Mark Pearson - The Killing Season

Amy had changed Laura’s wardrobe, schooled her for the trial and got her off all charges. Amy told me that she had no idea how Laura had ended up working as her PA and had no recollection of offering her the job. But, as she told me, employing Laura was cheaper than buying and feeding a guard dog and, despite appearances to the contrary, the girl was pretty damn good at her job.

‘Well, you’ve found me. What do you need?’

‘Anything you’ve got, Stretch.’

She grinned at me lasciviously and I laughed despite myself. ‘What I’ve got is a wife and two daughters.’

‘Why have hamburger when you can have horse meat at home — is that what you’re saying?’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that to Kate.’

‘No, you’re safe, Irish,’ she said. ‘Just tugging on your lariat.’

There were only a few people I let get away with calling me ‘Irish’.

‘The boss wants to see you,’ she said.

‘Now?’

‘After lunch is cool. You can buy me a bacon sandwich at the Lobby.’

The Lobby she referred to was The Lobster public house, set back from the coast by about fifty yards and where the roaring log fire I had been contemplating in my mind’s eye was to be found.

The walk into town was cold and windy enough for us both to hurry inside The Lobster when we got there. Laura was dressed as if it was summer whilst I had my leather jacket zipped tight. I nodded to the barman as we walked in. He nodded back and held up a Guinness glass.

I grinned at him. ‘You’d better get the vampire a Bloody Mary.’

‘I’ll have a pint of Kronenbourg!’ she shouted to the departing barman, who had gone to the back bar where the Guinness was on tap. This was the real-ale bar and I had slowly been brought round to enjoying a pint now and again. Hitherto I had regarded real ale as enthusiastically as I would a glass of pond water. But when in Rome or Paris, like I always say, don’t take a taxi. Today I fancied a glass of the Guinness, as they served a decent pint here and, well, you never quite forget your first kiss, do you? Your first love or your first pint of the black magic!

The Lobster was built sometime in the mid-nineteenth century, 1850 or thereabouts. The ceiling had been covered with old maps some time ago, nobody knew exactly when: they were yellowed with age and tobacco stains from back in the happy days when bars really were bars, and you were allowed to smoke, swear, make some noise and generally have a good time without drawing the censure of diners. The walls were festooned with pictures of old lifeboat crews and fishermen, nets hung from the ceiling and there were lobster pots, boathooks, long oars. There were etchings on the old sash windows that looked out onto Gun Street where an old cannon was mounted at the corner of the pub. The blazing fire was large, housed in the original brick-built fireplace and chimney breast, with a brightly polished copper hood above it. It sounds like a dreadful theme pub but it wasn’t — it just hadn’t been altered for years. Hadn’t been got at by the corporate chains and breweries who are seemingly motivated to drive all character out of the public houses of England. That was one thing you could say about North Norfolk — they do pubs well.

After I had drunk a third of my pint of Guinness in one swallow, I looked down the menu and ordered the sausage and mash. It was that kind of day. Laura ordered the fruits de mer from the specials board. As it was on my tab, I told her to think again. She ordered a double-stacked burger and a large side order of fries. I looked at her thin frame and shook my head.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘I reckon you must have hollow bones.’

‘Purity of heart, a cheerful disposition and an abstemious nature are the fundamental building blocks of a healthy shape, Jack. Heart, mind and body in perfect harmony.’

‘Abstemious! I’ve seen you at The Crown on a Saturday night, remember.’

She grinned. ‘Must be the genes, then.’

‘There is something you can do for me.’

Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Never trust an Irishman, that’s what my grandmother always told me.’

‘Did she now?’

‘Maybe not. But she should have done.’

‘A strictly professional matter.’

She leaned forward, her expression animated. ‘So what’s the case?’ she asked. ‘Drug smuggling? Prostitution? People-trafficking, coming in from Holland via the North Norfolk coast and then down to London?’

‘There’s been a bit of ongoing vandalism up at the campsite along the cliffs. Graffiti, broken fences, locks forced even though the vans are empty.’

Laura gave a disappointed sigh, rolled her eyes again for dramatic effect and shrugged, her blade-like shoulders belying the strength she had in her slender frame. ‘The yoot be bored. What are you going to do about it, bro?’

‘I want you to find out who’s behind it.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because, like you said, it’s probably some feckless youngsters like you with their brains in their toecaps.’

‘None taken.’

‘And the local flatfeet don’t seem to be bothered enough to do much.’

Laura laughed again. ‘The police. What use are they?’

I returned her sardonic look.

‘Well, you ain’t proper police, are you, Jack?’

‘Just keep your eyes open.’

‘Yes, sir. Eyes peeled, ears to the ground.’

‘Well,’ I said, looking at her pointedly. ‘You’re close enough.’

She punched me on the shoulder. ‘You kill me, Stretch.’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s get you back to work.’

Amy Leigh had her offices above a gift shop in Gun Street that ran past The Lobster to Lifeboat Plain, a misshapen kind of square bordered by a café, two pubs and a community hall, with a narrow lane beside it that led down to a slipway and the ocean beyond.

You could pick up a pebble, if you had a mind to, from the lower corner of the Plain and hurl it into the sea. I didn’t have an urge to do any such thing just then, so I followed Amy Leigh’s young assistant instead, walked into the shop and nodded at the blonde woman in a pink jumper behind the till. She was a friend of Amy’s so getting to the office through the shop wasn’t a problem for either of them. Wasn’t a problem for me, either. The jumper looked good on her.

At the top of the narrow stairs Laura pushed on the nameplate bearing the legend AMY LEIGH amp; ASSOCIATES mounted on a solid white-painted Victorian door and ushered me in. There was room inside for two large desks and assorted filing cabinets. A thick oriental rug lay on the floor and behind the older of the two desks sat the woman designated by the nameplate. As far as I knew, the only associate she had was Laura Gomez but a woman has to have ambition, I guess. Although Amy’s ambitions were not financially driven. She genuinely liked helping people. She looked up and smiled as we walked into her office, paying more attention to the paper bag in Laura Gomez’s hand than to me.

‘Good girl — you bought coffee and croissants?’ she said.

‘Girl!’ Laura Gomez raised her left eyebrow and tilted her chin.

‘Just hand the pastry products over. Jack, take a seat.’ She gestured towards a chair opposite her desk. ‘I’m sure Laura bought enough for everyone.’

‘Out of the ten pounds I gave her she did.’

‘Hey, Delaney,’ said Laura. ‘I’m just a lackey of the capitalist overlords, I don’t get paid enough to fund the management. Nor do I wish to be complicit in my own oppression.’

‘She’s been taking night classes,’ Amy explained.

‘Dangerous thing, educating the ignorant.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Margaret Thatcher.’