Blood Substitute (25 page)

‘Then we abandon everything else on the case and do just that. But do tell Greenway.'

He gazed at me, tears on his eyelashes. ‘You're being very businesslike about this.'

‘I'm doing my oracle thing, aren't I?' I said, my own eyes misting with tears. I blinked them away.

‘And as my wife?'

‘I hate wives who employ emotional blackmail to make their husbands change their jobs.'

‘But what do you
think
?'

‘This is about
you
,' I told him. ‘About the rest of
your
life. About not regretting certain actions. About not being bitter. It's very difficult for me to be so pragmatic but wives and children are the ones who suffer in the long run when men are bitter and keep wishing for the good old days.'

‘So if I decide just to look for Robert Kennedy, hoping the poor devil isn't already dead, where do we start?'

‘By talking to a man by the name of Sydney Hellier, who is the founder of the Save Walthamsden Picture House Society.'

As I had discovered, the society had a website and it was from this that I had gleaned the information. Imagining that I would be left keeping the powder dry while Patrick plunged alone into the criminal underworld I had already sent Mr Hellier an email asking if we might meet and have a chat about the cinema. In order to allay any suspicions that I was some kind of time-wasting nutter I had mentioned that I was an author. There was a reply when we returned to our hotel room.

‘He's free tomorrow morning and suggests ten thirty,' I called around the bathroom door, Patrick having a shower. ‘We need to have a look at this place, don't we?'

‘Yes, not that I'm expecting for one moment to find Kennedy. But while we're there I suppose it's worth mentioning Ballinger's name.'

I replied to the email in the affirmative. Patrick's initial reaction to my proposal had been lukewarm and if it had not been for his promise to Carrick would have probably been quite happy in his present mood to have collected the children and Carrie and gone home. Although I had come to the conclusion that what had happened was inevitable I had never seen him so negative before. Was I right to encourage him to carry on?

Yes to that question: James was a friend of ours.

‘I get a real shock every time I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror,' Patrick muttered when he came back into the room, scowling at himself in the one over the dressing table.

‘How long will it take to fade?' I enquired.

‘God knows.'

‘I quite fancy you that colour.'

‘I thought we were going down to have something to eat.'

‘I didn't
necessarily
mean right now, right this very minute.'

He came over, sat on the bed and proceeded to kiss me silly.

‘Yes, OK,' I murmured when he had undone my bathrobe, hands wandering everywhere.

‘Right now after all, then?'

Fingers caressed between my thighs.

‘
Now
,'
I told him.

Now it was, that glorious strength. My own desire for him apart, I wanted to give him something to be happy about.

‘They've knocked the old place around already,' Sydney Hellier reported glumly. ‘And a few really nice pieces have been ripped out and sold, some of the light fittings, decorated glass panelling, stuff like that. All quite illegal, you know, because it's listed. They're hoping that when the planning people take a look at it they'll say it isn't worth saving. Are you hoping to write a book about the place?'

Hellier lived in a modest semi-detached house that was creaking under the weight of heavy dark furniture that was anything but art-deco. He was younger than I had imagined; probably in his mid-forties and of a type that could be uncharitably labled as ‘geekish'. I had turned down the offer of coffee purely on the grounds that everything around me was remarkably grubby and a quick glimpse into the kitchen on our way to a rear living room had suggested the source of the house's sour smell.

‘No,' I said, in answer to the question. ‘I have to confess that although I'm delighted to add my name to your list of people who want the place saved my main interest is in those who are bent on destroying it.'

My escort had remained on watch outside in the car, hired, the Range Rover having been deemed too distinctive in what was, courtesy of Ernie O'Malley and Co, a sensitive district as far as police departments, covert and otherwise, were concerned.

‘They could well be a bunch of crooks,' I added.

‘And you're doing research on them, like.'

‘That's right. Has anyone connected to a prospective buyer been to see you about it?'

‘Oh, the blokes who want to knock it down and build flats – posh flats mind, not for folk round here – have been round. I told them it wasn't my decision but the planning department's. They couldn't understand why folk want to keep the place.'

Regrettably, I was finding myself fascinated by his loose and yellowing dentures. ‘Did they threaten you at all?'

‘No, but they looked like typical dodgy development bods; shifty. I was glad when they went.'

‘Were any names mentioned?'

‘Not that I can remember. It took me back a bit, seeing four of them standing on the doorstep.'

‘Who owns the place?'

‘The local authority. It was left in someone's will to the borough to be used as some kind of community hall or theatre. It needs money spending on it, mind. We're trying to get lottery funding. But it'll be demolished, all right. So-called progress always wins.'

‘I'm particularly interested in a man who's calling himself Steven Ballinger.'

‘Calling himself? It's not his real name?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Never heard of him. What does he look like?'

‘He's distinctive; very tall, thin, probably has a small head and speaks with a high-pitched voice. Has anyone like that been to see you?'

‘Er … no.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes, of course.'

He was lying.

‘Mr Hellier, the man who fits that description is exceedingly dangerous. If he has been to see you there might be a risk to your own safety.' I gave him a hard stare.

‘Well … er … that does sound a bit like one of our founder members, Lazlo Ivers. He's a keyholder too.'

‘A keyholder?'

‘To the cinema.' Hellier uttered a nervous false laugh. ‘Not my place.'

‘Well, it couldn't possibly be him, could it?' I chortled, heart thumping. ‘Would I be able to have a look at it? I mean, if I'm going to sign your petition it would be nice to know what I'm supporting.'

‘Yes, I allowed time this morning as a matter of fact.'

‘Is it all right if my colleague comes too? He's thinking of making a donation actually.'

‘No bother.'

The old picture house was a short drive away. I had already indicated to Patrick that I had learned something important by giving him a nudge. I then introduced him as ‘my friend Rahjeed', the first thing that came into my head and for all I knew a brand of Indian drain cleaner. Rahjeed decided to go in for an English public school accent. This was not the time for quirkiness.

Walthamsden is a pleasant enough area, but this particular street looked ripe for demolition, most buildings boarded up, the few that were inhabited sorry spectacles of peeling paint, disintegrating stucco and slipping roof slates. Every entrance to the houses presented an obstacle course of litter and overflowing refuse bins. We parked the car on a vacant plot of land – vacant but for fly-tipped rubbish – and got out into a warm breeze redolent of traffic fumes and tom cats, causing my well-bred companion to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

‘There's European Union money ear-marked for the whole area,' Sydney Hellier, who had noticed, told him eagerly. ‘It's going to be turned into an Italian-style piazza, no traffic and with lots of little eateries. We want the cinema to be an art gallery-cum-theatre for local talent and events.'

‘It'll cost millions,' Patrick told him dismissively. ‘Where's the rest of the money coming from?'

‘Grants, the heritage people. This place is rich in heritage. For example, that house over there was lived in by a man who invented the idea of flea circuses.'

‘God,' Patrick said under his breath.

Hellier briskly rummaged in his pocket for keys. We were, I saw with surprise, standing right outside the cimema, the front of which was almost completely obscured by bill boards covered in posters. It was impossible to tell what the building really looked like, seemingly squashed between those on either side, and I could not see any access into it at all. But there was, Hellier leading the way to one end and unlocking a padlock on a gate in a section of security fencing.

We traipsed through the gate and on up what must have been the original steps into the building. Even these were falling to pieces – we were warned to look where we were going – and were scattered with broken tiles that had fallen from the facade. They had been rather beautiful tiles by the look of them.

The main doors had been fitted with more padlocks and these took a while to undo as they were rusting. I gazed about, seeing the glass cases that had once housed the posters announcing forthcoming attractions, and an advert for Lyon's ice cream almost faded out of existence.

‘My dad used to talk about going to the Saturday morning pictures,' I said to myself. ‘Cartoons and
Flash Gordon's Trip to Mars
.'

‘My father played polo on Saturdays,' said Patrick loftily, well in character. ‘He had his own team.'

I tried to imagine John on a polo pony and failed.

Then the doors were open and we went into the foyer. It reeked of damp. As Hellier had said, the interior had been knocked about – vandalized was a better description of what had happened. Even in the gloom it was fairly easy to see where decorative features had been ripped out because of the bare patches, holes even, in the mouldy plaster of the walls.

‘There's no lights, the power's off,' Hellier told us. ‘But there's a torch kept in a cupboard here if you want to go and have a punt round while I check all the outer doors are properly secured.'

‘Fine,' I said.

Hellier went into what had been the ticket office. ‘Funny,' he mutttered, moments later. ‘It's gone.'

‘I have a flash lamp in the car,' said Patrick. ‘I'll get it.'

Both men disappeared and I walked slowly towards one of the doors that led into the stalls, opened them and stared into the dark void beyond.
Lazlo Ivers
, said a voice inside my head. Lazlo Ivers. A good name for a scarecrow. We would have to be very careful or Sydney Hellier was a dead man. How would we get an address from him without arousing suspicion? We might even have to reveal our true identities and take him into protective custody.

‘The ghosts of film stars past,' said Patrick very quietly behind me, jerking me from my thoughts.

‘Lazlo Ivers,' I said under my breath. ‘A very tall man with a small head and a squeaky voice who belongs to the preservation group.'

‘I shall heap you with gold and elephants if it is him,' said the sahib. We went in and he switched on the torch, which was a large one, illuminating a crumbling, cobwebby cave-like auditorium.

‘What did Greenway say when you said we were going to concentrate on finding Kennedy?'

‘I didn't tell him.'

‘Oh?'

‘I just said we might have a lead on Ballinger and were coming here. It's the truth.'

‘Yes, of course it is,' I responded, deciding to defer further discussion.

The stage was still there, as were most of the seats in the auditorium, but there was no sign of any cinema screen. Beneath our feet as we walked down the slight slope the remains of the mouldering red carpet sent up clouds of dust that set us sneezing. The torch beam picked out the remnants of gold paint on what had been gold and green wall decorations but here also there were bare patches where tiles and mouldings had been knocked off, anything broken left where it had fallen.

‘The whole place has been gutted,' Patrick said. ‘Everything of the smallest possible value taken away.'

‘It's probably all sitting in the nearest reclamation yard,' I said.

We mounted the wooden steps at one side of the stage – there was even a tiny orchestra pit – and ventured on to the worn boards. They creaked alarmingly. Patrick flashed the lamp into the wings and more empty spaces strung with ropes and wires yawned before us. Facing the auditorium he then shone it towards the back, revealing a balcony of circle seats and above them, the small windows through which films had been projected.

‘This is where people in horror films split up and the heroine gets troughed by the resident nasty,' Patrick said, wandering off to the far side of the stage.

‘Thanks, and I'm staying right with you,' I told him, catching up.

The place, although very small by modern standards, was bigger than it looked from the outside. Corridors and narrow stone staircases, going both up and down, led off the bare area concealed by a tattered drop curtain towards the rear of the stage. Before its days as a cinema this building must have been a theatre.

‘Music Hall,' I said. ‘You can almost hear “Knees Up Mother Brown”
.
'

Patrick said, ‘I still can't help but feel a modern building wouldn't be more suitable as a community centre.'

‘I'm inclined to agree with you.'

We headed down the nearest corridor, wider than the others with several rooms off, and almost immediately found ourselves at what must have been the stage door. Retracing our footsteps we looked into all the rooms, dressing rooms of old probably: they contained nothing but broken chairs and rubbish.

Going back to the stage area we climbed one of the sets of stairs, too narrow to walk two-abreast, and came to a high metal gantry, some of the pulleys and ropes used for moving scenery still in place. Even the metal handrail felt damp and there were black patches of mould on practically everything. Not so much music hall perhaps as
Phantom of the Opera.
Going down again, and discounting the stairs on the other side that obviously ascended to the far end of the same gantry, we picked our way carefully over assorted small pieces of rubble scattered over more steps down into some kind of basement.