Rhinoceros

'I know. But 'e made it sound more like a person. Which I thought was strange. I s'pose that's why it stuck in my mind.'

***

Wendover left the pub, headed for Reefers Wharf. On his way he went into a phone box, one of the old red boxlike types, which he preferred to the new modernistic horrors. Newman answered the phone.

'Mark here, Bob. Ever heard of a guy called Rhinoceros?'

'Where did you hear that name?'

Newman's tone was sharp. At least, thought Mark, I now know it is someone's name. He asked to speak to Tweed. Always talk to the top man, or as high as you can go, had been Wendover's experience.

'He's not here. He's away on a trip. Don't know when he'll be back. Now, once again, where did you hear that name? And where the hell are you? With this outfit you work as a member of a team…'

Newman was talking into nothing. Mark had broken the connection. He'd try to get hold of Tweed later. At the moment he wanted to explore Reefers Wharf. He paused at the entrance to a very wide street leading towards the distant river.

There were very large five-storey buildings with the fifth storey in the sloping roof. The buildings furthest away had a modern look, renovated by a so-called architect in a feeble attempt to preserve the original warehouses' appearance. They had large opaque blue-glass windows you couldn't see through. They reminded Wendover vaguely of a miniature version of Park Avenue in New York.

The buildings closest to him had not been touched. They were still the warehouses that had stood there for heaven knew how many years. Their walls of slatted wood had a decrepit look, as though uninhabited. The dormer windows perched on the sloping fifth floor looked as though at any moment they might slide into the street.

He walked a short distance down the street, paused. The sun had come out, was a blinding glare on the buildings, but on his side of the street were dark shadows, alleys leading off, very narrow, cobbled and twisting. Then he saw Delgado.

The giant, holding a bottle in one hand by its neck, was walking unsteadily towards him on the sunny side. Wendover slipped into the shadows of an alley, peered out. Delgado had passed the renovated buildings, which Wendover could now see were occupied by companies, was strolling past the old warehouses.

A single-decker bus came crawling along the street, hiding Delgado from view. When it was near the top of the street Mark could no longer see Delgado. He had vanished into one of the old warehouses. But which one? It could have been any one of four. He went back to The Hangman's Noose, told Herb what had happened.

'I'll have to hang around here until I spot him again. Maybe for days. Know anywhere I can get get a room?'

'Here. Upstairs. The one I gave Lisa, the attractive girl I saw you with during the riots. A taxi arrived this morning to collect her case.' Herb looked at the American. Tall, fair-haired, with a large body to match. But it was the clothes Herb was looking at. 'Hope you don't mind me sayin' so – but you're too smartly dressed to mooch around here for days. You stand out from the crowd. There's a shop just down the road called Wingers. They'd have the kit you need.'

'Thanks. I'll go there now…'

He returned later, holding a carrier bag with his new suit inside. Herb looked at his new get-up approvingly. Mark was clad in a shabby camouflage jacket, well-worn denims, a Para's discarded red beret on his head.

'You'll do. I'll show you the room…'

Marler had found the flat where Helga Trent had been murdered. It had not been difficult. Police tape still cordoned off the building and on the first floor he noted two bullet holes in a window.

Earlier, carrying a hold-all, he had found a 'hotel' – no more than a boarding house – but it had a small bar. It also had a vacant room which he'd taken.

Now, just before dusk, he stepped over the tape, rang the bell of the flat. A middle-aged woman with a disagreeable expression and suspicious eyes opened the door, stood in the entrance like a guardian, beefy arms folded.

'Are you the landlady?' Marler enquired.

'I'm the owner, if that's anything to do with you.'

'I'm a friend of the late Helga Trent.' Marler smiled and when he did so the opposite sex usually took to him. 'I would very much appreciate it if we could have a few minutes' chat about her…'

'You're another bloody reporter. I can smell them a mile off.'

'No, I'm not. Just a few minutes of-'

'Go jump off Beachy Head.'

She slammed the door in his face. He heard her bolt and lock it. Marler decided he wasn't going to get far with this paragon of the female species. He went back to his hotel and into the bar. Officially he was a solar-energy salesman. He didn't think he would run into anyone else in that line of business.

A peroxide blonde wearing a miniskirt sat on a stool next to him. She lit a cigarette, looked him up and down.

'Care to buy me a drink, darling?'

'You live round here?'

'I might.'

'I don't think you do.'

'Bloody well drink on your own.'

She got off her stool, walked away swinging her hips, then out of the front door. Marler was trying to contact someone who knew the area.

He had to wait five days before he struck lucky. It was dark outside when a big man in a shabby suit walked in as though he owned the place, sat on a stool. He shouted his order at the girl behind the bar.

'Double Scotch. Neat. No muckin' about.'

'Coming up now, Mr Barton.'

'You seen anythin' of that girl with the long red hair I asked you about last night? Slim, good figure, a real looker.'

'No,' the girl said as she served the drink. 'She hasn't come in here.'

I'll pay for that drink,' Marler said suddenly.

He moved to the stool next to Mr Barton, noticed he had very large hands with hair growing on their backs. Lifting his glass, Barton turned to study Marler with hostile eyes. The girl had moved to the far end of the counter, now Marler had given her the money for the drink.

'An attractive girl with long red hair,' Marler whispered. I'm looking for her too. I'll pay for information. What do you know about her?'

'Let's go outside,' the big man suggested. 'Walls 'ave ears 'ere. ..'

It seemed very dark outside. The street was ill-lit. They came to a corner, walked round it. Barton was gradually dropping behind Marler. Out of nowhere a youth on a skateboard was speeding towards them. Marler felt something hard and round rammed into his back.

'This is a gun,' Barton growled menacingly. 'So you tell me what you know about the red-haired tart…'

A car backfired. The youth glanced back over his shoulder, wasn't looking where he was going, cannoned into Marler who twisted his body as he was hurled back against Barton. He stamped his foot down with great force on Barton's foot. The big man dropped his gun, limped, groaned. Marler stooped swiftly, picked up the gun. It was a. 455 Colt automatic. From its weight Marler knew it was loaded, with seven rounds probably. Charming. Barton, still limping, yelled out the words.

'Come an' 'elp me, Skinny…'

Marler slammed his attacker across the jaw with the barrel of the Colt. Off balance, the big man tumbled down the steps into an area below street level, hit his skull against a brick wall, sagged down, moaning. Marler switched his gaze to the small lean streak of a thug charging across from the opposite side of the street. In his right hand he gripped a flick knife, the murderous blade exposed. Marler waited until he was close, on the pavement, looked behind him, called out.

'Take him, Larry…'