Vicious Circle

“No,” I said, “you’re not.” I reached past her to hook the glove compartment open, found a pack of tissues in there, and handed one to her. “It’s not like that. Juliet just . . . does that to people. You can’t help yourself. You just fall in love with her, whether you like it or not.”

Susan buried her face in the tissue, shaking her head violently from side to side. “Not love,” she sobbed. “Not love. I’m having c . . . carnal . . . I’m imagining . . . Oh God, what’s happening? What’s happening to me?”

“Whatever you want to call it,” I said matter-of-factly, “looking at Juliet makes you catch it like people catch the flu. I feel it, too. Most people who ever get close to her feel it. Whatever it is, it’s not a sin.”

I couldn’t think of anything to add to that. Maybe she was the kind of Christian who thought that gay love was always a sin, in which case she’d just have to work it through for herself. Bur straight, gay, or agnostic, what Juliet did to you came as a shock to anyone’s system. I could tell her what Miss Salazar really was—by way of a prophylactic—but it wasn’t my secret to tell and under the circumstances it might make things worse rather than better. Carnal thoughts about a same-sex demon? Susan probably wasn’t in any state to take the knock.

I did the best I could to talk her down, and eventually she got out of the car, leaving the soggy tissue on the passenger seat. She mumbled something by way of thanks for the lift, to which she added, “Don’t tell her! Please, please don’t tell her!” Then she fled into the house.

There probably wasn’t anything I could have said to her that would have helped. Love is a drug, like the man said. But the harshest truth of all is in the gospel of Steppenwolf rather than Roxy Music: the pusher doesn’t care whether you live or die.

* * *

I called the Torringtons from the car as I was driving back east across the city. Hands-free, of course; I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t put safety first. Steve picked up on the first ring, which made me wonder if he’d been sitting with his phone in his hands.

“Mr. Castor,” he said, sounding just a touch breathless. “What news?”

“Good news as far as it goes,” I said. “You were right, and I was wrong.”

“Meaning—?”

“Abbie’s not in heaven. She’s in London.”

He exhaled, long and loud. I waited for him to speak.

“Can you please give me a moment?”

“Of course.”

Maybe he covered the phone, or maybe the voices were too low to hear over the sound of the car’s engine. There was about half a minute’s silence. Then he came back on. The pitch of his voice was unsteady—like the voice of a man fighting back tears.

“We can’t thank you enough, Mr. Castor. Do you think you can find her?”

“I’m prepared to try.”

He gave a relieved laugh, harsh and emphatic and broken off short by some kind of psychological wind-shear. “That’s excellent news! Excellent! We’ve got every confidence in you.”

“Mr. Torrington—”

“Steve.”

“Steve. I don’t want to raise your hopes. This still isn’t going to be easy, assuming I can do it at all. And I’m going to need to have some money to spread around. If you can front me two or three hundred quid to be going on with, then I can make a start on—”

He cut me off. “Mr. Castor, my wife and I count as affluent by any standards. You’re over-finessing, if I can use a bridge metaphor. Whatever you need, we can afford it. Possibly you feel as though you’re taking advantage of our grief. From our point of view, it’s not like that at all. We’ve heard that you’re the best, and we’re grateful that you’re prepared to help us.” There was a rustle, and then the scratch-scratch-scratch of a fountain pen nib on paper. “I’m writing out a check,” he said, “for a thousand pounds. I’ll put it in the post tonight. No, better—I’ll go over to your office and drop it off myself. I’ll add some cash, too, to tide you over until this clears. If it’s more than you were planning to charge, and if that makes you uncomfortable, then please just give the rest to the charity of your choice.”

Good enough. I should have more clients who are that respectful of my sensitivities. I asked him for Peace’s address, which turned out to be in East Sheen: not a part of the city I knew all that well, and a lot farther south than I was expecting.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, and hung up.

Driving on automatic pilot, I’d already caught the Westway and driven on through Marylebone past Madame Tussauds and the planetarium—which now has commerce only with stars of the daytime TV variety. I was just about to swing off north onto Albany Street. But I had another call to make, and it was in the east of the city rather than the north. So I kept on going—east all the way, heading for the distant fastnesses of Walthamstow.

I was tired, and I still had a headache from that psychic mind-blast, but there was nothing to gain by putting this off until tomorrow. Night was always the best time to see Nicky if you wanted to get any sense out of him.