Chapter 44 #2
‘Charlie? Nah.’ She crumpled down into a matching black-leather armchair and put her feet on the coffee table.
‘Haven’t seen him since that night in The Hare and Parsnip.
Friday before last?’ Her heavy eyebrows scrunched together.
‘Or was it a Wednesday . . .?’ She balanced her energy drink on the arm of the chair and rummaged a small metal tin from beneath a pile of Empire magazines – popping it open to reveal a pack of Golden Virginia and a thing of rolling papers.
Then turned to look through the patio doors.
‘You think it’s OK to leave him out there?
You know, with melanomas and drowning and that? ’
‘And does the Orphan Grapevine say anything about where Charlie might be hiding?’
‘Hmmm . . .’ She sprinkled a line of tobacco across a Rizla.
‘Opinion’s split on that one. Some people say, “Talk to the cops, it’s for Charlie’s own good.
” Others say, “When does talking to the cops ever help with anything? Fuck ’em!
”’ Licking the paper, then rolling it up. ‘No offence, Elijah Baley.’
Tufty held his pen up, before Logan could ask. ‘The homicide detective in Isaac Asimov’s Robot series.’
Alexis turned in her seat to examine him. ‘Takeshi Lev Kovacs.’
‘Richard K. Morgan, Altered Carbon, 2002. Come on, try a hard one.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘You sure I don’t know you?’
Logan cleared his throat. ‘Drifting off topic again, people.’ Waiting till they were both looking at him. ‘We really are trying to help Charlie. He could be hurt. And what kind of life’s he going to have, on the run for the rest of his days?’
‘Why are you after him, Master Li?’ Snapping a finger-gun at Tufty. ‘And that makes you . . .?’
‘Number Ten Ox.’ A shrug. ‘Could be worse.’
She seemed pleased with that, because she smiled. Nodded. Then sparked up her handmade fag and blew a pillar of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Anyone tell you about Wallace Tower in Seaton Park? Used to squirrel off there when his nan was going all Borg Queen on him.’
Which meant they now had corroboration, and Randolph Hay had been telling the truth.
Alexis tapped a flake of ash into the already crowded ashtray. ‘Or you could try Keira’s place?’
‘Thought his grandmother broke them up?’
‘She always was a racist sack of rat shite.’ Another puff.
‘Charlie wasn’t here last night, because this wasn’t an Orphan Outing – just some of Graham’s mates, round for his annual DS9 marathon.
Charlie never misses an Orphan Outing.’ Alexis drained her Rampant Gorilla.
‘And I mean you could hack off his leg with a rusty Bat’leth and he’d still drag himself along.
Some people are just . . .’ Her face scrunched up again, and she pointed at Tufty.
‘Were you at Roboticon last year, or something?’
No answer from the wee loon.
Because for once he’d paid attention about staying on topic.
Logan checked his watch – 07:59 – better get shifting if they were going to visit the final name on the list, before this stupid MAPPA meeting. ‘OK, well if Charlie gets in touch, will you let me know? Please.’
He produced a business card and held it out across the coffee table.
Alexis didn’t take it, just looked at the thing as if he’d offered her a sheet of used toilet paper.
Tufty sighed. Then pointed at the framed posters. ‘I was in a sci-fi film once, but the studio binned it before release. Was more profitable to take the tax write-off and pulp every copy.’ Pulling up his shoulders, before letting them sag again. ‘I played a robot-spider-henchperson thing.’
Her bloodshot eyes widened. ‘God, I knew it: you worked for Baroness Grimdark! Arachnox! We watched a bootleg DVD. Wow . . .’ She ground out her roll-up and scrambled to her flip-flopped feet.
‘Can I get a selfie? God. Wow . . .’ Backing towards the patio doors.
‘Don’t move! I gotta get Graham – he’ll kill me if he finds out we had a bona fide film star right here, and I didn’t wake him up! ’
And Tufty beamed like a lighthouse.
Logan lowered the sun visor, cutting the glare. Sitting on his tod in the passenger seat, phone pressed to his ear. ‘So other than “we have to buy a piano”, what else did we get lumbered with after I left?’
A pair of magpies hopped and cackled across the lawn, then jumped up and down on Darth Vader’s little gnomey head.
Tara groaned. ‘Her art class is doing an exhibition at the Cowdray Hall in October. We’re in for five books of raffle tickets to pay for art supplies.’
‘Lovely . . . What do we get if we win?’
‘One of the kids’ paintings. Second prize is two paintings.’
He kept his voice flat and dead. ‘You’re hilarious, you know that, don’t you.’
‘Oh, and we met a slightly scary Goth girl who says she knows you?’
A yawn stampeded its way through Logan’s body, cracking his jaw wide, followed by a wee burp, a shudder, and a sag. ‘Sorry. Long night.’
The door to number thirteen opened and Tufty emerged into the sunlight, followed by Alexis and the guy from the paddling pool – now wearing jogging bottoms and a Stargate T-shirt. All three of them grinning away like idiots.
‘Only, apparently, Elizabeth is part of her gang now – like it’s prison or something. They’ll be getting matching tattoos and wearing colours next . . . Are you sure we can’t afford to send her to private school?’
‘Rebecca’s a good kid, don’t be mean.’
Tufty shook Alexis’s hand, then the bloke – Graham, was it? – lifted him off the ground in a great big bear hug. Laughing.
‘I’d better go – looks like the wee loon’s finished playing Sci-Fi Film Star.’
‘Invite him to the barbecue, you miserable old bumfart.’
‘Go away and . . . confiscate some counterfeit handbags. I’ve got a killer to catch.’ He hung up.
That would teach her.
Probably not.
But it was the thought that counted.
Logan took out the list of Charles MacGarioch’s associates, and put a line through Alexis Cunningham’s name as Tufty pretty much skipped down the garden path and over to the driver’s side.
The wee loon wriggled in behind the wheel, then waved out the window at his brand-new fans. Who both waved back at him.
Tufty started the car. ‘Weren’t Alexis and her uncle nice?’
Maybe, if you liked weirdos.
‘And she’s promised to help us, now – cos I is a international celebrity of famousness.’
‘Drive.’ Logan pointed back towards town. ‘We’ve only got an hour to wheech over to Broomhill, interview Marshall Carter, and get back to the station in time for that meeting.’
‘Nah.’ Tufty tapped the dashboard clock. ‘Hour and ten, Sarge.’
Logan shot a full-on Paddington across the pool car. ‘Those ten minutes are my pee-and-coffee time. Do not spoil them.’
‘Eeek!’
Tufty drove.