Ninepins (28 page)

Finally, she remembered a wall in a toilet, a public one with an electric hand dryer.
Place hands under nozzle. Rub hands gently in warm air flow
.
Air stops automatically.
She read the instructions over and over so she didn't have to look in the mirror, which stared from the wall to her left in metallic accusation. Behind the dryer, the wall was painted an institutional cream, the same cream as in the corridor outside, where the WPC was standing waiting for her. The same cream as in the interview room, three doors along, where there was a desk with a tape-recorder in the middle.
Seventy-six, seventy-seven
. On one side of a desk the police sergeant was sitting, next to an empty chair which was the WPC's; on the other side were three chairs.
Eighty, eighty-one, eighty-two
. A social worker occupied one of the chairs. Not Vince, not then: this must have been the duty social worker, a name from a telephone list. She was greying and weary, with a voice that dragged like boots on gravel. The second chair was Willow's.
Eighty-eight, eighty-nine
. While she held her breath and counted, she could stay here in the toilet; she didn't need to go back in. Not yet,
ninety-one
, not yet,
ninety-two
. The lighter was in there with them. It lay on the desk beside the tape-recorder and the sergeant's notebook, not her mum's silver one, but a cheap disposable thing from Forbuoys.
Ninety-nine, a hundred
. While she held her breath, she didn't have to go back in there and see her mother in the third chair, and face the look in her eyes.

A hundred and one, a hundred and two, a hundred and three
 …

When Vince finally called it was with a peace offering of lobster.

‘It's my friend Sam, with the boat. He's got some beauties. And nobody can eat lobster alone. It wouldn't be decent.'

There was nothing sheepish in his voice, no indication that he even remembered the terms on which they'd parted. But if he'd been awkward it would have made her awkward, too – and he wouldn't have been Vince.

‘He landed them at the weekend, and he's got me down for two nice big ones. I know you said Beth didn't eat things with tentacles, but you never mentioned pincers.'

‘At the weekend?' It was Thursday already. How long did lobster keep? Then a nasty thought struck her. ‘Are they … still alive?'

He laughed. ‘Naturally. But don't worry, I shan't ask you to do the deed. I was going to suggest you all come over to my flat, and I'll be the one with blood on my hands.'

Prospective murderer or not, this softened her towards him at once. An invitation to his private space must surely represent a gesture of compromise, a lowering of professional walls.

‘That would be lovely,' she said, and hoped he heard her mean it. ‘Though not for the lobsters. Is it true about them screaming, when you drop them in the pot?'

Another laugh. ‘Utter nonsense, I gather. Pure urban myth. Sam says they don't have vocal cords, or any means of vocalisation. There's a bit of a hiss sometimes, but he reckons it's air escaping from their stomachs through their mouths when they hit the boiling water.'

‘Oh. I see.' This information didn't make her feel much better about the barbarity to which she was to be party. But she was very fond of lobster.

‘Anyway,' said Vince, ‘I have a colleague who claims the same thing about carrots.'

‘What about them?' Laura was confused.

‘That scientists have recorded a cry of pain when they're uprooted. But she's a fruitarian, this colleague, and completely bonkers. Works in family liaison.'

When, over supper, Laura told Beth about the invitation – omitting specifics as to the provenance of the lunch – she was not enthusiastic.

‘I wanted to have Alice round on Saturday.'

‘Well, you still can. Why doesn't she come over in the morning before we go, or else later on, for supper?'

‘S'pose so.'

Laura looked at her in exasperation. She would have hoped for curiosity, at the very least, about seeing where he lived. Beth had always been so keen on Vince. Until just recently.

‘What's lobster like, anyway? Sounds disgusting.'

‘It's a bit like crab. You love crab.' Beth used to demand crab paste in her sandwiches every day at one time, in about Year 4. ‘Or king prawns. Except it's even nicer.'

Cambridge was not a city known for its purpose-built flats, but Vince lived in one of them. It was in a compact two-storey development, perhaps fifteen or twenty years old at most, tucked down a cul-de-sac off the Milton Road and set back behind plantings of firethorn and cotoneaster. There was a small car park round to one side, and nowhere was it indicated that it was for residents only. Laura pulled into the last free space. The flats had intercoms; when she rang Vince's bell and said, ‘It's us,' he didn't speak, just buzzed them in. His flat was upstairs, past a small landing where a bedraggled pot plant stretched thirstily towards a high window, and along a carpeted corridor.

‘Welcome,' he said with deadpan formality as he pulled back the door. Then he grinned. ‘Better come in quick, I've left the pan on.'

Laura tried not to picture the bubbling cauldron of death as they followed him in and through a door at the end of the tiny hallway. In fact it was a frying pan that he whisked off the gas, smelling smokily of garlic and butter.

‘Sam's mother's recipe,' he explained, as he caught Laura's glance. ‘Brown butter with garlic and parsley. Sam insists it's the only thing to serve with lobster.'

‘It sounds very nice,' she said, polite and a little awkward.

Willow, meanwhile, had found the fridge where she helped herself to a Diet Coke. ‘Want one, Beth?'

‘Uh-huh.' Beth installed herself on a stool at the breakfast bar and looked at nobody.
Yes, please
, Laura thought but didn't say.

The room was untidy, she was surprised to note. Not in the way that Simon was untidy, that wanton disorder that hit you as soon as you entered the house, but still, a mild slovenliness in corners which wasn't what she'd have associated with Vince. The imperfection gave her covert pleasure.

‘How about you?' He waved a glass in her direction. ‘Coke as well, or orange juice, or will you join me in a glass of wine?'

‘Oh, sorry, yes. I brought some. It's in my bag. It's sparkling actually, if that's OK?' She felt foolish now, especially at a lunchtime, wishing she'd stuck with chardonnay. ‘Not the real stuff, I don't mean, just some Italian fizz. But I thought, you know, with lobster …'

‘Perfect. Like Guinness and oysters. Or vodka and caviar. Shall I open it, or will you?'

‘Or fish and chips in the paper,' she said, smiling as she unscrewed the wire, ‘and a glass of real, old-fashioned lemonade.'

There were only two bar stools, but Willow had hopped on to the worktop and Vince was back at his pan, stirring, so Laura climbed up next to her daughter. She filled the two glasses he had placed before her, watching the bubbles rise and then subside. The girls were both drinking straight from the can.

‘Anyway,' said Vince, without turning round, ‘are you ready for the main attraction?'

Laura hoped he didn't mean what she thought he meant. ‘What's that, then?'

‘The lobsters, of course. I assumed you'd want to watch.'

Oh, God
. ‘Well, I don't know. I mean, I know you said there's nothing to it and they don't really scream, but I'm not sure I really want to see them go in.'

Willow surveyed Vince from her perch on the worktop. ‘Are they alive?'

‘Of course they're alive. You have to cook lobsters from live, it's the whole point about them.'

‘Where are they now?'

‘Bucket in the bathroom. I'll get them in a minute. Come on, Laura. I'll stick the water on to boil, and then I can show you how it's done.'

The skin of her arms felt hot and cold at the same time. ‘Honestly, Vince, I really don't – '

‘
Shut up
.' It was Beth; they all turned to look at her. ‘It's cruel and horrible. She doesn't want to look and I don't blame her. Why don't you leave her alone?'

‘Sweetheart – ' began Laura, but Vince cut across her calmly. ‘It's OK, Beth. Don't worry.' In fact, he almost seemed amused. ‘They're already cooked and dressed and in the fridge. I sorted it all out this morning. I was just teasing your mother.'

He tried to lay a hand on Beth's shoulder, but she ducked away. ‘Well, don't,' she muttered.

It took a second Coke and half a tube of Pringles – which Vince set down at the table in the living room and announced as ‘the starter' – before Beth recovered anything like her usual countenance, and even then Laura sensed she was out of sorts. She spoke little, and when her half-lobster appeared, surrounded by salad and dressed with the steaming garlic butter, she prodded it with theatrical suspicion. It was, however, undeniably delicious. They all set about it with a will, and the assortment of forks and skewers and nutcrackers yielded by Vince's kitchen drawers. By the time Laura had leisure to sit back, take stock and lick her fingers, the shell on her daughter's plate was more than half empty.

‘I don't care if they died in agony,' Laura declared. ‘They're absolutely glorious.'

‘Mm-
mm
,' agreed Willow through a mouthful of claw.

After lunch was over and the debris scooped into the kitchen bin, Vince hauled them away from their offers of washing up and back into the living room. ‘I'll make some coffee in a minute. Or there's more of that bubbly.'

‘Coffee would be lovely,' said Laura. ‘Would you like me to – ?'

‘Sit!'

Willow, however, disobeyed; instead, she hovered. ‘I thought I might go into town.' She looked at Beth. ‘Just round the shops, you know. D'you want to come?'

Beth bounced up at once, all too obviously anxious to be out of there; then she remembered herself and turned to Laura. ‘S'that OK?'

‘Fine. How long will you be, do you think?'

‘Back by four,' said Willow.

‘Take a twenty from my purse, sweetheart. It can be an advance on your pocket money.'

When the flat door banged, Vince poured himself some more of the
spumante
and Laura subsided into her armchair, uncertain whether to feel more relaxed or less.

‘So,' she said, ‘was this supposed to be revenge? For last time.' Immediately, she wished it unsaid; the reminder of that previous encounter set her cheeks uncomfortably aglow. She rushed on. ‘The lobsters, I mean. Was it revenge for the pizzas? Were they booby-trapped?'

He wasn't helping at all; his face was a blank.

‘After we poisoned you with the Mozzarella. Weren't you sick?' Coffee would have helped; she wished he'd let her make it.

‘Sick?' A smile twitched his mouth. ‘Oh dear.'

‘We were all three sick as dogs the whole night afterwards. I assumed Willow would have told you. You mean to say you escaped?'

‘Not a twinge. I came home and slept like a baby, before rising to breakfast, as I recall, on sausage and eggs. They were excellent pizzas, I thought.'

‘Excellent pizzas that gave us all food poisoning.'

‘Well, I'm very sorry to hear it. Willow didn't say. Poor you.' He sipped his wine with what looked suspiciously like satisfaction.

I'm sorry
, she knew she ought to say. For the row; for sending him out in the dark with no taxi. But it was difficult to know quite how to begin, and then he was speaking again and it was too late.

‘Beth didn't seem herself today.'

‘No.'

‘Look, I'm sorry about the thing with the lobsters. I shouldn't have joked about it. I didn't mean to upset her. Animal cruelty – at that age, it's no laughing matter. Or at any age, come to that.'

‘Oh, I don't think it was that, not really. It's like you say, she's not herself, hasn't been all day. I don't know what's got into her.' Though she might, perhaps, have some inkling.
You're wrong. I've got a dad.

‘How is she, otherwise?'

‘Oh, all better now,' said Laura, still distracted. ‘It was just a twenty-four hour thing.'

He grinned. ‘I didn't mean the vomiting. I meant at school. Those girls who were giving her a hard time.'

‘It's eased off, I think. At least, she hasn't said anything recently.' But then, she never said anything before, did she? ‘She seems happier about school, anyway. She's been seeing a lot of one of her old friends from primary school. Alice – a lovely girl.'

Nodding, he took another swallow of wine. ‘What about on Facebook?'

‘No more trouble that I know of. She's always on there, chatting in the evenings and she never seems upset.' Maybe she should have another half-glass of
spumante
herself, but Vince's wine glasses were large and she was driving. ‘Are you on there?' she asked him. ‘Do you have a Facebook page, I mean?'

He showed an apologetic palm. ‘Guilty as charged. I have some ex-clients on there, like to use it to stay in touch. Funny thing, really. Bit of a far cry from Ivy League alumni tracking their frat house chums.'

‘True. And the same goes for twelve-year-old schoolgirls, swapping gossip out of class. Actually, the reason I was asking is that I've got a page now, too.'

‘You have? There, you see, it gets us all in the end.'

‘It was this post-grad student we had in the Department, doing her PhD. An Indian girl, Punita, working on water management. Anyway, she's finished and had her viva, and she's leaving to take up a teaching post at the university back home in Delhi. Getting married later in the spring, too. She persuaded us all to sign up so we can look at the wedding photos.'

‘And what did Beth have to say, about her mum being on Facebook?'