by Sibel Hodge
I rolled my eyes. ‘Dad, are you sure you want stilettos?’ Even I couldn’t walk in them, never mind Dad.
‘Yes. My disguise has to look authentic if I’m going to fool people. I can’t wear size nine hiking boots with a skirt. It would look too obvious.’
‘Good point. That would be a dead give away. What about wedges then? They’re much more comfortable.’
‘Good idea.’
‘OK, will do – oh, and Dad, how did you know I was in town?’
‘I’ve known you for thirty-five years, Amber. I knew you’d be in Starbucks.’
‘Another good point.’ I hung up again.
‘Told you,’ Amber said.
‘That was just a lucky guess. Anyway, you said three calls. I’ve only had two–’
And then it rang again.
‘Yo,’ Hacker greeted me when I picked up.
‘Yo-yo,’ I said.
‘I have some interesting information for you,’ he said. ‘Can you swing by?’
I looked at my watch. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
11
I took a detour to Shoe World and perused the aisles. The only brown wedges I could find were a very fetching pair with pink butterflies on them. I saw a stunning pair of black ones that had my name on them, but my credit card was pretty much maxed out, and I couldn’t justify any unnecessary expenditures until I got my paycheck. And in order to get my paycheck I had to solve some cases. A vicious circle, really.
I grabbed the brown shoes and rushed over to my parents’ house. Today Dad wore a long, brown skirt with a matching brown blouse. He’d replaced the blonde wig with a curly brunette wig. I have to say, he actually looked pretty good for a cross-dressing man, and the skirt was much more flattering because it hid his bow legs.
‘How’s the neighborhood watch going?’ I asked.
‘I caught Callum Bates trying to steal Mrs. Golding’s Saab convertible today.’ He broke into a huge smile.
‘Interesting. What happened?’
‘I hit him over the head with my handbag.’
‘That doesn’t sound very effective.’
‘Oh, but it was. I had a brick in it. I wanted to give him a roundhouse kick, but I couldn’t get my leg high enough in this skirt. Anyway, he ran off, and the Saab is still in situ. Another crime foiled again.’
I handed Dad the shoes. ‘Great. Keep up the good work.’
‘Do you want to come for dinner tonight? Your sister’s coming, too.’
‘Sure.’ I left him gazing at the shoes with delight and headed on to the office.
****
‘Nice outfit.’ I glanced at Hacker’s black jeans and black hoodie, which said “Gangsta Rapper” on the back. I knew it! ‘Should I call you Snoop Dogg?’
‘Huh?’
I waved my hand. ‘Never mind. What have you got for me?’ I perched myself on the edge of Hacker’s desk.
‘I checked all of Fandango’s bank accounts, and Longshore Holdings made five hundred payments of ten thousand pounds each, all in the last six months,’ he said.
I whistled. ‘That’s a lot of fashion designs.’ I added it up in my head. ‘A total of five million pounds’ worth. How does that compare to other payments he received?’
Hacker scrolled down on his computer screen. ‘Longshore Holdings have paid much more than any other legitimate sales.’
‘Are we back to the money laundering then? Longshore Holdings are paying far more than anyone else for Fandango’s designs.’ I paused. ‘Something kick-started this off six months ago. But what?’ I tapped my forefinger on my lips. ‘Have you found out who Longshore Holdings is?’
He nodded. ‘They’re a front company registered in the British Virgin Islands.’
‘Do they have an address?’
‘No address, email, fax or phone number. Just a P.O. box.’
I narrowed my eyes and scrunched up my face, deep in thought. ‘What else do you know about them?’
‘I’m still checking. Fandango also made a ten thousand pound cash withdrawal on the day he disappeared’
‘That’s a lot of petty cash.’
‘But that’s not all. Wait ‘til you hear this bit.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Umberto Fandango didn’t exist until nineteen and half years ago.’ Seeing my expression of disbelief, Hacker gave me a slow nod that caused his plaits to shake.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s no paper trail of him until nineteen and a half years ago. No bank account, no social security number, no driving license. Nothing.’
‘But he’s a famous fashion designer. He must’ve gone to university or something. He can’t just suddenly pop up with a daughter out of nowhere. He must’ve come from somewhere. And besides, someone must’ve missed them.’
‘That’s what I thought, but there’s no trace of him.’
‘So, the question is…who is he really?’ I said. ‘Maybe his real identity is the key to this whole thing.’
‘I’m working on it,’ he said. ‘It’s a mystery, for sure.’
‘Yeah, one that doesn’t make any sense. Did you find anything about Tia?’
‘Apparently Fandango’s a very private person. Not much press about him, and nothing about Tia. There are no photographs of them together. It’s more than a little odd.’
I bit my lip, pondering this for a while. ‘Maybe she’s not really his daughter.’
My phone rang again, and I recognized the brisk voice straight away.
‘Ms. Fox? This is Heather Brown, Umberto Fandango’s assistant,’ she said.
‘Hello, Heather. What can I do for you?’
‘I need to talk to you, but I can’t do it over the phone,’ she whispered. ‘Can I meet you tonight? I have some information for you.’
‘OK. When and where?’
‘Hanbury Manor Hotel. In the bar, say at eight.’ Before I could respond, she severed the connection.
I stared at the phone. ‘The Ice Queen wants to talk,’ I told Hacker.
‘Interesting.’
‘I need to look around Fandango’s house.’
‘Good idea. I’ll go with you.’ Brad’s voice boomed from behind me, making me jump nearly half a mile.
I turned around and smacked him on the arm. ‘Don’t sneak up on people like that. You’ll give someone a heart attack,’ I said, taking in his black army trousers, black sweatshirt, and black steel-toe boots. ‘Are you having a black day, too?’
This was getting a bit freaky. I felt like I was living in the twilight zone. Any minute, I expected to wake up and realize this week had all been some horrible, surreal hallucination. Suddenly, another thought occurred to me. Maybe I really had choked to death this morning but just didn’t know it yet.
‘Pinch me,’ I told Brad.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Any particular place you want me to pinch you?’
‘I don’t care.’ I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘I just need to know that I’m still alive.’
‘Foxy, I’d love to, but not in public,’ Brad said.
Just my luck – I couldn’t get his hands near me when I needed them.
****
I drove up Fandango’s long, winding driveway with Brad following close behind me in his black Hummer. A silver Rolls Royce and an SUV sat in front of the gigantic, modern-looking house, which looked to me like a couple of big, glass blocks joined together by a very pissed builder. Floor to ceiling windows covered most of the front of the house. He must’ve had a serious curtain bill.
‘Have you got a key?’ I asked Brad as we approached the frosted-glass front door.
‘I don’t need a key.’ He took a small, knobby-looking tool out of his trouser pocket. Ten seconds later the door clicked open.
‘You could do yourself an injury leaving that in your trousers.’ I smirked and followed him inside.
We wandered down the hallway into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and had a nosy inside.
‘No
thing but bottles of water and jars of caviar.’ I pried the lid off one of the jars of caviar and sniffed it. ‘Urgh! I’ve never understood the appeal of this stuff. It looks like fly poop.’ Brad laughed as I shut the door, and we headed on to the living room. It wasn’t surprising to see that everything had been trashed. They had slashed paintings, sofas, curtains and cushions. It seemed a bit like overkill.
‘The police wouldn’t have left it in this state if they were searching for him, which means someone came along after they were here. Do you think they were looking for something or making a statement?’ I said.
‘Hard to tell.’ Brad cocked his head, his tone distracted. He had that peculiar tilt to his head that meant he was concentrating. ‘What’s wrong with this picture?’ Brad asked.
I swept my gaze round the room. ‘That’s just it. There are no pictures. Or photographs. There’s nothing personal here at all.’
He sent a small smile in my direction. ‘Odd, don’t you think?’
I gave him a strange look. ‘You can talk. You’ve got nothing personal in your place, either. What does that mean?’
‘He’s hiding something.’
‘Everybody’s hiding something. Maybe he’s just got an obsessive compulsive disorder about clutter.’
‘No, he’s definitely hiding something.’
‘I’d expect there to at least be photos of Tia in here.’ I paused, surveying the scene with a critical eye. ‘Do both of the vehicles in the drive belong to Fandango?’
‘Yes. They’re both insured with us, along with the five million pound life insurance policy, and the five million pound policy for his fashion collection.’
I turned to Brad. ‘Tia said she wasn’t driving one of her dad’s vehicles because she couldn’t find the keys.’
‘That’s a possible explanation. Another one is that maybe she’s not really his daughter.’ He watched me closely as he spoke.
‘I’m not sure about her yet. Everything about this case feels strange, and we’re missing something vital. If she is his daughter, then the insurance payout is a big motive for having Fandango disappear. If she’s not, then who the hell is she?’
‘That would be the question of the day,’ he said as he wandered into Fandango’s office.
Computer wires trailed across the floor, but there was no computer in sight. An empty glasses case had been thrown in the corner of the room, and paperwork was strewn across the floor.
‘One thing that’s bugging me is that if this is a kidnapping, why hasn’t there been any ransom demand?’ I bent down, studying the documents that littered an antique rug. ‘And who would want to steal the fashion collection anyway? It’s not exactly something that’s easily fenced, like drugs or gold.’
‘Maybe he’s already dead. And the collection? Could be it’s a rival designer who wanted Fandango and his collection out of the way.’ He poked around in the desk drawer as I picked the documents up and put them in a pile on the desk.
‘There’s nothing relevant in here. No will or any other personal documents. Obviously someone’s taken everything that might be the least bit enlightening.’
Brad nodded. ‘Let’s look upstairs.’
We checked out all the smaller bedrooms, but couldn’t find anything of interest. When we hit Fandango’s master bedroom, we found a huge walk-in closet.
‘That’s sacrilege!’ I stared at the hundreds of shirts, jackets, pairs of trousers and socks that had been ripped to shreds and left in a heap on the floor. We checked pockets, shoes, and shelves, methodically searching for some kind of clue as to Fandango’s whereabouts. Not finding anything, we poked around in the en suite bathroom and found the usual assortment of toiletries – aftershave, toothpaste, Saint Tropez fake tan, tweezers. Nothing exciting and no Fandango.
‘I guess that’s it, then,’ Brad said as we headed back downstairs and out to our vehicles.
As I pulled the front door closed behind me, I had a thought. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit odd that Fandango had all this money, but he’s the complete opposite of the typical flashy designer? Hacker said there was hardly any press about him, but most people in his position would be paparazzi magnets. Tia, too, for that matter.’
‘Maybe he’s just an eccentric recluse.’ Brad jumped into the Hummer like a lithe acrobat. ‘I’ll see you back at the office.’ He did a nifty three-point turn, which was pretty impressive in a vehicle the size of a bus, and sped off.
****
Miscellaneous thoughts about Fandango jumped around in my brain as I swung out of his driveway. In fact, I was so deep in thought that I didn’t notice the ugly-faced goons were back until they were sitting on my bumper. I sighed. Someone really needed to teach them how to drive properly. They obviously hadn’t read up on safe highway stopping distances lately.
I debated whether or not to just slam the brakes on, but I didn’t really fancy having whiplash to accompany my never-ending headache. My only other option was to try and lose them again. I probably should’ve taken being tailed again as a compliment, but I must admit that it was getting pretty boring and slightly repetitive.
Deciding to take them on a journey around the center of town, I headed in that direction, only to come to a screeching halt.
No, no, no! The weekly farmer’s market was in full swing. Traffic sat at a standstill as prospective buyers parked up, congesting the narrow street.
‘Come on!’ I sounded the horn and glanced over my shoulder. The goons glared back at me. Still, at least they wouldn’t try anything in the middle of the town with all these people. Surely they wouldn’t.
The traffic crawled along a few feet and stopped again. Out of the corner of my eye, I just happened to notice Paul Clark coming out of the launderette, carrying four bulging bags of laundry in each hand. I grabbed for my rucksack, scrounging around its depths for my camera, but by the time I’d finally found it, he’d disappeared in the throng of shoppers.
‘Craparama,’ I muttered, tossing the camera into the passenger seat as a gap opened up in the traffic in front of me. I floored the accelerator and then instantly slammed on the brakes as another car pulled out in front of me. As I leaned on the horn, they decided to stop in the middle of the road and look back to see who was making all the racket. Giving up, I threw my hands up in frustration, and the car pulled on out, going a few feet and stopping again.
I hammered my fingers on the steering wheel and checked on the goons through my rearview mirror. To my horror, the bald one leaped out of the passenger’s side and rushed toward me. He was short, dressed in a badly fitting grey suit that had to be at least two sizes too small. Either he was making some kind of unsuccessful 1980s fashion statement, or he’d been eating all the pies lately. I was surprised by how fast he moved, despite his jelly-wobble blobby gut.
‘Agh!’ I hit the lock button seconds before he grabbed my door handle.
Blobby Goon pulled on the door, trying to yank it open. When it didn’t budge, he banged his fists on the glass and kicked at the door.
Just then, the traffic started moving again and I stuck my fingers up and sped off. I watched in the rearview mirror as he ran back to the SUV and jumped in. In the heavy traffic, it didn’t take very long for them to catch up with me. The SUV rammed into the back of my car with a loud crunch.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel. The impact made me lose control of the car, which fishtailed for a second before it went careening into a post on the side of the road. The impact jolted me forward with such a force that the seatbelt cut into my shoulder.
BANG! The airbag exploded, throwing me back against the seat.
I was vaguely aware of the sound of screeching tires as I sat there, stunned, slumped in my seat, wondering if I’d died for the second time that day.
An old guy banged on the window. ‘Are you OK? Shall I call an ambulance?’
‘No, I’m…fine.’ I looked around for the goons, but they seemed to have disappeared. Rubberneckers stood gaw
king at me, no doubt hoping to see of broken bones and splattered body parts.
‘Are you sure?’
I rubbed at my shoulder and winced. My chest felt bruised, my shoulder felt dislocated, and my head felt like I’d been decapitated. My hands flew up to my neck, to make sure it was actually still attached to my body. I slumped with relief when I felt my face, still intact. All in all, it’d been a really horrible day, and it wasn’t nearly over yet.
‘Thanks. I’m sure.’ I nodded, easing myself out of the door and gazing at the damage to my car. The front was dented and smashed with some funny green liquid dripping out underneath it. That probably wasn’t a good sign, but at least it looked driveable.
Thinking it might be a good idea to call this in, I took my mobile out of my pocket with trembling hands. It took three attempts to tap in Brad’s number before I got it right.
‘I’m just about alive,’ I said after giving him a run down.
‘Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, as long as you’re OK to drive, take it to the garage that handles my insurance repairs. It’s just around the corner from where you are. I’ll call and let them know you’re on the way. Pick something else in their lot for a courtesy car. And Foxy, be careful.’
I climbed back in the car feeling like I’d done ten rounds in a boxing ring with Mike Tyson. As I turned the key, I prayed the car would start. It coughed a few times but finally spluttered to life, and I chugged down the road accompanied by the sound of a high-pitched whirring noise. I turned the radio up so I didn’t have to listen to it.
The manager of the garage was waiting for me when I pulled in. He walked around the car and frowned at the damage. ‘Hmm. It might take a few days to fix, but you’re in luck. We’ve got one courtesy car left.’ He pointed to a fluorescent yellow Beetle.
I groaned. I could cope with the inconvenience and the pain of the accident, but driving that car? It looked like a giant lemon. People on a space station would be able to see me in that thing, not to mention my street cred would go right out the window. I stared at it for a moment, then closed my eyes with a shudder. I clicked my heels together three times, hoping the car might magically turn into something that looked a lot less like a humongous lemon.