He smiled at that a bit.
“So, you’re like a bounty hunter?” he asked.
“Nah, nothing that cool. I’m a private investigator. People hire me to help out with stuff the cops won’t, or might be too busy to get around to.”
“Are the cops not trying to find my dad?”
“Oh no, believe me, they are looking for him very hard. Your mom thinks I might get him first, though. But to get started I gotta check in with people who know your dad. That’s why you’re stuck talking to me for a few minutes.”
We hit the end of the hall. The band room was to our left, and through the open door I could see it was empty. I led him in and closed the door partway. We sat in the front row. Violin cases were at our feet. I took out my notebook.
“When’d you last see your father, Aiden?”
“That night. He came home from work. He had dinner with us. I went to bed around eleven. He was gone in the morning and didn’t come back that night.”
“Did you go straight to sleep?”
“No, I stayed up and watched stuff on YouTube.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Chappelle show clips. Some pimple popping vids. And then a guided meditation.”
“You have trouble sleeping?”
He shrugged.
“How late were you up?
“Like, 2 a.m.,” he said. He looked at my notebook with a little curiosity and a little boredom. “The cops know all this, you know.”
“Well, they haven’t decided how much they want to share just yet. So by two a.m., nothing weird? No sounds? No fighting between your parents?”
He shook his head.
“How was your dad at home?”
He regarded me, quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“You know, was he a nice guy, let you pick the movies to watch, brought home pizza every Friday? Or was he a shouter, did he ever hurt you or your mom, did he drink too much, you know—that kind of thing.”
Aiden sat very quietly for a few seconds.
“My dad was OK,” he finally said.
“Just OK?”
“He worked a lot. And he was moody a lot. And he’d forget stuff sometimes. Mom said he was distracted. Had a lot on his mind.”
I considered this.
“Aiden, did your dad ever say anything about wanting to disappear or run away? Did you ever think he was maybe too stressed out to deal with stuff?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “He seemed pretty normal. Like, for an adult.”
“How’s your mom been since he left?”
He shrugged again.
“Sad, I guess. But she’s trying to keep busy. Lot of reading, lot of time online.”
He fidgeted a bit.
“Anything else?” I asked, gently. “Anything you say is between us, and it could be useful.”
“I found a few empty wine bottles behind the recycling,” he said. “I guess she waits until I’m asleep.”
“Your mom drink a lot normally?”
“No.”
“Where are your mom’s friends?”
He snorted.
“Dad was Mum’s friend, and they weren’t even really friends,” he said. “I don’t think she knows a lot of people.”
“Your dad has friends?”
“I guess. But if he did, they’re not coming around.”
We sat in silence for a minute. He played with the sheet music in front of him, dog-earing a corner then methodically smoothing it back into place.
“Is my dad dead?” he asked.
I tapped my notebook against my leg.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t think so.”
“Do you find a lot of missing people?”
“Just one, so far,” I said. “And I didn’t really find her. But this is different.”
“How come?”
“Your dad looks like he is a pretty smart guy. And smart guys are good at staying out of trouble. That alone tells me he might just be hiding or taking some time for himself.”
“Must be nice,” Aiden said, getting back to the paper. “Pull a runner whenever you fancy it.”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Time to flip the switch.
“What was with that story you wrote for English, the monster one?” I asked.
His head whipped around, the hair snapping a bit.
“How’d you see that?”
“I do my research. Look, relax. I’m not ragging on it. You had some good stuff there.”
He scowled, and his face wore the lines well—as if well-practiced.
“It was just a story,” he said. “It’s no big deal.”
“I know that,” I said. “But you gotta play by the rules.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t give them a reason to label you or worry about you. Give them the platitudes. Make it easy for them, and save your stuff for yourself.”
“I guess… I don’t know. It just came out when I was writing it.”
“I get it,” I said. “Now you know, though.”
The bell rang. He stood.
“Nice to meet you, Aiden,” I said, rising as well. “Thank you for your help.”
He nodded.
“Did you finish the story?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“The only way to kill the monster is you have to kill the house,” he said. “Destroy it. It’s what gives the thing its power—the house.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, pulling my phone out and checking my messages. Another text from my old friend. I would have to make the time, I realized. “How do you do that?”
The pause was long. I realized Aiden was waiting for me to look up from my mobile.
“You burn it,” he said. “To the ground. With everyone and everything still inside.”
We were still standing there, holding each other’s gaze, barely noticing when the violinists arrived.
8
Taylor Brock, soul-calloused divorce lawyer and a former drinking buddy of mine from way back, had been peppering my phone and e-mail with vague yet insistent demands that we meet. After my visit to St. Ann’s I finally had a free hour, so we hastily arranged to connect in our usual spot near St. Paul’s tube station. It was a small café where we often sat outside and watched the world go by: Me enjoying the hustle and bustle, he attempting to smile and hold eye contact with any woman who had the bad luck to glance up as she passed. His incorrigibility in this regard was well-documented: he was now on his third marriage, which if not yet on the rocks was getting dangerously close to the shoreline. I had assumed this is what he wanted to consult about. Immediately after sitting down, though, I realized I had gotten it wrong.
“Hey,” I said. His eyes were sunk deep and ringed with purple. He had a day or two’s worth of stubble on his jaw and a smile that was thinner than foolscap. His head carried a battered Mariners cap, faded blue and well-creased, a gift from me a long time ago. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be the wife. I had never seen him this upset about a woman.
“All right?” he asked. I nodded.
He slid a paper cup, still steaming, across the table to me.
“I got here a few minutes ago,” he said. “I know what you like.”
I took a tentative sip, waiting for him to work up to the point.
“How is it?” he asked. “Too hot?”
I slid the coffee back a bit, shaking my head. Seeing him like this, I was in no mood for delay tactics.
“Brock. C’mon. What’s going on?”
He linked his fingers and pushed his arm out so his palms faced me, then brought them to his face, which he rubbed, hard.
“Thad,” he said. “Jesus, man. I’m in trouble.”
“You need a meeting?” I asked. Much like me, Brock had a past with alcohol that involved a lot of apologies. His had also included twelve steps and one or two sponsors.
He shook his head, hard.
“Not that kind of trouble,” he said, fl
ashing that anorexic grin again. “Worse, if you can believe it.”
“Well, we’ve been friends for a long time, so I’m well prepared.”
He looked up at me from under his cap’s bill. I could see his eyes were welling up. It was a rare enough sight I felt my own breathing snag for a second.
“Brock,” I said, a bit softer. “What’s going on?”
“I, uh,” he started. Then stopped. Deep breath. I gave him a small nod of encouragement.
“I owe a lot of money,” he finally said.
“How much?”
“About eight thousand.”
“OK. Not great, but not, you know, catastrophic.”
He laughed, a weak little yelp.
“It is to these guys.”
“You want to tell me how you got in this hole and who’s waiting for their money?”
He drank, deeply, from his own coffee.
“I was broke. I owe child support on one marriage, two sets of alimony and a third coming up. I made a few bets.”
“Shit’s sake, Brock.”
He held up his hand.
“Shut up. Let’s just assume I know that this was all very stupid and so I don’t need your further admonishment, OK?”
I nodded. “What’d you get into?”
“Horses, mostly. Some sports. It got out of hand. I couldn’t cover it, so I went to a guy.” He pressed his face into the makeshift cradle of his hands. “Anyhow. I’m behind. Way behind.”
“How long you got?”
“A week.”
“What do you have?”
“About two thousand.”
“Can’t you borrow the rest? Legitimately?”
He laughed again.
“Believe me, the banks and I, we aren’t playing nice lately. I mentioned the child support and alimonies, right?”
I let some air escape through pursed lips. I had wired Rox the money I promised, and despite business being OK, it had cleaned out most of my savings. I had taken a big hit when I got out of the cheating spouse game, truth be told.
“It’s not a great time right now,” I said, finally.
He nodded. He pulled the cap lower against his eyes.
“What happens in a week?”
“What do you think?” he asks. “Beatings will continue until morale improves, isn’t it?”
He gave a quick look about, then pulled his shirt up. His right side sported a purple welt in the shape of a ragged half-moon. I met his eyes. They were a little wet again.
I clenched and unclenched my jaw. I wondered if he could see.
“I could maybe see about getting some cash coming in,” I said after a moment. “Plus, I have a little bit socked away.”
“Yeah?”
“Could do, yeah. Plus, I’m working something interesting. If it breaks fast, it could be helpful here.”
“What’s the case?”
“Um. Well.” I drank from my own cup. Put it down. Fiddled with my napkin.
“Sorry,” he said, getting the message.
“Can’t really talk about it,” I said. I felt a bit badly. “Even the generalities, especially with you… now compromised. I mean, with the guys you’re into for this. You understand, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it.”
We sat in silence for a minute. I did some mental math, trying to remember when the school cheque would clear, what I had left in savings, and how much my own bank manager liked me.
“Next Saturday,” I said. “I can have some money for you by then.”
“Well, that’s the thing.”
I felt my eyelids narrowing.
“What’s the thing?” I asked.
“It’s actually this Wednesday. I meant a week, like, generally.”
I turned away. One thing about us addicts, we are fast and loose with the truth and good at sidestepping the minor inconveniences of other people’s lives.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Wednesday,” I repeated. “As in, two days?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you even, I don’t know, pretend to be fussed about this?”
He rolled his shoulders. Not so much a shrug as an admission. No, not that—an acceptance.
“I think it’s pretty clear the stakes,” he said. “I’ve made my peace with it.”
“If they kill you, they don’t get their money.”
“They won’t kill me,” he said, watching a blonde saunter by and not bothering being subtle about it. “But they will, uh, drag it out quite a bit. And get the money, eventually. How much of me is left, well, that’ll be the issue.”
I watched the back of the woman’s head, golden ponytail bobbing as she worked her way down towards Cheapside. Maybe out to do a spot of shopping, or grab a bite with some friends. The normal, everyday stuff.
“Who do you owe the money to?” I asked.
“Why is that important?”
“Because I know a few people and I might be able to ask around, buy you a few days. Buy us a few days, ’cause I don’t think I can be ready, either.”
He considered this. I reached into my jacket and slid over my notebook.
“Name and address,” I said. “That’s all I need.”
He scribbled it down and pushed it back.
“That it?” he asked.
I nodded, standing.
“I’ll message ya when I have more info. Until then, keep a low profile.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Stay away from the track. And the pubs. And, well, anywhere a reprobate like you would have any fun, really.”
“Shut up, Thad,” he said again. But his smile was a bit fuller.
I turned, about to walk away.
“You never asked me to say thank you,” he said. “Just as well. I wouldn’t know how.”
“That’s all right,” I said, stopping and turning back a bit. “You threw a lot of snoop work my way back in days of yore. And you pulled me out of one or two scrapes. We’re cool.”
He kept the smile on, but we both knew it: That stuff was all small time compared to this.
“We’re cool,” I said again. “We’re mates.”
“We’re mates?”
I was genuinely taken aback. “Of course we are,” I said.
“Well. OK. I owe ya one.”
“Well, no,” I said, re-buttoning my jacket. “You’ll owe me six grand, but we can sort that out after this is over.”
He waved to our waitress, signaling for the check.
“I got your coffee,” he said. He tweaked he bill of his cap one last time. “Least I can do, right?
9
Even though it had been over a year since I had stopped into the Bells Pub in the East End, as I pulled out a stool at the bar the governor there recognized me quickly—if a bit begrudgingly.
“Grayle,” Shane Bowering said, shooing away the other barman and making his way down to re-explore our acquaintance. “Well, well. What’s going on, detective man?”
Bowering had helped me out on another case, after I first threatened him and then bribed him. Obviously, I’m not great at making friends, but we had left it in an OK place. Still, we didn’t send each other Christmas cards or anything. I extended my hand as a declaration of peaceful intent. Bowering accepted it, with only the polite amount of bemusement and disdain.
“Diet Coke?” he asked.
“You do remember your punters,” I said. “Imagine if I became a regular.”
“There’s not enough fountain soda in London to make it worth either of our while,” he said. He handed me a pint slammed to the brim with dark cola and ice. I took a tentative sip, then put my finger to my throat.
“Hmm—still alive,” I said.
“Strychnine doesn’t get in until next Monday,” he said. “So: what’s up?”
“Can we talk privately?”
Bowering told the other bartender—young guy, with stovepipe black jeans and a beard struggling somewhere between scruff and aspirational—to take
ten, then made a sweep of the bar with his arm. We were, save for the cigarette burns on the seats and the yellowing posters in chipped frames, now alone. He leaned forward, resting his log-like forearms on the bar and bringing himself to my eye line.
“OK, then,” he said. I could smell the cheap gel in his brush-cut hair as his head loomed close to mine. “Let’s talk.”
“You still taking bets?”
“A man’s gotta make a living,” he said.
“I’m trying to track a guy down, he’s in the same line of work. A buddy of mine owes him a lot of money. I need to arrange a payment plan.”
“Well, first, I wouldn’t say it like that. You’re not meeting with some bank teller, trying to get a better mortgage rate here.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, I do. I’ve had the pleasure of talking with you before. But maybe try not to sound like a professor all the time. Might work out for ya.”
“Thanks for the advice. But I come by it a bit too honestly. My mom gave me lots of books as a kid.”
“Let me guess: they were your friends when things were tough.”
“Things were tough a lot. Still are. So, you going to help me or not?”
Bowering chuckled, not unkindly. “Sure. What the hell. Who’s the guy?
“Alphonse Quigley.”
Bowering topped up my Coke.
“Your mate’s into that mad Irishman? He must be desperate.”
“If you mean he was drowning in debt, made a lot of bad choices and had nowhere else to go, then yeah, desperate pretty much covers it.”
“I know Alphonse. I got a number for one of his leg men, and my guys have helped him once or twice. But you’d probably be better off seeing him in person.”
“Where is he?”
“Well, it’s not like he’s got office space in the Mile,” Bowering said. “But I know a few places he hangs out.”
I got out my notebook.
“Your best bet’s this curry house he hits most Fridays, place called the Empress,” Bowering said. “Last I heard he and his crew book out the room in the back.”
“Can you reach out, let ‘em know I’m coming?”
He shook his head. “I know the guy. But not like that. For first steps, you’re on your own.”
“Roger that,” I said. I pulled out my phone and looked up the Empress’ address, adding it to my notes.
Ten Grand Page 4
