by Isla Dewar
Good times bumping along in the back of the van, singing Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran and Buddy Holly. It had been grand to swagger into a pub, girls in blue jeans and leather jackets, and demand pints in straight glasses. They’d revelled in the stiff disapproving silence they’d always provoked. Grace never joined in. She was a gin and tonic girl. ‘C’mon,’ Martha would say, ‘have a pint. Join the lads.’
‘I’m not a lad,’ Grace would reply, ‘and I never will be.’
Martha sniffed and wondered if Grace had not in fact been right.
Wendy Jenkins wasn’t like the other women Martha had spoken to. Her voice was softer. It lacked the hard edge of a woman who was sure of herself. Wendy Jenkins didn’t hide behind an accent. Her guard wasn’t up. ‘The what?’ she said.
‘The Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau. We’re looking for Chrissie Lewis.’
‘Oooh, Chrissie. Funny you should phone about her, I saw her the other day. I thought she was missing.’
‘As far as I know, she is. Where did you see her?’
‘She was in the Grassmarket. Just walking along. I was in the car. I tooted and waved. She waved back. I tried to stop, but by the time I found a parking place and walked back to talk to her she was gone. No sign of her.’
‘Are you sure it was her?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d recognise her anywhere. We were best friends.’
‘Have you any idea where she might be staying?’
‘Not a clue. She’s hardly likely to be with Ted, though. Not after what she did.’
‘What did she do?’
‘Well, Chrissie fell in love with some diplomat or minor foreign aristocrat she met at a reception. She was smitten. Said she didn’t know she could feel the way she did. Love was new to her.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I was dubious. I mean, he was quite a bit younger than her. Anyway, the rumour was she emptied Ted’s bank account and ran off with her new love.’
‘Goodness.’ Martha noted Ted hadn’t mentioned this. ‘What was the diplomat’s name?’
‘Paul.’
‘Paul what?’
‘Don’t know. Chrissie never said. I have to go. I’m due at work in half an hour.’ She hung up.
Quarter to two, Martha slipped on Murphy’s lead. Time for a late lunchtime walk. It was a perfect day. Sun on water, sand warm under her feet when she pulled off her shoes to walk along the shore. She threw sticks and watched Murphy plunge after them. She stared out at the horizon – waves and sparkle, ships silhouetted black slipping by. A light wind drifted against her face, lifted her hair. She smiled.
She lingered. Her mind emptied. She relaxed. Maybe for a whole two minutes before her pleasantly vacant head filled with all the questions she should have asked. What sort of minor aristocracy? A prince? A count? And where from? Where did Chrissie and the minor aristocrat run off to? And what time of day did Wendy see Chrissie in the Grassmarket? It was humming with tourists in daylight hours, but at night it was no place for a woman alone. It wasn’t safe. Had Chrissie been alone?
She considered Murphy pattering beside a retrieved stick, eager for it to be thrown again. He was soaked. He’d dashed out of the sea and shaken himself – a vibrant silvery spray, sea and sand, had splattered her. She put her hand to her mouth. She hadn’t been clever. ‘So much I didn’t say. Things I didn’t ask. God, I’m a seriously lousy detective. And look at me, a lousy dog walker, too.’
The best plan was to take Murphy back to her home, dry them both before returning to work.
The house was empty. Martha found an old towel and dried the dog. She changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt, the only clean clothes she could find. Everything else was heaped in the laundry basket. Sophie had abandoned all household duties while she perfected her masterpiece Mona Lisa cake. Martha looked at her watch. Half-past two, the cake would now be delivered and swooned over. Sophie would have been congratulated, praised and, Martha hoped, paid. Now she’d be on her way home, in time to collect Evie from school.
In fact Sophie was on her knees on the pavement. The cake was splattered in ruins before her. She was bleeding and weeping. A small crowd had gathered round her. Nose running, mascara seeping down her cheeks, she pointed at the smeared mess of icing spread before her. ‘The cake, my cake,’ was all she could say.
Carefully carrying the cardboard box, she’d been walking towards the house where the cake was expected. She was taking her time, moving carefully, watching where she placed her feet. She didn’t want to trip. She was moments from what she imagined would be her finest hour.
The thugs, as she would describe them later, came up from behind her. Suddenly they were walking one each side of her, moving quickly, making her move quickly too. ‘What’s in the box, missus?’
‘A cake. I’m delivering it to a house along here.’
‘Sort of cake?’
‘A very special one.’
‘Chocolate?’
‘Yes. But that’s not what’s special about it.’
They started to jostle her, pushing her from side to side between them. ‘Let’s see, then.’
‘No.’ She was getting scared. She didn’t like this at all. Sweat pricked her face and chest. Breathing was hard. ‘Please leave me alone.’ She looked round. Was there somebody who could help? A man on the other side of the road was walking away from her.
The boys were about fifteen and both wore unwashed jeans and T-shirts. ‘Give’s a bit, then.’
‘I can’t. It’s for someone.’ This was awful. Sophie’s heart thundered. Her knees shook. And the cake, nothing must happen to the cake. This cake was her pride. Her creation, more than just a cake – it was a thing of beauty. The boys had troublesome teenage skin. Smelled of a liberal dousing of cheap cologne. She was swamped by youth, testosterone and acne. Horrible. Horrible.
The afternoon was quiet, cars drifted past the end of the street. But no traffic turned into the crescent. Sophie’s throat tightened. She felt her knees weaken and thought she might cry. One boy reached forward and bashed the top of the cake box, trying to knock it out of her hands. She held on. ‘Hey, leave it alone.’ He grabbed the box and yanked it. Sophie kicked him and pulled the precious cake back to her. The box wasn’t up to rough handling and buckled. And Sophie suddenly got angry. ‘You bloody thugs. Stop it. I’ll call the police.’ She flung back her head and shouted for help. Looked wildly around. Yelled once more. Nothing happened.
There was a swift, sweaty skirmish, Sophie whirling this way and that, trying to keep the cake box away from their grasping hands.
She lashed out with her foot and caught the cake-grabber on the knee. He howled and, in retaliation, punched her face. She reeled back, turned and crashed to the pavement. Not wanting to release the box, Sophie didn’t put out her arms to break the fall. She hit the pavement head first, landing on the cake, demolishing it. The thugs each gave her a parting kick in the ribs before running off with her handbag.
The small crowd had gathered by the time she came round. She lay a moment, wondering why she was on the ground. Then, moaning and in pain, she heaved herself onto all fours. Blood poured from the side of her head. But all she could do was mourn her cake and worry about her grandchild, who would soon be waiting for her at the school gates.
The police arrived before the ambulance. They sat her by the edge of the pavement and asked her name.
‘Evie,’ said Sophie. And asked the time.
‘Quarter to three,’ said one of the policemen.
‘My cake,’ said Sophie. ‘I have to deliver my cake.’
‘It’s all right, Evie. You can buy another one.’
‘I don’t think so. That was the cake of cakes. I made it.’
An ambulance arrived. Two men got out and leaned over Sophie, commenting on the gash on her head. ‘Nasty.’
‘Her name’s Evie,’ said one of the policemen. ‘Couple of boys tried to grab the cake she was delivering.’ He pointed to the mess of icing on the gro
und. ‘Took her handbag.’
Sophie was helped to her feet. She felt dizzy. She ached. ‘My sides hurt. I think I’ve broken a rib. They kicked me.’ She was eased into the ambulance. ‘Evie. I have to . . .’
She couldn’t move through this misunderstanding. People were shifting round her, touching her, being kind to her and she was shaking. She was the centre of this drama, but other people, faces she hadn’t seen before, were taking control. They were all younger than her, but confident. The words she needed to say wouldn’t come out.
Martha and Murphy returned to the office and found Charlie sitting on the sofa holding an ice pack to his cheek, a glass of whisky on the table in front of him. ‘I said I didn’t do following people. Bastard punched me.’ He took a slug from his glass. ‘Don’t blame him, really. I’d punch someone who followed me as obviously as I followed him. I was really annoying.’
Martha asked what happened.
‘It was unfortunate. Didn’t know which house to start at. So I hung about outside the Heriot Row flat. That’s where he was. Tough luck.’
He’d waited a few doors along from the Heriot Row flat, on the opposite side of the road. ‘Look casual, relaxed,’ he’d told himself. And had gone through a pretence of a man who’d been stood up. He checked his watch, looked this way and that, gave a flamboyant shrug and, when Brendan Stokes emerged from the house, walked off.
Walking bothered him. He’d noticed there were various types of walk. The out-for-a-walk walk, the purposeful walk, the furtive walk and many more. Right now, he suspected he was doing a sneaky walk. He’d hunched, stuck his hands in his pockets and fallen into step behind his man. Thinking this suspicious, he’d straightened up and assumed a nonchalant air – strolling, enjoying the day.
At the end of the street Brendan Stokes turned right and headed for Princes Street.
Charlie followed. When they reached shops, Charlie gazed into windows pretending to be taken by some object on display. In fact, he’d spotted a rather natty shirt, navy and pale cream stripes. If he hadn’t been involved in a spot of serious tailing a suspect he might have nipped in and bought it. But no, he was on the job. He crossed the road and kept an eye on his man from there.
Brendan Stokes went into Princes Street Gardens. Charlie did, too. At this time of day there were only a few tourists, a couple of mothers pushing prams and a man walking a dog. Charlie put on his best amble and looked about him, smiling at the small occupants of prams and leaning down to pat dog. He was a man enjoying the day. They walked to the West End. Brendan turned on his heel and headed back, passing Charlie on the way. And Charlie knew he’d been rumbled. Brendan left the Gardens, crossed the road and disappeared into a shop. Charlie did the same, but once inside he couldn’t see Brendan. He went out the rear exit into Rose Street, but still no sign of his man. Charlie sighed, shrugged, decided he was useless at the proper private eye stuff and decided to go and buy the shirt he fancied.
He was grabbed from behind. Choked by an arm pressing hard against his windpipe, and with his right arm pushed up his back he was marched up an alley that led to a pub backyard. But nobody to help. He was slammed against a wall. His breath gushed out of him. His arm ached. The wall slam crunched his shoulder and the left side of his face.
‘You following me?’ said Brendan. His face was horribly close to Charlie’s.
‘No,’ said Charlie.
Brendan pressed a knife against his throat. ‘Follow me again and it’ll be the last time you follow anybody. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Charlie. A thick sweat spread under his arms, across his chest. He was going to be sick. Fear churned in his gut. His legs shook. He couldn’t breathe.
Brendan stepped back. Put the knife away. Charlie breathed. He wasn’t going to die. Then Brendan punched him, a fierce blow to his stomach, and as he doubled over, gasping, retching, Brendan hit him on the face. The blow stunned him. A thick pain to his cheekbone, his head wrenched to one side and his face knocked momentarily out of shape. For a second he couldn’t think what had happened. There was a sliver of darkness. He heard Brendan walk away. He stood wrestling with shock and fear. Stunned at the daylight and the nearness of voices and city sounds.
Then the pain started for real. A thick gnawing in his gut and eye socket. He stayed in the alley for a while, gathering himself. He threw up. Ran his tongue round his mouth, checking his teeth were still in place. Gingerly touched his bruised cheeks. Now all he had to do was put one foot in front of the other and make his way back to his car. It wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Jesus, he can pack a punch,’ said Charlie. ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at him.’
‘No,’ said Martha. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘That’s it. I’m not having this. This isn’t what I do. I’m not a slick private eye, a lippy street-smart guy in a cool hat who solves murders. I just find people and bring them home. I don’t get punched. I don’t charge for stuff like that. Punching’s extra.’
It was a picture he held in his head. It had been in a storybook. The only book in the flat he shared with Ella. A kindly shepherd, a tall and smiling man with a crook, was leading two tired and hungry children home. They were emerging from a dense and chilling wood walking towards a cottage where a plump woman wearing a floral apron was standing at the door, arms spread, welcoming them. Through the window, lit against the dark, the travellers could see a warm fire, a fat black pot on a stove, a table spread with a pristine cloth upon which were laid jars of jam and a warm brown loaf.
All this lingered in Charlie’s mind. At his lowest ebb, when he longed to know who he was, where he belonged, this was what he imagined. And, when he couldn’t get that for himself, he thought it a grand notion to do it for others. He would, he decided, always be kindly like the shepherd in the picture.
‘We’re going tomorrow to tell Bernice Stokes we no longer want to work for her. Buggered if I’m getting punched again.’
He asked how she’d got on. She told him about Wendy Jenkins seeing Chrissie in the Grassmarket. ‘So she’s back in town.’
‘Yes. Perhaps we should get in touch with her husband and tell him.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘Leave it till we find her and talk to her. We need to know why she left before we take her home. Going back after years away can be painful and awkward. People left behind have been hurt. And sometimes so have the ones who ran away.’ He held his ice pack against his cheek and winced.
At five o’clock Martha went home and was surprised to find the flat empty. She went from room to room, shouting, ‘Hello. Anyone in?’
She sat at the kitchen table frowning. This was odd. A small worm of worry started gnawing at her stomach. Where were they? Perhaps Sophie had been paid a huge amount of money for her masterpiece cake and had taken Evie out for a treat. But surely they’d have left a note. They were dead. There had been an accident and right now even as she sat here the police were on their way to give her the bad news. Martha got up and paced. She peered out of the window. She went out into the street, looked this way and that, praying for them to appear sauntering hand-in-hand, chatting. But no. Back inside she put on her coat. She’d walk up to the school, checking as she went for signs of a terrible accident on the road. She took her coat off. Perhaps it would be better to stay at home. She needed to be here when the police arrived. She paced some more.
At seven o’clock the phone rang. For a moment Martha couldn’t place the familiar voice on the line. ‘Missing a daughter?’
‘Yes.’ She gazed ahead. Rummaging through her brain. Who was that?
‘Shame on you. What sort of mother are you? The poor child was at the school gates in floods of tears.’
‘Sophie was due to collect her. Wasn’t she there?’
‘Nope.’
‘Jamie, is that you? Do you have Evie?’ Martha was shouting. She was furious and she was relieved. ‘Where are you?
‘It’s me. And I have my daughter safe here with me.’
‘
Thank God. I’ll come and get her. And where’s my mum?’
‘Don’t think so. I think I’ll keep her a while. No idea about your ma.’ He hung up.
Martha slammed down the receiver and ran out of the house. She stormed up John Street and along the High Street, past the Be Kindly office and on to Bath Street.
She burst into Charlie’s house shouting, ‘Charlie. Charlie.’
He was standing in his living room and turned to her. His face was swollen, turning a blackish blue round his left eye. He swayed slightly. ‘Martha.’ He was drunk.
Martha stepped towards him. ‘Evie’s been kidnapped. My husband’s taken her.’
Charlie put his hand to his aching face, trying to take this in. Alcohol didn’t make it easy. ‘At least she’ll always remember you.’
23
Embroiled
Martha stood, mouth open. ‘What the hell do you mean by that? At least she’ll remember me?’
Charlie looked pained. He spread his palms and said nothing. Some things were hard to explain.
‘I can’t believe you said that.’ Martha turned and stormed out of the door.
He caught up with her at the end of his street. Gripped her arm and stopped her running. ‘Will you slow down. I can explain.’
Martha wouldn’t slow down. ‘Evie’s been kidnapped and my mother’s missing. I have to get back.’
Charlie galloped sideways, huge strides. ‘Listen to me. I was missing. I was abducted. I don’t remember my mother.’ He was breathless. Jolted with each bouncing step, his bruised head hurt. ‘Just stop.’
Martha stopped. ‘You?’
‘Me.’ He tried to catch his breath. ‘Jesus, you can move when you’re angry.’
‘I can’t stay still. I’m out of my brain with worry. Running helps.’
‘No, it doesn’t. It makes you sweaty and out of breath and you can’t think straight. Stop it.’
Martha slowed to a brisk walk. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Charlie trotted beside her. ‘It’s true. I’m not me. I’m someone else.’