Death Trap by Patricia Hall Page B

the late Peter Rachman, the better.

SIX
    K ate gazed at her very limited wardrobe which was crammed into Tess and Marie’s sparse hanging space and wondered what she should wear for a tour of the clubs and pubs of Notting Hill. Her one posh dress from Bon Marche that she had saved up for for months before she left home looked over the top for the neighbourhood, but if what Harry Barnard, ‘Flash’ to his mates by all accounts, said was true her stock of more everyday clothes looked far too dull for the clubs which attracted the nobs and their girlfriends from the West End.
    â€˜Tess,’ she called plaintively. ‘Can I borrow this blouse of yours? I’ve got absolutely nothing to wear. I think it will fit me.’
    An accommodation reached, and Kate reassured by her friends that she looked fabulous in her own knee-length black skirt, high heels and Tess’s ivory silk blouse, she stood at the window looking down to the street until she saw Barnard’s car pull in to the pavement. She sighed. She was still not convinced of the wisdom of this outing; it would, she was sure, give the importunate policeman all the wrong ideas, but for her own purposes she wanted to get to know this area of London. She had convinced herself that it would be a good scene to chase the sort of photographs she wanted to take in an area which was slightly chaotic, black and white, rich and poor cheek by jowl, and all the more colourful for that. She still regretted the death of
Picture Post
while she was at school, a world famous documentary magazine which she had dreamed of working for when she was little more than kid. That was where she had imagined herself a star when she had still been a skinny schoolgirl with a box Brownie begged from an uncle. But she still lived in hope that something similar might take its place. Surely television couldn’t completely kill off the still picture, she told herself.
    â€˜You look good,’ Barnard said almost casually when she came down the steps to the red Capri, her coat over her arm. He held the passenger door open for her and glanced at his watch. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a drink first. It’s a bit early for the clubs to be in full swing, but we’ll work our way round there. A year or so ago this area almost took over from Soho for crime and mayhem and a lot of people who should have known better came slumming round here for kicks. Peter Rachman was in the thick of it, with Mandy Rice-Davies in tow, and most of the rest of them who got mixed up in the Profumo scandal put in an appearance. That’s all pretty well over now, but it’s still not an area you should wander round on your own. There’s enough still going down in Notting Dale to make it a dangerous place, particularly for girls as pretty as you.’
    Kate acknowledged that with a faint smile as she got into the car and allowed Barnard to take her coat and fold it onto the back seat neatly before he got into the driving seat and pulled away. This was nice, Kate had to admit to herself. No previous boyfriend – if that’s what Barnard was – had offered the luxury of a car. It had been the bus or shank’s pony in Liverpool, she recalled ruefully, and that hadn’t been much fun in stiletto heels. They drove along streets Kate recognised as far as Portobello Road where Barnard pulled into the kerb and parked before leading her into the lounge bar of the Sun in Splendour, settling her at a table and buying himself a pint and her a gin and tonic.
    â€˜You can’t go on drinking Babycham all your life,’ he said with a grin. ‘With or without a cherry. Try that.’
    She sipped the sparkling drink cautiously and then drank it slowly, getting used to the astringent taste. ‘So who’s around this area then if high society’s moved on?’ she asked.
    â€˜Well, there’s the arty types. They still think it’s smart to