’

  Now, walking from the salon to the supermarket, she told herself that her curiosity about how the girl had looked was only natural, however morbid it might sound if she voiced it. Curiosity about the whole case – the disappearance and the investigation – was only to be expected and she was certainly not judging Angie Finnegan. It was odd though, she thought, that Marina had not said too much about it. Despite believing that she was a pretty good judge of character, Sue had yet to get a handle on that woman at all.

  Even when they’d been out together, after a few hours drinking and talking ten to the dozen, Sue couldn’t say what she really thought of her. Even after a few glasses of wine she had not felt able to tell her about Emma. She wondered if she might feel ready to tell her tonight, to tell any of them. She would have to wait and see if the opportunity presented itself. She enjoyed telling people, ached to do it, but obviously she needed to pick her moment.

  Ed …

  Walking on, she wondered how his tennis match had gone and what kind of mood he would be in later on. She was hopeful, as he was far more relaxed at weekends. She knew why of course, knew perfectly well what he was up to during the week. She’d begun to suspect as much anyway, but when the woman two doors up had told her that Ed had been coming home an hour or two after Sue had left for work, she had quickly figured out what was happening. She didn’t blame him particularly, but she was certainly not going to let on that she knew. She would wait for him to confide in her. That was what couples did, wasn’t it.

  Up to a point, of course.

  She walked past a small parade of shops set back from the main road, trying to decide what to buy for dinner. There had to be something other than pasta she could manage. Why hadn’t her mother taught her to cook, for God’s sake? Why hadn’t she done a lot of things, come to that?