by Cross,Amy
Her voice trails off for a moment.
“Well, you know,” she mutters. “Depending on whether she's able to talk to me or not. If that's a sufficiently delicate way of describing the situation.”
“You're a journalist?” I ask, still trying to understand the so-called deal that's on offer.
She slips her business card into my pocket.
“I started on Fleet Street when Fleet Street actually meant something,” she explains. “I'm sure a lady such as yourself can appreciate that. I'm not some internet monkey with a blog. I'm an actual journalist, of the type that's dying out rather rapidly these days. I worked under the great Harry Plume, I learned everything I -”
Suddenly she starts coughing, and she quickly turns away. For a few seconds, it sounds as if she's bringing up a lung, and she drops her cigarette again.
“Hold on!” she splutters. “Can you pick that up for me so I don't -”
The cough becomes worse and worse worse, and it's fully a minute before she gets it under control. Passersby have begun to notice her, and I'm starting to think that this whole encounter is attracting a great deal of attention.
Finally, she picks her cigarette stub up again and wipes some grit from the butt, before taking another drag.
“The seven-second rule was always just a rough guide,” she mutters.
Before I can reply, a loud car horn beeps right behind me, and I almost leap into the air.
“I can help you,” Ms. Churchill continues, still sounding a little breathless. “And one other bonus is that you can help me shape the narrative about Katie. I mean, if anything unfortunate comes out during my research, there are ways to reduce its prominence in the news media. If you know what I mean.”
“I'm sure I don't.”
“Things in her private life. Skeletons in her closet, things that maybe she kept secret. I mean, they might be relevant to the investigation, but you still might not want 'em splashed everywhere.”
“I have to go,” I tell her, taking a step back, “but let me be very clear. I'm placing my trust in the police, and I would prefer it if you were to not contact me again.”
“With all due respect, you're making a mistake.”
“Leave me alone,” I add, before turning and walking away.
“What if Katie had secrets?” she calls after me. “What if I dig something up that you don't want hitting the news? If you work with me, we can try to find her! The cops aren't the cops anymore! People like me, we're the real cops these days, and the cops are just -”
I hear her bursting into another coughing fit, but I don't look back. Instead, I make my way around the next corner and then I hurry into a cafe, for no other reason than that I need to regather my composure and calm down. A moment later, I spot Ms. Churchill hurrying past the window, as if she's still trying to find me, but fortunately she doesn't look this way and I watch as she heads off along the street. That utterly frightful young woman is a disgrace to her profession, if indeed she really is a journalist, and I can only hope that she finds some other story to exploit for profit. Perhaps I am a little sheltered from the reality of the world, but at least I'm not some dog-eared ruffian like Annabelle Churchill.
And the police will find Katie, I'm sure of it. They'll find her safe and well, and soon I'll have her back home with me in Shropley. I still have faith that they'll swing into action. I'll just have to keep trying different police stations until I find one that takes me seriously.
Chapter Ten
The Landlord
The apartment is a mess. Having been allowed back inside by Katie's very gracious landlord, I find myself standing in the middle of the living room and looking around at the chaos. Honestly, it looks as if the place has been burgled, and I simply can't accept the idea that this is the natural environment of a well-raised young lady. Katie would never want to live in such filth.
“I suppose I should leave you to it,” the landlord says from the doorway. “If there's anything I can do to help, though, you must let me know at once.”
I turn to him, and for a moment I feel rather panicked by the idea that he might leave me alone.
“Of course,” I reply. “Thank you for your help.”
A smartly-dressed gentleman with white hair, he nods politely and turns to go back down the stairs.
“Have the police been?” I call after him.
He stops and glances back at me.
“Not since they took those two people away,” he tells me.
“What's wrong with them?” I mutter, genuinely shocked. “Why don't they care?”
“Have you tried going to a station and speaking to someone?”
“I've been to eight station this morning,” I tell him. “They just kept saying the same thing. I have to wait until at least twenty-four hours have passed, maybe even as long as seventy-two, before they'll do anything.”
“Right.” He furrows his brow. “One would hope they might swing into action a little faster, eh?”
“So they haven't come back to search the place or check for evidence or anything like that?” I ask desperately. “They didn't tell you to keep the place sealed?”
“They said they'd already got everything they needed,” he continues, and I can see a hint of helplessness in his eyes. “The officer told me it would be fine to tidy the place now. I thought maybe they'd seal the whole flat off for a while so they can bring in their C.S.I. people or whatever, but apparently that's not necessary. I do hope they find Katie soon and that she's safe and well. She always seems like such a polite and well-raised young lady. She's a great credit to you and your husband.”
“My husband died several years ago,” I reply, “but thank you, you're most kind.”
He mumbles an apology and heads downstairs, leaving me alone in the living room. The whole place seems to have been utterly overturned, to the extent that I can barely even see the carpet anymore, and I know for certain that Katie was not a girl who tolerated squalor. In that respect, she's always been very much like me. She wants everything in her life to be ordered and neat, and I taught her that a well-organized home can have lasting benefits in other aspects of one's life. If one's home is neat and tidy, one's mind will follow suit. It's simply not possible that she condoned her apartment being left in such an awful state, or that she could have been responsible for the dirty smears on the walls.
For a moment, overcome by a sense of profound fear, I perch on the edge of the armchair. There are tears in my eyes, and I feel as if I shall break down into a sobbing mess, but at the same time I know that I have to stay strong. There'll be time for weakness later, once I have my girl safely back at home in Shropley. For now, Katie needs me.
Overcome by the fusty smell in the room, I get to my feet and pick my way through the debris, heading to the window. The latch is a little difficult to operate, but finally I'm able to slide the window open and let in some much-needed fresh air. At the same time, I lean out and see that this side of the building directly overlooks the murky brown waters of the Thames. For a moment, I stare out at the sludgy river and at the distant, drab buildings. So this is London, in all its drab, gray splendor. I must admit, the place looked cleaner and more colorful in photographs.
“Fuck off!” a voice yells suddenly from a nearby street. “Wanker! You fucking wanker!”
Shuddering, I pull back and slam the window shut. The air in the apartment might be a little fusty, but I absolutely do not want to hear such awful language. Still, even with the window closed, I stare out at the dirty river and watch as a rather miserable-looking sight-seeing barge sails past. On the far shore, squat gray buildings nestle beneath huge construction cranes, and I can't help feeling that the glamour of London has been rather exaggerated over the years. Katie was so excited about finally coming to spend some time in the city, but when she finally saw this view from her apartment, she must have felt somewhat misled. Why did I let her come here? I should have known what it would have been like. I should have kept her s
afe.
“Don't worry about me!” I remember her laughing when I went to wave her off at the train station, just over a week ago. “It's only London!”
“There are eight million people living in London!” I told her. “How many of them do you think you can trust? How many aren't murderers and thieves?”
“I'm sure I can manage.”
“Take this!”
I remember giving her a rape alarm, and I remember her rolling her eyes.
“I already have one,” she explained, as I tucked the alarm into her jacket pocket, “but thank you. Now I have a spare.”
I remember there were so many things I wanted to warn her about, so many things I worried could happen. I bit my tongue at the time, because I didn't want to seem like a fusspot and because she convinced me that she was okay, but now I fear I made a terrible mistake. I should have put my foot down and told her she couldn't come to London. She's always been a good girl, and she's always listened to me. If I'd been firm, she'd never have taken the train. She might have resented me, and I might have hated myself, but at least she wouldn't be missing.
Just as these thoughts start running through my mind, lights spots of rain fall against the window.
Turning, I make my way back across the room until I reach the desk, where Katie's laptop has been left open. That's something else that seems strange. Katie always lectures me about closing the lid of my laptop whenever I've finished using it, to save battery life and preserve the components, so it's most unlike her to have left the device open like this. I tap the keyboard, bringing up the welcome screen, although a password is required and I certainly have no idea what Katie might have used. I try the most obvious solutions, such as 'password' and her name, but these prove incorrect. I try several more times, and suddenly the system locks me out due to too many failed attempts.
Still, I doubt there's anything of much use on her computer. After all, Katie is a girl without secrets. She's an open book to all who know her. We certainly never kept anything from one another, and – as people often remarked – we've always been friends as much as we've been mother and daughter. Katie is my best friend in the whole world, and I rather think I mean the same to her. The idea that she keeps secrets from me is simply ludicrous.
“Where are you?” I whisper, looking across the ransacked apartment. “What happened here?”
When I get to the bathroom, I find that it's in a terrible state. The smell is awful, so I hold a handkerchief over my nose as I open the cabinet above the sink. There's nothing of real interest inside, other than a packet of paracetamol with codeine and some cream for waxing a lady's legs. When I check the drawers of the dresser in the corner, I find lots of clothing, but there's nothing out of the ordinary and it's clear that Katie conducted her life at the apartment in much the same vein as she conducted her life at home with me. She's always been a conscientious and reserved girl, largely avoiding the rebellious stages of adolescence, and I must admit that I feel very proud right now to see that she held true to herself after she arrived in London.
She'll be fine. I just have to focus on her levelheadedness. She'll appear soon and there'll be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this confusion. All I can do right now is get the apartment looking good again, which means I must do the thing I do better than anything else in the world.
I must clean. And when I spot a clutch of mushrooms growing in the corner of the shower, I know exactly where to start.
***
Several hours later, after a great deal of tidying and scrubbing, I stop in the middle of the bathroom and look around. The place is spick and span, just the way Katie would wish. I've been on my knees for so long, I actually feel a little stiff, but I was determined to put the apartment straight. I even cleaned the grouting between the bathroom tiles. I'm sure Katie will be delighted when she finally gets home.
Well, not home.
This place isn't her home.
Her home is with me in Shropley, and after this little misadventure I think it would be wise if she comes back with me. She's a very capable young woman, but it's certainly possible that life in London doesn't quite agree with her. Why, at this very moment she might be heading back to Shropley on the train, in which case the whole situation has been a rather awful misunderstanding.
I'm sure we'll laugh about it all one day. Together, on the sofa in our little house, over a glass of wine.
“Please,” I whisper, closing my eyes. “I don't ask for much, but let it be that. Let her be back in Shropley. We can figure the rest out, but just bring her back to me.”
I pause for a moment, hoping for a miracle, before finally opening my eyes.
Now that I've finished cleaning, I'm not entirely sure what I should do next. I'd hoped, in the back of my mind, that Katie would return while I was working, but now it's almost 5pm and there's still no sign of her. Heading through to the cleaned front room and over to the window, I see that rain is falling steadily, and that the sky is beginning to darken. The city seems to be in a rush for night to fall, and I can't shake a sense of concern at the thought that my dear, darling Katie might be out there as the shadows lengthen. I know I am perhaps being a tad overprotective, and I also know that my daughter is capable of taking care of herself, but still...
This will be her second night without any contact. Why doesn't she just call to let me know that she's okay?
“Well this is a marked improvement.”
Startled, I turn to find the landlord watching me from the doorway.
“I'm sorry,” he continues, “I didn't mean to disturb you, I just...”
He pauses, before holding up the bottle of sherry in his right hand.
“Well,” he adds, “to be honest, I wondered if you might need fortifying a little. I'm afraid I'm a little old-fashioned when it comes to these things, but I always find that a good stiff drink helps one's constitution. Especially when you've done so much work up here. My word, I rather think I should try to hire you for the whole place. You've worked a miracle.”
“It needed doing,” I mutter.
“So...” He holds the bottle toward me. “One quick glass of sherry?”
“Thank you,” I reply, even though I know I probably shouldn't accept. After all, I barely know this man at all, but at the same time I desperately need a drink. “That would be most kind.”
He offers a friendly smile as he heads over to the desk, and I see now that he's also brought two glasses. It's quite clear to me that this is a refined and well-educated gentleman, and somebody who would most certainly have had Katie's best interests at heart while she was lodging under his roof. I want to pepper him with questions, of course, and to find out as much as possible about Katie's activities while she was living here, but at the same time I fear that I would probably just make things worse. It might be better if I force myself to stay calm.
“We spoke on the telephone, I believe,” he says as he hands me a glass of sherry. “A few weeks ago. You wanted to make sure that Katie was moving to a safe building.”
“I suppose you think I'm a terrible fusspot,” I reply.
“Not at all. The world would be a better place if all mothers worried a little more about their daughters.” He smiles, before raising his glass. “A toast. To daughters coming home safe, regardless of where they might have been.”
We both take sips of sherry, and I must admit that the rather strong taste gives me a gentle kick in the chest. I needed this.
“Tim,” the landlord continues, holding out a hand for me to shake. “It occurs to me that I hadn't properly introduced myself before. Timothy Ashford-Clarke. I'm afraid I'm still a little new to the business of being a landlord. I only purchased the building a few years ago, after I left the Royal Navy.”
“You were on the boats?” I ask, immediately impressed.
“Forty years,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “It's a good life, but when one gets out, well, one doesn't quite know what to do with oneself. It's funny, but
after being on the open sea for so long, I find it's dry land that seems unsteady now. Still, I'm sure I'll get used to terra firma before too long. Cheers!”
He takes another sip, but this time I demur.
“I made a decision when I started out in this game,” he continues as he heads over to the rain-spattered window and looks out. “I decided I'd only rent apartments to people I liked. I have several properties dotted around the city, and some of them remain empty to this day because I just can't find decent folk to take them on. Now, your daughter immediately struck me as the kind of girl I want around the place. The moment I met her, I could just tell that she was a good person. A solid person.”
“She is,” I reply. “Oh, you don't know the half of it. She's the most wonderful girl I could have hoped for.”
“That's a sign of a good upbringing.”
“I can't take all the credit,” I tell him. “She has a very wise and intelligent soul. Very caring, too.”
“Not the kind to go wandering off, eh?”
He turns and wanders over to look at the strange markings on the wall.
“I'll pay for those to be removed,” I tell him. “I'm so sorry, I can't imagine where they came from.”
“Don't worry about it too much,” he mutters. “It's certainly a rather rum display, though, isn't it? What do you think it's all about?”
I shake my head, and suddenly I feel tears welling behind my eyes. I manage to hold them back, as I've held them back since I arrived in London so far, but I fear I'm in danger of becoming rather emotional. Preferring to keep a distance, I turn and head back over to the window. In just a few minutes since I last looked out, the city has noticeably darkened a little more, and rain is falling more steadily.
