Behind Closed Doors (6 page)

‘Hey, Mr Detective, how about coming down here? My friends wanna meet you.'

‘Some other time, Sadie,' I said. I killed the line.

Not this side of hell, though.

An ensemble was warming up. I grabbed another beer and settled in for the night. My phone rang again. This time it was Arabel. She asked how I was doing. A duel between drums and baritone sax answered her question. Arabel realised that conversation was impractical. Promised to call by tomorrow. I told her to take care and took my drink over to join a table where a crew of regulars had camped out. We touched glasses and relaxed in the flow of the first set. The ensemble lacked balance and swayed unpredictably between funk and down-low dirty and I knew that in another year they'd have broken up and recycled themselves into more subtle groupings but for the moment the raw energy swept us along in the flow. The oldest of the musicians was twenty.

The late set finished at twelve thirty but the diehards stayed at the table and the bar stayed busy. It was two fifteen before I left them to it. I told myself as I always did that I was going to ease up on the Podium. I'd been saying it for ten years.

I trudged towards Paddington, found that my luck was in: I still had the building key. The lower floors were dark. No midnight oils in personal injury. When I opened Eagle Eye's door a freezing draft rushed out and hugged me. Our offices were colder than the stairwell. Maybe we should move our furniture out here in winter. But then our landlord would want a rise.

At seven thirty next day I unfolded myself from the couch and stood to move my limbs around for a couple of minutes to restore feeling.

The office lease included a heating clause, but the landlord's interpretation stretched only as far as a responsibility to deliver metallic rapping and background thuds from the feed pipes. The radiators themselves never got above freezing.

In cold weather we burned a propane heater in the outer office while Shaughnessy and I toasted our feet on two-bar radiants by our desks. The propane heater produced a sweat-house atmosphere that triggered dizzy spells in susceptible clients and generally acclimatised them for when they got the bill.

I finished my callisthenics and carried the electric heater through from my office. Placed it dangerously close in the tiny bathroom whilst I shaved and freshened up. When I checked the mirror the result was passable.

Back in the office I retrieved the folded beer mat from my jacket and checked the address Sadie had given me. The writing was shaky but legible. I had my lead to Rebecca's aunt.

I fired up the coffee machine and spooned in a mountain of Colombian. Then I took the electric heater back to my office and booted up my PC.

I continued with my pharmaceutical company search, looking for the telltale calls that would trap our double-dealing board member. Out in reception the filter machine kept me company with intermittent stutters and coughs that had me almost tasting the coffee.

After twenty minutes the machine had hit a crescendo. I went to see. Found the thing backfiring steam into the water tub, the coffee dry in the filter. I switched the machine off and poured the coffee back into the tin. Then I tipped the hot water out of the reservoir into my mug and spooned in some instant, heaped it with Marvel and a couple of sugars and went back to my desk. The brew was undrinkable. I got up and tipped the liquid into the bathroom sink and rinsed my mug. Ten more productive minutes in the life of a private investigator.

Shaughnessy arrived at eight and poked his head in. He had a steaming cup from Connie's that filled the place with a nostril-flaring aroma. I pretended not to notice. Filled him in on our missing girl and my planned trip to her aunt's. Shaughnessy watched me through steam.

‘So we'll either find the girl safe,' he said, ‘or we'll know for sure that the family is telling fibs.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘The only problem is that if it's fibs we'll still not know whether it's something we should be involved with.'

‘That's Gina Redding's call,' Shaughnessy said.

I agreed. Went back to my pharmaceutical company.

At ten I decided that the traffic would be tolerable and rolled my desk top down. Shaughnessy had already gone out. I called at Connie's and picked up a coffee and a ham roll. Paid cash at the counter without him seeing me. He would have wanted more. I ate the roll on the way round to the back of the building and sipped the coffee while the Frogeye warmed up.

I called in at my apartment for a change of clothes then headed west out of London, chasing heavy jets. I made Hungerford by eleven thirty and got directions on the main street. By eleven forty-five I was parked on a grass verge two and a half miles outside the town looking at a terrace of eight cottages. The address Sadie had given me placed Rebecca's aunt in the second from the end. I didn't have a name and I didn't have a plan but what's life without spontaneity?

An upstairs window was open but there was no other sign of life. I was tempted to bluff my way in to see if I could pick up any sense that the girl was there, but if I failed I'd be blocked out. Better to wait to see if Rebecca's aunt came out. It's easier to bluff someone when you catch them off their doorstep. If nothing came up in a couple of hours I'd take my chance with the direct approach.

You could almost mistake the day for early summer. The gales had died, the sun was out and the grassy bank beside the Frogeye was a carpet of foxglove. I wound the window down and listened to birdsong.

I got lucky. Five minutes after I'd started my watch a woman came out and unlocked a Ford Ka parked by the cottage gate. The woman was in her early thirties and there was no doubt that I was looking at a younger version of Jean Slater. She was a little taller but the high cheeks and attractive eyes were the same. The real difference was in the lack of wear and tear. You saw the two sisters' faces and you saw different lives. The Ka did a three-point and headed down the lane towards Hungerford. I fired up the Frogeye and followed.

The Ka drove into the centre of the town and I played cat and mouse whilst Rebecca's aunt did some errands, in and out of shops. Finally saw my chance when she drove under the railway bridge and swung into a Tesco store. I followed her in and parked a dozen slots away.

Rebecca's aunt went into the store.

She came out twenty minutes later burdened with bulging carriers. Her unwieldy load meant that she wasn't agile enough to avoid me when I stepped backwards from between two cars and dragged a shopping trolley into her path.

She hit the trolley and staggered back, hanging onto her shopping, while I floundered about with an act I've perfected from the people in airports and railway stations who specialise in looking the other way as they crash into you. Rebecca's aunt gave me an exasperated look while I flustered my apology but before she could step around me I switched to lockjaw, like I didn't believe what I was seeing.

‘Jean!' I yelled.

She looked at me in astonishment but I was already making a big ‘O' with my mouth, as if I'd just realised my mistake. I shook my head and muttered another apology. This seemed to end the affair for her. She gave me an indulgent smile and moved towards her car, probably saying things inside that I didn't want to hear. I gave her ten yards then pushed my trolley after her.

‘Excuse me!'

She turned back. Cautious now. Wondering what kind of nut she'd met.

‘You don't have a sister?' I said. ‘Jean?'

That got her. Cautious shifted to curious.

I threw in another tantaliser. ‘Hampstead?'

Her eyes widened.

‘Jean Slater!' I said. ‘I know her.'

I finally got a smile. It was mostly astonishment but still a smile.

‘Jean's my sister,' she confirmed. She tilted her head. ‘Have we met?'

I smiled back. Grin-opolis. Shook my head.

‘I'd remember for sure,' I said. ‘I'm a friend of Larry and Jean's.' I walked forward and held out my hand, dropped it self-consciously when she struggled to free herself from her shopping. Gave her flustered again.

Her smile got wider. She recognised harmless when she saw it.

‘You really had me there,' I grinned. ‘I could have sworn you were Jean—'

—The sister who had to be at least eight or ten years older.

It was the kind of gaffe women notice, and helped to confirm my harmlessness. I back-pedalled: ‘You must be Jean's young sister,' I said. From gaffe to suave in one easy move. Not
younger
sister.
Young
did it better. Another difference women notice. Jean's sister noticed. Coming from an idiot the compliment had to be sincere.

She laughed and gave me the standard denials about youth, but the flattery had struck home. Right then she'd have invited me home for tea. We both shook our heads at how small the world was. Luckily Jean's sister had never heard the Second Rule of the investigation business which is that the world is very big. If it ever seems small it's because you're being crowded by someone you should be watching. The Second Rule complements the First Rule, which says that there's no such thing as coincidence. Where a layman sees coincidence the investigator sees connections. Where a layman sees a small world the investigator sees trouble closing in.

We got over our small-world chuckles and I threw in my pitch.

‘So,' I said, ‘how are Larry and Jean?'

Rebecca's aunt tilted her head and gave me a that's-life grin. ‘They're just fine,' she said.

I looked thoughtful for a second like I was squeezing my memory.

‘Kathy!' I said. ‘You must be Kathy.'

The power of my recall stunned her. She nodded. ‘Kathy Pope,' she said.

Pope. Something clerical!

That Sadie.

‘I'm going to ring them,' I promised. ‘They'll never believe we've met.'

‘Yes,' Kathy smiled in her Rule Two ignorance, ‘it's an incredibly small world!'

‘Well it's great to have met you,' I said. ‘Wait till I tell Jean!' I was nodding like a car-window dog. Then I gave her just-another-thought: asked how Rebecca was. I watched her face. Her smile strengthened. On this subject she was effusive.

‘Rebecca's fine,' she said. ‘She's coming to stay at Easter. I just wish I had her more often.' Her face was a vision of warmth. Not the look of someone nursing a sick girl. If Rebecca was recuperating in Kathy Pope's house it was news to this woman.

We wrapped it up and said we'd see each other at the Slaters' some time. I yelled again that Jean would be knocked out when I told her whom I'd met.

She'd be knocked out all right.

If I told her.

I took the M4 back to London, chewing over what I had. What I had was a quick solution that had just popped. Someone was telling porkies about Rebecca Townsend.

If the girl was not at her aunt's then where was she? What was happening to her?

Time to take a closer look at the family.

The Eagle Eye office was closed up. Lucy was out somewhere attending to our six-monthly purchase of stationery and supplies. Maybe I'd find a new intercom on my desk tomorrow. Maybe a cup of hot coffee.

She'd done some sifting before she went. A post-it on my roll-top gave me Slater–Kline's address. I sat down and called their number again. This time I was answered by a human. Probably their computer's day off. A different female from yesterday. Less bright and breezy. I asked for Larry Slater and was told that he was tied up at the moment. The woman took a few false details and my real mobile number. She couldn't tell me when Slater would be free to call back but assured me it would be soon. Her assurance had the sincerity of a car dealer's Christmas card. I rang off.

Slater–Kline. The name had a big-city ring but Lucy's address was high street Islington. The City shadow-land where money is made on a more personal scale but with equal dependability. Slater's luxury home testified to the efficient sluicing of money through the fibre optics that burrowed their way up to Islington. They say the streets of London are paved with gold, but your best bet nowadays is in the tunnels beneath.

I wanted something to take back to Gina Redding. So far all I had were negatives: proof that the Slaters were telling fairy stories, a near-cert that the girl was not at their home. Nothing to help Gina decide whether to continue the search. I needed a quick look at Larry Slater to complete the family snapshot. My best bet would be to pick him up as he left the office, get some first impressions, even if I only followed him home.

I filled a couple of hours with my ongoing telephone search for the straying executive. My call list included the dial-out record from the guy's office, supplied by his company, and the record from his mobile, supplied by Eagle Eye. Eighty-plus contacts. I'd tracked twenty-seven through company books and reverse directories, working in order of call frequency. Sixty-six to go.

Time rushes when you're doing that kind of stuff. At only the twentieth time of looking I saw that the clock had reached four fifteen and I could legitimately pack in on the pretext that Larry Slater might soon leave the office.

The weather had turned bad again. The rain was holding off but a looming storm dimmed the afternoon. I swung the Frogeye up onto the Euston Road and into the rush-hour flow. Thirty minutes of red lights got me to Islington. I drove past the Slater–Kline business, a sixty-foot window just up from the Angel. Got an impression of industry behind the glass. I found an alley a couple of blocks away whose double yellows were mostly concealed under rubbish sacks. I backed in, blocking the alley. If a service truck needed access it would have to drive over the Frogeye.

A steady drizzle chilled me as I walked back down the main street and looked into the Slater–Kline window. The business was thriving, judging by their street frontage and brightly-lit office. A dozen desks were scattered informally, each equipped with the latest in low footprint plasma monitors and ergonomic wireless keyboards. Two or three clients were seated at the agents' desks. Bigger clients with juicy portfolios would probably be taken through to private rooms at the back. I walked around the block and discovered an alley running behind the buildings. Larry Slater's Lexus was nosed up against the rear wall in a chained-off parking area. The angle of the parking bays prohibited turning, so Slater would exit at the far end.

I retrieved the Frogeye and parked it closer to the alley under a loading gate with two clamping signs posted. My observation spot at the end of the alley was only ten seconds away. If anyone tried to clamp me I'd be driving away before they'd got the collar on. I stood for half an hour as the rain came on, watching the slots behind Slater–Kline free up one by one as they shut up shop. Eventually only the Lexus was left. Slater had got home at seven the other evening, so I might have a long wait. I wondered at a guy putting in the hours despite the family problem waiting at home.

The rain intensified. The alley behind Slater–Kline faded into a mist of spray. In those old films the private eyes stand under lamps, kept dry by lined trilbys and macs down to their ankles. The old-timers would have rolled their eyes at my leather jacket and bare head. But what choice was there? How invisible would I be in a trilby? I did the modern thing. Stood and got wet.

Luckily the patron saint of detectives was watching over me. I'd expected another hour's wait but I'd been there barely five minutes when Slater came out. I was sprinting towards the Frogeye before he'd unlocked the Lexus and by the time he nosed out onto the street I was rolling, the Frogeye's fan blowing cold air around my soaked slacks. The Lexus pulled into the traffic and I followed.

The car headed south and turned onto Pentonville. Looked like Slater wasn't going home. I got trapped three cars back, nearly lost him at the lights as the Lexus crossed the junction. Luckily two of the three cars in front of me jumped the amber so I only had one to pass. I put my foot down and skidded across a wall of oncoming traffic. When I straightened up I saw the Lexus four ahead, heading west. I kept my distance, still trying to clear the fogged windscreen.

We continued along Euston in stop-starts. Slater stayed on the Euston Road at Eversholt and accelerated into the underpass and out onto Marylebone, heading towards where the A40 ran west out of town. At the Edgware Road Slater took the flyover and we got up to fifty, streaming out along the Westway behind Eagle Eye's offices as if we were heading for the open road. Everyone knew different. The open road didn't exist. Our speed was rushing us towards the tail end of the Hanger Lane log jam.

The rain slackened and the city rippled in a multicoloured blaze below us, poised on the edge of night. Then the rain kicked back in and made a crazy kaleidoscope of the whole thing. The Frogeye's wipers began to struggle. I'd started to wonder if Slater was set for a long journey when the Lexus edged onto an off-ramp and braked hard for the West Cross roundabout. There were no cars between us on the slip road. I thanked God for my rebuild discs and braked hard to open up the distance, kept my indicator off. Then I turned after the Lexus and followed it down into Holland Park.

Slater drove into the residential streets behind the park. A hundred and fifty yards in his indicator signalled and he turned into a street of white-stuccoed Victorian mansions converted into luxury apartments with luxury cars parked nose-to-tail outside. Half way down, Slater found a spot and pulled the Lexus in. I braked and squeezed into a tiny space behind a Bentley fifty yards back. My lights were off before I'd stopped rolling.

Nothing happened for a couple of minutes. I wondered if Slater was waiting for someone to come out. Then the Lexus' door opened and he stepped out and walked back along the pavement. He climbed the steps to a door whose number was displayed in flowery white script on a black base. No. 93. He pressed the top floor bell and waited for thirty seconds. No response. He pressed again, turning to stare up and down the street while he counted off the time. Then a final attempt – a good, long push. Still no result. Someone was out or didn't want to see him. He came back down the steps and walked to his car. I started the engine.

But the Lexus didn't move. I switched the ignition back off. The rain eased and the street stayed quiet. I pushed in a Roy Eldridge tape and set the volume to low to give me background without distraction and waited for Slater to make his move. Ten minutes turned to twenty, then half an hour. The Lexus stayed silent and dark. I pictured Slater watching No. 93 in his mirror.

Forty-five minutes went by and the only life in the street was a handful of cars arriving and departing. Lights burned in all the front windows. On the hour the rain came back and blurred the windscreen. A couple of times I switched on the ignition and gave the wipers a sweep.

Whatever I'd been expecting this was not it. I was supposed to be looking at something happening inside the Slater house. Instead I was watching a vigil miles away. I tried to guess how this street might be connected to Rebecca. Was Slater looking for the girl here? What would a college kid be doing in this area? Plenty of things came to mind, all of them wild speculation and all of them hanging on the assumption that this had anything to do with her in the first place.

The last of Gina Redding's hours ran out. We were in the free-bonus phase and the risk was that all I'd get would be more fog.

The Eldridge tape ended. I slotted in another, a crackly Gasser to counterpoint the slow-moving minutes. It was getting cold. Did Lexuses have electric heaters? I checked my watch and saw that we'd been there an hour and twenty. When I looked up Slater was out of his car and walking back up the street. He climbed the steps once more and put his thumb on the same bell push. Same routine: three tries, swinging his head to search up and down the street while he waited. Same result as last time. I saw him give a frustrated shake of his head and walk back to his car. This time he fired up the Lexus and drove off. I let him go. My guess was that he was headed home. Whatever this detour had been about it started and ended here. The droop in Slater's shoulders as he came down the steps had told me that. I hoisted myself out of the Frogeye and crossed the road. The bell plate at No. 93 said that the top apartment was inhabited by someone called Brown. No initial. No title. The name narrowed things down nicely. Whatever I was narrowing down. Which might be something entirely unconnected with the missing – or not-missing – girl.

But whoever Brown was, he or she was significant enough to keep Slater sat around in the cold for an hour and twenty minutes like a felon casing a target, when a simple phone call could have done the job.

My gut feeling said that there was a connection to the missing girl. Her stepfather needed to talk to someone. Badly.

I didn't have much more to take to Gina Redding but I would put money on one thing.

Brown was a woman.