Running Girl (27 page)

A new session began. Messalina unwrapped four new decks, shuffled them together, stacked them in one of the boxes and began to deal.

Garvie concentrated.

After twenty minutes exactly three-quarters of the cards had been played. Five of the players got up, leaving a woman sitting alone. She was wearing a long emerald dress and the southward slope of her bare shoulders showed what sort of luck she was having. Garvie went over.

‘Hi.'

The woman looked up at him with big confused eyes. ‘Don't sit anywhere near me, hon. I'm bad luck.'

‘You look good to me.'

She was about thirty, with a glass of champagne, a cute mouth and a bob of bottle-black hair dishevelled by so much bad luck. She laughed once and began to run her hands through it again. ‘Oh, the flattery.' She looked him over, raised an eyebrow and involuntarily smoothed down her dress.

He handed Messalina the C-note, got a brief look of surprise and a pile of chips, and they began to play. ‘You a big blackjack player, hon?'

‘Never played before in my life.' He put down a white chip, got a seven of hearts and a nine of clubs, and refused another card. Bad Luck got a six and eight of spades, hit for another, got a ten of diamonds and bust. Messalina showed the house hand of a nine of clubs and eight of hearts, and Garvie's chip disappeared along with Bad Luck's.

She sipped her drink and pouted. ‘That's a shame. You deserve a bit of beginner's luck.'

‘Best hand I could have got,' Garvie said. ‘Same as you.'

She smiled and sipped again. ‘I don't think you've got the hang of this yet, hon.'

Garvie smiled too, and went back to watching the cards. In the box forty-five remained.

They played two more hands and the house won both.

‘Told you,' she said. ‘Bad Luck. That's me. In a minute my boyfriend's going to come over here and find out I've lost all his money.'

Sipping from her glass, she moved her hair around and kept an eye on her last few white chips.

There were twenty-seven cards left in the box. They played one more hand, the house won again, and now there were nineteen.

Garvie had now lost four hands on the trot. ‘I can't believe how well this is going,' he said. ‘It's time to step up the betting.' He slid a few big chips across the table.

Bad Luck frowned at him. ‘I wouldn't do that if I were you, hon. You're getting things backward. This is a losing streak for both of us.'

He shrugged. ‘If I were you I wouldn't do it, either.' He leaned in towards her and whispered, ‘But I would if someone told me there were three aces, one king, two queens, one jack and two tens left in that box.'

She looked at him pityingly. ‘OK, Mr X-Ray Eyes.'

He was dealt two nines, and he split and pushed over another pile of chips, got a jack and a ten, and beat the house hand of seventeen, twice.

She blinked and said, ‘Oh.'

‘That's right,' he said. ‘Beginner's luck kicking in.'

He was gathering his chips when there was a new voice at his shoulder.

‘I heard you were looking for me, Garvie Smith.'

He turned in his seat and she was standing there with a tray of champagne flutes, one hand on her hip, looking at him with those large, amused grey eyes, and for a moment his words stuck in his throat like a catch of the breath. She was taller than he remembered, and even prettier, and there was a dimple in one cheek and not the other, which seemed so beautifully improbable he felt a goofy smile start up on his face. Straightening out the smile as fast as he could, he said, with all the cool originality he could muster, ‘Hey.'

Another dimple appeared, and he took this as sign to help himself to a drink.

She gave him a look. ‘I'm not supposed to serve drinks to minors. Even lucky ones.'

‘I need to talk to you.'

‘Now?'

‘In a minute. I have to win my money back first.'

Without comment she walked away towards the one-armed bandits, and Garvie said to Bad Luck, ‘Sorry, but I have to finish this off.'

He pushed forward half of all his chips, and she gave him a wry look. ‘OK. At least it looks as if it's going to be quick.'

He nodded at Messalina and got two queens. He looked at Bad Luck.

‘Split? I wouldn't,' she said.

He split, and looked at her again.

‘Bet big? I really wouldn't,' she said. ‘I really, really ...'

He pushed across all his remaining chips and she shook her head sadly. ‘That's everything you've got. I can't believe it. You had one little bit of luck and you just kicked it in the nuts.'

She hid her face behind her tilted champagne flute, and Messalina put the ace of hearts on one of Garvie's queens, and Bad Luck took an accidental gulp of wine.

Then Messalina put down the ace of spades on his other queen, and Bad Luck sprayed the wine across the green baize.

Messalina said, ‘House pays three to two,' and pushed a substantial pile of high-value chips across to Garvie, and Garvie helpfully banged Bad Luck on her back until she stopped coughing.

‘Didn't mean to shock you. It's just that I have to go.'

She stared at him. She looked as if she wanted to prod him to see if he was real. ‘Did that really just happen? Double blackjack?'

He shrugged. ‘Call it basic mathematical probability.'

She nodded uncomprehendingly. ‘I guess I'm just not probable enough, mathematically.' And as he stood, her expression changed from dizzy to distraught, and she tossed her last white chip onto the green baize and dropped her empty hands into her emerald lap.

She smiled at him over-brightly. ‘Go,' she said. ‘You made it so much nicer. I'll be fine.'

Garvie didn't say anything to that. He put his hand briefly on her shoulder before moving away through people towards the one-armed bandits.

‘You're a gambler now?'

‘I can gamble.'

‘Does your mother know?'

‘My mother knows everything.'

‘And you?'

‘I know nearly everything. Only one thing worth knowing I don't know, in fact.'

She raised her eyebrows. ‘And that would be?'

‘That would be your name.'

She laughed then, her head tilted back so her shining hair fell around her shoulders, and his heart did dance steps.

‘Poor Garvie Smith. The one thing I can't tell you. And now you've run out of questions to ask me. Luckily I can think of something to ask you.' She was staring at him curiously.

‘What?'

‘Did you just drop all your gambling chips into that woman's bag?'

He frowned and turned and looked back at the woman in the emerald dress, still sitting dejected at the blackjack table, her open bag hanging on the back of her chair.

‘No.' He looked into her grey eyes. ‘I kept this.' He held up a black chip. ‘It's not mine. I have to give it back.'

She rewarded him with dimples. ‘You're a very unusual boy, Garvie Smith.'

‘You're not so usual yourself, O nameless one. Got another question for you.'

‘All right.'

‘About Imperium.'

‘What about it?'

They looked across the rooms together. While a new crowd of punters settled round the blackjack table, the emerald lady sat alone, quietly weeping. The big man, Winder, appeared from the poker den and pushed his way through the bar with a face like slapped steak, the smaller man Garvie had seen before going after him, like a dog on a lead, glaring from side to side. Garvie tilted his head and listened. The bright rattle of the roulette balls was the sound of someone losing money, the soft noise of laughter that came from the bar was the laughter of bravado, forced and shrill, and whenever it failed there was an agitated hush, like a frightened man holding his breath.

‘Seems like a lovely place,' he said at last.

‘It's hell.'

He looked at her sharply. ‘Hell?'

‘You wouldn't believe. There was something the other week—' She stopped and wiped a hand across her face. ‘Sorry. Usually I'm tougher than this. I've not been well. Well, you saw me faint the other day. That's not like me, either. Anyway, what was your question?'

‘What's a girl like you doing working here?'

‘Reasons of poverty.' She smiled. ‘But I've got a plan to escape. A couple of months, that's it, I'll be off. Gone. Out of here. Up, up and away.'

‘Nice. You're going to be a balloonist.'

‘Travel rep, actually.'

‘Where?'

‘India.'

‘Can I come?'

‘Girls only. My friend and me. We're going to rep together. She's out there now.'

‘What's
her
name?'

She smiled at him. ‘She doesn't give out her real name, either. Calls herself the Tick Hill Travel Bug. That's because she's been everywhere. And according to her, India's the place to be.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, Garvie, just try to think of somewhere that's the complete opposite of this place, somewhere warm and full of light and colour, and exotic, and romantic. That place is India. Put it this way. My friend tells me that when she writes her autobiography she's going to call it
From Trailer Park to Taj Mahal
. See? India's just ... lovelier than here.'

Garvie thought about this. ‘Don't suppose I can persuade you to come to Barbados instead?'

Another waitress came past them then, gave Garvie a look, and said to Hypatia out of the corner of her mouth, ‘Better get a move on. He's got his eye on you.'

From the other side of the blackjack room they saw the small man glowering at them.

‘Time to go.'

‘Wait. Who is he? Guy with the pig-crazy eyes. He was staring at me last time.'

‘The manager. Looks after the place when Scumbag's not here. He's a creep. Well, Garvie Smith ... our time ran out.' She smiled at him, and for a second he thought she was leaning in towards him, but she swayed away and went towards the Staff Only door.

‘Wait, about that
something
the other week ...'

But she'd gone.

He looked at his watch and sighed. Down by the blackjack table Bad Luck had been joined by a man in a tuxedo, who paced to and fro in front of her while she shook her head, and Garvie went past them on his way out.

‘All of it?' the man was saying. ‘Just like that? Are you sure? Have you checked your purse? Have you checked your bag?'

Garvie sauntered past the bar and coffee lounge, on through the sunken circular lobby and out of the main door onto the walkway outside, where he was accosted by the man with the pig-crazy eyes waiting for him with a bad expression on his face washed blue by the casino's wall-lights.

‘Leaving?'

‘Sharp. You must be with Special Branch.'

‘Don't bother coming back.'

‘It's OK, I've got to be somewhere else, anyway.'

‘I mean, ever.'

Garvie glanced up at the billboard above the entrance. ‘Last year's model,' he said. ‘Like your customer relations.'

The man did an odd thing. He didn't go for Garvie or yell at him. He gulped like a pantomime villain and, turning sharply, stumbled back inside the building.

Thoughtfully Garvie gazed after him, stroking his nose with a forefinger. Then he glanced at his watch, saw it was already half past ten, and ran down The Wicker towards his bike.

SINGH SAT EXHAUSTED
but upright at his terminal, a lonely and exposed figure in the white glare of the glass-walled office. The afternoon had passed, evening had arrived and night had fallen while he worked. People had come and gone, and now he was alone in the building except for the security guard downstairs in Reception.

The number of data hits he'd already investigated was enormous. Most searches had required further searches, sometimes extensive. There had been a Rolfe, J., matching Naylor's profile exactly who'd worked as a caretaker in a primary school up north during the right years, but his archive had lacked a photo so it had taken a full half-hour of follow-up searches in related databases before Singh learned that Rolf, J., had retired on disability benefits two years earlier after an accident that had lost him a leg. It was seven o'clock by the time the last of the Williamses had been completed and the final name group, ‘Johnson', was ready to be trawled. Singh was tired but he forced himself on.

There were 172 Johnsons matching Naylor's profile who'd been employed in various capacities at schools over the right years. Further searches showed thirty-seven of them working in what was described as ‘Facilities' – caretakers, janitors and groundsmen. He went through them methodically, dismissing five in short order, investigating three more only to eventually dismiss them too, and running even more detailed but ultimately fruitless searches on eighteen others before finally reaching ‘Johnson, Paul', groundsman at a nearby school called Maltby. There he stopped.

Maltby was only twenty miles away but it came under the jurisdiction of another regional educational authority. Paul Johnson's profile matched Naylor's in every way and his years of employment fitted perfectly, but what really caught Singh's eye were two details. Johnson's employment at the school had lasted only four months, as if its termination had been sudden and unplanned. And his disciplinary record contained an allegation made against him by another member of staff – of assault.

A little jolt went through Singh. Suddenly he was alert again.

It was seven thirty.

There was no photo of Paul Johnson in the records. He spent thirty minutes searching a variety of databases for contact details for the head teacher, finding her number at last on a free public directory. But when he called her she was unavailable, and all he could do was leave a message.

He was tired again, but still he wouldn't give up. He accessed the school's website, and there found a section of photographs called ‘Golden Years at Maltby', a large but disorganized collection of hundreds of random images of school life. Without a moment's rest he began to search through them, one by one.