by Ann Granger
I reflected that we’d come a long way since Parry had sat on that sofa, pretending there was no snatch and poor old Albie hadn’t seen anything. I said as much.
Parry had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Yes, well, that was when I still hoped you’d keep your nose outa things. I should’ve known better. Stay quiet about all this, right?’
‘You told them at the refuge to call you if anyone came asking about Lauren Szabo. Were you thinking of me?’
‘Routine,’ said Parry, which is what they always say when they don’t want to answer.
‘Or were you expecting someone else to be asking after her? Has she got a boyfriend?’ That was a new idea to strike me. ‘You said Vinnie was afraid she’d meet someone unsuitable. Did she?’
‘We’ve followed that line up and got nowhere,’ Parry said, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket with a frown. ‘She’s been dating some Hooray Henry what works in his own family’s firm. Suppose they had to give him a job. Strictly between you and me, he hasn’t got the brains to organise a teddy bears’ tea-party. Anyway, he’s got an alibi for the night she was snatched.’
‘Of course he has,’ I said patiently. ‘He would, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t do it himself. What’s his name and where can I find him?’
‘Forget it!’ Parry snapped.
‘All right,’ I said, to keep him happy. ‘Have you tried looking for Merv? He can’t be that difficult to find.’
‘We’ve got your description of him,’ he said. ‘Give us time. We’ll pick him up. But we won’t necessarily be able to link him with the old man.’
‘Of course you can! Ganesh and I saw Merv and his mate try to snatch Albie!’
‘So you say, but that’s not good enough,’ Parry retorted aggravatingly. ‘It was late at night. Poor streetlighting. All over in a few seconds. Can you describe the second man?’
Unfortunately I couldn’t. Merv I’d recognised, but in the circumstances all I’d noticed about his pal was that he was shorter, broader and either dark-haired or wearing a dark woolly hat. I told Parry this.
‘There you are then,’ he said. ‘I can’t haul anyone in on the basis of a description like that. Adds up to mistaken identity, doesn’t it?’ He shrugged. ‘Your word and Patel’s against his. Not good enough, like I said.’ He crouched aggressively on the edge of the sofa, flexing his mitts, which were sprinkled with long red hair like an orangutan’s.
A thought had occurred to me. ‘If you want to know what Szabo and I talked about, ask Szabo himself. Or doesn’t he talk to you? What was the big idea sending him along to me?’
Parry scratched his chin. The shaving rash was clearing up, but if he carried on rubbing it like that, it’d come back. Serve him right. I hoped he came out in boils like those people in the Bible.
‘You’re near enough his daughter’s age. He knew your dad. He might’ve said something to you he – he overlooked when talking to us.’
‘I’m two years older than his daughter and I don’t think Szabo would draw any comparison between me and his Lauren. Szabo’s gone out of his way to protect her from life’s nastiness until now, whereas he sees me as someone who can be bundled into a strange car by a minder and asked a lot of nosy questions.’ A new idea leapt into my head. ‘Have you got a picture of her, of Lauren?’
‘The girl? Sure.’ He fumbled in a wallet and produced a couple of snapshots. One showed a young girl with long fair hair, apparently sitting at a pavement café table. The background looked continental and big city, probably Paris. The labels on the bottles of soft drink were French. The girl in the photo leaned on her elbows and stared at the camera with a cool challenge in her eyes. She was a good-looker.
The other picture was a studio portrait, one of those little polyphotos, all varying poses, which the photographer gives the client for him to make his choice. Her hair was tidier and she wore a lot more make-up for this one but I was more taken by the difference in her expression. In the café picture she looked as if she were in charge. In the polyphoto she looked trapped and angry. She hadn’t wanted that picture taken. I wondered who had taken the informal snap. Looking at Lauren’s picture made me uneasy. Before, she’d been a name, and a vague description by Albie. Now she was a real person, a prisoner somewhere, frightened and in danger. I handed them both back to Parry who put them away.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what else you got to tell me, Fran? Now’s your chance. Withholding evidence is a criminal offence.’
I got up and fetched the empty Bell’s bottle and put it down on the coffee table in front of him.
‘What’s all this?’ His eyes began to turn pink again.
I told him. ‘I was going to bring it to you, right? You know as well as I do that Albie saw Lauren snatched and this –’ I pointed at the bottle – ‘this shows he didn’t just fall in the canal unaided.’
‘It doesn’t show anything of the sort,’ he retorted.
I hadn’t expected thanks, but this annoyed me. ‘No wonder Szabo’s fed up with the slow progress you’re making!’ I snapped. ‘You lose your one witness and now you’ve got tangible evidence you don’t know what to do with it. Can’t you fingerprint it or something?’
‘I told you before,’ he said, ‘that you’re a mouthy little madam. I remember when you lived in that squat with all those other dropouts. You were a right bossy little piece then, issuing orders right, left and centre. Don’t try it with me. You’re sailing close to the wind, Miss Varady. You say you were going to hand over the bottle to us, but you did your damnedest to stop me coming down here.’
‘That wasn’t because of the bottle,’ I began. ‘It was because – ’
But I couldn’t tell him it was because Ganesh reckoned Parry lusted after me. I didn’t know where Gan had got that idea from. If the sergeant here fancied me, he’d got a funny way of showing it. I finished lamely, quoting Szabo, ‘I like my privacy. This is my home. I don’t want you marching in and out just as you like.’
‘Actually,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it. Think I’ve got nothing better to do? I’m a busy man investigating a serious crime. Don’t mess me about, Fran. If you do, I’ll get you on a charge, right?’
‘Oh, will you?’ I challenged. ‘I could make a formal complaint against you for sending Szabo to me.’
He treated me to a wintry smile. ‘You overlook that, Fran, and I’ll overlook the fact that you didn’t hand the bottle over at once, also that you went to the refuge, causing trouble – ’
I opened my mouth to protest because he’d caused the trouble there, not me.
He overrode my objection. ‘So keep out from under my feet, right? That way we can stay friends.’
‘We are not friends,’ I told him coldly.
I was treated to another of those gargoyle grimaces. ‘Oh, come on, Fran. I think you and I could get along rather well!’
‘In your dreams!’ I corrected him icily.
‘Please yourself. I’m taking the whisky bottle, right? Got a paper bag?’
I gave him Ben’s plastic bag. He stood up. ‘So find yourself something else to do. leave the sleuthing to the professionals. Weekend coming up. Go away somewhere nice. Go to Margate and get some sea air.’
‘As it happens,’ I informed him, ‘I have a job this weekend as an artist’s model.’
His ginger eyebrows shot up to meet his hairline. ‘What? In the buff?’
Simple soul that he was, I hastened to disappoint him.
‘No! In costume.’
‘What sort of costume?’ he asked with interest, his limited mind running on bare-breasted bimbos hiding the essentials behind a pair of unzipped jeans lodged at crotch level.
‘A tree,’ I told him. ‘I shall be dressed to symbolise the threatened Amazonian rainforest.’
He burst out laughing and made a pretty good exit of his own, warbling about talking to the trees in a surprisingly good baritone.
I was fed up so I ran myself a bath to wash away all contact with the law. The hot water st
eamed up the bathroom mirror. I wrote I HATE PARRY on it so that I could meditate on it as I lay in the bath. But the moisture on the mirror began to trickle and changed my slogan to I HAVE HAPPY. Sometimes nothing works.
Chapter Eleven
The long soak in the tub, a grilled cheese sandwich and three cups of coffee succeeded in erasing the tainted air of Parry’s presence from the flat. A single ray of sun, angled down through the basement window, told me it was after two o’clock and encouraged me to go out and try something else. My brain was working again, If at first you don’t succeed and all the rest of it. Thanks to Parry, I now knew Lauren had a steady boyfriend. The first thing to do was to find out if Szabo had known about this and what he’d felt about it.
Dressed in clean jeans and my best silk shirt and quilted waistcoat, I ran up the steps to Daphne’s front door and rang the bell.
She must have seen me coming and the door was opened almost at once. ‘You are all right, aren’t you, dear? What is going on?’ she demanded breathlessly.
‘Sorry about the bit of bother earlier,’ I said.
‘There was no need to come up and apologise for that!’ she returned, and fixed me with a reproachful gaze. ‘If that was the same police officer who came to see me the other day, I thought him uncouth.’
‘He is uncouth,’ I said. ‘But he can’t help it. May I use the phone?’
‘Help yourself!’ She waved at the instrument and trotted back to her ever-growing pile of manuscript. I was momentarily distracted enough to wonder again what it represented, but it seemed rude to ask.
I punched the number Szabo had given me and after a moment, his high-pitched, nervy voice asked, ‘Hullo? Yes?’
‘Mr Szabo?’ I said. ‘It’s Francesca Varady.’
‘You’ve seen the tattooed man again?’ He quavered with eagerness and I imagined him standing there, the mobile phone pressed to his ear.
There was a sound of movement in the background and Szabo, his voice fading slightly as he turned his head, snapped, ‘Yes, yes, just leave it there!’
I deduced he was sitting in a probably expensive hotel room and the room service had just delivered something. I had felt sorry for the man, because after all, there was nothing he could do but sit there all a-jitter and wait. But my sympathy was tempered by the thought that at least he was doing it in comfort.
I had to disappoint him. ‘Sorry, no, I haven’t seen the man again. But I’ve been thinking and I wondered whether anyone has talked to Lauren’s friends.’
‘Why?’ He sounded edgy and a little annoyed that I’d falsely raised his hopes for a moment.
Trying not to antagonise him further, I began, ‘Suppose she’d noticed that someone appeared to be watching or following her – ’
He broke in with a terse, ‘She’d have reported a stalker.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of anyone so obvious as a stalker. Just a face which seemed to be turning up more often than coincidentally, but not often enough or aggressively enough to make her report it to the police. If no one made an actual approach or spoke to her, what could she have reported? She might not have told you either, not wanting to worry you, or thinking she might sound neurotic. But she might have mentioned it to a friend.’
A pause. ‘The police have already followed up this line of enquiry,’ he said discouragingly. ‘Naturally they’ve spoken to all her close friends.’
‘Oh, the police . . .’ I let my voice tail away.
He thawed. ‘Well, yes, I do see that a casual approach might turn up some little, overlooked fact, something which appeared too trivial to be mentioned to the police.’
‘Or too embarrassing,’ I pursued. ‘A situation like that can be awkward for a woman.’
‘I take your word for that,’ he said, terse again. Perhaps he’d made the connection between this and his own cautious fencing with the police. I had to be careful not to tip Parry’s hand.
Silently cursing the sergeant, I asked, ‘I wondered whether your daughter had a particular boyfriend, someone in London?’
‘I fail to see the relevance,’ Szabo’s voice had grown icy. ‘You mean, I take it, that she might have confided her fears to Jeremy. But Jeremy would have reported anything like that to me at once. He’d know I’d want to be informed of anyone annoying my daughter!’
‘She might have asked him not to.’
‘Jeremy is a thoroughly reliable young man,’ he replied, apparently unaware that the word might mean something different to him than it did to Lauren. ‘I’ve no reason to doubt his judgement. He’s extremely fond of Lauren and would have insisted she went to the police immediately if there were the hint of any threat.’
I said nothing, letting him think it over.
‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll call him and tell him to expect you. I’m willing to try any avenue which might get my daughter back safely and soon.’ His voice broke and trembled. ‘You can’t imagine what the uncertainty is doing to us, to me and to Jeremy, what it’s like . . . I’ll ring him at once.’
The last thing I wanted was to appear to Jeremy as Szabo’s stooge. ‘No!’ I said hastily. ‘Don’t do that. Far better if I drop by and tell him I’ve been trying to get in touch with Lauren. That we had a lunch date or something and she didn’t show. As you said, we want to keep it casual.’
It was important to make him think this was basically his idea. It worked. Though I still expected him to put up more argument, he folded almost at once, went along with the plan without any fuss, and told me Jeremy’s full name and where to find his business. Really, handling him was a doddle.
I replaced the receiver, put a fifty-pence piece by the phone, called my thanks to Daphne, and set out.
Thais Fine Arts was located in a narrow blind alley in the New Bond Street area. The alley looked as if its original purpose had been to provide a back entrance to the block, for removal of garbage, that sort of thing. It had been spruced up since those days and the dustbins taken away. But it wasn’t the sort of place you’d ever find if you didn’t know it was there, which meant the business wouldn’t attract the casual passer-by. Perhaps it dealt with recommended customers only. There were places like that. Or perhaps it dealt in export and import.
Further investigation confirmed my suspicions. This was by no stretch of imagination a shop, gallery, showroom, call it what you like. The premises consisted of offices at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. The name appeared on a discreet but well-polished plate on the outer door by a bell. I pressed. It buzzed and the door uttered a disgruntled click as the locking mechanism was released. I pushed it open, thinking that the person within hadn’t bothered to check who rang.
Then, as I went through, my eye caught the tiny camera up in the corner of the stairwell, trained on the door. The person inside knew exactly who was out here and had watched me climb the last stairs, peer at the doorplate and fidget about making up my mind to ring. I didn’t like that and marched in belligerently.
I found myself in a reception area, a large square room decorated predominantly white like a hospital ward. White walls, white leather chairs, oatmeal carpet. The only splashes of colour were provided by a tall green plant in a white pot and the dark blue of the business suit worn by the receptionist. Above her head flickered the screen on which she’d seen me arrive and on her stainless-steel and glass desk stood a dinky little wooden nameplate with the gold-painted legend ‘Jane Stratton’. This was a nice place to work, all right. It must be really neat to have your name in gold, stuck there in front of you for all to see. Ms Stratton rose to intercept me. Greet was not the word.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
She was a human version of an Afghan hound, long, lean, thoroughbred. Her narrow face was perfectly made up and her long blonde hair sculpted and lacquered into rigid waves and curls. The overall effect was intended to be glamorous but failed for lack of warmth or personality. She had eyes like twin lasers.
I ignored the permafrost welcome and asked che
erfully if I might see Mr Copperfield.
‘You have an appointment?’ she enquired, faintly incredulous.
‘No, it’s personal. I’m a friend of Lauren Szabo.’
She hesitated then pressed a switch on the intercom and relayed the information. It squawked a distorted reply.
‘Do take a seat,’ she said to me, marginally more gracious. ‘Mr Copperfield will be out to see you shortly.’
I sat on one of the white leather chairs and studied my surrounds, wondering what constituted fine art. I also wondered whether I was to be interviewed by Copperfield out here, or whether I’d be admitted to some inner sanctum. It depended how much he wanted the chilly receptionist to overhear, although she could overhear whatever she wanted through the intercom system.
There were two doors in the walls facing the reception desk but neither carried a nameplate. The only example of a fine art object stood near me atop a plinth perched on a glass-topped table. It was a marble bust of a cherub and would, to my mind, have been more suited to a monumental mason’s showroom than an art dealer’s. It was an extraordinary ugly thing. Its fat cheeks bulged and rosebud lips were pursed as if it ought to be blowing a trumpet, but someone had taken away the musical instrument. This meant the overall effect was that it blew a raucous raspberry towards the entrance door.