by Celia Imrie
‘And the vieille dame, while he’s at it?’
‘Hey! You! Enough of the old.’
‘He’s not a local then?’
‘Oh no, he’s staying around here for a few weeks. He was very “So British”, as they say over here.’
‘But what was he doing gazing through Theresa’s window? Did he say?’
‘Something about his work with sound reverberations. Acoustics or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening. He must be at the Astra. They usually are. I didn’t have a clue what he was on about, actually. I was just transfixed by the seductive tone of his mellifluous vocals. So I told him the owner of the flat was away; meanwhile he could make as much noise as he wanted, and when she got back then if he wanted to continue, he could explain everything to her. That seemed to please him.’
‘And you’re sure he’s nothing to do with Chloe?’
‘It seems not.’
Sally glanced at Theresa’s place, up to the small square windows of the flat above and beyond to the looming shadow of the Hotel Astra.
‘You don’t think he’s up there? What if he has her locked up?’
‘I’d say he seemed not the type to be interested in children. After all, he invited me out on a date!’ Carol laughed her deep, warm chuckle.
Sally was still worried. The man might fancy Carol, who due to her past life had a certain handsome allure, but that did not rule out his having other interests of a sexual nature. She looked up once more. ‘Wonder what he’s getting up to up there that he doesn’t want Theresa to hear?’
‘Chopping up the bodies, perhaps!’
Although Carol had only said what Sally herself was thinking, she said, ‘Carol, you’re beyond beyond.’
‘I am what I am!’ Carol swept off in the direction of the restaurant van. ‘Anyhoo, honey, don’t worry. When we’re out on our date I’ll probe him.’
Sally laughed. ‘I bet you will.’
When she arrived at the school, Theresa was shown straight up to Imogen’s office. She opened the photo album and displayed the photo of Chloe with the boy playing Friar Laurence.
‘Fire! Laurence!’ she said. ‘Bald, fat, old . . . and he wears a brown dress – with knots on. It’s him.’ She stabbed her finger down on the photo. ‘Another boy from this school. Over to you, Imogen.’
‘Oh, that’s something of a relief.’
‘It’s a huge relief, darling. It’s not a real old, fat, bald man who lured Chloe away. At least it’s someone of her own age. So where is he?’
‘I don’t remember who that was.’ Imogen peered at the photo, then pulled open a drawer in the filing cabinet at her side. ‘Behind all the make-up. Romeo and Juliet was the school play, last November.’ She took out a file marked ‘Drama’, and flipped through to the printed programme. ‘I just leave all that theatrical stuff to Frances. And the boy is so well padded-out and bewigged I’ve no idea who it was.’
‘Don’t you have a boy who’s missing from school too?’
‘Friar Laurence . . .’ Imogen ran her finger down the cast list. ‘Oh, no. I don’t believe it. Neil Muffett. Not Neil.’ She slid the Romeo and Juliet programme over to Theresa and flung herself back in her swivel chair.
Theresa was worried by Imogen’s reaction to the discovery of the boy’s name. ‘He’s a troublemaker? A bully?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘But is he absent from school?’
‘Worse than that. He left the school at the end of last term.’ Imogen rose and moved over to another set of filing cabinets. ‘I doubt I have anything much of use on him in here now.’
She stooped over the desk and pressed the button on the intercom. ‘Nadia, please could you find out the address and phone number of a boy who left the school last Christmas. Neil Muffett . . . That’s right. Neil.’
Imogen took her finger off the intercom and leaned forward to speak to Theresa.
‘Neil was a strange boy. Always gazing out of the window. Full of daydreams.’
‘Was he expelled? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ Theresa could imagine Chloe finding the lure of a daydreaming ‘bad ’un’ rather irresistible.
‘No. Neil was not expelled. Absolutely not. He was more of a sloth than a wild boy. He thought he could just sail through his education without putting in one iota of effort. He truly believed he’d get by simply on his ravishing smile. He left, I seem to recall, because his parents moved away from the area. There was a huge divorce. Mega-bucks involved.’
The intercom buzzed and the voice of Nadia said that she had the address of the boy’s mother. A house in Streatham.
‘Come on, Mum.’ Imogen picked up her bag and coat and strode through to Nadia’s office to collect a written copy. ‘Let’s go.’
Twenty minutes later Theresa and Imogen pulled up outside a house with a large driveway and a garage. It had obviously once been rather grand, but now seemed slightly dilapidated. The borders of the driveway were overgrown with weeds, the paintwork round the windows was peeling, the glass dusty and uncleaned in months.
‘Can this be right?’ Imogen peered forward, then pointed at the address card. ‘I always thought they were frightfully well-off.’
Theresa double-checked the card.
‘Yes. This is it. It does look like a very big house. Perhaps it’s better inside.’
‘Come on.’ Imogen got out of the car. ‘Now we’re looking for Cynthia Muffett.’
Theresa wondered whether anyone lived here at all. It looked as though the owners had been away for a long time.
Imogen stepped up to the front door, rang the bell, then wiped the tip of her finger with a tissue.
They waited, but there was no sign of life inside.
Theresa stooped and looked through the letterbox. She was thinking there would be a mound of mail lying there, but no. Then something caught her eye. The slightest movement at the end of the hall. A skirt disappearing round the architrave of a door.
‘I saw someone,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a woman inside. She’s hiding behind a doorway.’
Imogen pushed Theresa away and shouted through the letterbox. ‘We know you’re inside, Mrs Muffett. You’d better answer or we’re going to call the police.’ She stood up and pressed her finger on the bell. She left it there. It was a shrill bell.
To help, Theresa rattled the letterbox.
Eventually feet shuffled along the hall. Then the door, on a chain, opened a crack. Two eyes, make-up smeared, peered through the gap.
‘Yes?’
Only one word, but enough for Theresa to smell alcohol fumes on the woman’s breath.
‘Mrs Muffett?’
‘Who are you?’
‘It’s Imogen Firbank, Mrs Muffett. I was Neil’s headmistress.’
The fingers of one hand curled around the edge of the door. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘We just need to come in and talk. Neil isn’t in trouble. But, if we don’t have a word privately with you first and try to sort things out, he could be in very bad trouble.’
The woman slid the chain off and tentatively opened up.
‘Who’s she?’ She pointed at Theresa.
‘I’m the child’s grandmother.’
‘Which child?’
‘Chloe Firbank, the underaged girl Neil has run away with.’ Imogen stepped into the hall.
‘Aren’t you Mrs Firbank?’
‘Yes,’ said Imogen. ‘I am Chloe’s mother.’
‘So he’s run off with a young girl.’ Mrs Muffett, still in dressing gown and slippers, her hair unkempt, shrugged. ‘Like father like son.’
Leaving a trail of Martini fumes in her wake, Cynthia Muffett slopped down the hall to a large, open kitchen which looked out on to an impressive garden. Theresa and Imogen followed.
‘Where does your son go to school nowadays, Mrs Muffett?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what school does he attend? He’s fifteen years old, Mrs Muffett. By law
he has to be at school.’
‘Drink?’ Mrs Muffett sat on a high stool and topped up her glass from the bottle.
Theresa and Imogen declined.
‘How would I know? His father won custody. His father wins everything.’ Mrs Muffett gulped back the Martini in one. ‘I suppose Neil’s at a school near to where his father lives.’
‘And his father lives where exactly?’
‘I don’t know. Everywhere. Nowhere. Last seen in Ibiza. Or was it Tenerife? I can never tell the difference between those common places.’
‘Do you perhaps have a phone number for your husband? Or an email address? Some way of contacting him? It is crucial that we find your son, who it appears has eloped with my daughter. I should point out that they are both underaged.’
‘I used to have Roger’s number.’ Mrs Muffett poured herself another drink. ‘But he changed it because I would phone to talk to Neil.’
‘And Neil? Doesn’t he have a phone? Do you have a number for him?’
‘He sometimes contacts me on one of those app things.’ Mrs Muffett suddenly put her face in her hands and started sobbing. ‘Once upon a time I had everything. And Neil was such a sweet boy. And Roger is such a pig. But boys will be boys. Roger kept saying that. Boys will be boys. And when Neil and adolescence collided, the little boy got it into his head that he wanted to be like his father, the big boy . . . and . . . When Roger left me . . .’
Mrs Muffett dissolved into a mess of tears.
Theresa moved in softly.
‘I know what that’s like, Mrs Muffett . . . when a marriage breaks up. I’m sure your son is still the sweet boy you love. Children go through many changes while they search for an identity of their own, but you must understand that we need to talk to him, urgently. If only to make sure that my granddaughter is safe.’
‘There!’ Mrs Muffett pulled her phone out of her dressing-gown pocket and dropped it on the countertop. ‘If there’s anything on there you can find. He usually uses the one with the pink 8 sign.’
Imogen opened the app and fiddled with the phone while Theresa kept Mrs Muffett talking.
‘Did Neil have any ambitions at all?’
‘He wanted to be Jack Sparrow.’
‘No desire to be in any job? Footballer? Actor? Banker?’
‘No. He used to help me out at the brasserie sometimes, for pocket money. But then his father swanned off with that young girl and he changed—’
‘Brasserie?’
‘Nothing great. La Cour. It was just down the road. I loved running it. But the swine even took that joy away. He got it in the settlement, and sold it. So now I not only have no family, but no work.’ She gave a stifled sob. ‘It was meant to be called La Coeur – French for “The Heart” – but the idiot signwriter missed out the “e”. Good thing really because I would have had to change the name to La Coeur Brisée. “The Broken Heart”. As it is, I had to live with smug French-speakers constantly pointing out that it should be Le Cour. Bloody stupid signwriter.’
‘And when did your husband go away?’
‘The divorce became final over the summer. And Roger was gone by Christmas, taking Neil with him. He took my brasserie and my son. The only two things I ever cared about. The bastard. And I adored him.’
Mrs Muffett put her head down on the countertop and sobbed uncontrollably. ‘And I thought he adored me.’
Theresa could see that Imogen was still busy scribbling down notes from the phone.
‘Didn’t your husband realise that it was illegal to take Neil out of school, Mrs Muffett?’
‘Cynthia. I hate Mrs Muffett. After all, I’m not really Mrs Muffett, am I?’
‘Neil – not in school . . . ?’
‘Roger always believed that he was above the law.’ Cynthia shrugged. ‘He didn’t give a toss about “interfering officialdom”, as he called it. And, as he constantly pointed out, he managed to become a successful businessman without one examination to his name, not even a swimming certificate.’ She raised her head, her mascara now smeared down her cheeks. ‘I’ve got six GCSEs, three A levels and a BA.’ She sobbed and looked imploringly at Theresa. ‘And I’ve got a gold medal for swimming!’
Theresa had no idea what to reply, except a feeble ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Neil’s more like me than Roger. Or he was when he lived here.’
‘He’s a good swimmer, then, Neil?’ asked Theresa.
‘No. A hopeless swimmer. But Roger sang his siren song, dangling all those presents and promises. He won’t be arrested, will he?’
Theresa was lost to know to which male of the Muffett family Cynthia was referring, so said nothing.
But Imogen spoke, brusquely. ‘As Neil is also underage, if he has touched my daughter he will probably be cautioned. But if your ex-husband is implicated in the kidnapping, it is quite possible that the police will charge him with all sorts of things.’ She put her notebook back into her handbag. ‘Thank you, Mrs Muffett. I wonder if you could give me your password for that networking site. You understand that it’s for your benefit as well as our own – I have to find Neil before the police do.’
Cynthia Muffett looked at Imogen. Theresa could see the slow dawning of understanding cross her face. She reached for her handbag and, fumbling inside, pulled out a scrap of paper on which was written ‘160905Neil!’
While Imogen scribbled the password down, Theresa worked out that the numbers must be the boy’s birthday.
‘If I find Neil, I will let you know right away, Mrs Muffett. I promise.’ Imogen signalled to Theresa to follow her out. ‘Meanwhile I suggest that you put that bottle away and start cleaning up. Paint the windows and clear the front entrance. Neil won’t want to come home to this. Pull yourself together.’
As Theresa left with Imogen through the front door, they heard the noise of a glass breaking. It sounded as though Mrs Muffett had sent it flying in their direction.
Sally bumped into Marcel coming out of the little boulangerie up the hill.
‘Thanks for last night,’ she said without a smile.
‘Why do you not look pleased?’ Marcel seemed puzzled. ‘I thought it would help you. All those extra covers.’
‘All those rude people who wanted only junk food, you mean?’
All innocence, Marcel replied, ‘But as they were English, I thought you would know better how to handle them.’
Sally realised that this subject was trickier than she was prepared for. She scrutinised his face. Either Marcel was a first-class liar, or he really did think that those people would be happy eating the type of food they served in La Mosaïque.
‘They were time-wasters, Marcel. They really just wanted somewhere to sit while they waited for their boat to take them away. I believe the cruise-ship’s tender had broken down. If I’d known what they’d be like, I’d have rowed them out there myself, one by one.’
Marcel laughed.
‘I’m sorry, Sally.’
‘The result is that tonight William is in the kitchen.’
Marcel pulled a shocked face so extreme that he looked almost like a clown.
‘Ooh lor lor! And when will Theresa return?’
Sally shrugged a ‘don’t know’.
‘I see.’
‘But for the future, Marcel, when you are recommending us to your cast-offs, I should tell you that we’re looking a little more in the area of the BCBG clientele. Those last night were, let’s see, I don’t think we have a phrase in French for it. In England we’d say . . .’ And Sally reverted to English to say: ‘“End of the pier”. Which, Marcel, literally translates as: Fin de la jetée.’
‘So that you could throw them off!’ replied Marcel, leaving Sally realising that some things really did have no translation.
Once loaded with baguettes she staggered down the hill to the restaurant and dropped them by the kitchen door. William and Benjamin were standing silently at separate counters, chopping and peeling.
It appeared that serenity ruled.
Rather than disturb the peace, Sally turned and swiftly moved through into the dining room. She spent the next hour putting on the tablecloths and laying up. She glanced quickly in the bookings ledger and saw that there were two tables reserved for dinner tonight. Both with French surnames.
As she put the ledger back under the counter, she remembered that Theresa wanted her to post her photo album through the front door.
She went through into the kitchen.
Benjamin turned and smiled serenely. As she passed him, William also looked up from the blender and grinned. This was spooky. It felt like something out of The Stepford Wives. She sidled past them and stooped to find the photo album. She pulled out the menu book. Then the order book. After that the accounts book. She scraped her hand to the back of the shelf. Nothing else there.
‘Boys?’ she asked. ‘Did either of you see a large orange folder? It was Theresa’s photo album. Only it’s not here.’
Benjamin and William shook their heads.
‘Right. OK. I’ll just have a quick root about down in the cellar.’
But down in the cellar there was nothing. Someone had left a rose – a pink one this time – laid on a piece of paper inscribed with a large pink heart on the desk. As William and Benjamin were acting so strangely, she presumed it must be something to do with them.
Thinking of Theresa again, Sally realised that she should update her on the mystery of the bald man looking through the window. She went upstairs and out through the back door, moving along the narrow alleyway till it turned on to the open seafront.
To make the call she sat in her usual place, perched on the sea wall, looking out to the bay.
Theresa’s phone went straight to voicemail, so Sally left a message telling her that the bald man was just an English tourist snooping about who, as far as they could see, had nothing to do with Chloe, especially as he had just asked Carol out on a date.
She hung up and looked at her watch. It had been a conscious decision not to mention the photo album, which Sally felt sure must have got mislaid during the chaos last night, and would certainly turn up when they were looking for something else.