The City Trap (8 page)

‘I’ll just do another check around.’

Des again went round the too-tidy house. Two things came to his attention. In the front room, behind the door, Des noticed a clown print. Not exactly the same as the other one that had witnessed
a small humiliation of his own. It was similar enough, though, to send a ripple of unease through him and a desire to thump its inane face. Des moved quickly away. He’d failed to check the
back yard. On opening the rear door, there seemed little to be bothered about. In the fading light he could see paving stones swamped by weeds. A rotary drier collapsed and rusting by the back
fence. There were, however, two bulging black plastic bags by the gate. Rats had gnawed their way into both. Refraining from breathing in, Des got down on his haunches and prodded around at the
spewing mess with a pen. Potato peels and eggshells, unidentifiable slime and fag ash, but also scraps of paper. Gingerly, he tried to ease a few out of the filth. A shopping list, a few columns of
figures, till receipts . . . Bertha appeared at the back door.

‘I reckon I might have found something, Des.’

He looked up.

‘In one of Claudette’s jackets, stuffed right down in the pocket.’

* * *

It was completely dark when Des began to drive Bertha back to her home. He was feeling pleased with himself and certain things in his life were beginning to seem long gone. He put
on an Abdullah Ibrahim tape and allowed his fingers to play a tune on the steering wheel.

‘So read the note again, Bertha.’

‘My special friends call me Bee.’

‘B is for boss don’t forget.’

‘Huh. OK – “Sorry about this. I tried to ring but couldn’t get you. I’m out of town for a few days so you won’t be able to reach me. Let me know as soon as
you can about the VIP . . .” and it’s signed “G”.’

‘What you reckon then?’

‘Well, she was playing around, the naughty girl, as Vin suspected, whoever G is.’

‘Sounds possible. Then again, it could be just an innocuous arrangement. What about VIP?’

‘No idea.’

‘I suppose that could be just a personal joke, you know, like people have names for their genitalia. Or it could be pointing to a scam.’

‘Find out, Des. What am I paying you for?’

Bertha lived on the third floor of a ten-storey block of flats some half a mile to the east of Argent Street. Des pulled into the car park and waited for Bertha to get out.

‘You coming up for a coffee, Des?’

‘Nah, I think I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind.’

‘I won’t bite, you know.’

‘I dunno about that, and that worries me, you being my client and all.’

‘So what if I did bite, Des? I’m pretty good at knowing where and how to do it. I mean, we’re both well grown-up now and, if I’m not mistaken, you, like me, are pretty
hungry.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘I know what it’s like. I’ve been caught out too, hooked on a drug and suffered withdrawal.’

‘Bertha, this doesn’t feel right.’

‘Don’t worry, it’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, I dunno . . .’

Bertha smiled. It was a warm smile and appealingly accentuated by many lines.

‘By the way, Des, do you have a name for yours?’

8

Flat 34 was a celebration of the pink frill. Everywhere you looked in the various pink-painted rooms, the scalloped adornments were there. On valanced curtains, cushions,
drapes and mirror frames. As mock flowers standing tall on green canes. But for a full realization of Bertha’s taste, the bedroom was the place to see. Pillowcase and counterpane, pink frilly
canopy above the bed and a huge foaming lampshade. All this amid deep magenta walls, pink carpet and bed. Des McGinlay lay on this bed, lit up a fag and tried to think about the mess he was getting
in to. He’d let himself be seduced. The implications were scary, the complications too awful to consider. So Des gave up thinking and sank back down to his feelings. To his surprise, they
were good. The first time he’d writhed with uncertainty in Bertha’s arms and felt guilty over Miranda, but the second time that night, that time he’d really made love, and
he’d felt great because of it. Bertha was true to her word. She knew where and how to do the things that made Des feel almost himself again. She entered the bedroom with a tray of coffee and
scrambled eggs on toast.

‘You shouldn’t still be in bed, Des, there’s work to be done.’

‘I hate eggs for breakfast.’

‘Don’t expect me to know everything about you yet.’

Bertha set the tray down on the bedside table. She wore a see-through shift, pink of course, and she let it slip off her shoulders as she lay next to Des. But Des, though appreciative of her
body, didn’t really notice. He was still wincing over the word ‘yet’. It sounded so menacing, a threat that he might be swallowed up. But it was a titillating threat. Despite the
flouncy cheapness of all the trimmings, there was an allure to Bertha’s view of home, a sense of snuggling, an oblivious passion that Des could submit to as an escape from the hard-edged
world. Des saw then that the frilliness was indicative of a womb, Bertha’s womb, beginning to open as she rubbed herself against his thigh.

‘Bleeding hell, Bertha, I have got to work, you know.’

‘What difference will half an hour make now?’

‘You never know.’

‘And so won’t miss . . .’

Bertha’s tongue went down to his ribs and onwards like a trickle of warm honey. Des became lost once more in pinkness, moist and alive . . .

It was midday before he was out on the road, though he wasn’t too sure what he was doing there. He had the names and addresses of two prostitutes who were friendly with
Claudette, but he was still woozy with Bertha and couldn’t think straight. First it was,
Well that’s got one back on Miranda
, and then,
But Bertha, she’s like a bad
drug. Too good to refuse; too dangerous to know
. He was elated and pissed off at the same time. Des decided a snifter was needed before he followed any leads. So, it was down to the real world
where the ghosts of murder victims and ex-lovers mingled with the everyday punters. Des propped up the bar and smiled at Eileen.

‘Here’s to foot and mouth and mad, mad cows!’

‘Scrapie with pork scratchings!’

‘Love it – here’s a battery chicken in your eye!’

‘And a crate of veal to go with it!’

‘The way it goes, eh Eileen, down the tubes.’

‘Yep, and all you can try to do is go happy. Speaking of which, you almost seem happy yourself.’

‘Don’t be conned; a temporary aberration I’m sure.’

‘But that Miranda’s finally gone where all the mad cows go?’

‘Well, I dunno. Can you believe what the authorities say?’

‘That sandwich you’re eating is not mad, Des!’

He grinned at Eileen. He’d forgotten how well they got on. But then that was the nature of her job and nothing special.

‘So tell me, what’s your view on Claudette’s death?’

‘Jesus, Des, I don’t know.’

‘What did you make of her, though? She was in here quite a bit.’

‘Well, she spread herself around, you know, liked chatting. She’d rub shoulders with anyone at the bar.’

‘What, for any purposes?’

‘Oh yes, she was always on the lookout, you could tell. Who’s who and what they’ve got to offer.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘I wouldn’t have noticed. It gets too busy in here, but it makes you think.’

‘What?’

‘You know, the creep who killed her. He could be a customer. I could be serving the bastard beer!’

The first name on Des’s list was Sharon Mason. He found her at her home in the red-light district and she was happy to talk. With Bertha’s recommendation behind
him, Des walked into a kitchen with shopping on the table and toys on the floor. Sharon was a slim young woman with mousy hair. She had cute, youthful looks that Des guessed might help with her
work. But Sharon was clocked off and determined to be her normal self.

‘Yeh, I was pretty friendly with her. You know, we hung around the same pitch at night, had a laugh, looked out for each other.’

‘You got any idea about her death? See anything funny?’

‘Nothing really. We’d come across some weird johns and piss-taking kids and stuff, but that’s kind of normal. There was nothing scary that I remember, nothing we had really bad
feelings about.’

‘You don’t think it was a lone nutcase?’

‘I doubt it, she wasn’t even on the game that night.’

‘So what do you think?

‘I dunno. You know, you think about it because it could’ve been me, but . . .’

Sharon began to sort out the shopping. She did it in a very ordered and meticulous way and Des wondered if she was like that with her punters. The thought made him shudder.

‘What’s the talk among the girls?’

‘Well, there’s a feeling she was up to something, like she was doing something on the side and it blew up in her face.’

‘No ideas?’

‘Money, it had to do with making money. That’s all she ever talked about, making money and getting away.’

‘With Vin?’

Sharon made a face. ‘Vin was in the doghouse,’ she said.

‘So who?’

‘Sod knows. You’re gonna have to talk to Pauline about that.’

Nothing much there. Des left Sharon to her domesticity. House to clean, meals to prepare and kids to organize.

Pauline lived two streets down. Des took the opportunity for a short stroll in the sunshine and the rare chance to indulge in feeling good.
A lover and a job all in one day.
Can’t be bad
. The feeling didn’t last. Pauline wasn’t at home. A chunky guy with a huge black moustache was. Des should’ve seen the potential for trouble, the way the
guy squared up to him and glared, but Des was in the pink and slack because of it.

‘Hi there,’ Des said with a smirk. ‘I’m McGinlay, a private investigator, and I want to speak to Pauline.’

The man in the door didn’t reply, merely intensified his glare and somehow filled out the doorway more.

‘You get me, yeh? Pauline? I mean, that moustache, there is a mouth under it, isn’t there?’

‘Huh, snoopin after our Pauline, are yer? Fuckin private dick! We’ve had the soddin pigs round half a dozen times and I’ll be fucked if we want you!’

‘There is a mouth.’

‘Eh?’

‘Forget it. Look, I don’t want to speak to you –’

‘No one speaks to our Pauline without my say-so.’

‘Come on, chill out. This heavy macho thing, it’s movie stuff,’ Des quipped. It was one quip too many.

‘Fuckin smartarse!’ The man lifted up a slab hand and propped it on Des’s chest. ‘Well you just check this, dickface. No –’ and the guy began to push
‘– scumbag – little – snooper – comes knocking – on my – fuckin door – without good reason – or a fuckin invitation!’

Des suddenly found himself on the pavement, pressed up against a car. Only then did he begin to get seriously concerned and to think of protecting himself. Too late.

‘An just in case the message hasn’t got home’ – the guy pulled back his arm – ‘fuckin this might make it so!’

Des saw the fist coming but blocked to no avail. A solid thump hit him in the solar plexus. Des bent double, gasping for air. The steak sandwich in his stomach began to get ideas about
reincarnation. Des teetered away on wobbly legs, and found a tree to hold on to.

‘An don’t fuckin well come back!’ he heard as he sought to breathe without retching at the same time. After a while, when most of the nausea had gone, Des began to feel angry.
Not so much with the thug as with himself. ‘Slack,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Unprofessional. Five minutes on the job and I’m almost fucked!’ He picked himself up and
gingerly went on his way.

* * *

Even on the third floor there was no horizon to see. Houses, factories and blocks of flats. For many years, Bertha had barely given the view a second thought. It was just there,
ugly and to be ignored. But now she was looking, not seeing, and thinking that maybe one day she could be an observer of the sea instead. One day, the hidden horizon and those she knew with no
horizons could be left behind. There was hope. It sat in a pile on the sofa like an unexpected guest. Five thousand pounds. It wasn’t enough to get you to the sea, to allow you to stay, but
such a sum could well create more, and so hope was justified. Bertha left the window and sat down by the money. But how to make it grow? She had few financial skills; she didn’t know about
much other than typing and that job she’d done so long ago. But maybe there was opportunity. What she once did, so did her daughter, and whatever Claudette was involved with, so Bertha could
seek to exploit. But how? The phone quietly beeped its way into her thoughts.

‘Yes.’

‘Bertha, you didn’t give me any warning, did you?’

‘That you, Des?’

‘Yeh, a rather pissed off Des.’

‘What’s happened, sweetheart?’

‘You didn’t tell me about the walrus that minds Pauline.’

‘Have you got hurt or something?’

‘Nah, wounded pride mostly. But this git, he’s built like a tank and fires howitzers if you try to get past him.’

‘I thought you could handle yourself, Des.’

‘Yeh well . . . a bit out of practice, and softened up by you.’

‘We had a nice time, though.’

‘Something I’ll have to sort out, the pain and the pleasure of the job.’

‘Ha, don’t know if I like the sound of that.’

‘Don’t worry, but it would help if you could set up a meet with Pauline minus the bodyguard.’

‘I’ll fix that, but are you sure you’re OK? I wouldn’t like you to get hurt.’

‘Isn’t that what you’re paying me for?’

As she put the phone down, Bertha smiled.
That makes a change, paying the man.
She picked up the money and wrapped it ready for hiding. The plan was on its way. Bertha smiled again. Quite
a coup for a secretary. A secret second life with a man to meet her every need. And, if the plan goes well, a way out to greater riches, an escape from the concrete sprawl to sensuous pleasures by
the sea. Bertha pulled herself up sharp. She was fantasizing too far ahead. Yet she knew her daughter, had her suspicions and if proved right, there could well be more money to come. Bertha took
the pile of notes into the bedroom, removed a few and then stashed them away.
Tomorrow, new clothes and moving forward to past glories and maybe even sweet revenge
. . .