jeopardize her cleaning contract.
“Did I say that, Mr Lawrence?” She turned to Albert. “Did I say I wanted her back?”
Albert, crouching almost, shook his head. Dandruff took off. The air was still unsettled by the waving umbrella. The layers of smoke spiralled this way and that.
She turned to Sid the Nerve. “And you?”
Nervous Sid said, “I didn't hear you say that.”
“There you are, then. What’s all this about? How could I know she was learning to paint the pictures? You didn't tell me that. I thought she was in them filthy pictures!”
“No. Good Lord, no. I wouldn't have her in the paintings, Mrs Puzey.”
“And why not? Are you telling me my little girl isn't good enough to be in them pictures, just because she's black? Is that what you're telling me?”
She turned to Albert again. “Did he say that? Did he?”
Albert beamed and nodded. “It sounded like it.”
She turned back to Mr Lawrence and said, “I take you to Race Relations.” She stormed to the door, muttering.
Mr Lawrence wiped perspiration from his forehead. Sid shook a large drink and some of it made his lips.
Roger said, “Bloody hell.”
The salesman said, “Now, that is madness and not insanity. You see the difference?”
With no little endeavour Roger gained a little composure and addressed Mr Lawrence. “Mr Lawrence,” he said. “You might think that on account that I have a couple of South African wines on my wine list, that this place resembles that place in South Africa where Michael Caine beat off the Zulus, but you would be mistaken. You might think that VCs are easily earned in here. But you would be mistaken. If I have any more trouble with the Zulus or anyone resembling a Zulu, then you are banned along with Liverpool supporters and the singing of Ferry Across The Mersey.”
Mr Lawrence thought about an appeal but instead shook a defeated head. er pants.
The mannequin in his shop window was different. She looked a little shop-worn. A few black strands sprouted from her panty line. Mr Lawrence thought he was seeing things and put it down to the drinks in The British and the cold night air.
Susan, the freckle-faced girl from the art class, looked worried when she walked into the shop shortly after it opened. It was drizzling and her fawn-coloured raincoat was freckled too. With her was a muscular man in jeans and dust-covered T-shirt. He looked like a builder. She looked worried and he looked angry.
“Mr Lawrence, you haven't seen Sandra, have you?”
“Not since the class, my dear. Why?”
“Sandra never came home.”
“My goodness. Have you seen her, Paul?”
From behind the counter Paul shook his head.
The man said, “Come on, we're wasting time.”
Susan explained, “This is Sandra's husband.”
Mr Lawrence thought about shaking hands. Instead he shook his head and offered them a grave expression.
Sandra's husband said, “We'll have to report it to the police.” Paul grimaced. “The police?”
“Got to. She's pregnant, you know?”
Mr Lawrence put in, “No, I didn't know until Paul told me, yesterday.”
All faces turned to Paul who shrugged, “She must have said.” “Bloody worry that is. I've had to take time off work. Don't get paid for it. And my dinner wasn't cooked three nights running.” The man shook his angry head. Leaning closer he took them into his confidence and said in a whisper, “Last night was steak-and-chips night. I ended up with Chinese – all that fucking salt. What do you think of that?” “Not good. Between you and me I’ve been worried about the Chinese for some time. But what about Sandra? You've left it this long?” Mr Lawrence raised his eyebrows.
Sandra’s husband stepped back from the perceived rebuke. “I thought she might have gone to her mum's.”
“Does she often do that?”
“Only on Saturday afternoons when she takes the kids. I meet her there, after the racing. We all go for tea. Always have. Isn’t that right, Sue?”
Susan nodded.
“It’s not much,” he said gloomily. “Always the same – ham and salad, and the bread’s always stale.”
Susan turned to the door and said, “C’mon, you’re right. We’re wasting time.”
Mr Lawrence wondered whether women with freckles knew just how attractive they looked. He asked, “The last time you saw her, was it at the studio?”
They turned back from the door. Susan's eyes filled up as she nodded. “I was meeting my husband. I left early, remember?” “I do, yes. Now I remember. You didn't clean your brushes. I've told you about that before.”
Once they had gone Paul sidled across, a sideways crab-like movement. He picked up a duster and began dab-dabbing. It wasn't necessary. Mrs Puzey and her gang left the shop spotless. His mind was clearly on other things.
“I'm worried. I don't mind telling you. Things seem to be ganging up on me.”
“Nothing's as bad as it seems.”
“But if Sandra's missing.”
“That's not a problem. We've got a waiting list for the club.” He shook his head. “That's not what I meant. The police will be back, Mr Lawrence. The police! What about the gear, the gear?” “Oh, don't worry about that. They won't be looking for stolen property. Not now. They'll be looking for Sandra. You don't have a problem.”
“I do have a problem. Friday is coming.”
“Oh yes, your gentleman friend.”
“He's not so gentle.”
“You're right. I can still see the fist marks from his last caress.” “And on Friday he's coming back.”
“I told you before that I will think of something. Don't you worry about that either.”
Paul nodded, more confident in the knowledge that Mr Lawrence had not forgotten him.
“Now go and make some tea, and take a cup into Laura. She came in very late last night.”
Paul tut-tutted the idea. “That girl will get herself into trouble one of these days.”
“I think she's on the pill.”
“I didn't mean that, Mr Lawrence. I meant that she'll meet some nutter. A real…nutter!”
“No. She's very choosy. She doesn't sleep around. Or stand around either, come to that.”
“I don't know. There's an awful lot of nutters out there.”
“So long as they're not in here. That's all that really matters.” “By the way, Mr Lawrence, I heard the cats again last night and they were crying again, like before.”
“Yes, something must have upset them.”
While the kettle boiled, Paul went back to his room and carefully, so they wouldn't crease, he replaced the baby-growers on the hangars and placed them in the wardrobe. They'd been left in a pile on his floor.
Chapter 24
Cole dreamt of the past. He had arrived home late to find his wife with suitcases pulling on her arms. She was ready to go out. “I’m leaving you,” she had said. He discovered later that she was leaving him for someone else and that his occupation was only a part of it. Morning broke with winter sun slanting in through the slightly parted curtains. Donna Fitzgerald blinked awake and once again recognized the strange surroundings of Rick Cole's bedroom and said, “Oh shit!” She grabbed at the bedside cabinet for the time.
Breakfast TV led with a press conference given by Chief
