I,” said Ash. “I’m doing your job.”
“Just be careful,” I said.
“As if I were out poaching,” he said. “On a beautiful moonlit night.”
I watched him pinch an apple off a market stand as he sauntered away.
The thing about Soho is that that because it’s a bugger to drive through, and has no tube station or bus routes through it, you end up walking everywhere. And because you’re walking you run into people you might normally miss. I’d stashed the Asbo on Beak Street and so I turned down Broadwick, but before I could achieve Soho escape velocity I was intercepted on Lexington.
Despite the traffic I heard the heels before I heard the voice.
“Constable Grant, you lied to me.”
I turned to find Simone Fitzwilliam high-heeling down the pavement toward me. A red cardigan was falling off her shoulders like a stole over a peach-colored blouse with its buttons under strain and black leggings to show off all that leg power. As she came close I smelled honeysuckle, rose, and lavender, the scents of an English country garden.
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” I said trying to keep it formal.
“You lied to me,” she repeated, and her wide red mouth stretched into a smile. “Your father is Richard ‘Lord’ Grant. I can’t believe I didn’t see it in your face. No wonder you knew what you were talking about. Does he still play?”
“How are you feeling?” I asked and felt like a daytime TV presenter.
The smile wavered. “Some days are better than others,” she said. “You know what would cheer me up? Something scrumptious.”
Scrumptious
was not a word that I’d ever heard used by a real person before.
“Where do want to go?” I asked.
The English have always brought out a strong missionarystreak in the rest of the Continent and from time to time hardy individuals have braved the weather, the plumbing, and the sarcasm to bring the finer things in life to this poor benighted island. One such pioneer, according to Simone, was Madam Valerie who founded her patisserie on Frith Street and, after the Germans bombed it there, moved to Old Compton Street. I’d patrolled past it lots of times but since it didn’t serve alcohol I’d never been called to go in.
Simone grabbed my hand and practically dragged me inside, where the display cases glowed in the afternoon light. Ranks of confectionary were arrayed on cream-colored doilies, pink and yellow, red and chocolate, as gaudy as any model army.
Simone had a favorite table, by the stairs just the other side of the cake displays. From there, she pointed out, you could watch people coming and going
and
keep an eye on the cakes—just in case they tried to make a run for it. She seemed to know what she was doing, so I let her order. Hers was a deceptively compact sandwich of cream, pastry, and icing, mine was essentially a chocolate cake with chocolate flourishes and whipped cream sprinkled with chocolate. I wondered if I was being seduced or driven into a diabetic coma.
“You must tell me what you’ve discovered,” she said. “I heard you were at the Mysterioso last night with Jimmy and Max. Isn’t it a frightfully wicked place? I’m sure you had to positively restrain yourself from arresting miscreants left, right, and center.”
I agreed that I had, indeed, visited the club and that it was a den of iniquity but I didn’t tell her about Mickey the Bone who even as we spoke was waiting for Dr. Walid in the mortuary at UCH. Instead I gave her some flannel about ongoing inquiries and watched her eat her cake. She devoured it like an impatient but obedient child with quick dainty bites and still managed to get cream smeared around her lips. I watched as her tongue darted out to lick it off.
“You know who you should talk to,” she said once all the cream had gone. “You should talk to the Musicians Union.After all, isn’t it their job to look after their members? If anybody should know what’s going on, it should be them. Are you going to eat
“Just be careful,” I said.
“As if I were out poaching,” he said. “On a beautiful moonlit night.”
I watched him pinch an apple off a market stand as he sauntered away.
The thing about Soho is that that because it’s a bugger to drive through, and has no tube station or bus routes through it, you end up walking everywhere. And because you’re walking you run into people you might normally miss. I’d stashed the Asbo on Beak Street and so I turned down Broadwick, but before I could achieve Soho escape velocity I was intercepted on Lexington.
Despite the traffic I heard the heels before I heard the voice.
“Constable Grant, you lied to me.”
I turned to find Simone Fitzwilliam high-heeling down the pavement toward me. A red cardigan was falling off her shoulders like a stole over a peach-colored blouse with its buttons under strain and black leggings to show off all that leg power. As she came close I smelled honeysuckle, rose, and lavender, the scents of an English country garden.
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” I said trying to keep it formal.
“You lied to me,” she repeated, and her wide red mouth stretched into a smile. “Your father is Richard ‘Lord’ Grant. I can’t believe I didn’t see it in your face. No wonder you knew what you were talking about. Does he still play?”
“How are you feeling?” I asked and felt like a daytime TV presenter.
The smile wavered. “Some days are better than others,” she said. “You know what would cheer me up? Something scrumptious.”
Scrumptious
was not a word that I’d ever heard used by a real person before.
“Where do want to go?” I asked.
The English have always brought out a strong missionarystreak in the rest of the Continent and from time to time hardy individuals have braved the weather, the plumbing, and the sarcasm to bring the finer things in life to this poor benighted island. One such pioneer, according to Simone, was Madam Valerie who founded her patisserie on Frith Street and, after the Germans bombed it there, moved to Old Compton Street. I’d patrolled past it lots of times but since it didn’t serve alcohol I’d never been called to go in.
Simone grabbed my hand and practically dragged me inside, where the display cases glowed in the afternoon light. Ranks of confectionary were arrayed on cream-colored doilies, pink and yellow, red and chocolate, as gaudy as any model army.
Simone had a favorite table, by the stairs just the other side of the cake displays. From there, she pointed out, you could watch people coming and going
and
keep an eye on the cakes—just in case they tried to make a run for it. She seemed to know what she was doing, so I let her order. Hers was a deceptively compact sandwich of cream, pastry, and icing, mine was essentially a chocolate cake with chocolate flourishes and whipped cream sprinkled with chocolate. I wondered if I was being seduced or driven into a diabetic coma.
“You must tell me what you’ve discovered,” she said. “I heard you were at the Mysterioso last night with Jimmy and Max. Isn’t it a frightfully wicked place? I’m sure you had to positively restrain yourself from arresting miscreants left, right, and center.”
I agreed that I had, indeed, visited the club and that it was a den of iniquity but I didn’t tell her about Mickey the Bone who even as we spoke was waiting for Dr. Walid in the mortuary at UCH. Instead I gave her some flannel about ongoing inquiries and watched her eat her cake. She devoured it like an impatient but obedient child with quick dainty bites and still managed to get cream smeared around her lips. I watched as her tongue darted out to lick it off.
“You know who you should talk to,” she said once all the cream had gone. “You should talk to the Musicians Union.After all, isn’t it their job to look after their members? If anybody should know what’s going on, it should be them. Are you going to eat
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