Dead Men's s Boots — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

‘It’s me, Gary,’ I said, kneeling down beside him in a posture familiar from a million tear-jerking movie scenes.

‘Yeah.’ He voice was slurred and slow. ‘Thought I was just having a bad dream.’

‘You dream about me? Then what they’re saying down at Uxbridge Road nick is true.’

‘Shut the-’ He tailed off in the middle of the abuse, his eyes defocusing. When they found me again he winced with the effort of concentration, obviously not sure what the hell I was doing there.

‘Ruthven, Todd and Clay,RËd aed 17; I reminded him. ‘You had something juicy.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Client base.’

‘Big-time gangsters?’

A shake of the head. ‘Judges. Politicos. Big businessmen. Ten pages of – fucking Who’s Who.’

‘So?’

‘So they meet once a month for a shindig at a fucking crematorium. Why’d you suppose that is?’

‘They all went to the same school. Gary, once a calendar month, or-?’

The nurse interrupted me, looming at my shoulder. ‘I think you’re getting Sergeant Coldwood agitated,’ she chided me coldly.

‘Lunar month,’ Coldwood mumbled. ‘Twenty-eight days. Every twenty-eight days. When it’s—’

Dark of the moon.

Inscription night.

Its got to be on INSCRIPTION night, so you can get them all together.

I clapped him on the shoulder, even though he probably didn’t feel it, and stood up. ‘Thanks, Gary,’ I said. ‘Feel better.’ When I left, the nurse was putting rubber gloves on. I wonder why people fetishise those things: they always scare the shit out of me.

I met Luke/Speedo at the National Gallery, because in his day job he worked there as a tour guide: that didn’t seem to fit the profile somehow, but maybe I stereotype drummers unfairly.

He was a bit of a let-down to look at, as well. Very young, for one thing, and very short-sighted for another, wearing thick lenses of the kind that make you look not so much like an intellectual as like some human-alien hybrid. His hair was short and neatly combed, with a faint sheen to it as of gel or pomade. When he spoke, in a quiet and diffident voice, I was inclined to think that I’d been put onto a bum steer.

‘You’re a friend of Lou’s,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘So what can I do for you? I can give you twenty minutes, then I’ve got to meet my next group.’

We were in the gallery’s main atrium, in between the cloakroom counter and the shop. Pomfret had been waiting at the desk when I arrived, visibly keen to get this over with, and he didn’t seem any happier with me at first glance than I was with him. Then again, given the state of my face, I probably looked like a bare-knuckle fighter fallen on hard times.

I took the sheet music out of my pocket, unfolded it and handed it to him. He scanned it with a critical eye. ‘What’s the tune?’ he demanded at last.

‘Well, that’s what I’m asking you,’ I answered. ‘Is there a tune in there? You’re a drummer, so you’d know, right?’

He looked up from the music, shaking his head very emphatically. ‘No. I wouldn’t. This is only a rhythm map. It’s in hybrid notation, so it’s not the easiest thing in the world to follow, but I’ve used both systems before so I can roll with it. The thing is, it doesn’t give you a tune: it only gives you the rhythms. And this one’s really complicated, too. If I knew what the tune was, I’d be able to see how it all fits together.’

‘If I knew what the tune was, Speedo,’ I growled irritably, ‘I wouldn’t be here. The tune’s what I’m looking for.’

PomfretËh=""o,& fired up all of a sudden, as though he had a reheat button and someone had just hit it. ‘Now why are you pulling that crap on me?’ he asked, on a rising tone.

‘What crap?’ I asked, looking over my shoulder and then back at him, as if maybe he’d been hit by some crap flung by a chance passer-by.

‘Calling me Speedo. I’m Luke here. Luke Pomfret. My stage name’s not a stick for you to poke me with, man. I don’t want to hear it again in this conversation. Not if you expect me to do you a favour. I don’t know you from a hole in the ground, and I don’t have to put up with it. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ I acknowledged, giving him a gesture that was halfway between a shrug and a hands-in-the-air surrender. ‘I’m sorry. I’m working in the dark on this, and it’s putting me on edge. I didn’t mean to sound like I’m taking the piss out of you.’

Only partially mollified, Pomfret nodded. ‘Well, don’t,’ he said. ‘Just don’t, and we’ll get along fine. I’ll show you how the system works – what you can get out of this sheet and what you can’t. And that’s all I’ll have time for, so you’ll have to do the rest yourself. Let’s go to the café.’

The café was more or less deserted, which suited me fine.