The City Trap (22 page)

‘Shit, it’d be better if this comes out through Ross. Covers us, yeh?’

‘Well, I don’t care, Errol.’

‘You don’t have a boss who plays golf with his knighthood.’

‘That bad, eh?’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me if they were secret lovers too.’

‘Now that would be a story . . .’

Sitting separate in the two cars, they began to talk through the arrangements for the meet. Errol was still being cagey, but he was on board and Des felt better because of it. He needed the
support. His next job was to see Bertha. Tricky situation.

A big smile greeted Des when she opened the door. A big smile from a made-up face and a welcoming body wrapped loosely in pink silk. Des heard a bell ring in his head and he
didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

‘I was sort of expecting you,’ she said.

‘Well, we’ve got things to sort out.’

‘You’re looking much better, Des.’

‘When it gets very bad, bad itself can seem good, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yeh. Until you see what good’s like.’

They sat down on the sofa in the room of pink frills, Bertha’s dressing gown already slipping off smooth curves and Des beginning to find it hard to think. He fixed his eyes on her
reflection in the blank television screen. It seemed to help.

‘So you still want to call it off?’

‘I think it would be the best thing.’

‘What kind of deal are you making, Bertha?’

‘I’m thinking of yours and my safety. The job’s done now. We more or less know the truth and if we push it further – the stakes are too high for them, they’ll just
murder again.’

‘Sounds like bullshit to me. You said you wanted to nail Claudette’s killer.’

‘That was just angry grief talking.’

‘Have you actually spoken to Ross?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So what d’you want the photos for?’

‘To burn them all. It’s one memory of my daughter I don’t want hanging around and it stops any trouble in its tracks.’

Des knew that Bertha was lying but it didn’t seem to matter any more. He’d set his trap and she didn’t need to know a thing about it. In fact, she probably shouldn’t
know, because Des felt that it wasn’t beyond Bertha to have done a deal with Ross. Whatever the situation, she had an angle and that was as plain as the bare thigh that rubbed against his.
But did he really know for sure? Why the antagonism, when before he’d felt sorry for the tough deal Bertha had had? Des ventured a look straight in her face. She smiled. Brown eyes glinted.
Maybe he did owe her more charitable thoughts. Bertha had brought succour when Des was low down. Motives, ambivalent always. Des eased back and pushed his shoulder against hers. Well, here comes
another dodgy motive, he thought.

‘You’ll drop the case then?’

‘As best I can. There are things in motion that might come back to me.’

‘But you’ll call off the police?’

‘You’ll be the one with the cards.’

‘That’s fair enough. I’ve paid for them.’

Des stared up at the rose-patterned lampshade. She was holding his hand now, stroking the fine hairs on the backs of his fingers. Two sets of total lies locked together and a prospect of the
false deals being sealed by sex.

‘So what do we do now?’

‘What would you like to do?’ she asked.

Bertha was massaging his hand, leaning forward and revealing her nakedness beneath the gown. Its power had not diminished in Des’s eyes.

‘Tomorrow will probably be the last time we meet,’ Bertha said. ‘After that, it would probably be best to keep our distance for a while.’

‘I guess you’re right.’

‘I’ll miss you, Des.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You don’t know how to leave, do you?’

‘No.’

Bertha straightened herself up next to Des and let the pink gown slip completely off her shoulders. ‘Then you’ll just have to stay.’

* * *

It was midnight and Ross Constanza was still in his office. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the desk, as did Gus’s feet, who was lounging opposite. The striplight in the
ceiling had developed a flicker and it was beginning to annoy Ross.

‘Fucking first chance to get away, Jesus, man, I’m off – bleedin shit heap! I used to think you should never stay in the same place too long. I let that slip. I can feel the
moss growing all over me.’

‘Tek it easy, boss. When you see a way out, den tings, dey can seem panicky.’

‘I don’t know that I do see a way out. I mean, what d’you make of it? A phone call this afternoon from McGinlay saying he wants to do a deal on the photos, and now the same
bleedin call from Bertha.’

‘The photos dem’re like breedin rabbit.’

‘Too right. Sounds like the whole world’s got them cept us. Hardly seems any point getting them back.’

‘What Wainwright im say?’

‘He’s a pretty angry fucker. Says don’t do any deals, just pull out a gatt and take the stuff.’

‘Should work wid Bertha, but wid McGinlay . . .’

‘Pity he crocked up Scobie.’

‘I can handle a gun, man, don’ worry.’

‘That ain’t the worry; it’s the fucking tricks he might have up his sleeve.’

‘What do dey call dat der ting, man? You know, mekkin the bes out of a lousy situation.’

‘Damage limitation.’

‘Dat’s the fucker.’

‘Yeh, well, that’s all I’ve been doing since Wainwright had his “unprotected” sex.’

‘Bes ting be to blow im away.’

‘Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, the pompous prick. Never trust a bent straight, Gus. They’ve got fingers all over the place. You never know where you
are.’

‘So what’s the plan den, Ross?’

‘Damage bleedin limitation. We rip off the snaps from Bertha and McGinlay and bung em down Wainwright’s throat. End of relationship. Then we bugger off down Waterloo and by dawn we
should be supping Pernod by the Seine.’

‘Soun’s cool.’

‘Yeh, just a case of keeping our distance till we see what happens.’

‘Fine. Me hear dem say French chicks get pretty hot for guys like me.’

Ross poured himself another drink of whisky. He looked at the soles of Gus’s shoes and then at the small office. Too long in one place.

‘Gus, take your stinking shoes off my desk! And while you’re at it, why don’t you fix that fucking light?’

23

Des got almost sentimental about the big wallow. It maybe wasn’t so bad to drown your sorrows and soak in self-pity. Those sleepless nights under low lights riding great
monologues of thought. Boozy, smoke-filled dawns where the clarity of light was impossible to believe, as though he’d reached an hallucinatory state. It all seemed so cosy and safe compared
to the fraught actions he was caught up in now. And the psychology was there, just like the reluctant worker who can’t leave his bed. Things’ll go on with out me. What does it matter
anyway? Des was tired. He dragged himself around his house collecting the many copies of photos he was about to do deals with. In some way, he felt the case was over, and the dangerous business of
wrapping things up was a burden he didn’t have the heart for.

Think of the pay. Think of never seeing Bertha again. Think of Pearl and Las Palmas in the fall . . . Des suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.
No, don’t think, don’t think at
all!

Three envelopes eventually piled up on Des’s kitchen table. For Ross, half a dozen snaps and half the negs. The same for Bertha. The third envelope was a bloody-minded whim. A little
sequence which made a story to be sent to the local paper. A felt-tip note: ‘Sir Martin Wainwright.’ An equals sign. One of the snapshots. Another equals sign and then a press cutting
about Claudette’s murder.
What the hell?
Des put a stamp on it and then went out of the house to the post box which sat collecting smog on Argent Street. On his way back, Des saw the
guy sitting in his car. It was fifty-fifty, of course, that the man was just waiting for someone. However, guys sitting in cars have to be regarded as dodgy. Social Security snooper, debt collector
or someone keeping an eye on Des. There’d be but one way to find out.

The first place he had to visit was Bertha’s pad. Bittersweet, this. A tangle, a badly snagged knot of string that might take a long time to unravel. Des got into his
Lancia and set off for the permanent crawl of Argent Street. The guy sitting in his car didn’t move but a flashing indicator showed that he was about to. As Des was let into the traffic flow,
the car pulled out, a Japanese job, grey and anonymous. The attention was unwelcome. According to Hollywood, Des would now zoom off, jump a few lights and screech around near-impossible turns. Des
looked at the long line of traffic. Maximum speed ten yards a minute. Great. He looked back and could see his tail slotting into the flow some five cars back. So who was he working for? Ross? The
police? It seemed to Des that this was an element in the situation he did not need, an element that could jeopardize his pay cheque or even his health. He began to feel annoyed, partly at being
tailed and partly because of the moronic pace of the traffic. Des stopped his car completely and jolted the handbrake on. Tension was wrapping iron bars around his head. He got out and walked back
to the Jap job. The guy sitting in his car had the window down.

‘You’re violating my rights.’

‘Eh, I’m just –’

‘I’m not in the mood for being followed. I’m very fussy about my personal space.’

Horns from the stalled cars around them began to blow. A few irate heads appeared from behind windscreens and standard motoring oaths added to the cacophony. Des reached into the car and grabbed
the ignition key.

‘Hey! Come here you!’

‘Who you working for, huh?’

‘Give me those bloody keys and get out of here!’

Des dangled the keys high in the air. He saw a burly builder-type hauling himself out of the car behind, his face contorted with rage.

‘We’re about to have a major scene. You going to tell me?’

‘Shit! All right, I’m doing it for Wainwright. I’m just supposed to make sure you do the deal with Constanza and no funny business. If you do that you’re in the clear and
you don’t have to worry about me.’

‘What the bloody hell are you lot doing blocking the fucking road?’

The irate builder was but a few yards away and he had a tyre iron in his hand. Des looked down at the guy sitting in his car.

‘Oh well, the way it goes . . .’ Then he threw the keys across the road and dashed back to his own car. The noise behind him was growing, the builder had his head in the Jap job, but
Des suddenly had an open road in front of him. He got his car going and put his foot down. A few red lights to cross, a few impossible turns to try . . .

* * *

‘The end of the road then, Bertha?’

‘You sure this is all there is? There’s not many negatives.’

‘They’re copy negs. There are only two prints to make copies of.’

‘I suppose I should settle up, then.’

‘I reckon you should.’

Bertha was dressed up for the occasion. Full make-up that brought back former glories and a dark red dress that shimmered across her ample curves. Des took one look down her cleavage and felt an
unwanted surge of desire. One of those places, an old pleasure haunt he was seeking to move on from. Bertha began to count out the money.

‘You’re sure this is the end of the line for you, Des?’

‘From now on I’ll refer all queries to you.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

‘Loose ends, Bertha, like Wainwright pressuring me.’

‘Doing it my way will stop everything.’

‘I hope you’re making a good deal, my dear.’

‘One day I’ll tell you all about it.’

Des sat back on the plum red sofa and allowed himself a sigh of relief. A major job done. A real wad of cash. Las Palmas in his pocket. He could just pack it in and let things go on without him.
He could, but he knew he wouldn’t. He fingered his throat, a throat that had known the same hands as Claudette and Mary. He had to see it through.

‘I’m going to miss you, Des.’

Bertha was leaning towards him and she had her hand on his thigh. A familiar pose this one and, despite himself, Des began to feel rumblings of desire.

‘You always do it, don’t you, Bertha? Go right down to base instincts.’

‘Come on, that’s in your mind, and you love it.’

‘As if you make sure the thoughts don’t arise.’

‘Men, Des, you’re all the same. It wouldn’t matter what I did.’

‘Well, you certainly have the chemistry.’

‘So, will you miss me?’

‘Like wild nights on the town.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know, it was great while it was happening, but the mornings-after were hard to deal with.’

‘Well that’s nice.’

Des shrugged. He braced himself for flak.

‘Sex and business. That’s about as far as it goes for men. The rest is just hassle, to be evaded or shrugged off.’

‘I don’t know as you’re any better.’

‘You never dared come close enough to find out.’

‘Look, you’ve paid me off, Bertha, so there’s no point in rowing. But if you want to play the who-used-who? game, then I reckon you’re ahead and just about to cross the
finishing line.’

‘Yes? Well, maybe I am about to do that.’

‘It’ll end in tears.’

‘That’s what soft shits like you like to think.’

Des was feeling pretty strange when he left Bertha’s block of flats. He didn’t really want to leave but wanted to return, call Bertha all the names under the sun
and then make fierce love to her. It made him unwary. He didn’t notice the blue van that was parked some way behind his own car. It had been there before but he hadn’t noticed it then
because of the Japanese job. Previously, the van had been up ahead of him on Argent Street and had since kept on his tail. He was more concerned now with easing Bertha from his thoughts, and as he
set off of to meet Errol, the van barely registered. Des headed for the city centre, working through the crawling traffic and then onto the fast-moving expressway. He swept up Camp Hill, past the
stone canyon vista of the city and on. He didn’t notice any of it. No panoramas, no horizon, just a blinkered route from an unsettling Bertha to an unknown scene where danger lurked. He got
to the glasshouse facade of the railway station feeling calm enough, though a sense of seediness still lingered, old sweat needing to be showered off.