thuh?’
‘Kids, man.’
‘Aye, the
Chronicle
said so.’
‘– was a Lancia, an’ all.’
‘– smart, them. Ee, are you all right, pet?’
He blinked. Looming into his face was a rotund woman of about sixty with a furrowed brow.
‘Yeah, I—’
He gingerly struggled to his feet. He was at least eighteen inches taller than her.
‘Kids! Bloody kids. Bloody joyriders. Dreadful, in’t it? And the parents. I blame them. They just let them run wild.’
He stopped her tirade before she brought back the birch.
‘Did anyone get the number?’
Several shaken heads. People were drifting away, disappointed, now that Larkin was standing. The ghouls were retreating.
‘It was definitely a Lancia,’ said one man before walking off.
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the munchkin asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Yeah, thanks. I’m fine.’
He started to walk away, unsteadily, his heart pounding.
Joyriders
? Someone had just tried to kill him.
11: The Broken Doll
The hall was cavernous and dark. Fringed, fake-candled wall lamps waited to be lit and the maroon and black velveteen flock
wallpaper seemed to absorb what little light there was. Lining the walls were plush velvet booths, giving the illusion of
shabby intimacy. Chairs were stacked on tables; a woman wearing a cotton print dress and a lacquered hair-do was struggling
to get them down. At the other end of the hall a hefty, balding man in a short-sleeved, polyester-mix shirt and tie combo
was making heavy weather of opening up the bar. He was clunking crates of Britvic around so heavily that it was a wonder he
wasn’t surrounded by a pool of tomato juice and broken glass. In the cathedral-like expanse of the hall, the bar was the altar:
just right for a Sunday night.
Larkin was still pretty shaken after the incident with the Lancia. He badly wanted a drink, but had denied himself; he knew
that just one wouldn’t have been enough. Instead he had walked round until he found the Rainbow Club. He looked dishevelled
from the hangover and battered from the pavement, but he was still going strong. Thinking his brand of charm would work better
on the woman than the man, he approached her.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ Her head sprang round brightly. She had round eyes, a wide mouth and was so cheerful that she must have had a natural
Prozac gland in her body.
‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if youcould help me.’ Larkin looked round innocently. ‘This is the Rainbow Club, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it will be in a few hours. Frank – that’s my husband—’ she pointed to the barman, who was now wrestling with a knife
and a lemon as if in preparation for a bizarre communion, ‘he and I run the club.’ She appraised Larkin. ‘Are you seeking
membership?’ She sounded doubtful, clearly thinking he wouldn’t help to raise the tone of her clientele.
‘No, no. It’s … business.’
She didn’t hide her scepticism; the charm wasn’t working. He’d have to work fast to gain her trust. No hesitation, or she’d
think he was lying. He drew Mary’s photo out of his inner pocket. ‘Do you know this woman?’
She looked at the photo. ‘Yes. She used to come here.’ She gave Larkin a quizzical look. ‘Could I ask who you are, please?’
She spoke with one of those sing-song Geordie accents that some women affect to make them sound middle-class.
‘I’m working for her solicitor. We’re trying to trace that man.’ He tapped Terry’s face.
‘Oh. Is he her son?’ she asked.
‘No, he’s her—’
Killer
, thought Larkin. ‘Boyfriend. We think.’
‘We’re a club for middle-aged, divorced, separated or bereaved people. We provide a place where they can come together, share
a common interest. Meet others in the same boat, help regain a bit of self-confidence. We treat them as our friends.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Larkin.
She looked at the photo again. ‘I haven’t seen
‘Kids, man.’
‘Aye, the
Chronicle
said so.’
‘– was a Lancia, an’ all.’
‘– smart, them. Ee, are you all right, pet?’
He blinked. Looming into his face was a rotund woman of about sixty with a furrowed brow.
‘Yeah, I—’
He gingerly struggled to his feet. He was at least eighteen inches taller than her.
‘Kids! Bloody kids. Bloody joyriders. Dreadful, in’t it? And the parents. I blame them. They just let them run wild.’
He stopped her tirade before she brought back the birch.
‘Did anyone get the number?’
Several shaken heads. People were drifting away, disappointed, now that Larkin was standing. The ghouls were retreating.
‘It was definitely a Lancia,’ said one man before walking off.
‘Thanks.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ the munchkin asked, genuinely concerned.
‘Yeah, thanks. I’m fine.’
He started to walk away, unsteadily, his heart pounding.
Joyriders
? Someone had just tried to kill him.
11: The Broken Doll
The hall was cavernous and dark. Fringed, fake-candled wall lamps waited to be lit and the maroon and black velveteen flock
wallpaper seemed to absorb what little light there was. Lining the walls were plush velvet booths, giving the illusion of
shabby intimacy. Chairs were stacked on tables; a woman wearing a cotton print dress and a lacquered hair-do was struggling
to get them down. At the other end of the hall a hefty, balding man in a short-sleeved, polyester-mix shirt and tie combo
was making heavy weather of opening up the bar. He was clunking crates of Britvic around so heavily that it was a wonder he
wasn’t surrounded by a pool of tomato juice and broken glass. In the cathedral-like expanse of the hall, the bar was the altar:
just right for a Sunday night.
Larkin was still pretty shaken after the incident with the Lancia. He badly wanted a drink, but had denied himself; he knew
that just one wouldn’t have been enough. Instead he had walked round until he found the Rainbow Club. He looked dishevelled
from the hangover and battered from the pavement, but he was still going strong. Thinking his brand of charm would work better
on the woman than the man, he approached her.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Yes?’ Her head sprang round brightly. She had round eyes, a wide mouth and was so cheerful that she must have had a natural
Prozac gland in her body.
‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if youcould help me.’ Larkin looked round innocently. ‘This is the Rainbow Club, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it will be in a few hours. Frank – that’s my husband—’ she pointed to the barman, who was now wrestling with a knife
and a lemon as if in preparation for a bizarre communion, ‘he and I run the club.’ She appraised Larkin. ‘Are you seeking
membership?’ She sounded doubtful, clearly thinking he wouldn’t help to raise the tone of her clientele.
‘No, no. It’s … business.’
She didn’t hide her scepticism; the charm wasn’t working. He’d have to work fast to gain her trust. No hesitation, or she’d
think he was lying. He drew Mary’s photo out of his inner pocket. ‘Do you know this woman?’
She looked at the photo. ‘Yes. She used to come here.’ She gave Larkin a quizzical look. ‘Could I ask who you are, please?’
She spoke with one of those sing-song Geordie accents that some women affect to make them sound middle-class.
‘I’m working for her solicitor. We’re trying to trace that man.’ He tapped Terry’s face.
‘Oh. Is he her son?’ she asked.
‘No, he’s her—’
Killer
, thought Larkin. ‘Boyfriend. We think.’
‘We’re a club for middle-aged, divorced, separated or bereaved people. We provide a place where they can come together, share
a common interest. Meet others in the same boat, help regain a bit of self-confidence. We treat them as our friends.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Larkin.
She looked at the photo again. ‘I haven’t seen
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