Smoke & Whispers (8 page)

‘Sarah.’ Gerald looked at her, all seriousness. ‘This place has been closed for years. Any spiders will have been eaten by the rats long ago.’

The creak of the door as Harper pushed it open might have been an escaping sound effect.

‘Ladies first?’ Gerard offered.

Die screaming, she conveyed with a glance.

Harper said, ‘Allow me,’ and produced a pencil-thin torch.

Did he always carry that? she wondered. And the keys – had he known they’d be coming here? And then thought: well, he was always going to suggest it. Given which, he’d have been foolish not to bring key and torch.

Gannon stepped inside on Harper’s heels and said, ‘Careful. There’s steps, and some broken glass.’

He was talking to her, she thought.

Gerard waved her ahead, and she went with the flow. Better than being stranded outside with John M. Wright. As she stepped inside, Harper’s torch beam played on the floor in front of her like a spotlight. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

In the centre of the lobby sat what had presumably been the ticket booth and was now half a shell, in whose lee a slew of broken glass and plaster crumbs sheltered. The surrounding walls remained upright, if tatty and peeling, with empty poster frames at intervals – she was imagining Hollywood heyday fare,
Gone with the Wind
and
Road to
Morocco
, but this place had functioned up until the mid-nineties; had probably sold its last box of popcorn to a Tarantino fan.

The booth’s remains sat at the top of a flight of shallow steps, beyond which, from one corner, steeper stairs led up to the circle. Access to the stalls was to Sarah’s right. A pair of doors used to hang there, and the empty space now beckoned them into an even darker arena where the air smelt fungally damp. Was this anywhere Sarah wanted to be, after a trip to the morgue?

Gerard, at her back, was breathing heavily, as if he’d walked here. Wright hung behind, silhouetted in the doorway. The world outside felt years away, as if all the time that had gone to waste in here had swallowed them once they’d entered. Her throat was dry. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

‘You might want to wait a moment,’ Harper said.

His torch beam skittered across the wall and located a row of switches. When he threw them, a watery light filtered down; just enough, it seemed to Sarah, to frighten the smaller shadows away.

Gerard leaned in close. ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked.

‘What? Did I hear what?’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It was probably nothing.’

If I kill him now, and these others don’t tell, his body might never be found, Sarah thought.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say she’d wait outside – that she really didn’t like this – when something in what Gerard had said struck her. Not the words, but a slight quaver. Was he frightened? It might have been fear; might have been excitement. Excitement at knowing she was afraid? There’d been a time when she’d have believed that of him, but now she was less confident. He’d make jokes about spiders and unseen beasties, sure, but she was pretty sure he’d stamp on either if it came too close to her. But a frightened Gerard was a new thing. She’d have to stay.

Jack Gannon took her arm as she walked up the steps. ‘There’ve been exterminators here a time or two. Besides, any rats’ll have disappeared under the floorboards the moment we opened the door.’

She lived in the country. She knew about rats. They’d disappear under the floorboards when it damn well suited them and not a moment sooner. But she didn’t want to worry him, so kept this to herself.

Besides, it wasn’t rats that bothered her. It was spiders. They had them in the country too, which was the single worst thing about it. Including the hunting lobby.

Harper threw more switches. ‘The auditorium’s through here. Well, you’d probably guessed that.’ Lights went on in the big arena. ‘It’s a bit musty, but really nothing to worry about.’

Gerard said, ‘Well, I want to see it. Damn waste of time otherwise.’

Sarah mentally added a
What!
to that.

Sarah mentally added a to that.

Jack said, ‘Sarah? We can wait outside if you’d rather.’

‘I’ve always liked going to the pictures,’ she said.

Behind them, Wright moved away from the doorway, and closed it.

Harper led the way into the auditorium.

The first thing Sarah noticed was the way the floor felt under her feet; then she forgot about that and took in the view. It was a cinema, yes: the floor sloped towards the front, and there was a stage, atop of which a screen used to hang, though there was no screen any more – just a dark space whose depth she couldn’t gauge, on one side of which a red curtain still hung. A dim pile on the other suggested that its partner had collapsed some while ago. But the screen, or its absence, wasn’t what grabbed her attention; it was everything else – it was the rest of the place.

Again, she tried to swallow. Again, she couldn’t.

Maybe half of the seats had been ripped out, with no apparent logic dictating which, and over the remaining rows bridal veils had been laid, or that was how it appeared at first – grand thick lacy veils had been dropped over the cinema furniture, forming silvery-grey canopies between the armrests of adjoining seats; making sheiks’ tents in the gaps between rows. And hammocks of it were slung from one broken sconce to the next; there were traces of it hanging from the balcony, drifting in the draught that blew through the missing doors behind her. All of it spider-web. It was as if she’d had a nightmare, and here it was: upholstered. It was everywhere, or everywhere except on this aisle that led towards the stage, like a path through a jungle. To her left, to her right; above her – if there were light enough to penetrate the upper darkness, she knew she’d see more of it up there, hanging over this huge space like a marquee over a crypt, its sticky canvas studded with the raisin-like corpses of spiders, and the well-wrapped parcels of their prey. Hidden in the corners would be nests of shiny eggs, pulsing to an arachnid beat. A high-pitched spider music that crawled through your hair, and made your scalp itch.

The floor was sticky. That was the first thing she’d noticed, and she noticed it again now.

Harper said, ‘As you can see, it’s a bit of a mess.’

Gerard laughed a big booming laugh, which went shivering round the empty space. ‘You have a gift for understatement,’ he said.

Nothing about his demeanour suggested he’d ever heard the word
fear
. She wondered what it was she’d noticed thrill through him earlier, then had to suppress a shudder of her own. ‘Are you sure this place is safe?’ Her voice didn’t ring true to her own ears. If it had been a glass, she’d have held it to the light to check for cracks.

Brian Harper said, ‘The structure’s sound, don’t worry. The furnishings aren’t, though. I wouldn’t sit down.’

‘That’s not going to be a problem,’ she assured him tightly.

Jack Gannon was right behind her. He said again, ‘We can wait outside, if you’d rather.’

‘I’m okay. Thanks.’

‘It’s not you I’m worried about.’

She glanced at him, but he smiled: joke. It was okay for men to make such jokes, provided everyone knew it was a joke, and they weren’t actually afraid of, say, spiders.

Gerard said, ‘Square footage?’

Harper started talking numbers; mentioned the graded floor, which levelling off wouldn’t be a problem. The building would take three storeys. Wright had stepped past Sarah to listen to this, or at least to be quite near it while it was being delivered. She wasn’t sure he listened to much, unless it lay precisely within the sphere of his interest. Though perhaps he was hoping this would turn out that way.

Gerard didn’t look at him, she noticed. Gerard didn’t appear to like him, which was understandable. But if Gerard decided that John M. Wright was a blue-chip investment, he’d probably find a way to get over his dislike.

Sarah felt something crawl across her cheek.

She yelped, slapped at herself, and everyone turned to look. Gannon reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Sarah –?’

‘It’s nothing, it’s okay.’ The draught had brushed her cheek, that was all. ‘I thought –’

She didn’t need to tell them what she’d thought. It was screamingly obvious.

‘You thought what?’ Wright asked.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Gannon said.

There were no spiders: not on her cheek, nor anywhere near. That was what she told herself.

Gerard said, ‘What’s the stage area like? I can’t see it from here.’

‘You go on and look,’ Gannon said. ‘Sarah and I’ll wait outside.’

All of this, she was hearing as if through a bottle held to her ear.

. . . Once, she’d been prone to panics; wild moments at which reason threatened to escape her, and she’d have to bite down on reality – clench her nails into her palms – to prevent her mind revisiting an appalling episode: the step she’d taken, armed only with gravity, from the roof of a four-storey dwelling. This had happened when she was little more than an adolescent, and she’d had waking visitations for years afterwards, with the capacity to reduce her to a whispering wreck. There were any number of triggers, most of which occurred in public – sudden loud noises; sudden fast movement: these could conjure up those brief moments which had taught her she’d never fly.

And here was another: in this dim-lit spidery palace, she was having that waking nightmare all over again, in which she skydived from the roof of a high terraced house, city lights cartwheeling in her head as she turned over and over, and never hit the ground.

‘. . . You okay yet?’

They were outside. She had no memory of the last minute.

‘Sarah?’

Deep breath. ‘Jack. Thank you. Yes, I’m okay now.’

Deep breath. ‘Jack. Thank you. Yes, I’m And she was – she more or less was.

They were on the wide apron of pavement on the cinema’s doorstep. Gerard, Harper and Wright were still inside. Part of her curdled with embarrassment at the thought that she hadn’t been able to hack it – already, she was starting to find her own fears ridiculous – but they’d been real at the time, and would be again, if she set foot in that place once more. A warmth at her elbow suggested that Jack’s hand had guided her out. She shut her eyes; made herself as aware as she could be of her body. And there was nothing there. She was nearly positive about this. No eight-legged passengers had smuggled themselves out in her folds or crevices – or if they had, they were keeping very still – NO! No. There was nothing there. She was spider-free, and staying that way. She opened her eyes and Jack quickly looked away, as if he’d just seen someone he knew crossing the bridge over the railway line.

‘Really,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Not much of a place for a post-prandial wander.’

‘I’m not big on spiders.’

Gerard, she thought, would have jumped on that; twisted it round to place
big
and
spiders
next to each other.

‘Who is?’ He produced a packet of cigarettes. ‘Want one of these?’

She was tempted, but shook her head.

He said, ‘I shouldn’t either, you know? But once in a blue moon, what harm can it do?’

A small man-made cloud drifted down the road.

She looked behind her, at the door into the dark they’d just come through, and said, ‘A research facility?’

He said, ‘You’re seeing the cinema. The auditorium, the tapered floor. The rows of seats.’

‘I’m seeing the spiders.’

‘We’ll come to an arrangement with the spiders. What Gerard’s looking at, what Brian’s showing him, is square footage. Lots of space in there.’

‘The right kind of space?’

‘I’m not an expert. I think Brian’s got a few other places.’

Sarah nodded absently. A Metro was pulling up at the station. She said, ‘Your Mr Wright’s a strange one.’

‘Because he’s a scientist?’

‘Because he’s a strange one.’

‘He’s very focused.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

Jack smiled and blew out smoke. ‘He’s worked for years on his research. I think he tends to see things in terms of, will this help the project or not?’

‘Things?’

‘Okay. People.’

The Metro pulled away.

‘And he doesn’t go anywhere without you holding his hand?’

‘I’m not his keeper. But if Inchon’s going to invest in Wright’s research, then we’ll be partners, more or less. I’m just keeping an eye on what develops.’

‘But he’s only one plum in your pie.’

‘Ha! If you want to put it like that.’

Da-da da-dah da-da da-dah-dah
He blinked.

‘My phone. Excuse me.’

Sarah took a step away from him to answer it, in line with the developing etiquette. It was Vicky, Zoë’s web-wizard –
web
: she shuddered. ‘Vicky. Hi.’

‘I got into her e-mails.’

‘Ah.’

‘You want to start with the earliest?’

She glanced at Jack. ‘Now’s not a great moment. Can I call you back?’

‘I suppose.’

‘It won’t be long. Thanks.’

Jack said, ‘Nice ringtone. The Jacksons?’

‘“I want you back”.’

‘Innocent days.’

For the world, or just for Michael, she wondered. ‘Motown fan?’

‘Used to be. Don’t listen to music much any more.’

Her hand had tightened round her mobile phone, and she deliberately relaxed it, so the whitening of her knuckles didn’t betray her tension.

Harper, Gerard and John M. Wright emerged from the cinema, and stood blinking for a moment in the cold air.

Gerard said, ‘Makes it feel like you’ve got them in your hair, doesn’t it? Place like that.’

Sarah said, ‘Those of us who’ve got hair, sure.’

Everyone laughed, and she pretended to join in. But she was thinking
Motown fan
.

Alan Talmadge was a Motown fan.

7

They took the Metro back into the city centre, and went their separate ways at Monument.
Al-an Tal-madge
had been the rattling of the rails all the way.
Al-an Tal-madge
Al-an Tal-madge
. It rang so clearly through the carriage, Sarah was surprised no one remarked on it; she kept waiting for Jack Gannon’s reaction – except he couldn’t be Talmadge, could he? Talmadge had come from nowhere, and was no one. Zoë had said so: trying to get a handle on Talmadge had been like making a fist around smoke. He’d simply passed through various women’s lives, taking those lives with him when he left. If he’d come from anywhere real, Zoë would have tracked him down – if Talmadge hadn’t been smoke, she’d have had him. And Gannon wasn’t smoke. He had family. Roots. And lots of people liked Motown.

This was the point, and this calmed her down. Lots of people liked Motown. Once you removed that from the equation, there was nothing to link Gannon to Talmadge or to Zoë. Sarah had met him in the hotel Zoë had stayed in, and that was all. The Motown ringtone hadn’t even been his: it had been Sarah’s own, loaded by Russell. It made more sense to think Russ was Talmadge.

‘You weren’t really attacked by a spider, were you?’ Gerard asked her once they were alone.

‘No. But thanks for your concern.’

‘I think Gannon would have come to your rescue.’

That wasn’t a line she wanted him pursuing. ‘So long as I wasn’t depending on Wright.’

If Gerard had been drunk before, he was over it now. ‘Shall we walk down through town?’ he asked.

‘If you like. Where are we, exactly?’

He gave her a long-suffering look. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not lost.’

There were plenty of people around. There was no reason for this to surprise her – it was a big city – but her day had long passed normal: bodies, burglary, spiders . . . It would have felt fitting if the streets were deserted, in the aftermath of something namelessly huge. Also, it was cold. She checked her coat’s buttons. She loved its cut and its length, but today would be a good day for it to be longer, thicker, warmer.

She also hoped there was no spiderweb stuck to it.

She said, ‘A research facility?’, aware that it was the second time she’d framed that question.

Gerard said, ‘Time will tell.’

‘Bit out of your usual line, isn’t it?’

‘The usual lines in business,’ he told her, ‘come to sudden ends.’ He put a hand out to stop her crossing a road just as a car flashed past. ‘Nobody stays ahead without changing their game when it’s needed.’

‘It’s like listening to a motivational tape,’ she said. ‘What are your rules for success?’

‘Number one would be, don’t step into the road without looking.’

‘Are you really planning on investing in that man? Wright?’

‘Do I get the impression you don’t like him?’

‘It’s like he’s just visiting earth,’ Sarah said. ‘And hasn’t got the hang of it yet.’

‘I’m sure people said the same of Einstein.’

‘You don’t seriously put him in that league?’

‘No,’ said Gerard. ‘I just couldn’t think of any non-famous scientists.’

They’d walked down an impressive street: elegantly curved, with tall graceful buildings, but left it now for a side road. Gerard seemed to know where he was going. She wondered how much of this was natural sense of direction, and how much sitting down with a map beforehand. That was the kind of preparation successful businessmen did, she supposed, although she couldn’t remember seeing a map in his room – a thought that struck her like a cartoon anvil, leaving a guilt-shaped dent in her head. She had been in Gerard’s room without his knowledge, and now was pretending to be his friend. Or not exactly pretending, perhaps, but this fact remained: he had one of Zoë’s business cards. There might be an innocent reason for this, but none sprang immediately to mind.

Gerard had spoken again, but she’d missed whatever it was, and made a non-committal noise. He looked at her strangely, but didn’t pursue it.

She should make an effort. Stay within the moment. They passed a cosmetics shop; then a clothes store with various brand names stencilled on its plate glass: Christian Dior all the way down to Diesel. A good example of bets being hedged, Sarah thought.

It caught Gerard’s attention too. ‘Clothing to die for,’ he said. ‘
Dolce et Gabanna est pro mori
.’

‘That’s not the first time you’ve said that, is it?’

‘It’s the first time anyone’s got it.’

There was a compliment in there, but it was aimed as much at himself as at her. ‘Does Paula take you shopping?’

‘From designer labels to my wife. What a seamless shift. You think she’s shallow, don’t you?’

That stung, largely because the answer was yes. ‘It was the Latin made me think of her. She has such classically good looks.’

‘Nice try.’

Sarah said, ‘I don’t feel I got to know her well.’

‘I don’t feel you made much of an effort.’

The shops dwindled into office blocks. They walked past the cathedral, then under a metal railway bridge and on to a cobbled square where the city keep stood. From there, Gerard led her down into a minor labyrinth of alleyways and stone steps and chunks of Hadrian’s Wall.

‘Is this a shortcut?’

‘It’s the scenic route.’

On a terrace overlooking the Tyne, in the shadow of the High Level, he stopped to gaze upriver at a bunch of grubby seagulls, fighting over scraps on the oil-flecked water.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘About Paula. I’m sorry.’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing to be sorry about. It’s not like she craved your friendship.’

Sarah deserved that. She watched the seagulls for a while, wondering if their abrupt clattering had a personal aspect, born of gull-on-gull enmity rather than a straightforward tussling over food. Though if one bird didn’t like another, it could simply fly away . . . ‘The Trophy Wife’ was how she’d characterized Paula. Who was a decade younger than Gerard, and had been blonde when Sarah met her, with a figure loaded with natural advantage, but doubtless maintained in an expensive gym. And always draped, whenever Sarah had met her, in seriously costly threads. Even now, picturing her, it was with a copy of
Hello!
under one arm. I am woman, see me shop. What was that joke about a lifestyle being what the rich had, instead of a life?

But there she went again. Paula had a life. It was just that Sarah wasn’t privy to it.

Guilt, probably, led her to say, ‘She was adopted, wasn’t she?’

That hit a nerve. ‘Who on earth told you that?’

‘You did.’ He must have done. How else would she know?

‘Yes.’ The word came out grudgingly. ‘You paid some attention, then.’

Oh, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like he’d asked about her own life; her own partner. It made her wonder what was wrong. Touchiness suggested bruising. ‘You’re different when you’re with her, I noticed that much. You’d do anything for her, wouldn’t you?’

He said, ‘I’d kill for her, if that’s what you mean. Quite happily, as a matter of fact.’

She didn’t doubt it. When lists were compiled of motives for violence, love and money topped the list. Not hatred and money. ‘Did you ever think about children?’

‘There’s really no need, Sarah.’

‘I’m not sure I –’

‘All these questions. This interest. You’re feeling guilty about what I said earlier. About not making an effort. Well, I absolve you.’ He made a clumsy hand movement, and she remembered he was Catholic. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more.’

‘Okay.’

‘And she doesn’t, by the way. Take me shopping, I mean.’

‘No. That doesn’t surprise me, somehow.’

‘Men only shop twice a year,’ he said. ‘During sales.’

‘If women did the same, we’d have a migrant retail industry.’

He laughed, a short sharp bark. ‘I might borrow that.’

They moved on. She wasn’t sure where they were, exactly, but they were presumably closing in on the hotel. Where they might, for all she knew, be swept up into more impromptu networking, perhaps culminating in an expedition to – what – a deconsecrated church? A dried-out aquarium? If she wanted to tackle him on Zoë, now was the time.

Sometimes, the direct approach was best.

‘You never met Zoë, did you?’ she asked.

‘Your friend? The one who helped you that time?’

‘She saved my life,’ Sarah said.

‘Then it was a very good thing she did,’ Gerard said. He paused for a moment, perhaps unused to making such statements. Certainly unused to making them in Sarah’s hearing. ‘No. I never met her.’

A body on a slab: white face, dark hair. Bloated beyond recognition, unless you knew what you were looking for. Or expected to find it.

She said, ‘She was here.’

‘Newcastle?’

‘Yes. She stayed in the Bolbec.’

‘Ah. Is that why you chose it? Personal recommendation? Hmph.’ He produced a cigar from an inner pocket, and unwrapped it. ‘I applaud her feats of derring-do, obviously. But I don’t think much of her taste in accommodation.’

‘Do you mind not smoking?’

‘Not especially. I prefer smoking, though.’ He lit up. ‘For God’s sake, Sarah, we’re in the open air. I’ll bend to the legislation where it’s necessary, but . . .’

‘They’ll never take your freedom?’

‘Precisely.’

A waft of smoke drifted into Sarah’s face, here in the open air.

He said, ‘Wait one moment. What was her surname?’

‘Boehm.’

‘Boehm? Good lord!’

‘Boehm? Good ‘Gerard?’

‘I found her business card. On the mantelpiece in the bar. First night I was here.’

‘Zoë’s card?’

‘I put it in my pocket. Force of habit. Never made the connection, though. Don’t think I knew her surname. Did it say private eye on it? That’s what she is, yes? A consulting detective?’

‘That’s what she is, yes,’ Sarah said slowly, trying to slot this new information into what she already knew. Or subtract it, rather. Subtract this new information from what she’d thought she’d known. Which was like trying to remove an ingredient from a blender, once she’d flipped its switch.

‘Doesn’t say a lot for the staff, does it?’ Gerard mused. ‘Leaving former guests’ cards lying around the place. Still, makes you think, doesn’t it? Weird coincidence. Of all the gin-joints in all the cities in all the world. That sort of thing.’

She looked at him.

‘
Casablanca
,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Not Jane Austen.’

‘I got the reference,’ she said tightly.

He blew smoke. ‘So, what was she doing here?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said.

‘I suppose we can rule out pleasure. On a case, was she?’

‘I don’t know,’ Sarah said again.

‘I thought you were friends.’

‘We weren’t in each other’s pockets.’

‘Has something happened to her?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you’re here,’ Gerard said. ‘I assume
that’s
not coincidence.’

Coincidence, she thought. She might have to revise her opinion on that subject.

They’d reached the railway arch, and turned left into it. Cars were parked along its length, in metered spaces. At the far end was the
Big Issue
seller, this time with an armful of his wares. Sarah recalled the use she’d made of him earlier, to distract Barry while she took Gerard’s key, and felt the need to make amends. Or make Gerard make them for her, which would suit her mood.

‘Buy your
Big Issue
, sir, lady? Yunno you wannoo.’

‘I already have,’ Sarah reminded him, though she appeared to ring none of his bells. ‘But my friend will take one.’

Gerard looked at her. ‘You’re referring to me?’

‘It’s cold, Gerard. And it’s already dark. Buy the magazine.’

‘I fail to see what the weather’s got to do with it.’

The homeless man looked at him, then at Sarah. He seemed about to say something, but thought better of it.

‘Because this man’s here until he’s sold all these copies.’

‘Lady’s correck.’ He obviously couldn’t help himself. ‘Need to sell the ress.’

‘Do you mind? This is a private discussion.’

‘Gerard! You can’t –’

‘Sarah. Do you understand the
economics
of homelessness? The cash-drink-drugs cycle? Now, I write cheques to various –’

It came on suddenly, born of everything the day had shovelled her way so far, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this angry. ‘Gerard. Stop talking right now. Buy the magazine. That’s not a suggestion.’

Gerard flashed his evil smile, the one that showed the points of his teeth. She was used to him getting a rise out of her – would maintain that it was water off a duck’s – but it was unforgivable to use this man for effect. ‘Oh, I see. We’re doing things your way, are we?’ He handed over a fiver, took a magazine, and waved away the change. ‘Don’t want to spoil the lady’s day.’ He gave Sarah the
Big Issue
.

‘Don’t drink, guvnor,’ the man said.

‘You really should give it a bash,’ Gerard assured him.

Magazine tucked under her arm, Sarah strode towards the hotel, not waiting to see if he was following.

Though if she’d heard him struck by a lorry, she’d have turned to watch.

In her room she flung the
Big Issue
at the wall, where it made a comforting
splat!
before hitting the floor like a concussed moth. If she’d been holding a bottle she’d have flung that instead, she told herself, half believing it. Then, as long she was throwing things, she threw herself on the bed, where she lay for a moment seething before getting up and taking her coat off in case it creased. She put it on a hanger, then occupied the bed again. Seethed more.

It occurred to her that he’d done that on purpose: lit her blue touch paper just to watch her shoot sparks. There were men who’d try that on for sexual reasons, obviously, but with Gerard you could never overlook the profit motive. There’d been something in it for him. Maybe it was just that she’d ceased asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Except she hadn’t got around to asking questions, had she? Before she’d raised the issue of Zoë’s business card, he’d addressed it himself, and that pretty much left her all out of questions. Or at the very least, left her unsure it was Gerard she should be putting them to.