Chapter 10
The next morning was Thursday. Amelia greeted me more enthusiastically than usual when I arrived at the office.
‘Guess what? Lady Jane has been on the phone! We’ve got that invitation at last to the gig in Liverpool. It’s a week tomorrow, Friday, and she’s on the way in for a chat. How about that?’
‘Um, it’s a bit short notice. I’d more or less forgotten about it. Will I have to dress down?’
‘Don’t be a pillock! Just don’t wear your normal suit. Jeans are OK, and a shirt. It’s warm. You’ll be fine.’
‘Jeans it is, then, assuming it’s still warm a week on Friday,’ I finished.
The doorbell rang. It was Lady Jane, and Amelia scurried off to make coffee as she was on the way up. I answered the door and greeted her accordingly, bringing her into my office. Pleasantries over, Amelia appeared with coffee and biscuits. Jane passed over our tickets and said we should meet at the bar inside, fifteen minutes before the band was scheduled to start at 9.30. I wanted to ask whether she had had anything else stolen, but left it until the gig talk was over.
‘What has happened about the bass player?’ Amelia enquired.
‘Apparently, an old friend of Brian’s has agreed to do it, but I don’t know for sure. Matt says Brian phoned him and once he knew, he was adamant that he was a far better bass player and would be back in time to play the gig, so I don’t exactly know who in fact will play. I suppose Julian will make the final decision.’
‘That makes sense,’ I agreed. ‘By the way, have you had any more jewellery taken?’
‘No, strangely enough. It’s as though he’s turned over a new leaf.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Amelia said.
‘Indeed,’ I agreed.
We chatted about other things before Jane left. When she had gone, Amelia asked, ‘What do you make of that then?’
‘I must admit it seems strange that he should suddenly stop,’ I concurred.
We went silent, mulling things over, when the phone disturbed our contemplation. I answered, and it was Bill Lambert.
With no niceties, he got straight to the point. ‘You got anything for me on the canal boat?’
‘Er, as of now, to be honest, no. Still working on it.’
‘Don’t be too long,’ he said abruptly, hanging up.
More coffee appeared. ‘Who was that?’ Amelia asked.
‘Bill Lambert. He is getting a bit impatient in respect of Elvis’s boat.’
‘You’d think they would be able to find it themselves pretty quickly these days, wouldn’t you, with all their technology?’
‘Yeah, sure, but it would normally be a person they would be seeking as opposed to a narrowboat, and if a person doesn’t want to be found, they can ditch computers and mobiles, put on a bit of a disguise, and so on. The boat itself… well, we’ve had this conversation already, haven’t we? Did you check with the Canal and Waterways Trust? Particularly where they have an office we could pay a visit to, maybe get some inspiration from?’
‘Yes, I’ll get the list, but some of them are only manned part-time by volunteers.’
‘OK,’ I said, clicking on a computer map showing canals, to try and figure out where Brian Hampson may have travelled to. His reason for travelling to wherever was going to prove another matter entirely.
***
At that precise moment, Brian was very concerned about Matt, the Streetsound drummer. He knew he would be panicking and likely to do something stupid if he could not get hold of his fence. He would have to call Matt to advise of his own incognito status, despite Matt then knowing his new mobile number. He decided to risk it. He could always discard the phone and get another cheap pay-as-you-go later in the day. He made the call.
‘Matt Neville,’ said Matt when he answered the phone. He pronounced it Neveel – an affectation that always annoyed Brian. Matt sounded stressed and edgy, which irked him even more.
‘It’s me,’ said Brian.
‘Fuckin’ hell, mate! Where the fuckin’ hell have you been? I’ve been shitting myself, holding on to all this stuff!’
‘Calm down, calm down. I had to lie low for a while, what with Jake being found dead on my boat and all that, but I’m sorting things out if you could just hang onto the stuff for a bit longer.’
‘A bit longer? A bit longer? What the fuck’s a bit longer? I can’t leave the stuff in my hotel room, can I? And Jane has already asked why I’m suddenly carting a handbag around,’ Matt complained.
‘No, I suppose not,’ Brian acknowledged, pausing a moment before asking, ‘did you find a bass player yet?’
‘Well, Julian said he had. Can’t remember his name now, though. He said it was an old mate of yours.’
‘An old mate of mine?’ Brian echoed. ‘Did he say where from?’
‘Yeah, said he was local and not getting much work right now. He’s only playing occasionally in a few small pubs and clubs, so he was available.’
‘That can only be Lefty – Phil Harris. Thinks he’s Paul McCartney, ’cos he plays left-handed. Bloody hell! I could always play bass better than old Lefty.’
‘Well, you need to get yourself back sharpish, then, don’t you? And what about the stuff?’
‘Just a few days more, I promise, and I’ll be back.’
‘Make sure you are,’ said Matt said menacingly. ‘I’ve had enough and want out. You’ll have to get somebody else.’
‘I said I’ll be back in a few days. Keep calm!’
‘It’s alright for you to say. You’re not holding the stuff. Does Julian know where you are?’
‘Not yet. Tell him I’ll call him. See you soon,’ Brian advised, relieved to be ending the call.
Brian felt a tad miffed about the replacement, but wised up immediately, reflecting on his other far more serious problems – i.e. his current stash of fenced diamonds and jewels, now retrieved from the safety deposit and hidden back on the boat. Also, he had not yet worked out how to explain to Greater Manchester Police his sudden departure from Castlefield, but by far his most urgent problem was that Matt was losing it. He would have to do something about it.
Glowering at the phone in his hand after Brian hung up, Matt himself didn’t need to be told he was losing it. He was tiring of Lady Jane and being at her beck and call, and was looking for the right moment to call it a day with the fencing of jewellery to Brian Hampson. The drug scene was also worrying him. Julian had already warned him about his habit, and it could soon jeopardise his place in the band if he failed to bring it under control. It had worsened since a new supplier, Lenny Mack from Liverpool, had muscled in and frightened off the original supplier. Mack was scary, unpredictable and violent, and was always pushing for Matt to buy more drugs in one go. Matt had tried to resist, but had seen for himself the beatings and broken bones for getting on the wrong side of Lenny. He promised himself that after this current tour was over in three weeks he would go back to Edinburgh and get cleaned up. Checking his hiding place in the bottom of a suitcase, there was enough for one more fix. Then he would stop.
***
I’m staring at a Canal and River Trust map that I had just printed out when Amelia popped back in with a list of their offices.
‘It’s not as simple as you would think, as it’s divided up into geographic areas. But of course, canals can go through more than one area, so I had to do a bit of cutting and pasting to make it simple.’
‘Simple for me,’ I joked.
‘Not exactly,’ she retorted. ‘But there are more canals than you would imagine, and we don’t know which direction he’s gone in.’
‘That’s why I went the map route.’
Amelia glanced down at the map on my desk. ‘That looks a bit like the London underground to me,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know, but it’s a schematic diagram of all the canals in the Manchester and Pennine area – all twelve of them. It’s a starting point. We can go and see an actual Google map and of course zoom in and out, onc
e we decide which direction he might have gone.’
‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘I think I understand, but that is just basically for Manchester?’
‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘The other areas will have their own maps. What have you got for offices?’
Sitting down, she placed the list facing towards me. Her organised mind had mirrored my own, and the first area shown was Manchester and Pennine, which had three offices: Stoke-on-Trent, Stalybridge, and Huddersfield. The next region on the list of offices was the North West, with offices in Wigan and Bradford. The schematic map was similar, and again not immediately helpful. Both the maps and the list gave the impression that it was possible to travel from Castlefield in the centre of Manchester to all points of the compass, although perhaps via several intervening canals.
‘And I thought this was going to be a five-minute job,’ she sighed.
‘No such thing,’ I answered. ‘Let’s have a break.’
Amelia went off to get us some lunch while I paced around and stared out the window, seeing nothing, as I pondered on how a boat could just disappear and why Brian Hampson felt he had to disappear with it, and of course where, had he gone. My thoughts drifted from the Streetsound Liverpool gig to Rebecca, who I had not yet called. Amelia didn’t know about her yet, so I picked up the phone while she was still out.
‘Rebecca Storm,’ she answered in a professional tone, making me nervous. I realised I didn’t know what she did for a living.
‘Afternoon, it’s me,’ I answered. ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient.’
‘Not at all.’ If I wasn’t much mistaken, the tone softened, becoming almost silky. ‘I was wondering if you had changed your mind.’
‘Certainly not!’ I replied quickly. ‘Are you at work? Have you got time to talk?’
‘Of course, I have.’ She paused. ‘For you,’ she murmured.
Now I was embarrassed, but there was no point messing about. We both knew why I was ringing, so it was best to get straight to the point. ‘When can we meet, then?’ I ask in my best leading man’s tone.
‘I’m busy over the weekend but OK Tuesday or Wednesday. How about you come around and I’ll cook? 7.15 OK?’
‘Fantastic! Tuesday is fine by me. Let me get a pen.’ I noted down the address. ‘Got it. See you Tuesday, then.’ I went back to the window and saw clearly what I had been too preoccupied to notice just minutes before: a vista of colour in the street scene as people scurried about, a clear blue sky with birds wheeling above. I couldn’t hear their song, but hey, my day was much improved!
Amelia arrived back with lunch. ‘Whistling and humming, are we? What’s happened to lighten your mood?’
I wasn’t about to announce it, but Amelia is very shrewd, so I confessed.
‘I’m very pleased,’ she says in her auntie voice. She opened a bag and produced a foot-long ham, salami and salad French baton from Subway, placing it on my desk.
‘I can’t manage all that,’ I protested.
‘It’s to share!’ she corrected.
An hour or so passed without event before Amelia asked, ‘How are we going to arrange for a week tomorrow evening, then?’
‘Oh! I’ll pick you up, of course.’
Amelia was about to speak again when the phone rang. She picked up and listened for a minute. ‘Bear with me a moment,’ she said, putting a hand over the receiver. ‘Got a lady on the line. Says she was recommended by… I didn’t get the name. Can we help with a missing person case? She lives in Stockport. Can she come by later?’
‘I wonder who recommended us.’ I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes past three. ‘Can she make four o’clock?’
Amelia relays the time to the caller before replacing the handset. ‘She’s on her way. We’ve got tea and coffee, but we’re out of biscuits, so I’ll nip out quick.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Oh! Alison Johnson.’
‘Right, you’d better go, then. I’ll tidy up a bit, make the place look more like a professional outfit.’
Amelia smirked as she headed out the door, leaving me to ponder. This new scenario took my mind off Rebecca and the dubious excitements of lost boats and canals. I cleared my desk and tidied up – a bit. My mind wandered and then the phone rang again. I was still on the phone when Amelia returned with a box of assorted biscuits. Pushing the boat out, I thought, putting the phone down.
‘Who was that?’ she asked, noting my change of mood.
‘Bloody bank manager. We’re overdrawn again.’
‘How much?’
‘£500,’ I answer glumly.
‘And the manager rung up for that? It doesn’t seem worth the trouble.’
‘Well, it wasn’t actually the manager, only some underling from the team. They say they sent an e-mail yesterday.’
‘Oh! Shit, sorry,’ Amelia admitted. ‘They did. I forgot to tell you.’
‘Thanks, great.’
‘What’s next?’ she asked, looking a little shame-faced.
‘I said we’d be banking a grand by next Tuesday.’
‘Where’s that coming from?’
‘Well, there’s Bill Lambert tomorrow, and let’s hope this lady brings her cheque book for an advance.’
At five minutes to four, there was a knock on the door. Amelia did the necessary, and shortly afterwards Alison Johnson, a tanned lady in her forties, entered clutching a Prada handbag and carrying a Marks and Spencer shopping bag. Blonde, tall and slim, she was wearing a dark green business suit with a cream-coloured blouse and black heels. Shaking hands, I introduced myself and Amelia, and waved the lady to a chair. Placing her bags on the floor she smoothed down her skirt before taking a seat. She paused and tried to speak, but there was no sound. Tears flowed, her head dropped and she sobbed uncontrollably. Emotion filled the room. I was struggling, and Amelia wiped away a sympathetic tear. I nodded for her to bring in some refreshments. I felt less than useless, but fortunately the return of Amelia and the rattle of cups relieved the situation. Alison recovered sufficiently to wipe away her tears and raise her head to nod for whatever was presented.
‘It’s strong tea,’ Amelia stated. ‘With sugar.’ It was the typical English panacea for such situations, and it seemed to work: a minute later, she began to talk.
‘It’s my daughter, Tina. I can’t seem to get in touch with her. She’s twenty and we usually speak at least once a week, although I have been away on business for a few days. Her older brother has also tried to contact her but with no success.’
‘You say you’ve been away?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I travel every so often. I arrange conferences for a cosmetic surgeon: me and my team book the venue, send out invitations, book hotels, and organise the conference arrangements, including some willing participants to demonstrate the procedures. This last one was in Dubai. I got back expecting the police to have some information by now, but nothing.’
‘How long has Tina been missing?’ Amelia gently asked.
‘Two weeks. I’ve left messages, her brother has left messages, and we have been around to her apartment, but there is no sign of anything untoward.’
‘She doesn’t live at home, then?’ I stated the obvious, feeling stupid.
‘She’s studying maths at university in Manchester. It is possible to travel, but she wanted her independence. She started out in halls of residence, but we helped out with financing for the flat she shares with two girls, and they don’t know anything either.’
‘Have there been any arguments, disagreements, about a boyfriend or whatever?’ I asked.
‘No, nothing. Last time we spoke, a fortnight or so ago, everything appeared to be normal.’
‘What about her father?’ Amelia asked tentatively.
‘Divorced,’ she answered, somewhat curtly.
‘Ah!’ Amelia nodded.
‘You said you were expecting something back from the police when you returned from your trip to Dubai?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I phoned and they c
ame around to my apartment. Their view seems to be that she’s over eighteen, and just one of many young adults who are reported missing. They think she’ll turn up soon, having moved in with a boyfriend or something.’
‘Has she had many boyfriends?’ Amelia asked.
‘Two or three over the last few years, but none long-term.’
‘I’m sure we could spend more time on this than the police are able,’ I said, glancing over at Amelia.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Amelia agreed. ‘Perhaps if we could also have a look at the apartment first and have another meeting with you…? Would her flatmates be happy with that?’
‘I think so. They’re obviously very concerned.’
‘Do you have a recent photo of Tina?’ Amelia asked.
Alison delved into her handbag and retrieved a snapshot, which she handed over to Amelia. ‘This was taken a few weeks ago on her brother’s birthday. I can let you have some more if you need them.’
‘That would be useful,’ I confirmed.
Amelia passed the snapshot over to me. It was a family shot of mother Alison, Tina and her brother sitting at a table in a Chinese restaurant.
‘Chinatown?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, the Yang Sing, right in the centre of Manchester,’ she nodded.
Tina had auburn hair with a fringe, and was wearing spectacles while holding a menu. Dressed in a bright red top, she looked stunning, though the table unfortunately obscured any further view. ‘Does she normally wear spectacles?’ I queried.
‘Only for small print and some menus. Those are my reading glasses.’
‘She’s beautiful,’ I observed. ‘Any distinguishing features?’
‘She does have a scar on her top lip, from a cycling accident as a child. It’s hardly noticeable now, though. She was trying to keep up with the boys and riding too fast downhill, just as a delivery van pulled out from a row of shops right in front of her. She broke a tooth also, and had to have a crown fixed, but you can’t tell.’
Caught in a Trap Page 6