‘What do I think women want?’ He thought for a while, popping his knuckles. ‘You should know. Why ask me?’
‘I’m asking everyone I meet. To get the broad view.’
‘Marriage, I suppose. Security. An expensive house, with nice things.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, writing it down.
‘And you won’t tell Grace I’m looking for my father?’
‘No, I won’t. And I won’t ring you, in case I get your mother. I’ll wait for you to ring me.’
Nick opened the kitchen door and popped her head out.‘Finished,’ she said.
I called her in and introduced them. Teddy was quite different with her: natural, friendly, not at all self-conscious, and though Nick didn’t talk much, she evidently liked him. I broke it up when they started discussing their A Levels, and walked him down the stairs to the front door. He turned on the step, with an open, appealing grin. He’d be very attractive one day. When he wasn’t at the mercy of his hormones, he already was.
‘Thanks, Alex,’ he said. ‘Thanks for everything. And let me know if I can help – about my father, or with anything else you’re working on, anything at all.’
‘I will, thanks. ’Bye,’ I said, closing the door, but he held it.
‘If I give you a proper answer to your question, will you promise not to mind if I say something?’
‘Sure,’ I said, puzzled. ‘What question?’
‘The question about what women really want. I think I know. Most women, I mean, not you, of course, or Grace. You’re both different. But usually, women want to get inside your head. Particularly men’s heads, but anyone’s. So you can only think what they want you to think, and feel what they want you to feel.’
‘OK,’ I said. He had a point; I hadn’t expected him to.
‘And now can I say it? What I wanted to say to you?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘I think you’ve got the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen. On a real woman. Outside a magazine, and they’re probably silicone anyway.’
What could I say? I stood on tip-toe to reach his cheek, brushed it with my lips, and shut the door.
Adolescence is a foreign country. They do things differently there.
Chapter Thirteen
To escape the combined noise of the Black and Decker and Peter’s karaoke efforts, I took Nick over to my local pub, the Churchill, for lunch. It’s a cavernous place with dark brown carpets and pale brown walls. It used to be a drugs pub until the police raided it last year, after conducting a lengthy undercover surveillance which all the locals knew about and which severely disrupted the life of the neighbourhood. Now the pub is two-thirds empty and if you want to have a pee you have to get the key to the toilet from the barman, which is inhibiting. The dealers have moved to the pub up the road.
All the pub food is vile but the ham and tomato sandwiches are safest if you make them open a new packet of ham, so I ordered those, and a half of lager for me and a Coke for Nick. We sat at a corner table equidistant from the other two groups of patrons (four Irish builders and two pensioners), and I made an effort to give Nick some work experience.
‘First thing: have you followed through with the vet about the hamster?’
‘How do you mean?’ she said.
‘You were handling it. How did you leave it?’
‘I said I’d ring back if we wanted the histology report.’
‘And do we?’
‘No. Not really, if it was stabbed.’
‘So ring back and tell them thanks, party’s over.’
‘I was waiting for you to tell me what to do.’
‘I was waiting for you to ask. You were handling it, so handle it.’
‘I didn’t know—’ she began.
‘Well, now you do. And don’t make excuses, it’s unprofessional.’
She opened her mouth to protest, shut it again, and swivelled her baseball cap so it was peak front.
‘Second thing: have you told Grace Macarthy anything about the Womun investigation?’
She blushed.
‘What have you told her?’
‘Well – everything, I suppose.’
‘Including that the hamster was stabbed?’
‘Yes. We just talked about everything, because she was interested. She’s interested in the whole world.’
‘Never behave like that again. Do you see why?’
She shook her head bit into her sandwich and made a face.
‘And talk. If you don’t talk, you’re fired.’
‘I don’t see why,’ she mumbled. ‘Grace couldn’t possibly have anything to do with it.’
‘That’s not the point. The point is, you’re working for me. Anything you hear is confidential. You don’t repeat it to an outsider unless I say that you can. It’s called loyalty.’
‘I’m not going to work in your stupid job, ever.’
‘If you’re a doctor it’s just as important. Confidentiality for your patients. Loyalty to your colleagues and superiors.’
‘You’re bullying me,’ she said.
‘I’m not. I’m telling you. Because I think you’re bright enough to understand, and tough enough to take it. And one more thing. You must not – absolutely not – get personally involved with someone you’re dealing with professionally.’
‘You keep saying “professional”. This isn’t a profession, what you do.’
‘Any job’s a profession if you do it properly and don’t play at it. It’s a question of self-respect.’
‘That’s crap,’ she said flatly. ‘My mum’s job wasn’t.’
‘What did she do?’
‘She was a tom.’ I didn’t say anything, and she explained. ‘She was a prostitute.’
I knew that; I’d been running through possible answers in my mind. ‘That’s a profession too,’ I said. ‘Where did she work?’
‘Paddington.’
‘That’s why you know the streets round there.’
‘And the libraries. All the libraries. She worked in the daytime, she was too pissed at night.’
‘Did you talk to Grace Macarthy about your mother?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘I just didn’t.’
Good, I thought. The prostitute mother was a useful sympathy card; I was impressed that Nick hadn’t played it. It’s the great temptation of abused or mistreated children, the way they learn to manipulate the world. ‘So what libraries did you use?’
‘The nearest was Porchester Road, of course, but the Marylebone Road one is bigger. So is the Kensington Central Library. And I like the one in St Martin’s Lane, near Leicester Square.’
‘What did you read?’
‘Anything real. I hate stories. But mostly maths, because it was the easiest, and the most fun.’
‘Not for me. You must have a gift for it.’
‘I do,’ she said simply. ‘I’m a better mathematician than any of the teachers. It’s not just me who says that, they say it too. And physics is easy, of course, and chemistry’s not bad, and most of biology you don’t have to think about at all, you just have to learn it. Which is why it’s pointless me being at college most of the time. I go in for the practicals because I need to and sometimes I go in if the topic’s interesting but usually I don’t, and so I have a lot of time. I’ve always seemed to have a lot of time, and I don’t like it. But I sort of know hanging round and going to libraries, so that’s what I do.’
‘Fine by me,’ I said. I didn’t mind her talking to me, if she wanted. It wasn’t manipulative, or I didn’t feel it so. I wondered, however, why she was explaining. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because I feel bad about Grace.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about all your stuff. Since I am working for you, and all. Maybe I shouldn’t.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Now you can tell me. How did she react?’
‘To what?’
; ‘Anything. Or, particularly, the stabbed hamster. Elspeth Driscoll reacted to that.’
‘Grace didn’t. I mean she didn’t, any differently. Everything I said she kind of nodded and repeated to show she’d understood, whether it was about me or the case.’
‘It sounds like a psychiatrist.’
‘It’s the same as psychiatrists, only she isn’t being paid, so that makes all the difference. She’s real and they’re not. It’s real people you need.’ She paused, chewed some sandwich, then said, ‘D’you want me to tell you what I found out about the Harley Street address?’
‘Please.’ She was beginning to self-start. Good.
‘Basically, there are three sets of people in there, served by three receptionists. The first lot are oncologists.’ She waited for me to ask, so I did, though I didn’t need to. She was young enough for me to do her that small favour.
‘Which means . . .?’
‘Cancer. They’re cancer specialists. Then there’s a load of physicians – obstetricians, paediatricians, endocrinologists,’
‘Pregnancy and birth, kids, glands,’ I said. She’d had her thirty seconds of flattery.
‘Yeah. And then the third lot are physiotherapists. None of them live there, though the physiotherapists are open late. Last appointment 8.30.’
‘So what do you think?’
‘She could have an appointment with a physiotherapist, for treatment. She could have been meeting one of the other doctors after hours, but not for treatment because even if they were prepared to make a special late appointment for her, none of them are the sort that you see every week for quite a while. No psychiatrists, for instance.’
‘Hmm,’ I said.
‘So where do we go from here?’
That wasn’t obvious. Not without Arabella Trigg herself finding out that someone was asking about her If that didn’t matter, I could ring up pretending to be a muddle-headed friend of hers whom she’d recommended to a physiotherapist whose name I couldn’t remember, for an unspecified complaint. But Adrian Trigg had insisted she mustn’t know.
‘I’m putting the Trigg case on hold for a while,’ I said.
‘What did the kid want you to do?’
The kid? Oh, Teddy. Who was exactly Nick’s age, and in some ways more mature. ‘He wanted me to track down his father for him. Edward Webb. He disappeared nine years ago.’
‘And do you think you’ll find him?’
‘I think he may well be dead,’ I said. ‘Anyway, right now, you’re back on the Womun. I want you to go and look this lot up for me.’
She read the list I gave her. ‘That’s easy,’ she said, rather disappointed. ‘They’ll have this stuff in the piddling little North Kensington Library, right next door.’
‘Next time I’ll try and think of something more challenging,’ I said. ‘Something you’ll need the Central Library for.’
Chapter Fourteen
I was back at the flat at two o’clock. Peter had finished the shelves. He’d done a good job, too. And he’d gone out, and left me alone. That was best of all, because if I was to function effectively, I badly needed at least half an hour’s peace, to drink coffee and think.
I had too much on. I felt like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur, a chariot-driver with three horses all pulling different ways. It’s not a feeling I usually mind, because I’m an adrenaline addict. It’s cheaper than other addictions but it can screw things up equally, because when you have too much to do, you make mistakes. And I was feeling as if at least two of the three chariot-horses could be dangerous. Not the Trigg thing; that would soon be sorted, and in any case it was minor. But Teddy’s quest for his father was potentially explosive, and the Womun was a wild card. So far, the more I’d found out, the less I’d understood.
But first, I’d try to trace Barty, who was of course the fourth horse in my chariot, the ghost horse because I didn’t admit how much he was distracting me.
I sat down at the phone and dialled his number. When the answering service woman spoke, I rang off, and dialled the number of the editing suite we’d been working in all day Sunday, before we ended up in bed.
Dave Marshall, the owner, answered. He’s an amiable Londoner in his forties, a good editor and a supergood family man. We did the ‘Hi, how are you?’, bit, briefly because we’d seen each other so recently, then I said as casually as I could, ‘Dave, is Barty there?’
‘No. He finished the edit yesterday.’
‘Right,’ I said. So Barty hadn’t gone away: he was still about.
‘Have you got the number of his new mobile?’ I guessed he’d got one: he had to have a phone which functioned for urgent incoming calls.
‘Hey, Alex, what is all this?’ said Dave uncomfortably.
‘What’s all what? Have you got the number of his mobile or not?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’
‘If I did, would I have asked?’ I snapped.
‘Who’s rattled your cage?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Giss the number, Dave. I’m a bit pressed.’
‘No can do. Barty told me not to give it to anyone. He made a point of it.’
I laughed. ‘Come off it, Dave. He didn’t mean me.’
‘He didn’t say who he meant. He said nobody. Which means nobody.’
I wouldn’t get anywhere now, I knew. He’s stubborn as hell when he’s pushed. So I lightened up and signed off, spitting to myself.
This was beyond a joke.
I went into the kitchen, put the kettle on and updated my action list. When I’d finished, it read:
Melanie Slater’s break-in? ‘baby-killer’?
? foto
? Thong said ‘barking’
BBC archive footage – carnival, Teddy’s father
Arabella Trigg – shopping
I looked at the list while the kettle boiled and tried to remember what Adrian Trigg had told me about his wife’s shopping habits. She dropped the older two children off at their nursery school every morning, and then shopped while the au pair looked after the youngest one, that was it. Every morning. How much shopping could a woman do? Still, I’d put Nick on to follow her tomorrow morning, just in case she bought something illuminating and wasn’t just updating the shade of her nail polish or searching out rare spices to follow a recipe from the lifestyle section of her favourite newspaper.
I made instant coffee and took it with me to the phone. Ring, ring, answer. ‘Jordan? Alex here. How ya doin’?’
Squawk.
‘Listen, did you know the Vestal Virgins back in Oxford? OK, no reason why you should have. Just one more question, then . . . The Vestal Virgins pic you used in the Leona Power tribute. Where did you get it from?’
Cough. Squawk.
‘Macarthy? Right. Any idea who took it? OK, I’ll ask her myself. Take care.’ Cough.
Ring, ring, ring, answerphone. ‘You’ve reached Grace Macarthy [chuckle]. I can’t take your call right now. Leave your name and number—’ I cut her recorded voice off before she could chuckle at me again.
I flicked through my organizer for BBC numbers, picked one. Ring, ring, ring, answer. ‘Maggie? Hi, this is Alex Tanner. Fine, and you . . .? It’s been much too long. How’s Paddy? Oh, did he? With Caz? Oh, shit, poor you. Yes, she was always a major cow . . . Absolutely . . . Awful director. Couldn’t direct traffic . . . I slept through her last doc . . . Well, no, I didn’t ring to talk about Caz. I need a copy of the Notting Hill Carnival footage you used on the Nine O’clock a while back . . . Have you got a pencil?’ I gave her the details and waited while she wrote them down, then listened while she explained the paperwork involved and the price. ‘Can’t you just lift it for me? I’ll get it straight back to you.’ I listened again, while she explained what I already knew, that now the BBC was having to be efficient and cost-effective they spent their whole time billing each other for services, and the paperwork took hours.
‘I’ll have to bill someone,’ she concluded.
‘OK. Bill Barty. O’Neill Productions. I’ll send an order round with my assistant when she picks it up. Will you have it in an hour? Right, thanks, take care, Maggie, talk to you soon.’ That’d teach Barty. I had plenty of his headed stationery.
It only took a few minutes to word-process the order. While it was printing I wandered in to the spare room to admire my shelves, and work out how many books I could fit on them. Maybe I should move my American private eye collection in here and use the shelves on the stairs for the current stuff from the London Library. Which reminded me of Barty; the London Library subscription had been his birthday present to me this year.
At this rate, he wouldn’t be paying next year’s.
Restless, I went to the kitchen. The tiles behind the cooker needed washing. I washed them, thinking idly I was glad I didn’t have to keep Elspeth’s kitchen clean, it’d be a nightmare. But she managed it. Unlike Grace, whose kitchen was grubby, despite the fact that she probably had a team of devoted cleaning women.
But Elspeth had a tidy nature. The cookery books on her shelves were arranged in order of height; she had a cork-board with utility receipts and telephone numbers and shopping lists, arranged in rows. She even had one of those milk-bottle containers with a little arrow to tell the milkman how many pints she needed. I’d noticed it while I was waiting for her to answer the door, sitting neatly on the step, complete with rinsed milk bottles. Several milk bottles. Either someone was currently staying with her, or milk was the staple of her diet.
She’d told me she couldn’t afford to pay her phone bill till the end of the month. Pity. I’d have liked to talk to her, since I couldn’t get Grace, to ask her who took the photograph.
I rinsed out the J-cloth and hung up the rubber gloves to dry. And then I saw it, in my mind’s eye. Elspeth’s cork-board and the utility bills. Not the phone bill; just the gas and electricity, and, next to them, a space. But the gas and electricity were both accounts for information, not for payment: budget accounts, where you paid a certain amount every month to spread the cost.
The Glass Ceiling Page 9