Under My Skin (13 page)

“Er … a friend of a friend mentioned you. Listen, I just need to ask a few questions, that’s all. You’ll be anonymous—and it’ll be totally confidential. I guarantee that.”

“I’ve nothing to say.”

“I can wait.”

She shook her head as if she still couldn’t quite believe it. One of the male croupiers overseeing the tables was staring
at us. Obviously it wasn’t done for the gamblers to fraternize with the croupiers. She saw him and turned quickly back to me, pointing her hand in the direction of the bar, as if offering directions. Under her breath she said angrily, “I’ve told you, I’ve nothing to say. And if you don’t get out of here, I’ll call the manager.”

She turned heel, gave a quick nod and a shrug to the man, then moved into place behind table 7, as the girl there picked up her handbag and slid away.

I thought strategy. Of course, I could see it from her point of view. A quick chat about the failure of your breast implants was not what you’d want when you were on duty looking poised and lovely. But then if she didn’t answer her phone messages, she had to expect people to come looking for her. And given her embarrassment, the last thing she was going to do was draw attention to it further by having me put out.

My sixties cocktail waitress came by and brought me another mineral water. I asked her how long the shifts were. She told me they worked till four, with a half-hour break in the middle. Well, what better did I have to do with my time?

Belinda was getting into her stride now. She stood straight, with better posture than the rest, manicured hands resting lightly on the baize. That she was the best-looking girl on the floor was beyond dispute. Which might account for the hum of activity building up around her table. But she certainly wasn’t giving anything away. I placed myself on the edge of the crowd. She saw me coming and flashed up a look. I deliberately didn’t catch it.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.”

The six or seven players did as they were told, a flurry of hands sprinkling brightly colored chips all over the board, some single, some in Tower of Pisa little stacks. With her right hand she started the wheel spinning, then with her left
deftly slid the ball into the groove. It raced off like a hare on a dog track, a dozen pairs of eyes mesmerized by the race. Its escape set off another little flutter of activity round the table—last-minute inspiration, news from beyond the wheel.

“No more bets, no more bets, please.”

The wheel was slowing, the ball chattering and clunking its way off the top and into the middle. It jumped a couple of times and came to rest.

“Thirty-two black. Thirty-two black.”

The number went up on the small neon board above. I looked down at the table. There was nothing at all on thirty-two. She leaned across and with a wonderful swoop gathered unto herself most of the hopeful chips and swept them into a hole at the end of the table. The noise of them clattering into the profit box below sent the smallest of shudders round the players. A few chips remained placed at the edges of the board. To them she dealt out neat little piles of winnings. Then she turned her attention back to the wheel. “Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.” And off they went again.

Every two or three spins she glanced up to check I was still there. It was time to tell her I wasn’t planning on leaving. Maybe I should have sat down. But the people who sat were the people who played and, shameful though it is for someone in my position to admit it, I didn’t really know the rules.

On a coffee table nearby there was a helpful stash of leaflets. I pretended to be doing something else while I read it. When I got back, I could, in theory at least, have broken the bank at Monte Carlo. I stationed myself behind an elderly lady with purple fingernails like talons and a frail frame weighed down by the family jewels. She was pushing her last few chips to a point where four numbers met. I knew now, of course, that her payback should any one of those four come up would be ten times her stake. The wheel
spun, the wheel stopped, the ball landed. But not on any of hers. Belinda scooped up her chips. The woman’s face remained utterly impassive. Whatever pain or pleasure there was to be had in this game, it was a seriously private affair. She gave a little flutter with her hand which may or may not have been a substitute for emotion, and got off the chair. I slid on.

Great moments in a private eye’s life. Here we were at one of them. I pulled two fifty-pound notes from my bag and slid them across the table. Belinda looked up at me and there was a moment of panic in her eyes. I tried not to look at her breasts. I smiled brightly and pushed the notes a little farther. Her hand reached out for them. She held them briefly up to the light then laid them on the table in front of her. “One hundred pounds,” she said flatly, just in case neither of us had noticed. “Fives, tens?”

“Fine,” I said.

She had clear eyes. Less blank than the other girls’. She counted the chips deftly off from the bank and pushed them toward me without making further eye contact.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.”

My fingers tingled as I slid three five-pound chips onto the “odd” box. Any odd number and the bank matches your stack. The ball whizzed and spun. “No more bets, no more bets.”

I watched it fall. “Number five.” They don’t come any odder than that. She pushed three chips my way, again without looking at me.

I took all six of them and moved them to the “even” box. And waited. The ball did its thing and came up red twenty-two. And now there were twelve.

I looked up at her, but she was keeping her eyes firmly on the table, as if I was just another punter. I had made forty-five pounds in five minutes. My palms were getting clammy. To move or not to move? I didn’t have time for a
soliloquy. I moved and briefly shut my eyes. Number nine. “Number nine,” she said in a monotone. The old tracks are the greatest. Thank you, John Lennon.

The subplot was fast becoming more exciting than the main story. At this rate I wouldn’t need to wait for Frank to make me a partner, I could buy him out. The four sets of chips nestled side by side. I left them there. But they were still lonely. They wanted others to join them. Number twenty-one. They got it.

I was staring at winnings of over two hundred quid. I moved my little army over the border onto the red square. Same odds. “If I win again,” I said to myself, “I’ll take it all off and give half to the guy who cleans windscreens on the Holloway Road, honest I will.” The ball had a social conscience. It went red.

It took her a while to count the chips out. When she pushed them my way, this time she shot me a venomous little look. Behind her the guy who had seen us talking was watching carefully. Four hundred and eighty quid. Not exactly breaking the bank. But then big problems start small, especially if you’ve reason to suspect something. It gave me an idea. “Place your bets.” I apologized to the windscreen man and moved the stack, this time onto “even.” Never more than you can bear to lose, wasn’t that the advice? We weren’t even close. I stared at the chips. I knew I was going to win again. I just knew it. Is this what they mean by a streak? “No more bets. No more bets.”

Then suddenly I was just as appallingly certain I was going to lose. So much for instinct. My fingers itched to get at the chips, pull them back over the safety of the line. I was so scared that my hands might do something without my approval that I had to entrap them tight between my legs.

The ball jumped and shimmied and flung itself into number thirty-five, then on a dying gasp back into thirty-four.

My heart was beating so fast I had to put a hand on my
chest to stop anyone else from hearing it. No one cheered. No one said anything. Possibly there was a communal intake of breath. The only thing I could say for sure was that people were concentrating. Not least the man on the pedestal. To give her her due, Belinda didn’t blink. “Thirty-four,” she said quietly, as she went about her business, scooping it up and giving it out.

I had to trade some in for higher denomination chips and even then I needed two hands to pick up my pile. My legs weren’t all that steady either. As I walked away, I saw the guy lean over and say something to Belinda. She turned and talked to him for a moment. Whatever she told him seemed to do the trick. He turned his attention to the next table.

I cashed in my winnings. My wallet was positively embarrassed. What with Olivia Marchant’s bonus and now this it had never seen so many fifty-pound notes together. I looked at my watch. It was after one. Add gambling to the list of occupations that make time fly. I went into the bar and bought myself a drink. I had rather hoped my wise old bird would be there to share in my bounty, but there was no sign of him. I settled down and waited.

Belinda came off the table at 2:30. I watched her pick up her bag and make her way to a sign that read:
STAFF ONLY
. I checked that no one was looking and followed her in. There was a corridor and two doors marked “Men” and “Women.” I went into the right one.

She came out of the cubicle to find me studying my frown lines in the mirror. I didn’t let her get a word in.

“OK. Here’s what we do,” I said without turning. “You agree to talk to me about your cosmetic surgery problems or I go out of here right now and tell the guy on the big stool that we’re good friends and that you just let me win.”

Two blackmails in the same plot. There had been a time when I wouldn’t stoop this low. Fact is my career’s gone much better since then.

“I don’t believe this. You wouldn’t dare.” I didn’t say anything. “You little shit.”

Disbelief, denial, anger. Classic journey. All that was missing was resignation. Just a matter of time. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I am.”

She stared at me. If only I had been Superman, I could have looked right through her. What would I have seen? Two little bags of silicone behind each tit, heavy and squishy like those plastic ice packs before they go into the fridge. Unless, of course, they’d already started to freeze. Or leak. Jesus … What price a bigger pair of melons?

“So, do we have a deal?”

She squirmed. But it’s like fishing. If you hook ’em right they just can’t get off the line. She swallowed. “Listen,” she said, and it was clear I had made her very angry indeed. “I’ve told you once, I’ll tell you again. There’s nothing to say. I had an operation done. It didn’t quite work out. I went back. They did it again. The second one went fine and now I’ve got nothing to complain about. Which is more than can be said for some women I know,” she added waspishly. “Now, will you just get the hell out of here, before somebody sees you?”

B
ecause I wasn’t quite sure how much I believed her I stayed around for a couple more hours, just to see if my presence made her any more nervous, but once back on the floor she studiously ignored me. I dabbled with the fruit machines and lost a couple of tenners at the blackjack tables. When I started to feel my wallet itching to go back to the numbers, I made a break for home. As I turned at the door, I saw she was watching me go. I cupped my hands under my breasts and gave her a cheeky little uplift salute. Mean, but fun.

It was just me and the milk float along the Tufnell Park Road. Rather romantic. I bought myself a couple of pints and watched the dawn come in. By the time I got home it hardly seemed worth going to bed. On the other hand, if I was going to be showing my flesh to an expert at midday, I needed my skin to look its best. I was asleep before you could say rhinoplasty.

The phone woke me just after eight. If things continued at this rate, I was going to need major eye-bag surgery by the end of the week. There was no one at the other end. Bastards. I was about to hang up when someone said my name very quietly. “Amy? Amy, is that you?”

“Hello, Hannah.”

“Hi, darlin’.” I pulled myself up through layers of fog. “How’s the arm?”

“Stiff. I drawed a picture of a dog on it. Hannah, will you take me to the cinema again?”

“Sure I will. This weekend, maybe.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause. “Amy, does Mum know you’re calling?”

“No. She’s in the kitchen.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I just want to go out with you.”

“OK. Well, listen, maybe I’ll try and pop in tonight, too. See you then.”

“Yes. But don’t tell Mummy I called you, all right?”

“No. No, of course not. It’ll be our secret.”

Another silence. Kids always worry that if they can’t hear you, you’re not there.

“I’m still here, Amy. How about you?”

“Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“When you come, will you bring a bunch of flowers? I made her a card, and she liked that, but I think flowers would be good.”

“Amy, have Mum and Dad had another row?”

“Umm. Not really. He went out early this morning and Mum started to cry. She said she’s got a toothache. So I think she’d like flowers better than chocolate.”

“OK. OK. I’ll see what I can do. Now you look after that arm, all right? And make sure your brother doesn’t get on her nerves.”

“Oh, him,” she said, sounding more like her own self immediately. “He’s just a baby.”

“Yeah, well, so were you once.”

The phone beeped in my ear. Another call was coming in. I disentangled myself gently from Amy and put my finger down on the button. It rang straightaway. Olivia Marchant looking for a progress report. Christ, not a woman to let the dust settle. My first day had been so busy it took me a while to get through the list of failures. She listened
carefully, but didn’t seem too disillusioned with me.

“Well, I’ m sure you know what you’ re doing. You’ll let me know if you find anything?”

“Mrs. Marchant, you’ll be the first. By the way, have you had any luck tracking down Lola Marsh?”

“I got back to the taxi company as you suggested. They said she asked to be taken to Reading Station. They don’t know where she went from there.”

Reading Station just before midnight. We weren’t talking a lot of choice apart from London. Unless of course she just got out of one cab and into another. Which didn’t seem likely. To be honest, lumpy little Lola wasn’t high on my list of suspects anyway. In memory she’d become more of a victim than an aggressor, but then the client always likes to feel you’re leaving no stone unturned. Gives them a sense of confidence. “If she did try to get another job, would the employers contact you to check the reference?”