hungry.
Dewi, meanwhile, in that slightest –that shortest –that briefest of interludes, had swiftly taken his leave of them. Jo turned and stared after him, her whole heart scythed. Beautiful, beautiful Dewi, she murmured, her chin lifting, her pupils dilating; beautiful, beautiful Dewi, standing right there, just in front of me, and as the cruel winter sky above is my witness, he didn’t even know.
‘If you love to sew so much, why are you working as an estate agent?’
‘What?’ Ted did a double-take.
They were crossing the road together, strolling directly towards the four people on the opposite pavement.
A fifth was just joining them. Another man, grossly overweight and wearing thin, green, tie-dyed trousers with a black and red striped mohair Dennis the Menace jumper. His name was Shoes. Wesley knew him well, but as he approached, his face showed no inkling of recognition. Not for Shoes. Not for Doc. Not for any of them.
His eyes hiccoughed slightly, however, at the sight of Hooch’s hat; the incongruously cuddly logo, then they focussed straight in on the girl. He stepped up onto the kerb.
‘Who said anything about sewing?’ Ted asked quietly. Wesley didn’t answer. He was standing directly in front of Josephine.
‘Someone must be paying you,’ he murmured silkily, inspecting her face which was plain –like he’d imagined –but with something about the mouth, the chin, that seemed oddly exceptional. A firmness. A roundness. She was a Jersey Royal, he decided. Not your average potato. She was small and smooth and seasonal. Her hazel eyes were liquid, like a glass of good cask whisky mixed with water.
‘Pardon?’ She looked quite astonished to see him. So close.
‘Someone must be paying you. You don’t look like the others. You aren’t like them.’
‘I’m Jo from Southend,’ Jo found herself saying.
‘I don’t care where you live,’ Wesley said, ‘you’re wasting your time here. You won’t find what you’re looking for. Go back to Southend…’ his voice dropped, unexpectedly, ‘while you still can. D’you hear?’
He turned –not even waiting for an answer –then he paused, ‘You have jam,’ he said, ‘on your sweatshirt.’
Jo looked down. ‘I was eating a doughnut,’ she muttered, trying to lift off the worst of it with her thumb.
Wesley was already walking.
‘How did you know?’ Ted asked, quickly catching up, ‘about the sewing?’
‘Ah,’ Wesley touched the tip of his nose mysteriously with his glossy stump. ‘You smelled it?’
‘When I picked up your jacket,’ Wesley demurred, ‘I noticed the handmade label. Beautifully finished. Just like the original. And you were comforting yourself,’ he continued, ‘earlier, when we were walking, by rattling that bunch of keys. It reminded me of the sound of a machine…’ he paused, ‘and I couldn’t help noticing how you felt the curtain fabric in Katherine’s house. Almost without thinking. And the material on the cushion covers. Plus you have two strange calluses on your index fingers. It all seemed pretty… well, pretty conclusive, really.’
‘Nobody knows that I sew,’ Ted whispered, at once amazed and conspiratorial, ‘except my Great Aunt who taught me. You’re the first. You must promise not to tell.’
‘Tell?’ Wesley chuckled. ‘Who would I tell? More to the point, why would I tell them?’
Ted held on tight to his briefcase, saying nothing, but with his knuckles showing white, his lips silently enunciating, his nose gently shining. He was panicked, for some reason.
Wesley glanced sideways at him and felt a sudden, fierce glow of satisfaction –as if a blow torch had just been lit inside of him. This is how I become powerful, he thought, turning, casually, and glancing back at the girl again.
She had her jammy thumb in her mouth and she was sucking on it. But she wasn’t –as he’d anticipated –staring after him. Instead she was looking behind her, towards a small, scruffy, ivy-covered bungalow with an inappropriately large wooden verandah to the front of it.
On the verandah stood a huge, square man, staring straight back at him –eyes like arrows, poison tipped –with the kind of crazy intensity which implied not only dislike –or pique –or bile –or irritation, even, but hatred.
Hate. Pure. Clear. 100% proof. Strong as poteen.
Perhaps it was a mistake to return here, Wesley mused idly. He glanced over at Ted whose lips were still working feverishly.
He smiled. What shall I give this man, he pondered, his mood instantly lightening; and what, I wonder, shall I extract from him?
He chuckled to himself, cruelly, then pulled his two hands from his trouser pockets, wiggled his four remaining fingers –it was cold, it was too damn cold –puckered his lips, swung out his arms and walked boldly onwards, expertly whistling the chorus to When the Saints Go Marching In, while gradually –almost imperceptibly –speeding up his pace, so that he might stride along jauntily, in time.
She was cycling on the pavement. At worst, Arthur mused tightly, an illegal act, at best, wholly irresponsible. And that, in fact, was the only reason he’d troubled to notice her. He was not, by nature, an observant man when it came to women. In all other respects his observational faculties were keen, although in general, if he looked for things, then it was mainly for the stuff that interested him: roadsigns, landmarks, industrial centres, museums, farm machinery, traditional breeds. He had an inexplicable soft spot for Shetland Ponies.
She jinked past him. He’d been walking –strongly, cleanly –since sunrise. Her sweet perfume assaulted his olfactory organs as she clattered by. It tickled his nostrils, but crudely. She smelled of cigarettes and dog violets.
Twenty minutes later he caught up with her again. It was a long road, the A127, north of Basildon. She was on her knees, cursing. The traffic whizzed past them. Its speed and its volume were mentally trying. But he was a veteran.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked, his voice (he couldn’t help it) fringed with a facetious edge.
‘Nothing earth-shattering,’ she grunted, as if instantly gauging the true nature of his gallantry. ‘Flat tyre.’
Her voice was so low that he almost started. Husky didn’t do it justice. His mind struggled to think of another canine breed –even more tough, even more northerly –to try and express it with greater accuracy. He could think of none.
‘You have a pump?’
She looked up, took her littlest finger, stuck it into her ear and shook it around vigorously.
He watched her, frowning, unsure whether this was an insulting gesture of some kind which he –because of his age, perhaps, or his sheltered upbringing –had hitherto yet to encounter. She stared back at him, quizzically. He was all sinew. Grizzled. He reminded her of a dog chew. Tough and yellow and lean and twisted.
‘Sorry,’ she said, removing her finger, ‘I’ve got water in my ear.’
‘So you do have a pump,’ he pointed at the pavement to the right of her. She raised her eyebrows, picked up the pump and gave it a thrust. The air blew out of it like the tail-end of a weak sneeze.
‘Yes I do have a pump, but I also have…’ she paused and then spoke with exaggerated emphasis, ‘a fast puncture.’
He pushed his baseball cap back on his head.
‘Cute,’ she said, pointing at the little, squidgy