Free Rush of Blood by Mark Billingham Page B

us at some point, so why don’t I just wait and do it then?’ She leaned
     back and turned her head towards the passenger window. ‘Then, you know … I can just nip upstairs and get them because we’re
     at home, rather than looking like I’ve brought them specially.’
    Dave said he supposed that would be all right, that he was only thinking of her, then leaned over to switch the radio on.
     They listened to the last few minutes of
Loose Ends
, then he retuned to a music station. He put his foot down on a clear stretch of dual carriageway between Thornton Heath and
     Croydon.
    ‘Do you really not think I’d step up?’ he asked. ‘If Ed was out of order?’
    Marina appeared not to have heard the question, and said, ‘Why don’t you ever get drunk?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘I mean, everyone should get pissed once in a while.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It doesn’t do any harm, does it?’
    ‘So, everyone should lose control, once in a while? Everyone should do things they’re ashamed of or embarrassed about, or
     that they can’t even remember?’
    Marina said nothing and shifted in her seat. They drove another mile or so without saying any more.
    ‘I was at college with this bloke,’ Dave said. ‘He was a mate, I thought I knew him, but the first time he got really smashed
     I could seethat he was somebody else entirely. He was ugly and aggressive. He was pathetic, you know?’ He looked across at Marina and
     smiled. ‘I just don’t get it, I never have. This desire to be off your face, to lose it completely. I mean I’m not trying
     to stop anyone enjoying themselves, but you know …’
    ‘What about on holiday?’
    ‘What about it?’
    ‘Weren’t you a
bit
drunk on the last night?’
    Dave shook his head, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.
    ‘Come on … when we were in that flashy restaurant, the Bonefish or whatever it was. When we were all talking about that girl
     and what had happened. The business with the police.’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘You seemed to be drinking a lot.’
    ‘Maybe because it was the last night.’
    ‘Well, there we go then.’
    ‘I drank no more than anybody else,’ he said. His voice was good and even and his hands were tight on the wheel. ‘And I was
     certainly not drunk. Not even a bit.’
    ‘All right, it doesn’t matter.’
    Dave turned the radio up and after a while he began singing along with a song that Marina did not recognise. During the instrumental
     he turned to her and smiled. He said, ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to start an argument for anyway. We’re supposed to
     be going out to have a nice time …’

ELEVEN
    The manager of the Pelican Palms was a short, weasel-faced individual named Cornell Stamoran whom Gardner did not consider
     one of the nicer people that the Amber-Marie Wilson case had brought him into contact with. He had hair that was suspiciously
     dark for a man in his fifties and today he wore a checked golf sweater over a lemon-coloured polo shirt and khakis. At least
     one layer too many for the June temperature outside, but Gardner guessed that Cornell Stamoran would do his very best to avoid
     leaving his nice, air-conditioned office unless he absolutely had to.
    Stamoran stretched an arm towards the window, the pool visible beyond, the shouts and splashes clearly audible above the drone
     of the air-con. ‘She’s been out there since ten o’clock this morning,’ he said.
    ‘I know.’
    ‘She just sits there.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘She doesn’t
do
anything.’
    ‘I understand your position,’ Gardner said.
    ‘You do?’
    Gardner nodded, thinking: yes I do, because you’ve been calling usevery other day for the last few weeks, whining like a little bitch and
telling
us your position. ‘Of course,’ he said.
    ‘Good, because this can’t go on.’ Stamoran opened a large ledger on his desk and began turning the pages. He shook his head
     and clicked his tongue. ‘We had quite a few cancellations