For now, though, he was visiting an old beatnik haunt on Columbus, and the man at the bar in the beret, talking to the frizzy-haired barmaid, looked as if he might have been there since Jack Kerouac’s time. The bar had a high ceiling and an upper balcony, empty at that time of day. A screen behind the bar flashed random surreal images, and the walls were covered with old framed newspaper articles about San Francisco’s history. Banks had walked all the way from Fisherman’s Wharf, through North Beach, with its Italian cafes and wedding-cake houses, and the cold beer was going down nicely.
Los Angeles and his two-day drive up the Pacific Coast Highway were just memories now that he was in San Francisco, near the end of his trip. His thoughts drifted from the book he was reading to that night in the desert, as they often had, to that strange fleeting kiss of happiness. At first it had surprised him that he was a stranger to it, that it was something he barely remembered feeling before, except perhaps once or twice as a child. He had always possessed too restless a nature, and restlessness precludes lasting happiness. He had never stopped to smell the flowers or listen to the ocean. And if he wasn’t restless, he usually felt a kind of vague, mellow sadness punctuated by the occasional eruption of anger or irritation. There had been moments of bliss, of course, but they were infrequent and ephemeral, and he often wondered if such moments could ever be sustainable. Was that the nature of happiness? That it came and went like a breath of desert air? That it was something we might only define by its absence? Or was it just his nature? He would probably never know. And what did it really matter, anyway?
Everything changes. Nothing changes. His revelation was that there was no revelation. To change his life in any significant way he would have to make a leap of faith and accept such new tenets, new versions of the truth, cultivate new patterns of behavior, bow to some authority, even. He would have to believe, and he didn’t think he could do that. He didn’t even think he wanted to.
So he would go on uncomfortably inhabiting his own skin, taking happiness (like that all-so-brief desert breeze) where he could find it, beauty where it revealed itself to him, and try not to dwell too much on his failures and losses. The count was way too high-Kay, Linda, Sandra, Annie, Michelle, Sophia. And if he did get a little maudlin and sentimental once in a while, so be it. He could revel in the lovelorn wisdom of Dylan, Billie Holiday, Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen with the best of them, and drink fine wine or whiskey till he fell asleep on the sofa with finely wrought phrases about life’s sadness and irony, love lost or unrequited ringing in his ears. The rest of the time there were Beethoven, Schubert, Bill Evans, Miles and Trane. And that was about as much revelation and enlightenment as he was likely to get in this lifetime, he decided.
Banks stretched like a cat in the sunlight through the window and drank some Anchor Steam. A cigarette would have gone down nicely, too, but they were a thing of the past now, not just for him, but even for pubs like this. Kerouac and Ginsberg would be turning in their graves. Eastvale seemed light-years away, though Banks realized that he was actually starting to look forward to going home. He didn’t miss the job, but he missed Annie, Winsome, Gristhorpe, Hatchley, even Gervaise and Harry Potter. They were the closest he had to friends outside his parents and Brian and Tracy, whom he also missed. He missed his cottage by the beck and woods, his CDs and DVDs. To hell with Sophia, la belle dame sans merci. Let her grapple with her own demons. He had had enough. Everything comes around.
But before he left for home tomorrow, he had a date with a beautiful, interesting woman called Teresa. He finished his pint and headed out on to Columbus, noticing the sign on the corner: Jack Kerouac Alley. He plugged in his iPod, which played a jaunty live version of The Grateful Dead’s “Scarlet Begonias” from Winterland, 1976, perfect for a beautiful day in San Francisco, then he walked down the hill and bore right, through the lower end of Chinatown, across Union Square toward his hotel.
“CHRIST, WHAT on earth do you lot want this time?” Rose Preston said when she opened the door to let the two men in about an hour after Annie had left. She was just in the middle of watching Holby City, which she did like, and she really didn’t want to be disturbed.
The two men exchanged puzzled glances.
“Sorry,” Rose said. “It’s all right. Come in. I just hope it won’t take long, that’s all.”
“Ah, watching Holby City, I see,” said the tallest of the two. He had big shoulders and a tanned, shiny bald head, whereas his colleague was slight and round-shouldered, with wispy ginger hair and a pale, almost albino, complexion. “I don’t mind that, myself, though it’s a little gruesome for my tastes sometimes. Still, I wish I got to see it more often. But with the hours on this job…Anyway, I’m DS Sandalwood, and this here’s my colleague, DC Watkins. Just pretend he’s not here.”
Sandalwood flashed a warrant card. Rose didn’t even bother to look. She’d seen enough of them over the past two days to last her a lifetime. “What is it this time?” she asked. “Honest, there’s nothing more I can tell you. I’m new here. I don’t really know the other girls.”
“What do you mean, ‘this time’?”
“Well, you can hardly fail to be aware that this isn’t the first visit I’ve had from the police lately, can you? Or don’t you even talk to each other?”
“The lines of communication do get jammed up once in a while, I must admit,” said Sandalwood. As he spoke, Watkins was busy poking around the room, looking under cushions and in the sideboard drawers.
“What’s he doing?” Rose asked.
“Like I said. Don’t mind him. He can’t help himself. Habitual nosey parker. Stands him in good stead in this job sometimes, though, I can tell you. Like a bloodhound. Any chance of a cuppa, love?”
“I’d hoped you wouldn’t be staying long enough.”
Watkins glanced toward Sandalwood from over by the bookcase. “She’s got quite a gob on her, don’t she?” he said. He had a thin, squeaky voice, which reminded Rose of fingernails grating on a blackboard.
“Now, now,” said Sandalwood. “There’s no need to fall out. Why don’t you go and have a good shufti around the rest of the house while the young lady here and I have a little chinwag?”
Watkins grunted and left the room. Rose could hear him climbing the stairs. “What’s he doing?” she said. “He can’t just poke around wherever he wants like that. Where’s your warrant?” Rose made to go after Watkins, but she felt a grip like a circus strongman’s around her upper arm. First it hurt, then her whole arm went numb. “Ow!” she yelled, trying to yank her arm away. “Gerroff!”
But Sandalwood held on and dragged her down into a chair none too gently. “Sit down, young lady,” he said between gritted teeth. “And speak when you’re spoken to.”
It was remarkable how still he remained through all this, Rose thought, not moving a muscle that didn’t need to be moved. She straightened her glasses. “Who are you?” she said. “You’re not police. You’re-”
The blow wasn’t hard, but it was enough to stop Rose in her tracks, and she hadn’t seen it coming. “Shut up,” said Sandalwood, pointing a stubby finger at her. “Just shut the fuck up, or I’ll get DC Watkins back down here and you’ll know what real pain is. He enjoys hurting people, Watkins does. For me it’s just a part of the job.”
Rose didn’t need telling twice. Her arm was beginning to ache, and her cheek stung. She started to cry.
“And you can shut off the waterworks, too,” Sandalwood said. “They won’t get you anywhere with me.”
“What do you want?” Rose instinctively crossed her legs, aware that her skirt had ridden up and she was probably showing far too much thigh.
Sandalwood caught her gesture and laughed. “It’s all right, love,” he said. “Don’t worry. That’s not what we’re after, tempting as it looks.”
Rose flushed and curled her fists tight on her lap. She felt powerless and scared. If she’d had a gun, she would have shot Sandalwood right there and then. She could hear the other one, Watkins, moving about upstairs. He was in her room now, going through her things, and the thought made her flesh crawl.
“A couple of simple questions. Straight answers from you and we’re gone,” said Sandalwood. “Deal?”
Rose said nothing, just started down at her fists, watching her knuckles turning white.
“Deal?” Sandalwood said again.
Rose nodded. All she wanted was for them to be gone. The doctors were working desperately over a bloody patient in Holby City. Suddenly it didn’t seem as exciting as it once had.
“Where’s Erin Doyle?”
“You must know,” said Rose. “It’s been on telly and in all the papers. She’s in Eastvale. Probably in jail now.”
Sandalwood nodded encouragingly, as if the question had been a test and Rose had managed to pass. “Do you know a bloke called Jaff? Paki bastard.”
“I’ve met him a few times.”
