Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  I look at her puppy pleading eyes. “No, honestly,” I say, “I’ll have something later. But I’ll have some of that fresh coffee.”

  I want to scream at her for forcing Dad and me to patrol the airport in the early hours, for making me late for work, and then pretending nothing happened. But I find myself submitting to her forced warmth. It’s easier. She puts the kettle on, and clucks around tidying things away and wiping green patterned splash-back tiles with a damp J-cloth. My father comes down the stairs. I wait to see whether he says anything about the ordeal she’s put us through. But he just makes himself a cup of lemon tea and pads off into the other room to watch the headlines on breakfast television, stopping only to give my mother a reassuring pat on the bum. I realise that it’s always been like this.

  The following day Mutti gets on a flight to Ibiza. She’s called Customer Services at the charter company to complain about the outrageous way she was treated. After all, she’s been a loyal customer for many years. With profuse apologies, she’s been put on the next convenient flight out. She phones me, triumphant, to announce her victory. I wish her bon voyage and am left sitting in the office. She gets away with it every single time.

  When I next visit my parents they seem more united than ever, and there’s something new going on – they are strangely secretive. I notice their eyes meeting when they think I’m not watching. As usual there’s nothing much to pass the time, apart from shopping. My mother loves the supermarket. She parks in the disabled parking bay, though there’s nothing whatever wrong with her. “They can’t give you a ticket,” she points out.

  “What about the genuinely disabled people who come to the supermarket and discover you’ve taken their space?”

  “I come here at least three times a week, and there are always spaces. Ridiculous, the number of disabled spaces. It would take an epidemic of polio to put so many people in wheelchairs.”

  “Just because you can get away with it, doesn’t make it right.”

  “What is wrong, is they make too many disabled spaces.”

  “There are plenty of others.”

  “But they are further away.”

  “Being lazy is not a recognised disability. Anyway you need a bit of exercise, it would do you good.” I become stern, “And it would stop you becoming disabled in the future.”

  “Ha!” says Mutti, letting go of her trolley and putting up her two index fingers. “I must do my exercises, exercises, exercises,” she chants, bending and straightening her fingers up and then pointing them towards each other in unison. It’s an old joke. She uses it to divert attention from the argument, laughing and looking at me coquettishly, as though she was twenty-five instead of nearly seventy.

  Although she has hobbled through the revolving doors leaning heavily on her trolley, once we are inside the supermarket Mutti scampers along the aisles with the playful energy of a Labrador puppy chasing a roll of toilet paper. She compares similar products, hunts for unusual ingredients, and examines new lines with great interest. It’s an endless, amusing game. Items can be substituted for one another or combined in different ways. She is particularly pleased to discover that there is a promotion for a new type of cheese. A pretty girl in a bright green sweatshirt is offering samples on a tray. Mutti helps herself to two, then does a circuit round the tinned vegetable section and has another couple. I study the contents of our trolley in a desperate bid to avoid eye contact with the promotions girl. And pray she has a memory impairment.

  The numerous choices available in the savoury cracker section seem to hold an improbable fascination for my mother, and I think she could write a doctorate on the multiple uses of tinned tuna. At the fresh fish counter, Mutti asks for some mackerel. The shop assistant has difficulty understanding, and asks her to repeat her order three times. Mutti’s now getting irritated by having to repeat herself to a girl who speaks one language badly, when she herself speaks four fluently and two others well enough to make small talk over the bridge table. The girl tries to make up for it by being apologetic to the point of servility. She’s got that right, anyway. Mutti pulls herself up to her full imposing height and gives a benign smile. As the girl is wrapping the fish, she says to my mother,

  “Where to you from then, sweets?” There’s a frozen moment. Mutti’s expression, which was beginning to thaw, now drops to minus fifty. She seizes the package and throws it into her trolley.

  “Rhiwbina,” she barks, and stomps off leaving the girl looking baffled.

  Her favourite section of the shop is refrigerated goods. She is lingering there, studying the ingredients of a type of fruit yoghurt that I am certain she has never bought. Then she replaces it, and starts scrutinising some pots of salad. I know that she would not consider buying shop-bought coleslaw, when it is “so easy”, and “so much cheaper and better” to make your own, and therefore it’s puzzling that she is so interested in these products. And now I really want to get out of here.

  “Do you really want that, then?” I ask. “If we get back in time I’ll be able to go for a swim before lunch.”

  “Wait a minute, won’t be long now,” she says looking at her watch.

  “What won’t be long?”

  “You’ll see.”

  After a while, a shop employee arrives with a ticket gun and a clipboard. He starts going through the chilled section, marking down prices. Now a small crowd of jostling pensioners has collected around him. Mutti’s tactics have put her in pole position. She loads the trolley with low-fat soft cheese, wafer-thin sliced ham and hummus, all reduced to a fraction of their original price. Then, as she is bearing down on a carton of marinaded olives, they are lifted from the fridge by a white-haired woman with a walking stick. I see a tiny flicker of annoyance pass over Mutti’s face. She eyes the frail-looking woman with all the concentration of a sniper taking aim. Then her trolley suddenly lurches forward, apparently out of control. It misses the old lady, but flips the walking stick out of her grasp, knocking her off balance. As she clutches on to the edge of the fridge for support, she lets go of the olives. Mutti manoeuvres the package into her own trolley, while simultaneously putting her hand out to “help” the old lady.

  She bends over nimbly to pick up the walking stick and places it in the lady’s hand with a solicitous pat. As she takes it, the old dear makes a point of saying how rare it is these days to come across people with “good manners”. She has no idea. Satisfied with her haul, Mutti pushes on to the checkout.

  “Is it really worth it?” I ask, while we are waiting in the queue.

  “Is what worth it?”

  “All that faffing around just to save a few pennies.”

  “Ja, you know darling. Things are not easy, I do what I can.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ach, you know, since Daddy sold the business, we have to be a bit more careful,” she says.

  She starts emptying her trolley onto the conveyor belt. I look at what she’s chosen, and realise how meagre it is. Of course, she used to feed a family of four plus my grandmother and a constant stream of other guests. Now it’s just her and my father. But even taking this into account, the lavish excesses of the past have evaporated. Seeing that she has been reduced to scavenging for cut-price bargains silences me.

  But then I notice that there are a couple of bottles of vodka in the trolley – I didn’t see those going in. Of course. Mutti “forgot” the mayonnaise, and asked me to pop back. I wonder if she really believes I won’t notice what she’s done while I was gone. She must think I’m really stupid. What is the point of indulging in that ridiculous rigmarole for a few cut price items from the delicatessen when she’s going to pour twenty times the amount she’s saved right down her throat? I’m ready to explode with indignation, but the evident desperation as she stands stooped next to the trolley pulls the rug right out from under my fury. I don’t ask any more questions.

  On the way home, Mutti breaks the silence. “Daddy spoke to Onkel Bernhard yesterday.”
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  “Oh yeah?” I know what’s coming next. She might as well be jabbing me with a size six darning needle.

  “Apparently Hanni is engaged.”

  “To a nice Jewish boy, no doubt.” I snap. If she picks up on my irritation, she pretends not to.

  “Apparently he’s a lawyer.”

  Lawyer is code for a decent income and prospects for the future. My parents would so love me to get engaged to a nice lawyer, doctor or accountant. In this respect they are traditional. Unemployed photographer is not on their list. But they are eternal optimists. “How is David?” she asks.

  “Good, good. Dave’s good,” I reply. That’s code for we are still together. And he’s still not Jewish.

  Chapter 2

  On Monday morning, London is flat and grey, but at least I’m not responsible for anybody else’s emotional well-being. In the hope of repairing my own, I stumble out of the flat while Dave’s still comatose and head to the gym for a sweaty workout. After that, I feel I’ve earned a full fat latte, “extra hot, extra shot”, to keep me going through what promises to be a long production meeting. This proves to be a sound investment. There’s a tedious discussion about whether the new police liaison team is paying off. I suck the warm, milky drink through the hole in the lid. The phones went hot after the item about attacks on elderly women.

  I finger the cardboard jacket around my cup. Nobody attacked my mother while she was lying comatose in the airport lounge. And then I suddenly think there was something odd about the whole incident. I want to call Dad right now, but can’t leave till the end of the meeting. I take another swig of coffee.

  “So, Elizabeth, what have you got for us?”

  Just as I have put the cup to my mouth, all faces in the room turn to me. I swallow the coffee too quickly, some of it goes down the wrong way, and I start a coughing fit. As I’m coughing and rifling through my files, coffee foam gets smeared all over my printouts. The sheets now stick together, making it even more difficult to find the right one.

  “Yes, I’ve got a great story here, it’s here somewhere… It’s…” While I’m trying to sort out the mess, Sarah’s looking at me with a caustic expression I think must surely be on the Oxbridge curriculum.

  “Don’t worry, Elizabeth, we’ve got all day.” A theatrical sigh followed by low level laughter rippling round the room. “While we’re waiting, let’s move on. Andrew?” I’m still dabbing the coffee with a damp tissue and hunting for my missing sheets, so I miss his opening line. But I catch on soon enough.

  “…the thing about these uni dorms is that security is pretty slack, and the poor girls are sitting ducks for some bastard who gets in during the night.” That gets me sitting up all right. Feeling my face redden, I strain to see what Andrew is reading from. But even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to take my actual notes.

  “It looks as though the rapist is somebody who knows the building, just from the confident way he finds his way around,” he continues. “He knows where all the exits are and how all the corridors connect.” There’s no way he could have known that kind of detail because it comes from a conversation I had with the DI on the case, who made it very clear that they weren’t going to make a general release about it until he heard back from me. It was mine, that was clear.

  There’s an earnest discussion. This story – my story – appears destined to be the lead story in the next programme. Andrew avoids my gaze. Sarah never says “fabulous”, “excellent” or “well done”. That’s not her style. She just looks at him as though he’s her favourite nephew. They probably went to the same college or something. Then she turns back to me and I’ve stopped fumbling through my paperwork because I know it’s pointless.

  “Ready?” I’m holding a scrap I’ve ripped in haste from a newspaper, but haven’t had time to follow up. It’s all I’ve got left.

  “Erm, a little girl was murdered…” The coffee-stained cutting feels inadequate in my hand. I scan the details in desperation. “Nine years old, no – er – ten,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I can now see Andrew smirking.

  “So this dead girl was either nine or ten, which was it?” Sarah, snaps. “Come on Elizabeth.” Her frown has worn a deep groove between her eyes.

  “She was ten, yes ten.”

  “And I take it from the fact that you are reading from a cutting that means you have yet to speak to the police force or the family concerned. What’s the story?”

  “The little girl disappeared from a party which was being held at her home. Nobody noticed she had gone, until the guests left.”

  “A ten-year-old girl was murdered in London, and somehow it wasn’t headline news in every national paper in the country? You’ve got to be kidding me.” Sarah glared at Elizabeth as if it was her fault. “How on earth did that happen?”

  “Don’t know, really – the election?” The explanation felt lame. “Maybe the family didn’t want the publicity? – But anyway, it was in one paper.”

  “Where it was somehow overlooked by your razor-sharp colleagues.”

  I didn’t take the bait. After all, Sarah would sneer at anybody. It’s her default. That enviable hauteur must be genetic. My inheritance has come via the shtetl and suburban Cardiff. Subservience. I scan the rest of the cutting as fast as I can.

  “She wasn’t missing that long. Her body was found… about a mile away the following day. In Stamford Hill – North East London. Does that qualify as the East End? It’s in Hackney, anyway. Near Stoke Newington. Nobody’s quite sure what happened. They think maybe somebody gate-crashed the party, and took the little girl away with them. Or it’s possible that the suspect is one of the guests, a friend of the family. Maybe the kid just wandered off and was picked up off the street by somebody.”

  “So, as usual, PC Plod and his gang haven’t got a clue. A little girl is murdered in broad daylight, and they haven’t even worked out the most likely chain of events. Where on earth is Inspector Morse when you need him?”

  I’m now itching to phone my father. I need to ask him what’s going on. Everybody in the room is laughing. Of course, the boss has made a joke. I smile weakly, and far too late. Sarah glares at me. Numpty.

  “Family?”

  “Er… a single mum, big family – seven kids. The little girl was pretty much in the middle.”

  “Sounds interesting. OK, call the Met, and see if they’ll put us in touch with the local police in Hackney. Who’s the contact for North London? Andrew? OK will you two get together on this – let’s make the approach through someone we already know if at all possible.”

  I keep on thinking about the airport, my parents, those secretive looks. What were they hiding? There’s something going on that they haven’t told me about and it’s not just about being hard up.

  “Elizabeth, I want to know what we could do on this one by tomorrow. Is there enough of a story to build up a reconstruction? Will the mum do an interview? Can the officer in charge of the case string together a sentence and if not can we interview the deputy?”

  As the meeting breaks up, I’m about to switch my mobile back on, when Sarah calls me over.

  “The Manchester canal rape.”

  “Yes?” For half a moment I think she’s going to say well done, that was a tough story and you delivered. Your hard work paid off in viewing figures and phone-in numbers. I let a smile edge its way onto my face far too soon.

  “I don’t want to hear any more about you pushing your luck. I spent half an hour in hospitality after the programme, having my ear bent by a pissed Chief Superintendent.”

  “Point taken.”

  “If you fancy yourself as some kind of gumshoe, join the Met. This isn’t the place for it.”

  “Yuh, OK.”

  “I’m going to keep you on Bill’s team. Watch him, if you know what’s good for you. He’s the business.”

  “Cool.”

  “And the police will be OK if you stick to your remit. Don’t tell them how to do their jobs. Buy them a drink and
tell them how wonderful they are,” she winks. “Remember, they’re only men.” She must think that’s really clever because I’ve heard her say it before.

  Forcing my mouth into a conspiratorial smile, I run an eye over her emerald green power suit and stilettos. They say fuck me or promote me, preferably both at the same time. It seems to work. And if she can do it, why not me? Well, however much I tell myself I’m worth it, subconsciously yours truly is forever the comprehensive school kid lurking at the back of the class, trying to avoid teacher’s eye.

  Andrew’s diction was not moulded at his local comp. “Stoke Newington police,” he says in a theatrical aside as he flicks through the card index thing on his anally tidy desk. “Actually, I can’t seem to find it.”

  “Yeah, but you seemed to find my story easily enough. What happened? Did it just jump off my desk into your hands?” The office suddenly seems to go quiet while everybody pretends to be busy.

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he retorts. “That had been round the block a few times, every DC in London seemed to know about it.”

  “But somehow you didn’t manage to find anything better yourself,” I say.

  It’s hardly worth putting up a fight. He knows he’s won. “Now hand over the contact details for Stoke Newington,” I spit. “I know you’ve got them.”