mother his attention. He could see that she needed to unburden herself, as if Lucy’s accident was as much her fault as Simon’s.
“Are you in touch with your husband?” he asked.
“With Reg? He’s gone. Twenty years now. Fell off a curb stone drunk and caved in his head. Lucy needed a father. We all did.”
“I’m sorry.” Lucy had told him only that her father had deserted the family, not that he was dead.
“In our blood, it seems. Reg liked his pints. My Edward used drugs. Brian, too. I like the occasional drop, don’t I?”
“I have a card from the clinic where Lucy is recovering. The phone and address are right there. If you’d like to visit, I can send a car.”
Dora took the card without looking at it. “Of course, we will. I work tomorrow, but maybe the weekend.”
“I’m sure Lucy would like that.”
The baby was still crying, louder now, and Simon wondered if anyone at all was looking after it. Dora lit a cigarette, her eyes once again hazy. “France, you say?”
Simon backed out of the room, stating that he would show himself out.
He saw the man as he exited the cracked glass doors of the Warwick Arms. A stocky figure in a black T-shirt stretched across the hood of Simon’s car, for all appearances removing the wiper blades and having no qualms about doing so in full view of all passersby.
“Hey,” Simon shouted, breaking into a trot. “Get off my car!”
The car was a Volkswagen Golf R, pearl-gray, polished and waxed, Momo rims, a coat of Armor All lending the low-profile tires a rich sheen. It was a stylish automobile, nothing flashy. Simon thought of it as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The 2-liter 4-cylinder turbo-charged engine put out 300 horsepower with 288 pounds of torque and was capable of propelling the vehicle from zero to 100 kilometers per hour in 4.3 seconds. He had no need to drive that fast and, with traffic as it was in London, rarely had the opportunity. For the record, he considered himself a conservative driver, almost law-abiding. Once a month, however, he drove into the countryside and put the car through its paces up and down the hills and valleys of Devon. It was his speed fix. Simon liked fast cars. It was that simple. The French had a term for this condition. “Déformation professionnelle.”
And he had a particular affection for his windshield wipers, which were custom order from Wolfsburg.
Simon shouted again. This time the man glanced over his shoulder and returned the greeting. “Sod off,” he shouted back.
The picnic tables had filled up with a dozen locals, mostly scruffy young men furiously engaged in their late-morning workout of guzzling beer and smoking cigarettes. Lift, gulp, smoke. Repeat. Simon knew the type. Once he’d been like them. Probably meaner, he decided. Definitely crazier.
One by one they abandoned their seats and moved into Simon’s path.
“Leave our mate be,” said one, maybe twenty years old, broad in the shoulder with muscular arms, a crew cut, and a lazy scowl. He wore a Mötley Crüe T-shirt. Simon hated Mötley Crüe.
He stopped, face-to-face with the man. He wasn’t frightened. He was exhilarated. He’d been wanting to hit something since leaving Lucy in the clinic. The JD he’d had with D’Art encouraged the notion.
“He’s your friend?” Simon asked.
“That’s right.”
“What’s he doing to my car?”
The hooligan turned, addressing his crew with amusement. “This one here’s a Yank.” He returned his attention to Simon, giving him his best American accent. “Excuse me, sir, but you must have taken the wrong bus. I’m afraid you’re in a very dodgy part of town. Bad element, if you know what I mean.”
Laughter and jeers.
“I asked you a question,” said Simon, matter-of-factly.
“So?” spat the hooligan. “Think I care?”
The hooligan’s friends closed ranks behind Simon. There were six in all, two in tracksuits, the others in ripped jeans and T-shirts. Veterans of three-month stays in prison. Small-time drug dealers. Loan sharks, provided they could do their math. Dangerous enough.
“It would be impolite not to answer,” said Simon.
“Are you saying I’m rude?”
Simon considered this. “Uncommunicative.”
“This one here’s got some big words. Un-com-mun-ic-a-tive.”
The wiper thief had managed to free one of the blades and was starting on the other. The blades cost thirty pounds apiece. Simon would have to special-order them or get some of lesser quality from the dealership in Hounslow. It wasn’t the cost that bothered him so much as the inconvenience.
A hand shoved Simon in the back. “Am I being uncommunicative, too,