by Celia Imrie
‘That was Daniel and Constance. They took one look at the room, said they’d had enough and have decided tonight to go home to eat.’
‘But they’re regulars . . .’
‘I do know that, Benjamin. But they didn’t like the ambience, and I don’t blame them. They thought they were coming in for a romantic diner à deux ; instead they’ve got a bun fight.’
‘Oh God! We don’t want to start losing customers; now, of all times.’
‘Fine.’ William took off his velvet jacket and handed it to Benjamin. ‘If you think you could have handled it better, get out there. It’s Armageddon.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Carol?’
‘Delivering to one of our regulars who’s down with les hémorroïdes,’ said Sally and Benjamin in unison. Then they both collapsed again with laughter.
‘Did you even take note of the order?’ William asked tartly. ‘Twenty – oh, eighteen – fish and chips Niçoise.’
Snatching his jacket back from Benjamin, he turned on his heel and returned to the fray.
Theresa sat waiting in the living room for her daughter to return. She had rung Imogen and asked her to come home at once. Theresa knew that the information she had got from Cressida had to be discussed face to face, rather than on the end of a phone.
She was nodding off on the sofa, exhausted by the emotional day, when the key clicked in the lock.
She rose and straightened her clothing. It was strange how she behaved with her own daughter as though she was being hauled before the headmistress.
Imogen put her head round the door. She looked unlike she ever had before: hair awry, make-up smudged, vaguely shell-shocked. ‘What is it?’ she asked, moving swiftly into the living room.
Theresa told her exactly what Cressida had said.
‘Did she have a name for this bald old pervert?’ Imogen’s hand hovered over her mouth; Theresa could see that it was shaking. ‘I have a direct-line number for the police. We have to give them his identity right away.’
Her words faded out and she staggered, tilting backwards and landing on the sofa.
Once sitting, she started to wail.
Theresa sat beside her and softly put her arm about her daughter’s shoulder.
‘Cressida wasn’t making much sense. She was on the verge of sleep. I think they’ve had a pretty weird day too.’
‘Name?’ snapped Imogen. ‘Just give me the bloody name.’
Theresa took a deep breath. ‘She didn’t exactly give a name. But she said his name was “Fire”.’
‘“Fire”? What kind of a name is that?’
Theresa shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s an avatar. It seemed to me to be the kind of name you’d get on a computer game or internet chatroom.’
‘You do a lot of gaming, do you, Mum?’ Imogen shook off Theresa’s arm and stood up. ‘I’m going to wake Cressida and force it out of her.’
Theresa followed. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Imogen. The child is exhausted.’
Imogen ran up the stairs, with Theresa in pursuit. She swung round the newel post and went straight into the girls’ room. She sat on Lola’s bed.
‘But it was Cressida—’
‘Yes. Yes,’ snapped Imogen. ‘But I know these two. Cressida only parrots what Lola tells her. If Cressida told you that much, Lola knows so much more.’
Imogen shook Lola.
The child’s forehead was damp with the sweat of sleep.
Lola blinked a few times and looked at her mother.
‘What’s wrong, Mummy? Is it a fire drill?’
‘Lola. I need you to tell me everything you know about the man Chloe has gone off with.’
Lola bit her lip. Theresa could see that she was struggling with divided loyalty.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said. But her voice wavered.
‘I’m sure Chloe told you not to say anything to your mother,’ said Theresa, low but firm. ‘But it really is very important. Chloe might be in danger. Please, Lola.’
Lola looked up at Theresa. A flash of fear lit her eyes. She licked her lips a few times, like a kitten at the vet’s. Then she spoke, in a voice a little above a whisper. ‘He’s old and fat,’ she said. ‘He’s bald, and he wears a dress.’
‘A dress?’ Imogen covered her face with her hands. ‘Stop it, Lola. Tell me what you know. Don’t make things up.’
Lola shrank back under the covers and whimpered, ‘Chloe said he was a lovely kisser.’
As Imogen sobbed, Theresa took a small step forward.
‘Did he promise to take her to the French Riviera?’
Lola shook her head. ‘She was upset because he had gone there without her. But he was in Spain too. And Italy too, somewhere with a fishy name. Like Sardineland.’
‘Sardinia,’ muttered Imogen. ‘The bloody man’s everywhere.’
‘Does he really wear a dress, Lola, or are you making that up?’
‘No. He does wear a dress. Brown with knots on.’
Theresa shot a look at Imogen. She stooped and whispered into her ear. ‘Perhaps we should give that information to the police now.’
Imogen appeared not to hear her and she bent low over Lola’s cowering face.
‘Did you see him yourself, Lola? Or is this something Chloe told you?’
‘I saw him, once. But that was a long time ago.’
Imogen shook Lola’s shoulders.
‘How long? Where did you see him?’
‘It was before Christmas. Last term. At school. But I don’t remember anything. I didn’t know Chloe even liked him till yesterday.’
‘Do you have a name for this man?’
‘I think he used to be called Laurence, but he changed his name after Christmas and Chloe didn’t tell me what it is now. But he’s gone away before with lots of young girls with no clothes on, even though it’s cold. He told her.’
Imogen’s jaw was shaking.
Theresa was frightened for her.
She reached out and gently touched her daughter’s back, whispering: ‘We should go downstairs now, Imogen, and make that call.’
William stood in the kitchen, his face the same shade of purple as his velvet jacket.
‘I can’t take it any more.’ He flung up his arms. ‘I just can’t.’
Sally was rather relieved to find that William too was feeling distraught. The last two hours had been up there among the worst times in her life. Even the first performance of A Long Day’s Journey into Night at St Andrew’s Rep had come nothing near it, though that had been like a five-hour nightmare, rather than tonight’s two.
‘Don’t look at me!’ Sally watched William’s meltdown turn into a simmering volcano of rage. ‘Or, for that matter, at Benjamin. We’ve been working our arses off in here.’
William stamped his foot, and simultaneously threw a menu up to the ceiling. ‘But everybody hates everything. They’ve sent it all back and now they’re refusing to pay.’
‘It’s all been prepared exactly the same as normal. Red mullet in batter, with panisse chips.’ Sally took a step forward, challenging. ‘And don’t think it’s been fun sending out perfectly good dishes only to get them back three minutes later.’
‘They think panisse is French for potato, so they’re all grimacing and saying that the chips are “slimy”.’
‘Let’s face it, people like that don’t want anything we serve here,’ added Benjamin. ‘They want ketchup and vinegar, hamburgers and mushy peas.’
‘He’s right . . .’ Sally backed Benjamin up. ‘It states quite clearly on the menu . . .’
William silenced her by shouting, ‘I know what it says on the bloody menu. I wrote the bloody thing. But it’s in frigging French and they only speak bloody English. They think they’re on a sodding day trip to the end of the bollocking pier at Blackpool not to a classy little chic restaurant in Bellevue-sur-Mer.’
‘It’s too late now to save the situation—’ Sally started, but William cut her off again.
‘I’m o
n the verge of a nervous breakdown, Sally. Really. If someone doesn’t restrain me, I’m going back in there with a carving knife to finish them all off.’
Benjamin put out a hand, resting it on William’s arm, but he shook it off, saying, ‘Tomorrow, Sally, you can waitress. You have social skills, garnered from all your years “treading the boards”. I’m just a crusty, old ex-English teacher who loathes and despises these low-lifes.’
‘But can you cook, William?’ Sally ventured.
‘Of course I can’t,’ he squealed. ‘But with this lot, who needs to actually be able to bloody cook?’
Sally realised how upset William must be. Normally such a fastidious speaker, he had just split two infinitives.
Benjamin removed his apron and crept towards the dining room.
‘I’ll try to salvage what I can,’ he said quietly. ‘William’s too upset.’
‘Didn’t they see the word Niçoise after fish and chips?’
‘You don’t honestly think that means anything to them, do you? One of them thought it was pronounced “knickers”. “I’ll have the fish and chips knickers.” She actually said that to me!’
William collapsed on to the bentwood chair in the corner and started fanning himself with the menu.
‘Truly, Sally, why don’t we just throw in the towel and sell up as it is now? Leave the place dark, as they’d say in your métier.’
‘You know why, William. We need to sell it as a thriving business. With decent accounts and recommendations.’ Her voice faded out as she realised that tonight was demonstrating the exact opposite. ‘But our locals like us, the regulars. Perhaps we could ask them to go online and—’
‘Sally, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t honestly think that people who live round here have got the time to fiddle about on phones giving stars and writing reviews of their favourite restaurants? They’re French! They simply come out to dine, expect it to be wonderful, and then go home replete and happy. And quite right too. Only an imbecile writes reviews of a meal without being paid for it. Once upon a time that’s how it was here, every night at La Mosaïque.’ William hung his head.
Sally couldn’t be sure, but she thought he might actually be crying.
‘The cruise ship will be gone tomorrow, thank God,’ Sally suggested quietly.
‘Perhaps. But who’s to say another one won’t arrive?’ Suddenly he looked up, his face earnest and suspicious. ‘And another, and another. And we’ll have a constant stream of people who mistake our gastronomic restaurant for a greasy spoon. Give me a moment. I’m just popping out.’
He strode past Sally and out. A few minutes later he was back.
‘That bloody Marcel. His terraces are certainly not full. Nor are the tables inside. He just dumped that lot on us, knowing what would happen.’ William rolled up his sleeves, and made again for the back door. But Sally grabbed hold of him, just in time.
‘Please don’t do it. Just know that we’re on to him. Remember that, at this moment, Marcel is our best hope of a buyer. And naturally he wants to drive down the price. In his position, wouldn’t we? Seriously, William . . .’
William was about to respond when Benjamin arrived back in the kitchen. He was sobbing.
‘That does it,’ he wailed. ‘One of them just vomited all over my new trousers.’
Once the two policewomen arrived to take down this new information, one in uniform, cap in hand, the other in plain clothes, Theresa sat in the corner of the living room and let Imogen do all the talking.
‘We’ve put out an alert at the airports,’ said the detective sergeant. ‘And so far no one with Chloe’s name has gone through on any airline. I gather Chloe has her own passport. I need you to check that it’s here. If it’s not here, I’m sure you appreciate, that changes everything.’
Imogen rushed through to her office. Theresa could hear her pulling open drawer after drawer.
To fill the awkward pause, Theresa introduced herself as Chloe’s grandmother.
Imogen returned with three passports in her hand. She flung them down on to the coffee table.
‘Mine, Lola’s and Cressida’s.’ Her face was pale as she added quietly, ‘Chloe’s is gone.’
The uniformed policewoman rose and started to speak brusquely into a wireless handset fixed to her shoulder.
‘Now, Mrs Firbank,’ said the detective sergeant, ‘we need to know why exactly your children have their own passports? Was it to visit anyone in particular?’
Imogen shot Theresa a look. ‘It was her idea. For some ridiculous reason she now lives in France, when she could have lived around the corner here in London. Then she had the bright idea that, if the children ever needed to travel over to see her, it would be easier if they had their own travel documents.’
Theresa winced from the unfairness of the attack. She recalled that once, when she had suggested moving to live round the corner, Imogen had made a cruel remark: ‘Better to keep a bit of distance. After all, we don’t want you spying on us.’ It had been the tipping point in her decision to move to France.
When Theresa looked up she saw that the detective sergeant was silently surveying her.
‘Clearly you are not in France, Mrs Simmonds. Therefore, I presume your grandchild isn’t currently paying you a visit.’
Theresa didn’t know how to respond. ‘I left as soon as I heard what had happened. Today. Early afternoon.’
‘Do you live alone in France?’
‘Yes. I have a small flat on the Côte d’Azur.’
‘In Southern France, I believe? A few miles from Nice, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does Chloe have a key to the flat?’
‘No. She did ask me on the phone the other day whether Bellevue-sur-Mere was in the Riviera. At the time it didn’t seem to mean anything, but maybe it did . . .’
‘No one else lives with you?’
‘Not with me. It’s the lower part of a maisonette. There are people in the flat above mine. But it has a separate front door. It’s an occasional short-holiday let. But my flat is currently empty.’
The detective nodded and returned to her notes.
‘Mrs Firbank, do you have any connections with these other places your daughter referred to: Spain, Sardinia?’
Imogen sighed and said no.
‘Returning to the subject of this man, Laurence. Your other daughter told you he was seen before Christmas at the school which they attend, and of which you are headmistress?’
‘That’s right,’ said Imogen. ‘I presume she meant in the playground rather than the school building. But I cannot think that a strange man, lurking in a school playground wearing a brown dress, would not have been reported to me by one of the supervising staff.’
‘And do you have any idea how they met?’
Theresa decided to put forward her theory. ‘Cressida told me his name was Fire. I’m wondering if that isn’t one of those internet names from a gaming site?’
‘Interesting.’ The detective scribbled again in her notebook and said, ‘I realise that it’s very late now to wake the other children but I’m sure you realise that time is of the essence . . .’
Theresa watched the uniformed officer return to the room. She stooped to whisper in the detective’s ear.
It was not going to be good news.
The detective nodded, turned to Imogen and said in a sombre tone: ‘We have a report that this morning your daughter boarded a ship sailing from Dover to Calais. She is now somewhere on the European mainland.’
Theresa started wishing that she had stayed in Bellevue-sur-Mer. Perhaps Chloe was heading down there. She suggested the idea to the detective who pursed her lips and replied that mentioning the Riviera hardly narrowed it down. The South of France was a big place, and Chloe could be heading anywhere. Her sisters had already mentioned three separate countries she had spoken of in connection with this man, and there was no guarantee there weren’t more: Germany, Sweden, Greece. It was easy enough to get a
nywhere, even without taking a plane. ‘You must concentrate your efforts on discovering the identity of this “Laurence”,’ she added. ‘Could he be travelling with her?’
The policewoman said that her colleagues were in talks with the ferry company, who were at this moment inspecting their CCTV.
Theresa vaguely remembered a case a few years ago, when grainy photographs of a child on a ferry had been shown on the news. The girl had run off with her teacher.
‘The trouble is,’ the detective continued, ‘the man might possibly have a car. Or, they might be going onward by train; that train could be heading for an airport, in Paris for instance, from whence they could fly to Alabama or Bangkok. The options are incalculable.’ The detective stood up. ‘Now, I think the best thing for you two is to get some sleep and leave this bit to us. Believe me, Mrs Firbank, we will do everything we can.’
When they had gone, Theresa made her daughter a hot whisky toddy and told her to try and rest.
In her own bed Theresa tossed and turned. Why yesterday afternoon had Chloe asked her about the French Riviera? Surely that must indicate that she had some interest in going there. Maybe her ‘friend’ was heading there with her. And if they were to visit the South of France, surely Chloe would steer him to Bellevue-sur-Mer, which she knew? If they had left for Calais this morning, and changed trains at Paris, they’d be pulling into Nice near midnight.
What if they needed somewhere to stay?
Theresa knew she had to contact someone to keep a lookout at her flat.
NINE
Sally woke with a start. The phone was ringing. She squinted at her bedside clock: 03.17. Who on earth could be calling her at this hour? Dreading it would be bad news, she stretched out to pick up.
‘Hello?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’
She cursed and replaced the receiver. Someone had clearly misdialled.
She turned over and tried to get back to sleep.
A few minutes later the phone rang again.
She could hear fragments of speech, interspersed with crackling and sonic noises that sounded as though they were coming through a tunnel.
Again a click of a phone going down.