The One a Month Man (4 page)

A wonder he didn’t get arrested
, I thought, facetiously.

‘He was in and out of pubs and clubs. He was becoming increasingly desperate and despairing; I could hear it in his voice. I begged him to come home.’

‘But he didn’t?’ I said, smoothing along the story.

She lowered her head, took a handkerchief from her
dress-pocket
and dabbed her eyes. ‘He started touring escort agencies. I’m sure you know how it works with them. They had photo albums of girls on their books. He was hoping to God to see her face in one of the albums; praying to God he wouldn’t. His ambivalence must have stretched him as if fastened to a torture rack.’

I really did feel for her having to relay all this to me, a total stranger. But she was strong. Her fragility was only physical.

‘He rang me one afternoon. “I’ve seen her!” he said. But there was no real excitement in his voice. What he meant was that he’d seen her photo in an escort agency.’

‘Which one?’ I said, now poised to make notes, notepad and pen at the ready.

‘Something with “Venus” in the title,’ she said, vaguely. ‘That’s all I can remember. It’s such a long time ago.’

‘That’ll do,’ I said. ‘I can work from that easily enough.’

‘I was bursting at the seams with questions: “Where is she? Where’ve you seen her? What’s she doing? Is she all right? How have you managed it?” That’s when he told me the
circumstances
.’

‘So they hadn’t actually met?’

‘No. She was on the agency’s books as “Lolita”,’ she recalled, grimacing. ‘The rest of the story is very awkward for me, but you’re a man of the world….’

‘I’ve been around several blocks a few times,’ I said, smiling, trying to make it easier for her.

‘Then you’ll know all about those agencies?’

‘Only too well.’

‘The office of the agency was run by a woman. She asked Ronnie if “Lolita” was the girl he “wanted”. Obviously, as I wasn’t there, I can’t recount exactly what was said, but
apparently
Ronnie indicated that “Lolita”, our Tina, was his selection. He was then asked where he wanted to meet her.’

‘What did he say to that?’

‘Well, he hadn’t given this sort of situation much thought. This was about the fifth escort agency he’d tried, I believe. He was just going through the motions. I don’t think he ever really imagined he’d find her along this route. So when he was asked where he hoped to meet her, he was rather stumped. Seeing that he was in a quandary, the woman asked him if he was staying in a hotel. When he said that he was …’ Now her voice fragmented and she angled her head away from me, averting her eyes. ‘I’m not sure that I can go on with this,’ she said, faltering. ‘I’m not even sure that I
want
to.’

‘Let me help you out,’ I said, anxious to prevent her drying up. ‘This woman said something to the effect that “Lolita” would be prepared to go to his hotel room.’

Mrs Marlowe was sobbing quietly now, but she managed to reply with a nod, before saying, haltingly, ‘You can visualize
how shocked he was. Apparently he managed to hold himself together and probe a little.’

‘Such as?’

‘Was she experienced; that sort of thing.’ Still she couldn’t look at me.

‘And what was the woman’s answer?’

‘That “Lolita” was one of the agency’s most booked girls; that meeting men in their hotel rooms was something she did most days of the week. The full horror of what Tina had apparently become hit him like a sledgehammer to the head.’

‘It could have just been sales talk,’ I said, as a salve.

‘But it wasn’t,’ she retorted, assertively, having restored her composure. ‘A rendezvous was made for 8 p.m. that same evening. The woman wanted to know how long Ronnie wanted to hire “Lolita” for. Again Ronnie knew nothing about this sort of assignation.’

‘So what did he say?’

‘Something silly like “How long is normal?” She told Ronnie it depended on what he had in mind. If he planned to take his escort out to dinner and then return to the hotel, he was looking at a charge for at least six hours; something like a running
taximeter
. So he said, “OK, I’ll take six hours.” He was very explicit to me later about the actual dialogue. He had to pay in advance; I forget how much it was, but it was a bundle. Another thing the woman said was that if he wanted to pay for
extras
, he’d have to negotiate directly with “Lolita”. “What the two of you get up to is none of my business.” After taking the money and as Ronnie was leaving, she said, “Have fun. I’m confident you’ll be back for a second helping after tonight.” Ronnie literally ran from the building and almost vomited in the street.’

‘Did he call you, then?’

‘No, not until later. He walked and walked, in a trance. Journey’s end was approaching. He was on a high, yet he’d also never felt so low. Can you identify with that?’

‘I can,’ I said, reaching out to her mentally, my thoughts turning to my own daughter. I wondered how I’d cope if I was ever following in Ronnie’s footsteps, God forbid!

‘I don’t know what time he got back to the hotel, but he was in his room for eight, trembling.’

‘I take it she turned up? So father and daughter were, in fact, reunited, albeit bizarrely?’

‘Tina was a few minutes early. She’d always been a
punctilious
girl. She knocked confidently. Ronnie threw open the door. And there they both stood, father and daughter, rooted to the spot; her face raddled, wearing the briefest mini-skirt Ronnie had ever seen and teetering on heels more like stilts than stilettos.’

‘She must have been stunned,’ I said, stating the obvious, just for something to say.

‘She was speechless, her mouth cemented in a rictus,
bloodless
face, Goth-like appearance. Our ghost. “Tina!” Ronnie exclaimed, thrusting out his arms, moving to embrace her.’

After all those years of searching, he was suddenly within inches of holding her again. The Prodigal Daughter could be taken home. Yet, because of what I’d already been told, I knew the outcome must have been very different.

‘“No!” she yelled, pulling away from Ronnie and fleeing.’

‘Did your husband give chase?’

‘Of course, but she was much too quick and nimble for him. She kicked off her high heels and bolted along the corridor, down the stairs, three at a time, out of the front door and into the dusk – and gone. No reunion. Since Tina’s disappearance, Ronnie’s health had deteriorated drastically, so he was badly out of breath by the time he reached the street. Not a sign of her. A bit like Cinderella, she dropped her footwear – two stilettos instead of a slipper. Ronnie was frantic; distraught. To have come so close and to allow her to slip through his hands –
literally
! He didn’t know what to do. He thought of ringing the
agency, but decided that wasn’t such a smart idea. That’s when he called me to see what I could come up with.’

‘And did you have a suggestion?’

‘Yes. I said, “Get on a train; come home.” He said, “I can’t. We were almost touching; close enough to see right into each other’s eyes. After all this time, I can’t just walk away from it and abandon her.” I wasn’t suggesting that he should, but it was obvious to me that he wasn’t going to find her again simply by street-walking. He hadn’t a clue where to start. She could have been miles away in minutes – by cab, Tube, or any number of buses. Anything he did that night from then on would be futile. My idea was for him to come home so that we could take stock and devise a constructive, cool-headed plan. He needed to take a step back. I was really beginning to think that he should take this new information to the private detective he’d commissioned earlier, but no, he was determined to stick with it; the Lone Ranger.’

She contrived a shallow smile.

‘But to no avail, obviously,’ I said.

‘He stayed at the hotel that night. The following afternoon, he phoned the escort agency, using a different name from the previous day. He made up a story that a few weeks previously he’d dated a girl on their books, “Lolita”, and he was anxious to date her again because he’d been so satisfied.’

Once again, the outcome was so transparently predictable.

‘She said she was very sorry, but “Lolita” had called that very morning to say she wanted to be removed from the agency’s books and her photo be shredded, all of which had been duly done. She tried to “sell” him another girl, but he hung up; gutted.’

‘And finally he came home?’ I said.

‘No, not right away, not even then. He revisited the escort agency. The same woman as the previous day was running the office and she remembered him, of course. He decided to open his heart to her and come clean.’

‘Saying he was “Lolita’s” father and she was his runaway daughter?’

‘Exactly.’

A tactic that hadn’t a hope in hell – or indeed heaven – of working. Escort agency madams don’t do compassion. ‘I bet she asked for proof of his story?’ I said.

‘First thing she said. She was thinking the obvious, no doubt, that Ronnie could be someone with a grudge who wanted to harm Tina. She claimed not to have an address for our daughter, only a phone number.’

‘Plausible,’ I said.

‘In any case, she said, it was company policy never to give out personal contact details, such as phone numbers, to clients.’

‘Definitely true,’ I said.

‘He got angry and she threatened to call the police. Fortunately, he pulled himself together and then, only then, did he come home. We stayed up all night debating what to do next. We decided that he’d go to our local police station and report what he’d discovered.’

‘And what did they say?’ As if I didn’t know already.

‘That she was clearly no longer a missing person. Ronnie had located her. She didn’t look ill. There was no reason to believe she’d been harmed. Hard as it was for a parent to take, Tina had made a definite statement that she had no wish to interact with us. She was grown up and we had to respect her wishes, however irrational and unreasonable they seemed. The file would be stamped “No further action”. Ronnie was dismayed. So deflated.’

I made no comment. Ronnie got the response I’d have given him. The more caring a parent, the meaner the pay-off; that was something else on which I was an empiric expert.

I could sense that the narrative hadn’t quite run its full course, so I prepared for the punchline.

‘Next morning, Ronnie got up early, didn’t bother with his
routine shower, dressed, said he was going to buy a newspaper, walked to the railway station, gave the newsstand a miss, and threw himself in front of a train. He went out on an empty stomach. Didn’t have breakfast. Not even a cup of tea.’

Mrs Marlowe couldn’t see anything hysterical in what she’d just said. That’s the way it is when people are traumatized and telling the truth, relating the minutiae of the moment, the mundane madness of it all.

‘I had a little item inserted in the Announcements column of the
Daily Telegraph
, recording his death and the funeral
arrangements
,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I hoped – prayed – Tina would see it and show up at the cemetery, if not the church.’

More chance if she’d advertised in
Time Out, I thought.

‘But she didn’t show?’ I said.

‘No, she didn’t. No flowers, no letter, no phone call. No Tina. Two departures from my life that I had to reconcile myself with.’

If there was a God, he certainly had a wicked sense of timing
, I thought.

S
harkey summoned me to his office.

‘Shut the door,’ he said, not looking up, fiddling with his pen, his jacket hooked over the back of his well-worn, black leather, spin-chair, his paunch a pliable buffer between old, chipped oak and neglected viscera, a light suffusion of sweat shimmering on his florid face. ‘I’ve spoken with Pomfrey.’ This wasn’t said with reverence; not as if he’d had an audience with the Pope or had made a supplication at an altar.

‘Thanks,’ I said. I wasn’t sure whether to help myself to a chair or to stay on my feet, so I hovered between the desk and the deliberately uncomfortable chair reserved for
inconvenient
interlopers, so they would always be at an aching disadvantage.

He snorted, pretending to be grumpy, a persona he’d crafted and it suited him. ‘Pomfrey wasn’t inclined towards your request.’

I guessed that this was a sanitized version. ‘I told you he wouldn’t be.’

‘So you did; that was something you got right. No wonder you’re rated so highly at the Yard.’ There was deep-rooted sincerity in his sarcasm and resentment. ‘Pomfrey said you’re only after a hot-water bottle.’

‘That’s insulting,’ I said, deciding to sit; never afraid to use my initiative.

‘My sentiment, too.’

‘Anyhow, it’s the wrong time of year for hot-water bottles,’ I said.

‘Bottom line is that your request was granted, albeit
begrudgingly
.’

I was surprised and it must have showed.

‘It’s no favour,’ he said. ‘Pomfrey reckoned Cable would only sulk while you were away and drag her feet; bad for morale.’

‘If he really believes that, then he can’t know DS Cable,’ I said, indignantly.

‘Not the way
you
do, apparently!’

I’d stumbled carelessly into that pothole.

‘Anyhow, she’ll be here this afternoon and she’s all yours.’ Any innuendo this time was politely concealed. Finally looking up, he said, ‘Anything of worth to report?’

‘Not of
worth
,’ I replied. ‘But I interviewed Tina Marlowe’s mother yesterday.’

‘I didn’t even know the old girl was still alive.’

‘Tina’s father’s dead, though … committed suicide.’

‘Something else I didn’t know,’ he said, glumly. ‘Doesn’t seem, though, as if any of this is relevant to tracing Tina.’

‘Her mother gave me more leads than she imagined.’

Sharkey raised his overgrown eyebrows. ‘Is she in touch with her daughter, then?’

‘No.’

‘Was she able to tell you if Tina’s married?’

‘No.’

‘Has she any idea where Tina’s currently living?’

‘Seems not.’

‘Does she even know if her daughter’s still alive, dammit?’

‘No.’

‘And this is what you Yard bullshitters call making progress, eh?’ He gave me a so-what-the-hell-am-I-missing
now
? gesture, arms raised.

‘I said
leads
; nothing definite, but at least now I have a trail to follow.’

‘All dead ends have a promising beginning,’ he said,
negatively
; just to be provocative, I surmised. ‘Fancy a drink?’ he added.

‘Too early in the day for me,’ I said. ‘In any case, I’m trying to kick the juice.’

‘That’s not what I heard from Pomfrey. Anyhow, I meant a coffee or tea.’

‘Too late in the morning for that.’

‘
Touchez
!’ he said.

The time had come for me to beat a retreat. From Sharkey’s office, I took a 200-yard hike in the sun to Folly Bridge, where I phoned Sarah Cable from my mobile.

‘Hi, Mike,’ she said, quick to answer her cell-phone,
recognizing
my number on the screen.

‘What time will you be here?’

‘About three. Traffic shouldn’t be too snarled through town that time of day. Where shall we meet?’

‘How about somewhere original, like the Nick?’

‘Don’t smart-arse me, Mike Lorenzo!’

‘Spunky as ever,’ I said, blithely.

‘No, that’s
your
department.’

The template was set for the rest of the assignment.

Sarah Cable, like me, had what’s known among fellow cops as a history, the sort of baggage that was always easier for guys to shoulder than the girls, so it was supposed, though I’m not convinced. She’d been locked in a bad marriage with a fellow cop, who was a coward on the streets but always ready for rough stuff in the bedroom. When she filed an official complaint about his behaviour, she was warned about the consequences of ‘rocking the boat’. Her immediate superior told her to ‘think about it carefully’ and not to do anything that would reflect
badly on the force. While reflecting, she was treated to a special beating. Next day, after undergoing repairs in the A&E
department
of her local general hospital, she returned home to find her husband in bed with a woman police sergeant, who was naked except for her uniform-hat, worn at a jaunty angle. Her husband was also naked, except for the handcuffs that fastened him to a bedpost. Sarah booted the woman downstairs and into the small back garden. Still in a rage, she bounded upstairs and threw the woman sergeant’s clothes out the window, including the key to unlock the handcuffs.

‘Well, well, well,’ she said, suddenly icily calm. ‘How grateful I am to your
lady
friend! Now I’ve got you exactly where I’ve wanted you these past two miserable, sodding years – totally helpless and at my mercy. Oh, boy! I intend to break your head and your balls. Only two questions remain: what with and in which order?’

She chose his riot-stick, which was hanging behind the door. As for the order, she decided to work her way upwards; sort of symbolic.

‘You’ve always been one for clubbing in the West End, now let’s see how you enjoy my home-sweet-home version,’ she taunted him.

He pleaded with her to be ‘reasonable’ and not to behave like an asylum seeker;
asylum
as in a place for the insane.

‘I’m mad, all right,’ she rounded on him, though still composed. ‘And now you’re going to sample my madness. It looked to me as if you were lapping up being roughed up. Bet I can improve on
her
handiwork, though.’

His subsequent screams alerted neighbours who called the police. Something of a joke, really; a parallel of one of those yarns:
I’m going to send for the police. No need, I AM the police
.

Sarah’s husband spent two weeks in hospital and a further three months convalescing, during which time she was suspended from duty. Wisely, he chose not to bring charges for
assault and battery, a decision that was greeted with much relief by the image-conscious top brass, but disappointed Sarah. The court case would have been very messy and tailor-made for the front pages of the tabloids. Sarah would gladly have gone to prison in exchange for seeing her husband publicly pilloried. Instead of a sordid trial, followed by gaol, she was privately
reprimanded
and reinstated, then transferred to the Met from her Home Counties provincial force. And that’s how we came to be partners, then pals, and finally something more. Perhaps the reference to
finally
is somewhat premature. The ending has still to be written. Most of the other cops within my orbit were wary of her. ‘Watch her, she’s bad news; bad as gaol-bait,’ was the kind of malicious warning repeatedly whispered in my ear. I took no notice, of course. My marriage had been reduced to flotsam, washed up on a succession of storm-tides. I was drinking too much, gambling too heavily, and bed-hopping like a flea with an itch of its own. Neither Sarah nor I had any right to be judgmental, which was the one thing we had in common. We respected each other’s demons and tried to give them a wide berth. Skeletons were best left buried. Dig them up and they could be the most troublesome ghosts, more havoc-wreaking than poltergeists.

My problems were somewhat different in that the past
trespassed
on the present. Marital separation had not yet morphed into divorce and addictions were as permanent as a birthmark; they could be camouflaged and managed, but they were always lurking on the periphery, just waiting for the opportunity to bounce back. I’ll never forget my first attendance at an AA meeting. ‘My name is Mike. I’m married. I have teenage kids. I’m a civil servant. (I couldn’t possibly admit to being a cop.) I have an ongoing alcohol problem.’
What the hell am I doing here among all these derelicts
? I was thinking, a typical attitude, I was to discover, of newcomers to rehab groups. You don’t believe that you belong there. You somehow think that you’re very different from the others; that you’re a cut above them. Not until
that arrogance is stripped away have you any chance of sanitizing your life and finding a way out of the sewer.

Nowadays, I chance the occasional beer, but I don’t really trust myself. A pub door opens, boisterous conviviality wafts my way and I’m so damned tempted to go on a bender, pulled inside by an invisible hand. Pub sounds can be as seductive and soliciting as those of an accomplished whore. Getting drunk would be tantamount to breaking marriage vows, which I’ve done randomly and without remorse, so why be so steadfast now over this commitment? I’ll tell you why: to hit the bottle again would be to beat myself up irreparably. I’d be pulling the chain on my career and health. My liver has been punished unfairly, but so far it has stood by me, like a faithful friend. One can abuse that kind of loyalty only so long before it lets you go, casting you adrift, leaving you vulnerable to all manner of
predators
. When you lose the support of your liver, the gravity of the grave quickly kicks in.

Betting shops had been as enticing to me as pubs; in fact, the two overlapped seamlessly. After a drink, I was emboldened to gamble. If I gambled and won, I was emboldened to drink to celebrate. And if I gambled and lost, I sought solace in alcohol, which merely loosened the leash on any last vestiges of caution. The lure is a soft sell. The steps to hell and ruin are paved with cushions and bordered by roses, the thorns of which have been craftily hidden.

Sarah looked good. Seeing her made me feel better, like a
pick-me
-up tonic. She was dressed for the street: tight jeans, russet, ankle leather-boots, a loose, white silk blouse knotted at the waist, and her lucky horseshoe amulet around her slender,
stem-like
neck. You’d never believe from looking at her that she could flatten a heavyweight thug without working up sweat or raising her pulse rate by even one extra beat a minute. Her femininity was genuine, but her delicate appearance was a dangerous trick
of nature, designed to trap those who stupidly took her for easy prey. Her sable hair was unrestrained; she chose to allow it to be blown by the wind, like the mane of a galloping horse or a flag fluttering in the breeze. On calm days and when she was indoors, her hair would cover large parts of her dainty features like a hanging, beaded curtain. Most people thought she had a hard, snappy and hostile face; a bird of prey. This was only partially true. She’d survived a very nasty war on the home front. The wounds and scars were inside her head, etched on her psyche. What you saw on the outside was armour, her
bulletproof
vest. There were very few people with whom she let down her guard and I considered myself privileged to be the
front-runner
. Her opalescent eyes could have the look of death about them and then, in an instant, light up a room with sunny mischief. She wasn’t a moody person, just introspective; too human, sensitive and incorruptible for the likes of Pomfrey. Too mentally and morally strong, as well. Pomfrey preferred his underlings, especially women, to be pliable and readily
manipulated
. In that respect, he’d long ago given up on Sarah. And, in other respects, he’d long ago given up on me, until he needed something akin to a miracle. That’s when I was known variously as ‘The Sorcerer’ or ‘The Magus’, but only when it suited Pomfrey. At other times, his names for me weren’t so flattering.

Sarah, as my partner, mostly worked undercover. She came dressed for the street because she’d had no briefing from Pomfrey. All he’d said, apparently, was, ‘You’ll be teaming up again with that reprobate partner of yours, DI Lorenzo. He’s in Oxford, not his usual kind of low-life scene. The only degree he’s heard of is the third. He’ll give you the story, no doubt doctored, on your arrival.’

‘Good to see you,’ I said.

She smiled, almost coyly. ‘Looks like I could be
underdressed
,’ she said, noting my suit, even a necktie, though it was
loosened, knot resting on my chest instead of throttling me.

‘No, you’re fine,’ I said, ‘at least for today. And probably for most of this assignment.’

‘Pomfrey said you’d give me the story.’

‘Book at bedtime insinuation, huh?’

‘No, for once he didn’t even hint at that; just said your account would be doctored, no doubt. Snide as ever.’

‘You hungry?’ I asked.

‘Sort of.’

‘Let’s get a bite,’ I suggested, wanting out of my closet.

We walked together, shoulders rubbing like a couple of tourists, away from the police station, up the hill of St Aldate’s. A right turn into the High for a couple of hundred yards, before cutting left through narrow Turl Street, passing Lincoln, Jesus and Exeter colleges, and finally ducking into the compact and intimate News Café in Ship Street.

We ordered tea and cakes, and occupied a corner table-
for-two
, under a muted TV that was showing silent pictures of a contemporary newscaster, not Charlie Chaplin.

‘So, what’s the pitch?’ she said, finally, putting on her neutral, business voice.

For half an hour she listened and asked intelligent, probing questions, exactly what I anticipated from her.

When I’d finished, she said, as if there had to be more, ‘And that’s
it
?’

‘Sum total,’ I said, adding sardonically, ‘Nice one, huh?’

‘Certainly a new angle – find the victim.’

‘I thought it might appeal to you.’

‘Do I have a choice?’