by Tony Parsons
‘I want to talk to the bastard now,’ Lyle said. ‘In one of the holding cells. I promise you he will be talking fluent English when I’ve done with him.’
Whitestone stood up, fumbling with her glasses.
The man had lost his daughter and she had cut him a lot of slack.
But the slack was running out.
‘Mr Lyle,’ she said. ‘As far as we can tell, these two men were running some kind of improvised brothel that they had set up in an unoccupied building. There is no reason for us to believe that there is any connection between these men and these women and your daughter.’
He made to brush past us. I stood before him.
‘Please listen to what we are telling you,’ I said.
‘None of them speak English, Mr Lyle,’ Whitestone said. ‘Not the man we’re holding. Not the two surviving women.’
He snorted with disbelief.
‘You don’t buy that, do you?’ he said. ‘Every little Third World wide boy who just jumped off the back of a lorry speaks English.’ He jabbed an angry finger at the glass doors of West End Central. ‘Either they know something,’ he said, ‘or you know nothing. Either these evil bastards have something to tell me or you have been chasing false leads all this time. Which is it?’
‘We’re doing all we can,’ Whitestone said, and I saw her visibly sag, as if she knew how feeble it sounded to a man who only wanted his daughter home.
‘I’ll beat it out of him,’ Lyle said, making it sound so simple, pushing past me and going up the steps.
We let him go, too tired to argue. Let someone else deal with him. He wasn’t going to be waved in by the duty sergeant today.
‘Those girls,’ Joy Adams said, her voice soft with disbelief. ‘That place.’
Then we sat in silence, still dabbing at our eyes with the bottled water, until two uniformed officers came out with Frank Lyle walking between them. A man and a woman officer, they spoke to him in professionally calm, soothing voices. We stood up and Whitestone glanced at me and I knew she felt it too.
Something that could only be called shame.
Lyle was one of those old-school coppers who was always ready to lose his rag, and I had expected him to put up a fight.
But he went quietly today, and the touch on the arms of the two uniformed officers slowly steering him to the street was gentle. They escorted him down the steps and let him go.
We made way for him.
He did not look at us as he set off along Savile Row, as shuffling and round-shouldered as a very old man. He stopped outside one of the bespoke tailors to cough something into his hand and then stared at what he saw there.
Then sank to one knee, and we all ran to him as if he was still one of our own, and would always be one of our own, and I caught a glimpse of what he had on his hand.
The blood from Frank Lyle’s lungs was black now.
Tommy answered the door to the Lyle home, staring at me as if he had never seen me before in his life. And maybe he hadn’t.
I held out my hand. That was a mistake. He looked at it for a while and then shook it limply, glancing anxiously away.
‘Remember me, Tommy? DC Wolfe. You were playing football in the garden.’
‘You’re looking for my sister.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is this about finding her?’
‘This is about your father.’
‘Oh, but he’s in the hospital. Someone called my mum.’
‘I know he’s in the hospital. Can I see your mum, Tommy?’
‘Is my sister coming home?’
‘I hope so,’ I said.
Then I looked at his big, open face framed by the mass of untamed curls.
‘You missing your sister, Tommy?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said. A secret smile. ‘But I was always told I needed to be more like her. Always, always, always, always, always.’ He beamed at me, and it was the same wide white smile as his perfect sister. ‘So it’s nice to be a bit alone, too. Because then they can’t tell me to be more like her, can they?’
‘What do you think happened to Jessica?’
His face clouded.
‘I know what happened.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Some bad men took her,’ he said. ‘Because she’s so pretty.’
Jennifer Lyle was in the kitchen, the big windows to the garden behind her, the Wendy house lit by the golden light of a summer’s day that was reluctant to end.
‘Thank you for taking my husband to hospital,’ she said. ‘I was just about to leave to see him.’
‘DCI Whitestone was in the ambulance with him.’
‘And what was Frank doing at West End Central?’
‘He wanted to talk to someone we have in custody. He believes the man has information about the abduction of your daughter.’
‘And does he?’
I shook my head.
‘And that’s why I wanted to see you, Mrs Lyle.’
‘Jennifer.’
‘Jennifer. Your husband needs to trust us, Jennifer. He needs to take a step back from our investigation. When he comes home, could you please ask him to do that? Because it’s not helping us find your daughter.’
‘But my husband was a policeman himself and he knows how it works. He knows that the police sometimes try very hard to find someone.’ Her face creased with sadness. ‘And sometimes you don’t try very hard at all. It’s true, isn’t it?’
She was right. I thought of the girl that Snezia had told me had gone missing from the Western World. Minky? And I wondered who was looking for Minky today, and how hard they were looking.
‘Sometimes you act like you don’t give a damn,’ Mrs Lyle said, not unkindly, not angrily, just explaining it to me. ‘My husband has been in those briefing rooms where you decide if you are going to keep looking forever or if you are going to stop looking or if you are not going to look at all.’
‘We’re doing all we can for you. And for your family. And for your grandson.’
And suddenly I was aware of the child’s absence.
‘Baby Michael is in the garden,’ Jennifer Lyle said. She bit her lower lip as her eyes slid away from mine. ‘With his father.’
I stared at her, not understanding. And then I saw them on the far side of the Wendy house.
Harry Flowers with baby Michael in his arms.
I let it sink in. And I turned to Jennifer Lyle, letting out a breath ragged with disbelief.
‘Jessica and Flowers were lovers?’ I watched him cradling the baby in his huge arms, trying to make sense of it. ‘But why the hell didn’t you tell us?’
There was a steely look of defiance in her eyes.
‘Because if my daughter was some ex-drug dealer’s mistress, you would not be looking quite so hard,’ she said. ‘Would you? She wouldn’t be such a beautiful MOP then, would she?’
MOP is police slang for a member of the public. She knew all of our secret language, and she also knew how we worked, and how we thought.
‘If you knew the truth, Jessica would have been portrayed as something horrible,’ she said. ‘Some gangster’s moll. And that wouldn’t have helped bring her home.’
‘Does your husband know about Jessica and Flowers?’
‘Frank just found out. He always believed that Lawrence – our daughter’s late fiancé – was Michael’s father. And Jess and I decided to let him believe it, especially with all the medical issues Frank was going through.’
Medical issues, I thought. Coughing up black blood. Collapsing in the street. Terminal lung cancer.
‘I recently told my husband the truth about Michael’s father,’ she said. ‘And as soon as I did, Frank went for Harry with a hammer. And that is exactly why I did not tell him before. Because I knew Frank would want to kill Harry.’
Harry, I thought. It’s Harry now.
I shook my head.
‘You should have told us, Mrs Lyle,’ I said. ‘It matters. You know it does.’
<
br /> ‘But exactly how would the truth have helped Jessica?’ she said. ‘Or Michael? You think my husband is the raving maniac and I am the reasonable one. You’re dead wrong, Detective. I am quite happy to be as unreasonable as I need to be. I just want Jessica back. I just want her safe. That’s all I care about. And I just want you to do your job.’
‘I’m trying,’ I said, and I went out into the garden.
‘I should knock your front teeth out,’ I told Harry Flowers.
‘Why would you do that?’ he said.
‘For withholding information,’ I said. ‘For withholding so much information from the police that you obstructed our investigations.’ I shook my head. ‘For treating us like mugs. For hiding the truth. For deserving to have your front teeth knocked out.’
‘I didn’t stop you doing your job,’ he said, rocking the baby. ‘I let you get on with it.’
We both stared at Michael’s face. The baby smacked his lips in sleep and burrowed deeper into the arms of Flowers.
‘So what happened, Harry? Help me to understand. You’re on one of your scheduled twice-weekly visits to see your mistress and then you take a shine to her flatmate? Is that what happened?’
He shook his head.
‘It was already over with Snezia and we both knew it. These things wear out. And Jess was at a low point in her life.’
‘Because her fiancé died.’
‘I mean long before Lawrence died.’ He glanced back at the house. ‘Her parents like to think of Jess and Lawrence as some great love affair, but it wasn’t like that at all. They were just two kids who had more or less grown up together. Jess was starting to wonder if she really wanted to spend a lifetime with a guy who was not much more than her childhood sweetheart.’
‘And you were the exit door out of this difficult relationship?’
‘I was more than that.’
‘Help me with the timeline here, Harry. Jessica moved in with Snezia two years ago. When did it begin with you and Jessica?’
‘It began the first time I looked at her. It began the moment I saw her face. It didn’t start then – the way you mean it – not for a long time. But for me, at least, it began the moment I saw this incredible young woman who was moving into the flat. I had never seen anything like her. And I have seen them all over the world.’
‘Jesus, Harry. Who would have thought it? You’re an old romantic.’
‘Everyone loves Jess,’ he said, and I wondered how many people had told me exactly that.
‘I can understand the attraction for you. But what did she see in you?’
I watched his rich man’s vanity bridle. But he shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘Must have been the size of your budget, Harry.’
‘Sneer all you want.’
‘I’m dead serious. What did Lawrence do? He was a teacher, right? And then you swan in with your flash car and your property portfolio and your big promises. Is that what happened?’
His mouth tightened but he said nothing, concentrating on his baby boy.
‘So – leaving love at first sight to one side for the moment – there was a period when Jessica was sleeping with you and the fiancé?’ I said. ‘I understood that she and Lawrence were still engaged when he died.’
He hesitated. ‘There might have been some overlap.’
‘And are you sure that you’re Michael’s father?’
He stared hard at me. ‘Maybe I should knock your front teeth out.’
‘And Lawrence died just before the baby was born.’
‘Yes, he died horribly. Knocked off his bike riding home and the police’ – he allowed himself a bitter little smile – ‘the police could not even find the driver who hit him. It was a tragedy.’
‘Well, it was a tragedy for him, but it worked out quite well for you. Your young rival was taken out of the picture.’
And now I saw the older man’s wounded pride.
‘Lawrence wasn’t my rival.’
‘But Jessica kept a photograph of him by her bedside.’
‘Of course! She still loved him. But not in that way. They had practically grown up together. In the end, she loved him like a brother.’
‘Then he was gone. So no more overlapping. No more sharing Jessica. Poor young Lawrence. But lucky old Harry.’
‘You think I had something to do with Lawrence getting knocked off his bike?’
‘With your history of violence, Harry? I would be remiss if I didn’t consider it a strong possibility.’
He looked sick to his stomach. ‘You know how many cyclists get killed every day on our streets? You know how many thousands are seriously injured every year? Lawrence was hit by some drunken moron in a sports car who never stopped. You think I could arrange that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, the anger rising in me. ‘But I know that you are lying bastards. All of you. The Lyles. You. Snezia. You all acted as though Jessica had her future snatched away from her when her fiancé died. That’s what you were all happy for the police – and the press, and the public – to believe. But his death could not have been more convenient. Certainly not for you.’
And for her, I thought.
For Jessica.
If it was true. If she wished the unwanted fiancé gone and a new life with an older, richer man. But was that what she really wanted? I realised that I knew next to nothing about Jessica Lyle apart from the fact that everyone she met seemed to fall in love with her.
Everyone loves Jessica. But who did she love?
‘If I had wanted to kill the lad,’ Flowers said, ‘a car is the last thing that I would have used.’
And although I said nothing, I believed him. A hit-and-run is not an exact science. Getting knocked over by a car is as likely to leave the victim crippled as killed. And if Harry Flowers wanted someone gone, I thought, he would be more likely to set them on fire. Less room for error.
But still – the death of Jessica Lyle’s childhood sweetheart would not have broken his heart.
He looked from his baby’s face to me.
‘None of it is very complicated,’ he said. ‘None of it is hard to understand. We’re all just animals looking for a home.’
‘But they didn’t take the wrong woman, did they, Harry? Because they never wanted Snezia in the first place. Whoever snatched Jessica, they knew what they were doing, didn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It feels like they knew exactly who they were taking.’
I shook my head, still taking it all in.
‘Because Snezia was on the way out and Jessica was all set to be your latest bit on the side.’
Sudden fury blazed in his eyes. ‘Jess will never be anyone’s bit on the side.’
‘Call it what you want. But you chose not to share that vital information.’
‘Would you have tried harder to find her if you knew we were together?’ he said, repeating the line I had heard in the kitchen, and I saw that this had been discussed, this had been endlessly hashed over when Frank Lyle was having his lungs drained at the hospital, when Harry Flowers and Jennifer Lyle had sipped herbal tea at the kitchen table and rocked baby Michael to sleep and worked out how best to play it.
And how best to bring Jessica home.
‘Would you be throwing the full resources of the Met at this if you had known?’ he said. ‘Even with all of Frank’s friends on the Force? Do you think all those old coppers would have broken sweat if they had known I was in love with the woman who was taken? Despite Frank’s thirty years. I don’t think so, do you?’
He had me there.
‘Maybe not. So who knew the truth about you and Jessica?’
‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Well, Snezia knew. We weren’t going to hide it from her. And Jessica’s mother knew after Jess found she was pregnant. The fiancé – Lawrence – never knew about us.’
‘You sure about that? He never saw any text messages from you on her phone, he never caught the pair of you fluttering your eyelashes at each other? S
nezia never told him? These things are hard to hide, Harry. Even for a smooth operator like you.’
‘Jess never told him and he never found out.’ He thought about it. ‘And now her father knows.’
‘Yes, I remember dear old dad after he got the happy news. Trying to beat your brains out with a hammer.’
‘Frank will get used to the idea before he dies,’ he said, and some cold light in Harry Flowers’ eyes offered a glimpse of his pitiless criminal’s heart. He looked at Michael as the baby stirred from his sleep and began to grizzle. ‘Children are the great healers.’
‘Who else knew? If Jessica was the target, then we need to know who knew about the pair of you.’
I thought of the clothes being thrown from the window. The shoes, the suits, the vinyl. All his good stuff.
‘Your wife,’ I said. ‘Did she know about you and Jessica?’
‘No, Charlotte only just found out about Snezia. The wife is usually the last to know.’
‘In your long experience.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In my long experience. But nobody else knew. Jess and I nearly bumped into Junior one night when we were at some tapas bar on Great Portland Street. But he didn’t see us – because he was with his mates and they were all rat-faced and trying to get off with the waitresses. And the rest of my family never knew.’
I remembered Meadow Flowers turning up at the Western World with her hen party pack to torment Snezia. It felt like the Flowers family were playing catch-up with Harry’s sexual adventures, always one relationship behind.
Then, tucking the baby against his side, he took a match folder from his jacket pocket and turned it over in his hand. It was one of those little folders of matches that he used as a business card. Auto Waste Solutions, it said on the cover. His company where old cars go to die.
He handed it to me.
‘Open it,’ he said.
I took it. I opened it. Michael had stopped grizzling, soothed by the arms that held him, and suddenly I had no trouble at all believing this was Harry’s son. On the inside of the match folder someone had quickly scribbled a car registration number.
