Quintin Jardine - Blackstone's pursuits

‘A loft, not a flat,’ Must get the terminology right.

‘Loft, flat,’ she said. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘About five grand in a good market, I reckon.’ That got her attention.

We made our way up the narrow, twisty stairway to my pad, and stepped into the tiny square area which passed for my entrance hall. Two doors and a staircase led from it. ‘Kitchen to the left, bathroom door to the right,’ I said. I opened each door to demonstrate. When I opened the door on the right, a red-faced woman screamed. She was sat on the toilet, so it was understandable.

‘The rest of it’s up there.’ I said hurriedly. Weighed down by bags, I led the way up the staircase to the heart of my stronghold. Prim stepped up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Er, Oz. About Mrs Blackstone?’

I frowned. ‘I told you, my mother’s dead. Anyway, she always bolted the door when she went to the toilet. That was Jan. She does my books, but she sets her own hours.’

Well, it was true. Jan and I were at school together. She did my books. Occasionally she ironed a shirt if she felt sorry for me, On even rarer occasions, when something was troubling her or she just felt like my company, she gave me a cuddle in the night.

Downstairs we heard the toilet flush. I looked across the room. Fortunately my ledgers were spread out on my desk. Prim followed my eyes, then looked around the rest of the place.

‘You never said it was open plan!’

‘You never asked. Anyway, it isn’t. The living area’s down here. The sleeping area’s that raised part, up that wee ladder. When you’re in bed, you can’t be seen from down here. Well, hardly.’

‘Very comforting!’ She’s good at irony, is Prim.

‘Remember the pointy bit I showed you? Well, you get to that through the sleeping area. You see the foot of the second ladder there?’

‘It looks sort of like a square funnel from the inside, doesn’t it,’ she said. At that moment Wallace, the curious iguana, eased his cumbersome frame down the ladder, and swung across to walk along the railing which enclosed the raised area, and against which my bed was pressed.

She shook her head, and then did something which turned my knees to jelly. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. Not on the cheek, on the lips. Chastely, you understand. Hands by her side and everything. But still, not on the cheek, on the lips.

‘Osbert, you may be a fruitcake, and you may live in a fucking mad-house, but you are my saviour and protector, my knight in shining armour. You’re here when I need you, and I thank you.’

The gallows answer stuck in my throat. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me, and I was unspeakably touched.

Jan wasn’t. She smiled at Prim as she appeared at the top of the stairs, and she smiled at me. I could grade the warmth of Jan’s smiles pretty well, and the one she threw at me was straight from the fridge. She’s a tall girl, with looks and dark hair that fell off a Jane Russell poster, and a chest to match.

‘Hi,’ I said. I was about to add, ‘Sorry about surprising you on the bog,’ but I thought that I’d better not. ‘Jan, this is Prim Phillips. Prim, Jan More. Prim’s got a problem, she needs somewhere to crash for a couple of days.’

Jan smiled again, with a glint in her eye, but there was nothing malicious in it. ‘Must be a big problem, for you to wind up here. Watch out for Wallace, darlin’. That bloody iguana was right up my kilt this morning.’

She turned back to me. ‘Oz, your books are done. Your VAT slip’s ready to go. I’ve written cheques for that and all your other bills, and I’ve written one for me too.’

‘Fine,’ I said. I picked up my chequebook, signed the second cheque, tore it out and handed it to her. I didn’t even check the amount. Jan hadn’t given herself a rise in four years. Mind you, she’d given me a few.

‘Thanks. Right, I’m off. See you next month, or whenever.’

I saw her to the door. ‘Look, Jan, you’d never believe …’

She turned in the doorway, but she was smiling. ‘Don’t “look” me, Oz. I’d believe anything about you. Our rule is ask no questions, and I’m not going to break it now. Good luck.’ She gave my balls a friendly squeeze and closed the door behind her.

I went back upstairs to Prim. She had carried her smaller bag up to the raised area, but had left the monster for me. I looked up and saw her feet disappearing up the ladder to Wallace’s sun-room. ‘Hey, this is terrific,’ her voice echoed down. ‘You can see a lot from up here.’

‘That’s why Wallace likes it,’ I shouted back. ‘Incidentally, Jan was only kidding about him being up her skirt.’ I grabbed the sullen iguana and shoved him into the cage which was his bedchamber, hoping that I was right. The eaves space in the loft was lined with cupboards, where most of my possessions were stored. I dived into one and pulled out a towel. As Prim climbed down the ladder, I threw it to her. ‘There. The shower’s electric. Instant hot water. You’ll find my dressing gown behind the door. Fancy something to eat?’

She thought about it for a few seconds. ‘Which takeaway is it at lunchtime? McDonalds?’

I put on a hurt look. ‘I do cook sometimes. For example, I do an ace tuna sandwich.’

‘That’d be great.’ She invaded the vast bag once more and emerged with a bottle of shampoo, and some other stuff. ‘Meantime, I have earned this shower. I’ve come a long way for it. I’m going to enjoy it. Hope your lecky bill can stand it. I may be some time!’

Leaving her to undress, I jumped down to the kitchen. A quick glance at the green things in the bread basket persuaded me that I should take her at her word about lunch. As soon as I heard the bathroom door close, I slipped out of the flat, sprinted down the stairs, out of the building and along the narrow wynd which led to the High Street.

Fortunately there hadn’t been a run on Ali’s ace tuna, sweetcorn and mayonnaise rolls. I grabbed a handful, added a couple of yoghurts for luck and a quart of milk to replace the yellow stuff in the fridge, and paid my be-turbanned pal. Ali shot me a questioning look, one that said ‘Surely not at lunchtime?’ but said nothing. I gave him the expected knowing wink and bolted back the way I had come.

By the time Prim emerged from her shower, I was in my chef’s apron, with the woman’s naked body turned to the inside and chaste blue stripes on show. Lunch was laid out neatly on plates — the paper bag and wrappers out of sight in the wastebin — and the cafetiere was full and steaming. I depressed its plunger with a flourish, and offered her a stool at the breakfast bar, facing mine.

‘I’m impressed,’ she said. My dressing gown, rarely worn in any event, had never looked better. It clung to her body, doing things for her that Marks amp; Spencer could use to great effect in their advertising. My towel looked pretty cool too, wound round her head like an outsize version of my pal Ali’s turban. She suited it better than he did.

‘Thank you ma’am,’ I said. Score a point for the boy.

‘I didn’t think you were that quick on your feet. I forgot my toothbrush, so I had to run back upstairs. Either you were up in the belvedere or the place was empty.’

‘Milk,’ I said, assertively. ‘Needed some more.’

She bit a huge chunk from a tuna roll. ‘Mmm,’ she said, as she chewed. ‘Pity you didn’t get some fresh rolls as well. These are a day or so older than they should be.’

I tried one for myself. ‘Nonsense,’ I said eventually, relieved to discover that she had been pulling my chain. ‘They were fresh this morning.’

We demolished our rolls, slurped our yoghurt and drank our coffee with the enthusiasm of the newly reprieved. Prim held her mug in both hands, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar, holding them carefully so that the dressing gown didn’t flop open. I offered her a top-up, but she said, ‘No thanks. I really would like an hour or two’s kip. I’m not jet-lagged or anything. I was in more or less the same time zone. I’m just knackered.’