The Business Of Dying

Carla hadn't arrived, so I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Pride from a guy with a bolt through his nose and a beard that was close to a foot long. He gave me a bit of a funny look like I'd come dressed as a Doctor Who villain, but he was efficient, and that's always the most important trait for any barman. I paid for my drink and stood close to the door so that I could see Carla when she made her entrance.

I didn't feel particularly comfortable in there, and in a way that said something about her and me. She knew we were never going to be an item; it was me who found it difficult to accept. But accept it I was going to have to do. From tomorrow I was on the run. I had a false passport in my possession which I'd got from one of Len Runnion's contacts a few months back. It had been an insurance policy after a CIB investigation into a couple of ex-colleagues at the station had given me a case of cold feet. It was a good one, too. I'd grown a ten-day beard and put on some glasses for the photograph and it looked very unlike me. But I wasn't going to be able to use it yet. There'd be an all-ports alert out for me as soon as I broke cover, which would mean me having to lie low for a couple of weeks until the fuss had died down. Maybe I'd drive down to Cornwall or up to Scotland, somewhere a bit isolated. Not for the first time that day, I experienced a strangely exhilarating feeling of apprehension.

I was vaguely amused to see that the first act up was Norman 'Zeke' Drayer, a.k.a., apparently, the 'Bard of Somers Town'. Norman was dressed in a Lincoln green jacket with tassles that looked as though it was made of felt, a pair of cricket whites, and knee-length black boots. Thankfully, he didn't have a hat with a feather in it on his head, or he'd have been a dead ringer for Robin Hood.

He danced onto the stage to polite applause and immediately opened up with a bawdy ballad about a buxom country girl called Annie McSilk and the difficulties she had fending off the advances of amorous farmers. It was actually quite good, and I had a few laughs in spite of myself, even if it did go on a bit too long. Unfortunately, it was also the high point of his act. The next three poems in his stint veered off into the boring half-world of social justice and had me looking at the door every twenty seconds for any sign of Carla. By the time he danced off the stage, with theatrical bows all round, the applause had been all but drowned out by the buzz of individual conversations.

I was jealous of the people in there, jealous because they had nothing to fear. I watched them as they talked among themselves, discussing their issues as if they were of real importance, safe in their cocooned little worlds.

I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned round to see Carla standing there. Her face was more heavily made up than usual, but the effect seemed to add to rather than detract from her beauty. She was dressed in a long black coat, underneath which was a simple white blouse and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. She greeted me with a brief peck on the cheek and I told her she looked good.

'Why, thank you, kind sir,' she replied with a faint half smile.

'What do you want to drink?'

'I could murder a vodka and orange.'

I got the attention of a barmaid, who came over and took the order.

'So, you're really going then, Dennis?' she said, when the barmaid had gone. 'You know, I really didn't think you'd have the bottle.'

'Appearances can be deceptive,' I told her. 'Any news on Anne?'

'Nothing yet, but one of the other girls said that she'd been seeing a new man, and apparently she'd talked about going off with him.'

'Really? Well, let's hope it's that then. Did you report it to the police?'

She nodded. 'I did. They didn't seem that interested.'

'Did you tell them about Molly?' She nodded again.

'And they still weren't interested?'

'They're street girls, Dennis. They do this sort of thing. You know, I don't know how you're going to handle not being a copper. You're just too interested in whatever's happening around you.'

'It'll do me good to get out of this place. Perhaps when I'm away from it, I won't worry about everything so much.'

She smiled. 'We'll see. You'll probably be back inside a month.'

'Somehow I don't think so.'

'Well, keep in touch, won't you? Send me postcards from your various destinations.'

'Of course I will.' I eyed her closely. 'You know, I don't want to sound too sickly about this, but I'm going to miss you. I think we could have done OK together.'

'Do you?' She returned my look. 'Maybe, but like I said, Dennis, now's just not a good time.'

I nodded. 'Fair enough. I'd better make the best use of tonight, then.'

'Make sure you do,' she said with a smile. 'My time doesn't come cheap.'

There wasn't a lot you could say to that.

A table came free on the other side of the room from the bar and we took it as the next act, a plain-looking girl with spindly legs called Jeanie O'Brien, came on. She was carrying a stool, which she sat on to face the audience.

'I know her,' Carla said. 'I've seen her perform before. She's good.'

She was too, but I wasn't really listening. Unfortunately, Carla was, which meant that the conversation was strained and pretty one-sided, with me doing most of the talking. I finished my beer quickly, wondering why on earth I'd risked everything by sticking around for one more night.

'Do you want another drink?' I asked her eventually.

She looked at her watch. 'One more. Then I've got to go.'

I was coming back towards our table with the drinks when I ran into the Bard of Somers Town himself. Drayer acknowledged me straight away and immediately looked nervous.

'Er, hello, officer. How are you?'

I stopped in front of him. 'Not bad, Norman. A most distinguished performance out there earlier.'

'Oh, you saw it, did you? I'm afraid it wasn't one of my best. What are you doing here anyway? Not that I mind, of course, but it just doesn't seem to be your sort of gig.'

'It isn't. Not really. But the lady I'm with-'

'Oh yeah. I saw you with her earlier.'

'Well, she's into poetry.'

He nodded vaguely. 'Oh yeah, nice.'

I looked over at our table. Carla was elegantly puffing on a Silk Cut, staring into space. At that moment she really did look like a high-class escort girl, aloof from the world around her. And I wondered then whether she felt anything for me at all, or whether she'd just bedded me because I'd been there at the time.

'I heard you arrested someone for Miriam's murder.'

'That's right.'

'Do you think it's him?'

How many times had I been asked that? As if I was going to say no. 'The evidence points that way,' I replied, but I wasn't really thinking about what I was saying. I was looking over his shoulder at Carla, and I was thinking. Turning stuff over and over in my mind.

'Because, you know, I was thinking, when I saw you earlier, that it was odd.'

I looked back at him. 'Odd?'

'Well, when I saw the woman you're with, I thought she looked familiar. And I tried to remember where I'd seen her before.'

'And? When have you seen her before?'

'Well, that's the funny thing. I wouldn't have remembered if I hadn't seen her with you just then.'

'Where did you see her, Norman?'

'In the hall outside my pad.'

I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. 'When? When was that?'

'A couple of weeks back.'

'Before Miriam's murder?'

'Yeah, yeah. It would have been.'

'Why didn't you tell us this when we came round to visit you last week?'

He sensed my displeasure. 'Because, you know, well, you only seemed interested in what male visitors she'd had, and I couldn't even have told you if she'd been at Miriam's place or not. I just saw her and I thought she looked nice. And then I sort of forgot about it until tonight, when I saw her with you. There's no problem, is there?'