Darling Sweetheart (39 page)

‘Oh, nothing. She made me promise to come and see her again, that’s all.’

‘That’s cosy.’

‘I’ve only known her for a few hours, yet I feel closer to Evelyn than I ever felt to my own mother, isn’t that strange?’

‘Must be nice to be appreciated.’

‘What’s wrong, fall-guy?’ Froggy piped up. ‘You jealous or something?’

‘Funny,’ Proctor’s tone was sour, ‘how you only use that stupid thing when it suits you to be rude.’ They reached the road. ‘Well you can put it away, because in my experience, hitchhikers who look mental don’t get many lifts.’

The sky was beginning to bruise through the cottage windows when Frost finally cracked.

‘They’re not here!’ she wailed. ‘They never were here! This has been a complete waste of time!’

Hulking one at each doorway, Bernstein and Levine looked bored. Frost and Timmins sat on Evelyn’s armchairs.

‘They were here all right.’ Timmins produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the handcuff on his wrist. From his other pocket, he took the syringe, still full of clear liquid, and placed it back inside its leather pouch. Then, in the first display of human weakness Frost had witnessed since hiring him, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘But,’ he nodded at Bernstein, ‘the next time we locate them, I’m going to have to insist that your security stays well clear. I think your men were spotted; they stick out a mile.’

‘Oh bullshit!’ Frost snapped. ‘You’re just saying that to duck the blame! They never were here!’

‘Three teacups…’ Timmins gestured at the little table between them.

‘So an old lady had visitors then went shopping! That proves nothing!’

‘If you use your eyes, you’ll see that they were definitely here.’ Timmins pointed at the photograph that lay beside the tray. Huffily, Frost lifted it.

‘So it looks like Palatine, so what? It can’t be her; it’s goddamn ancient!’ She took a phone from her pocket. ‘What am I gonna tell H.E.? Guess what – we ain’t got Palatine, but we got some crazy old photo!’

Timmins lifted a small white paper bag that rested against one of the teacups. ‘Before you report to the principal, please come with me.’ He stood.

‘Gawd, what is it now?’

But he was already out the door.

The elderly man who owned the sweetshop near the harbour was about to close for the day when four customers walked in, two of them big enough to fill his narrow sales floor on their own. The third was an angry-looking woman with short black hair; the fourth a bespectacled little fellow in a grey raincoat and a navy suit. The little fellow held out a bag of sweets.

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ he spoke with a southern accent, Yorkshire or Lancashire. ‘Did you sell these?’

The owner reached for the bag and examined the contents. ‘Soor plooms! Why?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Is there somethin’ the matter wi’ ’em?’

‘Why no, I’m sure they’re very wholesome,’ the little fellow answered, ‘but could you please describe the person who bought them?’ He reached into his coat and extended an open wallet, which showed an important-looking badge. ‘Timmins, Fife Constabulary.’

‘Ooh. Are they in trouble? Aye. Now let me see… ah’ve only sold the one share o’ soor plooms the day, and that was tae a young man wi’ blondy hair. Rough-lookin’ type. He wasnae local – by the accent, ah woulda said Kirkcaldy.’

The little fellow turned to the cross lady. ‘Satisfied?’ But her frown only deepened. ‘Thank you for your help.’ He nodded to
the owner, and they left.

‘Hey, son – your sweets!’ the owner called, but they were gone. However, the two huge fellows stood on, as if waiting for something.

‘Yes? Can ah help you?’

The biggest giant fumbled for change. ‘Uhh… I’d like a bag of them there brandy balls, please, Sir.’

‘Satisfied?
Satisfied?
I am very far from satisfied!’ Frost raged as she climbed aboard the people-carrier. ‘So they were here and we didn’t catch them! H.E. is gonna shit a pink kitten when I tell him that!’

‘Rupert,’ Timmins spoke evenly as he settled into his seat, ‘we need to start thinking a step ahead.’ The young man flexed his fingers over his laptop. ‘For whatever reason,’ Timmins mused, ‘it seems that Miss Palatine is visiting individuals connected with her late father. From your extensive research – who else could there be? Start with family and friends.’

‘Well, the mother’s dead,’ Rupert tapped a key and consulted his screen, ‘and like the father, the mother was an only child. The father’s parents Fealy, Lewis died 1981 and Sarah in 1987. But here’s the thing: on the journey up, I tracked Palatine’s phone calls for the past year, and they all seem work-related, apart from the ones she made to her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, whatever.’

‘Cedric’s watching him, but she’s already been there and I doubt if she’ll be back.’

‘Mr Timmins, can I say something?’

‘Yes, Rupert, of course you may.’

‘Well… it’s weird, especially for such a hot-looking babe. But it really seems like Annalise Palatine has no one to turn to; no one in the whole wide world.’

Timmins rubbed his chin. ‘Then that should narrow things down a bit, shouldn’t it?’

‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’

The headline was unmissable. Multiple copies of his own face stared back at him from the display outside the concourse newsagent. Proctor began to sweat. Suddenly, all eyes in Edinburgh’s Waverley train station seemed to fall on him.

‘SUSPECTED KIDANAPPING – FEARS GROW FOR MISSING ACTRESS.’

‘Aw pish,’ he breathed, ‘I have a really bad feelin’ about this.’ The picture of Annalise had been cropped from a paparazzi snap, but Proctor’s was not recent and made him look quite sinister.

‘Is that a police mugshot?’ Annalise laughed.

‘Actually, it’s an old agency photo.’

‘You should have it redone – it’s not very flattering.’

‘What a good idea. I’ll make an appointment right away then they can give it to the police to update their records.’ He took her arm. ‘We’ve gottae get outta here.’

Once outside on Princes Street, Proctor didn’t feel quite so trapped, but every passer-by was still a suspicious onlooker and every flash of yellow a uniformed police officer. He led Annalise down a flight of stone steps into Princes Street Gardens.

‘What’s wrong, fall-guy?’ Froggy snickered from her belt. ‘All that dope making you paranoid?’

‘Shut up!’ he hissed. He grabbed Annalise’s cloak and pulled it closed. ‘Put that stupid frog away! We need to blend in, not walk around goin’, “Look at me, I’m a Grade A fruitcake!”’

A lorry driver had dropped them on the outskirts of the city and they’d caught a madder-and-white bus into town. For all its dark stone beauty, central Edinburgh was crowded and threatening after the wide open spaces of Fife. Proctor fumbled in his jacket pocket for his Whitesnake cap and pulled it on, followed
by his cheap sunglasses.

‘Where’s your shades? Get them on you!’ He led her to a park bench under a tree. ‘Now, you sit here and don’t move, don’t talk to anyone and, most of all, don’t let that cretin under your coat talk to anyone, especially not you! I’ll get the tickets. I stand a better chance of not being recognised on my own.’

Annalise watched him go then looked up at Edinburgh Castle, looming high above her on its volcanic plug.

Proctor went back to the station and bought two tickets without incident. But instead of fleeing again, he loitered around an instant photo booth, using its vanity mirror to study the concourse. Satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, he strode over to a telephone booth and made a brief call.

He returned to the gardens to find Annalise waiting obediently on the bench. Daylight was fading, so they mingled with the tourists around the Old Town, the High Street and the Grassmarket – where better to hide a pair of strangers than among a constantly moving horde of strangers? They didn’t dare chance a sit-down meal in an enclosed restaurant and so settled for shop-bought sandwiches, eaten as they wandered like hungry ghosts through the cobbled streets and darkened alleyways. Close to midnight, when the London overnight sleeper train was due to leave, they returned to Waverley and boarded with minutes to spare. Their cabin had two narrow bunks and white plastic walls. Proctor drew the blind.

‘Thank Christ!’ He threw himself onto the bottom bunk and opened his tobacco pouch as the train pulled out. Annalise took her cloak off and hung it on a hook, exposing Froggy.

‘I think you’ll find,’ she pointed at a notice, ‘that the entire train is non-smoking.’

‘So I’ll blow it out the vent.’

‘Does it ever occur to you,’ Froggy chipped in, ‘that smoking so much dope might be turning your mind into mush?’

‘Ha!’ he snapped. ‘As opposed to convenient bite-sized
pieces, like yours? You use a bloody child’s toy to say the things you havenae the balls to say yoursel’! You’re an emotional pygmy, Annalise Palatine! You live in a pretend world – a spoiled bloody adult who behaves like a backward bloody child!’

The instant the cabin door slammed behind her, Proctor regretted his outburst, but his luxuriant anger did not subside until, muttering to himself, he smoked his joint through the air vent. He didn’t enjoy it; instead of relaxing him, it made him feel even more paranoid. He checked the outside corridor; a station screamed by in a wild burst of light, making him jump, before rattling blackness reconquered the carriage windows. The corridor was empty. However, the toilet cubicle at the top of the corridor was occupied; he crept along and put an ear to the door. Sure enough, he heard a muffled sobbing. He tapped gently. The sobbing stopped.

‘Hey. Can I get you a drink from the bar?’

There was no reply, so he went and bought two large brandies. When he returned, the toilet was still occupied. He tapped the door again, but still no answer, so he returned to the cabin, killed the light, lay on his bunk and sipped the burning liquid.

He must have dozed off, because he woke with a start to see a black shape reaching over him. He recoiled in fear; there was a buffeting whoosh as an oncoming train passed and he remembered where he was. The shape was Annalise, climbing into her bunk. The mattress above his face creaked as she settled into place. She didn’t speak and lay still.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m tired and stressed out and I said things I shouldn’t have said.’

‘Don’t apologise.’ Her voice was small. ‘It’s all true. You heard Evelyn describe my father – I must be just like him.’

‘Don’t be daft – that’s not true.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Look, I’m just sorry, all right? I think you’re a lovely person.
People. Whatever.’

‘You don’t believe in Froggy.’

He sighed. ‘I don’t believe in anything, except man’s inhumanity to man. But that’s my problem, not yours.’

She was quiet for a time. Then, ‘Ben…’

‘Yeah?’

Her mattress creaked and the black shape reappeared, accompanied by the shuffle of bare feet on carpet. ‘Move over.’

‘Uhh… is that a good idea?’

‘Just because I’m unhappy doesn’t mean I need sex. I only want to lie beside you.’

‘What about Froggy?’

‘He’s asleep. If we’re quiet, he won’t hear us.’

Knowing he shouldn’t, Proctor shifted over as far as he could, which, in the narrow bunk, wasn’t much. Somehow, she squeezed in behind him, holding herself in place with an arm draped over his chest. He could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not very good at this sort of thing.’

Grunting and wriggling, he rolled himself around to face her. She held on tightly, to stop herself from falling backwards out of the bunk.

His answer was hoarse. ‘For a hundred thousand different reasons, you and me shouldn’t do this sort of thing.’

His words were barely spoken before their mouths joined. His was dry and tasted of tobacco; hers was like a long, cold drink of water.

It must have been a couple of hours later when the cabin door opened, invading their dark, private little space with light from the carriage corridor. Groaning, Annalise rolled over and fell on the floor. Luckily, she was still fully clothed. Proctor jumped up and banged his head off the top bunk.

‘What the f–’

‘Tickets, please.’

The inspector was an elderly cockney with pebble glasses and a neat white beard. He hunched in a uniform that seemed several sizes too big and his cap sat at a precarious angle on his head.

‘Are you serious, pal?’ Proctor spluttered. ‘It’s the middle o’ the fuckin’ night!’

‘It’s my job ain’t it?’ he protested. ‘S’awright for you wiv your nice cosy bed! I’ve got to do me rounds no matter what time of the bleedin’ night!’

Proctor buried his face in his hands. ‘Tell me this isn’t happening…’

The inspector fumbled with his metal ticket-punch and dropped it on Annalise’s foot.

‘Ow!’

‘Sorry, Miss…’ He bent to pick it up. She handed it to him. ‘Thank you, Miss. God bless you, Miss.’ He straightened himself, holding his back. ‘First time in our sleeper service, is it, Miss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you may not be aware,’ he patted the upper bunk, ‘but there’s a perfectly good bed for you up ’ere.’ Blearily guilty, Annalise felt around for the ladder.

‘I’m tired of this,’ Proctor snarled with real venom in his voice. ‘I just want you to know that I’m very, very tired of this.’

‘’Course you’re tired, Sir,’ the man soothed, ‘so if I can just see your tickets, I’ll be on my way.’

Proctor produced the tickets from his jeans pocket and angrily thrust them out. Annalise climbed into the top bunk and curled up beside Froggy.

‘Don’t put those lips near me,’ Froggy snapped. ‘I know where they’ve been.’

‘Oh, be a good cuddly toy and go back to sleep.’

The doddery inspector dithered and fumbled. She heard
Proctor snap the door lock, cursing quietly but murderously.

‘’Night,’ she whispered, but he just went on cursing so she drifted off to the clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the track.

At the same time, about a hundred and fifty miles farther south, someone else was about to have their rest disturbed. Minor pop star Jimmy Lockhart lay in a darkened ward in St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington. His fractures had not yet healed, but, then again, they were nowhere near as bad as the press was making out. Hospital sucked – how bloody stupid he’d been to jump off that speaker stack; too much coke before the gig. However, as he’d drifted into an uneasy sleep that night, Lockhart had not been thinking about Angalise Palatine, but about his manager, Donnie Driscoll. He had not seen Driscoll for two whole days, and the man was not returning his calls. And nothing troubles a troubled artist more than unreturned calls. What could it mean? That their remaining tour dates were cancelled instead of postponed? That Driscoll was angry with him or about to stab him in the back? Lockhart couldn’t understand what was going on; after he’d recovered from Annalise’s bizarre visit to the ward, Driscoll had seemed in ebullient form. Still, he had tried his mobile, his home, his office, their record label, the other band members, even their local pub in Camden and most of their mutual acquaintances, including three drug dealers – but no one knew where Driscoll was. Or maybe they did know and were pretending not to. Lockhart was worried – not about Palatine (she was history) and not about Driscoll personally, but about what the unreturned calls might mean for his career. Was Lone Blue Planet conspiring to get rid of their lead singer and hire a new one? Was everyone pissed off at him for wrecking the tour?