'Good,' Resnick said.
'Thanks. I'll send Divine round to relieve you first thing. Meantime, I'll chase up a warrant. See what she's got in there, worth keeping a lock on.'
In the front room, Norman Mann took a swallow at the can of lager he'd popped open and set it back down with a grimace.
'What you^ re scrounging off the DSS, ought to be able to afford better than that.'
Reaching round, he switched the TV set back on.
'Thanks, lads. Thanks for inviting us into your home.'
Cathy Jordan woke early, with the creamy taste of another late-night supper still rich in her mouth. She lay without moving, aware of Frank's absence, accepting it without surprise. They had tried, in the time they had been together, handling her enforced absences, these trips to the conventions and booksellers of the world, in a number of ways. At root, however, there were two alternatives: he went with her or he stayed home. Cathy liked to claim she left the choice to him.
If Frank waved her off at the airport with a hug and a kiss and a see-you-in-six-weeks, within days he would be calling her erratically around the clock, unable to settle; and she would return to smiles and flowers and rum ours of drunken nights and drunken days and always there would be messages from women Cathy had never previously heard of, backing up on the answering machine.
Or he travelled with her, bemoaning the cappuccinos and gymnasia of the free world; frequently bored, listless, quick to take offence and give it. And there were mornings like this, Cathy waking to one side of the bed, the other un slept in and unsullied, and later, around lunchtime, Frank would reappear, without explanation, his expression daring her to ask. Which at first she had, and, of course, he had lied; or she had made assumptions, right or wrong, and he had responded with counter accusation and attack. It was after one of these, she had finally said,
'Frank, I don't give a flying fuck what you do or who you do it to, but if I ever contract as much as the tiniest vaginal wart as a result of your fooling around, I will never -and I mean, never speak to you again.'
Sniping aside, not a great many words had been exchanged on the subject since.
Cathy sat up and surprised herself by not wincing when her feet made contact with the hotel carpet. It had been past midnight when Curtis Wooife had insisted on buying several bottles of champagne and then doctoring everyone's glass with four-star brandy. For the umpteenth time he proposed a toast to David Tyrell and thanked him for, as he put it, restoring his life's work to the light of a new day. It didn't seem as if Curds was going to be a recluse any longer. Amongst the other rum ours which abounded was one that he had been asked to film Elmore Leonard's non-crime novel Touch, with Johnny Depp as Juvenal, the beautiful healer, bleeding from five stigmata on prime time television and Winona Ryder as the record promoter who falls in love with him.
Cathy, who to date had fielded approaches, official and unofficial, from Kim Basinger, Sharon Stone, Amanda Donohoe, Melanie Griffith, Phoebe Cates, Jamie Lee Curtis, Michelle Pfeiffer, Bridget Fonda and Jennifer Jason Leigh to play Annie Q. Jones, had leaned across and warned Curtis not to hold his breath. In most cases, it was far better to bank the option fee and pray no one ever got around to making the movie.
She was about to get into the shower when the phone rang and she lost her footing to the sudden thought that it was someone calling with the news that something had happened to Frank. Something bad. The skin along her arms pricked cold as she lifted the receiver. Frank, out on the town in a town where men where getting stabbed and worse.
It wasn't Frank, or anything about him; it was Dorothy Birdwell, asking if Cathy would consider joining her for breakfast 226 Cathy drew breath.
'Sure, Dorothy. Why not?' And she returned to the shower, relieved, surprised, wondering if there was a certain British etiquette to these occasions she was supposed to observe.
Skelton and his wife were making brittle conversation over the toast and marmalade. Frank Carlucci had not been the only person to stay out all night unannounced. At a little after seven, Kate had phoned from Newark and said she was sorry, but she'd got stuck, missed the last train, missed the bus, there'd been some confusion and she'd missed her lift; it had been all right, though, she'd been able to stay with friends. She hoped they hadn't been too worried. Why, Skelton had asked, his temper conspicuously under wraps, had she not called to tell them this earlier, before the worrying had begun?
Kate's explanation had been too complicated and devious to believe or follow.
'What on earth was she doing in Newark in the first place?' Alice had demanded, tightening the belt to her dressing gown.
Skelton had shaken his head; aside from a vague idea that they sold antiques, he had never been certain what people did in Newark anyway.
'What time did she say she would be back?' Alice asked.
'She didn't.'
He had been pouring another cup of rather tired tea, when the doorbell sounded.
'There she is now,' said Alice.
'And she's forgotten her key.'
But it was Resnick, braving another episode of happy families in order to persuade Skelton to apply for a search warrant for the end terrace in Harcourt Road.
'The whole house?' Skelton asked, when he had listened to Resnick's explanations.
'Might as well. While we're about it' While Cathy Jordan's breakfast was heavy on the grains and fruit, heavy on the coffee, Dorothy Birdweu's order, carefully enunciated, was for one poached egg ' And that's poached, mind, properly poached, not steamed' – on dry whole meal toast and a pot of Assam tea.
'Cathy,' Dorothy Birdwell said, once her egg had been delivered (a poor, shrivelled thing, in Cathy's opinion) to the table.
'I may call you Cathy, may I?'
'Sure, Dottie. That's fine.' She could tell Dorothy didn't like that, but the older woman took it in her stride.
'You know, dear, I am not the greatest fan of the kind of thing that you write.'
'Dorothy, I know.'
'In fact, I would go so far as to say, in a way I find it quite pernicious. I mean, this may be old-fashioned of me, I'm sure that it is, but I do think there are certain standards we have a moral obligation to maintain.'
'Standards?' Great, Cathy thought she's invited me down to receive a lecture, a grande-dame rap across the knuckles.
'Yes, dear. A certain morality.'
Cathy speared a prune.
'Let me get this straight. Are we talking sex here?'
'My dear, you mustn't think me a prude. Sex is fine, in its place, I'm sure we would both agree to that.' (We would? Cathy thought, surprised.) 'But its most intimate details, well, I don't think we need to have those spelled out for us, you see. Not in all their personal intricacies, at least And the violence we most certainly inflict upon one another, if I wish to learn of that, I can always read the newspaper though, of course, I prefer not to1 do not wish to find myself confronting it inside an otherwise charming work of entertainment You do see my point dear?' in polite company, Cathy wondered, what did you do with a pmne stone?
Spit it out into your hand, or push it under your tongue and risk being accused of speaking with your mouth full. Either way, it didn't matter. Dorothy's question had been rhetorical.
'But I do want to say that I think the way those ghastly women have been ganging up on you is perfectly dreadful. And in no way could I ever bring myself to support their actions.' She fluttered her hands above the remains of her poached egg.
'That silly business with the paint.'
Cathy nodded.
'To say nothing of the rabbit.'
Dorothy inclined her head forward.
'Yes, dear. It was about that I most particularly wanted to talk.'
'You did?' The antennae in Cathy's brain were beginning to stand up and point, but she couldn't yet tell in which direction. She set down her spoon and fork and waited.
