Exile (31 page)

She walked through the underpass at the Elephant and Castle, enjoying the sense that nothing really mattered, not the truth about the past, nor whether they believed her, not Winnie’s drinking or Vik’s ultimatum. It was the perfect place to escape from a painful past. She could waste years at home trying to make sense of a random series of events. There was no meaning, no lessons to be learned, no moral — none of it meant anything. She could spend her entire life trying to weave meaning into it, like compulsive gamblers and their secret schema. Nothing mattered, really, because an anonymous city is the moral equivalent of a darkened room. She understood why Ann had come here and stayed here and died here. It wouldn’t be hard. All she had to do was let go of home. She would phone Leslie and Liam sometimes, say she was fine, fine, let the calls get farther apart, make up a life for herself and they’d finally forget.

She heard the noise and continued walking, expecting it to pass her, but it remained constant and she realized that it was the pager. Liam wanted her to phone him at home. Her pulse quickened at his name, as if she had been lost and reclaimed immediately.

“Come home right now.”

“What?”

“Maureen, Neil Hutton’s been found dead. He was assassinated.”

Maureen frowned. “Like what? By a sniper?”

“He was shot up the arse. I think even Mossad would have trouble making that shot.”

“But I’ve just this minute got here.”

“Look, the way they killed him is a warning about something, and until we know what it’s a warning about, you have to come home.”

“Keep your knickers on, Liam. I’m asking her older sister about her debts and stuff like that — I’m not getting into a drugs war.”

Liam sighed and she could feel him thinking hard. “Please, Mauri,” he said quietly, “please come home.”

“What is it really? Is it something to do with Michael?”

“No,” he shouted. “It’s about Hutton!”

“Don’t you shout at me.”

“You wanker!” shouted Liam. “They shot him up the fucking arse, Maureen.”

“God, keep the head. I’m not doing anything dangerous down here.”

“Maureen, if she was muling for him and you’re asking about her they’ll kill ye!” Liam sounded almost hysterical. “They shot him up the arse, Mauri. Think what they’d do to you.” It took four pounds in small change for Maureen to convince Liam not to panic, that Sarah’s house was safe and she would be home really soon, next couple of days tops. He made her promise that if she got a scare of any kind she would phone him, he’d book a flight on his credit card and she could be home within three hours.

“I’ve got loads of money,” she said. “I can book it myself.”

“And listen,” he said, “don’t mention my name to anyone. Don’t even tell anyone your name.”

“Why?”

“They might connect us with each other.”

“Right,” she said, smiling.” ‘Cause we’re the only two O’Donnells in Britain.”

Liam paused so long that she thought they had been cut off. “Hello, Liam? Liam, are ye still there?”

“You have no idea,” he was muttering, almost to himself, “no fucking idea what goes on.”

Maureen passed the door, trying to look inside and anticipate the clientele, but the small windows had been back-coated with orange reflective plastic and any apparent movement inside was actually a reflection of the street. She opened the door and walked in, standing tall, trying to make an impression. The pub split into two rooms just inside the door with a continuous bar running through both. To the left was a room for the serious drinkers, with tables and ashtrays and little else. The room on the right had pictures on the wall and a dartboard, closed over like a traveling altarpiece. The pub smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke tainted by an industrial lemon scent. Maureen remembered the smell from her time working in the Apollo box office. It was industrial spray sold in gallon containers, guaranteed to cover any smell. The cleaners at the Apollo used it when members of the public messed themselves or spilled milk on the soft furnishings.

Maureen went into the social room and sat down at the bar, shaking off her overcoat, waiting for the barman to get round to her. Sunshine spilled onto the tiled floor, forming little yellow puddles and showing up the filthy grouting. The wooden bar was badly scarred with fag burns and water marks. She could see through the arch into the serious-drinking room. A lone man sat crouched over his beer, asleep, his dirty brown anorak pulled over to one side by the weight of loose change in his pocket. She couldn’t see his face. The less serious room was empty. It was eleven thirty on a Saturday morning and the drinking day had yet to begin.

She lit a cigarette as the barman came round the corner and asked him for a lemonade and a whiskey in separate glasses. He was middle-aged, black, dressed in jeans and a blue silk shirt open at the neck, displaying little hairy Afro bobbles on his chest like a dot-to-dot puzzle. He poured the lemonade from the gun, drew a tiny measure of whiskey from the optic and put the two glasses on the bar. Maureen lifted the lemonade and sipped. The oily mixer syrup swirled in the water, catching the light. He was watching her, wanting to talk, busying himself with the hopeless task of cleaning the bar top. Finally, he nodded at the untouched whiskey and asked her if she was waiting for someone.

“No,” said Maureen, between gulps of flat lemonade, “I just came in because I’m thirsty.”

It was pretty unlikely. The Coach and Horses was a different world, not a small deviation from the street. He wiped the taps near to her, rubbing them with a ripped beer towel, and caught her eye three or four times.

“You worked here a long time?” asked Maureen, trying to sound casual.

He said he’d been there two or three years, then went back to cleaning the bar and glancing at her. She picked up her whiskey. There was hardly anything in the glass, just enough to discolor the bowl. She felt sure she was being ripped off. Maybe that’s why he was watching her. “It seems a shame to mess a glass with a measure that small,” she said.

“You just come from Glasgow?” the barman asked.

Maureen nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “A lot of the pubs up there sell whiskey in quarter-gill measures. In here we sell them in an eighth.”

“Is that legal?”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned at her. “We charge the same as well.”

“Bet you don’t get many Scots in here.”

“Actually, we do, ‘cause we do the Tennent’s.” He illustrated his point by gesturing to a pair of lager taps.

“Ah,” said Maureen, smiling and pretending she gave a shit.

They had nothing else to say. Although keen to chat, the barman seemed incapable of saying anything that didn’t bring the conversation to a grinding halt. Maureen looked around the room.

“You’re just off the train, aren’t you?” he said.

“Aye.” She tried smiling at him again. “Why? Because I didn’t know the whiskey measure?”

“No,” he said, indicating her overcoat. “They always dress too warm, just off the train.”

Maureen held out her hand. “Maureen O’Donnell,” she said.

He shook her hand with a limp squeeze. “Hello,” he said, neglecting to give his name.

She suspected that he did know better. She let go of his hand and picked up her drink again. “Lot of Scots come in here, do they?” she said.

“Yeah, they do.”

“Bet I’d know half of them, as well. Does Neil Hutton ever come in here?”

The barman sneered as if she had told him a dirty joke. “No.”

“What about Frank Toner?”

“Who?”

“Frank Toner — big guy, wears glasses?” She pulled out the Polaroid and showed it to him. “See that guy?” she said. “Does he come in here?”

“Why?”

She tucked away the photo in her pocket. “I was told to meet him,” she said.

The barman twisted his mouth to the side enigmatically as he pushed the dirty flannel over the bar. Maureen watched him for a minute. She didn’t like him at all. She flattened her cigarette in the ashtray and slid off the stool, picking up her coat.

“He drinks in here,” said the barman quietly.

“Most nights?”

“Some nights.”

Maureen held up the photocopy of Ann’s face. “Is that his girlfriend?”

The barman flinched from the picture. “No,” he said, watching the bar as he cleaned it.

“How can you be so sure?”

He thought about it. “Maybe”—he puzzled over it—”maybe she was his girlfriend. I don’t keep track.”

“Was?”

“Eh?”

“Well,” said Maureen, “I said ‘she is’ and you said ‘was.’”

He looked her in the eye. “I ‘aven’t seen her for a while.”

“Oh,” said Maureen. He knew Ann was dead and he wasn’t planning to tell Maureen. “But you saw them together?”

He shrugged and smiled to himself. “Long time ago, before Christmas. Maybe she was his girlfriend …” He glanced up at her. “… maybe.”

“Did she come in here?”

“She used to come in a lot. Came in with him. Then she came in on her own just after Christmas. She was wasted.” He shrugged again.

Maureen waited for a moment but it was obvious that he didn’t know anything else. She wrote her pager number on a sheet from her notebook, put it on the bar and covered it with a fiver. “Wet the tip of your tongue with that,” she said, trying to sound pleasant but coming over as fly. “I’ll see ye again.” Then she walked out of the pub into the shaming sunshine, leaving the smoky lemon behind her.

Chapter 33

MR. HEADIE’S HOLIDAY

Kilty Goldfarb was sitting by the window, sipping a milk shake, wearing her fur coat and a ski hat, looking worried and jumpy. She watched Maureen cross the road and come in through the doors. She looked at the table and gathered a thin smile before looking back up.

“I’m sorry if I’m a bit late,” said Maureen, sitting across from her. “I nipped over there to the Coach and Horses to check it out. D’ye know it?”

Kilty looked faintly disgusted. “Jesus Christ, I wouldn’t go in there. It’s full of heavies from home.”

“Oh?” Maureen arranged her coat on the seat and put her packet of cigarettes on the table. “It was quiet when I went in.”

Their lunch appointment suddenly felt like a bad date. Maureen pointed at the milk shake in front of Kilty. “Can I get you something to go with that?”

“No, I’m short of time,” said Kilty, firmly, putting a Woolworths plastic bag on the table, signaling her readiness to leave. “Why don’t you just sit down and ask me the questions you want to ask and I’ll be on my way?”

Maureen looked at her. “I am sitting down,” she said.

“Oh,” said Kilty, “good. I’ve got to get back to work. I’m running late as it is. Ask me the questions and I’ll go.”

“Look,” said Maureen, “ye didn’t need to turn up if you were that reluctant to talk to me.”

“It’s just I don’t really know why I’m here,” Kilty said stiffly. “You know, in London no one asks to meet a stranger without a reason.”

“I’ve got a reason,” said Maureen. “I want to know whereabouts in Wandsworth Mr. Headie’s new office is.”

“Why?”

“I want to see him, I want to know what sort of cases he deals with and who his clients are.”

“And what would knowing Headie’s clientele tell you?”

“I want to know what sort of people were familiar with that firm’s old name. The headed letter was hand-delivered in Glasgow and the person who sent it might be an old client.”

“And what do I get in return?” asked Kilty.

It was a peculiar question. Maureen had the feeling that she was being asked for money but she didn’t want to pay her. There would be any number of people who knew about Mr. Headie and the benefits system.

“I can teach you how to smoke,” said Maureen.

Kilty smiled at the window.

“Look,” said Maureen, “forget it. It doesn’t really matter. I can look him up in the phone book or ask someone else.”

Kitty picked at the handle of her plastic bag, pulling the two layers of plastic apart. ” ‘Kay,” she said somberly. “But I don’t want to get into anything here. I don’t want to be your new best friend or anything.”

It was ludicrous: Maureen was going home in a couple of days, she was certain that she’d never see the little frog woman again anyway, and she still felt rejected. “Okay Okay. We’ll never see each other again after this.”

“And you have to tell me the story about the woman,” said Kilty. “The woman who’s disappeared.”

Maureen held up her hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m down here because I don’t know what’s happened to her. She’s got two kids, a husband who works in a shipyard as a welder, and she likes to play the piano.” Kilty watched her, wanting more. “The last time anyone saw her she was in the Coach and Horses.”

Kilty sat with her hands below the table and stared at Maureen’s waist.

“That’s all I know,” said Maureen.

Kilty nodded to her waist and Maureen saw that she was staring at the packet of cigarettes. She had been teasing when she said she’d teach Kilty how to smoke but Kilty was serious. Maureen gave her a fag and a light. Kilty sucked in the smoke, puffing like an overwound automaton, watching the tip of her fag and going very slightly cross-eyed. Maureen was going to tell her to inhale just a little at first, not draw her cheeks in so much and keep her eye off the tip, but she still felt slighted at the suggestion that she was going to trap Kilty into a lifelong friendship. “That’s fine, actually,” she said. “You’re doing that fine.”

“Really?”

“Aye.”

“It doesn’t feel the same as what everyone else does.”

“Maybe you’re just thinking about it too much.”

Kilty looked bewildered. “Hm, maybe. You won’t find Mr. Headie in the phone book. He doesn’t have a new office. He’s in Wandsworth prison.”

“What?”

“Yeah, few months ago the whole of Coldharbour Lane was an open drugs market. But now look.” She pointed across the street at a tall gray pole with a high steel box aimed down the Lane. “They had a big cleanup and put CCTV all up and down it.”

“So now the nervous junkies have to go up dark alleys with their tenners and twenties?”

“Yeah,” said Kilty. “Mr. Headie was one of the first casualties in a big cleanup operation. He was arrested with half a kilo of uncut cocaine in his briefcase.”