Business of Dying (26 page)

It was a good question. On balance, yes, I did. Her story sounded plausible. Coincidental, but still
plausible. More so than any alternatives I might have thought up, and I was almost certain she hadn't delivered the fatal blow. She was tall and lithe, but it had been a man, and a strong one at that, who had killed Miriam Fox. That meant that for Carla to be guilty she would have needed to have got someone else involved in the plot, which, as far as I could see, would have defeated the object of it in the first place. And she was right too. All to defend a job managing a care home for delinquent kids? Somehow I didn't think so.

I sighed. 'I'm not going to take it any further, put it like that.'

'But you don't believe me?'

'I don't really know what to believe. It's a pretty strange story, you've got to admit that. One minute you're a high-powered social worker managing a kids' home, the next you're an escort girl with a nice line in kinky customers.'

'You certainly know how to make it sound degrading.'

I gulped my mouthful of wine. 'Well, isn't it? Getting fucked for money by middle-aged men who'll dip their wick with anyone who'll take the cash off them? It's hardly what you'd call satisfying and useful work.'

'I'm not going to apologize for what I do. I provide a service, nobody gets hurt, and sometimes, you know . . . sometimes it is quite satisfying. And
if I get paid for it too .. . it's all the better, isn't it?'

'I don't know. Is it?'

'Have you ever paid for sex, Mr Milne? Dennis?'

I smiled. 'Why? Are you offering?'

She smiled back. 'I'm very choosy about who I sleep with.'

'Well, I guess that's me out then. A nosey, cynical copper's hardly a prime catch.'

She didn't say anything and we sat in silence for a few moments, both, I think, pondering our positions in the world and what we'd actually achieved. It struck me then that the two of us weren't really all that dissimilar. Both of us were leading murky double lives we'd far rather keep deeply buried. The difference was, I'd kill to preserve the secrecy of mine. At least I hoped this was the difference.

'Do you want another drink?' she asked me eventually.

I looked at her, not sure whether she actually wanted me to stay or not. She gave a weary smile back, which I took to mean yes. 'Are you having one?'

She nodded. 'Why not?'

I watched her as she turned round in her seat and removed a bottle of brandy from a cupboard behind the sofa. Her bottom looked remarkably pert.

'Will this do?'

'Perfect,' I said as she put two fresh glasses down on the table and poured a hefty slug into each.

I offered her a cigarette from my pack, but she opted for a Silk Cut. I lit mine and sat back in my seat, thinking that there was something about her story that turned me on. The prim, well-spoken manager who turns into the whore by night. I know it's the fantasy of a lot of men, and in that respect I was just like everyone else.

'So how did a respectable lady like yourself get into . . . escort work?'

She took a drink of the brandy and pulled the sort of face you pull when you're quaffing neat spirits. 'It's a long story.'

'That's just the way I like them.'

'I was married for a long time to a man I really cared about. He was a social worker, like me. We met at university, fell in love, and that was it really. Neither of us really believed in marriage, but I think we wanted a way of showing how committed we were to each other. We both totally believed in what we were doing; I suppose people do when they're young. We didn't have a lot of money, but it didn't really seem to matter. We rented a nice little two-bedroom flat in Camden, and things were good. You know what it's like when you're in love. You're happy with your lot.'

I nodded to show I understood, but I wasn't sure if I did.

'Then, one day, he told me he'd met someone else. A girl in the department. He didn't even seem that sorry about it. He talked about it as if it was one of those things; something that couldn't be helped. All our time together, eight years of marriage, the whole relationship ... it ended just like that.' She gave me a look that demanded understanding, if not sympathy, her face a combination of sadness and anger. 'He moved out the next day and applied for a transfer to York, which was where she came from. Apparently she was pregnant and wanted to be closer to home. Sometimes I think that's why he went for her. Because she wanted kids, and I wanted to wait for a while.'

'It must have been very hard on you,' I said, stating the fucking obvious.

'It was. I was suddenly on my own for the first time in a long time, and what made it worse was that without Steve I couldn't pay the rent on the flat, so I had to move out of there too, and that part really hurt. I'd worked so hard to make it a home, spent hours and hours getting it just right, and in the end it was all for nothing.

'So, there I was, broke, single, and depressed. Even the job didn't seem to be going right. I was moving up the ladder, but not as fast as I'd have liked, and the work was providing a lot of frustrations. Kids who you put so much time
into, who you really thought were going to make it, ended up overdosing on smack and barbiturates, or turning their back on you, and all that bureaucratic interfering. It was a real low point in my life, probably the lowest. At one time it even crossed my mind to, you know. . .' She trailed off.

'But eventually I pulled myself together and life went on. But I was a changed person, Dennis. I lost a lot of my idealism, I was harder, more focused. Then, one day, I read an article about a housewife who worked in the days as a part-time call girl. She didn't do it for the money. I think she was more interested in the adventure, and maybe the sex, but she seemed happy with the way it worked out and at the time money for me was still very, very tight, so I thought, I could do that. I'm attractive. I'm quite good company. And I'm certainly lonely enough to appreciate the attention, even if it was from people I wouldn't normally have associated with. So I decided to give it a go.'

'You've been doing it for a while, then?'

'I suppose I have. I've never really thought about it. It's a part of my life now.'

'I still can't believe it,' I said, taking a sip of the brandy. 'When I first met you I'd never have guessed that, you know, you were involved in this sort of thing. I'm not condemning it. It's just a bit of a shock.'

Carla shrugged.

'And do you enjoy it?'

She appeared to think about it for a moment. 'Sometimes. Not all the time. Maybe not even much of the time. But sometimes. So, how about you? Did you always want to be a copper, or did you just fall into it?'

I took a long drag on my cigarette. 'I think I always wanted to be one. You know, when I was growing up, I had this real sense of justice. I hated bullies, and I hated it when people did something bad and got away with it. I thought it would be really good to do a job where you could stop that sort of thing from happening, and when it had already happened you could punish the perpetrators. I also thought it would be a bit of an adventure.'

'And has it been?'

I took a couple of seconds to answer. 'Well, I suppose it's had its moments, but, to be honest with you, they've been pretty few and far between. A lot of the time it's just endless paperwork and dealing with people who live shitty lives and do all these shitty things to each other for the most mundane reasons. And, you know, you can never seem to stop them.'

'That's human nature, Dennis. It's what a lot of people are like. They grow up without values, alienated from the society they live in. You can't just
turn them into model citizens at the drop of a hat.'

'But everyone's taught right from wrong. Whether it's in the media, at school... It's just that a lot of them aren't interested. They have no fear of doing wrong; that's the problem. I guess it's because they have no respect for us, the people who are meant to be stopping them. You should hear the shit we put up with every day.'

She smiled. 'It's probably exactly the same as the shit we put up with every day.'

'Why do we do it, eh?'

'Because we care,' she said, and I suppose that was as good a reason as any. Although the problem I had was that I'd stopped caring a long time ago, and perhaps, in a way, so had she.

I finished my brandy and she refilled the glasses. When they were full, she picked hers up and raised it for a toast.

'To the carers,' she said.

'To the carers,' I intoned.

We clinked glasses, and once again I got a smell of that wonderful perfume. I was feeling relaxed now, at ease with the world; the drink and the company removing the heavy loads of worry from my shoulders.

We talked for a long time. An hour . . . two hours . . . maybe more, I can't honestly remember. Pretty much a bottle of brandy's worth. Not really about anything in particular. Just things.

At some point I began stroking her smooth bare feet while we chatted, my head spinning with booze and lust and confidence as my words tumbled out. Her toenails were painted a beautiful plum colour and I bent down to kiss them one by one, taking her toes into my mouth, revelling in the intimacy of the contact. She moaned faintly, and I knew then that I'd conquered her. That this was it. That I was going to make love to the woman I'd fantasized about these past few nights, who I'd thought was far too good for me, but who had now shown her true, vulnerable colours, and who I wanted with a desperation that even now I find impossible to describe.

When I woke up I had that feeling you sometimes get where you don't know where the hell you are. Well, where I was was in a beautiful king-sized bed in a darkened room. To my right, I could see the dull half-light of a winter morning peeping round the edges of long, crimson curtains. I was on my own in the bed, but there was a faint smell of perfume in the air and the noise of someone moving about coming from somewhere outside the door.

It took maybe three seconds to work everything out and remember the events of the night before. The sex had been surprisingly ferocious; either she was a very good actor (which I suppose a lot of women in her situation must be) or she'd really been enjoying herself. I preferred to think it was the latter, and was pleased with my own performance, which had been solid if very much second fiddle to that of the opposition. I guess she'd had a lot more practice than me.

I sat up in bed and looked at my watch. It was twenty past seven and my head hurt. Monday morning, the start of a new week. I wasn't looking forward to going back to the station, and once again thoughts of jacking it all in drifted into my mind. I had the money to make a move. It was just a question of whether I had the guts.

The door opened and Carla appeared, dressed in a thin black kimono-style dressing gown, carrying two cups of coffee. She was looking six a.m. good.

'Oh, you're awake, then?' she said, handing me one of the cups. 'I thought I was going to have to pour a bucket of water over you.'

'I'm usually a pretty heavy sleeper,' I said, 'and I had enough exercise yesterday to put me out until this afternoon.'

She smiled but didn't say anything as she put her cup down on top of a chest of drawers and switched on the main light. She slipped off the
dressing gown to reveal a naked body that seemed to have aged perfectly. I watched her hungrily as she slowly dressed, starting with expensive-looking black underwear.

'It's a pity you've got an early meeting,' I told her.

'Don't I know it,' she said, without looking round. 'I've got a hangover from hell. Drinking at home always seems to do that to me.'

I bit the bullet. 'Are we going to see each other again?'

She pulled on a pair of tights. 'Look, Dennis, I don't want to hurry anything, you know. Last night was, well, a one-off.'

'Is that what you want it to be?'

She came over to the bed and sat down on it, facing me. 'Remember what you came over here for: to question me about a murder in which I was a suspect. You still haven't told me straight that I'm not one. Things happened, but that's because we were both pretty inebriated. It's not exactly the ideal way to start a relationship, is it?'

'I'm not proposing marriage, Carla. It'd just be nice to see you again, that's all.'

'Do you know what you're getting involved in, Dennis? I see other men. It's not something I'm going to stop overnight, and I don't know how easy you'll find it to deal with that.'

'I'm quite a liberal guy.'

'You're a copper.'

'I'm a liberal copper, and I had a good time last night. I got the impression you did too. It's an experience I want to repeat, that's all. Shit, I'd even pay for it.' She shot me a bit of a dirty look. 'I'm joking,' I told her.

'Look, I'm not trying to give you the brush-off, Dennis, but my life's complicated. The last time I had a boyfriend, he tried to get me to change the way I live, and I'm not the sort of person who likes to be told what to do. I value my independence. And I know it sounds shallow, but after what I went through after the divorce, I value the money as well.'

I leaned over and patted her on the knee, letting my hand linger there for a moment. She didn't, it has to be said, seem desperately interested.