by Mark Timlin
‘I’d had a few last night, Nick.’
‘And now all your principles have gone out of the window because you’re sober.’
‘No. But better you are on the case than anyone else. I’ve seen what you can do for people.’
‘Stop it or I’ll start to blush. But it’s nice to know you’ve got faith.’
‘I’ve got faith in you.’
‘I hope it’s not misguided.’
‘It won’t be. Just get her back.’
‘I get it. And everything in the garden will be lovely, just like that.’
‘That’s it.’
‘I wish I had your belief in human nature, Mel,’ I said. ‘In my experience things aren’t that cut and dried.’
‘Well you should have. My belief in human nature, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. That bloke Khan gave me the willies big time. I don’t trust him.’
‘What can he do?’
‘Don’t ask me. Families are funny things.’
‘He’ll be OK. He just wants his daughter back.’
‘We’ll see. Now I’m just going to talk to him. I’m not promising anything. It’ll probably need a trip to Manchester, and Manchester isn’t my favourite town. It’s grim up north, love, never forget that.’
‘I won’t. You’ll find his daughter. I know it. And you can buy me a present with all that money you’ll earn.’
‘I knew there was a hidden agenda,’ I said as I kissed her, nighttime breath or not. ‘I’ll make you some tea. Now get yourself together. Half the day’s gone and not a penny earned.’
She giggled and headed for the bathroom herself and I gave her a friendly slap on her bottom as she went.
Women. Can’t live with them, can’t shoot them.
Well, not too often anyway.
10
I called Khan whilst Melanie was putting her warpaint on in the bathroom. I got through to his hotel and whoever answered in his room, or suite or whatever, after asking who I was, put his hand over the mouthpiece so’s all I could hear was rumbling in my ear as he spoke. Then the line cleared and a voice said. ‘Rajesh Khan.’
‘Mr Khan,’ I said. ‘Nick Sharman.’
‘Good morning, Mr Sharman. Thank you for calling.’
‘I said I would.’
‘But not everyone is as good as their word.’
‘I am. When I give it.’
‘That’s gratifying to hear. Have you come to a decision?’
‘More or less.’
‘And?’
‘And I think we should meet again. I’ll need some details, and copies of those photographs you showed me.’
‘You mean you’ll take the job?’
I hesitated. Half of me wanted to say no, the other that I would. Then I thought about Suri and Melanie, and how I’d have to explain if I didn’t. And the ear bashing I’d have to take. So I blew out a breath and said, ‘Yes, Mr Khan.’
‘Why? You didn’t seem very keen when we met.’
‘I wasn’t. To be honest I’m still not totally. I’m not sure I agree with arranged marriages.’
‘They are a fact of life.’
‘I understand that.’
‘And I just want my daughter back.’
‘I understand that too. I would myself under similar circumstances. That’s the main reason why I’m agreeing to take the job on.’
‘And the other reasons?’
‘I was convinced that I should.’
‘May I ask by whom?’
I love people who use the word ‘whom’.
‘Suri for one. My girlfriend for another. Myself for the third if the truth be known. I’ve been getting lazy,’ I said.
‘Excellent. When shall we meet?’
‘You’re in town until Monday, as I recall.’
‘Very early on Monday. I have appointments in Manchester. I’m catching the first plane back that morning.’
‘How about tomorrow? I’m busy today, and that means I can start bright and early on Monday morning.’
‘Fine. Would noon suit you?’
‘That suits me fine.’
‘You have the address of the hotel. Just ask for me at the desk.’
‘I’ll do that. Now you mentioned doubling my usual fee.’
‘That’s correct. How much do you normally charge?’
‘Three hundred a day. Plus expenses. I expect a retainer.’
‘I would expect nothing less myself. I imagine you’ll accept a cheque.’
‘Of course.’
‘Would six thousand be sufficient? That should cover you for a week or so.’
‘That will do fine,’ I replied. Christ, that’d cover me for months but I stayed calm.
‘Then noon tomorrow it is.’
‘I’ll be there.’ We made our goodbyes and I put down the phone.
Melanie had reappeared by this time looking alert and ready for anything. ‘Was that him?’ she asked.
‘The very same. I’m seeing him tomorrow.’
‘What about today?’
‘I told him I was busy today.’
‘What sort of busy?’
‘I’ve sort of got plans for us today.’
‘What sort of plans?’
‘Drinks, lunch, illegal drugs, and an evening screwing.’
She looked at me. ‘God, but you’re a smooth talking bastard,’ she said.
11
We sauntered down to my local pub and joined the happy throng getting lagered up before rushing home to watch football on Sky TV, then had a few ourselves before lunch at the pizza and pasta emporium next door. Full up to the brim with spaghetti vongole and white wine we headed home for the promised late afternoon and evening of carnal delight. The phone was ringing when I opened my flat door and I scooped up the receiver. ‘Hello, Dad, it’s me.’ It was my sixteen-year-old daughter Judith phoning from Scotland.
‘Hello sweetie,’ I said. ‘What’s cooking?’
‘School work, the usual.’
‘You sound so enthusiastic.’
‘Not really.’ She’d done well in her exams and was in the sixth form studying for her highers.
‘Stick at it love, it’ll pay off in the end.’
‘That’s what everybody says.’
‘Unfortunately for once everybody’s right. You want to go to university, don’t you?’
‘Suppose so.’ Teenage angst, don’t you just love it?
‘How’s your social life?’ I asked, changing the subject. ‘Got a boyfriend yet?’
‘Don’t be so predictable, Dad.’
‘Well have you?’
‘No. It’s just me and the girls hanging out together at the moment.’
‘Groovy.’
‘Dad.’ She hated it when I used language like that. So I did it all the more to tease her.
‘What?’ I asked innocently.
‘You sound so dated. No one says groovy any more.’
‘They do in the places I go.’
‘Then you should stay out of places like them.’
We speak a different language now. But I can remember the time when, if I held my daughter close enough, everything in her little world was all right. But that was a long time ago. So long ago that I can barely remember it, and I’m sure she’s totally forgotten. And now wasn’t the time to remind her. Maybe that time would never come.
‘Sorry. I’m suitably chastened,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should say “cool”.’
‘Oh Dad.’
‘Oh Judith.’
‘How’s Melanie?’ she asked. They’d met and seemed to get on OK.
‘Fine. She’s here now.’
‘That’s nice. Are you working?’
Another woman on my case. So what�
��s new? ‘Just taking on a job, as a matter of fact,’ I said.
‘Good. But nothing dangerous, I hope.’
She worries. ‘No. Just a missing person,’ I said.
‘Oh God. You remember the last missing person case you took, don’t you?’
I certainly did. ‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing like that. A girl. Just a bit older than you.’
‘Well, just be careful.’
‘I will.’
‘Promise?’
‘Course.’
‘OK then.’ But she didn’t sound convinced.
‘When shall I see you then?’ I asked.
‘Christmas I suppose.’
‘Don’t sound so keen.’
‘I won’t, don’t worry.’
‘Until Father Christmas calls, that is.’
‘I think I stopped believing in Father Christmas when I was seven years old.’
‘Tell that to my credit card company.’
‘Listen Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you next week.’
‘OK honey, take care.’
‘You too. Love to Melanie.’
‘Course.’
‘Bye.’ And with that she hung up in my ear.
‘Judith?’ said Melanie.
‘No. My new girlfriend.’
‘I suspected as much.’
‘Did you indeed?’
‘I’d better not or you’re in trouble.’
‘So tell me something new.’
Melanie put on the kettle for coffee and I rolled a joint of superior grass that I’d scored from some bad boy snowboarder who hung around the minicab office next to mine. It was pretty powerful stuff and its pungent odour filled the room, mixing with the smell of coffee and all was pretty much right with the world.
Oh yeah. And then I got my reward for being a good boy.
12
The next morning, after a replay of the previous night’s lust, I showered Melanie’s smell off me, shaved, ate a hearty breakfast and headed for Khan’s hotel.
I drove up to town, giving my ancient Ford Mustang a spin. It was a ridiculous motor. Noisy, unreliable and hopeless for surveillance work with a gas-guzzling 5.7 litre V8 engine under the bonnet that was more than half the length of the entire car. But I’d got it off my mate Charlie who’d killed himself that summer and I was damned if I was going to part with it. Christ knows what I was going to do for cars now that he was gone.
It was sitting on the parking space at the front of the house looking like a shark waiting for a tasty morsel to swim by. I started it with a few pumps on the accelerator. It snarled into life, coughed, spat out black smoke and settled down to a lumpy tickover. I selected reverse on the automatic box and it stalled as I knew it would. I started it again, put it back into gear and slammed on the gas. It shot backwards into the street with a yelp from the oversized tyres on the drive wheels and a roar from the cherry bombs fitted to the exhaust that was almost guaranteed to wake anyone in the street having a late Sunday morning lie-in.
I headed up the South Circular and the engine calmed down as it warmed up. I rolled down the window, lit a cigarette and prepared to enjoy the rest of the drive.
I found the hotel in the Bayswater Road and parked round the corner in a residents’ bay and went inside.
The receptionist was expecting me and directed me to the lift with instructions to go to the top floor.
It was a suite that Khan was staying in. Very nice too, with a view of the main drag and the park beyond. One of his silent henchmen opened the door and gestured for me to enter. The other was sitting at a table by the window. Khan was on the sofa. He got up when I came in and the quiet pair went into another room. ‘Chatty, aren’t they?’ I said.
‘They know their place,’ said Khan.
‘That’s something I never learned.’
‘I can believe that, Mr Sharman.’
He gestured me to an armchair and sat back on the sofa with a low coffee table between us. ‘A drink?’ he asked.
‘Coffee would be good.’
He picked up the phone that sat on the table, hit a couple of buttons and whispered something into the mouthpiece. ‘A moment,’ he said.
‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ I asked.
‘Not at all.’
I lit up and seconds later one of the silent ones came in with a tray. He put it on the table and left again. ‘Are you going to be mother?’ I said.
Khan laughed. ‘Your show of contempt for me is admirable.’
‘Not contempt, Mr Khan,’ I replied. ‘It’s just my way.’
‘So what do you want to know?’ he asked when he’d poured me coffee and I was sitting comfortably with an ashtray on the arm of my chair.
‘Tell me a little more of the background to all this,’ I said. ‘You sound like a close family. It must’ve taken a lot for your daughter to leave.’
‘We are a close family. Were, at least. Until all this happened. We live in a pleasant suburb. My brothers and sister and their families live nearby. My mother is still alive and lives with my sister and her husband. We always gather together for birthdays and religious festivals. The houses are always full of children. It was a good life. At least until that scum came along.’
‘Paul Jeffries,’ I interjected.
‘Of course Paul Jeffries. We made him so welcome. I cannot believe that we allowed such a snake into our midst.’
‘Didn’t you realise what was happening? Between him and your daughter, I mean.’
‘No. He was clever. The older children, my sons and daughter and their friends of that age, would go around together. The boys were supposed to protect the girls. Some bad things are happening in Manchester. Drugs, guns, gangs. Paul Jeffries was always there, and later I found out he would meet Meena on her own. That was forbidden. As I told you, she was promised to another.’
‘A culture clash.’
‘Precisely, Mr Sharman. These children scorn the old ways. But the old ways are the best ways. Respect for their elders. Traditional dress. Our language. It is all vanishing. All around I see our way of life being westernised. It must not be allowed to happen.’
‘But it’s inevitable that it will, Mr Khan,’ I said.
‘Over my dead body.’
13
I was beginning to understand why Meena had taken it on her toes. This guy was enough to drive anyone out of the house. ‘And no one suspected what was going on?’
‘Of course not. They were cunning. That is what hurts me most. Not the way he treated our hospitality. But the way he lied and deceived us, and how he turned my daughter against me.’
There were tears in his eyes and all this was getting us nowhere. ‘Those photos you showed me,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I’d like a set. And Paul Jeffries’ mother’s and brother’s addresses if you have them.’
‘No problem. I have made my own enquiries there.’
‘Have you seen her? The mum, I mean.’
‘She has been visited.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. She wasn’t cooperative.’
‘Did you give her a hard time?’
‘I didn’t go. My sons saw her.’
‘Tough boys or what?’
‘They can be.’
‘Did they try to put the frighteners on?’
‘I don’t know. As I said, I wasn’t there.’
‘But you know.’
‘Perhaps they were a little overzealous.’
‘That means they did put the frighteners on. I won’t. I don’t get heavy with old ladies as a rule.’
‘She’s not that old.’
‘And that’s an excuse?’
He shook his head.
‘How about the brother?’
‘He has not been seen.’
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br /> ‘Your boys are OK with old ladies but not with young men. Is that it?’
‘No. I stopped them. I didn’t want any more trouble.’
‘You’ll leave that to me, yeah?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I’d like to talk to your sons at some point too.’
‘Why?’
‘Isn’t that obvious? They knew Jeffries better than anyone.’ Apart from your daughter I thought, but didn’t voice what I was thinking. ‘Now about Meena’s friends,’ I said instead. ‘The ones that went round with her.’
‘What about them?’
‘Someone knows something. I know young girls. They love to talk. She’s told someone something. Do you know them?’
He shrugged. ‘Girls would come to the house. They would lock themselves away with sticky drinks and sweets and play their awful music. They were like so many brightly coloured birds.’
‘And your sons chaperoned them, when they went to town.’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes it was members of the girls’ families. They took it in turns.’
‘I might have to come up to Manchester. Snoop around a bit.’
‘Do you think that’s really necessary?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. If I happen to bump into Meena and Paul coming out of Tesco’s probably not. But if they’ve made it difficult enough for you and your network to come up with nothing, then any information would be useful.’
‘I see. Well, if it is necessary I will arrange accommodation.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. But introductions would be more important. I’m sure that the girls’ parents wouldn’t thank some middle-aged white man for scaring them half to death. We’d have to be careful.’
‘I agree.’
‘That can come later. First off I’ll see Mum and try and reason with her. The boy’s been in jail, you say. Maybe I can suggest that it might be better for him to talk to me than go back.’
‘I said no police.’
‘His mother doesn’t know that.’
‘True.’
‘And if she’s no help I’ll track down the brother.’
‘Whatever you need to do to bring Meena home.’
‘Meanwhile I trust you’ll keep looking yourself.’
‘Of course.’