The tension dissipates and the people nearby turn back to resume watching the last of the fire fighters position a hydraulic jack beneath the garage door. For the next few minutes, I have to exchange small talk with this woman and refuse countless offers to come in and have a cup of tea, whilst constantly turning my head to watch as the metal door starts to flex under the strain of the lifting gear. The woman gasps when the mechanism inside gives up its resistance with a loud bang and the fire fighter steps in to take the weight of the door by its bottom edge. A silent hush of expectation descends on the small crowd as he begins to slide it upwards…
… before a collective sigh rings out when a completely empty space is revealed inside. I’m probably more relieved than any of them, and not just because it gives me the opportunity to pull myself away and head back to the car.
It’s becoming a familiar dilemma. My original intention was to have a quick look around during daylight and then go to the cinema, maybe get some sleep, grab a pizza or something, and sneak back tonight to break into Herb’s house. Of course Plan A’s now gone up in smoke – literally. Even if I’d had a Plan B, it wouldn’t have involved visiting Mum again. It’s going to be impossible to explain my presence a second day running, and the third time in just over a week. But I can’t risk Herb’s neighbour turning out to be one of her most enthusiastic informants, and letting it slip she’d had a nice chat with me on the morning of the fire.
Foxtrot Uniform
Sticking to the back streets, I turn left into Mum’s road. Her house is fifty yards up on the right and the first thing I see is a police car parked outside. My head starts to pound so that I can feel every heartbeat in my temples. Although my first concern is whether Mum’s been taken ill – she seemed fine yesterday – the underlying anxiety is a long-forgotten but re-emerging unease with the boys in blue. As I’ve said, I’m no angel; I’m no villain either. If you’ll forgive me the notion, I can exclude recent lapses on the basis I was acting in good faith and trying to help a friend, though I realise there’s not a judge and jury in the land that would agree with that. As it is, I already felt a bit edgy chatting idly with Nosy Neighbour, standing so close to the copper outside Herb’s house. Now I’m going to have to confront one of them face to face.
I consider driving straight past and heading home but, if nothing else, I need to know Mum is okay, so I pull over and park behind the cop car. As I approach the gate, the front door opens and a thickset WPC steps out with my mum, holding the door behind her. I’m relieved to see that Mum looks fine. When she sees me she half smiles in my direction and I look back with a questioning frown. She reads my concern and remains inside the house, stifling her customary welcome as I open the gate. I watch as the constable thanks her for the information and the tea, puts her hat on, and turns and walks towards me, her black tights converting friction to static with every step.
‘Good morning,’ she says. Her gesture is empty and goes unreturned. Instead I reciprocate the sideways scowl she fires at me when my grip accidentally loosens on the heavy-sprung gate just as she reaches it. I’m dismissed with the shake of a head as she reaches to lift the latch. Closing the gate behind her with a ceremonial flourish, she gets in the car and drives away.
‘Hello my son,’ Mum says. Hers is a different frown, greeting me at the doorstep. ‘You can’t stay away from your dear old Mum, can you?’ I ignore the sarcasm and try to divert the conversation, because I haven’t thought of a good reason to tell her why I’m here again.
‘What did she want?’ I say, stepping into the hallway and following her into the kitchen.
‘Oh, I called them,’ she says with total indifference and turns to put the kettle on, thankfully missing the recoil of my eyes. ‘I’d been worried about Herb Long after the other day, and then I heard the terrible news this morning.’
I fail to say ‘What news?’ quickly enough and she turns in time to see the expression on my face that says I already know.
‘His house went up in flames last night.’ She says it anyway and pauses, waiting for my reaction. I just nod for her to continue. ‘Well, I thought I should tell them I’d seen him...’
‘Mum!’ I cut in as she gets two cups and saucers from the cupboard. ‘Just because you saw him come out of the bank and get into a car, doesn’t mean a thing.’ I probably sound a bit too animated and realise I need to tone it down. ‘I’ve just been talking to one of your friends, the lady who lives across the road from him, and she saw him get into a car yesterday, right outside of his house, all dressed up and carrying a suitcase. Sounds like a chauffeur-driven limo service. I mean, it’s not like he’s short of a bob or two. And more than anything else, if there was something dodgy going on, I don’t think you should be getting involved by volunteering information to the Old Bill.’
‘When you’ve quite finished, Michael,’ she says in the tone she used to adopt when I was a sulky teenager. ‘I’ll tell you what I told that policewoman.’
‘Sorry, Mum. It’s just I don’t think you should be inviting them in here. I thought we moved here to get away from all that.’
She glares at me for daring to allude to the unmentionable, before looking away momentarily to compose herself.
‘All I told them about was last night,’ she says.
‘What about last night? They already know the guy’s house burned down – I’ve just driven past and there’s fuzz everywhere. What could you tell them they don’t already know?’
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks, blatantly changing the subject as the kettle billows out steam and switches itself off.
‘I need the caffeine,’ I say, pointing to the jar on the table. ‘It turned into a heavy one last night.’
‘Another reason why I’m surprised to see you again today,’ she says, without looking up from spooning coffee granules into one of the cups.
‘Mum? What did you tell her?’
‘That I saw Herbert Long,’ she says, nonchalantly.
‘Last night?’
‘Yes Michael! And if you’ll just let me finish.’ She proceeds to tell me how she’d been in to settle Gladys down for the night after the daughter of the old lady we dropped in on yesterday lunchtime had rung to ask her…
Night Flight
Mum walked home the same way I’d driven her earlier in the day. It was already dark, almost eight o’clock by the time she got to Herb’s house. As she turned the corner, she saw a silver car parked outside with its lights on. When she got closer she realised it was the same one Herb had got in outside the bank the day before, a big fancy saloon.
All the glass was tinted, so she couldn’t see inside, but there was a man in the driving seat with the window down. A huge hand reached out to polish the wing-mirror, but she couldn’t tell if it was the same driver. She thought he seemed very shifty though; the way he quickly raised the window when he saw her approaching.
That’s when she realised there was a van backed up to the opened garage, and that she could hear voices and noise, like things being moved around inside. She couldn’t stop to look because by then she was right in front of the man in the car and she sensed he was watching her. All she could do was slow down a bit and try not to be too obvious.
When she was right in front of the house, she caught a glimpse through the gap as the platform at the back of the van was raised, and she could see a big, fancy brown sofa being rolled in.
She couldn’t see who was loading it, but did hear someone pulling down the door at the back. It made a big bang and then the van pulled forward onto the pavement, straight towards her. She almost had to jump back to get out of the way. The van driver must have been in the front all along and, without even looking at her, he drove off up the road.
The garage door was still open and there was a light on. The walls were lined with empty shelves, otherwise the space was completely bare; not so much as a toolbox or a paint pot to be seen. For a moment she thought she’d witnessed a burglary and they’d just taken everything. Sh
e could see that the garage was empty and at first that’s all she noticed. Until she saw Herb, standing inside, looking straight back at her.
‘Hello Mr Long, are you alright?’ she called. He looked right through her as if she wasn’t there, just like he had outside the bank. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking maybe he couldn’t see her, looking out into the dark from under the bright light. But it did seem strange the way he stepped back slowly and, she assumed, must have pressed a button, because the garage door started to lower.
All she could do after that was keep walking. By the time she got to the end of the road where she could glance back over her shoulder, the car was gone. It must have turned around and headed off the same way as the van. Whether Herb got in it or not, she didn’t know.
Teenage Kicks
‘Did he look like he was okay?’ I ask. ‘Did you get the feeling he was doing it against his will? Maybe that’s why he didn’t acknowledge you.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I can’t be sure, but something about it all made me feel like he was in control. Once I realised it was him in the garage, I knew it must have been his voice I’d heard.’
‘Who was he talking to?’
‘I suppose there must have been someone else with him. Whether he got in the back of the van or walked down the other side and got in the passenger door, I don’t know. He might have even gone back into the house. Before the van pulled away, what must have been Herb’s voice said something to the driver. Something like: “Okay, that’s it. See you later.” And it sounded like the driver said: “Okay guv.” I’m not sure. It was the tone of their voices that made it sound like Herb was the boss.’
‘So if Herb was in charge,’ I say, feeling uncomfortably like I’m interrogating my own mother, ‘what made you suspect there was something dodgy going on worth telling the filth?’ A slight wince of disapproval crosses her face on the last word, but I know deep down she shares my antipathy.
‘No, I wasn’t suspicious. I was just concerned for the poor old man, that he might have been trapped in the fire, that’s all,’ she says, finishing her tea. ‘That’s why I told them… the police… that I saw him there last night with some other people and I didn’t know if he’d left the house with them or not. I was really just trying to make sure they hadn’t found him in there. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I thought I was the last one to see him alive and I hadn’t done anything to help him, especially after being worried he was acting so strange. Like I told her, maybe he’s getting a bit forgetful.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘She thanked me for being a good neighbour and said there weren’t many about these days. Then she reassured me Herb hadn’t been found in the house.’ She sits back and folds her arms as if to say the cross-examination is over. ‘Now drink your coffee before it goes cold.’
I drain the cup and put it back on the table, but I’m not finished with the questions. ‘Did she say if they’re treating it as a crime scene?’ I ask, without looking up.
‘Not in so many words. She did ask me how well I know him… or his business arrangements. I told her not very well and that he always seems to be a very private person.’ Now it’s Mum’s turn to look down and she starts picking at crumbs on the tablecloth.
‘Was that it?’
‘There was one other thing. Two things I suppose.’ She looks back up at me. ‘She asked if I’d ever seen any young people going into his house.’
‘Huh? What was that supposed to mean?’
‘I said no, I’ve never seen anyone go into his house and don’t even know anyone who has.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘Before she left she asked me if he’d ever offered anyone I know any photographs.’ It’s just as well I’ve finished my coffee as an involuntary jerk of my hand sends the cup clattering off its saucer across the table. I pick it up quickly as if she won’t have noticed.
‘Photographs? What sort of photographs?’ I ask, trying to keep some semblance of composure.
‘That’s what I said. And then she started to backtrack as if she’d said too much. All of a sudden she was in a hurry to leave. And that was when you arrived.’ She’s clearly seen the look of horror cross my face and isn’t in the mood to take prisoners because she’s looking at me with a curious frown. ‘So, Michael, are you going to tell me why you’re so interested in all this?’
I can’t lie to my mother. I can try to mislead her slightly, divert her from the scent with some half-truths and leave out the odd key fact along the way, but I can’t lie to her. Equally, I need to keep her out of this. The less she knows the better. Especially as she’s already volunteered information to the police. I can imagine Thunder Thighs returning to ask some more questions and pulling out a piece of paper found at the scene with my writing and initials on it.
‘He called me a while ago looking for a favour and I told him I couldn’t help,’ I say. Mum listens to every word, forcing me to choose them carefully. ‘He offered me money and I said I didn’t need it.’ Okay, all of that’s true. But I miss out the part about subsequently agreeing to break into a house and steal something for him. And you wouldn’t blame me, in the circumstances, for especially avoiding any references to dodgy cameras and mysterious photographs.
‘And you’ve just been popping down to make sure I’m okay?’ she says, testing my honesty to the limit.
‘Well, yesterday I was following up on that job opportunity I told you about last week.’ Okay, I realise that’s a stretch. I’m ashamed to say I then completely manipulate her anxieties about Herb. ‘All that stuff you said about Herb got me worrying about him last night and I tried calling. His phone was dead so I decided to drive back down this morning to make sure he was okay.’
‘Hmmm,’ she says, with that accepting look only a mother could give her son. ‘So what was the nature of this favour? Nothing to do with photographs I hope.’
The word is like a knife in my throat. I’m already reeling from the inference to Herb’s social network potentially revolving around young people and photographs and I need more time to think this through.
‘Oh, that. No, that was nothing really,’ I splutter. ‘No, he just wanted me to go and check something out for him near Woodford. No big deal.’
‘Michael?’ she persists and I shift awkwardly in my chair and find it hard to look at her. Before I completely give myself away I pull off a masterstroke of diversion. Although I’m not sure it’s a road I’m ready to go down yet, least of all with my mother, it’s the only thing I can come up with that will take the conversation in another direction.
‘Oh yeah, I meant to tell you… I won’t be taking up that job offer down here,’ I say, before looking up with a broad grin and adding, ‘not now I’ve met someone new back home.’
‘Oh, Michael, that’s wonderful news. What’s her name and when will I get to meet her?’
6.
Saturday, 19th
It must be something to do with having a sense of purpose, because this morning I wake up refreshed and free of any ill effects from last night’s liquid supper. I vaguely remember sitting alone in my lounge, cradling a three-finger tumbler and staring out at the empty street below…
It had been almost an hour and I hadn’t moved; hadn’t even tasted the scotch. Its mellow aroma was giving some meagre comfort, but I hadn’t felt the need or desire to drink it. The early evening gloom had already stolen the daylight and the ochre glow of the street lamp permeated the room. Even though the light might have danced seductively with the whisky through the cut crystal glass, frankly it was doing sod-all to lift my mood.
Nothing made sense; all I had were questions. Why did Herb act so strangely with Mum? Twice? What was he doing at the bank and who was he with? If it was the same car each time, who was driving? And was Herb a willing passenger or merely doing what he was told under some threat of violence? On the other hand, why pack a suitcase and appear to be chauffeur-driven away from th
e house in broad daylight, only to come back later and start moving things out of the garage? And if he was in charge, as Mum had thought, why was he orchestrating his own house clearance under the cover of darkness? And who the hell was it, a few hours later, that had answered his phone when I made my drunken late-night call? Then there was the big one: why had his house just gone up in flames?
Being totally selfish about it, the killer questions all of these boiled down to were: why hadn’t he been able to take my calls that he must surely have been waiting for and, more to the point, if he still had his free will, why hadn’t he tried to contact me?
These final thoughts circled my head like vultures. So much for an evening of quiet contemplation; they weren’t helping to ease my anxiety. I could feel the stress boiling up in my chest and I tried to douse it with a single mouthful that emptied the entire glass. That only added to the burning. What was hitting me hardest was the thought that whatever was going on and whoever was involved, I’d put myself bang in the middle of it without any understanding of what and whom I was dealing with. Herb seemed to be the only person I could talk to, yet I had no way of contacting him. Something else was disturbing me far more than all my self-pity. I kept coming back to the same haunting question. Perhaps I was making too much of the policewoman’s inference of Herb as a photography enthusiast with a specialty in adolescents, but what if I wasn’t? And what did that mean for the undeveloped contents of the single use camera, wrapped ominously in brown paper on my coffee table? Sitting silently in my empty house, for only the second time in my life, I felt completely out of my depth.
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 9
