sprawled out on the untrodden pile of the midnight-blue carpet in the drawing room, reading for hours on end, minded by a slow-witted nurse, waiting for her parents to return home. She remembered exploring the floors above, creeping about as if any minute now her parents would discover the scruffy cuckoo in their midst and throw her into the street. But of course there had been times when they fussed and fawned over her, Gwen especially – and finally Jerry had come to understand.
Jerry was the final piece in the creation of her mother’s image. She was there to help Gwen show a caring side to the world. Gwen’s friends gathered to watch in warm indulgence as mother and daughter played happily together. Look at them, they seemed to say, what a perfect, loving mother she is. How does she manage it with all of her charity commitments?
“Hey, fancy meeting you here.”
She turned in her seat and looked up.
“Remember me?” said Joseph Herrick, smiling slyly. “I mean, how could you forget?”
Jerry was stumped for a reply. She was suddenly thankful that Gwen had left.
“You’re the receptionist at the Savoy, right? As I’m staying at your place, so to speak, I just wanted to thank you for your hospitality. Do many guests drop dead in your foyer? Is this some kind of regular occurrence I should know about?” He lowered himself into the opposite seat and set down his coffee cup without waiting to be asked. He seemed to be wearing some kind of leather biker’s outfit more suited to a science-fiction convention than the NFT cafeteria. His dreadlocked hair was an odd look, but suited him.
“Actually, that was the first corpse this week.”
“I heard you found him. I’m sorry.”
She smiled uncomfortably, not really wanting to talk about it. The true effect of the death was impossible to share. “How do you like the Savoy?”
“Well, I’d have chosen something a little closer to the street, if you know what I mean, but it’s cool. I can’t believe what you charge for a coffee. I’m glad I’m not paying the bill.”
“So you’re here on business.” She watched as Joseph emptied four packs of sugar into his coffee. He was a little older than she had first thought, twenty-five or thereabouts.
“I’m preparing to start work on a show, set designing. This is my first big commission. They put me in the Savoy while we’re meeting with the backers. You’ve got a bunch of Japanese guys checking in tomorrow. They’re the ones putting up the money. Tasaka Corporation. Their boss is a man called Kaneto Miyagawa. In Japan he’s considered to be a great patron of the arts, and now he’s coming to London. That’s why I’m here tonight.” He pulled a National Theatre brochure from his jacket pocket. “I’m seeing a production at the Cottesloe. It’s supposed to be kinda lousy, but the sets are good. Big dreams on a tight budget. How about you?”
“I was having coffee with an old school friend.” Thanks to her sessions with Wayland, lying came easy.
“Listen, you want to come with me? They sent me loads of spare tickets.”
She laughed nervously. “I couldn’t, not tonight.”
“Why not? If it’s that bad we can leave. I’m alone and friendless in a strange land, many thousands of miles from home.”
“Don’t push it. Where are you from, anyway?”
“San Diego. I’m the only black guy ever to take theatre design there. I figured it would get me to Europe, and it did. Ten countries in eight days, package tour. I cannot recommend it. You want to come with me to the play?”
After trying to think of a way to turn him down, she realized that there was no reason at all why she should. She knew she should try to set aside the memory of Nicholas pawing at her.
“So, what’s your name? If you don’t tell me, I’ll have to try and guess, and that’ll embarrass both of us.” He studied her face with such an earnest expression that she gave in gracefully.
“Jerry,” she said, holding out her hand.
“Jerry, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Is that short for Geraldine?”
“Damn,” she said. “Just when we were getting off on the right foot.”
“How about I never call you that again?”
“How about that.”
So they went to the theatre.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
7
Detonation
“My foot’s gone to sleep,” complained Bryant, stamping experimentally on the pavement. For the past hour they had been standing in the mistshrouded garden beside their suspect’s house. “Nearly eleven p.m. I wish he’d hurry up. I have to say you’re not much company.”
“I needn’t have come at all,” May pointed out. “This isn’t my case.”
“Yes, I suppose stakeouts are a bit beneath you these days. I like to keep my hand in. Look at this fog. The damp gets right into your bones. It’s doing my chest no good at all. I’ll need a vapour bath.” Bryant pulled down his scarf and peered over the sodden hedge. Dew had formed on his bald head and ears. He resembled a minor Tolkien character.
“You’re getting old before your time,” warned May. “I can’t imagine what you’ll be like in your eighties.”
“I’m ageing gracefully, which means not trying to look like a member of Concrete Blimp.”
“I assume you mean Led Zeppelin. Can you hear someone coming?”
A figure solidified from the surrounding haze. Bryant felt a chill as he recognized the whiskers, cape, and cane. Brass-heeled shoes clipped loudly on the street’s sloping pavement. May tapped his partner on the arm and the two detectives stepped in front of the garden gate. Their quarry drew up before them, his eyes staring angrily beneath bushy brows. There was an overwhelming sense of the past about him, from the heavy cut of his clothes to the sharp smell of rolling tobacco that hung over him. It was as if the man had stepped through the fabric of time.
“Mr William Whitstable?”
“Would that it were not.”
May unfolded his wallet and held it aloft. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about an incident which occurred at the National Gallery…”
“That was indeed my doing, but it remains no damned business of yours, Sir.” Whitstable’s hand tightened around the head of his cane.
“The destruction of a painting on loan to the nation is reason enough to make it our business,” said Bryant angrily, “and to apply the full penalty of the law.”
The figure seemed to fall back a little. When he spoke again his voice was tempered with reason. “My sympathy lies with Mr Waterhouse and with no other.
Whitstable was starting to back away, one boot sliding behind the other. May moved forward, wary of the cane. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Why this painting?”
“How would any other do?” cried Whitstable. “I made it known that our ranks are broken. They think they can get away with behaving as they please, but as God is my witness I’ll owe no further allegiance, and be gulled no more.”
Suddenly he raised the cane and struck out, catching Bryant hard on the arm. Then he turned and fled into the fog.
“I’m all right,” gasped Bryant, falling back against the garden wall. “Go after him, quickly.”
May soon gained on his quarry, but the night and the fog had settled in a concealing shroud across the brow of the hill. For a moment he glimpsed a figure darting beneath sodium lamplight, then it was gone, the click of boot heels lingering in the murky air.
“Are you all right?” asked May, returning to his partner and examining his arm.
“Of course not,” complained Bryant, hauling back his coat sleeve and checking for bruises. “I’ve had a nasty shock. I need a cherry brandy.”
