Nirvana Bites (23 page)

I glanced over the edge of the balcony. Ali was leaning against the outside of the van. The thought of Derek and Tyson caged in the back added another layer of urgency to my pleas.

‘Do you know where he lives?' I urged. ‘Anything at all that could help me track him down. Get to him before he can get to me.'

‘Oh Jenny, darling,' Cathy breathed. ‘What have you got yourself into?'

‘Please, Cathy,' I pleaded.

She shook her head, her blond hair flapping as a cold breeze whipped down the balcony. We shivered in stereo.

‘Oh shit. I've no idea where he lives or where he hangs out these days. I haven't seen him for ages. He came on the Scene about three years ago. I heard he'd just done a stretch for GBH. He's psychotic, Jen. I can spot them a mile off. But I don't know where you'd find him. I'll ask around and let you know if I hear anything.'

I had a name. But I'd hoped for more. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. Cathy held my shoulders and gazed into my face, concern radiating from her kohl-rimmed eyes.

‘I'll cancel my client, sweetheart. Stay here. You can't carry on like this. You're way out of your depth…'

I shook my head – and wished I hadn't as my brain zapped from one side of my skull to the other.

‘Thanks, Cathy. You really are special, y'know? But I've got to go. My friends are waiting… I can handle this… I have to.'

Cathy sighed. She touched the side of my face with the tips of her fingers.

‘OK. But please take care, love. And if you need me for anything you call me, right? Any time. Twenty-four hours. You understand?'

In the transit again, I rolled down the window to dilute the smell coming from the back with a dose of pollution. I tried to review the positive and negative aspects of the day. And what a day! It seemed like weeks earlier that I'd met Philip Courtney at Della's. On the super-sleuth front, we'd found a possible connection between Koi Korner and the Ku Klux Klan; we had a photo and a name to go with it. Though we still couldn't link the two together. Assuming such a link did exist. On the other hand, I had a head that felt like it had got in the way of one of those huge concrete wrecking balls, and a barbecued downstairs hall. Everything comes at a price.

29

THE BATHROOM MIRROR
had a horrible tale to tell. Technicolor bruising seeped across the side of my head where Gunther had punched me, obliterating everything in its path. Including my eye, which was now fully closed.

I swallowed a cocktail of arnica and Co-proxamol and washed them down with a good slug of Rescue Remedy, the latter more for its brandy base than for its delicate blend of flower extracts.

None of it did much good. I slept in short savage bursts, peopled with manic anxiety dreams. Running, hiding, being chased. Haring down corridors with locked doors. Up endless flights of stairs. Along streets, down alleyways, through empty shopping centres and car parks. Hiding in cupboards, doorways, under cars. Losing things. Losing people. Losing my mind.

After each dream I would lurch awake and stumble round the room, stomping on the bare floorboards, before daring to lie back down again. Some time after three o'clock, there was a pounding on my downstairs door. My heart catapulted against my ribs. Dream or real life? Which was this?

‘Jen! Open the fucking door!' Mags bellowed.

I stood winking at her in the darkness. She thrust out an enormous cone-shaped spliff.

‘Go back to bed. Smoke this and don't dare to get up again before serious daytime,' she ordered, turning and slamming her door behind her. She didn't even notice my face.

I did as I was told. And do you know what? It worked. I only managed a third of it before passing out. I didn't wake up until the sun was as high as I had been several hours earlier. If I did have any dreams, I don't remember them. Ah, the healing herb.

I even woke up with an idea. I dug out the notes I'd made when I'd trawled through the numbers programmed into Stan's mobile. Gunther's number was listed.

My notes told me I'd been able to glean little from the research call I had made to him. He didn't even have an answering machine. Instead, a BT answering service had droned at me in a monotone. The area code was in Kent. I checked out an old road atlas. Click: another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Gunther lived within a few miles of Meacham's Meat Products.

On an impulse I picked up the phone and called Directory Enquiries. Then I dialled the number recited by the robotic voice.

‘Meacham's Meat Products, Mandy speaking, how can I help you?' a girlish voice sang.

‘Oh hi,' I trilled. ‘Is it possible to speak to Gunther please?'

‘I'm sorry,' Ms Enthusiasm replied. ‘Mr Hermann isn't in today. Can anyone else help?'

Hermann, huh? I felt a flush of pride in my detecting powers.

‘Oh no. Not really. Er – any idea when he'll be back?'

There was a pause.

‘May I ask who's calling?'

‘Oh yes, of course. This is his sister. I'm in the area. I was hoping to see him…'

‘Oh. I see.' Another pause. ‘I'm so sorry, but Mr Hermann has taken indefinite leave.'

Mandy sounded very young and inexperienced. I needed to get chatting to gain her trust.

‘Oh damn,' I replied. ‘I can't believe it. When did he go?'

‘He phoned in yesterday. It was very sudden…'

I groaned. I had a pretty good idea why he'd taken the time off. So he could concentrate on dealing with me.

‘Did he give you any idea why he's taken the time off?'

‘I'm really sorry.' She was floundering. A couple of GCSEs and two months' work experience hadn't prepared her for this diplomatic minefield. ‘I mean, obviously he didn't tell me anything personally. I – I've only been here three weeks.' Told you. ‘But I heard Mr Meacham telling a client that Mr Hermann had a family crisis. Is it…? I mean…are you…?'

I leapt in, never one to pass up an opportunity. I gave a strangled sob.

‘Yes. It's awful. I have to see Gunther. I'm sure you understand. But I've done something incredibly stupid. I've been living abroad, you see. And in all the panic, I've left my address book back home. I – I remember his phone number, but I've never been to his house. And the address has gone right out of my head.'

I was on well-dodgy ground here. This was sounding feeble even to my ears, but it was the best I could come up with at short notice. I was banking on her being gullible enough to go for it.

‘I phoned him, but he's got one of those awful BT answering-service things and I can't get a reply. I was desperately hoping to catch him at work…' I tailed off, sniffing a bit for good measure.

‘Oh,' a tiny voice trembled. ‘I – I wish I could help. But I'm sure I shouldn't give out a private address over the phone…'

Damn. Brighter than I'd hoped.

‘I could always check with Mr Meacham…'

No! My finger hovered over the cut-off button.

‘…but he's in a meeting and said he didn't want to be disturbed for the rest of the day…'

Yes! I pulled my finger away.

‘…but if I give it to you, I could lose my job…'

I know. I know. And I'm so sorry. But if the choice is your job or my life…

‘If only there was someone to ask…'

I ground my teeth.

‘…but there isn't…'

Oh for fuck's sake. I was beginning to lose patience. I gasped and snuffled down the phone.

‘Oh please,' I gulped. ‘If I don't get there soon, I'll
miss the funeral,'
I ended on a triumphant flourish.

That did the trick. I wrote down the address and hung up feeling sick and guilty. I felt like an evil manipulative bitch – perhaps because I
was
an evil manipulative bitch. But better a live bitch than a dead saint.

30

SO. I HAD
a full name, an address, a phone number, a place of work, details of his birthplace and parents and a set of photos. Quite an impressive collection. What I didn't have was the faintest idea of what to do with it.

I could just hand the whole caboodle to DS Mackay. But when you got right down to it, what did it amount to? Unless the cops had some concrete evidence linking Gunther to Della's murder – and I had no reason to believe they had – he would still be out and about. And if he'd been pissed off with me before, being hauled in by the cops was hardly likely to improve his mood.

I – we – a bunch of us – could go over to Gunther's address and… And what? Shout at him a bit? Tell him off? Try to reason with him? Er… I don't think so.

That left – bugger-all. By my reckoning, the only way out was to get some incontrovertible evidence of our own linking Gunther with the attack on Della. And there was only one way I could think of to get that. All roads, as usual, led to one place. Stan. And if it had been impossible to get any information out of him when he'd been staying with me, it went without saying that it was hardly going to be a doddle now we didn't have the faintest idea where the fuck he was.

A banging on the street door shook me from my trance. I leapt to the window and peeped out. A Post Office van was parked outside, and the driver was standing on my path clutching a clipboard and a large brown envelope.

The postie was young and plump with an eruption of spots testifying to a high-grease diet. He lurched back a step as he saw my face. It took him a moment to regain his composure. He held out the envelope, his eyes swivelling in their sockets as he battled the urge to stare.

‘Um. Parcel for Jenny Stern. You need to sign…'

He couldn't get away fast enough. This must be what people who are permanently disfigured have to put up with all the time.

I took the envelope back upstairs. Inside was a sheaf of A4 posters. I caught my breath as Della's face gazed out and met my eyes. Underneath the photo was her name and the dates of her too-short life, followed by details of her funeral, which was scheduled for two weeks' time.

There was a covering letter from Philip, thanking me for my support and asking me to distribute the posters as agreed. He also said he'd be grateful for help in arranging her funeral. I liked the posters. They were tasteful and minimalist. Della's lifestyle was anything but minimalist, but I think she would have approved of the posters. It was my responsibility to ensure her funeral would also have been to her taste. If I lived that long myself.

The realisation that this was not a foregone conclusion galvanised me. I would go round the clubs and deliver the posters that night. It would be good to be doing something practical. I knew that Gunther's attack had traumatised me to my core, but I couldn't afford to enter into that yet. When this crisis was over – if I was still around – I'd allow myself the luxury of freaking out.

Remembering my last foray into the S&M world, I made careful preparations. I cooked a thick soup which I swallowed with care, avoiding chewing as it sent jolts of pain through the right side of my head. Then I had a hot bath and spent an hour doing my make up, layering on concealer and foundation with a trowel in an effort to cover the bruising. I couldn't do anything to disguise the vast swelling round my eye. I dug out a pair of black shades. I've always hated posers who wear shades at night. I was about to become one of them.

I planned my targets. The Torture Palace in Waterloo where I used to work. Slutz in Soho – mainstream and full of sexual tourists. Tallulah's in Islington. Happy Harry's in Hackney. Temptation in Deptford – an unlikely scenario but a decent club. Sinthia's in Catford. The Triple X in Brixton too – if I could remain conscious in there long enough to hand over the poster… There were others, but word travels fast on the Scene. If I covered them, plus Della's local shops and pubs, I'd have done a good job.

There was no way I could deliver them all in one night. I decided to head east to start with, to Temptation and Sinthia's. If I had time and energy left I'd cross back west to the Triple X. I poured myself back into my leather gear, clamped the handcuffs on to the loop on the shoulder of my jacket and pushed my feet into DMs – it would be hard enough cycling in a mini-skirt without adding stilettos to the equation. After a careful check of the street, I pushed my bike out into the darkness. I couldn't use cabs to club-crawl and the bike would enable me to leave as and when I wanted. I wasn't intending to hang around, just deliver the posters and move on. The best laid plans of mice and crazy women…

I cycled to Deptford with the shades balanced on top of my head. It was difficult enough seeing in the darkness with only one functioning eye. The club was smack in the middle of a not-yet-trendy part of Deptford. The word
TEMPTATION
was painted in jagged silver letters above an anonymous-looking black door.

Temptation had a reputation for funky music, decent beer and a wicked cabaret. I chained my bike to a lamppost, pulled down the shades and pushed through the door, into the smoke and noise you'd expect in any club.

There was the usual smattering of leather, PVC, rubber and piercings, but the atmosphere was light and good-natured. S&M was fun here. Temptation was for people who didn't take their pain too seriously. Bendy Wendy and Horatio were on stage. They were the guys who owned the club and compèred the cabaret. Horatio did all the talking, entertaining the punters with his particular brand of camp smut. Wendy meanwhile set out to prove she didn't have a bone in her androgynous body as she folded her supple form into a range of impossible contortions.

Everyone was watching the performance, so no one took any notice of me as I eased my way up to the bar. A young spiky-haired woman grinned at me. It was like looking into a mirror. She could have been me, except she had two working eyes.

I asked for an orange juice, pulled out one of the posters and handed it to her. ‘Could you put one of these up behind the bar?'