September Song (21 page)

‘There's the bed,' I said. ‘I'll just pop out the back.'

I left her to it and drifted through the scullery and down to the backyard and the loo. The rain was still pit-pattering down in little flurries, and I didn't hang about. Fluffy wasn't out there either. Perhaps he was spending the night with Jerry. Or a lady friend.

I splashed water over my slightly battered face – two small bruises coming up nicely, one above and one below the left eye – and then brushed my teeth.

Jeannie Summers was still standing in the middle of the room. It wasn't that she hadn't moved. She clearly had. She'd removed her shoes, stockings and her dress. She was holding the copy of
Alcools
that Ghislaine had sent me and looking puzzled.

‘Miss Summers,' I said.

She looked up and smiled at me again. ‘I think,' she said, ‘that, since I'm standing in your bedroom in my underwear, you can probably call me Jeannie, don't you, Tony?'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘Is there anything I can get you, Jeannie?'

‘No,' she said, ‘I'm fine.' She held the book out to me. ‘Is this yours?'

I nodded. ‘A friend sent it to me.'

‘You speak French?' she said.

‘Yes, I do,' I said.

‘What a surprising man you are.'

‘Not really,' I said. ‘My mother and father were French.'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘Your name.'

I nodded again and smiled.

‘Were you in France? During the war,' she said.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘I was. For quite a while.'

‘So was Lee. The D-Day landings.'

‘Pretty hairy by all accounts,' I said.

‘Were you not there?'

‘I was already there,' I said. ‘Before. I did some behind the lines stuff. Being able to speak French has only ever got me into trouble. At school, in the army  . . .'

She sighed. ‘Lee was OK when he first came back,' she said. ‘Never spoke about it much. He had his dark moods, but I guess every soldier who'd seen what he'd seen has those. But he seemed fine. Then the dark moods got worse, and about five years ago the drug-taking started. And he became unreliable and started to lose weight.' She paused and sighed again. ‘This was going to be a new start for us. He promised me he'd kick the habit. We'd come to Europe, and he'd go clean. He wouldn't know where to score.' She threw her hands up in the air. ‘But a junkie always knows how to find drugs, I guess, like a lemming always knows how to find a cliff.'

‘Let's get some sleep,' I said. ‘Things will look different in the morning.'

‘No, they won't,' she said. ‘He'll still be a junkie. I'll still be unhappy.'

Yes, I thought, I suppose that's true. But I managed to keep my big mouth shut for once and just stared past her left shoulder at one of the damp stains on the wall.

She smiled sadly and stepped towards me, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

‘I think you're a dear man,' she said very quietly, ‘and I think I'm making you uncomfortable. I'm sorry.'

I didn't know what to say. She was right. I felt awkward. The kiss was cooling on my cheek.

‘Miss Summers,' I started, but she gave me a disapproving, school mistress's look, all pursed lips and furrowed brow. ‘Sorry. Jeannie. I've been meaning to ask. Where are you from? You're London, I can tell, but you're not from around here, are you?'

‘Nah,' she said, smiling broadly as she turned on a terrible Cockerney accent. ‘I shouldn't even be talking to you, really. I'm from sarf of the river. I'm a Lambeth gel I am. What you asting for?'

‘Just wondered,' I said. ‘Listen, I'll grab that chair, a blanket and get out of your way.'

She put her hand gently on my forearm. ‘Thank you, Tony,' she said.

THIRTEEN

S
unday slid slowly into my office, as bleak and wet as promised.

I'd managed a few hours of fractured sleep, but I felt far from refreshed. The bruise on my rib and the couple on my back made it difficult to find a comfortable position on Grand-père's old chair. Every time I dozed off, one of the lumps would complain and I'd wake up with a start.

Still, no one had burst in or banged at the door, so it had to count as a peaceful night.

I hoped that Jeannie Summers had slept the sleep of the pure at heart.

I lay there and thought of her.

I was disappointed that she came from Lambeth. I'd entertained hopes  . . . Well, that's pitching it a bit strong. However, I'd have to admit that I had briefly fantasized that I'd found Daphne's long-lost daughter without even looking for her. Not that I would have wished the Mountjoys on Miss Summers. Or on anyone else for that matter, though some poor sod had had to suffer them. The coincidence of the name – Eugenia, Jean, Jeannie – had been the straw that I'd clutched at, but it had been just that. A coincidence. How could I have thought it was anything else?

Still, it was a pity. She'd have been a good daughter for Daff. Someone she could have been proud of.

I thought of her standing by my bed last night, in her lilac slip, sad and ground down by life with Lee. There had been something touchingly vulnerable about her.

I realized that I'd wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that everything would be all right, make her believe it, even though I knew it would probably turn out not to be true.

I thought of her slim, pale arms and legs, her slender neck and naked throat, her white shoulders and the hint of swelling breasts, and I wished I hadn't.

I lay there for a moment or two listening to the wind shaking the window against its frame, the rattle of the little spatters of rain against the panes, the steady drip of the leak in the roof, the hiss of the tyres of an early morning bus going through the puddles on the road, and the gurgle of the blocked drain. Then I heard the more unusual sounds of someone moving quietly about in the next room and decided to get up.

My aches and pains hadn't improved over night, and I creaked more than a bit as I eased myself out of pyjamas and into shirt and trousers. I folded the blanket and placed it carefully on the table before dropping back into Grand-père's chair. I dozed while I waited a suitable time for Miss Summers – whatever she said, I found it difficult to think of her as Jeannie – to wash, dress and so on.

I wondered if Jerry had anything I could offer her for breakfast. I knew that my cupboard was bare, and Costello's wouldn't be open. Enzo never worked on a Sunday. She might have to make do with just a cup of tea. Assuming I could find some milk that hadn't curdled.

I listened to the sound of Sunday morning. The rain had eased off, and I heard a bicycle slither past, then a bus throbbed and rumbled along Lea Bridge Road. And that was it. Dead. Teams of footballers would soon head off to Hackney Marshes; gnarled old men would tend their gardens and allotments and smoke pipes; churchgoers clutching big, black Bibles would head purposively for their respective places of worship; the pubs would open at twelve, the Gaumont some time later. The caffs, pie and chip shops and the Co-op would remain resolutely shut.

I levered myself away from the doubtful comfort of the old, scorched chair and stood on the landing outside my other room for a few seconds, unsure whether to knock. Eventually, I rapped lightly on the door. ‘Miss Summers,' I said quietly.

A few seconds later the door opened, and she stood there, looking tired but composed. She'd covered the bruise on her cheek with make-up. She offered me a wan smile. ‘Tony,' she said, ‘how are you?'

‘Oh, just a few aches and pains,' I said. ‘You? How did you sleep? I'm sorry about the state of the place—'

‘It's fine, Tony,' she said. ‘I've slept in much worse flop-houses than this. And I'm fine. I had a good night.'

I nodded. ‘I'm just going to pop down to Jerry to see if he's got anything for breakfast,' I said. ‘You remember Jerry?'

She nodded. ‘The sweet boy who offered to play the piano for me,' she said.

‘That's him,' I said.

‘Can he play?' she said.

‘I really don't know,' I said. ‘I've never heard him.'

I turned to go, but she put her hand gently on my arm.

‘I'm sorry if I bent your ear too much last night,' she said. ‘I just needed to sound off. I didn't mean what I said. Not those things about Lee.' She paused. ‘In spite of everything, I do love him.'

‘It's all right,' I said. ‘And I'm sure he knows.'

We stood in an embarrassed silence for a few seconds. Finally, I managed a smile.

‘I'll see about breakfast,' I said and pulled away and scampered – well, scampered in a gingerly sort of way – down the stairs.

Jerry had bread. Jerry had margarine. Jerry had milk and tea. Jerry even had marmalade. And Jerry had the Bunk Johnson records he wanted to play for me.

I was on my third cup of Typhoo, and Bunk Johnson – and, according to Jerry, George Lewis, Jim Johnson and Baby Dodds – were wishing they could shimmy away like someone's sister Kate when the telephone rang.

Jeannie Summers sat at Jerry's table munching toast and gulping down tea with the best of us. She'd even seemed to enjoy Jerry's potted biography of Bunk Johnson. Whether she enjoyed the music she didn't say.

Jerry answered the phone, and I heard him say, ‘I'll go get him,' so I knew it was for me when he came back. He indicated the direction of the shop with his head and his thumb, and I stood up and swallowed my tea.

‘It's Les,' he said.

The shop was the usual chaos of piles of sheet music, boxes of records and musical instruments – for some reason, Jerry had decided to stock some guitars as well as the odd piano accordion, the harmonicas and the recorders for school kids – but I managed to find a path to the counter without disturbing Jerry's incomprehensible to anyone but him filing system.

It was, indeed, Les, and he was in sombre mood.

Philip Graham had gone AWOL from the hotel, and Les wondered if I might care to look for him. It seemed that he hadn't made it back there last night. Les said he'd send Charlie round with a motor in about an hour. I asked if Charlie could bring a few exes, as I was a bit short. Characteristically, Les didn't give me a lecture on hard times, just said he'd give Charlie a few quid. He sounded so down that I had to ask, and it turned out that Daff had taken a turn for the worse and had been rushed to Whipps Cross Hospital. It didn't sound good.

That put paid to our morning of domestic bliss. Jeannie Summers remembered Lee and telephoned her digs to see if he was there. He was another one not snapping out ‘Present' at the roll-call. Jeannie looked at me sadly, and I knew I'd be looking for him too.

I visited the loo, washed, shaved, brushed my teeth and changed my shirt and socks. I felt a lot better until I put my suit on. Suits can only take so much rolling about on the ground. Mine was very much the worse for wear, but it would have to do.

I snaffled two quid from Jerry from his float, just in case Les forgot about the exes, and we sat and waited for Charlie.

I was glad Charlie would be with me. He's a good bloke, and, in spite of having left the ring more than fifteen years ago, he's still more than useful to have around. He knows how to throw a punch. You get hit by Charlie and you stay hit for quite some time.

It was getting on for half past ten before he arrived, not, sadly in Les's Roller, but in the old Wolseley, which sat, engine running, pointing down Church Road. I thought I'd have time to drop Jeannie Summers off, call in on Viv Laurence, as I'd promised, and still make it to the Frighted Horse – which had to be my starting point in the search for either of the absentees – just after opening time.

I've always found it best not to over-complicate things, so the plan was simple. Check out the Frighted Horse, lift a few stones and see what crawled out. The other half of the plan was that I'd call Inspector Rose at Scotland Yard and hope that Lee had shown up there.

To be honest, if nothing wriggled at the Frighted Horse and if Lee wasn't safely banged up, I wasn't sure what I was going to do. After all, I'm just a failed accountant, not a copper.

One of Robert's other dodgy maxims was: ‘Sometimes, having no plan is a plan.' And that should have given me occasion to think, because it had certainly landed us close to the brown and sticky stuff on a couple of occasions.

Still, if I didn't have much of a plan, it did seem like a workable approach at the time. And no one else was going to come up with anything better.

Charlie stood smiling on the pavement at the door, but he raised his shaggy eyebrows up towards his seamed forehead when he saw Miss Summers. I frowned at him, and he re-arranged his features into something suitably bland.

‘Charlie,' I said, ‘this is Miss Jeannie Summers. The singer. We'll be taking her back to her place before we go anywhere else.'

Charlie dutifully raised his finger to his brow. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss,' he said. ‘So where's that then, Tone?'

I realized I didn't know and looked across at Jeannie Summers.

‘Oh,' she said, ‘it's off by Marble Arch. I can't remember the address, but I'll know when we get there.'

‘Righty-ho,' said Charlie. ‘All aboard. Sorry, it's not the Rolls, but Mr Jackson felt you'd be more comfortable riding in this, Tone.' And he winked at me.

I wasn't sure if he meant that I was used to riding in police vehicles or if he was hinting that the Rolls was not altogether safe around me. The first wasn't true, but there was an unfortunate incident in the recent past that meant there was an element of truth about the second.

Miss Summers and I settled down in the back of the Wolseley happily enough. After all, I can't even drive, let alone afford to run a motor car, and beggars can't really expect to be choosers.