‘I was starting to worry about you, babe,’ I call out, and her face reappears at the door.
‘I’m fine,’ she answers with a nervous grin. ‘I tried calling when I was on my way but you must have been on the phone.’ I look down at the mobile that’s now telling me I had a missed call ten minutes ago.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask.
‘How was your day?’ she says, at the same time.
Then like some corny scene from a sitcom, we say together, ‘It’s been an interesting afternoon.’ We both laugh and she walks over and gives me a hug.
‘Let’s get something to eat once I’ve freshened up,’ she says. ‘Then we can compare notes.’
‘Good idea. How do you fancy Spanish?’
‘Olé!’ she sings, holding imaginary castanets over her head while stamping her feet.
‘You really are amazing,’ I say and shake out an invisible cape.
‘Gracias!’ she sings, launching herself at me with fingers pointing out from her head.
‘And, very horny,’ I add as we land in a heap on the sofa.
‘Horny and hungry.’
‘Sounds like a film I once saw,’ I say. ‘Maybe if we shower together we can save some time.’ The twinkle in her eyes ignores my hopelessly-flawed logic and I carry her to the bathroom.
A couple of hours later and we’re in a local tapas bar, tucking into Serrano ham and tortilla. I know the manager, and he’s given us a quiet table in a cosy alcove. It’s not too busy for a Saturday night and I suspect we’re both glad the food’s arriving quickly. If we were hungry before the shower, now we’re famished.
‘Tell me about your day first,’ I say as the next round of dishes arrives.
‘Well, my last client cancelled, so I was finished just after three,’ she says, reaching for the chorizo. ‘I was going to surprise you, but I wasn’t sure what you were doing and I didn’t want to come back to an empty house. So I treated myself to a coffee and a cupcake.’
‘Very civilised,’ I say.
‘Yeah, until it reminded me of yesterday and I remembered what Jim Melville had said.’
‘Which bit?’ I say. I’m still getting my head around Little Grace James, the young offender. At least I was seventeen when my brief period of juvenile delinquency kicked in.
‘That Terry had told him not to follow up on the evidence... about me being in Herb’s house.’
‘I just assumed he would be trying to protect you.’
‘Hmm, unlikely. Like I said before, he’s usually focused on protecting himself first. Anyway, I got to wondering how much he actually knew about my past. Was it possible he’d been aware all along... you know... if I am Herbert Long’s abandoned daughter? But then, I couldn’t be sure if he even knew him?’
‘I’m pretty sure he does,’ I say.
‘Well, I had a sudden urge to find out,’ she says. ‘He’s not easy to get hold of but I only had to leave one message and he rang me back within five minutes. He agreed to meet if I could drive down there, something about having an important meeting tonight. So I got in the car and was in his office by four-thirty…’
Grace tells me she has always found it better to act dumb with him. It plays to his sense of superiority. He’s also wary of her because she knows so much about him. She planned to tell him the truth; that she’d been trying to trace her real parents, and to ask what he knew about them. To her surprise, she didn’t have to. Before she even sat down he went on the offensive.
‘What the fuck were you doing in that house last week?’ His voice was intense and she knew this wasn’t the concerned parent routine. He was on edge.
‘How well do you know my real father?’ she countered, expecting a big reaction. But there was nothing. He stayed calm and composed.
‘We’ve been through this Grace. There’s nothing to know. The records were lost, you’ve always known that. In any case, what’s that got to do with this?’ It was enough to confirm he really didn’t suspect Herb might be her father. But something in the way he’d said that house told her there was more to this than he was letting on, so she quickly changed tack.
‘I was in there because I saw the man who followed me and stole my camera. That New Year’s Eve, remember?’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘I followed him to the house and watched him. When I knew he’d left I sneaked in the back to see if I could find it.’
‘I remember you saying something about an old guy in a pub years ago,’ he said, the frown beginning to lift from his brow. ‘Are you saying it was that sick fuck that was watching you?’
‘I’m pretty sure it was him.’
‘Jesus!’ He yelled, the capillaries in his cheeks glowing red. ‘I should have put him away years ago, when I had the chance.’
‘So you do know him?’
‘Of course I do, but why...’
‘Why do you think he followed me and took my camera when I was fifteen?’
‘That fucking pervert probably likes watching little girls and taking their photos.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he said with a smirk, ‘it doesn’t matter whether he’s a child-molester or not. He’s a nasty piece of shit that needs to be flushed away.’
‘Either he is or he isn’t.’
‘What does it matter? He’s a criminal, that’s for certain. Sometimes we just have to get them on whatever we can.’
‘There was a photo of a young woman in his house,’ she said. ‘Made me think he must be married.’
‘He was,’ Pinner said, suddenly less animated.
‘But it looked like he lived there alone.’
‘She died in a car crash, years ago,’ he said.
His mood had changed and when she asked if they’d had any kids he flinched and took a long time to answer.
‘She was pregnant at the time,’ he said.
‘Did you know her?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘not really.’
‘What does that mean?’ she said and he glared back at her.
‘If you must hear the gory details,’ he said, ‘I was one of the last people to see her conscious.’
The blood must have drained from Grace’s head because she started spinning. She could hear him telling her he’d been a traffic cop back then, and had been the first on the scene. But her mind was in free-fall. He asked if she was alright and offered her a glass of water.
‘You did ask for it,’ he said.
‘What did she look like?’ she said, barely holding herself together.
‘They say she was an attractive woman,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose I saw her at her best. God knows how Long ended up with her.’
‘How did she die?’
‘I really don’t know. She was lucid when I spoke to her, but her legs...’ He didn’t finish the sentence.
‘Did she say anything?’
‘I remember she was concerned for the baby. Don’t worry about me, save my baby, she was screaming as they lifted her out.’ He looked across at Grace and their eyes met. ‘What does it matter anyway? What makes you so interested in her death?’
She held his gaze for what seemed like forever.
‘Because I think I’m her daughter.’
Just Desserts
There’s a load of food left and I’m hoping she hasn’t completely lost her appetite when she sets down the knife and fork and pushes her half-empty plate forward. I call for another bottle, although I’m not sure my news is going to help her digestion.
‘Sounds like we’ve both been idling away our afternoon in the company of North Kent CID.’ My clumsy attempt to lift the mood has the opposite effect, and Grace looks up in a panic. ‘Don’t worry. It was just a social visit from your old mate, Jim Melville.’
‘Really?’ she says. ‘I know he said he hadn’t finished with you but I didn’t expect him to get back quite so soon. What did he want this time?’
‘You know it’s weird. The more I think about it,
the stranger it seems. He called and asked if he could come to my house. When he got there it was like he was your big brother, checking me out.’ I look up from eating and Grace is smiling. She starts picking at her food again. ‘He didn’t want to talk about Herb or the arson. It was like he’d driven all that way to make sure I was good enough for you.’
‘He’s very sweet. Just not my type,’ she says unprompted and I let her continue. ‘He asked me out after I moved into the flat; must be three years ago. I had to turn him down. He’s too serious. I told him he was too old for me. That’s funny… I’m pretty sure he’s younger than you!’ She smirks and I send it back to her with extra sarcasm.
‘Well he certainly still carries a torch for you,’ I say.
‘So was that it? He wanted to make sure you were being nice to me?’
‘That’s what I thought, and so I offered him a cup of tea. It was all very cordial at first. Then he told me he was worried about you. I thought he meant because you were with me and I started getting a bit narked by his pathetic jealousy.’
‘I don’t think he’s the jealous type,’ she says.
I ignore the implication and tell her how the conversation went and how he then got all cagey before handing me the cryptic note.
‘What was it?’ she asks. The sparkle has returned to her eyes and I notice that her plate is now empty. I hand her the piece of paper.
‘Who’s Raymond Riggs?’ she says.
‘Good question. I got seven million hits on Google.’
‘Great.’
‘I think I narrowed it down,’ I say, and her eyes widen again. ‘Well, I had nothing better to do than worry about you coming home late.’
‘Riggs,’ she says and repeats it back to herself.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘It has a familiar ring to it. It might come to me in a moment. Tell me what you found out.’
‘Well, it’s amazing how popular the name is and there’s a lot of rubbish on the web,’ I say. ‘But there were several newspaper articles that looked quite promising. They all referred to a Ray Riggs of the same age, born in London in 1960. In the earlier articles he’s described as a promising young footballer in his late teens. That seems to have fizzled out because later on he’s a bookmaker. And by the end of the nineties he’s a successful, if slightly controversial, businessman.’
‘Not exactly the sort of man you’d lose any sleep over,’ she says, picking up the dessert menu. ‘Why would Jim give us such a useless warning?’
‘Yeah, but,’ I say, ‘there was one less-than-glowing reference.’
‘What?’ she says. I can tell she’s lost any enthusiasm for my hunt-the-needle in the haystack of the Internet. She carries on studying the desserts, but I seriously doubt she’s going to be tempted to indulge after this.
‘Five years ago he was in the dock when the jury failed to reach a verdict and the case was dropped.’ I still haven’t got her full attention. She seems to be torn between the pears in sherry and the flan. Then she lowers the menu and looks up at me.
‘Riggs,’ she says again, this time with conviction. ‘Yes, that must have been it. When Herb was banging that hammer on the bench, remember? At the time I thought he was saying: it was rigged. What if he was saying it was Riggs? It was Riggs who killed her.’
I stop momentarily to take in what she’s said. It warrants further thought but I don’t want it to ruin my big finale.
‘Well, apparently,’ I forge ahead in the most judicial tone I can muster, ‘when the trial uncovered irregularities in his business dealings, the judge directed the jury to stay focused on the matter at hand and a lot of the circumstantial evidence was thrown out. It seems that weakened the prosecution’s case and in the end, the jury wasn’t sufficiently convinced Riggs was responsible… directly or indirectly… for the death of his business partner.’ I look at Grace and finally get the reaction I was expecting as she closes the menu.
‘Murder?’ she says.
‘Yeah, and it gets better. The newspaper report highlighted what it described as the turning point in the trial. The senior detective involved in the case had been called as a key witness and his testimony served to validate the defendant’s alibi.’ I pause to watch the realisation rise on her face like an Arctic dawn. ‘I bet you can’t guess who that detective inspector might have been?’
‘Terry Pinner,’ she whispers and the menu falls from her hands.
***
Cold Calling
It’s a recorded voice that answers. She says there’s no one home. He hears the beep and puts the phone on the table. The sound of his breathing is all they’ll hear. He’ll phone again later and keep trying until someone picks up. Then he’ll hang up and he’ll do it again tomorrow night. And the next night, until he’s certain when someone’s there and when they’re not. And whether it’s him or whether it’s her.
16.
Sunday, 27th
We slept in late and chilled in front of the TV this morning. Then I drove Grace to her flat so she could grab some things. We waited for a while to make sure Simon wasn’t there.
‘Aren’t you going to come in?’ she said.
‘I’d better keep watch,’ I replied. Really I just didn’t want to see where she lived her independent life. I suppose I’m getting used to the idea she’s with me now.
Back home, we cooked a roast dinner that we ate late in the afternoon. We took turns trying to call Herb, without reply. Apart from that, it was a Lionel Richie kind of Sunday. That was until Grace persuaded me to drive out to see if we could find Herb’s house in the country.
We set out under the cover of early evening darkness, and soon find the pub where Herb first reappeared. I show her where the Mercedes was parked and we drive away in the general direction it took. Apart from remembering that when I was in the car with Herb we hadn’t gone on either of the nearby motorways, I felt sure we’d travelled beyond the perimeter of the London Orbital. Even so, the A roads and place names we see don’t ring any bells. There are several junctions where I can’t be sure which way to go, and before long we’re on a narrow and totally unfamiliar country road. By now all I do know is that some miles back we went under and beyond the M25, and with no junctions joining it along this stretch, we’re heading out into rural Essex with no idea where we’re going.
‘We’re lost,’ I finally admit.
‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘It was a long shot anyway.’
We keep going for no other reason than the road isn’t wide enough to turn around.
‘Let’s enjoy the ride,’ I say. ‘We’re bound to come to a main road, sooner or later.’
It turns out to be later, because we drive along endless hedgerows until an orange haze lights up the horizon and we get a vague sense we’re heading back towards civilisation. The light rises and falls as we drive up and over the rolling countryside, shifting playfully from one side of the car to the other as we meander through the labyrinth of fields. Just when we think it’s on another road and we’ve missed the turning, we see it straight up ahead. But it’s not the light of a junction with clues to our journey home. As we come closer, a solitary building, lit up on all sides by amber floodlights, comes into view. The little country pub is welcoming and I pull into the car park, suggesting we avail ourselves of some rural hospitality.
‘Hopefully someone will be able to help with directions,’ Grace adds.
The homely crackle of an open fire greets us inside, and the only patron sitting at the bar turns in surprise as the heavy door rattles back into place behind us.
‘Evening,’ he says and continues reading his paper. I return the greeting and walk towards the bar, looking around for the landlord. Grace takes a seat near the hearth that dominates the far wall.
‘Out back,’ the man says, gesturing to a low, narrow door behind the bar, just as the landlord squeezes his huge bulk through the opening and solicits my custom by raising his bushy
eyebrows. A shake of his beetroot head informs me that, perhaps unsurprisingly, Tia Maria isn’t in his repertoire so I order Grace a whisky. I could murder a Guinness but settle for Coke. I hand him a tenner and he returns the change without even a grunt.
‘Where are we?’ I ask and immediately feel stupid – not least because he ignores me and lumbers back through the doorway. I give him the benefit of the doubt but decide not to repeat myself.
‘You’re about a half mile from the village.’ It’s the other customer that answers. ‘Just keep going and you’ll see the sign.’
‘Thanks,’ I say and raise the tumbler.
‘Cheers,’ he says, reciprocating with a virtually empty pint glass. ‘Whereabouts you headed?’
‘Oh, we were out for an evening drive, you know. Got a bit lost to tell the truth and then we found this place and thought we’d come in for a crafty one. Hoping to find our way onto a motorway back towards London.’
‘You won’t easily get onto the M25 from here,’ he says, confirming what I already know.
‘How close are we to the M11?’
‘Not far, but you’d have to go up towards Harlow and pick it up at junction seven. I suppose it might even be quicker for you this time of day.’
‘Well, we’re in no hurry either way.’
‘Okay. Go through the village,’ he says, pointing in the direction we’d been heading. ‘Straight ahead, you can’t miss it. At the first junction, go right, right again at the next, then left and left again. That’ll bring you to the main road. You’ll see directions there; turn left and you’ll be heading towards the motorway.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ I say and he raises his dirty glass to me again. I turn away and take the drinks to where Grace is glowing in the firelight.
‘Our humble host sends his profuse apologies for being clean out of cocktails,’ I say. ‘So I got you scotch instead.’
‘I’d rather have had the Coke,’ she says. ‘You’re a bad influence on me.’
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 26
