by Tim Ellis
‘I know where this is leading.’
‘Of course, but to be truthful – I didn’t care. For the first time in over a year I felt like a woman instead of a piece of meat. He was gentle with me. I pretended to enjoy it, but in reality I felt nothing at all. I was no longer a woman. I would never be a woman again . . .’ She stopped.
Kline heard Emilia sniffling. ‘Don’t stop,’ she said. ‘If it’s too much for you . . .’
‘No, it has been a long time since I have told anybody.’
They heard a crash.
‘They’re beginning to piss me off,’ Kline said, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Thirsty and hungry, but otherwise I am fine.’
Yes, how long had it been since either of them had eaten or drunk? Surely they were getting close to the surface. What time was it? What day? Where the hell was Quigg? Her resolve was beginning to crumple. Doubts were creeping in. She was tired, hungry and thirsty. If those bastards caught up with them she knew exactly what they’d do to her, and she didn’t know whether she could survive another gang rape – if they let her live, which she doubted. If she had been Emilia all those years ago, would she have survived then? She didn’t think so. It took a special kind of person to navigate through the horrors of what Emilia had experienced and survive – mentally and physically.
‘So, what did you do next?’
‘It was time to go. My hand had nearly healed, I had put on some weight and I felt reasonably strong.’
‘Go where?’
‘I had no idea, but I knew I couldn’t stay there. It had been too long already.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Dimitri – he was saying that he was in love with me.’
‘Crazy bastard. What about his wife and children?’
‘He wanted to throw them out of the house and move me in.’
‘His wife would have gone straight to the Germans.’
‘I said exactly the same thing. He said he’d kill her, and that I could take the place of his wife and bring up his children.’
‘I’ve heard that love makes you do terrible things.’
‘I had no feelings for him, but even if I had I could never have let him kill his wife for me. I would rather have died myself. That night, I left the safety of the barn and . . .’
They saw a sliver of light up ahead and a set of metal steps.
Kline’s sprits lifted. ‘Come on, Emilia. I think we’re nearly there.’
***
Roger Crankshank opened the door and stepped into Pascal & Meldrew’s. The estate agents on Abbey Street in Bermondsey was next to the seventeenth century Grade II listed St Mary Magdalen Church, which was the oldest building in the parish.
‘Yes, Sir?’ a middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk to his right asked. She had shoulder-length corkscrew hair with a streak of grey, nice white teeth and a good figure.
There were two other desks in the room facing the door. One directly to his left with a small fat bald-headed man lounging behind it, and another one in the left-hand corner occupied by a severe-looking pale-faced young woman.
He approached the woman who had spoken to him. ‘Good afternoon.’ He took out his PI’s licence and held it out to her. ‘Roger Crankshank with Bulldog Investigations.’
‘That’s a cool name.’
‘Everyone says that. I got it from my father.’
‘No, I was talking about Bulldog Investigations.’ Her smile seemed genuine. ‘You know exactly what you’re getting with an English Bulldog.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘Are you interested in one of our properties?’
‘I’m interested in the previous occupant of 5 Boleyn Gardens, a Mrs . . .’
‘. . . Quigg?’
‘The very same.’
‘Client information is confidential, I’m afraid.’
‘Her ex-husband – Detective Inspector Quigg who’s with Hammersmith Police – has asked me to find her. You’ll be astounded to hear that he hasn’t seen his daughter Phoebe for six months.’
‘Our understanding was that she emigrated to Canada.’
‘My client prevented her from leaving the country with his daughter at the last minute.’
‘I see.’ She pulled open a drawer of her desk, took out an A4-sized notebook, riffled through the pages until she found what she wanted and said, ‘Mmmm!’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir . . .’
‘It’s important.’
‘We only have a forwarding address in Canada.’
‘You send all her mail there?’
‘Not junk mail, but yes – all her other mail. We don’t normally provide a mail-forwarding service, because the people who buy our houses usually move into them. The new occupants then forward any mail belonging to the previous owner.’
‘What’s gone wrong with this sale?’
‘For some reason the buyers of this house haven’t moved in, or done anything with it. They have paid us in advance to visit the house once a month for a year, collect up the mail and forward it to the address in Canada.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘You’ve got lovely bright eyes, you know.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I’ve been mesmerised by your eyes since I walked in here.’ He thought he’d try his luck. You wouldn’t you like to go out for a drink later, would you . . . ?’
‘Anastasia . . . Anastasia Scripps. There’s a lovely pub along the road called the Hand and Marigold.’
Maybe his luck was about to change. ‘What about seven o’clock?’
‘I don’t see why not. My husband can cook his own meal for once.’
‘The address in Canada?’
‘Oh yes – Mrs C Quigg, of course, 54 Spring Street, Victoria, British Columbia K0H 9V5.’
‘What about the people who bought 5 Boleyn Gardens?’
She looked at her colleagues, who both seemed to be busy making or answering calls. ‘I shouldn’t.’
‘Do they serve food at the Hand and Marigold?’
‘Lovely food.’
‘I don’t know about you, but I’ll be ravished by seven.’
‘You mean famished?’
‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’
Anastasia giggled as if she’d never been out with a man before. ‘Just a minute.’ She went to a shelf and took down a folder. ‘Here it is – Lancer Communications.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Why – have you heard of them before?’
‘I shouldn’t tell you this.’
She laughed and touched his hand. ‘But you will?’
He looked around like a secret agent and leaner in close to her. ‘Mrs Quigg used to work at Lancer Communications before she became pregnant.’
‘How intriguing. This job is so boring in comparison to your job. I hope you’re going to tell me about some of your exciting cases tonight?’
‘The things I could tell you, Anastasia. It’ll take longer than a drink and a meal though – probably all night and some of tomorrow morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes.’
Anastasia blushed. ‘My husband won’t even know I’m not there.’
‘Have you got an address for Lancer Communications?’
‘Only a telephone number, I’m afraid: 0700 836 8979 . . .’
‘That’s brilliant . . .’
‘. . . But, it diverts you to another number.’
‘How do you know that?’
She dialled the number and held the phone up to his ear. ‘Listen.’
He heard a series of clicks before a male voice answered: ‘Yes?’
She put the phone back down in its cradle. ‘Did you hear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what it means?’
‘No, but best not ring them again.’ He stroked her hand and left it ther
e. ‘We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, would we?’
She left her hand where it was. ‘Like what? Do you know something?’
‘I’m just being careful. In my job, you learn to be careful . . . especially about the people you care about.’ He stood up. ‘Seven o’clock tonight in the Hand and Marigold.’
‘I’ll be there, Rodney Crankshank . . . Is that really your name?’
He smiled like a used car salesman. ‘You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?’
***
‘Have you been to see Ruth?’ Duffy asked her when she returned home.
‘No.’ She flopped into one of the chairs in the lounge and put the laptop box and plastic bag on the floor. The pregnancy test-kit was burning a hole in the bag it was in.
‘I can’t go.’ Duffy was still dressed in her silk pyjamas.
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
‘Get a taxi.’
‘It’s too early.’
‘Well, I’m too busy.’
‘Has Quigg been to see her?’
‘Do I look like his fucking booking secretary?’
‘You’re in a good mood.’
‘You’ve noticed.’ She looked around, but there were no rugrats cluttering up the place. ‘How are the housekeeper and nanny doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Duffy. It’s about time you got off your fat arse and stopped pretending to be a victim.’
‘I’m not pretending.’
‘Have you told Quigg?’
‘Told him what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I’ll be all right soon.’
‘No you won’t. You need help, Duffy.’
‘Don’t say anything to him.’
‘Okay.’ She pulled out her phone and called Quigg.
‘Hello, Lucy,’ Quigg said in her ear.
‘Duffy needs help.’
‘Not again?’
‘Psychiatric help.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah – really. You should have spotted it.’
‘Things have been a bit hectic.’
‘You talk a load of bollocks sometimes, Quigg.’
‘I just might know someone.’
‘Then do something about it.’
She ended the call.
‘You lied,’ Duffy accused her.
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I thought you were my friend.’
‘That’s why I rang Quigg. He says he knows someone.’
‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Yeah, you do that, Duffy,’ she said as Duffy hobbled out. ‘You go and hide under the covers until the bogeyman has gone.’
She checked the clock – it was ten to one. Just enough time . . .
The doorbell rang.
Somebody answered it before she could get up.
‘Mr Quigg’s residence. Who should I say is calling?’
She didn’t hear the reply.
Next, the housekeeper came into the lounge. ‘A Miss Potter to see Lucy,’ she said.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good.’
She headed for the front door and found a woman standing there with a face like the hind quarters of a wild boar, and hands that swallowed her hands whole when they shook.
‘Pansy Potter.’
‘Hello, Pansy.’ Some people had the most inappropriate names. She definitely wasn’t a “Pansy”. Maybe a “Gertrude”, “Boudicca”, or “Hulk”. ‘You’ve come to . . . ?’
‘Yep, sure have. My men have already started. They’ll have your shrubberies looking spic-and-span in no time.’
‘Excellent. If there’s . . .’
‘Don’t you worry none, Miss Lucy. We’ll call if there’s anything we need.’
‘What will . . . ?’
‘We’ll finish around six o’clock. Leave, send you an invoice and then we’ll see you next month around the same time. Of course, we can’t be held accountable for the weather. Most days we work, but if it’s blowing a gale I have to think of the health and safety of my workers, so we’ll be here. We arrive, do what’s necessary and leave. Now, if there’s anything special you want me to do while I’m here, you just holler. I don’t hold much truck with all that customer satisfaction hokey-pokey, so if you’ve got something to say, you just come right out and say it. I won’t be offended, and I don’t do no offending. That okay by you, Miss Lucy?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Tally-ho then,’ and off she went.
Pansy Potter was certainly her kind of woman, but God – she was ugly.
She went back inside.
The time of truth had arrived.
Janet Thomas – the housekeeper – was crying next to the chair.
Lucy looked down. The laptop was still there. Where was the plastic bag?
‘What’s wrong?’
The housekeeper slowly revealed the plastic bag from behind her back.
Lucy took the bag and looked inside. The pregnancy test-kit box had been crushed. She pulled the box out and shook it. Bits of plastic fell out into the bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ Thomas blubbered. ‘I was walking through the lounge . . . I didn’t see it.’
‘Fuck’s sake!’
‘Please don’t fire me.’
‘You want to watch where you’re walking.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re not providing a very good first impression.’
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘Mind your own fucking business. I suggest you get on with your work and keep your nose out of other people’s affairs.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and left.
Fuck’s sake! Now she’d have to go and buy another test-kit.
***
What the hell was Catherine Bernado playing at? Why tell her step-mother a pack of lies? And if she hadn’t gone to Iceland, where the hell was she?
Mickey Stine was waiting for him in the cells at the station. He hadn’t planned to keep the ex-boyfriend stewing for so long, but sometimes life didn’t always go according to plan.
Had Catherine got someone else? If so, who?
He pulled up outside 74 Elms Avenue in Brent Cross and walked up the path. The first thing he noticed was that 74 had been split into a 74a and a 74b. Nicola Brennan hadn’t told them that Catherine lived in a flat, or which one. Did she even know? It seemed that Brennan knew very little about her step-daughter.
Below a speaker panel were two buzzers, but neither had a nameplate. He knew that whichever buzzer he chose it would be the wrong one, so he pressed 74b – the upstairs flat.
Eventually, a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to speak to Catherine Bernado.’
‘She’s not here.’
‘Do you know . . . ?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Inspector Quigg from Hammersmith Police Station.’
‘Wait there, I’ll come down.’
A slim woman in her late twenties appeared at the door dressed in a sheer nylon babydoll nightie with matching panties. It was the middle of the day and he could see her nipples as if she was standing there naked for God’s sake!
‘You’d better come in,’ she said.
He hesitated.
‘I won’t bite.’
He wasn’t so sure. Was that how women dressed out in the suburbs these days? He followed her backside up the stairs and realised he had no idea what she looked like yet.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘Show me your ID first.’
He was surprised to find himself in a normal – or at least what he considered normal – flat. There was a beige carpet, a dark brown sofa with matching curtains at the window, abstract prints hanging on the wall and “literature” in a bookcase such as: The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri and Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol. He also spotted a
bachelor’s degree certificate in criminal law from Oxford University. It reminded him not to judge a book by its cover. He held out his warrant card.
‘It looks real.’
‘That’s because it is.’
‘I’m Cherry Ramola.’
‘Really?’ He had the idea it was her work name. So much for his timely reminder not to judge people by the way they looked, but what the hell – he couldn’t keep his eyes off her breasts. He was a breast connoisseur, and she had a perfect pair of breasts. They reminded him of Duffy’s breasts, but on a smaller scale.
‘Yes, really.’
‘Okay.’
‘Take a seat.’
He sat in a chair by the window.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks, I’ve just had lunch.’
She sat on the sofa, crossed her long legs and turned towards him. ‘What do you want to know about Catherine?’
‘Do you know her well?’
She twisted her right hand left and right at the wrist. ‘So-so.’
‘Any idea where she is now?’
‘You know she’s a freelance journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she said she was going to Iceland to write a story.’
‘It was a lie.’
‘I thought so.’
‘I notice you have a degree in criminal law.’
‘Also a Masters and a PhD.’
‘I see.’
‘You want to know why I’m at home in the middle of the day dressed like a whore?’
‘Each to her own.’
‘I found that being a criminal lawyer was about as much fun as peeling onions. The profession is dominated by men, you have to work preposterous hours under a ridiculous amount of pressure and the money is rubbish. I then discovered – by a twist of fate – that I could have a lot more fun and earn much more money as a high-class hooker.’
He didn’t know what to say. She certainly had the body for it. He forced his head up to look at her face. Her short black hair was wet and had been parted on the right. She smelled of cherry and a whiff of baby powder wafted up his nose.
‘Do you like what you see?’
‘We’re not here to talk about my likes or dislikes.’
‘Two thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘Jesus!’
‘It’ll be the best thirty minutes of your life.’