The Invisible Ones (11 page)

I wonder when Hen is coming back to see me. Did he say? I’m sure I need to talk to him. Wasn’t there something I needed to tell him? Something about Rose . . . Something important but just out of sight, like a distant shore hidden by fog.

Then I remember it. And though Hen doesn’t know yet (how could I not have told him?), it doesn’t seem that important now, to tell the truth. It’s no match for the overwhelming desire to sleep.

It was all such a long time ago. After all, it’s not as though by finding her, I’ve saved her.

I’m far, far too late for that.

13.

Ray

It turns out to be off a slip road of the A32, not too far from Bishop’s Waltham in Hampshire. The road drops down behind a cutting, and there’s a half-hidden turning between overgrown hedges that leads toward a scrubby piece of woodland. A belt of evergreens planted as a windbreak ensures that passers-by will simply pass by. You have to drive through a narrow, angled opening to discover the paddock where the Jankos live. If I hadn’t been told the trailers were there, I would never have spotted them. I know this is farming land, privately rented; rather different from the council site where I met Kizzy Wilson. Here, the trailers—I count five—are arranged in a loose circle, tow bars outward. The large windows face one another, but small trees grow between them here and there—only the central space is clear, and there are signs of a fire. Other vehicles—a late-model BMW and a Land Rover—are parked behind the trailers. There must be other vehicles elsewhere, judging by large, deep wheel ruts in the mud. There’s a pile of bin bags next to where I have driven in, but otherwise it’s fairly tidy. There’s no sign of anyone. Not even dogs. But a small generator hums, and a smudge of smoke comes from the chimney pipe of one of the trailers.

I get out of the car, shut the door, and wait for something to happen.

A door opens in the largest trailer, bright with chrome and glossy paint, and a small, stout woman comes out. She is in her late fifties, with dyed black teased hair fluffed around her face and heavy tan makeup. She wears a brown-and-cream trouser suit and holds a cigarette in her hand.

“This is private land. No trespassers.”

“Hello. My name’s Ray Lovell. I’m looking for Ivo and Tene Janko. I was told they might be here.”

She looks me up and down for a moment or two.

“Yeah? Who told you that?”

“Tene’s sister, Luella.”

“Lulu? Christ! You’ve seen Lulu?”

“Er, yes.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Ray Lovell. Are you Mrs. Smith?”

Her mouth twitches—she obviously doesn’t want to answer. “What’s this about?”

“Well, it’s about . . . I’m trying to track down Rose Wood—Ivo’s wife.”

“Bloody hell. She’s not here, so you’ve wasted your time.”

“I know it was a long time ago. I’d just like to talk to them. I’m a private investigator. I’m talking to everyone who knew her.”

She seems to think about it for a minute: a minute in which she scrutinizes me carefully. She has doubtless registered my Gypsy name, but even without that, she could tell by looking at me. I think of what Leon said—how he was right: a
gorjio
wouldn’t stand a chance.

At last she says, “Hang on,” and goes to another of the trailers—the one farthest from the entrance. I look around at the others as I wait. The woman—who I assume is Kath Smith—came out of the most expensive trailer, and the largest. The one she has just gone into is older; a 1960s Westmorland Star about twenty feet long. The other two are smaller, and modest by comparison. I wonder if anyone else is watching me—there are usually plenty of people in a Gypsy site, lots of children and dogs— although I’ve seen no sign of either here. I’m curious, but I don’t want to
poke around too obviously. It would be rude, so I wait by my car until she reappears and tells me to come in.

Inside, I feel as though I’m stepping into another era.

The trailer is dim, the windows obscured by short net curtains, and there’s a faint odor of tar. The kitchen area is bleak, but the stove is lit, making it warm and stuffy. At the back, right in the middle of the bay window, an elderly man sits behind a fold-down table. He seems large for the space, or perhaps it’s the ornaments that make it feel crowded— the top cupboards are full of china and cut glass, and almost every inch of the wood-veneered walls is hidden by photographs, plates, and pictures.

“Please . . . don’t mind if I don’t get up—not so spry as I used to be.” Tene Janko has thick dark gray hair springing off his forehead and curling over his collar. Dark brown eyes, a pleasantly weathered face, and a heavy mustache. Deep lines around his eyes give him a look of good humor. He looks like a romantic painting of a Gypsy elder; a handsome, old Romany
rai
on the cover of a children’s book. I didn’t think anyone looked like that anymore.

From where he sits, he extends his hand to me and shakes firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Janko . . . Thank you.”

I ease myself onto the seat he indicates.

“Kath, let’s have some tea.”

He speaks without looking at her. She goes to the kitchen through the keyhole arch, and puts on a kettle.

“Perhaps Mr. Lovell fancies a nip.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine with—”

“Well, I do.”

Kath glares at her brother, bangs down the tea caddy, and goes out of the trailer.

Tene looks at me, elbows on the table.

“It’s a lovely trailer you’ve got here, Mr. Janko.”

“Thank you. I’ve kept it the way my wife had it, when she was alive.”

“Oh . . . I’m sorry to hear that . . .”

“So you’re a private detective. Never met one of those before.”

“You haven’t missed much.”

“Feel like I’m in the movies . . .”

“Well . . . it’s not that exciting, Mr. Janko.”

“Call me Tene.”

“That’s an unusual name.”

“An old family name. But you are a Romanichal, so not familiar with such names.”

“Well, my father settled. My mother was a
gorjio
.”

“But you’re still a Lovell.”

“Yes.”

“I thought all private eyes were ex-policemen, but something tells me you’re not. Nor ex-army, either.”

“No. I went to work for a private investigator after I left college. And liked it.”

“College? You’ve done well. Your daddy must be very proud of you.” “He’s passed away now. But he was, yes.”

“He was a postman, wasn’t he? Bart Lovell.”

I feel a mild shock, and pause to breathe slowly.

“That’s right. Did you ever meet him?”

Tene shakes his shaggy head.

“He wasn’t a one for the fairs, was he? Wouldn’t go to Epsom or Stowe, nothing like that.”

“No, well, he was a postman, as you said. He didn’t have much time for holidays.”

Tene nods.

“As for us, we’ve always kept on the road.”

“That must be hard, these days.”

He shrugs.

“So where is your family from? I don’t know the name Janko.”

“My granddaddy came over with the Kalderash in the last century. From the Balkans, what was still the Ottoman Empire then. But he forgot to go home. Got married to a Romanichal girl name of Talaitha Lee. And they said her mammy was a Lovell. So you see, we must be related.”

He smiles broadly. I take this as an indication that I am to listen to him with a large helping of salt.

“Could be.”

I smile, but I fear deep black blood cannot be far away.

“Girl’s father hire you, did he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose my client.”

He actually winks at me then, nodding. Like an actor in a silent film, all his gestures seem larger than necessary.

“Why now, ’s what I’m wondering. She’s been gone a long time.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more open about that. I’m just talking to everyone who knew Rose—which you did. And Ivo, of course.”

I wait for a bit, to see what comes up next.

“ ’Twas very sad, all that. Her leaving. We were all very sad. Terrible.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“I don’t. And if you told me she was standing outside this minute, I’d have nothing to say to her.”

“Could you tell me what happened?”

“Certainly. I don’t know what her daddy told you, but this is the truth— and who else would know? She ran off with a
gorjio
and left my son and my dear grandson, and we’ve never seen her since. Not hide nor hair.”

“When did this happen?”

“Six years ago . . . more or less.”

“It would help a lot if you could tell me what you remember about that.”

Tene shakes his head, wagging his shock of gray hair. There’s something leonine about him, almost regal. He stares out the window; painters would go wild for that profile.

“A very sad thing. What mother could go off and leave her child like that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Tene looks at me and grins.

“We should have hired you six years ago!”

“Did you ever try and find her?”

He shrugs.

“She ran off with another man. You can’t force people, can you?”

At that moment, Kath returns with a bottle and a tray. Richly painted and gilded china, a cut-glass bowl full of sugar lumps, and plates piled with Jaff a cakes. She puts the tray on the table in front of Tene and pours tea into shell-thin cups. She plonks the brandy in front of her brother and goes out again.

“And, of course, my grandson is afflicted. Afflicted from the day he was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Your sister Luella said something of the sort. What’s wrong with him?”

“One of those . . . blood things.”

“I don’t understand—one of those blood things?”

“A disease in the blood. He was born with it. There are others in the family who have suffered. There is no cure.”

He waves his hand, as if it’s too painful to talk about. He unscrews the brandy and pours a small glass for each of us.

“They come up with new cures all the time . . . thanks . . . so maybe, there will be.”

Tene nods, looking at the table. His face is tragic.

“It must be hard for all of you.”

“Yes. But we must follow our Lord’s example, mustn’t we? Bear our burdens without complaining. Not run away from them.”

“Is that what Rose did?”

“Some people don’t have the strength.”

“Can you remember the order of events? Exactly when she left? How old was the baby?”

He shakes his head with a deep, theatrical sigh.

“It would be a great help. For example, where were you pitched at the time? Was it near here?”

“I think it was maybe . . . It was winter. It was cold. It was a good stopping place, the Black Patch—before they sold it off. Yeah, that was it, up by Seviton.”

I nod, not knowing the exact place, but there used to be hundreds of stopping places on common ground, or private land owned by a tolerant farmer. Now, over the last twenty or thirty years, most have been swallowed up by developers building new houses. Or councils have got too nervy to let people stop, what with the locals on their backs all the time.

“When is your grandson’s birthday?”

“Twenty-fifth October. He was just a few months old when she went. Five months, four . . . something like that.”

“Was it evident by then, his illness?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. He nearly died. We had to take him to hospital.”

“And how long after that did she leave?”

“A couple of months . . . Maybe less? It’s hard to remember.”

I note this down.

“Had anything happened just before she ran off? Had she rowed with her husband?”

“That wouldn’t be for me to say. All I know is one morning she wasn’t there. Just went, leaving Christo, leaving all of us.”

“Christo’s your grandson? Did she take a lot of clothes? Personal possessions?”

“Well, I’m sure she took clothes. She wouldn’t’a gone bare, would she?” He bursts out laughing, as though simply referring to a woman’s nakedness is a shocking indiscretion.

“If someone takes a lot of possessions—clothes, money, personal items—they’ve usually planned it well in advance.”

“She took most of everything she had . . . Yes, she planned it, all right.”

I flex my writing hand to ease out the cramp.

“Can you remember the names of her friends? Acquaintances?”

Tene shrugs again.

“I can’t honestly remember. She used to borrow the car and go off now and again, but I don’t know where she went. Never met anyone, I don’t think.”

“Rose was a proper Romany, wasn’t she? A full-blooded Romany.”

“Yeah.”

“I believe she was a shy girl. She didn’t have a lot of friends, according to her family . . . I’m just wondering, where would she have got to know a
gorjio
?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lovell. But she did go off, after we found out about Christo; it was then. She couldn’t really cope. She must have met someone then.”

“But you thought it was a
gorjio
, not a Gypsy, isn’t that right? That’s what . . . your sister said. What made you think that?”

Tene leans suddenly toward me, his hand bunches on the table; it’s the first sign of aggression he’s shown. “If it was a Gypsy, we’d have known about it. We’d have heard. You know that. But there was nothing—so . . .”

He leans back and drains his glass in a final sort of way.

“You’re being very helpful, Mr. Janko, but I’d really like to talk to Ivo. Is he here?”

Tene shakes his head.

“He was broken when she left. All alone with that tiny baby. His dear mother had passed on by then, God bless her. What was he to do?”

“What did he do?”

Tene looks fierce again, the lion stretching out his claws.

“What a man does: he’s father and mother to the child. Bringing him up all on his own.”

“He hasn’t married again?”

Tene shakes his head.

“It’s hard for him. With a sick child. Ivo does everything for him. Christo is his life.”

I nod sympathetically.

“They live here with you?”

“It was terrible for him. There’s nothing he can tell you. He was asleep with the baby when she left. He kept waiting for her to come back. Not knowing—that’s the worst. If she’d’ve left a note saying she wasn’t coming back—that would have been better. He wouldn’t have had to wait for
months . . . years. Nearly drove him crackers. If you go and stir it all up again—I don’t want him going crackers. He’s the only parent that poor boy’s got.”