Down Cemetery Road Part 12

Just two days ago she'd been thinking there was entertainment value in this.

Her blouse clung to her now: she wore jeans, a blouse, a summer jacket; all light enough until fear had set in. Her shoes were no help: flat but narrow, running to a point at the tip, which ruled out breaking into a jog. And where would she run? Who was she running from? He's got lots of money, this Gerard? Joe had asked. Enough so he doesn't have to do his own dirty work? He could have hired anyone. They could all be in his pay.

Tall, mournful Stan Laurel bobbed past once more, and it seemed to Sarah that he picked her out for special scrutiny; that the living eyes behind the rubber mask found her out in her junkies' corner, and recorded a secret amus.e.m.e.nt at the sight. She clutched her own hand again. A silly exercise, but it used to help, and could do no harm now. And nor could Stan Laurel. If anyone was watching her, it was somebody from the colourful now, not out of the black-and-white past.

There was an odd sort of comfort in this, though; knowing there was a real enemy, a specific danger. Whatever had happened in the past, whatever scars left on her imagination, it was not her own mind she had to fear now: this was happening, and was therefore not without solution. There were rules for these situations, and number one was that you didn't panic. She released her hand again, and studied the nail marks in the flesh: once, when she was younger, they'd have disappeared as she watched. But the self-inflicted pain had done the trick, and she felt ready to leave now. Gathering her shopping, she stood. With the dimming of the panic, knowledge of her essential safety gathered about her like an overcoat. Nothing could happen. This was important to remember. Here among the Monday morning shoppers, nothing would happen.

Home, then. She crossed the road and headed down St Michael's Street. Not much more than a lane, this carried little in the way of traffic, and few pedestrians compared to the main shopping grid. Her bags were growing heavier by the step, and she stopped twice before the corner, rearranging them to achieve the perfect balance. Which would be the day, she thought rue- fully. Already her panic was strange to her, like a familiar object viewed from an unusual angle: a worm's eye view of a cheese-grater. What had got into her? How likely could it be that Gerard was having her watched? On the one hand you could add up all that had happened: the bomb, the missing child, Gerard's threat, all the rest. And on the other you took an ordinary day in the centre of Oxford, and a young (thank you) woman fetching the first of the week's groceries. Nothing ever happened. There was a kind of middle-cla.s.s privilege about lives like hers: for all the drama she hovered on the edge of, there would always be the home to go to, the food on the table, the bath before bedtime. Sinister strangers had their place, but only in guest appearances. Life was slow dying. Her bubble would burst like all bubbles, but not without the usual drawn-out ending: the doctor's charts, the nurse's warnings, the soft words spoken around a bed with fresh linen. Death didn't happen on a side lane in the city. Cemetery Road was very long.

A car pulled up behind her and she jumped.

A man leaped out and disappeared into a printers' shop. Sarah's heart changed gear again; climbed right back down into first. Idiot she thought. Meaning herself, mostly, but also whoever that had been, who had no right to exist while she felt so fragile. All that equilibrium shot to pieces. She reached the corner, turned it, and b.u.mped into Stan Laurel.

'Sarah,' he said.

She screamed, or tried to, or thought she did, but no sound came out: not much more than a hiccup. He'd already put one white-gloved hand out and taken her by the arm, while with the other he carefully leaned his placard against the wall.

Then he pulled his face off.

II.

She wore a necklace of cubic wooden beads, like little dice but with letters, spelling WIGWAM. Which was probably fashion, but might just have been utilitarian: of all the people Sarah knew, the one most likely to need reminding of her own name was Wigwam.

'I should have told you.'

'You said he didn't want people to know.'

'He was embarra.s.sed at first. A grown man dressing up. Then he was disappointed n.o.body recognized him.'

'He wanted an Oscar?'

'My performance, he calls it.' Wigwam laughed. 'My performance went very well today. I think he's hoping a talent scout will clock him.'

'If it's being clocked he's after, he almost had his wish. When he started pulling his mask off, he nearly got six kilos of a.s.sorted vegetables in his face.'

'He was really sorry.'

'So he kept saying.' But Sarah had her doubts. There'd been a hint of malice in Rufus's eyes when he'd seen how frightened she'd been; the kind of private glee a worm must feel when it turns. Though afterwards he'd hidden it, and complicated her attempts to pick her shopping up in his familiar ineffectual way. And then presumably reported in, because Wigwam had turned up before she'd been home ten minutes. 'No harm done anyway.'

'Are you sure?'

'Just a little on edge, that's all.'

'You're not . . .' Wigwam's query trailed away, hardly worth the question mark.

'Pregnant? No.'

'Oh.' With a carefully judged amount of sympathy in the tone: Wigwam was sorry, but aware that Sarah wasn't. 'Rufus and I are trying,' she went on.

Several short remarks occurred to Sarah, any one of which could have destroyed their friendship. 'Gosh,' was what she said at last.

'You think five's too many, don't you?' said Wigwam, a little sadly.

'I think one's too many, sweetie. But that's just me.'

'At the moment.'

'If you like.' The kettle boiled, and she got up to pour. 'I can see that Rufus might want one of his own,' she said. 'But won't it make things awkward?'

'Oh, he's lovely with the kids. He really is.'

'And that won't change when he's an actual father?'

'Oh, no. It'll strengthen the bond.' Wigwam sounded like she'd memorized the manual. But still, she'd had the experience. What did Sarah know about children?

The phone rang in the other room, and she excused herself to answer it. Left to herself she could ignore a ringing phone, but Wigwam grew nervous in the face of such disrespect. What if it's important? she'd say. A doctor, a policeman, the Queen. It was none of those, but it did turn out to be important.

'Arimathea.'

'What?'

'Arimathea. As in Joseph of, no relation. It's me, Joe.'

'Hey Joe,' she said automatically. 'Rimat. Arimathea. Right.'

'He was a merchant, a trader. Friend of the Christ family. You know, Jesus Christ, Mary Christ. Legend has it he supplied the tomb Jesus was laid in.'

'That was kind of him.'

'He got it back. Plus, the story goes, he brought Jesus to England as a lad.' Not a minute of research was being wasted here. 'And did those feet in ancient times, and so forth. The Holy Grail pa.s.sed into his keeping after the crucifixion. Basically, he was the gospels' Mr Fixit.'

'Did you get his phone number?'

'All it took was a certain skill at crosswords and an encyclopedic knowledge of everything. There's no need to thank me.'

'You're a genius. So now all we want '

'It's in Surrey. Little place called, well, Littleton.'

'A hospital?'

'An orphanage.'

Behind her, Wigwam had come into the room. She was carrying Sarah's tea and her expression said I Am Not Listening To This Conversation. She hovered uncertainly, a strange reversal: a waitress trying to catch the customer's eye. And was definitely capable of interrogation afterwards, so Sarah wrapped Joe up quickly. 'When do we go?'

'Let's not get excited, Sarah.' She could picture him adopting his Wise Man expression. 'What are we looking at here, really? He makes donations to an orphanage. You're saying he supplies orphans too? That's quite a leap.'

'Maybe it's some complicated tax dodge.'

'You could save more money not bothering. I owe you, Sarah, but this, it was just a puzzle. A word game. It's not something to get hyperactive over. Maybe I should have kept the answer to myself.'

'I'm a big girl now.'

'This is what troubles me.'

'I'll talk to you later, Joe. Thanks.'

'Friend?' asked Wigwam. On the off-chance, presumably, that it had been a wrong number.

Sarah took her tea. 'Thanks. Somebody who did some work for me.' Trying to make Joe sound like a jobbing plumber. 'Do you want a biscuit to go with this?'

'That'd be nice. He doesn't do gardens, does he? This Joe of yours?'

'I'd have to ask.'

'Only I've a branch needs sawing down. It's a bit high for Rufus.'

'We've a ladder you can borrow.'

'It's safer going professional, isn't it?'

Thus it was that, without actually having to lie or make false promises, Sarah arranged to ask the Private Detective if he did gardens at four pounds an hour. Not long after Wigwam left, she was back on the phone. There was little else for her to do. She'd not yet had replies to last week's letters.

'Oxford Investigations.'

'Joe, I want to take a look.'

'So take a look. I'm stopping you?'

'Will you come with me?'

'I'm a tour guide? Sarah, I want wild goose, I hang around Port Meadow in the autumn. I want a drive in the country, I head for the Catskills.'

'Cotswolds.'

'Whatever. Surrey, I don't touch. It holds bad memories. I had a dreadful case there once.'

'Murder?'

'Flu. And I'm busy at the moment, or I expect to be. Any day now.'

'Okay.'

'So I'm not going.'

'Okay.'

The silence down the line was very loud. The humming of unsaid words snarled up in the wires.

'This happens in films,' he said at last. 'One scene you get the man saying no way is he doing it. The very next he's doing it. Whatever it happens to be.'

'I've seen that,' Sarah said.

'But that's not going to happen here.'

'No, Joe.'

Whatever she had been expecting, the building was a brilliant cacophony of wings and crenellations, with small round towers jutting up at available corners, suggesting that it had been built to the specifications of a six-year-old. But all of it was tired, too; rain-streaked, mossed over in patches, and even in the bright sunshine looking like it suffered a chill. Or an ague, Sarah amended. Sometimes only the old words fit.

'Miss Havisham's wedding cake,' Joe said.

'Gormenghast,' she countered.

'Bit obvious,' he muttered as they got out of the car.

Oxford to Littleton had been no drive in the country, involving enough plastic bollards to throw a ring around the moon, and barricades of metal signs conveying cryptic instructions, small sandbags slung over their crossbars like dead piglets. Joe proved both neat and nervous behind the wheel; choosing his lane and sticking to it, and a.s.suming every other road user was a homicidal incompetent. This didn't stop him talking. 'I need my head examined,' he'd said.

'You're a very good man.'

'I'm a schmuck. You know the expression?'

'It doesn't apply.'

'I'm a sucker for a pretty face.' He glanced at her sideways, but she didn't register the compliment. 'I need a tougher contract. No refunds, no guarantees. That way, I wouldn't be taken advantage of.'

'Is that what I'm doing?'

'If the cap fits . . .'

'You've probably got it in upside down,' she finished, and immediately regretted it. 'Joe, you're kind to do this. But I'll pay for your time.'

'I promised,' he sighed. 'Remember?'

She did. And thought she was pretty good, actually, not to have reminded him herself. 'At least let me pay for the petrol.'

'Okay.'

They had set off early, no more than ten minutes after Mark left for work: as long as she was home before him, he'd never know she'd been gone. Except he might wonder why there was no supper. That was a problem she'd shelved; meanwhile she savoured the fact of setting out on what might be an adventure. With a real live private detective, authentically grumpy to boot. Though he thawed once they were under way; showed an alarming tendency, in fact, to wax nostalgic.

'I remember when I first came to Oxford '

'Where were you born, Joe?'

He thought about it. 'Croydon.'

'Nice part of the world?'

'You don't want to hear about Oxford?'