The Barbershop Seven (232 page)

She turned quickly at a low noise behind. A guy with a beard, a bit dishevelled, but not an out and out jake. However, he was loitering in the area because he'd been indulging in an illegal substance or two. Not entirely clear-eyed, he looked down at the three bodies, blood running in rivers, then up into Sweetlips' face.

'Did you do that?' he asked, a curious question, given that she was standing with a knife in her hand, and he had actually seen her do it.

'Don't think so,' said Sweetlips. Even if he was clear-headed enough to go to the police, which she recognised he wasn't, the description he gave them was only going to be extant for another five minutes or so.

She let the knife fall from her fingers and clank to the ground, where it came to rest nestling in at Batman's armpit. Or
aisselle
, as the country was about to know it.

'Right,' he said.

'Good,' said Sweetlips, smiling. 'Glad we got that cleared up.'

She nodded and turned, and when she caught her last sight of him, he had already begun to lose interest. Back round the corner the way she'd come, and she was running through the rain, the laurels of satisfaction still transmitted to the world by the enormous smile on her face, and once more out onto a quiet and horribly wet Charing Cross Road.

––––––––

T
he phone buzzed, Orwell casually flicked a finger at a button, imagining he was in some TV show. Frequently lived his life as if he was under constant watch. Half-expected that Hell, if it existed, would actually involve having to sit in front of a large TV screen, watching your life in constant playback for all eternity. How stupid were we all going to feel doing that? So, when he remembered, he tried to look cool even when he was alone.

'Rose, come on,' he said. 'It's Saturday evening, I don't even know why you're here. Go home, leave me alone. No calls means no calls. I'm mega here, you know that.'

'You've got a visitor,' said Rose, taking no notice.

'Like, a visitor?' said Orwell, adding extra incredulity to his voice on top of that which he actually felt. 'You are so kidding me, Rose. I said no calls. What does that mean, Rose? It means I don't want any phone calls, and I don't want some moron calling round to the office trying to see me. No calls is no calls, Rose. Get with the programme.'

He clicked off. There was work to be done. Not actual work work, because this was Saturday evening. The work was the job of luring Taylor Bergerac to his bed, which was beginning to involve the most elaborate of stratagems.

He was currently working on a plan that would allow him to bring his penthouse apartment in New York into play, because women just absolutely fell for that the minute they knew it existed. His trump card; the chance to make love high above Manhattan, in a glass-roofed apartment. The city below, the stars above. Hoped he'd be able to toss it into the mix to impress her further, when they'd already become involved, but if it was needed now, then so be it. He just had to work out how best to establish the absolute jaw-dropping grandeur of the location.

The door opened. Rose stuck her head round.

'You have a visitor,' she said quietly, looking him in the eye.

He breathed out, a long slow breath.

'Rose,' he said calmly, voice rock steady. 'Seriously, darlin'. There is no one on the planet, no one, who I want to see in this office right now. If the Queen is out there, tell her to come back in the morning.'

'I'll send her in,' said Rose, and turning, left the door open.

'Jesus!' said Orwell. 'Jesus, Rose! What do I have to do?'

The door was pushed open a little further; the frustration and annoyance slid off Orwell's face. For all the grandiose planning and optimism that he'd been forcing down his own throat for the past couple of days, he hadn't even remotely expected Taylor Bergerac to turn up at his office. He'd talked a good game, sure enough, but the true litmus test of his confidence, his own inherent expectations, had been absolutely zero. Not for a second, while Rose had been forcing this visitor on him, had he thought that it wouldn't be work of some description.

Yet, here she was, Taylor Bergerac, in the flesh. A maroon gabardine over a starkly contrasting white blouse, slim legs going in the right direction. Orwell stood up, his heart suddenly galloping. Like everyone who ever did the lottery, not expecting in a million years to win it; the sudden realisation of a life-changing moment, and you don't know what to do with it, or yourself.

'Taylor,' he managed to say. 'Like, hi!'

'Mr Orwell,' said Bergerac, and she closed the door behind her and walked into the middle of his office. Even the Mr Orwell remark didn't dampen Orwell's magnificent moment, it registering nothing on the Obviously She Thinks You're An Idiot scale. He stood with his arms open, waiting in wondrous happiness, the smile which he was at least trying to control, galloping around his face, much in the way that his heart was gambolling around his chest.

'This is, like ... . yeah,' said Orwell. 'Totally, like, yeah. Can I get you anything? Gin & tonic maybe?'

'I'm only going to say this once,' said Bergerac.

'Sure,' said Orwell, still not grasping the essence of her tone. 'Like it. Totally to the point.'

She took another pace towards him. He smiled.

'Stop sending me all this stupid fucking crap. Stop the calls, stop the stupid fucking billboards with your pasty little head stuck on someone else's body. Stop the ridiculous singing morons turning up at the office and outside my house. Stop it all! Now! Enough. Last man on fucking earth, you know what I'm saying. Last man on earth! Leave me alone!'

Orwell was a bit taken aback, at the vehemence as much as the words.

'How d'you mean that?' he said rather stupidly.

'Leave me the fuck alone, Orwell,' said Bergerac.

'I meant, the last man on earth?'

'As in, I wouldn't touch you if you were it.'

'OK. Right.'

He stared gormlessly at her. While he hadn't actually been expecting her to turn up at his door at all, if he'd thought she'd bother to make the effort, it would at least have been with romantic intent, not to tell him to clear off. Bit of a crushing blow.

'Didn't you see that e-mail I sent you this morning?' he said, trying to instil some level of confidence into his voice.

'Which one?' she said dryly. Not that it mattered, as she hadn't read one word of any of them

'The one with the story about the time I met Uma Thurman in an elevator and I advised her to pull out of
The Lord Of The Rings
. It's completely relevant here. Totally.'

Bergerac stood, right foot forward, hands on hips, looking at Orwell in a kind of a Beverly Hills way. Not entirely sure what planet he was on, almost curious as to the relationship between his chance encounter with Uma Thurman – if it had ever actually taken place – and their current situation, but with no intention of ever asking, and generally just marvelling at the downright ballsy insanity of the man.

'What?' he said, and a smile came to his face, because he thought the mention of his great Uma story might have begun to do the trick.

'You defy my understanding of human life,' she said. 'Seriously.'

His smile broadened.

'That's cool, right?'

'Why didn't you just call me up and ask me out? You didn't even speak to me before you started this crap.'

He held his hands out, the smile now imprinted on his face.

'I'm a big gesture guy,' he said and started to laugh. Walked casually round from behind his desk, hands into his pockets and back out again. Still edgy, despite the confidence he was exuding.

'Well, at least we have something in common,' she said, and the tone had changed back to what it had been at the start. Time to lose the wonder at the man and get back to business.

'What d'you mean, Babe?' he said, leaning back against his desk, standing right in front of her. Folded his arms, then unfolded them again when he realised it was bad body language.

'I mean this,' she said, and she took another step towards him, so that she was more or less in his face. 'This stops now. Everything, every last fucking thing. It stops now. And if it doesn't, you will reap the benefit of one of
my
big gestures. And if you don't know what I mean by that, then you're even more of a fucking idiot than you look.'

Another second or two standing in his face to hammer home the point.

'Cool,' he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

She turned and walked to the door.

'Big gesture?' he said.

She opened the door and turned back to face him.

'We've given the London 2012 account to Carter & Carter.'

Another pause and she was on her way. The door closed behind her. She had been playing her own game, had acted out every line. Having a bit of a laugh.

Orwell stared at the door for a few seconds, then walked forward into the space she had just vacated, trying to get the scent of her. Which he did. He breathed in. He closed his eyes, imagined she was still there.

'Getting closer,' he said quietly to himself, and he ran his hand through his hair.

Big gesture
, he thought. Now that sounded like something he wanted to know more about.

––––––––

B
arney Thomson and Harlequin Sweetlips were having an enjoyable evening. Relaxed, amiable, no pressure. Almost as if there'd been a silent agreement between them not to worry about any events currently taking place, not to concern themselves with anything that had gone on in the past. A couple like any other. As they sat at dinner, they could've been an advert pair, doing a spot for indigestion tablets or any women's product you care to mention.
Have Your Period And Eat Five Spice Peking Duck At The Same Time, With The All-New Ultra-Slim Limited Edition Capacity All-Evening Panty Liner. It Makes Sense, Because So Do You
.

And there seemed to be no pressure about what would come after. No sexual tension in the air, no unspoken intangible about murder. They chatted amiably about the advertising business and the people you met who worked in advertising and the ridiculous concepts they created. They laughed, they talked, Barney did not feel threatened. He only thought about Daniella Monk eighty or ninety times, which isn't so much in the space of three hours.

And when the jasmine tea was done and dusted, they nodded to one another, walked down the stairs and back out into a wet, bustling London evening.

***

D
aniella Monk leaned against the railings of St Giles-in-the-Field and looked up at the spire, the falling rain illuminated by the church spotlights. Despite the presence of seventeen police officers, and most of the area being sealed off, there were still a couple of guys shooting up in the grounds of the church; comfortable in the knowledge that they were unlikely to be interrupted by CID investigating a triple murder, with two of their own dead.

Monk had finally been able to leave the office at a little after seven, and had been able to spend a rare half hour at home – most of which time she'd spent contemplating calling Barney Thomson and managing to stop herself – before the phone rang. It hadn't been Barney, as she'd hoped it would be, and she'd been summoned to the latest murder scene.

She had spent the entire afternoon trying to locate Margie Crane. A lot of enquiries made, but no progress whatsoever.

Footsteps behind her and she was able for a short time to take her mind off Barney Thomson. Didn't turn, waited for Frankenstein to come alongside.

'They were good lads,' he said, resting his arms on the top of the railing, looking directly at the two middle-aged junkies and that day's dose.

'Yeah,' she said, immediately feeling guilty that she'd hardly given DCs Jobe and Knights a second thought. Hadn't met either of them before. Wondered if Frankenstein had, for all his good lads remark.

'Jobe had a kid. Three months,' said Frankenstein.

Monk closed her eyes, swallowed. Saw the baby sleeping soundly, the mother looking over the edge of the cot, tears in her eyes, breaking up. Was the joy ever worth the potential pain of all the things that could go wrong? Started to think about children, a weird broodiness, became aware that her thoughts always turned back to herself. Everybody else's problems were digested into how she would deal with that situation. Was she any more selfish than anyone else? She always kept it inside; the rest of the world would consider her compassionate. Only she knew the truth. Maybe everyone was the same.

More introspection out of someone else's pain.

'Told me the other day that his missus is struggling. You know, post-natal. Christ, what's this going to do for her? What chance has the kid got?'

'All right,' said Monk, sharply. Didn't want to think about DC Jobe's family. What good would it be to them, her thinking about their pain?

'It's a pish world,' said Frankenstein.

'Yeah,' said Monk.

They stood in the rain, watching one of the junkies drop his needle and loll over on his side, into the wet grass.

'Goldbeck managed to get the Archbishop's fingerprint from the knife used to kill Hemingway,' said Frankenstein quietly. As if he didn't want to admit it, didn't want it to have happened.

Monk didn't reply. It could have been worse, she was thinking. It could have been the Prime Minister's fingerprints this time. Or the Queen's. Did they have the Queen's fingerprints on their database, she wondered.

'We'll need to speak to Strumpet again. Crap,' he added, his voice tailing away. 'Look, did you speak to any of these comedians?' he said, deciding he had to stop sounding so abject, indicating the guys in the churchyard.

'Any that we could find. Surprisingly, none of them had anything to report.'

'Useless wankers,' muttered Frankenstein. 'Fucking useless.'

'It's just life,' said Monk.

'Very deep,' said Frankenstein.

'What was Wodehouse doing coming up a street like this with a woman?' said Monk. 'He was looking to get laid. Well, he got what was bloody coming to him. I spoke to those people, I told them the score, I told them to be careful. They all think they're invincible.'