Full Stop (5 page)

‘Well, I wasn't
born
there. I've lived there for the last few years.'

‘No kidding? This is
some
coincidence — I have to be in Oxford next month.' He spoke with childlike enthusiasm, as pleased as Punch to find they had something in common. ‘I work in automotive parts and I have to meet with some guys at the car factory. Bigtime stuff, huh?'

She wasn't quite sure what he meant but she did her best, saying: ‘Not as big as it used to be.' She had driven round the ring road in the spring, just before she left for San Francisco, and was amazed when she came upon the industrial wasteland where the British Leyland North Works had once been. The site was being redeveloped and her car had got stuck in road works, giving her plenty of time to observe the bulldozers and scarred earth where the car plant had been demolished. The South Works was still making cars, as far as she knew, but she remembered ominous forecasts in the
Oxford Times
of more redundancies to come. ‘I'm not even sure it's a British company any more. I think it's owned by Honda.'

Her companion shook his head. ‘Not any more, the Japs baled out. The Krauts are in there now, my company's hoping to do a deal with the new guys ... You work in Oxford?'

‘Yes, at the university.'

‘You don't say? You teach English?'

‘Yes.'

He gestured towards the stage. ‘What d'ya make of it?'

‘To be honest, I'm not enjoying it much.'

‘Me neither. I mean, why's she wasting her time with that guy, the English one? Don't seem to me like he's interested in
girls.
'

He nudged her in the ribs, just in case she hadn't got his meaning, and Loretta instinctively drew away.

‘I guess maybe the humour ...' he went on, oblivious to her reaction. ‘I'm from Ohio and it seems to me like it's very New York. Jewish,' he added when she failed to respond.

Loretta wasn't sure from his tone whether he intended the adjective pejoratively and she sat glumly in her seat, wishing he'd shut up.

‘You here on vacation?'

She nodded.

‘Me too. See the sights, take in a show.'

‘This isn't exactly a show,' Loretta said doubtfully. It crossed her mind that he was the kind of man who probably went to strip clubs but she thought again about the money he'd wasted on Toni's ticket and added: ‘What about musicals? I noticed there's a new Sondheim –'

‘No
way,
' he said emphatically, ‘not after tonight.' He spoke as though
The Sisters Rosensweig
had taught him a cruel lesson.

‘What sort of things
do
you like?' Loretta asked with mild irritation.

‘Well — you know.'

‘No, I don't', said Loretta. ‘Films? Museums?'

‘You mean — pictures? Old stuff?'

Loretta shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. I mean, I
love
looking at pictures, I'm going to the Metropolitan Museum tomorrow morning, but it's not just art, for instance they've got a complete Egyptian temple. Your daughter, is she interested in history? They have a shop which sells things for children, jigsaws and cut-out books.' She had relaxed a little now that they were on safe territory and she continued: ‘You know where it is, on Museum Mile? I'm lucky, it's just across Central Park from where I'm staying. According to the map I should be able to walk it in 20 minutes — half an hour at the most.'

‘Where did you say you're staying?'

Loretta hadn't but she told him now. ‘With a friend on Riverside Drive. Riverside and 73 rd. It's a big block of flats, she's gone away for the weekend so I've got it to myself.'

‘Riverside Drive? That the East Side?'

‘No, the Upper West.'

‘I'm on West 52nd. In a hotel. What else you planning on doing?'

‘In New York? I'm really keen to see the Frick, I thought I'd go on Saturday afternoon.'

‘He was some big industrialist, right?'

‘Frick? I think so.' She tried to conceal her surprise that he
knew, aware that her reaction was patronising. ‘Wasn't he from Pittsburgh, one of those steel towns? Apparently he put together an amazing collection, everything from Piero della Francesca to Whistler.'

‘You seem to know a whole lot about art.'

‘Me? God, no, I'm a complete amateur. I just like pictures.'

He wiped his sweating forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Tell me about Oxford. I have two days.'

‘Two days?' Loretta's lips turned down. She thought of her favourite places, the Ashmolean Museum and the Pitt-Rivers, Port Meadow on a winter afternoon when the flooded fields reflected a sky as dull as pewter. ‘Oh you know, the colleges ...'

‘Some of them are pretty old, right?'

‘Yes, and they're mostly in the centre of town so –' To her relief a bell rang, signalling the end of the interval. Loretta moved her legs to one side as people began to return to their seats.

‘Ouch,'
she exclaimed as a middle-aged woman with upswept frosted hair stumbled and crushed her toes.

‘She hurt you?'

‘No, really,' Loretta said quickly, not wanting a scene. ‘Honestly, I'm fine.'

‘You sure?' He regarded her suspiciously as he subsided into his seat.

‘Really.' At that moment the lights went down, sparing her further conversation, and the cast trooped back on stage. They took the second half of the play at a faster pace, veering towards farce when one of the actresses changed on-stage into a Chanel suit. It was the kind of theatrical set-piece Loretta most disliked but the audience around her was convulsed. Even the car salesman — she hurriedly corrected herself, remembering he sold car parts — even he joined in, clapping enthusiastically when the final curtain fell. The three main actresses joined hands and took a bow, obviously expecting several curtain calls, and Loretta seized the opportunity to slip out ahead of the crowds. She was at the door leading to the stairs when she felt a hand on her arm.

‘Ma'am? I hope you won't take offence,' said her erstwhile neighbour, removing his hand, ‘but are you free for a drink? Seeing as we're both strangers in town — I'd like to hear some more about
Oxford
–'

He registered her expression and stepped back. ‘Hey, what's the big deal? It's only a
drink.'
He lifted pudgy hands, emphasising the space he had put between them. ‘I'm a happily married man, just because my wife's back in Ohio –'

‘Excuse me,' ventured an elderly woman, leaning heavily on a stick and trying to beat the exodus from the dress circle. She was followed by a noisy, good-natured crowd which forced Loretta and the car salesman apart. ‘I'm sorry,' she called, standing on tiptoe, ‘I really didn't mean –' She stopped, not wanting to tell a lie and remembering how he'd looked at her legs.

‘I get the message,' he called back, the rest of his words carried away by the departing theatre-goers. An angry flush had risen up from his neck, mottling his face, and as he turned to push his way through the crowd, using his bulk to clear a space, he threw back over his shoulder a sarcastic retort: ‘
You
have a nice evening now.'

His balding head disappeared round a bend in the stairs. Loretta remained where she was, jostled by the crowd and cross with herself for not handling the situation more tactfully. She was pretty certain he had been coming on to her but she could have refused his invitation more politely; she put her over-reaction down to being in a strange city, that and the obscene phone call she'd received just before she left for the theatre. Thinking Michael had a lot to answer for, she followed the stragglers down the stairs, bracing herself to face the muggy night air while she searched for a taxi on Broadway.

Loretta lay on her back, one arm thrown up above her head and her legs splayed apart. She was unbearably hot, the sheet ridged underneath her and the quilt lying in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed as though someone was hiding in it. Groaning and struggling into an upright position, she rubbed sleep from her eyes and tried to remember where she was. Not her room in Alberto's house, nor her bedroom in Oxford—she let out a yelp, hearing the unmistakable pant-pant of heavy breathing, and grabbed at the quilt. The events of the previous night came back to her, the salivating voice on the phone and the man ogling her legs at the theatre, and for a moment she imagined one of them had got into the shadowy, unfamiliar room where she was sleeping. Then, just in time, full consciousness returned and she realised she was in Toni's flat, and that the source of the panting wasn't even human.

‘God, dog,' she exclaimed, throwing herself back against the pillows, ‘you nearly gave me a heart attack.' Honey heaved herself up from the floor and placed her front paws on the edge of the bed, her mouth drooping open as though she was about to have a seizure. Loretta pushed her away, kindly but firmly, wondering why it was so airless in the flat and she could not hear the air-conditioning. A memory stirred, a dim recollection of stumbling over to the window during the night and switching it off, unable to bear its clatter a moment longer, but now she swung her legs off the bed, hurried across the room and turned it on at the highest setting. Cold air blasted out and she placed herself directly in front of it for a moment, imagining that it was blowing the night's accumulated sweat from her skin. She reached for the blind cord, remembered she was naked and went into the bathroom to borrow Toni's robe.

‘All right, I know you're hungry,' she told Honey, who followed her from room to room letting out little whimpers. In the kitchen she spooned dog food from a can, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the smell, and left Honey snorting and gulping over the bowl. She ran the blinds up to discover a hazy day, the sun invisible behind a thick layer of mist, and turned on the TV to discover that the humidity outside had already reached 85 per cent. The TV was tuned to NYI, a local news station, and the top story was an overnight shooting in the South Bronx.

‘One man died and two were injured in what's believed to be a drug-related attack,' a reporter was saying, speaking in the fast, solemn tone which seemed to have been universally adopted by American TV journalists. ‘The dead man, who's been identified as Wayne Roberts, 26, was caught in a hail of bullets as he returned home from a nightclub in the early hours. Roberts, who was only released from gaol Monday, died instantly when an assassin opened fire from a speeding car. Neighbours here in the high-rise where Roberts lived say they're too scared to let their children –'

The phone rang. Loretta turned off the TV and picked it up.

‘Ms Norton?'

‘Norton? No, I think you've got the wrong number. Unless – my name's
Lawson.
'

‘Sorry, Ms Lawson, I guess I was given wrong information. I have a fax here saying you reported a nuisance call last night. Is that correct?'

Astonished, Loretta said eagerly: ‘Yes, that's right, I rang the ... I can't remember which precinct it was but they didn't seem the least bit interested. You mean you're a policeman? Thank God for that, I couldn't get any sense out of –' She sat down on the bed, aware she was gabbling. ‘I mean, thanks
very
much for calling. I was just wondering what to do, the man I spoke to last night was
so
offhand, I had to make him take down my name and number...'

‘I'm sorry, Ms Lawson, we are trying to eliminate that kind of response. You have my assurance I'll speak to the officer
concerned, his name's on the fax. If I could just introduce myself, I'm Lieutenant Donelly, one N, two Ls, and I head up a task force on obscene and threatening calls. We work closely with the telephone company and –'

‘You mean the thing in the phone book? The –' In her excitement she couldn't quite remember its full title. ‘The obscene calls bureau? So you
can
trace his number?'

‘Wait a minute, Ms Lawson, it's not quite as simple as that. First off I need to ask you some questions, find out if we're talking about the same guy.'

‘How d'you mean, the same guy?'

‘In the fax I have in front of me it doesn't say whether he asked about your hair colour. Did he say anything that might — did he express an interest in whether you are blonde?'

‘Ye-es. What's this about?'

‘OK.' The detective was obviously relieved. ‘Sounds like our guy.'

‘You mean he's done it before?'

‘Ms Lawson, we've been on his tail five, maybe six weeks. He has an obsession with blondes, if he dials a brunette or a red-head, he hangs up right away.'

‘You mean he picks numbers at random?'

‘Not precisely. There's a high density of apartment blocks on the Upper West Side, lot of women living alone. He give you a name?'

‘Yes. Michael.'

‘He's used that one before. The way he operates, if the woman who picks up the phones sounds Hispanic, he calls himself Miguel.'

‘He puts on an accent?'

‘That's right. Ms Lawson, would you be willing to cooperate with us? Our best hope is to trace his number while he's on the line –'

‘On the line? But I thought... with computerised exchanges and so on ... isn't his number stored somewhere? Automatically, I mean?'

The detective sighed. ‘We think that's the other reason he chose this exchange, which suggests he may have inside knowledge. It's one of the last to be modernised, it isn't due to be updated till... wait a moment, I have the NYNEX schedule on my desk.' She heard the rustling of pages. ‘December, from memory ... no, sorry, October, sooner than I thought. In the meantime –'

‘You mean it isn't computerised? You actually have to have him on the line to catch him?'

‘I don't want to get technical but basically, yes, that's the present situation on this exchange. And no one he's targeted so far ... unfortunately they haven't felt able to keep him talking long enough for us to trace the number.'