Walking with Ghosts

been beaten. Her right eye was at the centre of an angry bruise, the flesh around it ranging in hue from yellow to black. Her nose had stopped bleeding, but it was swollen and there were tell-tale traces of dried blood around her nostrils. She stumbled forward with a limp and each step creased her face with pain.
    ‘Geordie Black,’ she said. ‘Is he here?’
    Marie swivelled her chair around to face the woman. She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, he isn’t in at the moment. Can I help?’ She saw that the woman behind the bruises was only a girl. Blond hair with dark roots, tight jeans cut off just below the knee and black plastic high-heeled sandals.
    She was Edward Blake’s girlfriend, Joni Prine, the one Marie had seen at the house in Portland Street. She’d had a black eye when Marie had first seen her, maybe walked into a door that time, but the way she looked now, the door had come back and walked all over her.
    Marie helped her to a chair, but Joni wasn’t looking to make herself comfortable. ‘Give him this,’ she said, taking a brown envelope from the pocket of her jacket. ‘It’s all there, fifty quid. I told him lies about Eddy, everything I said I made it up.’ Her lips trembled as she watched Marie take the envelope from her hand. ‘I don’t know any Eddy, never even heard of him.’
    She turned her back on Marie and limped towards the door.
    ‘That’s not true, Joni,’ Marie said. ‘I saw Edward Blake in your room. The guy’s got his own key.’
    Joni turned her head. She said, ‘Leave me out of it, OK?’ She turned completely around and took a step back into the room. She said, ‘Look at my face. How much more of this d’you think I can take?’
    Marie took her arm, and led her back to the chair, made her sit in it. ‘Listen to me, Joni, that’s all I’m asking you. Listen to me for ten minutes, then if you still want to be left out of it I’ll let you go. What if you could walk away with five hundred, instead of fifty pounds?’
    ‘And be beaten black-and-blue, probably killed? The cash’d be no good to me if I was dead.’
    ‘No,’ Marie said. ‘I think there’s a way you could end up with five hundred and a guarantee that you get no more aggro from Edward Blake.’
    Joni took a deep breath, squinted up at Marie. ‘Ten minutes?’ she asked.
    ‘That’s all I want.’
    ‘Well, you’ve got five,’ said Joni. ‘Then I’m gonna find somewhere to lay down.’
     
    It was shopping for the make-up that jogged Marie’s memory. The black pencil, watching Janet buy the black pencil, she suddenly felt herself tremble. Make-up. There was a connection. She couldn’t remember what it was, but somewhere the investigation had thrown up that connection. Back at the office she dug out Simon Cod’s list of substances found in or around the allotment shed. C yanide, Dettol, glycerine, greasepaint, hops, horse manure, lead, greasepaint! That was it. Greasepaint in a garden shed. The other substances, yes. She could think of a reason for all of them being there. But not greasepaint. Not specifically greasepaint. Unless some mad gardener used it to paint the base of his shrubs, keep the slugs away. She mentioned it to Celia, when she arrived at the office.
    ‘I’m not the keenest gardener in town,’ Celia assured her. ‘But I never heard of anyone using greasepaint in a garden. The only people who use it, as far as I’m aware, are those connected to the art of acting. Try the theatre, the local amateur dramatic groups.’
    ‘I think I’ll do just that,’ said Marie. ‘See if we can turn up someone who might have access to greasepaint and who also had some connection to India Blake.’
     

24
     
    There is a flat in Notting Hill Gate. No one answers the door so you walk in. Diana is sitting cross-legged in the centre of the floor; she is wan, undernourished, black rings around her eyes. She looks through you. Behind her at the window is a tall, bare-chested youth. His hair is long and unwashed. He gives you a broad smile and places a large cowboy hat on his head.
    ‘Diana.’
    She looks up at you. ‘ ’Lo, Dora.’
    You move towards her but she scrambles to her feet and links arms with the cowboy. ‘Friend of yours, Di?’ he says in a hopeless imitation of a southern twang.
    ‘A relative,’ says Diana.
    And you agree, Dora. You imitate her. ‘Yes, a relative.’
    The cowboy extends his hand. ‘Well, Dora, come right on in,’ he says. ‘It ain’t often as