Nicola Barker - Darkmans

‘My van isn’t alarmed.’

She remained exactly where she was, her hands still held aloft, staring at him, slightly hurt.

He cleared his throat. ‘I really didn’t expect you to come. I just rang because I wanted a quick word with Ann. I know she’s had a fair amount of experience in this area…’

Peta raised an imperious brow.

‘Not that you haven’t …’ he rapidly backtracked.

She crossed her arms and gazed around the room again. ‘You never cease to amaze me,’ she said. ‘I mean the situations you connive to get yourself into…’

He scowled.

‘There’s actually some good stuff in here,’ she murmured, ‘against all the odds. Interesting stuff…’

She walked over to inspect a large, ornately framed, deeply homoerotic print of a fifteenth-century Italian painting of Saint Sebastian, his lean, naked torso completely riddled with arrows. Close to that was a headless shop mannequin with two, small, individual dartboards clumsily etched on to each breast. A dart was still hanging from the left nipple (the right-hand one having been completely obliterated by overuse).

‘I could sell this for a fortune,’ she smiled. ‘There’s a greasy little misogynist I know who owns half of Aldgate — works in the city…He’d just die …’

Next to the dummy was a badly stuffed fox.

‘ Urgh . D’you suppose he did this himself?’ she asked. Beede merely shrugged. Next to the fox was a brightly coloured 1950s roll-up, fabric St John’s Ambulance demonstration chart of the lower abdomen.

‘He’s one of those wood people, isn’t he?’ she sighed, trailing a bored finger around the kidney. ‘One of those strange, sexually repressed, borderline-deviant males who likes to make a habit of hanging around in the woods at night…’

‘Perhaps you should collect him,’ Beede opined, acerbically. ‘Do you own any sexual deviants yet?’

Her mouth tightened at its corners. ‘A few,’ she said, shooting him a dark look.

Beede crouched down and affixed a mewling puppy to a spare teat.

‘I spoke to Kane this afternoon,’ she said casually, walking over to one of several cages and peering inside.

‘Pardon?’

Beede glanced up.

‘Kane,’ she repeated. ‘Your son.’

‘Kane?’

Beede’s eyes flew wide behind his glasses.

‘Yes. It was very odd. He just rang me up, out of the blue. Said he’d found my business card in an old book…’

‘What did he want?’ Beede demanded.

‘I don’t know…’ she shrugged, pretending not to notice the urgent tone of his voice. ‘To talk, I guess. Just to chat…’

‘About what exactly?’

‘About you, mainly.’

‘About me ?’

‘Yes.’

‘But why on earth …?’

She turned and gave him a scathing look. ‘Because the poor child doesn’t really have the first idea who you are , Beede.’

Beede’s jaw stiffened. He seemed stunned by her impertinence.

‘Did you get rid of him?’ he asked, roughly.

She shook her head, surprised. ‘Of course not. I invited him over. In fact I made him an offer on his car.’

Beede’s jaw tightened — if possible — still further.

‘He was sweet,’ she continued blithely, moving into a far corner and picking up an old, rather dusty policeman’s truncheon. ‘Quite charming. We shared lunch.’

‘ Charming ,’ Beede spat, standing and turning to face the garage doors (as if uncertain of being able to remain civil in front of her), ‘ that’d be right.’

She placed down the truncheon and turned around herself. ‘So did we finally establish what it was exactly that you were doing in the woods tonight?’ she wondered airily.

Beede kept his back to her. He glanced over at the side-entrance as if hoping that the garage’s owner might return. But he didn’t.

‘I was searching for someone,’ he said, finally.

‘Who?’

‘A friend.’

‘A good friend?’

‘Yes,’ he said, defensively. ‘A fairly good friend.’

‘And this friend was seeking refuge in the woods?’

There was a trace of mockery in her voice.

‘Yes. I had reason to believe that he was.’

‘Does this friend make a habit of seeking refuge there?’

‘No,’ he snapped. ‘Not that I’m aware of…’

‘So why…?’

‘His partner asked me,’ Beede interrupted. ‘His wife. He hasn’t been well. He was distressed. They had an argument and he climbed out of the car. He ran off.’

‘I see…’ she nodded. ‘Well the conditions are hardly propitious for an overnight excursion…’

‘Exactly.’

She smiled, wickedly. ‘Must’ve been some hum-dinger of a row, though…’

‘Yes. No. I mean I wouldn’t really know…’

‘What was it about?’

‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, turning around.

She strolled to another part of the room and began picking through the rubbish again. ‘And the wife?’ she murmured, almost inaudibly, holding up a small, chipped, alabaster bust of Queen Victoria.

Beede put a nervous hand to his mouth. He investigated the cut on his lip with his index finger.

‘She’s obviously very worried,’ he said, dropping the hand, ‘so she asked for my help.’

‘D’you think he’s still there?’

‘Where?’

‘In the woods.’

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue, Peta.’

She glanced up when he used her name.

‘Then it’s a fruitless quest,’ she said, holding eye contact with him for a second.

‘Very possibly,’ he conceded.

She turned. ‘And on one of the coldest nights of the year…’ He nodded. He couldn’t deny it.

‘Well all I can say is that this wife must be a very persuasive character,’ she mused, inspecting Victoria in profile, now.

He scowled.

‘Did you think of contacting the police?’

‘No…’

Beede frowned. ‘I mean, he’s been in trouble with the police before,’ he elaborated. ‘He didn’t…He wouldn’t…’

‘And the wife?’ Peta persisted. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Nice,’ Beede insisted. ‘ Normal . A chiropodist. They have a child — a son…’

‘Will you go back?’ Peta interrupted.

‘Pardon?’

‘To the woods? Will you return once you’ve finished up here?’

‘Uh…’ Beede scratched his head. ‘Yes. I mean I suppose I must…’

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ she said. ‘I have Pinch in the van. He’s an absolute gem. If anyone can help track down your man…’

‘No.’

‘But I insist …’

The garage’s owner suddenly came slamming back inside. He was heavily laden.

‘No iodine,’ he panted, dumping his various provisions down on to a nearby table, ‘but I’ve got Dettol…’

‘That’s a disinfectant,’ Peta clucked, marching over, ‘not an antibacterial agent.’

‘Or there’s TCP…’

‘That’s more like it.’

She grabbed the bottle and inspected it. It seemed rather old. She unscrewed the lid. There was rust inside the cap. She grimaced.

‘And I’ve defrosted some liver in the microwave…’ he continued. ‘Will she eat it raw?’ Beede wondered.

‘And milk?’ Peta enquired, before the man could answer, ‘and cotton wool?’

‘Full cream,’ he said, removing a carton from a carrier bag, followed by a small swab of cotton wool.

‘Good. Well done.’

Peta took the TCP and the cotton wool and went over to sterilise the tips of the pups’ cords with it. She grabbed them, one at a time, and dabbed gently at their bellies.