In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(126)
Nkata said, “'Spector,” in the agonised tone of a schoolboy whose parent has committed an unforgivable indiscretion.
“Hang on, Winnie,” Lynley said. And to the purple-haired woman, “What is this, please?”
He pointed and she brought out a chrome cylinder. It was identical to the one he'd found among the items taken from Nicola Maiden's car.
“This,” she said proudly, “is imported from Paris, this is. Nice, don't you think?”
“Lovely,” Lynley agreed. “What is it?”
“A ball stretcher.”
“A what?”
She grinned. She brought out a life-size, anatomically correct, male blow-up doll from the floor behind the counter and stood him up, saying to Nkata, “Hold him upright, will you? He's generally on his back, but in a pinch and for a demo … Hey. Grab him by the bum or something. He's not going to bite you, luv.”
“I'll keep mum about it,” Lynley said to Nkata, sotto voce. “Your every secret is safe with me.”
“Funny, you are,” Nkata said. “I never touched any bloke's bum. Plastic or otherwise.”
“Ah. First times are always the most anxiety-laden, aren't they?” Lynley smiled. “Please help the lady out.”
Nkata winced but did as she'd asked him, hands on the plastic buttocks of the doll who was turned sideways and stood astride the counter.
“Right,” the shop assistant said. “Watch this, then.”
She took the ball stretcher in hand and unscrewed the two eyebolts on either side of it. This allowed it to open on its hinge so that it could be fastened neatly round the scrotum of the plastic doll, leaving its testicles dangling beneath. Then she took the eyebolts and replaced them, explaining that the dom screwed them in as far as the sub wanted, increasing the pressure on the scrotum until the sub asked for mercy or said whatever predetermined word had been agreed upon to cease the torture. “You c'n hang weights here as well,” she said pleasantly, indicating the loops of the eyebolts. “It all depends on what you like and how much it takes to get you ready for relief. Most blokes generally want beatings as well. But then, that's blokes, isn't it? Sh'll I wrap one up for you?”
Lynley fought back a smile at the thought of presenting Helen with such a souvenir of his day's activity. “Perhaps another time.”
“Well, you know where to find us,” she told him.
Out on the street once more, Nkata breathed out a gusty sigh. “Never thought I'd see something like that. Whole place gave me the wim-wams, man.”
“‘Demon of Death?’ Who would think that someone meeting Mr. Lash for a bout of knife play would go faint at the sight of a little torture?”
Nkata's lips twitched. Then he grinned outright. “You call me Demon in public, man, our relationship is finished.”
“I stand advised. Come along, then.”
It was, Barbara Havers decided, ridiculous to trek all the way back to the Yard once she'd bought her lunch off a cart selling stuffed pita bread at the end of Walker's Court. After all, Cork Street was so close at hand. Indeed, tucked just to the northwest of the Royal Academy, Cork Street was nothing more than a hop, skip, and jump from the car park where Barbara had deposited her Mini prior to seeking out 31-32 Soho Square. And since she was going to have to pay for a full hour of parking time whether she used the full hour or not, it seemed much more admirably economical to trot over to Cork Street right then while she was in the area rather than to return at the end of the day when she'd dutifully—not to mention uselessly—slogged through a few more hours at the computer terminal.
She dug out the business card that she'd found in Terry Cole's flat and confirmed the name of the gallery that was engraved on it. Bowers, it read, with an address on Cork Street. And Neil Sitwell beneath that. Time to see what Terry Cole had wanted or hoped for when he'd collected the card.
She sauntered along Old Compton Street, crossed over into Brewer Street, and dodged the Saturday shoppers, the traffic surging up from Piccadilly Circus, and the tourists seeking the Café Royal on Regent Street. She found Bowers without any difficulty because an enormous lorry parked directly in front of it in Cork Street was blocking traffic and incurring the ire of a taxi driver who was shouting imprecations at two men unloading a crate onto the pavement.
Barbara ducked inside what appeared to be not a gallery—as she'd originally supposed from the card, the address printed upon the card, and Terry's artistic aspirations—but instead an auction house not unlike Christies. Apparently, an auction was in some stage of preparation and the goods on offer were what was being unloaded from the lorry that was parked outside. These were paintings in ornate gilt frames, and they were everywhere: stacked in crates, propped against counters, hanging on walls, and lying on the floor. Stepping around them and among them, blue-smocked employees with clipboards in their hands made notations which seemed to relegate each piece to areas signposted with the words Frame Damage, Restoration, and Suitable.
Behind a counter, a glass notice board was hung with posters that advertised past and future auctions. In addition to paintings, the house had sold to the highest bidder everything from farms in the Irish Republic to silver, jewelry, and objets d'art.
Bowers was much larger than it looked from the street, where two windows and a door suggested entrance to a humbler establishment. In reality, inside, one room appeared to open into another and that one to another, all the way to the top of Old Bond Street. Barbara wandered through, looking for someone who could point her in the direction of Neil Sitwell.