He saw what she was talking about, however. The sideboard—weathered enough to look as if it had spent years in the back garden even while the building was still occupied—appeared to have been dragged from beneath one of the windows, in part creating the path through the weeds that Helen had mentioned. And the path did indeed look fresh. Where it cut through shrubbery, the broken ends of the branches of overgrown bushes had not yet browned with exposure to the weather.
“Pay dirt,” Helen murmured.
“What?”
She smiled. “Nothing. There’s a clear way out of here if we use the sideboard. Shall I join you, then?”
He nodded, glad of her company. She lowered herself to the upended sideboard and from there to the chair that stood next to it. St. James followed her.
The garden was little more than a square measuring twenty feet on all sides, and it was densely overgrown with weeds, with ivy, and with broom. This shrub had apparently flourished under a regime of neglect: A blaze of yellow blooms burned like sunlight along three sides of the garden’s perimeter and next to the building’s back door.
This, they found, was a security door, a single piece of steel cut to fit the frame and bolted straight into the wood. There was neither doorknob to turn nor hinges to remove. The only way to get through it and into the building beyond it was to unbolt the entire affair.
The back windows on the ground floor, however, had not been made so secure. While they were boarded on the inside, their glass was broken on the outside and, upon inspection, St. James found that one of the boards had been loosened enough so that without too much trouble someone could easily climb in and out. Helen fetched the chair as he worked the board out of their way.
She said, “With the door closed up like that, one wonders why the owners didn’t do more with the windows.”
St. James used the chair to lift himself to the sill, saying, “Perhaps they thought the door would be discouragement enough. I can’t think that someone would want to continually use this as a means of entrance and exit.”
“But as a temporary measure…” Helen spoke thoughtfully. “It is perfect, isn’t it?”
“It’s that,” St. James said.
The window, he found, gave in to what seemed to be a storage room for whatever business would occupy the ground floor of the building. It contained cupboards, shelves, and a dusty linoleum floor across which—even in the dim light—he could see footprints.
St. James eased from the window to the floor, waited for Helen to join him, and slipped a torch from his pocket. He directed it along the path of the footprints, which went towards the front of the building.
The air in the storeroom was tinctured with the odours of mildew and wood rot. As they carefully picked their way along a corridor that led to the front of the building, they became aware of additional smells: the throat-closing foetid scent of excrement and urine seeping out of a lavatory where a long-unflushed toilet stood, the sharp smell of plaster emanating from holes that had been kicked into the corridor’s walls, the sickly sweet odour of a dead body’s decay. This last appeared to be rising from a partially eaten rat that lay at the foot of the stairs, where the storeroom behind joined the shop in front.
The footprints, they saw, did not go into the shop, which was as dark as nighttime because of its metal-covered windows and door. Rather, they climbed the stairs. Before climbing them in turn, St. James flashed his torchlight round the room that would have served as the shop. There was nothing to be seen, aside from a toppled magazine rack, an ancient refrigerated storage bin missing its lid, a collection of yellowed newspapers, and perhaps half a dozen crushed cardboard boxes.
St. James and Helen turned back to the stairs. They followed the footprints, Helen sidestepping the dead rat with a shudder and compulsively gripping St. James’s arm.
“Lord, are those mice moving in the walls?” she whispered.
“Rats, more likely.”
“It’s hard to imagine someone actually staying here.”
“It’s not the Savoy,” St. James admitted. He climbed to the first floor, where the unboarded windows allowed the late afternoon sunlight to illuminate the rooms.
There appeared to be one flat on each of the upper floors. The footprints they were following, which seemed to come and go and constantly overlap on the stairs, led them past the first floor flat, where a glance inside its partially unhinged door showed them little more than a room with graffiti spray-painted onto the walls—featuring “Kop Killers Deuce Two” in large blue letters surrounded by hieroglyphs ostensibly translatable only by fellow graffiti artists—and orange carpeting ripped up in great patches. There was little else helpful in this flat, aside from an astounding array of cigarette ends, crumpled cigarette packets, empty bottles, beer cans, and fast-food paper cups and bags, as well as a gaping hole in the ceiling which told them that the lighting fixture had been nicked.
The second floor flat was much the same, with the variation being the graffiti artists’ choice of spray paint. Here the colour was red, which had apparently inspired the painters to use more blood-thirsty imagery along with their hieroglyphs. “Kop Killers Deuce Two” was accompanied by drawings of disembowelled policemen. Here also the carpeting was in tatters and littered with rubbish. A sofa and armchair that stood on either side of the kitchen door sported burn holes in them, one large enough to qualify as evidence of a bonafide fire.
The footprints continued to the top of the building. They went into the final flat where they were absorbed by what carpeting was left there. This, like the other two flats’, was orange and while it had been pulled away from the walls at one time, more recently it had been rolled back into place. It wasn’t ripped, but it bore ancient stains in a variety of hues suggesting everything from red wine to dog urine.
Like the other two flats’, the door was standing open, but it was still on its hinges. Additionally, a hasp was fixed onto its exterior, its hinge on the door frame and its staple on the door itself. St. James fingered the hinge reflectively as Helen moved past him into the room. The hasp looked new: It was scratchless and clean.
He joined Helen inside the flat. The hasp suggested an accompanying padlock nearby, and he glanced about for it. He saw that unlike the two flats they had already seen, this one was free of rubbish although its walls bore graffiti not much different to the other flats’. There was no lock lying on the floor or on any of the shelves of the metal bookcase fixed to one wall, so he went into the kitchen to see if he could locate a lock there.
He looked through drawers and cupboards, finding a tin cup, a tine-bent fork, some loose nails, and two dirty jars. Water dripped from the tap in the kitchen sink, and he turned it on to note that the water ran perfectly clear, not cloudy or brownish as if it had lain in rusting pipes for a year or two.
He returned to the sitting room as Helen emerged from the bedroom. Her face was bright with discovery.
She said, “Simon, have you noticed—”
“Yes. Someone’s been here. And not just to prowl about but to stay.”
“So you were right. About the vagrant.”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t think so.” She gestured back the way she had come, saying, “The mirror in the bathroom’s been cleaned. Not all of it, but a section. Big enough to see one’s reflection in.” She seemed to be waiting for a reaction because when St. James didn’t give her one, she continued impatiently. “He’d need a mirror, wouldn’t he, if he was making himself up to look like a tramp?”
It was a possibility, but St. James was reluctant to conclude upon so little evidence that they had tracked down the vagrant’s hideaway upon their first try. He went to the window in the sitting room. It was generally filthy, save for a quarter of one of its four panes. This had been wiped clear.
St. James peered through the glass. He considered the contrast between this flat and the others, considered the footprints, considered the hasp and the suggestion it made of a lock b
eing used recently on the flat door. It was clear that no one was squatting here permanently—the absence of furniture, of cooking utensils, of clothing, and of food gave testimony to that. But that someone had dossed here briefly and recently…. The replacement of the carpeting, the water in the pipes, the complete absence of rubbish, all urged him to that conclusion.
“I agree that someone’s been here,” he said to Helen as he gazed through the cleared spot in the window. He saw that the window faced George Street. He also saw that on an angle, the window lined up with the entrance to the car park of the Japanese restaurant where he’d left his MG. He shifted his position to look in that direction. “But as to whether it’s actually your vagrant, Helen, I couldn’t—” He stopped. He squinted at what he beheld just beyond the car park, one street to the north. It couldn’t be, he thought. It was hardly possible. And yet there it was.
“What is it?” Helen asked.
He reached for her blindly and pulled her to the window. He stood her in front of him, positioned her head towards the Japanese restaurant, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do you see the restaurant? The car park beyond it?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Look beyond the car park. Do you see the other street?”
“Of course I see it. My vision’s quite as good as yours.”
“And across that street, the building? Do you see it?”
“Which…oh, the brick building? With the steps going up? I see the front doors and a few of the windows.” She turned back to him. “Why? What is it?”
“Blandford Street, Helen. And that—through this window, the only cleaned window in the entire flat, mind you—is a very clear view of St. Bernadette’s School.”
Her eyes widened. She whirled back to the window. “Simon!” she said.
After leaving Helen in Onslow Square, St. James found a spot for the MG on Lordship Place and used his shoulder against the weather-worn gate that led into the back garden of his house on Cheyne Row. Cotter, he discovered, was busy in the kitchen, scrubbing new potatoes at the sink with Peach sitting at his feet ever hopeful of a handout. The dog looked in St. James’s direction and wagged her tail in greeting, but she clearly believed that her current position at Cotter’s feet was the one more likely to meet with edible success. The household cat—a large grey called Alaska who was approximately twice the size of the miniature dachshund—lolled on the windowsill above the sink and acknowledged St. James’s arrival with typical feline ennui: The tip of his tail lifted and fell, whereupon he returned to the state of semisomnolence that was his principal characteristic.
“About time, if you ask me,” Cotter said to St. James, attacking a bad spot on one of the potatoes.
St. James glanced at the rusty-faced clock above the cooker. It was not yet time for dinner. He said, “A problem?”
Cotter harrumphed. He used his potato peeler to indicate the stairs. “Deb’s brought two blokes ’ome with her. Been ’ere more’n an hour, they ’ave. More like two. They’ve done tea. They’ve done sherry. They’ve done more tea. They’ve done more sherry. One of them’s wanted to leave, but Deb’s not having any of that. They’ve been waiting for you.”
“Who are they?” St. James joined him at the sink where he took a handful of chopped carrots and munched on them.
“That’s for dinner,” Cotter warned him. He plopped the new potato into the water and reached for another. “One of them’s that bloke from the other night. The one’oo came with David.”
“Dennis Luxford.”
“The other, I don’t know. Some bloke looking like a stick of dynamite getting ready to blast. They been at each other—both those blokes—since they got ’ere. You know the sort o’ thing. Talking through their teeth like they mean to be civil but only because Deb won’t leave the room and let them go at it like they want.”
St. James popped the rest of the carrots into his mouth and climbed the stairs, wondering what he’d let his wife in for when he’d asked her to get a sample of Luxford’s printing. It had seemed an uncomplicated enough task. So what had happened?
He discovered soon enough when he found them in the study, along with the remains of afternoon tea and sherry. Luxford was speaking to someone on the phone at St. James’s desk, Deborah was nervously kneading the knuckles of her right hand with the fingers of her left, and the third man—who turned out to be Alexander Stone—was watching Luxford from his position at the bookshelves with such undisguised loathing on his face that St. James wondered how Deborah had managed to keep him under control.
She jumped to her feet, saying, “Simon. Thank goodness, my love,” with a fervency that told him how rattled she was.
Luxford was saying tersely, “No, I’m not giving approval. Hold it up till you hear from me…. This is not a moot decision, Rod. Is that clear, or do I need to spell out the consequences if you go your own way?”
Alexander Stone said, apparently to Deborah, “Finally. Now play that thing for him so we can blow Luxford’s game.”
Deborah hastily brought St. James into the picture. As Luxford concluded his conversation by abruptly slamming down the phone on whoever it was on the other end of the line, Deborah went to the desk for a padded mailing envelope. She said to her husband, “Mr. Luxford received this this afternoon.”
“Be accurate with the facts, if you don’t mind,” Stone said. “That was on Luxford’s desk this afternoon. It could have been placed there anytime. By anyone.”
“Don’t let’s go through this again,” Luxford said. “My secretary gave you the information, Mr. Stone. It was delivered by messenger at one o’clock.”
“A messenger you could have hired yourself.”
“For God’s sake.” Luxford sounded monumentally tired.
“We didn’t actually touch it.” Deborah handed the envelope to her husband and watched him glance inside at the tape recorder. “But we did play it when we saw what it was. I used an unsharpened pencil to press the start button. The wood part, not the rubber.” She added this latter explanation with a flush, saying in a lower voice, “Was that the best way? I wasn’t entirely certain, but I did think we ought to at least know if the recording related in some way.”
St. James said, “Well done,” and fished in his pocket for his latex gloves. He donned them, pulled the recorder from the envelope, and played its message.
A reedy child’s voice spoke. “Cito—”
“Jesus.” Stone turned to the bookshelves and reached for a volume at random.
“This man here says you c’n get me out. He says you’re s’posed to tell everyone a story. He says you’re to tell the truth. He says you’re a real fine bloke and no one knows and you’re s’posed to tell the truth so everyone will know. If you tell the proper story, he says you’ll save me, Cito.”
At the bookshelves, Stone raised a fist to his eyes. He lowered his head.
On the tape, there was a barely audible click and the voice continued. “Cito, I had to make this tape in order that he would give me some juice ’cause I was so thirsty.” Another small click. “D’you know what story you’re s’posed to tell? I said to him that you don’t tell stories. I said to him that Mrs. Maguire tells stories. But he says you know what story to tell.” An additional click. “I’ve only got a blanket, and I haven’t got a loo. But there’s bricks.” Click. “A maypole.” Click. The tape ended abruptly.
“This is Charlotte’s voice?” St. James asked.
Stone said in answer, speaking to the shelves, “You fucker, Luxford. I’m going to kill you before we’re through.”
St. James held up his hand to prevent Luxford from responding. He played the tape a second time. He said, “You can hear it’s been edited, but inexpertly.”
“So what?” Stone demanded. “We know who made it.”
St. James went on. “We can assume one of two possibilities: Either the kidnapper doesn’t have access to the right equipment or he doesn’t care that we know it’s been edited.”
&
nbsp; “The bricks and the maypole?” Deborah asked.
“Left in to confuse us, I dare say. Charlotte thinks she’s giving her stepfather a clue to her whereabouts. But the kidnapper knows the clue won’t help. Because she isn’t where she thinks she is.” He said to Stone, “Damien Chambers told me she calls you Cito.”
Stone nodded, still facing the shelves.
“Since she’s speaking to you on it, the kidnapper obviously hasn’t yet told her who her father really is. We can assume he provided her with the basic contents of the message she was to relay: Her father must openly tell the truth to gain her release. She thinks he means you’re to tell the truth, not Mr. Luxford.”
Stone shoved the volume he’d taken from the bookshelves back into place. “Don’t tell me you’re going to fall for this shit?” he demanded of St. James incredulously.
“What I’m going to do is assume, for the moment, that the tape is genuine,” St. James explained. “You agree it’s Charlotte’s voice.”
“Of course it’s her voice. He’s got her somewhere. He’s had her make the tape. And now we’re to crumble and dance to his tune. Jesus Christ. Just look at the envelope if you don’t believe me. His name. The newspaper’s name. The street. Nothing else. No stamps. No postmarks. Nothing.”
“There wouldn’t necessarily be either if it was delivered by messenger.”
“Or if he ‘delivered’ it himself. Or had it delivered by whoever’s in this with him.” Stone left the bookshelves and came to the sofa where he stood at its back, gripping it. He said, “Look at him. Just bloody God damn look at him. You know who he is. You know what he is. You know what he wants.”
“I want Charlotte’s safety,” Luxford said.
“You want your fucking story. Your story. Eve’s.”
St. James intervened, saying, “Upstairs please. To the lab,” and then quietly to his wife, “You’ve managed heroically, my love. Thank you.” She gave him a tremulous smile and slipped from the room, obviously grateful to be out of the mess.
In the Presence of the Enemy Page 20