Others

by James Herbert

  ‘Okay,’ I admitted. ‘Curious, but it makes some kind of psychological sense. It was his way of compensating for something he deemed his fault. What I don’t understand though, is why they didn’t adopt?’

  ‘I think it was because he wanted the child to be part of one of them. If it couldn’t come from his loins, then at least it would be from Shelly’s womb. However, I do know they were finally looking into the matter of adoption – Gerald dearly wanted a boy – just before he died. They left it too late.’

  Her coffee was almost gone and I asked if she’d like another. She declined and twirled the brandy glass around by its stem. She took a sip before placing it back on the table.

  ‘In his will,’ Etta said, ‘Gerald gave his blessing to any new partner that Shelly might find. All part of his guilt trip, I suppose, and his obsession for the continuation of his business, which he seemed to regard as his own epitaph.’

  ‘But even if she had a child soon, a baby couldn’t run a business. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘That’s why everything has been put into a trust for now.’

  ‘What? The money and the business?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘The trustee . . . ?’

  ‘The bank that helped Gerald set up business in the first place. The one that likes to say yes unless you’re asking for overdraft facilities. He’d always maintained a good working relationship with that particular bank.’

  ‘I can see how Shelly would be just a little upset with that arrangement. It’s treating her like a child herself.’

  ‘She was more than a little upset. She yelled blue murder when the terms of the will were read out to her.’

  ‘So the trustee looks after the business until the child is old enough to take over.’

  ‘And if it’s a boy, all the better.’

  I let it all sink in, drawing back from the table and staring into space. The waiters and waitresses had gathered in a clique by the bar, occasionally breaking into laughter at a shared joke. The toddler at the next table grizzled for more ice-cream, while his mother wiped the mess from his face with a napkin. The restaurant’s glass door opened and a couple of wide-eyed tourists wandered through, looking around as if not knowing what to do next; one of the waiters quickly joined them and showed the way to an empty table. A gabble of Dutch or German drifted our way.

  ‘So that’s why she’s so keen to find her missing son,’ I murmured at last.

  ‘Shelly? I would think so, although I’ve tried to convince her she’ll be well taken care of without the worry of dealing with a business she doesn’t understand. She seems to have got it into her head that she’d be better off by being independent of the bank, and in a way, I can see her point. Why should she have to be accountable for every penny she spends and every business decision she makes to some faceless wonders at head office?’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ A new thought had struck me. ‘This clairvoyant thing. You knew about it, didn’t you?’

  Etta nodded. ‘Yes, Shelly was very excited. That’s why she wanted the name of a reputable private investigation agency.’

  ‘But did she visit Louise Broomfield seeking some kind of consolation for the loss of her husband, or has she always suspected her baby had lived and wanted help in finding him?’

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if the clairvoyant picked up Shelly’s desperation, somehow tuned into the thought of a missing child. Isn’t that how this kind of thing works, by extrasensory perception? Maybe Shelly just passed the idea on to this other woman.’

  ‘Dis, as I said: what does it matter? Your work is done as far as this case is concerned. When you rang me earlier today you said there was no record of the baby’s birth, let alone its death. Submit your fee and forget about it.’

  I wished it could be that simple. Unfortunately, something was nagging at me, something I couldn’t get a handle on. Some creepy little voice way back in the deeper recesses of my mind was telling me I was more involved that I dared to imagine.

  7

  ‘James Stewart.’

  ‘You got it wrong this time. It was Gary Cooper.’

  Henry shook his head vehemently. ‘No. I’m telling you it was James Stewart.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Mr Smith Goes to Washington, not Mr Deeds Goes to Town. Deeds was made in ’36 and Smith in ’39, same year as Destry Rides Again.’

  That gave Henry cause for pause, but not for long. ‘Henry Fonda was Smith Goes to Washington.’

  ‘No, you dope. Fonda was Young Mr Lincoln.’

  ‘Okay, okay. So who played The Thin Man?’ My accountant’s eyes narrowed behind his thin glasses and he grinned with expected triumph.

  ‘William Powell, of course.’

  ‘No! That was James Stewart!’ He banged the desk with the flat of his hand, triumph complete as far as he was concerned.

  ‘Sorry, Henry, but James Stewart was in After the Thin Man, made two years later, and he was the villain; William Powell was still playing the thin guy, Nick Charles, and Myrna Loy was his partner, Nora. His dog was called Asta, by the way, played by Asta the dog.’ I tried not to gloat.

  Henry’s mouth was open, his jaw loose. He quickly regathered his wits though. ‘Answer me this one, then. What Roger Corman B movie did Jack Nicholson star in?’

  ‘Ah, you know I don’t have a clue about modern movies,’ I returned disgustedly.

  ‘Modern? Modern? This was Sixties stuff, my friend.’

  ‘Yeah well, anything made after the Forties escapes me. I prefer the really old ones.’

  ‘God, anyone would think you were ancient.’

  ‘I just like the black and white style. Films had class in those days. Men and women dressed right and sex was suggested and all the sexier for it, and there was no profanity then. Didn’t need it: the story was everything.’

  ‘It was the Edgar Allan Poe one, wasn’t it?’

  We both turned to look at Ida, who was sitting in the visitors’ chair, stirring her mug of tea with a plastic spoon.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Directed by Roger Corman, starring Jack Nicholson. He was a soldier or something. Bit part. You know – the horror film, The Pit and the Pendulum.’

  ‘Oh don’t you start!’ Henry was gritting his teeth, his fists clenched. ‘It was The Raven. The bloody Raven, okay?’

  ‘Yes, but Nicholson was in the other one, too,’ Ida offered helpfully.

  ‘No he bloody wasn’t!’ Henry always got wound up over movies; he considered himself the oracle as far as the silver screen was concerned.

  I’m not sure if Philo was deliberately winding Henry up, but he chipped in with a grin: ‘No, Jack Nicholson was in Fall of the House of Usher. That was the one he had a small part in.’

  ‘He didn’t! He didn’t! He didn’t come anywhere near it!’

  That was it as far as the rest of us were concerned. Ida broke into a fit of giggling first, closely followed by Philo. I was just chuckling. Henry gripped the edge of his desk, glaring at all of us, not quite sure yet if the tease was deliberate. Watching Henry, usually so calm and rational, even during his racial diatribes, lose his rag over something so trivial was always fun.

  He gave up in disgust, his only way out. ‘All right, we’ve all got plenty to do today, so why don’t we just get on?’

  I put my empty coffee mug down beside the plastic kettle, which resided on top of a filing cabinet (it was Philo’s job to do the washing up in the small loo just off the main office), then lumbered towards Henry’s desk. It would have been awkward for me to sit on its corner, so I leaned back against it instead, arms folded over my misshapen chest.

  ‘Ida, you’ve got a status report for our old client, the Ownback Catalogue company. They need to know if there’s any chance of getting their money from a customer who’s suddenly gone sour on them. Henry has the details.’

  Our accountant and administrator, still miffed, handed a typewritten brief from the catalogu
e company to Ida, who took it and began noting the details.

  ‘Check with the receiver’s office if the debtor is bankrupt and the County Court Office to find out if there’s any outstanding judgements against him,’ Henry instructed her.

  ‘I have done this sort of thing before, Henry,’ Ida reminded him, still scanning the two-page letter.

  ‘You’ll need to pay the debtor a visit on this one,’ I advised, only because I wanted the option followed up. ‘If he’s uncooperative, talk to his neighbours – and let him know you’re prepared to do that; he might just want to save himself the embarrassment.’

  ‘Want me to pad out the report?’

  ‘Shouldn’t have to. By the time you’ve checked on what car or cars he runs, his personal possessions, whether he’s paying rent or mortgage on his home, if he works full-time or is he on the dole, you’ll have enough to fill a couple of pages.’ It’s a common practice in this business to make sure the client feels they’re getting value for money, even on – no, especially on – a negative result like a non-trace.

  I shifted attention to Philo, who had one foot on the desk he shared with Ida and was polishing his already glossy black shoe with a duster. ‘Henry has an accident report for you, Beau Brummell.’

  ‘Stewart Granger and Elizabeth Taylor,’ Henry chipped in, anxious to regain his authority as movie-buff of the century. ‘Peter Ustinov played the Prince of Wales. Or was it Robert Morley . . . ?’ He appeared deeply worried at this fresh uncertainty.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I growled. ‘Playtime’s over, Henry. As you said, we’ve got a busy day.’

  Philo’s brown eyes, meanwhile, had lit up. Accident reports were tedious to do, but for a novice, it was a step up. This was the first one I’d allowed him to carry out on his own.

  ‘It’s an NOF, of course.’ Henry’s mind was back on the job, but there was a certain coolness in his voice that let our apprentice know he wasn’t yet forgiven for his part in the tease. ‘No Obvious Fault,’ he added, just in case the acronym wasn’t clear to Philo (Henry loved acronyms – they lent him authority). ‘It’s cheaper for the insurance company to use us to investigate the RTA – “Road Traffic Accident” – than loss adjusters, and it’s cheaper for us to use you.’ The last emphasis was unnecessary, but Henry was never one to forgive easily. ‘You’re to meet our client’s driver at the scene of the accident, so take the standard interview sheet with you – that way you won’t forget to ask the right questions, will you?’

  ‘What else will you need, Philo?’ I quickly asked, more to smooth over Henry’s sarcasm than to test the kid.

  ‘Camera, surveyor’s tape measure, and pen and pad for sketches,’ Philo answered immediately.

  ‘SLR camera and the Polaroid, dummy,’ Henry corrected. ‘You never know, the SLR shots might not come out.’

  It was a valid reminder, despite the sneer that went with it. I’d taken scene-of-accident photographs myself with no film in the main camera, and high street developing was always a risk. ‘Three sketches at least, and let me see the report before you send it off to the client. In fact, let me sign it.’

  Still pleased about the assignment, Philo nodded, a smile brightening his good-looking face.

  ‘Report the facts only,’ Henry warned, ‘not your opinion, or the driver’s version of what happened.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Philo was already reaching into a low cupboard for the cameras and film.

  ‘What’re your plans for the day, Dis?’ Ida enquired as she pulled on a light summer jacket and took an umbrella – it was raining outside – from the coat stand.

  ‘Couple of debt negotiations this morning.’ I held a Credit Consumer’s Licence, categories D and E, which allowed me officially to come up with ways a debtor might solve their financial problems. Usually it was simply to suggest they pay off a little at a time on a regular basis, or at least by laying down a lump sum towards the whole amount. Sometimes there was a more complicated process to go through, the main object being to keep the whole thing away from the courts, which was always expensive and time-consuming for all parties, including myself as far as time was concerned. I preferred counselling these people, many of them in debt through no real fault of their own – a sudden loss of earnings, a death in the family – to demanding they pay up, and category D allowed for debt adjusting as well as advising, while E was what actually empowered me to collect payment if at all possible. These jobs frequently took time and patience, but if the agency handled enough of them through the year, they were quite lucrative. Sometimes it bothered me, this chasing people for money, even though I knew that many debtors were either crooks or irresponsible, and if they fell into neither of these categories, then better to deal with me than the bailiff. Ultimately, I was there to help, not to threaten or take things away.

  ‘And what about our Mrs Ripstone?’ Was there just a hint of malicious glee behind Henry’s smile? ‘Are you going to keep the poor woman hanging on?’

  ‘No, Henry.’ I turned to face him. ‘I’m going to ring her right now and tell her there’s nothing more we can do. Unless you’d like to tell her for me?’

  He shook his head slowly and deliberately. ‘That’s what being the boss is all about,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks for reminding me.’

  I went into my office and, still oddly uneasy with my decision, I picked up the phone.

  8

  It was around 10.30 that night that I stepped outside the pub in a side street near the seafront, the steady drizzle that had marred the day over with for the moment, but the streets still shiny damp. The noise from the saloon bar behind me died with the closing of the door and I took in great lungfuls of almost pure sea air, exhaling long and hard to rid my lungs of the residue cigarette fumes they’d been collecting over the past couple of hours. I felt only a little better now, the irritating sense of dissatisfaction that had been dogging me for most of the day dulled by booze and company. A burst of laughter behind me was raucous enough to pass through the thick wood and glass of the pub door and I was pretty sure it wasn’t at my expense: I knew nearly all the regulars, who were mainly of the – how shall I put it? – of the ‘exotic’ variety; young and not so young gay men, pensioned-off chorus boys of untold age but with fabulous stories to tell, cultured antique dealers who’d had other careers in their prime, but who now saw this last profession as a means of genteel employment for themselves and their (invariably younger) partners. There were shammers and schemers, duckers and divers, women who love women, the lonely and the disparate. A good bunch. And whenever I entered that bar I was greeted with friendly calls rather than odd stares.

  The air may have been moist, but it was warm; warm and scented with the aroma of sea and salt. As I began to walk towards the front, depression settled over me like a well-worn cloak, and even the bright promenade lights at the end of the long, narrow street failed to offer any cheer. Moving along the glistening pavement I wondered why this mood of – what? I couldn’t focus on it. Inadequacy, perhaps? – had pursued me all day. Since I’d first opened my eye that morning, in fact. Since my conclusion that there really was nothing more I could do for Shelly Ripstone.

  When I’d rung her earlier, she’d pleaded with me to stay on the case, even phoned me back seconds after I’d broken off the call. She’d offered to double my fee if only I would agree to continue the search for her lost son, and nothing I said would convince her that it would be pointless, that the child – and now I was beginning to doubt there ever was a child – had died only minutes or seconds after being born. Doctors didn’t lie. The authorities might, but then why should they in such a case?

  Shelly had become more distressed. Didn’t I understand that a mother intuitively, instinctively, knew these things? And besides, the clairvoyant, Louise Broomfield, also had no doubts that her son was still alive. The evidence – or lack of it – said otherwise, I told her, but that had made her more aggressive. Pleadings became insults. But fine, I’d had plenty of those in my time
. Firmly, and quite politely, I said my goodbyes and replaced the receiver.

  This time she didn’t ring back.

  I could, of course, have mentioned the fact that she had not been entirely open with me, that maybe – well, quite likely – her motivation had more to do with her late husband’s money than maternal love. But that would have been rude of me. And unnecessary.

  Even so, this night I reviewed the case in my mind as I shuffled on towards the sea, yet still I could make no sense of her claim. Even if Shelly Ripstone née Teasdale had given birth eighteen years ago and the hospital had been razed to the ground some time afterwards, the baby’s short existence would still have been noted by the General Registrar Office. But it seemed nothing at all had been documented, neither at the London office nor the one at Southport, where all such records were kept after the closedown of Somerset House in the capital. Also, in adult tracing the method is relatively simple, even if the disappearance is intentional (I rule out murder and dismemberment here); credit card purchases, the electoral roll, National Insurance number, bank statements, car registration, friends and associates – all conspire to track down an absconder; but when there is no life history, when there isn’t even any evidence that the subject of the trace was ever born in the first place except for the word of a bereaved widow of dubious (although understandable) motivation and possibly of distracted mind, then finding that person is next to impossible.

  There was nothing I could do. I’d only waste time and the client’s money, and I’d never been into that kind of scam. No, I’d made the right decision. The assignment was a dodo, a dead duck. The agency had done all it could. So what was nagging at me? Why couldn’t I let it go?

  ‘Spare some change, chief?’

  I’d almost passed by the figure huddled in a doorway before his voice, both plaintive and cheerful at the same time, brought me to a halt. I peered closer, searching for a face among the darkness and rags, but only when the headlights of a car crawling down the narrow street lit us both up did I find one. Wide, friendly eyes looked up at me and I realized the beggar was a kid, somewhere between seventeen and twenty, with spiky hair and a ring through his nose and grime on his skin that looked more than a week old. The sleeves of his ragged jumper were pulled over his hands, even though there was no coolness to the night, and his well-worn boots were metal-tipped and too hardy for the season.