by Mark Timlin
‘A restaurant worker?’ I said. ‘Late nights. A butcher’s knife. Bloodstains.’
‘Very good, Mr Sharman,’ said Prescott. At least I was ‘Mr’ to him. ‘I like that. I like that a lot.’ He made a note in his book. ‘Now as for the victims… no ID on either so far, but a lot of people go missing in London every day. By the way he talked, I’d guess they were prostitutes. The way he said “out in the world” and the reference to meat in the second letter. It all fits. And the meat bit combines prostitutes and butchery in one. Not that I’d stake my life on it.’ He laughed at his own pun, then reddened, cleared his throat and continued. ‘Now if we concentrate on south London, we’re talking Waterloo, Brixton, Streatham, Bedford Hill, Balham, Croydon, Clapham Common. Lots of places where a great many young women could go missing before anyone suspected or cared what was happening. Also, you’ve seen him, Mr Day.’
He looked up, surprised. Prescott saw the look. ‘I don’t say that you know him, although it’s quite possible that you have spoken. It’s just that he’s watched you and I bet you’ve seen him too. Maybe just in passing, but you’ve seen him nevertheless, I’d put money on it. So you see, he’s beginning to take shape. Every time he calls you in future you must try and get him to tell you more about himself.’
‘Like what?’ Day asked.
‘Like anything,’ Prescott replied.
‘Well, I must say, I’m impressed so far,’ I said.
Prescott smiled.
‘But aren’t you assuming an awful lot?’
‘That’s the nature of my job. But you’d be amazed how many people fit themselves into patterns they don’t even know exist.’
I wasn’t. I knew how easy it was to fall into a routine.
‘What happens if he’s purposefully trying to lead you astray?’ I asked.
‘It happens,’ said Prescott. ‘We just go down the road until we come to a dead end. It takes patience, but I’ve got plenty of that.’
‘And what happens if he just stops calling?’
‘He won’t,’ said Prescott confidently.
I admired his certainty. I wondered how many knockbacks it would take to dent it.
‘Do you think he’s got anything to do with the earlier packages? The ones we assumed were from Sector 88?’
Prescott shook his head. ‘No. Not a chance. You don’t change from shit to bits of body. If you’re going to cut someone up and mail them, that’s what you do. There’s no softening up process involved. Anyway, like I told you, this bloke’s a loner, not a joiner. It’s just coincidence.’
‘Not a particularly pleasant one,’ I said.
‘No,’ agreed Prescott. ‘But a coincidence, nevertheless.’
‘So where does this get us?’
‘To here,’ said Prescott. ‘But I take it you agree with my theories so far?’ Said as if it were impossible to do anything else. But he had a point.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do. But it doesn’t help a lot. It still leaves an awful lot of people out there who could be John.’
‘Of course it does,’ said Prescott. ‘But each time he calls, we narrow it down more.’
‘And how many people does he have to kill before you get it down to a manageable level?’
Prescott looked at me sadly. ‘That’s the problem,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’
Then it was Harper’s turn to speak. ‘You’re not on the air again until Monday, right?’ he said to Day.
He nodded back.
‘So, a bit of breathing space. Or at least, I hope so. What do you say, Jim?’
‘Who knows,’ said the constable in reply. ‘I don’t think he’ll send any more for a bit. He sounded pretty amicable as he rang off last night.’
Amicable, I thought, remembering the tone of the conversation John had had with Day. If that was what Prescott called amicable, I’d hate to see him lose his temper.
‘Anyway, there’s no more post till Monday morning,’ he went on with a certain ghoulish relish. ‘And I doubt he’ll try the motor bike messenger trick again. We’ll be ready for him if he does.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t,’ I said, glancing over at Peter Day who was looking even worse. ‘Do you need us any more this afternoon?’
Harper looked at Prescott who shook his head. ‘No,’ said Harper. ‘We’ll see you on Monday. Have a pleasant weekend.’ And with that they drank up and left.
‘Charming people,’ I said as the door of the pub swung shut behind them.
‘Do you mind giving me a lift home?’ asked Day.
‘It’s on my way, Peter.’
I finished my beer, Day abandoned his, and we left the pub and went to my parked car. I drove him the short distance to Brixton. When we turned into his street there was a bunch of reporters and photographers hanging round the front door, and the ITN, LWT and BBC TV news vans were almost blocking the turning.
‘Shit!’ exploded Day.
‘Is there a back way?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. Where they collect the rubbish. Straight on and right.’
I snaked the Jag between the parked trucks and accelerated to the end of the road, swung right, then sharp right again at Day’s instructions, into a back entry lined with huge dustbins on rubber wheels.
‘Terrific,’ said Day as I braked the car to a halt. ‘Going in with the garbage. I love this business.’
‘It’s the downside of fame,’ I said.
‘Isn’t it just?’ He hopped out of the car, then leant back in. ‘Are you busy tonight?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘Got a date.’
‘Lucky you. You’d better go. You don’t want to keep her waiting. Besides, that lot will be here in a minute.’
I gave him a half salute, and he slammed the door and went through a disreputable-looking door into the back of the building just as three or four reporters appeared at the end of the alley behind me. I hit the gas and the Jag fishtailed along the roadway, gained traction with a squeal of rubber. Straight away I had to brake to avoid shooting the other end. As the car slid almost to a halt, I spun the wheel to the left and accelerated down the main street.
I drove home and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, waiting to go on my date with the lovely Sophia.
18
I got to the address she had given me at 7.05. I didn’t want to appear too keen. I rang the bell for her flat in a tall terrace on a street that ran between Lavender Hill and Clapham Common. I heard noises from inside, the hall light went on, I saw a figure through the glass of the door, and she opened it.
‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Come on in.’
In the low wattage light I saw that she was wearing basic black. A short black dress and black tights, relieved only by a string of pearls around her neck, which were almost the same creamy colour as her skin. Her dark hair was a mass of curls, and she looked seriously good.
I’d put on a charcoal grey Hugo Boss whistle, a pale pink button-down shirt, a tie covered in a pattern of dark green leaves, and black leather Timberland loafers with thick rubber soles. I felt pretty seriously good too, in my own way.
I accepted her invitation and followed her up two flights of stairs to her flat door. I tried not to look at her buttocks moving under the thin material of her dress as we went, but failed miserably. But then, nobody’s perfect.
She led the way into a small hall, and I closed the flat door behind us. It was warm inside, and the place smelled of her perfume.
‘This way,’ she said, and we went into the tiny living room.
It was neat and tidy, with two armchairs facing the TV set, a couple of free-standing black wooden bookcases full of books, magazines, records, tapes, videos, and a Sony midi system with two tiny speakers. A Simply Red album was playing at low volume, which was probably the best thing for it.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
We toasted each other and drank. ‘So, Nick,’ she said, ‘what’s it to be?’
‘I’ve booked a table at a place round the corner.’ I told her the name of my favourite Thai restaurant which, by coincidence, was situated just a short way from her flat.
‘I’m honoured,’ she said. ‘It’s very expensive there.’
I didn’t tell her that Sunset was paying. It’s not really the done thing, if you know what I mean.
‘I told them seven-thirty to eight,’ I said. ‘Is that OK with you?’
She nodded.
Time for another, I thought, and as if she’d read my mind she asked, ‘Want a re-fill?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I replied.
She got up, collected my glass and vanished again.
After she came back, gave me my drink and sat down again, she said, ‘So why did you ask me out?’
I hate questions like that. What the hell are you supposed to say?
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ I replied after a moment.
‘Did it?’
I nodded.
‘And now?’
‘Still seems pretty fair. Why did you say you’d come?’
It was her turn to hesitate. ‘You seemed interesting.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘And…’ She hesitated again. ‘I don’t know. This whole thing is so strange, I didn’t want to spend all of the weekend on my own.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought you’d have much problem with that. I’d imagine young men are queuing up at your door to keep you company.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ she said.
‘Would I?’
She turned the subject back. ‘Why is this man picking on Peter, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But our Mr Day seems to get up a lot of people’s noses.’
‘But this goes beyond that.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I agreed. ‘The other stuff he was getting sent was bad enough. But this character John, or whatever the hell his name really is, is crazy. You can’t expect logic from someone who cuts people up.’
She shivered.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we’d better call a moratorium on the subject. Let’s go out, have something to eat and forget about it. There’s nothing we can do about it, after all.’
She nodded agreement, looked at her watch, put her glass down on the carpet and stood up. ‘Well, if we’re going, we’d better go. I’ll get my coat.’ And she swished out into the hall with a rustle of nyloned thigh on nyloned thigh. Erotic or what?
She came back carrying a big, black cloth coat with an extravagant collar which she gave to me to help her on with. I did the business, and inhaled a noseful of perfume and woman smell which did nothing to quell my libido. Funny that. Until I’d seen her, on that first day, my libido hadn’t been a problem for longer than I cared to remember.
She picked up her handbag and I followed her down the stairs, out of the front door into the chilly street.
‘Shall I drive?’ I asked. ‘Or do you want to walk?’
‘Let’s walk,’ she replied. ‘It’ll give me an appetite.’
She tucked her arm into mine and we set off.
The restaurant was only a few minutes away but I was cold by the time we got there, and glad to slide into the warm smell of cooking that greeted us.
I got my usual table by the window that looked out over Lavender Hill and we ordered a gin and tonic for her and a Thai beer for me.
‘Have you been here before?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘A couple of times. I like it.’
‘So do I. It’s the best restaurant in London.’
For a split second I remembered the women I’d been there with before, and wondered where they all were now. Not a happy thought. More fuck-ups, down to me. More decent people I’d screwed in more ways than one. Maybe it was a mistake coming here. You should never go back.
She must have seen the look on my face.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Someone walked over my grave.’
She pulled a face.
I pulled one back. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Memories.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Not really.’
‘Too many to count?’
She was uncomfortably close to the truth.
I shrugged. ‘Not lately, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve been out with a woman,’ I looked round the room, ‘like this for – God, I don’t know. It must be six months or more.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true.’
‘So are you celibate?’ she asked with a half smile.
Halibut, more like, I thought, but I find jokes about fish often don’t go down too well with young women when you start talking about sex for the first time. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
If I expected her to say something like ‘what a waste’, I was disappointed.
At that point the waiter brought our drinks, and we dived into them and the menus, and the moment was lost.
We ordered prawns stuffed with crab meat in a cream sauce with coriander for starters, followed by strips of chicken in hot sauce, a special mixed seafood dish in a pot, stir-fried vegetables and soft noodles. I asked for more beer, and Sophia had a Perrier with lime juice.
When the waiter had taken our order and left for the kitchen, I said, ‘So, was the boyfriend you mentioned for real or just a myth?’
‘A myth,’ she said.
‘I’m very surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘I would have thought…’
‘That the only thing I wanted to do was settle down with a nice boy of my own religion and raise a load of kids?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But close,’ she interrupted.
‘Listen, I’m sorry. I was just making conversation.’
‘Sure you were. No, Nick. I want to make something of myself. I’m twenty-three years old, and my ambition is to be a TV reporter. I came out of university, did some time on a local paper, then moved up to London and got this job with Sunset. Yeah, I know, making coffee for Tony Hillerman isn’t my idea of a good career move either but…’ She paused. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘it could lead to all sorts of things. At least he keeps his hands to himself, which is more than I can say for my old editor. Tony asks me for my opinion on things. He’s not as bad as he looks. I do a few items for the news. He doesn’t want to lose me. I’m good at what I do. Sunset is going places. Maybe not the franchise they’re after, but who knows? And I intend to go places with them. On my own. No one to tie me down.’
She saw the look on my face.
‘End of speech,’ she said.
I smiled. ‘I get the picture,’ I said.
‘So no serious commitments.’
‘How about light-hearted ones?’
It was her turn to smile. ‘Every once in a while,’ she said. ‘How about you? Are you married?’
‘Used to be,’ I said. And I told her the whole sorry story. No embellishments, no bullshit. Just the truth about another failed relationship, and the inevitable casualties that follow.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said when I’d finished.
‘Don’t be,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry enough for both of us.’
Thankfully, that was when the food turned up.
It was excellent as always. I don’t know who they have down there in the kitchen but he or she is a magician in the culinary department. We both dived into the meal and hardly spo
ke until our plates were clear.
‘That was good,’ said Sophia when she came up for air.
‘Not bad at all,’ I agreed. ‘Another drink?’
‘I’ll have a gin.’
I got the waiter over, and ordered a reprise on the gin and beer, and lit a cigarette for each of us. We dawdled over our drinks, then a couple of coffees and liqueurs, so that it was almost eleven when I called for the bill.
‘What now?’ I asked when I laid my Access card on the saucer provided.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Anything your heart desires.’
‘It’s been a tough week, Nick. And this has been a very pleasant interlude, but I fancy going home. Do you mind?’
I assumed that she meant alone. I didn’t want to leave, but I wasn’t about to force anything.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘It’s been a tough week for all of us.’
The waiter returned with my card, and I signed the slip and asked for Sophia’s coat. He was back with it in a flash, and it was his turn to help her on with it. We left the restaurant to fond goodbyes, and strolled through the dark streets in the direction of her place.
At the front door she said, ‘I feel rotten letting you go like this. How about a coffee for the road?’
‘If you can handle it.’
‘I think I can just about do that.’
She let us into the house, and once again I followed her upstairs and into her flat. She hung her coat on a hook in the hall and let me through to the sitting room again, then, when I was sitting comfortably, went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
I sat back and stared at a painting on the wall over the fireplace. The subject was a French marketplace. I got up to take a closer look. It was signed ‘Sophia Haines, 1988’.
When she came back into the room carrying a tray, I said, ‘Did you do that?’
She nodded. ‘On one of my long vacations from university, I spent a month around Paris.’
‘It’s good.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’
