by Kevin Brooks
Evie put her hand on my arm. ‘Well, good luck with it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘What’s your mobile number?’ she asked, taking out her phone.
I gave her my number. She keyed it into her phone, waited for my mobile to ring, then ended the call.
‘You’ve got my number now,’ she said. ‘If you need any help with anything, just call me, OK?’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Me too.’
‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Yeah.’
14
It was just gone three o’clock when I got back to the office in North Walk. Courtney was still there, still trying to get the place cleaned up, and she didn’t seem too surprised to see me.
‘I thought you were going home,’ she said, giving me a knowing look.
‘Well, yeah,’ I muttered. ‘I was going to, but . . .’
‘You changed your mind?’
I smiled sheepishly. ‘I just wanted to have a quick word with John Ruddy. You know, the man who hired Mum and Dad?’
‘Right,’ she said, nodding. ‘So you went to the boxing club and talked to him, even though I asked you not to do anything without telling me first.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘You couldn’t help it?’
I shrugged.
She sighed. ‘You’d better tell me all about it then.’
After I’d told her everything I’d found out about Bashir Kamal, and showed her Dad’s preliminary report, Courtney spent a few minutes reading through the file, and then she just sat at her desk thinking quietly about things for a while. I didn’t interrupt her, I just waited.
Eventually she looked up and said, ‘What’s the registration number that Evie Johnson gave you?’
I read it off the palm of my hand.
Courtney took out her phone and said, ‘Why don’t you go and make us a cup of tea?’
I left her to it and went into the kitchen area at the back of the office. The cupboards had been emptied, the kettle was smashed, and all the teabags and coffee and stuff was scattered all over the floor. I crunched my way through the mess and went into the little bathroom at the back of the kitchen. The door had been kicked in, but everything else was still intact.
By the time I’d come out and gone back into the main office, Courtney had finished her phone call and was looking troubled about something.
‘What’s the matter?’ I said.
She sighed heavily. ‘That number you just gave me. The silver Audi . . .’
‘What about it?’
‘The registration record is restricted.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘All sorts of things, unfortunately.’
‘Like what?’
She blew out her cheeks. ‘Well, firstly, it means that the Audi isn’t registered on any of the normal databases, so it’s virtually impossible to find out who owns it. And the most likely reason for that is that it’s either a special operations police vehicle or it belongs to one of the security services.’
‘Like MI5, you mean?’
‘MI5, MI6, Special Branch, a Counter-Terrorism Unit . . . it could be any of them.’
‘So just before he went missing, Bashir was seen talking to two men who could be some kind of spies.’
‘Well, possibly, yes. But we’ve only got your friend Evie’s word for it that she saw him in the car. We’ve also only got her word for it that she’s got an incredible memory. And even if she has, and she did see him with the two men in the car, we don’t know for sure that they’re spooks.’ She sighed again. ‘The trouble is, if they are spooks, they’re going to know that someone’s been checking out their car.’
‘How are they going to know?’
‘They monitor everything. If someone’s trying to trace one of their vehicles, an alarm’s going to go off somewhere, and it’s not going to take them long to find out who’s been snooping around. And then they’re going to start asking questions.’ She looked at me. ‘The person I called will do his best to bluff his way out of it, but even if he doesn’t give up my name, it’s possible they’ll track me down through the phone records. And then . . . well, I don’t know what’ll happen then.’
‘At least we’ll know they’re spooks,’ I said.
‘How’s that going to help us?’
‘Knowledge is power.’
‘Yeah, but it can also get you into a whole load of trouble.’
I almost didn’t bother asking Courtney if she wanted to go and see Bashir’s parents with me. I suppose I just assumed that she’d tell me not to be so stupid, that we’d already got ourselves into enough trouble as it was, and that the only sensible thing to do was leave things alone and forget all about Bashir. But I was wrong. She didn’t say anything like that. All she said, after I’d finally summoned up the courage to ask her, was, ‘Yeah, why not?’
‘You think it’s a good idea?’ I said, surprised.
‘Probably not. But if we’re going to do this – and it looks like we are – we might as well do it properly. And besides, whatever I say or do, you’re going to go and see them anyway, aren’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Liar,’ she said, smiling. She picked up the preliminary report file, opened it up, and found Bashir’s home address. ‘They live at Beacon Fields. We’ll have to go in my car.’
Beacon Fields is a housing estate at the west end of Slade Lane. It’s not quite as big as the Slade Lane estate, and not quite as rough, but you still wouldn’t want to go there on your own.
‘Ready then?’ Courtney said. ‘We’ll lock up here and walk over to my place to get my car. You can leave your bike at my house.’ She looked at me. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘No,’ I said hesitantly. ‘It’s just . . . well, I was just thinking . . .’
‘About what?’
‘Bashir’s parents.’
‘What about them?’
‘Well, they might be . . . I mean, if they’re very traditional, you know, they might . . .’
‘Travis?’ Courtney said impatiently, staring at me with her hands on her hips. ‘Just spit it out, OK?’
I sighed, bracing myself for her reaction. ‘They might not like the way you’re dressed.’
A flash of anger crossed her eyes, and just for a second I thought she was going to start yelling at me, but it only took her a moment to realise that I had a point. The Kamals weren’t necessarily Muslim, but there was a fairly good chance they were. And if they were very traditional Muslims, and we wanted to talk to them in their home, it probably wasn’t a good idea for Courtney to turn up looking like a dancer in a rap video.
‘I’ll get changed before we go,’ she said.
15
Courtney didn’t say a word as we left her house and drove off towards Beacon Fields. She’d changed her clothes and was now wearing a short brown jacket with a brown knee-length skirt and a stuffy-looking light-grey blouse. Her hair was neatly tied back in a ponytail, and she’d even toned down her usually over-the-top make-up. She looked like a different person. And it was quite obvious that she hated it.
I resisted the temptation to say anything for as long as I could, but as we swung round the roundabout at the bottom of Magdalen Hill, I couldn’t hold back any longer.
‘You look really smart,’ I told her.
‘Shut up, Travis,’ she said, not amused.
‘No, really,’ I went on. ‘It suits you. You should dress like that more often.’
‘You’re not funny, you know.’
I smiled. ‘You should have worn a pair of glasses too. You know, those smart designer frames they’re all wearing these days. They’d look really good on you.’
‘Do you want to walk the rest of the way?’ she said, slowing the car.
‘All right,’ I said, holding up my hands. ‘I won’t say anything else, I promise.’
> As she speeded up again, I could see her trying to hide a smile.
I kept quiet for a while then, just looking out of the window at the passing streets, letting random thoughts float around in my head. It was a pleasant afternoon now. The heaviness and humidity had lifted, the air was clear, and the sky was bright with a pale summer sun. It felt really nice for a minute or two – driving along in the afternoon sunshine, the windows open, the summer streets busy with traffic – but after a while all I could feel was a big hole in my heart where Mum and Dad should have been. I wanted to be in a car with them, enjoying the sunshine with them, going somewhere nice with them. I wanted to be with them. I wanted them more than anything else in the world. But they were gone. And there was nothing I could do to bring them back.
Nothing.
The sun would never shine on them again.
‘Are you all right, Travis?’ Courtney asked quietly.
‘I can’t stop thinking about Mum and Dad.’
She glanced at me, looking concerned. ‘Maybe we’d better leave this for now. We can always—’
‘No, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’d rather be doing something than just sitting around at home, you know?’
‘Sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK.’
I looked out of the window again. We were heading along Slade Lane now, about a kilometre or so from Beacon Fields. In the distance up ahead, I could see the grey houses of the estate shimmering in a haze of heat.
‘I’d better use the sat nav when we get to the estate,’ Courtney said, reaching up to turn it on. ‘Driving around Beacon Fields is a nightmare. What’s the address again?’
I looked in the file. ‘42 Roman Way.’
As she keyed it into the sat nav, a memory of Mum and Dad flashed into my mind. It was the day of the car crash. Dad was getting out of his car with his sat nav in his hand, and Mum was saying to him, ‘I’m not having that thing in my car.’
‘We’re driving into the middle of London,’ Dad had said. ‘You know what the roads are like—’
‘I don’t care,’ Mum had told him. ‘I’d rather get lost than use one of those.’
Then Courtney’s sat nav piped up – In 400 metres, turn right – and the memory faded.
But as I glanced up at the map on the sat nav screen, something else flickered briefly into my mind, something that seemed to mean something. I closed my eyes for a second, trying to get hold of it, but it had already gone. I knew there was no point in trying to get it back. It was one of those elusive feelings that you just have to let go, because the more you chase after them, the further they float away. So I just let it go, hoping it would come back when it was ready, and turned my mind to something else.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I said to Courtney.
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘What’s going to happen to Delaney & Co now?’
‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It depends what arrangements your mum and dad made. When they took over the agency from your grandad, they insisted that he stay on as a partner, even though he wasn’t directly involved in the business any more. So I suppose their share of the business will go to him.’
‘Does that mean Grandad owns it?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So, if he wanted to, he could keep it open.’
‘He retired a long time ago, Travis.’
‘He still knows what he’s doing.’
‘I know. But he found it hard enough running the business on his own before, and he was twenty years younger and stronger then.’
‘He wouldn’t have to run it on his own. You could help him.’
‘Me?’ she said, taken aback.
‘Why not? You’re smart, you know the business, you’re good at it.’
‘Well, that’s nice of you to say, but it’s not really up to me.’
‘You’d like to do it though, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course I would. I’d love it.’
‘The only thing is . . .’
‘What?’ she said.
‘Well,’ I said seriously, ‘Grandad’s a bit old-fashioned in his ways.’
‘So?’
I looked at her. ‘If you worked for him, you’d have to dress like that every day.’
She laughed.
I smiled.
Just for now, everything felt all right again.
16
The Kamals’ house was pretty much the same as all the others houses on the estate – grey, pebble-dashed, with net curtains in the windows and a small front yard.
‘Let me do the talking, OK?’ Courtney said as we went up to the door.
‘You’re the boss,’ I told her.
She gave me a serious look. ‘I’m going to have to explain what happened to your mum and dad. Are you going to be all right with that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sure?’
I nodded.
She rang the bell, and after about ten seconds the front door inched open and a woman’s face appeared in the gap.
‘Yes?’ she said warily.
Courtney smiled at her. ‘Mrs Kamal?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Courtney Lane,’ she said. ‘And this is Travis Delaney. We’re from Delaney & Co. I believe you spoke with Mr Delaney recently regarding the whereabouts of your son.’
‘He’s not here,’ she said, starting to close the door. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t help you.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Kamal,’ Courtney said gently. ‘We’re not here about your son.’
Mrs Kamal hesitated. ‘What do you want?’
‘Well, unfortunately, Mr and Mrs Delaney passed away a few weeks ago,’ Courtney said, lowering her voice. ‘It was very sudden. A road traffic accident.’
‘Oh, my,’ Mrs Kamal said, glancing at me. ‘How terrible. I’m so sorry.’
Courtney nodded. ‘All we’re doing at the moment is going through some of their unfinished cases, trying to clear up a few loose ends. It’s just routine paperwork, Mrs Kamal. Nothing to worry about. So if you could possibly spare us a few minutes of your time, we’d very much appreciate it.’
Mrs Kamal hesitated again for a moment or two, thinking over what Courtney had just told her. Then she unlatched the security chain on the door and showed us inside.
We followed her into a small front room, and she asked us to sit down. It was a neat and tidy little place, everything spotless and clean, but it felt peculiarly lifeless. The net curtains filtered out most of the sunlight, and as I looked around, my eyes adjusting to the gloom, I realised that everything was old and worn out – the furniture, the wallpaper, the carpet. Even the net curtains were yellowed with age.
As Courtney took out a small notepad and a pen and began asking some questions, I sat there quietly and concentrated on Mrs Kamal. She was about forty, I guessed. Dark eyes, dark hair, a tired-looking face. She was wearing a traditional Pakistani dress and silky trousers.
Although she’d become a little less wary since Courtney had assured her that we weren’t here to talk about her son, she was still far from relaxed, and I could tell she was worried about something. Courtney was aware of her anxiety too, and she was being very careful not to push her too hard. When she asked her what Dad had been to see her about, and Mrs Kamal told her that it was all a misunderstanding, and that Bashir wasn’t missing at all but had simply gone to Pakistan to look after his grandmother, Courtney didn’t take it any further. She just made a few notes and pretended to accept Mrs Kamal’s story.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘So in this case there wasn’t actually anything to investigate.’
‘Nothing at all,’ Mrs Kamal said. ‘As I said, it was just a misunderstanding.’
Courtney smiled. ‘Was that the only time Mr Delaney came to see you?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t contact you again?’
‘No.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘What a
bout him?’
‘Was he here when Mr Delaney talked to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘At work.’
Courtney made another note in her pad. ‘Do you know if Mr Delaney ever contacted him again?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘OK,’ Courtney said, nodding. ‘Well, I think that’s about all for now, Mrs Kamal . . . oh, just one more thing.’ She turned to me. ‘Have you got those pictures, Travis?’
I gave her the printout, then took out my mobile, opened up the photo of the man at the funeral, and passed her the phone.
Courtney turned back to Mrs Kamal. ‘If you wouldn’t mind having a quick look,’ she said casually, holding out the phone for her to see.
‘What is this?’ Mrs Kamal said, looking cautiously at Courtney.
‘Please?’ Courtney said. ‘It won’t take a second.’
Mrs Kamal sighed, then lowered her eyes and looked at the photograph of the man at the funeral. She tried very hard to hide her surprise, but it was immediately obvious that she recognised him. Her mouth opened then closed, her eyes went still, and her shoulders tensed.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, avoiding Courtney’s eyes as she passed back the phone. ‘I can’t help you. Now, if you don’t mind—’
‘What about the men in this picture?’ Courtney said, showing her the printout. ‘Do you recognise any of them?’
‘No,’ Mrs Kamal muttered, shaking her head. ‘I’ve never seen them before.’
She hadn’t even looked at the picture. She was very edgy now – sitting up straight, her eyes darting all over the place. She wasn’t just nervous, I realised, she was frightened.
‘Well, thank you very much for your time, Mrs Kamal,’ Courtney said, passing me the phone and the printout. ‘You’ve been very helpful. And I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.’ She smiled. ‘We’ll leave you in peace now.’
Mrs Kamal nodded.
Courtney looked at me. ‘OK, Travis?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, grimacing slightly. ‘I just need to . . .’
‘What’s the matter?’