A Private Business

by Barbara Nadel

  The woman looked at her with both growing recognition and apparent astonishment.

  “I can give you alcohol,” Mumtaz said. “Don’t worry, just drink.”

  The port felt good and warming, even if she spilled much of it out from the sides of her mouth. She saw Mumtaz smile and thought again how beautiful she was.

  Once Maria had managed to swallow a couple of mouthfuls of alcohol, Mumtaz put the rest of the port down beside her and stood up. “I’m just going to clear up some more of this broken glass so that you can stand up,” she said. “You just stay there and I’ll get rid of it for you.”

  She was so kind. Maria felt so unworthy, she began to cry.

  “I must have failed to close the front door properly after I took the milk in off the doorstep.”

  They were in the living room now and Maria was sitting on the sofa wearing a clean dressing gown and drinking tea. Mumtaz, sitting opposite, had cleaned both the comedian and her kitchen up as much as she could.

  “I walked into the kitchen and there it was, looped around the door handle.”

  “The noose.”

  Maria screwed her eyes up against the memory of it. “Yes.” She opened them again. “I dropped the milk bottle and then the next thing I knew I was down on the floor. That … that thing on the back of the door, it is real, isn’t it?”

  Mumtaz had left the noose exactly where it was.

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s real.”

  Maria put a hand up into her hair. “Where did it come from?”

  “You’ve no idea?”

  “I don’t have anything like that,” Maria said.

  “In your coach house …”

  “I don’t even put the lawnmower in there any more. Certainly not since Len died. The place is shut up. And anyway I can’t remember ever having rope in there even when Len was alive.” Then she asked, “Why are you assuming that I put it there myself?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You asked if I had rope in the house. You think I’m a lunatic.” She looked down into the depths of her tea. “You may be right. Maybe this means I want to kill myself. Maybe part of me does.”

  Mumtaz said, “Maria, I came here to tell you that if you still want me to move in and be with you, I can do that. But if you want to call the police—”

  “No!” She looked up quickly. “No.” She smiled. “So you came and the door was open …”

  “Yes.”

  “That thing, the rope. It felt like a threat. Like the peacock feathers.”

  “Do you have a particular horror of hanging …”

  “Well, I’d be a bit of a weirdo if I didn’t!” Maria said. “Who doesn’t? All that struggling for breath and kicking out in agony. I can remember when my parents used to talk about how criminals used to hang in this country. They approved of it. Hanging always was …” She swallowed. “It was a murderer’s death.”

  “And a suicide.”

  “Sometimes.” Maria looked out of the window and into the warm, leafy street beyond. There were times when she hated it. Specifically she hated the niceness, the comfortableness of it. Or rather since Len’s death, that was how she had felt.

  “I am not going to say whether or not someone is doing these things to you,” Mumtaz said, “because really, I just don’t know. But if you want me to be with you to observe, then I can, in part, do that.”

  At “in part” Maria frowned.

  “I am currently working on some other cases and so from time to time I have to go elsewhere,” she said. “But for the most part I will be at your disposal and I will be able to be here at night. I will just have to go home and see my daughter and prepare food …”

  “Your daughter can come here, it’s—”

  “It’s not appropriate, Maria,” Mumtaz said. “Not for anyone. No, arrangements have been made so that my daughter will not be alone at night, although this will have to be reviewed from time to time. My daughter is soon to take her GCSEs and so I cannot neglect her.”

  “No.” But Mumtaz could see that Maria was disappointed. She’d wanted her to be with her all the time. She trusted her, which was gratifying, but 24/7 just wasn’t practical, not unless she’d let someone else in. Maria looked up. “What if I am doing these things—the noose, the feathers, the notes—to myself? Will you tell me?”

  Mumtaz looked into her eyes. “Of course,” she said.

  “But that’ll mean that I’m mad.”

  “No. It might mean that you’re ill.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, looking at each other.

  “And if you recall, Maria, when you first came to the agency all of your fears revolved around another person maybe being involved in frightening you. And that may indeed be the case,” Mumtaz said.

  “But that means that someone is getting in and I’m the only person who has a key. It’s impossible.”

  “When you manage to leave your front door open after collecting the milk, it isn’t impossible,” Mumtaz said. “You didn’t realize that you’d even done it. And you know, Maria, with or without permission, people can get hold of house keys. Believe me, I know. Now later on this afternoon I will go home and get some things and return here to be with you tonight. Is that OK?”

  “Yes …”

  “And then I will have to ask you about your visitors, the church, your friends. Betty for instance …”

  “Betty?” she smiled. “I first met Betty when I was ten, at school. We were close. But we lost touch, or rather she disappeared from my life. Then when Len died I found her again, through the church.”

  “What made you go to that particular church?” Mumtaz asked.

  Maria hesitated for a moment and then she said, “I was brought up a Catholic and I loved it. I wanted to be a nun at one point. But for … for many reasons I couldn’t go back to it. I needed something when Len died. God? I didn’t know. But then I began to notice God, wherever I went.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “Random things. Posters, leaflets, my own thoughts. I found a booklet at the doctor’s surgery.”

  “For the Chapel of the Holy Pentecostal Fire?”

  “Yes. I felt I had to go there, you know? God moving in mysterious ways and everything.” She smiled. “It was meant to be. Like the universe was telling me something. Seeing Betty there just served to confirm those feelings.”

  That Lee Arnold had a fucking nerve! But then that was one of the things that had first attracted Vi Collins to him. He wasn’t backward in coming forward with what he wanted and that was probably why he had his own business while most of his contemporaries at Forest Gate were either retired or out in the professional wilderness. But still, babysitting was a bit harsh.

  “I don’t even know the bloody kid!” she’d said when Lee had phoned her up and suggested that maybe free and easy single girl Vi would like to spend her nights in Mumtaz Hakim’s house watching over her stepdaughter.

  “She’s a nice girl,” Lee had replied. “Studious. And Vi, you’d be doing me such a favor. You know how skint I am. If Maria Peters wants Mumtaz to watch over her and I can give her what she wants she’ll pay us handsomely.”

  “Oh? And what do I get out of it?”

  She’d heard Lee smile at the other end. “Apart from my undying love and respect, Vi, what can I say? You’re a copper—I can’t do anything that might make it look like you’re bent.”

  She’d wanted to say I’ll settle for a shag, but she’d managed to stop herself. Moroccan boys young enough to be her grandsons were nice, but older men, like Lee, were more practiced.

  So he offered her nothing and she agreed to do it anyway. She moaned and she grumbled but when she finished work for the day, she packed a bag and drove over to Mumtaz Hakim’s great big pile of a house and rang the doorbell.

  “I’ve come for the sleepover,” she said as Mumtaz opened the door.

  “Oh, DI Collins,” Mumtaz said, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Vi step
ped over the threshold. Nice. The hall was wide and very white and the flooring was an old and venerable parquet. “No problem,” Vi lied. “Lee Arnold’s already told me how wonderful I am once today. Oh, and Mumtaz, it’s Vi, not DI Collins.”

  Mumtaz smiled and then said, “Vi,” in a small, slightly embarrassed voice.

  “So where’s …”

  “Shazia?” she smiled. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  Vi followed Mumtaz into a vast, slightly shabby wooden fitted kitchen. In it, sitting at the breakfast bar was a thin, very resentful-looking teenage girl. When Vi smiled at her, she turned away. This, Vi thought miserably, is going to be a laugh a minute.

  A lot of people had asked about Maria. Now that the new, if temporary, church was up and running, a full program of events had been reinstated. Just like the old days. But Maria wasn’t coming and people were concerned that her own feelings about the new location had put her off. She’d only attended the new church once and then she’d had to be almost carried in, shaking, on Pastor Grint’s arm. When asked about her, Betty had just said, “She’s not very well at the moment. She’s had a lot of problems lately.”

  It wasn’t untrue, she had. But then Maria had had problems for thirty years, give or take. And now was the time, finally, to put it all right. Paul would do it. He was strong in the Lord and he understood Maria’s heart far better than she knew. Things were happening to Maria that no one but a man steeped in the Lord could help her with. Things those outside of Paul and herself—certainly not empty headed little Rachel, who’d quit the church now it had moved—could not understand. Cruel things. But necessary.

  Maria had to testify and be delivered in order to be right with God and take Jesus fully and finally into her heart. So far she’d given time and money, but that wasn’t enough, she had to be sorry too, for everything. Really and truly and in front of the whole church. In front of God. Again, Paul would help her. He helped everyone. He’d helped Betty, and just his presence in her life continued to support her every day.

  Maria had to be ready. Casting around to find solutions via the world of men—private detectives—was not going to fix her life. That way led only to death. The way all her pills and potions were leading her if she wasn’t careful. Still deep in grief, she could die so easily and if she died in sin that would be bad. It would upset Paul.

  Mumtaz was exhausted by the time she eventually got to bed. It was gone midnight, unusually late for her, and the bed was unaccustomed and strange. Much firmer than her mattress at home, it made her back ache.

  They’d talked. She’d enjoyed Maria’s company and talking about trivial things had been relaxing. Settling Vi Collins in with a resentful Shazia earlier had not been so easy and as she lay staring at the ghost of the full moon through Maria Peters’ curtains she wondered how they were getting on. Shazia’s face had still been bright red with fury when she’d left her. Mumtaz turned onto her side and closed her eyes. If she was going to sleep at all, she’d have to make an effort. Exhausted she may be, but she wasn’t actually tired. As well as all the problems she’d had with Shazia, Mumtaz had found her meeting with old Mrs. Malik in East Ham worrying. When she’d presented her with what amounted to a complete vindication of her daughter-in-law’s wifely behavior, the woman had become angry.

  “That girl is rotten!” she’d insisted. “I know it as surely as I know light from dark.”

  Mumtaz had been so tempted to ask her just who she had in mind for her son once Nazneen was out of the way. She ached to know how rich the girl’s family was as well as who they were related to. But she didn’t say anything. As calmly as she could, she’d asked Mrs. Malik whether she wanted to carry on using the Arnold Agency and the woman had said no. It was all right. She still had other clients and, sadly, Mrs. Malik could probably find another firm of private investigators who would discern something about poor Nazneen if she paid them enough. Sorry as she was for the girl, there was nothing that she could do for her.

  Somewhere outside some boys shouted something she couldn’t make out. Leafy and tranquil as the street was, they weren’t far from the Romford Road and lots of crazy things happened up there. Kids out on their own, on bikes, on skateboards, rolling around outside McDonald’s. Boozed up, some of them, some of them on drugs. Mumtaz used to think that if she ever had children of her own, she’d never let them do things like that. But that had been years ago and now she knew that all she could ever do was guide. Living with Shazia had taught her that. Sometimes children did things for reasons that needed less blame and more sympathy. Some kids lived lives of absolute hell, that was just fact. Anyway, she was never going to have any children.

  Mumtaz turned over again. She’d opened the bedroom window earlier to let some fresh air in, which meant that the double glazing wasn’t keeping out noise, which wasn’t helping her to sleep. And so after a brief wrestle with fresh air versus soundproofing, she got up and went over to the window to close it.

  She put her head underneath the net curtain and put her hands onto the bottom half of the sash to push it down. It was as she looked down into the garden that she saw something move in the hedge behind the fish pond. At first she thought that it was a cat but, although she didn’t actually see a face, she definitely made out a form that was human. As far as she could tell, although she had seen it, it hadn’t seen her. Heart hammering with fight or flight hormones, Mumtaz nevertheless reasoned that the figure was probably a kid just mucking about. But he or she wasn’t with any other kids and that was weird. Kids mucking about generally did so with others of their kind. Frozen, Mumtaz didn’t close the window until she was sure that he or she had gone. Then she went downstairs to make sure that all the doors and windows were secure. They were.

  XVIII

  “What you told my old woman was bang out of order!”

  It was really too early for Bob “the Builder” Singleton, but Lee couldn’t bring himself to even start to get angry. Some figure had been seen in Maria Peters’ garden in the early hours of the morning and his brother Roy had rocked up at his mother’s house again. Lee had bigger fish than Bob to fry.

  Lee paid for his fags and then pulled Bob out of the newsagent’s after him. Wearily he said, “Bob, do you or do you not bang many tired old toms on a regular basis?”

  Bob’s face went red. Lee lit up a fag. “You do.”

  “Yeah, but my Trace—”

  “You and your Tracey have both screwed around for years,” Lee said. “But some of the tarts you go with, Bob, as you know, fuck for Britain. They’ve had most creatures living or dead and as you’ve got older, mate, you’ve stopped worrying about safe sex, haven’t you?” Bob looked as if he might explode. “So Tracey knows who all your tarts are now and so does her Prideep. He don’t want a dose of the clap or worse and neither does your missus. Tell you what is a scandal though and that’s that you still owe me money.”

  “You never found no evidence of industrial espionage!” Bob protested.

  Two men in shalwar trousers and old Murderer Noakes on his mobility scooter enjoyed the escalating yelling between two well-known local characters.

  “That’s because there weren’t any!” Lee shouted. “The reason you were and are losing business, Bob, is because you’re shit. I gave you the truth, and that is either stop wrecking people’s fucking roofs and their conservatories or go and do something else! Nobody is nicking your business. You’re undermining yourself.”

  For a moment Bob, who could usually handle himself in a fight, looked as if he might take a pop at Lee, but then he appeared to change his mind.

  “Just fuck off and get me my fucking money,” Lee said. Then he walked away from Bob. Everyone looking on knew that not only did Lee Arnold have the moral high ground, he was also more than just handy in a scrap. Lee Arnold could half kill a man, as he’d demonstrated on several occasions.

  Back in the office, Lee steeled himself to speak to his mother. Before he did that though he briefed Amy on the phone about an er
rant-husband job he’d got for her in Leytonstone. The Arnold Agency didn’t usually do honeytrap work, but Lee needed the money and so did Amy. The Prime Minister could bang on as much as he liked about reintroducing morals to “broken Britain” but while the recession was on people were going to carry on boozing, drugging and shagging their way out of their misery and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Two weeks of Olympic “glory” in 2012 certainly was not the answer.

  As soon as he’d finished with Amy, there was a buzz at the door and Lee got up to answer it. Doing everything himself was like being back in the bad old pre-Mumtaz days. “Yeah?”

  “Lee, it’s Tony Bracci.” Vi’s DS. “Let us in.”

  Lee pressed the button to unlock the door and Tony Bracci walked in. They’d only really been drinking pals when Lee had worked at Forest Gate police station and after he’d given up the booze and then left the force they’d just had the odd phone conversation or two. So they greeted each other as ex-colleagues and not as mates. It was cordial but Lee knew that Tony Bracci wouldn’t come to see him without a good reason and so he was glad when the DS got straight to the point.

  “We’ve got a situation with some black happy-clappy churches,” he said.

  Lee nodded. “Kid got knifed.”

  “Jacob Sitole, he belonged to a church called the Bethel Revival. He was spiked by a kid called Matthias Chibanda who went to another happy-clappy place called Peace in Jesus. Both down by the Olympic site. You had Neil West down there a few months ago, didn’t you, at the Pentecostal Fire place.”

  “Toasting crumpets, yeah.” Lee laughed. “But seriously, that’s a mainly white set-up. We never got involved or even close to any of the black organizations.”