the car through the gap in the window and patted Lorimer’s shoulder. ‘Thanks, Lorimer,’ he said with feeling. ‘You’re a humanitarian and a gentleman.’
This was the last compliment Lorimer wanted to hear from Torquil Helvoir-Jayne.
Lorimer drove carefully along deserted streets, white and deadened by the grip of the frost. It had taken several goes to establish where Irina lived, so intense was her solipsistic sense of misery, so unreal was her grasp of a world beyond her small circle of shame. Eventually she looked up at him, blinked and said croakily, ‘Stoke Newington.’ So he drove from Monken Hadley to Stoke Newington – through Barnet, Whetstone and Finchley, following signs to the City, then round Archway, past Finsbury Park and on to Stoke Newington. Crossing the North Circular, he suddenly realized that he had only slept a matter of three hours or so and thus, technically, in terms of alcoholic units consumed and not fully absorbed by the body, he was probably classifiable as totally drunk, though he had never felt so uncomfortably, palpably aware of his sobriety. By Seven Sisters Road he remembered that it was Sunday morning and that he had a rendezvous with Flavia Malinverno just twelve hours hence. His joy was mitigated by the sorriness of his physical state. He had to be ready for this meeting, of all the important meetings in his life – he really had to establish some control over the way he was living.
Chapter 9
Driving with pedantic care and attention back from Stoke Newington in the grey dawn, Lorimer had stopped at a petrol station and bought some Sunday papers and a two-litre bottle of Coca-Cola (regular), from which he swigged periodically as he made his way slowly but easily across town through empty miles of streets, arriving in Pimlico with his belly full of sweet gas and his teeth veloured with a rime of sugar. Once home in his flat he took four aspirin, cleaned his teeth and soaked in a hot bath for half an hour. Then he dressed and cleaned his teeth again, grabbed a newspaper and headed out for breakfast.
Lady Haigh was waiting for him downstairs, her pale blue eyes peering at him through the crack in her door.
‘Morning, Lady Haigh.’
‘How was your weekend? Were they nice people?’
‘It was most interesting.’
‘I thought you might like to take Jupiter for a walk.’
‘I’m just going out for a bite of breakfast.’
‘That’s all right. He won’t mind as long as you give him a bit of bacon or sausage. I thought you two should
get to know each other better.’
‘Good idea.’
‘He will be yours one day soon, after all.’
He nodded, thoughtfully. There really was no suitable answer to Lady Haigh’s bland prognostications about her own death.
‘By the way’ she said. ‘That man was round again yesterday, looking for you.’
‘What man?’
‘He didn’t leave his name. Quite well-spoken – said he was a friend of yours.’
‘Was it the detective? Rappaport?’
‘Not that one. He was courteous, though, just like a policeman.’ She opened the door fully and led Jupiter out. He was wearing an odd woollen checked coat that covered his body, belted under his belly and across his chest. Jupiter’s rheumy eyes contemplated Lorimer with an impressive lack of curiosity.
‘He’s done his business,’ Lady Haigh assured him, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘so there should be no problem on the street.’
Lorimer set off up the road with Jupiter plodding steadily beside him: he walked with visible effort, like an old man with hardening arteries, but maintained a regular pace. Unlike other dogs he did not stop and sniff every kerb and car tyre, scrap of litter and turd, nor did he feel the need to cock his leg at each gate or lamp-post they passed; it was as if the effort of getting from A to B absorbed all his attention and he had no time for other canine frivolities. In this way they made good progress through the cold, bright morning to the Café Matisse, where Lorimer tied Jupiter’s lead to a parking meter and went inside to order the most calorifically intense breakfast the establishment could concoct. The place was quiet, a few regulars secure behind the rustling screens of their newspapers, and Lorimer found a seat at the front where he could keep an eye on Jupiter. The Spanish duenna waitress impassively took his order for bacon, sausage, two fried eggs on fried bread, grilled tomatoes, grilled mushrooms, baked beans and chips with an extra helping of chips on the side.