Poet in the Gutter - complete novel

chapter

There was this freak in the men’s group. Well, Jesus they were all freaks, including Sam Turner, but there was this one stood out. Terry Deacon he was called, and he stood out from the rest because he didn’t wear an ear ring. He’d just turned forty. The time when all the guys who were younger than him were just going out and having it done, he’d been wondering if it was too effeminate. Then a few years later after he’d missed the boat, he was thinking he’d really like to wear an ear ring but if he had it done now people’d think he was trying to be younger. Sensitive sort, that was Deacon. He was also rich. And that made him stand out.

Anyway, it was him told Sam Turner about Hemingway and the first true sentence which got Sam reading again. And after Hemingway he read Chandler, and they became his favourite dead writers. His favourite living writer was Elmore Leonard. He was only interested in class stuff.

Sam went to the men’s group because it was winter and cold in the flat, and because he was off the booze, and because another marriage had gone bust. There’s this place runs groups of all kinds, every night of the week. It cost ninety pence to get in, and that particular night Sam had the choice of Esperanto or the men’s group or going back on the booze. He walked in on them and sat down in the circle.

They were talking about fairy stories and Iron John and about how women were in touch with the earth and men in the twentieth century were alienated. Sam thought about switching to Esperanto or walking fifty yards down the road for a beer and chaser. But he stayed put.

Two of them were gay, or playing with the idea, and bought their earrings together. That night they were wearing tiny silver and black guitars, but other nights they would wear large hoops or love hearts or a couple of J’s. They were called John and Jeffrey. Most of the others wore small gold rings, except for Deacon who didn’t wear anything, and a guy called Bock who had nine rings in one ear, three in the other, and two up his nose. The guy looked like a Christmas tree.

Before they started they all said their name and what they did for a living. When it came to him Sam said he was called Sam Turner and he was a private detective and they all said that was really interesting. What Sam thought was interesting was where the name came from because he’d just plucked it out of the air some years before, while travelling round California. The bit about being a private detective was nearly true. He’d been thinking about it all his life. It was a song he knew well, no reason not to sing it.

The only Iron John Sam’d ever known had been in Hull Prison, serving twenty years of a life sentence for a cop killing. When Sam told them this they stopped talking about fairy stories and turned their earrings to him. This was really interesting, they thought. Their little eyes lit up like sparklers. What was he like? Did he show remorse? And the Hull Prison, what were the conditions like? Jesus Christ these guys were unbelievable. Forty five minutes and Sam had them eating out of his hand.

Like the man said, you’ve got to serve somebody.

He went to that place nearly every night. Monday he went to AA. Tuesday was a Solo Club. Wednesday the Men’s Group. Thursday another Solo Club. And Friday an Electronics user group. When you’re on the waggon you can’t afford to stop.

Sam thought the Solo Clubs would help him keep up his sex life without much effort, but they were really hard going. People frightened of getting hurt again. Jesus, where’ve they been?

Brenda, his last wife, she used to say, If it don’t hurt a bit it’s not worth having. She found a guy running a Merc and three houses and it was love at first sight. Sam told her he wouldn’t stand in her way, and she said: “Who’s asking you?” and went. He still couldn’t remember all the best things she said. Living in Tadcaster with the Merc guy. But he didn’t mind too much. Life soon went back to normal. He drove to Sainsburys and spent a hundred and seventy pounds on their good whiskey. He packed a tent in the car and drove up to the moors, pitching about a mile and a half above the Blakey Head pub. Then he drank himself unconscious.

Next day he walked to the Blakey and got a beer with a chaser. He stayed there until closing time and went back to the juice in the tent. It took about three weeks altogether. He lost twenty pounds, and stopped dreaming about Brenda.

Back in York he was dry for a month, then three weeks on the hard stuff. He was dry again. Hitting it again. Still managed to get a flat together, ground floor job of course, save himself breaking bones when he was on the juice. He’d go dry, feed himself up, take all his clothes to the launderette. He’d stock the cupboards with food, clean the carpets, do a month’s washing up, start shaving again. Then he’d be in a bar with a glass in front of him and he might sit there all night and not touch it until closing time. The next time he looked in a mirror he’d have lost several weeks. After a year he woke up one afternoon in a pool of spew and said to himself: You’re worth more than this.

That’s when he went to the AA and the Men’s Group and. . .

chapter

Deacon rang him one night as he was going out to the Solo Club.

“I think I’m going to need your services,” he said. Deacon spoke quietly, rhythmically. He was a composer and a Buddhist as well as a successful businessman.

“What?” said Sam. He didn’t have a clue what the guy meant.

“It’s my wife,” Deacon explained. “I think she’s having an affair.”

“Dump her,” Sam told him. “A woman starts an affair, she’s finished with you.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Deacon said. “I’d like you to check it out.”

“Oh, I see.” Sam did a double take into the telephone. He sat down and reached into his pocket for tobacco, papers. “Detective work.”

“Yes. I know you do commercial work. But I thought you might be able to help out.”

“Sure, Terry,” said Sam, rolling with one hand, lighting up, thinking fast. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment, but I think I can fit you in. When were you thinking?”

“Now,” said Deacon. “It’s happening now. Can I come see you?”

“I’m doing a surveillance job at the moment,” Sam said, still thinking. “I could meet you tomorrow. I’ll be in Bettys about two. And Terry?”

“Yes?”

“This isn’t going to be cheap.”

“Oh, I know,” said Deacon, eager to smooth over any misunderstanding. “I didn’t mean. . . I hope you didn’t think I was asking. . .”

“Don’t worry,” said Sam. “I won’t break you. But I have to make a living.”

“I really wasn’t,” Deacon continued. “I really wasn’t expecting you to work for nothing. I’m very happy to pay the going rate. I hope you don’t think. . . “

“It’s Okay, Terry. Don’t worry about it. Bettys at two. Don’t be late.” Sam rang off and stubbed his cigarette in the ash tray. He looked at the phone.

He’d been great. He’d handled it smoothly. Bettys was a nice touch. Bettys was a wonderful touch. Just the sort of place Deacon would fall for. Quiet, mirrors everywhere, waitress service, good strong coffee. And it would be money for old rope. Just following some woman about all day. Sam reckoned Deacon must be good for forty a day. Plus expenses, of course. You have to be professional about these things. He’d always known that life was ups and downs. This was the beginning of an up.

* * *

At the Solo Club Sam concentrated on Wanda. He couldn’t believe her name, had real difficulty disassociating it from the fish film. But she’d shown some interest over the last couple of weeks, enough to make it worth pursuing. She was a red head, like Brenda. That didn’t put Sam off. He wasn’t superstitious. Wanda had been divorced for two years. She had two kids, both girls; the youngest was two and the eldest four. She drove her own car, a two year old Rover with leather upholstery, and she had her own house somewhere on the outskirts of town. This woman was not going to be any kind of drag. She wasn’t looking for someone to support her. She was doing very nicely as it was. And tonight she was coming on strong.

Sam had spent several years in California when he was younger, and Wanda had been quizzing him about L.A. She’d been there herself with her ex husband, shortly after they were married. Sam had spent most of his time there in Santa Monica, which Wanda had never visited, and she’d stayed in Corona del Mar, which Sam had only driven through once. So they talked about vegetation instead: towering eucalyptus, graceful pepper trees, tropic palms, rubber trees, giant bananas, yuccas, and the wonderful growth of roses, heliotrope, calla lilies in hedges, orange trees, jasmine, and giant geraniums.

“Christ, stop,” said Sam. “It just makes me want to go back.”

“Me too,” said Wanda.

They smiled at each other. Wanda looked away then looked back at him again. She lowered her voice and said something he didn’t catch. “Say it again,” he said.

“The children are away this weekend,” she told him.

“So you’ll be out on the town. Living it up a little?”

Wanda smiled. She smiled a lot, but usually the smile was a stick on job. This smile was different, it came from inside. “No. I don’t go out much in the town.”

“What’ll you do, then?” asked Sam. “Sit at home and watch the box?”

“Nothing on Saturday night,” Wanda said. “Sunday I’m going on the walk.” The Club had organised a hike in the Dales on Sunday.

“We could go together,” Sam tried. “If we go in one car we’ll save petrol.”

“Okay. I’ll drive. Get to my place about ten, I’ll be ready.”

Sam wanted to fix her up for Saturday night. But he needed more encouragement. Wanda wasn’t the kind of woman you could rush. Well, maybe it would work, but Sam liked things better when they were on the edge.

“I’ll give you a ring on Saturday night,” he said. “I think I’m tied up, but I’ll give you a ring. Make sure everything’s okay for Sunday.” He wasn’t doing anything Saturday night, but it wouldn’t harm to let her sweat a little. Wondering what he was up to.

chapter

Sam took his camera along to Bettys, bought a pocket book and a pen from Smiths on the way, and installed himself with a cup of coffee by the window. Watched the tourists going by, Americans and Japanese, groups of Scandinavian teenagers with enough Nikon cameras to fill a truck.

Deacon arrived ten minutes later, waving as he passed the window. He joined Sam and pushed his briefcase under the table. Nice leather job.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” Sam told him. “I’m on a job. Been here an hour.” Sam glanced at a table across the room from them. Deacon followed his gaze, and took in two women, obviously a mother and daughter, and a young man who could have been the brother of the younger woman or her lover. “Don’t make it obvious,” said Sam.

“Oh, sorry,” said Deacon, quickly looking away. “I didn’t mean. . . “

“No damage done,” said Sam. “I have to keep my eye on them, but you’ve got my full attention.”

The waitress took their order for coffee. Sam ordered a big one with cream, Deacon settled for a small one with milk.

“Where do I start?” asked Deacon.

Sam picked up his pen and opened the notebook towards the end. “I need personal details,” he said. “Name, address, date of birth, and a photograph would be useful.”

She was called Jane Deacon, and they lived together in a large house in Bishophill. They had been married twelve years. Recently Jane had been going out twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday, ostensibly to her friend’s or sister’s house. But Deacon knew she didn’t go to either. He didn’t know where she went. He thought she had a boyfriend.

From the photograph Sam thought it would be very nice for the boyfriend, whoever he was. Jane Deacon wasn’t in the first flush of youth, but she was a looker nevertheless. If she was on the menu, he would’ve skipped the soup, get to the main course quick. Sad eyed lady. . .

“Why would it be a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Because she dresses up,” Deacon explained. “I bought her a suit. It’s blue, cashmere. She looks really good in it. She always wears that, and she fixes her hair, wears make-up. She makes a real effort. Why would she do that if it wasn’t a man?”

“You a detective, or what?” said Sam.

Deacon didn’t get the joke. “I can’t cope with the uncertainty,” he said. “I can’t do my meditation any more. My work is suffering. I’m short with people.”

“Forty pounds a day,” Sam told him. “Plus expenses.”

“Yes. Whatever. I want to get it sorted.”

Sam waited. Thought maybe he was too cheap, should have asked for fifty a day, maybe sixty. He glanced across at the other table. The young woman got up and went to the ladies. “I’ll need something up front,” he said.

“Oh, of course.” Deacon reached for his wallet.

“Say two hundred,” said Sam. “I’ll keep records. Give you a detailed invoice.”

“I don’t carry that much around. Will a cheque be all right?”

Sam bit his lip. “I could use some cash,” he said.

Deacon inspected the contents of his wallet. He gave Sam sixty in cash and a cheque for a hundred and forty.

The younger woman returned from the ladies and her mother and brother stood to leave. Sam closed his notebook and reached for his camera. “I’ve got to go,” he said.

“When will I hear?” Deacon asked him.

“Give me a week,” said Sam. He pointed at the empty cups. “Pick up the tab for this will you?”

chapter

Frances went to the supermarket. She bought one of those Kellogg’s Variety Packs, a mixture of individual boxes of breakfast cereals. Some cartons of yoghurt. 10 eggs, and a pack of bacon. She bought a small cake. A treat.

Her house in Clifton was small, but warm, being in the middle of a terrace. In the kitchen she put her purchases on the shelf neatly. Yoghurt, eggs, and bacon in the ‘fridge. There was also an onion in there, on a plate; and some left over lasagna.

The neighbours were nosey, but she ignored them. Frances kept herself to herself. She didn’t need neighbours poking around. Frances didn’t need anybody. She had work to do.

She was a big woman, thickly set. Thirty four years old. There was a smell in the house, somewhere in the kitchen. Frances put an apron on and filled a blue plastic bucket with hot water from the tap. She got on her hands and knees and scrubbed the floor, going over it twice, putting all her strength into each sweep of the brush. Then she refilled the bucket with clear water, and went over the floor again, rinsing it until it gleamed.

In the sitting room she took down Graham’s loose leaf folder of poems, opened it at random, and began to read. She could hear Graham’s voice in her head. That slight New Zealand twang he’d never lost. She looked at the words and Graham’s voice spoke in her head. That’s how it worked.

Half of the poems were about her. Love poems. Poems Graham had stayed up nights with, he beavered away at them, bringing them to her in the morning. She liked those poems. They were a fitting memorial to Graham. To her as well. To their relationship.

The other half of the poems were about other people. People she didn’t know, or hardly knew. They were about bastards and tarts. People who’d used and tormented Graham. People who’d ruined his life before she met him.

Frances still sent some of Graham’s poems to magazines. They usually came back with a rejection slip. But occasionally one would be published. Some day she would arrange for the whole collection to be published in a book. That’s what Graham would have done. That’s what Graham wanted above everything else.

The thought made Frances smile. She listened to Graham’s voice inside her head, and at the same time she felt the smile breaking out over her face. It didn’t come often these days, that smile, but when it did come, at times like these, when she was alone with Graham, it was the same old big, big, smile he used to love.

chapter

He rang Wanda at five on Saturday afternoon. He had Desire on his tape deck, and let it play while he punched the numbers. She picked up the ‘phone and repeated the number he’d just dialled. Her voice was not unlike Brenda’s. She didn’t waste words.

Sam waited a few seconds before speaking. He could feel her at the other end of the line, getting tense. “How’re you doing?” he said.

“Sam?” she said. “Goodness, I thought it was a breather for a minute.”

“Do you get them?” he asked.

“No. I never have. But you hear about them.”

“I could breath for a while if you like? Talk dirty? Whatever you fancy.”

Wanda laughed. A high pitched laugh, embarrassed but interested, a little frightened maybe. “That’s no way to speak to a lady,” she said.

“Really? I must’ve met the wrong ones.”

“You probably do, in your line of work.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I meet all sorts. Have your kids, I mean your children, have they gone?”

Wanda laughed again. “About an hour ago.”

“So what you doing now?”

“Nothing. Talking to you. I had a bath.”

“What you wearing?”

The laugh came down the line.

“What you wearing?” Sam asked again, getting into the spirit of it.

“Do you mean it? she said.

“I’ve asked you twice.”

“It’s a kind of robe,” she said.

“A bath robe? What colour?”

“No. It’s silk. It’s a red silk dressing gown.”

“Short?”

“Long. Down to my ankles.”

“Sounds nice,” he said. “Wish I was there.”

“Yes.” Her voice turned the corner into wistfulness. “If you weren’t such a busy man?”

“Shall I come now?” he asked.

“No. Later,” she said. “I’ll cook some food. Come about eight.”

“Just don’t change your clothes,” he said, and hung up. He slapped the wall with his open hand. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

* * *

Sam drove a very old Cortina. It reminded him of Brenda every time he looked at it. Like her it succeeded in screwing up his day every morning. He had to pet it, tread around it warily, feel out what kind of mood it was in. He took comfort from the fact that, like Brenda, it wouldn’t last the rest of his life. Words in his head. . . and she was once a true love of mine.

He threw his Parka and hiking boots in the back of the beast. It sounded like Wanda would want him to stay the night, and he might as well be ready for the walk tomorrow.

He drove round to Bishophill and parked 50 yards up from the Deacon house. It was a cul-de-sac, cars parked on both sides. Sam would have to reverse out. He adjusted the mirror so that he could see the gate, rolled up a cigarette and waited. Just after six Jane Deacon turned the corner in front of him, loaded down with parcels and plastic carrier bags.

She was a real looker, better than the photograph. Short blonde hair and blue eyes. A mean little mouth to add some excitement to the face. And legs going all the way up to her bum. If she had found herself a new boyfriend, Deacon was really going to miss her one of these days.

She passed the car and Sam watched her rear view through the mirror. She was good to watch. She was very good to watch. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” he said to himself as she turned into the gate of the big house. Very big house, like in the magazines at the Doctor’s.

* * *

Wanda opened the door in a little black number with a single thread of pearls at her throat. “You’ve changed,” he said.

“I was cold.” She led him into a spacious living room. At the far end the dining table was set for two. Candles. Wine glasses.

“You look like a million dollars,” he said.

“A girl has to try.”

“Some harder than others. You don’t have to do much.”

She served up a roast and poured wine into his glass. “Say when?” she said.

Sam said nothing. Burgundy’s okay, in his time he’d hit harder stuff. Only you can manage wine if you try, believe you’re the strongest man in the world. The trick is not to have more than one glass, never let her fill it up again, and never let it get empty. Never worry about it. Sip it. Let her have the rest of the bottle if she wants.

He picked up the glass and caught her eye. “To us,” he said.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Wanda.

After the cheesecake she made coffee and they sat at the table for an hour while she told him her life story. It was an average story for a red head. Lower middle class beginnings in the West Midlands, secretarial college, married the boss, moved to York, got pregnant twice in succession, divorced him and came out of it with a house and a car and a settlement that kept her comfortable. Fascinating stuff. Sam couldn’t help it if he was lucky.

She suggested they move to more comfortable chairs, and they left the table, went to the other end of the room where Sam stood with his back to the fire. She stood closer than she’d ever been before.

“You’ve led such an interesting life,” he told her.

She smiled. She didn’t think so. She said, “Are you going to stay?”

Sam said, “If you want me to, yeah.”

She moved towards him and he reached for the long zipper at the back of the black dress. Over her shoulder he noticed there was still half an inch of red wine in his glass.

chapter

Frances washed her breakfast bowl and scoured the sink and draining board. As a child she had been the youngest and the apple of her fathers’ eye. No one had expected Frances to do mundane or domestic chores. She had been cared for, loved by her father. “My princess,” he would call her, “My cuddly little princess.”

Those had been secure days, when she was the baby, letting everyone else take on the responsibility. Frances had known then that life would not be simple when she grew up. She always said that she didn’t want to grow up, that she wanted to remain a child for ever. But they wouldn’t let her. No matter how passively she acted, slowly, inevitably, her body grew. Frances remained a child inside that body, somewhere inside her she was still her father’s princess. But she didn’t talk about that to anyone. She kept it inside.

She sat at the empty kitchen table and took out the butchers’ knife from the drawer. She placed it on the table in front of her and watched the blade gleam in the sunlight from the window.

She took an A4 sheet of paper from Graham’s folder, holding it with her nails, and read the message on it. Then she placed it back in the folder, and put the folder neatly on the shelf.

She took her coat from the peg and draped it round her shoulders. She opened her handbag to check the car keys were inside, and walked through the kitchen to the door. As she passed it, she patted the knife, and she said: “Soon. Soon.”

* * *

Frances drove the black Panda to Bishophill and left it by the side of the road. She walked to the cul-de-sac, and then walked down it on one side, and up again on the other. The Deacon’s house looked quiet at this time of day.

She walked back down the cul-de-sac again, but this time took a footpath at the blind end and followed it into town.

During the course of the day she returned four times. The second time she saw Jane Deacon coming out of the house. She followed her for a while, but gave up when Jane Deacon met another woman and stood gossiping on the pavement.

The fourth time Frances returned to the cul-de-sac she saw Terry Deacon returning home from work. His car was filthy. He didn’t care for anything. He didn’t take care of anything.

“I’ve seen him,” Frances told the knife when she got home. “He’s disgusting.”

chapter

On Monday, during the AA meeting, Sam took stock. Life was really looking up. He had money and a woman, and he was a private detective. He didn’t have to bullshit any more.

The evening of Tuesday he was waiting for half an hour before Jane Deacon came out of the gate in her little blue cashmere suit, got into her white Peugeot, and drove slowly along the street, over the sleeping policemen. Sam put the Cortina in gear and followed at a reasonable distance.

It was not a long journey. She drove out on the Hull road and pulled in the driveway of a house with a double bay front, 386a. The house was detached, and not as old as its neighbours. Sam thought maybe a couple of the older houses had been pulled down, and this one built in the space left behind. He drove on past, turned around and came back, stopping on the opposite side of the road. All rooms on the ground floor were lit. Only one of the upper rooms. Sam waited nearly two hours.

It would be nice, if the cash keeps coming in, to trash this car and get something a little better. Nothing ostentatious, though. Something people wouldn’t notice, but with more oomph. And maybe a stereo system, to pass the time. Play all his Dylan tapes. No, maybe not. Some bastard’d steal it.

The surprising thing was, when she came out, she was shown out by a woman. A middle aged woman, no distinguishing characteristics. White Anglo Saxon Protestant.

And, surprise, surprise, Jane Deacon got into her white car and drove straight home to her Buddhist husband.

A mystery, Sam wrote in his notebook. A real mystery. Somebody better investigate.

* * *

Wednesday he checked out the Electoral Register in the library. 386a Hull road was occupied by David and Ellen Watson.

He knocked on the door of 386, but there was no answer. At 387 a woman came to the door and opened it before he had time to knock. She looked like the lady who knew everyone in the neighbourhood, the one they all avoided.

“Mrs Watson?” said Sam.

“No. You want to be next door,” said the woman. “She’ll be at work, though. He might be in. But he doesn’t always answer the door”

“Oh, dear,” said Sam. “I wanted Mrs Watson. When will I get her?”

“She’s usually back about six,” said the woman.

Sam put on his worried look. “It’s rather urgent,” he said. “Does Mr Watson work at home?”

“He’s usually there,” said the woman. “His studio’s upstairs. I don’t know if he can’t hear the door, or if he doesn’t want to.”

“Studio?”

“Yes. He’s a painter. Paints portraits.”

“That’s right,” said Sam. “Yeah, I’d heard that. He’s a painter.”

* * *

There was an ad in the Yellow Pages:

“Jesus,” said Sam. “She’s having her fuckin picture painted.”

chapter

Jane Deacon had driven fairly slowly on Tuesday evening, aware that the red Cortina with Sam Turner was still behind her. She didn’t want to lose him. That would be impossible. He acted like a professional tail, keeping his distance at all times, sometimes three or four cars between him and her.

Jane was happiest when she was in control, and this evening she felt good. Things were beginning to happen now, she was making them happen, not just leaving them to chance. When Jane was a child, a small child of six years, her mother had died. Just like that. One day she had been there, mothering, the next day she was gone. That was chance, that was what chance did, took the world away from under your feet. Since then Jane had been working at being in control of her world. Not letting it get away.

The car was a liability though, the Cortina. It was so old you had to notice it. Hope it’s reliable. Don’t want it to break down. After all, Mister Sam Turner was her alibi.

Jane felt good tonight. She’d had a bath, fixed her hair, and she knew she looked good in this suit. You could look for clothes for ever and not find something as good as this. Fits everywhere, good expensive material that takes the strain exactly where it’s needed, and the colour was perfect for Jane’s complexion, her hair, her eyes. She glanced in the mirror to check he was still there. Yes, two cars back.

It was a pity she didn’t know what he looked like. If he was anything like his car he wouldn’t be up to much. She had a picture of him as a grubby little man, maybe someone who rolled his own cigarettes, nicotine stains on his fingers. She knew he wouldn’t be like that in reality, because Terry wouldn’t know anyone like that. But he’s like that inside, she thought. Nicotine stains on his mind.

After the sitting he was still there, doing his job really well. He didn’t pull away from the kerb straight after her. If she didn’t know what he was up to there would be no way of suspecting it. Probably had a little note book or a tape recorder, was speaking into it now, saying something like: “Suspect left the house at nine thirty p.m. Am now in pursuit.”

Get it right, Mister Turner. We don’t want you making any mistakes.

He stayed behind her all the way home. Parked his junkie Cortina and watched her go into the house.

Terry was waiting when she got inside. “You all right?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek.

“Yes, your detective friend was with me all the way.”

chapter

Sam didn’t go to the Men’s Group on Wednesday. He sat at home brooding. His ground floor flat consisted of three rooms, sitting room and kitchen combined with separate bedroom and bathroom. Apart from the table where Sam sat to eat, there was a battered sofa and an arm chair had once been part of a suite, several bookcases and a black metal rack which housed his stereo equipment. He had lived there so long now it felt like home, and one day he was going to fix it up good. Needed something on the walls, pictures. He’d never got round to the walls, not liking posters, and being unable to afford a really good picture.

Tonight, even Blonde on Blonde didn’t work. Everything had been going right. For a few days things were coming together. Now there was no case. He didn’t want to go to Deacon and tell him his wife was sitting for a portrait, probably for his - Deacon’s - birthday.

Hell, matrimonial cases were the pits, everyone knew that. You followed a broad around for a week or two, took photographs of her and her lover in compromising situations. You spent most of the time sitting in a car waiting. And all for peanuts.

But on your first case in the whole universe, to end up with no guilty party, after only one night’s work. That was bad luck. That was enough to make a man drink.

Sam wanted the case to be solid. Okay, he could go out and buy a bottle. It was easy. He’d done it before, a thousand times. By tomorrow Deacon and his beautiful wife could be a hazy memory. Not even that. They could be blotted out.

Only one thing kept him away from the bottle. One tiny possibility. Jane Deacon could be screwing the painter. Okay, it was not probable. But it was ever so faintly possible.

Sam slept badly, and on Thursday he spent the afternoon in the Snooker Hall at the Stonebow. He hustled a couple of games with Gus, an old friend, now working here as the barman. Sam won one and lost one. He read no significance in the scores.

It looked more and more like Jane Deacon led a blameless life. Tuesday and Thursday evenings at the painter’s house was the only time she had to play around. During the day she worked in the same office as her husband, running the family business, manufacturing and marketing children’s toys. They both put in an average of around fifty hours a week. Getting richer all the time. Still, Sam felt something was going on. He didn’t know what it was, but when he sat still there was something nagging away inside him. Something that wouldn’t go away.

By the early evening he sat in his car outside the Deacon’s house and waited for the blonde lady to make her move.

It was exactly the same procedure as Tuesday. She drove out to 386a, parked in the drive and went inside. Two hours later the middle aged WASP woman saw her out, and she got back into her white Peugeot and drove home.

Sam drove into the cul-de-sac behind her and parked on the opposite side of the road. He watched her lock the car and turn into the gate. She seemed to hesitate a moment, then carried on toward the door of the house.

Sam felt for his keys in the ignition, glanced in his rear-view to make sure the way was clear to reverse. Fuckin cul-de-sacs; fuckin portrait painters.

The starter motor turned over and died. He tried again and the engine coughed but struggled on. He gave it a little burst of revs, which it seemed to like, and eased the choke out about a quarter of an inch. It purred like a cat. “I’ve got your number,” Sam told it, swinging the wheel round to miss the bumper of the car in front.

Jane Deacon appeared in front of him in the middle of the road. Her blue cashmere jacket was open, showing a high necked white blouse, brilliant in the lights of his Cortina, fastened at the neck with a brooch the size of a fist. Get tangled up in blue cashmere. Good way to lose your first customer.

Sam turned the engine off, and let the car slide backwards into the kerb. He hit the light switch and wound down the window as the blonde came around the car.

“Mr Turner?” she asked through her little mouth.

“Yeah,” said Sam, wondering how she’d rumbled him. “Call me Sam.”

“The door’s open,” she said, motioning towards the house. “I didn’t go in. I called, but I think somebody might be inside.” Her hand was shaking. She gripped the side of the door, and her knuckles were blue.

Sam opened the door and got out. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll take a look.” He walked towards the house and looked back at Jane Deacon stood by his car. “Get in,” he called. “Sit down for a minute.”

Mister Turner! She even knew his name. Okay, Sam wasn’t a trained surveillance operator, but he’d kept a fair distance between the cars. If this woman was really bright she might have twigged someone was following her, but how did she know his surname? No one called him Mister Turner.

The door to the house was ajar. Sam stood inside the hallway and listened. Nothing. No movement. “Terry,” he called. And then again: “Terry.” There was no reply.

What the hell was this? The guy says he wants his wife tailed, then when Sam’s out tailing her the guy does a bunk and leaves the house open. Was Terry Deacon supposed to be here? Jane Deacon hadn’t said, just: “I think somebody might be inside.” What’re you looking at here, Sammy boy, a burglary or what?

Terry Deacon was in the front room. There was a piano behind the door. There was one of those plushy sofas like Wanda’s. And Deacon was in the space between the piano and the sofa. He might have been pissed, but the blood seemed to indicate something more radical. The first client and by default, one of the founding fathers of the Sam Turner Detective Agency had been stabbed repeatedly in the upper chest, neck, and face. There was a real look of surprise on his face. He was lying on his back with his arms and legs akimbo, and carefully placed on his stomach was a sheet of A4 paper with a message:

The corpse had slippers on and looked very lonely. Correction, the corpse had one slipper on. The left slipper was on the other side of the room, by the curtains. Over in a corner the television was on, the sound turned down. Sam watched the newscaster smiling as he introduced the weatherman. But it was patently obvious which way the wind was blowing.

chapter

Sam checked the other rooms in the house, all of them empty. He returned to the car and got in the front passenger seat next to the blonde.

“What did you expect to find in there?” he asked.

“Terry.” A note of hysteria had taken possession of her.

“Look,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m not good at this. I don’t want you to go in the house. Terry is. . . well, he’s had an accident.”

She moved to get out of the car, but Sam kept a grip of her. “What?” she said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

“He’s dead,” said Sam. “He’s been murdered.”

She was very still. She didn’t move for almost a minute, Sam felt like something inside her was curling up or fading away. He squeezed her hand, something to reassure her or himself, or maybe to provoke some kind of response from her.

She said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper: “With a knife? And a note?”

“Yeah. How did you know. . ?” But Jane Deacon passed out while he was talking. She slumped forward over the steering wheel, cracking her forehead.

Sam pulled her back. She was out of it. He left the car and dialled 999 in the ‘phone box on the corner. Then he went back to the car and held her hand until the cops arrived.

She came around just before the police car turned into the street. “Don’t leave me,” she said.

“Okay. Sit tight.”

“No,” she gripped his hand. “I want you to promise. Don’t leave me.”

* * *

Sam sat in the car and watched the police operation. By midnight they had taken Jane Deacon some place. Chief Inspector Delany had spent one minute with him.

“Did you make the call?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Were you in the house?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“No.”

“Stick around. I’ll need to talk to you.”

Delany had been in the house nearly three hours. The forensic boys had been and gone. A police surgeon or doctor or whatever they call them had been and gone. An ambulance arrived and took the body away. One of Delany’s henchmen had taken a statement from Sam. He told it straight. Everything he knew. How he had found the body.

At 2 am Delany asked Sam to go to the police station with him. “I want my car,” Sam told him. “I’ll follow you.”

Delany came into the interview room with Sam’s file. He threw it on the desk. “Is this true?” he asked.

Sam nodded. It was getting late. He’d had a full day.

“Did you kill him?”

“No. You’ve got the statement. That’s all I know.”

“You’ve done time.”

“For dealing pot,” said Sam. “And you buggers planted that on me. I hardly even used it before I went inside.”

“Did she kill him?”

“I don’t think so,” said Sam. “When did he die?”

“About an hour before you rang in.”

“She can’t have,” said Sam. “She was having her picture painted. But you must know that by now.”

Delany smiled. “Just checking,” he said. “What was to stop you leaving her at the painter’s house and driving back to top her husband?”

“I’d have to be crazy,” said Sam. “The guy was paying me.”

Delany picked up the file. “Okay,” he said. “You can go. But don’t leave town. I’ll need to talk to you again.”

Sam stood. “Is that all?” he said. “I wait three fuckin hours, and you want the answer to a question you already know?”

Delany turned at the door. “There is one other thing,” he said. “Have you ever been to Sweden?”

“No,” Sam told him. “I went to Paris once. Real nice town. And wandered through rubble in the streets of Rome. You ever been to Amsterdam?”

chapter

It was easy. Frances had seen Jane leave the house on Thursday evening just like she did every Thursday evening. Poncing off in her little blue suit in her little white car. Earlier she had seen Terry Deacon come home from work. He wouldn’t leave the house again, and Jane wouldn’t return for a couple of hours. Frances had all the time in the world.

Only one thing different. The Cortina, and the man in the Cortina. He had arrived fifteen minutes before Jane was due to leave. He had sat in the car, and then when Jane’s little white car had pulled out of the cul-de-sac, the Cortina had taken off after her.

Graham’s voice calmed her. “Do the job,” it said. “Do the job for Graham.”

When the street was quiet she walked up to the house, and knocked on the door. There was the sound of a piano playing inside.

Deacon answered the door in his slippers. So cozy. “Yes?” he said.

Frances smiled. “You don’t remember me?” she said. “It’s Frances.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Recognition on his face. “Come in. It’s been such a long time.” He showed her into the sitting room. “Graham’s not with you?”

“No,” Frances said. “Is Jane at home?”

“Out I’m afraid,” said Deacon. “You missed her by about half an hour.”

“Never mind,” said Frances. “I’ll catch her another time.”

Deacon was embarrassed. He’d never liked Frances. Always thought she was bad news. The feeling was mutual. Frances had never liked him.

There was a silence. Deacon didn’t know why she was there. Why should he? Frances let him stew. She wasn’t there to cheer him up.

“What can we do for you?” he asked eventually, rubbing his hands together. He always did that when he was embarrassed, rubbed his hands together. “Or was it just a social call?”

“No. Not at all,” said Frances. “I’ve got something for you.” She opened her handbag and took out the knife. Deacon looked at it. He looked at Frances. He looked at the knife again. Like it was a present, a gift, or maybe something she’d borrowed once, and was now returning. It was when he looked back at Frances for the second time that she stabbed him in the face.

He said something. He didn’t call out. He said something indistinct, then he moved his hand up to his face and away again. He looked at the blood on his hand.

Frances stabbed him again. In the throat, and then twice in the chest. He fell to the floor and she knelt beside him, giving him the point of the knife until he stopped breathing, made that gurgling sound she’d heard before.

She took the note from her bag and placed it on his stomach. She checked her watch. She still had an hour to wait until Jane came back.

Frances sat on a chair and waited. She could do that, simply block the body out, even though it was there in front of her. She could do that because she had been loved, by her father, and by Graham. Frances’s father had always let her win when she was a child. They played monopoly, or card games, whatever it was he would let her win. He couldn’t help himself, he loved her so much.

She heard the car arrive outside, the car door slam. Jane Deacon didn’t come in. Instead she stood in the doorway and shouted: “Terry.”

The front door was open. Jane shouted a couple more times.

Frances went to the front door. Jane Deacon had already gone. Frances saw her running along the cul-de-sac. And there it was again. The old Cortina with the man. He had followed her back.

Frances left the house and took the footpath at the blind end of the cul-de-sac. Life was like that. Frances was patient. She would take them one at a time. She would not be tempted to rush anything. Patience was its own reward.

chapter

The blonde rang him Saturday morning. “Is it Mr Turner?”

“I don’t relate to that name,” he said.

“It’s Mrs Deacon.”

Didn’t she know he was a detective? “How’re you doing?”

“I need to see you,” she said. “Is it possible?”

“At your place?”

“No. I’m staying at Terry’s brother’s.”

“I could come this afternoon.”

“No. Not here,” Jane Deacon said. “The whole family’ll be here, and. . .”

“Bettys,” Sam told her. “At two. Real nice coffee there.”

* * *

She arrived in the blue cashmere suit, something black and shiny under the jacket. Her eyes were swollen, but she had hold of herself. Sam called the waitress and got her a coffee.

“I need help,” she said.

Sam looked straight into her eyes. “You’re calling the shots,” he said. “I’m unemployed.”

“Terry’s. . . death. I think it was supposed to be me.”

“Terry gave me the story about you having an affair, because he wanted me to keep an eye on you?”

“Yes.”

“He knew about the portrait?”

“Yes.”

“Why? If you need a bodyguard, hire a bodyguard. Tell the man what the job is, then he can do it. If I’d known I was a bodyguard I’d have been prepared. I might’ve got someone else to watch the house. Kept you both covered. Maybe you’d still have a husband.”

She looked down at the table. Took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed her eyes, though there was nothing coming out of them. Sam touched her arm. “I don’t want to be hard,” he said. “But you been giving me the run-around.”

Jane Deacon took a breath and pursed her little mouth. “I’ll tell you the whole story,” she said. “Everything.”

“Somebody better,” said Sam. “I’m on the dark side of the road. At the moment I don’t know fuck.”

“I had a friend,” said Jane. “A Swedish girl, called Lotta Jensen. It’s a long story, you’ll have to bear with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam told her.

“About ten years ago we lived in a communal house. There were six or seven of us, mainly young professionals. Terry was there, but it was before we married. There was this young New Zealander called Graham, Graham East. He was okay at first. He didn’t have any qualifications, and I suppose we all thought he was simple minded. We patronised him, but he did a lot of work in the house, and he became part of the fixtures. He seemed to be good hearted.”

Sam rolled a cigarette and offered one to Jane. She shook her head and reached into her handbag for a packet of straights. “God, I knew there was something I needed,” she said. He lit his own and passed the flame over.

“Most people had paired off before Graham arrived. I wasn’t with Terry then, I shared a room with someone called Steve. And Terry, he lived with another girl. Everything was fairly harmonious.

“When Lotta arrived things started to go wrong. It wasn’t her fault. The main reason she came was to learn English, she hardly spoke a word. Graham suggested he give her lessons in English, and she teach him Swedish. That seemed fine, except about ten days after she arrived, Graham announced he was in love with her.

“Lotta didn’t want to know. She already had a boyfriend in Sweden who was giving her a hard time. Graham was just an extra burden. He was hopeless. Mooning around all the time. Big eyes. He would knock on the door of her room, and when Lotta opened it he would just stand there looking at her. He wouldn’t speak. He would just stand there and look.

“One evening he attacked her in the sitting room. He had her on the floor, and he was shouting and crying, saying he was going to kill her. We had to pull him off.

“He went away for a while, and Lotta returned to Sweden. Graham seemed better when he came back. He was full of remorse. And things settled down again for a while.

“Then when Steve and I broke up, Graham fell in love with me. It was the Lotta story all over again. I didn’t give Graham any encouragement. I didn’t want anything to do with him. But we were back to him mooning about all over the house. The big eyes treatment. He told everyone in the house how he was prepared to die for me. It was terrible. The only way I could deal with it was to keep out of his way.

“He burst into my room one morning before light. Literally knocked the door down. ‘Don’t throw it in my face,’ he said. ‘Love is precious.’ There were a couple more incidents with other women. In the end we asked him to leave.”

“What’re you telling me?” asked Sam. “I mean, it’s an interesting story about some nut, but you can’t be saying Graham killed your husband.”

“About two months ago Lotta was murdered in Gothenburg. I couldn’t find out much about it. I got a letter from her mother. She was stabbed, and there was a note pinned to her body. Written in English.”

“What did it say?” Sam asked. “What was written on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you think it was Graham?”

“I didn’t at first. I haven’t seen Graham for years. He lived here for a while, and he had a girlfriend, Frances. She was strange as well, but she loved him. I heard they went back to New Zealand. But a week or so after Lotta was killed I saw them in the town. And I realised they were back. Then I got frightened.”

“This could all add up to nothing,” said Sam.

“Except for Terry,” Jane pointed out. “And the knife, and the notes.”

“Have you told the police?”

“They weren’t interested in a murder in Gothenburg. Inspector Delany was more interested after Terry was killed. He said they’d try to find Graham. I gave him a description.”

“What he looked like ten years ago?”

“I suppose so,” said Jane.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sam.

“I’m frightened,” she told him. “I want a bodyguard. I don’t want Graham bursting in on me in the middle of the night. The police still haven’t found him. I want him found. I want you to stop him.”

“Okay,” said Sam. “Can you finance it?”

“Forty pounds a day,” she said. “It’s better than dying.”

“Plus expenses,” Sam told her.

Walking back to the car park Sam noticed a homeless boy on the other side of the street, he had one shoe off and was trying to pad it with newspaper. He had a sign in front of him on the pavement “Hameless and Hungry.” There had been a time when Sam had seen the world from a similar position. It was difficult to find a way up from that far down. Without some kind of help it might even be impossible.

He watched the people passing by, the kid’s head moving from side to side like he was at Wimbledon. Sam felt himself getting angry. He knew he was angry at himself, at his own impotence, his inability to provide a solution. But the anger came bubbling up nevertheless. When Sam himself had been on the street things had looked different. Then, everyone who walked past had looked capable of a helping hand. He walked over the road and dropped all his loose change into the kid’s lap.

chapter

Funny how things turn out. You take on a matrimonial case and find you’re tracking an international serial killer. Only problem is, where do you start?

Sam had the names and addresses of the people who were involved in the communal house. There was a possibility that one or the other had kept in touch with Graham. It was also possible one of them had a photograph of the guy.

Jane Deacon was going to stay on at Terry’s brother’s house until after the funeral. Then she would move back to the cul-de-sac. Once that happened Sam would have to stay close to her, so now was the time to try track Graham East down.

Well, not exactly now. Saturday night a man needs to relax a little. And wandaful Wanda had palmed the kids off on her husband again.

Volume Two of Biograph was playing loud on the tape deck as Sam shaved. He watched the lathered face in the mirror singing along with it. Visions of Johanna.

By the time he’d finished splashing after-shave around the man had drowned all memory and fate and Sam was punching numbers on the telephone keypad.

“How’re you doing?” he asked Wanda when she repeated the number.

“I thought you weren’t going to ring.”

“I’ve been working,” he told her. “Just got in. What’s the landscape like?”

“Clear. What’s the music?”

“Dunno, some Jewish guy,” he said. “I’m on my way,” Sam hung up as his doorbell rang.

* * *

“Yorkshire TV, Calendar,” the guy said. “You Sam Turner?”

“Yeah.”

“I understand you found the body the other night. Can we talk to you?” The guy motioned behind him, and Sam took in the van and two other guys unloading camera and sound equipment.

“You gonna pay me?” Sam asked.

The guy smiled. He was short, flabby. Wearing a five hundred pound suit. He had a wide tie, striped, seemed to cover most of his chest. “We didn’t think that would be necessary,” he said.

“Who’s we?”

“We’re covering a news item.”

“I’m going out,” said Sam.

The guy with the tie smiled again. “Would payment keep you at home?” he asked.

“Not for long,” Sam said. “Depends how much you’re thinking.”

“Two hundred pounds?”

“How about four?”

“Three. I don’t think we’ll do better than that.”

“Try three fifty,” said Sam. “It might be your lucky day.”

“I think you’ll stay home for three,” the guy said.

“Cash?”

A nod.

Sam shrugged. “You know what?” he said. “You read me like a book.”

They brought the gear into his room. Lights, cameras, moving furniture around. The tie guy told him what questions he was going to ask, listened to Sam’s answers. The whole thing took two hours. Wanda rang in the middle of it and Sam told her to hang on, he was making money for Christsake. Course he was coming, soon as he could get away.

Towards the end the doorbell rang again. This time a reporter from the local news. Sam told him to wait in his car. “Count your money,” he said. “I’m doing TV at the moment.”

The tie guy gave Sam three hundred. “Thanks,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sam told him. “Tell me something. How’d you get my address?”

“Police contact. Somebody I know.” He laughed. “This man works in the police station, calls himself X. Real cloak and dagger stuff.”

“What else he tell you? This X guy?”

“Not a lot,” said the tie guy. “But if anything develops I’ll hear about it.”

“That kind of info would be good to know,” said Sam. “Can I buy into it.”

The guy scratched his chin. “You’re going to stay on the case?”

“All the way. I’m retained by the widow.”

“So if you come up with anything I’d get to know about it?”

“Sounds like a deal,” said Sam.

* * *

The guy from the local news had been joined by a tall lanky Liverpudlian from the Daily Express. Sam picked up another hundred from each of them.<

Pirate John Baker

Poet in the Gutter - complete novel