against the swirling wind. The chairs that had been here yesterday had gone and someone had been round with a broom, but when he reached the third tier and turned to face the sea, it was easy to people the muddy, tyre-rutted spaces, to imagine the marine bandsmen with their helmets and their glittering instruments, to hear the long keening salute from the lone bugler.
Barnaby plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, thinking of Clinton again. The big man had sat here, barely feet away. He’d listened to the Archbishop intone the service. He’d watched the seated rows of veterans, stiff-backed, attentive, bemedalled. And minutes later, when HMS
Illustrious
slipped out of the harbour mouth to take up her position for the fleet review, he’d probably reached across and touched Hillary lightly on the arm, drawing her attention to the big grey aircraft carrier ghosting slowly past the war memorial. As a piece of theatre, the service hadtranslated wonderfully to television, and Barnaby had watched it again last night, drunk and remorseful, after returning from the hospital.
Now, he raised a weary arm to the imaginary crowds below, wondering again what it might be like to be Bill Clinton, then began to retrace his footsteps to the road. Jessie’s flat lay a couple of blocks inland from the Common, and he walked the hundred yards or so to the street where she lived. The houses here were Victorian, tall forbidding mansions built for the families of naval officers but long since given over to multi-occupation. Most of the flats were let to students or families on benefit and the area had developed a shabby, unloved look: permanently curtained windows, dripping water pipes, loud music, and little nests of bulging bin bags spilling their contents onto the street.
Barnaby counted the front doors until he found number 26. At the hospital, they’d given him a small polythene bag containing Jessie’s possessions. With the pound coin and the packet of Rizlas was a key. Barnaby pushed through the gate, avoiding the flattened scabs of dog turd. Steps led down to an alleyway beside the house. The walls were green with damp and he could feel broken glass underfoot. Halfway along the alley were steps down to a door. Barnaby paused at the bottom and inserted the key in the lock. It turned at once, he stepped inside, leaving the door open, feeling along the wall for a light switch. The smell was overpowering, a mixture of old fat, rising damp, and a rich oriental perfume Barnaby recognized from the days when Jess had taken to burning incense in her bedroom. His hand closed over a wall switch and he found himself surrounded by bicycles in a narrow hall. To the left, a half-open door. He pushed at it with his foot, muffling a cough then announcing his presence.
‘Haagen?’ He hesitated, waiting for an answer. When nothing happened, he stepped inside the room. Light from the street spilled in through the half-window at the front. The room was sparsely furnished, bare floorboards, a table, a council deckchair lifted from the beach, a television, a pile of wooden crates full of books, and a double mattress on the floor. Blankets were thrown back across the top as though someone had just got up, and there was a pile of clothes beside a candle in a saucer.
Barnaby bent to the clothes and untangled a rust-coloured halter top that Liz had given Jessie for Christmas. He lifted it to his face. It smelled of sweat and roll-ups, a sourness that reminded him at once of the prison visits he made to interview clients. He balled it in his hand, meaning to take it home, and bent to inspect the books in one of the crates. A lot were from libraries, thick biographies on various Nazi luminaries, ministers like Speer and Goering; when he looked at the return dates it was obvious that they’d been stolen. He prowled around the room again. Behind the door, on a tea chest, was a sound system. The needle was dancing on the VU meter on the cassette
Barnaby plunged his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, thinking of Clinton again. The big man had sat here, barely feet away. He’d listened to the Archbishop intone the service. He’d watched the seated rows of veterans, stiff-backed, attentive, bemedalled. And minutes later, when HMS
Illustrious
slipped out of the harbour mouth to take up her position for the fleet review, he’d probably reached across and touched Hillary lightly on the arm, drawing her attention to the big grey aircraft carrier ghosting slowly past the war memorial. As a piece of theatre, the service hadtranslated wonderfully to television, and Barnaby had watched it again last night, drunk and remorseful, after returning from the hospital.
Now, he raised a weary arm to the imaginary crowds below, wondering again what it might be like to be Bill Clinton, then began to retrace his footsteps to the road. Jessie’s flat lay a couple of blocks inland from the Common, and he walked the hundred yards or so to the street where she lived. The houses here were Victorian, tall forbidding mansions built for the families of naval officers but long since given over to multi-occupation. Most of the flats were let to students or families on benefit and the area had developed a shabby, unloved look: permanently curtained windows, dripping water pipes, loud music, and little nests of bulging bin bags spilling their contents onto the street.
Barnaby counted the front doors until he found number 26. At the hospital, they’d given him a small polythene bag containing Jessie’s possessions. With the pound coin and the packet of Rizlas was a key. Barnaby pushed through the gate, avoiding the flattened scabs of dog turd. Steps led down to an alleyway beside the house. The walls were green with damp and he could feel broken glass underfoot. Halfway along the alley were steps down to a door. Barnaby paused at the bottom and inserted the key in the lock. It turned at once, he stepped inside, leaving the door open, feeling along the wall for a light switch. The smell was overpowering, a mixture of old fat, rising damp, and a rich oriental perfume Barnaby recognized from the days when Jess had taken to burning incense in her bedroom. His hand closed over a wall switch and he found himself surrounded by bicycles in a narrow hall. To the left, a half-open door. He pushed at it with his foot, muffling a cough then announcing his presence.
‘Haagen?’ He hesitated, waiting for an answer. When nothing happened, he stepped inside the room. Light from the street spilled in through the half-window at the front. The room was sparsely furnished, bare floorboards, a table, a council deckchair lifted from the beach, a television, a pile of wooden crates full of books, and a double mattress on the floor. Blankets were thrown back across the top as though someone had just got up, and there was a pile of clothes beside a candle in a saucer.
Barnaby bent to the clothes and untangled a rust-coloured halter top that Liz had given Jessie for Christmas. He lifted it to his face. It smelled of sweat and roll-ups, a sourness that reminded him at once of the prison visits he made to interview clients. He balled it in his hand, meaning to take it home, and bent to inspect the books in one of the crates. A lot were from libraries, thick biographies on various Nazi luminaries, ministers like Speer and Goering; when he looked at the return dates it was obvious that they’d been stolen. He prowled around the room again. Behind the door, on a tea chest, was a sound system. The needle was dancing on the VU meter on the cassette
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