The Loop

by Anabel Donald

  Then I stopped to get my breath. It was opposite here, somewhere, in a maze of crescents. I started again, more slowly, weaving my way in and out of the cul-de-sacs of smallish semi-detached 1930s houses, each with their front gate and carefully tended patch of front garden, many with individual number-plaques, some with names.

  There it was. No 24 Malvern Crescent, my ancestral home. Sprucely kept. The front garden was gravel: low-maintenance. There was a small bay tree in a tub beside the dark red front door, under the overhanging porch. The tub was chained to the porch. The tree didn’t look as if it was planning a getaway: it looked disheartened.

  I looked down the street. Empty of people. Everyone inside, trying to be a happy family. At least I’d never had to do that.

  The door was answered on the second ring. ‘Yes?’ said the old man irritably. He was tallish, not much bent by age, with iron-grey hair around a bald-patch, a long face with a rather fine hooked nose and brown eyes. He looked as if he thought himself a fine figure of a man. His leather brogues were well-polished, his cavalry twill trousers spruce, his white shirt clean, his tie unspotted. He was wearing a heavy hand-knitted green cardigan with leather buttons.

  ‘John Tanner?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. You’ve interrupted our lunch, whoever you are. Please state your business.’

  His accent surprised me. Accents place you, in England. In your class, in your region, in your education, in your age-group. I use two: the sloppy semi-cockney I picked up from my mates, and Received Standard. I’d expected his to be suburban London. It wasn’t. It was BBC would-be upper-class English of fifty years ago, the kind of voice that announced the rescue of our troops by the brave little boats at Dunkirk.

  ‘Who is it? John, who is it?’ called a voice from inside. This accent was different. Country Irish. My grandmother was Irish. Maureen, a Catholic, of course.

  ‘I’m trying to find out,’ he snapped over his shoulder.

  ‘Shall I put your meal back in the oven to keep warm?’

  ‘Do what you like,’ he called, then turned back to me. ‘Now, Miss Whoever-you-are, unless you have something to say I’m going to close this door. Good day to you.’

  I put my foot squarely across the lintel.‘My name is Alex Tanner,’ I said. His face went still, as if he was thinking, then he pushed the door further closed so it squeezed my foot, painfully. I didn’t move.

  ‘John? Who is it? John? Your food’s getting cold.’

  ‘It’s Alex Tanner,’ I called. ‘Your grand-daughter.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the voice from the interior. ‘Oh. John?’

  ‘What do you want?’ said my grandfather.

  ‘Information,’ I said.

  ‘A fine time to choose,’ he said. ‘I suppose you want some lunch, as well.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Do you expect me to believe that? Arriving at lunchtime? You won’t get any money out of us, either.’

  ‘I just want information,’ I said conciliatingly.

  ‘Hrumpff,’ he said. The noise expressed irritation, knowingness, self-righteousness and male superiority. That’s how it struck me, anyhow.

  I nearly lost my temper. ‘I just want information,’ I said sweetly. ‘If you don’t let me in I’ll take my clothes off in the front garden and scream until all the neighbours come out to look. Grandpa.’

  I followed him in. She began to lay an extra place for me without speaking to me, then when he snapped she took the extra place away and they both kept on eating. Roast beef and yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes and mashed potatoes and cauliflower and carrots and peas and gravy and horseradish and mustard, served in myriad dishes on mats on a polished dining-table in a small dining-room with dark-red velvet curtains with pelmets and red and white striped wallpaper and small heavy-framed landscape watercolours on the walls and a dark-red Turkish carpet with brown patterned shapes on the floor.

  She looked like my mother, but older and saner. Pretty. Neat. Well turned out, in a dark blue jacket and grey pleated skirt and powder-blue jersey. She didn’t meet my eye but she kept glancing sideways at him.

  They didn’t offer me a chair, but I moved one from its place against the wall and brought it up to the table. When I sat down Maureen looked at me as if my track-suited bum would contaminate her furniture.

  My grandfather had a point, it had been a bad time to pick, but then I hadn’t been considering their feelings. I still wasn’t, much. They hadn’t earned consideration. And I didn’t seem to be putting them off their food.

  Still . . . ‘I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I won’t stay long. I just want to know the name of my father. Oh, and a bit about the family health.’

  ‘We have nothing to say to you,’ he said.

  ‘The quicker you tell me, the quicker I’ll go.’

  ‘My family have always been healthy,’ he said. ‘Maureen?’

  She shook her head and kept eating.

  ‘Maureen’s family are healthy too,’ he said.

  ‘So what do they die of?’ I said. ‘Or do they live forever?’

  ‘Heart attacks. Strokes. At a good age. Mustard, please, Maureen.’

  He could have reached the mustard himself. Either he liked being waited on, or he was nervous. It didn’t matter. ‘No mental illness? On either side?’

  ‘Of course not. And Susan was never mentally ill.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ said my grandmother. ‘She was just upset.’

  ‘Guilty,’ said my grandfather. ‘And rightly so, after what she had done. I told the social worker, but she wouldn’t listen. Susan didn’t need a psychiatrist. She needed discipline.’

  ‘And the comfort of the church,’ said Maureen. ‘More gravy, John?’

  ‘Not now,’ he said irritably.

  I wanted out of there. ‘My father’s name,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  He took the nearly full bottle of red wine from its little silver coaster and poured a little into her half-full glass, more into his empty one. He had a nervous tic at the corner of one eye. Perhaps it was stress. Perhaps he always had. I’d never know.

  I’d give him just a bit more time. I looked around at the room, so neat and polished and well-kept. So much effort. I supposed my grandmother did the housework. The wallpaper and the painting looked professionally done, and he didn’t strike me as the DIY type. So what did he do, now he was retired from being a clerk in the town hall? He dressed and spoke as if his background had aimed him further up the pecking-order than that, anyway. Why hadn’t he made it?

  ‘Please tell me,’ I said again.

  ‘Why? So you can make a scene like this?’

  This was a scene?

  ‘I’ll probably just ring him up. I need to know about his health.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have my own reasons.’

  ‘I cannot condone any disruption of his life. Susan behaved very badly.’

  ‘She knew better,’ said my grandmother. ‘We’d taught her better. And he’s an important man now. Don’t go upsetting him.’

  ‘Maureen,’ said my grandfather warningly. She coughed nervously.

  ‘You’d better tell me. I’m a television researcher. And a private investigator. I find things out for a living. All I have to do is go through the school staff list for thirty years ago, and that’ll make more trouble.’

  My grandfather’s tic speeded up.

  ‘Right, I’ll find out myself,’ I said, and stood up.

  ‘His name is Alexander. William Alexander.’

  ‘And what’s important about him?’

  ‘He’s a headmaster,’ said Maureen, proudly.

  On the run back, I set the pace for twelve minute miles. I felt nothing for my grandparents. For my mother, I felt sorrow, and for myself, relief. I couldn’t have grown up in that house with those people, not the me whose feet pounded the pavements in Nike trainers, not the me who couldn’t wait to get back on to the Stone case. I’d have grown sideways like Sandra Balmer�
�s bungalow, or not grown at all, like a bonsai.

  Next stop, my father William Alexander. My mother must have loved him, to give me his name. Or perhaps she hadn’t worked out that although later she might want to forget him, she’d be reminded every time she spoke to me.

  Now I was being stupid. She’d have been reminded anyway, every time she looked at me. That was the trouble with children, they didn’t go away. Once you had them, they were permanent reminders of the circumstances of their conception.

  And all the time I was getting closer to having to give Barty an answer. Having a child with him would be irrevocable. I could never finish the paperwork on that, send an invoice and bank the cheque. In the normal course of things, it would be the other way round; the child would bury me and file my will for probate and bank the cheque.

  Enough, already.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘How about I buy you some more pillows?’ said Barty, trying to fold his entitlement of one so it propped him comfortably.

  ‘The aftermath of passion should make you indifferent to physical comfort,’ I said, slapping his thieving hand away from my pillow.

  ‘It has for some months. Now it isn’t.’ ‘Are you going off me? Didn’t you enjoy it?’ I said, sounding more anxious than I wanted, feeling more anxious than I wanted.

  ‘Very much . . . I’m not going off you. Only your lack of bedding, which one trip to Peter Jones would secure.’ He hugged me reassuringly.

  I wanted reassurance but I didn’t want to be reassured. ‘D’you want some water?’ I said, wriggling away.

  ‘Thanks.’

  I passed him a bottle of Tesco own-brand water. I have tried, but I can’t drink it from the tap. ‘I saw my grandparents today.’

  He went still. ‘Oh?’

  ‘But I’ve got to see my father, yet.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I just wanted you to know that I’m doing what I said I would.’

  ‘I never doubted it. How were your grandparents?’

  ‘Rather sad.’ I kissed his shoulder.

  ‘Mmnun,’ he said appreciatively. ‘What time is it?’

  I squinted at the clock. ‘Nearly six . . . I’ve got to get up and make a phone call in a minute.’

  ‘D’you want to tell me about it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your grandparents. Your phone call. The case.’

  ‘Not right now.’

  ‘D’you and Polly want to come over this evening? I’ll cook some chops.’

  ‘What about Magnus?’

  ‘I’ve never cooked a magnus.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ I said, and hit him with my pillow.

  He took it and put it behind his head.

  ‘Snake,’ I said. No point in trying to get it back, he was much too strong. And quick. I lay flat on the bed. ‘Get me some pillows, then, if it means so much to you. And Polly and I are having an Indian takeaway in front of the telly, thanks, so no thanks.’

  As soon as the door closed behind him I was on the phone to Jams again. Still the answering machine, still no pickup. She might have gone away for the Bank Holiday, might not be back until Tuesday, or later. Why hadn’t I asked her where she’d be?

  Never mind. I’d stall Sandra.

  ‘Alex Tanner here.’

  ‘Hello, my dear.’

  ‘Sandra, I saw Patrick Brownlow.’

  ‘Isn’t he a nice man?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Did he set your mind at rest?’

  Difficult. I couldn’t sound too convinced, because she’d offered me money. Silence money. Which meant that I hadn’t necessarily been expected to believe what Brownlow said. Presumably he’d been sent to give me a conscience sweetener, a reason for declaring myself satisfied, maybe even a reason to tell Jams I’d actually seen Jacob.

  ‘Up to a point,’ I said.

  ‘What point would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know until I’ve talked to my client. She’s away at the moment and I’m not sure when she’ll be back.’

  ‘What will you be telling her?’

  None of her business, of course. I hesitated, then decided that the more safely bought I sounded, the safer I’d be, for the moment. ‘That Jacob is mentally ill but safe at the Caritas Clinic. That I don’t know when he’ll recover. That she’d do best to write him off to experience, for his sake as much as hers.’

  Silence the other end. Had I been too glib? ‘And is that what you think, my dear?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Better all round. Looking at it from a practical point of view.’

  ‘I’m so glad you think so,’ said Sandra warmly.

  ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I’ve spoken to Jams. So we can firm up the arrangements.’

  After I’d showered and dressed, I headed back to the kitchen and the action-board. I had a nagging feeling I’d forgotten something, and I needed to update the action list anyhow, before Polly came back from the country and I had to concentrate on her.

  I looked at the list.

  see Abraham Master re sighting of Jacob, any other info

  (?Tubbies’ finances)

  ?Chicago for Eng Lit

  ?the loop

  Sandra Balmer true/false? motive if lying?

  BLS, 2 Copthorne Square, Queen’s Park

  merchant bank stuff – Nick

  Jams ?any more secrets

  grandparents: ring/visit ?father

  ring Carl about Monday – ?letters

  Not many changes to make. I crossed off true/false from the Sandra item – her information was certainly false – and added ?Brownlow motive. I changed the second last entry to

  William Alexander – ring/see and avoided the thought that the next change I made to the last slot might be to insert Barty – decide.

  Then I rang Carl. He was in. He sounded pleased to hear me, annoyed that I hadn’t rung earlier, and eager to see me the next day. I agreed to meet him at his hostel at ten, and then we’d go out for coffee. I didn’t want him anywhere near my flat, and I wanted to be clear of him early enough to get up to Doncaster and see Master in the afternoon.

  Then I sat down with a cup of coffee and Nick’s notes on the merchant bank. Catterstone Almack’s, it was called. I’d heard of it, but knew nothing about it, which didn’t mean much because I’ve never worked on a City or economics programme so it might have been a household name in the Square Mile, for all I knew. Nick’s notes gave me a background on the bank, which I skimmed, and then two telephone numbers. One in Nick’s neat characterless writing, the central bank number, the other in Grace’s scrawl – with a comment – if you want, try Sir Malise Douglas – a good friend of mine and a director – use my name – this is his home number – or I’ll call him if you like.

  My knee-jerk reaction was of annoyance at Grace. Typical of her to have a director who was a good friend.

  Then I turned my annoyance inwards. Typical of me to be unproductively envious. What did it matter who Grace knew? If this man could be useful, then I’d use him.

  But I’d try the central number first. Tomorrow.

  Monday, 4 April

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Plan A was for me to hide round the side of the house at 2 Copthorne Square and Nick to loiter in the road. When the cleaner arrived, unlocked the door and switched off the alarm, Nick would distract her for three minutes while I slipped into the house, had a quick look round, and slipped out again.

  There wasn’t a Plan B.

  I was in position at a quarter to seven so I had plenty of time, standing pressed against the side of the house, to imagine what could go wrong.

  The Neighbourhood Watch could spot me and ring the police.

  The Neighbourhood Watch could spot Nick and ring the police.

  There might be someone in the house. It didn’t look like it and I didn’t think so, but there might.

  The cleaner might not work on Bank Holidays, especially as she’d already worked on Easter Sunday.

  Nick might
not succeed in distracting the cleaner. She hadn’t told me what pretext she was going to use. ‘Trust me,’ she’d said, and for that kind of street-kid scam, I did.

  7.05. No cleaner. It was raining, had been since we’d got there. Steady, heavy rain. My jeans were soaked and though my leather bomber jacket was just about coping, great splodges of water from a blocked gutter above overflowed every so often, drenching my head and trickling down my neck.

  7.07. She was coming up the path. I kept absolutely still. I could see the path near the gate but when she got closer to the front door she was out of my field of view. No sign of Nick yet. I could hear the locks turning, the door opening, then see Nick moving up the path.

  Nothing for a moment, then Nick again, legging it down the path with the push-chair, complete with baby. She was ten yards down the street by the time the cleaner screamed and ran after her.

  I’d have to speak to Nick about pulling such a cruel gag, but not now with my 180 seconds clicking away. Right now I was in through the front door and up the stairs.

  There was a child-gate at the top. Why? Think later. As my wet fingers fiddled with the catch, I looked down into the hall. There were no lights on, but in the daylight from the partly open front door I could see that all the other doors leading off it were shut.

  Through the child-gate, on to the landing. Almost totally dark now. Corridor to the right and the left. I went left, reached a door, had my hand on the knob, then jumped away. A noise. The noise of a flushing toilet, inside.

  Flush a toilet, leave the bathroom.

  I darted back across the landing and opened the first door I came to, went in, shut it behind me.

  It was absolutely dark. I could see nothing at all. The security shutters, I supposed, plus curtains.

  I listened hard. Nothing I could hear from the corridor. Maybe it was an en-suite bathroom. I hoped so. If whoever it was turned a light on in the corridor they’d certainly see my wet footprints. Or maybe not. Most people aren’t at their best just after seven in the morning.