Holloway Falls (25 page)

‘OK,’ he said. ‘That makes sense.’

‘Now,’ said Holloway. ‘I’m not saying there’s a direct connection between Lincoln and Joanne. There probably isn’t. But there must be a link of some kind between Lincoln and Dryden. Whatever Lincoln’s involvement, there’s a lot we could learn from him.’

Lenny nodded again.

‘Nice one,’ he said.

Holloway leaned forward. ‘Robert told you about Lincoln,’ he said. ‘What do you remember? What did he tell you?’

Lenny sat back. He spread a hand on each thigh. He laughed. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Apparently he lives in Basingstoke.’

On the way home, they stopped off for a curry. Having a weak stomach, Holloway ordered a korma. Lenny had a vindaloo. They took back a lamb pasanda for Shepherd.

They found him sulking in front of a video.

Lenny and Holloway didn’t mention their conversation in the pub. They ate curry from foil tubs and watched the end of
Tootsie
.

When the food was finished, Holloway sighed and belched and went to the kitchen. He returned with a roll of bin bags, one of which he unrolled with a flourish of the wrist (one of his private rituals). He began to throw away the empty containers and their greasy, orange-smeared lids.

Shepherd watched him.

He said: ‘I’d’ve done that.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ said Holloway.

Shepherd stood. He motioned that Holloway should hand him the bin bag.

‘Really,’ said Holloway. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘Sit down,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll do it. I know where everything goes.’

Holloway smiled.

‘I know where to find the bin.’

‘I know,’ said Shepherd, patiently. ‘But really I should double wrap it. Or the foxes will get in.’

Holloway paused for a beat.

He said: ‘The foxes like curry, do they?’

Shepherd looked at him.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Right,’ said Holloway and handed over the bin bag.

Shepherd busied himself. To Holloway he seemed content and effeminate, prissily ursine. He went to the kitchen and returned with some Domestos wipes and cleaned down the coffee table. He tied the bin bag in a double knot, then opened a second with a busy, palm-rubbing action. He manoeuvred the first bin bag into the second. Then, gratified at a job well done, he left the room, clutching the bag by its knotted neck.

‘Fee, fi, foe fucking fum,’ muttered Holloway.

Lenny snorted guiltily.

The next morning was Saturday. Holloway rose early and went to make some toast. Lenny was at the kitchen table, listening to the
Today
programme and drinking a mug of tea. Shepherd had already left. Lenny didn’t know where he’d gone.

They drove to Basingstoke, stopping off on the way to breakfast at a Little Chef. As soon as they got there, they inadvertently left again; catapulted out of the city by an arcane system of roundabouts.

Lenny cursed and swore and thumped the steering wheel and did not see the humour. They pulled up to the side of the road. Lenny got out and smoked two cigarettes before he was able to talk.

Then he and Holloway bickered over the map. A white-lipped silence descended upon the car. But eventually, they found their way to the town centre and located a parking slot.

They ate lunch in McDonald’s, then wandered about the shopping centre until they found a bookshop. Inside, an elderly couple in dark overcoats stood gazing down upon the contemporary fiction table as if waiting for something to happen. A pale, fat woman with badly bleached hair squatted at the true crime section, about to burst like a plum from her purple leggings.

Otherwise, Lenny and Holloway were the only customers.

Holloway felt two pairs of cool bookseller’s eyes settle on them. He was uncomfortable. But Lenny seemed entirely unaffected and, as they had previously agreed, he wandered away to examine the shelves.

Holloway approached the counter.

‘Morning,’ he said.

The female bookseller ignored him, preferring to observe the behaviour of the woman in purple, who was now glaring at the true crime section as if it had in some way offended her. The male regarded Holloway from behind the reflective surface of circular spectacles.

‘Hi,’ he said, as if being compelled to commiserate with Holloway for something. ‘Can I help?’

‘I hope so.’ Holloway smiled. ‘I’m trying to find somebody. An old friend.’

The bookseller pressed his lips until they were rimmed white. He crossed his arms and nodded that Holloway should continue.

‘He’s a publisher’s rep, actually. I used to know him.’ He waited for a reaction, of which none was forthcoming. ‘In Leeds,’ he added.

‘Right.’

‘Henry Lincoln.’

‘Right.’

He waited for the bookseller to uncross his arms.

He didn’t.

Holloway pressed on. ‘I was just wondering. Do you have an address where I might be able to contact him?’

‘I can give you the publisher’s number, if that’ll help.’

He didn’t think it would. He imagined the company would be unwilling to give out home addresses based on personal enquiries.

‘Just his mobile would be great.’

From across the shop, he caught Lenny’s eye.

The bookseller made a pained expression and at last unfolded one of his arms. He rubbed at his unshaven jaw.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

He squinted into the middle distance, as at the desert sun.

Holloway relented.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the number of his company.’

The bookseller looked irritated. Suddenly, he ducked beneath the counter. Holloway thought he might simply be trying to hide.

As Holloway waited, the fat woman in the purple leggings approached the counter, upon which she dumped a pile of paperback books, each on the topic of sexually motivated serial murder.

As far as Holloway could tell, the old couple at the contemporary fiction table had yet to move a centimetre.

Pretending to examine a randomly selected paperback, Lenny had taken to surreptitiously examining the motionless pensioners, as if they might perhaps be some kind of exhibit.

As the second bookseller scanned and bagged her catalogue of genital mutilation, the fat woman in the purple leggings quietly but plainly announced: ‘Fucking cunt.’ This was followed by something less distinct. It might have been ‘Bob Marley’.

Holloway was becoming alarmed.

He jumped when the first bookseller slapped on the counter a publisher’s seasonal catalogue.

‘The address will be in there. In the back.’

‘Cheers,’ said Holloway. From his pocket, he removed a pen and a notepad. He licked the tip of his index finger and began to flick through the catalogue.

‘At the back,’ the bookseller reminded him. He seemed anxious to take the booklet back into his possession, and secrete it safely beneath the counter.

Holloway thanked him. He felt the displacement of energy as the fat woman in the purple leggings waddled from the shop.

The back pages of the glossy catalogue indeed listed the publishing company’s head office address. It also listed the contact details of relevant personnel. There was a list of sales directors and product managers; a marketing director and several managers; a publicity director whose entire department consisted of women called Sophie and one lonely Camilla. Finally there was a list of field sales representatives. Beneath each name was recorded a mobile telephone number.

Beneath each number was listed the representative’s home address.

Before the bookseller could snatch the catalogue away from him, Holloway rapidly scribbled down Henry Lincoln’s details. Then he closed the catalogue and handed it back to the bookseller, who took it from him with great delicacy, as if it now concealed used toilet tissue.

Both jubilant and affronted, Holloway went and found Lenny. He joined him in gazing, enchanted, at the stationary old couple, who maintained their vigil at the contemporary fiction table.

With some excitement, Lenny told him: ‘I think they might be dead.’

Holloway faltered: ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘They’re breathing.’

‘They’re not.’

‘They are.’

Lenny half turned to face him. Through the corner of his mouth he said: ‘Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you can see them breathing?’

Holloway changed tack.

‘Lenny,’ he said. ‘They’re
standing up
.’

‘It can happen.’

‘No it can’t.’

Lenny thought. Then he said: ‘Go and prod them with something.’

‘
What
?’

‘Go on. Go and prod them. See if they fall over.’

Holloway changed tack again. He said: ‘For the past ten minutes you’ve been studying the jacket of
Scruples
by Judith Krantz.’

Lenny looked down in horror. He slotted the book back on to the shelf. He wiped his palms on his chest.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

Lenny had intended to buy a Basingstoke
A–Z
in the bookshop, but the experience with
Scruples
had embarrassed him. They went to a newsagent instead.

Back in the car, Holloway navigated. Henry Lincoln’s house stood on a new estate on the southern edge of town. A pale cul de sac of half-brick, mock-Tudor houses faced a central, communal park. Shining cars parked on driveways.

They drove round the cul de sac twice before they were sure they’d got the right house. Lenny pulled up and yanked the handbrake.

Holloway put the
A–Z
in the glove box, then stood on the pavement. It was newly laid and unbuckled by winter frosts. He audited the house. In every window hung a net curtain. The front lawn was clipped and neat round the edges, as it was in every lawn in the development.

Holloway approached the door and rang the bell. He listened to it ring emptily in the silent hallway.

He said: ‘I don’t think he’s home.’

Lenny stood at his side. He dug in his pockets, looking for his tobacco.

‘Maybe he’s in the bath.’

‘I don’t think so. The house sounds empty.’

‘What does an empty house sound like?’

‘I don’t know. Empty. You know what I mean. I can’t hear a radio or anything.’

‘Try again.’

Holloway shrugged, pressed the bell for fully half a minute. They waited, then stood on the driveway, looking up. Lenny thought he saw movement behind an upstairs net curtain. They craned their necks and squinted, but if there had been any movement, it was not repeated.

‘It’s no good,’ said Holloway.

They waited in the car, listening to the radio. Holloway cranked open the passenger’s window a notch to let out Lenny’s smoke, which was giving him a headache. Lenny put on a Lenny Bruce CD. Holloway listened without laughing. He had always disliked jazz and anything to do with it.

They took it in turns to get out and stretch their legs, walking desultorily round the little park, whose lawns were dotted with canine faeces of greatly varying size and quantity. It grew dark and cold and they huddled in the car with the heater on. Eventually, a car swept into the cul de sac, following the glare of its headlamps. But it contained a young family, not Henry Lincoln, and they put Holloway and Lenny under suspicious scrutiny as they passed. Holloway sat lower in his seat. In the wing mirror, he watched them disembark—all dressed in Gap khakis and coloured fleeces—on to their gently inclined driveway. The mother hustled the gawping children through the door. The father hesitated for a second or two. He looked in their direction, swinging his keys round his index finger, then went inside.

Holloway muttered: ‘They’re going to call the police.’

‘You think?’

He nodded and scowled. ‘They’re just the sort.’

‘Fuck it,’ said Lenny. ‘Let’s go then.’

He turned the key in the ignition and they drove home.

Shepherd had woken at 4 a.m. He couldn’t get back to sleep. For a while, he tossed and turned. Distantly, he could hear Lenny snoring, sprawled alone in his double bed, whose greying sheets he had not changed since Eloise left.

Eventually Shepherd sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. He tried to read. But his eyes skipped over the paragraphs like a stylus on a damaged record. He rose and dressed.

By sunrise, he had set off on a walk.

In the grim winter daylight, he walked through the turnstile at London zoo. So early on such a cold day, late in the season, it was almost deserted. Thin mist clung to the ground.

He looked at disconsolate animals huddled in cramped, Victorian enclosures. Then he sat for an hour in the sweet, damp warmth of the elephant house, and thought about home. It seemed a long way away.

On Sunday, Lenny told Shepherd about Henry Lincoln. Shepherd pretended not to sulk about it. They watched the
EastEnders
omnibus in uneasy silence.

On Monday, Lenny phoned Lincoln’s workplace. A woman called Miriam answered the phone and told him that Mr Lincoln would not be in for the rest of the week.

So the three of them crammed into the car and drove to Basingstoke. The day was grey and wet, and the journey seemed very long. They waited outside Lincoln’s house. The car’s confined, humid interior quickly became intolerable.

Lenny ran out of patience. He got out and walked to the boot. He stood in the rain and waved a tyre-iron at Henry’s Lincoln’s house.

He shouted: ‘Hello, Henry!’

Holloway massaged his forehead. He swore, then opened the door and got out. Huddled into his pockets, he joined Lenny at the edge of Henry Lincoln’s neat, rain-lashed front garden.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

He was too tired and too cold and too wet to be angry.

‘He’s in there,’ said Lenny.

‘No he’s not.’

‘Yes he is.’

‘He’s hardly going to come out now, is he?’ said Holloway. ‘Not while you’re waving a tyre-iron like a fucking caveman.’

Lenny’s hair was in sleek, sodden spikes, like an otter. Water ran in rivulets down his brow.

‘Bollocks,’ he said. But he walked back to the car and returned the tyre-iron to the boot. They got back in the car and waited as long as they dared. The house gave no hint of occupation.