by Tom Bale
‘I knew my parents would go ballistic. They’d envisaged sending me to uni, where I’d get a great degree, have a career, meet some lovely middle-class professional and deliver grandchildren at the appropriate time, and not a moment sooner.’
‘So you ran away? And Glenn took you in?’
‘Not exactly. I turned up here one night and announced that I was “with child”. Scared him half to death. His mum, bless her, gave me a place to stay and more or less forced Glenn to do the right thing.’
Joe nodded. It would be insensitive to suggest the relationship was doomed from the start, but that seemed to be the inference.
‘In time he came round to it. Obviously I know now that he had his little diversions whenever he wanted them. And his mum could see that I was a positive influence. I encouraged him to complete his apprenticeship, and after a few years to set up on his own.’
‘And what about you? Your plans for university?’
‘They went on hold.’ Ellie gave him a sad, wry smile. ‘I finally did the degree a few years ago, through the Open University. Not quite the debauched artistic melting pot I’d dreamt of, but hey. I had Alec, and I wouldn’t have exchanged him for anything. Life doesn’t always go the way you plan …’ She faltered, seeing something in Joe’s face that he didn’t know was there. ‘I suspect you’re probably the last person who needs to be told that.’
‘You could be right.’ Eager to change the subject, he said, ‘I see now why you feel so strongly about Alise and her sister.’
Ellie nodded. ‘I suppose my natural sympathies do lie more with Kamila. When Alise told me, all I could think was: Maybe she doesn’t want to speak to you. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. That’s incredibly painful for the family of a runaway to accept, but sometimes it’s true.’
‘You really believe Kamila could be intentionally ignoring her sister?’
‘Absolutely. Once you’ve made that break, it takes huge determination not to go crawling back home. A single phone call or text can be enough to demolish your resolve.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ Joe said. ‘Still, it’s academic now.’ He described the message he’d had from Alise. Before Ellie could seize on it as proof of her ‘cry wolf’ theory, he added: ‘And yet, the day before, she sent me the details of this guy that Kamila originally ran off with. Why do that and then abandon the search?’
Ellie was perplexed. ‘I agree. That makes no sense. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t see there’s a lot that I can do.’
‘If you’ve got this man’s details, there’s no reason why you couldn’t carry on making enquiries.’
‘Do you think I should?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ She tipped her glass slightly in his direction. ‘But I can sense that you want to, so I’m trying to make it easier for you to decide.’
Joe couldn’t help laughing. ‘You’re always two or three steps ahead of me. I don’t know. Maybe I will.’
Ellie sat up, had a gulp of wine. ‘Time to eat now. And open another bottle. Perhaps, through an alcoholic haze, the answers will become clear.’
Dinner was a delicious beef stifado with salad and French bread. They ate in the dining room, which had the feel of a room kept for special occasions. Lots of family portraits in here, including one of Ellie as a new mother, looking little more than a child herself.
‘I’ve been puzzling over the timeline,’ Joe said as they came to the end of the meal. ‘You and Glenn splitting up, Glenn going to work for Leon, and his affair with Diana. Did they all happen around the same time?’
‘And is there a link? That’s what you’re wondering.’ Ellie shut her eyes, sifting through her memory. ‘I think the job at the B&B came first, and obviously that’s when he met Diana.’
‘She and Roy had just moved here?’
‘Within the first year or so. The job went on for a few months, on and off. Then he was contracted to work at Leon’s home, so for a while he was going back and forth between them. And then he just announced one day that he was winding up the business and going to work for Leon.’
Joe nodded. That fitted perfectly with his hunch. ‘And it came as a shock?’
‘Absolutely. He’d worked so hard to make his business a success. Why throw it all away to become … I don’t know … arse-licker-in-chief to Leon Race?’
‘And he never gave you an explanation?’
‘At that stage we were barely talking. The marriage was well and truly on the rocks, even if I hadn’t found out about him and Diana.’
‘And nowadays,’ Joe said. ‘Looking back on it, do you understand it any more than you did at the time?’
‘Not really. I can only put it down to a kind of hero worship.’
‘Of Leon?’
Ellie nodded. ‘That was always the impression I got, even though Leon is five or six years younger than Glenn. And it applies to a lot of other people he employs, and the hangers-on. Creeps like Derek Cadwell and Councillor Rawle.’
‘But why?’ Joe asked. ‘What inspires such adoration?’
‘Now we’ve reached the million-dollar question, and I need pudding before embarking on a reply. What do you say?’
Joe patted his stomach, which had seemed full to bursting. Now he realised there was a tiny space he’d been reserving for a dessert.
‘Sounds good to me.’
Forty-Six
IT DIDN’T TAKE long till all three glasses were empty. A magical process, Victor thought. Osmosis or some shit like that.
Just reading the menu was a thrill, like a top-quality porn mag that hit all the right buttons. He was stuck on whether to order two main courses, though he also wanted a starter.
Without being asked, the waiter had brought him a selection of bread, which might have been home-baked, it tasted so fresh. The bread came with a couple of little bowls with liquid in them. At first he’d confused them with those bowls you use to clean your fingers, but then he realised they contained something edible. Oils of some kind. Tasty.
He devoured the lot, mopping up every last drop of oil and licking his fingers with noisy appreciation. He had one grimy forefinger stuck in his gob when the waiter reappeared. The smarmy smile wavered for a second.
‘Ready to order, sir?’
‘Yeah. I’ll start with pâté, then the salmon thing with pasta, but can I have the chicken with the wine sauce as well? Kind of a side dish?’
‘Of course, sir. Anything else?’
‘Chips.’ Vic winked. He was feeling warm, expansive. ‘Gotta have chips with a good pub meal, eh?’
‘And something else to drink?’
‘Yeah. Same again.’
‘Guinness, brandy and water?’
‘Don’t bother with the water.’
He watched the waiter glide away, and sighed contentedly. Around him the buzz of conversation went on, but it seemed curiously muted now, as though his brain was tuning it out. He sat back in his chair and stretched. He felt gloriously warm and comfortable and light-headed. No wonder: tipping booze into an empty stomach, chased by the bread and oil …
When he opened his eyes, the drinks were being placed in front of him.
‘Fucking great service—’ Whoops. Bit posh here for that sort of language.
‘Sorry,’ he said. The waiter had already moved away. Another one, a girl, was bringing him the pâté. He beamed, but she seemed to be concentrating on a spot just over his shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t advisable, a great big smile, when he had so many missing teeth. Better just to grin.
‘Thanks. Lovely.’ The words sounded slurred. He should eat this before he touched any more booze.
Except the brandy glass was empty. How the f--- did that happen?
Oh well. He picked up a knife, smeared pâté on a triangular sliver of toast. Get some proper grub inside him and he’d be fine. Clear his head, concentrate on what he came for.
The payday of his life. This was going to be his retirement fund, and with
it he fully intended to drink, smoke, snort, swallow and inject himself to death. Maybe he’d last a year, a year and a half. Go out early, but happy.
The pâté was incredible. Vic wished he’d eaten it more slowly, savoured it, but hey ho. It seemed like only two minutes after the plate was cleared away before the main course arrived, with the chicken on its own plate and a bowl full of chunky posh chips. There was another pint of Guinness. Another brandy, too.
Had he ordered those?
‘Jesus, you guys are quick off the mark,’ he told the waiter, who murmured his thanks. Vic wondered if everyone got this treatment, or was it just because of Leon Race?
He looked round the room, still full of people eating, drinking, talking. Still avoiding his eye. Certainly they all looked happy to be here, and why not? Great food, great service. There was just one tiny niggling worry, but he couldn’t for the life of him think what it was.
Never mind. The salmon next: light and fluffy, melting in his mouth. Even the vegetables were tasty, albeit very crunchy. He wasn’t used to food that required a lot of chewing; it made his jaw hurt. The chips went down easily enough, but the extra order of chicken defeated him. He had to give up halfway through.
Vic pushed the plate away, sat back and burped. Jesus, he felt stuffed. Like that feller from the Monty Python film. Not funny, though. He didn’t want to throw up in here, in front of all these people …
That niggle again. What was it?
He glanced at the door, then at his wrist. Old habits … He’d pawned his watch months ago. The waiter was hovering, ready to clear away; Vic beckoned him over.
‘All finished, sir?’
‘Yeah, but leave the chicken. I might have another go at it. What’s the time?’
‘Two minutes past ten, sir.’
‘Don’t suppose you know when …?’
There was a noise from across the room; the inner door opening. A gust of cold air blew through, because the outer door hadn’t closed in time. The waiter smiled.
‘Here he is now, sir.’
* * *
Now Victor knew what was niggling him, but there wasn’t time to think about it properly because Leon Race was striding towards him like he owned the place, big and bold, shoulders thrown back. Another man waddling behind him: Fenton, just as Leon had said. Fenton the money man. The paymaster.
That door hadn’t opened before now. Vic had been here nearly an hour and a half, and in that time no one else had come or gone …
Unless he’d missed it. He was pretty pissed, after all. But the place had been full when he’d arrived, and it was still full now. That seemed a bit weird.
Then Leon was standing over him. Taller and broader than Vic remembered from the only time they’d met before. Blond hair and a pink round face, like a chubby toddler. But the eyes didn’t belong to any toddler.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ Leon was squinting, as if searching his memory, but it struck a slightly false note.
‘Vic Smith. We met a few years ago, when I was working with Larry Milligan.’
‘You worked for Larry. That’s right.’ Leon looked at Fenton, who nodded, as though this was a pleasant chance meeting of old friends. It made Vic nervous, but he reminded himself that Leon had kept to his word: just him and Fenton, in a busy restaurant. And he certainly hadn’t stinted on the hospitality.
‘Sorry about the, er, deception, Mr Race,’ he said. ‘I just wasn’t sure how to, like, approach you without …’
Leon nodded away the apology. ‘I understand.’
‘And thanks for the meal. Best I’ve eaten in months.’
‘Yeah, nice little place here.’
‘Doing a roaring trade, as well.’ Vic gazed upon his fellow diners. Was it his imagination, or had it gone a lot quieter since Leon arrived?
‘This is my colleague, Clive Fenton,’ Leon said. ‘The big fat feller.’
Vic squirmed, but Fenton didn’t seem to take offence. They shook hands. Fenton’s grip was limp and moist. Leon’s wasn’t. Fenton took the seat to Vic’s left, Leon sat opposite. The waiter returned, and both men ordered water. Vic declined another drink. He felt breathless, a bit sick. Maybe he’d had enough for now.
He could always have one for the road later, a final brandy to celebrate.
They did a bit of small talk: stuff about Cornwall, Trelennan, the train service. The waiter delivered a carafe of water, ice cubes clinking busily against the glass. The noise set Vic’s teeth on edge. He winced, then realised it was being amplified by other high-pitched sounds: the clatter of crockery, the scrape of chairs on the wooden floor, like a whole class scratching their fingers down a blackboard.
At first he thought his ears must have been blocked up and had suddenly cleared, but it wasn’t that. All round the room, the other diners were getting to their feet. Every single one of them. At some tables the plates were cleared; at several there were desserts that looked virtually untouched. Glasses full of wine, just abandoned: a heartbreaking sight to a man who’d gone without for so long.
And apart from the clatter, it was being done in total silence. No one said a word. None of the diners acknowledged the fact that everybody else was leaving at the same time.
The doors opened and stayed open as forty or fifty people filed out. The temperature plummeted, but Leon and Fenton didn’t seem to notice. They sat and sipped their water. From behind the bar, the staff emerged with their coats on, everyone brisk and a little tense, as if responding to an alarm that Victor alone could not hear.
It was an evacuation.
Outside, cars revving up, all those fancy Mercs and Beemers. Rich fumes drifting inside. The gastro-pub was empty but for the three of them. The last man out was the waiter, but he didn’t shut the inner door. He held it open for the people coming in.
Three men. You didn’t have to be a genius to know they were Leon’s crew. One of them was strangely familiar. Vic had a feeling that he’d seen him on the platform at Birmingham.
The three men had jobs to do. Locking the doors. Closing the last few blinds. Leon and Fenton ignored them, the way Larry Milligan had once ignored Vic.
‘Now,’ Leon said, ‘what shoes are you wearing?’
‘Shoes?’ Vic was in shock. The alcohol was keeping the panic to a manageable level, but it was also dulling his responses. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight; knew he ought to be a lot more scared than he was.
‘What kind of shoes?’ Leon repeated.
Gripping the table for balance, Fenton eased his head down to have a look. ‘They’re boots.’
Vic nodded. ‘Timberlands.’ He was proud of those boots: the only decent item in his wardrobe. He’d stolen them from an upmarket gym a couple of years ago; some wealthy pillock in too much of a hurry to use the lockers.
‘Are they in good shape?’ Leon asked. ‘Any holes in ’em?’
‘No. They’re top-quality, Mr Race.’
Vic had decided he’d better start ingratiating himself. Maybe Leon was a pervert, a foot fetishist or whatever it was. The evening had taken such a strange turn, it felt like anything was possible now.
‘Good,’ Leon said. ‘So they won’t leak?’
Forty-Seven
DESSERT WAS A homemade chocolate hazelnut mousse with a raspberry coulis. Joe managed two helpings, to Ellie’s great amusement. Afterwards Ellie suggested coffee, but Joe said he was happy to wait a while. He wanted to hear about Leon Race.
‘All right. But you must have formed an opinion yourself?’
‘I’ve only been here a couple of days, but it’s certainly an impressive set-up. Way beyond what you’d expect from someone with his background.’ He mentioned the theory that Leon’s fondness for tracksuits and trainers were to remind people of his humble origins.?
‘I’d add another reason. Dressing as he does encourages people to underestimate him, which he can use to his advantage.’
‘True,’ Joe said. He recalled Patrick Davy making the same point.
‘
Part of Glenn’s fascination with him was to do with Leon’s childhood. The whole family were notorious. You know how the media sometimes get hysterical about “neighbours from hell”? Well, the Races were like a textbook example. Leon was the youngest child. One of three, I think, but far and away the worst. He was always tall for his age, and terrorised his classmates virtually from the beginning. Tall and strong and fearlessly aggressive.’
‘The big fish in a small pond,’ Joe murmured. A shark.
‘Exactly. By the age of nine or ten he was out of control. Kids of fifteen or sixteen running scared of him. But he was really smart, too. Not in a conventional sense – schools couldn’t hope to control him, much less interest him in the curriculum.’
‘Streetwise?’
‘Yes, but more than that. Glenn says he’s brilliant with numbers. A very sharp brain. But his real skill in those days was in avoiding getting caught. Even when he did he somehow managed to talk his way out of trouble.’
‘Hence a clean record,’ Joe said, ‘thereby enabling him to work in the security industry.’
Ellie nodded. ‘Some time in his mid to late teens he got his act together. Went off somewhere and came back a couple of years later, having transformed himself into this calm, focused entrepreneur.’
‘Any idea what happened to cause the transformation?’
‘Afraid not. If Glenn knows, he’s never said. And it wasn’t quite that obvious, to be honest. Leon’s first foray into business was with door security, providing bouncers for pubs and clubs along the coast. The big step-up came when he took over a taxi firm here in town.’
‘Ah. Patrick Davy mentioned that, as well as the methods Leon used to persuade the owner to sell up.’
‘Harassment?’ Ellie said. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘Does all your knowledge come from Glenn, or are Leon’s practices known to the whole town?’