by Ann Granger
‘Yes, I do. I don’t think he’d claim he had if he didn’t and he seemed to know all about them. I know my dad never mentioned him, but why should he? Vinnie was sitting up there in Manchester turning out the quality loose covers and making a fortune out of the chintz and cretonne business generally. Dad was down here making one bad business decision after the other, probably regretting he hadn’t joined Vinnie when he had the chance. But then, I don’t know what capacity Szabo had in mind when he asked Dad up to Manchester to join the business. I don’t somehow think he was intending to make him a partner. Dad might’ve ended up driving his old footballing pal around town, wearing a chauffeur’s suit like Matson. Perhaps that’s why he declined the offer!’
‘He sounds a bit dodgy,’ said Ganesh, who said that about pretty well everybody.
‘Szabo? He’s a funny little guy. Lots of brains and a dab hand at business, that’s for sure. Thought the world of his wife and of course, the kid, Lauren. I don’t know, but it’s occurred to me . . .’
‘Go on,’ Ganesh urged when I stopped, embarrassed.
I put into words something I’d been mulling over. ‘All right. It’s occurred to me that perhaps Vinnie married a widow with a child because it seemed a good deal businesswise. I don’t mean he wasn’t nuts about them both – but it took some of the uncertainty out of getting married. She’d been married before. She already had a kid. He didn’t mention any other children so I don’t think they had any together. It was like, well, buying a package holiday. You know exactly what you’re getting.’
‘Hah!’ said Ganesh with feeling. ‘Usha and Jay bought a package holiday and got food poisoning.’
‘So there’s always a risk in any business! I’m just saying, Vinnie took the best option. I don’t imagine he’s ever been the type to sweep women off their feet! There was this young woman with a child, looking for a nice home and there was Vinnie, looking for a family. It worked out well. Everyone got what they wanted.’
Ganesh was looking dissatisfied. Chewing and waving a piece of naan bread at me to emphasise his words, he said indistinctly, ‘I still don’t see why he had to turn up like that and nab you. I understand the man’s desperate, but – don’t get me wrong – talking to you was really grabbing at straws.’
‘I think he only came to find me when he realised whose daughter I was. Szabo’s getting tired of waiting about for the police to pull the chestnuts out of the fire. He wants Lauren found, fair enough, and found quickly. And he’s used to doing things himself, his way, calling all the shots. More than that, he’s isolated. He’s come down from Manchester. London’s a place he left as a kid. He doesn’t know people here. This isn’t a situation where he can call in business favours and get things done. Suddenly, there I am, Bondi’s daughter. I’m almost family!’
‘I understand how he feels, but he could screw up the whole investigation,’ Ganesh said, still disapproving and scraping the rest of the chicken korma out of the foil tray on to my plate. It was kind of him to think of bringing meat for me. He’s vegetarian himself. ‘And how did he learn that you were a friend’s daughter? I mean, what made Parry send Szabo to you?’
‘Hah!’ I said darkly. ‘Wouldn’t we all like to know what Sergeant Parry’s up to? He’s got a nerve, setting Szabo on me! What did Parry expect me to tell Vinnie I haven’t already told the police? Does Parry think I’m holding out on him? I’ve already told them all I know and a fat lot they’ve done with the information.’
We sat in silence eating. Ganesh was deep in thought and I didn’t disturb the process because generally he’s good at figuring things out and exceptionally good at finding weak links in arguments, especially my arguments.
‘It seems to me,’ he said at last, ‘that you’re looking at this from the wrong point of view. That’s to say, from your point of view when you ought to be looking at it from Parry’s. What I mean is, I don’t think Parry thinks you’re not telling all you know. I think he thinks Szabo isn’t telling all he knows. I’m not saying Szabo is a crook. He probably just sails a little close to the wind sometimes and it’s not in his interest to tell the coppers all his business, right? At the very least, he’s probably got money offshore and the tax people are sniffing round.’
‘He likes privacy, he told me so,’ I informed him.
‘Exactly. Normally he’d probably go a hundred miles out of his way to keep the police or any other official authority out of his hair. Who’s to blame him? Look what happened to Hari. But now this girl, Lauren, has been kidnapped. Szabo’s had to open up and let the cops put their big feet over his threshold. But no more than he’s got to. He’s not letting them into the front room and offering them cups of tea. The police would like to know more about Szabo and just how it’s come about that his daughter’s locked in a cupboard somewhere while a couple of thugs put the squeeze on her family. Perhaps there’s a lead or a connection which is slipping by Parry because Szabo’s trying to be clever. The man wants his daughter found, but he’s a businessman, and he’s trying to cut a sort of deal with the police. He wants Lauren back but to give away as little as possible in return. Parry’s not using Szabo to shake you loose. He’s using you to shake up Szabo.’
‘Poor kid,’ I said. ‘As if she’s not in enough trouble, Szabo and Parry are playing silly games instead of getting together. I hope she’s not having too rough a time. She must be scared out of her wits.’
We sat in silence for a while, both of us aware of the brutal reality of Lauren’s situation. Some kidnappers, according to press reports of past cases I’d read, kept their victims prisoner in Dark Age squalor, locked in airless cupboards as Ganesh had just suggested, or even worse, boxed in coffin-like horror, possibly underground. No wonder Szabo was half out of his mind with worry. Even if they got her back in one piece, what sort of mental state would she be in?
I pushed all this gruesome speculation from my mind. It didn’t help Lauren and rescuing her was what we all ought to be concentrating on, that and nothing else.
What Gan had said made sense to me. I ought to know enough about Parry to realise he hadn’t sent Vinnie along to me without some dastardly plan behind it all. Never mind if I get the fright of my life, abducted by a goon into a motor with tinted windows, to be faced with someone I never saw before but who knows all about me.
Just you wait, Sergeant Parry, I promised myself. I can be very awkward about this. You weren’t told to do things this way at Hendon Police College. Or perhaps you were. Come to think of it, Parry had been rather clever for once. He couldn’t bully Szabo in the way he liked to bully people, so he had to manipulate the situation. Neat, Sergeant P., but, from my point of view, nasty. The boys in blue are a devious bunch.
‘God, Parry’s a creep,’ I said fervently.
‘Sure he is,’ said Ganesh. ‘But he fancies you something rotten.’
That startled me so much I dropped my plastic fork. ‘You’re barmy!’ I yelped.
‘No, I’m a bloke and I can read the signs. He gets that gleam in his eye when he sees you. Now he knows where you are, he’ll be back.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ I said.
‘Let me know if you want me to rush round and defend your honour.’ He started chortling away happily to himself.
to have you know I can look after myself!’ I snapped. ‘Parry? Parry? Parry waltzing round my bedroom reeking of aftershave and lust? I’d sooner face a firing squad!’
‘Well, they used to call it a fate worse than death!’ said Ganesh. He laughed so much he choked on a cashew. I had to thump his back until he yelled out for me to stop before I fractured his spine.
My unknown visitor came back that night.
Before going to bed, I had managed to convince myself that I’d imagined it all two nights ago. It was that sealed little bedroom, I’d told myself. Now I was sleeping out here in the living room, my mind wouldn’t be tempted to create wandering ghouls. Anyone lying in the subterranean room, listening to footsteps overhead, would be
bound to start making up scary tales. In this way, a late-night, homeward-bound stroller had stopped for a quiet ciggie and in my imagination I’d built it up into a Gothic novel.
Whereupon he proved me wrong. He came back. He even ventured a little closer. He came down the basement steps into the well and stood by the window. He couldn’t see in because I’d drawn the curtains and all the lights were out.
I woke up with a start and a sick feeling in my stomach that was fear, not indigestion. Even in my sleep I must have been aware of his approach. Now, as I sat up on the sofa hugging the duvet around me, I saw him.
To be exact, I saw his silhouette on the curtain, slightly distorted by a fold in the curtain. The lamplight outside the house shone down into the basement well and there he was. Not a tall man, not Merv certainly. A squat figure, burly, and somehow familiar. He stood still and silent for a moment or two and then he moved away. I heard his heavy footstep, wearing strong boots of some kind I guessed, as he reclimbed the steps. Then he must have walked off in the other direction, and not back past the basement well, because I heard only the faintest footfall and then, very distantly, a revving motorbike engine. But traffic noise out on the main road travelled at night and the two last things needn’t have been connected.
I went into the kitchen, got the bottle from the fridge and drank what remained of the wine Ganesh had brought. With the Dutch courage it provided, I wished I’d had the presence of mind to jump out of bed, snatch back the curtains and glare at him, eyeball to eyeball. Ten to one, it’d have scared him off. He was a prowler, a creeper in the shadows. He played out his fantasies in secret. He didn’t like to face his victim.
Victim? I tipped up the bottle but it was empty. Was I indeed to be a victim? If so, what sort? He could just be a nutter. There were people like that who went out at night and roamed about. They had given rise to tales of werewolves and vampires in ages past. Now we just knew them for psychos. But what could he want?
I ran through the possible variations on this theme. He might be a rapist. Basement flats were notoriously vulnerable to break-in. But I had a chain on the door and bolts on the windows.
Or he might be a burglar. But surely he didn’t think my place worth robbing? I ought to tell Daphne, though. He might think she had valuables around the place, or money. But I didn’t want to frighten her, that was the thing. If he were interested in the rest of the house, why hang about in the basement? If I were the sole object of his attentions, why trouble poor Daphne?
Did he know, I wondered, that I was aware of him? Tonight had he known that I’d woken and seen his shadow on my curtain? He hadn’t rattled at the window, trying it. So what the hell was he playing at? To frighten me? Was that his aim?
I raised the empty bottle to him in salute. ‘You’re doing a good job, friend,’ I said. ‘I’m frightened.’
I could tell Ganesh. But Ganesh would go berserk. I could tell Parry. No, things weren’t that bad.
I crawled back beneath the duvet, but I didn’t sleep much.
Dawn came at last and I fell asleep for a restless hour. I reawoke around six thirty and jumped off the sofa. I couldn’t afford to waste daylight. Not now. One thing not on my side was time – amongst all the other things which weren’t on my side, of course. Come to think of it, nothing was on my side.
If you added to that The Shadow hanging round the place at night, I didn’t lack good reason to get moving. But at least I now knew where to start looking. I showered, dragged on jeans and a sweater, and trotted off to St Agatha’s women’s refuge.
I can’t say I was feeling very chipper. But once away from the flat, the sheer normality of daily life all around encouraged me to believe I’d sort it all out somehow. Besides which, I had Szabo’s hundred quid in my pocket and being in funds is guaranteed to brighten the outlook. I hadn’t told Ganesh about the money. I knew he’d say I shouldn’t have taken it. He’d probably argue that I’d implicitly put myself under some sort of obligation to Szabo and that’s certainly what Vinnie intended. But I make my own rules.
There was some activity at the refuge this morning. They’d had a visitor of their own since I’d been there. Not content with just heavy breathing like my nocturnal caller, this one had kicked in the front door, which was off its hinges and leaning against the wall. A couple of carpenters were replacing the wooden panel. A skin-headed glazier, half his shaven skull tattooed with a spider’s web, was fixing the broken window, getting everything shipshape till the next time. Fixing up St Agatha’s must be like painting that Scottish bridge.
There was a transistor radio on the pavement blaring out pop music, and what with that and the sawing and hammering and the workmen all shouting at each other about football, it was bedlam.
I couldn’t get past the carpenters so I had to stand next to them and shout. ‘Excuse me!’
‘My pleasure, darlin’!’ said the younger one, all purple singlet, muscles, body odour and dirty blond locks tied back with a bit of ribbon.
‘He lives in ’opes, he does,’ said his mate to me, winking. ‘You want to go in there, do you?’
Oh yes, we’d got a quick thinker here! I was only standing on the step, trying to get past.
‘What’s up?’ enquired Purple Singlet. ‘Your old man give you a thick ear?’
‘I’ve just come to see a friend,’ I explained, hoping to shut him up. I edged past them both.
The radio had stopped blasting out pop and a presenter was waffling on about something. The shaven glazier burst out unmelodiously into song, informing the world he was forever blowing bubbles.
‘You don’t want to go in there,’ said the second carpenter. ‘Right funny lot in there.’
‘I wouldn’t mind getting in there,’ said Purple Singlet.
‘’E’s sex-obsessed!’ shouted the West Ham supporter from the windowsill.
‘Well, ’oo in’t?’ Purple Singlet justified his interests.
I left them arguing it out and managed to get past the damaged door into the hall.
The door to the dining room was shut, as was a door to my left. But the door to the right marked ‘Office’ was ajar and the rattle of a keyboard could be heard. I knocked.
As I’d been hoping, the dragon with the fright wig wasn’t on duty this morning. She’d been replaced by a motherly but competent-looking woman wearing a silk shirt, a drooping skirt and, yes, an Alice band securing faded fair hair. I knew where I was with this one. It was time to polish up the legacy of a good education (in my case, gone wrong, but that didn’t matter).
‘I’m terribly sorry to bother you,’ I said with a diffident smile.
‘Not at all,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Come in and do sit down. Just a moment, I’ll make a space.’ She swept a pile of papers from a chair. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens this morning, I’m afraid.’
‘Gosh, yes,’ I burbled. ‘I saw the damage. Frightful.’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ she reassured me. ‘Just a bit of a nuisance.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They will play that music.’
I sat on the chair, keeping my knees together as taught. ‘The reason I’ve come is that I’ve been terribly worried about a friend, well, an old schoolfriend, actually. I hadn’t seen much of her since I left school but I bumped into her a little while ago and we had a coffee and a sort of catch-up talk, you know?’
She was smiling and nodding, but her eyes were watchful.
I plunged on. ‘She didn’t seem to be awfully happy. She had some sort of man problem which she wouldn’t talk about. The thing is, she’s rather disappeared. I’ve asked for her all over the place and no one’s seen her. So I’ve started looking anywhere the least bit likely. That’s why I came here. Her name’s Lauren Szabo. She’s got longish hair and the last time I saw her she was wearing jeans and a sloppy sweater and had a hairband like yours.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the woman. ‘You understand we don’t give out names or personal details. We just can’t. We operate here on a principle of
trust.’
‘Oh yes!’ I breathed earnestly. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to! I just would be happy if I knew she’d been here and was safe.’
‘Well, yes . . . I do see your problem. The trouble is – ’
There was a rap at the door and Purple Singlet put his head round. ‘You know your frame isn’t square?’ he demanded.
I cursed him silently and tried telepathy to get him to clear off and sort out the crooked frame for himself. After all, he was the carpenter. But telepathy didn’t work.
‘We’ll have to plane the door down or it’s gonna stick, otherwise. All right?’
She looked flustered. ‘I’ll come and see.’ She turned to me. ‘Could you just wait a moment? Oh, um, not in here. Just come this way, would you?’
She led me past the carpenter, who winked at me and asked, ‘All right, then darlin’?’
‘Thank you!’ retorted my guide for me before I could answer. She scurried down the hall and opened the door to the dining room. ‘Please, if you don’t mind?’ She gestured at me to enter. ‘Back in two ticks!’ she promised, and shut me in.