I tell her what I found out about Riggs, about his dodgy business empire and his long-running rivalry with Herb. I mention the coincidence of his car crash years ago, but I leave out the bit about his carelessness when it comes to losing his nearest and dearest.
‘We have to find Herb again,’ she says as we load the dishwasher. ‘If this guy Riggs was behind the fire at his house, Herb’s in real danger.’
‘If you choose to swim with sharks you probably learn not to get too attached to your limbs.’ I immediately regret the insensitive analogy. After all, he probably is her dad, even if he doesn’t know it yet. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want him getting hurt, even if he has been acting like a prat.’
‘We have to find out what he’s really up to.’
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘If he’s in trouble I’d still want to help him.’
‘We just need to make him realise we’re on his side.’ As she says it I realise she’s already made the emotional crossing. From wanting to check him out from a distance, she’s now prepared to protect him, in spite of the way he treated her when they eventually met. Similarly, my sense of loyalty towards Herb, which, don’t get me wrong, has been severely tested, has also strengthened, the more I reflect on what he did for me… and has carried on doing ever since.
Though he’s becoming increasingly subdued, The Banker tries to remind me what that means for both of us in light of the deep voice with the ultimatum, that we’re now convinced was Riggs. I dismiss him without a second thought. It’s time to stand up and be counted.
‘I’ll keep trying,’ I say. ‘I get the impression he doesn’t want to be contacted.’ She sighs as I phone his number again. No one answers.
***
Work Shop
The tip of the screwdriver slips from the groove in the locking nut, gouging a furrow across the large, stubby knuckles of his other hand that grips the Stanley knife. He curses and throws the offending tool across the floor, making no attempt to wipe the blood or rub away the pain. Instead, he thumbs the button on the knife to test the sliding blade, before putting it back in the metal tray. Alongside a pair of bolt-cutters that have also been cleaned and oiled, a cleaver shines up at him with a newly-sharpened edge. He lifts the lump hammer and balances its weight in his hand. It feels good, and he lets the square head drop into his palm.
‘Huh!’ he snorts, picking up the large carrier bag with its supermarket logo, as if to appreciate its eco-friendliness. Multiple uses it might have had, but when he drops in the hammer, adding to its contents of a billiard ball and a length of nylon cord, the real irony is lost on him. It’s not a bag for life.
Leaving the tray on the bench, he goes out and closes the heavy door behind him.
18.
Tuesday, 29th
I find it written in black ink on yellow paper, propped up on my bedside table; I’ve no idea how long it’s been there:
DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU – YOU LOOKED SO SWEET! HAD TO POP HOME FOR SOMETHING I FORGOT. NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT (WOMEN’S STUFF). HOPEFULLY BACK BEFORE YOU’VE EVEN MISSED ME. G x
Red digits on the ceiling say 03:34. We were in bed by eleven, and I’m guessing asleep in minutes. My brain’s gone from comatose to microprocessor in seconds – four seconds to be precise. Having originally woken me, my straining bladder has to endure a fruitlessly-thorough inspection of the entire house, garden and street. But when I finally get to the bathroom, and in full flow, I start checking behind the shower curtain - as if we’re just kids playing hide and seek - it registers its disapproval in yellow spatter on the white ceramic rim.
Moments later, her mobile rings. I can hear it in both ears – one through my phone, the other much louder… much closer. I find it lighting up the living room. I’m tempted to take it with me, especially when mine’s so low on power, but I decide to leave it there in case she gets back before me. By now I’ve got jeans on over my Calvin Klein bedtime boxers and the coordinating T-shirt is also moonlighting as daywear. Shoes without socks are so uncomfortable, but I don’t stop to think about blisters, and I’m out the door with my coat and keys within minutes of lowering the toilet seat.
Miss Take
I count twenty cars on the move between my house and the road before her turning. None of them is a little red soft-top. I’m so preoccupied looking for hers and eliminating every other colour, make and model, that it’s not until I’ve driven halfway down her road that I see the silver Mercedes parked outside her flat. My whole body goes rigid.
I drive past and take some comfort that at least her MX-5 isn’t in its reserved bay. There’s no sign of activity at the front and inside all the lights are off. I park the car further up, get out and instinctively stay close to the front hedge of the neighbouring house. Approaching her flat, I can see the communal entrance door is propped open with a fire extinguisher, even though the inner light is off. I noticed last time how it acted like a car’s courtesy lamp, coming on automatically when the door opens and turning itself off after a short delay once it closes. That thought gives me a sense of dread as I tiptoe across the residents’ parking area, exposed in the full glare of streetlights, and handicapped by my inappropriate choice of footwear. The first pair that came to hand was my ex-work shoes. It was all part of the image back then; Blakey’s in your heels to announce your arrival across the marbled floors of rival banking halls. Not so impressive when you’re in stealth mode, and excruciating without socks.
Slipping quietly through the glass doors into the lobby, I edge my way along the inner wall and back into a shadowy recess, when something clinks gently against the skirting board; an object I must have kicked along the carpet. I bend down and brush the floor gently with my hand until I feel something round, brittle and not completely cold: a light bulb. I suppose I should be glad I didn’t break it, yet I get no sense of relief when I look up and see the lantern pendant hanging empty from the ceiling. Ignoring the service lift behind me, I head across the hall and open the fire door to the stairwell, desperate to maintain the strangely-reassuring stillness. But I’m not even halfway up the first flight when the mechanical din of wheels and pulleys shatters the brittle silence.
Staying close to the wall, I feel my way back down the linoleum steps and peer through the narrow meshed glass of the door, back into the lobby. Above the lift door, the down arrow is lit and, alongside it, the number one illuminates briefly. The lift’s descent must have started on the second floor. Grace’s flat.
I keep watching, momentarily ignoring my sense of dread, hoping the door will open and she will step out, female essentials in hand, looking lovely, flustered only by the lateness of her departure to get back before I wake up and find her note. Then I’ll push open the door and surprise her.
But it’s not her. At first it looks like the tiny lift is crowded, and for a split second I think it’s just a couple of other residents having crammed in, their intimate embrace reluctantly untangling only when the doors fully open. The figure at the front, a man I’m guessing, is wedged in with his back to the door. He seems to be hunched forward over another figure whose shape I can barely make out. Like a contortionist emerging from an impossible aperture, a giant of a man unfurls backwards out of the lift. By contrast, the object behind him slumps forward and the man has to reach in to support it. This time, when he straightens up, he turns, and I instantly recognise Mac’s huge bulk. When he manhandles what appears to be a loosely-rolled carpet out of the lift and carries it like a sack of potatoes to the main door, my brain starts to pixelate.
Before I’ve regained my wits, he’s outside, halfway across the parking bays, and by the time I reach the outer door he’s opening the boot of the Mercedes.
‘Hey!’ I shout as aggressively as I can muster. He’s got one hand on the bundled rug, propped against the side of the car, and as he turns to look at me, he loses his grip and it slides away from him and hits the ground with an audible thud.
‘You!’ is all he grunts, as he bends down to gather u
p the loose folds and proceeds to re-wrap his quarry.
‘Leave it there!’ I scream and he ignores me as I take another time-lapsed step towards him. I still can’t make out any shape, but as he lifts the roll back upright, a bare leg slips out up to the calf. The small limp foot, its toenails dark, like purple varnish, drags into the kerb where it wedges momentarily against the tyre, the ankle stretching and twisting horribly before recoiling as he tugs hard on the dead weight to lift it over the rim of the boot. That fleeting glimpse is all I get, but it’s enough to reinforce my worst fears that it must be Grace.
I grab for the phone, about to hit the nine, when realisation hits me like a bullet. The battery’s dead.
‘Shit!’ I yell and throw the phone at him. It bounces off like a Lilliputian missile. He doesn’t even feel it. ‘Leave her alone, you sick bastard.’ I run at him as he’s closing the boot. He turns and swats my approach, sending me spinning under my own momentum onto the tarmac. My shoulder screams out with the impact. I’m back on my feet, but he’s made it to the car door. I aim a kick towards him as he twists to drop into the seat. It misses the unmissable target. I manage to keep my foot up and the heel of my shoe redirects towards his trailing right hand. His knuckles crunch against the door’s edge. Metal studs grind gratefully against fragile bones and soft flesh. He bellows an unintelligible roar and reels in the damaged paw. His other hand reaches across to close the door. Before I can regain my balance, the engine fires up, and as he drives away the last thing I hear is an absurd accompaniment of baroque harpsichord.
The music fades in his wake and I’m left standing in the middle of the road, frozen in confusion at what just happened and uncertain what to do next. Instinct takes over and without further conscious thought I’m in my car and chasing. He’s already taken the first turn off Grace’s road and by the time I do the same, I see the Merc pull away at the next junction. When I get there, sod’s law, several cars are coming and I’m trying to inch out and look ahead at the same time. I think there’s a big enough gap and pull forward, when a souped-up little hatchback with ridiculous wheel arches flashes vindictively and swerves around me. I get right up behind Mighty Mouse and he slams on his brakes and forces me to a virtual stop, long enough to see his cupped fist gesturing in a vertical motion over his shoulder before he speeds off again. Looking ahead, I think I can still see the Merc, and I accelerate hard, but Boy Racer has other ideas. You’d think he’d be up for The Fast and The Furious. But no, he’s only interested in holding me back; he’s Driving Miss Daisy and we’re going the long way. After several attempts to pull around him fail, I catch a glimpse ahead and realise there’s no longer a silver car in front. I’ve lost it. I pull into the kerb and the tosser in front speeds away with a victorious blare of his horn. I don’t have time for road rage tonight so I spin the car around. I need to get back to Grace’s flat and hope I can get inside so I can use the phone.
This time I drive straight into her parking bay. I race up the stairs to the second floor and find the door wide open. I’ve not been inside before, but it’s obvious there’s furniture out of place in the sitting room. There’s a lamp on its side and a bare expanse of polished wooden floor where I’m guessing a rug used to be. Everything else looks normal and I quickly check the other rooms. The only sign of recent activity is in the kitchen where there’s a used dinner plate, knife and fork in the sink and a half empty glass of water on the drainer.
I find the phone back in the lounge and I’m about to pick up the receiver when I notice a blue 4 flashing on the base unit. I press the play button and hear a woman’s voice. She’s leaving a message for Simon, and I decide it must be his mother. She asks him to call her back. The next message is confusing because it starts off silent with just a vague background noise like someone’s there but not talking. Then there’s Simon’s voice saying, ‘Hello, who’s there?’ The line goes dead and the message ends. I’m guessing he picked up the phone after the answer machine had kicked in. The third message has the same kind of background noise like heavy breathing. Eventually, Simon picks up and says, ‘Whoever this is, just piss off and leave me alone.’ This is starting to feel like telephone voyeurism and it isn’t helping me save Grace so I lift the receiver and dial 999.
‘Police,’ I say, and as I wait to be connected the answer machine serves up another silent message, only this time the call is cut off presumably by someone – Simon – picking up the phone and slamming it back down.
‘What’s the nature of the emergency, sir?’
‘Abduction.’
False Dawn
It’s a quarter to seven and the cops have finally let me go. You’d have thought I’d been the nutter with the giant roll-up by the hard time they’ve just given me. They could see by the furniture out of place that there must have been an “altercation”, as they liked to describe it. Apart from that, there was nothing to say a huge thug had just drugged, if not killed, a young woman and driven off with her in the boot of his car. Nothing, that is, except me. And, call me insecure around the Old Bill, I got the distinct impression they didn’t quite believe me. Not even when I gave them the number plate I’ve been carrying around with me on a piece of paper. They only let me go after I eventually persuaded them to get Melville on the phone to vouch for me. And they weren’t prepared to get him out of bed until six-thirty. I’ve never been so grateful to an officer of the law.
That said, right now I’m pushing my luck, testing the alertness of early morning commuters and provoking the speed camera outside the pub where Herb had reappeared. Remembering the route we’d taken on Sunday when we got hopelessly lost in the dark, I try a few alternative turnings at the main junctions. Several times I have to turn around and go back and try again. The problem is, on the way there, in the back of Herb’s car, I was so disoriented, I didn’t really take a lot of notice of the scenery. When I was chauffeured home, I was able to get a better sense of where we were and the things around us, but of course, it always looks different going back the other way. Even so, helped by the first traces of daylight, every now and then I spot a familiar landmark.
Driving along an open road with nothing but trees and hedges to guide me, I’m about to resign myself to being lost yet again. There’s no traffic so I reverse into an opening in the hedgerow so that I can drive back the other way. As I pull forward, I spot a black letter box, attached to what was probably once a gatepost. I pull the car onto the grass verge a few yards down the road and get out and walk back to the opening. As I approach the mailbox, I notice the gold lettering that stands in bold contrast to the black painted casing:
L. ANGLICH
I sigh loudly, partly in relief, but mainly trepidation. It’s the name we’d found on the junk mail at Bleak House. Once I’d discovered all I needed to know about Raymond Riggs online the other day, I’d typed ‘langlich’ into Google. That’s when I discovered it’s German for rectangle – or long-ish. And that’s when I realised Grace’s predilection for inventing cryptic names might well be hereditary.
I decide to leave the car where it is and walk. As I approach the turn in the long driveway that brings the house into view, I get off the noisy gravel and use the shrubbery for cover. The first thing I see to the left is the front of the Mercedes, deserted in a narrow lane off the main driveway. My heart pounds faster when I realise it’s been backed up to a side entrance. Everything seems still and quiet and, at risk of being seen from the front bay, I quickly cross the drive to take cover at the side of the house. I figure the window I’m crouched beneath looks into the room where I had my discussion with Herb.
Slowly I raise my head until I can just see through the glass. There’s a light on and it takes a split second to get my bearings, until I realise I’m staring straight at Herb, who’s sitting in the same fireside chair. I duck quickly, fairly certain he hasn’t seen me, and move to one side of the window so I can stand up, while taking some cover from one of the heavy drapes hanging inside. Now I can use one eye to watc
h Herb and I can see he’s talking. He’s looking and gesturing across the hearth to the other chair with its back to me; the one I’d sat in before. Occasionally a hand appears from behind it though I can’t make out who it might be. Man or woman, friend or foe. Probably friend, as the conversation seems to be cordial and there’s a teapot and best china on a small, ornate table between the chairs.
With no other cars on the drive, if it’s a visitor they either walked in like I did or, heaven forbid, arrived in the Mercedes. One thing’s for sure though, it isn’t Mac. I can’t see Herb sharing a civilised morning repast with the hired muscle. And the guest is far too energetic to be him. In any case that possibility is disproved when the door opens and The Monster himself walks into the room. At that point, the person in the second chair stands up, still hidden from my view by the high back of the leather seat. The way that only the top of a head appears suggests the person must be very short, and I’m trying to dispel the thought that it could be a child. I really can’t tell. Herb seems to deal with Mac who leaves the room. He then gestures to the other person to sit down. I can hear their raised voices but I can’t make out what’s being said. And rather than dropping down out of view, the top of the head stays visible above the chair and becomes more animated. I’m willing whoever it is to step out from behind the chair and turn towards me, but right then instinct drops me to my knees as I hear the door opening at the front of the house. Footsteps crunch across the path as I edge towards the corner. Before I can peer around, a long blade flashes in front of my face.
Mickey Take: When a debt goes bad... Page 29
