Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  Nostimo is an upscale Greek eatery in Notting Hill Gate. The prices are a rip-off, a fortune for each tapas-sized portion, but the food itself is excellent. H sips premium bottled water as he stares at the menu.

  ‘The grilled aubergine is to die for,’ I say. ‘Why Brixton?’

  He won’t tell me. Neither is he very keen to explain why he’s plunged his newly discovered son into penury.

  ‘I need the boy at Flixcombe to keep an eye on him,’ he says at last. ‘It’s for his sake, not mine.’

  ‘Don’t you trust him?’

  ‘No. Since you ask.’

  This, at least, has the merit of one of the blunter truths, but for me it’s not enough.

  ‘Why? Why don’t you trust him? You told me he’s in trouble.’

  ‘He is. He’s got himself in the shit, big time, and he won’t admit it. I can live with stubborn but I’ve got no time for stupid. He’s in it up to here.’

  H draws a thick finger across his throat, a gesture that truly chills me.

  ‘Into what, exactly?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘But I do. He’s my son, remember?’

  ‘Our son.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  H gives me one of his trust-me looks. I know it’s meant to be kindly and supportive but it doesn’t feel that way. Moments ago I was toying with telling H about the mystery black man with the teardrop tattoo, but I’m not here to be patronized. Information, after all, is power and I, too, can play that game.

  ‘Maybe he’s spending too much time alone,’ I suggest. ‘In these circumstances it doesn’t pay to think too hard.’ I’m trying to play guileless, the embattled mother still fighting off the after-effects of chemo.

  ‘Alone? Bollocks. What’s this?’

  I take a look. Spicy tiropita, I explain, is exactly what the menu says it is, a confection of broken filo pastry, leeks and chillies.

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘I’ll have two.’ He’s looking for the waitress but I’m determined to get back to Malo.

  ‘You’re telling me he’s in the shit.’ I’m refusing to give up. ‘What kind of shit?’

  He shakes his head. Once again, he won’t tell me. I beckon him closer over the tabletop. H needs to know I’m serious.

  ‘You don’t think he’s been over at Clem’s place?’ I ask. ‘Waiting and waiting for the phone to ring? Because that’s what the boy’s telling me.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. The boy can be a twat. The world’s a much nastier place than he thinks it is. He needs protecting. He needs looking after. Maybe that’s where you come in.’

  ‘At Flixcombe? Both of us banged up? That’s double kidnap.’

  ‘Kidnap, my arse. And that’s another thing. We sit and listen to Mr Jaguar at Mateo’s place and he’d have us think he’s got the whole deal weighed off. That’s bullshit. The world’s moving on and he should have sussed it. Everything’s in play. Everything’s changing. In my day, the drugs biz was run by honest guys. It was supply and demand. You spot a hole in the market and you fill the fucker. You try very hard not to hurt anyone, not badly, and you also try very hard to keep your standards up. Decent gear. At a decent price. To people who can pay without robbing other punters blind. That’s how I got rich. By playing it straight. By satisfying demand. By keeping people happy. And by making all that moolah work.’

  ‘You’re telling me this is about drugs?’

  ‘Of course it is. And you’re talking to someone who knows.’

  I nod. I’m sure this is true because people I trust have told me so. Hayden Prentice, one-time drug baron, had a real talent for shrewd investments. In the first place, the money came from cocaine sales. Then, thanks to a small army of bent white-collar professionals – solicitors, accountants, planning consultants, property developers – all that cash funded an ever-growing empire of legitimate businesses from tanning salons and estate agents to care homes and even a security consultancy. Hence Flixcombe Manor, and H’s bursting portfolio of legitimate business interests, and all the largesse that Malo has taken for granted.

  ‘You’re telling me times have changed? Is that it?’

  ‘Totally. Beyond recognition.’

  ‘And Malo is part of this? Have I got that right?’

  ‘Yeah. Probably by accident. Probably because he didn’t look hard enough, didn’t think hard enough. The drugs biz these days is a swamp. And a swamp is where the real reptiles live. These people are off their heads. Some of them are children, just kids. They’re tooled up. They probably sleep with knives under their pillows. They’d kill you as soon as look at you. They’d do you for an argument over a couple of quid. The Filth call it county lines. It’s basically selling gear over the phone. It’s everywhere, all over the fucking country. You think your own little town is safe? You think those sweet kids of yours won’t ever get in trouble with drugs? Wrong. And you know why? Because something we all took for granted has gone. Families? Mums? Dads? A proper job? Getting up in the morning? Totally bolloxed. No one has a clue who they are any more, or where they belong, and there isn’t a politician in the country who can tell them what to do about it. There’s a great phrase I heard the other week. Remember it. Have a bit of a think about it. The end of days, right? Because that’s where we fucking are. At the end of days. And you know why? Because we never paid enough attention. What happens next?’ He spreads his hands wide and shrugs. ‘Fuck knows.’

  This, from H, has the makings of a speech. The young waitress, visibly frightened, is keeping her distance. Now she pounces, pad in hand. H gives her his order without checking the menu. Pork belly. King prawns. Scallops. And two of those spicy things. I, meanwhile, settle for courgette cakes and fresh calamari. H’s little rant has stilled conversation in the courtyard where we’re eating and a French family at a neighbouring table are making hasty preparations to leave.

  I ask H to tell me more about Malo. Last night, I say, I gave him some money.

  ‘I know. You’re crazy. That boy needs money like a hole in the head. He phoned me up. He was laughing. He thought he’d got one over on me. Two hundred quid, am I right?’

  ‘Yes. My money. My decision.’

  ‘And you know what he’ll spend it on?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Cocaine. He was coked-up last night. Totally manic like some teenager off her head.’

  ‘Her head?’

  ‘Yeah. Tell you the truth, I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘You think Malo’s gay?’

  ‘I think he’s off his head. And that’s at least halfway to gay.’ He leans forward. He’s sweating slightly, though the last of the really hot weather has gone. ‘Something else. The blind guy, your fancy man, was round your place too. Am I right?’

  ‘You are. And for the record he walked out on me.’

  ‘Really?’ H can’t hide his delight. ‘You’re telling me you’ve started saying no? Shit, I’m almost sorry for the bloke.’

  I stare at him. I can’t believe what he’s just said. He’s pushed me too far and he knows it. One large hand descends on mine but it’s far too late. I reach across the table and slap his face as hard as I can. I feel the sandpaper bristliness of his cheek beneath my palm. He recoils from the blow while the French family gather their kids and head for the door, and then he leans towards me again. I hit him a second time, even harder, and then pick up my bag before making my way back through the restaurant to the street.

  For a moment or two, watching the French family hurrying away, I think H might be coming after me, but when I check, the only face I can see belongs to a startled waiter. I turn away from the restaurant and start to walk home. I’m becoming part of the culture, I think. And I’m feeling a whole lot better.

  FOURTEEN

  H phones me every ten minutes or
so for the entire afternoon. Thinking he might try and make an appearance in person, I’m also determined to ignore the video phone. Part of me is tempted to check on Pavel, to risk a conversation, to maybe tender some kind of apology, but that, too, I resist. The palm of my right hand is sore and slightly swollen. A truly wonderful feeling.

  Finally, in the early evening, I at last answer the latest of H’s calls. He has the grace to say sorry for insulting me and blames, in some unfathomable way, the setting. Posh, he says, always gets him going. What he said was totally out of order and he wants me to know that he’s really, really sorry. An apology from H is a first and I even detect signs of something I can only call respect in the way he’s handling the conversation. He’s businesslike, certainly, but he’s also warm. Maybe I’ve passed some arcane test, I think. Maybe he thinks I might become one of the gang.

  ‘Have you got a pen there?’

  I have.

  ‘I’m gonna give you a couple of names. One of them is a girl called Evie. That’s not her real name but that’s the way they know her on the street. The other is a waster called Bradley. Crap tatts and shit skin. You could read a paper through him. That’s our son talking, by the way, not me.’

  ‘Malo knows these people?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘This is Brixton?’

  ‘Bridport. Malo and Clem have been hanging out there. Start with a pub called the Landfall. The place is full of lowlifes dealing whatever you fancy.’

  ‘They’ve been using this pub?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Malo.’

  ‘Why?’ I’m reaching for a pen, remembering the state of my son the first time he met Pavel. ‘You think he’s buying drugs there?’

  ‘Good question.’

  Bridport is a little town in west Dorset I happen to like. It’s an easy drive from Flixcombe and one or two of the cafe-bars put Kensington to shame. H is still telling me about the Landfall but by now I’m more than confused. What, exactly, am I supposed to do in a druggy pub in Bridport? What am I after?

  ‘Everything. Anything. Information, especially. Remember what I was saying in the restaurant before you beat me up? About the way things are turning out in this khazi of a country? Keep your eyes open. Take a look around. Have a conversation or two. Mention the boy, and Clemmie as well. Malo says she made a big impact. Find out what they’ve been up to – anything Malo’s not telling us that could explain what’s happened to Clem. In your trade that should be an easy gig. Something else, too. Keep tabs on what you spend. Because I’m in the chair.’

  ‘This is some kind of business deal? You’re commissioning me? You want receipts?’ I’m laughing now.

  ‘Call it research.’ H isn’t amused. ‘Call it what you fucking like. Lowlifes won’t talk to me. No way. But it might be different coming from you. Fuck Mr Jaguar. If we want Clemmie back in one piece, this is where we start.’

  Bridport, at first glance, is a world away from the kind of town you might associate with hardcore druggies. It’s within touching distance of Lyme Regis, surrounded by soft green hills. West Bay, with its pebble beach and busy harbour, is a mile and a half down the road. The town itself once earned a living from rope-making and this is said to have some connection to the width of the main street, though no one’s ever explained to me why.

  Nowadays, Bridport has become a must-visit for serious foodies and there’s a colony of wealthy incomers among those hills, most of whom have swapped the winnings from selling up in London for an acre or two of rural peace. Unless I’ve been missing something, none of these good folk have much interest in acquiring a crack habit, or arranging meets with a smack dealer.

  This is where I need a little help from my son. When I get him on the phone he says he’s at Flixcombe and because I can hear Jess in the background I have no reason to disbelieve him. Jessie, who’s a Pompey girl, acts as a kind of housekeeper to H.

  ‘Is this your father’s doing?’ I ask Malo.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So are you back on the payroll?’

  ‘No chance. Free board and lodging and a fridge full of Stella? Actually it’s OK.’

  ‘The Stella?’

  ‘Flixcombe. Dad’s right. I need a break.’

  ‘And Clem?’

  ‘Her dad got a video this afternoon, sent direct to his phone. He shared it with me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She’s talking to camera against a plain white wall. She sends her love, by the way. Asked to be remembered.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Yeah. And Dad, too.’

  I’m confused again. Malo’s making this major breakthrough sound like a video postcard from some vacation spot. The girl’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake.

  ‘Did she look all right? Sound all right?’

  ‘She sounded nervous. That’s not like her.’

  ‘No hint of where she might be? How she might have got there?’

  ‘None. It wasn’t that kind of thing. It only lasted a couple of minutes and at the end she held up a copy of this morning’s paper. That was a bit weird. She never reads The Sun.’

  I nod. The headline would authenticate the video, along – presumably – with the date and time on-screen.

  ‘What else did Mateo tell you?’

  ‘He says a guy he knows is talking to the kidnappers.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He won’t tell me.’

  ‘Is this man’s name O’Keefe?’

  ‘Yeah. How do you know?’

  ‘I met him. We both did. Me and your dad.’ As lightly as I can, I mention the Landfall in Bridport, saying it figured in a review I was reading in some paper or other. ‘It sounds quite nice,’ I tell him. It’s the thinnest of lies.

  ‘Nice?’ The word draws a bark of laughter from my son. ‘What else did the paper say?’

  I’m staring at the phone. I’m having to invent here and it doubtless shows.

  ‘They said it was authentic,’ I mutter. ‘I imagine that means real. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s OK. Crap sound system. Packed at the weekends. You’re telling me you’re going there? Making a visit?’

  ‘I might.’

  I mumble something about a day out and then change the subject. Whatever happens in Bridport, I’m clearly on my own.

  I settle down for the evening and I’m browsing the latest programme offers on iPlayer when I get a call from Pavel’s agent. She’s been trying to contact him all day without success. He’s not picking up and her messages have gone unanswered. This isn’t like him at all, she says, and to be frank she’s worried. Do I have any idea where he might be?

  I like Pavel’s agent. I’ve met her on a couple of occasions, once at a book launch and once at a BAFTA evening where Pavel picked up an award for his work on a costume drama. A place at Pavel’s table had come as a surprise, the first present he ever bought me, and given how awful some of these occasions in la-la land can be, it turned out rather well. Misha, half-Polish, is both warm and funny and is immensely proud of her star client. According to Pavel she once accompanied him to an industry get-together in Toulouse and poured a glass of red all over a drunken Russian actor who was being obnoxious.

  ‘Do you want me to go round?’ I ask. ‘See if I can raise him?’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all. My pleasure.’

  I turn off the telly and call an Uber, glad to have an excuse to kiss and make up. The traffic is light and the journey down to Chiswick takes no time at all. When I arrive, there’s no sign of Pavel. I try the doorbell two, three times and then knock and knock. When I try phoning I can hear nothing that would indicate his mobile ringing inside. Finally a woman emerges from next door and wants to know whether she can help at all. I explain that Pavel’s a good friend of mine.

  ‘You were here the other night, right?’ She’s American. ‘I saw you leave next day.’

  ‘That would b
e me,’ I agree.

  It turns out that she has a key to the property lodged with her and her partner a couple of years back when they’d both moved in and got to know Pavel.

  ‘Amazing guy,’ she says. ‘He calls it his just-in-case key. Just in case he locks himself out or gets blind drunk or whatever.’ She frowns. ‘Blind drunk? That’s not good.’

  She disappears back into her house and emerges with the key. The fact that he’s never had to use it, she says, tells you everything you need to know about their lovely neighbour.

  ‘So deep and, you know, so kinda brave.’

  She lets us both in. I stand for a moment in the hallway, calling Pavel’s name. Nothing. The door to the big room downstairs is a couple of inches ajar and I push it open and step inside. Everything looks exactly the way I remember it, very neat, very tidy, then the woman from next door draws my attention to the TV. It’s on freeze frame from the DVD player and the image on the screen is all too familiar. It comes from the scene towards the end of the movie I shot in Nantes all those years ago. The naked woman straddling the doomed Resistance hero is me.

  My new friend is staring at it. ‘Holy shit,’ she says. ‘How did he know when to hit the Pause button?’

  Good question. I’m back home. A search of Pavel’s house revealed no clues to what might have happened. His bed was made. There was fresh pasta in the fridge. The towels in the bathroom were carefully folded. And we could find no sign of a note. All that was missing was the dog. So far so good, but what I can’t get out of my mind was that freeze-frame on his TV. Was he expecting me to call round? Manage to gain access? Was it some kind of message? And if so, what did it mean?

  Just now I’m phoning every A&E department in an ever-widening circle around Chiswick in search of an injured blind man in his mid-forties with a dog called Milost. No one can help. So far I haven’t contacted the police to report him as a missing person because I’m all too aware that I’ve missed my appointment with PC Wallace. Maybe, if there’s still no sign of him over the coming days, I can dream up some story and get the neighbour to do it. Maybe.

  Ever more worried – first Clem, now Pavel – I retire early. I’m fast asleep when my phone rings. I roll over, rubbing my eyes, fumbling for my mobile. Nearly half past midnight.