“Mr. Copta?”
He was about halfway in, and his head snapped up at the sound of his name, his eyes appraising me quickly. The driver kept his arm on the door, effectively a barrier between his boss and me, the interloper.
“Yes?” he asked. “If this about work, I’d prefer if you would call and make an appointment.”
“It is work—but mine, I’m afraid.” Deciding against reaching over, I handed my card to the driver, who passed it on. Copta studied it for a moment, and his features relaxed.
“I have a feeling I know what this is about.”
“I was pretty certain you were a smart person,” I said, tilting my head to the restaurant. “I’ve had the stuffed peppers from this place. Pretty good.”
“I have somewhere to be,” he said. “If you don’t mind getting a lift, we can talk in here if you want. Magnus, let him by.”
I shrugged consent and approached the door, Magnus, the driver, finally letting me pass with the solemnity of Moses parting the waters.
The back was all leather and a lot of space. Copta lounged easily in his corner, clearly relaxed in his supple surroundings.
“Mr. Duclos,” he said.
“In one,” I answered. “I’m trying to find him, so I’m looking to get a picture of his life before he went missing.”
“I wasn’t really a big part of his life.”
“Not really, but it’s a start. Plus business is always fertile terrain, motive-wise.”
Copta took that with a smile.
“I assure you, I had nothing to do with this.”
I raised my hands. “Not my implication. But surely you know that following money in these matters is hardly a waste of time.”
“For sure,” Copta assented. “I’d be happy to show you our files and my history with Duclos and his firm.”
“That’d be great.”
“If you have a court order.”
“Ah. Well, my approach is typically a bit more spontaneous.”
“Not a fan of paperwork?”
“It’s not my strong suit. Look, I can always go to the cops and ask what they have. Mrs. Duclos would be happy to vouch for me, and I assume you’ve spoken to them already.”
“Then you hardly need my help in that regard,” he said. “By all means, then, speak to the police.”
Damnation. It had been worth a shot. Time for another approach.
“I will. But I’m trying to get a picture of Duclos as a man. Worster said you guys socialized on occasion.”
“Yes, certainly. Nothing special. A few nights out, once or twice on my boat. They did good work, and I wasn’t afraid to show my appreciation.”
“Did that appreciation include booze and food, or anything a bit more salacious?”
Duclos shook his head, amused.
“I understand that your job description means you have to always assume the worst, but these were not men interested in much more than nice steaks and a decent Scotch. But there may be someone else you can talk to.” He scribbled a name on the back of one of his cards, handing it over.
“I wrote that man a cheque last year. He went to school with Yannick, way back when. It was a fundraiser. Something for his daughter’s…volleyball tournament, or some such. Yannick asked, and I was happy to oblige.”
“Thanks,” I said, palming the card.
He took a very obvious glance at his watch and sighed. Getting bored.
“Rolex GMT, right?” I asked. “The Pepsi? Nice piece.”
He didn’t even attempt to disguise his surprise. “You’re a horology fan?”
“Nah, not really. My dad liked watches, I picked up a few bits and pieces along the way.” I shot my cuff, rolling my wrist to show him mine: A battered Seiko diver that had served honourably for far too long. “My job means my taste has to tilt a bit more to the functional.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Mr. Grayle,” Copta said, pulling his French cuff back over the jubilee bracelet and two-tone bezel.
“What about Duclos? Did he like the fancy stuff?”
Again, Copta shook his head.
“Honestly, I have no idea what he did with his money,” Copta said. “His suits were getting a bit frayed, he drove a ten-year old Honda, and I think my haircut cost more than his shoes. I’m not judging—there’s no shame in frugality—but surely a man with a few pounds in the bank should treat himself every now and then.”
Just a few pounds.
“Maybe he was worried about the future,” I mused.
“Perhaps, but one should be allowed to enjoy the present,” Copta said, making a short wave of his arm through the Rolls’ air.
“I’m sure it’s good for some,” I said.
Copta laughed, a short, sharp chuckle. “Come now,” he said. “You’re doing more than all right, are you not?”
“Excuse me? I’m not sure I understand.”
The car had begun to slow. We were, apparently, arriving.
“Yours is not a common name,” Copta said. “One does not forget hearing it. And today was not the first time I had.”
“Who, me?” I said. “I’m a nobody. I’m the grey man.”
The driver popped the door on my side first, and stood, somehow both stiffly and impatiently.
“There are a lot of colours in this world,” Copta said as I slid out. “And a lot of masks for a man to wear. In my experience, they all fit. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Grayle.”
13
The Empress was tucked away deep in the East End, a neighbourhood now more famous for its bohemian art scene and cuisine than the slums and disease that had marked it as recently as the late 1800s. Gentrification takes no prisoners, least of all memories, good or bad.
True to Bowering’s heads-up, Quigley and some of his crew were assembled in a private room in the back. I held back a bit, waiting for one of the waiters to appear with a tray of poppadoms and another with a full round of pale ales. I slipped in behind him, content to wait while the fuel was distributed. I was noticed soon enough.
“Help you?” one of Quigley’s boys asked, pasty and stuck with an unruly mop of red hair. He was heaping a load of rice and curry onto still-warm naan bread.
“I’m hoping so,” I said, making eye contact with the ruddy-faced man at the head of the table.
My interrogator turned to his boss. Quigley shrugged.
“Go ahead,” Quigley said. “But let’s keep it quick, all right?”
Quigley was pale, oil-drum chested with sandy-brown hair reduced to stubble, ground to his scalp through a pitiless buzz cut. His arms were freckled, ropy pillars, the numerous tattoos faded through time and sun. He wiped his mouth and took a heavy swig of beer.
“Friend of mine owes you money,” I said. “Taylor Brock. I’m here to let you know it will get taken care of.”
“Well, that is just wonderful news. Thanks for stopping by,” he said. His cohorts chuckled.
“There are terms,” I said. “We need some time. I’m here to ask for it.”
Quigley gave a nod to one of the other apes he was eating with. He stood and closed the door.
“What’s your name?” Quigley asked me as he returned to his curry.
“Grayle.”
He shoveled food into his mouth, barely stopping to chew.
“What do you do, Grayle?”
“This and that,” I said. “I like to think I’m a man of a few talents.”
“A real Renaissance man. I hear ya,” he said.
The others were not eating. They were staring at me, gazes slackened ever-so-slightly by a few drinks—but not by much.
“Well, this is what I do,” Quigley continued, still eating. The man to his left pushed another plate of korma towards him. “I lend people money. Those people pay me back or they get hurt. Then I still get paid, but it’s usually more for my trouble and my crew’s. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Your man Brock, he owes me how much?”
He obviously
knew, but wanted to hear me say it, give what may feel like an abstract number life, as grim as it might be.
“Eight grand.”
“And you’re here why?”
“To assure you that you will get paid. We just need a bit more time.”
“How much time?”
“Week,” I said. “Maybe even less.”
“He could’ve come here himself. Why’d he send you?”
“He didn’t. I offered.”
“Let me guess,” he said, finally looking up from his food. He reapplied the napkin to his thick lips. “You’re helping your friend out.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Where you from, Grayle?”
“I live near Holloway, but I’m guessing you mean originally. U.S. of A. Pacific Northwest.”
This gave him pause, then a smile.
“You like the rain or something?”
“It’s my delicate complexion,” I said. “Not made for the sun.”
“Well, that’s a possible upside to all this for you,” he said. “Because if I don’t get my money in five days, you and Brock will be far, far away from sunlight.”
“Like I said, we might need a week.”
Quigley retuned to his plate. Two of his guys stood and took me by the arms.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m being reasonable here. C’mon.”
One of them snapped my arm tight against my back, pushing the hand close to the shoulder blade. The other rummaged in my pockets, throwing my wallet to Quigley.
“Thaddeus Grayle,” he said, pulling my driver’s license. “202A Seven Sisters Road, London. Hunh.”
“What’s the problem?”
“I dunno,” he said. “That’s a nice suit. And not a great neighbourhood.”
“It’s close to the Tube,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Plus, there’s some nice restaurants.”
I was released. I resisted the urge to rub my sore wrist. He rummaged further into the wallet’s folds.
“Private investigator,” he read from my license. “My oh my.”
“It’s a living,” I said.
“Bad choice of words,” he said. “Considering the circumstances.”
He nodded to an empty seat across from him at the table. I took it.
“Brock’s already late,” he said. “The interest has climbed substantially. Did he tell you that?”
I sighed, inwardly. “Not in so many words, no.”
“Some detective.”
“I’ve been getting better.”
“Be terrible if your progress stalled, then,” he said. He pushed a plate towards me. I forked some paneer to my mouth. He gave me a chance to chew before continuing.
“All right, Miss Marple, this is how we’re going to proceed: In five days, you will bring sixteen thousand pounds here. You will hand it to one of my boys and then you and Brock will piss off. Mightily so. I don’t want to ever see you or his miserable gob ever again.”
“Wait. I don’t suppose I could challenge your math.”
He waved this away.
“This isn’t a negotiation. Frankly, I’m insulted Brock couldn’t come here himself.”
“As he and I are partners with this, I thought it best to introduce myself.”
“Because you’re vouching for him. And this money.”
I nodded.
“OK, then. But know this: If in five days you’ve not come through that door with sixteen thousand pounds, there will be, as my teachers used to say, consequences for that choice.”
I nodded again.
“In the next few days we are going to figure you out, poke around in your life a bit. We know where you live, we know what you do, so we’re going to go ahead and start making a list of things that are were precious to you. These may or may not include your legs, but what the hell. I might just start with those and figure the rest as I go. Which will include any money in this little business you got going for yourself.”
“How’s that?”
Quigley grinned. “I’m guessing a fella like yourself knows a lot of bad people with bad secrets. They can be bled, too. People come up with all sorts of money when it comes to hiding the truth.”
I sighed.
“Can’t we keep this just between us?” I asked. “I’d still like to make a living when this is all settled.”
“No. Because this debt is on you now, too. And because this is how I make my living.”
“Well, I guess we’re all clear on the stakes, then.”
“I hope so,” he said. “Because you just co-signed a loan for a complete degenerate. I actually feel bad for you.”
I ate some more paneer, trying to prove I could eat around the growing tumble of dread knotting my guts.
“Why’s that? It’s my neck to risk, Quigley.”
“No, I meant you must be pretty hard up if this guy is what passes for a friend in your life.” He gave his head a small shake. “Anyhow. Food good?”
“Yeah. It’s not bad.”
“Great. Good to hear. Now get out. Back to your mate, then.”
I took a turn wiping my own mouth, going a little slower than usual. Finally, I stood, and turned for the door. I didn’t even see the guy standing in front of me, same guy who first spoke to me, as he drove his fist deep into my solar plexus. I dropped straight to my knees, sucking wind.
“Just to clarify,” Quigley said. “It’s important the stakes, as you put it, were absolutely clear. I am not a bank. I am not American Express. I do not have negotiable payment options.”
I stood, a bit shaky, but not bad.
“That, and it was pretty rude of you to just drop in,” he said. “So, we all clear?”
“Yup.” It came out like a hiss, but it still made its way clear of my lips.
“You can’t talk your way out of everything, Grayle,” he said, getting back once more to his meal. My wallet was stuffed back into my pocket as I was roughly shoved through the door. “Now me—well, I like a bit of silence, from time to time.”
14
Copta had connected me with Elmore Cranston, who was more than a little surprised by my approach as he queued for his morning coffee before heading to work. He was in a natty, if slightly out-of-style suit, careful not to get any foam on it as he blew a little steam from the top of his cappuccino.
“You work in finance, too?” I asked.
“Sort of,” he said, as we exchanged cards. He was an insurance agent.
“So, how far back did you and Duclos go?” I asked we stepped out onto Admirals Way, heading towards his office in East London.
He smiled, a sad little thing. “Long time. We were school chums.”
“You guys close?”
He shook his head. “No, life has a way of getting in the way. You know how it is. Get married, have a kid, lots of your own life stuff starts falling by the wayside.”
“What I’ve been hearing, Duclos didn’t have a lot of friends.”
Cranston sighed. “He was a quiet guy.”
“You know any reason he’d just up and disappear?”
“Not now, no. His life looked pretty good the last time we talked.”
Cranston had a long stride. I picked up my pace a bit.
“When was that?” I asked.
“Year ago? We met for lunch. Outside of a birthday text, I don’t think I’d spoken to him since.”
“What’d you guys talk about?”
“Um… work, I guess. Football. Duclos is a Chelsea supporter.”
“So nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing stands out?”
Cranston regarded me with some mix of curiosity and disdain.
“Well, he didn’t exactly floor me with his stories. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Sorry,” I said. “But it seems like I’m working the case of the quietest missing person I’d ever have imagined.”
“If you haven’t found him yet, he obviously doesn’t want to be found,” Cranston said.
“Yeah, I’ve been ge
tting a lot of that. What was he like as a kid?”
“Sporty. Shy. Decent student. Never Mr. Popularity, but he was respected, I think. He did very well with rugby.”
“Where’d you guys go to school? Anywhere good?”
“Good enough,” he said. “Yannick certainly did all right for himself.”
“Yeah, about that,” I said. “You ever worry that was maybe why you guys drifted apart?”
He stopped.
“How’s that?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“You know,” I said. “He goes off and becomes some big-time financier, big house, lots of money, gets to spend time on yachts. And you sell home insurance.”
Cranston’s jawline went hard and sharp.
“I do all right,” he said.
“Sure, but, you know, not West Brompton all right.”
“Yannick wasn’t like that,” he said. “And this is beyond insulting, both to him and me.”
“Look,” I said, my own jaw setting a bit. “Nothing is shaking loose on this guy, and I can’t help but think as his only childhood friend that you might know something a bit more. So pardon me for hurting your feelings.”
“Yannick had a lot of class. More than you’re showing now. He helped my daughter raise money to travel for her volleyball team. They were selling chocolate bars and he bought a crate. He even hit up his clients for cash.”
“Yeah, I met one of them. He could have drove that entire team to those games, the back of his Rolls was that big.”
Neither of us had started walking again. Cranston raised his cup to his face, peering at me over the lid. I took the opportunity to listlessly glance around, waiting for him to work through any possible lingering career disappointment.
“Maybe you’re shaking the wrong trees,” he finally said. “Maybe someone else needs some tough questions.”
“How so?”
“There weren’t a lot of people Yannick was close to. Maybe there weren’t any people he was close to.”
“He was married, Elmore.”
“Yes,” he said, acidly. “He was.”
That was all he said. He then walked away, happy to be rid of me, leaving me to politely sidestep the other denizens of the sidewalk, leaving me to feel poorly for more than my manners.
Ten Grand Page 6
