‘I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I’m a friend of Jeremy Pevensey. I came to see how Doris here, was.’
‘Everyone’s a friend of fucking Jeremy Pevensey,’ the doctor said. ‘Anyone with a glass in their hand is a friend of his. You’re up to something.’ He pushed his face close to Joe’s and Joe could smell alcohol on his breath. ‘Who do you fucking work for?’
‘I told you, I’m just a friend.’
‘Get the fuck out of here and leave my patients alone,’ the doctor said, turning on his heel and striding out of the room.
‘I mean it,’ Joe said to Doris as he went towards the door. ‘Contact me when you get to London.’
She gave a weak little wave and he left. He went back down the stairs and out through the reception area. The man in the chair had disappeared. Everything was silent. He sauntered out into the street and turned to go back to the hotel. The two men hit him with the full weight of their bodies. Neither of them was as tall as Joe, but their combined strength knocked him off balance and sent him spinning down some greasy steps to a service area beneath the hospital.
There was a clattering of falling bins all around him and his head hit something sharp as the wind was knocked from his chest, leaving him struggling for breath. He was unable to work out what was happening in the sudden darkness of the underground area. A fist drove itself into his face and something, he guessed it was a boot, came up between his legs into his groin, making him scream with surprise and pain.
He heard the click of a knife being opened and felt a razor-sharp edge pressing against his cheekbone.
‘Stay away from our girls,’ a voice hissed in his ear. The knife made a quick downward sweep and he felt a warm bubbling of blood on his cheek as he passed out.
There was no way of knowing how long he had been lying there before the persistent ringing of his phone brought him back to consciousness. He was amazed it was still in one piece after the battering he had had. He felt weak and dizzy and disorientated. He eventually managed to pull the insistent phone out of his pocket and switch it on.
‘Joe,’ Fliss’ voice came down the line as clearly as if she were calling from the next street. ‘It’s Hugo. He’s gone again.’
Joe shook his head, trying to clear it enough to make sense of this piece of news which was being sprung on him from the other side of the world.
‘How long has he been missing?’ he asked, groggily.
‘Did I wake you up?’ Fliss asked.
‘It’s okay. How long has he been gone?’
‘About eight hours.’
‘Okay. I’ll get the first available flight back,’ he said. ‘Let me know of any developments.’
He snapped the phone off and sank back against the wall, waiting for the dizziness to clear. After a few minutes he thought he could manage to stand. He pulled himself to his feet and paused for the wave of nausea to pass, before making his way back up the steps and into the street. Passers-by pulled back when they saw his face. A few people spoke to him, perhaps asking if he needed help, but he had to concentrate all his energies on putting one foot in front of the other and remembering the way back to the hotel. Every part of him was filled with a searing pain from his head to his crotch. The crowds on the pavement parted in his path.
He saw a taxi parked by the curb and made his way across. The driver looked frightened by the sight of him but Joe didn’t give him any chance to argue. He opened the back door and collapsed onto the seat. The driver said nothing when Joe asked for the Manila Hotel, driving in silence.
The driver took the money Joe offered him as the hotel doorman opened the door, without making any comment. The doorman helped Joe up the steps to reception.
‘I think I need a nurse,’ he told the shocked-looking receptionists. ‘Just to clean me up a bit. I was attacked in the street.’
‘Would you like us to call the police?’ one of them enquired.
‘There’s no need. I doubt they would be able to find the men. It was very dark and I didn’t get to see their faces. Could you please ring the airline?’ He pushed his crumpled air ticket, which had been in his pocket with his passport, across the counter. ‘Ask them to book me onto the next flight back to London.’
‘Certainly, Mr Tye,’ she said, grateful to be given something she was trained to deal with. ‘We will send the doctor to your room, and let you know when the flight is confirmed.’
‘Thank you.’
Joe made his way up in the lift, aware of the people all around him who were torn between wanting to stare and wanting to avert their eyes. When he finally stumbled through the door of his room and looked in the mirror he was shocked by just how bad he was. The cut on his cheek seemed to have unleashed a cascade of blood down his neck and chest, soaking into his shirt. From the amount of blood, it looked as though he had had half his face cut away.
He went through into the bathroom and ran the tap, splashing water gingerly onto his face. As the dried blood washed off he was able to see the extent of the cut, which had stopped bleeding but was still vivid and raw.
The white porcelain of the basin was stained with blood. He stripped his clothes off and washed himself down, pulling on a hotel robe. He went to find himself a brandy from the mini-bar, leaving dirty footprints across the white tiled floor. He drained the miniature bottle in one gulp and collapsed onto the bed. He dozed for a few moments and was woken by a light tapping on the door.
‘Who is it?’ he called out.
‘Doctor,’ came the reply.
Joe opened the door and an earnest young man came in, carrying a black bag. He examined the cut with no expression on his face.
‘You really need to have stitches in this,’ he said.
‘Can you do that for me here?’ Joe asked. ‘I don’t want to have to go into a hospital.’
‘Sure. Come and lie on the bed.’
An hour later, with his face stitched and dressed, having been given a shot of something for the shock and a tetanus booster, Joe drifted into a deep sleep, haunted by imaginings of what might be happening to his son all those thousands of miles away, while he could do nothing but wait for a seat on a plane.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jeremy Pevensey always prided himself on being able to get on with everyone. It was one of the reasons he liked living in the Far East, people were always remarkably pleasant to him. They were usually so grateful for the help he gave them in bettering their lots in life.
But Christopher Rose was a man Jeremy found almost impossible to charm. The man appeared to have to dominate every relationship and every conversation. His arrogance and rudeness seemed to know no bounds and left Jeremy unable to think what to say when in his company.
He understood that the man was a great surgeon, because Mike and Maisie had told him so. And he could see that Rose brought happiness to many hundreds of people by making them more like their own fantasies of themselves. But he didn’t see why that meant the man should be so charmless to everyone he met along the way.
It was, therefore, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that Jeremy saw Fred bringing the surgeon through into the drawing-room, where he was lying with his shirt open and his belly bared to the cooling breeze of the fans, planning his evening’s activities.
‘I could fix that for you,’ Rose gestured towards Pevensey’s stomach. ‘A spot of liposuction and all that would vanish.’ He made an unpleasant sucking noise, before continuing, ‘you’d be able to see your dick again for the first time in years.’
Jeremy gave a wan smile. ‘Kind offer, Christopher. I’ll consider it and let you know.’
‘Bloody bad for your heart,’ Rose continued, sitting himself down on a wicker sofa and lighting a cigar. ‘Carrying all that weight. Lucky you’ve lived as long as you have.’
‘Ah, well.’ Jeremy pointed to the cigar. ‘We all have our little indulgences.’
‘Ha!’ Rose let out a bark of laughter. ‘Touché. What do you know about a bloke
called John Weston?’
‘The American?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not much. He said he was a friend of Maisie’s. I’ve been showing him a bit of hospitality while he’s in town. You know how one does.’
‘I know how you do,’ Rose sneered. ‘Did you check up on him at all? Did you talk to Maisie about him?’
‘No,’ Jeremy felt uncomfortable being cross-examined in his own house. ‘Why would I? He obviously knows her. He seems a perfectly decent sort. Why? Are you worried about him?’
‘He was nosing around the girls at the clinic. Taking flowers in to one of them. He left his name and address in London with her.’ Rose waved the piece of paper Joe had written on under Jeremy’s nose.
Pevensey smiled. ‘That’s rather sweet. He was at Golden Heaven last night. He must have struck up a relationship with one of them and went to visit her.’
‘Wake up and smell the fucking roses, Jerry,’ Rose shouted. ‘That is not normal behaviour for a man like that. He’s not exactly your average brothel-goer who thinks all tarts have golden hearts.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Pevensey blustered.
‘Well I do fucking know,’ Rose stabbed the air with his cigar to emphasise his point. ‘He was nosing around another of the girls in London. I met him there a couple of weeks ago. Don’t you think that is a bit of a coincidence? Twice in a matter of days? Two different girls? Two different bunches of bleeding flowers? He falls in love a bit fucking easy, doesn’t he?’
‘What possible other motive could he have?’
‘Jesus Christ. No wonder you had to come out here and live amongst the savages. You have no bleedin’ idea, do you?’
‘If you are going to talk to me like that I would ask you to leave my house.’ Jeremy did his shirt up in an attempt to increase his authority in his own home.
‘Oh shut it,’ Rose snarled. ‘He could be a journalist. He could be a policeman or someone from immigration. He could be looking into their working papers, or maybe someone after Maisie and her husband, for all we know. He could be anyone and you’ve just let him waltz in and see whatever he wants to see. You are a big, fat, bleedin’ kid, Jerry.’
‘You think that?’ It was beginning to dawn on Jeremy that he didn’t actually know anything about this American who called himself John Weston. But then he always thought it rather ill-mannered to cross-examine people who came to visit him. If they wanted to tell him about themselves then that was fine. If they preferred to keep their details quiet, he was quite willing to respect that. Perhaps he should have been a little more cautious.
‘Well, anyway, I got the security boys at the clinic to give him a bit of a warning,’ Rose went on. ‘If he’s just a casual nosy parker, or some do-gooder, he’ll go scuttling back home pretty smartish. If he’s something more official we’ll soon know about it.’
‘Maybe I should give Maisie a call,’ Jeremy said. ‘To see if she does know the man.’
‘Maybe you should,’ Rose agreed. ‘Shut the stable door now the horses are all over the fucking shop!’
Jeremy got through to Maisie almost immediately on her mobile business line. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, which obviously bemused Maisie and infuriated Rose, Jeremy got to the point.
‘I’ve had a visit from a man called John Weston. He claims to be a friend of yours.’
There was silence at the other end of the line as Maisie took in this piece of information.
‘He’s an American,’ Jeremy said. ‘Late thirties, quite tall, very personable.’
‘I met a man of that name a few weeks ago.’ Maisie seemed to be weighing her words carefully, as if trying to work out a puzzle as she went along. ‘Claimed to be a potential client, wanting to rent a housekeeper. He is no friend. I did not hear from him again after introducing him to a girl.’
‘Oh,’ Jeremy looked crestfallen.
‘Give me the fucking phone,’ Rose said, springing to his feet and snatching the receiver from him. ‘Hi, Maisie. It’s Chris Rose here. This American bastard has been nosing around the clinics. I’ve seen him in London and out here, pretending to be visiting the girls. It’s fucking funny behaviour.’
‘I don’t know how to find him,’ Maisie said. ‘He left me no address and no number. He told me his house in Belgravia was being redecorated.’
‘I can help you there,’ Rose smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper. ‘He gave his address and phone number to the girls in the clinic. Told them to contact him if they had any problems in London. He said to ask for “Joe”.’
‘Give me address and number.’
Rose dictated them down the phone.
‘It’s not Belgravia address.’ Maisie sounded affronted. ‘It’s Earls Court.’
‘He’s had a little accident in the street over here,’ Rose told her. ‘Met with some unsavoury characters who didn’t like the look of his face. My guess is that he’ll be slinking back to London pretty sharpish.’
‘We will be waiting for him.’
When Max had arrived back at the house in Ditchling Avenue, after the incident in the café with Joe, and discovered that Doris had fled, his fury had been uncontrollable. As the other members of the household sat quietly in the kitchen, waiting for the storm to pass, he had rampaged from room to room, tearing and smashing everything that came to hand. Mattresses, crockery, clothes; the trail of devastation followed him from floor to floor until eventually he came to Doris’ mean little room in the roof. For at least five minutes he ricocheted around inside, until there was nothing left and the window through which she had made her escape had been smashed from the frame, leaving the hole open to the night sky above.
His temper had been building ever since he had started to regain his senses in the casualty department of the hospital. The café owner, very wisely, had told the ambulance men, and the accompanying policemen who had answered his 999 call, that he had been out the back when the incident occurred and had no idea what had happened.
‘I heard a noise,’ he had told them. ‘And when I came out I found him on the floor in that state. I don’t know anything else. There was no sign of another person.’
Max had been just conscious during this and took his cue from the man, swearing that he could remember nothing about the attack at all, that his memory had been wiped clean right back to several hours before.
He had lain, and then sat, simmering, while they cleaned up the wound on the top of his head and dressed it, before driving him off to hospital. Anyone who came near him could tell from the cold, hard stare in his eyes, that Max was not someone who would welcome questions. The policemen knew exactly who Max was and realised he would not be changing his story. They assumed he had fallen out with a dissatisfied junkie customer or had had a run-in with an ex-boyfriend. Either way, they couldn’t have cared less. It was just one more thing to go on Max’s file, waiting for the day when they eventually had something concrete on him and were ready to pull him in.
When he had finished wrecking the house, Max stood in the front hall, panting, his hunger for revenge still not sated. His eyes flickered in his ugly head like some prehistoric reptile searching for new prey. Everything was silent around him as a plan hatched in the primeval swamp of his brain. He ran out of the house, not bothering to close the door after him, to his elderly, elegant Porsche and took off across town in an angry roar of acceleration.
His destination was a suburban mansion in Dyke Road, with views out across the town to the tranquil sea beyond. All was peaceful inside the house. The master, whose income supported the grand edifice, had not yet returned from his work in the City. His wife was watching the children in a concert at their school a few miles away.
The Filipino maid was working in the laundry room, folding clothes, which had just come out of the washing machine, into neat piles. She planned to iron them later while watching the little black-and-white television which her employers had given her in the scullery.
There was a back door
from the scullery to the terraced garden behind, where the swimming pool lay peacefully under its cover and the barbecue stood waiting for the weekend. It was this door that Max kicked in. It was not locked but he didn’t have any patience left in him for subtleties like door handles.
He grabbed the maid by the throat, just as he had Joe a few hours earlier, lifting her clean off her feet and smashing her head back against the wall. He then pushed his face so close to hers that his lips brushed against her ear as he spoke.
‘My Doris has run away from home, Doris,’ he said. ‘And I’m broken-bloody-hearted. I want her back and I’m relying on you to help me. Otherwise I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?’
She didn’t respond, too terrified to move.
‘Do you understand?’ He shook her and she emitted a squeak of confirmation.
‘The moment you hear from her you will ask her where she is. You will tell her you want to run away too and you want to join her. Ask her for her address. And you will then give me that address. Do you understand?’ He shook her again and her eyes rolled in her head like marbles, her teeth clicking together.
‘If you hear from her and do not tell me, I will know. I will know because you are not the only one. One of the others will tell me if you hold out on me, and I will find you wherever you are and kill you. Any girl that doesn’t do as I tell her, dies. Very slowly and painfully. Do you understand?’
She nodded and then slumped onto the floor as he let go of her. She sat there, silently sobbing into her hands as Max slammed his way out of the house. There were several more Dorises for him to call on before the night was over.
Joe was waiting in the departure lounge of Manila Airport when he received a call from London. His face was hurting and he noticed that people were giving him a wide berth.
‘Joe, is that you?’ a woman’s voice asked down the phone.
‘Yes.’ He tried to move his jaw as little as he could when talking, to minimise the stabs of pain.
‘It’s Annie. I’m calling from the flat. Hugo’s here.’
‘On his own?’
Pretty Little Packages Page 17