Gardens prostitutes, all cheerfully comparing notes on last night’s slate. A harassed young house officer with a clipboard in his hand and a look of terminal embarrassment on his face directed me around the corner and along South Wharf Road to the Paterson Building, still billed on all the signage as the Department of Psychiatry.
But it was clear as soon as I walked inside that the building had a new tenant. The steel grille across the hall, just inside the street doors, had more of the flavour of a prison than a hospital, and the guy behind the desk was a uniformed flunkey from some private security agency. He was built like a brick mausoleum, and his head seemed to get broader as your glance travelled down from crown to jaw, as though someone had jammed the open end of a tuba over his head and left it there until the bones of his skull conformed to the shape. He bared his teeth as I approached, having been told somewhere down the line to smile at the mug punters when you weren’t actually applying electrodes to their extremities. His teeth were very white and even, and not in any way filed to sharp points or stained with the blood of infants. Probably I was doing the guy a disservice: probably he was kind to children and small animals and his elderly mother, as the Krays were said to be. His uniform was very dark blue, and a single word, DICKS, was printed in grey on a sewn-in label attached to his lapel.
I pointed to it. ‘Is that your name?’ I asked. ‘Or is it a stop-me-and-buy-one kind of deal?’
The guy’s brow furrowed and his mouth quirked down, as though thinking that one out caused him mild pain. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said at last, letting the feeble witticism lie where it had fallen. His voice was well down into the bass register, but it had the front-of-the-mouth vowels of South African Dutch. That and his towering build activated a number of stereotypes I carry around with me, most of them centring on bound suspects mysteriously jumping out of fourth-floor windows under police questioning.
‘Felix Castor,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Professor Mulbridge.’
‘And is she expecting you?’
‘For the last five years,’ I said.
Dicks didn’t press the point, but he seemed to decide that was a no. ‘Can I tell her what it’s regarding?’ he asked, after a slightly strained pause.
‘You can tell her it’s regarding Rafael Ditko.’
The guy nodded and tapped some keys on the small intercom to one side of his desk. ‘What is it, Dicks?’ said a voice - a woman’s voice, but not Jenna-Jane’s. It was a young voice, very precise but with a lilt of some exotic accent to it.
‘A Mister Castor,’ Dicks said. His accent almost made the two words rhyme.
There was a click as the intercom channel was closed at the other end. It stayed closed for a good long time. Then the same voice came on again. ‘You did say Castor? Felix Castor?’
Dicks glanced at me, and I nodded.
‘Yeah. Shall I send him up?’
Another click, and another long pause. This time, when the voice came back, it had a definite edge to it. ‘Absolutely not. We’ll send someone down. Mister Castor gets an escort.’
The line went dead with a short burst of static. Dicks gave me unfriendly look number 23, as taught in the barracks and prison yards of the world. I don’t think he appreciated the implied reprimand in that ‘Absolutely not’. Children and small animals notwithstanding, I seemed to have got off on the wrong foot with Mr Dicks. ‘You see?’ I told him, trying to break the ice with small talk. ‘I’m a VIP.’ He stared at me thoughtfully. It was a look that said louder than words, ‘Sooner or later, I may have to damage you.’
Two more gentlemen cut from the same cloth as Mr Dicks appeared on the other side of the steel grille; in fact they all but goose-stepped up to it, walking side by side in near-perfect synchrony. Dicks pressed a button and there was a metallic clank as the lock
But it was clear as soon as I walked inside that the building had a new tenant. The steel grille across the hall, just inside the street doors, had more of the flavour of a prison than a hospital, and the guy behind the desk was a uniformed flunkey from some private security agency. He was built like a brick mausoleum, and his head seemed to get broader as your glance travelled down from crown to jaw, as though someone had jammed the open end of a tuba over his head and left it there until the bones of his skull conformed to the shape. He bared his teeth as I approached, having been told somewhere down the line to smile at the mug punters when you weren’t actually applying electrodes to their extremities. His teeth were very white and even, and not in any way filed to sharp points or stained with the blood of infants. Probably I was doing the guy a disservice: probably he was kind to children and small animals and his elderly mother, as the Krays were said to be. His uniform was very dark blue, and a single word, DICKS, was printed in grey on a sewn-in label attached to his lapel.
I pointed to it. ‘Is that your name?’ I asked. ‘Or is it a stop-me-and-buy-one kind of deal?’
The guy’s brow furrowed and his mouth quirked down, as though thinking that one out caused him mild pain. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he said at last, letting the feeble witticism lie where it had fallen. His voice was well down into the bass register, but it had the front-of-the-mouth vowels of South African Dutch. That and his towering build activated a number of stereotypes I carry around with me, most of them centring on bound suspects mysteriously jumping out of fourth-floor windows under police questioning.
‘Felix Castor,’ I said. ‘I’m here to see Professor Mulbridge.’
‘And is she expecting you?’
‘For the last five years,’ I said.
Dicks didn’t press the point, but he seemed to decide that was a no. ‘Can I tell her what it’s regarding?’ he asked, after a slightly strained pause.
‘You can tell her it’s regarding Rafael Ditko.’
The guy nodded and tapped some keys on the small intercom to one side of his desk. ‘What is it, Dicks?’ said a voice - a woman’s voice, but not Jenna-Jane’s. It was a young voice, very precise but with a lilt of some exotic accent to it.
‘A Mister Castor,’ Dicks said. His accent almost made the two words rhyme.
There was a click as the intercom channel was closed at the other end. It stayed closed for a good long time. Then the same voice came on again. ‘You did say Castor? Felix Castor?’
Dicks glanced at me, and I nodded.
‘Yeah. Shall I send him up?’
Another click, and another long pause. This time, when the voice came back, it had a definite edge to it. ‘Absolutely not. We’ll send someone down. Mister Castor gets an escort.’
The line went dead with a short burst of static. Dicks gave me unfriendly look number 23, as taught in the barracks and prison yards of the world. I don’t think he appreciated the implied reprimand in that ‘Absolutely not’. Children and small animals notwithstanding, I seemed to have got off on the wrong foot with Mr Dicks. ‘You see?’ I told him, trying to break the ice with small talk. ‘I’m a VIP.’ He stared at me thoughtfully. It was a look that said louder than words, ‘Sooner or later, I may have to damage you.’
Two more gentlemen cut from the same cloth as Mr Dicks appeared on the other side of the steel grille; in fact they all but goose-stepped up to it, walking side by side in near-perfect synchrony. Dicks pressed a button and there was a metallic clank as the lock
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