Get Carter (27 page)

Maurice didn’t say anything.

“And make sure she’s got enough money.”

“Yes, Jack.”

Another silence.

“Also,” I said. “Where can I get some white stuff?”

“White stuff?”

“Yes. Round here.”

“Nowhere. Not where you are. Unless you drove to Grimsby.”

“Who would I see?”

“Man called Storey. You’d find him upstairs at a coffee bar that calls itself a club. The Matador, would you believe.”

“Will he do as he’s told?”

“Yes.”

“Phone him and tell him I’m coming to see him.”

“When?”

“Sometime tonight. During hours.”

“Right.”

“I’ll be seeing you.”

“When?”

“I’ll let you know.”

I put the phone down and walked back across the road to the post box and pushed the envelope in the slit.

Now the darkness was complete. Wilton Estate retreated behind the rain. I drove down the road where I’d dropped Doreen and slowed down as I approached the corner of the crescent where Doreen was staying. I picked up speed again as I crossed the mouth. There was a patrol car parked half the way up on the right, outside the house Doreen had gone into earlier.

I swore and kept on going. I turned left into the road running parallel to the crescent and stopped the car. Rain pattered on the roof. I lit up and thought. I had to see Doreen because there was something she had to tell me if what I’d planned was going to work. Apart from the other reasons I had for seeing her.

I got out of the car. Leaving it there wasn’t good. The scuffers’d be with Brumby by now. The scuffers with Doreen probably wouldn’t have the number yet but it’d be waiting for them once they got back into their cosy little motor.

I walked across more wet grass and picked my way through more back gardens until I thought I was within a garden or two of where Doreen was staying.

A back door opened. Light streaked through the rain. I ducked down behind a sodden privet. Two scuffers were silhouetted against the glaring kitchen. A man and a woman gazed earnestly into the scuffers’ faces. Between the two couples stood Doreen. In the light from the kitchen she looked pale and stark. Words were said and the scuffers stood back to let Doreen pass and then they waddled off after her in that way they all have. The back door was closed very respectfully. A few seconds later the doors of the patrol car opened and closed and the engine was turned on but the bastards didn’t move. They were
probably sitting there enjoying listening to my licence number. It must have been getting on for five minutes before they took off. I listened to them go. They were moving back towards the High Street. Away from where my car was parked.

I swore again. This time at Glenda. And at myself for leaving her to the scuffers.

I went back the way I’d come. The car was still there. There were no scuffers making little notes in little books. I got into the car and drove off down the estate, away from the High Street. I was back amongst the terraces.

It didn’t take long to find the kind of motor I wanted. It was a little Morris Traveller, parked on some waste land at the end of the street. Tucked under some corrugated sheeting stemming from the wall of a builders yard. I parked next to it and got out. It didn’t take long. A bit of jiggling with the fuses and it was away. The window was easy. Just like the old days. I transferred the shotgun and the shells and my hold-all into the back of the Traveller and that was that.

This time I didn’t bother to knock up Keith’s landlord. The front door was unlocked so I went straight up.

He was lying on his bed smoking. A transistor was balanced on his chest. Radio One was faint and tinny. On the bed there were
Reveilles
and
Tit-Bits
and a well-read
Daily Mirror
.

Only Keith’s eyes moved when he saw me. The rest of him was still too stiff.

“Keith, where does Margaret live?”

“Get stuffed,” he said.

“Yeah, all right. Where does she live?”

Keith made a very big job of blowing smoke straight up towards the ceiling.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and took hold of him by his collar and jerked him towards me. The transistor slid off his chest and on to the floor.

“Listen,” I said, “this is me you’re talking to. Tell me, where does she live?”

“Why should I tell you fuck all?”

“Because you were a mate of Frank’s.”

He looked at me.

“What do you know?” he said.

“I haven’t time. You’ll read all about it. Just where she lives, that’s all.”

He carried on looking at me.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I only want to talk to her.”

“Sure.”

“Through her I get the ones that did for Frank. That should matter to you.”

He looked away from me. After a while he said:

“She lives in Farrier Street.”

“Frank told you that?”

“Frank told me that.”

I let go of him.

“Who did it?” he said.

I stood up.

“I’ve told you. Just keep reading the papers.”

The woman in the off-licence on the corner of Farrier Street enjoyed giving me the number of Margaret’s house. I’d hardly closed the door behind me before the woman had disappeared from behind the counter into the back of the shop to spread the glad tidings about Margaret’s new feller. At least Margaret’d told the truth on one count.

I drove slowly down the street until I got to 19. I parked a few houses beyond and got out and walked round the back of Margaret’s house. The kitchen was dark but there was a light in the dining-room. The sound of a telly gurgled beyond the curtains.

I opened the back door and walked through the kitchen and into the hall and opened the door to the dining-room.

Full ashtrays decorated the top of the mantelpiece. The dining table was the way it had been at breakfast time. The hearth hadn’t been swept for a week.

Margaret was lying on the sofa watching Rolf Harris and smoking. She was wearing a quilted housecoat patterned with pink roses. The housecoat wasn’t fastened. Underneath it she was wearing an old black bra and a pair of old white nylon briefs. No stockings. Still wearing her dark glasses. She certainly wasn’t expecting any boyfriends.

When she saw me and the look on my face she screamed and tried to crawl into the corner of the settee.

I switched the telly off and walked towards her. She stopped moving. I sat down on the arm of the settee and stretched my arm towards her face. She wanted to scream again but she couldn’t. I took her dark glasses off. Her eyes were screwed up tight.

I dropped the glasses on the cushions.

“Was it easy?” I said.

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were still tight shut. They snapped open when I began to run my fingers through her hair.

“How did you manage it?” I said.

She shuddered. I gripped her hair and jerked her head back. The cigarette fell from her hand on to the settee. I picked it up and held it an inch from her throat.

“How did Frank know who to go to? How did he know it was Eric?”

She squeezed her eyes shut again. Then she screamed as the tip of the cigarette got closer to her neck. Words gabbled out of her.

“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”

I let go of her hair and sat and waited.

“Frank came round here. Sunday morning. A mate of his had got hold of the film. He’d guessed I’d had something to do with it. Only the thing was, Eric was here. Trying to get me to fix Doreen up for another session.”

“And what happened?”

“Eric wasn’t on his own. They took Frank away.”

She bent double and took hold of her hair and pulled at it as if she was going to tear it out.

“Oh, bloody Christ,” she said. “Bloody, sodding Christ. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t. Not to Frank. Only it was Eric. He forced me. He made me.”

“You worked for him in the smoke?”

“A couple of times. Only once something went wrong. They went too far with a little coloured kid. And … and …”

She began to sob. I pulled her upright.

“You lying whore. Stop giving me that shit. He paid you, didn’t he? That’s why you did it. Because he paid you.”

“No, honest, I …”

I brushed the cigarette against her cheek. She screamed much louder than before so I threw the cigarette on the floor and jammed my hand in her mouth. She tried to bite it, so I pulled it out and gave her one across the face. She fell sideways across the settee and started sobbing again.

I stood up.

“Get up,” I said.

She stopped the sobbing and looked up at me.

“We’re going upstairs,” I said. “Then we’re going out.”

“Upstairs?”

“That’s right.”

“But …”

I took out my fags and lit one up and held it in a certain way.

She got up off the settee and began to walk past me out of the room, trying to keep her eyes on me as she went.

I followed her upstairs. She kept looking back at me trying to see what was behind my eyes. On the landing I said:

“Let’s go into your room.”

She opened a door. I took hold of her wrists and pulled her into the bedroom. She was too frightened to pull away.

Besides the bed, there were only two other pieces of furniture in the room. One of them was a big brown
wardrobe. The door was open. Clothes that weren’t on hangers had been thrown over the top of the door. Still holding on to her wrist I found a dress that looked newer and cleaner than any of the others. It was black with big white polka dots and a white lace ruffled collar. I threw it on the bed and then we went over to the remaining piece of furniture which was a white-wood dressing table. I opened the drawer until I found a black lace bra with matching pants and a black silk half-slip, the kind of stuff you see advertised in
Penthouse
.

I let go of Margaret’s wrist and pushed the underwear at her.

“Put these on.”

Her eyes were wide.

“Do you want me to do it for you?”

She still didn’t move.

I pushed the housecoat off her shoulders.

“Listen, whore,” I said. “You’re going out. Dressed or undressed. Make up your bloody mind.”

She began to get dressed.