CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BARBARA HAVERS TOOK THE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK HANDCUFFS with her to the Stables Market, which was, as suggested by its name, an enormous old artillery stable of grimy brick. It ran along a section of Chalk Farm Road, but she entered by means of Camden Lock Place, and began asking the whereabouts of the magic stall at the very first shop. This was an establishment selling furniture and fabrics from the subcontinent. The air was acrid with the scent of patchouli, and sitar music blared forth from speakers insufficient to handle the volume.
The shop assistant didn’t know anything about a magic stall, but she reckoned Tara Powell over at body piercing could direct Barbara wherever she needed to go. “Does fine work, Tara,” the shop assistant said. She herself had a silver stud beneath her lower lip.
Barbara found the body-piercing stall without any trouble. Tara Powell turned out to be a cheerful twentysomething girl with appalling teeth. Her bow to her employment consisted of half a dozen holes from the lobe to the top of her right ear as well as a thin gold ring through her left eyebrow. She was in the middle of driving a needle through the septum of an adolescent girl’s nose while her boyfriend stood by with the chosen piece of jewellery in his palm. It was a thick ring not unlike those used on cows. That, Barbara thought, was going to be attractive.
Tara was nattering on about-of all things-the Prime Minister’s hairline. She apparently had done some considerable research into the subject of the burden of power and responsibility and its effect on hair loss. She could not, however, apparently apply much of her theory to Lady Thatcher.
It turned out that Tara did indeed know where the magic stall was. She said that Barbara would find it in the alley. When Barbara asked what alley, she said the alley and rolled her eyes in such a way as to communicate that the information ought to be sufficient. Then she turned to her customer and said, “This’ll pinch a bit, luv,” and with one deft thrust she drove the needle through the girl’s nose.
Barbara beat a hasty retreat as the girl screamed, slumped over, and Tara cried, “Smelling salts! Quick!” to someone. It was, Barbara thought, an edgy kind of employment.
Although Barbara lived not far from Camden High Street and its markets and although she’d been in the Stables many times, she hadn’t known that the narrow passage in which she finally found the magic stall had a name. It wasn’t so much an actual alley as it was a gap, lined on one side by the brick wall of one of the old artillery buildings and on the other by a long row of holdings from which vendors sold their wares: everything from books to boots.
The place was dimly lit by bare bulbs dangling from a cord that ran the length of the alley. They broke into a gloom that was accentuated by the sooty stable wall and the darkly stained stalls opposite. Not all of them were open, this being a weekday. But the magic stall was. As Barbara approached it, she could see the same oddly dressed man she’d earlier seen unloading his van in the street. He was doing a rope trick to entertain a group of enthralled young boys who, instead of being at school, were gathered round his stall. They were just about the size-and the age-of the dead boy in Queen’s Wood, Barbara noted.
She stood at the side of the group, watching the magician interact with the boys at the same time as she studied his stall. It wasn’t large-about the size of a wardrobe-but he’d managed to cram it with magic tricks, with practical jokes along the lines of artificial vomit suitable for laying on mum’s new carpet, with videos of magic acts, books on illusions, and old magazines. Among the items for sale were handcuffs identical to those Barbara had in her pocket. They were part of a sideline in saucy bedroom toys that were on offer as well.
Barbara worked her way round to the back of the group, to have a better look at the magician. He was dressed as he’d been when she’d last seen him, and she noted that his red stocking cap not only covered his head completely but also came down over his eyebrows as well. With the addition of his dark glasses to complete the ensemble, the magician had successfully obscured the upper half of his face and head. Under normal circumstances, Barbara wouldn’t have thought too much about this detail. Under the conditions of a murder inquiry, however, a quirky costume going along with a pair of handcuffs, a dead boy, and a van made the bloke doubly suspicious. Barbara wanted to get him alone.
She eased her way round to the front of the group and began to look over the magic tricks for sale. The goods here seemed suitable for kids: magic colouring books, linking rings, flying coins and the like. This put Barbara in mind of Hadiyyah and Hadiyyah’s solemn little face and sorrowful wave behind the French windows whenever Barbara passed the ground-floor flat in Eton Villas. And that put Barbara in mind of Azhar, of the unpleasant words they’d exchanged the last time they’d seen each other. They’d been scrupulously avoiding each other ever since. A peace offering was called for, but Barbara wasn’t sure which one of them ought to be offering it.
She picked up the pencil-penetration kit and read the scanty directions (borrow a five-pound note from someone in your audience, push the pencil into its centre, rip it sideways and ta-duh! the five-pound note remained intact). She was reflecting on its suitability as a peace offering when she heard the magician say, “That’ll be all for now. Run along, you lot. I’ve work to do.” A few of the children protested, asking for just one more trick, but he was adamant. “Next time,” he said and shooed them off. He wore, Barbara saw, fingerless gloves on his pasty hands.
The kids departed-although not before Mr. Magic separated one boy from the flying coin trick he’d attempted to pinch as he drifted away-and then the magician was all Barbara’s. Was there something he could help her with? he asked.
Barbara purchased the pencil-penetration kit, an investment of less than two quid in the cause of neighbourly peace. She said, “You’re good with the kids. You must have them hanging round all the time.”
“Magic,” he said with a shrug as he put the kit neatly into a small plastic bag. “Magic and boys. They seem to go together.”
“Just like Marmite and toast.”
His lips curved in an I-can’t-help-my-own-popularity smile.
Barbara said, “They must get on your nerves after a time, all these little blokes hanging about and wanting you to perform for them.”
“It’s good for business,” he said. “They go home, talk to Mum and Dad about what they’ve seen, and when a birthday party comes up, they know what they want for the entertainment.”
“A magic show?”
He swept off the stocking cap and bowed. “Mr. Magic, at their service. Or yours. Birthday parties, bar mitzvahs, the odd christening, New Year’s Eve. Et cetera.”
Barbara blinked, then made a quick recovery as the man drew his cap back over his head. He was using it, she saw, for the same reason he was probably also using the dark glasses and the gloves. He appeared to be an albino. Dressed as he was at the moment, he would garner the occasional look in the street. Dressed otherwise-with the colourless hair revealed and the eyes unshaded-he’d have been gawped at, not to mention tormented by the very kids who admired him now.
He handed his business card over to Barbara. She did him the same courtesy and watched what she could see of his face to note a reaction. He said, “Police?”
“New Scotland Yard. At your service.”
“Ah. Well. They can’t be wanting a magic show there.”
Good recovery, Barbara thought. She brought the glow-in-the-dark handcuffs out of her shoulder bag. They were encased in a plastic evidence bag, on their way to be fingerprinted.