Gun Street Girl (4 page)

‘What are the rest of the family going to say about me moving in?' I asked. ‘Do they know you're here?'

‘I may invite whom I like to the house for whatever reason I choose. The money I just paid you is mine, and it's my business what I do with it.'

‘So they're probably going to hate me.'

‘Probably.' She stood up.

‘This evening then,' I said, following her to the door.

‘I'll look forward to it. I'll have something cool waiting for you.'

By the way her attitude had changed, and from what she'd just told me, I suspected it might be my welcome, but I let it go.

I escorted Elizabeth Pike to her car. The weather man on the news that morning had forecast temperatures in the low eighties and the sun burnt down from a clear sky. My new client seemed cool enough however, especially for someone with sudden death on her mind.

As we left the office, the chauffeur bounded from his seat, but I was too quick for him. I opened the Rolls's passenger door and got hit with a blast of frigid, perfumed air from inside the car. ‘That's all right, Vincent. I can manage,' I said and he gave me a dirty look as he stood and watched me help his mistress into her seat. I wasn't surprised he was miffed as I caught a flash of white thigh as she settled herself into the leather upholstery. It was obviously a perk of the job. One of the lads standing outside the pub door with a pint of chemical lager in his hand gave him a wolf whistle and Vincent reddened. I gave him a wink which didn't help. He scowled under his uniform cap and went back to his steering wheel. I leant down and said to Elizabeth Pike, ‘Moody, isn't he?'

‘Don't tease him,' she said. ‘He's been very good to us.'

I bet, I thought, but merely said ‘I'll see you later.' And closed the door.

The car started with barely a rumble and Vincent executed a tight three-point turn before joining the town-bound traffic flow on the main road. I watched the huge car disappear into the one-way system like a big black beetle surrounded by a horde of lesser bugs of various colours and went back into my office.

I checked my address book and got straight on the phone to Wanda, the cat woman. She answered on the fifteenth ring, when I'd almost given up on her. I identified myself and she gave me a bollocking for not having been in touch for so long.

‘Sorry, Wanda,' I said. ‘I haven't had much of a social life lately.' Then she went all mumsy on me, but I soon knocked that on the head. ‘Listen, I need a favour,' I interrupted.

‘That's the only time you ever do get in touch,' she wailed, and it was true.

I apologised again and eventually she came round because she's good that way, and I realised how much she meant to me and how much I'd neglected her. I explained that I had to go away for a while and of course she agreed to take care of Cat. As she had about fifty other moggies around the house I guessed that one more or less wouldn't make much difference. Besides, they were old friends. She'd looked after him before. I told her that we'd be with her in fifteen minutes and hung up the receiver.

I picked up Cat and slung him round my neck where he likes to sit as a sort of treat from time to time, even though it was rather warm for a fur collar, took my notebook and got on my way. I locked up my office and walked up to where my E-Type was parked. I peeled the cat off my shoulders and put him on the passenger seat. He gave me a growl and turned his back, just like his mum would have done. I dropped the notebook next to him and started the car. Once we'd got going he stood up with his front paws on the passenger door handle and clocked the scenery through the window.

We doodled through to Brixton and I ducked into the back doubles to where Wanda was now the proud owner of a very des-res. Three years ago you could have flogged the whole terrace of three houses for a hundred thousand quid. Then came the property boom and the going rate went through the ceiling. Then came the slump and who the hell knows what next.

I hammered on the door and waited. After a few minutes I hammered again and eventually I saw a shape behind the glass of the door and she opened it. She was dressed in a loose robe that left little to the imagination, and not much underneath. There seemed to be skin popping out everywhere I looked.

‘Do yourself up, love,' I said. ‘You'll frighten the animal.'

As it goes, though, Wanda's in pretty good shape for a woman her age. She's got a few years on me and I'm hoping I'm half as trim when I'm knocking on forty's door.

‘Don't be so bloody cheeky, Nick. I've been out the back getting a tan.' She was a good colour but she still cherried up.

‘Giving the neighbours a treat, are you?' I asked. ‘Some of the old sods round here will have a coronary if they see you like that. I expect one or two have taken themselves in hand about it already?'

She blushed even more and drew the robe round herself. ‘Are you coming in, or what?'

‘I can't,' I said. ‘I've got to get packed for this job.' I looked at my watch. ‘And I think I've still got time for a little shopping before I go. Apparently I'm not quite sartorially correct for the company I'm going to keep.'

‘Are you going to get into more trouble?' asked Wanda, and I think she really cared.

‘No. I'm just going to be a rich woman's plaything for a bit. She thinks someone is up to some dirty work at the crossroads.'

‘And is she right?'

I shrugged. ‘Dunno. I doubt it, too much money, see. It breeds paranoia.'

‘Well, be careful,' she warned. ‘I know you. You can get into trouble anywhere.'

‘The story of my life, Wanda.'

‘How long will you be gone?'

‘I don't know that either. As long as it takes, I suppose.'

‘Well, give him to me,' she said, reaching out for Cat. ‘And when you get back you can come and be my plaything for a bit.'

‘It's a date,' I said.

As she took Cat from me, her robe opened and one firm breast popped into view.

‘Don't move,' I said. ‘I want to remember you just as you are.'

Now she was crimson from sun and embarrassment and I laughed like I hadn't laughed for months. Eventually she joined in and I realised how much I'd missed her. ‘You're on for the best dinner of your life when I get back,' I told her.

‘And afterwards?' she asked.

‘Perhaps you'll have my body.'

‘Promises, promises.'

‘You'll have to join the queue, like everyone else.'

‘And who else is in the queue?'

‘Nobody at the moment,' I said. ‘So don't go far.'

I leaned down and planted a kiss at the side of her mouth. She smelled all warm and clean and I didn't really want to go, but I had to. ‘I'll see you soon, Wanda. Thanks for everything.'

I walked back down the short garden path and climbed into the Jaguar. When I looked back she was still standing in the doorway clutching Cat to her breast. I smiled and waved as I drove off and she smiled back.

By then it was almost two o'clock and I drove from Brixton to Bond Street, a journey that wasn't half as long as it used to be. I hid the car away on Woodstock Street and with one eye open for the clamp van I dived into a couple of shops to get some new threads. It's amazing what a couple of grand in cash can do for your self-confidence. I bought half a dozen shirts, a couple of ties, three, count 'em, three lightweight suits in dark colours from an Italian designer who could retire on what they cost me, and a dozen pairs of cotton socks in various colours. I also picked up a new pair of tasselled loafers, and with a big hole in my advance I got back to the car just in time to be presented with a parking ticket in a nice little transparent bag.

‘Cheers,' I said to the warden and tossed the ticket into the back with my shopping. First legitimate out of pocket expense, I thought.

It was getting late so I beat the rush back to Tulse Hill, had a shower, got dressed in a new yellow shirt and dark patterned tie. Slid into one of my new suits, a grey checked number that I thought went well with my complexion, navy socks and my new St Louis. I felt like the business.

I kept my new clobber in its fancy carrier bags then packed my battered old Samsonite with a couple of pairs of blue jeans, a light jacket, a pair of thick-soled brogues, as many pairs of boxer shorts as I could tuck round the edges, a wash bag complete with a new tube of toothpaste and the white towelling robe I'd nicked once when staying at the Albany in Glasgow. I remembered what Elizabeth Pike had said about driving and I called a cab to collect me at four. For once, Third World Cars were almost on time.

I turned off the gas and locked up my flat and staggered down to the car under the weight of my luggage with my old trusty trench coat over my shoulder even though it looked as if it was never going to rain again. The cabby watched me struggle with the door and eventually deigned to lean over and unlock it. When I was all settled and managed to get him to drop the decibel count of the Bob Marley tape to below the pain level, I was on my way back to the West End again.

Oh yeah, I forgot. As an accessory to my new whistle I was wearing a six-shot Browning Baby in an ankle holster, and just in case of emergencies I had tucked an S&W 357 Combat Magnum with Hogue rubber grips and a 21⁄2-inch barrel in a greasy shoulder holster, plus a box of ammunition, between two pairs of Levis in my case.

I've learnt that you can't be too careful in this life.

Just after five o'clock in the evening the cabby drew up outside a beautiful four-storey Georgian terraced house in Curzon Street. I checked it through the nicotine-stained car window as I waited for my change from a tenner.

Very pleasant, all mod cons, handy for the shops and not much change out of three million smackers, I guessed.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking property. My little attic in Norwood had nearly doubled in value in the eighteen months before the property crash. I just had a niggling worry that within a mile, maybe two, from where I was sitting there were cardboard cities underneath the arches at Charing Cross and Waterloo, and just possibly it was a tiny bit immoral for one family to own so much real estate when a brisk walk could take you to where there were a couple of hundred people living rough, who between them couldn't raise the cost of having this gaff's windows cleaned.

I shoved the thought to the back of my mind as I collected my cash, left the car and rescued my luggage from the boot. I climbed three stone steps, flanked by iron railings, and rang the door bell. After a few moments a pretty young girl in a black dress covered with a stiff white apron opened the door. I placed my case and bags between my feet and tried to look as if I belonged.

‘Is Miss Pike at home?' I asked. ‘Miss Elizabeth Pike.'

‘Mr Sharman?'

‘That's right.'

‘You're expected, sir. I'll get Vincent to fetch your luggage.'

‘No need,' I said. ‘I've managed it so far.'

She gave me an old-fashioned look but allowed me to carry my stuff over the threshold.

‘I'll show you to your room.'

‘Thanks.' I smiled.

‘This way.' She led me to a polished wooden lift shaft that ran up through the centre of the house.

‘This is unusual,' I said for something to say.

‘It's a bit old and slow, but it saves my feet, I can tell you.' She slid the latticed door open for me and we stood facing each other as the lift rose to the top floor.

‘Are you Miranda or Constance?'

‘Miranda,' she replied. ‘How did you know?'

‘It's my job, ma'am.'

She smiled, then got serious. ‘Are you here to investigate us?'

‘You know what I do then?'

She reddened, and I noticed a mist of perspiration on her top lip. She brushed at it with the back of her hand. ‘I wasn't being nosy,' she assured me. ‘It's just that you overhear things.'

‘Don't worry, Miranda,' I said. ‘I'm sure you do.'

‘People forget we're around, you see, they treat us like pieces of furniture.'

‘Does that upset you?'

‘No, you get used to it.'

‘So you like your job.'

‘I've liked it better since Miss Catherine arrived. She's different to the others, much more fun, and we had parties, until … ' She didn't finish.

‘I know,' I said as the lift clanged to a halt.

‘Oh, please don't say I said that. It was a terrible shame, Sir Robert killing himself like that, but a private detective, that's so exciting.' She flushed. ‘I read detective stories all the time. Ruth Rendell's my favourite – '

I cut her off. ‘It's not like that in real life,' I said and changed the subject. ‘You were here that night, weren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I would like to talk to you sometime when you have a moment.'

‘Any time,' she said, and we stood awkwardly in the intimacy of the small wooden box.

She opened the door again for me and took me down a long corridor that smelled of Johnson's Wax and into a large, high-ceilinged sitting room. The room contained a Chesterfield sofa upholstered in flowered moquette and a matching armchair, a console-sized TV and a delicate, dark wood table upon which sat a vase of fresh flowers. One wall contained built-in bookshelves, stuffed with soft- and hard-covered books broken only by a closed door. There was another door, slightly ajar, in the wall opposite us.

‘This is your suite, Mr Sharman.' Miranda walked across the soft carpet and pushed the door opposite wide. ‘The bedroom is in here and the bathroom beyond.'

I followed her and peered over her shoulder. The bedroom was furnished with a double bed, a portable TV on a trolley at its foot, a wardrobe, a dressing table with mirror, and a chest of drawers. On top of the chest stood another vase of flowers. Next to the chest was a small refrigerator. Mayfair, all the comforts of home and all for nixes. Can't be bad, I thought. I pointed to the closed door. ‘What's through there?'