She Died Young (23 page)

It seemed important to know what time it was, but Charles had no idea where his watch was. He didn’t remember getting undressed. It seemed even more important to have a piss. He got up painfully. He had no dressing gown so he put on his coat to go to the bathroom on the next floor down, tiptoeing in order not to wake Mrs Hewitt. He washed himself. He looked at himself in the mirror. His lip was swollen where Andras had bitten him. He managed a smile. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame, dearie.’

He climbed the stairs, clinging to the rickety banister, and stumbled back into his room. The eiderdown had slid to the floor. Charles wrapped himself in it and his coat and settled down in the easy chair.

Hours later, he woke again. Daylight seeped through the curtains. He forced himself out of his cocoon to light the gas fire. He shivered, his fingers clumsy with the matches. He crouched near the hissing tongues of flame until his skin began to burn. He gathered up yesterday’s clothes, which were strewn around the floor, and put them on again. He returned to the bathroom, washed his face and shaved in an effort to look more respectable and minimise the swollen lip.

He made coffee in an elaborate glass percolator constructed of two balloon glasses connected by a glass pipe, a cherished item purchased in Paris on his first – and only – visit, before his first year at Oxford. The fragile parcel had been brought home with difficulty and every time he used it, which was often, he wondered if it had been worth the effort.

While it was brewing he went out in search of milk. The frosty air revived him. He began to think of the encounter in a more satirical light, working it into an irony-laden anecdote with which to entertain Fergus. At the corner shop he bought
The Times
and some sticky buns along with the milk.

Andras was pulling on his trousers in the twilit room. Charles opened the curtains.

‘Good morning.’ He kissed Andras lightly on the cheek.

Andras didn’t respond. ‘I have drink too much.’ He rubbed his face with his hands.

‘We didn’t drink much, did we?’ Charles didn’t remember anything about drinking and at the moment didn’t think he had a hangover. But there was the empty whisky bottle on the floor. It had been nearly full. So he’d probably feel terrible later. Unless Andras had drunk the lot.

‘I go,’ said Andras. His voice was hoarse. But he accepted a cup of coffee. ‘Why we did this? Was wrong.’

‘What d’you mean, wrong?’ Charles stared at him. He made no attempt to touch him, instead returned to the armchair and waited for more.

‘I go back to Professor house now.’

‘You’re not worried about the police any more?’

‘It looks strange I not go back.’

‘That’s true. But you said you couldn’t go back.’

Andras was hunched over his coffee cup and saucer, which he held uncomfortably between his knees. ‘I have to go.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things worse.’

Now Andras placed the cup and saucer on the floor. He looked up, looked at Charles for the first time as if he actually saw him. ‘Things are a mess. I am not … my …’

‘Why did you say it’s wrong? Is it forbidden in Hungary?’

‘No … yes …’ Andras smiled. ‘It is not legal here, I think, but people do it – in Hungary is more dangerous, even if is not exactly illegal.’

‘It’s quite risky here.’

‘I am Roman Catholic.’

‘
Catholic
?’ This disturbed Charles far more than if Andras had confessed to being, after all, a paid-up communist.

‘You have heard of Cardinal Mindszenty?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘He was found guilty of treason because he opposed the communists. I am not really good Catholic, but it is a question of freedom, political question.’

Charles suddenly felt immensely tired. His life was at such a great distance from this man.

‘Charles – perhaps you can help me, tell me what I should do.’

‘I think you have to tell the people at the hostel. Or go to the police. The police here are not like in Hungary. Or get hold of the detective who came to the house.’

The events of the night felt more and more unreal. All remnants, even all memory, of lust had disappeared as if their violent contortions had been a dream. Now Charles felt only pity, and he hated to pity people. Pity was a huge turn-off. He much preferred the strong, unemotional types.

‘Perhaps I can stay here with you – for a time.’

Yesterday Charles would have welcomed that, but now it was the last thing he wanted. Anyway, it was impossible. He doubted if Mrs Hewitt, however easy-going, would welcome an extra lodger.

‘Or is better if I go to London. There no-one will find me. For that I need money. Perhaps you could lend me—’

Charles laughed, but he was beginning to feel angry. This was ridiculous. One minute Andras was moving in, the next he wanted to be paid for sex. Of course, it wasn’t like that, but Charles, bruised and stiff, suddenly wished Andras would just go away. It was all too much.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have to go out now. You can stay here for the time being if you want, or go back to Quinault’s. Either way, I’ll meet you … where …? I’ll meet you in Blackwell’s bookshop in the Broad. Broad Street. You know where that is? It’s less conspicuous than the Cadena or Betty’s,’ although as he spoke, he wondered why that should matter. ‘I’ll meet you in the classics department. Say, at four. And you can tell me what you want me to do – how I can help you, if I can. But for now, you
have
to go up to the hostel and tell them what happened. They’ll help you. They’ll find somewhere else for you to stay.’

He ruffled Andras’ hair with a carelessness he didn’t feel. Andras looked up at him for a moment. He gripped Charles’ arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ said Charles. ‘Remember – Blackwell’s, the classics department. Four o’clock.’ Then he gathered up his books and notes and left, feeling quite urgently now the need to get away.

chapter
32

B
ODKIN ADAMS WAS COMMITTED
for trial. Blackstone would be back in Eastbourne in the coming weeks to scavenge for more lurid information about the doctor. Now, though, he could concentrate on Valerie.

His meetings with Jarrell at the Queen’s Head had become a regular event. On this particular Monday lunchtime it was Blackstone who was late after an evening’s heavy drinking in Fleet Street. McGovern, as well as Jarrell, awaited him.

They shook hands. ‘The Bodkin Adams trial will go ahead, then,’ commented McGovern.

‘His lawyers were hoping it wouldn’t.’

‘A lot more than meets the eye, I’d say,’ said McGovern.

‘We’ve only heard the beginning. Thank Christ I can forget about it for a bit. Depressing, that’s what it is. Gullible, lonely old women with too much money and no reason for living and that slimy doctor. And Oxford? You finished with that yet?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You know you followed your Professor to that mansion block in Bayswater?’ said Blackstone.

McGovern nodded.

‘Well, I know Balmoral Mansions well. There’s a woman lives there, she runs a kind of call-girl racket – that’s not what she calls it, but … I knew Valerie worked for her at one time. When you said your Professor went to the second floor, I wondered.
Her
flat’s on the second floor. Before I said anything to you I wanted to check on the other flat on that floor. That could have been the one your bloke was making for. But it’s untenanted at the moment. So I reckon it was Sonia’s flat—’

‘Well,’ interrupted McGovern, ‘you don’t know for sure no-one’s there. It may be officially empty, but in use for some purpose or other. Are you thinking of espionage? It’s possible it could even be a safe house. However, for that sort of purpose there’d normally be a cover story. An officially empty flat where people came and went would be too suspicious.’

‘This woman has a wide variety of clients. Well-known names. You know the sort of thing. She’s given me useful information from time to time and it’s occurred to me blackmail could be a nice little sideline for her. Don’t know why the penny didn’t drop sooner. Obviously, it’d have to be done carefully, I mean she wouldn’t want to upset her regular customers. But – I thought that could be the reason your Professor had all that money. He was paying her off.’

McGovern appeared to consider it. ‘That’s a nice wee theory, but it was
too much
money. Unless Quinault has some monster of a secret, it’s just too much.’

‘An appalling secret, such as being a Soviet spy,’ insinuated Blackstone.

‘Surely even a blackmailing madam would report that to the authorities,’ protested Jarrell.

‘You never know. She might prefer to keep it to herself. For future use,’ said McGovern. ‘Anyway, it’s a strange coincidence. I’m interested. The possibilities are – well – interesting. I’ll think about it.’

Blackstone watched McGovern and could see he was a bit stunned. ‘I thought you’d be interested,’ he said craftily. ‘Because it creates a link – not a strong one, it’s true, but a link all the same – between what you’re up to in Oxford and the Argyle Street hotel business.’

‘How so?’ McGovern stared blankly at him.

‘The woman I mentioned is married to Vince Mallory. And Valerie worked for him. And it’s beginning to seem as if Mallory might be behind what happened.’

McGovern didn’t show it, but Blackstone knew he was interested. He’d seen that withdrawn expression on his face before. It meant he was thinking.

‘I have a proposition. An evening out, the three of us, with the womenfolk. A night on the town. At Vince Mallory’s smart club in Soho. Don’t look so surprised. I told you the girl was working for him there before she died. She’d taken a step up in the world – well, in that world.’

Jarrell jumped at the proposal. ‘Observe him on his own terrain.’

‘You’ve already done that,’ said McGovern. ‘You went to see him at the club.’ He lit a cigarette. Blackstone had noticed he smoked only moderately and usually when at a loss for words, or when he was thinking about something. Eventually he said: ‘It’s not the kind of thing my wife would enjoy.’

‘Sweet-talk her. Glamorous night out. Up the West End.’

‘You don’t know her, Blackstone.’ McGovern smiled.

‘Explore the terrain. Observe. You know what I’m talking about. We’ll get a feel of what’s going on. Talk to some of the girls, possibly. Look, I went down to Eastbourne. I poked around. Found out far more than I would have sitting up here in London.’

‘That’s different.’

‘It’s a good idea, sir,’ said Jarrell. ‘Come on. It can’t do any harm. If your wife doesn’t fancy it – well, you’ll be off the leash.’

McGovern shrugged. ‘You’re right. It could be useful.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

They met in the bar of the Regent Palace Hotel. There was the usual slight awkwardness at the start of such an evening: a group of work colleagues gathered for a social occasion. The men squared their shoulders, smoked and tried to look at ease. The women had never even met before, yet were expected to chat to one another – about children, domestic matters, possibly holidays, as if there were nothing more, as if they existed only in relation to the men who had brought them along, with pride or resignation as the case might be.

The three women this evening did not fit the stereotype. Jarrell’s fiancée, Anita, was a fierce-looking brunette, bright and confident, Blackstone thought. She was a solicitor’s clerk, she told him, with ambitions to become a solicitor herself. Well, that was something: an ambitious woman and, while you couldn’t call her beautiful, she was at least striking-looking. It surprised him that that scarecrow Jarrell had landed a bird like that. He’d assumed she’d be a mousy little thing, like so many policemen’s wives. Then there was the lovely Lily McGovern. Thought highly of herself, she did, but Blackstone suspected her air of gracious reserve was in part the result of being half-Indian in a family of wealthy white Scots; a bit of a misfit. Her mother had run off with an Indian – that was the story, Blackstone had heard. So Lily’s head, held proudly on her beautiful long neck, had a touch of defiance about it.

Rita, of course, was different; Rita, the little Irish girl from Golborne Road, who spent her life looking after Dr Jones and being shouted at by his son.

That Mr Blackstone – Gerry now – should have invited her out at all was extraordinary, Rita felt. He’d simply turned up on the doorstep. As she discovered later, he’d heard that Carl was inside again – got it from Sonny Marsden, he told her. The cheek of it! The minute Carl’s back was turned! Mind you, she was glad they’d banged him up. She wouldn’t be staying with Carl at all if it wasn’t for Dr Jones. She was worried about him. She couldn’t leave him. Carl cared bugger all about his dad, but someone had to look after the old man.

Doubts about Blackstone’s motives weren’t going to stop her enjoying herself this evening. You look lovely, Gerry had said when she opened the door to him. Her friend had got her a deep green satin dress – second-hand, but good as new. Expensive, it was, properly lined with silk and ever so soft to the touch. You know one or two of the girls at the club, don’t you, sweetheart, Gerry had said. Be good to have a chat with them if you get half a chance. They’d be dancers and that, though, so it wasn’t very likely. But she’d give it a go. And whatever happened, she was determined to have a great old evening. It wasn’t often she got a chance to go up west.

To McGovern’s amazement, Lily had been enthusiastic. ‘Let’s see how the other half lives. We’re too serious, don’t you think? I’d like to have a bit of vulgar fun for a change.’

In dark red velvet she looked lovelier than he’d ever seen her. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ he’d murmured and kissed her.

‘Are you?’ There was a wistful note to her reply.

After a round of drinks the party walked off into Soho. Vince Mallory’s club was a garish break in the shabby Frith Street façade. Red neon snaked the name across the front: ‘The Ambassadors’. Life-size photographs of women dressed in nothing but ostrich feathers flanked the door. The red-carpeted foyer glittered with mirrors to create an illusion of space. The new arrivals had their coats lifted from them and placed behind the counter by a girl in a black waistcoat and no trousers. The music sounded faintly up here, but as they descended the brightly lit stairs it swelled pleasantly, bearing them towards the cabaret in waves of syncopated sweetness: strings rather than big brass or jazz, with a little breath of romance in the hothouse atmosphere.

Rita clasped Blackstone’s arm and smiled up at him. The lipstick printed against her rosy face was too harsh for his taste, but the black round her blue eyes was perfect, creating a suggestive shadow that softened and saddened them.

‘You’re a lovely girl, d’you know that?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ But he knew she was pleased. She was already so obviously enjoying herself. He wished he were young and open like her. Then things would be so simple.

They were shown to a good table, not too near the band. They had a clear view of their fellow guests and of the raised performance space and the dance floor. A waiter brought bowls of crisps, cheese straws and cubes of cheese and pineapple on toothpicks. Champagne foamed from the bottle.

‘This is on me, remember. Or rather, on the
Chronicle
.’ Blackstone had made that clear from the start. ‘Now let’s spot some celebrities.’

Lily raised her glass. ‘Thank you, Gerry.’ She drank, then turned to her husband. ‘Let’s dance.’

McGovern made a token protest, but followed her readily enough. They joined the half-dozen other couples that circled sedately round the piste. Blackstone watched them. McGovern’s dancing was minimalist, but smooth, and he and Lily moved together in sinuous harmony. You could tell, thought Blackstone, from the way a couple danced, how well they were suited, in bed and in life. If the way McGovern and Lily danced was anything to go by, theirs should be a marriage made in heaven. She was a beautiful woman. The pile of hair on top of her head and the red dress that glided against her body set off her pale skin wonderfully. You’d never have guessed she was half-Indian.

McGovern and Lily sat down again. The troupe of dancers, all long legs and sequins, pranced onto the stage and performed a slick routine to a scattering of applause. They were followed by a crooner, who was little more than a poor replica of Elvis Presley, but Blackstone didn’t mind. He was looking for well-known faces. You never knew when gossip might come in useful.

Rita watched in total absorption. He whispered to her: ‘After this – go to the ladies and then see if you can get backstage and talk to some of the girls. You might know some of them, mightn’t you?’

‘I don’t know about that. And what am I to be asking?’

‘I told you. Ask after a girl called Valerie.’

‘Your long-lost love, is it? The one like Marilyn Monroe?’ She was half teasing him, half annoyed. However, at the next intermission, she obediently disappeared behind the scenes.

It was only when he looked around, now the music had given way to a buzz of talk, that Blackstone noticed the table at the opposite side of the room to theirs. It was Mallory’s table, must be, for there was Mallory himself. Blackstone hadn’t noticed him before. He must have only just entered. Two women and a man had seated themselves with the club owner. Blackstone recognised Stanley Coleman, the property developer, and a dark, striking woman. The second woman was Sonia.

That was a surprise. Sonia was rarely seen in the company of her husband. That she was here now underlined the importance of Mallory’s guest. Stanley Coleman in cahoots with Mallory, the boxing promoter and strip-club owner: that was really something. The property tycoon had made a fortune post-war, of course, he was one of the richest men in Britain. There’d never been any suggestion it wasn’t all above board, but he’d have to have a long spoon to sup with Mallory.

As Blackstone watched, Mallory rose. He was an imposing man, his wide chest filling out his mohair suit, his thick hair plastered back, effeminately long, yet strictly controlled. He edged round his table and now was walking straight over in Blackstone’s direction, his hand outstretched well before he reached them.