Питер Ловси - The Stone Wife

‘Why do you say that? How do you know?’

‘You can go on all afternoon trying to trick me, Sergeant Smith. It won’t succeed. I’m holding fast to my principles, even in a world that I hardly recognise any more.’

Half an hour later, Ingeborg realised that the old lady was right. She would no more get the name of the client than she would learn where to buy Bath Olivers. And after several top-ups from the decanter, she was starting to fear that she, too, wouldn’t recognise the world any more.

This lunchtime three homeless men known to each other as Shakes, One-Eye and Junior were sharing a single can of Red Bull under a horse chestnut tree near the mortuary chapel in Brunswick Cemetery in the St. Paul’s district. Not one of Bristol’s most salubrious public spaces, it was still intended for public use. The gravestones had been moved to the edges except for a few raised tombs and most of it was grassed over and mown. As an amenity it was not much used, for all the good intentions of the planners. Razor wire fencing along the edges to protect the neighbouring buildings didn’t help and neither did the fact that the cemetery was limited in access. To get in, you had to come through a private car park in Wilder Street. Most locals regarded the place as unsafe.

The homeless men weren’t troubled. They would remain in the cemetery for hours yet. A short walk away was the night shelter in Little Bishop Street, run by the Julian Trust. Getting one of the eighteen beds in the dormitory was a lottery considering that eighty to a hundred men turned up each night for the free dinner at 9:30 P.M., but obviously you needed to turn up at the door to make any sort of claim.

Shakes was the only one of the three who had so far enjoyed a night in the Julian and it gave him extra status. ‘I wouldn’t say it’s the Ritz,’ he was telling the others. ‘You wouldn’t have to share with seventeen others at the Ritz, but they do your laundry while you’re kipping and it’s ready for you in the morning. There’s a proper toilet and a shower and all.’

‘What about breakfast?’ One-Eye asked. ‘Do you get that in bed?’ It was meant in fun and he may have winked. It was impossible to tell.

‘No, mate. You have to get up for that, and if you want it, you have to be in the dining room by six thirty.’

‘That’s early,’ Junior said. ‘I’d rather stop in bed.’

‘They kick you out at seven thirty anyway.’

Junior shook his head. ‘Definitely not for me. I’ll stick with the underpass.’

‘They ought to make you a special case,’ One-Eye said as he handed the can to Junior.

The young man took this as sympathy and looked pleased. ‘Why?’

‘You could do with the laundry. You really stink.’

‘No more than you.’

‘Mine’s honest sweat. Yours is piss and puke. Doesn’t he stink of piss and puke, Shakes?’

‘Could be where we’re sitting,’ Shakes said. ‘You never know who’s been here.’

‘Downwind of Junior is where I’m sitting,’ One-Eye said. ‘Look at you. You’re a fucking disgrace. How old are you?’

‘Dunno,’ Junior said.

‘He knows sod all,’ Shakes said. ‘He’s simple. I can tell you when I was born, 1952, the year the king died. He doesn’t know shit. He can’t even tell you his name.’

‘Me, I was born the year we landed on the moon,’ One-Eye said as if he’d personally completed the Apollo Eleven mission. ‘When was that?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Shakes said. ‘And don’t ask him. He wouldn’t know. Work it out yourself.’

‘Where was you before you came to Bristol?’ One-Eye asked Junior, shifting the attention away from himself.

There was no answer.

‘I’d say you’re from round here, going by the way you talk. Brissle, born and bred, you be.’

‘D’you think so?’

‘Bloody obvious.’

With her head feeling divorced from the rest of her, Ingeborg stood at the end of Saville Row near enough to the corner of Alfred Street to back out of sight when necessary. She expected Miss Brie to emerge from Mon Repos before long. The Courvoisier-lubricated meeting had not delivered much, but she was confident there was more to come. She had seen the way the old lady’s mind was working, the paranoia about hidden mikes and tapped phones. In her statements about surveillance, Miss Brie had revealed more than she intended. By denying that she would make a phone call, she had confirmed that she had it in mind to get in touch with somebody. Out of loyalty to her previous employer, she planned to warn the anonymous client as soon as possible about this attention from the police.

How would a paranoid old lady make contact if she was convinced her house was bugged?

She’d go out.

If the client was local she’d visit in person. If not, she’d use a public phone. She was unlikely to own a mobile.

Worth waiting to find out? Ingeborg believed so.

The day had reached that busy time between one and two when office workers were out on the streets along with tourists, students and shoppers. Busy only in the sense of large numbers — No one was especially active. There was much standing about in groups, laughing, gossiping and generally enjoying the spring sun. This suited Ingeborg nicely. If you are tailing someone, you take advantage of every opportunity of cover and the chance to linger unnoticed on street corners.

The alcohol may have had something to do with it, but she was feeling buoyant again. She’d wanted more action and this was it. Tailing an innocent old lady didn’t have the cachet of tangling with an arms supplier, but it beat sitting at a desk in Manvers Street with John Leaman for company.

Fifteen minutes later, some of the elation had drained away. Miss Brie had not made the expected move. Be patient, Ingeborg told herself. Old ladies don’t rush. She’ll be choosing what to wear, dabbing on more of the lipstick and eau de cologne, checking herself in the mirror and making sure all the lights and appliances are switched off before she steps out.

She looked at her watch. Nearly two. The lunchtime crowds were already thinning out. Saville Row was getting into afternoon mode, with just a few window-gazing at the antiques.

Then she took a sharp breath. A petite figure in a grey coat and black straw hat had stepped into the alley and started walking towards her with a firm step. Miss Brie was on the move at last.

Ingeborg backed out of sight a short way along Alfred Street and waited. She expected her quarry to continue straight down the hill towards the centre of the city by way of Bartlett Street, a wider walkway lined with yet more restaurants and antique shops, and she was right. Without a glance right or left, Miss Brie moved on, definitely on a mission. Steady on her feet and with a clear eye, she showed no effect from the several shots of brandy.

So it became a sedate pursuit, suited to a civilised city like Bath, keeping the black straw hat in sight, but remaining alert, ready to step aside into a shop doorway if necessary. At the foot of Bartlett Street, Miss Brie turned into George Street and used the pedestrian crossing. She was still so purposeful that it was tempting to get closer and trust she wouldn’t suddenly look round and realise she was being followed.

Don’t risk it, Ingeborg urged herself.

At the corner of Gay Street, a voice unexpectedly said, ‘Hi, Ingeborg. How are you doing?’

Not what she needed. James, her karate instructor.

‘Sorry. Can’t stop,’ she told him. ‘I’m late for a meeting.’ And she knew how unconvincing she sounded, especially as she was moving at Miss Brie’s plodding rate and couldn’t allow herself to speed up.

‘No problem,’ James said, frowning a little and turning to watch her ambling past.