Pecking order, p.15
Pecking Order, page 15
'The Piazza della Repubblica,' the man said.
'Of course - I should have guessed you'd know,' she answered with an admiring smile. 'Anyway, the whole place was terrible. You just don't know whose kids are getting into boarding school these days. I knew he was a farmer, obviously hoped he wasn't leader of the local hunt. But what did he turn out to be? A scrap metal merchant who abuses chickens for a sideline.'
The man shook his head. 'But Olly's over it now?'
'Yes, thanks for asking, Martin. He's going on a wind-surfing course down in St Ives next week. Hopefully that will help him completely forget the whole episode.'
She pulled open the door and tossed her cigarette butt deep into the rosemary bush in their front garden. 'Just flick yours in there, the gardener will tidy them up.'
After doing the same he said, 'Well, thanks for a lovely meal.'
He kissed her lightly on the cheek and walked off down the quiet street. Preferring not to use his mobile phone, he went round the corner and stepped into a call-box. Inside, he dialled a number from memory.
'Hello,' said the voice at the other end.
‘It's me,' he stated flatly. 'I just had an extremely interesting conversation.’
‘Oh?’
‘I've got an address for a place up in Cheshire. I think it will very much interest our friends in Manchester.'
'Don't say anything more over the phone. Meet me at the usual place, Friday night.'
Chapter 30
Eric positioned himself so that he could watch her face from between the gaps in the display of biscuit tins. She looked tired, but was being cheerful enough with the person she was serving. Half-closing his eyes, he thought that maybe she was a little red around hers. A good sign, he concluded.
Almost closing time in the shop, it didn't take long before he was placing his wire basket on the small metal ledge at the end of her till. He began to transfer his groceries to the black conveyor belt, but she was preoccupied placing a wad of banknotes into a secure container under the till. Unsure as to whether he should say anything, he decided to let her notice him first. Sure enough, a few seconds later he heard her say, 'Oh, evening Mr ... Professor Maudsley.'
Eric glanced up, a faint look of surprise on his face. 'Fancy that! I've picked your till again. It must be the quality of service.'
'Thank you,' Rosemary smiled, and passed a loaf of bread through the thin red beam. The machine beeped and she picked up a four-pack of baked beans. Eric placed the empty basket on top of the pile at his feet and straightened up. 'How's Edith? Any luck with finding her a bed yet?'
Keeping her head lowered she said, 'Actually, I haven't seen her for a bit. Daniel was taken ill at school and I had to go and collect him instead of visiting her the other day. Nothing serious though.'
'Oh,' said Eric.
Registering what appeared to be a look of disapproval passing for a moment over his face, Rosemary added, 'I tried to ring her. But she often doesn't hear the phone nowadays, especially if she's in the kitchen.' She plucked a handkerchief from the top of her sleeve and sneezed into it. 'Pardon me. A customer just bought several bouquets of lilies - they set my hay fever off something rotten.'
Eric moved to the other end of the till and removed his reusable shopping bag. He had expected to be making gentle enquiries about where she had been laid to rest. Perhaps even probing as to the cause of death, confident her doctor would have signed it off as an exacerbation of her existing heart problems. Instead he found himself placing the unneeded shopping quickly into his bag.
His silence making her uneasy, Rosemary said, 'I'll try and pop round soon, though I'm on a late shift tonight and Daniel has a football tournament all of Sunday.'
Eric looked up and, as he handed her the necessary cash, said, 'Please pass on my regards when you do see her.'
She smiled in acknowledgement, giving him his change. On the way back to his car he thought things over. There was no way he could ascertain if the dosage he'd given Edith was sufficient. He thought about what she weighed - it couldn't be much more than a large dog. Seven stone at most. He doubted Patricia Du Rey weighed much more. But he couldn't afford to botch her injection, too. What he needed to do was work out how much Euthanol was required to finish off a much larger patient. Then, if he applied the same dosage to Patricia, he was assured of success. As he was about to take the steps down into the basement car park he heard a familiar voice nearby.
'Spare some change please?'
He looked to his left and saw Bert's bulky form sitting on the pavement, hand cupped to a passer-by. Quickly Eric jogged down the concrete steps, dumped his bag on the backseat and then climbed up to street level once again. A member of staff was asking Bert to move on from the supermarket's entrance. Eric watched as he struggled to his feet, pockets jangling with small coins as he did so. The old man began a shambolic walk along the pavement, the last few shoppers steering well clear of his uncertain progress.
Eric shadowed him through the city centre, watching him pause at the tables outside a bar to gulp down the lukewarm dregs left in the glasses on one table. Other drinkers watched him with distaste and Eric heard a young man say jokingly to his mate, 'Dave, at least buy your dad a drink.'
‘Piss off,' his friend laughed, reaching into his pocket and flicking a ten pence piece contemptuously at the old man. The coin bounced unnoticed off Bert's arm and rolled unnoticed by him across the pavement. The drinks all finished, he registered the customers as if for the first time and began asking them for change. A glass collector barred his circuit of the tables and Bert waved him feebly away, telling him that, as a para, he had protected the freedom of little runts like him.
The staff member didn't move and so Bert resumed his wander to the outskirts of the city centre.
He made his way slowly through the jumble of narrow streets behind the main railway station, walls covered with fly posters, women standing on street corners. At the end of one road was an off-licence, its windows crowded with neon-coloured stars shouting out special offers and deals. Bert went inside and Eric had to stop in an empty doorway, Scrawled on the surface of the door before him were the words, Urinal only please. Eric was puzzling over whether the message was sarcastic or a serious request when a voice behind him said, 'Looking for business?'
He turned around and politely shook his head at the hollow-cheeked woman, but she wasn't giving up.
'A nice slow blow job? My place is just round the corner.'
'No. Thank you,' he said awkwardly.
She shrugged her shoulders and walked back to her position on the other side of the road. Another woman had begun to make her way over to try her luck when Bert reappeared on the pavement, a three litre bottle of 'Brite-Strike' cider held in each hand. Even from fifteen metres away Eric could see the silver flash on the label proudly announcing, 8.3%.
Bert disappeared round the corner and Eric followed. Several roads later, he turned into one with a sign reading Wood Road. Slowly, he made his way to number 50 and Eric observed as he pushed a broken door open and made his way into the ground-floor flat.
Back at his car, Eric removed the mobile from his glove compartment, turned it on and checked for a signal. He dialled the number and a few seconds later the phone in Rubble's cupboard started to ring.
Chapter 31
Startled by the sudden noise, Rubble stopped stirring the chicken broth. As he stared off to the side, thin bones rotated slowly around in the simmering liquid before coming to a rest at the bottom of the saucepan. Then he threw the wooden spoon into the sink and leapt across the room, landing on his haunches before the little cupboard. He yanked the door open, picked up the handset, pressed the green button and said excitedly, 'Agent White here.'
'Agent Orange here,’ Eric replied. ‘Are you available for another job tonight?'
'Yes, Sir,' Rubble immediately answered.
'Good, be ready for a 1:30 A.M. pick up.'
Eric pressed the red button on his phone and returned it to the glove compartment. Looking at the people walking past, he decided that he needed somewhere quieter to prepare the syringe. A glance at the dashboard clock told him he had a few hours to use up, so he started his car and set off across the city.
Fifteen minutes later he parked in a quiet courtyard behind a detached house in a far trendier area. Quickly he slipped on his rubber gloves. A small and deserted seating area was lit by an exterior light on the rear of the building. Using its glow, he sucked up twice the previous dose of Euthanol into the syringe. Then he replaced the protective cap, removed his gloves and returned the items to the small box under the driver's seat. After cracking his knuckles, he climbed from the car, locked it and walked round to the front of the building. Situated on a tree-lined street, the ground floor of the house had been converted into a two-room restaurant. Above the front entrance a sign read, Pulse - Vegetarian cooking for the heart and soul.
Eric pulled open the door and entered a short hallway with stripped wood floorboards. Spanish guitar music floated around him, the aroma of freshly-baked bread infusing the air. On each side of him notice-boards were covered with assorted adverts, announcements and appeals. Pausing at a section marked wimmins stuff, he read a few.
Hi, my name is Tony and I'm looking for a female travelling companion for a trip to India.
Fully biodegradable tampons. Now available from the Eden Worker's Co-operative. 114 Bakewell Street.
Gatesley Women's Refuge urgently requires donations for our work with battered sisters.
Moving past other notices for skill-swap schemes, organic fruit and vegetable delivery companies and a variety of charity posters, Eric turned right into the no-smoking room. Lit only by candles, he could see a few people finishing off meals, sipping wine or drinking coffee. He crossed to the small counter in the corner. A pale-skinned woman, face completely free of make-up, hair tied back in a pony tail, patted her hands on a striped apron and said, 'Hello Professor Maudsley.'
'Evening Naomi.' She had been on his course a few years ago and had helped run the restaurant ever since graduating. 'I know I'm rather late, but is there any food still being served?'
She smiled, 'I'm sure we can rustle you up something. Two seconds - I'll just check with the kitchen.' She retreated through a small door, returning less than a minute later. Pointing up to the Iarge blackboard mounted on the wall to her left she said, 'We've got the Nutty Mushroom and Stilton Crumble, Sweet and Sour cashew Nut Parcels and Lentejas Gratinadas left. Everything on the dessert section is available, apart from the Apple, Date and Cider Strudel.'
'In that case, could I have the Nutty Mushroom and Stilton Crumble followed by Pear and Almond Tart please?'
'Of course. Anything to drink?'
'Just a glass of tap water and a pot of coffee.'
‘Can I recommend the Colombian? It's from a worker's cooperative we've been helping out recently. It's absolutely delicious.'
'Sounds wonderful, thank you.' Eric removed a copy of The Guardian from the rack in front of the counter and sat down at a table beneath the blackboard. A few minutes later Naomi appeared with a tray holding two plates, his water and coffee. She placed everything on the table, finally handing him a mismatched set of cutlery wrapped in a recycled paper napkin and tied with a piece of twine. 'Bon appetit,' she said quietly and retired behind the counter.
Eric took his time eating, slowly flicking through the paper, drinking his glass of water with infinitesimal sips. The other diners had long since departed and the only sounds were of the kitchen being cleaned by the time he reached the start of the sport section. He closed the paper and folded it in half, finished off the last of the cold coffee then removed a balsa toothpick from the small earthenware pot in the middle of the table and worked an errant fragment of nut out from between his molars. Then he got up and carried his dirty plates and cups over to the counter. 'Naomi!' he called through. 'Could I settle the bill please?'
She re-appeared, wiping wet hands on her apron. 'Everything OK?'
‘As delicious as usual,' replied Eric, removing ten pounds from his wallet.
'Good, that's,' she glanced down at the bill for his table. 'Eight pounds thirty please.'
He handed her the note and said, 'Please donate the change to this month's charity.'
'Thanks Professor,' she smiled, dropping the coins into a jar. Taped to the front was a business card that read, Richmond's Cat Rescue Centre.
Back in his car, he put his gloves on. The drive to Breystone took less than an hour. As he turned into the track, he dipped his lights and rolled slowly along, trying to see the glow from the windows of Rubble's caravan through the trees ahead. Suddenly a dark form dropped into the pool of light before his car and Rubble squatted there, grinning blindly at the glaring headlamps. He hit the brakes, coming to an abrupt halt and Rubble stood, walked round the front of the car and opened the side door.
'Hello, Agent Orange.'
'Get in Agent White,' snapped Eric, still shocked by Rubble's unexpected appearance. 'How long have you been waiting up there?'
'Don't know. An hour or two,' replied Rubble, unable to remove the lopsided smile from his face.
After handing Rubble some gloves, Eric put the car into reverse and they backed up the track and onto the road. Soon, they were cruising along the motorway, Eric scrupulously keeping within the speed limit. 'Right, the subject lives in a small flat in the city centre. He mentioned to me that his door is broken, so he hasn't bothered leaving us out a key. You can just let yourself straight into the property. Now ...' from under his seat he removed a syringe three quarters full of clear liquid, "...put that in the front pocket of your overalls. Good. OK, we'll stick to the same routine as last time: I'll drive you past the property so you can see exactly which one it is. Then I'll drop you off a bit further up the road and you can walk back, head down the side of the house and enter his flat through the broken door. Once you've put him to sleep, walk back to our rendezvous point.'
‘OK' nodded Rubble and, as he rubbed his hands together, the thin rubber squeaked.
After a while, Eric turned off the motorway and drove carefully along deserted streets. Soon they left the pleasant suburban areas behind and entered a run-down part of the city. Bin bags stood at the top of alleyways. Broken glass, embedded along the top of back yard walls, glittered as they drove by. A burglar alarm flashed on the wall above a shop's canopy, its thin, high wail disturbing the night.
Eventually they turned down Wood Road, and Eric slowed the car to a crawl.
'See that house with the gate hanging off its hinges? Our subject lives in there - ground floor flat, number fifty.' He let the car slide on a few yards further and parked opposite a boarded-up pub, smoke damage staining the bricks black above the ground floor windows. Eric looked back over his shoulder, 'Just head round to the side door. As I said, it's been left open for you. He usually sleeps on a mattress on the floor in the front room. Go through the kitchen and it's the first room on your right.' As Rubble went to open the door Eric tapped on his upper arm and pointed across the road. 'Once you've completed the job, wait for me round the back of that pub. After I've taken another agent to a job, I'll come back for you. I should be about twenty minutes. Good luck.'
Rubble climbed out and pushed the door shut.
Eric pulled away, drove to the end of the road and parked just round the corner. After turning his lights and engine off, he sank down as low in his seat as possible and waited.
Rubble trod carefully up the alleyway, avoiding bits of splintered wood as he approached the door. It hung partially open, the bottom panel kicked out, a hinge half-wrenched off. With the toe of one boot he pushed it open, hands held in front of him, ready for the unexpected.
A single flickering strip light struggled to illuminate the kitchen, its neighbour in the casing grey and dead. Rubble stepped inside and looked around. Apart from the empty bottles of cider lying at his feet, the room would have been almost empty. A saucepan on the cooker, remains of baked beans inside, the sauce dried out and cracked with little lines. In the sink was a single plate, the end of a fork sticking out from beneath it.
Rubble listened. He could hear faint music; the rhythmic banging of a big bass drum, a chorus of wind instruments over the top. And a slow, heavy rasping. He stood still, relaxing when he realised it was a human snore. As Agent Orange had promised, his subject was sound asleep.
He walked slowly down the hallway, its thin carpet curling at the edges and bent completely back at the front door. Free newspapers clogged the mat, colourful flyers for pizza delivery places spilling from the pages. He stopped at the first door on the right and eased it open an inch at a time, all the while checking that the regularity of the snoring on the other side didn't alter. When the gap was wide enough he looked round the door. Faded blue curtains hung across the window, the yellowish walls were marked with lighter coloured squares where pictures used to hang. On the floor in the corner was a lamp with no shade, a bare bulb softly lighting the room. Next to it was a cheap cassette player, military band music coming from its tinny speakers. Further along the base of the wall was a mattress with a large lump of an elderly man lying across it, one arm resting on the carpet. The folds of flesh encasing his throat quivered slightly as another snore rumbled out.
Rubble examined the rest of the room. In the opposite corner was a single chair, one arm snapped off. Clothes draped over the back. A gas fire and, on the mantelpiece above it, two photos, propped against the wall. Both were crumpled and bent as if they'd been torn from their frames. He crossed the room for a closer look.
