In Pursuit of the Proper Sinner (Inspector Lynley, #10)(129)
[page]Security was non-existent at Shelly Platt's address. She lived not far from Earl's Court Station, in a conversion that had once been protected by the sort of door whose lock could be released by a resident pushing a buzzer from within an individual flat. Now, however, the door stood open. When, in an automatic response to seeing it ajar, Lynley paused to examine its locking mechanism, he saw that while the door itself had the requisite parts, the jamb that surrounded it had been destroyed sometime in the past. The door was still capable of swinging shut, but it caught upon nothing. Burgle at Will could have been the building's epigraph.
There was no lift, so Lynley and Nkata headed for the stairs at the far end of the corridor. Shelly lived on the fourth floor, which gave both men an opportunity to assess their physical condition. Nkata's was better, Lynley discovered. His lips had never so much as tasted tobacco. That abstinence—not to mention the man's insufferable youth—showed. But Nkata was considerate enough to mention neither. Although the blasted man did pretend to pause on the second floor mezzanine to admire what passed for a view and to give Lynley a breather, which he would have been damned before taking in front of his subordinate.
There were two flats on the fourth floor, one facing the street and one overlooking what lay behind the building. Shelly Platt lived in this latter accommodation, which proved to be a small bed-sit.
They had to rap on the door several times to get a response from within. When it was finally opened the length of an insubstantial security chain, a squinting face with sleep-modified orange hair peered out at them.
“Wha'? Oh. Two of you, is it? No offence, luv. I don't do black. Not prejudiced, mind you. Jus’ a 'rangement I got with a three-way girl who's getting on in years. I c'n give you her number if you want.” The girl had the distinctly adenoidal accent of a woman who'd spent her formative years just north of the Mersey.
“Miss Platt?” Lynley asked.
“When I'm conscious.” She grinned. Her teeth were grey. “Don't get your type round here much. Wha'd'you have in mind?”
“Conversation.” Lynley produced his warrant card and reacted quickly with his foot when she sought to slam the door. “CID,” he told her. “We'd like a word, Miss Platt.”
“You lot woke me up.” She was suddenly aggrieved. “You c'n come back later, when I've had me kip.”
“I doubt you want us to do that,” Lynley told her. “Especially if you're in the midst of an engagement later. That could put a damper on business. Let us in, please.”
She said, “Oh fook it,” then slid the chain off the door. She left them to open it for themselves.
Lynley pushed it inward to reveal a single room with a transom window covered by the sort of beaded curtain one usually found in doorways. Beneath this window, a mattress on the floor served as a bed, and Shelly Platt shuffled to this on bare feet and then walked across it to a heap of denim that turned out to be a pair of dungarees. These she pulled on over what little she was wearing: an extremely faded T-shirt printed with the instantly recognisable face of the Les Misérables street urchin. She scooped up a pair of moccasins and slid her feet into them. The moccasins had been beaded at one time, but what was left of their decoration consisted of tiny turquoise baubles that trailed along behind her on strings when she walked The bed was unmade, its counterpane an Indian bedspread of yellow and orange, its single blanket a striped affair of purple and pink with a well-frayed satin border. Shelly left this behind and walked across the room to a wash basin, where she filled a pan. This she set on one of the burners of a hot plate that stood atop a scarred chest of drawers.
There was only a single seat in the room: a black futon marked with stains, which were all of a similar grey hue. Like clouds, these took a variety of shapes. One could use the imagination and see in them everything from unicorns to seals. Shelly nodded towards the futon as she padded back to the bed. “You c'n park it there if you want,” she said indifferently. “One of you'll have to stand.”
Neither of them moved towards the grubby bit of furniture. She said, “Suit yourselfs, then,” and plopped down on the mattress, snatching up one of its two pillows, which she cradled against her stomach. She kicked out of the way another heap of clothing—a red PVC mini-skirt, black net stockings still attached to a suspender belt, and a green top that appeared to carry stains of a colour similar to those on the futon. She observed Lynley and Nkata emotionlessly, from eyes that were notable for their lifelessness, as well as for the skin beneath them, which gave her the unappealing addicted-to-heroin look that fashion magazines had been featuring in their models lately. “Well? What d'you lot want? You said CID, not vice. So this i'n't nothing to do with business, is it?”
Lynley removed from his jacket pocket the anonymous letter that Vi Nevin had shown them earlier in the day. He handed it over. Shelly made much of giving it a thorough perusal, sucking in on her lower lip and pinching it between her teeth thoughtfully.
As she did so, Nkata flipped open his notebook and adjusted the lead in his propelling pencil while Lynley gathered information by allowing his glance the freedom of wandering round the room. It possessed two notable features, aside from the unmistakable odour of sexual intercourse, which was barely covered by the scent of jasmine incense recently burned. One was an old traveling trunk that was open upon its contents of black leather garments, manacles, masks, whips, and the like. The other was a collection of photographs that were pinned to the walls. These were of two subjects only: a youngish lout usually pictured with an electric guitar slung somewhere about his person and Vi Nevin in a variety of poses from seductive to playful: childlike of body and coy of face.