How the Dead Live (Factory 3) (16 page)

‘Never mind,’ I said, ‘I’ve got other ways of finding out about that if I need to. One last point – do you think we could return to the Kedward angle for a minute? The question is this – Wildways is clearly making a lot of money, in which case I can’t see that a detective-inspector’s salary makes much difference to the Kedwards one way or the other, so why didn’t Kedward just jack the police in, I wonder?’

The old man smiled. ‘Now come on, Sergeant, for once I can do your job for you. Weren’t we saying a minute ago that Wildways is operating, at times, anyway, on the edge of the law? Supposing they did go over it, don’t you think it would be a good idea to have a tame local copper around?’

‘Yes it would,’ I said. ‘Risky for a copper to play that game, though.’

‘You could assume his wife gave him no choice,’ said Newington, ‘she’s a first-class bitch – and now do you see why the police here dragged their feet over Marianne Mardy?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but Kedward must have realized things wouldn’t stop there.’

Newington said: ‘I believe that Baddeley and Anne Kedward panicked over Marianne and played their police card – Kedward was so deep into Wildways through Baddeley and his wife that he’d no option but to do what they told him.’

‘I’m having all Kedward’s and Baddeley’s banking affairs gone into,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the information by courier any time now.’ I added: ‘I wouldn’t mind finding out more about Anne Kedward too, by the way.’

‘That’s easy,’ said Newington, ‘why don’t you go over to the gambling club she runs? It’s only a hundred yards down the street from here, and it’s called the Lucky Jack.’

The Lucky Jack Club was part of the bingo hall I had seen when I first drove into Thornhill, the one with the heavies leaning against the wall by the doors in tight flannels and blazers. If gear like that was meant to make them look like guards officers on leave it failed to impress me. As I went up the steps they closed in on me and one said: ‘Sorry, members only.’

‘How much for the evening?’ I said, ‘just to lose a few quid?’

The big blond one gave me a blank stare all over and said: ‘Too much for you, sweetheart. Nobody knows you and nobody wants to, now get lost.’

‘You know, I get the feeling you might have been a copper once,’ I said.

‘I might have been,’ he said, ‘now fuck off.’

Behind him I could see a thin gent with wavy grey hair coming towards us across the foyer; he wore a weary red dinner coat with a small burn mark over the breast pocket. He weaved through the doors and said to the other two: ‘What’s this, then? Have we suddenly got into the business of turning punters away?’

‘I don’t like the look of him,’ said the blond heavy.

‘What do you mean?’ said the manager. ‘You’ve never seen him before.’

‘I still don’t like the look of him.’

‘All I’m trying to do is lose some money,’ I said to the manager.

‘That’s reasonable,’ he said. ‘Where are you staying?’

I told him and said: ‘Will you take a credit card?’

‘I will if it’s good.’

‘Check it.’

‘We always do,’ he said. ‘Meantime, come in and have a drink.
Girlies and bar are down here – the serious stuff is two floors up in the lift.’

‘Good idea, the drink,’ I said. ‘When you’ve checked the card out, join me in the bar and bring me a couple of grand in cash.’

‘Done,’ said the manager. He disappeared through a door marked Private. I let the entrance doors swing to in the heavies’ faces and went through to the bar. It was small and packed with people, what they call intimate. I don’t. Crimson lamps like candles fluttered hotly on the walls; frozen women sat at the tables near the back with punters chatting them up. I went up to the counter and parked on a stool. A barman came up who looked as if he had worked in a mental ward; he had the build for it. It turned out later that he had worked in one.

‘What’ll it be, sport?’ He had trouble talking and I soon saw why; the teeth in his lower jaw had been wired up.

‘Ring-a-ding,’ I said. ‘Two glasses.’

He produced them with the bottle and a bowl of ice. He said: ‘You a London punter? You sound like you was London to me.’

I said: ‘Well? What of it?’

‘That’ll be twenty quid.’ I gave him the money. ‘Which part of London you from?’

I said: ‘The part with a lot of fucking hospitals in it.’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘West End.’

‘It could be the very end for folk who ask too many questions,’ I said.

He understood that all right and pissed off; he may have been frightened for his jaw again, which he had probably opened too often for its own good. Soon the manager joined me, gave me the credit card and the slip to sign. When I’d done that he took the card back out of my hand and compared the two signatures. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said.

‘No, not these days,’ I said. I put the card away and said: ‘So let’s have the money.’

‘It’s waiting for you upstairs in chips.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘what’s the rush? Can’t you see I’ve got a bottle in front of me?’

‘They’ll keep it for you here.’ I could see the man had me marked as a mug punter and couldn’t wait to get me at it.

I said aggressively: ‘I told you I wanted the money in cash here. I’m a big boy; I’ll buy my own chips, so bring the notes to me here and now.’

He didn’t argue. When he came back with the money I counted it; there was fifteen quid missing.

‘That’s for the entrance fee.’

‘Nice business you’ve got going here,’ I said enviously, ‘you cop all round. The boss about?’

‘Daresay she’ll be in later. Why, do you know her?’

‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘Now let’s see, it’s Anne, wait a minute, Anne—’

‘Kedward.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘that’s not it. At least it wasn’t in the old days. In the old days it used to be, I’ve got it – Baddeley.’

‘Course it is,’ he said. ‘I must be getting pissed.’

‘You must be well pissed,’ I said, ‘if you don’t know the names of the people you work for.’ I pushed the bottle over to him. ‘Have a drink. By the way, talking of names, what’s yours?’ I was letting my voice become slurred.

‘You ask a few questions, don’t you?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ I said, squinting at him. ‘What’s strange about asking the name of a man you’re having a drink with?’

‘I’m Charlie,’ he said. ‘Charles Masters.’ I doubted if that was his real name but he had to say something; he didn’t want to lose me, didn’t want me to reel out of the place in a drunken temper.

‘Oh, yes. Charles,’ I said. I stubbed my cigarette out, missing the ashtray and doing it on the bar. ‘Charlie. Now that’s a really nice name. You know, I work with a bloke called Charlie. Lovely man, my best mate.’

‘What work do you do?’

‘I’m in steel chain,’ I said. I slopped out two drinks and pushed one over to him. ‘All the best, Charlie, good luck, and may the best man win.’

‘I must go,’ he said, ‘we’re busy tonight.’

‘I think you’ve got a dolly upstairs,’ I leered, ‘don’t let me keep you. Good old Charlie.’

‘Enjoy yourself,’ he said coldly, ‘see you later.’ He left.

I finished my drink slowly. After a while a girl in red Bermuda shorts with bad legs under them and no bottom came over. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said, ‘I’m Honey, I look after lonely men.’

‘I’m not lonely,’ I said in a thick voice, ‘but I’ve got a thing. I can’t stand Bermuda shorts, particularly on a man.’

‘Are you a masochist?’ she shouted.

‘No,’ I said, ‘and you’re certainly not.’ She stormed off and sat down sulking at the far end of the bar. I looked at the time; it was ten past one. I didn’t care. I hadn’t counted on getting much sleep in Thornhill.

After a while another girl came up. ‘Hi there,’ she smiled, as though we had been childhood sweethearts, ‘I’m Gail, don’t you like it in here?’ Her features were good – the trouble was, they looked as if they had been set in concrete. Her nails were bitten to the quick, but at least she knew how to dress.

‘I don’t know till I’ve started to play,’ I said.

‘Would you like me to come and play with you?’

‘It would depend what the game was.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘frankly, are you gay? I love doing things to gays, I’m good.’

‘I’m not gay,’ I said, ‘but as we’re getting so intimate, are you a dyke?’

‘Oh, I love rude dominating men,’ she said quickly, ‘my first boyfriend was like you.’

I didn’t want to hear about him, so I sat watching while she gave her eyelashes some exercise; she let her mouth have a go too. She could make it turn into something like a cushion; it was remarkable how she did it.

‘Do that again,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘What you did with your mouth.’

‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘Why, do you like it? Does it turn you on?’ She did it again, only it didn’t work as well as it had the first time. First Honey, now Gail – news of my credit limit must have got round.

‘How expensive do you come as a cards partner?’

In spite of herself she spoiled her act; her eyes snapped alert. ‘I’d take twenty per cent of your winnings, and you’d pay me the same, cash, on the amount you lost.’

‘Your mind works like a chain store executive,’ I said. ‘Sounds cheaper if I play on my own.’

‘Maybe,’ she said, ‘but not so much fun.’

‘You’d be a distracting influence,’ I said. ‘Any bed in the price?’

The great red mouth cushioned regretfully. ‘You know I could really really fancy you, but I’ve got a steady boyfriend.’

‘I’ll bet you have,’ I said. ‘I’ll bet you’re a pushover for layabouts on what you make – your troubles won’t start till you try getting rid of him.’

‘Are you trying to be insulting?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘though it wouldn’t be hard. What’s more, I’ve got another piece of advice for you.’

‘What’s the advice?’

‘Get lost,’ I said.

She stared at me in disbelief as if I had thrown my scotch over her; then suddenly the manager was beside me again. He said to the girl: ‘Fuck off, you.’ He said to me: ‘Having a good time?’

‘Average. How do these women know my credit’s good, Charlie?’

‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘Now wouldn’t you like to go upstairs and play? There’s poker, blackjack and baccarat, all three going.’

‘In a minute,’ I said. I patted him on the back. ‘You’re good, Charlie,’ I said, ‘generous with the credit, now why not have a drink?’ I watched him watching me in the mirrors across the top
of his glass, trying to gauge how drunk I was; he wanted me to go far, but not so far as to have me pass out. ‘Right,’ I said, hurling my drink back in one gulp, ‘poker.’ He nodded approvingly. I did a practised stagger away from the bar and yelled: ‘Which way’s the lift?’

He got in with me, pressed button two and fed me out into the gaming room. I tottered about among the punters and in the end flopped down in a chair at the poker table. ‘Dealer’s choice?’ I said to the lipless blonde girl in charge. She nodded. ‘Right,’ I said, giving her a hundred pounds, ‘let’s have the chips for this.’ There were three other punters at the table, and I sat out till the deal came round to me. ‘New cards,’ I said.

‘OK,’ said the girl. She took two new packs from under the table and slit the seals with a thumbnail like a kitchen knife that had done murder. ‘House’ll sit in,’ she said. She shuffled the cards and cut to me. ‘Five pounds in the kitty,’ she intoned, ‘minimum stake five pounds and multiples. Sky’s the limit.’ I dealt a hand of five card, nothing wild, to see what would happen. I won on a pair of tens but the betting was lethargic and I only cleared sixty pounds. The deal passed to my neighbour and I sat back, juggling with the chips in my pocket. The little bat said to me sharply: ‘Are you in?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘People could use your seat if you’re not playing.’

‘They can have it,’ I said, and stood up. I murmured to her as I left: ‘Never force a punter, it’s the quickest way to lose him, you’ve a lot to learn yet.’ She hated it.

There was someone like a court-martialled army baker standing by the door in a velour jacket waiting to deal with trouble, and I said to him: ‘Is there a garden out there?’

‘Most people use the toilets.’

‘Just answer the question,’ I said.

‘Back down in the lift – they’ll show you. Why?’ he added spitefully, ‘fancy some exercise?’

‘Only the mental kind,’ I said, ‘nothing you could help with.’ I went out into the garden. I felt sorry for it. It was lit electrically at
that time of night when all life wants to sleep. I walked about in it. The trees were old – perhaps two or three centuries – and there were borders, carefully planned flowerbeds, now harbouring arc lights and electronic speakers that must have been there for a very long time, long before the Lucky Jack was built on the site of some other house. Water, lit from beneath, glittered uneasily in a stone pool. Cigarette-ends and the stub of a cheap cigar floated in its bilious greenness, and every tree, even at this time of year, had interrogators’ lights pointed straight at it. Cold though it was, people whooped drunkenly behind the shrubs; a man and a woman were having a fight, hitting out toe to toe on a circular patch of grass. Omnidirectional music harangued everyone, and the trees swayed as children do in their effort to stay awake late at night – there was too much noise for any rest. I watched this corner of our tragedy pass me in the cold electric dark; I believed that for a moment, surrounded by the corruption I was trying to expose, I could see in the untruth of that garden everything that we had ever tried to defend flying away from me. A singer called out from among the blackened plants: