walls. ‘Even the fucking phones’re dead.’
‘Enrico do this?’
‘No, David. Thought I’d nick ‘em, I suppose. Haven’t been paid yet this month, see.’
‘Who’s the new manager, then?’
‘He’s doing his own management now. From home.’
Lorimer thought: there were always other ways, of course, but this was probably quickest. He took out his wallet and counted out five twenty pound notes on to the desk in front of her, then picked up a pen and a sheet of notepaper and placed them on top of the notes.
‘I just need his phone number, thanks very much.’
He looked down at the dark cutting her parting made in her white-blonde hair as she bent her head to scribble the figures on the sheet of paper. He wondered about this young girl’s life, what had brought her here, what path it would take now He wondered what Flavia Malin-verno was doing today.
8. Insurance. Insurance exists to substitute reasonable foresight and confidence in a world dominated by apprehension and blind chance. This has a supreme social value.
The Book of Transfiguration
There were several messages on his answer machine when he returned home that evening. The first went: ‘Lorimer, it’s Torquil… hello? Are you there? Pick up if you’re there. It’s Torquil.’ The second was a few moments of quiet hiss and then a click. The third was: ‘Lorimer, it’s Torquil, something ghastly’s happened. Can you call me?… No, I’ll call you.’ The fourth was from Detective Sergeant Rappaport: ‘Mr Black, we have a date for the inquest.’ Then followed the date and time in question and various instructions relating to his attendance at Hornsey coroner’s court. The fifth was to the point: ‘It’s not over, it’s not over yet, Black.’ Rintoul. Damn, Lorimer thought, perhaps the situation did require cod-liver oil after all. The sixth made him stop breathing for its duration: ‘Lorimer Black. I want you to take me to lunch. Sole di Napoli, Chalk Farm. I’ve booked a table, Wednesday’
He slid Angziertie into his C D player and removed it after approximately ninety seconds. David Watts had a reedily monotonous, albeit tuneful voice with no character and the rank pretension of the lyrics was rebarbative. The fatal gloss and polish of the most expensive recording studios in the world stripped the music of all authenticity. He realized this reaction placed him in a tiny minority, was almost freakishly perverse, but there was little he could do about it: it was as if one of his senses had gone, smell or taste or touch, but he simply was unable to tolerate any contemporary British, American or European rock music of recent decades. It seemed fatally bogus, without soul or passion, a conspiracy of manipulated tastes, faddery and expert marketing. He replaced David Watts with Emperor Bola Osanjo and his Viva Africa Ensemble and sat back, brain in neutral, trying to cope with the preposterous sense of elation that was building inside him. He thought of Flavia Malinverno’s beautiful face, the way she looked at you, the way she seemed always to be half-challenging you, provoking you… There was no question, without doubt she –
The doorbell buzzed and he lifted the speakerphone off its cradle, suddenly worried that it might be Rintoul.
‘Yes?’
‘Thank Christ. It’s Torquil.’
Torquil put his suitcase down and looked about Lorimer’s flat in frank admiration.
‘Nice gaff,’ he said. ‘It’s incredibly neat and sort of solid, if you know what I mean. Is this real?’
‘It’s Greek,’ Lorimer said, gently taking the helmet out of Torquil’s big hands. ‘About three thousand years old.’
‘Have you got any booze ?’ Torquil asked.’ I’m gagging for a drink. What a fucking awful day. Have you any idea how much a taxi costs from Monken Hadley down here? Forty-seven pounds. It’s outrageous. Scotch, please.’
Lorimer poured Torquil a generous Scotch and himself a slightly less generous vodka. When he turned, glasses in hand, Torquil had lit a cigarette and was sprawled on his sofa, thighs splayed, two inches of shin showing above his left sock.
‘What the hell is this crap you’re playing?’
Lorimer switched off the music. ‘I heard about what happened today’ he said, consolingly ‘Rotten luck.’
Some of Torquil’s swagger left him and he looked suddenly deflated and shocked for a moment. He rubbed his face with his hand and took a long pull at his drink.
‘It was pretty fucking scary, I can tell you. He’s a vicious bastard, that Hogg. He took the car keys off me too, there and then. By the time I got back home after lunch it had been