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The barman turned round. ‘Not in here, you don’t.’ He stared at the woman, frowning at something about her that tugged at his memory. Where had he seen her before? But then they often got famous faces in here, he’d lost count of the number of stars who had drunk in his bar, and she was standing in profile, he couldn’t get a clear view of her. ‘Look, lady, if you know him, take him away. He’s had a skinful and he isn’t getting any more drinks in here tonight. Sorry, but I draw the line at serving a man who can barely see.’
He didn’t hear what she said to Derek Fenn, but a minute later the two of them had gone.
When he left Annie’s house, Sean drove straight to Derek Fenn’s flat, but there was no answer to his insistent ringing on the doorbell. He stood outside on the pavement, staring up, but the windows were dark.
Sean thought of sitting outside in his car, but Derek might be out all night, so he went home and rang Tom Moor, once, long ago, his partner in the City of London police force and now working as a private detective on the same patch, but more profitably since he had begun acting for merchant banks and insurance companies on very different work to the purely criminal activities he had investigated as a policeman.
Tom’s wife Cherie answered sleepily. ‘You’re kidding, Sean! It’s late, man; don’t you sleep at nights any more? Anyone would think you were still a copper.’
‘Sorry, love.’ He looked at his watch and made a private face. ‘If I had a wife like you I might be in bed at ten o’clock, but I’m a miserable bachelor with nothing to keep me warm at night but a hot-water bottle. You should feel sorry for me, not shout at me.’
‘Oh, you poor little dear,’ she crooned with mock pity, then snappily added, ‘Come off it, you don’t get the sympathy vote from me, Sean. A lot of ladies would queue up to fill your bed, so cut the tears. Just don’t keep Tom long, OK? We have better things to do at night than chat to you.’
‘Lucky Tom,’ Sean teased, but it wasn’t Cherie who answered, it was Tom’s puzzled voice.
‘Lucky, why? Is that sarcasm? A bit late at night for that, Sean. You know me, I put my brain in a glass at bedtime. What do you want? You just ruined our bedtime cocoa.’
‘That’s a new name for it. But sorry about that, Tom, I won’t keep you – I just wanted to know how you were getting on with that enquiry?’
‘Haven’t set eyes on him yet, but we’re turning over every stone. I’ve done all the usual: checking phone books across London, credit agencies, electoral rolls. His name hasn’t shown up for years. If his ex-wife knows where he is, she isn’t seeing him and she’s not grieving. She’s out all the time, she certainly believes in putting it about. She has more men than a dog has fleas; I’ve spotted her with three in a row. In fact, she’s out tonight. I’ve got a guy on her tail. I’ll tell you what I turn up. Sooner or later she may lead us to him, but don’t keep your hopes up.’
‘Just a tip, Tom – have you tried repertory theatres? He’s an actor; he might have gone back to that. Try the various theatre agents, too; he might be on someone’s books. Well, thanks, Tom, I’ll let you go back to Cherie now – give her a kiss for me.’
‘Give it to her yourself when you see her,’ Tom said, chuckling. ‘Get yourself a good woman too, and then maybe you’ll sleep in your own bed at night, like a Christian. Come round to dinner soon, man; we haven’t done that for an age. Cherie worries about you; says you don’t eat enough.’
‘If she promises to make her sweet-potato pie I’ll be there!’ promised Sean, hanging up.
Derek stumbled across the littered sitting-room in his flat and opened a drinks cabinet, got out a half-empty bottle of whisky, looked around for glasses.
‘Siddown, darlin,’ he grunted, lurching into the tiny kitchenette.
He came back with two smeared glasses and set them down on his coffee table with a crash.
‘There y’re. Say when.’ He poured, swaying; sat down on the couch and then focused
on his companion. ‘Oh, oh, in a hurry, aren’t we?’ He licked his lips, watching as one long leg was crossed over another, then the scarlet-nailed hands slowly began unpeeling delicate black tights.
‘Can’t wait, eh?’ Derek breathed thickly. He was aroused, excited, although he had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to perform; he never could when he was really drunk, but what the hell, he thought, he’d die trying. ‘Striptease, eh?’ he muttered. ‘Striptease, lovely, I’ll play.’ He had already thrown off his jacket, now he undid his shirt and took it off, aware that she had stopped undressing and was watching him. He unzipped his trousers. ‘This what you want, baby?’ He wriggled out of them and kicked them away across the room. ‘Off, off, ye lendings …’ His briefs followed them; he was naked, and he leered at her. ‘Com’on, baby, let’s do it.’ He tried to get up but swayed, fell back. ‘Dammit.’ He began to laugh, sprawled on the couch. ‘Stupid. Can’t … can’t seem to … get up.’ He held out his arms. ‘Don … worry … I’ll get it up OK, come here, baby, let’s do it here, why not?’ He sat up and then blinked because the room seemed to be empty, she had gone.
For a second he wondered if he had imagined her. Something about it was dreamlike, a crazy, erotic dream. He’d had those before when he had been drinking, or snorting coke. Harems of women dancing naked in front of him, and him able to do it to all of them.
‘Where’ve yer gone, baby?’ he mumbled gloomily. He heard sounds behind him and tilted his head to look backwards. ‘Oooh, there y’are. Wha … wha’yer doing there?’
She bent over him; he stupidly stared up at her. ‘Wha … wharra y’doing?’
His eyes bulged.
He made thick, choking sounds; tried to speak, tried to scream, grabbing for her hands, trying to loosen the black snake coiling around his neck.
His legs writhed, flew upward, kicking; the glasses went, whisky splashing everywhere, on the table, on the carpet, on the couch. The bottle went, too; lay on the floor, pumping out whisky, which sank into the carpet, a brown stain spreading.
The long ward was still dark although outside the sky was filling with pale spring light. The maze of endless corridors and wards smelt of disinfectant and stale human flesh, but there was a wild scent in the air from the bathrooms adjacent to the ward; they were like a flowershop at night, crowded with vases of flowers put there overnight and brought back in the morning; daffodils and hyacinth, pure virginal white narcissus. The ward sister had a mania about flowers using up the oxygen during the night while patients slept.
Trudie was often awake at night; she slept during the day, doped up to the eyeballs. They had caught on to her pill-hiding and were giving her injections; she couldn’t avoid taking them, couldn’t pretend she had swallowed and then spit the pill out when nobody was looking, or hide drugs in her toilet bag where Cinders had found them before now.
A white-capped figure slowly trod along the aisle between the beds and paused beside Trudie; watched her pale, worn face, the parted lips breathing rustily, a little hair on her upper lip breathing in and out.
Trudie’s face seemed to be falling in on her bones, her flesh melting like candle wax, running and sinking into nothing. Even her hair had grown so thin it was as if it was being pulled back inside her scalp, hair by hair. She would be bald if it went on much longer.
