could make out two picnic tables, an overflowing rubbish bin and the Volvo parked on the other side of the clearing, and that was about as idyllic as I can ever handle. Three paths cut through the trees, curving up and away towards the Point, which faced north across the lake towards the town.
I skulked back in the trees, took a couple of shots of the car, considered wandering up one of the paths, just to see if my luck would hold. I’d decided not to push it when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path behind me, the Ice Queen, wearing a mauve silk scarf to keep her hair in place. The man was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat and olive-green Wellington boots, holding a golf umbrella in front of them to deflect the sleet. I hunkered down behind a massive pine, aimed the camera along the path, getting a couple of shots off.
They passed by about twenty yards away, the breeze carrying their conversation towards the road. I made out a pair of red jowls, a skiff of grey hair under the flat cap. He could have been anyone, including the Pope or a drag queen who didn’t get the joke.
They made straight across the picnic area for the Volvo. Its lights arced around, illuminating the pine I was hiding behind. Then it was gone. I sprinted back through the pines to the Golf, only tripping face-first into trees a couple of times, but even so there was no sign of the Volvo or the soft-top Merc when I finally made it back to the car park behind the bank.
It was a bust, the latest in the endless list of thrilling coups perpetrated by Harry J. Rigby, Research Consultant.
7
I strolled across the footbridge, crossed the street to the office, checked the answering machine. The metallic voice whined: “You have reached the offices of First Option Life Assurance. Our representatives are currently unavailable but we do value your call. If you leave your name, number and the nature of your request, one of our representatives will contact you as soon as possible. Thank for you calling. Please speak after the tone. Goodbye.”
Beeep.
“ Harry? It’s Dutch. Give us a buzz. Cheers.”
Beeep.
Dutchie didn’t like answering machines, said they reminded him of when he was a kid, making his Holy Communion, all that praying and half-afraid no one was getting the message. I changed the tape, rang Denise to tell her about Ben’s bike – with Gonzo back in town I was staying close to them both – but there was no answer. I left a message of my own, short and sweet, short because I knew Denise wouldn’t listen to it all and sweet because I didn’t know any other way to be. Then I closed up shop for the day, sidled back across the street to The Cellars.
I claimed a stool at the bar, beside the arch, where the pub sloped down to a bottleneck. Through the arch was a snug. Beyond, a narrow passageway led outside to the toilets. Opposite the toilet door was another door, a door Dutchie kept locked because Dutchie was particular about who played his pool table.
The bar itself was rough oak, two foot thick, broad. It faced four booths, in which all the tables had beer mats stuffed under their legs. The benches were upholstered in worn red velvet. The carpet was pocked with tiny scorch marks. The low ceiling was tuberculosis brown.
Dutchie ambled down the bar, dressed all in black, as always. Black denim shirt, black moleskin trousers, black motorcycle boots that buckled to the side and came with steel toecaps as an optional extra. The way he was built, Dutchie was never going to make a good accountant and his head was shaved to the skull.
“ Alright?” he drawled.
“ Dutch.”
“ What’ll it be?”
“ Cappuccino.”
“ Fucks sakes.”
Dutchie ran a clean shop. That meant no drugs, no knackers and no ties. The pub was quiet when you needed it to be and busy enough from its regular trade for Dutchie not to have to entertain undesirables, which in Dutchie’s book meant anyone who asked for mineral water, Cappuccinos or Irish
I skulked back in the trees, took a couple of shots of the car, considered wandering up one of the paths, just to see if my luck would hold. I’d decided not to push it when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path behind me, the Ice Queen, wearing a mauve silk scarf to keep her hair in place. The man was wearing a heavy tweed overcoat and olive-green Wellington boots, holding a golf umbrella in front of them to deflect the sleet. I hunkered down behind a massive pine, aimed the camera along the path, getting a couple of shots off.
They passed by about twenty yards away, the breeze carrying their conversation towards the road. I made out a pair of red jowls, a skiff of grey hair under the flat cap. He could have been anyone, including the Pope or a drag queen who didn’t get the joke.
They made straight across the picnic area for the Volvo. Its lights arced around, illuminating the pine I was hiding behind. Then it was gone. I sprinted back through the pines to the Golf, only tripping face-first into trees a couple of times, but even so there was no sign of the Volvo or the soft-top Merc when I finally made it back to the car park behind the bank.
It was a bust, the latest in the endless list of thrilling coups perpetrated by Harry J. Rigby, Research Consultant.
7
I strolled across the footbridge, crossed the street to the office, checked the answering machine. The metallic voice whined: “You have reached the offices of First Option Life Assurance. Our representatives are currently unavailable but we do value your call. If you leave your name, number and the nature of your request, one of our representatives will contact you as soon as possible. Thank for you calling. Please speak after the tone. Goodbye.”
Beeep.
“ Harry? It’s Dutch. Give us a buzz. Cheers.”
Beeep.
Dutchie didn’t like answering machines, said they reminded him of when he was a kid, making his Holy Communion, all that praying and half-afraid no one was getting the message. I changed the tape, rang Denise to tell her about Ben’s bike – with Gonzo back in town I was staying close to them both – but there was no answer. I left a message of my own, short and sweet, short because I knew Denise wouldn’t listen to it all and sweet because I didn’t know any other way to be. Then I closed up shop for the day, sidled back across the street to The Cellars.
I claimed a stool at the bar, beside the arch, where the pub sloped down to a bottleneck. Through the arch was a snug. Beyond, a narrow passageway led outside to the toilets. Opposite the toilet door was another door, a door Dutchie kept locked because Dutchie was particular about who played his pool table.
The bar itself was rough oak, two foot thick, broad. It faced four booths, in which all the tables had beer mats stuffed under their legs. The benches were upholstered in worn red velvet. The carpet was pocked with tiny scorch marks. The low ceiling was tuberculosis brown.
Dutchie ambled down the bar, dressed all in black, as always. Black denim shirt, black moleskin trousers, black motorcycle boots that buckled to the side and came with steel toecaps as an optional extra. The way he was built, Dutchie was never going to make a good accountant and his head was shaved to the skull.
“ Alright?” he drawled.
“ Dutch.”
“ What’ll it be?”
“ Cappuccino.”
“ Fucks sakes.”
Dutchie ran a clean shop. That meant no drugs, no knackers and no ties. The pub was quiet when you needed it to be and busy enough from its regular trade for Dutchie not to have to entertain undesirables, which in Dutchie’s book meant anyone who asked for mineral water, Cappuccinos or Irish
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