Chapter 56
Cook gave it another half an hour, making sure the American woman had disappeared. She’d hurried away from his table without looking back, made her way into the lobby. Off to write a story about the dreadful manners of the English, no doubt.
‘Another one, sir?’ It was the waiter, hovering discreetly over Cook’s shoulder.
‘Yes,’ Cook replied. ‘And I have a question.’
‘I can do you a drink, sir, but I’m not very good with questions.’
‘I’m looking for a girl,’ Cook said.
The waiter glanced towards the bar, as if the answer was self-evident.
‘A specific girl,’ Cook said. ‘Name of Ruby.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t sell information. Just drinks.’
Cook took his wallet from his pocket. He’d seen this kind of thing in films. Never thought he’d be trying it out.
‘How much for the information?’
‘Perhaps you might like a bottle of champagne?’
‘How much?’
‘One pound, six shillings,’ the waiter said.
‘Fine.’
‘I’ll have it sent to your table, sir. Would you like an extra glass? In case you find your young woman?’
‘Tell me about Ruby,’ Cook said.
‘Sir?’
‘I asked about Ruby and you made me buy the champagne.’
The bartender looked blank.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Don’t know a Ruby. Is she a resident at the hotel? Perhaps the concierge could take a message to her room?’
Cook fumed. He felt like a country bumpkin who’d been taken in – like a tourist caught by one of the conmen on the street, promising a prize if you could identify which walnut shell hid the pea.
*
The champagne was delivered, and Cook drank it slowly, savouring his annoyance with the American and the waiter. He was getting nowhere.
He should have been in his local, The Cross, having a pint with his friend Doc, his usual drinking partner.
Doc had signed up. Wanted to do the right thing.
Cook knew the chasm between the chivalry a man thought about when he read the recruiting leaflet, and the reality of war.
He thought he’d done a good enough job of letting slip enough details over the many years, and the many pints.
But no man believes it until he’s seen it.
Cook was mindful of something his old CO, Blakeney, had liked to say.
‘There are two types of people in this world, those who wait for something to happen to them, and those who make things happen to other people.’ Cook was aware of his many faults, but he also knew his strengths.
Making things happen was at the top of the list.
Cook walked towards the couple at the bar. The pilot officer was gesturing with his hand, his heroic exploits shooting down a Jerry, by the look of it.
The prostitute ignored Cook as he approached them, but the pilot watched him coming, moved his body slightly to protect his privacy. Cook ignored the move, and stepped between the two. They stopped talking, embarrassed by Cook’s awkwardness.
‘Dowding’s on his way in,’ Cook said. ‘Wouldn’t want to have a prostitute on your arm the first time you meet him. Assuming you’re even allowed to be here.’
The pilot looked at the entrance to the bar with alarm.
‘Best to slip out the back,’ Cook said. ‘Live to fight another day and all that.’
‘Thanks,’ the pilot said, gulping down what remained of his pint.
‘You owe me,’ the young woman said to Cook, once they were alone.
‘I’m over there,’ Cook nodded towards his table. ‘Join me for a drink.’
Cook returned to his table. The prostitute was angry with him. It was fifty-fifty what would win out – her anger, or her desire for money.
She left him waiting five minutes, no doubt proving to herself she was in control, then made her way towards him. Respectable men, having an early-evening drink with their respectable wives, pretended not to watch as she passed by.
‘Three pounds, up front,’ she said, even as she pulled out the chair and took a seat.
‘I was told it was two,’ Cook replied. He kept his voice low. It didn’t seem like the sort of conversation you’d want to have overheard, not that his new companion seemed bothered.
‘It’s gone up,’ she said. ‘Or I can call the police. Tell them you propositioned me. Not something your wife would like to find out about.’
‘Does that often work?’ Cook asked.
She gave him a blank look, took the glass of champagne he offered and sipped it.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Petal,’ she said.
‘I just want to talk,’ Cook said.
The blank look persisted. Cook reluctantly took his wallet from his inside pocket, handed her a pound note. He saw the folded picture and spread it out on the table.
She took the pound note, folded it and put it in her handbag.
‘I’m looking for this girl,’ he said. ‘Her name’s Ruby.’
She glanced at the picture and shrugged.
‘I don’t know anyone called Ruby,’ she said.
‘What if she was using another name?’
Petal shook her head. Pushed the picture back to him.
‘Don’t know her,’ she said.
‘You heard about the girl who got blown up on the bus outside here?’
‘Course I did,’ Petal said, ‘we all did. Stepped out of here, got on a bus, got blown up.’
It was the first time someone had connected Ruby being at the Empire, and being on the bus.
It was a gap in his thinking. A gap that had always been there, just one he’d ignored.
Ruby hadn’t been the one who’d taken the coat from the Lyons, then got on the bus.
He’d proved that, more or less. But that didn’t mean Ruby hadn’t also got on the bus. Difficult to prove the negative.
‘Why are you asking about someone who’s got blown up?’
‘I don’t think she was on the bus,’ Cook said.
Petal shrugged.
‘Was Ruby working, like you?’
‘Who wants to know?’ she asked.
‘I know her family,’ he said. ‘But anything you tell me I’ll keep secret. Between us.’
‘What makes you think she wasn’t on that bus?’ she asked.
‘I think someone else from the Lyons had her coat. Took it by mistake. That coat’s the only reason anyone thinks she was on the bus.’
‘Maybe she’s better off,’ Petal said. ‘They reckon we’re all going to get bombed at this rate. At least she’s got it over with. None of this to worry about.’ She looked around at the room.
‘How long was she working here?’ Cook asked.
‘Never said she was,’ Petal said.
‘Look,’ Cook said, ‘you seem like a nice girl. And I don’t want to get you into any trouble.
I just thought, maybe if Ruby hadn’t been on that bus, but she’s still gone missing, maybe it was to do with her line of work.
I thought you might know something about what had happened to her, so I could at least tell her family she was all right. ’
Petal looked at Cook for a long time in silence. She was clearly trying to work out what to say.
‘If,’ she said, holding her finger up to stop him interrupting.
‘If,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, keeping a wary eye on the bar, ‘there was any such person, and that such person was working here in the same line of work as I do . . .’
She thought more.
‘If everyone thought she was dead on a bus, maybe she decided to walk away. Start again. If there was any such hypothetical person . . . who did get the chance to walk away and start again . . . She’d be advised to stay wherever she’s gone.’
‘I understand,’ Cook said.
‘I don’t think you do,’ Petal said. ‘Because it seems to me like you’re trying to find her.
And if you find her, and bring her back, she might be in a lot more trouble than if she’d never been found.
She might wish she really had been on that bus.
And it’d be your fault. So maybe we should go upstairs, you can get your three quid’s worth, and then you can fuck off back to whatever hole you’ve crawled out of. ’
She sat back in her chair, face flushed, eyes nervously scanning the bar.
Cook opened his wallet again. Took out another pound note.
He slid it across the table.
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you more,’ he said. ‘But I think I can help Ruby. I’m going to take a room. If at any time this evening you think of anything else I might want to know, anything that might help me reassure Ruby’s mum that she’s all right, come and tell me.’