Destroy Unopened

by Anabel Donald

  Have collected the following accounts: Lagrange, Atiyah, Leibniz, Ireson, Abel. Do not pursue these clients: debts paid in full. Actively pursue Bourbaki. Consult Seymour.

  Had Nick hired a debt-collection agency? We hardly had any outstanding accounts. Nick prided herself on making non-payers’ lives a misery. And I didn’t think we’d ever had clients with those names, but I tried them on the computer anyway.

  Nothing.

  A joke, perhaps? If so, I didn’t get it. I kept the message in case it was actually for Nick and would make sense to her, then I closed down the computer and took a pen and paper.

  I needed an updated action list. I needed an action list I’d act on, too. Focused, effective, immediate action. Catch all the gnats buzzing about in my head, fix them on paper in a numbered list, go through them one by one. Then put a nice thick black line through them.

  I worked on it for several minutes, scribbling and rearranging, then finally making a fair copy. On paper, in my own writing. No messing about on the computer Nick always teased me about that, but it wasn’t the same thing. When my hand wrote, my brain thought. Face it, I was thirty. Only a few years younger, another generation, and I’d probably be using the computer to make coffee.

  Nick: Ring mobile, Oxford. Talk to Golden Kid, Jonno. Grace Macarthy

  Sam Eyre: Solange, Jonno. Ring Pauline Eyre

  Hilary Lucas: Richard Fairfax. Noon. Ring Barbara Gottlieb? Philip Gein

  Alan Protheroe: Check Killer dates, details in library – ring

  Me: P test tomorrow (buy kit)? Tell Barty if he rings. Stock up on dry biscs, check running

  Polly’s flat: Rental income? Monthly interest, mortgage

  I read them through. As is the usual case with lists, some of the items would take much longer than others; I started with the quickest: Nick’s mobile. Still out of service. I dialled the Oxford number of Nick’s professor. No answer. I already knew the Golden Kid wasn’t in his office – I’d looked in as I passed. So I rang and left a call-back message on his machine. Maybe Nick’d told him more details than he’d given me, like what time I could expect her back today. Or, more likely, maybe not. Her continued absence was making me itchy enough to worry away counter-productively at what little information I had, like a dog with a sore paw.

  As a very long shot, I then rang Grace Macarthy, a well-known feminist professor and annoyingly good friend of Barty’s who’d taken an interest in Nick and who Nick had been in unrequited love with before she fell for Laverne. Grace’s whimsical answering machine message told me she was in Adelaide. Good. I hadn’t wanted to speak to her anyway. Typical of her to have such a show-off message, surely an invitation to burglars, although knowing Grace it was just as likely to be misleading. She might be tucked away in her study in West Hampstead listening to voices on the machine and picking up when she wanted. Just in case, I left a message.

  Jonno next, on two counts, Nick and Sam. Mobile, answer, he’d come straight in. Seeing as I owed him. Solange on Sam, ditto, though she didn’t mention money. Then something struck me and I rang Solange back. ‘Seen Lil about this morning?’

  ‘Loony Lil? She’s in Westbourne Park Road. I can hear her from here, still on about the fog.’

  ‘Ask her to come and see me right away, would you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I crossed things off the list. Then I tried New College, London, on the off-chance that Barbara Gottlieb would be there, or that they’d give me her home number. She wasn’t, and they wouldn’t. And I had no idea where she lived, so I couldn’t get it from directory enquiries, but it’d be worth checking through the London phone books in the library. I was sure Gottlieb knew much of what there was to know about Gein, and she had offered to help, after all.

  By which time Solange and Jonno had arrived. Solange went into the back to make tea for herself and Jonno and coffee for me while I argued with Jonno about the money he said Nick owed him. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before and, it appeared from the smell, without removing them to sleep or wash.

  When the drinks came, I lost patience. ‘Nick’ll pay you what she owes when she comes back, OK? Enough, already.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Jonno.

  ‘Tell me what you found out last night and tell me the hours you worked, and I’ll pay you for them.’

  ‘Stupid cow,’ said Jonno.

  Solange looked at him with contempt. For once, she wasn’t smiling. ‘You got no manners and I got no time to waste on you.’ She turned her back on him and talked to me. ‘Your girl livin’ in Bartlett Close, I reckon. That why you told us to stay away from there? Plenty of people seen her comin’ in and out. She workin’ in the pizza shop up Notting Hill.’

  My stomach flipped. Sam the girl in Hobbs’s flat?

  ‘What’s up?’ said Solange, watching my face.

  Come to think of it, I didn’t know. There was no real reason to believe that Sam was less safe in Bartlett Close than anywhere else. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Let’s have your notes.’ She passed them over: very detailed, in painstaking, loopy writing. ‘Great. Three hours’ work plus a bonus.’ I counted the banknotes into her hand.

  ‘I earned the bonus too,’ said Jonno aggressively. ‘I got the same information, I get the same bonus.’ He shoved his notes at me: greasy pieces of scrap paper, tiny scribbly writing, and a claim for five hours’ work.

  ‘Five hours?’ I raised my eyebrows.

  Solange laughed. ‘Two and a half,’ she said. ‘I watched him come and I watched him go and two and a half’s max.’

  ‘Three hours and a bonus, Jonno.’

  He took the money before saying, ‘Stuff your bleeding work, then,’ and slamming the door behind him as he left.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ I asked.

  ‘Nah, you just had the very best of Jonno – he’s usually a rude boy. My break time’s over, I’m back on the street, thanks for the tea, keep me in mind if you’ve anything else. Lil should be along right about now, she said she’d something else to do first.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I had enough hard information about Sam Eyre now, to ring Pauline and put her in the picture. But it was her husband who answered, snapping. ‘Dr Eyre. Who is this?’

  ‘Could I speak to Pauline Eyre, please?’

  ‘Not until you have identified yourself. I don’t countenance anonymous calls annoying my wife.’

  ‘Oh, does she get many?’ I asked blandly.

  ‘I don’t see what business that is of yours, whoever you are.’

  ‘You introduced the subject, Dr Eyre.’

  Pause. Then he said, ‘Am I speaking to Alex Tanner?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Why did you not introduce yourself?’

  Unreasonable people make me unreasonable. Of course, normally, I would have said who I was. But his tone and his whole attitude suggested that he was censoring his wife’s calls not for her benefit but for his. I wasn’t surprised his daughter had run away.

  ‘My dealings are with Pauline,’ I said. ‘Is she there?’

  ‘No, she is not. Any information you have for her, you may give to me. Samantha is my daughter.’

  ‘When is Pauline likely to be back?’ Never, if she had any sense.

  ‘I repeat, give me the information. I will pass it on. If you have found Samantha, I am relieved to hear it. She should come home immediately. She has duties in this house, duties which she has neglected. Duties to me.’

  Perhaps he was hiding concern behind aggression, but all I could feel was the aggression, his will against mine. He wanted to dominate me: I wanted to end the call.

  ‘Please tell Pauline I rang,’ I said, and put down the receiver.

  That didn’t end the tension, though. I could feel it it my neck muscles and threatening to burn like acid in my stomach. I’d wanted to talk to Pauline because the coincidence, if it was a coincidence, of Sam being at Bartlett Close was worrying me. Now all I could thi
nk of was the Eyres and their home life.

  What must it be like to live with him, I wondered. In my office I’d assumed that he was behaving particularly badly because he was upset about his daughter, angry with his wife’s independent action in hiring a detective, and feeling vulnerable off his home ground. But, if anything, he’d been worse just now. Maybe I shouldn’t give Sam’s address even to Pauline, who I hoped would ring me back. If her husband gave her the message.

  Then I heard Lil.

  ‘The raw morning is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest, near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation – The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. And hard by Kensington High Street, in the Town Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord Mayor in his High Court of Pomposity.’ She finished, with an exultant shouting flourish, just outside the door of the office. Then she knocked.

  ‘Come in!’ I called.

  She came in, tugging Benbow behind her He had his muzzle wedged firmly in a KFC box and was making slurping noises. ‘Morning, Lil,’ I said. ‘D’you want some tea?’

  ‘Strong, some milk, three sugars,’ she said, and sat down heavily. She’s somewhere in her late seventies and small, probably shrunk from medium height. She’s slender and fine-boned, though you could hardly tell that in winter through her layers of clothes, today green woollen tights, lace-up brown walking shoes, green calf-length wool skirt, beige fine wool sweater and cardigan, green Barbour jacket, two red scarves, a dark red felt hat and red mittens. She and her clothes are always clean, a welcome change from Jonno, although her constant prowling of the streets and habit of quoting, or sometimes reading, passages of the classics out loud to an indifferent if not actively resentful public give her the superficial appearance of a bag lady.

  I gave her the tea and we both watched Benbow crunch the last KFC bone, chase his tail three times and collapse as heavily on the floor as his owner had in the chair. ‘He’s a young dog, you know,’ she said. ‘Only two. I tell you this because most people assume that an old woman has an old dog. But he’s young and he needs walking and the family that kindly took him in don’t have the time.’ Plus you like his company, I thought.‘And I need his company,’ she went on, and grinned all over her long, bony, weathered face. ‘What can I do for you? Where’s Nick?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘The Golden Kid gave me a message from her, saying she’d gone to stay with a friend and she’d be back today.’

  She tilted her head to one side, considering not just the information but my method of delivering it. ‘The Golden Kid? Do you mean Dermot, next door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A verbal message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you don’t consider him trustworthy? In matters like this, I mean. He’s clearly untrustworthy in a professional capacity or in relation to the Department of Social Security, but since I neither wish to buy a house nor have I any especially warm feelings for the DSS, I consider him rather a good egg. What motive would he have for misleading you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s not like Nick just to bunk off. And her mobile phone isn’t on, so I can’t get in touch. When did you last see her?’

  She thought.‘Wednesday morning,’ she said finally.‘It was raining. She let me shelter for a while.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Silent. Restful.’

  When Nick first worked for me, she was an elective mute. She still talks very little, socially. I consider this a major advantage but I was surprised that Lil did.

  ‘If I were you, I’d wait till tomorrow to worry,’ she said, ‘if she doesn’t turn up. She’s usually reliable. What can I help you with?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to check with you about Nick, see if you had any extra information. The only work I need doing at the moment is research.’

  ‘Research? Where?’

  ‘In the library.’

  ‘Before my retirement, I was a librarian,’ she said, rubbing her swollen, arthritic knuckles.

  ‘What about Benbow?’

  ‘I can take him home. To his home, that is. A comfortable basket in a warm kitchen. He’s had plenty of exercise this morning,’

  She looked eager, but would she be efficient? I’d never actually used her, though I knew Nick did, but what exactly for? I was beginning to realize quite how much of Nick’s day-to-day running of my business was a closed book to me, and I didn’t like it. But meanwhile I needed someone in the library. ‘What’s your hourly rate?’ I asked.

  Left alone in the office, I tried to make sense of what I knew. Sure as anything, Sam was the girl living in Jack Hobbs’s flat. And Nick’d been working on the Sam case. Could something have happened to Nick? But what, and why? It wasn’t as if Bartlett Close was a black hole. I’d been in there and nothing had happened to me. No, I was just fussing. Nick’d turn up.

  I crossed Sam off on the action list, which was now looking pretty good, by which time Lil was back, still with Benbow at her heels. ‘Thought I’d do this little chore before I took him home,’ she said, puffing and excited, enjoying her own efficiency. She thrust a photocopied sheet at me. ‘I’ve marked the likely one,’ she said, ‘but I brought the others in case. If I’m wrong, drop in to the library and tell me on your way to your appointment at Bartlett Close.’

  The one she’d marked was a B. Gottlieb only two streets away from NCL.

  When I looked up to thank Lil, she’d gone.

  I tried the number she’d given me, and it was right. The Germanic voice on the call-minder message was definitely Gottlieb’s. Pity she wasn’t in, but that was too much to hope for. So I left a message.

  Then it was time to go to meet Fairfax.

  I locked up the office very securely and set off on the short walk, picking my way through the various guys that littered the roads. It was 5 November, the last day to make a killing for the kids with their guys, and it being Saturday there were more visitors about, heading for the Portobello Market. Today it was Australians. Perhaps there was a package tour in town, or perhaps it was the Australian school holidays or something.

  Anyway the Jamaican boy on the corner near the pub was doing a particularly good trade. He had a large sign saying DIRECTIONS TO PORTOBELLO. Tourists stopped to ask for directions, which they didn’t need because there were perfectly good street signs, and then they had to give him contributions for the guy, much of which, I suspected, went to his elder brother, the muscle-bound drug dealer

  I gave him nothing. He had a rubbish guy, dressed entirely in the Manchester United football strip.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When I reached the turn-off to Bartlett Close I hesitated. The reluctance I’d felt earlier came back in full force now. Irrational it may be, but it was real. I stood on the corner and peered into the fog, which seemed thicker here. I could just make out the building: lights glowed dimly on every floor. A train rattled by.

  I waited for comparative quiet, took a deep breath and walked to the front door.

  Richard Fairfax must have been waiting for me. He answered the bell straight away, smiling.

  He was a perfectly inoffensive man. Blond, with regular smallish features, medium height. He had none of Jack Hobbs’s social awkwardness – he scooped me in, chattering. ‘A detective, what fun. I’ve always been captivated by the idea of detectives – love them on TV – come in, it isn’t very tidy but after all . . .’

  It wasn’t tidy. It was a young man’s flat, disorderly. CD cases left empty, CDs and mugs and beer cans scattered on the floor round the player, clothes littered about the living room, but underneath the surface mess it was clean. Sam’s efforts?

  The room was the ground-floor duplicate of Hobbs, but it looked very different: coherent, as if it had been decorated and furnished at the same time, possibly even by a designer That would make sense, of course, because Fairfax was the one with the money. A
designer with minimalist leanings. Cream and black. Cream curtains and cream-painted plastered walls, wood floor with rugs – old-looking, valuable rugs – and black and steel furniture, with a black leather sofa that would probably fart if you sat on it, the kind of simple desk that would cost far more than an ornate one, with a top-of-the-range PC and printer and a laptop beside it. The cream walls were varying shades of cream; something pricey had been done in the way of dragging or stippling or whatever it was called when interior decorators got their hands on a large bankroll and a tin of paint.

  ‘Well – great to meet you, but how exactly can I help?’ he said when he’d offered me coffee, which I’d refused, unusually for me and possibly rudely. But I still didn’t like the feel of the place and I didn’t want to stay there longer than I had to, despite Fairfax’s apparent amiability.

  And why shouldn’t he be amiable? Even if he was Boy, even if Boy was the Butcher of the Bella, even if he’d killed Philip Gein to cover his back, why shouldn’t he be amiable? He didn’t know I was after him. He shouldn’t suspect it.

  But as we sat down – me on the leather sofa, which farted, and he on a rather beautiful chrome and leather chair which he’d cleared by picking up a pile of clothes and throwing them on top of an existing heap in the corner – I got the impression that he felt superior; that he was even, in a polite way, laughing at me.

  ‘Tell me what you want to know, what sort of thing you do,’ he said, ‘and I’ll answer your questions if I can.’

  I explained about noise and neighbours and the details that I usually checked out with property enquiries. ‘Surely most of that you do talking to other people, not the vendors themselves?’ he said.

  That was true, of course. I didn’t want to dwell on it, for obvious reasons, so I said something about how useful it was if the vendors were prepared to help, and how useful it had been talking to Jack last night, and how the noise from the trains was very intrusive, wasn’t it, and how did he cope?