Well, someone had to show some initiative round here.
Chapter Twelve
Carol Farr could hardly believe how late it was. She should have been back by seven but her coach from London had been stuck on the motorway for two whole hours and even after that the traffic had crawled along. Two massive accidents, apparently. Once the traffic started moving again they had made the driver stop at a service station, the whole coach was dying for a wee and the onboard toilet was out of order. They had run out of refreshments for the passengers so half of them also queued to buy stuff like drinks and sandwiches. In the end it had taken another half-hour to get everyone back on board. What a nightmare journey.
She hated walking home in the dark but she had spent her last penny in that service station on a Coke, some chewing gum and a magazine just to alleviate the boredom. Should have bought a sandwich, starving now.
The bridge seemed to go on forever tonight. There was still quite a bit of traffic, which made her feel safer. She had turned her iPod off now she was in the suburbs. With the music and the wind and the traffic noise you wouldn’t hear if someone came up behind you. She checked over her shoulder — there was nobody walking on the bridge at all. Just her. The wind blustered in her ears and snatched at her clothes. It had been a good gig, worth going, just a shame Jo had managed to get ill at the last minute leaving her to go by herself. She’d bought her tickets ages ago, there was no way she was going to miss it. And it had been worth it. Then today, after leaving Jo’s friends who had put her up on the sofa, she’d done Oxford Street, mainly clothes and record shops. She didn’t have much money left to spend so in the end she’d bought three CDs and that was that. Sensible. She could have got more money out but the whole trip had already cost too much.
Well, that was the bridge done. Not that this was civilization yet, Bedminster Bridge led you into some scenery that was bloody depressing. Coronation Road seemed to go on forever, nothing but the muddy river and shrubbery to the right, supermarket car park and shrubbery to the left. And she had to walk right to the end of it to get home, what a boring end to a brilliant couple of days. Carol turned her iPod back on.
They were just sitting there, on their scooters, two on each on both sides of the road. Suddenly there was no more traffic. Why was there no traffic? She just knew it was them. They closed in quickly on their scooters, surrounding her. Two of them got off.
They all shouted at her. ‘Your bag, your money!’
‘Hand it over!’
‘Now!’
The biggest one ripped her bag open, took her mobile and the CDs. ‘Your money, where’s your fucking money?’
The pillion from the other scooter grabbed her hair and twisted, yanked back her head and grabbed at her throat. ‘The money, now!’
Carol tried to prise away his gloved hand but he tightened his grip and kneed her in the back. ‘I–I haven’t got any.’ She only just managed to squeeze the words out.
‘Don’t lie!’ The big man in front of her went through her outer pockets, then ripped her jacket open, pawing at the inside pocket.
She glimpsed one, two cars going by. Couldn’t they see what was happening?
The punch in the stomach came as a surprise. The man behind her let go of her throat, spun her head around by her hair and kicked hard into the back of her knees. Then she was on the ground and they were kicking her. She shut her eyes and covered her head, curled up, as the kicks rained. Then it suddenly stopped. A car horn blared, the engines of the scooters whined. They were gone. Only when all was quiet did she dare to open her eyes again. Two more cars drove by slowly, the drivers curious, but then accelerated away. Carol hated them more than the muggers.
McLusky was glad it was a mild night because it meant they could walk. If he had thought about it he’d have found he was simply glad all round. The evening was going unexpectedly well, he hadn’t put his foot in it once, the food at the Myristica had been excellent and the night was curiously mild, giving it an almost Mediterranean feel. Even the Georgian houses around here didn’t look a million miles away from Italian architecture, though you couldn’t quite imagine people stringing washing across the streets. He hadn’t really known where else to walk so he had steered Louise towards his flat in Northmoor Street and she seemed happy to walk without asking the destination. He had been gently teased about his obviously brand new clothes that clashed with his comfortably worn shoes. What Dr Louise Rennie would make of his flat, even after the hour-and-a-half he had spent clearing up the worst mess, remained to be seen. At least the sofa and coffee table he’d bought from the junk shop down the road had been delivered and she wouldn’t have to stand. He had bought a bottle of red too, just in case.
As they turned into Northmoor Street he couldn’t help feeling that it had been presumptuous to lead her here. ‘Well, this is where I live, doctor, thanks for walking me home.’
‘Is that what I’ve been doing?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘And are you going to ask me in?’
‘I was going to try that next. Would you like to come up for a drink?’
‘Thank you, I would.’
‘I must warn you, I haven’t had time to decorate yet. Or buy a lot of things, there hasn’t really been the time to do anything much yet, careful, the tread is broken on that step.’ He noticed he was talking too fast as they climbed the narrow stairs and with some effort stopped apologizing until they got to his floor. His mail had been left by the door. He scooped it up without checking it and inserted the key in the lock. ‘Well, here goes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She dismissed his warnings as self-deprecation but only until she had negotiated the empty hall and stood in what was meant to be the living room. There were no curtains and no lampshade on the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. In fact it would have been much quicker to list what actually was there: an unfashionable blue sofa and a pine coffee table standing on a thin ethnic rug. The walls were white. ‘Interesting, who’s your decorator?’
‘Warned you. The rest is worse. The spare room is still full of boxes, I’m not really unpacked yet.’ In the kitchen he popped the cork on a bottle of Australian red while Louise took in the spartan fittings with a deepening frown. McLusky noticed it. ‘I ordered a fridge, should come any day now.’
She ran a finger over the cream enamel of the WWII gas cooker. ‘A nice steam-driven one, I hope. Do all policemen live like this?’
‘No, I doubt it. Though I’m sure a lot of them survive on canteen food and pizza.’ He looked for wineglasses, couldn’t find any and had to settle for a couple of tumblers. ‘It’s only temporary, I’ll get it all sorted once I’ve got my bearings.’
The sofa was hard and smelled of dust and long storage. It reminded Louise of her student days in shabbily furnished accommodation, all that was missing were the posters of rock groups on the walls. She watched McLusky light a cigarette, manipulating the expensive-looking lighter with slender fingers. He used a saucer as an ashtray. This was like dating a teenager in his first digs away from home. She fortified herself with half a tumblerful of wine, reached out and gently grabbed and twisted his new blue shirt, pulling herself closer. ‘Okay, time you came clean. Unless this fabled spare room with all your boxes is one hell of a cavern you don’t seem to have … well, let’s just call it stuff. What happened? Did your last place burn down? Burglary? Repossession? Left somewhere in a hurry? Or did you just upgrade from a caravan?’