Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [77]
It was only when I got to the door that I realised I didn’t know what the etiquette was. Knocking seemed a bit twee, and standing out in the snow wasn’t going to achieve anything except maybe get Katie killed. I stood there for what felt like an aeon, feeling useless, stupid and bone-deep tired. But stupid, mostly.
The bells of The Friary at the top of the street rang ten o’clock. The sound had shivered away on the frosty air before the door swung open, hinges creaking. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond but I took a deep breath, slipped through the gap. An iron hand gripped the scruff of my neck, pushed me against the wall, grinding my face into the mildewed, mushy wallpaper. Something cold and hard touched the base of my skull.
“Move and I’ll kill you.”
There was no menace in his voice. He was matter-of-fact, like the last time, when he’d been when talking about Ben.
“Hands against the wall.”
He ran a practised hand up both inside legs, inside the fleece top and Puffa, around my waist, under the shoulders.
“Turn around.”
I turned, keeping my hands high on the off chance that he might think I’d try anything insane, like resistance. He didn’t look at my face. I didn’t look at his. I looked down the barrel of the cannon in his hand. Looked at the hand, which had been grafted on from the wrist of a corpse. He patted the pockets of the Puffa with the other hand, reached inside, came up holding Gonzo’s mobile.
“Want a go?” I asked. “Dial 999. Shortest number there is.”
He smiled, turned the phone off, slipped it back inside my pocket. Stepped back, clicked the safety catch on, cuffed me above the ear. When I was able to stand up again, he clicked the safety off and pushed me ahead of him across the vast foyer.
“Shut the fuck up,” he said.
I shut the fuck up. He pushed me through a swing door on the far side of the foyer, ignoring the worn sign that said Staff Only. Beyond the door was a rusting spiral staircase. The dust on the floor was thick enough for footprints, and there was a musty smell that made me want to gag, a thick aroma that suggested the disgruntled staff hadn’t swabbed down the night The Odeon finally closed its doors.
The staircase led to a tiny landing, a door marked Projection Room. He prodded me between the shoulders with the gun; I pushed through the swing door, blinking at the bright light. A huge, moth-eaten tarpaulin half-covered the old projector against the far wall. There were some tea chests behind the door, markings obliterated, a couple of spindly stools. Old movie posters hung in tatters on the walls. I recognised True Romance and Wild at Heart but the rest were too badly rotted to make out. Cobwebs swayed in the breeze caused by the swinging door. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Miss Havisham had stood up, brushed down her wedding dress and come forward to greet me.
Helen Conway did, which didn’t surprise me at all. Wearing a three-quarters length coat, black with white fur trim on the cuffs and collar, a high-necked ivory-tinted blouse in material that shimmered as she moved. Tastefully understated they most certainly were, widow’s weeds they were not. She smiled, eyes sparkling. Her voice was dry, husky.
“It’s a small world, Mr Rigby.”
“Yeah, but I’d hate to have to hoover it. My condolences on your husband, by the way.”
The smile snapped in two. She stepped up, slapped me hard across the face. It sounded like a pistol-shot in the enclosed space, which was just about when I realised the projector room would have been soundproofed back in the good old days. I took my hat off to her. There are better places to deal with reluctant interviewees than a soundproofed room four stories up in a deserted building. But if your finances don’t stretch to chartering a jet to a Siberian gulag, the projector room of an abandoned cinema will do just as well. The pro growled.
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”
“It’s manners to speak when you’re spoken to. You alright?” This last to Katie, hunched on a tea chest opposite