‘Good?’ Donny asked.
‘Depends on your definition of good?’ I replied.
He smiled, opened the envelope and quickly sifted through the blown-up images, and then slid the pictures back inside the envelope.
‘Very good. Who’s the woman?’
‘Her name is Vicki Lester. That’s Vicki with an “i”. She’s a hairdresser from Walthamstow.’ This made Donny laugh. ‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing, just the putz is bald.’ Donny whipped out his mobile. ‘Same arrangement as last time?’ I nodded and he transfer my fee there and then. ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’ We stood up, shook hands and then I watched him leave, observing a spring in his step.
One happy customer, I thought, taking some solace.
When he was out of sight I took out my mobile and checked my bank account.
It was a grubby business but money was money and I never made any pretences that money did not matter to me, it did.
The rest of the day passed without anything else happening, unless drinking whisky counted as action, and I found the hours blurring into one another, until the sun set.
I woke late the next morning, sitting up in my bed, blaming my laziness on the suffocating August heat and empty bottle of whisky. I tried to subside my throbbing head by placing my hands on either side of it, which I knew was ultimately pointless but made me feel fleetingly better, better enough to get my sorry arse out of bed. Somehow, my body functioning on autopilot, I found myself inside my tiny, windowless bathroom, holding on to the sink with both hands, for balance, until the room stopped spinning. I was overdue for a shave but, given my current condition, decided to skip shaving, avoiding the mirror altogether, and opted to endure a cold shower instead. Feeling slightly less drowsy but still lousy, with a yellow towel wrapped around my waist, I searched my basement flat for medication to soothe my sore head. After I’d swallowed two ibuprofen and gulped down a pint of water, my business mobile began to ring.
That was the most annoying thing about working out of my flat, I was always in my office, and I was definitely not in the mood to work.
I stood there, in my towel, with an empty glass in my hand, looking at the ringing mobile on my desk, waiting for the caller to give up, which, thankfully, eventually they did. On checking the phone, I was quite surprised to discover that I’d missed four calls that morning, all from withheld numbers and zero voicemails recorded. Going by my experience in this game, prospective clients didn’t tend to leave messages as a rule.
Admittedly, I was intrigued by this unexpected surge of overnight interest in my one-man agency but my brutal hangover overpowered my natural curiosity, and so I shrugged it off, figuring whoever it was, they were clearly desperate to get hold of me and would undoubtedly call back.
My unsettled stomach growled a demand for food. I needed something substantial but didn’t feel up to cooking, so I chucked on some clothes and went out.
A greasy spoon, called The Millennium Cafe - which dates it considerably - is only a stone’s throw away from my place, located on the corner of Bouverie Place and Star Street.
The L-shaped cafe had peach-coloured walls, a brown tiled floor and black ceiling featuring hand-painted floral designs. There were two large blackboards listing the menu, neatly written in white chalk, a vast selection of Indian art and one long, rectangular mirror.
The owner and manager Sanjeev Kapoor, or “Sunny” as he insisted on being called, had told me that he had personally chosen the artworks and that they were all for sale, if I was interested in purchasing one.
The devout Hindu had a round-face and an unsightly beer gut, which made him look as if he was six months pregnant. Sunny was a self-proclaimed “entrepreneurial guru”, despite only owning one business, and whenever I encountered him he was always smiling and unwaveringly optimistic. I suspected the reason for the 45-year-old’s seemingly permanent cheerful disposition was his young wife, who was 26 years his junior.
Ameera, Sunny’s better half, was duty bound to work behind the sandwich counter in her husband’s cafe. At 19, she was a curvaceous, exotic beauty, who exuded a kind of natural sensuality.
Ameera wore a short, denim skirt and fuchsia pink, crop top, exposing a gold belly button ring. She had large, black eyes and long, dark brown hair, tied in an elaborate braid, which flowed all the way down her back.
The Indian temptress had confided in me, on more than one occasion, that, rather understandably, she did not love, or even particularly like, her husband but after going through with the arranged marriage, brokered by her Father, she remained with Sunny for fear of being disowned by her family back home in Rajsitapur, a small village in the Gujarat State.
On entering the cafe, Ameera looked up and our eyes met. I returned her confident stare as I approached the sandwich counter, ignoring the smiling chump who was standing beside her.
‘Good morning, Mr Fred,’ Sunny greeted congenially, pressing his hands together as if he were about to pray. ‘Such a pleasant day outside today, yes. What can we get you today?’
‘Hmmm…’ I was pretending to browse the menu, although I already knew exactly what I was going to have, when a white van pulled up outside the cafe and honked twice.
‘Sunny, see to that delivery,’ Ameera ordered, lightly pushing him away from her.
‘Right away, Ameera.’ He obediently complied, and then said to me, ‘Midday. Our delivery man is so punctual, Mister Fred. Always on time, like clockwork.’ Sunny went to kiss her cheek but she turned her face away, so he settled for an affection stroke of her arm. ‘I won’t be long, my rose.’ Sunny walked out of the cafe to deal with the delivery, leaving the two of us alone.
‘How have you been?’ I asked focusing my attention back on her.
‘Missing you.’ Ameera replied, pouting her full lips.
‘Really?’
She whispered, ‘I dreamt of you last night.’
‘I dreamt of you last night too,’ I lied but it looked as though she brought it.
Ameera urged, ‘I need to see you again. To feel your touch, your tongue, your body pressing upon mine…’ She curled her forefinger and bit the knuckle, her eyes never leaving mine.
‘When can you come down?’ I asked casually.
She released her knuckle and was about to say something but the tinkle of the bell over the door, signalling Sunny’s return, silenced her. He resumed his position beside his unfaithful wife and looked at me expectantly, smiling a smile to rival the Cheshire Cat.
I ordered an English breakfast; two eggs, two sausages, bacon, baked beans, two pieces of brown toast. I washed it all down with a boiling hot, black coffee. Feeling full and in slightly better condition than when I woke, I decided to get back to work.
I strolled back around the corner and went down the stairs to my basement office, which was located underneath a health clinic called Yee Chinese Medicine - an oriental practice specialising in herbal massage.
The stairs were enclosed by black, wrought-iron railings. Attached to these railings was a large, white, acrylic sign advertising my agency, likewise vinyl decals featured upon each of the three windows below, and at the bottom of the stairs labelled above the buzzer was the simple strap-line “PI F. Sorensen”.
I opened the black door and passed through the small ante-room straight into my office.
My office, which doubled as my lounge, was a small, square room with walls of exposed brickwork. There were two customer chairs placed in front of my desk, positioned at angles, and a black, leather couch, pushed up against the wall, beneath the three windows, which provided a view of the stairs.
With the temperature continuing to soar, the flat was fast becoming insufferably stuffy. I switched on the ceiling fan, which juddered before it slowly span into life, and opened all of the windows, as far as they could possibly go, which wasn’t far at all. I sat down on the sofa and lit my first cigarette of the day, smoking it as I looked up to the street, watching the occasional set
of legs pass by above.
Stubbing the cigarette out on the window sill, I laid out on the sofa, resting my head on one arm and putting my feet up on the other, listening to the reassuringly repetitive, low thudding sound of the ceiling fan.
Chapter 4
I knew my idle morning was over when the buzzer rang, rousing me from my light slumber. I slowly sat up and stretched out to the tune of three short, sharp repeated buzzes.
I got to my feet, mentally steeling myself to greet the potential new and clearly impatient client at my door.
I opened it to find a well-dressed woman standing there with her arms folded. She was wearing a black, off-the-shoulder top, white capris, black, over-sized Dior sunglasses and a white, Marc Jacobs handbag, which was cradled in the arch of her elbow.
It may have been symptomatic of my hangover but I felt that I knew her. When she spoke, in her cut-glass voice, I remembered instantly.
‘You’re certainly a hard man to get hold of,’ Rachel quipped. ‘I was beginning to lose all hope of ever reaching you this morning.’
That solves that mystery of the missed calls, I concluded.
‘Trust me you have my undivided attention now.’ I stepped aside, courteously holding the door open for her. ‘Please, come in.’
Rachel breezed on through into the office. She stood there, waiting for me to sit behind my desk before she sat down in one of the customer chairs. She placed her handbag on the floor, propping it up against the chair’s leg, and crossed one long leg over the other, and, interestingly, opted to keep her sunglasses on.
‘Nice to see you again, Rachel.’
‘You remembered my name.’
‘You’re kinda hard to forget.’
The faintest hint of pink coloured her pale cheeks. ‘If truth be told, I hoped you would. It makes things easier, rather.’
I knew instinctively that this was not a social call, so I prompted the discussion by asking, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I don’t quite know how to start…’ Rachel trailed off. She leant slightly forward and clasped both hands around her knee. ‘I have been so worried, terribly, terribly worried. I’ve not been able to sleep.’ Her voice faltered with emotion, ‘I-I-I feel as though I’m on the verge of losing my mind.’
Suspecting I was dealing with another adultery case, I ventured, ‘Does it concern your husband?’
She uttered a singular, disdainful laugh and shook her head, saying dismissively, ‘No, it’s got nothing to do with Lawrence.’ Rachel sighed, and said, ‘It’s my friend…he’s…he’s disappeared…’
‘I see.’ In anticipation of creating a case file, I took out a notepad and pen. ‘How long has he been missing?’
‘I haven’t seen or heard from him for over two days now.’ She quickly added, ‘It’s not like him, we are in touch, if not every day, then every other day at least, you see.’
‘And you want me to track him down?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What’s your friend’s name?’
‘Grahame Kingsley.’ Rachel delved into her bag and took out a photograph. ‘He’s 28 now, the same age as me.’ Before handing it over to me, she looked at the photograph and smiled. ‘This picture was taken quite a few years ago, back when we were at university together, but he looks exactly the same as he did then. Promise me you’ll look after it.’
As a rule I rarely make promises, particularly ones I knew I was bound to break, so I took the photograph and said nothing.
The shot was taken of Grahame from the waist up with his arms folded, in a woodland area, on a bright, autumnal day. He was wearing a navy blue gilet over a pink shirt with the cuffs undone and slightly rolled up, exposing one of those flimsy, plastic wristbands that there were popular for a while back in the 90s.
Grahame was not what I expected. He had a stocky build, cherubic face, mess of brown hair and small, brown eyes. There was nothing remotely remarkable about him, in fact, he was decidedly average.
‘When did you last see Grahame?’
‘Friday evening.’ Rachel explained, ‘We had dinner at Palais de Fleur.’
I’d heard of the restaurant in Marylebone but had never dined there myself. It was a pricey, hoighty-toighty French restaurant renowned for its romantic ambience, the perfect venue for making proposals or couples celebrating anniversaries. In my opinion, it wasn’t the kind of venue where two people, who were just friends, would choose to casually dine on a Friday night.
‘How was his behaviour that night? Was he preoccupied or worried at all?’
‘He was perfectly fine, happy even. He’d made the shortlist for some kind of writing competition. He’s a novelist.’
‘And nothing out of the usual happened that night?’
She slowly shook her head. At my instruction, Rachel began recalling the details of what happened that night.
‘We’d arranged to meet at the restaurant at half-past seven. I was running a little late - delays on the District Line. We dined, and then walked, arm-in-arm, to the tube, we hugged and said our goodbyes, and then went our separate ways.’
‘What time was that?’
‘It must’ve been around ten.’ She continued, ‘When I got home, I messaged him, and when I didn’t get a reply, I figured, as it was quite late at that point, that he’d reply the next day. When I got no response, and all of my calls, texts and voicemails over the weekend went unanswered, I began to worry.’ Rachel was speaking quickly now. ‘I was so worried in fact, that, yesterday, I drove out of city to Grahame’s flat in Stevenage, but I couldn’t hear or see anyone inside and his car wasn’t there either. Then this morning, as soon as I woke up, I tried calling him again, but nothing. That’s when I decided to contact you...I was hoping you would be able to find him for me.
‘Maybe I’m overreacting but I can’t seem to shake this dreadful feeling I have. Its been keeping me up all night.’ She tentatively removed her sunglasses, revealing puffy, bloodshot eyes. ‘I simply can’t go on like this. Not knowing. I need to know that he’s ok…’ Rachel put her sunglasses back on. ‘Money is no problem. My husband is a wealthy man.’
‘Does your husband share your concern?’
‘I thought it best not to disturb Lawrence with this. He doesn’t like it when I talk about Grahame.’ Understandably, I thought, given the obvious hold Grahame had over her. ‘Besides, he’s in New York, on work trip.’
‘What about Grahame’s relatives, friends, girlfriend, boyfriend?’ I asked.
‘His parents are deceased, no siblings, and the only relative that I’m aware of is an Aunt, he lived with her for a while, up in Edinburgh, I think she emigrated to New Zealand or Australia, but for the life of me I can’t remember her name.’ I made a mental note of this nameless Aunt. ‘Other than me, he has no close friends, not real ones anyway. He’s a bit of an introvert, always reading and spending most of his time communicating with faceless weirdos on those online chatrooms, rather than interacting with real people in the real world.’
‘And there’s no one else?’
Rachel gave it some thought and eventually said, ‘Well, I suppose there’s Hyacinth.’
‘Who’s Hyacinth?’
‘She’s Grahame’s landlady. She frequently drops in on him, completely unannounced, for some trumped up reason. It doesn’t help that his tiny flat is annexed to the back of the florist, which Hyacinth owns, runs and lives above, so she’s always there, like a big, fat shadow.’
‘Do you think she might know something?’
‘Quite possibly. Although she definitely wouldn’t tell me though if she did.’
‘Why’s that?’ I asked.
‘We don’t get along. We never have done. She hates me and the feeling is mutual.’ Rachel added, ‘Hyacinth is one of those obese, middle-aged spinsters, who enjoy meddling in the affairs of others.’
‘I know the type.’ I enquired, ‘Social media?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘He used to be on Facebook, but he closed his
account, around two weeks ago, totally out of the blue.’
‘Did he say why he quit?’
‘He told me that he didn’t use it anymore, which was true, and the recent Cambridge Analytica scandal had also put him off. He never joined Twitter or Instagram.’
‘You said Grahame was a writer?’
Rachel nodded. ‘He used to work for Bloomberg as a financial analyst but after his Father passed away, Grahame came into a sizeable inheritance, and he opted to take a year-long sabbatical to write a novel.’
‘What genre?’
‘Historical fiction. He self-published it on Amazon and a few people bought it. So, with that modicum of success, he quit his well-paid job, and took up writing full-time, choosing to live outside the city, slumming it in a tiny hovel.’ Rachel visibly shuddered. ‘Honestly, I don’t know why he chose to leave the city, especially when he was renting such a lovely flat in Notting Hill. With his inheritance he could’ve easily bought the place outright, I should’ve thought.’
We both fell silent.
Finally, I said, ‘I’ll take the case.’
‘Thank you so much.’
I then went over the details regarding fees and expenses, which she readily agreed to.
‘Do you have Grahame’s address?’ I asked.
She nodded, opened her handbag and took out a piece of folded paper, which she handed to me. ‘This is Grahame’s address, and the number to contact me on. If anybody else answers, please do me the courtesy of hanging up straight away.’
I nodded and said, reassuringly, ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Thank you again, Fred.’ With that she stood up and so did I. Without another word, Rachel left the office, and I watched her as she went up the stairs to the street.
I sat back down, lit a cigarette and looked at the photograph again, mulling over the details of this missing persons case.
Grahame Kingsley, an introverted novelist, mysteriously vanished over 48 hours ago, seemingly cutting off all contact with Rachel, who, according to her, is his “closest friend”, after they had dined together at a romantic restaurant in the heart of the city. It was not much to go on, with only one potential lead to follow up, but I couldn’t deny I was grateful for the work and to see Rachel again.
The Hollow Woman Page 3
