Dust and Desire (26 page)

The kitchen. The kitchen was fucked.

‘He took her in here, guv,’ Boris said, and I almost chinned the twat.

‘Well, congratulations on that brilliant piece of deduction,’ I said, trying to gather up the red mist and keep it in a safe place inside my head. ‘Any other searing insights you’d like to share with us?’

Pots and plates all over the place, one of her beautiful kitchen chairs reduced to sticks of firewood, a cracked bottle of olive oil, a sheen of the stuff on the work surface, pooling out over the floor. Mengele’s food bowls had also disgorged their contents; our feet crunched through the Fishbitz as if it were some misplaced gravel for a driveway. One of the panes of glass on the French windows was starred. At its centre, a smear of dried blood, a couple of strands of dark hair. Jesus Christ, I felt Rebecca behind me, plucking at the sleeve of my jacket, trying to say something to me. Something like
Looks familiar?

‘Les, get on the blower, call some back-up round here,’ Mawker instructed. ‘The rest of us might as well go for a cosy pint, while we share the wealth of your knowledge.’

I stared at him as I worked hard on my fist, relaxing it. If I hit him, that was me finished. I couldn’t help Melanie while I was staring at the different species of dried jizz on a police-cell blanket.

‘There’s nothing you can do here,’ he reasoned. ‘We’ll talk about what’s what, and then we’ll see what forensics can dig up here. If she’s been kidnapped, there’ll be a call through. There’ll be a ransom demand, something like that. There always is.’

‘He’s going to kill her,’ I said, trying to keep a lid on it.

‘If he was going to kill her, he wouldn’t put himself out, by dragging her off to some other place first, would he?’ Boris looked at his boss, like some dim Igor seeking praise.

‘Les is right,’ Mawker said. ‘Let’s go and have a drink and think about how we’re going to play this.’

‘You can play this up your arse,’ I said, ‘if you can fit it in, alongside all the other things you’ve been told to jam up it over the years.’ I backed away slowly and curled a finger round the handle of the French windows. If I bolted now, that was it; I’d be looking at an arrest for impeding police investigations, and other stuff too probably – anything Mawker could get to stick. But I knew that if I played cat’s cradle with their red tape, I’d never get a chance to catch him. He’d be dead before I got to him, and I wanted it to be my face that was right in his when he breathed his last lungful. I wasn’t the most effective weapon in the arsenal, but I was willing to have a crack – unlike these clowns. You could shave your face with a Rowntree’s jelly more effectively than these berks felt collars.

‘What’s the nearest pub?’ Mawker asked and, when he turned to the others, I took off. I skidded and lurched down the decorative spiral staircase to the basement garden and launched myself at the wall. Behind me, I could hear curses and yelps: what happens when a flat foot meets a puddle of oil on a very smooth floor. I was over the wall, through the opposite garden and into Edbrook Road before they had a chance to call after me, let alone give pursuit. I ran hard, knowing they’d be piling back to the car, until I reached the pub on Barnwood Close. There I stopped for a moment under the entrance arch to regain my breath, keeping a nervy eye on the main road. Then I went inside and ordered a pint. My mobile had run down, so I got a handful of change from the barman and, jamming the receiver of the bar’s public phone under my chin, sorted out a pile of twenty-pence pieces.

I rang the vets to find out if Melanie had been in touch with them at all, and why the hell Mengele was still kicking back at Melanie’s place. Fiona answered. She didn’t know what I was talking about, which meant that Melanie must have been jumped not long after I had talked to her. He might have been already in the house,
while
she talked to me. Jesus.

I took a long swig of the lager and closed my eyes, wishing I had my address book with me. A number gradually formed in the dark. Quickly, I dialled it.

‘“Keepsies” here, Dave speaking, how may I–’

‘Keith there?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid Keith is with a client at the moment, sir.’

‘Go and get him. Please.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but he’s busy. If you call back la–’

‘No, I won’t call back later. You’ll get him
now
. You sound like a bright lad, so I won’t need to repeat myself. Do as I say, or the next time you pick the phone up, it’ll be with a bloody stump. Now move.’

Much under-the-breath cursing, fading away, dusty footsteps through the corridors. The sound of traffic on the road outside. And then more footsteps. Keith fading in: ‘… think to ask who it was? You nipplebrain… Hello?’

‘Keith. Joel.’

‘Joel? Jeez, mate, I’m dealing with a customer here.’

‘I’m sorry. Look, did anyone get in touch with you? A woman, name of Melanie. Melanie Henriksen?’

‘No. What kind of space is she after?’

‘None,’ I said. ‘I told her to give you a bell if she got into any trouble, while I was away. I was stupid. I should have been more careful.’

‘Rewind, Joel. What’s going on?’

I fed another couple of twenties into the coin slot.

‘I put her in trouble without meaning to,’ I said. ‘Heaps of shit.’

‘Look, if you need help, let me know,’ he said. He understood I was stuck in something bad, without having to hear the whole spiel. ‘And remember you can come round any time.’

I thanked him and rang off, rubbing my face hard to try to get the blood circulating properly. I’d just been spouting nonsense, so I had to get a grip. I shouldn’t be singing the blues down the blower to some poor dolt who didn’t need to hear it. I had to get some information. I drummed my fingers on the counter and took another big swallow of my pint. Mawker and his retards must have given up on me by now, and were doubtless Keystone Copping it back to base. I was in trouble there, but things had developed to a point where I was prepared to do a stretch for fucking them over, especially if Melanie had come to any harm. This was my party now, all the way, and the plods weren’t invited.

I asked the bartender for a phone book and he trotted off. When he came back, I called Lava Java and asked for Errol. He wasn’t there but I sweet-talked the girl who’d answered into giving me his mobile number. Another girl answered that phone, shouting over the thud of music in the background. Or in the foreground, more like.

‘Ez, it’s for you. Some guy.’

‘Yo,’ said Errol.

‘Errol, it’s Joel. Remember? From the flat the other night. How’s your hand?’

‘Soon as it’s better I’m coming to bust your face with it, shithouse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I had no idea it was going to get that nasty. Nobody could have predicted that.’

‘Yeah, well,’ he said, and tailed off. Maybe the hard talk was for the benefit of his passenger. I could imagine her cooing over his muscles. Hell,
I’d
coo over his muscles. He made Schwarzenegger look anorexic.

‘I was expecting a call from you,’ I said.

‘Got nothing to say,’ he replied, and turned up the volume. I was running low on coins.

‘Listen, Errol, did you find out anything about him?’ There was no need to expand on that, since I doubted he had left Errol’s thoughts any more than he had left mine.

‘I talked to a few people,’ he said. ‘’Bout that tat on his throat. Talked to a few of the needles that come into Lava Java, see if they know anything about cobra tats.’

‘Nice idea,’ I said, wishing he’d hurry it up.

‘Talked to this guy who, it turns out, did it, ’parently. How cool is that? Got a parlour in Camden. Name of this headcase is Cullen.’

‘I know that, Errol. Gary Cullen.’

‘Yeah, well, it took this guy – Phil Hibbert’s his name – a while to do the tat, because very sensitive area the throat. Phil said he shouldn’t have done it really, not ethically pukka, but he needed the dough. And they got talking. The psycho was a speed freak, by all accounts. Anyway, this guy Cullen had paid up-front for the tat but was in bad shape financially. Spiralling, bad style. Burgling to finance his habit, but having to keep a wife and two terrors happy. Desperate. Upping the ante. Mugging. Bag-snatching. Asking around for a shooter.’

‘This guy Phil told you all this?’ The name Gary Cullen was burning up in my thoughts. The bump on the back of my head flared, too. My swede was giving him a right old salute. But he was gone now, which meant that I was back on Phythian. Phythian, a ghost, a shadow – someone who existed only as a name, and a false one at that.

‘Yeah, well, I leaned on him a bit,’ he said. ‘Told him that if he didn’t talk to me, he’d have a face full of tats that I’d be doing for him free, like.’

‘Go on, Errol.’

‘So, things get so bad, his wife threatens him that she’ll leave, take the kids with her, if he doesn’t straighten himself out. Last Phil saw of him, the last session he was having, he said he was going to get professional help. Signed himself up with some kind of counselling service. Therapy. Voodoo? Hypno? Barefoot shit, something like that, you know. Said it was somewhere out East.’

‘Somewhere out East? Errol, you would have been just as helpful by telling me to fuck off.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘No idea where this place is? I mean, Christ, Errol. How East? Canning Town? Margate? Fucking Pyongyang?’

‘Phil didn’t say. I’m sure he would have done, if he knew. I was going to draw a knob on his forehead with those needles of his.’ Giggling in the background. ‘Anyone would have talked, faced with that.’

‘What about this tattoo parlour? This place run by Hibbert. Where is it?’

‘Camden, I just told you.’

‘
Where
in Camden?’

‘No idea.’

‘Okay, Errol. Thanks, mate. Thanks a lot.’

‘Don’t mate me, guy. No friend of mine put me through what you put me through.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Too right. Hey, any time you fancy coming round the Lava Java for a drink, don’t hesitate to decide not to.’

Dead line.

* * *

I needed to collect Mengele, so I had to go back to Melanie’s place. I checked the area out hard before I approached her house. The place was busy with police. Cordons were being put up and teams of PCs were dispersing to speak to the neighbours. I doubted they’d be specifically on the look-out for me, which was fair enough; who’d have thought I’d be so stunningly stupid to come back? But nor was I about to stride up to the front door and ask for my cat back.

I went round to Edbrook Road and started making the sounds my cat likes to hear. Top of the list was can-opener-meets-tin-of-tuna, but I didn’t have the tools for that, so I plumped for basic ‘Ch-ch-ch’ noises. I was at it for five minutes before I saw him, on a wall about thirty feet to my left, watching me with the ultra-pitiful gaze that certain animals seem to have perfected. Soon, cats will have evolved into a position where they will be able to open tin cans, or put a maggot on a hook and go fishing, and then they’ll dispense with us altogether. But I was glad that time wasn’t now. I’d missed the little shit. I stroked his dense fur and chucked him under the chin.

I was in bad trouble now, every option open to me less than ideal. I could go back to my flat and spend every night wide awake on the edge of my bed, waiting with a gun for Phythian, who probably wouldn’t do me the favour of turning up. Or I could lean on another friend and put him or her in jeopardy. Or I could dump Mengele and hit the streets, rough it till this was all played out. The last way was clearly the only way, despite my feeling that I must have lost the direct attention of Phythian during my jaunt up north. Decided, I lifted Mengele into the only carrying position he will tolerate: draped around my shoulders like a scarf. He growled at me a little, and I almost thanked him for it. I was getting off cheaply, because I’d be first up against the wall, come the feline revolution.

I scurried across the road and got into a cat-friendly cab. The Harrow Road was a nightmare, but that kept my mind from wandering on to what might have happened to Melanie. I had to keep hold of the possibility that she was alive, that Kara and Phythian had only done this because they wanted to lure me in, to make me expose myself. If that was true, then that was fine, because I wanted that too.

Keith was happy to take Mengele off my hands. He said he needed a mouser although, from his concerned searching of my face, I could see that he was just being charitable. I gave him a twenty and told him about the Fishbitz and the tuna, and tiger prawns, how he wouldn’t eat anything else, and left him to it. In the few minutes I’d been inside with him, the sky had closed up around the city and turned the air thick. The first spots of rain were dropping, real fat bastards. Some storm was riding in.

I rushed back to my flat and picked up the Saab. Lights switched on, wipers working, I toiled along the Edgware Road to Marble Arch, by which time the remnants of the light had collapsed to form a narrow tunnel in my rear-view mirror. Everything seemed possessed with subtle electricity, with a secret, vibrant colour. It was beautiful, all of it, from the gloss on the scraggy pavements to the cheap neon signs, and the people bent into the wind with their shopping bags. Somewhere, among all these people, he was struggling in the teeth of the storm just like everyone else. It empowered me, thinking of him tamed by the weather, as vulnerable as anybody else. He was no different, really. He got scared, he got pissed, he got injured. We all carried our wounds with us, and he was the same.

I took the first left that I could manage, and jinked left and then right, running parallel to Oxford Street till I hit Great Titchfield Street. I parked in my res zone, as close as I could get to Berners Street, and switched off the engine. The lights were instantly spoiled by the play of rain on the windscreen; detail became something that might never have mattered.
Find her
, I thought, thinking of Kara Geenan, her strange aloof manner, her crocodile ways,
and you find him
. And I knew that when I found him I would end it. I wouldn’t wait for any explanations: there wouldn’t be a pause for pity or second thoughts. I would rub him out as quickly and as hard as I could, or I’d be slab meat myself.