'Marius,' Dorothy said earnestly, 'has always been such a sweet boy, so single-minded in his attentions. I really couldn't begin to tell you all the things he has done for me. ' For a moment, Dorothy paused and dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
'But, I now realise, there are times when he has allowed his1 suppose the only word I can use is devotion his devotion for me to, well, blind his judgement.' She sipped her tea, grimaced in a ladylike way and added just a touch more milk.
'I am sorry, dear.'
Cathy didn't say anything: she couldn't immediately think of anything aside from the scatological and the profane to say. She stared across the table at the older writer instead and, in return, Dorothy Birdwell smiled one of her perfunctory smiles and tipped some more hot water from the metal jug into the teapot.
'Are you telling me,' Cathy finally got out, whispering because she was afraid anything else would be a shout, 'that it was Marius pulled that gross stunt with the rabbit dolled up as a fucking baby? '
It was do good, the whispering hadn't worked; she was shouting now, not quite at the top of her voice, but loud enough to have half the dining room turning round and an assistant manager heading towards them at a fast trot 'Yes,' Dorothy said, head bowed, 'and I'm afraid that is not all. '
'Not all? Not all? Jesus, what's the little creep done now?'
'My dear, I can only assure you, you have my deepest sympathy and apologies.'
'Sympathy? Apologies?' Cathy was on her feet now, stepping back.
'With all due respect, Dorothy, your apologies, my ass!'
'Really, dear, I don't think this kind of a scene…'
'No? Well, I don't give a fuck what you think. What I do give a fuck for is where in sweet hell is your little lap dog Marius?'
'I dismissed him, of course. I'm afraid there was quite a little scene. He was very upset. Very. But in the circumstances, there was no way in which I could change my mind.' Again, she paused.
'I am sorry, dear, believe me.'
'Where,' Cathy said, 'is Marius now? '
'I can only imagine he's gone to the station…'
Train station? He's heading for where? London? Where? '
'Is everything all right?' the assistant manager asked. 'Is there anything I can do?'
'Keep out of my face,' Cathy snapped.
'Manchester,' Dorothy Birdwell said.
'He has a friend, I think, in Manchester.'
'Thanks,' Cathy said, 'for the breakfast. Thanks,' over her shoulder, as she hurried off towards the nearest phone, 'for everything.'
Resnick had just got back to his office, warrant signed and 230 delivered into his hand, when Millington beckoned him towards the phone he was holding.
'Cathy Jordan, for you. Likely wants to know if you've finished her book.'
'Hello,' Resnick said, and then listened. After not too many moments, he asked Cathy to stop, take several deep breaths and start again.
Slowly.
'Right,' he said when she had finished.
'Right. Yes.' And, 'Right.' He passed the receiver back into Millingtbn's hand.
'Graham,' Resnick said, 'get on to the station. Manchester train, I think it's the one comes across from Norwich. Have it stopped. ' He swivelled round to see who was available in the office. ' Lynn, pick up this bloke at the railway station, I'll arrange back-up. Marius Gooding. Late thirties, five seven or eight, shortish hair, dark.
Smart in an old-fashioned kind of way. Maybe a blue blazer. Keep it low key, just ask him in for questioning, that's all. '
'What if he refuses?'
'Arrest him.'
What charge? '
'Threatening behaviour, that'll do. Okay?'
'Right.'
Millington was still talking to the stationmaster; any immediate developments he could handle here. Divine and Naylor had already gone out to relieve Sharon at the house where Marlene Kinoulton had her room. As he left to follow them, Resnick patted his inside pocket, making sure the search warrant was in place.
Forty-one They found: one three-quarter-length coat, navy blue; one leather jacket, hip-length, black, badly scuffed along one sleeve; five skirts, three short, one calf-length, one long; two sweaters; one white, ruffle-front shirt; one black- beaded fishnet top with fringing; eight other assorted tops, including two T-shirts and a blue silk blouse with what looked like blood on one sleeve; one black velvet suit; two pairs of jeans, Levi red tab and Gap denim; three pairs of ski pants, one badly torn, possibly cut; five pairs of ribbed woollen tights; seven pairs of regular tights, one red, one blue, mostly laddered or holed; three pairs of stockings, all black, two with seams; two pairs of cotton socks, off- white; eleven pairs of briefs, two of them crotchless; one black suspender belt; three brassieres; one bus tier one nurse's uniform, badly stained; one school gym slip bottle green.
Two pairs of ankle boots, a brown and a bright red; one pair of black leather lace-up boots, knee-length; two pairs of trainers, Reebok and Adidas; seven pairs of shoes.
Condoms: Durex Featherlite and Elite and Mates liquorice ribbed.
K-Y lubricating jelly, three tubes.
Vaseline.
Body Shop body massage oil.
Cotton buds. Smoker's toothpaste. Safeway frequency wash shampoo. A diaphragm. A pregnancy testing kit, unused. Soap. Boots face cream.
Nail polish, seven different shades. Nail polish remover. One Philips electric 232 razor, lady's model. One set of make-up brushes. Navy eyeliner. Green mascara. Dejoria hand and body lotion. Aloe hair gel. Max Factor Brush- On Satin Blush. Princess Marcella Borghese Pink Marabu Blusher, hot pink. Three kohl pencils. Three bottles of aspirin. One packet of Nurofen. Lipsticks, seven ranging from Coral Reef to Vermilion. Panty liners. One box of tampons, extra absorbency, five remaining.
Perfume. One plastic bottle of Tesco antiseptic mouthwash, peppermint flavour, family size.
Paperback books: Dark Angel by Sally Beauman; The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris; Rosemary Conley's Hip and Thigh Diet, Rosemary's Baby by Ira Levin; Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy.
Assorted copies of Elle, Vanity Fair, She, Cosmopolitan, Fiesta and Men Only.
One video tape of Sex Kittens Go Hawaii.
Kleenex.
An Aiwa radio-cassette player, with a copy of the Eurythmics' Greatest Hits inside. Assorted cassettes by Phil Collins, Chris Rea, Chris de Burgh and Tina Turner.
One medium-size suitcase, a tan handbag, two imitation leather shoulder bags. Inside one of the bags, a purse containing forty-seven pence in change, several used tissues, a torn half-ticket for the Showcase cinema and a strip of four coloured head-and-shoulder photographs of an unsmiling Marlene Kinoulton.
In a drawer, one Coke can, a hole punched through approximately one inch from the end, around which there were signs of burning. Two boxes of matches. A container of aluminium foil.
In a buckled metal dustbin in the back yard, and partly covered by grey-black ashes, several fragments of dark material synthetic mixed with cotton singed, but not burnt.
In the kitchen on the ground floor, somehow stuffed down behind the piece of narrow, laminated board that separated the washing machine from the swing-top rubbish bin, one dark blue, Ralph Lauren, wool and cotton mix sock with a red polo player logo.
On its way to Liverpool, via Manchester, the twin- carriage train stopped at Langley Mill, Alfreton and Mansfield Parkway, Bolsover, Sheffield, Edale and Stock- port. At that moment, it had stopped within sight of the station, small knots of would-be passengers staring along the track towards it, checking their watches, the overhead clock, the monitor screens on which the slightly nickering green lettering announced no delay and clearly lied.
