Virtue (38 page)

At which I laugh. ‘Harriet, every man in the
world
is a quick-fling type if you give him the opportunity.’

‘Cynic,’ she says.

‘Takes one to know one,’ I reply.

The buzzer at the bottom of the stairs sounds and I clunk him in.

‘Seriously, though,’ I say, ‘even
you
thought he was cute.’

Harriet nods. ‘Yes. He is. And nice.’

‘So what do you think?’

‘It’s not up to me. Why don’t we see what he wants?’

I suppose that this could be a good plan. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘whatever, I don’t want to give the impression that there’s a revolving door to my bedroom. He’s pretty respectable …’

The door begins to creak open. Harriet nods hurriedly at me and we both turn to give him a welcoming smile as, panting slightly, he staggers the last couple of steps over the lintel.

‘I thought I was reasonably fit,’ he announces.

‘Good stairs, those,’ says Harriet. ‘Designed to wear burglars out before they get here.’

‘You must have had fun moving in.’

‘There’s a winch on the balcony. They carried everything
down
stairs.’

Harriet looks at her watch. ‘Well, the sun’s passed back under the yardarm. Would you like a beer, or does your duty to the public preclude the ingestion of an alcoholic beverage?’

‘I’m not on duty,’ he replies, and a small line that appears beside his left eye is the only indication that he’s taken in the jibe. ‘I’d love a beer, if you’ve got one.’

Slightly to my surprise, I find that there are half a dozen tins of Stella in the fridge. Neither of us really bothers with beer, on the grounds that it fills you up too much to really work, so it’s not often you find it in the house unless I remember to swipe a couple of cans from the restaurant. Harriet must have been thieving. I pop the top on one, cast around for something to pour it into. The sink is piled with glue pots.

‘Don’t worry,’ says Mike hastily, ‘I’ll have it from the tin.’

Relieved, I hand it over.

‘So to what do we owe the pleasure of this rare visitation from Her Majesty’s Constabulary?’ Harriet continues with her mick-removal, flopping down on the sofa in her paint-stained jeans. I’ll give her this: she’s certainly making an effort to be friendly. She usually grunts and carries on painting when a bloke comes into the room.

Mike sits in the armchair. He already looks comfortable in that chair, as though he’s been sitting in it for years. He looks good in his mufti, even if it does veer towards the well-pressed collarless grandad shirt and Hush Puppies style. But there’s something quite appealing about a man who’s so obviously in need of a bit of help. I’m hardly the first woman to think so.

‘I just thought I’d check up on you,’ he replies, once he’s settled. ‘See how Midge’s head is and find out if you’ve done anything at all.’

‘My name’s not Midge,’ I say, because you have to stamp on these things early or they get ingrained and the next thing you know you have a nickname. It took me five years to shed Fanny, and I’m not going to start again now, ‘and thanks, it’s much better.’

‘Still got a lump?’

I think: ah, a chance to get a bit of the old physical rapport going, say, ‘Huge one. Size of an ostrich egg. Want a feel?’ and present my scalp to him.

He feels around above my ear, eventually locates the remains of the lump and says, ‘More of a bad mosquito bite, I’d say. Hurt at all, does it?’ and takes his hand back to rest on his beer can.

Bums. Mike Gillespie’s hand felt extremely right, stroking around my earlobes. I would have preferred if he’d kept it there a bit longer. ‘Not much any more. It’s better now.’

‘She made the most of it while it lasted,’ says Harriet. ‘I was bringing her meals in bed for two days.’

Mike takes a slug of beer and says, ‘And have either of you thought about who’s been doing this, yet?’

We exchange glances. Rather embarrassed ones. Harriet says, ‘Well, nothing else has happened since …’ and dries up.

I light a cigarette.

Mike sighs. ‘Well, I’d not entirely expect something else to have happened in a week, but that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t be at least thinking about it.’

Harriet puts on her stubborn look.

‘Come on,’ says Mike. ‘Can’t we at least talk about it?’

‘So which days off do you get, then?’ Harriet effects about the most blatant change of subject I’ve ever seen. And he cooperates.

‘Hard to predict,’ he says. ‘I usually get Sundays off, but we all work on a rota that gets mapped out ahead of time. I get a reasonable amount of notice, unless someone’s ill or injured or something.’

‘Blimey,’ I say. ‘Must play havoc with your social life.’

‘You get used to it,’ he says non-committally. He’s got a touch of the Clint Eastwoods about him, a sort of yes-ma’am laid-backness that makes my skin contract. Pleasantly, you understand. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any worse than working in a restaurant.’

‘Ah, but
our
friends can come and hang out at our place of work. I don’t suppose yours can do that.’

‘Not much,’ he agrees. ‘Though I seem to get people from the Chamber of Commerce in the back of my Panda at least once a fortnight.’

‘What for?’

‘Meant to be a community spirit-building thing but everyone knows it’s just to give them a thrill. They love it when we put the siren on, especially if we go through traffic lights.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ says Harriet. Mike nods over his beer can. ‘Do you ever put your siren on when you don’t strictly need to?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, when you’re bored, or when it’s time for your tea break, or when you’ve, like, bought a curry or something and don’t want it to get cold?’

The humour line comes back by his eye. Then he smiles, a lazy, naughty, calculating smile. ‘That would be an abuse of my judicial powers,’ he replies. And despite the fact that I’m going to get plenty of naughties tonight, a little voice inside me goes:
you can abuse your judicial powers with me any time, sonny
. And then I notice that Harriet is holding his gaze, and I think: blimey. If I didn’t know her better, I would think they were exchanging meaningful glances.

‘Well, doh,’ says Harriet. ‘Why do you think I’m asking?’

He laughs. ‘I don’t feel myself at liberty to divulge that information under the current circumstances,’ he says. The cheeky minx, I think, she’s flirting with him. Harriet never flirts. She saw so much of her mother flirting to get her own way that she rejected the practice as unsound in her early teens.

‘Anyway,’ continues Mike, ‘you’re changing the subject. Have you had any further ideas about who might be sending these emails?’

‘Probably dozens of people,’ says Harriet. ‘It’s hardly a challenge to work out what my address is.’

‘Have you thought about changing your address to something more anonymous?’

‘Bollocks to that,’ says Harriet. ‘I’m already ex-directory and anonymous on the council-tax list. I’ve got to have
some
way that people can get in touch with me. What would happen if some gallery owner wanted to buy something and they couldn’t find out where I was?’

Yer, right. That’s happened
so
often.

‘Well, look, there’s nothing I can do to force you to ask for help,’ he says, ‘but at least will you take my phone number and my badge number in case you need it?’

Now, there’s a novel way of getting a chick to take your number. ‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘that’s really sweet of you.’

‘No problem. It’s just that I feel sort of responsible now I’ve got involved. You know how it is.’

‘Oh, yes,’ says Harriet. ‘We know.’

It’s five past six. I’m definitely going to have to get this guy out of here in the next ten minutes. I still can’t work out what’s going on, whether he’s interested or not, but law four of promiscuity states that facing a potential lover with the evidence of the one before is the most effective way of failing to get anywhere after asking someone to marry you and have your babies. Unless he’s the sort of man who’s kinky for other men’s women, in which case you should steer well clear, as rule five states that if you get any inkling that you’re about to become a trophy shag you should cut and run.

I give Harriet a look.

She gazes vaguely back, showing not a sign that she’s taken in my meaning. The bitch is going to torture me.

‘Would you like another beer, Constable Gillespie?’ she offers.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘thanks. That would be nice.’

Damn you, you cow. You’re doing this on purpose.

Harriet slowly unglues herself from her seat, meanders over to the fridge. Opens it and stares for several seconds at the five cans of Stella inside. Closes the door, stands up and says, ‘Damn. I thought there was more. I’m very sorry, but we seem to have run out.’

Good girl. My mate.

‘Never mind.’ He settles back.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ she says. ‘I’ll have to take you out and buy you one.’

‘Good God,’ he says. ‘There’s no need for that.’

‘No,’ says Harriet, ‘I insist. It would be a travesty if you were to come round here on your night off and go away on a single beer. I won’t hear of it.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I’m perfectly all right. Really.’

‘Well, look, you can do me a favour, then.’ She comes back towards him, bends forward so that a small flash of cleavage peeks out from under her work shirt. Harriet learned this one from Godiva. Done right, the flash so small that the victim barely takes in that he’s seen it, it works brilliantly, like subliminal advertising. Mike Gillespie is like a large dog on a small chain.

‘It’s my night off too, and I could really do with getting out of this place for a bit,’ she says. ‘I’ve been indoors all week and the last thing I want to do is stay cooped up in here all evening. Why don’t you come down to the river with me and let me buy you a beer?’

‘I wouldn’t want to intrude,’ he says slowly, eyes revolving in his head. Women don’t need twirling watches to hypnotise a man; all they need is their top two buttons undone and a sky-blue bra.

‘You wouldn’t be intruding,’ she says. ‘You’d be doing me a favour. Anna’s got to wait in for a phone call from Taiwan, so I’m stuck if you won’t come with me.’ She puts her hands between her knees, presses her elbows together. Mike is on his feet like a shot. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Just for a while.’

‘For as long as you want.’ Harriet bats the cat-likes in his face and begins to walk towards the door. ‘If you’d care to proceed in an orderly fashion, I’ll show you the way.’ The invisible chain lets out a little bit, goes taut, tweaks, begins to pull. Mike never even thinks of pulling against it.

‘Thanks, Mike,’ I call out as they head to the top of the stairs. ‘You’ve saved my life again.’

‘You’re welcome,’ says Mike from a great distance.

‘See you soon, yeah?’ I command, in the hope that he will take me up on it.

‘Sure,’ he says.

‘No, really, I mean it. You’re welcome here,’ I insist.

‘Thanks,’ he says, but it’s obvious that the trance is way, way too deep for him to give much mind to anything else.

‘Have a good time.’

‘Thanks,’ they both reply.

I wait as their footsteps recede down the stone stairs, listen for the clunk of the door at the bottom. Then I leap to my feet and run for the bathroom.

Bugger, bugger, bugger. I have precisely fifteen minutes till take-off. Hair, skin, fingernails dirty, no make-up, cat-litter armpits, gorgonzola cleavage. And nothing to wear. Nothing in chest of drawers but an old Bart Simpson T-shirt and some leggings. Leggings? When did I ever wear leggings?

No time to think. Nice Mike the sexy copper: hope he comes back, but in thirteen minutes there will be a brown beach-boy from Barcelona on my doorstep and get your priorities right, girl. Toss through the pile of clothes on the floor like a tornado, resurface with the perfect thing: short, black Lycra, clingy around the boobs, cut gypsy-style off the shoulder, flared skirt just above the knee. Best five pounds I ever spent in Brixton market, and it doesn’t even have any stains on it. Well, not that can’t be covered up with a casually tossed-on turquoise silk bolero. Which is creased from lying over the back of the chair for a month. I put it on a coat hanger, run to the bathroom with it over my arm.

Pull the shower curtain, let the cubicle fill with steam and hang the jacket from the rail to iron itself out. Brush my teeth, look in the mirror and blench. It’s worse than I thought. I never got round to washing my face after we fell in through the door from work, and there’s mascara smudged under my eyes. No wonder PC Mike didn’t want to stroke my hair for too long. Grab the apricot facial scrub, rub my skin red-raw and take a few blackheads with it.

Ten minutes. At least if I’m washing my hair, I don’t have to waste time scrubbing my fingernails. Hang the jacket outside the shower, jump under the steaming water, scream, jump out, turn up the cold, jump back in again. Lather, rinse, repeat, scrub like the wind at the old cheesy bits. Absolute terror as blunt razor scrapes over pits, shins; no time for anything else. Please God, no blood-letting tonight. God is on my side; a tiny nick below the knee decides just to bubble up a little and leave it at that. Hopefully he won’t notice.

Harriet and PC Mike must be almost at the water by now. I only hope they find something open.

Seven minutes. Thank God for short hair. I stand in front of the mirror rubbing vigorously with the towel while I check that I’ve brushed my teeth thoroughly enough. No green bits. Chipped varnish on toenails; nothing I can do about that now. Hair half-dry, shove on some mousse to make it stand up as though it’s meant to look like that.

Five minutes. Glop on face. Second thoughts, glop everywhere. Especially on breasts, shoulders, stomach, bum. Lovely and smooth. Sometimes, girl, you can pull it off.

Stumble on stairs as I pull my dress over my head, catch my knee an almighty clunk, scream out a string of words that would make Captain Haddock proud. Waste twenty seconds rocking like a madwoman, teeth gritted. Deodorant. Damn. Pull dress down and slop it on, snap dress back into place. Shoes in bedroom. What shoes? Which ones? Ah, sod it: let’s go for the natural look. I run, barefoot, upstairs in search of my handbag.