‘Why should I, Cath?’
‘You know she wants you here, it would give her peace of mind.’
‘Peace of mind? She should be singing from the rooftops. Christ, she’ll be free of the bastard.’
Cathy let out a gasp. I’d been venting, but it was too soon for a remark like that.
She stormed me: ‘You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.’
Clunk.
51
I’d stayed in the pub longer than I should have. The place filled up, got into party mode. Stretch limos dropped off loads of hen-night scrubbers. The choicest Scousers and Cockneys — munters that had seen more action than Chuck Norris.
They yelled at the barman: ‘What about a Slow Screw? Can you do that?’
He lapped it up. Had them all buying pints of Strawberry Blonde.
Some of these old pterodactyls were clearly on a mission to play away from home. To a one, they were old slags. Tarts in microminis and white stiletto shag-me-shoes, fishnets that hardly disguised the network of Stilton-like veins. And plunging decollete necklines that offered eyefuls of wrinkly DD cleavage.
The worst of it though was they all had tans. Sunbed tans. Tans that tighten and brighten younger skins but on older ones, merely darken the tractor tracks that have been driven all over their faces through the years.
‘What about a Creamy Punani? Can you give me one of them?’
The Irish had arrived. Joined by a mob of Geordies. Green leprechaun hats jostled for attention with giant inflatable bottles of Newcastle Brown.
It was time to leave.
I got up, made for the door. The bar staff changed CDs, put on Steely Dan’s Reeling in the Years.
I listened to the first line as I walked. The rest of the crowd joined in, shouting more than singing.
‘Your everlastin’ summer you can’t see it fading fast.’
I thought, ‘Was I the only one in the place getting the message?’
Outside I fired up a B amp;H. Not a bad smoke. I wondered if I could stick to these. ‘Christ, can I stick to anything?’
I only had a few hundred yards to go to the Shandwick. The wind cut like bad memories as I plugged my mouth with the cigarette and crossed the road.
On the way up the steps a bloke in a top hat, grey overcoat, put out a hand.
‘Yeah? You got a problem?’ I said.
No words. Just the index finger of a black leather glove pointed at the tab.
I took it out, crushed it underfoot.
‘I could have given you an ashtray,’ he said.
‘I could have given you a slap.’
Inside I turned down my collar. An open fire blazed hot as a blast furnace. Keeping this temperature must have been pushing up the cost of coal. I swerved past the main desk and headed for the stairs to Nadja’s room.
Sure, the bar called. When did it not? But I’d put this off for long enough. I kept a hand on the Glock as I climbed.
I wanted to make an entrance, thought about blowing the lock off the door. But it was only a fantasy. Likewise, I knew there’d be no Puerto Rican maid in the hall, a set of keys conveniently secreted about her person.
‘Calm, Gus, calm,’ I told myself. ‘Remember why you’re here.’
It was time to get with the programme.
52
I made a gentle knock on the door, the kind room service might use; stepped away from the spy hole.
No answer.
A light shone under the door. I heard movement. A bath running.
I knocked again. This time, an answer. Nadja kept the chain on the door.
She wore sunglasses, her hair tied back tightly.
‘Hello, Nadja,’ I said.
‘Why are you here? I have told you all I know.’
I said nothing. Tried to appear calm, I didn’t want to spook her before I got inside.
She moved to close the door, in a second I jammed in my boot, applied a shoulder. The chain snapped, spraying weak links on the floor.
‘What was that? “Come in.” Glad to.’
I walked into the middle of the room, turned to face her. She wore a short white bathrobe, the hotel’s initials stood out above her left breast.
‘I was preparing to bathe.’ The robe fell open to her waist, exposing an expanse of taupe skin.
‘I see that.’ I also saw she was changing tactics.
‘Let me turn off the water.’
As she walked away from me I noticed her legs. Long and shapely, what was once referred to as a finely turned ankle.
‘Help yourself to a drink, Mr Dury,’ she called out from the bathroom.
I didn’t need to be told a second time.
The whisky decanter was unmarked but before I even tasted a drop I had it pegged as Johnnie Walker, Black Label. Call it one of my many skills, I’ve a nose for these things.
When Nadja returned she’d taken the pins out of her hair; it hung wildly on her shoulders.
‘What’s with the shades?’ I asked.
‘I have a little bit of a migraine.’ She sat opposite me, crossed her legs. My eyes fell on a tranche of thigh.
‘Walking into a fist will do that.’
‘What? No, it is a migraine, that is all.’
I threw back my whisky, walked towards her.
‘Stand up,’ I said.
‘No — No, I will not.’
I put down my glass, jerked her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. We stood facing each other, I held her close enough to feel her heart beat.
I removed her glasses. ‘Who was it — Zalinskas?’
She nodded. Slumped into me. ‘He knows… he knows you were here.’
‘He does?’
‘Yes…’ She gripped me so tightly I felt her nails in my back. ‘You must protect me. I have no one else.’
‘Stop with the tears,’ I told her. ‘I’m not buying into the little-girl-lost act.’
Nadja composed herself, stared at me. I put my hand to her face, moved her eye towards the light. ‘I think you’ll live.’
As I let down my hand, her mouth opened. She threw back her head, showed me her neck. Her breasts slid from beneath her robe. Then the robe slid from her shoulders.
She turned, stood with her back to me, arms round my neck, grinding her rear into my crotch. I smelled expensive perfume on her wrists as she clawed at my head with her nails.
‘Nadja,’ I said.
‘No words.’
‘Nadja, stop this.’ I knew I had to pass it up. Every fibre of me yelled, ‘Stop now, Gus! Walk!’ But reason had left me the second her robe hit the floor.
‘Come… follow me.’ She lowered her arms, walked slowly away from me, her long legs crossing each other like she’d taken to a catwalk.
At the bedroom door, she turned, ran her hand up the jamb, and with the other summoned me to follow.
53
I tried to tell myself there wasn’t a man alive could have passed her up. But I was hurting now. I knew I’d jeopardised my position, relinquished the upper hand.
As Nadja ordered room service, I put the Glock out of sight, stuffed it between the mattress and the bed springs. I looked for a way the situation might work to my advantage, but found none. Women like her, in situations like this, hold the aces. Christ, Billy was proof of that.
She came back, said, ‘My, my, you are quite the cowboy.’
I had to laugh. ‘Cowboy?’
‘With the gun in your pocket.’
I touched the rim of the bed, where I’d hidden the Glock.
‘Weren’t you about to have a bath?’
‘You are right. I will take a shower. Would you join me?’
‘Rain check. I’ll wait for the food.’
She climbed over me, lingered on a kiss, then slipped off to the shower.
Dressed, I poured another whisky. Got halfway through my second when room service arrived, closely followed by Nadja.
‘Ah, now we eat,’ she said.
‘Yeah…’
‘Come, sit by me.’
She’d ordered eggs Benedict, not my usual fare of choice.
‘You like it?’
‘It’s very… rich.’
‘That will be the hollandaise, dar-ling.’ She lingered on the dar-ling.