Holly confronts him outright. “You’re lying.”
Bernie looks offended. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t think you have the gear anymore.”
“Maybe we should give him the benefit of the doubt,” says Joe.
Holly looks at him angrily. “Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
She needs the bathroom. She makes her way across the dance floor to the ladies. Joe follows Bernie outside into the whiteness of the afternoon. The pawnbroker holds open the heavy door.
Two paces into the alley, Joe is shoved from behind, driven hard into the wall. Bouncing back, he meets a man who delivers a short sharp punch to his stomach, enough to deny him air and double him over.
Bernie puts his face close. His breath smells of steak-and-kidney pie.
“This is my employee, Mr. Tommy Boyle. He used to box. Now he breaks things for a living. He works in a wrecker’s yard. Bones break easier.”
Bernie takes Joe’s wallet from his coat pocket and checks his driver’s license.
“So tell me, Professor Joseph O’Loughlin of Station Road, Wellow, near Bath, what are you doing with that moist little bint and why is someone so interested in what she stole?”
“What do you mean?”
“Other parties are looking for her-one man in particular. You’re going to tell me why.”
The door opens. Holly emerges, holding something behind her back. She doesn’t seem particularly surprised to see Tommy Boyle.
“Ah, here she is, my little princess,” says Bernie.
Holly raises a short crowbar above her head and brings it down on Tommy’s shoulder, raking down his arm. In a blur of movement, she swings it again, this time connecting just below his right knee. Tommy goes down like a felled tree, groaning and clutching his leg.
“Get up and fight,” says Bernie.
Holly raises it again, aiming at the pawnbroker, but he reels away with his hands in the air like a mime artist in a glass room.
“OK, OK, settle down.”
“She broke my fucking leg,” moans Tommy.
Holly looks at Joe. “Did I hit him too hard?”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Of course it’s her fault!” says Bernie.
“You started it,” says Holly, sounding like a petulant child. “You shouldn’t have lied.”
“You’re a freak!” Bernie spits the words. “I haven’t got your stuff, OK? A guy came and took it. Cleaned me out.”
“What guy?”
“A total nutjob-he didn’t like Jews or women or porn or golf.”
“Golf?”
“That’s not the point. This complete psycho came to see me last Friday; grinning at me like every sentence was a punchline. He wanted to see everything I’d bought from that evil bint.” He points his chin at Holly. “I was six hours locked in a storeroom. I’m lucky the guy didn’t kill me.”
“What was he looking for?” asks Joe.
“Some notebook.”
“Did you report the robbery?”
Bernie hoots sarcastically. “Rozzers would have laughed me out of the station.”
Joe looks at Holly for confirmation.
“He’s telling the truth.”
Bernie lowers his hands and jabs a finger at her, spitting the words. “What have you got me mixed up in?”
Adjusting the side mirror, the Courier keeps Holly Knight in view, marveling at how much anger and energy are contained in her small frame. How brittle she seems, yet strong. How fragile, yet unbreakable. He wants to take this girl in his arms, to feel her ribs against his chest, to cup her delicate throat in his palm and taste the salty ichor of her fear.
Screwing up his eyes to see her better, he congratulates himself. He knew if he waited long enough she’d visit Bernie.
“You shouldn’t park there,” says a voice. An office worker has stepped outside for a cigarette. “The weasels will get you.”
“Weasels?”
“Wardens.”
Short and rather plump, she touches the corners of her mouth as though checking to see that she’s smiling.
“I won’t be staying, but thanks for the tip.”
The woman continues puffing and talking, telling him how many times the wardens have given her parking tickets. Maybe she’s flirting with him. Is she batting her eyelids or blinking away smoke?
“Do you know what you tell a woman with two black eyes?” he asks.
“What?”
“Nothing. She’s already been told twice.”
9
She’s lower today.”
“Lower?”
“Her head is engaged. It means she’s upside down, ready to come out.”
“Does that mean…”
“She’s just ready. It doesn’t mean she’s knocking.”
Elizabeth gazes out of the window of the Merc, feeling Claudia moving inside her, fighting for room in a shrinking world. Her conversation with Mitchell has been replaying in her head. What he said. What she said. He had lied to her. In her overheated imagination it feels like something final, as though he’s broken more than some bond of filial love.
Ruiz parks in a street of white Victorian terraces with iron railing fences and front doors that are set above street level up a dozen stone steps. Lower stairs lead to basement flats where leaves and rubbish have collected against the doors.
Even before they turn into Old Brompton Road, they see flashing lights reflecting from the windows. Police cars have blocked the traffic in both directions and a white, tunnel-like tent covers a doorway.
Gerard Noonan emerges, holding a mobile phone six inches from his mouth and shouting because he’s unwilling to risk brain cancer. Anyone who cuts open dead people must fear myriad ways of dying.
Ruiz tells Elizabeth to go back to the Merc. She doesn’t respond. There is a particular light in her eyes as though she has come to a realization that isn’t obvious to the rest of the world.
On the far side of the road, a constable in a reflective vest is controlling a small crowd behind fluttering police tape. Further along the street, a young woman is sitting in the back of a patrol car. Peroxide hair. Black mascara tears. Ruiz ducks under the tape and walks with purpose towards the crime scene. The constable stops him.
“I’m on the job,” says Ruiz. Although six years retired, he still looks and sounds the part. The constable hesitates and Ruiz strides onwards, veering slightly to the left and disappearing behind the SOCO van. The door of the patrol car is open.
“Are they looking after you?” he asks.
The young woman blinks at him. She’s wearing a crimson blouse, short skirt and angel earrings. There are
