Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Sign of health,’ he said. ‘You’re acceptin’ it, see?’

  I suppose I am, Alison thought. Somehow or other this wedding had unlocked her emotions, giving her back the capacity to feel – not just anger but laughter, affection, and now, as they swayed to the music, a sudden, unbidden shiver of desire.

  She moved against him, enjoying it. It was such pleasure to be in his arms, cheek to cheek, like this, knowing they would end the evening in bed. Such pleasure.

  ‘Cariad,’ he said, holding her closer, in the flickering darkness, under cover of all the other dancers.

  She kissed his mouth, briefly but lovingly. ‘I’m glad you’re not going to Spain until the day after tomorrow,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A sharp rain was falling as Morgan drove into Fuengirola. The place was a monochrome version of its sunlit self, the white apartment blocks bleak against a sky heaped with dark evening clouds, the Mediterranean grey-green and sullen. But the Sedeno was open and welcoming. Morgan booked in, had a wash and a meal. Then he huddled into his winter jacket and set off to Fred’s bar to make his first enquiries.

  While he’d been dining, the rain had stopped and the street lights had been lit. Their sudden brightness blacked out the wintry evening and dropped patterns of colour to shine and shimmer on the wet pavements. There were very few people about and although Fred’s bar was much the same as he remembered, it was completely without custom. Fred stood beside the bead curtain, polishing glasses so as to appear busy.

  He hadn’t seen Rigg Toan for about a year, he said, as he served Morgan his brandy. He didn’t know whether there was anyone in his apartment.

  ‘Kids come in and outa here all the time when the sun shines,’ he said. ‘We get to know the regulars – guys like Rigg – but most of my trade is kinda transient, I guess.’

  ‘Well cheers,’ Morgan said, enjoying the brandy as it spread warmth through his throat and chest. No luck here. Perhaps he’d find something out at the apartment block.

  This time, thanks to Alison, he knew the number of the flat so it didn’t take him long to find it. He half expected the place to be empty, but there were lights in the window and sounds of music. He rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged man with a Midlands accent. He was wearing brightly patterned shorts and a T-shirt as though it was the height of summer, and he looked puzzled to find a Welshman on his doorstep.

  ‘I’m lookin’ for a man called Rigby Toan,’ Morgan explained.

  ‘Never heard of ’im.’

  ‘He used to own this apartment.’

  ‘Can’t help you,’ the man said. ‘Like I told you. I never heard of ’im.’

  ‘I hope you won’t mind me askin’,’ Morgan said. ‘Do you own the apartment now, like?’

  ‘Come in,’ the man said. ‘It’s too bloody cold standin’ out here. No I don’t own it. We rented it, didn’t we Mabel.’

  Mabel was a plump lady in a crimplene dress and carpet slippers. ‘For a fortnight,’ she said. ‘£400. Christmas holiday. We thought it was a bargain but it was ever so dirty. Are you from the agency?’

  ‘No,’ Morgan said, producing one of his new cards. ‘I’m a detective. I’m looking for the owner.’

  ‘Oooh!’ the woman said. ‘How exciting. Isn’t that exciting Ossie? What’s he done? Do sit down.’

  Morgan looked round the flat, mentally making notes. The chairs were made of pine and thickly upholstered, but the table had been scored with a knife and although the walls were draped with Christmas decorations he could see that they were marked and stained. This has been a holiday let for quite a long time, he thought. ‘Could you tell me how you came to hear of this place?’

  ‘Advertisement,’ Ossie said. ‘Windford Chronicle, wasn’t it Mabel.’

  ‘You got a phone number then, or an address?’ Morgan asked.

  ‘Yes. We did.’

  ‘You don’t happen to remember them, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Ossie said, shaking his head. ‘We paid by cheque, you see.’

  ‘And they sent you a key?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘By post?’

  ‘Right again.’

  ‘So you got to return it?’ This is better. Now I’m on to somethin.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mabel said. ‘We got to return it. They sent a stamped addressed envelope.’

  ‘And you’ve got that at home somewhere,’ Morgan said, preparing to accept a disappointment.

  ‘No,’ Mabel said, beaming at him. ‘I got it here. In my vanity bag. Stay there an’ I’ll get it for you.’

  It was addressed to a woman. ‘Mrs Silvester, 87 Moor End, Cogglesford, Nr. Manchester.’

  So he’s sold it, Morgan thought. That won’t please Mr Shearing. Won’t help the creditors either. Still at least I got an address. It might not amount to anything, but it’s a start. Suddenly, he was full of energy, eager to get on with the hunt.

  ‘Cheers!’ he said.

  Back at the Sedeno, he made two brief phone calls. The first was to Barbara’s home number to report progress.

  ‘Glad you rang,’ she said. ‘Your Mr Shearing’s been on again this afternoon. He’s going to bring an action to bankrupt Mr Toan. We’re commissioned to find him and to serve documents.’

  ‘Marvellous!’ Morgan said. ‘Just what I wanted to hear.’ And he rang Alison to tell her the good news.

  ‘So what next?’ she asked.

  ‘Next Cogglesford,’ he said, ‘as soon as I can get a flight back.’

  As she put the phone down, Alison felt horribly lonely without him.

  She drifted about the empty house, needlessly plumping up plump cushions and straightening straight curtains. The kids were in bed and asleep and she’d turned off the TV when the phone rang. She’d taken down the Christmas decorations that afternoon and the rooms looked empty and bereft. Even the kitchen felt unused. The washing up was done and put away, the oven was clean, the worksurfaces washed down. In fact if it hadn’t been for a pile of papers on top of one of the units it would have looked clinical. She reached up idly to remove the papers and put the final tidy touch to the place. And saw that it was one of Morgan’s files.

  Whatever made him leave it up there? she wondered. That’s not like him. Then she turned it over and saw that it was a file on R. Toan. Curiosity aroused, she took it through into the living room, made herself comfortable on the sofa and began to read it. It contained the list of creditors her mother had shown her, and alongside every section, there were notes and comments in Morgan’s sprawling handwriting.

  ‘Three mortgages, ’he’d written. ‘Is A liable? For all or any? Check with Abbey Nat.’ ‘Second charges. Has he hung this on A? Check.’ And at the foot of the page. ‘Are there any other charges that could concern A?’ Are there? she wondered, feeling cold at the thought. Surely there aren’t any more debts for me to face. But Morgan was worried about it and, what was worse, he’d hidden his concern. There’s nothing for it, she thought. I must find out if I am liable. It was a joint mortgage, so it’s possible. I’ll phone the Abbey National tomorrow and make an appointment to see someone about it when I come home from work.

  The Abbey National office was full of people that afternoon, bustling in and out of the automatic door, queuing beside the counters, sitting at various desks, bulky in their winter coats, talking to young women in slim blue uniforms.

  But Alison’s interview was in a quiet, uncluttered room and the manager was a woman – which she found encouraging.

  ‘I have the details of your case here,’ the manager said. ‘How can I help you?’

  Alison looked at the computer screen and there it all was – both of their names, the Shore Street address, the value of their mortgages, something headed ‘Negative Equity.’ ‘It’s been sold then?’ she said.

  It had and there was a considerable shortfall.

  ‘Am I liable for it?’

  ‘T
he mortgages were taken out in both your names, so yes. You are liable. Jointly and severally.’

  ‘Could you tell me how much?’

  It was £24,000. Dear God! Alison thought. It can’t possibly be that much. It gave her such a shock she had to swallow hard before she could bring herself to speak. ‘There’s no way I could pay that,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got twenty four pounds, leave alone twenty four thousand.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me for asking,’ the manager said. ‘I don’t mean to pry into your affairs. But are you and your husband separated?’

  ‘I’m filing for divorce,’ Alison said, ‘but we’re still technically married at the moment.’

  ‘He’s in voluntary arrangement, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a court case pending. His insolvency consultant’s going to make him bankrupt. He’s been on the run from his creditors for nearly two years.’

  ‘Is he working?’

  ‘I don’t know what he’s doing. He’s a very secretive man.’

  ‘Properties in possession will contact him,’ the manager said. ‘And then we shall see how to proceed.’ She gave Alison a curiously searching look. ‘You know there’s a second charge on this property?’

  ‘Yes. With the Wessex and Camelot. But it was only for three thousand pounds.’

  ‘Um,’ the manager said. ‘I’d check that if I was you. Have you seen the bank manager recendy?’

  ‘No,’ Alison said, her heart sinking like a stone.

  ‘Take my advice. Make an appointment.’

  The manager of the Camelot and Wessex told her he was pleased to see her. ‘It’s been quite a while,’ he said, when she was ushered in. ‘I hope you are well. Do please take a seat. How may I help you?’

  Alison took Morgan’s file from her shopping bag and opened it at the list of creditors. ‘There’s something here I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I thought you might be able to explain it.’

  ‘If I can be of any service.’

  ‘The last time we met was when Rigg and I came to see you about a loan of £3,000.’

  ‘Correct,’ Mr Drury said. ‘I have the file.’ And he patted it by way of confirmation.

  ‘The thing is … on this list … Well it says Rigg owes you £18,000. Is it some mistake?’

  ‘No, Mrs Toan,’ Mr Drury said sadly. ‘No mistake, I’m afraid. That is the sum that you and your husband owe to the bank. In fact, it’s rather more than that. There are interest charges you see.’

  Alison could feel her heart falling through her chest for the second time that day. So it was true. And he’d said ‘you and your husband.’ Dear God. ‘But how has it grown from £3,000 to £18,000?’ she asked. Inside her head she was urging him, please, please, look again. Tell me it’s some kind of mistake.

  ‘Your husband increased the loan,’ Mr Drury explained. ‘Did he not tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked so bleak, sitting before him in the pale sunshine filtering through his striped curtains, that Mr Drury was full of pity for her. But commerce was commerce. There was nothing he could do to help her, no matter how much he might pity her.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said. ‘In addition to the £3,000 we borrowed in the first place, he took another £15,000.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So we owe £3,000 between us and he owes £15,000.’

  ‘No,’ Mr Drury corrected. ‘The total debt now stands at £18,000 plus interest and you are both liable for it “jointly and severally”. The bank accepted equity in the matrimonial home, as you remember, but now I’m afraid there is negative equity on the property, since its repossession. I’m afraid you and your husband are liable for the debt of £18,000 “jointly and severally”.’

  ‘But I didn’t know he was increasing the loan,’ Alison protested.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that is immaterial,’ Mr Drury told her. ‘You are still liable.’

  Jointly and severally, Alison thought. He milked that house for every penny he could get out of it and now I’m not just responsible for the shortfall on the mortgage, I’ve got this loan to pay on top of everything else. Dear God! How could he have been so cruel? I wouldn’t have done that to my worst enemy, let alone to someone I was supposed to love. I can’t go on pretending it was just bad luck. He knew what he was doing, so he must have done it deliberately. He went on borrowing and he didn’t tell me, because he knew that in the end I would have to pay. He was free to spend the money – on that bloody BMW and clothes and God alone knows what else – because he knew that when things got rough he could run away and hide and I’d be left to face his creditors. He told me all those lies about it being the recession and about other people doing him down, and all the time he was taking money from anybody he could con out of it, and cheating me, setting me up to be his fall guy. In that moment, sitting in that peaceful office, with its cut flowers and its stripy curtains, she knew that she was capable of hatred and that she hated Rigby Toan.

  Manchester was dark and damp that afternoon, and full of traffic. But Morgan set about his work there cheerfully and immediately, just as he’d done in Fuengirola, hiring a car and booking in at a cheap hotel. Then he bought a local road map and drove straight out to Cogglesford. He was tired and he was hungry but appetite would have to wait until he’d seen the lie of the land.

  Moor End was hard to find in smoky darkness and unfamiliar streets, but when he finally drove up alongside the gate of number 87, it turned out to be an impressive house, red-brick, detached, and with a long front garden half hidden by a hedge of privet and laurel. Whoever she was, Mrs Silvester certainly had the money to buy that flat. The signs of wealth were all there, large garage, new double glazing, burglar alarms under the eaves.

  There were no lights on in the house, except a courtesy lamp by the front door. And no sound from it either. Morgan consulted his watch. Past eight o’clock, so it looked as though she was out for the evening. He was just planning to go and get himself something to eat and come back at closing time, when a classy Peugeot purred up the road and pulled in through the gates.

  Two occupants – one male, one female – male driving, Morgan observed. Stumpy legs in high-heeled shoes emerging from the passenger seat. The man leaping from the car, slamming the door, one arm full of parcels.

  ‘Have you got everything?’ the woman’s voice called.

  ‘I’ll come back for the booze,’ the man called back. The voice was familiar. Was it? Could it be? Then he turned to face the woman under the courtesy lamp and it was Rigby Toan. No doubt about it. Rigby Toan in a classy suit, looking fit and well-fed and full of himself. Gotcher!

  The woman had to be Mrs Silvester. She certainly held the key – in every sense of the phrase. Rigg had to wait on the doorstep until she opened the door.

  ‘Come on, Carmen!’ he called. ‘It’s cold out here.’

  Morgan watched as the couple walked into the house, switching on lights as they went. Does he live with her? he wondered. And if he does, is he trading? He could be using her name as a cover. That would be interesting. There was no question of going off for a meal now. The most he could manage would be a quick take-away. The vigil had to be kept.

  And a very long vigil it turned out to be. The lights stayed on in the house until nearly two o’clock in the morning. Nobody came in or out. There were only the faintest sounds of pop music when a door was opened somewhere at the rear. Once he saw the woman, briefly, as she came to an upstairs window to draw the curtains. The downstairs lights went out, there was a glow at the landing window and lights were lit in a bedroom. One bedroom? There was no way of telling, as he couldn’t see the back of the house. The glow disappeared, the lights went out and now the house seemed to be in darkness.

  He waited another half an hour, chill and stiff-legged in the confines of his car. Then he eased himself out of the driving seat, stretched, closed the car door with the merest click and crossed the road to give the entire house the once-over.


  It was easy enough to get in, just a simple catch on the wooden gate at the side of the house and he was in the back garden. No lights anywhere. No sign of life. They were both in bed. Now and at last he could drive back to the hotel and catch up on some sleep.

  He was back on watch at eight o’clock the next morning, breakfasted and with a morning newspaper to keep him entertained, but unshaven and still tired. He was just in the nick of time. He’d hardly had a chance to read more than the headlines when the door opened and the woman came out. She looked brisk and businesslike in a tailored suit and a long swing coat. Off to the garage, checking things in her handbag, and then the car was out and she’d driven away, leaving Rigg still in the house.

  The vigil continued. Nine o’clock, ten o’clock, half past. He likes his sleep. Finally, at a few minutes before eleven, the gentleman emerged from the house, yawning and blinking in the sunshine. He was wearing jeans and a blue sweater under a denim jacket. So he keeps a change of clothes here.

  Morgan watched as he ambled out of the drive and headed off towards the centre of town. It would be hard to follow him in such a quiet road without other traffic to mask his presence, and another car didn’t arrive to provide cover until his quarry was almost at the end of the road. But he need not have worried. Rigg was in no hurry and was easy to trail.

  Morgan followed him all day, first to a café for breakfast, then to Lawton Street for a browse among the shops, then to a boutique called Carmen – what else? – where he waited for nearly an hour while Mrs Silvester talked to a customer. Then the two of them took a very long lunch, and after that Rigg walked slowly back to the house and let himself in. So he has got a key.

  There was no need to watch any longer. Now it was simply a matter of sending a fax to Harvey Shearing. ‘Toan found. He is living at 87 Moor End with Mrs Carmen Silvester. Please send documents to the above address. I will serve them a.s.a.p.’

  Then he phoned Alison.

  ‘I’ve found the bugger,’ he said.

  ‘Brilliant!’ she said. And told him what she’d found out at the bank and the building society.