by Val McDermid
‘Yeah, they always do well for me here.’ Scarlett allowed herself to preen a little, then gave me a cheeky smile. ‘People love the book, Steph. You did a great job helping me knock it into shape.’
It was always good to hear a morsel of praise. And of course, a morsel was all I generally got from my clients. Scarlett was more generous than most, but even so, it felt like scant acknowledgement of the work.
Still, the champagne and canapés that were waiting for us were a welcome acknowledgement. The signing was a joint event between our publisher and the perfumier who produced Scarlett Smile. They’d provided special pens that would write on the high-gloss finish of the perfume’s packaging; the store had provided a handler who would make sure Scarlett always had the correct writing implement to hand. I would have grumbled at the condescension but she didn’t seem to mind being treated like an idiot.
Once she’d been coached in how to sign books and perfume boxes, we were led through to the event space, an area in the cosmetics department that had been cleared of product islands for the occasion. All the available space was crammed with fans – mostly young women – who broke out in whoops and cheers and screeches of delight when they caught sight of her. The store had tried to corral them into a queue via metal pillars and webbing, but the system broke down within minutes.
Cameras were flashing, punters shouting and bodies pressing forward against the table separating Scarlett from the hordes. To me, it seemed both terrifying and precarious, as if Scarlett could be overwhelmed at any moment by the sheer weight of numbers. The noise was insistent, beating against my ears in brutal waves. I wanted to turn and run. God knows what it was like for her.
Just when the hysteria approached the tipping point, the store security guards finally moved in. Firmly but gently, they moved the front line a few inches backwards, putting a little distance between Scarlett and her public. At least now there was some semblance of order at the front of the mob. And Scarlett was able to begin signing.
After an hour, it seemed she’d barely made a dent in the crowd. But when I peeled away from her minders and circled round the back of the mob, I could see it was beginning to ease up. On the fringes, I clocked three fans with cameras, relentlessly shooting pictures of Scarlett. They were obviously not paparazzi – neither their cameras nor their clothes were expensive enough. But they were not going anywhere. Towards the end of the signing, when only a few customers remained, all three – a woman and two men – made their way to the signing table and, instead of books, produced folders of glossy photographs downloaded from the Internet that they wanted Scarlett to autograph. None of them looked wholesome. I imagined them back in their lonely bedsits, printing out their photos, searching for the image that would make them feel they’d finally captured Scarlett.
I reckoned capture was what they wanted. It creeped me out to think of those strange obsessives following her round the country, convincing themselves they were her friends. The truly scary thing was that Scarlett knew them. She bestowed her smile on them, even though I could readily see it was a low-wattage version of the real thing. But you couldn’t fault its sincerity.
In one sense, her career was carefully choreographed by Scarlett herself. But it only worked because there was nothing cynical about what she was doing. The real Scarlett was the one she was gradually releasing into the wild, and at bottom, the person she was revealing was a good-hearted person. She was well aware of how far she had come and how lucky she had been to make her escape, and unlike so many who have made that journey, she was willing to reach out a helping hand to others who shared her determination to change their futures.
It was that willingness that opened the door for her greatest act of generosity. Back when Jimmy was nearly three, she was invited to take part in the Caring for Kids telethon. The initial idea was for an upbeat piece where Scarlett would visit Romania and reveal how the orphanages that had shocked the world after the downfall of the Ceaușescu regime had been transformed. And there was a lot of truth in that version of events. Money raised in the UK had helped to change the lives of thousands of children and disabled people who had been condemned to conditions that gave most of us nightmares to think of. The word coming out of Romania was that the hellhole institutions were a thing of the past, and that’s what Scarlett was supposed to go and celebrate. To show the viewers how their donations worked at ground level.
But then a BBC investigative journalist heard that things weren’t quite as hunky-dory as the Romanian authorities would have us believe. He went in undercover and found that although most of the worst cases had been closed down, there were still isolated pockets of the country where conditions would have had their bosses tried for crimes against humanity if they’d been in war zones.
Before his report was aired, Scarlett was invited to come in for a screening. She told me later it was the most harrowing thing she’d ever seen. ‘One room, there must have been twenty disabled teenagers tied to cots, lying in their own piss and shit, skinny as skeletons. It turned my stomach, Steph. And the little kids, playing in the snow with stones and sticks because they didn’t have a toy to their names. Their clothes in rags. Filthy dirty, some of them with open sores. All of them, abandoned by their parents. A lot of them with AIDS.’ She was welling up, talking about it.
‘And I thought about my dad, and how I could have been one of those babies born with AIDS. But I’ve got this lovely life, with Jimmy, and my nice house and my career, and money in the bank. And I thought, fuck it, Steph, I’ve got to do something about this.’
So she insisted that, instead of painting a rosy picture of how there had been a successful transformation in the lives of thousands, she would go back with the journalist and confront the terrible reality that hundreds of people continued to endure. Never mind what had been achieved – Scarlett wanted to ram home the message of how much more was left to be done. Somebody else could deliver the happy-clappy message. She was going straight to the sharp end.
It was an astonishing move. The woman who had been dismissed as a brainless bigot had undergone the ultimate makeover. She wasn’t just making caring noises. She was prepared to stand up and be counted. And so she went to Timonescu orphanage in the Transylvanian mountains and confronted the horrors head on. She spoke to camera with tears running down her face and swore that she was going to do everything in her power to make a difference. ‘I want my son to grow up proud of his mum. Not for being on the telly, but for helping to transform the lives of these children,’ she said, a catch in her voice.
When it was screened as part of the Caring for Kids telethon, it created a sensation. Because the shock value of having a segment like this presented by someone like Scarlett was almost as great as the footage itself. I was at the hacienda with her and Leanne that night, and she was so proud of herself. ‘I’m going to set up a charity to support Timonescu,’ she said. ‘I’ve been talking about it with George and he’s getting all the paperwork done. I’m going to donate a tenth of all my income, and I’m going to get somebody to organise fundraisers. All them women out there doing their exercise classes – I’m going to get them to donate a week’s exercise expenditure to making a difference in some kid’s life.’
Even I was gobsmacked, and I already knew Scarlett was a very different proposition from the person the world thought they knew. As for the media, they were reeling in shock. Scarlett’s stock had never been higher. There were profiles of her everywhere, her troubled past being recast as youthful misdemeanours. Amazingly, given the tendency of the British media to take delight in chopping down to size anyone who dares to rise above the herd, there wasn’t a single bit of dirt-digging from any of the red-tops.
I said as much to George as we sipped champagne and nibbled canapés at the launch of TOmorrow, the charitable trust Scarlett had founded to support Timonescu Orphanage. ‘It’s not for want of trying,’ he said. ‘The thing is, Scarlett’s made such a fine job of cutting herself off from her past that her mother and
her sister really have no possible revelations. That part of her history they know about is what’s covered most thoroughly in your excellent book.’ He chinked his glass against mine. ‘You gave the world just enough sordidness to make it interesting, and also to declaw Scarlett’s family. The tabloids can’t go with the “heartless bitch” line because she bought them a perfectly decent house to live in. And she still pays the council tax and the utility bills. She’s covered herself very cleverly.’
‘There’s always Joshu,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t he worry you?’
George sniffed. ‘With his drug habit? I rather think Scarlett has enough insurance to keep Joshu quiet.’
I hoped so. It would be a cruel person who wished Scarlett ill now she was riding the crest of a wave for all the right reasons. But as things turned out, I’d been looking for disaster in all the wrong places.
29
Nick had learned early on in his police career that nobody appreciated a copper on the doorstep late at night unless it really was a matter of life or death. He suspected that as far as Joshu’s parents were concerned, he’d be unwelcome at any time. They were under no obligation to talk to him, and he reckoned they would exercise their freedom of choice, not least because his was the face they would associate with the investigation into their only son’s death.
But there were other sources for information about the Patel family’s circumstances. During the inquiry into Joshu’s death, Nick had also spoken to both of the dead man’s sisters. Unlike their brother, Asmita and Ambar had fulfilled their parents’ ambitions. Asmita was an accountant with an international consultancy; Ambar had been on the point of qualifying as a barrister specialising in tax affairs. Dismayed but not surprised by her brother’s death, Ambar spoke about him with a world-weariness depressing in one so young and privileged, suggesting he had been a tragedy waiting to happen. ‘We washed our hands of him years ago,’ she’d said. ‘He made it clear he despised all of us, and frankly, I’d had enough of it. When he took up with that vile woman, that was the last straw. I never even told my friends we were related.’ It was a depressing epitaph for a young man who had been, in Nick’s view, essentially harmless. A waste of space, perhaps. But not a bad man. Not by the standards Nick was familiar with.
Asmita had been more upset. ‘I keep remembering what a funny little boy he was,’ she said. ‘My sweet little brother. I wish my parents hadn’t cut him out of our lives. We should have been there for him.’ Her regret was eating her up, that much had been clear. What depressed Nick more than her sister’s cynicism was that this grown woman hadn’t been able to find the courage to defy her parents and maintain contact with the brother she’d clearly still cared about. He wasn’t sentimental; he didn’t think Asmita could have saved Joshu from his burning drive towards self-destruction. But he didn’t think Joshu had deserved such an almighty fall from grace and he thought he’d let Asmita see that. If anyone in the Patel family was going to talk to him, it would be her.
This time of night wasn’t ideal, but child abduction changed all the rules. He hoped Asmita would appreciate that. She was still living at the same address, according to the council tax roll. As he drew near to her address, Adrian Legg’s polyphonic guitar blasting from his speakers, Nick’s memories of Asmita’s flat took shape. The building where she lived had been a primary school, built in the year of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee, which probably explained the extravagance of the architecture. It looked more like a church with cathedral aspirations than an education factory for the children of the London poor. Nick pulled into the car park that had started life as the girls’ playground and found a guest slot in the furthest corner.
Asmita’s apartment was housed in the former infant department, occupying the upper floor of what would have been the nave if it really had been a church. He remembered high arched windows, a ribbed wooden ceiling like an upturned boat and wood everywhere – stripped floors, panelled walls, furniture in sympathetic shades. He pressed the intercom and waited. The voice that answered him was firm and slightly peevish. ‘Yes? Who is it?’
‘Ms Patel? It’s Detective Sergeant Nicolaides from the Met Police. I spoke to you after your brother died. I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, but I do need to talk to you.’
‘Can’t it keep till tomorrow? Don’t you know what time it is?’
Nick tried for the right mix of apology and insistence. ‘I’m afraid it’s urgent. I wouldn’t be here this late in the evening if it wasn’t.’
The only response was the loud buzz of the door release. It was so abrupt that he almost didn’t catch it in time. Lights came on in the stairwell as he climbed the flight of stairs that led up to the interior door of the flat. The walls were painted in broad stripes of warm earth colours, a statement of welcome as well as taste.
Asmita was standing in the doorway waiting for him. She was wearing a long kaftan with a hood. Nick had seen Arab men wearing something similar but he didn’t know what it was called. The material was a blend of shades – saffron, cinnamon, chocolate – with gold threads running through it that caught the light when she moved. Her hair was caught up in a scrunchy on top of her head, making the resemblance to her late brother more obvious than when it was loose. Her eyes looked tired, her skin drawn. Her face was scrubbed of makeup, ready for bed. ‘Come in,’ she said. It sounded more like, sod off.
He followed her into the main living space. Squashy sofas focused on a giant plasma-screen TV. Behind them a long table was set against the wall, clearly functioning as a desk. Neat piles of papers flanked an ultra-thin laptop. Two small speakers sat on the desk, playing quiet, minimalist piano music. The sort of audio wallpaper Nick despised with all of his musical soul.
Asmita stood by the sofas, one hand on her hip, lips pursed. It didn’t look as though she was going to invite him to sit down. Maybe he hadn’t done as good a job last time as he’d thought. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked.
‘I’m working on an investigation that—’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘This is an incredibly long shot, but we’re short on leads, so here I am.’ Nick tried his best puppy-dog look, one he’d been reliably informed was a bit of a heartmelter.
Asmita was not moved. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ Nick said. ‘Your nephew has been abducted.’
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. ‘Rabinder?’ Her hands flew to her face, pressing against her cheeks. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to Rabinder?’
Nick was taken aback. ‘Who’s Rabinder?’
‘What do you mean, who’s Rabinder? He’s my nephew.’ She frowned, bewildered. ‘You said he’s been abducted. How can you not know his name?’
‘It’s not Rabinder,’ Nick said hastily. ‘Can we just back up here? We’re at cross purposes. I’m talking about Jimmy. Joshu’s boy. I don’t know who Rabinder is.’
Panic visibly drained away from Asmita, leaving anger behind. ‘You really freaked me out there. I can’t believe you did that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Nick said. ‘I genuinely had no idea you have another nephew. Has Ambar had a baby?’
Asmita turned away, shaking her head. ‘Who trains you people? You come barging into my home at this time of night, scaring the living daylights out of me because you haven’t bothered to brief yourself properly, then you start chatting away like it’s a social call. Your people skills are in the negative numbers.’
‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’
She faced him again, back in complete control of herself. ‘Ambar got married about six months after Jishnu died.’ Nick had to think for a moment who she meant, then remembered Joshu hadn’t always been called Joshu. To his family, he would always be Jishnu. ‘Rabinder was born about a year later. He’s seven months old now.’ Asmita couldn’t resist a smile. ‘We all adore him. That’s why I was so freaked out. He’s the only person I think of as my nephew.’
‘But Jimmy is too, whether you like it or not.’
‘But I don’t know him. He’s never been part of my life. And I do regret that, but I have to respect my parents’ wishes. And they wished to have nothing to do with him. My mother is adamant that Jimmy isn’t even Jishnu’s child.’ This time her smile was apologetic. ‘She has a very low opinion of Scarlett Higgins and her personal morality.’
‘So you’re saying your family really don’t consider Jimmy to be one of you?’
Asmita folded her arms across her chest. ‘Biologically, he might be. But he’s not part of our family in any meaningful sense. He’s not part of our culture, our family traditions. He doesn’t belong.’
‘He looks like one of you,’ Nick said. ‘He looks more like a Patel than a Higgins.’
‘Maybe. But looks are only skin deep.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You say he’s been abducted? How did that happen?’
‘His guardian took him on holiday to America. While she was waiting for a security pat-down, a man walked away with Jimmy. It was very well orchestrated. By the time anyone realised what was happening, they were gone.’
There was a long silence. Asmita crossed to one of the tall windows that looked out towards the glittering skyscrapers of the City. ‘What has this to do with me and my family?’
Not a question that would be easy to answer without treading on cultural sensibilities. ‘Like I said, it was a long shot. And you kind of answered my question when you told me about Rabinder.’
She swung back to glare at him. ‘I get it.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘You think we’re some primitive hill tribe who need a male heir to preserve the family line. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?’
‘It wasn’t meant to be an insult. Quite the opposite,’ Nick said. ‘I was trying to be sensitive to what might seem important to someone from a different cultural perspective. I’m not an expert in these nuances, I’m a detective trying to do my job. And that job is all about trying to rescue a small boy who has been snatched from the person he loves and the life he knows. If I’ve trod on your toes, I’m sorry. But that’s not my number one priority at the moment.’ He started to head towards the door.
