Others

by James Herbert

  I didn’t want the debtor returning to find me driving away the vehicle he still considered his own. Like I say, GTi drivers often mean trouble and I could do without that today. Parking around the corner and tucking nicely between a Metro and a Volvo estate, I retrieved my mobile from the passenger seat.

  ‘Still there, Philo? Good.’ I took a look around the street before switching off the car’s engine. ‘So what’s the story?’

  ‘That’s just it, Dis. There isn’t one. No birth or death certificate for the Ripstone – sorry, the Teasdale – baby was ever issued as far as they can tell at the registrar office.’

  ‘That’s impossible. Our client had the child and it was delivered at the Dartford General.’

  ‘Well, you know the place burned down.’

  ‘Sure but that was some years later.’

  ‘Yeah, but the point is that the records can’t be checked at the point of source if there was an error or oversight at this end. That’s what they’ve just told me.’

  ‘There’s another GRO in Southport; we can check with them.’

  ‘Uh-uh. Already did. They did it here for me. No record of the baby there either.’

  I sat in silence for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. Was Shelly Ripstone née Teasdale lying? But why should she, what was there to gain? Could she be deluding herself, imagining she’d given birth all those years ago? No, she was overwrought at the loss of her husband, but she didn’t seem crazy or hysterical. I wondered if the clairvoyant, this Louise Broomfield, had planted the thought in Shelly’s troubled mind. Some kind of auto-suggestion. What would be the point of that, though? I shook my head in mild frustration: I had no answers.

  ‘Dis?’

  ‘Sorry, Philo, just thinking.’

  ‘What d’you want me to do?’

  ‘Get yourself off to the Search Room at Companies House. It isn’t far from where you are now.’

  In the investigation business you always tried to kill two or three birds with one stone to justify the expense of long excursions; it was important to cover the expense in time and travel for the agency. In this case, one of the national banks’ local branches in Hove had asked me to look into the commercial background of a prospective client who was seeking a substantial loan for a new business venture and the bank had a feeling that other branches and different brand banks had been approached by the same man before for similar type loans, but under different company names. They were aware that money had been lost on those deals and didn’t want the same to happen to them. Reluctant to turn away a future and apparently well-heeled client, they were, nonetheless, proceeding with extreme caution. Hence my agency’s assignment.

  ‘Sure thing,’ Philo came back at me. ‘I’ve got the details. Anything else while I’m up here?’

  ‘Can’t think of anything. Just get the train back as soon as you’ve finished – no loitering around the fleshpots. Keep away from Soho. I need to work on a report for the bank tonight, if poss.’ I didn’t, but neither did I want my apprentice roaming the big city on my time.

  ‘Right, Boss. Catch you later.’

  The line went dead and I switched off the mobile. Because of my hump, my face was only inches away from the steering wheel and I leaned even further forward, resting my forehead against the warm, hard plastic for a moment or two. What the hell was Shelly Ripstone playing at? Why waste my time and her money? I straightened again – that is, I straightened as much as possible – and lit a cigarette. I could end the assignment there and then, call her with my apologies and close the case. But something – I didn’t know what: instinct, intuition, I had no idea – prevented me from doing so. It was an odd reaction at the time, but it makes sense to me now.

  The first thing I had to do before making any final decision, I told myself, was to find out more about Shelly Ripstone herself. And there was one particular person who could help me with that.

  I tapped numbers into the mobile.

  Early that evening we met at Brown’s, one of the seaside town’s trendy eateries, where the waiters and waitresses were hip and friendly. Etta was a few minutes late and stood briefly by the door, searching the tables for me. I gave her a wave and she returned a smile.

  Etta Kaesbach was slim, almost skinny, with long brown hair and intelligent eyes. I’d always be grateful to her for helping me set up business in the first place, giving me the chance to do work for her firm of solicitors after I’d bombarded her with letters, mailshots and phone calls. She’d been the first solicitor – and it was from this profession that most private investigations agencies got their work – to provide me with the opportunity of proving my worth, not, she once told me when we’d got to know each other better, because of my obvious disabilities, but because of my overwhelming enthusiasm (yes, I had been over-anxiously keen in those early days, eager for the work, desperate to show I could do a difficult job as well, if not better, than the best of my particular trade).

  She sat opposite me at the round table, her face a little flushed from her obvious dash from her office to meet me. Etta’s hair was held back from her forehead by a child’s hairgrip, not a slide, and her hazel eyes were encircled by round, wireframed spectacles, somewhat like ancient National Health specs, but which were Armani and probably cost well over two hundred quid. Perched on her fine, straight nose, they actually softened the intelligence of her face rather than enhanced it, and the absence of lipstick on lips that were already a pretty shade of pink, as well as nicely defined, combined with the neat-but-dated hairstyle, gave her a fresh attractiveness that was easy on the eye (literally in my case). She wore a deep-brown soft velvet jacket over a flowing maroon skirt, the collar of her beige shirt/blouse overlapping the jacket lapels. Etta was in her mid-thirties, although she looked ten years younger, had one disastrous marriage behind her – it had only lasted eighteen months, due mainly, she admitted, to dedication to her own career (although I knew there was more to it than that; she’d chosen a real bastard for a partner) – and had suffered poor on-and-off relationships since. As far as I knew, there was no man in her life at the moment and, I have to own up, I’d often dreamt of playing a larger part in her life myself, but had never had the nerve, nor the encouragement from her, to make a move in that direction. I was too scared of spoiling things between us. And too afraid of rejection.

  A young girl in white shirt and black leggings was at the table before Etta had placed her briefcase by her chair.

  ‘Hi,’ greeted the waitress, all sleeked-back hair and stunning smile. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Just coffee, regular.’ Etta smiled back, then glanced at my brandy glass. ‘One of those might be useful too.’

  ‘You’ll need to order some food if you want alcohol,’ I said, indicating the remaining half of my chicken salad sandwich, brown bread, no mayonnaise.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said the waitress obligingly. ‘We’ll count yours as the meal. Unless you’d like something to eat?’ She raised her eyebrows at Etta.

  ‘No thanks. Coffee and a brandy will be fine.’ Etta smiled back, then returned her attention to me as the waitress left us.

  ‘Busy day?’ I enquired.

  Etta rolled her eyes. ‘Like all others. You switching from whisky these days?’

  ‘Needed something a little more substantial.’ I sipped the brandy to show how necessary it really was.

  ‘Having problems, Dis?’ It wasn’t an idle question; those hazel eyes were full of concern.

  ‘Uh, no, nothing drastic.’ The episode last night with the broken mirror wasn’t one I cared to relate.

  ‘Nothing to do with the new client I sent you, I hope.’ She pulled a wisp of hair away from her mouth.

  ‘Shelly Ripstone? Uh-uh, she’s fine. But I did want to talk to you about her.’

  ‘So I gathered from your phone call. Oh Lord, I hope I haven’t sent you trouble. I thought it might be an easy one for you, a straightforward trace.’

  ‘And so it should have been,’ I rea
ssured her. ‘Thanks again, by the way.’ I meant for the continuing work and she acknowledged with a shrug.

  ‘You’re the one who’s helping me out, Dis. I’d hate to refer a good client to the wrong agency.’

  I gave Etta my lop-sided grin. ‘So long as you know it’s always appreciated.’

  ‘Are you getting sentimental in your old age, Dis?’ She was smiling too, but she watched me keenly, a little puzzled I suppose.

  ‘God forbid,’ I joked. ‘You’d only take advantage.’ I was suddenly embarrassed by the sexual connotation of that remark – like as if – and I quickly moved on. ‘I only wondered if you could tell me more about Shelly Ripstone.’

  Etta gave me a surprised look as the waitress arrived back at our table with her coffee and brandy. I quickly drained my own glass and tipped it towards the girl. ‘Sorry, I should’ve asked a minute ago.’

  ‘No problem.’ No strain at all in the waitress’s smile. ‘Back in a moment.’

  I put the empty glass down and returned Etta’s gaze. ‘S’okay, Mrs Ripstone isn’t being difficult. I’d just like to know some more about her background. We drew a blank on tracing her baby at the first hurdle and I wondered how badly she’d take it.’

  ‘I see.’ I could tell Etta didn’t quite believe what I’d said, but she seemed prepared to indulge me. ‘What did Mrs Ripstone tell you when she came to your office?’

  ‘She was distraught, missing her late husband. I gathered she was afraid of being left alone in the world and the thought of finding her long lost son seemed to provide her with some comfort. I told her a trace on the child wouldn’t be easy after all these years, but she didn’t want to hear it. I guess getting her son back might have compensated for the loss of her husband in some way, so I was sympathetic.’

  Etta gave a small shake of her head before sipping the coffee and it was my turn to be surprised, this time by her cynical smile. A fresh brandy was placed before me and I nodded a thanks to the waitress as she retrieved my dead glass. Picking up the new brandy, I held it towards my companion and Etta lifted her own glass. We clinked them together, a minor ritual I always believed in when I was with a friend.

  ‘She didn’t tell me it all, did she?’ I said, and Etta was hesitant.

  ‘Oh, what the hell, she is a mutual client, so I think it’s okay to share a confidence with you. But it is in confidence, right?’

  ‘Hey, it’s me you’re talking to. When have I ever broken a confidence?’

  ‘Yes, I know, you’re a pro. And in this case, I think it might be useful for you to hear the whole story. It won’t help you find the missing child – if there is one – but you’ll at least understand why it’s so important to Shelly Ripstone.’

  ‘So it isn’t just because she’s a lonely widow.’

  ‘Well, that might be part of it, but there’s also a much more material side to the whole thing.’

  Becoming more interested, I leaned forward on the table.

  ‘Did she tell you how her husband died?’ Etta asked.

  I raised my eyebrows, not an easy thing for me to do. ‘She said he’d had a heart attack.’

  ‘She didn’t explain the circumstances?’

  I shook my head slowly, wondering.

  ‘No, I suppose there’s no reason why she should have.’ Etta put down the brandy and sipped coffee again. Whirling ceiling fans sent down cool, welcoming breezes. ‘It was downright embarrassing for her, in fact.’

  ‘Come on, Etta, get to it.’

  ‘Gerald Ripstone had a heart attack while he and his wife were, uh, well you know, Dis . . .’

  ‘While they were making love?’ I grinned again. ‘Not good for her, maybe, but not a bad way for him to go.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been at it at all, his doctor had warned him to take things easy.’

  ‘I thought the heart attack was a one-off, the first and fatal one.’

  ‘She told you that? No, Gerald had been suffering from a heart condition for some time. He really should have been more careful. At least, he shouldn’t have used Viagra, especially combined with the drugs he was on.’

  ‘Well, I guess it’s natural enough for a man to want his own wife, no matter how debilitated he is. And his wife is an attractive woman.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. I’m more inclined to think that Shelly persuaded him to use the pill. As for Gerald, he was desperate for a son and heir. Needed someone to leave his business to, someone who’d carry on his name. Incidentally, you won’t know the worst part about that night. The embarrassing part, that is.’

  Now I was intrigued and moved even further across the table towards Etta, my back so bent I must have resembled a turtle.

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you about this, mutual client or not.’ She looked down into her coffee cup, just a little flustered.

  ‘You can’t stop there, Etta. What’ll it take to bribe you?’

  She sighed. ‘You won’t let it go anyway, will you?’

  I shook my head. ‘You know you want to tell me.’

  She smiled, revealing small, even teeth. ‘Yes, I do, you bastard.’ She took a nip of brandy, grimaced, and chased the taste away with coffee. ‘Okay. You’ve heard of couples becoming locked together during intercourse?’

  My turn to grin again. ‘I’ve witnessed dogs in that awkward state, but I always thought it was a myth as far as we humans were concerned.’

  ‘No, it isn’t, actually. It’s not common, but it happens – ask any experienced doctor. Sometimes a woman might panic for some reason or other while copulating and then becomes incapable of relaxing her legs, which become locked tight.’

  A young mother on the next table feeding a toddler chocolate ice-cream from a glass dish glanced over. The little boy, sporting a brown moustache and beard, smacked his lips impatiently until he caught his mother’s attention once more.

  Etta lowered her voice. ‘The abdominal muscles become locked too, as well as the muscles around the vagina.’

  ‘Nice,’ I commented.

  ‘Not really. The man’s working part is gripped so tightly he just can’t break free, no matter how he tries. And I think the blood concentration in the penis because of the Viagra Gerald was using might have made things even more difficult. Personally, I think he took more than one pill and was locked in tight as a result.’

  ‘Pretty humiliating when you have to call in the fire brigade.’

  ‘No, it requires hospital treatment.’ Etta’s face was quite serious. ‘The woman, and maybe the man too by that time, has to be given a muscle relaxant so they can be separated.’

  I made an ‘ouch’ sound.

  ‘It can quite often happen if the male partner has a heart attack while . . . well, while on the job. The sexual act itself raises the blood pressure, which is dangerous for anyone with a heart condition, and the woman’s fright when she realizes her lover is dying on top of her is enough to send the relevant muscles into spasms.’

  I needed a cigarette, but Etta wasn’t a smoker and I’d chosen the non-smoking area of the restaurant in deference to her. Instead, I drained my second brandy.

  ‘Surely the Ripstones would have been aware that the strain might be too much for Gerald,’ I said.

  ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? Perhaps Shelly wanted her husband even more than he wanted her that night.’

  ‘And he couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Or she made it impossible for him to resist.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have – ’ I began to protest.

  ‘Shelly wanted his child too. She had a special reason to.’

  ‘If she thought she might lose her husband at any time, I suppose it’s understandable. A child might compensate – ’

  Again, Etta interrupted. ‘Without an heir, she stood to lose half Gerald’s fortune.’

  I pulled back a little, one good eye staring at my companion. ‘You want to explain that for me?’

  ‘When the Ripstones were first married, Gerald made a will
through our firm leaving everything – his wealth, the business – to his wife and any children they subsequently might have.’

  ‘Only they didn’t get to have any kids.’

  ‘Correct. And they were never likely to. Not together, at any rate.’

  I looked askance.

  ‘Gerald Ripstone was sterile. He consulted a specialist after a few years of marriage and no offspring, and discovered he was incapable of siring an heir. He kept it to himself, never told his wife.’

  ‘Wait. How d’you know all this?’

  ‘Eventually, Gerald confided in his lawyer, the senior partner of my firm, who’d become a good personal friend over the years. Howard Benson, my boss, gave me the information when I queried a specific clause in Gerald Ripstone’s will, the part dealing with inheritance.’

  ‘But why wouldn’t he tell his own wife? From the way she blubbered in my office she must have thought the world of him. Surely the fact that he was firing blanks wouldn’t have mattered to her?’

  Etta shrugged. ‘Who knows why? Pride? Embarrassment? The way you’ve just expressed it shows how the male of the species views that kind of thing. You know what men are like, Dis.’

  Well no, I didn’t, not in that respect, anyway. Sexual prowess or high fertility having never been an area of contemplation for me.

  ‘The point is,’ Etta went on, ‘Shelly was never aware that she couldn’t have a child by her husband. But here’s the weird thing: Gerald loved her so much and cared about the continuance of his business enough for him not to worry by whom she had a child so long as there was someone around to take care of both after he was gone. Unfortunately, he didn’t have enough confidence in his wife’s business acumen or her ability to survive without him.’

  ‘I can’t decide if the guy was eccentric or admirable.’

  ‘Probably a bit of both. If you ask me it was his way of dealing with his own guilt and self-imposed shame.’

  People are complex, right? Lord knows, I’ve dealt with enough oddballs, both professionally and personally, to be aware of how complicated we mortals are.