by John Harvey
I thought for another moment.
‘Will you come into my office tomorrow, Mr … ?’
‘It is Mr Thurley, with an “ey” at the end, and I would much rather that you came out tonight to see me. I’m frightfully tied up tomorrow and besides I would so much rather arrange the whole business as soon as possible.’
There was room for a slight questioning at the end of the phrase, but it was only slight. I asked for the address and got it. I said I would be there at nine. He said he would be delighted to see me. I was about to say ‘Super!’ when I heard the phone click.
The house was deep into the stockbroker belt and the cab drove slowly and almost reverentially over the semi-circular gravel drive. I paid him off and looked around. The house itself was bursting with black wooden beams which stood away from white plaster. Fake Tudor but expensively so. The windows were latticed and in several of them lights showed. The door was studded with the occasional knuckle of brass and sported a massive knocker in the shape of a dog’s head.
On either side of the house there were bushes and shrubs which seemed to go back some way into the darkness. The space in front of the drive was grassed over with the casual precision of a billiard table. At its centre was a bird bath which would have housed a family of Orientals with comfort.
I knocked on the door with the dog’s head. Melted down it would have fetched a good price at two or three scrap dealers I knew. I’d bear it in mind for leaner times.
The guy who answered the door wasn’t in full butler rig-out which came as a terrible shock and surprise. I mean, what are things coming to?
Instead it was a young man wearing a check sports jacket, an open-neck white shirt which had a scarf loosely knotted inside it, beige trousers and tan desert boots. He had longish hair which sprayed out behind his head and the centre of his face was dominated by a thick moustache. Either hired help was even more difficult to come by than I had been led to believe in my chats with my neighbours in the local launderette, or Mr Thurley was keeping strange company.
On the way through the doorway I handed the young man my coat and contrived to push my hand against the outside of his jacket. What was Mr Thurley doing with a companion who sported a pistol in a shoulder holster?
‘Mr Thurley said would you like to wait in the library? He’ll be down in a minute.’
I said yes and followed him into the spacious tomb-like room across the polished wooden hallway. He closed the door silently behind him—very quiet and well-mannered, I thought, not your average, run-of-the-mill punk—and left me surrounded by shelves and shelves of books. From floor to ceiling they rose up all around me. Leather-bound for the most part, leather-bound and unread. Just part of the decor. Probably bought as a job-lot and by the shelf-length rather than the title.
I was browsing along the nearest line and being uncertain why they rang little bells deep inside my head when the door opened and the proud owner came in.
He was taller than I had imagined from his voice, taller and altogether stronger. Forty-five to fifty, six foot and pretty fit by the stance and the suggestion of muscles underneath his clothes.
‘Mr Mitchell.’ He stepped forward, hand outstretched. I took it and met his grasp. It was strong and firm, yet the hand itself was oddly smooth. He clapped me on the shoulder and offered me a drink.
A push into a section of the shelving sent back a number of false-fronted volumes and revealed a small but well-stocked bar. I chose a Bells and ice and we adjourned to the leather reading chairs in the centre of the room. They had the air of being little used and the leather seemed to sigh a slight cry of surprise and complaint when I slid down into it. I sipped at my large whisky and waited.
Thurley drank some of his gin and tonic then took a photograph from his pocket and passed it across to me. It was a polaroid picture of a girl of sixteen or seventeen: short dark hair, oval face with high cheekbones and rather strange, staring eyes which seemed to belong in another face. Perhaps when that photo was taken they did.
‘That’s my daughter. Buffy.’
I nodded. ‘Is this the only photograph you have?’
‘The only one that is in any way recent. That was taken a month or so ago at a party we had here for her sixteenth birthday. No, wait, it must have been longer than that. It was before she went back to school—she’s at boarding school, you know. That is, she should be. I have no idea where she is. Except that I presume she’s somewhere in London. That’s where they usually go, isn’t it?’
Again I nodded my head. The nice thing about people like Thurley was that they assumed no one else had the brains to hold a conversation except themselves. It made for a restful time.
‘I got a letter from the school late in September saying that she had gone missing. Absconded. They wanted to know if she had come back here. Well, of course she hadn’t. Not even to collect her clothes, though she would have had some with her at the school, naturally.’
Naturally. Unless it was a school for incipient nudists.
‘Have you not heard from her at all, Mr Thurley?’
He shook his head.
‘And you have no idea where she might be?’
‘None at all.’
You have reported it to the police?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was the first thing I did. But they had little to go on and apparently if nothing turns up in the first week or so then it’s pretty hopeless. It appears they haven’t got the chaps to look. Well, stands to reason, I suppose.’
‘Who did you talk to?’
‘The Inspector at the local station, I know him personally of course, and some fellow in town. Gilmour, I think it was. He was the chappie who referred me to yourself, actually.’
Good old Tom. I wonder if he would do the same thing right now?
Thurley looked across at me in what I assumed was meant to be his most earnest manner.
‘I want Buffy found, Mr Mitchell. As you know I am prepared to pay well. I think she is merely being silly and rebellious and that she will see the error of her ways and return. But there are some pretty unpleasant people about nowadays, so I believe, and I would hate for her to come into contact with any of them.’
There were more questions I wanted to ask, but he was standing up and offering me a large brown envelope.
‘In there you will find names and addresses of her closest friends, though they all appear to be as mystified by it all as I am myself. We have never quarrelled in our lives, my daughter and I, never since the day her mother left us.’ He flicked at a non-existent speck on his immaculate cuff. ‘There is also a cheque for three hundred pounds made out to yourself: that is your retainer and a week’s payment in advance. You will let me know about your expenses in due course. Thank you, Mr Mitchell, for being so prompt. I wish you every success in your enquiries, for both our sakes.’
I wondered if that was meant to sound as threatening as it did.
‘I believe you came by taxi. If you wish, John will drive you to the station or else he will ring for a cab for you.’
I thanked him and accepted the offer of a taxi. Chauffeurs who toted .38s I could do without.
7
The sound of the disc jockey sniggering through his early morning chores gradually brought me to the surface. I lay there for what seemed a long time, trying to think about something concrete but ideas crumbled away from my mind like falling masonry. A girl in white with a neat bullet hole in her back; a girl with falling red hair and an open laugh; a girl in a photograph who looked as if she had lost part of her mind. Too many girls: too many questions.
Then came the voice—strong and clear and not quite as I had heard it last. Someone had cushioned it and fashioned it with strings and choir; the melody was followed by the piercing tone of an oboe which remained steady when her voice veered off the line.
I wanted to turn it off but could
not. I could no more move than I could fly. Nothing could have shifted a muscle of my body. Nothing. I was like a rabbit being stared down by a stoat and there was not one thing I could do about it.
But the voice finished and faded as voices do and the d.j. was talking inanities again and I could reach out and press the square grey button which freed me.
I pushed off the cover and swung my legs on to the floor. Something warned me that if I stood up straight away I would fall back down. So for five minutes I sat on the edge of the bed while the song wound and rewound itself round inside my brain. Then I thought I could get up. I got up and went through to the kitchen.
After two glasses of orange juice and several cups of black coffee I thought I could stand to speak to people. Real people, not the shadows of my dreams.
I phoned Sandy: it rang a dozen times without response.
I phoned West End Central: Inspector Gilmour was off duty till eleven.
I phoned Dragon Records: a cleaner told me that no one would be in until ten o’clock. Civilised hours!
I phoned Sandy once more: after the seventh ring a sleepy voice said, ‘Hello.’ When I said it was me the phone went back down on the hook. But fast. I went and poured out another cup of coffee. By the time I was back sitting by my phone it had started to ring. I waited for the second ring: it didn’t do to appear too anxious when dealing with women.
Sandy let me in wearing a yellow-towelling robe, last night’s make-up and an expression of extreme annoyance. She opened the door and left me framed in the doorway. She turned round and walked back towards the bed, taking off the robe as she went. She got back under the duvet, with nothing on but the make-up and the expression. I closed the door and went over and sat beside her. Her hair lay across the pillow and I stroked it, gently with the tips of my fingers. After a while her own fingers sought mine and pressed them. I moved my hand to the back of her neck.
Inside the bed it was warm and firm. Gradually she stopped looking annoyed but I couldn’t do much about the make-up. We lay there held close and I wanted to stay.
‘Sandy?’
‘Uum?’
‘A favour or two?’
‘Which?’
‘Two.’
‘Why should I?’
By way of an answer I pulled her even closer: a while longer wouldn’t hurt. But nothing lasts for ever: not pain, not pleasure: nothing.
‘Sandy?’
‘Uum?’
‘About these favours.’
‘Sod you!’
She threw back the cover and jumped off the bed. Hands on hips she stood glaring down at me; she looked angry, stark nakedly angry. She was very beautiful.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, Scott Mitchell? You wake me up at this god-forsaken hour of the morning when you know damn well that I’ve been grinding my arse off till past three in the morning. You expect to jump into my bed for free when any fifty other mugs would pay through the nose for the privilege. Then you have the bloody nerve to ask for favours. Huh! Favours! What the fuck do you think you’ve been getting for the last hour? There are times when you make me want to thump you right between your know-it-all eyes!’
By the time she had finished she was even more beautiful. Legs apart, weight rising up on to the front of her feet in her anger, muscles in her thighs tensed. Fire in her green eyes. Fire in her voice. Imagine her … or, better, don’t. It might not be safe.
No reply was the easiest and best. Sandy grabbed her robe and stalked off to the bathroom. By the time she returned she was wearing new make-up and a new outfit and I was sitting waiting with two cups of coffee.
She sat and allowed herself to smile, almost.
‘What do you want, Scott?’
Okay, I thought to myself, it was going to be all right.
‘First, I’d like to borrow your car till the morning. I have to be in Nottingham later today and then back in London after midnight.’
Sandy nodded.
‘Is it in the garage?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the keys are in the usual place. Just make sure you pay for the petrol this time.’
‘Oh, Sandy, come on …’
‘No, you come on!’
I made a move towards her and she pushed me away.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it!’
I did, but I wanted to keep her in the right frame of mind for the second favour.
‘What’s the other thing?’
As answer I took the polaroid photo from my wallet and passed it across to her. She put it down beside her cup and looked at it with mild interest.
‘Who is she?’
‘I thought you might know.’
‘You’ve got the picture.’
I reached for the photograph and propped it against the edge of the saucer.
‘She’s Buffy Thurley. She’s sixteen and she’s run away from boarding school to seek fame and fortune in the bright lights of the big city. At least, that’s what her old man thinks. And he’s prepared to pay a lot of money to prove that he’s right. Then bring her back home to daddy.’
Sandy looked at the picture, then at me. ‘Do you think daddy is right?’
‘Could be. From the expression in her eyes in that picture I’d say she was stoned up to the top of her sixteen-year-old head when it was taken. But then maybe I’m old fashioned: maybe that’s how all young girls celebrate their birthdays in stockbroker country. Invite round the huntin-shootin-and-fishin-set and break out the champers and offer vintage grass for chasers. How the hell should I know? The nearest I usually get is the tradesman’s entrance and a bottle of light ale.’
Sandy held my hand and put on her best supercilious expression: ‘Darling, you’ll have me weeping if you don’t stop.’
I had the urge to say something rude, but I checked it. Instead I asked if she had seen her around the clubs but she hadn’t. I stood up and picked up the photo; then gave it back to Sandy.
‘You could take this and keep your eyes open. Maybe ask a few questions: show the photograph around. If she is in town then someone must have seen her.’
Sandy hesitated, then agreed. I thanked her, kissed her on the cheek and took the keys from the small table beside the door.
Sandy kept her car in the basement of a large garage in Brewer Street. I had used it before and I liked it. It was a two-litre Saab in silver and black. The windows were in dark glass and the wheels shining aluminium. It was safe and fast and distinguished and she hadn’t got it through good works but who the hell was I to moralise. It sat waiting at the far end of the garage and the man who sat waiting in the front seat was reading a newspaper as though it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing. Except that the light was bad and he hadn’t bothered to switch on the interior lamp; except that it wasn’t his car; except that he was one of the two guys who called on me yesterday. The one who said nothing and let a piece of piping do the talking for him. The one who probably smashed in Cookie’s head with as little thought as a normal man would give to stepping on a bug and squashing it into the linoleum.
I would have turned round and walked back the way I had come: but I wanted to use the car.
I walked over to it and he wound down the window. I could see he was reading the sports page, but the gun he held across his lap didn’t look very sporting. Just heavy and blunt and deadly. Not the kind of a gun you would use to make a small hole in a young lady’s back; more the kind you would use to make a large hole in a private eye’s head.
Underneath the gun was an envelope. The usual anonymous brown envelope: they must sell them by the thousands. He took it out from under the gun and handed it to me through the open window. I took it and stood looking at it as though it might go off.
‘Open it, stupid.’
He spoke, too, though with difficulty. Two high-class boys.
I smiled down at him. I mean, why not be friendly? Was it his fault that he was a small-time hood and a murderer? Well, was it?
Okay, so I pass on that one too.
I said: ‘It doesn’t have my name on it.’
He offered to write it on by one of the more devious methods I have heard suggested and told me to get it open before he changed his mind.
Not wanting to be disobliging I pushed my finger under the flap and pulled it across. Then I shook the contents down into my waiting hand. A number of ten pound notes dropped with a substantial feeling to them.
‘We told you yesterday you ought to take a holiday. But we thought you might not take the advice. This is to help you make up your mind. Call it expenses.’
It was quite a speech. I wondered how long it had taken him to rehearse it. I slid the money back into the envelope and passed it back through the window.
‘I told you it didn’t have my name on it. I couldn’t take anybody else’s money. Thanks all the same. Now if you could see your way to moving out of my car …’
He grabbed the envelope from my fingers and started pointing the gun at me. If there’s one thing I can’t take from cheap hoods then it’s bad manners.
My hand was still just inside the car window from where he had taken back the envelope. I rammed it down on the gun and leant over and pushed. The butt ground down into his groin and he groaned and spat. As his head jerked towards me I punched for his face with my left hand, the knuckles outstretched. My fist caught him above the bridge of his nose and the far knuckles went hard into the corners of his eyes. He swore again and tried to lift up the hand with the gun. At the same time he clutched for the door handle. I let go of the gun and yanked on the door from my side. It sprang open and his own impetus threw him out and down on to the concrete.
He hadn’t let go of the gun and as he tried to level it I kicked at his right arm. My foot struck the forearm just behind the wrist and the gun went spinning upwards. If this were a movie and I were the hero I would have caught it and had the drop on him. As it was I didn’t think about catching it and anyway he dived right at me. I was off balance already and his weight sent me thudding into the side of the car. I cannoned off the edge of the door and rolled against the front wheel, with his weight on top of me. A fist found my stomach and fingers sought out my eyes: instinct, took my head to one side and brought my knees up fast. I was lucky to budge him at all, but shift him I did.