by Tom Trott
‘Then there was Him,’ he whispered. Then he lit it. ‘He never spoke. I never saw him on the pavement. He always waited for me to pull up and then appeared from nowhere. He would pass me the address on a printed slip.’
‘What did his hands look like?’
‘He wore plastic gloves.’ He was staring now into the glowing end; holding it upright and watching the paper ripple and disappear, replaced by a growing tower of ash.
‘What happened?’
‘It was the middle of the night, I got a text as usual. I went, and he got in the car. I recognised his smell.’
‘What did he smell like?’
‘Like flowers.’ He was still staring at the cigarette. ‘He passed the paper, as always, with gloves on. And I drove. On the way I pulled behind Western Road to avoid gas works and in the road this man steps out in front of us. He screams something, so I wind down the window, and quickly his hand reaches in and he unlocks the door and then he has a knife at my neck.’ His hand pawed at his throat. ‘He forces me to hand over my money, so I do. Then he opens the back door and holds the knife to the man in the gloves. He has his wallet ready. Then the thief runs off. I grab the radio to call in to the office, and when I turn around my passenger has already gone. I didn’t see him go.’
At this point I’m going to take over telling the story because frankly I tell it better; for starters, I’m not breaking down in tears and saying each word through desperate gasps for air.
He never received another text after that night. But he kept the phone handy just in case. Instead his wife came home to find their daughter missing, and inside his glove compartment he found a printed letter. It read: “He lives at—” and then an address, “Kill him, or you will never see your daughter again.”
‘You didn’t do it?’ I asked.
His eyes shot up to look at mine. It took him a while to answer. ‘I tried calling from the phone, to speak with them, but the number doesn’t work. So I bought a knife block at the market, in cash. I took one of the knives, then I went to the place. He didn’t answer the door, so I kicked it in, nothing was going to stop me killing him! But he was already dead.’
‘What did you do with the knife?’
‘I don’t know. I thought that they would give her back. He was dead. They had to. But I never heard anything. No letters, no texts. Nothing.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’
‘What could I tell them?’
‘You could show them the letter.’
‘I tried to kill a man. They would send us back to Pakistan, how could I find her then?’
‘So instead you did nothing?’
‘What could I do!?’
‘Something! You could have done something.’
He didn’t want to argue with me. He didn’t give a shit what I thought. His daughter had been abducted, probably long dead, but what really upset him was someone suggesting it was his fault. Some people.
‘Well, you can start now,’ I told him. ‘Where did you take them?’
‘Everywhere.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘All different places.’
‘You can remember some of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then write them down!’
I threw a notebook and a pencil at him. He picked them up, thought for a few moments whilst he opened the pages, and then started scribbling.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Something,’ I spat. ‘I’m going to do something.’
15
The Other Brighton
it was four in the morning when I made it through the door. There was no point in going to sleep. Instead I stood naked in the living room, staring out the window, waiting for the sun. Occasionally I would wander into the bedroom and look out across the flat rooves. The baby seagull wasn’t moving, I was worried about him. I went to chuck another slice of bread but found it was my last one. What the hell, he needed it more than I did; not that he seemed to notice it. Just once the wind picked up and he pulled a wing in tighter. He was alive, just not hungry. Just tired. I knew I should sleep, but sometimes that’s more work than staying awake. And I didn’t want the old man to find me.
In the living room I pulled a drawer unit over to the window so I could sit on it high enough to lean my head out. The wood was nice and cold on my arse cheeks, and I was smoking my first cigarette in eleven years. It tasted like shit. It tasted like the past.
The night was dark blue, starless. The streets were empty, the world silent. Pigeons huddled asleep in the covered corners of dirty grey façades. Foxes padded zigzag across the road. Quiet lights stretched down the streets, toward the sea, where more quiet lights twinkled on the horizon. It was all mine, and what was I going to do with it? Just watch it. Let it be. It wasn’t really mine of course, it belonged to the magician that had disappeared the little girl. This false peace was just the held breath before the reveal.
Slowly the sky behind the cinema bled orange and cars started drifting down the road. Shops were getting deliveries now and those unlucky enough to work in London were heading for the station.
Once the real noises of the day started, I made myself an espresso and ate my last avocado, sans toast. Afterwards I threw on a pair of boxers and headed downstairs to pick up the post. I was the first today and did my duty by putting it in the box by the window. I had the usual junk mail and the morning paper. Today’s headline was some controversially approved planning permission. The council was actually going to build homes people could afford, so no surprise it was a big scandal. Nestled amongst this stuff was a small but impressively weighty envelope. My name was handwritten, and it had been hand delivered. It wasn’t the hand of Hermann Vogeli, I was pleased to notice. It was a woman’s hand.
I sat at the kitchenette table and slit it open. It was a calligraphically written letter on wonderfully textured notepaper, and the hand that had written it smelt of sugar and spice. It read:
Dear Mr Grabarz,
It has reached our attention that you are amongst those concerned citizens who have been doing everything possible to help find our daughter. We feel eternally blessed to be living in such a kind and caring community.
We can never repay the love that people have shown us, but please allow us the opportunity to thank you in person. You are invited to our Find Joy event at two o’clock this afternoon at our address. Food and drink will be provided.
Kind regards,
Maria & Graham Tothova
After a lazy morning of showering and shaving, I got dressed. I put on the same combination of shirt and jacket I had worn to the church because it was smart enough for Hove without making me look like a prick. Then I started walking into town to get my bike.
I passed through Pavilion Gardens on my way. The scene was tragic. Council workers in plastic trousers scooping up piles of the now rotting flowers, muddy teddy bears, and spent stubs of burnt candles. It looked like the first day after Glastonbury. The party was over.
I swang by my office, but there was nothing waiting for me except a fresh layer of dust. We always left the street door unlocked during office hours so any walk-ins could wait on the bench on the landing. But it was gone one o’clock and it was locked, meaning Thalia hadn’t been in today. I decided I should probably text her, but I also decided there wasn’t enough time. I was already late.
I headed to my lockup, got on my Honda, and cruised gently toward York Avenue. I was actually nervous. I had no idea what this event was, or how many people would be there, or how they had heard about me, or what they thought I had done, and I hadn’t even had time to think over one of these questions by the time I arrived.
I was able to park my bike on the same square of tarmac by the block of flats, and the same old lady was staring through the same net curtains wearing the same face, and trying to spot the magnet that was gathering smartly dressed people toward the house. I gave her a wave and she disappeared.
I
saw a couple disappear down the side of the house, so I followed suit, emerging into the back garden. It was mostly grass but with bushes and flowers down all sides, shielding any view of the outside world and giving a secluded feel to this secret garden. In the middle was a large willow tree, with four children hanging off it, playing. There was no trampoline, no slide, no sandpit; nothing made for children except a wooden swing that also hung off the willow. Stylishly oxidised copper furniture poked out of bushes in a way that suggested it grew there. Sun streamed through the gaps in the willow projecting crepuscular rays onto the kids. God rays to you and me. This was a place where in twilight elves lurked and fairies larked.
But right now, rich people were lurking and larking instead. Fairy lights and fucking bunting was hung along the back of the house, across the patio. Two large boards on easels proclaimed the words “FIND JOY” above the picture. Below it was a website, a phone number, and a social media hashtag: #FindJoy. It sounded like a self-help book.
There looked to be around thirty people, all dancing through this little pocket of tranquillity, but I didn’t bother looking for people I recognised because two trestle tables were set up against one side, and a barbecue was smoking bitterly next to them. On the tables were piles of sausages, burgers, chicken legs, and the unusual middleclass options: fish, halloumi, salads, that sort of thing. And by salads I don’t mean bowls of chopped vegetables with dressing; I mean bowls of couscous and beans and other things with some vegetables hidden in the middle alongside bits of fruit and walnuts and other things that aren’t at all salad. Everything was busy going off in the sun, and the occasional fly was circling the piles of meat so I began picking up as much as could fit on my paper plate without it buckling.
I had to circle around an old man in a suit who was helping himself to the not-salads, and whilst I was looking for the non-existent ketchup he spoke:
‘You,’ he said in a surprised and offended tone.
I looked up. It wasn’t a man at all, it was that old woman from the church, wearing the same ill-fitting suit jacket. The one who had sussed me out the first time.
‘Relax,’ I told her, ‘I was invited.’
‘Did you bring your invitation?’
‘No, but I stamped my hand for re-entry.’
The frown that was permanently stamped on her face did its thing. ‘I can’t see why they invited you. It must be a mistake.’
‘You’re probably right. Whereas, you: you must have done loads to help find the girl.’
‘I helped organise this,’ she gestured around at the people.
I poured myself a plastic cup of what people incorrectly call Bucks Fizz.
‘And what is this?’ I asked. ‘A garden party, how is that going to find her? Wait, let me guess, she’s somewhere in the house and we have to go around blindfolded.’
‘These are the most important people in the city.’
‘And what are they going to do? Issue a proclamation? Order the kidnapper to give her back?’
‘These people are very successful people, they could help raise a lot of money.’
‘Oh, I see: you’re going to buy them a new daughter.’
‘This is a chance for successful, important, intelligent people to share ideas and coordinate a strategy to find her. To generate leads and follow them up. And I don’t see how someone like you could help with that.’
‘Someone like me?’ I asked. Then I put down my plate whilst I got out a business card, showing it to her before I placed it in her breast pocket. ‘Joe Grabarz, private detective, pleased to meet you. If anyone at the WI loses a ball of wool give me a call. Now if you don’t mind, one of us has to do our job.’
I don’t have a lot of pride, but I allowed myself just a taste of it then. She wasn’t impressed. Though she was even less impressed with my plate:
‘Aren’t you going to have any salad with that?’ she asked as I picked it back up.
‘I can’t, I’m on a strict things-I-want-to-eat-only diet. Nice chatting with you,’ and I moved off into the mix.
Most of them were that breed of ever-so-pretty middle class types, plus a plumbing business owner or some such who had leapt above his oik status by earning so much money and wearing a suit. They humoured him because he had shown the necessary deference by adopting their tribal customs. I wafted through these groups, smiling benevolently with a mouth full of sausage until I smelt something rotten. I turned around when I heard the foul mucus gurgle of his voice. A few steps away from the rest of them, Hacker was standing with two photographers. A flash went off in my face.
‘I don’t believe it!’ he almost screamed as he saw me.
‘Funny,’ I drawled, ‘your readers say the same.’
He cackled, showing those yellow teeth. ‘They invited you. Still, it seems a good idea to invite someone who lives in the real Brighton.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘Just a fact.’
‘A fact? I’d be careful, you might get a reputation.’
With another smile he muttered something to the photographers and they moved off to snap some more.
‘Writing your next piece of fiction?’ I asked.
‘A short story, if you’re asking. Slip me a few quid and I’ll put your name in it.’
‘How can it be short with all these important people here?’
He groaned. They meant as little to him as they did to me. ‘This’ll be enough for the faithful, might run as a teaser under the masthead if I’m lucky.’
‘Have they been discussing a media strategy with you?’
He scoffed. ‘Find the girl. Or arrest someone. Then you’ll get some media. There’s your strategy.’
‘No national interest?’
‘I wish.’
‘Last week people were breaking down doors, holding a vigil in the centre.’
‘That was last week. People have very short attention spans these days.’
‘Still, people covered the letter he wrote.’
‘Yes, pity he hasn’t written another one.’
‘Well, I’m sure if your circulation really drops he will.’
He looked at me. I gave it right back to him. I have no idea what you’re implying, he seemed to say. Yes, you bloody do, I replied. After a few moments he turned back to watch his photographers.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked. ‘You used to give us all sorts of good copy. “The Police’s Dirty Habit”, you remember that?’
‘You were never interested in me, you were only interested in embarrassing them.’
‘Maybe a little bit,’ he smiled once again. ‘I write what people read.’
‘And which comes first, I wonder.’
‘I ask myself that every day.’ He sighed ironically. ‘Mitchell, come over here.’ He gestured to one of the photographers, who jogged over. ‘Take Mr Grabarz’s picture, and make it a nice one.’
Bill snatched the plate from my hands and the flash went. Then he gave me it back.
‘“Tenacious private detective Joe Grabarz was amongst those invited”, how does that sound?’
‘But will people read it?’ I asked.
This time there was a note of melancholy in his laugh. ‘Nobody reads this shit anymore.’
As I moved back toward the pretty people I could swear one of my chicken legs was missing.
The other side of the willow tree, half hidden from the rest of the guests, a shampoo commercial-style array of one stunning blonde, one stunning brunette, and one stunning redhead, all in those dresses so tight they have to walk upstairs like a crab, were enraptured by a young-ish bearded man in a suit so sharp you could cut yourself.
‘Afternoon,’ I nodded to the women.
They turned their nose up at me instantly. They could smell my poverty.
‘Mr Grabarz,’ the man intoned. It was Ben McCready.
‘Your Majesty,’ I replied. ‘You were just going over the council minutes with these ladies were you?’
He
didn’t engage, he was playing The Serious Man for them. ‘I advised against inviting you, Mr Grabarz.’
‘Well, I always advise against voting for you, so that’s ok.’
‘You’re not in my ward.’
‘Neither are the Tothovas. Where are their councillors, are they here? Or did you advise against inviting them too?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know what Maria and Graham thought you could bring to this.’
‘A detective, what could he bring to the search for a missing girl?’
‘Over there, by the rose bush, they are detectives, Mr Grabarz. You are a joke. You’re just a thug who wanted a police badge but couldn’t be bothered to earn it, so you stencilled your door and managed to exploit enough desperate individuals to pay the bills.’
‘It’s like you can see into my soul,’ I told him.
I could have told him my half-baked thoughts about him. I could have told him that if I didn’t know better I’d say he had spent his entire life without his parents or his peers listening to him. He was so smart, he was always right, and still they never listened to him. So he worked hard, did all the right things, and got himself elected to some minor position of power, and now people have to listen to him, don’t they? Because he’s important. He wants all the respect that comes with being respectable but he still wants all the pussy that comes with power. The world is still the playground for him and he wants to swing his dick around with the rest of the boys. But a new, special kind of dick that pretends not to be a dick at all, but instead progressiveness and modernity and equality because that’s what women want to hear and like all men he’ll say whatever women want to get into their pants. It was all part of the game, and he and his mates would brag about how they fooled women into thinking they were someone they wanted to get fucked by. I could have said all this. But this is the new me. The calm me. And I didn’t want him to know how far he got under my skin.
‘Enjoy the rest of his speech, ladies,’ I said with a smile, ‘just don’t give him your number.’
I moved toward the rose bush, I didn’t want them to think I was scared, even if I really didn’t want to speak to them. Immediately I could see Price and Roy Parker, a couple of other people who stood like policemen, and Graham Tothova. They were deep in conversation.