Free Good Bait by John Harvey Page B

seen the report in the paper? The paragraph in the Cornishman concise and to the point.
    The body of a woman who was fatally injured after falling under a Tube train at Finsbury Park, north London, four days ago, has been identified as that of Maxine Carlin, aged 46, formerly resident in Penzance. A neighbour, who did not wish to be named, told The Cornishman she thought Mrs Carlin had gone to London to see her daughter .
    How many days?
    Maxine Carlin, forty-six.
    Heroin. Alcohol. Children aborted, almost certainly; children taken into care. Men who spoke with their fists or not at all.
    Forty-six.
    A wonder she lived as long as she did.
    For an instant he saw the train. The speed of it as she fell. The music again, unchanging. Outside, the sky offered no release.
    It was none of his business, none. Gone to London to see her daughter. Well, so what if she had? Gone missing, i’n’t she? Rose. Letitia. That stupid bloody name! He saw her face, Letitia’s, younger, smiling, the dog lifting her head to lick the back of her hand. Letitia. Rose. Thought a lot of you, fuck knows why .
    Jack Kiley and himself were of an age. Kiley, ex-professional footballer, albeit briefly; ex-Met. Now eking out a living as a private investigator. Security work a lot of it, private security, small scale: B-list celebrities, sports stars, hangers-on amongst the minor royals. There was a firm of local solicitors for whom he ran checks, chased payments, sat hour on hour in nondescript cafés, staring out through steamed-up windows; hunkered down behind the wheel of a borrowed car, waiting to witness some all-too-human indiscretion, reveal the truth behind the lie: the affair with the best friend’s wife or husband; the disability that magically disappeared; a second family on the far side of the city, kids nicely set up in private school; a hopeless addiction to gambling or drugs or being tied up and blindfolded, then hoisted upside down and beaten with a cane.
    Kiley still had contacts in the force and used them when he could, favours carried out and called in, information bartered and exchanged; friends in low places he’d collected through the years – Soho, Notting Hill, bits and corners of the East End.
    He’d met Cordon three years before, chasing down the wilful teenage daughter of a merchant banker who’d done a bunk from Channing School and gone AWOL with her ageing artist lover in Cornwall. Sixty-four years young, a painter of vivid semi-abstract seascapes, small impasto nudes, his studio in St Ives looked out over the beach at Porthmeor.
    After days of intense negotiations, during which many tears were shed and money, a considerable amount of money, was to change hands unseen, the painter joined Kiley in convincing the girl her future happiness lay in the bosom of her family.
    He owed, Kiley acknowledged, Cordon a great deal for helping to bring that particular farrago to such a beneficent conclusion.
    The two of them enjoyed several evenings in the Tinners’ Arms, swapping stories about the job, cases they’d worked, people they’d served under, bastards all; Kiley, a few pints in, going on to embellish tales of his time with Charlton Athletic and Stevenage Borough. Together, they went to the jazz night at the Western Hotel, Mark Nightingale stoking up a local rhythm section, then curry to follow.
    â€˜You’re ever up in London,’ Kiley had said. ‘Give us a bell.’
    Cordon had leave owing and plenty of it. Brooking no argument, he took what was his due.
    â€˜Sure you don’t want me to meet you off the train?’ Kiley said with a chuckle. ‘Trip to the big city. Might get lost.’
    â€˜Fuck off.’
    Cordon caught the Tube from Paddington, made the change, stepped out from Tufnell Park station into a cold January day, collar raised, duffle bag, army surplus, slung over one shoulder.
    Half the shops in the street were shut down, to let, windows fly-posted