“But she seems to know you.”
“We exchanged a few words at a book-launch do, that’s all.”
Detective Inspector Wills nodded to Detective Sergeant Bone, who withdrew from the voluminous valise he had lugged down the stairs — what was that, then, the famous murder bag you read about? — a copy of The Light and the Shade: The Chiaroscuro Life of Augustus John. Oh, shite upon shite.
“This was found near the body. Else says she put it down on the ground while she had a pee. She also says you bought it for her. Is that true?”
“I did buy it for her as it happens, yes.” His good deed. Would it earn him Brownie points?
Would it bollox. “Twenty-nine pounds ninety-five pee, call it thirty quid. Do you make a habit of giving thirty-quid books to women you don’t know?”
“No, I suppose I just took a shine to her.”
“You took a shine to her. That incontinent old bag has got to be a hundred and ten years old, son. Have you taken a shine to many women since you got down here, Alex?”
“Not really, no.”
“And you find it easy to spare a sum like thirty pounds, do you? Did you pay in cash or credit card?”
“Cash. I don’t have any credit cards, I’m a student.”
“A student who gives away thirty-pound books. Are you sure you didn’t nick it?”
“No, course I didn’t nick it, Else must have the receipt.”
“So how much cash did you bring down with you from Leeds, Alex?”
“Fifty pounds, why?” Oh, Christ, trap.
“And how much have you got left? Let’s have a look in your pockets.”
Alex fished in his pockets with no idea, by this time, what he’d find there. A crumpled twenty-pound note, a ten, a five, and some loose silver.
“So after a day and a night on the piss in Soho, and buying a complete stranger a thirty-quid book, you finish up with nearly as much money as you set off with. How does that come about, then, apart from ducking your round?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have a guess.”
“Somebody gave me some dosh.”
“Who?”
“Brendan Barton,” said Alex, scarlet-faced. He felt, rather than saw, for his eyes were upon the floor, James Flood and Barry Chilton giving him what were called in his part of the world long looks.
“You seem to have met some highly interesting people today, Alex. You should have quite a Christmas-card list this year.”
Mercifully the interrogation was interrupted by the emergence of Else from the ladies’, shrilly haranguing the barman: “Do you know there’s no toilet paper in that loo? What a disgrace! I’ve had to dab myself with some private correspondence.”
Detective Inspector Wills got to his feet. “Come along, Else, we’ll give you a ride home, we don’t want you wandering the streets when there’s a murderer about. But I don’t want you wetting your knickers in the back seat.”
“Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Inspector,” said Else coyly, lowering her eyes.
The detective inspector instructed Detective Sergeant Bone: “Ask the barman for the lend of a tea-towel. And tell him if he doesn’t boil it when he gets it back, I’ll have the environmental health officer down here.”
So was that it, then? No, was it heckers like. Detective Inspector Wills turned back to Alex.
“I’ve a lot more questions to ask about how you slot into this business, Alex, but I’ve got other fish to fry just now. Where are you going to be kipping down?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t made any arrangements.”
“Not sleeping rough, are we?”
Why, was that an offence? Alex could see himself in a police cell if he didn’t play his cards right.
“He can stop with me if he likes,” said Barry Chilton helpfully. Kind of him, but what did he want?
“Where’s that, Barry, the Ritz? No, I don’t even want to know where you’re staying. Just have him on parade after breakfast, fail not. If he does a runner, I shall be making a very keen inspection of the ashtray arrangements at the Blue Note tonight, got that?”
“So what time do you want to see me?” asked Alex.
“I don’t know, son, I haven’t got my appointments diary about my person. We’ll send for you.”
“How will you know where to find me?”
“Oh, we’ll find you all right. You’re in Soho.”
Alex did wish people would stop telling him that. Where did they think he supposed himself to be? Fookin Buenos Aires?
“This is an island you’re on, son. Oxford Street up there, Charing Cross Road down there, Regent Street that way, Coventry Street that way, there’s no way off it without I know about it. Soho Island.”
“Just like Alcatraz,” said James Flood sycophantically.
“Yes, with the great difference that on Alcatraz the sharks are all offshore. Come on, Else — now are you sure you don’t want another wee-wee before we go?”
“I’ll just see,” said Else, toddling off towards the ladies’. “Better safe than sorry.”
10
Alex had never had breakfast out in his life. If you were at home, your mother made it. If you were in a bed-sit, you made it yourself, or the girl-friend did. If you were on holiday, it was the all-in buffet, wasn’t it? Failing that, you ate a doughnut on the hoof.
What you didn’t do was to go to a caffy. Complete waster money. Yet here he was in the Patisserie Valerie on Old Compton Street, wolfing down a croissant and slurping cappuccino. Very Parisian, not that he had ever set foot in Paris, but he imagined it must be much like this at breakfast time, though more out of doors. The room was buzzing. Shared tables, people passing little jam-pots backwards and forwards, bit like a student refectory really. A student lot in fact they seemed to be mainly: James had told him there was an art school nearby. Foreigners mostly, some fanciable chicks, could be a good pick-up joint. He wished Selby were here.
Apart from that, and apart from the threatened cloud of Detective Inspector Wills’s resumed interrogation hanging over him, Alex was feeling ridiculously euphoric. He imagined that under it he must be well shagged out, considering that he’d had no sleep whatever after what Barry Chilton had told him about where they’d put their heads down for a couple of hours upon leaving the Waiters Club.
Parting company with James Flood who had to finish his story on the Hog Court murder and phone it through to the Evening Standard, Barry Chilton had led Alex back along Old Compton Street to Compton’s Yard, where they found themselves outside the derelict building next to Stephan Dance’s porn shop. It had begun to rain again.
“As Benny Wills would put it, it’s not exactly the Ritz,” explained Barry unnecessarily as they skirted the ruin. “But it’s cheaper, although you’ll find there’s no room service.”
They rounded the building to a narrow alleyway backing on to, although Alex did not know one street from another, Romilly Street. The windows had been bricked up with breeze-blocks, and where the back door had been was sealed off with a stout arrangement of what looked like railway sleepers, as impregnable, it would seem, as any castle keep.
“Now what?” asked Alex, turning up his collar. It was raining seriously now, in fact it was blurry pissing it down.
With a wink, Barry Chilton rubbed the tips of his fingers together in the manner of a safe-breaker. He then quite gently pushed at the middle of the five upright sleepers protecting the doorway. The sleeper edged ajar. A shove of the shoulder and it swung open like a secret panel, which effectively was what it was.
“It’s a good job yow’s as skinny as a slice of Melba toast,” said Barry, for the gap he had created was no more than seven or eight inches across. “Let me gow first, then yow can give me a shove in case I get stuck. And watch where you put your feet when you follow me.”