by Tom Trott
All the way on page five was an article headed “missing girl: police and parents to hold press conference”. The article said the press conference would be held at their house on York Avenue, Hove, at eleven o’clock.
I went back to the bedroom and looked out at the flat rooves. The baby seagull was still there. Still alone. In the morning light I could see how fluffy he was, how comical. How innocent. Poor thing. I grabbed a slice of bread and threw it onto the rooves. He’d find it eventually.
York Avenue, Hove? I ummed and ahhed. It was only just over the train line, twenty minutes’ walk. What was the time now? 10:35. I could always take a look…
It was another sunny Saturday, and it was no surprise that the Circus was already clogged to a standstill with tourists desperate for their square foot of beach space. If they weren’t honking they were blaring the radio out of their open windows, or trying to keep their kids well behaved for just a few more minutes. They didn’t know it would take them another hour to reach the sea. And then there wouldn’t be anywhere to park. Turn around now, I felt like telling them all as I breezed past on the pavement. But they wouldn’t listen. Tourists in Brighton are the maddest creatures in the world.
York Avenue is in Hove, and as a result is incredibly civilised. It sums up the city perfectly that the road is a mixture of 1930s half-rendered palaces and ugly blocks of social housing. Of course, many of the houses are now carved up into two or three flats, but if, like the Tothovas, you were lucky enough to own a whole one, you had something really special. A black and white tiled walk to a central stained glass door, and only marginally less rooms than the Pavilion.
It was in front of this palace that a long table had been placed on the pavement, chairs behind, with Sussex Police backboards behind them. No one was at the table yet except a technician setting up the microphones. There were television cameras trained on him, and behind them a gaggle of journalists variously preparing notepads, laptops, and all manner of recording devices. Pushing in on them from all sides were concerned neighbours, panicked residents desperate to help, and anyone else getting off on the excitement and the misery of it all. Together, there must have been at least a hundred people. They had shut the road for it.
Some way to the side, leaning on a junction box and looking almost painfully relaxed was Clarence Alderney, in his cream suit and with his ivory topped cane as always. Clarence was the private dick the rich went to, because he dressed smartly and spoke clearly, unlike me. He was second-generation Sri Lankan Tamil, and I always thought he dressed like a member of the Raj to reassure any older, institutionally racist clients who, despite their bigotry, paid the best.
Standing next to him, as relaxed as a coiled spring, was Perry Clyde, a big bald bastard of a private eye, the other end of the spectrum because he didn’t mind working for criminals. In fact, I think he probably preferred it. I was the middle of that spectrum, we were it.
‘Hello,’ Clarence said with some surprise as I wandered toward them.
‘Morning, Clarence,’ I replied, ‘Perry.’
Perry just nodded back.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ mused Clarence, ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘They’re not clients of yours, are they? I know they’re not Perry’s.’
‘No.’
I shrugged. ‘If you’re interested and Perry’s interested, what made you think I wouldn’t be?’
‘I don’t know, the time of day?’ he said with a smile.
Clarence was a nice person, I could always see why the rich liked him. But it was also the reason he couldn’t handle my cases. That was a good thing, I suppose, it meant we were never in competition. Heaven forbid, a fourth detective would turn up in Brighton, then there might be some rivalries.
I leaned on the junction box, scanning the crowd like the other two. Us cool kids at the back of the bus.
Half of the crowd had sunglasses on, protecting them from our detective’s analysis. We three had sunglasses on too, protecting ourselves, and giving us the opportunity to scan as much as we wanted.
The people milling around were of one type, they seemed to know each other. People would regularly spot someone, wave, and then scooch through gaps to air kiss and conspire quietly. Was attendance here organised? Was Facebook and Twitter abuzz with civilian action, and theories about who did it? I was buggered if I knew, I barely knew what a Facebook was. Thalia would know.
It almost made me sick to see how much attention this was getting. Not because people shouldn’t care, but because it was so selective. People didn’t always give a shit about a missing girl, I could testify to that.
‘Look at this!’ a voice half shouted over the bustle. It was Hacker, with his pallid face, red drunk’s-nose, stained suit, and vomit inducing teeth. And breath, my god, you could smell him a mile away the second he opened his mouth. He looked like a corpse that had been found bloated in a whisky barrel.
‘All three of you together,’ he screeched, ‘I’ve got a headline for this: brighton bottom feeders unite to catch kidnapper.’
‘Fuck off, Bill,’ was all Perry needed to say, and with a cackle to himself Hacker headed through the crowd.
‘Right,’ Perry announced out of nowhere, ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ and he disappeared.
‘Where’s he going?’ I asked.
‘No idea, maybe he’s going to buff his head in case Bill snaps a photo.’
I laughed quietly, more out of politeness than anything else. Then a thought struck me. I snapped up his wooden cane and before he could stop me, broke it over my knee into two clean pieces.
Clarence jumped up and frowned as though he would hit me if he was anyone else. But he doesn’t do those kind of things.
‘That’s for sending my financials to that bastard lawyer,’ I told him.
A few months ago Clarence had turned over my bank statements for a client of his. He was lucky he had a broken cane and not a broken nose.
He nodded gently, and after he had taken the two halves, held out a hand for me to shake. Which I did. We understood each other, I think.
Suddenly the crowd hummed into life, like an orchestra tuning up. Flashes popped, despite the day being about as bright as it could ever be, and the cameras rolled. Journalists, like sharks, can sense blood in the water from a mile away. It was 11:07.
First out of the door were two uniformed officers; followed by Roy Parker, the Chief Superintendent, who hates me; and then by DCI Noël “Penny” Price, who hates me about as much as it is possible for one human to hate another.
Following them as they headed swiftly to the table, I got my first glimpse of the Tothovas. Mummy Tothova was a very healthy looking woman in her early forties. She had fantastic skin, and was very slim, with long blonde hair, and an oversized poncho made of some rough, unprocessed material, giving her the overall impression of one of those middle class vegetarian, or possibly vegan, charity-volunteering angels, who you just know wouldn’t be so angelic if they’d been raised in Whitehawk and not Hove.
Daddy Tothova was also forty-something, but a little older than her, with glasses and a half-balding scalp. His shirt was white with blue lines making a grid like maths paper. The type worn by those boring people who desperately think they should have an imagination and so are not confident enough to wear a plain white shirt. The sort of shirt you only have to add some variety to your wardrobe. Your second, third, or fourth choice shirt. Your Thursday shirt. Except today was Saturday.
They all shuffled along behind the tables, into shot, with the chief in the middle, and Price at his side. There was no sign of Daye anywhere, they’d given him the push.
The chief begged everyone to be quiet, and then he began the conference by stating exactly what everyone had already deduced: that DI Daye had ‘chosen to step aside’ and that ‘DCI Price was now in charge of the investigation.’
I doubted intensely that Daye had “chosen” to step aside, I was sure that he had been shoved
aside, but it didn’t make any difference now.
Then Parker handed over to Price, whose preamble was most notable for her use of the word ‘abductor’, making it plain to us all that she was taking this seriously, unlike Daye. I mean, she didn’t say that, but she was saying it, if you get what I mean.
The world’s only reluctant blonde bombshell had just joined the Sussex force this year. Having made a name for herself in London, she had been drafted in to shake up the city. They all had big plans for her. Taking over this investigation, and doing it right, in the full exposure of the media, would be a great step forward in those plans.
As she continued, Clarence whispered in my ear, ‘So what are you doing here, really?’
I gave him a sideways look, ‘professional curiosity, same as you.’
‘Sure. I believe you.’
His eyes were still on the press conference.
‘Detective!’ Hacker interrupted Price’s flow, ‘Do you believe that Joy has been abducted?’
Good question, Bill! At least he wasn’t completely useless. And I guess I didn’t mind his powers of evil being directed onto someone who deserved it. I enjoyed watching her squirm. Not that she really squirmed externally, but I could tell what was happening behind those solid slate eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said definitively, ‘yes, I do.’
The print hacks, including Bill, all scratched this down into their pads. It was good for her to learn this early how valuable a commodity her words were. They were the word of God, heaven help her if they lost faith.
She continued, but again Clarence was whispering in my ear: ‘Look at this.’
I didn’t do anything.
He paused for a moment, and then his voice was lower, ‘Look at it all.’
‘What?’
‘This is the biggest case of the year, even bigger than those legal highs.’
‘All those deaths are worth less than this girl?’
‘To these lot standing here, yes. Look around, how many of these were out on the streets when it was drug dealers and junkies getting killed? But one little girl and they’re mobilised. Mark my words, twenty-sixteen is going to be the year that Joy Tothova disappeared.’
‘I think that depends on whether we find her or not.’
‘It’s not good.’
‘You’d rather they didn’t care?’
‘Maybe. It would be simpler.’
‘True.’
He was overreacting. He was used to lost pearls and paying ex-wives to stay quiet.
‘It’s not good,’ he whispered again, more to himself this time.
‘Detective!’ a young television journalist shouted, interrupting what had become an overlong diatribe about the police wanting the public’s help, but warning that they should not take matters into their own hands, ‘Do you have any new leads?’ she pleaded.
‘I will get to that in a minute,’ Price said sternly, ‘but as I was saying, Sussex Police does not endorse civilian house-searches, and any unlawful activity of this kind will be treated without sympathy.’
‘What do you think about councillor McCready’s statements on the radio yesterday?’ Hacker shouted.
‘Sussex Police does not comment about what councillors say on local radio.’
‘What about you? What do you think?’ another asked. This was getting a little rowdy.
She paused for a moment, before falling back on a tried and tested non-statement: ‘I think his choice of words were unwise.’
The crowd bubbled up again like a saucepan on the boil, but she spoke over the top of them.
‘However, we are very interested in the public’s help in locating a vehicle seen in the Fiveways area Wednesday morning.’
She had cast a silencing spell on them. They were listening now, rapt, all eyes on her.
‘A dark blue Ford Transit-style van. It was seen parked on Hythe Road at around eleven hundred hours.’
‘Is this van believed to have been used in the abduction?’ a journo shouted.
‘It is one of many lines of enquiry we are pursuing.’
The hacks kept on with more questions, but they weren’t very interesting. Clarence leaned in yet again.
‘You don’t own a blue van, do you?’
I tilted my head in his general direction.
‘Just doing my bit. How about a bet?’ he asked.
‘A bet?’
‘You do know what a bet is.’
‘I’m trying to listen.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘What are the terms?’ I sighed.
‘Terms?’
‘The bet.’
‘Well, I find the girl, or at least find the lead, and you have to replace my stick.’
‘That terrible thing? I did you a favour.’
‘The top of that “terrible thing”, is Sri Lankan ivory.’
‘Ivory is evil.’
‘It’s pre-1947.’
‘Because it wasn’t evil back then, was it?’
‘This is a piece of my history. It’s a reminder of what your ancestors did to mine.’
‘I don’t even know who my ancestors were.’
‘You’re white, aren’t you?’
‘Probably.’
‘Well, you are compared to me.’
I couldn’t help smiling at that. I had a bit more respect for Clarence, I always thought he dressed like he did to look, frankly, less Asian. But instead it was the opposite, it was part of his proud heritage. Good for him. I wish I had some of that.
‘No deal,’ I said.
‘Chicken.’
‘I’m not looking for the girl. Like I said, I’m just here out of professional curiosity.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time.’
By this point Price had passed over to the father, and he began an emotional appeal to anyone who had information about their daughter.
As the mother wept silently, some in the crowd looked at their feet, ashamed at having turned up to this circus of exploitation. Others were drawn in closer. Camerapersons were fiddling; they had to be changing either the framing or the focus to make sure they got her in. Cry for the camera, dear.
Then she did something unscripted: ‘Someone has our little girl,’ she said rather more loudly than anyone was expecting, ‘please,’ she looked into the cameras, ‘if you have Joy, let her go.’ Then she buried her head into her husband’s chest. Cameras flashed madly.
‘We won’t be taking any more questions at this time,’ the chief said in an effort to control the situation. Time to shut this down.
‘We have a signed legal document,’ the dad said out of nowhere as he pulled an envelope from his pocket. No one, least of all Parker and Price, appeared to have any idea what he was doing.
Both dad and mum stood up in front of the cameras as dad pulled a piece of paper from the envelope. I was too far away to get any sense of what it was.
‘This document,’ he continued, ‘offers a monetary reward to whoever finds Joy,’ the crowd began to simmer, ‘of one hundred thousand pounds.’
Then the crowd exploded.
It was chaos. The chief was saying something, trying to take control, but you couldn’t hear a word of it. And all you could see was the parents, the document held out between them, being snapped by every camera and smartphone within a hundred metres. Then they were surrounded, hidden from view.
After some valiant moments trying to stop the frenzy, Chief Parker managed to usher both parents away from the cameras, back inside the house.
That moment was like a gunshot going off and suddenly the journalists were scattering like frightened birds. Only they weren’t frightened, they were all rushing to their offices or their cars or their whatever. They were excited. They had to get on this now.
Standing next to me was a quizzical smirk. And attached to it, Clarence Alderney:
‘Still just here out of professional curiosity?’
3
The Red Mark
e
leven years ago, I was a dickhead. After leaving school, or being thrown out, depending on how you look at it, I survived by doing the only thing I was good at. I’d learnt to pick locks at school, and in care, so I could get out of places. It was only when I needed somewhere to sleep off the streets that it became handy to get into places.
Back then the only things I had in my possession were clothes, cigarettes, one lighter, one beard, and my moped; and any money I ever managed to have was spent on the thimble of petrol it used. If there was a world championship for couch-surfing I would have won every discipline. I would squeeze anyone I vaguely knew for a bed, just for a few nights, but then I would stretch it out and out until I used up every last morsel of their patience and hospitality. When I think about myself then, I get a violent twitch in my stomach.
I would cycle through the list of kind people I knew, and when I couldn’t get anywhere I would squat. This is where the lock picking came in. It could be a shut-up pub, or a flat above a shop, anything vacant, often secured with a padlock. I would pick my way in and bed-up for the night.
But the problem with squatting is you have to buy your own food. In care, and with a million foster families I had always been catered for. But now I had to pay for it myself, so I decided to sell some of the stuff that was lying around in the squats. No one would miss it. And it was never much, but it could be some copper or something else. This would be enough to keep me in hamburgers for a few more days.
For some people it’s a lifestyle choice, but I never wanted to squat for more than a few days. The problem was that as soon as the lock was gone you were joined by a million other lowlifes. I was offered a lot of interesting substances.
The problem with money is that you can never survive with less. And although I was soon back in the cycle of couch-surfing, I needed money for… well, I don’t know what for, I just needed it.
And so I started stealing from the people who were kind enough to offer me a bed. Now, if you’re looking for tips, this is a really good way to lose all your friends.
