by Roberta Kray
‘Hey, look at these,’ Frank said.
She turned to see him posing in a pair of sunglasses. ‘Very smart.’
‘Ray-Bans,’ he said. ‘Are Ray-Bans still cool, or have I missed the boat?’
‘They’re still cool.’
‘Good.’ He pushed them up on to his forehead and then crouched down and carried on sorting through his stuff.
She watched as he put a pile of LPs to one side. ‘Aren’t you bringing those?’
‘Do you think I should? I don’t want to clutter up your place.’
‘I don’t mind, so long as there’s no heavy metal. My head can’t cope with heavy metal.’
He selected a few from the pile and read the names off the covers. ‘Dylan, Van Morrison, Ry Cooder. Anything too objectionable there?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, I’ll bring them along.’
Helen closed the decorations box and opened the next, smaller one. There was a crumpled red coat folded over on top. Some of Yvonne’s old things, she thought at first, before recalling that Yvonne didn’t even know about the lock-up. She picked up the coat and shook it out. It had black trim at the collar with black buttons down the front and at the wrists. At first it seemed only faintly familiar, but then it hit her like a lightning strike. The coat had belonged to her mother. She remembered her wearing it when she came to Camberley Road. Helen’s hands began to tremble. She drew in her breath, her lungs constricting.
The gasp alerted Frank, who stopped what he was doing and looked over at her. ‘What is it?’
‘This was my mum’s,’ she whispered. She raised it to her face and buried her nose in the fabric. If she’d been hoping for some lingering scent, she was quickly disappointed. The coat had a strange, acrid smell. ‘What’s it doing here?’
Frank stood up and came over to her. ‘Tommy must have… he must have collected her things from the flat after…’
‘You didn’t know they were here?’
He shook his head. ‘I guess he didn’t know what to do with them. He couldn’t bring himself to throw them away and so he just stored them here. Maybe he thought that… I don’t know. Maybe he thought that you might like to have them one day.’
Helen put the coat to one side while she rummaged around in the box. There were a few other items of clothing, none of which she recognised, as well as a couple of brightly coloured fruit bowls, a plastic carrier bag containing numerous strings of beads and an old watch that had stopped working long ago. Right at the bottom she came across a metal tin and pulled it out to look at it. It was about ten inches wide, silver-coloured, with scorch marks across the surface. In the top right-hand corner were the initials LQ painted on in a childlike hand.
‘It looks like an old petty cash tin,’ Frank said.
Helen tried to open it but it was locked. She shook it and could hear something shifting around inside. ‘LQ,’ she said, touching the initials with her fingertips. ‘She must have had this when she was living at the Fox.’
‘You want me to try and get it open?’ Frank glanced around the garage. ‘I’m sure there’s something in here we could use.’
But Helen quickly shook her head. Whatever was inside had been important enough for her mum to want to keep private. She didn’t want to look at it in some musty lock-up in Dalston. She wasn’t ready yet and she didn’t want to get emotional in front of Frank. ‘It’s okay. I’ll take it back with me, open it at home.’
‘Would you like me to put the box in the car? I’m pretty much done here.’
Helen placed the tin back in the box and then laid the red coat carefully on top. ‘It’s all right. I can carry it. It’s not heavy.’
They loaded up the boot with Frank’s clothes, records and a few chosen books. He would pick up the rest of his stuff when he had a more permanent place to live. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked as she placed the box in an empty corner.
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Because they’re your mum’s things and you didn’t know they were here. You’re not mad, are you? Only Tommy’s always tried to do right by you – even if he did sometimes screw it up.’
Helen gave him a wry smile. ‘Hey, I was mad at him for not letting me know she’d been murdered. This doesn’t really compare.’ She thought of Tommy going to the wrecked flat in Kilburn and picking through what remained of his sister’s belongings. ‘I wonder if he went to Samuel Street on his own.’
‘Probably. He didn’t say anything about it to me.’
‘It can’t have been easy for him, knowing what happened there. To be honest, I’m surprised anything survived the fire.’
Frank closed the boot. ‘He probably meant to give them to you when you were older.’
‘Maybe.’
Helen leaned her elbows on the roof of the car while Frank went and secured the lock-up. The sun was shining and she could feel the heat on the crown of her head and her shoulders. She wondered if finding her mum’s things was some kind of sign. Did she believe in messages from the other side? Here she was, just beginning an investigation into the murder, and suddenly the box turned up. A mere coincidence, or something more? She was inclined towards the latter and found it vaguely comforting.
‘Home, then?’ asked Frank.
‘It’s early yet. Let’s go to Dagenham and check out the shop.’
Frank slid the sunglasses back over his eyes. ‘There won’t be a shop. We’ll be wasting our time.’
‘Well I’ve nothing better to do. How about you?’
‘It’ll be a wasted journey.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘I can’t be sure that the sun’s going to rise tomorrow morning, but it’s a pretty good bet.’
Helen held up the car keys and jangled them in front of him. ‘I’ll let you drive. So long as you’re careful. You still remember how to drive, don’t you?’
Frank leaned across the roof and held out his hand. ‘Now you’re talking. Maybe that trip to Dagenham isn’t such a bad idea after all.’
54
Frank drove with a casual disregard for the Highway Code, his left hand sitting lightly on the wheel, his right elbow jutting out of the open window, speeding along the quiet Sunday streets as if Dagenham might disappear if he didn’t get there within the next half-hour.
‘What’s the hurry?’ Helen said.
‘No hurry.’
But he didn’t take the hint and slow down. And Helen, not wanting to be a back-seat driver, had to be content with gritting her teeth and hoping for the best. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, studying the left-hand side of his face, the curve of his jaw and the sharply defined cheekbone. His eyes, although she knew they were grey, were shielded by the aviator shades. She wanted to know what made him tick, who the real Frank Meyer was, but he was a man who didn’t willingly give much away.
It was about ten past eleven when they got to Dagenham. Despite the sunshine, it seemed a grey sort of place, neglected and run down. Helen was reminded of Kellston; it had a similar air of despondency about it. ‘So where was it, the shop?’
‘Broad Street. We’re almost there.’
‘And what’s it called?’
‘Leigh’s,’ he said. ‘At least it used to be.’
A few minutes later, Frank pulled up beside a neat row of shops. There was a chemist, a butcher’s, a toy store and a newsagent. He stared out of the window with a resigned expression on his face. ‘You see,’ he said, slapping his palms lightly against the wheel. ‘He’s well gone.’
‘Which one was it?’
‘That one. The toy store. Except it was electricals back then.’
Helen looked over at the bright red sign: Gibson’s Toys. The window was full of teddy bears, Barbies, train sets and Corgi cars. ‘Maybe he’s branched out.’
‘Yeah, I bet he has. All the way to the Caribbean.’
Helen was starting to regret ever having suggested the idea. Perhaps she should have let things lie. Frank had already
convinced himself that he’d lost everything – and accepted it – before she’d butted in and insisted on coming here. Still, it would be stupid to leave without even trying to find out where Alfie had gone. She opened the car door and got out.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
She bent down to answer him. ‘I’m going to take a look.’
‘What for? It’s closed. It’s Sunday.’
‘Well, what do people do on Sundays?’
Frank gazed back at her. ‘I don’t know. Stay in bed, go to church, make pointless journeys to Dagenham?’
‘Ha ha,’ she said. ‘How about stocktaking? There could be someone in the back.’ She walked over to the door and peered through at the Aladdin’s cave within. For a second, with her nose pressed hard against the glass, she felt like a little kid again. She rapped on the door, but nobody answered. She tried again, harder this time, but there was still no response. Frank came up behind, leaned over her shoulder and looked inside. She was aware of the closeness of him, of his body almost touching hers. Had it been any other man, she would have shied away, but with him she didn’t feel the need. ‘Just don’t say I told you so,’ she murmured.
‘Ah, it was worth a punt.’
She turned to look up at him. ‘How can you be so calm about it?’
Frank gave a shrug. ‘What’s the point of getting stressed? It won’t change anything.’ He started heading back towards the Fiesta. ‘Come on, let’s go find someplace to have a coffee.’
Helen was about to follow when she had another idea. Instead, she started walking towards the newsagent’s. ‘Hang on. Just a minute.’ Inside the shop, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch – too much temptation from the chocolate selection perhaps – was standing idle behind the counter. She said hello, smiled nicely and bought a pack of cigarettes, even though she didn’t want them. As she was paying, Frank came in and stood beside her.
‘I thought you were giving up,’ he said.
‘I am… soon.’ She put the cigarettes in her pocket. Just as she was about to leave, she stopped and said casually to the newsagent, ‘Oh, I don’t suppose you know Mr Leigh, do you? The guy who used to run the electrical shop?’
It was a shot in the dark, but one that paid off. ‘You mean Marty?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ Frank interrupted. ‘Marty. You any idea where he’s gone?’
The man looked up at Frank, alerted perhaps by something hard and edgy in his tone. Frank’s sheer size often intimidated people, and Helen could see suspicion passing over the newsagent’s face. If they weren’t careful, he would clam up and tell them nothing. Quickly she tried to rectify the situation.
‘Frank’s an old mate of Marty’s. They used to go to school together.’ She gave him a subtle nudge with her elbow. ‘Didn’t you, love?’
There was a pause before Frank said, ‘Yeah, that’s right. Me and Marty go way back.’
‘Only we’ve been away,’ she continued chattily. ‘In Scotland for a few years. It’s awful how you lose touch with people, isn’t it? We were just passing by and noticed that the shop had changed hands. We were hoping to track him down, have a catch-up, you know, but… I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where we could find him?’
The man seemed to soften a little, although he threw another wary glance towards Frank. ‘Moved, didn’t he,’ he said, stating the obvious.
Helen waited patiently, not pressing him, careful not to appear too keen. She was suddenly reminded of those nights in Soho, of the tentative punters who would pause for a few seconds after listening to her spiel, wanting to believe her but not quite sure if they should. Instinctively, she did what she had always done then – provided her most seductive smile and waited for the pay-off.
‘Well,’ the man said, ‘don’t suppose it’s a secret or nothing. Sold the old place, didn’t he? Personally, I reckon that was down to her. She never liked it much round here.’
‘No,’ Helen agreed, taking another chance. ‘You could be right. She was always saying that to me. I never got it myself, but there’s no pleasing some people.’
‘You’re not wrong there. I mean, it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but I’ve been trading here for going on thirty years now.’
‘Thirty years?’ Helen repeated. ‘That’s amazing. Still, I’m not surprised.’ She glanced around the shop with an expression that she hoped relayed a suitable sense of respect and admiration.
He nodded, clearly gratified by the response. ‘So, you want to know where old Marty’s gone?’
‘We would,’ she said. ‘It’d be great to see him again. We’re only in town for a few weeks, and so…’
‘Now let me see,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘It was over Angel way if I remember rightly.’ He paused and frowned. ‘Or was it?’
Helen felt Frank shift impatiently beside her, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut and wait.
‘Now hang on, it’s been a few years. Let me see. Yes, I think it was the Holloway Road. Yes, I’m pretty sure it was that way. She was keen on Holloway, I remember that.’ He paused. ‘Yes, somewhere in that direction.’
‘Thank you,’ Helen said. ‘We’ll try there, see if we can find him. Thanks for your help.’
‘That’s all right. Pass on my best if you see him. Tell him Barry said hello.’
‘Barry,’ Helen repeated dutifully. ‘We will. Thanks again.’
The two of them walked out of the shop, saying nothing until they were back inside the Fiesta.
‘Christ, Mouse,’ Frank said, grinning. ‘How did you get to be so devious?’
‘I have no idea what you mean. I’m not devious. I just did what any normal person would do if they were looking for an old friend.’
Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, I always said you were smart.’
‘I can’t be that smart,’ she said. ‘If I was, I wouldn’t be letting you drive this car.’
Frank laughed and turned on the ignition. ‘Fancy a trip to Holloway?’
55
They had been searching for half an hour and had made two circuits of the area, including Holloway Road, Canonbury Road, Liverpool Road and Essex Road, before they finally hit the jackpot on Upper Street, not far from Angel tube. The wide double-fronted shop stood between a record store and a greengrocer’s and had the name Leigh’s emblazoned in gold across the top.
‘There!’ Helen said, pointing. ‘Over there, to the left.’
Frank turned his head to look, almost running into the car in front as the traffic lights switched to red. He managed to brake just in time, but the driver of the Vauxhall was less than impressed. He honked his horn, wound down his window and gave Frank the finger.
‘What’s wrong with the geezer? I stopped, didn’t I?’
‘Ignore him,’ Helen said. ‘He’s just jealous of your cool shades.’
‘You could be right. I do look particularly handsome in them.’
Helen gave a snort and looked over at the shop again. The window display contained just about anything electrical the modern home could want, including cookers, fridges, washing machines, vacuum cleaners, kettles, irons, televisions, record players, radios and hairdryers. ‘That has to be it, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, though it doesn’t mean that Alfie’s still running it. He could have sold it on to someone else.’
‘Wouldn’t they have changed the name?’
Frank gave a shrug, perhaps not wanting to get his hopes up again. ‘I just don’t get it,’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t he have finished what we started? It’s been years. All he had to do was organise a closing-down sale and then scarper with the cash.’
‘Maybe he scarpered over here.’
‘No,’ Frank said. ‘If this is his shop, then he’s still trading under the same name. He couldn’t be doing that if he’d pulled the rug out from under the creditors.’
‘Cherchez la femme,’ Helen said.
‘Huh?’
‘Didn’t you hear what Barry said: She never
liked it much round here. Maybe Alfie had another reason for staying put.’
Frank pulled a face, as if the idea of Alfie Blunt choosing a woman over a fast buck was about as likely as a rank outsider romping home at Kempton Park. ‘You reckon?’
They drove around for a while until they found somewhere to park, and then walked back to the shop. It was closed, of course, but they peered in through the window just like they’d done at the toy store. Helen rapped on the glass, but nobody responded.
Frank put his hands in his pockets. ‘Not to worry. I’ll come back tomorrow.’
Helen reversed a few steps and peered up at the windows on the first floor. ‘There’s a flat upstairs. Maybe it belongs to the shop. The tenant might have a phone number for him.’
‘Worth a go, I guess.’
They went to the door at the side of the shop and Helen rang the bell. There was too much traffic for them to hear the sound of footsteps from inside, but thirty seconds later the door was pulled open and they were face to face with a short, wiry man with a freckled complexion and a shock of red hair. As he looked at his visitors, his expression turned from mild curiosity to one of astonishment. ‘Frank!’
Frank took off his sunglasses and put them in his pocket. ‘Hello, Alfie. Long time no see.’
Alfie Blunt still had his mouth hanging open, gazing up at Frank as if he’d just seen a ghost.
Frank gave him a hard-edged kind of smile. ‘So, Alfie. I think you and me need a little chat.’
‘It’s Martin,’ he hissed, glancing anxiously back over his shoulder. ‘What are you… I didn’t realise… I didn’t…’
‘Marty?’ called a woman’s voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’
‘It’s nothing, love. It’s just a rep.’ He quickly pulled the open door ajar so she couldn’t see his visitors.
