A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (7 page)

There wasn't much conversation. George was doing more listening then talking. At last he said, ‘I can't talk now. Someone's here. Call me back.’ Then he put the receiver down.

He came back over to the bar and said, ‘Sorry about that. Business.’

I checked my watch. It was almost six thirty.

‘I'd better go,’ I said, finishing my drink. ‘I've got things to do. I'll get back to you on Monday.’

I told George that I would see myself out, and left him with his possessions. Only his most precious possession was missing. Maybe that had been the problem. Maybe Patsy had got tired of being his little girl. From the contents of her underwear drawer, she was more woman than I'd seen in a good while, if that's how you judge women, and it was one way I suppose.

I climbed wearily into the Jaguar and drove home.

As I drove, I wondered what I'd let myself in for with this job. George Bright obviously wasn't telling the whole truth.

One minute he was proud as Punch of his daughter. The next, by all accounts, he hardly knew her or what she did.

I couldn't figure it out.

I drank beer all evening with a photo of Patsy Bright in front of me. I toasted her with each new can.

I toyed with the Telegraph crossword, but couldn't concentrate. I spun the dial of my radio and wished I owned a TV set.

I went to bed about eleven and lay awake listening to the cars passing the house until the small hours when I finally fell asleep.

Saturday night is the loneliest night of the week, they say. I don't know, every night and day was lonely then. But I think Sunday morning took the prize. The paper boy delivered four papers to me. The Sunday Times, The Observer, The Sunday Mirror and The News of the World.

It was my time for a fix of news, and I took it all in: from Princess Diana's new shoes to President Reagan's cancer operation via tales of debauchery from the home counties that would and did make my hair curl.

I figured I spent a very boring life. No threesie ups with the local swingers, no nightclubbing at String-fellows and no winning fifty grand on the bingo. Little did I know what was to come.

After reading the papers I paced my room like a chimp in a cage. I felt trapped in boredom. I looked at the picture of Patsy Bright for the thousandth time. I wanted to see her in the flesh, to know if she was as beautiful as she looked. But at the same time, I sensed that doing so would only bring more trouble into my life. Something I could well do without.

I showered and sat down with a cup of coffee. I reread all the interesting things that were happening in the world, and in the silence of my flat felt as insignificant as a grain of sand on a beach.

I sat for hours staring at the newsprint, and all I got for my troubles were inky fingers and a slight headache.

Time dragged by and I cooked some of the food that I'd bought on the previous day. I washed the meal down with cold beer and listened to back to back chart slop on the radio.

At about four in the afternoon, the ‘phone rang.

It was John Reid telling me that he would be paying me a visit that evening to discuss the Bright case. He was cool and distant on the line and I got the distinct feeling he was coming against his better judgement.

John was as punctual as he'd always been.

He turned up at precisely seven o'clock, leaning on the door bell. I buzzed him up and opened the flat door so as he would know where I was.

‘Christ,’ he said as he entered the room. ‘Those bloody stairs.’

He looked the same as I remembered. Short, barely over the Met's minimum height requirement, but wide and thick in the body and neck. He was dark skinned with lots of five o'clock shadow, even in the morning. He'd lost a lot of hair since I'd last seen him, but he wasn't fighting it. What was left was cut very short, almost cropped. He was wearing a Burberry macintosh over a sharp dark suit. His white Oxford cloth shirt had a button down collar and he wore a discreet dark tie. On his feet were black polished loafers with a little gold chain across the front of each of them.

‘You look like the man from the Pru,’ I said.

I didn't know how friendly to be. I didn't know if we were in for an old pals reunion or whether he was going to stick one on me.

‘Bollocks,’ he replied. ‘This is known as corporate image. I'm after a bit of promotion so I can get away from all this sleaze.’ He gestured through the window.

He looked around the flat. ‘What do you call this?’ He sneered. ‘Bit small, isn't it? You couldn't swing a hampster in here.’

I'd put the deposit on a flat. A recent conversion in an old family house in Tulse Hill. It was described as a studio apartment, which meant I got one attic room with a tiny kitchen and shower/toilet. It all came complete with carpet and curtains, a stove which I rarely used and a miniscule fridge. It was an ideal first time buy, or last time refuge.

I'd added a double bed, an easy chair and a small table, upon which sat a lamp, a radio and a telephone. I kept my socks and underwear in a chest of drawers.

‘It's just as well I'm not into tiny furry animals,’ I sneered back.

‘You always used to be,’ he retorted.

I ignored the remark and said, ‘Relax, John. Hitch up your gun belt and sit down.’

‘Where?’ he asked, looking at the only chair.

‘That'll do you,’ I said. ‘I'll sit on the bed. I don't have many visitors.’

‘I'm not surprised. But you will. You've been seen, you know.’

‘Christ, I've only been back a few days,’ I said.

‘Come off it. What about that silly ad in the paper? And that bloody heap of yours isn't exactly anonymous, is it? You were clocked going past the nick on Friday lunch time. If you want a low profile, get a Ford Cortina.’

‘What, like that lollipop you used to have?’

We both laughed at the memory.

‘I'll have you know, that yellow Cortina was local colour,’ he replied.

‘And now it's corporate image?’

‘Right, and a Rover Three-Five.’

‘Terrific, fancy a drink?’

‘Of course I do, what've you got?’

‘Beer,’ I replied.

‘That'll have to do then, I suppose. You're not much of a host.’

I went to the fridge and fetched him a can of Heineken. He took off his coat and walked over to the wardrobe, which was, temporarily, a chrome garment rail. He tossed his coat over the top and then flicked through my clothes. I felt like asking to see his search warrant.

‘Nice threads,’ he said.

‘I had to buy new,’ I said. ‘Everything was out of date when I came out of hospital.’

‘You spoil yourself,’ he said, looking at me long and hard.

‘I try,’ I replied.

He went back and sat in the easy chair, moving it so that he could peer through the window from time to time.

‘Paranoia?’ I asked.

‘No, good sense. This street'll be a fire zone one day,’ he said casually.

‘Don't say that,’ I retorted. ‘I'm nervous about falling property values.’

‘Take my word for it,’ he said.

The way he looked, I almost believed him.

We sat for a time and drank in silence.

‘Tell me about George and Patsy Bright,’ I said eventually.

‘There's nothing to tell.’

‘Don't give me that. She's a missing person. There must be something to tell.’

‘If you could only see my case load,’ he said.

‘Come off it John,’ I interrupted. ‘Don't give me that old story.’

‘All right,’ he capitulated. ‘I'll tell you what's on the file.’

‘Did you bring it?’

‘Listen son, if a certain chief inspector knew that I was within a mile of you, I'd say goodbye to any promotion chances I've got left. But if he thought I'd shown you anything on official paper, I'd be directing traffic outside Woollies tomorrow.’

‘All right, all right. Get on with it,’ I said.

He told me the identical story I'd heard from George the first time I'd met him.

‘So that's it,’ I said when he was finished. ‘You're none the wiser after two months than I am after five days.’ He shrugged. ‘For instance,’ I continued, ‘who did she visit that night?’

‘No-one knows.’

‘Not even you John? I thought you knew everything that went on around here.’

‘Piss off,’ he said angrily. ‘How am I supposed to know, when she wouldn't even tell her father.’

‘You're right I suppose, but he's in a right state about it.’

‘A state, my arse. I think he's got worried a bit late in the game. It's a guilty conscience if you ask me.’

He was probably right.

‘He was prepared to pay me,’ I told John. ‘In fact he did.’

‘Blood money,’ said John. ‘How much?’

‘A hundred quid. Half a day's wages.’

‘On those sort of wages you'll be retiring soon.’

‘Dream on,’ I said.

‘Look,’ John continued. ‘You've done more than your half day's work. Keep the money and tell him there's nothing doing.’ He shrugged. ‘Big deal.’

‘I know John, but what do you think happened?’

Counting on his fingers, he said, ‘One, she's pregnant and run off with the father, or gone somewhere to have the baby. She wasn't short of cash. Two, and most likely, she's into drugs heavily and like I said earlier, she's changed her appearance and gone underground somewhere. Three, she's met a bloke with a bit about him and she's living it up somewhere, which means she'll be back sooner or later.’

‘Four,’ I interrupted. ‘She left to join the gypsies, or run off with the fairies or a travelling circus. How about five, someone's topped her.’

‘That's a bit dramatic isn't it? Do you know how many people bugger off everyday in the UK? If they were all murdered, we wouldn't be able to move for stiffs.’

‘Have you seen this?’ I asked, I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top one where I had put the black box that George had given me.

I tossed it to John.

‘What's this?’ he asked.

‘Take a look, open it.’

He did so and poked the contents around with his forefinger. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

‘From George Bright,’ I replied.

‘And where did Mister Bright get it?’

‘He found it amongst Patsy's things.’

‘He really is a stupid bastard. What was he trying to hide?’

‘It's obvious,’ I replied. ‘He didn't want you to think his one and only daughter was into smoking dope.’

‘As if we wouldn't find out. I told you I knew all about it. And then he gives it to a cowboy like you. I give up.’

‘What did you find out?’

‘I'm not going to tell you everything I know. I've got certain sources, you know that.’

‘Please yourself,’ I said. I knew John of old, and there was no use pushing him for information. He'd tell me in his own sweet time if he was going to tell me at all.

He threw the open box onto the bed where it landed on its side, spilling the cigarette papers onto the bed cover.

‘Some of these wankers think we're stupid.’

‘Not stupid, John,’ I said. ‘Overworked, that's all.’

‘Which is more than can be said for you.’

‘All right John, don't keep on. I believe you looked, and I believe you're dead right about the drug angle. It's probably just a wild goose chase. But I've got a funny feeling.’

‘I remember you once had a funny feeling about a truck load of cigarettes, which meant three of us spending the coldest weekend of the year in the back of a Thames van in a lorry park in Camberwell. Meanwhile, if I may remind you, the firm you had the funny feeling about were hoisting a lorry load of frozen cod from Vauxhall. Free and clear.’

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘I always thought there was something fishy about that case.’

He didn't exactly fall about laughing at the remark, but I could feel the antagonism evaporating.

‘Talking of something fishy,’ he said, ‘have you seen your wife lately?’

‘I haven't got a wife, you cheeky bastard. I told you that already.’

‘Ex-wife then,’ he said. ‘Where is she now?’

‘In Forest Gate with a dentist. And no fucking jokes about filling cavities, alright.’

‘Never, Nick. I was just thinking how I admire women who go for professional men.’

‘Very funny,’ I said.

‘Was it going on before you left?’

‘I think so, but it all came to a head when I quit the force.’

There was an awkward silence. Neither of us wanted to be reminded of that particular episode, not when we were slowly mending fences.

‘Now you hate her, I suppose.’

‘Hate her. No. Anything but.’

‘How do you feel about her?’

‘Disappointed, I suppose, And angry that the time we spent together was wasted. Precious time for us both.’

‘But it wasn't totally wasted, was it? You've got Judith.’

‘I haven't got anyone. The bloody dentist's got Judith. I see her one weekend in four.’

‘Why did it go so bad?’ John asked after a pause.

‘The job mainly, but we both changed. We blamed each other of course, but people do change after twelve years. Christ, we were just kids when we got married. Our goals became different. It was more my fault than hers I suppose. I used to leave her on her own for days when I was working, or just raging about. She felt neglected after the baby came. I expected her to cope, and she couldn't, not alone.

‘It seemed like I did everything wrong. Every bloody thing. And she never enjoyed anything any more, not with me anyway. It got so that if I had a drink or a joint, or even a bloody cigarette, she'd object. It's funny because I've given up smoking now, but there you go. Anyway, she never said much, just gave me that hurt kind of look, as if I'd beaten her. We finally got to the state where the only way one of us could be happy, was for the other to be miserable. And that's the time to call it quits. But of course we didn't. We just went on pretending that everything would work out all right. The sexual side went totally out of the window. She was insatiable when we first got married. In the end we were screwing once a month if we were lucky. And that was bad luck. Under sufferance, if you know what I mean. The funny thing was, the more she didn't want it, the more I did. At the end she was slopping round like an apprentice bag lady, just to turn me off. Once upon a time she'd have done anything just to get me at it, and it didn't take a lot.’ I stopped, slightly embarrassed at being so frank, and went to the kitchen for more beers. The sound of the tabs popping was loud in the silence of the room. John took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I refused and went to get him an ashtray. When we were comfortable again, he asked me,

‘So you went to pastures new?’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’

‘But not recently, not for a long time.’

‘But you've got the flat, and new clothes and that Jag. Now there's a bird puller if ever I saw one.’

‘Not any more mate. It's just transport now. A way of getting from A to B. Laura got the Fiesta and I got the Jag.’

‘You must be going soft.’

‘I'm not interested, not any more. Laura cured me of that.’

‘It sounds like a few harsh words were spoken.’

‘Sure. I don't think I ever forgave her for falling out of love with me. But I still needed her and the baby to keep going. I had them in the palm of my hand and I let them slip away. I lost the lot.’

‘You still love her, don't you?’

I looked at him. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘She turned into the coldest cunt I've ever known.’

We sat in silence drinking. Eventually I asked. ‘How about you John? How's everything with you these days?’

‘Same as ever Nick. Margie keeps the place together. The kids are at the comprehensive now. The bills get bigger every month. I still fuck around with a mystery every now and again. Margie never says anything when I vanish for the odd night. Life goes on, son. Just live it. You think too much. That's always been your trouble. You fucking failed college boys are all the same. You were too sensitive for the job, and that's a fact. You don't like to get in and mix it flesh on bone. You're like a debutante who wants to fuck with her knickers on. No body contact, see. If you'd have stayed on the force you'd've ended up in charge of neighbourhood watch in Kingston or somewhere.’