But Martin left without any challenge and there was no sound of raised voices in the street outside. All was going to be well, as it always had been previously. Piece of piss, really, this dealing business, as his supplier had assured him from the start that it would be. He sipped his beer and opened the book he had brought with him; he’d found before that immersing yourself in reading was the best defence against the casual company which sometimes offered itself in pubs.
He was conscious after a couple of minutes of another presence in his alcove, of someone sliding themselves on to the bench seat on the other side of the table, where Paul Martin had lately sat. But he didn’t acknowledge the new arrival by so much as a raised eyebrow, maintaining an absorbing interest in the print before him, putting up the shutters against any conversational sally from whoever had just arrived. His ploy was successful; there was no word from across the table.
It was perhaps ninety seconds before Sam Hilton stole a glance at the new presence over the top of his book. What he saw startled him so much that he almost dropped his shield. He had no idea what he had expected, but this was certainly not it.
The man now sitting opposite him was perhaps the most strikingly beautiful male Sam had ever seen. He certainly had the blackest skin, smooth and softly shining in the subdued light accorded by the inn to this private niche. He was a little older than Sam; probably late twenties, he decided. He had neat, regular features, with a nose so delicate and perfectly formed that it might have been a woman’s. His head was not shaved, but his black hair was cut so close that the perfect shape of his cranium was amply evident beneath it. The whites of his eyes were astonishingly white and healthy against the ebony of his skin, As Sam watched surreptitiously, the man smiled briefly at something or someone on the other side of the room, revealing teeth that were perfectly regular and impossibly white.
As if he was conscious of his exotic appearance and seeking deliberately to accentuate it, the man wore spotless white trainers, light blue jeans which looked as though this was their first outing, and a white cotton shirt, close-fitting and buttoned at the wrists. A being of astounding beauty, Sam Hilton decided. The attraction was increased rather than diminished by the fact that it was completely asexual. Sam had been sure of his sexual orientation many years ago. Indeed, he delighted in the fact that, in the right and perfectly chosen circumstances, poetry drew in the girls. So he could be entirely objective about the attractions of this exotic and unexpected new arrival.
A subject for verse, he decided, as all beauty was; Keats was right about that, as about so many things. Sam’s poem about this man would be entitled ‘The Black Pearl.’ He began immediately to cudgel his brain for an opening line, like a painter who sees a subject and wishes to pin down the moment before the light changes. He must surely begin with the exquisite and perfect blackness of the skin. Or should he save the skin and the gender for the end of the first verse, so as to shock the prejudices of those who thought the subject of a poem about human beauty must inevitably be white and female?
How perfectly formed the man’s ears were, as pure and unblemished as a child’s. Sam was struggling for the right phrase for them when the newcomer spoke. ‘Been here long, have you?’
His voice, like the banality of his opening query, was a disappointment. It had a trace of the local accent, when this exotic presence should surely have produced something much more memorable. But it would be good to speak with him, to watch his lips move, to pin down a lasting impression of this beauty the poet was going to enshrine in words. Sam said, ‘Not very long, no. Half an hour or so, I suppose.’ He glanced round, seeking for something memorable enough to engage his subject, but finding nothing. ‘It’s fairly quiet tonight. It gets very busy in here at the weekends.’
‘Yes, I expect it does. Come here regularly, do you?’
‘Fairly often, once a week or so, I suppose.’ For an absurd couple of seconds, Sam wondered if this exquisite man was going to proposition him. It would be embarrassing, but once he’d gently turned him down, he would have the advantage in the conversational exchanges.
But then the dialogue took a very different turn.
‘Good place for dealing, I expect.’
Sam was shocked. But, still reeling under the impact of beauty upon his poet’s eye, he was not as immediately vigilant as he should have been. ‘I suppose it would be, yes.’ He looked round what he could see of the lounge slowly, then nodded his head vaguely and tried to look puzzled. ‘Dealing in what, exactly?’
The question was ignored. ‘I might just be interested in some of the commodities you have on offer. If the price was right, of course.’ The black pearl gave Sam a dazzling smile from those sparkling white teeth, as if embarrassed to introduce such a sordid consideration as price.
Sam could hardly believe his ears. This scintillating presence was apparently prepared to become a customer of his. This beauty could be there to admire and to pin down in words at regular intervals, if he handled this right. It was like a unique model offering himself to a painter for as long as he was needed. His right hand strayed automatically towards the deep pocket of his anorak. What a good thing he had brought extra supplies as usual, in case extra opportunity presented itself. ‘My prices are as good as anyone’s. And the quality is guaranteed.’
That was a worthless statement. Who could guarantee quality, and what was anyone’s word worth in a seller’s market? But Sam’s supplier had been insistent on that when he took him on, and Sam repeated the slogan each time he had a new customer. The black pearl nodded earnestly and said, ‘Good quality. I’ve heard that.’
‘Good cocaine, too. As much as you want.’
‘Excellent. And horse. What sort of quantities can you do?’
‘Whatever you care to order. I might need a bit of notice for the heroin, but you can have as much as you want, so long as you order in advance.’ Sam tried to keep his voice steady. This promised to be not only pleasurable but highly lucrative. ‘I can do MDMA. And Ecstasy. Even Rohypnol, if you want it. Completely undetectable. Everyone wants Rohypnol, but I can get it. It will cost, but you won’t beat my prices.’
‘Interesting. And quite enough, for the present.’ The man’s voice changed a little, became more crisp and businesslike. ‘Samuel Hilton, I am arresting you on suspicion of dealing in illicit Class A drugs. You do not need to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you withhold information which you later intend to use in court.’
Sam Hilton had never heard the words before, except on television crime shows. They sounded quite unreal, coming from the fastidious lips of his new acquaintance. But the grip that now closed on his upper arm was firm as polished steel.
The black pearl carried danger as well as beauty.
EIGHT
Peter Preston was doing his great man of letters act. He bustled about his study, taking books from the shelves, spreading letters out over his desk to be dealt with in sequence, affecting to be unconscious of his spouse in the doorway.
Wives are notably impervious to such activity. They have usually seen the signs far too often before to be easily impressed by them. They are often the only audiences available, but in such circumstances it is usually advisable for a man to deny himself a performance. Spouses tend to be stubbornly resistant to exaggerated behaviour that is supposed to impress them. In extreme cases, they may even be heretical enough to view it as posturing.