Songs in the Key of Death (10 page)

The client left at last after an exchange of money and a flurry of cheek-kissing. Anitra came and sat beside Birtles, kicking off her shoes and slipping into a pair that looked less like they had been built by a custom-car maker. “Bless his heart,” she said, “he’ll never be a dancer but it keeps me working.”

“What’s your good news?” Birtles asked, putting on a smile.

“You look tired. Are you all right?”

“You said it was special.”

“They’re making me manager here. That means I’ll get a regular salary in addition to the fees for my lessons.”

“Congratulations.” She was expecting to be kissed. He leaned towards that rouged cheek, inhaled the lilac scent, kissed her. That was the trouble—she was warm and soft and if he wasn’t careful she would become a part of him and then she would leave or die and that part would be torn out without benefit of anaesthetic.

“I think you should let me treat you to dinner,” she said.

“Never refuse a free meal.”

They went next door to the Taj Mahal and ordered onion bahjis, Madras curry and chapatis, and a bottle of white wine. Late in the meal, Birtles found the courage to say: “Barbie wasn’t there this morning. Her room was empty, everything gone as if she’d moved out. But she’d never do that without telling me.”

“I knew something was the matter. When is she supposed to leave for Canada?”

“End of next week.”

“No note in her room? Nothing?”

Birtles took the crumpled envelope out of his pocket and put it on the table. “I found this.”

“Hotel Candide.” Anitra studied the few grains of leaf. “Looks like something the kids smoke.”

“I suppose so. They tell me it’s no worse than this.” He drank some wine. “I’m wondering if it’s a clue to where she might have gone. The envelope, I mean.”

“Are you thinking of calling the police?”

“They wouldn’t want to know. A girl Barbie’s age, they’d assume she’s gone off with friends. Especially since she’s saved up a pile of money and had a trip planned.”

“How much has she saved?”

“Over six hundred pounds. It was all in traveller’s checks. She was ready to go.”

Anitra poured the grains back into the envelope. “Where do you suppose she got this?”

“I’m not sure. There was a girl came to see her the other day but she didn’t stay long. A girl from up the hill in the village. Barbie told me her name—Lucy Feather.”

Birtles remembered the girl’s arrival at the front door one morning a couple of days ago. Barbie was still in bed. “I’m Lucy Feather. Did Barbie tell you I’d be coming by? She has a book I’d like to borrow.”

“Yes, she mentioned you. Come in, you may have to wake her up. It’s the door at the end of the hall.” Birtles watched the movement of her skintight jeans. She was a solid girl with hair three shades of blonde. Her tweed jacket was expensive; she was not one of the dole-queue layabouts who comprised most of Barbie’s list of friends.

Birtles went into the kitchen. Through the wall he heard their voices but not their words. The conversation was not exactly amicable. Barbie’s final statement sounded like an invitation for Lucy Feather to get the hell out of there.

The bedroom door slammed. Birtles hurried into the hall and accompanied the visitor to the front door. “Got it, thanks.” She waved a paperback at him—he recognized it as an in-depth report on a psychopath named Eric Merlot who had drugged and murdered a dozen young travelers in the Far East over a period of years.

When she was gone, Birtles had rapped on Barbie’s door and put his head inside the stuffy room.

“Everything O.K.?”

The curly head turned on the pillow and Barbie gave Birtles that reassuring, almost patronizing smile that reminded him of his mother. Who was forty-eight and who was nineteen here? “She wants me to go to India with her instead of Canada. I told her no thanks.”

“I heard you.”

“All right, I told her to get stuffed. I don’t get my kicks from catching dysentery.”

“I though she was a friend.”

“She’s crazy. Her parents threw her out of the house and she came back when they were out and set fire to her room. I can do without friends like her.”

Anitra spooned up syrup from her dish of lychees as she listened to Birtles’ account of the Lucy Feather visit. At the end, she said: “Is it possible she persuaded Barbie to go with her after all?”

“I doubt it.”

“Kids are impulsive. They might have got high last night and decided to head east. Maybe there was a coach leaving late, or somebody with a car. Barbie didn’t want to wake you, so she got her stuff and took off. As soon as they come to a phone, she’ll get through to you.”

“It’s a theory. But it doesn’t sound like my daughter.” Birtles smoothed the envelope and studied the hotel address by the light of the small candle in its red globe.

“All right,” Anitra said, “I know what’s on your mind. Come on, I’ll drive you to Inverness Avenue...”

Thanks to some fine defensive driving by other motorists, Anitra Colahan made the trip safely. She controlled her second-hand Mini like a rally driver, shoulders up, hands locked on the wheel at the “ten minutes to two” position, and the choreography of her feet on and off the pedals was constant. Birtles braced himself, one hand on the door handle, the other flat against the dash.

“Relax,” Anitra said. “Everything’s under control.”

“Let me out at the traffic lights. I’ll get a taxi.”

“All right, I’ll slow down.” She sulked for a few blocks but couldn’t contain her aggression any longer than that. Soon she was cutting in and out again, carving up the passive drivers.

Inverness Avenue turned out to be a short street of Edwardian houses not far from Kensington Gardens. Almost without exception, the buildings had been converted into hotels. Anitra found the Candide and parked across the road.

“What do we do now?”

“I’m going to go in and ask a few questions.”

“O.K., I’ll wait.”

“Thanks, but there’s no point. If I get no joy from the desk clerk, I’m going to hang around and watch the place.”

“More fun for two to watch than one.”

“No, really, I’d rather wait alone.” He had an idea how to persuade her. He took his key from his pocket and handed it to her. “Go home to my place and wait for me. If Barbie phones like you said, you’ll be there to take the message.”

He watched the Mini gun down the street and swing abruptly onto Bayswater Road, then he crossed over to the hotel, pushed open the glass door, and went inside. The lobby was simply the former living room with a narrow reception desk added. The rest of the furniture looked like the original pieces. Through a doorway he could see a bar in the adjoining room.

The desk clerk was a young Asian in a pale-blue suit, white shirt, and maroon bow tie. “Sir?”

“I’m looking for a Miss Barbara Birtles. Could you tell me if she’s registered?” He spelled the name while the clerk ran down the guest list. When they drew a blank, he asked for Lucy Feather but she wasn’t staying at the hotel, either.

“Is it all right if I buy a drink in your bar?”

“We welcome the public, sir.”

Birtles went next door, ordered a large whisky, and took it to a seat where he could watch the foot of the staircase in the lobby. His mind began to wander—so far that he almost missed the girl when she appeared. It was the splendid thighs in tight, expensive denim that caught his attention. Lucy Feather was in the lobby, holding out her hand, waiting for someone to come down the stairs and join her.

The companion turned out to be a Eurasian, one of the most handsome men Birtles had ever seen. He was in his early thirties, lean and muscular in white slacks and an open-necked shirt. His black hair swept in a wave across his broad forehead above widely spaced almond eyes.

It was the color of the eyes that shook Birtles. In that creamy coffee face, they were a pale, transparent blue. Birtles could have believed they were contact lenses worn for some spectacular stage effect. The man clasped hands with Lucy and they went out into the gathering darkness.

His heart pounding, Birtles tossed back his drink and hurried after them. They were walking not far ahead, the Feather girl in flat shoes, her hips rolling provocatively, her loose-limbed companion padding beside her like some jungle animal. He stopped an approaching stranger, an American-looking youth, and said something. The young man produced a lighter and put a flame to the Eurasian’s cigarette. Birtles noticed the American’s face as he continued on and thought he looked dazed, as if he had been spoken to by a movie star. It must have been those eyes.

The couple went into a pub on the corner. Birtles gave them a minute to settle themselves, then followed them in. They were still at the bar. He worked his way through at the far end and ordered a pint. By the time it had been pulled and paid for, they were sitting on an upholstered bench, part of an island arrangement in the middle of the room.

Birtles was able to find a place to sit where his back was to them. He could make out only part of what was being said. The Eurasian had a quiet voice; his remarks to Lucy Feather came across as those of a patient father handling a difficult child. “It can be done,” he said at one point. “Anything can be done.” And later: “Isn’t it enough just to go and let them wonder?”

Lucy’s voice rose after a few minutes. “No, I can’t. I was riding her a couple of days ago. You’ll have to.”

He felt his stomach tighten. A few days ago she was in his daughter’s room, he had heard the hectoring voices through the wall. Was that what Lucy was referring to—had she been riding Barbie, nagging her about going to India? If so, what was it her companion would have to do?

Birtles stood and carried his glass on a wide circle so that he approached them from the bar. He managed to look surprised when his eyes met Lucy’s, and before anything was said he slipped onto the bench beside her.

“Hello, Lucy. You don’t recognize me. I’m Norman Birtle’s, Barbie’s father.”

“Yes, of course.” She was nervous. Her big, moist lips grimaced over perfect teeth. She tossed her head and her bound-up hair shook like a horse’s mane. “This is my friend, Ezra Monty.”

Monty gave Birtles a warm handshake. The blue crystal eyes met his and Birtles felt penetrated. He felt studied and stripped down and emptied out, but the surprising part of it was he didn’t mind. A lot of casual conversation was going on and he couldn’t have remembered a word of it.

“Well,” Lucy was saying as he began to emerge from his stupor, “funny to run into you here. Quite a coincidence.”

“I used to live around here,” Birtles improvised. “I come back sometimes to see the old neighbourhood.” They knew he was lying. There was an attentiveness around the table and Birtles imagined heads lifting in the jungle, nostrils sniffing the air.

“I’m worried about Barbie,” he said to Lucy. “She left home the other night. I woke up in the morning and she was gone. With all her stuff.”

“I understood she was leaving for Canada.”

“Not till next week. And she’d never go without saying goodbye.”

“Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she just decided to go.”

“Silently?” Birtles demanded. “In the dead of night?” He implied it was the sort of thing Lucy Feather might do to her parents, but not his daughter.

Monty leaned across Lucy and touched Birtles on the arm. “I understand your concern,” he said. “I have many contacts in all sorts of places, I travel a good deal. Barbara Birtles—Lucy will give me a description. I’ll put out the word. Don’t worry, sir. We’ll find your daughter.”

It was an incredible sensation—Birtles felt as if a heavy load had been lifted from him. Ezra Monty was in charge and everything was going to be all right.

“And now”—Monty glanced at a sliver of gold in his wrist—“we have something we must attend to. Lucy?”

They were on their way out the door when the spell wore off and Birtles realized he mustn’t lose them. More than ever, he sensed there was a link here with Barbara. He tried to drink some beer, almost choked on it, got up, and hurried out onto the dark street.

The couple were climbing into a car a short distance up Inverness Avenue. Birtles lurked in the pub entrance and watched them drive away with Lucy at the wheel. When they turned onto Bayswater Road and headed west, he began looking for a taxi. A car horn tooted, attracted his attention. It was Anitra in the Mini, cruising slowly toward him.

He climbed in beside her and slammed the door. “Bless your heart, I told you to go home.”

“I thought you might need help.”

“Turn right.” She turned, causing a double-decker bus to brake and sound its horn. “There’s a black Volvo ahead, can you see it?”

“In this traffic?”

“It’s Lucy Feather and her boy friend. I talked to them in the pub. I have a feeling they’re hiding something.”

After driving as far as Notting Hill, Anitra said, “They could have gone anywhere. They might be on the way to the airport.”

“I didn’t see any luggage. They may be going to her place. Stop here.” Birtles ran to a call box and checked the telephone directory. He found a Feather listed on Southside Common in Wimbledon. Back in the car, he gave Anitra the address and she took off. “Do me a favor,” he said. “Keep me alive for a while longer.”

Anitra’s ability to cover the ground brought them to the Feather residence in record time. It was a three-storey gabled house that bespoke generations of money, probably starting with dividends from the East India Company. There was no black Volvo in sight.

“It was Heathrow like I said,” Anitra predicted.

“Once around the Green,” Birtles told her.

She took it easy and when they turned back onto Southside the Volvo was there. Anitra pulled over, engine off, lights out. Lucy got out of the car ahead and Ezra Monty followed, both easing the doors shut.

“Why are they acting like that? Isn’t it her house?”

“It could be anything,” Birtles said. Their movements as they left the car and crept down a laneway beside the house filled him with fear. They were like a military patrol out to silence an enemy position. During the drive he had told Anitra about the conversation in the pub. Now he said: “They might even have Barbie locked up here.”