‘Apparently, Maisie strung herself up late yesterday afternoon. Just in time to make today’s early editions.’
‘Strung herself up?’
‘Hung herself. Committed hari kari or whatever they call it, at their flat in Marble Arch. The sadly bereaved husband found her when he went round to pick her up for a little late-night shopping and dinner.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Joe. ‘You mean she committed suicide?’
‘So they say. Apparently, she knew she was about to be exposed as a drug runner and slave-trader and all the rest, so she topped herself rather than face the music. At least that’s what her loving husband says.’
‘Mike Martin says that?’ Joe knew he was being slow, but he was having trouble getting the story into focus in his brain. Had he really caused all these headlines with one call to Martin? The kettle started to steam but he ignored it.
‘He says a lot of things,’ Rod continued. ‘Like how shocked he is to discover that his wife was running all these illegal businesses without his knowledge.’ Rod made a wry face. ‘About how heartbroken he is to lose the woman he loved. About how ashamed he is that such things were happening under his nose without him knowing anything about it, blah dee blah dee blah.’
‘My God.’ Joe picked up one of the papers and stared at the pictures. There was one of an older woman he didn’t recognise. ‘Who’s she?’
‘She’s the first Mrs Martin. The one who got dumped when Maisie turned up. You can imagine what a field-day she’s having. She’s already agreed some six-figure deal with your friend at Sunday International.’
‘She hung herself?’ Joe stared incredulously at the picture of Maisie. She looked so beautiful, so composed. It seemed impossible to think she would do such a thing.
‘Of course she didn’t bleedin’ hang herself,’ Rod said, pouring water from the boiling kettle into a couple of mugs.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Martin must have done it. Or had someone do it for him. Someone must have tipped him off that people were beginning to notice what was going on and he needed to find a scapegoat, preferably one who couldn’t put her side of the story.’
‘It was me,’ Joe sank into a chair, still staring at the paper.
‘What was you?’
‘I tipped him off.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I rang from the newspaper yesterday, to get his comments on the story. I used another name, but it was me.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Rod sat down beside him. ‘Does he work fast or what?’
Joe took his mug of tea from Rod and started reading, momentarily distracted from his worries about Hugo. He skimmed through the story which lay beneath the picture of Mike Martin’s first wife. It was full of scorn for Maisie, leaving the reader in little doubt that she had been a hooker who had taken Mike Martin for a fool, catching him at just the right point in his mid-life crisis and persuading him he was still young enough to start a new life with her. The editors had made her words contrast neatly with Martin’s statements about how shocked he was to discover Maisie had been involved in crime, and how broken-hearted he was to lose the great love of his life. There were pictures of Martin dabbing tears from his eyes as he talked to reporters.
‘He won’t get away with this, will he?’ Joe asked.
‘He may,’ Rod said. ‘He’s got away with worse over the years. But each incident like this brings the possibility of getting to him closer. It means he has one more chink in his armour, one more thing he has to keep covered up and under control. Eventually he’ll simply have too many balls in the air at once. He’ll drop one and the whole act will fall to pieces.’
‘His political friends will have to drop him now, won’t they?’
‘They’ll want to. But do they have any other source of income? I doubt it. Certainly not one quite so bottomless and generous. I think you’ll find they’ll be able to justify it, assuring themselves and the world that he was just the unfortunate victim of an unscrupulous woman. Don’t forget, Martin knows where all their financial skeletons are buried. If they chuck him over too quickly, he might start blabbing about their finances, and I dare say there’s a lot they’d like to keep quiet about there.’
Joe put down the papers and let out a deep sigh as he remembered why Rod was there and why he had a lead weight of misery lying in the pit of his stomach.
‘What the fuck am I going to do about Hugo?’ he asked, his tired eyes filling with tears.
‘Cut out the defeatist thinking for a start,’ Rod said.
Joe hurriedly blinked back the tears. ‘And then what?’
‘We keep looking. If we haven’t found him by the end of today, then we’ll be in bigger trouble. But we have a good few hours to play with before then.’
‘Where should we look?’
‘If he was going to come to London he would have got to either you or his mother by now.’
‘If nobody got to him on the way,’ Joe said.
‘He’s a spunky kid. I doubt it would be easy for anyone to spirit him away.’
‘For God’s sake, Rod, it happens all the time.’
‘Tonight,’ Rod held up his hand to stop him, ‘if we haven’t found him by tonight I’m willing to listen to all that. Not yet.’
‘Okay.’ Joe nodded. Rod was saying exactly what he wanted to hear, but it didn’t lift the feeling of dread from his stomach.
‘I suggest we go down to Brighton. I think it’s more likely he headed in that direction. I’ll drive.’
‘Thank you.’
‘We’re gonna find him, Joe.’
An hour later Joe had showered and Rod had forced some toast into him. They were in the car heading out of London when Joe’s phone rang.
‘Joe Tye?’ a man’s voice enquired.
‘Speaking.’
‘Michael Martin.’
‘Oh,’ Joe fumbled for something to say, a dreadful thought was beginning to form at the back of his mind at the sound of Martin’s voice. ‘Good morning.’
‘Do I call you Joe Tye, or John Weston?’
‘Joe will be fine.’ Joe signalled to Rod to pull over into a service station so he could concentrate better. ‘How did you get this number?’
Martin ignored the question. ‘It seems you knew more about my wife’s activities than I did,’ he said after a few moments. ‘She’s killed herself, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Joe replied, fighting back the fears that were rising inside him, making him want to scream. ‘I saw the papers. I’m sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ There was another long silence. Joe was determined to wait it out. He had no idea what to say anyway. ‘I’d still like to meet with you. I’m anxious to put the record straight as quickly as possible. The press is going to be making up all sorts of lies. I’d like at least one journalist to have the true story. Since you seem to know a lot about it already, you would be the obvious person.’
‘I may not be able to make the meeting this evening,’ Joe said. ‘I have personal problems of my own.’
There was a pause. ‘Personal problems?’
‘My son’s gone missing.’ He felt his throat constrict on the words, as if they were trying to throttle him. Something was telling him that this man could be a potential lead to Hugo.
Yet another silence seemed to confirm Joe’s suspicions. Joe looked across at Rod who had a puzzled expression on his face, trying to work out what was going on. Joe forced himself not to fill the silence. He had to wait to see what the other man said. It was like a game of poker for the highest stakes imaginable.
‘Maybe we can help each other, here,’ Martin said, eventually.
‘What do you mean?’ The knot of dread in Joe’s stomach tightened. His hunch had been right. Martin knew something about Hugo. He thought he might be about to be sick, and he had to force his buzzing brain to remain quiet so he could concentrate on what the voice was saying to him down the phone.
‘I have a lot of contacts.
I might be able to help find your boy for you. Why don’t you come round to the house in Wimbledon, so we can talk? I assume you know where I live.’
‘I really don’t have time right now,’ Joe said.
‘Have you had any better offers of help?’ Martin asked.
‘The police are…’
Martin interrupted him with a kindly laugh. ‘The police will do whatever they are going to do. It almost certainly won’t work. Have you got anything better to do with your time this morning?’
Joe’s mind was working at full speed. If Mike Martin knew anything about Hugo’s whereabouts, it meant his son was in serious trouble. But Martin hadn’t admitted anything that Joe could take to the police. Maybe it was a genuine offer of help. But if he allowed himself to be lured into Martin’s house he might never come out. He remembered Len’s story about what happened to his son. If that had been true, then Mike Martin was not a man who held any great respect for father-son relationships.
‘I’d rather meet in a public place,’ he said, making up his mind.
‘I’ve just lost my wife, Joe,’ Martin said in a voice so level it was impossible to discern anything from it. ‘It would be inappropriate for me to be seen in a hotel bar. Besides, the paparazzi will be following me for days now. Come to the house. I won’t eat you. But avoid the front gate, the press are staked out there. There’s a small door in the back wall with a bell. None of them know about it. Give three short rings and you’ll be let in.’ He hung up.
‘What was all that about?’ Rod asked instantly.
‘Are we near Wimbledon?’
‘Not far. Why?’
‘Mike Martin wants to meet me at his house.’
‘Screw that!’ Rod said, adamantly.
‘He says he might be able to help find Hugo,’ Joe said, looking hard into Rod’s eyes for a reaction.
‘Does he?’ Rod appeared to be thinking it through. ‘That does change things.’
‘He had this number. He could have got it from Hugo. Should we tell the police?’
‘Not if you want to see Hugo again.’
Joe gave a sharp intake of breath, and Rod realised he had spoken too carelessly.
‘Sorry. But if he does know anything about Hugo’s whereabouts he’ll want to trade that information. If the police are told he knows something he’ll have to deny it. Then it would be impossible to make a deal and he’ll get rid of Hugo as quickly as he can. No one would ever be able to prove he knew anything about it.’
‘It could be a bluff,’ Joe suggested. ‘He may just be looking for a way to get me out of the way.’
‘Do you want me to come in with you?’
‘It would be comforting, but I don’t think it would work. I have to take the risk, don’t I?’
Rod nodded and put the car into gear.
‘Do you know where he lives?’ Joe asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘He says go to a back entrance, because the press are out the front.’
They drove in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.
As soon as they turned into the road in Wimbledon they could see the press pack. Dozens of reporters and photographers were camped out on the pavement amidst stepladders and deckchairs, Thermos flasks, take-away coffee cups and camera lenses three feet long. Rod cruised past them and took the first left. The reporters were all too busy talking and laughing amongst themselves to be taking any notice of passing cars.
All the large detached houses of the area seemed to have high walls or clipped hedges to shield them from passing eyes. In contrast to the road at the front, the side street was deserted. Rod slowed to a crawl and the powerful old car rumbled around the next left.
‘If this is the back of the property,’ Joe said, ‘the house must have about two hundred yards of land behind it.’
‘It has,’ Rod said. ‘I spent a good few months on surveillance round here once, when we thought we had him for insider dealing. Remember those days?’
‘Christ yes. I didn’t know he was involved in that.’
‘He was up to his eyes in it. But the fraud squad never managed to pin anything on him.’
‘You were in the fraud squad?’
‘No,’ Rod shook his head. ‘They pulled people in from every division to try and nail him. We were watching him round the clock for years, but we never managed to get anything on him.’ Rod pulled the car up a few yards away from a gate in a wall. ‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘Give me your phone and I’ll programme my number in. If you get into trouble, you just have to press the button and I’ll come looking for you.’
‘Thanks.’ Joe handed him the phone and took some deep breaths as Rod worked, preparing himself for whatever lay ahead.
‘Just press zero if you need anything,’ Rod said, handing it back to him. ‘Good luck.’
Joe took the phone, slipped it into his pocket and climbed out of the car. He walked to the gate without looking back and pressed the bell three times. The gate buzzed and he pushed it open. He found himself walking through a shrubbery into an immaculate garden. The house towered over the neatly mown lawns. A swimming pool stood to one side, with garages on the other. All was suburban tranquillity.
As he walked between the rose beds towards the open French windows, a young woman came out and walked towards him. He had been expecting to be greeted by some muscle-bound minder. This woman looked positively welcoming. She was neatly turned out in an expensive jacket and skirt. Her shoes were discreetly high-heeled and her make-up and hair were immaculate.
‘Mr Tye.’ She showed the most perfect set of white teeth he had ever seen and shook his hand firmly. ‘I’m Christabel, Mr Martin’s personal assistant. Mr Martin is looking forward to meeting you. Did you find us all right?’
‘No problem,’ Joe said, unsure of how to react to such a pleasant greeting from a woman who could just as easily have been welcoming him to a Buckingham Palace garden party.
‘I’m sorry about having to ask you to come to the back gate,’ she said. ‘But we’re trying to keep as low a profile as possible at the front. I’m sure you understand. Come in and I’ll find you a coffee. Have you had breakfast?’
She led him up the steps to the terrace and through the open doors. Inside, a buffet was laid up, like breakfast in some five-star Caribbean hotel. There were half a dozen people sitting around the room eating and drinking. They were all young and just as well turned out as Christabel. They could have been delegates at a business conference, taking a break from listening to the speakers and using the opportunity for some private business meetings.
‘Just a black coffee would be fine,’ Joe said. ‘I’m in quite a hurry.’ He hoped the caffeine would help his tired brain to concentrate. He couldn’t afford to make any mistakes with this man or he might never see Hugo again.
‘Of course,’ she beamed, pouring the coffee. ‘We’ll be going straight through. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some freshly squeezed orange juice?’
‘Quite sure,’ Joe replied.
‘Let’s go in then.’
Carrying his coffee for him, Christabel led him through a pair of double doors into a room which must have been originally designed as a ballroom, but which had been converted into a huge working space. A number of people bustled about between the clusters of sofas and desks, all of them young – the men in shirtsleeves, the women in crisply pressed blouses. Computer screens and televisions with the sound turned off flickered all around. Everyone seemed to be talking into telephones in low urgent tones.
A man who Joe assumed must be Mike Martin emerged from the crowd with his hand outstretched. He was physically large and looked strong. He was in shirtsleeves, like all his young workers, and was wearing a black tie and armband. Joe found himself accepting the firm handshake without thinking. The hand was warm and dry and didn’t let go of his.
‘Neither of us is having a good day today, Joe,’ he said with a sad, charming smile. ‘Let’s hope we can both do something to help one
another.’
Joe was too dumbfounded to be able to think what to say. He had been expecting to enter the lair of some Mafia mobster. This was more like being in a fashionable advertising agency or public relations consultancy.
‘Come and sit down.’ Martin led him to a nest of deep, soft sofas and Christabel ensured that his coffee was standing within easy reach before leaving them together. ‘I hear you’re a great writer,’ Martin said.
‘I’m a ghost-writer,’ Joe replied, determined to resist being charmed.
‘That’s what I hear. The best around, I’m told.’
Joe said nothing.
‘Maybe we could do something together. I have been wanting to write a book for some time, but the pressures of business and politics…’ He shrugged, letting the buzz of activity all around finish his sentence for him.
‘At the moment I’m doing a book for one of the girls your wife brought over, filled full of drugs,’ Joe said. ‘It’ll be a good read.’
Martin put his hand to his forehead at the mention of his wife, as if a sudden spasm of pain had passed through his brow. Joe guessed he was supposed to give him more condolences for the loss of Maisie, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.
‘I’d like to help you with that.’ Martin had lowered his voice, as if respecting Maisie’s memory. ‘Obviously I didn’t have any idea what she was up to. My own fault. I should have been paying more attention to my marriage. Perhaps if I hadn’t been so busy…’ He let the thought hang in the air. ‘But I might be able to fill you in a little on my wife’s character and background. She wasn’t all bad, you know.’ He lowered his voice still further. ‘I loved her so much, Joe. I can hardly believe she’s gone.’
‘You said you might be able to help me find my son,’ Joe changed the subject, placing one of his cards on the invisible poker table which stood between them.
‘I’ve already started on it.’ Martin’s expression was blank and showed no sign of any emotion – no guilt, no nerves, no aggression. ‘I have a number of people working for me. They’re all making enquiries. I’m sure we can find the lad for you.’
Pretty Little Packages Page 25