The Love Detective

by Angela Dyson

  I paused a moment too long before answering. “Why would you think that?”

  She stared at me.

  “Alright,” I said reluctantly. “But it’s probably not what you think. In fact, I’m certain it’s not. It’s something that I came across in… well let’s just say… in suspicious circumstances.”

  “I think you should go now,” Nuala said. “I’m not getting involved in…”

  She broke off as a tall chunky man in his thirties with a soft jaw but a strong nose entered the shop carrying a crate of lemons. He called out a greeting in Greek and Nuala came around from the counter and kissed him on the cheek. He put the lemons down and hugged her close before turning to me.

  “A new customer I think? I hope you are spending lots of money with us.” Then he looked more closely at me. “No, I have seen you before… somewhere. I’m Aleksy, this one’s husband.” He smiled at his wife and then looked back to me. “Well whether you are new to us or not I hope that you have found plenty you like.”

  “I have,” I said. “Some baklava.”

  “It’s fantastic,” he said. “Is this it?” He picked up the waxed paper parcel and handed it to me. I put it in my bag. “We make it with honey from Mt. Erymanthos,” he continued. “And we use nuts…”

  “Yes Nuala said,” I said hastily. “And she’s just agreed to talk to me about the… about the… the um origins of the recipe… for… an article I’m writing.”

  Nuala appeared about to protest but her husband interrupted her.

  “That’s great,” said Aleksy. “Make sure you give the shop a good plug.”

  He turned to Nuala. “There’s no one on the bench outside.” He indicated a seat on the green directly in front of the shop that I’d noticed when parking my car. “Why don’t you talk out there and I’ll bring you out something to drink.”

  My eyes met Nuala’s. Nikko’s Barbers was on the opposite side of the green and I didn’t want to risk Chris seeing me if he popped in for a quick trim. She must have come to the same conclusion because she said, “We’ll go out the back.”

  She led me through to the rear of the shop where cartons of vegetables and sacks of flour sat upon a rack of spotless shelves. She unlocked a door inset with a square mesh panel and I accompanied her outside. We sat, facing inwards, on a low wall that ran the length of the small parade of shops. Nuala took a swift glance around. A delivery was being made a couple of doors down supervised by an old man smoking a cigarette, who raised a hand and waved to her, but for the rest it was quiet.

  “He rarely comes to the shop and so we should be OK,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Chris.”

  And then I remembered. Chris’s wife Maria had the hairdressers next door. I felt a stirring of curiosity about her and wondered if she might come out to get some fresh air and to escape, albeit briefly, from the heat of the dryers. I said as much to Nuala.

  “She doesn’t work the shop floor anymore but concentrates on the business side. She has just opened another two salons, one in Camden, and one in Bloomsbury. She is very driven, very focused on her businesses.”

  “That’s impressive,” I said.

  Aleksy then appeared carrying two tall glasses. “Has she told you how her grandmother… giagia Ragna… got the recipe from an old lady who lived…”

  Nuala laughed over him. “Yes yes agapi mou I have, but you’d better get back to the shop.”

  He grinned. “You can see who’s boss around here.” And he then left us.

  I look a sip of my drink. It was a sparkling orange soda and it was ice cold.

  “I don’t like lying to my husband,” Nuala said.

  “Then, why are you?”

  “Because I don’t want us to have anything to do with Chris Lianthos and so it’s better if Aleksy doesn’t know.”

  I considered for a moment. Whilst the translation of the newspaper ad was helpful, it hadn’t in anyway enlightened me. So Chris imported flowers from his homeland? Presumably there was nothing illegal about that. And what, if anything, did that have to do with the women?

  “That reference to horseshoe dice,” I asked Nuala. “Do you know what it means because it sure as hell means nothing to me?”

  “No. I told you I don’t know.”

  I could feel that she was beginning to grow impatient and so pressed on

  “And if this is just a run-of-the-mill advertisement then surely there should be details of a website or a phone number or something?”

  “Well yes,” she agreed. “You’d think there would be. Give me the paper again.”

  I took it out of my bag and handed it to her.

  She scanned it. “It’s in with the deltio… the bulletins, the announcements about forthcoming events…”

  “So not an ad,” I said. “More of a post or a statement maybe?”

  She shrugged, “Again. I have no idea.” Then more seriously she asked, “Look, why do you want to know this? What’s this about?”

  “Maybe nothing.” I took a long sip of the orange soda before asking, “I can only assume that The Box is an actual place, right?”

  “That’s how it reads,” she said.

  “If there are no contact details and no address then I’m guessing that it’s a location that’s known… I mean known to whoever this ad or post is aimed at? And you’ve definitely never heard of it? It’s not some Greek community place here in London or…” I broke off thoughtfully. “Or how about in Luton maybe?”

  “No. I’ve already told you.” She was getting irritated now. “Why Luton?”

  I didn’t want to get into specifics and so I batted the question away. “Oh, it’s a place that just came up. I thought that there might be a link.”

  “A link with Chris Lianthos; that’s what you mean isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” I admitted. I rubbed the back of my neck.

  “Who are you?” her eyes bored into mine.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you with the police? Is that why you’re asking all these questions?”

  “No!” I leant across to her. “Nuala really I’m not.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Nuala, you have no reason to trust me but… I’m asking you to. Now here’s what we have…”

  Although she looked askance at the word we, she seemed to accept what I’d said.

  I ploughed on. “Basically, it’s an announcement that flowers… fresh flowers… will be at some place called The Box on Friday the 17th. Hold on aren’t all flowers fresh? I mean that’s the point of them, isn’t it? That they’re fresh.”

  “Yes,” agreed Nuala. “But there are also dried flowers and artificial ones too and some made out of fabric, like on a dress you might wear going to a wedding.”

  “I suppose so,” I conceded. “But this says specifically fresh. Well…. that seems to be that. Thanks again Nuala.” There was no point in pursuing it any longer. I’d reached a dead end.

  But she wasn’t listening. She was looking at a car pulling up outside the back of the hairdressers. A silver Mercedes.

  “That’s Maria,” Nuala mouthed at me.

  A slim, attractive woman in her late thirties with long dark hair got out of the car. She was impeccably dressed. The suit of pale pink she wore was clearly a designer one. She had on beautiful coffee coloured stilettos and carried a bag that was cream and boxy and possibly a Birkin. She wore too much jewellery for my taste, a thick nest of gold chains around her neck and a couple of heavy gold bangles, but there was no denying she looked good. She stopped and said something in Greek to Nuala, flicked a casual glance over me and then disappeared into the rear of her shop.

  “They’re well matched, physically,” I remarked.

  “Yes,” replied Nuala gravely. “But when is that ever an indication of true compat
ibility.”

  I thought of the warmth with which she and her husband interacted and knew she was right. Before we parted I gave her my phone number.

  “It’s a long shot I know, but if you do think of anything else about the ad then please give me a call.”

  She said she would but I thought it highly unlikely that I would ever hear from her again.

  I was just leaving when I realised that I hadn’t paid for the baklava. “Oh, I’m sorry I forgot. I owe you for the…” I started to fish out my purse but she waved my offer away. I think she was just glad to be rid of me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tim phoned again around six. “Fancy getting together?” he asked.

  “Well… I was planning a quiet night in.”

  “We can be quiet,” he said.

  “Really?”

  He laughed. “It’s you that’s a bit of a screamer. I’ll be round to yours at about eight. Oh, and I’ll bring a takeaway.”

  You’ve got to love a puppy.

  Just after seven thirty my mobile rang again.

  “Don’t get anything too spicy,” I said “A korma’s good or…”

  But there was no answer.

  “Tim?” I said.

  No response. I looked at the screen. It was a private number.

  “Look,” I spoke loudly and clearly. “Whoever you are… I don’t want to buy insurance or double-glazing or anything else at all and no I haven’t had an accident…”

  Not strictly true I thought remembering the Citroen van’s dented bumper, not to mention Bomber-jacket’s foot.

  “Hello?” I said again, “Hello?”

  The line went dead.

  Tim in fact brought Thai food. We ate from plates balanced on our knees in the sitting room and bickered over whom would have the last stick of chicken satay. I won. And in bed, as is so often the case, the second occasion was even better.

  At two in the morning I remembered the baklava and we shared it leaning back against the pillows.

  “I don’t care which Greek mountain range this honey came from,” said Tim. “It’s lovely and sticky and if I just smear a little over here and a little…” He ran a hand down his chest. “You can lick it off.”

  I did.

  I woke feeling utterly refreshed and clear headed. After coffee and toast, I shoved a reluctant Tim out of the front door.

  “I’ve got stuff to do,” I said.

  “I can handle stuff,” he said.

  “You’d only be a distraction. Now Go!”

  He went and I switched on my computer and looked up The Box. Several storage companies came up, an IT company in California, a cake shop in Edinburgh, cheap accommodation to rent for university students in Lancashire, and a BBC thriller that I’d missed and that looked rather good. There was nothing in or around Luton. But if this ad had anything to do with the women then Luton would make sense I reasoned. The driver and his track-suited friend couldn’t have realised that I was tailing them until we’d come off the M1 and were well within the city’s boundaries, so that must have been where they were headed to. But to where in Luton and to do what?

  I scrolled through page after page, and then gave up. I looked at my notebook. What was this about horseshoe dice? I typed it in and there were loads of references to dice and plenty about horseshoes but nothing that put them together. The nearest thing I could find, on a gift site for racing enthusiasts, was a pair of cufflinks in the shape of dice with a picture of a horse’s head on them.

  Alright so what about the flowers? Flowers, I muttered aloud. Flowers. I looked out the window and then, deciding to give myself a break, wandered out into the garden.

  The daffodils were nearly over and so I picked a handful. I looked at the rose bush and down at the white tulips growing up through the daffodils and thought how everyone loves flowers. They’re so cheering and somehow symbolic of hope and of love and of innocence and even strength. Symbolic. That thought stopped me in my tracks. The flower of youth. The expression just occurred to me. Or in the flower of my youth meaning when I was young. And how about The flower of England used to describe the young men who died on the battlefields of the First World War?

  Scraps of poetry learnt at school came to mind, old poems where maidens were described as fresh flowers and a quote on Facebook I’d come across recently – A woman is like a rose, if you’re lucky you watch her bloom. So, the word flower didn’t have to be interpreted literally, it could also allude to something else. And it was most commonly used to represent something young and female.

  A truly repellent idea then suggested itself. I stomped around the garden trying to shake it off, but it wouldn’t be denied. Oh God, I thought with a sick feeling in my stomach, wasn’t there an old-fashioned phrase about… her flower – meaning to lose one’s virginity – as in the saying popping one’s cherry? Fresh flowers. I think now I knew exactly what that meant.

  I didn’t even stop to put the daffodils in water before looking up the number for the delicatessen.

  Nuala picked up on the fourth ring. “Hello Demeter’s Deli can I help you?”

  “It’s me Nuala. It’s Clarry.”

  Her sigh came quite distinctly down the line. “I haven’t thought of anything else. There’s nothing more I can…”

  “But I have,” I cut in. “Fresh flowers. I think it means young girls.”

  “Well it could,” she acknowledged. “That’s sometimes what we call our young girls, our sisters, and our daughters when they are taking the holy sacrament.”

  “How about young girls to be… pimped out, sold?”

  “What?” I could hear the shock and disbelief in her voice.

  “I went to Knights,” I said.

  “To that place? Why?”

  “It’s… It’s too complicated to explain. But whilst I was there I heard a woman crying.”

  “So?”

  “From behind a locked door.”

  “So?” she said again.

  “Look I know this sounds crazy. That I sound crazy and maybe I am. But believe me when I tell you that I think there are women at that club, and not just there... I think they are being transported to somewhere else, who may be being held against their will.”

  “Stop,” she cried. “I don’t want to hear about it. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you might have heard something.” I knew I was pushing her but this was important. “You might have heard rumours, whispers even, within your community and…”

  “I have not!” she exclaimed hotly. “Of course I’ve not. Do you think we’d allow that sort of thing to… how dare you even suggest that.”

  “Alright alright,” I said placatingly. “I didn’t mean to offend you but I just wanted to… oh I don’t know what I wanted… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have troubled you.”

  “No you should not!”

  That grated with me. “Have you got daughters Nuala?”

  Silence and then she finally answered. “No. I have two sons.”

  “But if you did have daughters?…” I let the question hang.

  Another silence before she said, “If you think what you’re saying about these girls is true then you need to go to the police, but I don’t want you contacting me again. Do you understand? Stay away from me.” And she rang off.

  I phoned Flan and filled her in on everything that had happened since I’d seen her, early on Tuesday morning with Mr. H. and Simon Napier. That felt like a very long time ago. She listened and then tut-tutted when I told her about the women being put into the van. She laughed and then tried to pretend that she hadn’t, when I got to the bit in the story about running over Bomber-jacket’s foot, but was truly horror struck when I told her my theory about the ad.

  “I think that your Greek friend Nuala may be right,” she said.

  “Sh
e’s not my friend. She’s made that abundantly clear.”

  “Nevertheless she has a very good point. This is a very serious matter Clarry.”

  “I know it is!”

  “Well then darling something needs to be done about it. It’s time to share your concerns with professionals.”

  “You think they’ll take me seriously?”

  “I don’t see why not. Would you like me to accompany you? I’m lunching with Harold but I could easily cancel, even though it is his turn to pay.”

  I laughed. I didn’t think she was seeing as much of Mr. H.’s rival, the skinflint undertaker, these days. “No don’t do that. There’s no need. Where’s he taking you by the way?”

  “For a ploughman’s,” she said glumly.

  “Do they even serve those anymore?”

  “I suppose I’ll find out. But one way or another I fully intend to order a decent bottle of Chablis, have a starter and probably a pudding as well, if I can manage it.”

  Before I said goodbye, I made a brief mention of Tim.

  “How lovely for you darling,” she observed. “Such a good idea to take up a hobby for the summer.”

  Next, I tried Laura at her office but she was out at a client’s and so I left her a message on her mobile asking her to call. As a solicitor she’d no doubt be in a position to give me advice, and might even suggest coming with me to the police, although that would probably look like overkill and imply I was guilty of something – which of course I was. I had never, to my knowledge, committed a criminal act until ten days ago. Since then I’d broken into Simon’s house and Chris’s office and run over a man. Not exactly the career path my mother had hoped for me.

  I waited an hour but still Laura didn’t come back to me. I felt restless and edgy and nervous about the thought of talking to the police but, on the other hand, I just wanted to get it over with. I was also conscious that today was Thursday the 16th and that the ad referred to the 17th. There was little time to lose.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN