The Hollow Woman

by Philip Saunders

  What irked me was that I knew, instinctually, there was something my new, beautiful client wasn’t telling me.

  Then again in my line of business nobody told me the whole story.

  Chapter 5

  An hour later I was on the overground from Paddington to Ealing Broadway, where I have a property on Gordon Road, which I had inherited from my legal guardian, Samuel Whitaker, or as I more affectionately knew him as, Uncle Sam.

  It was a large, Victorian, three bedroom semi-detached house, which was excessive for one person to live in alone. So I decided, rather than sell it, to convert it into flats and rent them out to cover my business overheads but keeping the garage for myself, using it to store my car - something of a luxury in London.

  I collected my black Volkswagen Golf, put on my black, leather driving gloves, drove out of the city and crossed into the county of Hertfordshire, sat-nav programmed for Grahame’s address in Stevenage.

  Stevenage was a large, industrial town situated off the A1, and Grahame’s flat was located in the Old Town area, which didn’t look that old to me.

  I parked on a curved, residential road called Bowling Green, a few yards south of Grahame’s flat and the florist.

  The picturesque florist featured a green and white striped canopy, which had a white trim with “Florist on the Green” written on it, and its frontage was shrouded in Virginia Creeper. The store was aptly named being positioned facing directly onto a small park.

  I scanned the surrounding streets for Grahame’s car but the only Fiat Punto I saw was blue.

  I walked towards the florist and turned down the narrow, dead-end alleyway that ran along its side, which led to Grahame’s flat.

  I stood there, at the beginning of the alleyway, suddenly frozen to the spot. I broke out in a cold sweat and felt my heart rate increase, I realised I was having an anxiety attack. Fortunately, the combination of bright daylight and the end of the alley was visible, I was able to reason with myself and overcome my apprehensiveness, to venture down it.

  The squat, one-storey flat was attached to the rear of the florist but lacked the same aesthetic appeal. All that there was to see was a white door and one, long, rectangular window, which had a curtain drawn across it.

  Approaching closer, I realised the door was ajar and that there was a curiously bright light emanating from within. Still wearing my driving gloves, I cautiously stepped inside.

  A lamp, which had been knocked to the floor, exposing the bulb, starkly illuminated the small room that served as both lounge and bedroom.

  I crouched down, switched off the lamp and threw the curtain aside.

  The lounge-bedroom was a mess, to my experienced eye, this wasn’t sloth on Grahame’s part, the place had clearly been overturned by someone in a frenzied search of something or someone.

  ‘Hello?’ I announced myself. ‘Grahame?’ Silence.

  The room had large pieces of furniture crammed inside, making it feel smaller than it actually was. There was an off-white futon taking up the majority of space, a wardrobe, so colossal it was worthy of C.S. Lewis’ imagination, and a chest of drawers, which spanned the same length as the window above it.

  Crossing the debris strewn floor to the wardrobe, I stopped still when I heard a distinct cracking sound underfoot. I lifted my boot and saw that I’d stepped on a photo frame. I crouched down and picked it up. The shattered glass obscured most of the picture but I could make out two figures. My inherent curiosity inspired me to release the frame and remove the photograph.

  The picture was of Grahame and Rachel. Rachel looked fragrant in a white summer dress, sitting close to Grahame on a chequered picnic blanket, in what looked like the landscaped gardens of an imposing, red brick manor house, which was clearly visible in the background. I was no body language expert, but looking at them, I couldn’t help thinking that there was something strange about their closeness, they were closer than friends would be, that was sure, but it didn’t look natural, not posed as such but uncomfortable.

  I pocketed the photograph, kicked the broken frame underneath the futon and continued on with my search.

  Standing before the wardrobe, which towered above me, I gripped its handles, took a deep breath and then simultaneously yanked its doors open. Fearing the worst, I gave a sigh of relief not to discover Grahame inside, slumped down between his shirts, starring up at me with lifeless eyes and a slit throat.

  I continued to explore the rest of the flat. From where I stood, I could see two doors and a doorless arch leading off the lounge-bedroom.

  I pushed open the nearest door, which had been left ajar, and found Grahame’s study, which had also been ransacked.

  A smashed laptop lay at my feet. I crouched down and discovered that the MacBook Air had been damaged beyond repair. I was about to stand up, when I noticed, in the port, was a small, black USB. I smiled, slid it out and pocketed it.

  The vandal had tossed nearly every book off of the three, pine bookcases, creating a carpet of books. All of the drawers of the beautifully ornate, mahogany desk had been open, and the dark green, leather swivel chair, had been knocked over for good measure. Amongst the mess of papers on the desk, there were several weighty, leather-bound tomes, detailing obscure periods of history, and a dog-eared notepad, which, after briefly flipping through it, had captured Grahame’s every scrawled, nonsensical note.

  I went through the drawers, finding a red ring-binder in the bottom one. I opened the folder to find Grahame’s bank statements filed within. I looking at last month’s statement, I saw he had over twenty grand sitting in his current account. Running my finger down the amounts, there was one entry that made me pause, a transaction which piqued my interest, a payment made to the sweet tune of £5,220. The description read, Cassandra Goad.

  Who was Cassandra Goad? And why was he paying her just over 5k? Such a large and very specific amount, I thought. High class escort? Drug dealer? Blackmailer?

  I took a picture of the page before leaving the study. I went through the open doorway into the galley kitchen. Notably, the room had not suffered the trespasser’s wrath, which could only mean one of two things - they had found what they were after or their search had been unduly interrupted.

  Beyond the dirty pots and pans left to soak in the kitchen sink, there was nothing much else of interest.

  As I was exiting the kitchen, I spotted a calendar, with a dog theme, hanging on the wall. I scanned over the month’s dates and discovered that last Friday had “RS London” written on it. RS must be Rachel Sterling and they had met up in London that night. This seemed to confirm Rachel’s story. More curiously, the weekend of Grahame’s disappearance had been circled and “IA Combe Martin” written inside it.

  IA? Initials again, perhaps? Likely. Who was this IA? And, if it was a place, where on Earth was Combe Martin?

  Flipping back the pages of the last few months, I noted that IA appeared a number of times, just the initials, curiously no location. There was no CG recorded on the calendar.

  I took out my mobile and took a picture of the weekend entry.

  As I took the snap, the bathroom door flung open and a man, dressed all in black, clearly waiting within, saw me standing there with my mobile. Caught off-guard, the guy let out a scream and launched himself at me, grabbing my left shoulder and seizing my right arm, and the sheer momentum made me stagger backwards.

  Being close, face to face, I got a good look at the intruder. He was young, no older than seventeen, Chinese, with a single, silver stud earring in his left ear. He was far too lean and short to be muscle-for-hire and too healthy-looking to be a drug-addled chancer.

  His strength began to wane quickly and I overpowered the boy, pushing us apart. He smiled at me as he produced something from his pocket. I heard a click sound and a flash of metal - the teenager was holding a switchblade.

  Instinct took hold, as I saw him coming for me with the blade, like a fencer performing a lunge, I grabbed the fridge door, which was between u
s, and swiftly swung it open, effectively blocking his attack and bending his arm upwards. The surprise and impact of the fridge door resulted with the switchblade flying out his grasp. It fell on the laminate floor and I quickly kicked it away, taking it out of play.

  He kicked the fridge door shut and went to kick me, which I dodged, but because of his unpredictable, frantic actions, I did not see the punch coming. It wasn’t much of a punch but it was enough to piss me off, before I could throw a punch of my own, the intruder seized the handle of a frying pan, which had been sticking out from the sink, and began swinging it wildly in front of him. I ducked and dived and managed to miss two swipes but the third landed and sent me to the floor.

  I let out a groan as a hot sensation of pain reverberated around my head. Wary of the Chinese boy standing over me, with a switchblade somewhere in the room, I tried to get back to my feet as quickly as I could.

  Managing to stand upright, on the third attempt, tenderly touching the side of my head with my hand as I did, and a slight ringing in my ears, I found myself alone in the kitchen. The frying pan had been dropped on the floor, the switchblade was gone and so was the boy. Pressing my hand on my head a bit harder, as if to somehow magically suppress the pain that still swelled beneath it, I hurried outside, but from the alleyway, it was clear, the intruder had scarpered.

  Who was he? What had he wanted in Grahame’s flat? I put my hands on my hips, tilted my head back and closed my eyes, trying to silence the unanswered questions swirling around inside my mind, and began taking in deep breaths, fearing a possible concussion. I only allowed myself to indulge in more one final thought. I’m too old for this shit.

  Chapter 6

  Composing myself as best as I could, I decided to pay a visit to the florist and pump the tyrannical landlady, Hyacinth, for information. I pocketed my driving gloves, passed underneath the striped canopy, pushed open the door, which was affixed with an old-fashioned, brass bell, and braced my nostrils for a full-on floral assault.

  A middle-aged, morbidly obese, bespectacled woman draped in shades of purple sat behind a wooden counter on, what must be, a reinforced steel stool, tightly holding a paperback book, which she looked up from at the sound of the bell and straight at me.

  Using one stubby finger to slide her horn-rimmed glasses halfway down her upturned nose, I could feel her watching me like a hawk as I meandered aimlessly around the shop, pretending to browse the various assortment of blooms and bouquets, stalling for time to figure out a game-plan on how to tackle this battle-axe.

  As I passed by the front of the wooden counter, she closed her book and addressed me. ‘Can I help you, young man?’

  Before I opened my mouth, I happened to observe the front cover of book she had been reading, it was one of those trashy romantic novels, with a bare-chested, muscular, handsome pirate passionately embracing a sexy wench with a heaving bosom and torn dress, and inspiration struck.

  ‘I want to order a bouquet,’ I requested.

  ‘Any particular flower?’ The florist waved her hand around the store.

  ‘Make it a dozen red roses.’

  ‘Lovely. For somebody special?’ Hyacinth asked with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Very special.’ I ventured with, ‘I don’t know why, but I was passing by and had a sudden impulse to send her flowers, as a surprise, to make her smile.’

  She smiled at the romantic notion. I could tell I was beginning to win her over.

  ‘Can you arrange to send them to this address?’ I wrote out my office address in Paddington.

  ‘Certainly, sir. Would you like to leave a message?’

  I took a little bit of time before quickly scrawling, “Thinking of you always. With all my love”.

  ‘No name?’

  ‘I’d rather not use my name...’ I trailed off, cueing the busybody florist to raise her eyebrow again. I gave her what she craved and fabricated further. ‘We are not a couple. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Oh, a secret admirer, I see.’ Her hostility was beginning to melt under the heat of my phoney love story, which would hopefully make her drop her guard, enough for me to get some information on Grahame, so I decided to sell it a bit more.

  ‘I suppose you could say that.’ I took out my credit card. ‘We’ve been friends for a long time but she doesn’t know how I really feel about her. I’ve been working up the courage to tell her for a while now…’

  ‘How romantic,’ Hyacinth gushed and smiled at me. I knew then that I had her on my side, so I decide to gently broach the matter of Grahame.

  ‘I wondered if you could help me with something else,’ I attempted.

  ‘I can certainly try.’

  ‘I used to know someone, who I believe now lives around these parts, but, unfortunately, I lost contact with him quite a while ago.’

  She boasted, ‘Luckily for you, I know absolutely everybody in this neck of the woods. What’s the gentleman’s name?’

  ‘Grahame, Grahame Kingsley.’

  Her brown eyes widened at the mentioning of the name. ‘Why yes, I do know him, very well indeed. As a matter of fact, Grahame happens to be my tenant.’

  ‘Your tenant!’ I tried to feign astonishment. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘What are the chances indeed?’ The eyebrow went back up and she asked, somewhat guardedly, ‘How do you know him?’

  I didn’t miss a beat. ‘We used to work together, as financial analysts at Bloomberg, in the city, before he went off on his sabbatical.’

  These few details seem to tally with her, and quelled some of her initial wariness and helped loosen her tongue. ‘Grahame is such a nice young gentleman. Certainly the best tenant I’ve ever had.’

  ‘How is he doing? Still writing?’ I enquired innocently.

  ‘He’s very well. He’s currently working on his second novel.’

  ‘Can you tell me his address? Maybe I can pop in, whilst I’m here.’

  ‘Oh dear, I think he’s still away, it’s a terrible shame you’ve missed him.’

  ‘He’s gone away?’

  ‘Yes, on a romantic getaway to the countryside.’

  ‘He’s got a girlfriend?’ My surprise was genuine this time.

  She nodded. ‘Grahame met her online. I suggested a dating website to use, and I even helped him to fill out his profile.’ Hyacinth gave a triumphant smile, a matchmaker’s victory. ‘I’ve been on at him for a while to find himself a nice, single girl and settle down and, well, now he’s finally found one, and I couldn’t be happier for him.’

  Rachel hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend. If Grahame and Rachel were such good friends, why had he kept this from her? Fair enough if it was a casual fling, but this sounded more like a serious relationship - if they’d gone away together.

  ‘Good for Grahame.’ I asked, ‘What’s she like?’

  The florist shrugged. ‘I’ve never met her, and she’s never visited the flat - well, not that I’m aware of.’ I was positive that Hyacinth kept a vigilant watch. ‘He did show me a picture of her, briefly. She’s a blonde little thing. It won’t be long before he tells the other one to go to the Devil.’

  ‘The other one?’

  ‘There’s another woman, a raven haired hussy, who visits him often. She’s married, although you wouldn’t think it, the way she carries on, staying with Grahame, in the flat till well after dark, or parked just out there, sitting in her black Porsche, waiting for him, come rain or shine, sometimes for hours on end.’ Hyacinth shook her head with matronly disapproval. ‘He told me that they were just good friends.’

  ‘But you don’t believe him, that they were just friends?’

  ‘I like to think I know something about my own sex...’ Hyacinth leant a bit across the counter, as if to share a secret, and said, with a twinkle in her hazel eyes, ‘...And you mark my words, that woman is nothing but a common tramp.’ She expressed her venom with such heartfelt malice, that it made me wonder if Hyacinth was jealous of Rachel, her beauty, wealth, maybe even her close
relationship with Grahame, and that her hatred stemmed from that. ‘Only because I like Grahame, and as I said, he’s the best tenant I’ve ever had, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. However, if I had proof, then naturally it would be another story altogether. I simply would have to evict him, just on the principle of thing, you understand. I couldn’t condone such immoral behaviour to occur under my roof. I have a reputation to uphold in this community.’

  ‘Of course,’ I indulged her. ‘Do you take American Express?’

  We settled the delivery of the flowers, I paid and left the florist and walked back up the road to my car and prepared myself for the long slog back to London.

  Chapter 7

  Walking out of Paddington station, I was grateful that the sweltering sun had partially hidden its blinding face behind the clouds, granting Londoners with a small reprieve from the suffocating heat.

  On entering my office, which felt like I was stepping into a sauna, I immediately switched on the ceiling fan, opened all of the windows, unbuttoned my sweat-drenched shirt, kicked off my shoes and tugged off my socks.

  I was about to take off my jeans, when I felt my personal mobile vibrating in my pocket. I thought about ignoring it but when I saw who was calling, I changed my mind and answered it.

  ‘Hey boyo how’s you?’ It was good to hear that familiar, loud Irish voice.

  ‘Welcome back, Sean. How was the honeymoon?’

  He muttered something incomprehensible.

  ‘Sorry mate, I didn’t catch that.’ I perched myself on the edge of my desk, directly beneath the ceiling fan.

  ‘It doesn’t matter...Listen, Freddy, I’ve been sitting here, in my office, on my own, for a while, just thinking and looking out of the window, up on the 40th floor, let me tell you, its quite a view...’ He didn’t sound like his usual upbeat self, quite the opposite, and what he was saying made me concerned, ‘...Deciding whether or not I should call you.’