Besides that, there are some building materials down here; he must be having some work done to the place. Strengthened, perhaps, for the return of his skins? Max always did believe in the best possible outcome.
We’ve not discussed it, but I’m fairly certain the police haven’t been here. There are no signs of an investigation. Max wouldn’t want them poking around.
Besides, there’s nothing to see. No points of interest. Nothing was forced, nothing was damaged. Whoever did this had the door code. Which means I need to talk to the bodyguards – the one who was on duty, and the one who had the incredible foresight to not be.
She seems efficient. I’d guess he isn’t sleeping with her, the way she talks about him, but I was good at maintaining that distance in public, back when protecting him was my job. To stand behind someone, at the ready, without touching, looking at them only with the professional gaze in place, is an easy trick to learn. You use it no matter what your feelings about your client, or you endanger them. Some of Petra’s lessons have lasted.
‘You ex-Forces?’ I ask her.
‘Navy.’
‘Then you got hooked up with Starguard?’
‘Phin approached me in a bar. I was bouncing there.’ She smiles. So Phineas Spice has been up to his same old tricks. She looks fond of him; it’s easy to like him, even though it’s not sensible to.
‘Been here long?’
‘About a year.’
She checks behind me – over my shoulder – that Max is still in her line of vision. We’re sitting in canvas chairs next to the catering wagon, which is offering a range of breakfast goodies that I struggled to resist. My croissant looks good on the plate but soon disintegrates into a mess of crumbs. At least the Americano is hot and fresh. Back when I was on the job I never would have eaten, and I’m pleased to see Taylor feels the same. She’s sipping a mint tea.
‘You like the work?’ I ask her.
‘It’s better than bouncing, am I right?’ So she’s recognised me as ex-Forces too, with all the bad choices that come along after that stint – or perhaps Phin told her about me. That wouldn’t surprise me at all.
She frowns at something behind me, so I turn and look at Max, who is talking to a tall man with curly black hair – it might even be one of the Stucks, he looks familiar – and pointing at the sun, which is about to disappear behind a scudding cloud. Everyone is milling about, looking grumpy. Film work always did look more like standing around than doing.
‘It’s okay,’ Taylor says, ‘just outdoor filming stuff. He’s about to lose the sun. He’ll probably break for ten minutes. Well, you probably know that.’
‘I’ve never seen him as a director before. It looks like he enjoys it.’
‘Jobs,’ she says. ‘They come and go.’
Her reflective tone annoys me; I’m not here to talk philosophy. ‘The night of the skin robbery – you weren’t here.’
‘No. It was my night off. You know the drill.’
I do know the drill, well. One night off a fortnight, arranged in advance. ‘But you changed yours at short notice.’
‘Family emergency,’ she says, shortly.
I don’t see any point in pushing her. ‘So you did a handover with your replacement?’
‘Yeah. I only know her as Smith.’
‘Seriously?’
She glares at me. ‘Obviously that’s not her real name. She’s legit, though. Tall. From Korea, Phin said. She was a skin fighter, and he bought her contract.’
‘Smith the Korean skin fighter.’ Only in film star circles. If she really was in the skin fights then she’s hard as nails, but it crosses my mind that it might be a story to make her seem glamorous to the kind of people who get off on that stuff. My bodyguard used to be a hooker, that kind of line. People in the entertainment business can be downright weird.
‘Ten minutes,’ calls Max. ‘Ten minutes, everyone.’
Taylor finishes her tea and stands. I get up too, and wonder if I once looked that good. She has that fearless, appraising gaze; the one I tried to find early this morning when I put on a dark grey suit for the first time in years. I stood in front of the wardrobe and willed myself back to that alert stance, but it just wouldn’t come.
‘I have to go. Listen, you should be asking Smith this stuff. It was her shift, so it’s her mistake.’
Now I know I don’t like Taylor. She’s happy to drop Smith in it quick enough.
‘A mistake?’ I give her room to elaborate, but she swallows, and then only offers a nod. ‘We all make mistakes, though, don’t we?’ I can’t resist saying, just to see how much she rattles, and a familiar voice behind me says, ‘Don’t bother trying to win an argument with her, Taylor. It can’t be done.’
I spin, and smile, and shake Max’s proffered hand, even though the contact must be unpleasant for both of us. The feeling of wrongness that comes from revisiting the past isn’t anywhere near as strong for other people; I must remember that. Perhaps he barely feels this need to put distance between us. Some people, like my parents, even manage to stay civil after moulting. It’s a trick I’ll never master, with my condition.
‘You’re paying me to ask the difficult questions,’ I say.
‘Nope. I’m paying you to get the difficult answers. I’ll start you off. Taylor didn’t have a personal reason for changing her night off. She was running an errand for me. One that’s best kept quiet.’
‘Pills?’
He inclines his head. It’s always pills, with him. The endless pills that never work. To his credit, he doesn’t bother to explain it.
‘I’ll need the name of your supplier.’
‘Really?’
‘They knew Taylor would be out collecting your order. Possibly they’ve got something on Smith, or suspected she wouldn’t be up to the task. It was a good opportunity to take what they really wanted.’
‘No, it’s not that kind of an organisation, I swear, Rosie.’
‘Max, I have to check.’
He breathes out, his chest deflating, then asks Taylor for a pen and piece of paper, which she produces from her suit pocket. He writes down a name and address, and hands it to me.
‘Chichester? Not exactly a den of iniquity.’
‘I told you – they’re not the usual kind of people.’ He checks his watch, and strides off. No goodbye. Taylor throws me a glance, and then goes with him.
As I slip the address into my pocket I feel my phone vibrate. It’s a message from another person I thought I’d left in my past, and it means Chichester has to wait.
I need to get to London, fast.
It’s a difficult business, identifying old skins. The feeling you get from touching one is only a reflection of the love the old owner once felt, before it was sloughed away. If it was a particularly strong love you might get images accompanying the feeling: a flash of a face, or maybe even a snatch of music. Still, it’s like piecing together a puzzle, reconstructing an old photograph that’s been torn to pieces.
says the poster on the dingy green wall. There’s a Labrador puppy wrapped in a blue blanket underneath the words. His face peeks out from the folds of material. I shift my position in the moulded plastic seat. My armpits are sweaty; I’ll have to keep my arms by my sides if I don’t want anyone to smell me. Which I don’t. This kind of place reminds me how much I want my smell to be my own business.
The door opens, and in comes a small man, wearing a cream suit with a buttoned waistcoat. His shoes are imitation animal skin. I remember how I used to rely on my instant judgements, back when I was trying to learn this stuff as an occupation, and I would have said with no hesitation that this man was a petty criminal, dressing in the hope of getting better at it. Do I trust my judgements any more? I keep my face blank, non-committal, as I stand. The receptionist, an older woman who keeps knitting on the desk next to the phone, eyes us both with interest.