The Secret Hangman

7

I n his own house with all its memories he was less comfortable about what he had agreed. He hadn’t gone out for a drink with a woman in years, except for police colleagues when there was some work topic to be discussed. If he was going to take the plunge he’d have preferred not to be pulled in. ‘You won’t believe this, Raffles,’ he said as he opened a tin and forked tuna flakes onto the cat’s plate. ‘I’m going for a drink with a woman and I don’t even know her name.’

It wasn’t in his make-up to break a date with a lady, so he showered and thought about what to wear. He decided his daytime suit wasn’t right for this adventure. So what did he have in the wardrobe that was more relaxed and didn’t look as if it came out of a charity shop? Leather jackets had never gone out of fashion and they were safe from moths. He took his off the hanger for the first time in a couple of years and decided it would fit the occasion even if it didn’t fit the body. He wouldn’t button it up. Under it he’d wear a check shirt, jeans and trainers. He looked in the mirror to see if he needed another shave. Stubble was sexy these days, wasn’t it? Man, oh man, you’re acting like a sixteen-year-old, he told himself.

He drove back to the car park where all this had been set in motion and chose a slot at the opposite end from where he’d been before. Early as always, he sat listening to a football commentary without caring who the teams were. At eight thirty he got out and looked across the roofs of the parked cars to see who was about. Nobody he recognised. He locked up and strolled towards the spot where he’d driven over the bags. Sainsbury’s staff had done a good job of clearing up. Just a few bits of eggshell were lodged in a crack in the tarmac. It wasn’t all that long since he’d worked as a trolleyman and dogsbody himself in London, at that low point after he’d resigned from the force. He knew what it was like to be called to a mess with his mop and bucket.

He stood there, whistling quietly.

Ten minutes passed and he was getting reconciled to her not coming. Reconciled? Relieved, really. Sensible woman, she must have decided she’d acted on impulse. Just as he had.

Then a horn sounded behind him and he saw her at the wheel of a silver sports car. ‘I’ll find a space and join you,’ she called out.

He pointed to one in the row behind. She raised a thumb.

‘Nice little run-around,’ he said when she got out.

‘It gets me where I want to be,’ she said. She, too, had decided on a change of clothes, a blue and yellow jacket patterned with chrysanthemums and worn with a terracotta top and white linen slacks. She’d put up her blonde hair with two combs. A musky scent was part of the makeover.

‘We could have that drink right here in the Brasserie,’ he suggested to keep it simple. The Brasserie was part of the old Green Park station complex. It had once been the booking hall and wasn’t a bad place for a drink.

‘Uh-uh,’ she said, wagging her finger and smiling. ‘My treat, remember?’

‘Got somewhere else in mind?’

‘I phoned ahead. It’s not far.’

Phoned ahead? That sounded ominous.

‘You look worried,’ she said. ‘Are you thinking it might rain?’

‘Hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’m Peter Diamond, by the way.’

‘Paloma Kean. And before you ask, the nearest my parents got to Spain was the paso doble at the local Mecca ballroom. They simply liked the sound of Paloma.’

‘So do I. Good taste.’

‘I didn’t think so when I was going through school. I was known as Plum.’

‘Did you mind?’

‘I got used to it. There are worse names.’

She stepped out across James Street with him at her side trying to guess where they were heading. No bar he knew in Bath insisted on advance bookings.

‘We agreed just a drink,’ he reminded her a little way up Charles Street.

‘Why — have you eaten?’

‘No, but I will later.’

In Saw Close they passed the theatre and she stopped next door, at Strada, an Italian restaurant newer and smarter than Tosi’s.

‘You’re not bringing me here?’ he said in concern.

‘Why not? They’ll serve us a drink. I often come here.’

To Diamond, this was unfamiliar territory. For years, it had been Popjoy’s, known for its fine cuisine and high prices. You couldn’t see any of the interior from the street. It had been a private house that had once belonged to Beau Nash, the man who made Bath fashionable in the eighteenth century. They were admitted by a waiter who greeted Paloma as Mrs Kean and showed them to a reserved table in the Georgian sitting room.

She was handed the wine list, and she asked what he would like.

‘Do they stock a low-alcohol lager?’

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Live dangerously. They do a good range of wines.’

‘No, I mean it.’

‘Worried about the drive home?’

‘I’d better come clean with you. I’m in the police. The sure way to put a damper on the evening.’

‘I can’t think why,’ she said without even blinking. ‘You won’t find my name in your files.’

If she wanted some banter, he was up for it. ‘Is that because you’re good, or good at getting away with it?’

‘I leave you to guess.’ She ordered champagne for herself.

‘Now I know why they call you Plum.’

Another waiter approached with the menu.

Diamond started to say, ‘I really didn’t-’

Paloma made a slight downward movement with her hand. ‘It’s my choice.’

He stopped protesting, ordered a mushroom risotto, and then said, ‘I owned up to my job.’

‘And?’

‘I get the impression you also have a career.’

‘In the absence of a sugar daddy? Yes, I’m one of the self-employed. Any guesses?’

Difficult. He didn’t want to cause offence. She had a good income if she was used to eating out. ‘Something artistic?’

‘Only marginally.’

‘Theatrical?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘You write plays.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not creative at all. I have a business supplying illustrated material for the media, pictures of past fashion basically. If someone is writing a piece about Edwardian ball gowns, for example, they look on the internet and find I have hundreds of contemporary pictures they can choose from.’

‘You collected these?’

‘It’s been a lifelong passion. Plum the schoolgirl was filling scrapbooks when she was eleven years old. When I got older I bought from dealers. Now I have the biggest collection in the country, probably in the world. Magazines, newspapers, pattern books. Someone asks for examples and I scan them and send them back in a very short time. The internet has transformed the way it’s done.’

‘And this is mainly as a service to journalists?’

She shook her head. ‘There are all kinds of requests. Film and television costume departments are always wanting ideas. There are classics being filmed all the time. They know they can rely on me for something the rival company hasn’t already used.’

‘What’s your business called?’

‘Once in Vogue.’

‘Cool,’ he said, borrowing from Ingeborg. ‘Do you supply the costumes as well?’

She winced at the idea. ‘Couldn’t possibly. Just the pictures.’

‘You must have an efficient filing system.’

‘I’m well organised. If you really are interested, I could demonstrate. Do you have a computer at home?’

‘Rarely used. It belonged to Steph, my late wife.’

The mention of Steph didn’t throw her at all. ‘Well, if you want to look me up, if you ever want a picture of a Victorian policeman, or a Bow Street runner, click on onceinvogue. com.’

‘I will.’

‘But you must give me a challenge. Surprise me with a really unusual request.’

There was just the hint of playfulness.

‘I’ll try and think of something. Speaking of surprises, you certainly ambushed me with all this,’ he said.

‘Their desserts are good.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass on the dessert.’

‘Don’t run away with the idea that I come here every night,’ she said. ‘I do most of my eating out of packets, same as you, I expect.’

‘Tins, in my case.’

‘Baked beans?’

He grinned. ‘You’ve got me sussed.’ But he wished he hadn’t said it. He wasn’t the helpless man and he didn’t want to give that impression.

‘Was your late wife a cook?’

‘She was good at it. We both went out to work so I did my share with the saucepans.’

‘On the baked bean nights?’

‘Actually I can manage a few other dishes. Cooking is less appealing when you live alone.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Were you married?’

‘Until he traded me in for the new model,’ she said. ‘Once my self-esteem recovered, it was a huge relief to be shot of him.’

‘Kids?’

‘A son, grown up now. Jeremy’s got one of those jobs that didn’t exist until someone thought of it — personal trainer, persuading rich people to use their treadmills. It’s paying well at the moment, but I don’t know if you could call it a career. And you? Do you have any family?’

He shook his head, not choosing to go into the detail of Steph’s gynaecological problems. ‘There’s just Raffles the cat, who allows me to share the same address.’

‘A cat. What sort?’

‘More than one sort, you could say. A tabby, a handsome tabby.’

‘Who considers you his slave?’

He grinned. ‘Have you got one? Sounds to me as if you know all about them.’

‘No longer. I had a black and white called Fritz, a wicked old character who lived to seventeen, and I miss him dreadfully, but it’s too soon to replace him. The birds can visit the garden in safety now.’

‘You have a garden? In the city?’

‘On the outskirts. I live in Lyncombe. We still think of it as our village, even though it was swallowed up by the city council about two hundred years ago. And you? Are you a Bathonian?’

‘I pay the council tax,’ he said. ‘I live in Weston. Don’t know if I can call myself a Bathonian.’

‘If you’re defending us all from villains, I’m sure you can. You’re the first policeman I’ve met on a social basis. That’s the best way to meet one, I suppose. Better than being stopped for speeding.’

He told her he didn’t work in traffic.

‘More of a back-room boy?’

‘Back-seat boy.’ He wasn’t going to volunteer that he was CID.

After the coffee, she said, ‘I’ve enjoyed this, Peter.’

‘You took the words out of my mouth.’

She signalled for the bill. ‘I must get back now and do an hour or so on the internet. My clients expect a quick response.’

He was relieved. She was drawing a line under this evening. She’d saved them both the awkwardness of the invitation home for another coffee or a drink, or whatever. He certainly wasn’t ready for whatever. She wasn’t pressing for a closer relationship and neither was he.

They walked back to Green Park and talked about films they’d seen. As if by mutual consent they’d done enough exchanging personal data. When they reached her car she opened her bag and took out a business card. ‘As I was saying, you can look me up if you’re interested in the agency.’

‘Thanks. I’m not so well organised as you,’ he said. ‘Don’t carry a card.’

‘Now I feel pushy.’

He shook his head. ‘I know when people are pushy, and you’re not.’

She got into her car. ‘Where’s yours?’

He pointed across the car park.

She said, ‘Watch out when you reverse.’

He came out with a line that made him cringe as soon as he’d said it. ‘After tonight no carrier bag is safe.’

She smiled and drove off.