Darling Sweetheart

by Stephen Price

  They took a table outside, above a stone slipway. Evelyn ordered a bowl of chowder – Proctor demanded two pints of dark brown beer, which he demolished in quick succession, and a helping of apple crumble. Annalise had a beer too, but sipped it slowly. Evelyn drank tap water.

  Two miles away, a black people-carrier crawled past Pittenweem harbour. Frost, Timmins and Rupert sat in the rear, with Bernstein and Levine up front. Levine drove. Bernstein’s nose was bruised and swollen. Rupert consulted the laptop on his knee, which displayed a detailed aerial view of the village.

  ‘You’ve got to admire the old doll, going so totally off-grid,’ he remarked. ‘No telephone, no TV, no electricity, no bank account or credit cards, nothing on the electoral register…’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for traditional, handwritten marriage records.’ Timmins studied the one-sided street. ‘Are we close?’

  ‘Just up ahead, a place called West Shore. The road ends; we’ll have to walk.’

  ‘This is nowhere!’ Frost complained. ‘H.E. will kill me if we’ve wasted all this time on a wild goose chase!’

  ‘Miss Frost,’ Timmins spoke quietly, ‘we’ll get your actress back; it just took a tad longer than usual to pin this Mrs Munroe down.’ He addressed Levine. ‘Stop the car, please.’

  ‘What?’ Frost looked eagerly around. ‘Do you see them?’

  ‘No,’ Timmins indicated the parking bay along the sea front, ‘but I do see a camper van with a Capital Radio sticker – that’s a London-only station, in amongst all these Scottish vehicles. Rupert, check that number plate. I want you to stay here with Miss Frost and watch that van. If you see them, ring my mobile. But first, please direct Misters Bernstein and Levine to the rear of the property, so they can prevent anyone from leaving that way.’ He took a leather pouch from the pocket of his grey raincoat and unzipped it. It contained a plastic syringe and a small glass phial. Frost watched as he stuck the syringe into the phial and extracted a clear liquid. He tapped it, squirted a little then placed it carefully on his knee. From his other pocket, he produced a pair of handcuffs. Deftly, he closed one ratchet around his own wrist; the other he left hanging open. ‘They don’t know me,’ he added calmly, so I’ll call to the front door alone.’

  Annalise and Evelyn strolled back towards Pittenweem. Proctor walked up ahead.

  ‘Your father made that first Fanshawe film in 1977,’ Evelyn recalled, ‘and, after that, things changed very quickly. It was such a sudden, unexpected success that he went from being a modestly well-known actor to an international star within a year. Leon always said the key to those films was their simplicity. Slapstick translates into any language, so they sold worldwide.’

  ‘Leon?’

  ‘Leon Miller – he produced the films. Your father hated him.’

  ‘Yet he kept making more.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And in the end, that’s what killed him.’

  ‘Hmm. You could equally argue that it was your father’s decision to use his own aeroplane to travel to locations. But that was so like him, he loved flying. I remember he bought a beginner’s plane with his first pay cheque from Fanshawe. Kept it at an aerodrome out near Upminster, took lessons, the lot. I suppose planes, cars and yachts are just ultimate boys’ toys. He flew me to France once; he was a really good pilot. It seemed to calm him down. Often he would fly off alone, disappear for days at a time.’

  ‘But what about you? Did you not want…?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she nodded, ‘I would have adored children, but your father said he hadn’t got room in his life for a proper family.’

  ‘He was right about that.’

  ‘I sometimes wondered how your mother talked him into it.’

  ‘Maybe I was an accident.’

  Evelyn smiled. ‘Maybe you were deliberate.’

  ‘Did you ever…?’

  ‘No. Alastair – my second husband – Alastair and I weren’t able to. We often talked about adopting, but the sea took him, and the heart went out of me for a long time after that.’

  ‘The sea… took him?’

  ‘Alastair was a fisherman – his boat was lost in the winter of 1994. Occupational hazard,’ she smiled ruefully, ‘but it’s a bit careless, isn’t it, losing two husbands to the sea?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it was a long time ago. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but your father wrote to me when he heard about Alastair and offered to remarry me.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘He wanted to come and live here and bring you with him – I think you would have been nine or ten years old at the time.’

  ‘What… what did you say?’

  ‘I wrote back and told him that if anything ever happened to Gabriela, I’d gladly take you in. Maybe I should have said yes to the whole idea, but I knew it was just another whim. By that time he was so famous, I think he had vertigo.’ Now her smile was sad. ‘He would sentimentalise the past – repackage the bad memories and have them redelivered as good ones. He wouldn’t have stayed; he’d have treated me the same way he treated your mother, or Monica Goddard, or all his other women. That’s why you never knew your grandparents – he cut them out when he became famous, even his adoring mother, and, of course, after you were born he kept you hidden away in Ireland. Bad for the image, you see. International playboys don’t have families – they change girlfriends, not nappies. I guess Gabriela didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘You said you introduced them?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘it was all so horribly simple. When he became a star, your father decided that we needed a suitably grand house, so we bought a big old place overlooking the river, across from Kew Gardens. We organised a house-warming party on a lovely summer’s day. Everyone came – there were even a couple of Rolling Stones there, if I remember rightly, and quite a lot of film people. We were all out in the garden, and your father had this thing around women he liked; I recognised it, because he’d done it to me. He would sort of throw himself at them, like a needy child. I hadn’t seen Gabriela for a year or so at that stage. She was quite a successful model by then; tall enough, you see, she had the legs. I was so very pleased that she’d been able to come, but then, as the evening wore on – everyone was getting fabulously wasted, of course – as the evening wore on, I found your father canoodling with her, right under my very nose! I probably shouldn’t say this, but I expected more from Gabriela – after all, she’d been my friend, not his. But that didn’t stop them. We had a furious row and he threw all this nonsense at me about free love and how nobody owned anybody and all the rest. Then a fortnight later he told me he wanted to live with her instead of me, and that was it!’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘All so long ago. What goes around, comes around – I cheated on a lovely boy to be with your father. Take my advice: if you ever meet someone loyal, treasure them above all things.’

  Proctor came running around a corner in the path towards them, his arms outstretched.

  ‘Stop!’ he panted. ‘Don’t move!’

  The two women halted, looking on in bafflement as the stuntman bent to catch his breath.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Come up here,’ he gasped, ‘and I’ll show you what’s the matter.’ He gestured at a children’s play park at the top of the headland. Their path ran below it, back into Pittenweem. He beckoned them to follow him to the far side of the park, where he stopped behind some bushes. When they peeked through these, they had a clear view over West Shore, with Evelyn’s house in the middle.

  ‘Ben,’ Annalise repeated, ‘what on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Sshhhh!’ he commanded. ‘Watch!’

  ‘But what are we supposed to be–’

  ‘You’d make a lousy commando! Just be quiet and–’ but he didn’t need to finish his sentence, because two enormous men dressed in black appeared at the back of the house, as if they were searching Evelyn’s garden.

  ‘Bernstein a
nd Levine!’ she cried. ‘What are they doing here?’

  ‘It’s a good thing Emerson’s men are as shite at stakeouts as they are at scrappin’.’

  ‘Are they friends of yours?’ Evelyn asked.

  Proctor laughed. ‘Not exactly, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Evelyn,’ Annalise apologised, ‘but my life has been a bit… complicated, lately.’

  ‘Is it the police?’

  ‘They’re something worse,’ Proctor snorted, ‘Americans with more money than sense. Although, having said that, I wonder how they followed us,’ he turned to Annalise, ‘because no one knew we were coming here – not even you!’

  Annalise raised Froggy as if to make him speak but Proctor’s hand shot out, squeezing the toy’s face with his fist. He eyeballed her. ‘Before you start with your alter ego not trusting me, think for a second: if I’m with them,’ he nodded at the cottage, ‘then why would I stop you from from going down there?’ Slowly, he withdrew his grasp, expecting a volley of abuse. But instead, Annalise lowered Froggy and spoke in her own voice.

  ‘So what do we do? Get in the van and go?’

  ‘Anyone smart enough to have tracked us this quickly has already clocked the van. We can’t risk it.’

  ‘But I wanted to spend some time with Evelyn! There’s so much I need to talk about!’

  ‘If we stay here, you’ll be caught.’

  ‘Evelyn, this producer, this Leon…’

  Evelyn had watched their exchange with puzzled anxiety. ‘Miller. Leon Miller.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  She shrugged. ‘I haven’t heard otherwise.’

  ‘Where would I find him? He was there when my father died.’

  ‘When I knew him, Leon lived in London…’

  ‘Great,’ Proctor laughed sardonically, ‘back to where we started.’

  ‘…he had a big house in Clapham. You could try looking him up on that web net thingy.’

  ‘I feel so awful,’ Annalise took Evelyn’s hand, ‘for crashing in on you like this and bringing those people into your home.’

  ‘I shall go right down there and give them a piece of my mind!’

  ‘Actually,’ Proctor intervened, ‘if you could leave them for a while, we could use a head start.’

  ‘Should I phone the police?’

  ‘Err… we’d really appreciate it if you didn’t do that either.’

  ‘Are you two in trouble?’

  ‘Who isn’t in trouble, these days?’

  ‘Those men will go away,’ Annalise assured Evelyn, ‘when they realise I’m not here.’

  ‘Very well, I shall visit a friend, but if they’re not gone by dark, I shall be down with a dozen burly fishermen. What about you? What will you do? Will you be all right?’

  ‘If anyone asks,’ Proctor smiled, ‘say we’ve gone to the Outer Hebrides.’

  Annalise threw herself at Evelyn, hugging her round the neck. ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything.’

  Evelyn took her arm. ‘Can I have a word with you?’ She led her off towards the swings and slides. Proctor stood with his arms folded, feigning indifference, but he noticed that Evelyn spoke earnestly to Annalise and that she even patted Froggy, before giving her another hug. She waved after them as they walked across the fields, away from the village towards the main road. Proctor put an extra push in his stride; to his annoyance, Annalise easily kept up with him.

  ‘So what was that about?’

  ‘What was what about?’

  ‘That little tête-à-tête back there.’

  ‘Oh, nothing. She made me promise to come and see her again, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s cosy.’

  ‘I’ve only known her for a few hours, yet I feel closer to Evelyn than I ever felt to my own mother, isn’t that strange?’

  ‘Must be nice to be appreciated.’

  ‘What’s wrong, fallguy?’ Froggy piped up. ‘You jealous or something?’

  ‘Funny,’ Proctor’s tone was sour, ‘how you only use that stupid thing when it suits you to be rude.’ They reached the road. ‘Well you can put it away, because in my experience, hitchhikers who look mental don’t get many lifts.’

  The sky was beginning to bruise through the cottage windows when Frost finally cracked.

  ‘They’re not here!’ she wailed. ‘They never were here! This has been a complete waste of time!’

  Hulking one at each doorway, Bernstein and Levine looked bored. Frost and Timmins sat on Evelyn’s armchairs.

  ‘They were here all right.’ Timmins produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the handcuff on his wrist. From his other pocket, he took the syringe, still full of clear liquid, and placed it back inside its leather pouch. Then, in the first display of human weakness Frost had witnessed since hiring him, he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘But,’ he nodded at Bernstein, ‘the next time we locate them, I’m going to have to insist that your security stays well clear. I think your men were spotted; they stick out a mile.’

  ‘Oh bullshit!’ Frost snapped. ‘You’re just saying that to duck the blame! They never were here!’

  ‘Three teacups…’ Timmins gestured at the little table between them.

  ‘So an old lady had visitors then went shopping! That proves nothing!’

  ‘If you use your eyes, you’ll see that they were definitely here.’ Timmins pointed at the photograph that lay beside the tray. Huffily, Frost lifted it.

  ‘So it looks like Palatine, so what? It can’t be her; it’s goddamn ancient!’ She took a phone from her pocket. ‘What am I gonna tell H.E.? Guess what – we ain’t got Palatine, but we got some crazy old photo!’

  Timmins lifted a small white paper bag that rested against one of the teacups. ‘Before you report to the principal, please come with me.’ He stood.

  ‘Gawd, what is it now?’

  But he was already out the door.

  The elderly man who owned the sweetshop near the harbour was about to close for the day when four customers walked in, two of them big enough to fill his narrow sales floor on their own. The third was an angry-looking woman with short black hair; the fourth a bespectacled little fellow in a grey raincoat and a navy suit. The little fellow held out a bag of sweets.

  ‘Excuse me, Sir,’ he spoke with a southern accent, Yorkshire or Lancashire. ‘Did you sell these?’

  The owner reached for the bag and examined the contents. ‘Soor plooms! Why?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Is there somethin’ the matter wi’ ’em?’

  ‘Why no, I’m sure they’re very wholesome,’ the little fellow answered, ‘but could you please describe the person who bought them?’ He reached into his coat and extended an open wallet, which showed an important-looking badge. ‘Timmins, Fife Constabulary.’

  ‘Ooh. Are they in trouble? Aye. Now let me see… ah’ve only sold the one share o’ soor plooms the day, and that was tae a young man wi’ blondy hair. Rough-lookin’ type. He wasnae local – by the accent, ah woulda said Kirkcaldy.’

  The little fellow turned to the cross lady. ‘Satisfied?’ But her frown only deepened. ‘Thank you for your help.’ He nodded to the owner, and they left.

  ‘Hey, son – your sweets!’ the owner called, but they were gone. However, the two huge fellows stood on, as if waiting for something.

  ‘Yes? Can ah help you?’

  The biggest giant fumbled for change. ‘Uhh… I’d like a bag of them there brandy balls, please, Sir.’

  ‘Satisfied? Satisfied? I am very far from satisfied!’ Frost raged as she climbed aboard the people-carrier. ‘So they were here and we didn’t catch them! H.E. is gonna shit a pink kitten when I tell him that!’

  ‘Rupert,’ Timmins spoke evenly as he settled into his seat, ‘we need to start thinking a step ahead.’ The young man flexed his fingers over his laptop. ‘For whatever reason,’ Timmins mused, ‘it seems that Miss Palatine is visiting individuals connected with her late father. From your extensive research – who else could there be? Start with famil
y and friends.’

  ‘Well, the mother’s dead,’ Rupert tapped a key and consulted his screen, ‘and like the father, the mother was an only child. The father’s parents Fealy, Lewis died 1981 and Sarah in 1987. But here’s the thing: on the journey up, I tracked Palatine’s phone calls for the past year, and they all seem work-related, apart from the ones she made to her boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, whatever.’

  ‘Cedric’s watching him, but she’s already been there and I doubt if she’ll be back.’

  ‘Mr Timmins, can I say something?’

  ‘Yes, Rupert, of course you may.’

  ‘Well… it’s weird, especially for such a hot-looking babe. But it really seems like Annalise Palatine has no one to turn to; no one in the whole wide world.’

  Timmins rubbed his chin. ‘Then that should narrow things down a bit, shouldn’t it?’

  15

  ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’

  The headline was unmissable. Multiple copies of his own face stared back at him from the display outside the concourse newsagent. Proctor began to sweat. Suddenly, all eyes in Edinburgh’s Waverley train station seemed to fall on him.

  ‘SUSPECTED KIDANAPPING – FEARS GROW FOR MISSING ACTRESS.’

  ‘Aw pish,’ he breathed, ‘I have a really bad feelin’ about this.’ The picture of Annalise had been cropped from a paparazzi snap, but Proctor’s was not recent and made him look quite sinister.

  ‘Is that a police mugshot?’ Annalise laughed.

  ‘Actually, it’s an old agency photo.’

  ‘You should have it redone – it’s not very flattering.’