Deadly Friends, page 14
I had a luxurious shower and smothered myself in smelly gunge that Annabelle had given me for Christmas. Tonight we would eat in style; the Wool Exchange was the best restaurant in Heckley. There wasn’t much competition – the second best was the Bamboo Curtain – but it had a certain class that no amount of new money can re-create. I pulled the last of the new shirts from its box and carefully unfolded it. It was dark blue, with a thin grey check. It would look good with my dark suit and the red silk tie, which was another present from Annabelle.
I pulled the knot tight and slipped my jacket on, studying myself in the mirror. I looked good, even if it was archetypal detective. The face was pale and I had a few more wrinkles, but they were all in the places where I smile, and I smile a lot. I picked up the holiday brochures and drove round to the Old Vicarage, next to St Bidulph’s, where Annabelle lived.
She was wearing a fawn suit that I’d never seen before and a red blouse. The suit wasn’t her colour – she’s at her best in something really bold – but she still looked stunning. She looks good in one of my old sweaters when she’s helping me with emergency maintenance in my garden. I stood watching her as she moved around the rooms, checking windows and switches. When she was ready I led her to the front door and held it open. As she passed me she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘What did I do to deserve that?’ I asked, pleased but slightly surprised.
‘You look very handsome,’ she said, rather gravely, and gave me a squeeze.
‘And you look very beautiful,’ I replied, but she turned away, and my kiss fell on her cheek.
‘Tell me about the Wool Exchange,’ she said, in the car.
‘Right,’ I replied. ‘Here comes a rather vague history lesson. The present building was built by the wool barons in the eighteenth century, although there was something there long before that. It was where they auctioned their produce and conducted their other businesses. It was in use well into this century, but I’m not very good at dates. At other times they used it as an exclusive club and entertained their cotton-picking cousins from over the hill. If we knew its full history we might not want to frequent the place. Slave-trade money and freemasonry come to mind, but I think you’ll like it.’
‘Have you been before?’
‘Mmm,’ I said. ‘Long time ago,’ but I didn’t enlarge upon my answer. My wife – Vanessa – and I held our wedding reception there. After that we’d come back for a romantic table for two on birthdays and anniversaries. There weren’t too many of those. Tonight, hopefully, I was laying a ghost.
Our table was available so we went straight in and sat down. ‘This is incredible,’ Annabelle said, looking around. Along the edges of the room was a row of desks on high legs, with merchants’ names elegant written on them in gold paint. Blackboards carried the names of breeds of sheep, probably now extinct, with columns for the prices to be written in £.s.d. Portraits of the leading barons in their ceremonial robes, smug bastards to a man, adorned the walls. It wasn’t elegant or aesthetically pleasing in any way, but it was authentic and smacked of wealth and all that went with it.
‘Would you like the wine list, sir?’ a waiter was saying as he proffered a bound volume. He was old enough to have been here when they drowned their sorrows over universal suffrage. Annabelle shook her head when I looked across at her.
‘Just fizzy water, please,’ I said.
All the other tables were occupied but they were so far apart it didn’t matter. We both decided the halibut dieppoise with a salpicon of prawns and leeks sounded good and settled for that. I was starving so I ordered the carrot and fennel soup and we both asked for pâté.
‘How’s the soup?’ Annabelle asked as I tucked in.
‘Delicious, but,’ I said.
‘But what?’
‘But not as good as yours. Same with the bread roll. Have you seen the uplifting slogans carved round the frieze?’ I led her eyes upwards. ‘The one behind you says: “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.”’
‘Good grief, yes,’ she replied. ‘There doesn’t look anything meek about this lot. Yours says: “Out of Prosperity shall come Peace.” I suppose I could go along with that.’
‘Except when the prosperity comes from running slaves and peddling opium to the Chinese,’ I said.
‘It’s a fascinating place,’ Annabelle observed, glancing around. ‘Why haven’t you brought me here before?’
‘Oh, I just thought I’d keep it up my sleeve,’ I told her, laying the spoon across my empty bowl.
‘And what else do you have up your sleeve?’
I fiddled with my napkin and focused on the table centrepiece. There was a little silver bowl brimming with primulas, and salt and pepper shakers with a coat of arms on them that featured a sheep hanging by a strap round its middle. I’ve never understood what that was about.
‘Nothing,’ I said, softly, looking up into her eyes, bluer than a jay’s wing, and reaching a hand towards her. ‘There’s nothing else, Annabelle. All you see here is all there is.’
Her cheeks flushed. She picked up her fork and pressed the points into the cloth until she realised what she was doing and replaced it. We were too far apart to hold hands so I had to settle for a little smile from her.
An all male party, about eight of them, were at a table in the far corner. We could hear them chattering but they weren’t too bad. As the waiter brought the pâté they all burst into raucous laughter.
‘I must apologise for the noise, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘I assure you they are not regular customers.’
‘It’s not a problem,’ I told him.
One of the group was now on his feet, as if to make a speech. A bread roll bounced off his dinner jacket and he sat down again to loud cheers from his cronies.
‘It’s not how we prefer our guests to behave,’ the waiter said, hurrying off.
‘Tell me about the restaurants,’ I said to Annabelle. ‘And this designer you’re meeting.’
‘I don’t know much about it myself,’ she replied, leaning forward. ‘Xav’s meeting me off the train and I expect I’ll be whisked away to a meeting, or a working lunch. Working lunches are very popular in this business.’
‘I bet they are.’
‘Xav sent me some drawings of the interiors of the restaurants, sort of three-dimensional plans, looking inside, if you follow me …’
‘I think they’re called isometric sketches,’ I said, although I was guessing.
‘Are they? I was wondering if you’d have a look at them with me, when we go home. Will I be able to colour them, to compare how different designs would look?’
‘Of course you will,’ I replied, smiling. Ever since we met I’ve broken the rules to involve her in my work. Now she was doing it with me. A roar went up from the rowdies in the corner. I looked across and Annabelle turned in her seat. One of them, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, was pretending to sing, using a Liebfraumilch bottle as a microphone. The others started chanting: ‘Sit down you bum, sit down you bum.’
‘This used to be a posh place,’ I said by way of an apology.
‘I think we picked a bad night,’ she replied.
The manager, tall and elegant, scuttled out of the kitchen and headed towards them, a diplomat dashing to quell trouble with the natives. Behind him the chef took up a position in the doorway, meat cleaver in his hand. He looked like a cross between Pavarotti and the King of Tonga. I decided to be on his side.
The manager knew what he was doing. His hands flapped as he spoke, faces nodded at him, smiles broke out and hands were shaken. He went back to his retreat and the chef closed the door.
We ate our pâté and Annabelle told me that the next Luxotel would be on a new complex near West Midlands Airport. Hopefully, she’d be in from the start with the decor of this one. It was nearing completion and decisions needed making in the next few days. I could understand her enthusiasm.
The halibut was superb. I was asking Annabelle if she’d like to change her mind about the wine – a glass of dry white would have gone well with it – when there was another commotion in the corner. They were all on their feet, hooking jackets off the backs of chairs and reaching for wallets.
‘Breathe easy,’ I said. ‘They’re leaving.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’
They filed towards us, threading between the tables in line astern, bellies thrust forward as they swayed with a curious grace, like sailors on a moving deck, and stifled their belches. They could have been the descendants of the men in the paintings, fat and arrogant but minus the class.
Fifth in the line was Darryl Buxton. He was wearing a cream tuxedo with red cummerbund and dicky bow, and a frilly shirt. Each frill was edged in black, in case you hadn’t noticed it. He looked like something from the Great Barrier Reef.
‘Well, well, well,’ he shouted as he saw me, raising an arm above his head in a parody of a bullfighter, ‘look who it fuckin’ isn’t.’
The man in front turned and grabbed him. ‘C’mon, Darryl,’ he said.
‘That’s the bastard who’s trying to frame me,’ Darryl declared. ‘I didn’t know cops ate ’ere. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I’d known cops ate ’ere.’
The parade had shuffled to a halt at our table. My only thought was with Annabelle. We were in a situation that was not of my making, so how could I extract us with minimum embarrassment and maybe even earn a bit of kudos for myself? Was it to be Gregory Peck in The Big Country, or Stallone in … whatever? Freud would have loved me.
‘Take him away, please,’ I said to his companion, my hands spreadeagled on the table so he could see I wasn’t going for my gun.
‘He’s a fuckin’ cop,’ Darryl told the restaurant.
‘C’mon,’ his pal said. ‘He’s not worth it.’
They started to bundle him away and I looked across at Annabelle. Her face was white but she was staring defiantly at him.
‘I’ll fix him,’ I heard Darryl say. ‘I’ll fuckin’ fix you,’ he shouted, further away.
The manager was with us, apologising. ‘I assure you sir, we won’t be accepting a booking from them again, and I’m most sorry for any inconvenience or upset caused to you. Please try to enjoy the rest of your meal. Allow me to bring you a complimentary bottle of wine? Sir? Madam?’
‘Who are they?’ I asked.
‘They said they were estate agents. A company called Homes 4 U, I believe. We took the booking about a week ago. It is the last time they will eat at the Wool Exchange, I promise you. Now, about that wine, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘No, we’re all right, thanks.’ Annabelle had pushed her plate away, cutlery neatly laid on it. I felt the same way.
‘I think we’ll just have the bill,’ I said.
He trowelled the apologies on like marzipan and offered us coffees or liqueurs. I told him that the halibut was excellent but we’d lost our appetites, so he knocked ten pounds off the bill and hoped that we’d eat there again. I promised him we would.
I held the car door open for Annabelle and carefully closed it behind her. I walked round and took my own seat. I pulled my seatbelt on but didn’t start the engine.
‘That didn’t quite work out how I’d planned it,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t your fault, Charles,’ she replied, putting her hand on mine.
‘I’d wanted tonight to be special.’
‘I know.’ She smiled, and said: ‘Up to then, it had been.’
‘Well, at least it wasn’t dull,’ I chuckled.
‘You can certainly say that again. Who was he, that obnoxious man?’
‘That was Darryl Buxton, acquitted of rape five times and in the frame for another.’
‘Five times!’
‘That we know of.’
‘That’s … horrible. Be careful, Charles,’ she said, ‘he looked dangerous.’
‘Only with women,’ I assured her. ‘I can handle the Darryl Buxtons of this world any time at all.’ There’s no harm in a flash of macho, now and again, as long as you keep it under control.
As we drove out of town I said: ‘I think the Wool Exchange must be jinxed for me.’
Annabelle asked me why, and I told her about my wedding reception.
‘Oh, Charles, I am sorry.’
‘Tell me about yours,’ I said.
‘My wedding reception?’
‘Yes. Where was it?’
‘In Kenya.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘A little township called Navashonga, in the north.’
‘Go on. I like to hear you talk about Kenya.’
We were at the traffic lights. They changed to green and I eased forward, Annabelle’s hand on my knee. When I was in top gear again I put mine back on it.
‘It was the start of the long wet season,’ she began, ‘so the acacia trees were in blossom. The church was made of breeze blocks and flattened oil drums, with a piano that had several keys missing. After the service we had a picnic, everybody invited. People came from miles around – half of Africa must have been there – and the Samburu danced for us. It was wonderful.’
I could picture it, through her eyes. She’d shown me her photographs and books and the images were as vivid to me as if I’d been there myself: the flat-topped feverthorn trees, the cattle, swirling dust and pogo-stick dancing of the Samburu, close cousins of the Masai. She was happy when she reminisced, and that usually made me happy, too.
But tonight it was different. Tonight, as I listened to her reminisce, her voice far away, on another continent, with another man, the ache in my stomach felt as if something was trying to suck my entrails from me, and I knew it wasn’t the halibut.
‘Am I invited in?’ I asked as we drew up outside the Old Vicarage.
‘Of course, silly. Besides, we’re home a little earlier than expected.’
‘Mmm, that’s true.’
We spread the drawings of the restaurant on the refectory table in her kitchen. The paper wasn’t substantial enough for watercolours, so I suggested she purchase coloured pencils from the art shop in town. Using an HB which she found I demonstrated how to do it and watched as she tried herself. Some people have a knack for drawing, some don’t, and to them it’s like being tone deaf. A foreign language. Annabelle had the ability, but had never practised. It was only colouring squares, so she’d soon get the hang of it. She explained her ideas, for my approval, and I told her about the silver and gold pens you could buy. They’d do for highlighting the borders.
‘Do you want me to take you to the station in the morning?’ I asked as I finished my mug of decaff and stood up to leave.
‘It’s kind of you Charles, but I’ve ordered a taxi. For six thirty, would you believe?’
‘You know I’d be happy to take you down there; go with you.’
‘No. We want to take a look at a couple of restaurants in the West End and Docklands. See if they inspire us. There’s a limit to how many times you can do that in a weekend.’
‘So when are you coming home?’
‘Monday.’
‘You’ll put on weight.’
‘Probably.’
I put my arms around her for my customary goodnight kiss. She melted into them but buried her face in my neck.
‘You’re a very thoughtful person, Charles,’ she said as we separated.
I pecked her on the nose. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
Halfway out of the door I hesitated. I wanted to tell her not to go to London. Not to go running to this mysterious millionaire with his grandiose schemes whose spell she’d fallen under. ‘Annabelle, what would you say if I asked you not to go?’
But I didn’t. If I’d asked, and she’d not gone, it would always have been there between us, like an invisible strand of barbed wire with bits of wool dangling where something had blundered into it. I pulled the door shut and strode down her garden path.
I drove straight off, but stopped around the corner at the end of her street. Perhaps I should have said more? Maybe I should go back? But what would I be going back to? Her eyes had been on the edge of tears as we said that last goodnight, and I was scared of the reason. I put the car in gear and drove away, fairly close to them myself.
Darryl Buxton’s Mondeo was in his spot outside the Canalside Mews, but there was no light showing in his apartment. I don’t know what I’d expected. I sat and watched for fifteen minutes but nobody came, nobody went. ‘Go home, Charlie,’ I said to myself. ‘Go home. You shouldn’t be here.’ Common sense got the better of me, for once. I went home.
The ansaphone was beeping. A visit from the mailman used to be a delight as you anticipated the message he’d brought, read the envelope and wondered who it was from. Now, envelopes with windows contain bills or computer-generated claptrap that makes your heart bleed for the rain-forest dweller that your personal consignment has rendered homeless. You scan the pile on the doormat and dump the lot in the bin without a second thought.
Not so the ansaphone. It still has the power to raise a minute thrill of expectancy as you press the replay button. Double glazing companies and charities do not leave junk messages on ansaphones. They know you’re not going to ring them back. And, now of all times, there was the possibility that it was Annabelle …
The electronic lady told me that I had one message. There were the usual bleeps and clicks, followed by a brief silence and the noise of a handset being replaced, breaking the connection. ‘Your message timed at eleven sixteen p.m.,’ the lady told me, which made it about ten minutes ago. I pressed 1471 and she gave me the number for Heckley police station.
