No Time To Cry

by James Oswald

  I’m guided into a room dominated by a view of London’s night-time skyline seen through two vast window walls, led towards a chair and forced down with my hands still cable-tied behind my back. I squint through cigar smoke painted green by an old lamp, to the man who sits on the other side of an antique desk large enough to land a helicopter on, see that horrible face that I was expecting as soon as I heard him speak.

  Charlotte and Izzy’s father.

  Roger DeVilliers.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Constance. Been far too long.’

  My hands are still tied, and I’m still a little groggy from the chloroform, otherwise I’d probably get up and walk out. I had nothing to say to this man the last time we met, just a glassful of very expensive claret to the face. Now that he’s gone to all this effort to see me, I’ve even less desire to be in his presence. Strange how being drugged, abducted and brought to London against your will can colour your impression of a person.

  ‘Brandy?’ He hauls himself upright, walks stiffly across the room to a black lacquer cabinet that probably cost more than a year’s fees at Saint Humbert’s. Opening it up reveals a row of crystal decanters and glasses. He unstoppers several, sniffing at the contents in a manner that puts me in mind of a dog investigating street lamps. Finally he decides which one to drink, pours himself a stiff measure, slightly less for me. The walk back from the cabinet to where I sit clearly gives him pain, and I take comfort in the knowledge that he almost certainly has trouble with gout. That would explain the size of him too. He looms, head haloed by a chandelier, then offers me a glass. My hands are still tied behind my back so I shrug my shoulders instead of taking it.

  ‘Of course. Silly me. I should have asked Adrian to undo that.’

  He puts the glass down a little too heavily on top of the desk and I watch the liquid swirl before settling. Looking over my shoulder to the door, I see that my abductors have left, so quietly I didn’t notice before. They’re well trained, probably ex-SAS or something. But then Roger DeVilliers always did insist on the best.

  He shuffles back around the desk and drops himself into his chair. It squeaks in protest, and for a moment I picture him tipping over backwards onto the floor. Alas, my hopes go unfulfilled. The initial terror at being abducted has long since subsided, and now I know who’s behind it, my anger is growing ever hotter. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to make this smug bastard pay for what he’s done.

  Now I know I’m not being watched, I swivel my hands so that I can get the tip of my pinky in the plastic catch of the cable tie. Just a pity I tend to chew my fingernails when I’m stressed. It’s not been a good fortnight. Still, I work away at it while he prattles on. Always did like the sound of his own voice.

  ‘You dropped round and spoke to Margo this afternoon, I understand. After you’d been to Saint Humbert’s and harassed poor old Mrs Jennings and Ms Spungeon for information about Isobel.’

  I think I can feel the cable tie loosening, although all the circulation to my hands has been cut off now and my fingers are still numb. A more observant interrogator, Adrian perhaps or his silent friend, would see what I was doing in an instant. Roger DeVilliers is not observant, and doesn’t even seem to notice when I shift in my chair. I use the motion to cover myself as I twist at the cable some more. When it finally gives I suppress the urge to moan in relief. I just about manage to palm the tie so that I don’t drop it and give the game away. Then the pins and needles come.

  ‘I have to assume you didn’t find anything useful at school, or you wouldn’t have been hassling people in the pub. Or did you just go there for old times’ sake?’

  Hands still behind my back, I flex my fingers to get some life into them, mostly ignoring what the old man is saying. He always was full of himself, but I didn’t understand quite how much until my seventeenth Christmas. It was a family tradition for people to come to the hall after midnight Mass, drink my father’s booze and eat my mother’s inedible Christmas cake. I’d mostly managed to avoid the mistletoe hanging in almost every doorway – a lesson I’d learned the hard way a few years earlier. Even so I couldn’t avoid the drunken bull in a china shop that was my father’s oldest friend as he steered me towards the nearest frond. He smelled of body odour, brandy and cigars then, much as he does now, and I’ll never forget his loathsome, wandering hands. I’ll never forget how funny my father thought it was either, his utter lack of concern as his oldest child was sexually molested in his own house. His braying laughter at my tears.

  I got my own back though. The next time Roger DeVilliers tried to cop a feel I threw a good hundred pounds’ worth of Château Pétrus in his face and broke two of his fingers. From the way he holds his brandy now, I suspect they never really set properly.

  He drains the glass and struggles to his feet again, limps over to the decanter for a refill. When he comes back, it’s not to his chair but to my side of the desk, resting his ample backside against the walnut veneer as he looms over me.

  ‘Why exactly is it that you’re so interested in finding my daughter?’ He leans forward and I’m once more engulfed in that horrible smell. It doesn’t terrify me like it once did though. Now it just annoys. And this close I can see the bloodshot yellow of his eyeballs, the crazed network of burst capillaries that cover his bulbous red nose and cheeks. His hair is thinning awkwardly, leaving a trail of greying fringe on his forehead as the bulk of it retreats towards his ears. He’s dressed like some caricature of a country squire and looks frankly ridiculous.

  ‘Why are you not?’ I finally deign to answer while at the same time bringing my untied hands around from behind my back. I rub my wrists again to help the circulation, shove the cable tie into my pocket and then take up the brandy glass. I’m not a huge fan of the stuff, but at least it’s not cheap. It takes away the taste of the chloroform too.

  ‘Ah, so you do talk.’ DeVilliers smirks as if he’s just won some great battle of wills. ‘Let me guess. Charlotte came to you with some kind of a sob story, did she? Or was it that waster of a brother of yours?’

  Another jibe I find easy to ignore. This man thinks he’s in control, but really all he has is wealth. ‘Izzy walked out of school and disappeared. She’s sixteen years old, there should be a nationwide hunt for her, all the newspapers and TV stations showing her picture to the world. A man of your resources, I’d have thought you’d have got all the tabloids running the story. They loved all that stuff about Char when she was fucking that Saudi prince, after all.’

  The smirk disappears. This round to me. DeVilliers hauls himself upright, leaning on the desk as he limps back to his chair.

  ‘I spoke to a chap by the name of Bailey this morning. Detective superintendent in charge of one of the Met’s organised crime special task forces. You know what he told me?’ DeVilliers pauses for long enough to take an unhealthy swig from his glass, then the smirk is back.

  ‘He told me that you, a lowly detective constable, were currently on suspension from active duties pending investigation into corruption within your team. Corruption that led to the death of a Detective Inspector Peter Copperthwaite.’

  Now I know he’s just trying to wind me up, and that I’m not about to get shot in the head, it’s easier to ignore Roger DeVilliers’ prattling and try to work out what’s actually going on. I’d not really thought about it until he started all this, but the fact there hasn’t been a big hue and cry about Izzy’s disappearance is almost more noteworthy than her going missing in the first place. As far as I’m aware, Roger is one of the wealthiest men in England. Judging by his actions this evening, he’s used to getting his own way and considers himself to be above the law. And yet for whatever reason, far from using his considerable resources to look for his missing daughter, he’s actively suppressing any search.

  ‘You don’t want her found, do you?’ I still can’t bring myself to use his first name, and I’m damned if I’m going to call him
Mr DeVilliers.

  ‘Isobel is her own person. I’ve made enquiries, and I’m assured she is in no physical or mental danger. I see no reason in trying to track her down right now.’

  I don’t need to be a trained investigator to know that he’s lying, and I can hazard a guess as to why. It would explain why Izzy ran away too. Far from putting me off, it only makes me want to find her more. If only to give her a big sympathetic hug.

  ‘Are we done here? Only I’ve an important meeting tomorrow morning I don’t want to miss.’ I stand up and place the glass down on the desk, the brandy inside barely touched. For all my bravado, this encounter’s rattled me more than I’d care to admit, and all I want to do now is escape. Rolling up the sleeves of my jacket covers my shaking, but it also exposes the colourful swirl of patterns inked up both my forearms. When I fold my arms across my chest, DeVilliers looks at me like I’m something he’s just found on the leather sole of his thousand-pound handmade shoe.

  ‘I’m serious, Constance. Stop looking for Isobel, or next time I won’t tell Adrian to be so restrained.’

  There’s something in the threat that lends me strength. I’m sure he means it, and I’ve no doubt DeVilliers is both ruthless and resourceful enough to get rid of me should I become too much of an inconvenience to him, family friendship or not. But there’s something else behind his bluster, something I never expected to see. He’s afraid. Not as much as I am, but it’s there all the same. I stand up straight and stare him down.

  ‘It’s Detective Constable Fairchild to you. And if I so much as see Adrian or his silent friend I will have them, and you, arrested for abducting an officer of the law.’

  22

  The lift takes me to a marble-clad lobby, and a smartly dressed concierge buzzes me out of the tower block. Two things occur to me as I stand on the pavement and look around. First, this is the exclusive private entrance to an ultra-modern development of designer boutiques, hotel, conference facilities and incredibly expensive serviced apartments, and, second, I really need to pee. I turn, and tap on the glass door, but the concierge ignores me. No doubt he’s been told to make sure I leave and don’t come back.

  There’s probably a way into the hotel part of the development, but that will likely be around the other side of this enormous building. It’s late, and all the swanky wine bars and gastro-pubs around here are closed or closing, so it’s not easy to duck into one and use their facilities before anyone notices. I’m in a part of the city I don’t know well either, otherwise I’d be able to find somewhere easily enough. As I look around, trying to get my bearings, I notice a group of people standing outside what looks like the entrance to a basement. I can hear strains of music, ebbing and growing as if a door is being opened and closed on a live performance. Sure enough, when I wander over I discover a jazz club I’ve never heard of.

  It costs me twenty quid to get in, along with an odd look from a doorman I’m sure I recognise but can’t quite place. The club is tiny, a stage shoehorned into the back corner and crowded by the four musicians playing something that may or may not be music. It could be that I’m early and they’re just tuning up, but judging by the earnest looks on the faces of the audience, this is what people have paid to hear. At least the toilets are easy to find, and clean. Relief was never more blessed.

  I check my phone while I’m in here, surprised that no one’s tried to contact me. It’s too late to call Aunt Felicity, so I ping off a text and hope she’s not worried about why I never came back from the pub. My stomach growls as I remember the promised casserole, most likely now in Treacle’s dinner bowl. It’s way too long since I last had anything to eat.

  The noise from the band mimics my digestive tract, growing first loud, then shrinking away again as someone comes in. I hear the door on the next cubicle slam, the tinkling sound as someone else finds relief. It reminds me that I can’t stay here, but I’ve no idea where to go. There’s my flat across the city, but I’ve no idea if it’s being watched, and as far as I know the bed’s still got two bullet holes in it; not sure I could sleep easy there. I could go back to Charlotte’s, but given the run-in I’ve just had with her father, I’m not sure I want any help from the DeVilliers family right now.

  There is one place I could go. Somewhere nobody would expect. If my city geography’s right, Pete’s house isn’t too far from here, and it should be empty. I’ve still got my key and I know the alarm code. I can hole up there for the night, then get out of London on the first train north. Back to Harston Magna for my car and Cat, then who the hell knows where?

  The flushing toilet in the next cubicle reminds me that I’m not alone. Whoever’s in there clatters the door on her way out, and doesn’t wash her hands before leaving, the dirty cow. I take a bit more time over my personal hygiene, trying to do something with short-cropped hair that’s not enjoyed such a long day. It’s only when another woman comes in that I realise I’ve been staring in the mirror for too long, listening to the asynchronous noise of the jazz and trying to psych myself up to go outside. Time was I’d take something like today in my stride, punch my way out of it and stay smiling. Now I feel weak and small and overwhelmed.

  ‘Know how you feel. Not my idea of a night out either.’ The other woman smiles at me before going into the cubicle I’ve just vacated. Her words are well intentioned, and I take a strange succour from them. Not everyone is out to get me.

  The door swings open again as I’m approaching it, the noise from the tiny auditorium washing over me in a wave. I’m expecting another bored woman, brought here on a date by some well-meaning bearded hipster. What I’m not expecting is the hipster himself.

  ‘Wrong door, mate. This is the Ladies’.’ The words are automatic, but even as I’m speaking them I can tell this isn’t a simple case of misdirection. There’s the look in his eyes as he sees me, for one thing, but the real giveaway is the short knife in his left hand.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  As opening gambits in a potential knife attack go, I suppose it’s not the most obvious, but I’m more pissed off than scared at the moment. Sure, this is an enclosed space and the way he’s holding his blade suggests to me it’s not the first time he’s done it, but my brain’s had enough shocks today. He doesn’t answer, of course. I never expected he would, and I’d probably not hear him over the noise coming in through the open door.

  I take a step back, then another as he advances towards me slowly. I’ve no idea who he is, but his intentions are fairly clear.

  ‘No, really. Who the fuck sent you? And how did they know I was here? Even I didn’t know I was here until ten minutes ago.’

  He pauses, head cocking ever so slightly to one side as he tries to understand what I’ve just said. I shrug my shoulders a little, hoping to loosen my jacket enough to whip it off and use it in the inevitable fight that’s coming. I hate knives. Well, to be honest, I hate all weapons, but knives are nasty, unpredictable things. Nine times out of ten if you go out with a knife you’ll end up being the one who gets stabbed with it. Just my luck if this is the tenth time.

  The noise of a toilet flushing comes out loud and clear. I risk a sideways glance, trying to remember whether the cubicle doors open inwards or outwards. It doesn’t really matter; my new friend who’s just relieved herself has nothing to do with this fight and I’m not about to drag her into it. She’s still behind me, so I have to act now. Luckily my bearded attacker thinks the same.

  He lunges forward, bringing the knife up in a sweeping arc that would slice across my arms if I held them up to protect myself. Instead I duck backwards, grab the cubicle door and swing it open as hard as I can. He lets out a dull grunt of pain as the knife smacks into wood and skitters out of his hand. I wait until he’s grabbed the edge of the door with his free hand, then pull it back as hard as I can, step forward and punch him in his exposed throat, bring my foot up into his groin. He crumples to the ground, smacks his head against th
e door, and falls still. The whole fight has taken just a few seconds.

  ‘The fuck?’

  I glance around to see the other woman standing in the open door of her cubicle. Wide eyes track from me to the man gasping on the floor and then back to me again.

  ‘I told him this was the Ladies’. Some folk just won’t listen.’

  ‘Ummm . . . Right. I’ll just be . . . going.’ She steps carefully around me, looks down at the comatose man on the linoleum floor, then bolts out of the room. I locate the knife, kick it well out of reach, then place a foot in the small of the bearded man’s back and roll him over.

  ‘OK then, arsehole. Who sent you?’

  He says nothing, eyes firmly closed. I reach a careful hand to his neck and check for a pulse. It’s there, but weak. He’s not faking it but really out cold. Just my luck. Going through my pockets, I find the cable tie Adrian used on me earlier, and press it to the same use as before. Then I haul my assailant up and drag him into the cubicle, sit him down on the toilet. He moans a little, but doesn’t look like he’s going to come around any time soon.

  A quick search brings up nothing. He’s got a fold of ten-pound notes in his jacket that I feel I’ve earned, a mobile phone that’s locked with a PIN, so I can’t even use his limp hand to open it. I shove it in my pocket anyway, then close the cubicle door on him. Too many questions, not enough answers, but I know more than anything else it’s time I got the hell out of here.

  23

  I don’t feel at all safe leaving the club, but then I don’t feel safe staying there either. I suppose I could call the police; that’s what I’d tell anyone else to do in the circumstances. Right now I’m not sure I trust even them though. I can’t get the image of Dan Penny talking to the barman of the Green Man out of my head. What was he doing there? Why was he asking for me when he’s got my mobile phone number and our boss spent the afternoon chatting to my mum?