Her smell preceded her as I opened the door. The khaki scent of tobacco blended with peppermint and an astringent citric perfume. She smiled at me through a halo of smoke.
‘I was passing on my way home so I thought I’d drop in and say hello. And repay your hospitality.’ She opened her bag and withdrew a metallic bottle. ‘It’s Danish,’ she said. ‘The best.’
She had rearranged her hair, cut a fringe so that it no longer fell over one eye. It made her look impish and insouciant, like a twenties flapper. I felt a small shiver of attraction for Detective Inspector Savage.
She sat down and lit up while I made the drinks.
‘You should try it straight,’ she said, regarding me with a complex little smile. ‘It’s ever so smooth.’ She crossed her legs and her nicotine coloured skirt rode above her knees. I glimpsed a flash snapshot of myself ramming a hand up between them.
‘Bottoms up,’ she winked. My first concern was that she intended to oil me up in a repeat attempt to get the lowdown on Sykes. I mixed myself a very weak drink. But now I got the impression that maybe she had another equally unnerving agenda.
‘Any word from Mr S?’ she didn’t waste any time.
‘No,’ I said, scrambling to remember where we had left off at the last interview. ‘I haven’t seen him.’
‘Bullshit,’ Her eyes flared. ‘You saw him last week. You gave him some money.’
She battered out her cigarette.
‘Well, if you’re so fucking bright, maybe you can tell me where he is because I haven’t got a clue.’ Detective Savage grinned. Her mouth was red and slippery and I realized that this wasn’t her first drink of the day.
‘Keep your hair on, dear,’ she said. ‘The reason I’m here is to let you know that he’s off the hook. For now.’
‘What do you mean?’ I wondered if this was another ploy to gain my confidence.
‘The Poole twins are dead,’ she said. ‘The case is more or less closed.’
‘The twins? Both of them?’ I said. ‘How can they both be dead? I read in the paper that they were locked up in separate wings. Maximum security and everything. Twenty-four hour surveillance.’
‘Believe me,’ said Detective Inspector Savage, ‘I know. Hit me again and I’ll tell you what happened,’ she rattled the ice cubes in her empty glass.
‘There was some mix up at the holding cells at the court. You’ve probably heard about the overcrowding and disorganisation down there. Total chaos if you ask me. Like a cattle yard. Anyway, there was some kind of delay. A diversion. Some guy went bananas and had to be restrained. Locked up by himself. The twins probably choreographed it. Paid him for the performance with dope or cash. Somehow they ended up together in the same cell.’ Detective Savage lit a cigarette and leaned across the table. ‘Now listen. I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, you understand. If the papers ever got hold of a screw up like this there’d be hell to pay. And I’d be the one paying.’ She took a deep drag and a swig of vodka.
‘Go on,’ I said.
‘They bit each other to death. They took off all their clothes and ripped out each other’s carotid arteries with their teeth. They died hugging each other. Propped against each other. Standing up in a pool of blood. It doesn’t take long, apparently, once the oxygen supply to the brain is disconnected. When the guard came to get them he passed out cold. He said he had never seen anything like it. He said it looked like an abattoir in there. They were covered in those monstrous tattoos and there was blood everywhere. Up the walls. Everywhere. As though they had been staggering around while it spurted. Like they were dancing.’
Detective Inspector Savage got up and went into the bathroom. I felt dazed and sick, consumed by the image of the twins frozen in that final bloody waltz, like the last couple on a dance floor drowning in a flood of red light.
I heard the toilet flush and the splash of water in the sink. Eventually, she came out with a wry smile and a fresh coat of lipstick. It only emphasized her pallor. I wondered if she had been sick in there.
‘One for the road,’ she said, sliding her glass towards me. She took a new packet of cigarettes from her bag and opened it. ‘You might as well make yourself a decent one this time. You look as though you need it.’
I walked out onto the landing with Detective Savage. There was a new piece of graffiti on the wall. A cock and balls with a trigger and the inscription ‘bang bang — you’re dead’ shooting out the end of it. She observed it and frowned. Then she looked back up at me from the top step.
‘I don’t suppose...’ she looked suddenly embarrassed, ‘I don’t suppose you’d want to come out for a bite.’ We looked at each other for a moment and then we both burst out laughing as the import of what she had said dawned. ‘Maybe not,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I hate eating alone. Sometimes I can’t be bothered to eat at all. Oh, what the hell. Maybe another time.’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘Here’s my card. My home number’s on the back if you ever feel like a chat.’
I watched her descend. She was a little unsteady on her feet and held on tightly to the bannister. At the bottom of the stairs she turned. Her pale face looked beautiful in the dim light.
‘And another thing, if you want to know about what happened to Rose. Massive drug overdose according to the post mortem. Every pharmaceutical in the book. Something else for you to pass on to Mr Sykes when you see him.’