‘Not a things, no. I been out a lot, busy with some stuff. Lots of peoples, they want my times. Why? You had a party, huh?’ He grinned and rolled his eyes as if he could give her a few hints about partying. ‘Is why your cat he move homes?’
‘No, no party, I promise. Look, I might have to be away for a couple of days. Could you look after the cat for a while, please? Feed him some of your fabulous cooking?’
‘Sure, miss. Of course. He good cat. Like Polish recipe. Don’t you worry.’
Riley thanked the old man and led Friedman to the coffee shop where she had seen the poster of Angelina Boothe-Davison. In spite of feelings of shock and nausea, she wondered if she had been found yet… and if the Angelina who came back would be the same one who’d gone missing.
She asked Friedman to order two coffees and went to find a corner well away from the nearest customers. As soon as she sat down, she had to clamp her hands between her knees to still a sudden violent fit of trembling. She closed her eyes, instantly seeing flashes of the destruction to her flat, and opened them again before her stomach gave way and she threw up. Friedman set down two cups on the table but said nothing, stirring his coffee and waiting, his eyes on her. His hands were bony and red, with fingernails bitten to the quick and the skin of his first two fingers stained with nicotine. In the intrusive glare of the overhead lights he looked worn and stripped of energy, like an old car with too many miles on the clock. Only his eyes retained any spark.
‘You said you know who did it,‘ said Riley softly, finally getting the shivers under control. ‘The mess in my place.’
Friedman nodded. ‘So do you.’ He looked at her steadily, then reached into his jacket and took out a three-by-four coloured snapshot in a worn plastic sleeve. It was of a teenage boy, smiling and fresh-faced in a school uniform jacket with a shield on the breast pocket. He had a ghosting of adolescent hair across his top lip and a few spots on his chin, and could have been any teenage boy anywhere. But the resemblance between the man and the boy was obvious.
‘His name is Nicholas,’ he said softly, and let the photo rest on the table between them. ‘He’s my son. He left home ten years ago, saying he wanted some space.’ Friedman shook his head with a bitter expression. ‘Space. It was the thing everybody wanted at the time. Space to do, space to be. Space to… Anyway, Nick had been having a tough time at school; bullies and exams and… other things. It was all piling in on him. In the end it got too much. We tried talking to him, drawing him out. But he wouldn’t tell us. Then one morning he said he couldn’t take any more, and announced he was thinking of going away. Just for a few days, to clear his head.’ He played with his cup, twirling it round in the saucer, slopping some of the contents onto his hand. If it hurt he seemed not to notice. ‘We tried to talk him out of it — he was only seventeen, for heaven’s sake. No age to be wandering off. Whatever problems he had — thought he had — we could help him through. I thought we’d managed it, too. But he waited until we were at work one day, then bunked off school and disappeared. Cleared out his savings account of a hundred pounds or so and took off. Just like that.’
‘What happened?’
‘We looked for him, of course, but it was like he’d left the planet. Not a trace. Well, you know what that’s like. I went over his tracks immediately afterwards, and a hundred times since.’ He looked at Riley and in that drawn face, she saw failure, loss and impotence. ‘We used to be close, Nicholas and I. We did things together all the time: football matches, cricket — that sort of thing. I thought I knew him.’ He trembled like a man with a high fever. ‘Eventually I pieced together a picture, of sorts. On the day he left home he met up with a girl he knew. They stayed in a friend’s parents’ caravan on the south coast for a few days.’
‘Friend?’
‘Just a friend. Maybe his only one.’ He stopped and sipped his drink, wincing as if the coffee was too bitter.
Riley was holding her breath, dreading what he would say next.
‘Who was the girl?’
‘The one everyone’s been looking for,’ he said finally, looking her in the eye. ‘Katie Pyle. Do you mind if we walk?’ They left the coffee shop and walked. Friedman suggested some fresh air would do her good, but she wasn’t sure which of them was in more need of it. He seemed very fragile, as if he was holding on by willpower alone, and she wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten properly. She allowed him to dictate the direction, along quiet streets, through occasional pockets of green and past rows of houses and parked cars, skirting the occasional burst of activity yet crossing busy roads with unerring ease. The pity was, she had a feeling he was never going to be able to walk fast enough or far enough to get away from what hounded him. It would follow him always.
They found a small park and a childrens’ playground, with a few battered playthings and a worn patch of stubby grass. A bench sat amid a scattering of litter, close by a pair of watchful mothers with a clutch of small, shrill children. It wasn’t a restful place and there was a coolness in the air with a threat of rain, but she could see that Friedman needed to talk.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ Friedman told her, after a few minutes of silence. ‘I was, anyway, before Nicholas left. I used to work for the Ministry of Defence, producing and vetting contracts, checking agreements, writing tenders, that sort of thing. It wasn’t the most interesting work in the world. Nicholas always said I was one of the ‘grey men’ like something out of Yes, Minister, only not as colourful. Or exciting.’ He smiled to himself, a brief flicker of the lips as a memory reeled by. ‘He had a great sense of fun. Infectious. Lively. He could light up a room just by being there.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘We found out later that he moved on from the caravan and joined a church. Not the established church, but an independent group called the Church of Flowing Light.’ He looked up at her. ‘But you know them already, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘He wasn’t religious or anything — none of us was, to be honest. Why he joined them is still a mystery. But then so was his leaving. A total puzzle.’
‘Was it?’
‘Pardon?’
She watched him for reaction, then said, ‘Did you know that when Katie Pyle joined Nicholas, she was pregnant?’
If she was expecting him to show surprise, she was disappointed. The news had little effect other than mild interest; no shock, no associated guilt, nothing. Yet Riley was pretty sure the revelation was new to him. ‘I didn’t, no. Who was the father?’ The question sounded normal, with no hint of guile, and she stared at him. If he was acting, he was very good at it.
‘Well, I thought… your son.’
Friedman shook his head slowly, with enormous sadness. ‘No. It wasn’t. I wish it could have been. It might have saved him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
He stared at his hands for a moment. ‘The ‘other things’ I spoke of earlier — the fears torturing him — were the facts of his sexuality, Miss Gavin. My son was gay.’
Even as Riley took in what he was saying, she saw his eyes shift momentarily past her, scanning the area beyond her shoulder. He froze, his body stiffening and his eyes taking on the look of a hunted beast. His mouth worked helplessly. ‘I… I must go.’
‘What is it?’ said Riley. She turned but couldn’t see anything apart from the children and their mothers, and a few birds diving for scraps on the ground. When she turned back, Friedman was on his feet but hunched down, scrabbling in the pocket of his jacket. He produced a piece of white card and thrust it into her hand.
‘Here,’ he whispered. ‘Take this and call me. I can’t stay.’ Then he was hurrying away, thin shoulders bent and head down, a Lowry figure desperate not to be noticed.
When Riley turned to look again behind her, she caught a brief glimpse of a white van turning a corner a hundred yards away. She could have sworn there was a builder’s logo on the side, but when she turned back to tell Friedman, he was nowhere in sight.
/>
Chapter 26
Riley tried Palmer’s number so she could tell him about her flat and Friedman, but the automatic voice told her the number was unavailable. She wondered what he was up to and dialled Nikki Bruce. While she waited to be put through, she studied the card Friedman had given her. It bore the name and number of a hotel, and a mobile number. She’d never heard of the place but guessed it was central London. Friedman would want to be close to the centre, where he could stay connected and, she guessed, somewhere cheap.
‘I thought you’d left me high and dry.’ The Post reporter’s voice drew her back. ‘What’s new?’
Riley told her about Susan Pyle, and her revelation of Katie’s condition. ‘At least we now have a reason for her leaving home. According to Susan Pyle, her husband wasn’t the sort to take that kind of news well — at least, not at first. It makes me wonder if there isn’t a child out there somewhere, waiting for its mother to come back.’
‘We could find out,’ said Nikki. ‘I know a friendly DCI who owes me a huge favour. What else?’
Riley related her meeting with Eric Friedman. She left out his hotel and phone number, principally because she didn’t think he would be up to a sudden and all-engulfing press interest if Nikki happened to let slip his number to a colleague on the Post.
‘That’s unbelievable,’ said Nikki. ‘What did you say his job was?’
Riley hesitated. Given the resources available to the press, it wouldn’t take long to trace the department Friedman had worked in. On the other hand, given the rate of turnover in most government offices, getting anything up-to-date was no easy task. ‘He used to be a lawyer with the MOD,’ she said finally. ‘Years back. He’d have been an ideal target because he wouldn’t have wanted anything broadcast which could have threatened his job. At least, that’s what they thought.’
‘But it all went wrong. Poor man. And he just took off?’
‘Yes. He got spooked by something. How about you?’
Nikki sounded a bit tense. ‘Look, why don’t we meet up? I think there are a few things we can share. How about your place? I’m up that way later, anyway.’
‘I’ve got the decorators in,’ Riley lied. Telling Nikki about the state of her flat on the phone would be like trumpeting it to the world, something she wasn’t sure would help at the moment. Instead, she suggested a pub off Kensington Church Street which kept strange hours. Neutral territory.
‘I know it,’ Nikki agreed, and hung up.
Riley sat thinking about how much she had told Nikki, and what the results might be. Well, it was too late now. She rang Palmer but got the unavailable message again. Maybe he was in a bad reception area. She tried Friedman’s hotel but the receptionist said he was out. At least it confirmed he was registered there.
She arrived in the pub early and watched customers come and go. Among the suits of both sexes who followed her in, she saw nobody who looked as if they might be Nikki Bruce’s fellow press colleagues. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Nikki, but she wasn’t taking any chances. While she waited, she tried Palmer again. Still not available.
Eventually, the Post reporter walked in. She wore slacks and a thick polo jumper under a leather jacket, an unselfconscious display of expensive, yet practical chic. If she noticed heads turning, she seemed to take it all in her stride. Riley guessed that she was already benefiting from an enhanced sense of confidence about her new job.
Nikki smiled with a lift of one eyebrow. ‘Did I overstep the line, suggesting your place? I didn’t put you down as the territorial sort.’
‘I’m not,’ said Riley. ‘It’s just that I had visitors. They re-arranged my furniture — amongst other things. Now the place needs fumigating.’
Nikki’s smile faded. ‘Burglars?’
‘If they were, they didn’t steal anything.’ Riley glossed over the extent of the damage. ‘I think it was a warning to back off.’
‘But that’s awful.’
‘I know. I also think I know who did it.’ She raised a hand to cut short any further questions. It wouldn’t help with what she needed to know. ‘So, what’s the latest?’
Nikki gave her a funny look. ‘You haven’t seen the latest Post?’
‘No. I’ve been out of town.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Nikki fished out her notebook and began to read, then put it aside. ‘What am I doing? I know all the details back to front. Another kid’s been found dead.’
Riley experienced a feeling of dread and saw a sullen face on a poster. ‘Was her name Angelina?’
Nikki frowned. ‘No. That’s a new one. This one was a rough sleeper — a girl named Delphine Wishman, daughter of a senior executive in the aviation industry, would you believe? That’s more military than civil, although I wasn’t allowed to put it in the report. He’s got juice and had the reference to his own position pulled under the Official Secrets Act. Could be more to do with family embarrassment than his place at the boardroom table.’
‘Why?’
Nikki glanced down at her notebook. ‘From what I’ve picked up so far, it seems like the same old story: Delphine was an only child. She was spoiled rotten, sent to boarding school to get her out of the way, then rebelled and got in with the wrong crowd. A few arrests for minor drugs use, one charge of soliciting which was thrown out for lack of evidence — the aggrieved punter decided not to pursue it, probably when he found out how young she was — then Daddy kicked her out and washed his hands of her. Common story.’
‘You really don’t like them, do you?’
‘Huh?’
‘Middle class parents whose kids go off the rails.’
‘No, I suppose not. But I do understand them.’ She frowned and went back to her notebook. ‘Along the way, and so far unsubstantiated, there were allegations that the father abused her when she was younger.’
‘Who was the source?’
‘Delphine. She was one angry kid. She retracted it later, but the damage was already done. The father said he’d never forgive her.’
‘Was it justified?’
‘He claimed his reputation was ruined, that he was being shunned in the business world because of what his daughter had said and had even been asked to resign by his fellow directors. Frankly, I think it’s hogwash.’
‘Why? You don’t believe in kids going against the grain for no other reason than the sheer hell of it?’
Nikki looked surprised and chewed her lip. ‘Sure. I suppose.’
‘What about the mother — what was her story?’
Nikki had the good grace to look pained. ‘The mother came down on the father’s side and said it was all rubbish… that he’d never laid a finger on her because the dates the girl quoted didn’t match, and she could prove it from his diary. He was out of the country a lot, apparently.’
‘So the girl had perceived memories?’
‘More like a load of rancid bitterness. The social workers got involved and tried to get to the daughter to press charges, but in the end she wouldn’t co-operate. They had to let it go for lack of proof. But mud sticks. None of this made the papers, by the way. Then she ran off again.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Overdose. Sent her into shock. She never recovered. They found her on some waste ground near a known crack den.’
Riley sat back and tried to see where this connected Henry or Katie. On the surface it was just another girl who had taken a tragically wrong turn.
Nikki was still talking. ‘But get this: according to the mother, after she ran off the second time, Delphine rang her mother to say she was fine and was in good hands. She didn’t give much detail, but from what little she said, the mother swore the girl had gone and got religion.’
‘Don’t tell me.’
‘She couldn’t be certain, but when I mentioned your Church of Flowing Light she said it sounded vaguely familiar. Apparently Delphine said something about being introduced to a charity church group by a boy she knew.’
Riley felt a slow bu
rn of anger. Why on earth could they be led so easily in some ways and not others? She wondered who the boy had been and what had happened to him afterwards. ‘Why do they fall for it?’
Nikki looked up from her notebook, her face suddenly set. ‘Have you seen how these kids live?’
‘Yes.’
‘Really? I’m not just talking about doorways and benches, where they’re simply bundles for people to ignore. I mean the alleys and subways and underpasses, where people throw their rubbish — and worse.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ Riley repeated. During her search for Katie, she’d seen far too much of it; she’d trodden through litter-strewn streets, into darkened, filthy underpasses puddled with stagnant, urine-stained water; she’d ducked under construction site barriers and through barbed wire fencing and forced her way through wooden hoardings that did little to keep out the truly desperate looking for shelter. She’d seen rats in the firelight from make-do braziers scurrying over sleeping bodies, heard the screams of nightmares in the shadows and faced the frozen expressions of those who didn’t want her around unless she put her hand in her pocket — and sometimes not even then.
Nikki nodded. ‘Then you’ll know that there’s a point where they’re easy to get at. Where they’ll do anything to get away — except go back home.’
‘Yes.’
Nikki shrugged. ‘I’ve been in this business for a long time, Riley, so I’m the last person to think there’s a conspiracy behind every story. If I thought that, I’d go mental. But with this one.’ She shook her head.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I asked some questions about the Church of Flowing Light. I got a mixed reception.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, a couple of my contacts said the Church has a reputation among kids for helping out. Food where needed, blankets, that sort of thing. Even somewhere to stay if the kids are clean of drugs. They’re pretty much into the God thing, too, but they don’t shove it down anyone’s throat.’
Riley could feel a but coming, loud and clear.
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