by Ann Granger
I told her I’d had a near miss in a traffic accident. I thought I ought to phone the police.
‘I’ll phone them,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s a nasty cut on your chin. Perhaps you ought to get it stitched.’
The very idea made me feel faint. ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said hastily. ‘And I’d better speak to the police myself. You know, for the details.’
She was giving me a look that clearly said she guessed there was a lot more to this ‘traffic accident’ than I was saying.
The deeply unimpressed police voice at the other end of the line promised that they’d look into it and would send someone round in the morning to get a statement. I told them I was working in the morning and suggested they get a message to Sergeant Parry tonight.
‘He’s gone off duty,’ said the voice disapprovingly.
‘Listen!’ I snapped. ‘Someone tried to kill me! Get hold of Parry! Tell him I want protection!’
If I hadn’t had such a stressful evening I wouldn’t have said that, the bit about protection. It was asking for trouble.
I’d sat with Daphne for a few minutes and then made my way back to my flat. It felt chilly and I lit the gas fire in the grate. I didn’t feel much like going to bed. It hardly seemed likely I’d sleep. But I had to be at the Community Hall first thing in the morning ready for a full day being a tree. I hoped I wouldn’t fall asleep tomorrow, wedged in that frame Angus had constructed.
A car drew up outside, a door slammed, footsteps clattered down the steps and someone rang the doorbell.
I froze with fear. Was it my hunter? Now that he’d quitted the shadows for open attack, had he decided on the direct approach here, at my home?
‘Fran?’ A fist beat on the door. ‘You all right in there?’
It was Parry, galloping over like a knight on a white horse at the first shriek from the damsel in distress. I told myself forcefully that I was an idiot and opened the door.
Parry bounded in clad in a sweat-stained tracksuit. ‘You all right, Fran? Bloody hell, what happened to your face? What’s been going on?’
‘I didn’t mean for you to come round here,’ I told him.
‘They said you’d asked for me to come. You asked for protection. I was over at the sports club. Lucky I had my mobile with me. You mightn’t have got me otherwise.’
I should’ve been so lucky. He had found himself a chair as he spoke and now sat there, looking at me with concern.
‘That’s a nasty cut. You oughta get that stitched.’
I ignored that suggestion and told him what had happened that day. I told him about my night-time prowler too, and that I was sure he and my murderous biker were one and the same.
Parry’s face got redder and redder as I spoke and when I finished he threw both arms in the air. ‘I can’t understand you,’ he bawled. ‘You’re not daft. You’re bright enough. You just act thick. Didn’t I tell you to leave well alone? Why didn’t you tell me you had this herbert creeping about at night? Who did you think he was? Father Christmas? You think he was just going to be content with hanging around by moonlight? He was bound to move in on you sooner or later. He’s a perishing psycho.’
I informed Parry I wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. ‘What’s more,’ I added, ‘I arranged my visit to Copperfield with Szabo and if he didn’t mind, you’ve got no reason to whinge on about it.’
Parry leaned forward, pale blue eyes protruding with a righteous anger. ‘Oh, haven’t I? Just to remind you, this is a police matter and highly sensitive. What do you want, you and Szabo? For that kid Lauren to turn up dead? Buried out in the country somewhere? Divided up between half a dozen black plastic sacks on a rubbish tip? Pulled out of the canal like old Albie?’
‘Don’t be stupid!’ I snapped.
‘Take a leaf out of your own book,’ he retorted. ‘Don’t tell me your going round to see Copperfield didn’t do any harm! Caused you plenty of trouble, didn’t it? Chased all round the streets by a lunatic on a motorbike. Like dicing with death, do you?’
We sat scowling at one another. I decided there was nothing to be gained by pursuing this argument.
‘What about Copperfield?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t like him. He didn’t strike me as the slightest bit upset about Lauren’s disappearance.’
‘What you mean,’ Parry said offensively, ‘is that he didn’t choose to talk to you about it. Not the same thing.’
‘But what about him?’ I persisted. ‘Is he on the level? Is it worth checking him out? What about that fine arts business of his? Does it make any money?’
He chewed the ends of his ragged ginger moustache as he worked out how much, if anything, he could tell me. He was sitting near the gas fire and the sweat patches on his clothing had dried out with a resultant lingering aroma of BO. He made a decision.
‘As it happens,’ he said, ‘and strictly between us, he’s on the PNC.’
‘What?’ He’d thrown the initials at me casually and in my blurred state, they became confused with PCC, the parochial church council. As a fact, it seemed possible but hardly relevant.
‘The Police National Computer,’ he explained kindly, putting me right. ‘Out at Hendon.’
That made a lot more sense. ‘You mean, he’s got form?’ I gasped, and jumped up, forgetting my sore foot and other aches and bruises. My whole body twanged in painful protest and I sat down quickly.
Parry coughed discreetly behind his hand as if I’d said something risque.
‘Well, hardly what you’d call real form. A few years back the Fine Art and Antiques Squad took a bit of interest in him. They broke a setup dealing in dodgy export licences. A lot of people were pulled in for questioning, Copperfield among them. He got a suspended sentence. He’d never committed an offence before – or not been found out if he had – and the court took the view he’d been the pawn of cleverer blokes than himself. Seeing as he’s a first-class, grade A prat, that means just about the rest of the world! The worst you could say about the poor sod was that he’d been foolish in some of his business relationships. More sinned against than sinning, as the maiden said.’
He uttered a hawking sound that was probably intended as a chuckle. ‘As for that firm of his, trade suffered what you’d call a temporary setback while he was under a cloud. He got into financial difficulties but he’s pulled out of it. After all, a lot of businessmen these days have had the odd embarrassment with the law, and it don’t do ’em no harm. Now he’s dealing straight, although word is, he owes big money to the banks.’
I thought this over. ‘How about Szabo?’ I asked. ‘Is he as rich as the kidnappers think he is?’
‘You bet he is,’ said Parry, and chuckled. ‘And the kidnappers must know what he’s worth because – ’ He broke off and looked momentarily embarrassed.
‘Go on,’ I encouraged him. ‘You might as well. You’ve started.’
‘Well . . .’ He fidgeted. ‘The first ransom demand was fairly modest – as ransoms go. Then, the next demand, the price had gone up stiffly. Szabo reckons it’s because he didn’t pay the first price. See, he’s afraid it’ll go on increasing the longer they hold her. We’re having trouble keeping tabs on him, making sure he doesn’t go behind our backs and try to make a deal with the villains.’
‘Is that why you sent him to me?’ A thought struck me, which, until now, would’ve seemed incredible but suddenly seemed quite likely. ‘Hey!’ I said indignantly. ‘Did you think he might try to use me as a go-between?’
‘He’d have to use someone.’ Parry sounded defiant and truculent in equal parts. ‘He might’ve thought you’d fit the role.’
‘Well, he didn’t – he hasn’t suggested it!’ I told him. ‘And if he did, I’d tell him to forget it!’
‘What you do,’ said Parry, ‘if he does suggest it, is tell me, right? Me or someone else on the case. Straight away, no delays, no trying to be clever, no attempts at fancy footwork.’
‘This is a really lovely setup,’ I said. ‘No one trusts an
yone else. Szabo doesn’t trust the police or the kidnappers. You don’t trust him. I don’t trust you or Vinnie or the kidnappers or Jeremy Copperfield or anyone! And by the way, have you found Merv and has he got a motorbike?’
‘We found him.’ Parry folded his arms and looked smug. ‘He’s got an alibi for the night the old man fell in the canal. He was watching telly with a bunch of his mates. Football, international match. They all swear to it. They’d stocked up with a few crates of beer and didn’t leave the flat they were in. And what d’you mean, you don’t trust me?’
‘Alibi?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘That’s right. And he can discuss the match. Not, I realise, that that means anything because edited highlights were repeated the following night. But four other blokes saying he was there does carry weight.’
‘I saw him – Ganesh and I both saw him – try to snatch Albie off the street. Merv and another man!’ I protested.
‘Poor lighting, difficult circumstances – you can’t swear it was him, Fran.’
‘Who can’t? And what about his car? Was it his car torched up by the park that night?’
‘Yes, it was. But he says it was taken earlier by joyriders. He’d had trouble with joyriders hanging around it before.’ Parry’s eyes gleamed. ‘Seems one evening he was having a quiet drink in the pub when in comes a young woman and warns him that kids are hanging around the motor, and the alarm’s gone off. He describes her as having short brown hair, skinny figure and a voice like a foghorn. She’d been hanging about outside talking to a couple of Asian guys by a junk food van. Anyone you know?’
‘Can’t imagine. Do you want me to give you a statement about the attack on me or what?’
‘Fair enough. I’ve got nothing with me, coming here straight from the club. Got a bit of paper?’
I told him my story again. He wrote it down and I signed it.
‘Thank you very much, madam,’ he said formally.
‘That’s all right, officer. Thank you for coming round. You can go now. I’m all right.’
‘I was going to offer,’ he said, ‘to doss down here on a chair tonight. Protect you, like you asked.’
‘It won’t be necessary!’ I informed him.
He looked almost wistful. Even his moustache drooped. ‘You did send for me.’
‘Correction. I asked them to tell you. Not the same thing.’
‘But you did request protection,’ he insisted, clinging to his hopes.
I dashed them. ‘Just to have the area patrol car include the house on their route a couple of times would do the trick. Or a uniformed officer calling in once a day to see if I’m all right.’
‘How much spare manpower do you think we’ve got?’ he retorted disagreeably. ‘Not a chance.’
‘How about moving me to a place of safety, then, a hotel?’ I suggested.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he asked. ‘Prime witness in a matter of national security? Forget it.’
In the end, he checked the safety catches on my windows and the lock and chain on the door and pronounced me secure.
‘Only you ought to have a phone. I can’t leave you my mobile. I need it. But that’s what you ought to get, a mobile. Every woman on her own ought to have one.’
I promised I’d look into it. By this time it was nearly one in the morning and I finally persuaded him to go home.
At least his visit had dealt with my overwrought wakefulness. I collapsed on the sofa. Oblivious of my bruises, I slept, as they say, like the dead.
Chapter Thirteen
I arrived early at the Community Hall the following morning, as requested. I’d spent some time and my theatrical make-up skills disguising the cut on my chin. I’d washed my hair and knew I looked fine, not like someone who’d been fleeing for her life only hours before. Despite this, I was feeling highly nervous. A persuasive little Mephisto in the corner of my mind kept whispering, ‘Hey! You’d rather be anywhere else than here! Why don’t you just turn and run?’
But I’m not one to break a promise. Angus was depending on me. If I let him down, I’d feel bad about it, and I’d never be able to eat at Jimmie’s again. Though the last thought was more an inducement to defect than to stay, I ordered the tempter to be silent and looked around.
At least I wasn’t alone. People were arriving from all directions. Beneath a banner proclaiming ‘Art for a Cleaner Safer World’, artists working in every medium were struggling through the doors with exhibits. As I watched, a thin man with a neatly trimmed beard, and a red neckerchief knotted fancily around his scraggy throat, staggered past. His arms clasped a scrap-metal sculpture to his bosom as if it were a dancing partner.
‘Fran! Fran, over here!’ I heard Angus’s voice as my eye caught a waving arm.
He was sitting between the open doors at the rear of an ancient rust-pitted Transit van, drinking milk from a carton. He put it down as I approached.
‘Just having my breakfast,’ he explained. ‘Thanks for being on time. You know, we’re really in with a chance. I’ve seen most of the other stuff. Talk about unimaginative, run-of-the-mill junk. We’ll knock ’em into next week!’
Trying hard to share his enthusiasm, I peered past him into the van. ‘Jimmie said something about vegetables,’ I mumbled.
The interior of the van, as far as I could see, was littered with foliage of various sorts. A pineapple poked its fronds from a Tesco bag.
‘Veg?’ Angus looked puzzled. ‘No, he’s got it wrong. Fruit.’
‘Oh.’ I supposed that was better. ‘Where’s the thing, you know, the frame.’
‘Already taken it in.’ He stood up. ‘Right, you take the bag there and this one . . .’ he thrust another plastic carrier at me, ‘I’ll bring the lianas.’
Inside the hall, chaos reigned. A shrill woman in a long purple skirt and a patchwork jacket was shouting instructions at anyone who cared to listen, though most people were ignoring her. She clasped a sheaf of cards to her flat bosom.
‘All the individual areas are marked in chalk on the floor!’ she shrieked. ‘Newcomers please get a number from me!’ She held the sheaf of cards up in the air but no one took the slightest bit of notice.
‘They’re not doing it properly, Reg!’ she wailed to a gloomy, middle-aged individual standing nearby.
‘Let ’em sort themselves out,’ advised Reg.
‘But it’ll be a dreadful mess. Do something, Reg!’
Two girls trotted past, bearing between them a lurid canvas splashed with lime green and red.
‘Come and get your number!’ begged the woman.
The girls, like everyone else, took no notice and carried straight on to the back of the hall.
The woman caught my eye. ‘Have you got your number?’ she asked dispiritedly.
I explained I was an exhibit, not an exhibitor.
‘You’ve still got to have a number,’ she said obstinately.
Reg edged over and peered into my Tesco bags. ‘Blimey, brought your lunch with you, love?’
Hearing I was going to wear it, not eat it, he chuckled. ‘Cor! Carmen bloomin’ Miranda! ’
I recalled that Angus had promised a couple of minders on the door to stop troublemakers disrupting our festival of culture. Apparently, all we had was Reg. He was in his fifties and overweight. He may once have been a fine figure of a man, but not since it had all settled round his midriff. I enquired tentatively about the door attendants.
‘They cost money, do professional bouncers,’ said Reg. ‘Shouldn’t need them. Not in broad daylight.’
‘It’s an arts festival,’ put in the purple-skirted woman. ‘One couldn’t have a couple of heavyweights on the door, scowling at people. It would put the visitors off.’
Well, we mustn’t frighten the horses. But the news did nothing for my already fragile nerves.
Angus appeared, his arms filled with strands of greenery. ‘We’re over on the right,’ he informed me.
‘Your number!’ shrilled the woman.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it,’ he told her.
‘Then you’re the only bloody one who has!’ she snapped. She pushed the sheaf of cards into Reg’s hand. ‘You carry on, I’m going to find a coffee. My head is splitting!’
Angus and I progressed to a chalked area on the floor where the frame stood waiting for us, looking more than ever like something from a castle dungeon. The thin man had set up his scrap-metal sculpture alongside us in the next chalked area.
Its creator stood back and squinted at it. ‘Does that look straight to you?’