Cold Light

Twenty

Dana had spent the first hour that morning sorting out her room, tidying away things she’d long forgotten existed. By the time that particular task was over she had filled four plastic bin bags with clothes, three of which would be passed on either to Oxfam or Cancer Research, the other-mostly things which were too worn, too soiled, or simply beyond repair-she would put out for the bin men.

That done, she defrosted the freezer, cleaned the cooker-the surface, not the oven, she wasn’t that much in need of distraction-wiped round the bath. She was on her knees, rubbing a Jif-laden J-cloth around the inside of the toilet bowl when she remembered a scene from a film she’d seen recently: a young woman-that actress, the one from Single White Female, not her, the other one-giving the inside of the lavatory bowl a shine with the blue T-shirt some man had left behind.

What she would have liked to have done with Andrew Clarke was push his head down till his nose reached the U-bend and hold him there while she flushed the chain.

What she might do, Dana thought, up on her feet with a new spring to her step, was sue the bastard for sexual harassment in the workplace. See what that did for his senior partnership, his place in the country, his snazzy little sports car.

She switched on the radio, a few minutes of Suede and she clicked it back off; fumbling through her tapes for Rod Stewart, she hesitated over Eric Clapton or Dire Straits, finally found what she was looking for inside the cassette box labeled Elton John. This was more like it. Old Rod. “Maggie May”; “Hot legs.” Forget the new haircut, remember the bum. Listlessly she flicked through the pages of Vanity Fair. One more thing, sort through the drawers of her dressing table, and then she’d get out to the shops, buy herself something she didn’t really need in the sales.

Her mood lasted as long as finding one of Nancy’s earrings jumbled amongst her own: it came back to her then like cold wind, chilling her where she stood; she didn’t think she would ever see Nancy again.

Kevin Naylor had taken the call from the hospital, listened a moment, before holding out the receiver towards Divine. “For you.”

“This is Staff Nurse Bruton, it’s about Mr. Raju.”

Poor sod’s bought it, Divine thought.

“He’s been making a good recovery, and he’s certainly well enough now to be able to talk to you.”

“Well,” Divine said, “the thing is, something big’s come up here, this woman that’s gone missing, and I really don’t know …”

“He could have died,” Lesley Bruton said.

“Sorry?”

“Mr. Raju, what those youths did to him, he could have died.”

“I know, I’m sorry and …”

“And it doesn’t matter?”

“Look, I should have thought you’d have been pleased. I mean, this is a woman this has happened to and …”

“And this is only an Asian man.”

Oh, Christ, Divine thought, here we go.

“I’ll tell him you’re too busy, then, shall I?”

“No,” Divine said.

“Perhaps you could send somebody else?”

“No, it’s okay …” Looking at his watch, “… I could be there in forty minutes, give or take. How’d that be?”

“If he has a relapse,” Lesley Bruton said, “I’ll try to let you know.”

The queue just to get into Next was right across the pavement outside Yates’s and curled, four-deep, around the corner and up Market Street as high as Guava Records. Warehouse was hip to hip with customers eager for the twenty-five to fifty percent markdowns and Monsoon was crammed with well-bred women over thirty-five wearing what they’d bought at last year’s sale.

Dana walked up past the futon shop into Hockley and considered treating herself to lunch in Sonny’s; discretion sent her down Goose Gate to Browne’s Wine Bar, a glass of dry house white and a chicken salad baguette. One glass became two and then three and from there it was a short, less than steady walk to the architects’ office where she worked.

“Closed till January 3rd,” read the card in neat black italic calligraphy taped to the center of the door.

She had the keys in her bag.

For a while, she wandered from room to room, past the drawing boards and the intricately made models and into the library where she worked amidst carefully cross-catalogued collections of slides and plans.

She walked back to Andrew Clarke’s office. Only gradually, sitting on the corner of his matt-black executive desk, toying with the lipstick she had bought that morning at Debenhams, did the idea form, in Moroccan Scarlet, in her mind.

For all that Raju was out of the woods, Divine thought, he still had one hell of a lot of British taxpayers’ money hooked up to him, one way and another. It was all he could do to maneuver a place to park his chair amongst all those stands and tubes and dials.

But old Raju, now he was propped up and looking perky, he came up with the goods as far as descriptions were concerned. One of the youths, the one who had done all the talking, the one who’d tapped on his window for him to stop, he had a small scar, the shape of a half-moon, there, underneath his right eye. And fair hair. Very, very fair. Divine knew full well none of the other witnesses had said anything about fair hair.

“You’re positive,” he said, “about the hair?”

“Oh, yes. Indeed.”

More than likely, the bugger’s still a bit delirious, Divine thought.

The second youth, the one who had hit him from behind, Raju was sure that he had several tattoos along his arms. Some kind of strange creature on one of them, a serpent maybe, something like that. Someone on a horse. A knight? Yes, he supposed that was right. And a Union Jack. No confusion about that. But left arm or right-no, sorry, he couldn’t say.

“Age?” Divine asked.

“The age you would expect. Young men. Sixteen or seventeen.”

“No older?”

Raju shook his head and the movement made him draw a sharp breath. “A year or two, perhaps. No more.”

Divine closed his notebook and eased back his chair.

“You will be able to catch them now?”

“Oh, yes. Now we’re armed with this. Two shakes of a dog’s tail.”

Leaning back against his pillows, Raju, smiling, closed his eyes.

Lesley Bruton was talking into the telephone at the nurses’ station and Divine had to bide his time until she was through. “Thanks a lot,” he said. “Raju, there. Tipping me the wink.”

She looked back at him, saying nothing, waiting.

“Look,” Divine said, “I was thinking. You wouldn’t fancy coming out for a drink sometime?”

“This is,” Lesley Bruton said, “some kind of a joke? Right?” And she brushed past Divine so close he had to step out of the way; it was three-fifteen and she had an enema to organize.

“Have you got a solicitor, Mr. Hidden?” Graham Millington asked.

They were in the corridor outside the interview room. After his second session, Robin had been decidedly shaky and they had suggested he walk up and down for a bit, make sure the windows were open, get some fresh air. Voices rose and fell along the stairways at either end. Someone’s personal radio flared to life, overloud. Behind doors, the muted clamor of telephones.

“No, why? I don’t see …”

“It might be as well if you contacted one. If there isn’t anyone you know personally, there’s a list we can provide.”

Robin Hidden stared into the sergeant’s face, the brown, unblinking eyes, curl of the mouth beneath a moustache so perfect it could have been a fake.

“I thought once I’d answered all of your questions, it would be all right for me to leave,” he said.

The mouth widened to a smile. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, Mr. Hidden. Not quite yet. Not now.”