on them until Pulford opens up.’
Staffe knows she is right, knows also that there is a law to uphold in the midst of this. Pulford strayed – somehow – and these are the consequences, but he is innocent. He must be.
Josie drives one-handed, reaches out with her gear-change hand and she clasps Staffe’s hand tight. ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it, sir?’
‘It’s a bloody mess.’ He squeezes her hand, puts it on the gear stick. ‘Now, tell me what you know about our new friend Abie, with his designer bodyguard.’
Josie weaves in and out of the traffic on the A23. She says, ‘Abie was born in Lublin, eastern Poland, in 1920. His father came over here in 1929, with his wife, their elder son Benjamin, and Abie. Benjamin died a few years later. Abie married a woman called Esther who nobody knows about. He built up quite a property empire – housing immigrants – but before that he was a bit of a rogue, something to do with betting.’
‘I knew that. There’s nothing more? What about the wife?’
‘You called me away, remember?’ Josie lets the Bentley get away from them on the dual carriageway sections. ‘Rimmer is looking into it.’
He puts the radio on low and a Joni Mitchell song comes on. Even though he thinks she must be too young to know it, Josie sings along. She can carry a tune but is kind of out of key. He watches her mouth saying the words and smiles.
Many songs later, Josie’s mobile rings and she takes it on hands-free. He recognises the voice from the other day in the Hand and Shears. She’s been seeing him since before Staffe got back from Spain, and Staffe wonders whether this Conor will hurt her. He wants them to go to Dublin for the weekend. When she says she can’t, he says they should go to Borough Market on Saturday instead and he’ll get some Dublin Bays. He’ll make dinner for her. Staffe looks ahead, can’t see the Bentley. In a raised voice, he says, ‘Where’s the Bentley?’
Conor says, ‘Oh, you’re with—’
‘I’d better go,’ says Josie.
‘You’re going to have to floor it,’ says Staffe.
‘Drive safe,’ says Conor.
Josie cuts him off, pulls them back into third and presses her foot to the floor of the souped Mondeo. It has 210 brake horsepower camouflaged beneath its blue bonnet and it throws them back into their seats as Josie thrashes it to eighty along Preston Road, just going into Brighton, but the road forks and she can’t see the Bentley any more.
‘Ease up,’ says Staffe.
‘I can’t see them.’
Staffe points up and to the left. ‘Go up here.’
The Bentley is waiting at the lights by a park, one brake light glowing red; the other out.
‘Sorry about that, sir.’
Staffe puts the music back and Joni Mitchell is replaced by Tracey Thorn. He says, ‘I like this one.’
‘I won’t ruin it by singing then,’ she says, slipping the amber, slowing as soon as she sees the brown sign to the ‘Racecourse’.
‘You can sing if you want,’ says Staffe. ‘I like it when you sing.’
Josie turns and her eyes seem soft.
‘He’s good to you, this Conor?’
She nods and they take it slow, Staffe closing his eyes, wishing the world would go away, for just a day or so.
*
Levi Salmon scrubs down after luncheon service. He is alone in the kitchen with the knives, which he shouldn’t be, but Mister Crawshaw likes a fag after service and Levi can be trusted. Mister Crawshaw will be back soon with Chef and Roadknight, the other orderly, and then they will painstakingly return the knives to their cabinet, which will be locked tight. Each knife has a white outline of itself so even an idiot can tell if a knife has been taken because its white outline will be glaringly unconcealed.
Levi scrubs some more. You can never quite get rid of the smell of fish fingers, nor the cooking fat, which Chef never changes because he’s got to try and do a fiddle somehow. Everyone has a fiddle, even if it’s only saving twenty quid a month on
Staffe knows she is right, knows also that there is a law to uphold in the midst of this. Pulford strayed – somehow – and these are the consequences, but he is innocent. He must be.
Josie drives one-handed, reaches out with her gear-change hand and she clasps Staffe’s hand tight. ‘It’ll be all right, won’t it, sir?’
‘It’s a bloody mess.’ He squeezes her hand, puts it on the gear stick. ‘Now, tell me what you know about our new friend Abie, with his designer bodyguard.’
Josie weaves in and out of the traffic on the A23. She says, ‘Abie was born in Lublin, eastern Poland, in 1920. His father came over here in 1929, with his wife, their elder son Benjamin, and Abie. Benjamin died a few years later. Abie married a woman called Esther who nobody knows about. He built up quite a property empire – housing immigrants – but before that he was a bit of a rogue, something to do with betting.’
‘I knew that. There’s nothing more? What about the wife?’
‘You called me away, remember?’ Josie lets the Bentley get away from them on the dual carriageway sections. ‘Rimmer is looking into it.’
He puts the radio on low and a Joni Mitchell song comes on. Even though he thinks she must be too young to know it, Josie sings along. She can carry a tune but is kind of out of key. He watches her mouth saying the words and smiles.
Many songs later, Josie’s mobile rings and she takes it on hands-free. He recognises the voice from the other day in the Hand and Shears. She’s been seeing him since before Staffe got back from Spain, and Staffe wonders whether this Conor will hurt her. He wants them to go to Dublin for the weekend. When she says she can’t, he says they should go to Borough Market on Saturday instead and he’ll get some Dublin Bays. He’ll make dinner for her. Staffe looks ahead, can’t see the Bentley. In a raised voice, he says, ‘Where’s the Bentley?’
Conor says, ‘Oh, you’re with—’
‘I’d better go,’ says Josie.
‘You’re going to have to floor it,’ says Staffe.
‘Drive safe,’ says Conor.
Josie cuts him off, pulls them back into third and presses her foot to the floor of the souped Mondeo. It has 210 brake horsepower camouflaged beneath its blue bonnet and it throws them back into their seats as Josie thrashes it to eighty along Preston Road, just going into Brighton, but the road forks and she can’t see the Bentley any more.
‘Ease up,’ says Staffe.
‘I can’t see them.’
Staffe points up and to the left. ‘Go up here.’
The Bentley is waiting at the lights by a park, one brake light glowing red; the other out.
‘Sorry about that, sir.’
Staffe puts the music back and Joni Mitchell is replaced by Tracey Thorn. He says, ‘I like this one.’
‘I won’t ruin it by singing then,’ she says, slipping the amber, slowing as soon as she sees the brown sign to the ‘Racecourse’.
‘You can sing if you want,’ says Staffe. ‘I like it when you sing.’
Josie turns and her eyes seem soft.
‘He’s good to you, this Conor?’
She nods and they take it slow, Staffe closing his eyes, wishing the world would go away, for just a day or so.
*
Levi Salmon scrubs down after luncheon service. He is alone in the kitchen with the knives, which he shouldn’t be, but Mister Crawshaw likes a fag after service and Levi can be trusted. Mister Crawshaw will be back soon with Chef and Roadknight, the other orderly, and then they will painstakingly return the knives to their cabinet, which will be locked tight. Each knife has a white outline of itself so even an idiot can tell if a knife has been taken because its white outline will be glaringly unconcealed.
Levi scrubs some more. You can never quite get rid of the smell of fish fingers, nor the cooking fat, which Chef never changes because he’s got to try and do a fiddle somehow. Everyone has a fiddle, even if it’s only saving twenty quid a month on
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