Catacombs of Terror! (3 page)

I hit ‘compose' and typed
oh fuck you
. Kicked over a chair. Shrugged. Took a couple of Rennies and went to lunch anyway.

It must have been the wine, but when I got back, despite my saner instincts I went through the over-familiar Internet connection rigmarole and guess what? I had mail. A reply, no less. Of course. Lunch, however long you spend on it, however much it costs, doesn't stop anything from happening.

Okay. It was only three. I had time to think.
Set up?
Fall guy?
This whole thing stunk of Barry. Some sort of stupid golfer's bullshit with the aim of giving me the runaround and probably a good kicking as a finale. The 13th July? Couple of days' time. The date was probably a red herring, a little bit of bait to make this sound slightly more interesting than it actually was.

If it
was
Barry, he obviously wanted to see me sweat for a while. He had the time and the twisted sort of energy to do something like this. Okay. He had reason to dislike me, and he knew where I plied my trade. My name was on the plaque. I mentioned that before. But it was the
I don't like you
that intrigued me. Would Barry need to actually state that he didn't like me? I knew all too well that the fucker didn't like me.
I don't like you but if you're scared enough you might be able to stop it
. Stop what, for fuck's sake? Stop smoking? Stop myself from throwing the computer out the window?

I made myself an instant coffee and leaned back, gazing at the sagging cobwebs of dust that hung from the picture rail. The coffee was horrible, as usual. I tried to think. I might have been mistaken, but it seemed to me that I knew nothing at all about any of this apart from two things. First, I was apparently being set up to take the rap for something—something unspecified—that was apparently due to happen in, what, three days' time. Second, if I went and talked to a guy with holes in his trousers, things might turn out fine. It might be a setup. Yeah, well. Some kind of hilarious joke from a golfer who'd had his ego deflated. Or it might actually turn out to be a job. It might even be a paid job. The idea kind of interested me. Anyway. The only star I knew was the Star, a pub not too far from my office.

I watched the phone for a while, then I played about with the stapler. The afternoon began to pall, so I decided to get to the Star early. Heavy traffic was heading east and the rain had decided to stick around, make itself at home, get comfortable. I climbed up some steps from the street where my office was and turned towards the Star, pulling up my collar, huddling my shoulders against the wind. I couldn't help thinking about my life. My stupid job. My finances. This fucking city.

I had a couple of drinks at the bar and, frankly, I was becoming ever so slightly bored by the time a woman came in, jeans, hole at each knee. Somehow I hadn't been expecting a woman. That surprised me, and I don't surprise that easily, as a rule. She was small, brown hair, denim jacket. About twenty-five. I wouldn't have noticed her in a crowd. She seemed to notice me, though. She walked up to me.

“Hi. Are you Mister Valpolicella?” She had quite a refined voice. Home counties.

“Mmhmm,” I said quietly. “I'm Valpolicella. Who are you?”

She looked at me just long enough to register disdain, then nodded towards the bar.

“Red wine. Best they've got. Large glass. See you over there.” The girl gestured to a corner table and headed towards it. I got the drinks and walked over to the table with a glass of house red for her and a pint of lager for me. I looked at her. I have different ways of looking at people for different situations. This situation called for my ‘do not dare to waste my time' look. It's partly glare, partly stare, mostly bored, without a hint of smile. It's usually best to follow this look with a disguised insult.

“So, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“You do know that I'm just here to relay a message? That I have no interest in you, or your life, whatsoever?” she said. I sat down at the table and leant forward.

“Uh huh. Now we've got the pleasantries over with, let's suppose we can get down to business. You tell me what you're here to tell me, and I'll think about it. I'm not remotely happy about any of this. Is this a job? Or a magical mystery tour? And, most importantly, do I get paid?”

She looked down at her shoes and then up at me, slowly. I stared at her. I was perplexed. More than perplexed, I was annoyed. A note? An e-mail? An unknown woman in a city pub? This was adding up towards a total I couldn't imagine. And somewhere inside it was a time limit. Three days. No, pretty much only two days. I thought of walking away. Just getting up, walking away. Maybe that's what you would have done. I should have done it, too. I really should. But I didn't. Yeah, well.

“So?”

She looked up at the ceiling. The Star is an old-fashioned kind of place. No jukebox, no games machines. Lots of dark wood and lots of little rooms. It was the kind of place that, if it was early in the evening, you could be alone. Which is what we were, as far as I could tell. She looked up at the nicotine-stained ceiling for a slow minute before she spoke.

“Are you recording this?” she asked, eyes narrow.

It was my turn to inspect the ceiling, although I took a lot less time than her.

“No, I'm not recording this. I'm here because something about this business interested me. If it stops interesting me, I'm gone. Bye-bye Valpolicella. What in hell would I be recording? And why?” I took a pull on my pint.

“I'm just talking. Talking to a detective. Isn't that what you're supposed to be, Mister Valpolicella? I wouldn't like what I'm going to say to find its way into the wrong ears. Careless talk . . . can cost lives, Mister Valpolicella.”

“Yeah.” I was getting exasperated. “You going to talk or are we going to sit here breaking ice?”

“I'm going to talk, Mister Valpolicella, and I think you should listen. You might think you know this city, but you don't. It doesn't seem like the kind of city where much goes on. A genteel tourist trap. I wonder how you stay in business. Grimly, and rather desperately, I would imagine. Divorce cases. Domestic spying. Rather insalubrious. You live in this city, but you don't really know what's happening beneath the surface. I'm not surprised. Hardly anybody knows what's going on here. I know. I know that you're going to be arrested on the afternoon of Monday 13th July. For murder.”

I was suddenly listening. I was suddenly listening hard.

“And I assume that you would rather that didn't happen. That you would rather carry on with your life, your busy life, in your usual way. No clients. Terrible address. Worse reputation. Ignorant. But free. So I have some information for you that might—just might—enable you to stay here, among the innocent, the ignorant, and the free. Now, on the morning of the 13th July, before the tourists arrive, something—someone—will be found in the city Baths. The Baths will have to be closed. The police will be called. The city's biggest tourist attraction is the Baths. The reason why this city is here, some would say. What the city does not want to find in the Baths is a dismembered corpse, Mister Valpolicella. The legs will be found on the west pediment. The arms on the north and south. The torso will be weighted and sunk to the bottom of the water itself. It might take a while for it to be found, but its location could, presumably, be deduced from the fact that the head will be found on the east pediment. Staring up at the sky.” She paused, took a sip from her glass, and looked directly at me. “This city, this city that you live and work in but know so little about, will not shrug its shoulders. This city will demand a culprit. And you, Mister Valpolicella, will be that culprit. The villain of the piece.”

I was feeling just a little unsettled, but I wasn't about to let this girl know that.

“Pretty speech. You still haven't told me who you are. And this isn't the first time I've had someone bullshit me in a pub.” I lit a cigarette. Slowly. “Give me one reason why I should take this at all seriously.”

“Because it's true.”

“It doesn't sound true.”

“I'm trying to help you, Mister Valpolicella.”

The
Mister
was beginning to grate. Her voice was beginning to grate. I began thinking about leaving, or at least getting another pint. Okay. I shot her a glance and stood up.

“You're trying to help me,” I said, exhaling. “You're trying to help me, and that's very nice. You know what? My bank manager says he's trying to help me as well, but I'm not about to take him entirely seriously. Do me a favour. Look at this from my angle. I get a note, anonymously. I get an e-mail, also anonymously, telling me to come here. Meet you. Well, that's great. It's been real. A diverting evening.”

“Do you want another drink, Mister Valpolicella?”

“If you drop the
Mister
.”

She went over to the bar. I sat down and ground out my cigarette in the ashtray. I lit another and stared into space. The wood-panelled walls of the Star seemed to be closing in on me. I felt pinpricks of anxiety beginning to cluster round the back of my neck. I had the feeling that whatever this was leading up to was going to be unpleasant. I had a little time to think about different types of unpleasantness, but I tried not to get too involved. Then she came back over. She didn't have a drink for herself.

“Valpolicella, I'm not going to take up much more of your obviously valuable time.”

I let that one go. She carried on.

“There's no point in trying to persuade you that I'm not lying to you. So there's just this. There's a lot at stake; not just your liberty.” I had to stop her this time. I'd just remembered something that I should ask her about.

“How's Barry?” I interrupted.

“
Barry
?” she said, questioningly. I was perplexed. There were only two ways of hearing her say his name. One was hearing a very good actor pretending she'd never heard of any Barry. The other was hearing somebody who genuinely had no idea what I was talking about. She didn't know a Barry. The second way bothered me way more than the first.

“Barry Eliot. Hotshot. Entrepreneur. All-round influential guy. Plays golf. Probably doesn't like me too well.” I said it wearily, which wasn't something I had any choice about. I was suddenly very tired.

“What the hell are you talking about, Valpolicella? Now, listen. There are some things you need to do as soon as possible. There's an archaeological dig up at a place called Charlcombe. It's in a rural valley, northeast of the city. Go there. Find out who's running it, find out what they're looking for. And you need to find out what they discovered when the same crew did a dig in the Circus. 1993. You know where the Circus is, I imagine?”

I nodded tersely. The Circus is a city tourist feature. A kind of primitive roundabout surrounded by big houses. Very popular with the snapshot and video camera nuts from all over.

“You could find out who's got the contract to run the city's CCTV network. And maybe you could go to a pub called the Old Green Tree at seven o'clock tomorrow evening. Meet someone in a Stonehenge T-shirt.” She paused. Cleared her throat. “Or perhaps you'd like to ignore me. Do nothing. Wait for the police to arrive. And arrest you for murder. At about one
P.M.
on Monday, the 13th of July. Perhaps
that's
what you'd like to do.”

She was staring at me, willing me to understand, to remember, to act. I looked straight back, into her eyes. They were brown. I hadn't noticed before.

“Okay. Bye, Mister Valpolicella,” she said. She turned.

“Hey! What's your name?” I said.

She was gone.

“Didn't get a name. Should always get a name,” I said quietly to my drink. My drink didn't reply. So I drank it. Then I groaned. I sank my face into my hands. Nowhere had there been any mention of money.

Back at the office I broke some furniture. I put my foot through my coffee table, which was a mistake. It was worth money. I could have sold it, at least in theory. This realisation annoyed me, so I broke a chair. That was a mistake, too. I had only two chairs, which at least nominally provided seating for me plus a client. Now I had one chair. At least I still had a couch. I sat down on it heavily.

Where had this started? My brains needed racking, but I couldn't be bothered. I poured a whiskey and lit a cigarette. I grabbed a map from the shelf and looked up Charlcombe. Yep, northeast of the city. A lane looped around the valley. There were a few houses, a church. The easiest way to get there was to go up through the eastern suburbs. Archaeological digs? Give me strength. What had I done to deserve this? Okay. I was
Mister
Valpolicella. I was a professional. A private investigator. I had a licence. Well, for the time being anyway. No way was I going to be jerked around. Not without my consent. If there were strings to pull I was going to find them. And I was going to pull them.

It was after 10
P.M
., and the rain still fell. It had been raining for my whole life. I walked along the street towards the Old Green Tree. Research. If I was going to meet some clown in a Stonehenge T-shirt in there tomorrow night I wanted to find out if he was a regular. If anyone knew anything about him. The Old Green Tree was another old-fashioned wood-panelled place, but about a quarter the size of the Star. It was busy in there, but not so busy that a guy couldn't get a drink. So that's what I did.