When I stopped listening, I was aware of the smell. Powerful, sweet, familiar. A childhood smell.
Vanilla.
I reckoned I had a minute and a half left. I didn’t want to switch on a light in case it showed under the door. I’d get some night-sight soon, surely.
I dropped to my hands and knees and groped my way into the centre of the room. Thick carpet. Ah – wood. A chair or table leg, about three inches in diameter. I ran my hand up it, feeling it narrow. And up. And up, until I was standing, my hand about five feet from the ground, and still no seat or table-top. A head-height plant stand?
Ah. A horizontal piece of wood. I ran my hand across it. Smooth, polished, about three foot by three foot, with narrow vertical spokes of wood at the back and the sides.
I had to stand on tip-toe to reach the narrow piece of wood on top of the spokes.
What the hell was it?
Two minutes. At least.
I went for the door, felt the wall beside it on the left.
Nothing.
Felt the wall on the right.
Light switch. Click.
In the sudden flood of light, I saw two things.
The first was the object I’d been touching, an adult-size baby’s high chair. So I knew what Balmer Leisure Services did.
The second was an adult-size baby’s cot. Occupied. And I didn’t have the faintest idea what I was going to do.
I switched off the light.
The occupant of the cot was asleep, I thought. His eyes had been closed. Maybe he was dead. I couldn’t hear him breathing, but the cot was the other side of the room, about twelve feet away.
Given the choice, I’d have gone for dead, because alive and awake he’d be a monster, the kind of man a sumo wrestler would take on double-dates to make him look slim and handsome. My one glimpse of him had made a deep impression. Naked except for underpants, short, but wider than he was high, built like a prop-forward, as my rugby-mad ex-boyfriend Peter would have said. Come back, Peter, all is forgiven. If Cot wasn’t a rugby player he had been a boxer, or he’d lost lots of arguments, because although he had two ears, two eyes, a nose and a mouth, they’d been shuffled and dealt several times. Plus he had a very low forehead and his body was matted with hair. It was only an informed guess that he was human.
I heard him stir.
Go, now.
As I tensed my muscles to move I heard footsteps in the corridor.
Then the door opened. By a fluke, I was behind it, so even though the light went on, whoever’d come in couldn’t see me.
But Cot could, and he was waking up. Slowly. And looking towards me.
‘Yer what?’ he said.
‘Goo-goo-goo-goo,’ said the man in the doorway, and he moved just a little further into the room.
He looked like Cot’s wider uglier hairier older brother, and he was wearing a giant terry nappy fastened with giant blue nappy pins, and sucking at a giant baby-bottle. ‘Goo-goo-goo,’ he said again. ‘Geddit? Goo-goo-goo.’
He hadn’t seen me yet, but Cot had, and he pointed at me.
Nappy turned, saw me, and goggled.
All I knew about Sandra’s kind of leisure services I’d learned from a late-night Eurodoco about a brothel in Germany which had sent me to sleep half-way through, but I had to give it a whirl. He was blocking my way out.
‘Now now, time for bath and bed,’ I said coyly. ‘Which dirty little boy needs his botty spanked?’
‘What the bluddy ’ell?’ Nappy said, broad Yorkshire.
‘Nanny has to get her uniform first,’ I said waging my finger and edging past him.
‘Hang on a mo,’ he said. ‘Don’t get t’wrong idea, lass.’
‘It’s her,’ said Cot. He was Yorkshire too.
‘Hang on,’ said Nappy, and took hold of my arms. ‘Don’t get t’wrong idea. I worn’t serious, like.’
He was stronger than he looked. After an initial wriggle I kept quite still.
‘It’s her. Short lass wi’ big tits an’ red hair an’ boots,’ persisted Cot, struggling ineffectually to lower the cot-side.
‘You Alex Tanner?’ said Nappy.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘We want a word wi’ you,’ said Nappy. I wriggled experimentally, but he didn’t loosen his grasp. He didn’t seem hostile, however. I felt more foolish than scared, helpless in his grip with my feet inches off the floor.
‘Not yet,’ said Cot urgently and authoritatively. He was clearly the brains of the partnership. ‘We gorra wait.’
‘What do I do wi’t’lass, then?’ demanded Nappy.
Then Nick got him square in the balls, with an up-and-under kick from behind and his howl could have been heard up north.
‘Go!’ I said, and we legged it for the stairs with Nappy following, doubled up and moaning. The cleaner was standing by the foot of the stairs, hugging her baby. When we ran down she moved away, but as we reached the front door she screamed.
I turned to look, still moving.
She’d just seen Nappy at the top of the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I started the car and drove away, my heart still thumping from the sprint.
Nick was gleeful. ‘It’s a major design fault,’ she said.
‘What is?’
‘Men’s balls.’
Pause. Her high spirits subsided. Then she said, rather scornfully, ‘What’s the matter, Alex? Were you scared?’
‘Some of the time.’
‘So, what else? You’d been in there ages. Over six minutes, twice what we’d agreed. Didn’t you want me in?’
‘I wasn’t in any danger, I don’t think. But you weren’t to know that.’
‘So why are you annoyed with me?’
‘I’m not annoyed with you. I’m annoyed with me, for making a very bad mistake.’
‘Explain.’
I don’t like explaining. It means going over, out loud, what one has already gone over in one’s head, and I’d already had to bring Nick up to speed once that morning on the case so far. I took a deep breath and made it quick. ‘We’ve found out what Sandra does. Sexual services in the baby line. We’ve found out that she’s sent two men down south, after me.’
‘How do you know they were after you?’
‘Because they recognized me. They said my name. We’ve also got a possible reason for the psychiatrist to do what Sandra says.’
‘Which is?’
‘If he’s a “powder-my-bum” man, he’s not going to want it common knowledge. What kind of cred would he have? If she threatened—’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it,’ she said impatiently. ‘But what does she actually do? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Some men like being treated as babies. Fed, changed, bathed, baby-talked. Put in cots and high-chairs.’
‘You mean they get off on that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Typical. Easy money for us, though.’
‘Us?’
‘Women.’
I concentrated on driving and waited for her to get back to the point.
It didn’t take long. ‘So what’s the mistake?’ she said. ‘If we have all this information, and we’re OK—’
‘The mistake is what I’ve given away. Sandra might be a heavy-duty player. Chances are she is. She feels like one.’
‘Those two gorillas didn’t look serious to me. Not if they’re into nappies.’
‘I don’t think they are into nappies. It was a joke, that bit. I think they were just kipping there overnight because it was a cheap and safe place for Sandra to put them while they’re in town. The cleaner didn’t expect them to be there, that’s why she screamed. Oh, and never pull a trick like that again – pretending to kidnap a baby.’
‘Why? It worked great.’
‘It would. But it’s over the top. I wanted a diversion, not world war three. You frightened her.’
‘Anyway they didn’t look serious,’ said Nick stubbornly. ‘Not real h
ard men. A bit of clumping, that looked their style.’
‘What’s clumping?’
‘Putting the boot in. Breaking a leg. Throwing ammonia. Warning people off, teaching them a lesson.’
I reflected on that. On the whole, I thought she was right. But I wasn’t as indifferent to being clumped as she seemed to be. Youth, that was it. She still thought of herself as immune, not just to death but also damage. I didn’t. I’d had my leg broken once and I didn’t want it to happen again, and although I hadn’t felt threatened by Sandra’s men then, I didn’t think she’d told them to damage me. But she could.
‘So go on, I still don’t understand,’ said Nick impatiently.
‘Sandra thought I was going along with her I hope. Which would give me time, without hassles, to keep working. But now she’ll know for sure I’m not going along, because if I was, would I be poking around?’
When we got back to my flat, Barty was in the kitchen. He’d brought croissants and made coffee. ‘You’re both soaked,’ he said. ‘What’ve you been up to?’
I wasn’t going to explain again. I let Nick do it.
When she’d finished, Barty said ‘Mmm’ and looked at me. I looked back. He couldn’t think I’d been any stupider than I thought I’d been.
‘You could have asked Eddy Barstow,’ he said.‘The local police’ll know all about Balmer Leisure. Two telephone calls would have sorted it.’
‘Mmm,’ I said, and went next door to put Liszt on the CD and listen to the only message on my answering machine. It was Jams, and she’d be in all morning.
When I got back, Barty said, ‘Could we not have Liszt?’
‘Why?’
‘Too early in the morning.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s like tiramisù. Too sweet altogether.’
‘What’s tiramisù?’
‘Can I have a bath, Alex?’ said Nick, wisely, stuffing a croissant into her mouth in one piece.
‘Do,’ I said.
She vanished up the stairs, as close to scuttling as I’ve ever seen her.
‘What?’ I said, standing square on to him, resisting the strong temptation to put my hands on my hips.
‘Beethoven, perhaps? Or Mozart?’
‘I’m not running Classic Requests here. What?’
‘Let’s don’t fight.’
‘Let’s do.’
‘Don’t take your misjudgement out on me,’ said Barty.
I gasped. ‘I’m not,’ I snapped.
He said nothing.
‘Yes I am,’ I said. ‘OK, I am. But I don’t have to like it.’
I sat down, buttered a croissant, let the Liszt fill my ears. He was right about that too: I heard it sweet.
‘What’ll you do?’ he said.
‘Keep on going,’ I said. ‘Warn Jams. Keep Nick out of harm’s way. Hope I get to Sandra before she gets to me.’
He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Eddy?’ he said.
‘How, Eddy?’
‘Tell Eddy.’
‘He’d only fuss.’
‘I’m worried,’ he said.
‘I know. Don’t be. I can handle it.’
When he’d finished his breakfast, he went away.
That’s one of his great charms for me. He does it a lot. But I think it was an effort for him, this time.
As the door closed behind him, Nick came downstairs. ‘Coffee?’ she said anxiously.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
She topped up my mug, relieved. ‘You don’t want to get married, do you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Then don’t.’
‘If I wanted a guidance counsellor—’
‘You’d hire one, I know, I know. Are we going to work, or chat?’
‘Work. Now.’
I cancelled my meeting with Carl, left Nick to try her luck with the merchant bank, and took a taxi over to Jams’ place in South Kensington, keeping a sharp eye out in case Cot and Nappy were following me. No sign of a car, but I paid off the taxi two streets away and walked the rest, just in case.
It was a mews house, white-painted, bijou, with a delicate black wrought-iron and glass front door and pastel coloured little flowers in window-boxes. I’ve never learnt the names of flowers, but these looked as if they should have been called sweet-peas. The rain was flattening them.
Jams let me in, greeted me enthusiastically, took my jacket to hang up, and offered me camomile tea. I accepted, bravely, because I don’t like tea-bag tea much and can hardly swallow herbal brews, and looked around the living-room while she was out making it for a strategic plant. All her plants were flowering, most of them were pink, some of them were fuchsias. I know fuchsias because Barty used to give me them until he spotted how quickly they died under my care.
The room was low-ceilinged, and the full narrow width of the house, with an open polished staircase leading up on the left. The furniture was smallish, and delicate, mostly antique or good repro, and the sofa was a two-seater upholstered in patterned cream damask with wooden legs. There were porcelain plates on the walls and a landscape in oils over the small marble mantelpiece.
‘Nice place,’ I said when she came back with two mugs.
‘Glad you like it. Do sit down.’
I sat on the sofa, she sat on a matching chair. ‘When did you buy?’ I said, trying to price it in my head. Two hundred thousand in the falling market? Two-fifty at the peak of the boom?
‘Oh, it isn’t mine. It’s rented. I rented it last December, for Jacob. I thought he’d like it as a London base. My own flat is much too small for both of us. There’s a study upstairs for him, and the double bedroom, of course, though I did wonder about the ceilings being too low because he’s very tall, but he could have stood up straight. Even in heels I can with inches to spare.’
So in December she was still, genuinely, expecting him to turn up. You wouldn’t move for the convenience of someone you’d killed out of pique. And looking at Jams again with her neat plaited blonde hair and maternity jeans and big soft sweater, pale blue with kittens, and hearing her whispery little voice, I couldn’t see her as the murderer. If we even had a corpse.
Then I took a deep breath and started to explain. I told her everything I’d found out and everyone I’d seen. I did it patiently, even when she took to repeating what I said as if we were in a Learn English Painlessly in Three Months tape. She had a lot to take in, after all.
The whole process took nearly half an hour and I was controlling myself so desperately that by the end I found I’d drunk the camomile tea.
‘Well done, Alex,’ she said finally. ‘You’ve done a lot. And it was very brave of you to go into that house in north London.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. That was all I said. I don’t point out my own mistakes to clients. ‘Now I need your help.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘How?’
‘Bearing in mind what I’ve found out, have you anything more to tell me about your conversation with Jacob?’
‘Like what?’
I took a deep breath. ‘For instance, did he give any clues about who his real mother might be?’
‘He didn’t say his mother wasn’t his mother.’
‘But now we know she wasn’t, does anyhing he said about “the real him” come to mind?’
‘He said it was in the loop.’
‘What did he say right after that?’
‘ “I love you”, I think,’ she said, tears welling. ‘I don’t think I can bear it. I’ve told you everything, Alex, I really have, absolutely everything that could help. He thought what he was going to do might be dangerous and he was right, but he didn’t want me to know about it and he didn’t tell me any more. Really, really, you must believe me. You should, because I’ve been right all along. You thought I was making a fuss about nothing, that Jacob hadn’t been serious. I knew he had. I knew it. And he told Carl about me, and Sandra, which shows our love was just as important to me as it was to him.’
‘OK,’ I said,
more gently. Her baby-bump was pointed reproachfully at me and her fingers fluttered over it protectively. I couldn’t see that asking a mother to think posed a threat to the unborn child, but I wasn’t going to get anywhere, clearly. ‘OK, Jams, I believe you. But now you have to decide what to do.’
‘He’s really dead,’ she said with a fresh flow of tears.
‘Maybe they just want us to think so.’
‘Something horrible happened to him.’
‘It needn’t have been horrible. You’re a Christian. Maybe he’s just gone to join his Maker.’
She mopped her eyes with a little linen handkerchief trimmed with pink. She and Sandra had one thing in common: they both liked pastels. I didn’t reckon that Sandra would see that as a powerful reason for laying off Jams, though, if she got in the way. ‘We’ve got to think about you, now. You and the baby. I don’t really know what’s happened, but I’m sure Sandra could be dangerous. If I keep investigating, she’ll trace you eventually and she may threaten you. If I stop, and do a deal with her, it’s possible she might keep it, and that’s the last we’d hear.’
‘Do you want the money?’ said Jams. ‘The ten thousand pounds? Because I’d pay you that. If necessary.’
I wasn’t offended. Polly’d probably told her I liked money, as of course I do. But I like my own way more. Much more.
‘Forget the money,’ I said. ‘That’s not an issue. You’re the client, you decide.’
She patted her swelling kittened stomach. ‘I want my baby to know his father loved his mother. I know it. I want my baby to know it too, to be able to say, Daddy didn’t just dump Mummy. He did his best. He’d be here to watch me grow up, and to guide me and father me properly, if he could. I need to know what happened. You can protect me, Alex, can’t you? Polly said you were tough. And clever.’
‘That was kind of her. But there’s tough and tough. I can’t go up against heavy men, not physically. And I still haven’t got the sense of this.’
‘But you’re on the way to finding out. You have more things to do, more people to see. You’ll get there.’
She seemed absolutely unconcerned. ‘I can’t guarantee your safety,’ I said bluntly. ‘Oughtn’t you to consider the baby?’
‘I am. We are in God’s hands, Alex. Me. And you. And my baby. We’re all safe in God’s hands. I’ll get us some more camomile tea.’
The Loop Page 14