Free Familiar Rooms in Darkness by Caro Fraser Page A

was dead. Most of the people from that era seemed to be, except for George Melly. Adam flicked through to the index and looked up the final listing for Meacher. According to this book, an account of Soho life from the thirties to the sixties, George Meacher had still been alive and kicking at the time of the book’s publication in the early nineties, so there was reason to hope he was still around. Adam turned back to the photo of Meacher with the Bernard brothers, and studied the gimlet eyes. Meacher had an indestructible look about him. Adam closed the book, and thought for a few moments. Perhaps Giles could help him.
    In his former career as a journalist, Giles had started off as a staff reporter on the
Express
– a job that seemed to have consisted of endless drinking at Poppins and other Fleet Street watering holes. Adam enjoyed the sense of vicarious nostalgia engendered by Giles’s tales of Fleet Street’s golden age, before the diaspora, when idleness and drunkenness had apparently gone hand-in-hand with journalistic brilliance. Giles, partly because he enjoyed the company of writers and artists, and partly because he would drink anywhere with anyone, had been a frequenter not only of Fleet Street boozers but of Soho pubs, so there was a very good chance that he knew something of George Meacher, dead or alive.
    Adam rang Giles when he got home.
    â€˜Meacher? God, what a poisonous little man. What’s the interest in him?’
    â€˜He was a friend of Harry Day’s. At least, I think he was. Back in the fifties.’
    â€˜Might have been. I wasn’t knocking around Soho then. Still in short pants. I knew Meacher, though. I used to avoid him like the plague.’
    â€˜Is he still alive?’
    â€˜Well, he was when I last saw him, a couple of months ago. Horrible little piece of work. He was quite a good photographer in his day – well, right place, right time – but he had a vicious tongue on him. I hated the little bastard. So did plenty of people. Some of them found him amusing. I didn’t. He was two-faced, and a cadger.’
    â€˜How can I get in touch with him?’
    â€˜Well, you could stand outside the Coach and Horses for a couple of days. He’s bound to turn up. I haven’t got a phone number, or anything like that. I don’t even know where he lives. Don’t know him well enough. I just see him in pubs now and again.’ There was a pause. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’
    The next day Giles rang Adam.
    â€˜I’ve tracked him down, and he’s agreed to meet you.’
    â€˜Giles, you’re a genius. When?’
    â€˜He said he’s usually in The French House at opening time. You can find him there. Be prepared to buy him lunch as well as a criminal amount of alcohol.’
    â€˜Great,’ said Adam. ‘I take it he knows what it’s about, and will be happy to talk?’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ said Giles. ‘Only I wouldn’t expect the unvarnished truth. He’s a horrible little liar.’

4
    Bella had arranged to meet Charlie for a drink after work. She was in rehearsals for a new production of a Joe Orton play at the Ambassador’s, and the walk to Charlie’s chambers in the Temple took a mere ten minutes. They met in this way as often as Bella’s schedule allowed – sometimes for lunch, sometimes for a drink. Despite the differences in their enthusiasms and temperaments, the relationship was a close, affectionate one, grounded in constant companionship throughout childhood, including the progressive co-educational boarding school in Hampshire which they had attended together until the age of fourteen, and which Charlie had wholeheartedly hated. Charlie was a boy who liked structure and discipline, and the liberal ethos of the place, which had suited Bella entirely, made him uneasy and miserable. Bella had been something of a protector and comforter during these