‘And Martin wants to believe it’s him?’
‘Absolutely. My scepticism had no effect on him whatsoever. He said he’d written to the woman in Japan, offering to help her identify Peter Evans. Did I want to know what came of it? Naturally, I said yes, although I suspected very little would. But last Friday evening—’
‘Friday?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘That’s when he phoned me.’
‘Mmm. Well, he’d obviously decided to involve you for some reason. He told me the Japanese woman had been in touch and was coming to London this week to meet him. Did he mention that to you?’
‘No. He just said he wanted to talk to me about my father.’
Miranda shook her head. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to. To be honest …’
‘Yes?’
‘I wasn’t sure the Japanese woman was really coming. I even wondered if he’d made the whole thing up.’
‘But you saw the advert.’
‘I did. It’s an actual newspaper cutting. With a date printed on it. It looked genuine. And faking it would have been an enormously complicated exercise. Out of the question, really.’
‘Do you think maybe Martin’s lost it?’
‘You tell me. After you’ve met him. Now, they’re hovering with the dessert trolley, Nick. I suggest we put them out of their misery and order something.’
They parted in the street, halfway between the restaurant and Miranda’s house. The tumult of King’s Road wasn’t far away, but it was quiet and still in this corner of Chelsea. In the end, they’d skipped dessert in favour of coffee. Nick hadn’t wanted to risk getting home late for his appointment with Caldwell.
‘Where did you say your wife’s gone?’ she asked suddenly.
‘Tuscany.’
‘Are you going to join her there?’
‘It’s girls only.’
‘That’s a pity.’ She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘I imagine never knowing your father plants a lifelong curiosity about him in your mind. But you’ll learn nothing of value from Marty. Geoff’s been dead more than thirty years. Peter and Alison more than forty. It’s all ancient history.’
‘Are you sure Peter Ellery’s dead? A hundred per cent certain?’
‘How can I be? His body was never found. But, if he didn’t drown, why did no one ever see him again?’
‘Perhaps he didn’t want to be seen.’
‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? And, in the wildly improbable event he’s still alive, why should it matter to you anyway?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Marty will tell me.’
‘He’ll tell you some kind of story, I’m sure.’ She lowered her voice as she stepped closer, inclining her head slightly, as if sharing a secret. ‘If you let him.’
It was only after he’d set off back for Greenwich that Nick realized he’d failed to ask Miranda where in Cornwall Alison Parker’s death – and presumably Peter Ellery’s as well – had occurred. There were a lot of beaches down there to choose from. He could ask Martin Caldwell, of course. And he meant to, if Caldwell didn’t volunteer the information.
As far as Nick was concerned, though, it was put-up-or-shut-up time for Caldwell. Nick was going to listen to what he had to say, about Geoff Nolan, about Peter Ellery and Alison Parker, about the Exeter household in general. He was going to listen very carefully. And if, as he expected, it all turned out to be nothing but a lonely man’s desperation to relive his youth, then that would be it. He would send Caldwell packing, then return no more calls or messages and draw a line under the whole business.
With any luck, he’d soon be able to get back to his painting. Leave ancient history behind. And re-engage with the present.
But Caldwell had a surprise in store for Nick. He didn’t turn up. Not at five o’clock. Not at six. Not at all. There was no apologetic phone call this time. And he didn’t answer when Nick phoned him or respond later to the message Nick left. As an aimless evening in front of the TV drifted by, Nick realized he’d somehow been had. What Caldwell had been trying to achieve, or whether this broken appointment was part of it, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine. And, for the moment, he couldn’t be bothered to try.
‘To hell with Martin Caldwell,’ he said as he poured himself another glass of wine.
SEVEN
WADA WAS ON the seven thirty train to exeter when it pulled out of Paddington station the following morning. She tried to read some more of The Makioka Sisters, but the news of Kodaka’s death had robbed her of her normal powers of concentration. The words on the page floated disobediently before her. The refuge she was accustomed to finding in Tanizaki’s writing was denied her.
She’d been tempted to travel to Exeter in search of Martin Caldwell the previous day, following his failure to meet her as arranged at the British Museum. But she’d decided she should wait in London for a message from him. None had come. Nor had there been any further news from Dobachi. The afternoon and evening had passed in an agony of inactivity. She’d tried not to think too much about Kodaka’s final moments, which had turned out to be impossible. Sleep had come late and fitfully.
Dawn, though, had brought clarity if nothing else. She wasn’t going to do what was easiest or, at least in the short term, safest. She was going to do what, in all the circumstances, she judged to be best. Because that was her nature. And fighting against her nature was, as she well knew, futile.
The English countryside rolled gently past the train window for the next two and a half hours. The final approach to Exeter took her through lush water meadows. The sunlit scenery, refulgent with spring growth, made her wish she and Hiko had seen more of England than London, Windsor Castle and Stonehenge during their whirlwind European tour all those years ago.
Once she’d arrived in Exeter, she followed directions on her phone from the station to Caldwell’s address, 18 Barnfield Hill. Even on foot, she was blocked and diverted several times by building work and found herself wondering why such an ancient city seemed still to be under construction.
Barnfield Hill itself was tranquil enough, though, a gently sloping road of detached villas that looked as if they dated from the nineteenth century, or maybe the early twentieth. Number 18 was large, red-bricked and bay-windowed like its neighbours, though not quite as well maintained, with window frames clearly overdue for repainting. A gentleman’s residence when originally constructed, no doubt, but divided into flats now. In one of which lived Martin Caldwell.
Wada walked up the brick-stepped path to the front door and inspected the bell-pushes. She pressed the one marked CALDWELL and waited, wondering if he would answer. There was a speakerphone next to the buttons. But it remained silent, even when she gave the bell a second, longer push.
Her intention, if she got no answer, was to press a few other bells until she did, then try to talk her way in and see where that took her. Before she could try the tactic, however, she heard someone walking up the path behind her.
She turned to find a woman of seventy or so approaching, overdressed for the weather and carrying a bulging supermarket bag, panting as she came. She had grey, curly hair, a round face and a rather lovely smile. ‘Can I help you, dear?’ she asked.
‘Perhaps,’ Wada replied. ‘I am looking for Martin Caldwell.’
‘I don’t think he’s back.’
‘Back … from where?’
‘I really don’t know, dear.’ The lady squinted at Wada. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, are you Japanese?’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘It isn’t odd to me. I’ve always been Japanese.’ Wada smiled to make it clear she was trying to be humorous.
The lady chuckled. ‘Of course you have. I’m sorry. What I meant was … Martin said he was going to London to meet a Japanese woman, so it’s odd a Japanese woman turns up here to see him.’
‘I am the Japanese woman he was going to meet. My name is Mimori Takenaga.’ Wada wonde
red if Caldwell might have mentioned the name. The lady’s reaction suggested not. ‘He didn’t turn up for our appointment. And I have heard nothing from him.’
‘Oh. Really? That’s … unlike him.’
‘I travelled here this morning because I couldn’t think of any other way to find out why he didn’t meet me as planned.’
‘I can’t explain that, dear. But, since you’ve come all this way, why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?’
As she opened the front door, the lady introduced herself to Wada as Joan Stapleton. She led the way into a wide hall, with the doors to flats 1 and 2 on either side. The stairs ahead of them were panelled off. They had to go through another door to reach them. Then Mrs Stapleton began a breathy climb to the next floor.
There were the doors to three flats off the landing they reached, one to the rear of the house, two at the front. Mrs Stapleton lived in flat 4. ‘It doesn’t look as if my husband’s back yet,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Come along in.’
‘Which flat does Mr Caldwell live in?’ Wada asked.
‘Six. On the top floor. He’s all on his own up there.’
They entered flat 4. The rooms were well proportioned and high-ceilinged. China rabbits of all sizes eyed Wada from shelves, cabinets and tabletops as she followed Joan through to the cluttered kitchen, which looked out on to a fire escape and part of the rear garden.
‘You’ll have some tea, dear?’ asked Joan, filling the kettle and opening the caddy that stood beside it.
‘Thank you.’ The two tea bags that were tossed into the teapot made Wada’s heart sink.
As the kettle boiled and, after that, as the tea brewed – for what Wada judged to be far too long – Joan gently interrogated her about why she – or rather Mimori Takenaga – had travelled all the way from Japan to meet Martin Caldwell. It became apparent that she regarded Caldwell as someone who occasionally needed saving from himself. It also became apparent that the theory she and her husband Wally had come up with to explain Caldwell’s rendezvous in London with a mysterious Japanese woman was some kind of internet romance.
Wada explained that romance had nothing to do with it. She’d come to see Martin Caldwell in order to shed light on the circumstances of her father’s death in London in 1977.
‘Oh, Martin knew your father, did he, dear?’ Joan asked quizzically as she finally poured the tea.
‘It’s more likely he knew someone who knew him, Mrs Stapleton.’
‘You can call me Joan, dear. Biscuit?’
‘I’m not hungry, thank you.’ Indeed she wasn’t. But she was observant. And the removal of the biscuit tin from a shelf had disturbed a key, hanging on a hook above the worktop. She was also blessed with good eyesight, which revealed there was a number written on the cardboard tag attached to the key ring. The number was 6.
‘They’re shortbreads. Delicious. I don’t suppose you can get them in Japan.’
Wada smiled, thinking of the vast selection of Scottish shortbreads she’d seen in the food hall at Takashimaya. ‘You’ve persuaded me,’ she said.
Bearing a tray, Joan headed off into the lounge. Wada debated the issue with herself for a fraction of a second, then took a sidestep to the worktop, lifted the key off the hook and slipped it into the pocket of her trousers. She removed a glove from another pocket as she did so and dropped it on the table. The plan she’d improvised was to come back later to retrieve the glove, surreptitiously returning the key at the same time.
‘Martin must have been living here in 1977,’ Joan continued, as Wada caught up with her. ‘He was a student at the university, you know. He’s told me this was quite a lively place then. It wasn’t divided into flats until later. I suppose him and his student friends lived in some kind of commune, if you know what I mean.’ She pronounced the word commune as if the concept of such an arrangement was deeply sinister. ‘Nothing like that now, I can assure you. Quiet as the … well, quiet is what it is. Which is how Wally and me like it. Martin too. You don’t want noise and carryings-on at our age, do you?’
They sat down. Wada stifled a wince as she sipped the tea. It was even stronger than she’d feared. She took a bite of shortbread. ‘When did you last see him, Joan?’
‘Not sure. Friday, I think. He’d gone by Saturday. Early start for London, I dare say.’
‘And you have not heard from him since?’
‘Not a word. Though we wouldn’t expect to. He keeps himself to himself.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘Well, he used to work for an insurance company. But he retired a few years ago. He keeps busy, though. So he says, anyway. I wonder why he didn’t meet you. He seemed to be looking forward to it. Where can he have got to?’
‘That is a good question.’ Wada managed another sip of tea, aware she was going to have to drink it all before leaving. And aware that the sooner she left the sooner she could try her luck in Caldwell’s flat. ‘I wish I knew the answer.’
It took Wada another half an hour to extricate herself from the Stapletons’ flat. Joan promised to contact her as soon as Caldwell returned and said she would tell him he should contact her himself with an explanation and an apology. Meanwhile, she was very interested in what Wada could tell her about the practicalities of wearing a kimono and was clearly disappointed when Wada said they were completely impractical, which was why she never wore them. ‘But you’d look so lovely in one, dear.’ Really, it was impossible to dislike Joan Stapleton. She and Haha would have got on famously.
Eventually, Wada made an exit, hastened by a telephone call that prevented Joan detaining her further. She waved and smiled as Wada let herself out.
The call was fortuitous. Joan didn’t strike Wada as someone who indulged in brief telephone conversations. Which meant there was no chance of her looking out of the window and being puzzled by not seeing her visitor walk away along the street.
As soon as the door of flat 4 closed behind her, Wada turned and hurried up the stairs leading to number 6.
She moved with a quiet, soft-footed tread as she approached Caldwell’s door. She slid the key into the lock and turned it slowly and carefully, then gingerly pushed the door open. She listened for a moment before stepping inside.
As she closed the door behind her, shutting out the rest of the building, the particular atmosphere of Caldwell’s flat disclosed itself in a succession of sensations. The angle of daylight was different up here, because the windows were dormers. That and the fact that there were no carpets, just rugs of various sizes laid across the floorboards, gave it the feeling of an attic. It wasn’t cluttered or untidy. The place felt both masculine and solitary, but not excessively so. Caldwell was in control of his world.
As Wada moved cautiously through the rooms, she was alert for tiny flexions of the boards beneath her feet. She didn’t want Joan hearing any creaks overhead. But she’d always been light on her feet. She remembered how impressed Hiko had been by her ability to walk across the famous nightingale floors at Nijo-jo in Kyoto without making a noise. There weren’t going to be any creaks.
The lounge told her nothing, beyond confirmation, by the positioning of a single armchair directly in front of the television, that Caldwell lived alone. The kitchen was neither manically clean nor conspicuously dirty. A rear door led from there out on to the fire escape. A wall calendar next to the door had the word DENTIST and a time – 10 a.m. – written on the line for the following day. But it had been crossed out. There was no rubbish in the pedal bin. It looked as if Caldwell had expected to be away for several days at least.
Some herbs were growing in pots on the windowsill: basil, coriander, oregano. The earth in the pots felt moist. Wada guessed watering them was something Joan did in Caldwell’s absence. Turning away from them, she caught a sudden reflection of movement in the glass door of the oven, but, wheeling round, she saw nothing beyond the window except trees and sky. A bird in flight, she concluded – nothing to be alarmed about.
Ne
xt stop was the study, furnished with desk, computer, landline phone, bookcases, a two-drawer filing cabinet and a stack of cardboard boxes in one corner, with papers piled on top.
Wada clicked the mouse, but the computer didn’t respond. It had been switched off at the wall: another sign Caldwell didn’t expect his visit to London to be a day trip. The desk drawer contained nothing but stationery: pens, envelopes, paper clips, a stapler, a calculator. She tried to open the top drawer of the filing cabinet, but it was locked and there was no sign of the key.
A small red light was flashing on a button on the phone. Message waiting. Wada pressed it and the monitor button.
You have one new message. First new message received today at nine twenty-nine hours.
‘Marty, this is Miranda. Nick Miller tells me you never showed up for your appointment with him. Are you all right? I’ll help if I can, you know. Give me a call when you get this.’
Miranda? Nick Miller? Friends, presumably. The display gave her Miranda’s number, which she recorded on her phone. Then, as she switched off the monitor, she noticed a peel-off jotting pad standing beside Caldwell’s phone. A telephone number was written on the top sheet in pencil, starting with two zeros. She peeled off the sheet and put it in her pocket.
Next she took a look at the papers piled on top of the boxes. It was all household stuff as far as she could tell: utility bills, bank and credit card statements, dating back years.
Leafing through them exposed the lid of one of the boxes in the corner. Suddenly, as her glance slid across it, Wada froze. Somebody had written on the box with a black felt-tipped pen:
The Fine Art of Invisible Detection Page 6