by Ann Granger
As it proved, letting us know he was around and active was Merv’s big mistake. It established that he was holed up locally somewhere. The radio message the copper had sent resulted in an immediate raid on Merv’s mother’s house.
It was hard to think of Merv with a devoted mum but apparently he’d been known to hide up at her place before. They had checked it out right after he’d given them the slip at the office building, but now they went back there in force and sure enough, he’d scuttled there with the intention of packing up a few things and clearing out. But the police arrived before he could leave and he was trapped.
Dear old Mum barricaded the front door against the forces of law and order and hurled abuse and kitchenware at them from an upper window, while her darling boy tried to escape out the back. But the police were waiting for him so Mum had sacrificed her nonstick saucepans in vain.
Jonty later picked out Merv and Baz at an identity parade. Faced with a witness, they started gabbing. They blamed each other and both of them blamed Stratton.
Parry came round and told me the police had searched Stratton’s flat, which he described admiringly as ‘a real tart’s boo-dwar, all satin sheets and white fur rugs’.
The police also checked out Baz’s home. I wasn’t surprised to learn he’d been living in a single filthy room stacked high with mouldy junk food cartons and women’s underwear.
‘Knickers,’ said Parry with relish. ‘Hundreds of pairs. He must’ve pinched them off washing-lines. We had to bring ’em away in umpteen boxes, filled a squad car. We can’t charge him because we can’t prove he stole them. No one’s been down to complain they lost any and I don’t suppose anyone will come in to identify ’em. You’ve not lost anything off your washing-line, have you?’ He raised his foxy eyebrows hopefully.
I told him I hadn’t got a washing line, not outdoors. ‘What does he do with them all?’ I asked naively.
‘He collects them,’ said Parry. ‘You know, like people collect dolls in national costumes or old football programmes. He collects ladies’ panties.’
He seemed to think this was a logical explanation, which not only told me something about Baz, but quite a lot about Parry.
In the end, and not surprising anyone, no charges were brought against Lauren Szabo. Vinnie got a top medical man to give his highly paid opinion that she’d been brainwashed during her time in that deserted block. As the official version went, the two men had put ideas in her head and she’d gone along with what they’d suggested. She’d been living a kind of fantasy whilst in captivity. Szabo sent her off to an expensive Swiss nursing home to recuperate and get her side of the story right before she met the general public again. I hoped she remembered to take her skis along.
As far as I know, she and her stepfather are still together as a family unit. I imagine them, Szabo trying to buy her goodwill and silence with endless presents, terrified of what she might do if she leaves and frightened of her when she’s there: she circling round him like a shark waiting for a chance to dive in and destroy him, and all the time letting bitterness eat away at her. There’s a name for that sort of relationship. Mutually destructive.
I bought two Alice bands, one in black velvet and one in pink satin, put them in a Jiffy bag, addressed it to Samantha and took it over to the refuge. I approached the place with some caution in view of my ignominious exit on the last occasion I was there. But this time it was all smiles because news of my part in Lauren’s rescue had given me something akin to celebrity status. This couldn’t last, but I might as well enjoy it while it did. Miriam even made me a cup of coffee and showed me the newspaper clipping recounting my exploits.
‘It’s nice to have some good news for a change,’ she said. ‘Generally we hear nothing but bad news here.’
She told me Samantha and her mum weren’t there at the moment, but they would keep my gift safe until they returned. ‘Because they’re bound to be back,’ Miriam added with depressed certainty.
Angus paid me the ten pounds two weeks later. I’d been sure he would and so made a point of telling Ganesh and reminding him of my confidence. Ganesh retorted that Angus was the type who would happily give you his last fiver, if he wasn’t trying to borrow your last tenner.
‘Spend it before he asks for it back!’ he advised.
Thanks to all the excitement and being involved in a front-page rescue story, the photos taken of me at the community hall art show not only got into the local press, but into the Standard and two of the national tabloids.
But it hasn’t led to any more offers of modelling work for me. Nor, as far as I know, has anyone expressed any interest in any other work by Angus. He’s still swabbing out Reekie Jimmie’s spud bar of a morning.
The world just isn’t ready for either of us.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen