David Wishart - Old Bones

When I re-emerged into the sunlight it was past noon and my mouth felt dry as a shortass camel's scrotum. A perfect time for the Cockerel. I grabbed an itinerant pastry-seller and got directions to Half Moon Street.

Caere's biggest cookshop or not, I'd assumed that the Cockerel would be a pretty low dive, but the place had some pretensions. Meaning that there was graphic and pictorial decoration on the walls, some of it not just the product of freelancers expressing their political views or detailing the sexual proclivities of the local talent. Not that the management's contribution was artistically speaking much better, mind: the eponymous cockerel that faced you as you went in could've been anything from a constipated ostrich to a cabbage with legs and a beak, and I'd never seen so many cross-eyed ladies in my life. Early afternoon you'd think a place like that would be quiet – cookshops with 'entertainment' only get going after sunset – but it was comfortably full, and there was what I can only describe as an air of expectancy. I found a free table and ordered up a jug of Caeretan, some poached brains with fennel and a side plate of cheese and olives.

'Hey, pal,' I said to the waiter when he'd brought the stuff. 'Does a girl called Pullia work here?'

He grinned as he set the plates down. 'Sure.'

'You think I could see her?'

'No problem.' He jerked his head towards a platform at one end of the room that I hadn't noticed. 'That's Pullia now. Look all you want.'

I looked, and my jaw hit the table. Jupiter! I looked harder, just for the fun of it. Yeah, well, that explained why there were so many punters this early. The girl who'd just come out of a side door and jumped up onto the stage was wearing enough makeup and flashy jewellery to fit out a whole cat-house, and not a great deal else. The noise level suddenly went up a couple of dozen notches.

I sat back with my wine and watched the show. Subtle it wasn't, but she was young enough to get away with it, and stacked into the bargain; that much was obvious after the first two minutes when she started peeling off in earnest. There were no gimmicks, no wrestling with amorous pythons or spinning judiciously-attached tassels: this was a straight appeal to the audience's gut instincts, and they lapped it up and yelled for more.

Me – well, I've always preferred my poached brains with fennel cold, anyway.

The punters were still climbing over tables and yammering for seconds when she picked up the bits and pieces that she'd pulled off, slipped down, wriggled out of or otherwise removed in the course of her act and left the stage. I took a deep swallow of the wine – it wasn't bad stuff, which said a lot for the management's professional integrity – and waved the waiter back over.

'Now, friend,' I said. 'About that introduction. I'd sort of envisaged a more private chat, somewhere quiet. You think you could arrange that for me now the lady's done her bit out front for the boys?'

'Sure.' He looked down pointedly at the pouch on my belt and leered. 'No problem.'

I pulled out a silver piece. He waited. I made it two. He waited again and I added a third. Well, it'd been a cheap holiday so far.

The coins disappeared like rabbits down a hole. 'Follow me, boss,' he said.

I picked up the cup and jug – the brains I didn't mind, but there was no point in leaving good wine for some other bugger to filch – and tagged along behind him. He led me through the exit the girl had taken and up a flight of worm-eaten stairs, stopped outside a door at the top and knocked.

'Yeah?' A woman's voice, muffled.

'Visitor for you,' the guy said through the panelling.

'Damn! Wait a minute, Flavius.' There was a pause and the door opened.

She was older than I'd thought she'd be: at close quarters and with the makeup off I could see the beginnings of crow's-feet round the eyes. Also she was wearing a decent tunic, which tended to spoil things.

'Flavius, you little pervert, I told you never to -' she began. Then she took in my purple stripe and aristocratic nose and did a good imitation of a gannet swallowing. 'Oh. Ah. Right. Yeah.'

Well, at least we were starting on a plus here. 'The name's Marcus Valerius Corvinus,' I said. 'You think I could have a word with you?'

'Sure.' She stepped aside quickly. 'Two. A dozen. As many as you like. I'll see you later, Flavius, okay?'

The waiter gave me another leer and went clattering off down the stairs.

'Come in.' Pullia closed the door behind me, walked over to the bed and lay down. 'Make yourself comfortable.'

I looked around. There was an open clothes chest, a couple of shelves with not much on them, an old bronze mirror thick with verdigris that could've come from the bargain heap of any third-rate junk shop, and nothing else. No chairs, no stools.

Uh-huh.

Well, it had to be done. I went over to the clothes chest, closed it and sat on the lid, setting the jug and wine cup beside me. Pullia watched expressionlessly.

'Words, lady,' I said. 'Just words.'

The tunic had slipped. She pulled it up a bit and sat higher on the bed, her back against the wall. Still she said nothing. I opened my pouch, slowly took out a half gold piece and laid it beside the wine jug. Her eyes went to it, then back to me. They looked puzzled.

'You're kidding,' she said.

'Uh-uh.' I shook my head. 'I enjoyed the show. Think of it as payment for that, if you like.'

She shifted on the bed and swung her feet over so she was sitting on the edge. I had a tantalising glimpse of leg, but then the hem of the tunic was pulled down. I sighed; life is never easy.

'Okay,' she said. 'Then what do you want?'

'You're Aulus Bubo's girlfriend, yes?'

That got me a considering look; the lady was no bubblehead.

'Was,' she said. 'The poor sap's dead.' Well, I'd heard gentler valedictories in my time. 'He was murdered two days ago.' She paused. 'That what this is about?'

'Yeah. I thought you might be able to tell me a bit about him.'

'Like what, for instance?'

'Jupiter knows, lady. Let's start with his business. He was a fence, right?' She hesitated. I glanced meaningfully at the half gold piece, and she nodded. 'Okay. So what sort of things did he handle, mostly?'

'Besides me?' Her lips twitched. 'The usual. Jewellery, plate.'

'Middle of the range? Top? Who did he deal with?'

'Top.' She was still looking at me like a cat at a mouse-hole. 'He specialised in antiques. And he had his contacts. Not many, but they were the best.'

'And he sold the stuff on through his shop in Lampmakers' Street.'

'Sometimes. It depended. There's no real market for antiques in Caere. The best of it went to his brother in Rome.'

My scalp prickled. 'His brother?'

'His brother Publius. He has a business on the Sacred Way.' She leaned back. Maybe it was accidental, but her tunic was shifting again, and this time she didn't pull it down. 'You from Rome yourself?'

'Ultimately, yeah.'

'I've never been to Rome. It must be nice.'

'It's okay.' I glanced at the coin again, then back to her. 'Ever hear of someone called Clusinus?'

'Titus Clusinus?' She smiled. 'I've met him a couple of times.'

'At Bubo's?'

'There and elsewhere. He's a nice guy.'

'You know what his business with Bubo was?'

'He was selling, Bubo was buying. That's all I know.'

'Something big?'

'Bubo always dealt big. I told you. But, like I say, that's all I know.' The tunic hem rode up another half inch. 'You have a house in Rome?'

'No. Not any more.'

'I've never met a Roman purple-striper before. You don't see many of them in Caere, not at the Cockerel anyway. You really liked the show?'

'Sure. You've got real talent.'

'Bubo never complained. But now he's dead there's no one to appreciate it.' She wriggled. The tunic top slipped. 'Not properly.'