The Love Detective

by Angela Dyson

  I’d never been in a police station before, not even to report a lost cat or produce my driving licence and so I had no idea what to expect. From watching TV, I imagined being interviewed by some world-weary seen it all before character with a gritty northern accent and that grey complexion that bears testament to a poor digestion. Instead I talked to a bright faced police constable who looked to be about twelve years old with Surrey vowels and the clear skin that only comes from eating up all your greens and getting plenty of exercise.

  I sat with him for a long time, he wrote several things down and he even got me a cup of tea, but we didn’t really get anywhere.

  “We do take reports from the general public very seriously,” he told me for the third time.

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “It’s why I’ve come.”

  “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said, chewing the end of his pencil.

  But he hadn’t. He’d muddled the few facts I’d given him, which was probably my fault because I’d made a total shambles of explaining myself. I tried again, this time starting at the beginning of the story and not at the end. This made matters worse.

  “My job,” he said, “is to identify whether or not what you are reporting warrants further investigation.”

  “It does,” I said. “And there hasn’t been any investigation except mine so far.”

  Another hour went by as we went through it again.

  “I will tell you what I’ll do,” he said, “I think I’d better get the guv’nor to speak to you.”

  “Good plan,” I said.

  He came back with a tall woman in her thirties who introduced herself as Inspector Lawson. Dressed in dark trousers and a square cut cream shirt she was strong and fit looking and attractive in a very natural way. She shook my hand and regarded me with that cool penetrating gaze that immediately makes you think you’ve got a smut on your cheek or a ladder in your tights. I was wearing jeans but I couldn’t answer for my face.

  I went through my story again but naturally left out the break in to Simon’s house. I also didn’t mention his attack on me (well I had promised). Inspector Lawson stopped me at various intervals.

  “This Gary, the individual with the shaved head, he told you that he was charging rent to the illegal occupants of the property in Alwyn Road?”

  “Yes. You can talk to Melanie and Ted if you want to. I’ve told you about them and I’ll give you their number. But please, they don’t deserve to get in any trouble. They didn’t know that the house wasn’t being legally rented out and when they did discover that it was, they left straightaway.”

  Police Constable Twelve-Years-Old jotted down Melanie’s number. “And their surnames?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what their second names are I’m afraid.”

  “Alright. And let’s talk about the other properties,” continued Inspector Lawson. “What are the addresses?”

  “I can’t remember exactly, I’ve got them written down at home. There are two houses in New Malden and two in Worcester Park.”

  I decided to omit mentioning the pool parts place in Surbiton in a desire to shield Dan, Sheena, and Maggie from police notice. What harm were they doing where they were? With Gary no longer bothering them, and I hoped that the efforts made by Inspector Lawson would ensure that, then, they could stay on there, undisturbed. It was one bright thought in what otherwise was proving to be a very bleak scenario.

  “As I said you can contact my friend Laura the solicitor and her boss Mr. Garstein. I’ve given them the details.”

  “We’ll do that.” She regarded me for several minutes and I felt so sure that I must have something on my face that I wiped a hasty hand across my forehead.

  “This is quite a picture that you have painted for us but I’m not sure that any of the pieces really fit.”

  “Nor am I,” I confessed. “And maybe they don’t, but none of it really matters does it; except those women?”

  “Taking illegal possession of a property does matter Ms. Pennhaligan. It is a serious offence.”

  “I know. I know. I agree. Of course, it’s wrong but what are you going to do about…” I could hear my voice beginning to rise and Inspector Lawson held up a hand.

  “What is it that makes you so sure that these three women in the van were being held against their will?”

  “I’ve just told you why! And no, I’m not sure. I just… have a feeling.”

  “A feeling isn’t evidence Ms. Pennhaligan.”

  “Well I know that!” I retorted. “That’s your job, isn’t it? To find it?”

  But I could see that becoming irritated was only alienating her. I tried again. “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is all a foreign world to me and I…”

  “That’s quite alright Ms. Pennhaligan.”

  I wish she’d stop repeating my name because it was starting to grate on my nerves but she was addressing me again.

  “I need to understand fully the situation thus far if I am to take action. Now you say that you followed the van – not something I would recommend by the way as it can be considered stalking – and after a while the occupants realised that they were being followed. You then lost control of your vehicle and ran into the back of them.”

  “I didn’t exactly lose control,” I protested. “They pulled up half way around a bend and so it was more of an unavoidable accident.”

  “And you should have reported that accident to the police,” she said. “What happened when they confronted you?”

  “I didn’t wait to find out.”

  “You’re saying that you left the scene of an accident?”

  Thank God I hadn’t included running over Bomber-Jacket’s foot in my tale or they’d arrest me for causing bodily harm.

  “You’re missing the point. And I’ve given you the van’s registration number, so surely you can do something with that?” I felt my patience wearing thin but I checked myself. “Please look again at the newspaper advert. Doesn’t it look off to you? I’ve explained my theory, isn’t that enough to at least check it out?”

  “Your theory, yes,” Inspector Lawson said. “That is interesting.” There was focus now in her manner and for the first time I felt I’d really got her attention.

  “And this Paula, do you have her full name? Because I’d like to talk to her.”

  “No, I’m sorry I don’t. All I know is that she comes from Dudley originally. And that she was going back there. On an early train yesterday morning or so her message said.”

  “I’d like to hear that message. Do you have your phone with you?”

  I nodded, handed her my mobile and she listened.

  “She owes you?” she asked.

  I explained about her being pregnant and catching her heel in the carpet.

  “That was a piece of luck for her,” was all she said.

  I didn’t know what to make of that.

  The constable made a note of Paula’s number.

  “So, does this mean that you are going to investigate? Because the 17th is tomorrow,” I reminded them.

  Police Constable Twelve-Years-Old cut in here. “It’s up to the Inspector to decide whether or not to deploy a…”

  Inspector Lawson frowned at him and he closed his mouth with a blush. She then rose briskly to her feet. “I’d like to thank you once more for coming in. We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again. Constable, show Ms. Pennhaligan out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  I felt lighter. I’d done my bit and had left matters, as Flan had advised, in the hands of the professionals. And I had my life to get back to. A small and somewhat limited one I’d recently come to realise, but still it was mine.

  “He called,” said Laura in excitement down the phone on Friday morning.

  “So you’re having lunch?”

  �
�Drinks after work.”

  “Even better. When?”

  “Tonight.”

  I was pleased for her. James Dunstan seemed a genuinely nice guy. “What are you wearing?” I asked.

  What followed was an intensely interesting conversation about the perfect Day-into-Night outfit, which Laura maintained was just an unrealistic fantasy dreamt up by fashion editors. “I’ve had it on all day but I’m telling you Clarry this pencil skirt is so tight I can barely sit down.”

  “Well then get yourself something nice and comfy with an elasticated waist.”

  She didn’t dignify the suggestion with a reply, so I went on to tell her about my visit to the police station.

  “Oh my God Clarry, that’s major.”

  “Well it wasn’t really. Not as much as I’d thought.”

  “I wish I’d known as I would have gone with you.”

  “I know you would have, thanks and I could have waited, but I felt it was important to tell them about the ad and my theory about the women and how I…”

  “Yes those poor women,” she cut me off. “Really dreadful…”

  There was a pause in which I could feel that what she really wanted to talk about was her forthcoming date with James again. I understood she was preoccupied with her own affairs and I was in no position to judge her, because until a few days ago I was equally as guilty of self-absorption, maybe even more so.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “You know if I hadn’t met Simon and hadn’t asked you to…” she hesitated and then continued, “check him out. And if you hadn’t found out what you did and then if I hadn’t…”

  I knew where she was going with this and so I was brisk. “Cut to it,” I interrupted.

  “Well I wouldn’t have met James,” she said simply.

  “Is that so very significant? I mean it’s only drinks.”

  “I know but yes. It is. And it just goes to prove, what I’ve always believed, that everything happens for a reason.”

  I had nothing to say to this because privately I couldn’t help but doubt the importance of our insignificant petty doings in the whole grand scheme of things. But then what did I know?

  At five o’clock when I’d just got home from a lunchtime shift at the restaurant and was changing out of my uniform into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, my mobile rang from a number I didn’t recognise.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Nuala.” This was said in a low voice.

  “Wow!” I answered in surprise. “I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you.”

  Silence down the line.

  “What is it?” I prompted. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “You mentioned Luton.”

  “Yes? What about Luton? Do you mean that you do know The Box?”

  “No. No I don’t. I’ve already told you that.”

  “OK… So… So what are you saying?”

  Silence again.

  “Nuala? Are you still there?”

  Her words when they came were slow and reluctant. “You really think that there is something going on with young girls?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And so do the police.” Not necessarily true I thought, but I pressed on. “Nuala if you’ve got something to say would you please just say it.”

  “Alright. I’ll tell you, but I’m confident that it has nothing to do with… anything. It’s just that I’ve remembered something. Something I heard some time ago, a year ago or maybe two.”

  I was beginning to feel like I’d played enough question and answer games in the last couple of days. “What Nuala? What did you hear? Just spit it out for God’s sake.”

  “I remember hearing that Stavros has a depot in Luton. It’s where he stores the donations he’s collected for the refugees I think.”

  I couldn’t place the name “Who?”

  “I told you about him when I first met you. About how he privately organises aid for those poor people that arrive with nothing in Samos, the island where he was born. Stavros. Maria’s father. Stavros Zakiat.”

  I sat down heavily. This could be the link. I knew that Chris Lianthos and Stavros Zakiat as directors of Cornett Developments Ltd had purchased a house through Simon in South Park Road. What other properties did they own? I searched online and found details of one other property in Hackney. So that was no good. Then I searched Stavros Zakiat and eventually came up with references to three addresses. One in Willesden Green, another in Leeds, and another in Dunstable. I brought up Dunstable on a map. Dunstable bordered Luton and it was less than five miles from Luton city centre.

  I tried to get hold of Inspector Lawson, but she’d gone for the day and I couldn’t remember the name of the police constable and so had to leave a message asking the inspector to telephone me.

  I paced about the house but I couldn’t settle. I looked in the fridge. It was empty, because I hadn’t shopped for days. I turned on the TV but everything I watched seemed bland and insubstantial. This isn’t real life, I thought, these characters shouting at each other across a London square or having a punch up in a pub in Weatherfield. Real life was going on around me. Real life was in empty properties where the homeless were bullied into paying what little money they had. Real life was in a seedy club in Waterloo where girls gyrated around poles without the protection of employment laws. Real life was women being put into a van and driven away. Real life was in Luton.

  I came off the M1, as I had previously, at junction 10. I didn’t have a satnav and so had to follow the signs to Dunstable and then pull over to use my phone to locate the address. It was after nine o’clock as I drove through the back roads and it was dark except for the occasional street light. I kept hoping for a call from Inspector Lawson. I’d left another message for her before I’d left, but I had heard nothing.

  Following a long winding stretch of road on the far outskirts of the town and having left the few straggling houses behind, I now found myself enclosed on both sides by fields and stretches of woodland. Keeping to a speed of under 20 miles an hour and with one eye on my phone map, I almost missed the gated unit sitting back from the road. I slowed to a stop and studied the premises.

  In the dark, all I could make out was that it was brick built and comprised of a single storey and that the gates were operated on an entry phone system. There was no signage, which struck me as odd. Surely if this was a depot for donations then that would be clearly indicated? The idea of pressing the button for admittance didn’t appeal. What could I possibly say if someone answered it? I decided to continue following the road and hope that there was some way of snaking back that would bring me out to the rear of the building.

  After about a mile, I spotted a gap in the trees on my left and I slowed right down. Pulling into an unmarked track I was now on a potted and rutted path barely wide enough to accommodate the car. Flailing tree branches slapped the windscreen as I made my way forward and I was alarmed to see that ahead of me the path narrowed even further. Fearful of becoming wedged in, I stopped and then reversed back to the neck of the track.

  I looked at my mobile willing Inspector Lawson to phone, but it remained reproachfully silent. I’d come all this way without any kind of plan and with only a sense that I should do, had to do… something. I tucked the Renault as close into the protection of the trees as I could, placed my phone and my keys in my pocket, and got out of the car.

  It was very dark. I hadn’t thought to bring a torch for the simple reason that I didn’t own one and I didn’t want to use the one on my phone in case I ran down the battery. Creeping gingerly forward a step at a time, I worried that I might fall or wrench my ankle but gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dark. A dull moon sulked behind clouds and the path had indeed narrowed and could not now really be considered a path at all. I pushed my way on whilst something prickly snagged at my jacket and the dark trees loomed
around and about me. The urge to turn back was very strong. I thought about Laura on her date with James. That’s what I should be doing, not sneaking around in the dark on my own. Just a fortnight ago even the idea of this would have seemed not just unlikely, but completely absurd.

  I’ll only give it two more minutes I promised myself, because this is probably a complete waste of time and this sodding track is clearly leading me nowhere. Any second now I might fall in a ditch, catch my foot in a snare or be gored to death by a runaway bull.

  A few paces later, my arms, which I had been holding out before me, encountered something solid – a rusty three-bar gate. I pushed at it and it gave. Oh, Christ now I was no doubt trespassing and an irate farmer might appear with a shotgun.

  I hesitated. I was standing on the edge of a field. A field that even in the dark I could see was neglected and overgrown. I tried to get my bearings when it occurred to me that the map on my phone might show the way, even though I was off road.

  I checked it and it indicated that I should carry on going forward and bear to the left. Walking over a furrowed and weed-ridden field is not easy with only the pale glimmer of moonlight as a guide. I stumbled and almost fell several times but at last I was across. Another three-bar gate and padlocked this time, but it was easy enough to climb over it. I checked my phone. Go forward it instructed me. How was I to do that when confronted by a wall of trees? This is insane I kept repeating to myself as I edged between the tree trunks, but I pushed on and suddenly I’d arrived. My phone told me I’d arrived, but… I was the wrong side of a high wooden fence.

  I followed the fence around to the right. It didn’t run straight but kinked and dipped in several places and I could see that some of the panels were newer than others and had been spliced in amongst much older ones. After about a hundred metres, I reached an original corner section where the woods pressed in even closer and brambles and ivy snaked up and through the rotting timber. That’s when I encountered the holly bush. My groping hands got the worst of the sharp spiky leaves and I was about to turn back, when I noticed that the middle of the panel had deteriorated so much that it had started to shred. I gave it a tentative push with my shoulder and felt it give way a little. I listened intently. All was quiet, so I gave it another good hard shove, and this time the centre section disintegrated. It took me another few minutes and some more shoving, all the while being attacked by the holly bush, for me to make a gap big enough to crawl through.