by Ann Granger
The room smelled of stale vegetable water and old grease mixed with the vinegary aroma that scouring powder manufacturers call ‘lemon-scented’. I sat down at the table wondering what they were all going to have for dinner that evening and glad I wasn’t going to be eating it myself.
The door creaked and I turned my head. It opened slowly. I waited. There was a scuffle on the other side and a child put her head round.
‘Hullo,’ I said.
‘What are you doing?’ asked the child suspiciously.
‘I was told to wait in here,’ I said truthfully.
It seemed a satisfactory explanation. She came in and closed the door. She appeared to be about nine, with a round, wary, tough little face and straggling brown hair. She wore a sleeveless denim pinafore dress, which was too big, crumpled off-white socks and black PE plimsolls. She climbed up on the dining chair at the head of the table, leaned her elbows on the scarred table-top and surveyed me closely.
‘You’ve got no bruises,’ she said reproachfully, as if I’d failed some test.
‘Yes, I have,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a bruise on my back and on my arm, as it happens.’ I pushed up my sleeve to display the imprint of Szabo’s chauffeur’s fingers.
But it wasn’t judged good enough. She sniffed scornfully. ‘That’s nuffin’. My mum’s got a broken arm. Gary, her boyfriend, he bust it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What’s your name? I’m Fran.’
‘My name’s Samantha,’ she said with dignity. ‘I was named after a Page Three girl.’
‘It’s a pretty name. So you and your mum, you’re here because of your mum’s friend.’
‘I never liked him, I never liked Gary,’ she confided. ‘I liked the boyfriend she had before. He was called Gus. He could make all his fingers crack, like this . . .’ She tugged fiercely at her small fingers but, disappointingly, they refused to crack. ‘She should’ve stayed with Gus. He had a job and everythin’.’
Clearly we had here a budding Agony Aunt. And perhaps she was right, at that. Being able to crack your fingers is an achievement of sorts. Not everyone can do it, after all. Throw in a steady job and I was inclined to agree that Samantha’s mum had been unwise to leave Gus for violent, workshy Gary.
Then I remembered the brief discussion between the workmen. Gary probably had the charisma of a pop star and, when he wasn’t belting the living daylights out of a girlfriend, was the life and soul of the party. While poor old Gus had sat there evening after evening, cracking his fingers, before turning in early because he had to get up to go to work in the morning.
I just hoped Samantha here remembered all this when she grew up. It might be better to phrase that ‘when she grew older’ since she appeared to have grown up already.
‘Whatya doing here?’ she asked shrewdly. I wasn’t battered enough to be a genuine refuge-seeker. I had to be after something else.
I glanced at the door. It was taking the woman a long time to sort out the carpentry problem, but this might be to my advantage.
‘I’m looking for a friend,’ I said. ‘Have you been living here long, Samantha?’
‘For a bit.’ She looked vague. ‘We bin here before, lots of times. I don’t know how long we’re staying this time.’
‘My friend’s name,’ I prompted, ‘is Lauren.’
‘Oh, she’s not here no more,’ Samantha said immediately.
I fairly jumped off the chair in triumph. So Lauren had been here! But there might be more than one Lauren.
I said tentatively, ‘My friend’s got long hair and an Alice – hairband – like that woman in the office wears on her hair.’
‘That’s Miriam in the office,’ said my informant. ‘Lauren had one of them on her hair. I’d like one too,’ she added, her gaze growing thoughtful. ‘Do you think my hair’s long enough?’
‘Yes, I should think so,’ I assured her. ‘When did Lauren leave?’
‘Dunno,’ she said vaguely.
‘Did she stay long?’
Samantha frowned. ‘She didn’t stay. She didn’t live here. She used to come in and help out – ’
The door opened and Miriam reappeared. Seeing Samantha she halted and exclaimed, ‘Oh!’ Then she rallied. ‘What are you doing in here, Sam? Your mum’s looking for you. Go on, run along, dear!’
Samantha slid off her chair. ‘Goodbye,’ she said to me politely. She trotted past Miriam into the hall and could be heard there, equally politely greeting someone else. ‘Hullo. What you doing here? They don’t let no men in here! You a boyfriend?’
‘No,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I’m a policeman.’
‘Oh, one of them,’ chirped my small pal dismissively.
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
Chapter Ten
They taught us all about entrances and exits when I was a student of the dramatic arts. A good entrance is important, but a good exit is really something. Shakespeare’s ‘Exit, pursued by a bear’ is a good one. But on balance, and without boasting, I’d say not as good as the exit made by Sergeant Parry and me from St Agatha’s refuge. That was exceptionally dramatic. That would’ve had ’em on the edge of their seats and without a pantomime animal in sight.
Once he’d caught sight of me chatting peaceably to my little friend Samantha, Parry had stormed into the dining room in fouler than usual mood.
‘Get the kid out of here!’ he’d snapped. Unnecessarily, as it happened. Poor little Samantha had already learned when it was time to disappear and had nipped down the hall and scuttled away upstairs out of reach of his anger.
‘All right, Fran!’ he’d continued. ‘I might’ve guessed it’d be you. You’re leaving now, right?’
‘I’ve not concluded my business here,’ I said with dignity because one shouldn’t lower one’s standards to match this sort of thing. They taught us that at school. A lady acts with calm and poise no matter what the circumstances. She doesn’t descend to exchanging vulgar abuse, not even with the police.
The woman with the drooping skirt, who’d been through the same kind of social schooling only in her case with better result, was looking equally askance at his manners. She stood ramrod straight by the door, her bosom quivering while she made little disapproving clucking noises, just as if she hadn’t phoned him to come over, which she clearly had.
‘Oh yes, you have!’ Parry snarled to me.
‘Oh no, I haven’t!’ I couldn’t resist.
But Parry has no sense of humour. He grabbed my elbow in the manner recommended for arresting officers. He then frogmarched me past the snitch in the doorway, down the hall and through the gap where the front door had been removed. Out into the street we shot, linked like Siamese twins, and there the fun really started.
The workmen, all three of them, must have marked Parry down as a copper when he arrived. I think it’s the purposeful way they walk that betrays plainclothes officers. Either that or the fact that no one but a plod in mufti would emerge in daylight wearing a sports jacket like the one Parry had. So they were curious, and ready for us, when we emerged.
‘Oy! Whatcha doin’ with the little lady?’ demanded Purple Singlet aggressively, barring our way.
The older carpenter asked sternly, ‘You got a warrant, mate, or what?’
The skinhead glazier hopped from his ladder in happy anticipation of a chance to put the boot in. I noticed he’d also slipped a chisel in his back pocket and this worried me. I foresaw having to throw myself across the wretched Parry to save him. The picture didn’t appeal.
Parry turned a clashing red to his moustache and yapped, ‘Out of the way, please!’
All three stayed put. ‘What’s she done?’ asked Purple Singlet. ‘You taking her down the nick, or what? Here, let go of the poor little mare’s arm before you dislocate her perishing shoulder. Pick on someone your own size.’
The glazier didn’t quite jump up and down and shout ‘Me, me!’ but his expression grew more eager.
‘The lady’s not unde
r arrest!’ growled Parry. ‘But you all will be if you persist in causing an obstruction and hindering a law officer in the performance of his duty.’
‘Ooh!’ cried the glazier in a shrill falsetto and stamping one of his Doc Martens. ‘He’s getting angry!’
‘Watch it!’ ordered Parry, nearly as purple as the carpenter’s singlet.
‘Isn’t he masterful?’ admired the glazier. He’d obviously got tormenting the constabulary down to a fine art.
The older carpenter was proving himself a saloon bar lawyer. ‘If she’s not committed an offence, she don’t have to go with you.’
He then turned to me. ‘You don’t have to say nothing, ducks, right? You tell ’em you want a lawyer. And mind they get you a proper one and not some pensioned-off old geezer they got in their pocket. If you don’t know a lawyer, Mr Eftimakis in Dollis Hill’s very good. You give him a ring and tell him Harry Porter recommended him.’
‘You’re going to need him yourself,’ squawked Parry, ‘if you don’t get out of my way! She’s not under arrest. I’m escorting her home!’ He immediately lived to regret this indiscretion.
‘Aha!’ chorused all three of my knights champion with varying degrees of ribaldry.
The glazier leered and enquired, ‘Goin’ to show her your handcuffs, are you?’
‘One more word,’ panted Parry, ‘and you’re nicked!’
‘Goin’ to arrest us all?’ asked Purple Singlet with interest, eyeing the car parked at the kerb. ‘Goin’ to squeeze all five of us in that motor? Cosy.’
‘If necessary,’ said Parry, clearly meaning it. ‘I’ll call backup and we’ll get you all to the nick in style!’
It was time for me to cool things down. ‘Thanks for the support, fellers,’ I said. ‘But the sergeant and I are old acquaintances. I can manage. No grief, OK?’
They parted reluctantly to let us through, the older carpenter calling out final advice to ring Mr Eftimakis in Dollis Hill.
‘Nice to think chivalry’s not dead in England!’ I piped as Parry gunned the accelerator and we roared away from the refuge.
‘Bloody yobbos!’ he muttered, crouched white-knuckled over the wheel.
‘No, they’re not, they’re British craftsmen!’ I defended my new friends. It seemed only fair to return the favour.
‘British ruddy football hooligans more like. I don’t care what they do on a weekday. Come Saturday afternoon that lot’ll be rampaging round the terraces, when they’re not kicking in shop windows or chucking one another off trains! I know your common or garden yob when I see him!’
‘They were only trying to look after me,’ I said placatingly because I was afraid Parry might collapse at the wheel with an aneurysm. His neck had swollen up and bulged over his collar and his eyes popped out of his head.
He rolled a red-veined eyeball at me. ‘Strange as it may seem, Miss Varady, I am also trying to look after you!’
It was a pity he said that because up to that moment I hadn’t been too worried by his appearing. I’d been confident of dealing with the situation and secretly pleased he’d not wanted to talk in the dining room, because it gave me more time to think up a reasonable excuse for my being there. But now I remembered Ganesh’s loony notion that Parry fancied me. My presence of mind completely deserted me.
‘Where are we going?’ I quavered.
‘Where I said, I’m taking you home. Then we’re going to have a little chat.’
‘I don’t mind going to the station. I’ll come and talk about it at the station, if you like.’
He glanced at me in puzzled annoyance. ‘What’s the matter with you all of a sudden?’
‘Nothing!’ I cried unconvincingly.
He was normally of a suspicious disposition and now he demanded, ‘What’s back at your place you don’t want me to see?’
‘Nothing! I’ve already told you.’
‘We’ll go there then, right?’
We went there.
When we got out of the car I made a last-ditch stand to prevent him following me down the basement steps. Custer had better luck.
‘We can talk here!’ I began on the pavement, lolling nonchalantly on the gate like a cut-price tart.
‘Whaffor? We can talk in your flat, private.’
That’s what I didn’t want, privacy with Parry. I changed tactics.
‘Whatever you’ve got to say, say it here!’ I now declared in ringing tones, barring access to the basement steps by gripping the iron railings with one hand and bracing myself against the house wall with the other.
‘You’re hiding something, you are!’ He stood over me, glowering.
A window above our heads was pushed up and Daphne’s head appeared. ‘All right below there? Fran? Is that man harassing you?’
‘It’s fine, thanks, Daphne!’ I called back. ‘I can manage.’
‘I can easily fetch help!’ cried my landlady. ‘Who is that strange man?’
‘He’s a police officer, Daphne. Sorry and all that.’
‘Are you sure, Fran dear? Ask to see his identification. There are a lot of confidence tricksters about, always pretending to be policemen or that they’ve come to read the electricity meter. Why isn’t he in uniform? Why’s he dressed like that?’
‘It’s plainclothes, madam!’ howled Parry. He waved his identity card up at her. ‘I called to see you the other day, if you remember? Sergeant Parry?’
‘Oh yes, so you did. I haven’t got my glasses on. But now I recall the jacket. Is there something wrong?’
‘No, madam, just checking out something.’
‘Well, please do it quietly!’ she ordered him, and slammed down the window.
‘That’s right,’ I grumbled. ‘Get me thrown out of my flat. Come down if you must.’
I led him down to the flat and let us both in. He pushed past me and marched into the living room, eyeballs swivelling all over the place like bagatelle balls.
Not seeing anything likely to cause a breach of the peace, he whirled round. ‘All right, what are you playing at now? What’s your little game, eh? Why were you at the refuge asking about Lauren Szabo? What d’you know about her?’
‘Only what Vincent Szabo told me, after you’d so kindly told him all about me, including where I lived,’ I informed him crisply.
It threw him off balance slightly, but not for long. ‘Well, he’s a respectable businessman, isn’t he? Drivin’ round in a Roller with a chauffeur and all. Thought you might like to move up a class for company. Anyway, he reckons he knew your dad.’
‘He probably did. Not that my father ever mentioned him.’
Parry sat down uninvited on the sofa. ‘So he did turn up, did he? I wondered if he would. He didn’t lose time. What did he say to you?’
‘Private conversation,’ I told him. ‘None of your business. But if you want to put something in your report, put down that I don’t like being used.’
‘Don’t come the injured party with me. You’re always keen to stick your nose in. What did Szabo have to say?’
I sat down too. It was, after all, my flat. ‘He told me his stepdaughter has been snatched. He’s not happy with the lack of progress being made by the police. If I heard anything, I was to tell him. So I told him more or less everything I told you.’
He chewed at the end of the mangy moustache. ‘Why did you go to the refuge?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I confessed. ‘Probably because when I asked Vinnie if she was likely to have been walking back from there when she was picked up, his tame gorilla tossed me out of the car.’
‘She helped out there,’ said Parry. ‘She’s one of them wealthy girls with nothing else to do, so they go round doing good works. No need to earn any money. Daddy makes ’em an allowance.’
‘Why shouldn’t he want me to know that?’ I asked, puzzled.
‘He disapproved. She was doing it behind his back, the voluntary work there. The impression I got of him, he’s on the overprotective side. On the other hand, he might
’ve feared something would happen to her, mixing with the wrong sort. Perhaps he was afraid she’d fall for some sandal-wearing social worker with long hair and granny glasses. You know, fortune-hunter. How do I know? He’s rich, for Gawd’s sake. Rich people have to worry about things like that. The kid’s the apple of his eye. His wife’s dead. She’s all he’s got left. He’s a worried man.’