Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (6 page)

“I coulda taken him in half a minute, knife or no knife,” said a big man with a scarred face and an accent even less comprehensible than the rest.

“And killed the poor old sod,” Peter said. “We don’t need corpses bleeding all over our canteen floor, thank you very much.”

Another homicidal lunatic. And here I was, cheerfully joining him for beer. Maybe I’d completely lost my own mind and I was back in Manhattan, hallucinating.

The pierced man offered a hand.

“I’m Tom Mowbray—the art department. You’d better like your cover art, because I’ve got no time for alterations…”

Further conversation was thwarted by a burst of noise from a small stage at the end of the pub. An M.C. with hair slicked into a ratty pony tail announced in a Cockney accent that music was about to commence. Karaoke. I might have preferred Barnacle Bill.

I was grateful for the arrival of the beer. It was indeed room temperature—not a problem since the chilly room was about the temperature of American beer. I took a sip and found it pretty yummy. Peter ordered meat pies for both of us.

Brenda was a worn-looking woman in her fifties, with quantities of dyed hair and a figure that must have been spectacular before gravity took its toll. She didn’t look particularly pleased to see Peter.

“So are you going to settle up the account now?”

“What account? We’re just getting started,” said Peter.

“For the Yank. Three week’s lodging and meals.” She handed him a sheet of paper scribbled with numbers. “I’d prefer cash, if you don’t mind.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Brenda me love.” Peter gave her a wink. “I’ll have the money for you when he checks out.” He looked around the crowded pub. “Where is the illustrious Mr. Trask, by the way? I want him to meet Miss Randall here.”

“Gone,” Brenda said with a sniff. “Without so much as a wave goodbye. I cooked his bloody breakfast and carried it up to his room this morning, but he’d cleared off in the night. I had to charge you for the full English, by the way. He’s got to have them egg substitutes. Cost me three times as much as proper eggs.”

Peter’s face distorted as he slammed the table in fury. “Bugger! You lot know anything about this?” He surveyed the table with a suspicious eye. “Trask never signed that bollocksy new contract. We’re screwed, mates. Bloody screwed.”

There it was—that feral thing I saw in Peter the night we met.

I tensed. So did everybody else.

Or maybe that was because an emaciated young woman with maroon hair had joined the MC to sing something that had been awful when the Captain and Tennille sang it in the nineteen-seventies.

The singers who followed were worse, but the meat pie was flaky and filling, and eventually the beer dulled my anxiety. But it also made me sleepy. When Liam got up to sing, I could hardly keep my head up, although he did a rousing rendition of the Animals’ 1960s anthem, “We Gotta Get Outta This Place.” By the last chorus, the entire pub was singing along.

The patrons were still applauding Liam when a taxi driver appeared and the Professor took his leave.

“Nice to meet you, Miss Randall,” he said over his shoulder as he wheeled himself toward the door. “Unlike this lot. I have a home to go to.”

“Our American guest looks knackered,” Liam said as he resumed his seat. He gave me a smile. “Planning to stay upstairs?”

I looked to Peter for a cue. He shrugged, obviously still upset about Mr. Trask’s departure.

“They have a vacancy, as you heard.” He picked up Brenda’s bill. “Your compatriot thinks Sherwood is a forest of money trees.” He stuffed the bill in a pocket. “So what do you say? Upstairs? Or our humble accommodations at the Maidenette Building? ”

Before I could speak, the M.C. came to the table and shook Peter’s hand.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Sherwood. I hear your Yank has flown the coop.”

Peter gave him a dark look. The MC turned his smarmy smile on me.

“But you’ve brought someone new. Who is this young lady? Does she sing?’

“You’ll thank me if I don’t.” I extended my hand. “I’m Camilla Randall—just arrived from San Francisco.”

He squeezed my hand a little too long. “Alan Greene. I like San Francisco. Visited last summer. Unfortunately, I forgot to pack me spangled dress and boa.” He put on a stagy lisp. “I was so underdressed—the only dates I could pull were with women!”

Brenda the barmaid appeared on the little stage, her apron off. She glared at Alan and grabbed the mike, sending out a wail of feedback.

“Duty calls!” Alan made a dramatic leap back to the stage to join Brenda in a duet of “I Got You Babe” that could have given Cher grounds to sue.

“How long do they keep doing this?” I shouted when the noise let up a bit.

“They’re supposed to quit at midnight,” said Liam. “But it depends how many people Alan has signed to sing. You don’t want to give that bloke too much encouragement. He’ll talk your ear off, that one. And every word a lie.”

“He may call himself Alan, but we call him the Baron. As in Munchausen,” said Mr. Eyebrows. “He wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him on the arse. I doubt he’s ever been to San Francisco. Or anywhere but the East End. He’s just Brenda’s toy boy…”

A blast of Europop silenced him as a red-faced man in a rugby jersey stumbled onto the stage. My Tinker Bell watch said it was after ten. I turned to Peter.

“I think it’s time I got to bed. I’m sure the Maidenette Building will be lovely.”

I had no idea what I’d find back there, but at that point even mutant zombies wouldn’t scare me as much as the prospect of two hours of off-key “Sex on the Beach.”

As we walked through the soggy night, huddled under the purple umbrella, I could feel tension radiating from Peter’s body. I wished I didn’t find him so attractive. I knew how badly that could cloud my judgment. Look at how stupid I’d been about Jonathan. Everybody in the business knew about his taste for street prostitutes but me.

When we passed the spot where Barnacle Bill had been rescued by the paramedics, Peter ran to pick up something from the trash-strewn street—a coin, glinting in the light from the street lamp.

“Ever see a shilling?” He tossed the coin to me. “That was legal tender on this island for centuries before we got decimalized by the damned Europeans.”

The coin was delicate and silvery, not like the thick brown pound coins I’d been given when I exchanged my meager funds at Heathrow. I tried to sound interested although I was now soaked as well as exhausted.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen a shilling before.”

“You still haven’t. This one has two heads, see…” He flipped it over. “Her Majesty’s beloved countenance on both sides. ‘Heads I win/Heads you lose.’ Comes in handy when tossing for who pays the pub account.” He pocketed the coin. “Old Barnacle has had this as long as I’ve known him. Must have fallen from his pocket. I’ll take it to him when I pay his fine in the morning.”

As I pondered this startling bit of kindness, Peter’s mood went dark again. He unlocked the door to the cafeteria and pushed it open with an angry shove.

“What a bloody mess.” He pointed to the bits of ceiling plaster and rust that covered the linoleum floor. “That old pirate mucks things up wherever he goes.”

I looked around at the stained yellow walls, overflowing ashtrays and stacks of dirty dishes. A mess, certainly, but the sailor couldn’t be blamed for it all.

“You can tell the lads don’t pay the electric rates.” Peter turned off the television with an angry slap and led me through the cafeteria into the vast factory area. I had that scream-movie feeling again. The place was creepy. So was Peter’s anger. I thought of that night I’d met him. Of Lance’s mangled body. I wish Plant had been able to find out more about the real cause of Lance’s death.

“Look.” Peter moved to a long, wooden table covered with books and picked one up. The title
Home is the Hunter
glowed in big, red lettering, and above it, even larger, was the name Gordon Trask. “A print run of five thousand—all rubbish now.” He gave an angry snort. “Trask’s contract lapsed because of delays caused by the move, so he started making absurd demands…he wanted to reserve the e-rights. E-books are the future, lass. We have perhaps five more years to sell paper books and then—they’ll be as obsolete as horse-drawn carts.” He tossed it back and put on a smile. “Sorry. Mustn’t natter on. Where are your bags? Still in the Mini?”

As we trudged across the wet parking lot to fetch my bags, I started to wonder why Mr. Trask had left. Had he found out something terrible about Sherwood? About Peter? I caught a glimpse of the River Trent through the buildings—a dark, wide blackness between concrete banks. I had the awful thought that it would be easy for a person to disappear into it. I shivered as I watched Peter lift my suitcases from the car and start back toward the building.

I followed him back inside—past the big machines and down a corridor that led to another wing of the building. He unlocked a wooden door and flipped a light switch to reveal a large, tidy office filled with desks and computers. About a dozen rather good paintings hung from the whitewashed walls, and glossy green plants looked to be thriving by a bank of net-curtained windows.

A normal business office. Hardly the lair of criminals and murderers. Maybe jet lag was making me a little crazy.

He unlocked another door that led to a small office furnished with a mahogany desk, matching file cabinets, and a green leather couch. Another painting—of a gnarly, ancient oak tree—graced the white-painted brick wall above the couch.

He clicked on a space heater that filled the room with soothing warmth.

“Please sit.” He indicated the leather couch. “I must show you something, then I’ll take you on a quick tour. The complex covers nearly the whole block...”

I sank onto the couch. I couldn’t imagine standing up again, much less taking a tour of the block, so I faked a large yawn. But Peter didn’t get the message as he pottered with things on his desk and lit a pipe. The sweet-sharp tobacco smoke surrounded him with a misty haze, as if he weren’t quite real. Or maybe that came from my own bleary eyes.

He sat next to me on the couch, bouncing on the springy cushions.

“I just bought the office furniture. Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” I murmured. “You’re lovely. Swynsby-on-Trent is lovely. But I’m afraid the only place I want you to take me right now is a bed.”

Peter gave a mock-coy smile.

“You think I’m lovely? You want me to take you to bed?”

I pulled away and widened my eyes in an expression of cluelessness. I’ve always told my readers the best way to save both parties embarrassment after an unwanted advance is to pretend you’ve misunderstood.

“I’m sure you didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s been a long day…” I reshouldered my laptop, wondering how far I would be required to hike to my room.

But he was very close now, looking into my eyes. I anticipated the kiss a moment before it came—quick and soft—not invasive, but the romantic intent was there.

Exactly what I didn’t want at the moment.

I stiffened and turned away as my fears came flooding back.

What if Peter was exactly the kind of pervert he first seemed? Plant wasn’t certain about Lance having a heart attack. Had I just delivered myself into the hands of a murderer?

Peter stood, looking wounded at my rebuff of his kiss. He returned to earnest paper-shuffling.

I fought the panic. I needed to trust this man, because I had nobody else to trust. No point in terrifying myself. Maybe he was just a little drunk.

“I’m afraid I’ve had no sleep for days. And lots of your nice beer…”

“Of course.” He lifted a pile of manuscripts and unearthed a paperback that had been hidden underneath. “Just one more thing before we call it a night. I thought you might like to see this…” He presented me with the book, designed in an understated palette of black and cream and silver. In an elegant engraver’s font was the title “
Good Manners for Bad Times—a prescription for the 21st Century
by Camilla Randall.”

A thrill shot through me. A book—a real, solid book—with my own name on the cover. Not even a mention of the Manners Doctor. Just “Camilla Randall.” It was as if I was reborn—as myself.

“It’s perfect. I don’t know what to say… I didn’t know you’d have it done already. I love it.” I gave him a gentle hug.

This time he was the one to pull away. With a businesslike smile, he yanked on the lower part of the couch, opening it flat with a triumphant thump.

“It’s a futon. Very comfy. I bought a new duvet—and a pillow.” He opened one of the office cabinets to reveal a wardrobe full of men’s clothes and some bedding on a shelf. He plopped down the bedding—all in a pretty green design. It was still in its store packaging.

I was finally getting it. “I’m going to sleep in your office? But what about your staff? What time do they arrive for work? I’ll be in the way…”

Peter gave me a reassuring smile. His eyes—a glowing green-gold in this light—sparkled at me.