‘Lovely-looking girl,’ I said, sincerely.
‘Yes. She was very striking, very happy and carefree then. That’s how I like to remember her – before the bad times, before everything changed.’
‘Where is she now?’ An opportune moment to go for the jugular.
‘Where is she now?’ she echoed. ‘Oh, please, you tell me. I was afraid you had bad news for me. More bad news. Information about … well, you know, something dreadful.’
‘Nothing like that, I assure you,’ I said, leaning towards her, engaging with her intently, harnessing her focus. ‘When were you last in contact with her?’
A sea-mist seemed to settle over her eyes. A single tear dampened a pale, pinched cheek, but she made no attempt to wipe it away. ‘Years ago.’
I waited for her to elaborate, but nothing came.
‘I realize this must be painful for you, Mrs Marlowe, but we believe that we finally know the identity of the man who attacked your daughter – and murdered three young women.’
She reacted without emotion now, as if she’d been drained dry long, long ago. ‘What good will that do? It won’t help Tina. It won’t bring back the others, or my Ronnie.’
‘Ronnie?’ I said, puzzled.
‘My husband.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to explain,’ I said.
Mrs Marlowe must have been in her eighties, but seemed to have aged even further since my arrival.
‘Tina didn’t continue at Oxford; I suppose you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I admitted; there was nothing about that in the file.
‘She came home that Christmas and didn’t go back. She wouldn’t talk to us about what had happened. We thought it advisable not to badger her for details. And the police could disclose only so much. We learned more from the reports in newspapers than from Tina. The police were very helpful. They arranged counselling for Tina, but she didn’t stick with it; said it made her feel worse. She also refused to see a psychiatrist. She withdrew into herself … completely. Spent days and nights in her room, endlessly. Wouldn’t eat with us. Sent out for pizzas. Lost weight, then ballooned. Up down, up down, but never upbeat in mood. Always a cloud over her. We tried to focus on the future. You know, about what she intended doing with her life. After all, it had been her ambition, since she was about eleven, to become a politician, a Member of Parliament, and perhaps even make it to prime minister one day. But we never managed a rapport. I so much wanted to connect with her. But all we ever got from her were blank, vacuous looks. Emptiness.’
‘It must have been frustrating for all of you.’
She gazed mistily at the portraits, reliving the past thirty years in a few seconds, I suspected, before she said, ‘Then she just upped and left.’
‘Without warning?’ I said.
‘Not a hint. Middle of the night. Gone before dawn. Just a note on the kitchen table.’
‘What did it say?’
‘“Goodbye. Thanks for everything. I know you tried. The fault has been all mine, not yours.”’
Tears flowed freely now.
‘And you’ve never seen or heard from her since?’
‘I haven’t. Ronnie gave up his well-paid job to go looking for her. He was a civil servant in London with the Ministry of Defence. Commuted daily by train. After quitting, he travelled the country searching for her. He even hired someone from one of the country’s top private detective agencies.’
‘Didn’t you report her missing to the police?’
‘Oh, yes, straightaway. But because of the note she left, there was nothing to suggest she’d come to any harm or was in danger. She was an adult who’d flown the nest. Nothing the police could do unless anything untoward came to light.’
‘The Salvation Army’s very good at finding people who’ve cut themselves loose from their families,’ I said, really posing another question.
‘They were one of Ronnie’s first ports of call and they were very supportive. In fact, they did better than the PI.’
‘They found her?’
‘They did, but not until two years after she’d vanished.’
I knew the sequel, but I allowed Mrs Marlowe to tell me.
‘They made contact with her, but she didn’t want us to know her whereabouts or circumstances. They agreed to act as a conduit, passing messages from us to Tina. We implored her to phone us, so that we could hear her voice, learn directly from her own mouth that she was all right, and find out if there was anything she needed.’
‘But the call never came?’ I prompted her.
‘Never.’
‘Was the Salvation Army able to reassure you that she was OK and not at risk?’
‘No.’ This was uttered with considerable desolation. ‘So Ronnie continued his crusade. We’d both benefited financially from inheritances a few years previously, so our finances were pretty sound. We could manage without incomes. I was a teacher, but I was too wrung out to face a classroom of children, happy and bright, just how Tina had been at their age. So I quit, too. Just sat at home, here, brooding. Ronnie was a wreck, taking all sorts of pills; some to help him sleep, others to keep him awake. Anti-depressants seemed to depress him more. Back on the road, he looked all over, but London seemed the obvious place; after all, it is the kingdom of the lost, isn’t it? A magnet to runaways.’ The question was rhetorical. ‘He booked into a cheap hotel around King’s Cross and just padded the streets for a full two months, looking hopefully into every female face he came across.’
A wonder he didn’t get arrested, I thought, facetiously.
‘He was in and out of pubs and clubs. He was becoming increasingly desperate and despairing; I could hear it in his voice. I begged him to come home.’
‘But he didn’t?’ I said, smoothing along the story.
She lowered her head, took a handkerchief from her dress-pocket and dabbed her eyes. ‘He started touring escort agencies. I’m sure you know how it works with them. They had photo albums of girls on their books. He was hoping to God to see her face in one of the albums; praying to God he wouldn’t. His ambivalence must have stretched him as if fastened to a torture rack.’
I really did feel for her having to relay all this to me, a total stranger. But she was strong. Her fragility was only physical.
‘He rang me one afternoon. “I’ve seen her!” he said. But there was no real excitement in his voice. What he meant was that he’d seen her photo in an escort agency.’
‘Which one?’ I said, now poised to make notes, notepad and pen at the ready.
‘Something with “Venus” in the title,’ she said, vaguely. ‘That’s all I can remember. It’s such a long time ago.’
‘That’ll do,’ I said. ‘I can work from that easily enough.’
‘I was bursting at the seams with questions: “Where is she? Where’ve you seen her? What’s she doing? Is she all right? How have you managed it?” That’s when he told me the circumstances.’
‘So they hadn’t actually met?’
‘No. She was on the agency’s books as “Lolita”,’ she recalled, grimacing. ‘The rest of the story is very awkward for me, but you’re a man of the world….’
‘I’ve been around several blocks a few times,’ I said, smiling, trying to make it easier for her.
‘Then you’ll know all about those agencies?’
‘Only too well.’
‘The office of the agency was run by a woman. She asked Ronnie if “Lolita” was the girl he “wanted”. Obviously, as I wasn’t there, I can’t recount exactly what was said, but apparently Ronnie indicated that “Lolita”, our Tina, was his selection. He was then asked where he wanted to meet her.’
‘What did he say to that?’
‘Well, he hadn’t given this sort of situation much thought. This was about the fifth escort agency he’d tried, I believe. He was just going through the motions. I don’t think he ever really imagined he’d find her along this route. So when he was asked where he hoped to me
et her, he was rather stumped. Seeing that he was in a quandary, the woman asked him if he was staying in a hotel. When he said that he was …’ Now her voice fragmented and she angled her head away from me, averting her eyes. ‘I’m not sure that I can go on with this,’ she said, faltering. ‘I’m not even sure that I want to.’
‘Let me help you out,’ I said, anxious to prevent her drying up. ‘This woman said something to the effect that “Lolita” would be prepared to go to his hotel room.’
Mrs Marlowe was sobbing quietly now, but she managed to reply with a nod, before saying, haltingly, ‘You can visualize how shocked he was. Apparently he managed to hold himself together and probe a little.’
‘Such as?’
‘Was she experienced; that sort of thing.’ Still she couldn’t look at me.
‘And what was the woman’s answer?’
‘That “Lolita” was one of the agency’s most booked girls; that meeting men in their hotel rooms was something she did most days of the week. The full horror of what Tina had apparently become hit him like a sledgehammer to the head.’
‘It could have just been sales talk,’ I said, as a salve.
‘But it wasn’t,’ she retorted, assertively, having restored her composure. ‘A rendezvous was made for 8 p.m. that same evening. The woman wanted to know how long Ronnie wanted to hire “Lolita” for. Again Ronnie knew nothing about this sort of assignation.’
‘So what did he say?’
‘Something silly like “How long is normal?” She told Ronnie it depended on what he had in mind. If he planned to take his escort out to dinner and then return to the hotel, he was looking at a charge for at least six hours; something like a running taximeter. So he said, “OK, I’ll take six hours.” He was very explicit to me later about the actual dialogue. He had to pay in advance; I forget how much it was, but it was a bundle. Another thing the woman said was that if he wanted to pay for extras, he’d have to negotiate directly with “Lolita”. “What the two of you get up to is none of my business.” After taking the money and as Ronnie was leaving, she said, “Have fun. I’m confident you’ll be back for a second helping after tonight.” Ronnie literally ran from the building and almost vomited in the street.’
‘Did he call you, then?’
‘No, not until later. He walked and walked, in a trance. Journey’s end was approaching. He was on a high, yet he’d also never felt so low. Can you identify with that?’
‘I can,’ I said, reaching out to her mentally, my thoughts turning to my own daughter. I wondered how I’d cope if I was ever following in Ronnie’s footsteps, God forbid!
‘I don’t know what time he got back to the hotel, but he was in his room for eight, trembling.’
‘I take it she turned up? So father and daughter were, in fact, reunited, albeit bizarrely?’
‘Tina was a few minutes early. She’d always been a punctilious girl. She knocked confidently. Ronnie threw open the door. And there they both stood, father and daughter, rooted to the spot; her face raddled, wearing the briefest mini-skirt Ronnie had ever seen and teetering on heels more like stilts than stilettos.’
‘She must have been stunned,’ I said, stating the obvious, just for something to say.
‘She was speechless, her mouth cemented in a rictus, bloodless face, Goth-like appearance. Our ghost. “Tina!” Ronnie exclaimed, thrusting out his arms, moving to embrace her.’
After all those years of searching, he was suddenly within inches of holding her again. The Prodigal Daughter could be taken home. Yet, because of what I’d already been told, I knew the outcome must have been very different.
‘“No!” she yelled, pulling away from Ronnie and fleeing.’
‘Did your husband give chase?’
‘Of course, but she was much too quick and nimble for him. She kicked off her high heels and bolted along the corridor, down the stairs, three at a time, out of the front door and into the dusk – and gone. No reunion. Since Tina’s disappearance, Ronnie’s health had deteriorated drastically, so he was badly out of breath by the time he reached the street. Not a sign of her. A bit like Cinderella, she dropped her footwear – two stilettos instead of a slipper. Ronnie was frantic; distraught. To have come so close and to allow her to slip through his hands – literally! He didn’t know what to do. He thought of ringing the agency, but decided that wasn’t such a smart idea. That’s when he called me to see what I could come up with.’
‘And did you have a suggestion?’
‘Yes. I said, “Get on a train; come home.” He said, “I can’t. We were almost touching; close enough to see right into each other’s eyes. After all this time, I can’t just walk away from it and abandon her.” I wasn’t suggesting that he should, but it was obvious to me that he wasn’t going to find her again simply by street-walking. He hadn’t a clue where to start. She could have been miles away in minutes – by cab, Tube, or any number of buses. Anything he did that night from then on would be futile. My idea was for him to come home so that we could take stock and devise a constructive, cool-headed plan. He needed to take a step back. I was really beginning to think that he should take this new information to the private detective he’d commissioned earlier, but no, he was determined to stick with it; the Lone Ranger.’
She contrived a shallow smile.
‘But to no avail, obviously,’ I said.
‘He stayed at the hotel that night. The following afternoon, he phoned the escort agency, using a different name from the previous day. He made up a story that a few weeks previously he’d dated a girl on their books, “Lolita”, and he was anxious to date her again because he’d been so satisfied.’
Once again, the outcome was so transparently predictable.
‘She said she was very sorry, but “Lolita” had called that very morning to say she wanted to be removed from the agency’s books and her photo be shredded, all of which had been duly done. She tried to “sell” him another girl, but he hung up; gutted.’
‘And finally he came home?’ I said.
‘No, not right away, not even then. He revisited the escort agency. The same woman as the previous day was running the office and she remembered him, of course. He decided to open his heart to her and come clean.’
‘Saying he was “Lolita’s” father and she was his runaway daughter?’
‘Exactly.’
A tactic that hadn’t a hope in hell – or indeed heaven – of working. Escort agency madams don’t do compassion. ‘I bet she asked for proof of his story?’ I said.
‘First thing she said. She was thinking the obvious, no doubt, that Ronnie could be someone with a grudge who wanted to harm Tina. She claimed not to have an address for our daughter, only a phone number.’
‘Plausible,’ I said.
‘In any case, she said, it was company policy never to give out personal contact details, such as phone numbers, to clients.’
‘Definitely true,’ I said.
‘He got angry and she threatened to call the police. Fortunately, he pulled himself together and then, only then, did he come home. We stayed up all night debating what to do next. We decided that he’d go to our local police station and report what he’d discovered.’
‘And what did they say?’ As if I didn’t know already.
‘That she was clearly no longer a missing person. Ronnie had located her. She didn’t look ill. There was no reason to believe she’d been harmed. Hard as it was for a parent to take, Tina had made a definite statement that she had no wish to interact with us. She was grown up and we had to respect her wishes, however irrational and unreasonable they seemed. The file would be stamped “No further action”. Ronnie was dismayed. So deflated.’
I made no comment. Ronnie got the response I’d have given him. The more caring a parent, the meaner the pay-off; that was something else on which I was an empiric expert.
I could sense that the narrative hadn’t quite run its full course, so I prepared for the punchline.
‘
Next morning, Ronnie got up early, didn’t bother with his routine shower, dressed, said he was going to buy a newspaper, walked to the railway station, gave the newsstand a miss, and threw himself in front of a train. He went out on an empty stomach. Didn’t have breakfast. Not even a cup of tea.’
Mrs Marlowe couldn’t see anything hysterical in what she’d just said. That’s the way it is when people are traumatized and telling the truth, relating the minutiae of the moment, the mundane madness of it all.
‘I had a little item inserted in the Announcements column of the Daily Telegraph, recording his death and the funeral arrangements,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I hoped – prayed – Tina would see it and show up at the cemetery, if not the church.’
More chance if she’d advertised in Time Out, I thought.
‘But she didn’t show?’ I said.
‘No, she didn’t. No flowers, no letter, no phone call. No Tina. Two departures from my life that I had to reconcile myself with.’
If there was a God, he certainly had a wicked sense of timing, I thought.
4
Sharkey summoned me to his office.
‘Shut the door,’ he said, not looking up, fiddling with his pen, his jacket hooked over the back of his well-worn, black leather, spin-chair, his paunch a pliable buffer between old, chipped oak and neglected viscera, a light suffusion of sweat shimmering on his florid face. ‘I’ve spoken with Pomfrey.’ This wasn’t said with reverence; not as if he’d had an audience with the Pope or had made a supplication at an altar.
‘Thanks,’ I said. I wasn’t sure whether to help myself to a chair or to stay on my feet, so I hovered between the desk and the deliberately uncomfortable chair reserved for inconvenient interlopers, so they would always be at an aching disadvantage.
He snorted, pretending to be grumpy, a persona he’d crafted and it suited him. ‘Pomfrey wasn’t inclined towards your request.’
I guessed that this was a sanitized version. ‘I told you he wouldn’t be.’
‘So you did; that was something you got right. No wonder you’re rated so highly at the Yard.’ There was deep-rooted sincerity in his sarcasm and resentment. ‘Pomfrey said you’re only after a hot-water bottle.’
The One a Month Man Page 4