Rooney returned to his office feeling worn out and hungry. Bean looked up as he barked out, ‘You feel like some curry?’
Bean didn’t, but agreed to accompany Rooney, because he didn’t think they should keep it from the press.
As they got into the car, Rooney gave him a sidelong look. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well, I don’t think we should keep this quiet. We could have a multiple killer on the loose! Those gaps between the murders, what if our man was in prison?’
‘Whoever the fuck he is, he’s on the loose now.’
‘That’s my point, Bill. He killed Norman Hastings, Helen Murphy, Angela Hollow within weeks of each other. Even if it’s hookers he’s taking out, the street girls should be warned.’
As Bean expected, Rooney dismissed this. ‘We get the fuckin’ press on this, they’ll blow it up out of all proportion. This way it’s giving us time to make some headway, because we have fuck all but—’
‘A pretty tight description. Somebody somewhere knows a guy with a fucking bite out of his neck.’
Rooney started the engine. ‘That we never put out, else we’ll have Dracula and his uncle wastin’ our time... The guys on the street can put the word out to the whores but, you know as well as me, nothin’ stops them. They’ll keep on trading no matter who we say is out there.’ He turned the car and prepared to drive out of the police pound.
‘Who do you think is out there, Bill?’
‘Someone with a hatred of tall skinny blonde whores — how the fuck do I know? You got his description, what do you think?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Right, you don’t know, nobody knows. They may give us all the psychological profiles from so-called professors, why he kills, what he gets out of it. But when you say: “Okay, where do I find the guy?” they don’t fuckin’ know. The truth is, Josh, they can pinpoint or direct us to a psycho, because he’s obvious. But our man, he’s not obvious. He’s cool, it looks like he’s been getting away with it for years. It don’t even run to a pattern because of Norman Hastings, who was a straight, decent guy.’
They drove out of the yard in silence. Then Bean sighed. ‘Killer obviously has a thing about hookers...’
Rooney snorted. ‘So maybe his mother or his wife was one. Then you can say he’s killing her. Bullshit. I hated my mother but that don’t make me want to kill every square-faced, red-haired tyrant, now, does it?’
He drew up outside the Star of Asia and switched off the engine. He was beginning to wish he’d not asked Bean along. ‘That means he’s just taking out his hammer whenever he feels like it. Now shut up, I’m hungry and I don’t wanna talk about it.’ Rooney got out, locked the car, and caught sight of Art’s Gallery. ‘Christ, how did that spring up? It was an old real estate agency yesterday.’
He wandered over to look: inside were a lot of people rapping and drinking, arty types, not his sort. A cab drew up and more guests began heading inside. A good-looking coiffured man in a pale blue denim outfit paid off the driver, adjusted his shades, and followed his two tanned friends into the gallery as Rooney walked into his favourite curry restaurant. Art screamed out a welcome to his friend Craig Lyall and drew him into the throng.
Some time later Jake arrived with Rosie and Lorraine. They drew up and parked behind Rooney’s car. Jake was wearing a cheap suit with a nylon shirt and wide flowered tie, Rosie a tent-type dress that accentuated rather than hid her bulk, various bead necklaces that clicked as she walked, and a pair of leather sandals. Lorraine had on the same fawn skirt now pressed, the black crêpe blouse, and the safari-style jacket draped around her shoulders. This evening she wore sling-back high heels, and appeared taller and thinner. Her make-up was as sparse as ever, and, as Rosie had refused to let her borrow the pearl studs, she had no jewellery. Art made a great fuss of her when she walked in, telling her she looked simply wonderful, and that her friends were more than welcome.
A camp young man was drifting around with a tray of wine. Lorraine was about to accept a glass when Jake asked loudly for mineral water and she quickly withdrew her hand. The three of them stood a little self-consciously at the doorway to the main room which was crowded with guests.
‘Do you want to see the paintings?’ asked Lorraine.
‘Are there any?’ Rosie couldn’t see a single canvas as they edged further inside.
Nula beckoned Lorraine and took hold of her hand. ‘I remembered where I had seen you — at a meeting!’
Lorraine was puzzled, then she understood. She looked at her glass of water, noting that Nula had one too. She asked about Didi and Nula told her about the twisted ankle.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, after all her hard work, too. Have many pictures been sold?’
Nula shrugged. ‘I hope so. Art is broke, but then, aren’t we all?’
Lorraine looked across at Rosie and Jake standing exactiy where she had left them. ‘Come and meet my friends?’
Jake was polite, but Rosie stared, looking at Nula with such obvious fascination that Lorraine felt uncomfortable, but Nula didn’t seem to mind. She chatted on about the gallery, how much work she and Didi had done and how marvellous Lorraine had been. ‘Were you an actress?’ she asked Lorraine suddenly.
Lorraine smiled. ‘No, I wasn’t.’
‘What do you do?’ asked Rosie bluntly.
Nula cocked her head on one side and smiled. ‘Anyone who hires me, dear.’
Rosie wasn’t sure what she meant and didn’t care, she was hot and her feet hurt. She caught Jake’s eye. ‘Look, I don’t think this was such a good idea, why don’t we leave?’
Jake looked at Lorraine. ‘Okay by me. Lorraine?’
They were about to walk out when Art caught Lorraine’s hand and drew her towards some of his friends. Rosie and Jake waited for ten minutes beside the car before Lorraine appeared. ‘You two go on, I’ll stay for a while longer. Art needs me to help out a bit.’
Jake opened the driver’s door, and was about to get into the car when a big pot-bellied man walked out of the Star of Asia, accompanied by a fresh-faced, square-jawed younger man. The older man was deep in conversation while searching in his pockets for his car keys. Yet he couldn’t help but see Lorraine, who was only yards ahead of him. Jake saw the way Rooney looked, then looked again. He stopped talking in mid-sentence, as if surprised, or shocked. Jake couldn’t make out which.
‘Lorraine?’ Rooney said loudly.
She half turned and took a sharp involuntary step back, bumping into Rosie.
‘It is Lorraine, isn’t it?’ Rooney stepped closer.
Jake noticed the way she straightened her shoulders, clenched her fists.
‘Lorraine,’ Rooney repeated again. He couldn’t stop staring — it was like seeing a ghost. Was it her? Or was he mistaken? Then she tilted her head, gave that sidelong look and he knew for sure. He said emphatically, but flatly, ‘It’s Lorraine Page.’ She gave a barely detectable nod and hurried back inside the gallery. Rooney watched her go, then stared directly at Jake and Rosie. ‘Evening.’
Rosie heaved herself into the car. Jake slammed his door, still observing Rooney as he walked around to his own car.
‘What was that all about?’ Rosie asked.
Jake shrugged as Rooney drove away. ‘He’s a cop, so is the guy with him. That Indian diner’s a known hangout for ‘em. But that’s Bill Rooney, a real mean shit.’
Rosie was astonished. ‘My, I have never heard you talk like that!’
‘Well, maybe there’s a lot about me you don’t know. I guess there is about your room-mate, too. That fat prick busted me, maybe he arrested her too. Looked like he knew Lorraine from some place she didn’t want to be remembered bein’ in.’
He drove a few yards, then stopped. ‘Maybe I should go back, see if she’s okay. She looked a bit shook up.’ He was about to reverse when Lorraine walked out of the gallery with Nula and hailed a cab.