Risking It All

by Ann Granger

  ‘It could have gone horribly wrong full stop,’ argued Ganesh. ‘That’s why I was there.’

  ‘Gan, I can look after myself. I am more than capable of dealing with one bloke in the middle of Oxford Street!’

  ‘You know, Fran,’ Ganesh looked at me seriously, ‘sometimes you really act too big for your boots.’

  That reminded me. ‘Boots! I need new laces.’ I looked back at the brightly lit stores.

  Ganesh took me firmly by the elbow. ‘We sell them back at the shop.’

  We rocked back home on the dear old Northern Line tumbrel. At least Ganesh didn’t pepper me with questions about who said what during my chat with Wilde. He asked just one, but it was a good ’un.

  ‘This guy you were with, you think he did for Duke?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s the best suspect I’ve got.’

  ‘Tell Morgan about him.’

  ‘Can’t. Involves other people.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ganesh, and lapsed into silence.

  The person sitting next to me jumped up and leapt out at Euston, in such a hurry to catch his train he forgot his Evening Standard. I snaffled it and buried my head in it during the remainder of the ride, just in case Ganesh thought of another question. The news on offer that evening was pretty routine. Politicians were up to their usual tricks. There was a good deal about the forthcoming selection of candidates for the London mayoral elections. Some media personality had a new girlfriend. I wasn’t interested in the financial reports. I read the cartoons, considered doing the (easier) crossword on the back page, abandoned the idea as I didn’t have enough time before we got off, and was about to chuck the paper back on the seat for the next person when my eye caught a small paragraph tucked away at the bottom of a page with the heading:

  MOTHER APPEALS

  Police widen hunt for missing nurse.

  Enquiries to date have failed to turn up . . .

  ‘Come on,’ said Gan, tapping my arm. ‘We get off here.’

  I tossed down the paper. We always feel we’re the only person to have a particular problem. But the world is full of people struggling with a variation of the same thing that’s bugging us. That other hunt for a missing daughter was still going on. The country was full of missing persons, that was the problem. People go missing for all sorts of reasons. They’re scared of someone; they have abusive home lives; they’re in debt; they just feel like dropping out; they suffer amnesia; a few are victims of crime. Families go on looking. They never give up that hope. You see the appeals in the Big Issue. Some of those people have been missing for years, just as my mother dropped out of our lives for years. But, like my mother, they can still turn up. I wondered for how many, when they did surface, more problems were created than solved.

  But none of it, any longer, was my concern. I’d warned Jerry and Flora that the police were looking for a child who’d slipped out of the records thirteen years before. I couldn’t do any more except keep out of the Wildes’ way, which I was happy to do. I’d done as Mum had wanted and told her about it, and no one could ask anything more of me. There was still the question of who’d killed Rennie Duke. But the more I thought about it, the more my brain kicked in with reasons why Jerry Wilde wasn’t the culprit. Duke was a private detective and a nosy one. His wife said so and she should know. He liked to pry. Who knows what he was up to besides checking on what Mum might have done all those years ago?

  ‘You know, Gan,’ I said as we walked from the Tube back to the shop, ‘Rennie Duke was just the type to upset any number of people, some of them dangerous. Any one of them could have been tracking him or put out a contract on him. It just so happened that the killer found him outside the garage that night. His death doesn’t have to have anything to do with me at all.’

  Which meant that I wasn’t in any danger, either. Duke’s killer, whoever he was and whatever his motive, would have gone to ground and wouldn’t surface in this part of London for a very long time. I felt like dancing.

  ‘Inspector Morgan will be checking all Duke’s cases,’ said Ganesh.

  I recalled the confidence in Morgan I’d expressed to Jerry Wilde. ‘Yes, she will,’ I agreed. ‘Naturally she quizzed me to start with. She was bound to, wasn’t she? You and I, we found him. We knew him. But if the cops are enquiring into Duke’s background, by now they must have come up with a bumper file of suspects.’

  Ganesh looked at me suspiciously. ‘You’re very chipper all of a sudden.’

  ‘Of course I am. The heat’s off me. Whoever killed Duke probably hadn’t the slightest idea I was sleeping in Hari’s garage or that there was anyone around at all. He doesn’t know about me, Gan. I’m in the clear.’ Euphoria made me generous. ‘I’ll take you out and buy you a veggie burger and a beer tonight.’

  ‘I don’t want to rain on your parade or anything,’ said Ganesh, sounding a little embarrassed. ‘I’m the last person who wants you setting up rendezvous with dodgy blokes in Tube stations. As far as I’m concerned, if all this means you’re not doing any more detecting, that’s great. You are sure about this, though? You’re not going to wake up tomorrow with some new and wonderful idea for investigating Duke’s death?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure!’ I promised. ‘Rennie Duke’s death had nothing to do with me or my mother. I’m leaving it all to Inspector Janice.’

  Who would have been very pleased to hear me say it, had she been there. Failing that, I had to make do with Ganesh’s approval, but having that was nice too. Also rare.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Though my mother was constantly on my mind, as far as other things went, I was still well in control on Tuesday morning. So much so that I was able to think about things which were not connected with the Wildes or the late Clarence Duke. I trotted round to Reekie Jimmie’s to see how he was getting on with transforming his potato café into a trattoria and when I might expect to start work.

  I had a bit of a shock when I saw the place. I had imagined that Jimmie intended to slap a little paint around, hang up a couple of Chianti bottles, install a plastic plant or two and be happy with that. But the first thing I saw as I approached was a signwriter just putting the finishing touches to the legend Ristorante Pizzeria San Gennaro above the door. Beyond him, the interior of the place had been gutted. Carpenters were hammering and sawing and a plasterer was relining the walls. Various other guys milled around gesticulating and arguing.

  I sidled through the doorway. I could now hear that they were all talking to one another in Italian. This seemed to be carrying thoroughness in conversion of the café to unheard-of extremes. How genuine did Jimmie want to get? How much money was he spending? I avoided a hole in the floorboards and a crouching electrician, tried not to breathe in too much dust and sought out Jimmie in the back room. On my way, each workman I passed looked up, flashed teeth at me and managed to suggest by body language that he was the best chance I was likely to get all week.

  Jimmie wasn’t alone in the back room. With him was a small neat man in a black overcoat who appeared about to take his leave. He had gathered up a document case and a pair of black leather gloves. He gave me a razor-sharp stare which contrasted startlingly with his smiling mouth beneath a rather droopy moustache.

  ‘Come on in, hen!’ urged Jimmie as I hung back, unwilling to barge in unwanted. ‘Just the person. Now then, Silvio, this young lady is going to be one of our waitresses. We’re lucky to get her.’ He gestured at me proudly, before qualifying his enthusiasm by adding, ‘Don’t worry about the boots, she’s a nice Catholic girl from a good home.’

  What? I live in a garage, Jimmie! I didn’t say this, probably because I was too startled, but I certainly thought it.

  Jimmie was beaming at me and urging me forward with a beckoning hand. I walked towards him obediently, feeling stupid. You know how when you’re small, proud but misguided relatives want to show you off, as they put it, though they really mean show you up? They get you to sing or recite or play the piano or something else really gr
im. You do it knowing that it’s awful; that you’ve forgotten the words of the poem or middle C on the piano has gone mute so that it only rattles when you strike it. I had that feeling again, just as when I was five.

  Silvio studied me carefully from head to foot and apparently decided I passed muster. He asked me my name. His accent was only faint and his hands didn’t look as if they ever did any rough work. His nails were manicured and he wore a broad wedding ring and what I fancied was a genuine Rolex, not the sort bought from a chap with a suitcase full of them. Otherwise he was a middle-aged, well-dressed balding version of the blokes out front. When I told him I was called Fran, short for Francesca, he flashed his gold teeth at me and informed me that I had an Italian name, as if I rather than my parents could claim some personal credit for this. I didn’t point out that my family was Hungarian in origin and the choice of name had just been because my dad liked it.

  Anyway, to my relief, Silvio had lost interest in me. I had the feeling I’d been let off lightly. He walked out briskly, drawing on his black leather gloves as he went. I heard him issuing what sounded remarkably like orders to the men outside. I swear one of them replied, ‘Si, Don Silvio.’

  Jimmie shut the door and gave me a somewhat sheepish look. ‘Cup of coffee, hen?’

  ‘Jimmie,’ I said, ‘who on earth is that? And what do you mean by giving him that spiel about me? I am not and never have been what he probably calls respectable.’

  He avoided my eye. ‘Silvio? He’s my new partner. He’s a very nice feller, a gentleman. Guys like him, they’re sort of traditional, do you know what I mean? That’s why I said what I did about you. Every word of it true, mind you!’

  Jimmie wagged a nicotine-stained finger at me. I wasn’t to be diverted.

  ‘Partner, Jimmie? I didn’t know you did business with a partner.’

  Jimmie looked defensive. ‘It costs money to turn this place from what I had into an upmarket eatery. We’re going to apply for a drinks licence. Where my old counter was, that’s going to be the bar. The whole area’s going to be tiled with genuine Italian glazed tiles from a factory owned by Silvio’s cousin in Naples. Between you and me,’ Jimmie added, looking furtive and lowering his voice, ‘Silvio’s putting up most of the cash, but I’m going to be the front man, I mean, manager. I wouldn’t want a lot of people knowing about that. But I know I can trust you.’

  He could trust me, but I wondered how far he could trust Silvio and his crew. ‘They all seem sort of the same,’ I said, indicating the workmen in the front of the premises.

  ‘They’re all Italian,’ said Jimmie. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I couldn’t fail to notice,’ I retorted. ‘That’s not what I mean. It’s something else.’

  ‘It’ll be the family resemblance,’ said Jimmie. ‘They’re all sons and nephews and so on of Silvio. He believes in keeping things in the family.’

  Why did the word ‘family’ have a slightly ominous ring in my ears? As tactfully as possible I asked how this partnership had come about.

  ‘A bit of luck,’ Jimmie told me. ‘Silvio was planning to go into the restaurant business. He heard about my idea for turning the old spud place into a pizza speciality and came round to take a look. He explained that if I went into partnership with him, we’d be looking at a chain of places, all in the same style, you know, so the punters can recognise them. He had the money. He just wanted a premises to start up, and this is a prime location. I mean, I couldn’t turn down a chance like that, now could I?’

  All I needed to hear. As far as I could see, Jimmie had had an offer he couldn’t refuse, and hadn’t refused it, even without realising that there wasn’t an alternative.

  ‘Jimmie,’ I began, but changed my mind. This was definitely a moment to turn a blind eye. ‘When do you think you’ll be ready to open?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too long,’ said Jimmie confidently. ‘We’ve had none of the usual problems with the suppliers, and Silvio’s boys are ace workers.’

  ‘Cheers, Jimmie.’

  I picked my way back through the ogling craftsmen in the front of the shop and went back to the newsagent’s.

  ‘How’s Jimmie getting along then?’ asked Ganesh.

  ‘Fine. On his way to being a partner in a nationwide chain of money-spinners. There’s a little matter of being taken over by the Mafia, probably to launder dirty money, but hey! Jimmie’s happy, so who am I to quibble?’ I explained the reasoning which had led me to this conclusion. ‘Maybe at least one of those stories you always hear about Jimmie is true. Perhaps he did rule an underworld gang from behind that baked spud bar.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Ganesh. ‘You’ve seen The Godfather too many times.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I admitted. After all, I’d had second thoughts about Jerry Wilde being a murderer. My problem was, I concluded, I had too much imagination. It came from being a frustrated creative artist.

  My gung-ho attitude to the Wildes lasted only until lunchtime, when I received a telephone call at the shop.

  ‘For you,’ said Ganesh, handing over the receiver.

  I left the cigarettes I’d been stacking and mouthed, ‘Who?’

  ‘Girl.’

  Girl? I took the receiver gingerly and put it to my ear as if it would explode and perforate my eardrum. It didn’t do that, but it gave me a shock, even so.

  ‘I want to speak to Fran Varady,’ said a firm young female voice.

  ‘Speaking . . .’ I replied cautiously.

  ‘This is Nicola Wilde.’

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’ she was shouting into the phone at her end. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Where did you get this number?’ I croaked.

  ‘I haven’t got time to go into that now,’ was the impatient retort. ‘I’m phoning in my lunch hour. I’m at school. I’ve had to shut myself in the sports equipment cupboard.’

  ‘They’ve got a phone in there?’ This was some private school.

  ‘No!’ Irritable. ‘I’m on my mobile.’

  Of course. Silly me.

  ‘I want to talk to you.’ She was on the offensive again.

  ‘Not a good idea,’ I managed, rallying.

  ‘Why not? You were hanging around outside our house the other evening, weren’t you? I bet it was you. You asked me for change. You knew my name. Well, I’m fed up with being left out of everything. I want to know what’s going on. I want to meet you.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I promised your father.’

  ‘He needn’t know. Listen, I’ve told my mother I’m going over to a friend’s house tonight after school to do some homework. I’ve done that before, so she’s quite happy. I’ll meet you at Earls Court Tube station, at the foot of the stairs up from the platforms, Upminster line.’

  A clammy sense of déjà vu swept over me. Fixing up rendezvous at Tube stations seemed to be a Wilde speciality. The only thing lacking was for Flora to ring me and suggest a meeting at Notting Hill Gate.

  ‘About five,’ ordered the voice in my ear. She was used to getting her own way. If she was feeling left out now over present events, it must be a first, and she didn’t like it.

  I found myself meekly agreeing. Perhaps, after all, a subconscious urge to take a closer look at her moved me.

  ‘So?’ asked Ganesh as I put down the receiver. ‘You look pretty rattled.’

  ‘I am rattled,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go and hold a schoolgirl’s hand.’

  It took me longer than I’d allowed for to get out to Earls Court that evening, and she’d arrived before me. I saw her as I walked towards the meeting point. She was in a crowd, but for me it was as if no one was around her. I felt everyone would be looking, everyone would see us together. Any of these hurrying regulars on this line might know Jerry, recognise Nicola, pass on the word.

  My sister did not look pleased. She was scanning faces, frowning, and chewing on
her lower lip. When she saw me, she just looked grumpier.

  ‘I thought you weren’t going to come!’ she greeted me truculently.

  ‘Hey, it’s rush hour, all right? Nor do I jump when you shout, okay? Just so we’re clear on that. You’re lucky I’m here at all.’ Curiosity overcame me. ‘What were you going to do if I didn’t turn up?’

  ‘Phone that number again and keep on phoning it until you did come.’

  ‘I bet you scream and scream until you’re sick, too,’ I said.

  She looked blank. She hadn’t read the same childhood books I had.