own flat the previous night, allegedly en route for the Camargue, leaving Jemima as her house-sitter for a month. How the Stovers had telephoned, expecting a visit; as a result of which call, Jemima had investigated the Camargue expedition and found it to be a fabrication; how there was therefore no record of Chloe's present whereabouts.
Jemima left nothing out of the story except for Laura Barrymore's strictures on Chloe's new novel.
She ended: 'All this and your calls too!' She wanted to say your 'filthy calls' but thought it impolitic.
'It was the picture she liked. It was the only thing of mine she took from the Fulham house. She sent the rest of my work down to Cornwall in a van. I found the card in the pocket of my jeans.' He spoke more flatly. 'I suppose I kept it for the Aiglon number. When I come to London, I generally try to wrench some of his ill-gotten gains -gotten at my expense - out of Creeping Croesus or his side-kick Pansy Potter. Dropping the card in was the only way I knew how to reach Chloe.'
'I meant the telephone calls.' An immense weariness was overcoming Jemima. She wished Kevin John would go away, find Chloe or not as fate - Chloe's fate - would have it, and leave her to crawl back into the white bedroom, shutter out the dry blazing Bloomsbury sunlight and sleep.
'How could I call her? She wouldn't give me her number. I only got the address in the first place by charming the pants off that new woman in Fulham. Little Chloe, sweet little Miss Delilah, paws-in-the-air have-me-any-time-you-want, God rot her for the lying scheming Dutch-doll-faced bitch she is, had been oh, oh, so sure that she didn't want anyone to have her address. "One's public, Mrs Ramsbotham, how they haunt one, don't they? One is never alone. An artist needs peace He gave quite an accurate parody of Chloe's breathless little voice, even if the words were ridiculous, and caressed his untidy black head with exactly the same delicate air as Chloe was apt to pat her own, as though too much pressure might bruise it.
'An Irish accent.'
Kevin John gave her his angry red-blue stare.
'Those telephone calls; obscene telephone calls. You had an Irish accent. He had an Irish accent. Not very pronounced but it was there.'
'Look, Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator' - he took perverse pleasure in reci ting her public title and every time he used it his anger increased - 'I don't know what half-arsed Judas you're talking about or what calls either. Christ, I could use a drink. No cigarettes, no drink.' A black Sobranie was in his fingers as he spoke; he had been chain-smoking them. The packet was half full; he didn't seem to notice.
'There's some white wine in the fridge.'
'Oh, I bet there's some lovely chilled vino bianco in the fridge . . . And I'll pour it in long green glasses just for us two.' Once again the imitation of Chloe was at least recognizable. 'Well, I don't want any of Chloe's delicately scented ladies' piss. I want a whisky.'
'Find it. If you can. I've no idea if there's any whisky here or not.' Jemima confined her own drinking strictly to wine.
'It's too early. It's much too early for whisky. Quite the Delilah yourself, aren't you? Do you want to make me drunk at this hour in the morning? Want to control me? Bring me down? Well, I can tell you this, Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator, no one brings me down.' He glared at her. 'So what was that about the telephone?'
Jemima told him about the two calls. It seemed the safer topic of the two. She still wasn't convinced that he hadn't made them himself. She might have imposed an Irish accent because her abiding mental image of Kevin John Athlone was as being Irish - and rough. If he had been drunk enough, he might easily have made the calls and forgotten the next morning.
'But I didn't know her number. How could I do such a terrible thing?' he remarked at the end in an injured voice. His long eyelashes fluttered slightly; there was something mechanically boyish about his
Jemima left nothing out of the story except for Laura Barrymore's strictures on Chloe's new novel.
She ended: 'All this and your calls too!' She wanted to say your 'filthy calls' but thought it impolitic.
'It was the picture she liked. It was the only thing of mine she took from the Fulham house. She sent the rest of my work down to Cornwall in a van. I found the card in the pocket of my jeans.' He spoke more flatly. 'I suppose I kept it for the Aiglon number. When I come to London, I generally try to wrench some of his ill-gotten gains -gotten at my expense - out of Creeping Croesus or his side-kick Pansy Potter. Dropping the card in was the only way I knew how to reach Chloe.'
'I meant the telephone calls.' An immense weariness was overcoming Jemima. She wished Kevin John would go away, find Chloe or not as fate - Chloe's fate - would have it, and leave her to crawl back into the white bedroom, shutter out the dry blazing Bloomsbury sunlight and sleep.
'How could I call her? She wouldn't give me her number. I only got the address in the first place by charming the pants off that new woman in Fulham. Little Chloe, sweet little Miss Delilah, paws-in-the-air have-me-any-time-you-want, God rot her for the lying scheming Dutch-doll-faced bitch she is, had been oh, oh, so sure that she didn't want anyone to have her address. "One's public, Mrs Ramsbotham, how they haunt one, don't they? One is never alone. An artist needs peace He gave quite an accurate parody of Chloe's breathless little voice, even if the words were ridiculous, and caressed his untidy black head with exactly the same delicate air as Chloe was apt to pat her own, as though too much pressure might bruise it.
'An Irish accent.'
Kevin John gave her his angry red-blue stare.
'Those telephone calls; obscene telephone calls. You had an Irish accent. He had an Irish accent. Not very pronounced but it was there.'
'Look, Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator' - he took perverse pleasure in reci ting her public title and every time he used it his anger increased - 'I don't know what half-arsed Judas you're talking about or what calls either. Christ, I could use a drink. No cigarettes, no drink.' A black Sobranie was in his fingers as he spoke; he had been chain-smoking them. The packet was half full; he didn't seem to notice.
'There's some white wine in the fridge.'
'Oh, I bet there's some lovely chilled vino bianco in the fridge . . . And I'll pour it in long green glasses just for us two.' Once again the imitation of Chloe was at least recognizable. 'Well, I don't want any of Chloe's delicately scented ladies' piss. I want a whisky.'
'Find it. If you can. I've no idea if there's any whisky here or not.' Jemima confined her own drinking strictly to wine.
'It's too early. It's much too early for whisky. Quite the Delilah yourself, aren't you? Do you want to make me drunk at this hour in the morning? Want to control me? Bring me down? Well, I can tell you this, Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator, no one brings me down.' He glared at her. 'So what was that about the telephone?'
Jemima told him about the two calls. It seemed the safer topic of the two. She still wasn't convinced that he hadn't made them himself. She might have imposed an Irish accent because her abiding mental image of Kevin John Athlone was as being Irish - and rough. If he had been drunk enough, he might easily have made the calls and forgotten the next morning.
'But I didn't know her number. How could I do such a terrible thing?' he remarked at the end in an injured voice. His long eyelashes fluttered slightly; there was something mechanically boyish about his
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