‘Grace Kowalski,’ she said.
‘Do you know anything about the death of Istvan Fallok?’ I said.
‘I think I do,’ she said. Goodman just stood there shaking his head and looking miserable.
‘You think you do,’ I said to Kowalski. ‘Discuss.’
‘We were told about Istvan’s death by the one who apparently caused it.’
‘Apparently?’ I said. ‘Who apparently?’
‘Justine …’ she said.
‘Two,’ said Goodman.
‘Justine too?’ I said. ‘Justine also?’
‘Justine Number Two,’ said Kowalski.
‘Are you telling me there are two Justines?’ I said. ‘Are they twins?’
‘Not born that way,’ said Goodman.
‘I see,’ I said, ‘they weren’t born as twins but they became twins later in life. If I had the time to be amused I’d probably find the two of you strangely entertaining, but I haven’t the time, and unless you both start talking straight you’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble. Now, on my command: Speak!’
‘You won’t believe us,’ said Kowalski. ‘What we’re going to tell you sounds impossible.’
‘In my line of work I sometimes have to believe six impossible things before breakfast,’ I said. ‘Stop stalling and start talking.’
‘Both Justines were reconstituted from the magnetic particles of a videotape,’ said Goodman. He stopped and waited for me to say something.
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘Carry on.’
‘Once the particles were in a suspension of disbelief,’ said Kowalski, ‘ingredients were added to make a primordial soup which was then zapped with 240 volts of electricity to precipitate the whole flesh-and-blood person.’
‘Is that it?’ I said.
‘Briefly,’ said Goodman. ‘If we get technical it’s a long story.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said. ‘We can return to this later, but at the moment I’m more interested in Justine Two’s whereabouts.’
‘We don’t know,’ said Kowalski. ‘We were going to …’
‘Restrain her but she’s very violent,’ said Goodman. ‘She chased us out of Grace’s place which is why we came here.’
‘I think she’s probably left there by now,’ said Kowalski.
‘Where is your place?’ I said.
‘In Berwick Street,’ she said. So we went and checked out All That Glisters and the studio flat over it and came up empty.
‘Well,’ I said to Goodman and Kowalski, ‘so much for where she isn’t. Now that you’ve had a little time to think about your story, can you improve on the last version?’
‘You didn’t believe us, did you?’ said Goodman.
‘Did you expect me to?’ I said.
‘What about your six impossible things before breakfast?’ said Kowalski.
‘I was talking about believable impossible things,’ I said. ‘Now, have you anything useful to say about Justine Two?’
‘We’ve told you all we know,’ said Goodman.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Very good.’To PS Locke I said, ‘Book them for perverting the course of justice and hindering a police investigation.’
‘OK, Guv,’ said Locke. He read them their rights, cuffed them, and took them to the nick. It wasn’t much but it was the only way I could relieve my feelings.
35 Irving Goodman
1 February 2004. Handcuffs for God’s sake. As if we were violent people. Our arms were crossed with the cuffed wrists spaced apart by a thick plastic bar so that even if I’d had the key in one hand I’d not have been able to use it. Any movement caused pain but when I asked Sergeant Locke to loosen the cuffs he said no. PC Fast pushed our heads down in the regulation manner as we got into the back of an unmarked police car and off we went through Saturday evening streets where Londoners not in handcuffs were starting the weekend in their various ways.
At the police station we went round to the trade entrance and were driven through barred gates to the custody suite. We were taken through a heavy steel gate to the reception area where the custody sergeant sat behind a long counter. It was still early in the evening but the place had an all-night feel and the voices and footsteps were the sound of what is always waiting behind the paper-thin façade of everyday.
PS Locke told the custody sergeant why we’d been arrested, we were booked in, searched, and the contents of our pockets put in evidence bags. Our shoelaces and belts were also taken from us. Grace and I both told the custody sergeant that we couldn’t tell them anything they’d believe and that was duly noted. Our rights and entitlements were read to us and I used my phone call to ring up Artie. ‘Uncle Irv!’ he said, ‘Are you OK?’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I just wanted you to know where we are.’ Grace didn’t phone anyone. We were questioned about our health and although my chest was feeling pretty dodgy I didn’t ask to be seen by a doctor; I refused to give them the satisfaction.
After being fingerprinted and photographed we were taken to adjoining cells. Mine had a stale smell as if the air hadn’t been changed for a long time. The door was a solid metal thing with a pass-through slot called a wicket. Next to it was a spyhole. The walls were tiled, the bed was a bench with a thin blue-covered mattress, blue blankets and pillow, and there was a toilet. We were given a cup of tea and something out of a microwave. It tasted brown but I don’t know what it was. When I lay down on the bed I saw, high above me, a printed message on the ceiling:
CRIMESTOPPERS 0800 555 111
Anonymous information about
crime could earn a cash reward
‘Look, Ma,’ I said. ‘Top of the world.’
I tapped on the wall but got no response so I guessed it was too thick. I went to the door, put my mouth close to the wicket, and said, ‘Grace?’ No answer.
‘Grace,’ I shouted, ‘can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ she shouted back, ‘I can hear you.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘one thing leads to another, doesn’t it. You start reconstituting dead movie stars and this is where you end up.’
‘I still can’t believe that I caused Istvan’s death,’ she said. ‘That’ll always be with me, it’ll never go away.’
‘Everything goes away after a while,’ I said. ‘This whole thing started with me. Don’t ask me to explain how I got fixated on Justine Trimble because I can’t. It must have been some kind of senile dementia.’
‘Three more or less intelligent men,’ said Grace, ‘all with the hots for a woman who died forty-seven years ago.’
‘Weird shit happens,’ I said.
‘You think you’re over that by now?’
‘I’ve told you, Grace, that particular folly’s behind me.’
‘Not beside you? Not in side you?’
‘Nope. All gone.’
‘I’m pretty tired,’ said Grace.
‘I think I’ll try to get some sleep.’
‘Me too. Goodnight, Grace.’
‘Night, Irv. See you later.’
I kept my clothes on and covered myself with both blankets but I still couldn’t get warm. I thought of old King David, how he gat no heat even when they put Abishag the Shunammite in his bed. Grace would have made me warm. Eventually I fell asleep but I kept dreaming and half waking and falling back into the same dream.
In this dream I was Captain Bligh at the tiller of the Bounty’s launch, watching the ship sail away with the mutineers as they threw video cassettes overboard. No, not the Bounty: the name I read on the stern was Body. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said in the dream, ‘I’m not Captain Bligh. What’s this mutiny all about? The crew were always perfectly willing to take my orders. Where am I supposed to go with this boat?’