Acid Lullaby (Underwood and Dexter) Read online

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Aldo.’

  ‘They tell it to their mates. She does have mates, I take it?’

  ‘Of course. But they aren’t going to tell me anything. Most of them look through me like I’m a bleeding window pane.’

  Aldo shook his head. ‘Crouchie, you ain’t using your imagination. Look mate, I hate to see you hurt. I’m proud of you. You’re the only one of us that’s actually done some­thing useful with his life. You’ve got a proper job, a flat, qualifications. Don’t get dragged down by some bird.’

  ‘What are you suggesting Aldo?’

  ‘Bug her.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You can get voice-activated Dictaphones. Very handy they are too. Next time you’re at her flat, stick one in a fucking pot plant near to her phone. Then the next time she’s having a bleedin’ heart with one of her mates you’ll have the whole thing on tape.’ Aldo sat back in triumph. ‘Banged to rights.’

  ‘You are having a laugh?’

  ‘It’s up to you. Be a victim or take control. Same again?’

  Crouch watched Aldo as he collected their glasses and sauntered up to the bar. He couldn’t do that to Liz. It was preposterous and unfair. She didn’t deserve that.

  Or did she? Crouch considered the issue. He had a right to know. If she wasn’t prepared to tell him the truth didn’t he have the right to root it out for himself? He persuaded himself that if she was screwing him over then she had surrendered her right to privacy. Suddenly, Crouch found himself clear of the moral quagmire and wandering in the cold light of logistics. It would be difficult but not impossible.

  And he had a key to her flat in Wapping.

  3

  Max Fallon’s office at Fogle & Moore overlooked West India Docks. He could see the crawling dinosaurs of the Docklands Light Railway and beyond them the East End shit heap that soiled his horizons. It was always a reminder. A reminder of what he was working to avoid. A reminder that he had a responsibility to the little people that worked for him: the responsibility to make the right calls. Still, he was finding it hard to focus. His mind was on the coming evening’s festivi­ties, not on the conference call he was supposedly chairing.

  ‘My concern,’ squawked a disembodied voice from the spidery speakerphone, ‘is the quality of investors that you have lined up for our bond issue.’

  The voice belonged to Andrew Pippen, Junior Treasurer at Fulton Steel; a jumped-up accountant. Pippen had a good line in crumpled, charcoal coloured suits and ropey red ties. Fallon loathed him. He loathed the ordinariness of the people he had to be polite to. Chippy treasurers with their crappy red-brick degrees: sullen twats imprisoned in cheap shoes and small provincial minds.

  ‘You see,’ Pippen continued nasally, ‘Fulton Steel is a tradi­tional blue chip. We want our bonds placed with traditional “buy and hold” investors. Pension funds and the like.’

  Fallon groaned and looked across at Danny Planck, the Head of European Bond Trading. Planck shook his shaved head and made a delicate ‘wanker’ motion with his wrist. Fallon nodded and released the mute button on the speaker­phone. Liz Koplinsky smiled as he winked at her.

  ‘Andrew, we understand your concerns.’ Fallon’s eye crawled up and down Liz’s legs, lingering at her crotch. Be Commanding. ‘Let’s be frank. The facts are these. First, Fulton Steel is a debut issuer. You have no track record. Second, the investors you refer to are respectable European financial institutions. Thirdly, you need money quickly.’

  ‘I see your point, Max, and I realize it is in your interest to bring this deal to market quickly.’

  Max was irritated. It was a cheap shot and it stung. ‘Andrew, we want a successful deal. Our interest and your interest are one and the same.’

  ‘But all these Italian brokerage firms …’ paper rustled at the other end of the phone as Pippen read through the under­writing list. ‘Forgive my ignorance, but won’t they just dump the bonds at the first opportunity?’

  Fallon pressed mute on the speakerphone and turned to Planck. ‘Danny, this is a dog shit credit in a dog shit market, right?’

  ‘That is being generous,’ Planck replied.

  ‘So frankly, he’s lucky to have a deal at all?’

  ‘Maxy, it’s a marketing miracle that we’ve pre-sold any of this crap.’

  Fallon nodded, justified in his anger. ‘Talk to him then. Sell him some technical bollocks. He’s doing my head in.’

  Fallon sat back in his seat and put his feet up on the desk. He wanted Liz to see he was wearing Gucci loafers. He tried not to think about what he was going to do to her later. The thought of Liz chewing on his cock was clouding his judge­ment. Focus on the little people.

  Danny Planck thought for a second before turning to Liz. ‘You handle this one, hotshot. Feminine touch required.’ He released the mute on the phone.

  Liz Koplinsky leaned forward slightly. Fallon studied the flowery white lace of her bra as it pressed against her blouse.

  ‘Andrew. It’s Liz.’

  Fallon admired Planck’s thinking. He could almost hear Pippen’s trousers tightening. The little prick had been drooling over Liz at the pitch for the deal two months previously. Frankly, he couldn’t blame him.

  ‘Oh. Hello there, Liz!’

  ‘For a new borrower first impressions count. If these brokerage firms sell your deal quickly, that ain’t necessarily so bad. Quality buyers will snap up their bonds. Take this example. Let’s say that you’re a big soccer fan and you can never get tickets to see your team. The match is sold out. After a while you’re gonna lose interest. But what if some agency offers you tickets at a premium? You get to see your team. The price of the tickets keeps going up. It’s supply and demand. Without supply, demand will eventually die out, right?’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Pippen observed quietly.

  ‘You put shit on your roses and they grow better, right?’

  Pippen laughed an electronic laugh. Fallon could just see him in his miserable little office in Derby rubbing the end of his useless prick through the pockets of his crackly suit and making his fingers smell. ‘I don’t know if my board of directors will be persuaded by the scarce football ticket analogy. Most of them support Stoke City.’

  ‘They should be persuaded,’ said Fallon, ‘it’s a compelling argument.’

  Pippen cleared his throat. ‘Well, thank you, guys. That was helpful. I’ll call you back tomorrow with a decision.’

  Fallon turned the phone off. ‘We got him.’

  ‘Hook, line and fucking sinker. Nice one, Liz.’ Plank patted her on the head as he stood up.

  ‘You gotta keep it simple, right?’ Liz gathered her papers, and looked Fallon directly in the eye as she left the office. ‘See you later, Max.’

  Fallon watched her leave.

  ‘You are a disgrace,’ said Planck, watching Fallon’s hungry grey eyes moving up Liz’s legs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re old enough to be her father!’

  ‘Wicked uncle maybe.’

  ‘You seeing her tonight?’

  ‘Dinner at the Palais and then she’s gonna earn her Christmas bonus the hard way.’

  ‘Pack your Viagra then.’

  ‘I’m thirty-eight, you cheeky bastard.’

  ‘Better take two packets.’

  Planck watched through the glass walls of Fallon’s office as Liz returned to her desk on the far side of the trading floor. ‘I thought she was boffing some oik in Settlements.’

  ‘Well, she obviously fancies some pedigree sausage.’

  ‘Sloppy, Settlement seconds.’

  Fallon grinned. ‘I’ll suffer that indignity.’ He sat down and began to read through some brochures he’d received from an estate agent in Cambridgeshire. He was tired of London. Finally, he had the money to start thinking about moving out for good.

  His digital wristwatch beeped. It was 5p.m.

&nb
sp; Two hours and counting.

  4

  Five minutes later, Liz Koplinsky’s burglar alarm started beeping automatically as Crouch entered her apartment. He walked quickly to the control panel in the hallway and entered Liz’s code. The noise stopped abruptly. It was an easy pin number to remember: ‘212’ was the dialling code for Manhattan and the ‘3’ denoted 3rd Avenue. Liz’s first apart­ment in New York had been in Manhattan on 92nd and 3rd. 2123. Easy.

  He looked around the apartment he knew so well and suddenly felt like a criminal. It was as if his very presence soiled the place. He walked into the lounge area and sat for a second on Liz’s low white leather sofa. The apartment had a wide view of the Thames grumbling by two storeys below. The river was a mixed blessing. He loved the sight of it but the sounds had driven him demented. The thumping disco boats had often kept him awake half the night, the honking barges disturbing him at five in the morning.

  To the left of the main window Liz had installed a giant fish tank. It was shaped like a huge letter ‘H’: two hexagonal pillars connected by a horizontal glass tube. It was filled with a galaxy of exotic fish. There was even a frustrated looking crab scratching at the foot of one of the pillars, attracted by the bubbling air filters. Liz had told him that the suppliers had to winch the tank into her apart­ment, over her balcony. It had cost her thousands. He felt like pissing in it.

  After a moment, Crouch stood and began to root through the paperwork on Liz’s desk. Mostly credit card bills and air mail from the US. Crouch studied these in closer detail, imagining some stateside sweetheart. However, the letters offered nothing of interest. He replaced them and turned his attention to the phone.

  He picked up her handset and dialled 1471. A recorded voice spoke to him flatly.

  ‘You were called yesterday at 11.36p.m. The caller with­held their number.’

  Who would call her after eleven-thirty at night? No one from the bank. They knew she had to be up at six in the morning. Someone else then? From outside the bank?

  Disappointed, Crouch turned his attention to the answer phone. The red display showed the numeral ‘1’. He hesitated. If he played the message he would have to delete it. He decided to take the chance.

  ‘Hello. This is Janet from Seamless Dry Cleaning. Miss Koplinsky’s suits are ready for collection.’

  Shit.

  He deleted the message and removed the Dictaphone from his pocket. It had cost him forty pounds and had a voice acti­vated capability. Crouch looked directly above the desk. There was a shelf; a high bookshelf, cluttered with fantasy novels. Liz liked all that goblin and dwarf bullshit. He reached up and rested the Dictaphone on top of the books before taking a step back.

  ‘I am Simon Crouch,’ he announced to the empty room. ‘I am falling apart.’

  He reached up and pulled down the Dictaphone. The LCD display was flashing ‘STDBY’. He pressed play.

  ‘… am Simon Crouch. I am falling apart.’

  It sounded worse when it was repeated back at him.

  5

  At 6p.m. Max Fallon took the lift to the basement of Fogle & Moore Investments and walked into the company gym. He changed quickly into his new Hilfiger gym clothes and crossed into the workout area. He paused briefly to watch an aerobics class as he stretched his hamstrings. He marvelled for a second at the line of sweaty secretaries wearing knickers outside their tights: jigging to the left and reaching to the right.

  Fantastic.

  It put him in the mood.

  The gym was always busy in the early evening and most of the machines were busy. Max found himself a treadmill and started his usual programme. He began to jog and found his eyes wandering across the view through the full length windows: across the redundant dock that was now only a giant water feature, past the ancient cranes that stood forlornly like skeletons in a museum, towards the hulking concrete minimalism of Cabot Square.

  The sun threw rosy washes of evening light over docklands. It reminded him for a brief moment of his childhood in India. Of the lonely nights spent hammering a football against the wall of the Foreign Office residential compound or of reading books while his father attended embassy functions. The sun had seemed so close then that it had frightened him. He had imagined the earth being sucked into its giant yellow mouth. He smiled.

  Kids’ stuff.

  He knew he couldn’t touch the English sun. Although – he mused – he could probably buy it.

  Twenty minutes later Max was in the shower and he took time over himself. He was especially thorough in the places where he hoped Liz Koplinsky’s attention might linger in a few hours’ time. He still jutted and rippled in the right places. His skin had still retained the olive sheen that his tropical childhood had earned. Viagra would not be necessary. Danny Planck was a cheeky bastard.

  He spent some time in front of the mirror. He shaved for the third time that day, thrilling at the smoothness of his skin. When he brushed his face against Liz’s Koplinsky’s inner thigh later there would be no friction. She would think she was writhing on the tongue of a ghost, or a God. He applied Clinique skin balm. He didn’t want Liz fixating on any unpleasant dry flakes of skin during dinner. Finally he applied a sliver of styling mousse to hold his brown hair back from his face and accentuate the brutal jawline that he knew was his finest feature.

  Fragrant and empowered, Max Fallon returned briefly to his office on the bond trading floor to stow his gym bag. A baggy-eyed blonde night secretary shouted across the floor that his cab had arrived. Fallon gave her a quick ‘thumbs-up’ and grabbed a book from his desk to enliven the cab ride to the West End. It would take his mind off Liz until he met her at 7.30. It was a dog-eared copy of a book called Gods and Myths.

  The Palais was an old favourite: a bright and airy Anglo-French restaurant that overlooked Covent Garden. It was much loved by the West End media mob: advertising execu­tives and TV producers. Its small entrance lobby opened out spectacularly onto a huge glass-domed atrium.

  ‘Cool place,’ said Liz Koplinsky, handing her coat to a waitress.

  ‘Best in town,’ Fallon replied. He couldn’t take his eyes off Liz’s bare shoulders. Her black strapless dress was working a spell on him. Liz’s skin appeared totally smooth – no rogue moles or blemishes. He wanted to bite her, feel her melt on his tongue like white chocolate, slide over her perfectly smooth body. They were led to their table immediately. Fallon noticed that Liz liked to brush her hand against the leaves of pot plants and the petals of cut flowers as she walked past. She was a sensual girl. He liked that.

  ‘So does this count as fraternizing?’ Liz asked as she settled in her chair and a waiter placed a napkin on her lap.

  ‘Socializing,’ said Max with a smirk.

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘You’ve still got your clothes on.’

  Liz’s face softened slightly as she repressed a smile. ‘Oh that! It’s a New York thing. We don’t eat out naked.’

  Max switched the subject. He didn’t want to labour the point. ‘So how did the little girl from the ghetto become a big shot bond trader?’

  Liz feigned annoyance. ‘Hey, buddy! I didn’t come from any ghetto.’

  ‘Queens?’

  ‘It’s a very respectable neighbourhood. My father worked at the airport.’

  ‘Carrying baggage?’

  ‘He’s an engineer, smart-ass. And he didn’t care too much for limeys, either.’

  ‘Limeys!’ Max laughed at the tired expression. ‘Is this nineteen forty-two?’

  Liz bridled slightly. ‘Well, don’t you have a nickname for us?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Max paused for effect. ‘Fuckwits.’

  ‘Asshole.’

  ‘I’m kidding. New York’s okay,’ Fallon said. ‘The people are friendlier than Londoners, that’s for sure. Central Park beats the shit out of any of London’s parks.’

  ‘Central Park is Valhalla if you’re a jogger,’ Liz conceded. ‘I prefer Hampstead Heath, though. I go up there
on Sunday mornings. Kids fly their kites on the top of Parliament Hill. Beautiful.’

  ‘Whatever rings your bell,’ Fallon sniffed.

  ‘So do you live near here? In the centre of town.’

  Max shook his head. ‘I’ve got a place in Chelsea. I’m buying a gaff out in the countryside.’

  ‘Sweet. An olde English cottage?’

  ‘Something like that. I’ve got this dream of renovating an old manor house. You know, doing the English country gentleman thing. Bring up kids in the countryside. I wouldn’t bring up my dinner in London now.’ He looked at her, half-embarassed. ‘It’s silly, really.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Liz. ‘Where have you been looking?’

  ‘How good’s your geography?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘East Cambridgeshire.’

  ‘You got me.’

  ‘I’m from Cambridge originally. My father still lives up there. There’s some great old places on the Suffolk border.’

  ‘That’s a long drive.’

  ‘Not in a Porsche.’

  ‘In this country any drive’s a long drive. I thought you had a jeep.’

  ‘I’ve got a Land Cruiser and a Porsche 911.’ He noticed her necklace. ‘Why are you wearing that Egyptian thing?’

  ‘It’s an ankh.’ She held it up for him to look at. Inevitably, his eyes wandered down.

  ‘I know what it is. Why are you wearing it?’

  ‘It’s a life symbol.’

  ‘Sweet.

  ‘What about you? What’s with the book?’

  Max looked down at Gods and Myths. He smiled. Liz noticed he had very white teeth. ‘That’s an old friend.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I lived in India when I was a kid. My father worked at the British Embassy in Delhi. I used to get so bored on my own. Sometimes I stole books from the library at the English School. This was one of the best ones: Hindu myths, gods and demons and shit. I love all that stuff. It’s silly but when I was eight my mum entered me in some school fancy-dress competition as a Hindu god. I’ve always had a passing interest since then.’