by Jo Bannister
Ordinarily, Frankie took Sundays off. She went to church, met up with friends, had lunch out. But DI Gorman thought that this Sunday it would be better for her to risk the wrath of God than the renewed attentions of the men in the van, so she stayed at Highfield Road, reading in her room.
Hazel was working. Ash took the boys to the shop with him, to finish the cataloguing. Mark Lassiter came with them, and so of course did Patience.
Guy was bored within twenty minutes. Ash sat him down at the big central table with a selection of children’s books – not comic books, which Ash disapproved of – but Guy wasn’t much of a reader. DC Lassiter talked to him about football, which interested him more. What his father knew about football you could put in your eye without blinking.
Gilbert, older by two years and usually harder to entertain, became interested in an atlas he found on a bottom shelf. It was an old atlas, and he was fascinated by the fact that some of the countries in it had since disappeared. ‘Where did they go?’
‘They didn’t go anywhere,’ explained Ash patiently. ‘Some of them got new names. Tanganyika became Tanzania. Northern Rhodesia became Zambia, Southern Rhodesia became Zimbabwe. Some of them got absorbed into other, bigger countries. Some of them got split up. And sometimes a part of a big country wants to split off and go its own way. India wanted independence from the British Empire. Then Pakistan wanted independence from India, and after that Bangladesh wanted independence from Pakistan.’
‘Who gets to say whether they can or not?’
‘In an ideal world, the people who live there. That’s the democratic way. You put it to a vote, and do what the biggest number of people want. In practice, it can be the people with the most money or the biggest guns.’
The mention of guns may have been unfortunate. Gilbert went quiet. Ash continued working through his stock. At length, his voice gone small, Gilbert said, ‘Do you think we’ll ever see our mother again?’
Ash’s heart wrung within him. The boy didn’t know what to call her. When they’d lived with her, they’d called her Mummy. But that no longer felt comfortable, evidence of how much her departure had affected him. Ash thought the boys liked living at Highfield Road, even found him a moderately satisfactory parent. But what they’d lost could never be replaced.
‘I don’t know,’ he said softly. ‘I hope so. But … she got herself in some trouble. You know that, don’t you? She probably went abroad where no one was looking for her. She’ll be missing you like crazy, but it could be a while before she finds a way to see you again.’
Unless Frankie was right, he added in the privacy of his own mind, and those men weren’t after her at all.
And then it was Monday. Ash took the boys to school on his way to work. He was in the shop, alone except for his dog, when DI Gorman came in. Ash knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth.
‘You’re calling off the surveillance.’
‘I’m sorry, Gabriel. I can’t afford the manpower. We’ll keep you high on the drive-by list, but I can’t give you twenty-four-hour cover any longer.’
‘Those men are still out there.’
‘I know they are. You’ll need to be careful. If you see anything – anything – that concerns you, call me immediately. I’m sorry, I know it’s not enough. There’s nothing more I can do.’
Troubled as he was, Ash knew there was no point being angry with Gorman. The man worked within constraints – time constraints, money constraints – like everyone else. ‘What’s your best guess? Was it the boys they were after, or Frankie?’
Gorman considered. ‘I’m inclined to trust Gilbert’s assessment. I’d know if someone was dragging me towards a van or holding me back, and I think he did. God knows why, but I think they were trying to snatch your nanny.’
‘I think so too.’ Ash bit his lip. ‘Which means it would be safer to have her out of the house.’
‘Safer for the boys, yes.’
‘But not for Frankie.’
‘Probably not. But maybe you can’t afford to worry about that.’
After the policeman had gone, Ash made himself a mug of coffee in the tiny kitchen at the back and sat at the long table, sipping it. Patience had set up home under the table with a dog bed she’d had him bring down from the house – a dog bed he’d bought when he was new to the business of dog ownership, and didn’t know that she’d actually be sleeping on his bed. Now, unseen, she lifted her head and placed it on his knee, and he reached down to stroke her ears.
‘I wouldn’t do anything – anything – to put my sons in danger,’ he said quietly. ‘But now Frankie is part of our household too. If she leaves Highfield Road and takes a flat somewhere, she’ll be much more vulnerable if someone is trying to hurt her.’
Yes, said Patience.
Gabriel Ash wasn’t sure if his dog actually spoke to him or not. The most rational part of his mind took the view that, since dogs cannot speak, it must be a residual effect from the post-traumatic stress he’d suffered, and what he thought was Patience talking was just another facet of his own brain struggling to be heard. That made a kind of sense to him; but Patience thought it was hogwash.
‘If someone – if Cathy – is after the boys, they’ll be no safer if I send Frankie away. They would in fact be safer if she stayed to help keep an eye on them.’
Yes, said Patience.
‘But if someone is after Frankie, the boys would be safer if she left. As long as the people looking for her knew she’d gone. We’d have to advertise the fact. Then we’d be safe, but she’d be in more danger.’
Yes, said Patience again.
‘I owe Frankie Kelly more than she draws in salary every month. She’s made it possible for me to keep my children. I could have lost them to Social Services if she hadn’t come along when she did. She’s been good for the boys, and good for me. She is a good person. Suppose she was the target of this attack – does that suddenly make her a bad person? And if it doesn’t, how can I even think of turning her out?’
Hazel said …
‘Yes,’ exclaimed Ash, remembering. ‘She said she could find someone to help. If the police can’t give us ongoing protection, we need to find someone who can. I’ll call her, see what she suggests.’
SIX
Martha Harris had an unnerving talent for knowing what people wanted as soon as they knocked on her door. Before Hazel was far enough into her office to say, ‘Hello,’ and remind her that they’d met before, Norbold’s only private investigator said, ‘Gabriel Ash send you, did he, pet?’
‘Er – sort of.’ It wasn’t often Hazel found herself wrong-footed like this.
‘Well, you’d best come in properly and tell us what it is he needs.’
Hazel had done her police studies course in Liverpool before being posted to the Midlands: she was familiar with a range of dialects. But Martha Harris had lived in Norbold for over twenty years, which suggested a certain obstinacy in the way she’d clung onto her You see a vowel, you bloody well sound it Geordie accent.
Hazel took the chair she was offered. She also, this time, took the chocolate she was offered. The last time they’d met she’d been on her dignity and declined. If Martha remembered – and Hazel would have put money on her remembering – she didn’t hold a grudge. A chocolate wasn’t a line in the sand, it was only a chocolate, and there were always chocolates on Martha’s desk. They were bad for her waistline but good for her soul.
‘I’d better tell you from the start,’ said Hazel.
‘Aye, pet,’ said Martha, settling herself comfortably with a raspberry ripple. ‘Tell us everything that happened outside the school on Friday.’
Hazel squinted at her, but Martha kept a straight face so Hazel did as she was bid. Everything she’d seen, surmised and been told from the moment the van arrived at the gates of Norbold Quays School. The first conclusion Ash had jumped to, and the later one. What Dave Gorman had said; what Frankie Kelly had said; what Gilbert had said.
Marth
a listened in silence – possibly because it was good professional practice, possibly because the last chocolate in the box was a jaw-breaker toffee. When Hazel had finished, the older woman leaned back – her chair gave a long-suffering groan – and remarked to the ceiling light hanging over her desk, ‘So Mr Ash thinks it wasn’t his boys the kidnappers was after. He thinks it was their nanny.’
‘Yes.’
‘But she says there’s no reason anyone should want to kidnap her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Sounds like a police matter to me.’ Martha should know: she’d been a CID sergeant until she took an early pension.
Hazel agreed. ‘But you remember what it’s like. There’s only so much manpower to go round. They can’t keep a presence at the house for weeks at a time. When nothing more had happened over the weekend, our minders were moved on to more pressing matters.’
‘So you came to me?’ Martha hooted in amusement. ‘What do you think I’m going to do? Patrol Highfield Road with my Yorkshire terrier?’
Hazel grinned. ‘Maybe. I’ve known Yorkshire terriers I’d run a mile from. Or maybe you could talk to Frankie and see if you believe her. If you were to call in the morning, while Gabriel’s at the shop, it would also mean she wasn’t alone in the house – I’m pulling all the night shifts I can, but there are times I can’t be there. And if someone is trying to hurt her, the less time she’s on her own the better.’
‘Aye, I see that.’ Martha ruminated. ‘It’s a wonder, if he thinks his nanny’s brought trouble to his door, that Mr Ash hasn’t paid her off.’
‘He thought about it. He decided he owed her better. That if we were careful, we could protect her without putting the boys at risk.’
‘That was nice of him.’ She said it as if she knew no higher compliment.
Hazel waited. She presumed that at some point the PI would decide whether or not to take the job. But Martha seemed in no hurry.
‘Norbold Quays,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Of course, the Ash boys will be at the primary school. But I’m told the high school next door has a pretty good reputation these days.’
‘Really?’ With no children of her own, the relative merits of schools held little interest for Hazel.
‘Down to that headmistress, I expect. Oh – we don’t call them headmistresses any more, do we? We have to call them head teachers. Elizabeth Lim. I mind when she was appointed. Came with all sorts of recommendations. In spite of which she nearly lost out to a bloke who couldn’t count past ten without taking his shoes and socks off, but had two grannies in the local churchyard.’
Hazel shrugged. ‘That’s small-town living for you, I suppose.’
‘Funny name, isn’t it? Not Elizabeth – the other bit. Not really a local name.’
‘Well no. She’s Chi …’
And there she stopped, struck rigid. It was so obvious, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. But then, that was what being a detective was. Having the ability to look at what everyone could see, and see more.
Martha gave a complacent smile. ‘I don’t think you need a private investigator, pet. I think you need to pop round to Norbold Quays and talk to Miss Lim. See who might have it in for her.’
Hazel was back outside the school as the first children began to emerge. The primary school emptied first, of course, and Elizabeth Lim was principal of the high school. But Hazel had a hunch as to what she would see if she was in position by three fifteen, and she wasn’t disappointed. As parents and child-minders began to gather at the gates, a small figure – smaller than many of her senior pupils – appeared in the midst of the running, shrieking exodus and steered a confident course across the playground, exchanging a few words with the waiting adults.
Out of the corner of her eye Hazel saw Ash and his dog turn the corner onto Quay Street.
She shouldered her way through the throng until she was standing in front of the head teacher. Elizabeth Lim looked at her enquiringly.
‘Miss Lim, do you know who I am?’
‘Of course I do, Miss Best.’ The principal gave a tiny, self-contained smile. ‘Even without the tights and the big S on your T-shirt.’
If Hazel was right about this, there could be some urgency. ‘Then I need you to listen to me carefully. Is this what you do every afternoon at this time? Come outside as the primary schoolchildren leave?’
For a moment Miss Lim considered not answering. But Hazel Best was the reason that the incident outside the school hadn’t ended in tragedy; and anyway, she had no reason to deny it. ‘Most afternoons. It’s a chance to keep in touch with the parents. My pupils are too old to be met from school, but a lot of them have younger siblings, and if I’m around when the parents are meeting them, it’s easy for them to raise a matter with me without the formality of making an appointment. Also, the primary children will be at the high school in a year or two. It’s a good idea for us to get to know one another before then.’
‘But you weren’t here on Friday afternoon.’
‘No, I had a meeting with one of my governors. Miss Best, why are you interested in this?’
‘I will explain,’ promised Hazel. ‘But right now – right now – I need you to come inside. We’ll talk in your office. You’re not safe out here.’
‘I’m not?’ But even as she protested, Hazel saw something flit across the woman’s expression that was not amazement or disbelief but almost recognition. At that point, Hazel knew Martha Harris had been right.
All her life Elizabeth Lim had been likened to porcelain. Her ivory-tinted skin, her glossy black hair, even her delicate diminutive stature, made the comparison irresistible. But porcelain isn’t weak. It’s vulnerable to shocks, but handled considerately it is strong enough that every day people with no wish to injure themselves pour scalding liquids into porcelain cups so thin that the light shines through, and hold them over their laps.
In fact, Elizabeth Lim was even less fragile than porcelain, because she dealt with shocks on a weekly basis and hadn’t broken yet.
She took Hazel to her office, and closed the door, and indicated the chair in front of her desk while she herself slid into the one behind it. ‘Is this about the attempt to kidnap the Ash boys?’
‘Yes,’ said Hazel, ‘and no. I don’t think the boys were the object of the attack. I don’t even think Frankie Kelly was, although it was her those men were trying to force into their van. I think they came for you.’
There was a significant silence. Hazel was determined to say nothing more until Miss Lim offered something in return. And Miss Lim seemed more inclined to think than to talk. She stood up again, and turned away from Hazel to look out of her window. Already the playground was emptying, the children being claimed and removed by parents and carers. Another twenty minutes and it would fill again with a fresh discharge of older children.
Finally she turned back. ‘I don’t see how that can be,’ she said distantly. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘There was a mistake,’ agreed Hazel. ‘Those men were sent to the gates of Norbold Quays School at chucking-out time, and told to grab the Asian woman they’d find there. That’s what they did. The mistake was, it didn’t occur to them they were grabbing the wrong Asian woman. You’d been detained in your office, but Frankie Kelly was there. They thought she was you.’
‘No.’ The principal spoke firmly rather than loudly, but with the clear expectation that with one word she could end the discussion.
But Hazel wasn’t one of her pupils. More than that, she too had been a teacher: she knew some of the tricks. She sighed. ‘Miss Lim, you can ignore the evidence until you’re blue in the face, but this is the only thing that makes sense. Those men intended to abduct you. They’re still out there, and you’re still in danger. You don’t have to tell me who’s looking for you and why, but you ought to tell Detective Inspector Gorman. He’ll help you.’
‘He can’t …’
‘He’ll do his level best,’ said Hazel stoutly. ‘If you le
vel with him.’
‘No … I mean, there’s nothing he needs to do. I’m in no danger. How could I be? Who could possibly want to kidnap me?’
‘You’d know more about that than I would. And maybe you’ve got good reasons for not wanting to talk about it. But ignoring this is not going to make it go away. Those men will have realised their mistake by now. They might wait a few days for the dust to settle, but then they’ll be back, and next time they’ll make a better job of it. You were lucky on Friday. Circumstances were against them. Next time they may be against you.’
Elizabeth Lim’s smile was like the tiny red bow painted dead centre on a geisha’s lips. There was no humour in it at all. ‘Miss Best, there is nothing for you to concern yourself about. There will be no repetition. As you say, those men will have realised their mistake by now. They will not return. There is no reason for them to come to this school again.’
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ muttered Hazel; but she knew Miss Lim would say nothing more. She stood up. ‘And I really wish you’d talk to DI Gorman.’
‘There is nothing to say,’ said Elizabeth Lim.
Hazel reported the conversation to Ash. She’d hoped to be able to tell him the whole story, the reason someone would want to kidnap a school principal and accidentally snatch his nanny instead; but if that wasn’t an option, at least she wanted to share with him the conclusions she’d come to. It was of course possible that she was mistaken – this happened more often than she liked to admit – but she’d seen that look of comprehension on Elizabeth Lim’s face in the split second before she guarded it. Hazel still had no idea who had sent the grey van, or why, but she was pretty sure Ash had some fences to mend with his nanny.
Ash heard her out without interruption, stroking Patience’s ears as the lurcher lay on the kitchen sofa beside him. Some people drum their fingernails as an aid to thought, some whistle or stare into the middle distance. Ash’s displacement activity was to stroke his dog’s ears.
‘Do you think she will talk to Dave Gorman?’ he asked when Hazel had finished.