“I’m not leaving her those!” Susanna blushed.
“Come on, Mum.”
She parked her mother on a seat in reception. ‘Holiday Bus Horror! Seven dead in France in school coach crash,’ screamed the headline on the newspaper in the rack in front of the kiosk. Susanna breathed a sigh of relief. She should not be pleased, she knew, but at least she had been knocked off the front page and the press would have another silly season story to chase.
“You wait here. I’ll go and get the car.” Seeing her mother about to protest that she was quite capable of walking to the car park she added, “It’s a bit of a long walk with a suitcase. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
She was wrong. The car decided to have one of its difficult starting days and it was nearly twenty minutes before she pulled up, hot and cross like the car, on the hatched, yellow lines in front of the main entrance.
“Hey! You can’t park there!” called the security man, opening the door of his glass box to remonstrate with Susanna. Twenty seconds later he was back in his box with his ears ringing with richly pungent and mostly relevant advice about hospital layout, parking charges, the NHS and its ‘jobs-worth’ employees who should have something better to do than harass people collecting sick relatives.
“Susanna!” said her outraged mother as they drove away. “I didn’t know you could be so rude! I can’t think where you get it from!”
With her mother safely installed on the sofa in front of the television, Susanna decided it was time she rang the mysterious Helen Knight. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she dialled the number on the business card.
“Hello? Can I speak to Helen Knight, please?”
“Speaking. Who is this?”
“It’s Susanna Parson. You visited my mother in hospital.”
“Yes; that’s right, I did. Thank you for ringing. How is your mother?”
“I’ve just brought her home. She seems to be on the mend.”
“Good, I’m so pleased. It’s a really nasty operation, isn’t it? I can hardly imagine how distressing it must be for her.”
“Yes, it is but she’s in remarkably good spirits, considering. But look, I don’t want to worry her so I’ve not told her about the incident at the airport and I’d rather she didn’t know about it until I’m ready to tell her.”
“Of course, I quite understand. I picked up on that when I saw her so I didn’t elaborate on why I wanted to contact you. I hope that was all right? And I hope she liked the flowers.”
“Yes, thanks. She brought them home with her and I’m grateful to you for being tactful. But you must know I’ve agreed to give the story exclusively to the paper that carried it. I’ve been paid for it, too.”
“Good for you! I hope you made them pay through the nose but I’m not interested in that line. I can imagine how frightening your experience must have been but I’m coming at this from quite a different angle. I’ve been looking into the people smuggling business for about six months now and I think you may have had a brush with a gang I’ve been particularly interested in. Look, would it be okay if we met somewhere? I promise I won’t pressurise you. This is all quite sensitive and I promise I won’t do anything to put you in a difficult position. You may have noticed that my card doesn’t give my address. There’s a reason for that.”
“Yes, I did notice. Where would you like to meet?”
“Better not your mother’s home. Do you fancy a trip to London? I’ll buy lunch.”
“Okay but not for a couple of days. I want to get Mum settled first.”
“Of course. How about the day after tomorrow?”
Chapter 17
George sat on the end of the bed looking at the telephone handset for a few seconds before he put it down. He was tempted to simply fall backwards and sleep but he had better go and get some cash. Then, after a shower, a good night’s sleep and a solid breakfast, he could find a car and drive to Swindon. He hauled himself wearily to his feet and remembering to take his wallet and room key from the dresser, went down the eight short flights of stairs to reception. It needed another loud ‘ding’ to reawaken the receptionist.
“Sorry to disturb you again but could you tell me where the nearest cash machine is?”
“Turn right out of the door. In Brompton Road, turn right again. There is a machine about three or four minutes on the right side, sir.”
“Thank you. And sorry to be a nuisance.”
“No problem, sir. No problem.”
The machine was where it was supposed to be and he was glad to see that it did not belong to his former employers. Having gone to so much trouble to be invisible, he did not want to give the game away through something as simple as an ATM. He was putting two hundred pounds in crisp notes into his wallet when a massive shove between the shoulder blades sent him crashing, face-first into the steel frame of the machine. Dazed and blinded by the pain in his nose and forehead, he slipped to the ground, just as be became aware of the blood beginning to flow from his nose. He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief and found he had to put his cash card down on the pavement to free his left hand. In that moment he realised that his right hand was empty and his wallet was gone. As the mist began to clear, he found a young man bending over him asking, probably for the second or third time, if he was all right.
“No, not really. I’ve been mugged. I mean, yes I’m okay. I think.” Automatically, he picked up the card from the pavement beside his hand and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’ve called the police and an ambulance. You’d better stay where you are until they arrive.”
“I’m okay. I don’t want…don’t need the police. I’ll be okay. Thank you for helping but I’m fine now.” He struggled unsteadily to his feet, staggering a pace backwards to lean against the wall. The police car pulled up and two policemen got out, leaving the blue light flashing. A small crowd had gathered and the policemen had to push their way through to get to George.
“What happened here?”
“This man was mugged at the cash machine. I saw it.”
One policeman took the young man to one side and began taking notes. The other took George by the elbow and steered him across the pavement.
“You’d better come and sit in the car, sir. Looks like you’ve had a nasty bang on the face. Did you see who attacked you?”
“No. They pushed me from behind. It all happened so fast. Look, have you got a first aid kit or something? I just need a plaster.” His wits were returning and it had dawned on him that he was sitting in a police car. “I don’t need an ambulance. I really need to get some sleep and I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Looks like our friend again.” The second policeman slid into the back seat of the car. “That’s the third time in two weeks. He must have a habit to finance.”
“Do you live near here, sir?”asked the first policeman.
“No, no. I don’t. I’m just visiting. Look, it’s only money and I’m fine now. You’re not very likely to catch him are you?
“Can’t say, sir but you never know. If he keeps doing this we’ll probably get him. He’ll make a mistake or try it on in front of someone who’ll grab him. Let’s take some details. What is your name, sir and how much did he take?”
George took a deep breath and gave his name as George Hawthorne. “It was about a hundred and fifty pounds – the hundred I’ve just drawn and fifty or a bit more already in the wallet.”
“That won’t keep him going long. What about the card and what else was in the wallet?”
“I’ve still got the card. Look.” George fumbled it out of his pocket remembering at the last moment to cover his name with his thumb. He decided to keep quiet about the five hundred Euros in his wallet in case that amount might turn a report on a minor mugging into a more thorough enquiry involving him in lengthy contact with the police. “Luckily everything else is still in my hotel room.”
“Which hotel is that, sir? Ah! Here’s the
ambulance. Better let them have a look at that bump on you forehead. Where can we contact you?”
George gave the addresses of the Hotel California and the house in Greece and the policemen left hurriedly to attend to something else. He resisted the ambulance men’s insistence that they should take him to accident and emergency but let them clean him up. His head was throbbing. He turned back to the cash machine and, checking first to make sure nobody was lurking nearby, drew another two hundred pounds before walking a little unsteadily and very wearily back to the hotel. The onlookers had lost interest and dispersed with the departure of the police car and the sight of someone descending from the back of an ambulance caused no more than a couple of backward glances from passers bye. Wind-blown, fast-food litter already obscured the spots of drying blood on the pavement. It might never have happened.
The same receptionist was on duty when George left the next morning, at least an hour later than he had originally intended.
“That is a jolly nasty bump on the head, sir. I hope it did not occur on these premises?”
“No.” George smiled inwardly. “I got mugged at the cash machine last night.”
“Oh dear! Whatever happened?”
“Well, I got knocked down but I got up again, as you can see. I’m fine, thanks. Just a bit of a headache.”
Considering how rarely he seemed to leave the building, the receptionist’s local knowledge was encyclopaedic and he directed George, equipped with several rather pricey aspirins from the receptionist’s extensive stock of medicines and other travellers necessities, to a car hire office based on a row of lock up garages down an alley off a nearby side street. George would never have found it on his own.
“I’m sorry, sir but we have nothing available at the moment.”
“What, nothing? What about that car in the garage next door?”
“That’s got to be repaired, sir. The last customer had a bit of a coming together with a bollard. It looks as if you’ve had a bit of a bump, too.”
“ Yes. I banged my head on a cash machine. Look, if it’s just a dent, I’ll take it. Does everything work – the lights, steering and so on?”
“Oh yes. It’s only bodywork, the offside wing, but I shouldn’t really let you take out a damaged car. We’ll have a Mondeo back this afternoon. Why don’t I reserve that for you?”
“Look, I’m in a hurry. I really must get somewhere this morning. Can’t I take the car with the dent? I don’t mind so long as you know I didn’t do it.”
The desire for commission trumped reluctance to hire out a damaged vehicle and ten minutes later George turned on to the A4 and headed west. It was a while since he had embarked on a long car journey. Much of his childhood seemed to have been spent in the back of his parents’ Vauxhall being taken to visit relatives, on expeditions to beauty spots and on holiday. His mother, a lovely woman in many other ways, had a problem with ‘foreign’ until she reached an accommodation with Switzerland many years after George had left home. So, every summer, while others were jetting off to Spanish resorts, George’s parents packed their luggage in the boot and George in the back seat of the family saloon and battled through traffic jams and English weather to scenic (and not so scenic) locations in Devon, Cornwall, Kent, Sussex and the like. His father had been a man of passions; a passion for photography always providing the backdrop to passions for home made Christmas decorations, bent wire figures, oil painting, clay modelling, stone polishing and other crafts and hobbies. He was an advertising manager’s dream, and the craft shop’s best customer. Once the passion for ’touring’ and cheap bed and breakfast establishments had passed and the boating passion had been extinguished by the broken down houseboat on the Thames, George’s father had been much taken with a chain of seaside hotels run by an organisation better known for its holiday camps. The hotel concept had appealed to his mother who felt strongly that a holiday camp would be beneath her but that being a guest in a hotel was altogether a more genteel concept. That passion had peaked when George was about twelve or thirteen and beginning to develop an interest in rock and roll, pinball machines, tight jeans, hair oil and especially, girls. On one such holiday, he had teamed up with a boy called Dave who was a year or two older and had shoulder-length, blond hair and flared jeans and looked very like Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. Within hours, this pair of young predators had tracked down – or more probably been tracked down by – two girls. Belinda and Liz, fizzy, freckled blonde and doe-eyed brunette who were on holiday together. Their parents, apparently determined to enjoy their own holidays to the full, gave the girls considerable latitude about places, times and activities. Labouring under the eagle eye of his doting mother (his father generally subscribed to the live and let live school of child rearing) George envied the freedom enjoyed by the others. He had spent almost the whole two weeks literally or metaphorically looking over his shoulder thinking, ‘here comes my Mum. She knows what I’ve done’. Nevertheless, there had been evening expeditions to the fun fair and to the cinema, both expensive but well worth the money because of the opportunities to get in close, physical proximity to Liz on bone-shaking rides or in the back row. All this had reached a climax, almost literally, one night on the beach behind a screen of stacked deck chairs. His subterfuges had, to his surprise, been ineffective and his parents had known exactly where he was. This nocturnal assignation (his mother’s actual words) had been a step too far for her and George’s father had been despatched to break up the party. He had had the tact to approach whistling noisily and to present a fictitious reason why George was required elsewhere. That must have been the last night of the holiday because George could not remember any further contact with Liz until, nearly ten years later, a letter from her had arrived at his parents’ home. She was still in contact with Belinda and had located Dave. Did he feel like a reunion? The letter suggested a date and place but he did not go, probably because his then girlfriend’s brows had knitted in a particular way when she had said that he really must follow up such an intriguing invitation. Never mind. His father’s attraction to south-coast, holiday hotels had persisted and the following year, after her father had told him not to worry because they were all the same size lying down, he had lost his cherry to a tall, suicide blond from Limpsfield. Every day should be a holiday, he thought with a secret smile. Coming back to reality, he found he had already driven as far as Reading on automatic pilot. Stages and fences were partly erected in the fields beside the river and there were temporary road signs, still partly obscured by taped, black, plastic bags, giving directions to car parks and camp sites for the Rock Festival the following weekend. Another festival he was going to miss.
Chapter 18
Valerie put the telephone down and smiled at Susanna. She had been cheered by the call from her younger daughter and it was a relief to find that Josie was in good health, high spirits and was enjoying herself. Josie was three years younger than Susanna and four months into a world tour with three friends before, her mother hoped, settling down with a nice young man, maybe with a career of her own and, in time, presenting her mother with grandchildren.
“She’s in Luxor, in Egypt. She’s been to see the tombs and things there. It sounds as if she is having a good time. I just hope she’s careful about where she goes and who she gets mixed up with.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, Mum. Josie’s a sensible girl. She won’t do anything silly.” Susanna had taken the call and had had time to tell her younger sister not to say anything to her mother about the airport hostage reports in the English papers that had prompted Josie to make one of her infrequent telephone calls. Josie had been somewhat crestfallen at not being able to discuss her elder sister’s celebrity status but her disappointment had been replaced by concern when she had heard the full extent of her mother’s condition and subsequent operation. “And so long as she stays with Tom and the others, she’ll be all right. She’s not a stupid girl. I expect she’ll ring more often now she knows about your op
.” The telephone rang again. That would be George. “Okay, Mum. I’ll take it downstairs.”
“Is George there?”
“Susan?! No he’s not. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I know he’s back. He was seen in London.”
“Really? Is that so? Are you having him followed now?”
“Well, dear, don’t be too surprised if he’s not alone, will you? A very attractive girl met him off the train, I’m told. And they seemed to be close friends, if you know what I mean. But of course you don’t know yet what he’s like do you? I keep forgetting you’ve only been with him a few months so he’s probably only just started to get up to his old tricks. Still, tell him to ring me when he turns up, won’t you.”
The line went dead. Susanna stood stunned with the receiver to her ear listening to the dialling tone for several seconds.
“Who is it, dear?”
“What? Oh, it was just someone trying to get hold of George.” She felt slightly dazed… detached from the world as if this was happening to somebody else and she was watching. Bloody Susan! Malicious cow! Of course she fucking hates me so she’s just trying to stir up trouble, to make me feel bad. She mustn’t give in to it or Suesan would win. Even if Susan were telling the truth, why shouldn’t George be met by someone? He knows a lot of people. It might have been a hotel driver or something like that. Very like George to organise his travel down to the last detail. But then he said something about having a bad journey and being tired. He must have been later than he planned. So how would anyone know what time to meet him unless he had arranged it and told them about being late? No. It was probably just Susan shit-stirring – saying what she knew would upset her. She realised she was still holding the telephone and put it down too quickly and too hard causing a ting of protest. She let out the deep breath she had been holding for several seconds. Her mother called from her bedroom.
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