bells. Only a couple had names by them, and neither was Moira’s. Sighing deeply, I rang the bottom bell. Nothing happened, and I started working my way systematically up the bells till I reached
I debated whether to apologize for troubling her, but decided that I didn’t want to sound like the social services department. “I’m looking for Moira Pollock. She still living here?”
The woman scowled suspiciously. “Why d’you want Moira?”
“We used to be in the same line of business,” I lied, hoping I looked like a possible candidate for the meat rack.
“Well, she ain’t here. She moved out, must be more’n a year ago.” The woman moved back and started to close the window.
“Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?”
She paused. “I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ’ambleton. She used to drink there.”
My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.
The Hambleton Hotel was about a mile and a half away from Moira’s last known address. It was roadhouse style, in grimy yellow and red brick with the mock-Tudor gables much beloved by 1930s pub architects. The inside looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since then. Even at half past eleven in the morning, it was fairly lively. A couple of black men were playing the fruit machine, and a youth was dropping coins into a jukebox which was currently playing Jive Bunny. By the bar was a small knot of women who were already dressed for work in short skirts and low-cut sweaters. Their exposed flesh looked pale and unappetizing, but at least it lacked the bluish tinge that ten minutes’ exposure to the cold spring air would lend it.
I walked up to the bar, aware of the eyes on me, and ordered a half of lager. Something told me that a Perrier wouldn’t do much for my cover story. The blowsy barmaid looked me up and down as she poured my drink. As I paid, I told her to take one herself. She shook her head and muttered, “Too early for me.” I was taken
I tensed and turned round slowly. One of the black men who’d been playing the fruit machine was standing behind me with a frown on his face. He was nearly six feet tall, slim and elegant in chinos and a shiny black satin shirt under a dove gray full length Italian lambskin coat that looked like it cost six months of my mortgage. His hair was cut in a perfect flat-top, accentuating his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell minty breath-spray as he leaned forward into my face and breathed, “I hear you been looking for a friend of mine.”
“News travels fast,” I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.
“What d’you want with Moira?” There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. “Don’t try telling me you’re on the game. And don’t try telling me you’re a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d’you want with Moira?”
I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. “It’s nothing heavy. It’s an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.”
He studied the card and glared at me. “Private Investigator,” he sneered. “Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.”
My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn’t have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find
I debated whether to apologize for troubling her, but decided that I didn’t want to sound like the social services department. “I’m looking for Moira Pollock. She still living here?”
The woman scowled suspiciously. “Why d’you want Moira?”
“We used to be in the same line of business,” I lied, hoping I looked like a possible candidate for the meat rack.
“Well, she ain’t here. She moved out, must be more’n a year ago.” The woman moved back and started to close the window.
“Hang on a minute. Where would I find her? Do you know?”
She paused. “I ain’t seen her around in a long while. Your best bet’s that pub down Chapeltown Road, the ’ambleton. She used to drink there.”
My thanks were drowned by the screech of the sash window as the woman slammed it back down. I walked back to the car, shifted a large black and white cat which had already taken up residence on the warm bonnet, and set off to find the pub.
The Hambleton Hotel was about a mile and a half away from Moira’s last known address. It was roadhouse style, in grimy yellow and red brick with the mock-Tudor gables much beloved by 1930s pub architects. The inside looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since then. Even at half past eleven in the morning, it was fairly lively. A couple of black men were playing the fruit machine, and a youth was dropping coins into a jukebox which was currently playing Jive Bunny. By the bar was a small knot of women who were already dressed for work in short skirts and low-cut sweaters. Their exposed flesh looked pale and unappetizing, but at least it lacked the bluish tinge that ten minutes’ exposure to the cold spring air would lend it.
I walked up to the bar, aware of the eyes on me, and ordered a half of lager. Something told me that a Perrier wouldn’t do much for my cover story. The blowsy barmaid looked me up and down as she poured my drink. As I paid, I told her to take one herself. She shook her head and muttered, “Too early for me.” I was taken
I tensed and turned round slowly. One of the black men who’d been playing the fruit machine was standing behind me with a frown on his face. He was nearly six feet tall, slim and elegant in chinos and a shiny black satin shirt under a dove gray full length Italian lambskin coat that looked like it cost six months of my mortgage. His hair was cut in a perfect flat-top, accentuating his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His eyes were bloodshot and I could smell minty breath-spray as he leaned forward into my face and breathed, “I hear you been looking for a friend of mine.”
“News travels fast,” I responded, trying to move away from his hot breath, but failing thanks to the bar behind me.
“What d’you want with Moira?” There was a note of menace in his voice that pissed me off. I controlled the urge to kick him across the bar and said nothing as he leaned even closer. “Don’t try telling me you’re on the game. And don’t try telling me you’re a cop. Those fuckers only come down here mob-handed. So who are you, and what d’you want with Moira?”
I know when the time for games is past. I reached into my pocket and produced a business card. I handed it to the pimp who was giving me a severe case of claustrophobia. It worked. He backed off a good six inches. “It’s nothing heavy. It’s an old friend of hers who wants to make contact. If it works out, there could be good money in it for her.”
He studied the card and glared at me. “Private Investigator,” he sneered. “Well, baby, you’re not gonna find Moira here. She checked out a long time ago.”
My heart did that funny kind of flip it does when I get bad news. Two days ago, I couldn’t have cared less if Moira were alive or dead. Now I was surprised to find
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