Behind Closed Doors (3 page)

Sadie's story about Rebecca's elderly friend threw up a picture of a struggling pensioner misplaced into the millionaires' ghetto bordering Hampstead Heath. When I got to Hampstead I adjusted the picture.

Gina Redding's house was more like a mansion, a faux Lutyens crouched behind high walls on the south side of the Heath. The architecture was borrowed from the Garden Suburb but scaled up by three and with an acre of landscaped grounds thrown in. The place had to be keeping a platoon of gardeners in clover. Whatever way Rebecca was helping the old lady, weed-pulling didn't come into it.

I parked the Frogeye on white gravel and rang the doorbell.

I was half expecting a butler, but the door was opened by a stocky woman in her late seventies with eyeglasses ugly enough to be trendy. The glasses were throwbacks to the sixties, which was probably where she'd got them. The woman popped a cigarette from her lips and blinked up at me.

I told her my name and handed her a card. She jabbed the fag back into her mouth and read it.

When she took in the
Private Investigator
her eyes opened. She looked up at me again and said she'd be damned if she'd ever met a private-eye. She invited me in whilst her smoke-lined tonsils coughed out a fog that could have derailed a steam locomotive.

We went through a walnut-panelled hallway to a lounge the size of my apartment and sat on a sofa bigger than my car. She was still damning herself and looking me up and down as we sat. I apologised if my call had mislead her about my identity – which had been the aim – but Gina waved it off. She wasn't shocked by me: it was the thought of Sadie hiring me. Proof it wasn't only me who thought the kid was crackers.

Gina's cigarette wagged like a conductor's baton as she took a lead from those forties crime films for private-eye etiquette and offered me a scotch. I gave her my teetotal smile. Said it was a little early. I asked how she knew Rebecca Townsend. My diplomatic way of asking why someone with all the appearance of serious money needed a girl helping about the house. Gina chortled and sucked her cigarette.

‘Rebecca doesn't help in that way,' she said. ‘That's just how it started. She came here two years ago as part of a voluntary initiative. Helping the needy of the borough.'

I couldn't stop myself from looking around the room and out through the french windows at a landscape that most people would call a park. It had to be some needy list! Gina chortled some more. She'd got the reaction she was after.

‘Officially I was needy,' she said. ‘I'd slipped and broken my ankle. I had my domestic covering extra hours while I was convalescing, but the local authority fools had put me on their list of vulnerable pensioners.'

‘And Rebecca turned up to help?'

‘Her school was involved in a volunteer scheme. Rebecca saw how things were the moment she walked in. But she was kind enough to do some little chores and we ended up talking. She was interested in my experiences.'

‘Experiences?'

‘Travel. I'm a retired doctor. Worked in third-world countries for twenty-three years. I only came back to Britain when I married. Exchanged poverty for affluence. Never really adjusted.'

The old lady looked pretty well adjusted to me, but I didn't argue.

‘Rebecca always wants to hear about India and Africa. She's everything I was. More interest in the far side of the world than the far side of London.'

‘So Rebecca's been visiting you for two years?'

‘We hit it off, Mr Flynn. The home help thing was a sham but I hinted that if she wanted to call again I'd appreciate her doing a little reading for me. My eyesight's my only problem. Rebecca was happy to oblige. She's been coming ever since.'

‘Sounds like a nice kid.'

‘She is. Always happy to read for me or just to natter. She's here twice a week, hail or shine. The most dependable girl you could imagine.'

‘Until now,' I said.

Gina's eyeglasses glinted behind the smog. She took a last suck and stubbed her cigarette.

‘I don't know what happened last Wednesday,' she said. ‘Rebecca phoned to say she'd be round after classes but she didn't turn up.'

‘Did you try to contact her?'

Gina shook her head. ‘Not immediately. She doesn't have to explain herself to me. I was just surprised that she hadn't let me know when her plans changed. Very unlike her. I only called two days later when I still hadn't heard from her.'

‘No answer?'

‘Her phone was off.'

‘Did you try her house?'

‘Immediately. I had the awful thought that she'd had an accident on her way to see me. I talked to her mother.'

‘What did she say?'

‘Well that's the strange thing.' Gina leaned forward. ‘I couldn't put my finger on it, but Jean was prevaricating. First she said Rebecca was not in. Then when I mentioned about her not turning up two days earlier she became more specific and told me that her daughter was laid up with the flu.'

‘She was contradicting herself.'

‘Yes. And the flu thing was nonsense. I've worked with tropical diseases half my life and there's very few viruses can lay you out in just an hour or so. Certainly not the flu. It sounded to me like Jean was pulling the story out of thin air.'

The same suspicion as our little Sadie.

She told me the rest: she'd talked to Rebecca's mother three times since that day. Got the same story. No change in Rebecca's condition. Brusque answers bordering on rudeness so that Gina had to suspect there was a problem at the house.

‘How well do you know the family?' I asked.

‘Hardly at all,' Gina said. ‘Rebecca doesn't talk about them. I've suspected that there's a problem there but I've never felt entitled to interfere.'

She gazed out over her gardens. ‘What can I tell you? Rebecca's mother remarried five years ago. I don't know the details but it was not a happy change. There seems to be a tension now between Rebecca and her mother. And Rebecca has bad feelings towards her stepfather, Larry. It's nothing she's said outright but I sense hostility. I suspect that's why Rebecca keeps coming to me. She feels safe here. Wanted.'

The thing was going in the direction I'd anticipated. Family troubles. Probably a tear-jerker. But Eagle Eye weren't in the Kleenex business. I kept my eyes dry and asked about the girl's recent state of mind. Gina jabbed another cigarette into her mouth and flicked her lighter.

‘Rebecca has been a little down,' she said. ‘She split up with her boyfriend a month or so back. I got the impression she wasn't happy about other things too, but nothing she talked about. Oh, I could kick myself for not taking time to understand her better. Now this has happened I feel as if I've let her down.'

I asked Gina about Sadie.

‘The Slaters have given Sadie the cold shoulder too,' she said. ‘The two girls are the best of friends but I get the impression Jean has never been too keen on her. Wrong class and all that, which makes you wonder, considering Jean's own background. But since Rebecca was taken ill Jean won't let Sadie into the house. Unforgivable.'

I gave it a moment. Gina got to the bottom line.

‘What do you think could have happened, Mr Flynn?' she asked.

‘That's difficult to say,' I said, ‘I guess something's not right.'

Just not the sort of thing Eagle Eye should get involved with. So I trotted out my spiel about how it would be good for Gina and Sadie to call at the Slaters' together. It might carry more weight than the individual approach. More particularly, it was something they could do without Eagle Eye. My suggestion was reasonable but Gina shook her head. She didn't buy it.

‘I can't see them coming clean,' she said. ‘The Slaters are taking a hard line with anyone poking their nose in. Poor Rebecca. What on earth are they hiding?'

I shook my head sadly. The sadness was mostly at the fact that Gina hadn't bought my suggestion. Even sadder that I had other business to attend to. I repeated my advice that they go to see the Slaters together and maybe talk to Sadie's parents, and that was my good Samaritan act over and done. We were through. I thanked Gina for her time and stood to leave.

Gina nodded and walked with me to the door, sighing heavily as she came along.

‘It was good of you to call, Mr Flynn.' Her face was resolute. ‘Who'd ever imagine young Sadie hiring a private investigator? I do like initiative in a young person.'

I kept quiet. Initiative is an over-rated virtue in my experience.

Gina was alongside me as we got to the door. ‘I hope we haven't wasted too much of your time,' she said.

‘Not at all,' I said. What mattered was how little more we could waste.

‘I suppose I should ask.' Gina hesitated. ‘Has Sadie incurred any charges?'

I kept my face straight.

‘None,' I said. ‘Initial consultations are free. I told Sadie that she was not old enough to engage our services.'

Gina was reaching for the door handle. She stopped short, thoughtful. ‘Would there be anything you could do?' she asked. ‘Hypothetically.'

‘Hypothetically?'

‘To check on Rebecca. Do you do that kind of thing?'

‘Not exactly,' I said. ‘We do some private surveillance work but it's usually on behalf of a family member. Suspicions of infidelity, that kind of thing. We wouldn't normally be brought in from outside the family.'

‘I understand,' said Gina. ‘But my nose tells me that the Slaters are hiding something bad. It may be none of my business but it would be a tremendous relief to know that Rebecca was safe.'

I looked at Gina and saw where this was going. She watched me right back until my mouth opened without permission.

‘In theory,' I said, ‘we could take a look. The fact is, though, that our firm is a little busy right now.'

‘Of course,' Gina said. ‘But maybe you might manage to squeeze something in. I'd be happy for you to do that on my behalf.'

At least she didn't say “snoop”. One-up on Sadie. And Gina Redding had obvious liquidity. Two-up. I thought it through. Figured we could fit in a few hours. In this business many a payday is shored up by the penny-pullers. Jobs low on prospect but fast on cash.

And the thing had an intrigue. Why would a girl vanish with the apparent connivance of her parents? More puzzling, why were the Slaters covering it so clumsily? Why the believe-it-or-get-lost approach?

It was hard to see an explanation that was simultaneously both credible and innocent. When I found the credible and innocent explanation I'd kick myself. But maybe Gina Redding could do the kicking while we banked the cheque. I made a decision.

‘We could make a few enquiries, Gina,' I said. ‘As long as you understand that we'll probably find something very ordinary. You might wish you'd not put up the fee.'

‘I'm sure there will be an innocent explanation,' Gina said. ‘Then we'll all laugh about it. That's better than worrying.'

She had a point.

So, without knowing quite why, I agreed to take a quick look. We went back into the house and Gina wrote out a retainer cheque. I told her we'd mail the contract by return. I took five minutes to ask a few more questions about the Slaters. Finally I headed for the door again and promised to be in touch. We shook hands. Gina's grasp was shockingly firm.

‘Gina,' I said, ‘you're in good hands.'

‘I'm entirely confident of that,' she said. ‘I feel better already.'

That made one of us.

I drove back to Paddington, thinking over what I had.

Gina's info said that Rebecca's stepfather, Larry Slater, was co-owner of Slater–Kline, a high-street stockbroker in Islington. Business sounded good because even Gina rated the family as well-off. Apparently the Slaters had a nice house, nice cars and took nice holidays. The sort of stuff you get with nice money.

Rebecca's mother Jean was an ex-travel-rep who'd worked with one of the major package tour companies. Nowadays when they weren't holidaying she stayed at home and focused on the more esoteric challenges of the London social scene.

By Gina's account she'd made the transition to the higher stratum of London life a little more comfortably than Rebecca. Rebecca had been shunted into a North London girls' academy in line with her mother's aspirations after she remarried, coasted through three years at the top of her class and promptly transferred back to the West Kilburn College after her sixteenth birthday. Whether the purpose was to team back up with her friend Sadie or to cock a snoot at the pretensions of her mother and stepfather, Gina didn't know. She guessed a mix of both.

All in all, Gina's knowledge didn't amount to much. Hints of family secrets or of nothing at all. If there was something going on maybe I could turn up a few clues. More likely, the girl would turn up herself and we'd be off the case inside twenty-four hours.

If life was so simple I'd be on a beach.

‘Business is business,' I said.

Shaughnessy was behind his desk washing a late lunch down with mineral water from a cooler he kept in the corner. He gave me a lopsided grin.

‘Are we going to end up with this Sadie kid under our feet?' he asked.

‘You'll never meet her,' I assured him.

I needed this to be true. My street cred had felt fragile enough when I described the girl's assault on Eagle Eye. There was no way Shaughnessy was ever going to meet the vixen in the flesh.

‘A couple of college girls,' Shaughnessy said. ‘It's gonna be a tough one.'

‘Yeah.'

‘You know what these kids are like.'

‘No.'

‘We're going to have to watch our backs.'

I was watching his wall.

‘So is something happening to this family?' Shaughnessy said.

‘No,' I said. ‘The girl's sick in her room or grounded for bad behaviour. Or packed away in an abortion clinic. Something they're not talking about, but nothing illegal.'

‘So tell me again. Why are we taking Gina Redding's money?'

‘Because despite my infallible confidence something smells.'

‘What kind of smell?'

‘A hunch kind of smell.'

‘Hunch?' Shaughnessy coughed. ‘I'd better write that down.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘Like lunch. With an “H”.'

I heard his ballpoint tapping on his notepad. There was a quiet moment before he conceded the point.

‘The family's lying,' he said.

When Shaughnessy's gut feeling lined up with mine we knew we were on to something. Miss Brassy-Button had tossed us something that fitted mundane like the Mayor of London fitted diplomatic. Teenaged girls don't disappear completely behind their own front doors. Not the modern girl armed with her preloaded Samsung. Jean Slater's flu story had a credibility gap a mile wide. And Gina Redding's retainer gave us the incentive to take a peek.

Shaughnessy snapped his notebook closed with
Hunch
or
Lunch
written down. You sensed the case building.

‘How are you going to play it?' he said.

‘I'll start at the Slater house. See if anything's out of kilter there. Then we'll try some digging.'

I was meeting a client in West Hendon at four. That would leave me a stone's throw from the Slater home at the top of Hampstead Heath. I'd detour through on the way back. Pick up some first impressions.

‘If you need help,' Shaughnessy said, ‘just call.'

‘I'll do that.'

‘These kids...' he repeated.

‘If it gets dicey I'll text you,' I said.

‘I'll keep the line open.' He pointed to his mobile on his desk so I knew where it was.

I took note. ‘Are we through?' I said.

‘Guess so,' said Shaughnessy.

I left him and went to meet my West Hendon client.

I was running late but midafternoon traffic was light on the Edgware Road. I put my foot down to catch up.

I got off the North Circular a little before four and followed signs that took me through an industrial park and brought me to a haulage depot with a gate sign that displayed the name HP Logistics. My client was the owner, a guy named Harold Palmer. He'd not given much over the phone other than that he had some urgent work.

The depot was housed in a defunct machine-tool factory, constructed of dirty yellow brick with inset mesh-reinforced windows. The building had been converted to a warehouse, with offices and an HGV maintenance shop at one end. Out beyond the loading bays I could see tractor units parked up.

The depot was secured by twelve-foot mesh topped with razor wire and cameras, but the uniformed pensioner who hobbled out of the gate-house notched the image down to Dad's Army. With twenty thousand square feet of transit warehouse behind the wire I figured they'd use a different crew at night. While the pensioner checked a clip-board I watched a solid guy with a razor cut and dark glasses watching me from inside the office. This one looked more the part. His shirt-sleeved stance and calm observation suggested someone who maybe ran Palmer's security. The pensioner ticked my name and sent me through.

I parked in a visitors' spot at the side of the maintenance shop. A metal door opened onto a flight of stairs that climbed into the upper reaches of the building and summited at a door that swung outwards, threatening to knock you all the way back down. Beyond the door the corridor dog-legged into a reception area fronting a sixty-by-thirty office. A dozen clerks with headsets jabbed at keyboards under spitting fluorescents in a working environment that suggested high staff turnover. The reception desk was manned by a fifteen-stone woman whose main purpose seemed to be to frighten callers back down the stairs. She continued battering her keyboard without noticing me. Either her job description said to ignore visitors or she'd already marked me as a nobody, the way a good waiter knows the lower-class diner.

When she finally looked up it was with the welcoming expression of a boar disturbed at its toilet. The look was enhanced by a fretwork of frown lines that would have made a rhino swoon.

I announced myself and Rhino ran a finger down a desk diary and told me I was six minutes late. I didn't ask if this included the two minutes she'd had me on hold. We just skipped the small talk. She pressed a button and spoke my name, then waved me at a door and I went through to see the boss.

Harold Palmer was a big man behind a bigger desk. The flesh I could see above the surface, combined with my knowledge of icebergs, put him at close to twenty stone, with a face hardened by decades of clawing for market-share in the trucking business. More of the company policy for warm welcomes: Palmer skipped the handshake. He just gestured towards a collection of chairs by the door. I walked back to grab one. The office space would have made a city tycoon agoraphobic, but the bare walls and metal cabinets said that Palmer hired cheap when it came to interior designers. Not a potted plant or sales chart in sight. What did get my attention were the panoramic windows that gave him a god's eye view over the maintenance bays on one angle and the warehouse on the other. The maintenance window showed two Volvo units being serviced down below. The glass was single-glazed to let the din of air tools through. Muzak for the trucking business.

My seating choice was between a couple of wooden chairs that made me wonder if a church hall was missing furniture or a frayed leather swivel that was mostly lumps but had the benefit of castors to save me from lifting. I rolled the swivel out in front of Palmer's desk. The seat was convex and slippery. Balancing took muscle and gave you the body language of Quasimodo. If Palmer found me ridiculous he kept quiet. He seemed to be concentrating on something bad he'd eaten. At least he didn't tell me I was late. He paid his receptionist for that. Palmer looked at me for a moment then opened the discussion.

‘I hear that Eagle Eye are discreet,' he told me.

He stressed our name as if it was the known practice of all other agencies to shout their clients' business from the rooftops. But his puzzled look let me know that he wasn't convinced about his information.

I smiled and kept quiet. With that kind of opener it was best for the client to talk.

‘I have some business that needs absolute discretion,' Palmer said. ‘Can I trust your agency?'

No idle chat about the challenges of the trucking business. No mention of who had put in the good word for Eagle Eye. Not even a polite query about which partner he was talking to. Palmer was sticking to the simple fact that this whole thing was giving him indigestion.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Palmer?'

Palmer pulled a pack of kingsize from his jacket and lit up. Apparently he was running the last bastion of pro-smoking policy in London. It was my second dose of the afternoon. The amount of fug I was inhaling today I'd soon need a respirator to work. Palmer took a drag and blew out a cloud.

‘I've got a sensitive matter needs attention,' he said.

‘How sensitive?' I said.

‘Big bucks sensitive. If you do the job right I'll pay.' He watched me from behind the cloud. ‘I'll go triple your standard.'

He waited for me to be impressed. Private investigators don't come cheap, and Eagle Eye are not at the bargain-basement end of the market. That's why no one had ever offered us three times our rate. What people usually offer, when we present our commercial rates, is an awed silence. The same as in a good lawyer's office. Private clients – like Gina Redding – get sixty percent discount. The differentiation lets us cover the market.

Palmer gave me time to go over what we had. So far we had discreet and we had reliable and we had three times the going rate. The ingredients of a perfect deal. So perfect that I knew straight away that it was going to fall apart. It would unravel the second Palmer described the nature of his sensitive issue. I saw it a mile off.

Palmer heaved himself from his desk and dragged a smoke trail over to the panoramic window, did his God bit watching over his warehouse. You could see he was proud of his view the way City types love the strip of river they get with their corner office. He sucked on his weed for thirty seconds like I wasn't there, contemplating his empire.

‘We're bidding for a haulage contract,' he said finally. ‘The tender closes at the end of next week.' He did a ninety and strolled along the other glass to watch his crew down in the maintenance bays. He was talking to the glass but his voice had an edge that said I'd better be listening.

‘The client is a clothing wholesaler relocating from Birmingham. They're opening a warehouse here in Wembley. They run their own logistics but they don't own their fleet. They wet-lease thirty units to cover their European and UK distribution.'

‘Wet-lease?' I said. The thing sounded like some kind of rainy-day service.

Palmer left his window and orbited back to his desk. He sat down and stubbed the cigarette in a steel ashtray. He looked at me and decided I really didn't know what wet-leasing was. He leaned forward to educate me.

‘We supply the trucks, maintenance, drivers and fuel. The client pays a retainer and a straight mileage charge. He says where we go and when, controls the schedule. It's the most efficient way for some businesses to run their logistics. More flexible than owning a fleet. Cheaper than paying ad hoc haulage.'

He stabbed a finger in the direction of the haulage world beyond the panoramic window. ‘For a number of reasons,' he said, ‘we need to land that contract.'

‘A number of reasons?'

‘A number of reasons,' he confirmed.

‘How many trucks do you operate?' I asked.

‘We run fifty container trailers. A few bulk carriers and vans. Our main business is container.'

‘So this contract would cover most of your fleet.'

‘For two years,' he said.

‘That would be a good contract.'

He gave me a kind of smile. I had it.

‘So what's the problem?'

‘The problem,' he said, ‘is that we have to win the contract.'

He stayed silent, watched me take this in. I was wondering how much of HP Logistics had been built on legitimate operations. I recognised Palmer's type.

‘What,' I asked again, ‘can we do to help?'

He waited a moment, like he was deciding whether to bring me in or kick me out. Decided to go with the risk.

‘There are three firms bidding,' he said, ‘including us. The way the client works is they contract to the second-lowest bidder. They don't want to pay high prices but it's essential to avoid the vendor who's under-bidding. He's the one who will let you down when he can't deliver.'

Seemed logical.

‘In this particular case,' he said, ‘we believe that all three bids will meet the key operating requirements. So the selection will come down to price.'

‘The second lowest,' I said.

He nodded. ‘The middle of the three gets the job,' he said.

‘So,' I said, ‘ideally speaking HP Logistics would be the middle bidder.'

Palmer's expression switched to surprise, as if he'd only just thought of that one. Then he sat forward and dropped his fist gently on the desk. The smile came back. I'd got it again.

‘We need to be the middle bidder,' he said. ‘Funny how simple life is.'

I thought about this.

‘So what you need,' I extrapolated, ‘are your competitors' prices. Before you put in your own bid.'

The smile held. We were moving together on this.

‘And you want Eagle Eye to get that information,' I concluded.

Palmer's smile broadened. He raised his palms. Simple as that. ‘I need you to get that information,' he said, ‘fast. I want those bids on my desk by this weekend.'

‘So,' I said, ‘we burglarise these competitors and steal the information.'

Palmer's smile chilled. I sensed disillusionment stirring. A creeping suspicion that he'd gone with the wrong risk.

‘We don't steal anything,' he said. ‘I just want you to copy the key figures and get them to me. So we can finalise our bid.'

I had it. A little break-in at his competitors' offices. Find out what their tender prices are. Quietly. So no one knows that HP Logistics' bid is rigged. And for this discreet operation Palmer was offering three times Eagle Eye's going rates. There was only one fly in the ointment.

‘Rigging bids is illegal, Mr Palmer.'

Palmer's face transitioned to certainty. His instinct had been right. He'd gone against his gut feeling and gambled wrong. His expression was granite.

‘Sometimes you have to bend the rules a little in this business,' he said quietly.

I gave this some consideration then explained Eagle Eye's policy.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Palmer,' I said. ‘We don't do illegal stuff.'