Threats and Menaces

by Alan Scholefield

  As they went out to Leo’s car Macrae stopped and stared at the silver Mercedes.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Leo! Leo?’

  ‘Up here.’

  Zoe climbed the rickety ladder on to the flat roof.

  ‘Shoes!’ Leo cried.

  She was wearing stiletto heels and the roof was a tarry composition.

  ‘You walk on it with those and it’ll end up like a colander.’ ‘Fuss. Fuss. Let’s start again. Hello, darling.’

  ‘Hello, darling, take off your shoes.’

  She did. ‘What are those?’

  ‘Window-boxes. My mother said we could have them. They date from the famous Silver garden in West Hampstead. You must have heard of it. People came from far and wide. But it became too much for my father. All that beheading.’

  ‘So you’re really going to do it. Have we got the money?’

  ‘I’m not planning Kew. Some flowers. Some grass matting. A striped umbrella. A barbecue. Something to lie on.’

  ‘Why d’you want something to lie on? We’ve got deck chairs.’ His eyes lit up but then the interest died. ‘Too complicated. Anyway they’d collapse.’

  ‘Oh, I get it. You know, Leo, you’ve got a filthy, filthy mind. I’ve always said so.’

  ‘Filthy, yes. Filthy, filthy — no.’

  She wandered past the chimney pots. ‘You’d better not let my mother know you’re planning to grow things. She’ll want us to produce our own veggies.’

  ‘The only roof garden in London with Russian comfrey. How did it go?’

  ‘Give me a drink and I’ll tell you.’

  They sat in the deck chairs on the bare and dusty roof, listening to the water hiss and gurgle as the roof tank filled.

  ‘Do you think it’s going to work?’ Leo said.

  ‘It worked for most of the first time. It was only towards the end that Mother got itchy feet. New horizons before it was too late. That sort of thing. But that didn’t work for her. She wasn’t really happy at Ecolands. And Father was lonely. The problem is Harold.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Birmingham. Adenoids. A bus called Earth Mother.’

  ‘Right. He brought my mother from Wales — except he calls it Whales. And he’s camping in the garden. He wants to build things to save energy. He used to be an engineer or a mechanic or something and he says Father’s cottage is in a windy area and that he could save on fuel bills if he set up a windmill generator.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Not quite. No walking on water, but he does look a bit like a minor prophet.’

  But only a bit.

  Harold in fact looked more like a wrestler, hairy all over except where he should have been — on the top of his head.

  The moment she saw him Zoe feared the worst. He was wearing tom denims and a black leather jerkin with a Hell’s Angel chapter number on the back. He had a series of death’s head rings on his fingers and round his neck a steel chain with a single shark’s tooth. She thought he was in his early forties and had she been given a word-association test on first meeting Harold she would have written down: gang rape, mayhem, pillage, arson.

  In fact none of these words applied to Harold. He was, in her mother’s words, a pussy-cat. He was big and hairy and soft and silent. He sat in a corner of Brian Bertram’s sitting-room while Sophia and her husband were being re-united in not terribly holy wedlock by their single offspring, Zoe.

  Harold was more than a spectre at the feast, more like a mountain man or a grizzly bear, or the product of an unnatural congress between the two.

  He sat in his corner snuffling softly to himself while Zoe, her father and her mother went through a series of embarrassing conversational gambits about the heat, the state of the gardens, water shortages, Russian comfrey.

  Everyone was very aware of Harold.

  During a short silence he spoke — or at least he made a noise. Worraworraworra worraworra.

  Written down, Zoe thought, the sounds would look like the noises Tigger had made when he attacked Pooh’s tablecloth.

  Brian Bertram, a small, square man with greying hair, and a sweet, melon-slice smile, turned enquiringly towards him.

  Sophia translated: ‘He says does anyone mind if he smokes?’ ‘Course not,’ Brian said. ‘I’ll join him.’

  He brought out his pipe and Harold handed him a rumpled brown paper bag of tobacco.

  Leo broke across Zoe’s account. ‘Don’t tell me.’

  She nodded. ‘It did the trick all right. I’m not sure if my father had ever smoked grass before but after one pipe he and Harold were the best of friends and had gone out to look at the quote winery. Harold apparently wants to build a still. He says he can make brandy out of the wine.’

  Leo held up his hand. ‘Don’t tell me any more. It’s a criminal offence.’

  ‘I don’t care one way or the other. That’s Mother’s problem now.’

  ‘Do you think she knew it was grass?’ Leo asked.

  ‘She’s probably been smoking it at this Ecolands place. Anyway I left the three of them in the garden. Harold was about to take the lawn mower to pieces.’

  ‘It all sounds very dicey.’

  ‘All I can say is parents weren’t like that when I was a girl.’ ‘That’ll teach you to be clever about my mother’s orgasms.’

  Zoe waved her arms irritably to wipe out the memories. ‘So tell me what you’ve been doing to earn your rice bowl.’

  ‘Nannying Macrae.’

  ‘Is he getting any better?’

  ‘God, no. Worse.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s going barmy, do you? Stress can do terrible things. Maybe he’s paranoid. I mean he took a terrific beating, didn’t he?’

  ‘If you’ve seen a side of well-hung beef — that’s what his face looked like.’

  ‘And he won’t see anyone?’

  ‘I wouldn’t either.’

  ‘Come on. You told me yourself the police suffer a higher incidence of stress than almost any other section of society.’

  ‘I’ve seen men who’ve — listen, one of them shook so much we thought he had Parkinson’s. He’d been grabbed as a hostage in a house siege. Even he wouldn’t see a shrink until they said they’d get rid of him on medical grounds if he didn’t.’

  ‘Be a man! That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s it. We’re all scared stiff of being humiliated in front of the others. And that’s Macrae in spades. The hard man from the old Flying Squad going to see a psychiatrist? It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  The phone rang.

  Zoe answered it and spoke briefly.

  ‘That was Mother. My father and Harold have gone off to the pub together. She’s had a look in the kitchen. She says the only food in the house is a piece of bright orange Cheddar. The sell-by date was last December. Well, I’m not going to feel sorry for her. She shouldn’t have gone off to Ecolands in the first place. Parents have no right to please themselves.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  *

  ‘Listen, Joe, I’m their father,’ Macrae said into the phone.

  ‘I know that, George.’

  And it’s not good for them. I mean it’s the holidays, and what can I do to entertain them? Damn all.’

  ‘Well, I can’t either.’

  ‘They’re not yours so you don’t care; isn’t that what you’re saying, laddie?’

  ‘That’s not right. I told you before how I loved them. I’m worried for them. Course I am. But I work barmier hours than you do. At least you’re home most evenings.’

  ‘That’s not the point. They sit and watch TV during the day.’ ‘What’s wrong with that? Lots of kids do.’

  ‘During the day?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘It’s, well, I don’t know. It seems wrong somehow.’

  ‘Well, not to me. Anyway there’s Frenchy. She’s in and out.’ Even though Macrae was alone in his bedroom and the door was closed, he lo
wered his voice. ‘Frenchy’s a bit on the, well, how can I put it… She tells them things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, about condoms and things.’

  ‘You think that with Mandy for a mother they’d be shocked? Do us a favour, George. They know all about that sort of thing. Probably more than we do. Anyway it’s never too early to learn about condoms.’

  ‘At eight?’

  ‘Listen, I read in the paper of a grandmother of twenty-nine. A grandmother, George!’

  Macrae paused and said, ‘You got this Roger bloke’s address?’ ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You’re not trying, laddie.’

  ‘I got his surname. It’s Gammon.’

  ‘As in pineapple?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll trace the sod.’

  *

  ‘You my mother,’ Alice said. ‘You only a child but you my mother.’

  She and Dory were on the roof of Selbourne. Alice was sitting on Miss Gardenia’s rug just inside the door of the garden shed. It was dusk but still warm.

  Dory opened the picnic hamper. ‘Fruit cake… sweet biscuits… milk… The cake’s made without butter, so it’s good for you. Next time I’ll bring lots of things. Do you like bran cereal?’ ‘Bran cereal?’

  ‘We’ve got lots of that.’

  Then she remembered the properties of bran cereal. But there was a staff toilet at the back of the flats which Alisha could use. Dory tried to think of everything.

  They made Alice a bed out of Miss Gardenia’s rug. They spread it behind some full compost bags at the back of the shed where it was out of sight even if the door was opened.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ Dory said. ‘But you’re not to worry. No one can get into the shed. See?’

  She put the key into her knickers.

  ‘You go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Alice put out her hand and held Dory’s for a moment. Then the door closed and she was in darkness. But it wasn’t the darkness of the house, or the park. It was a soft velvety darkness that smelled of earth and she no longer felt alone.

  She did not question what she was doing there or that she had been brought by a strange child. She did not question anything. She felt as though she was being borne along on the breast of a great river. She had no will. The current bore her along and she gave herself to it.

  She began to cry. She had not been able to cry for a long time and she welcomed the tears as old friends.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘They’re called what?’ Macrae said. He was in the passenger seat of Leo’s Golf.

  ‘S & F. Shopping and fucking.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true, guv’nor. There’s a whole genre called that. It’s soft-porn women’s fiction written by and for voyeurs. Sort of housewives’ choice. Strictly for cash.’

  ‘Genre!’ Macrae said in a voice filled with disgust. ‘Where’d you get hold of words like that? Your English class?’

  ‘I’m not sure Titus Andronicus is genre fiction.’

  ‘I thought Shakespeare was too difficult for the modern generation. I thought everybody was studying Noddy and Sooty and Thomas the Tank Engine. It’s about what your bloody degree’s worth.’

  Leo opened his mouth and closed it.

  ‘Over there, laddie.’ Macrae pointed to a vacant space in Selbourne Square.

  ‘Apparently she’s a best seller,’ Leo went on. ‘A big best seller. Zoe’s read a couple. Tough women struggling to the top in a man’s world; that’s the theme of most of them. Zoe says when you’ve read one you’ve read them all. Just the names and places change.’

  ‘Sounds like crap.’

  ‘And not very well cooked. Anyway she’s made a fortune.’

  ‘English?’

  ‘Yes, but lived in New York for a while. Marvell isn’t her real name. She was married to a Max Mavroulian. Marvell is for the book jacket, I suppose.’

  ‘Mavroulian doesn’t sound English.’

  ‘He’s her agent.’

  ‘What was taken?’

  Leo parked, switched off and pulled a file from the back seat. ‘Jewellery: rings, bracelets, necklaces. Some diamonds. Pearl earrings. Some jade.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘She’d hidden the stuff in a hatbox in her hanging cupboard.’

  Macrae shook his head slowly in wonderment.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ Leo said. He pointed to the silver Mercedes. It was still parked with two wheels on the pavement, only now it had been joined by a police pick-up truck with its lights flashing. Three men, a traffic warden and two men from the truck dressed in dark blue coveralls, were circling the Mercedes.

  ‘About bloody time,’ Macrae said as they drew level.

  A thin-faced man turned angrily and said to Macrae, ‘What was that, squire?’

  Macrae identified himself and Leo watched the man’s face crumble.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  The traffic warden said defensively, ‘I’ve given him two parking tickets already.’ He pointed to the two white notices encased in plastic on the windscreen.

  Macrae ignored him. In the pantheon of his hatreds, traffic wardens came high.

  ‘You don’t know the owner by any chance, do you, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  The warden said, ‘Probably an Arab. They’re the ones with the big cars round here. Don’t give a damn where they park.’

  The two men with the truck were looking uneasy. The thin-faced man said, ‘Some of them have contacts in high places. We took away a car last week that belonged to a sheik or a prince, something like that. And he phoned somebody who phoned somebody. Lots of aggro.’

  The traffic warden was ringing the house bell. ‘No one at home,’ he said.

  He rattled the letter flap a couple of times and a piece of paper floated on to the pavement.

  ‘Circular,’ he said.

  He bent down and tried to see into the house through the letter flap. ‘Jesus!’ he said, stepping back. ‘You could cut that with a knife.’

  ‘What?’ Macrae said.

  ‘You have a sniff, sir.’

  ‘Fish,’ said Macrae, straightening up. ‘But it’s gone off.’ Then he said to Leo, ‘Come on,’ and they crossed to Selbourne Close.

  The three men watched them go, then went into a huddle as though they could not decide on what to do.

  ‘You got those names yet?’ Macrae said to Trevor.

  ‘I’ll do them today, sir.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  In the elevator Macrae said, ‘Looks like he’s been crying. A middle-aged man!’

  Adrienne Marvell was waiting for them. She was coolly dressed in white trousers and a denim shirt with her hair pulled back severely into a pony tail. Leo wondered if she was wearing no make-up, or lots of make-up which had taken a long time to put on so it appeared like no make-up. He thought she looked as tough as nylon rope.

  ‘This is my agent, Max Mavroulian,’ she said and led them into the big cool drawing-room. ‘I asked him to be present.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to sit in on an investigation,’ Max said. ‘Have you, sir?’ It was said in Macrae’s chilliest voice. ‘I don’t believe I’ve come across the name Mavroulian before.’

  ‘My grandfather was Armenian-Greek. Have you ever heard of the massacre of the Greeks by the Turks in Smyrna in the twenties?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s all forgotten now. My grandfather was a youth at the time and he escaped. He finally got into Britain on a Nansen passport issued by the League of Na — ’

  ‘I don’t think they want to hear all about that, Max.’

  ‘All right, sugar, but it’s romantic.’ He turned to Macrae. ‘I’m Miss Marvell’s ex.’

  Macrae held up his hand. ‘We’ve come to see Miss Marvell, sir. Unless you were here at the time of the burglary.’

  ‘OK. OK; Leo said, ‘Co
uld you tell us a bit about yourself, Miss Marvell. I mean you’re a famous writer. I’m afraid I — ’

  ‘Haven’t read any of your books,’ she finished for him. Her voice was as cold as Macrae’s. ‘People have set phrases when they meet writers. That’s one of them.’

  Unfazed Leo said, ‘What do you write about?’

  ‘She’s a roman — ’ Max said.

  ‘Social problems,’ Adrienne said. ‘Women’s problems. My novels deal with contemporary adult issues.’

  ‘But in a readable way,’ Max said hastily.

  ‘I thought you’d come to talk about the burglary,’ she said. ‘Miss Marvell was very shocked by it,’ Max said. ‘She’s hardly been out of the apartment since.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate, Max.’

  ‘It’s true, angel.’

  Leo said, ‘People react differently to burglaries.’

  ‘It was like being raped,’ she said.

  The doorbell rang. She crossed the room and disappeared down the passage.

  ‘Does anyone work for Miss Marvell?’ Macrae said.

  ‘Here? In the flat? She won’t have a regular cleaner. Gets it all done by professionals. She’ll give you the name of the company. But there is a secretary who comes to fetch her daily output and types it up for the following day. She’ll tell you her name.’ Adrienne came back. ‘There are two men to see you, Inspector.’ ‘Superintendent,’ Macrae said bleakly, as he went past her.

  The two men from the police truck were at the door.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s something you ought to see.’ Macrae frowned. ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘I think you’d better come, sir.’

  Macrae excused himself and went back to the house. The car was still not loaded.

  ‘We were making a last check,’ the driver said. ‘Went down the steps and knocked on the basement door.’ He and Macrae went down together. He pointed to a chink in the curtains. ‘Look in there, sir.’

  Macrae peered in. He could see a shadowy kitchen. A light was on and in its radiance he saw, on the floor, a hand and an elbow and part of a shoulder. He also saw something shiny and dark, like a trickle of oil that seemed to run from the fingers of the hand. But he had seen such sights before and he knew it wasn’t oil.

  *

  ‘He calls them Mr and Mrs Kestrel,’ Dory said. ‘But you don’t have to worry about him. You’re our au pair. And you had an accident.’ ‘I no worry,’ Alice said. ‘You my mother.’