Choose Your Parents Wisely (Joe Grabarz Book 2)

by Tom Trott

  ‘I don’t know,’ he mused, ‘I guess it’s because of that saying, you know: the night is always darkest before the dawn. And for a lot of people, the help they get from Firstlights is the dawn of a new day.’

  ‘Is the night always darkest before the dawn?’ I pressed him.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Dawn is when it starts to get light again.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so. But surely it’s the same level of darkness for most of the night, not just the bit before dawn.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, if not, surely you’d think the night would be darkest right in the middle, when the sun is on the other side of the Earth.’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe.’

  ‘Still, it’s a nice name.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about the name,’ Tab shot with a bit more weight, ‘the work Maria and Graham do here is incredible.’

  ‘Do you know them well?’

  Just as suddenly as he had flared up he closed into his shell again. ‘No, hardly at all. I’ve only been helping here for a couple of months. And I only do Saturdays.’

  ‘Still, you must know them.’

  ‘They don’t serve every week.’

  ‘They don’t?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Tab,’ Lenny said, glancing over his shoulder, ‘I think they want you to help wash up.’

  ‘Oh really?’ he looked up eagerly, ‘Nice meeting you,’ then he bounded off on all fours like a puppy.

  ‘What was that about?’ I asked.

  ‘He was just being friendly.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I mocked.

  ‘You don’t like anyone, do you, Joe.’

  ‘Like them? Sure. Trust them? No way.’

  Some people were starting to leave now, the unlimited tea and coffee had run out. I rubbed my eyes and stood up.

  ‘Are you off?’ Lenny asked.

  I looked toward the Tothovas. I could spot at least two patrons snapping stealthy photos of them.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ I told him.

  Everyone had.

  I plucked my bike from its dark corner. It must have been nearly ten o’clock, the sky a shade of purple now. It would be dark in ten minutes.

  Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to fire up the Honda and listen to its roar, but these streets behind the Steine were strangely tranquil, and so I found myself wheeling my bike along them, not wishing to break the fragile quiet that was held in the air like a sheet of glass.

  I pushed it along Tidy Street, where the basements’ glow through glass tiles lent the place a festive atmosphere. Then down Gloucester Road and onto Cheltenham place, past The Basketmakers Arms, a pub barely the size of two living rooms, with its own merry glow. Then eventually to New Road, past the Theatre Royal with its spilling crowd of middle-aged middle class punters, and its row of taxis idling.

  But there was far more on New Road this Saturday night. The wide pedestrianised road was as packed as during the Festival, but instead of performance poets, artists, and actors desperately leafletting for their shows, the place was a sea of floating faces, each illuminated by the candle in their hands. Flowers were stacked against the wooden barrier at the border of Pavilion Gardens, with tea lights and cards. The crowd were laying more and more.

  I must have made some expression of shock, or disbelief, because a forty-something man wearing socks with sandals leant in to me and said in a low voice: ‘You should see in there,’ gesturing toward the gardens.

  I wheeled my bike onto the path and past the trees. The gardens are not enormous, but they are big enough. Open to the public, the main section is criss-crossed by two curving paths, across bordered lawn.

  There was not a single blade of grass visible. The entire lawn was covered in flowers, candles, teddy bears, cards, notes. People stood at the railings, staring over this sea of sympathy. They all seemed to have brought their own children, despite the late hour, what the point of that was I couldn’t understand. It was all to show how much they cared. But the parents didn’t want flowers, they wanted their little girl back.

  I exited onto Princes Place.

  ‘T-shirts, twenty pounds!’

  I couldn’t help looking, there aren’t normally market stalls on Princes Place. The T-shirts were white, across the chest was the slogan “FIND JOY”, and across the stomach was the same picture of the girl from the front page of the newspaper.

  ‘T-shirt, twenty pounds,’ the unwashed vendor was accosting me now.

  ‘That’s a bit steep,’ I told him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Expensive. Twenty quid for a screen printed T-shirt?’

  ‘It’s to help find the girl.’

  Of course it is. ‘What’s the money going to?’

  ‘What?’ He pretended not to hear me, even putting his hand to his ear.

  ‘The money, what is it going to, the twenty pounds?’

  ‘It’s to help find the girl.’

  You said that already. ‘I’ll pass.’

  I kept walking, past the other vultures.

  ‘Cards, one pound!’

  ‘Teddy bears, ten pounds!’

  ‘Candles, two pounds! Four for five pounds.’

  They were no different to the newspapers, I supposed, making money from tragedy. No different to me. Everyone has to pay rent.

  After I had locked up my bike, I finally made it into Meeting House Lane, through the street door, and into my domain.

  There was a glow on the stairs.

  ‘You’re here late,’ I said, pushing open the door with my name on it.

  Thalia was putting back an earring that must have come loose. She looked especially buxom tonight, in a bra and dress that were doing everything they could for her, and they had a lot to work with. She had her legs out too, I guess it was too darn hot for modesty. Some people are sniffy about thick legs, but I liked her thick legs. I say people are sniffy, men aren’t that picky in my experience. Sure, they’ll talk fussy, say they don’t find some woman attractive, but the truth is they’d do it with a fish if you could get it in high heels.

  ‘I was just doing some filing,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got an assignment for you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No, no, you can start tomorrow.’

  ‘Ok good, what is it?’ She started tidying up the desk in the outer office, putting away the laptop. I begged her to bend over a bit more.

  ‘I want to know everything there is to know about Joy Tothova and her parents.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Everything. School, friends, church, jobs, spirit animals, past lives. If I need to know something, I want to be able to look in the file and find it.’

  ‘That sounds like real detective work.’

  ‘It’s not fun.’

  She gestured around at the filing. It’s more fun than this, she was saying.

  ‘Keep it in the office and just update it whenever you can.’

  ‘You know, if I did it on the computer you could look at it wherever you were.’

  ‘On my phone?’

  ‘Well, obviously not on your phone.’ She changed subject to the receipt she was holding, ‘Mrs X paid up, so that’s it unless our Mr Vogeli turns up.’

  ‘Good. I want to focus on this.’

  She nodded as though she was pleased I was finally turning my attention to it. She thought I was being a good citizen. God, did she look good right now.

  ‘Hey, do you want to come back to mine tonight?’

  Occasionally, when were lonely, or more honestly, when we were horny, we would hook up. It didn’t mean anything, but we were developing quite a good language in bed. But this time, instead of giving a cheeky smile, she looked a little embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve got a date,’ she said.

  ‘I see.’ I froze for a moment, before deciding that wasn’t the way to look like I didn’t care. ‘Have fun,’ was all I said as I shut the inner door behind me.

  I sulked behind
my desk. After a few minutes I heard her tiptoe out and the door shutting softly. After that I swivelled my chair listlessly and stared down into the Lanes, watching the happy, horny lads chasing barely clothed women across the cobbles.

  Maybe I should cut the Tothovas some slack, I thought. Sure, their particular brand of righteousness grated on me, but they were doing a damn sight more than me to make this city a better place. They were serving food to those in need. I was sulking like a toddler.

  My phone vibrated. I dredged it from my pocket. A text. A text from Monica Todman! When God closes a door, he opens a smoking-hot, 51-year-old nymphomaniac window.

  “Be at mine in 17 minutes,” it said.

  I was out of my office in less than one. Had started my bike in another one. And was outside her Hove mansion in twelve more. I had to wait on the doorstep for the other three.

  It was always the same. Every. Single. Time. Her butler answered when the time was up, and showed me in with unconcealed disdain. Then he showed me up to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

  Ever since she had been a client six months ago, she had been my greatest weakness. She had texted me the rules the first time. There was no talking allowed. No eye contact. No pulling, scratching, or biting. I was to file my nails between times. Only soft things were allowed in the room. And I had to leave the second it was over.

  This evening was no different. Her soft, plush bedroom was lit by a hundred candles. Her four-poster bed was made up with silk. On a side table next to it was a brandy Old Fashioned made with brown sugar. And on the bed was Monica Todman. Blindfolded. Naked. On all fours, with her arse in the air.

  5

  The Angry Corner

  i listened in silence as Krishma Jilani whispered her story. The mothers watched her with wet eyes, all except Theresa, who watched me.

  It had been ninety-one days. On the ninth of August she had arrived home from her work as a hospital cleaner to find their flat empty. It was a Tuesday, and Mahnoor always came home after school, always. She called the school there and then. They said Mahnoor left the gates on time, same as always. So she called the other parents. She wasn’t anywhere. Her husband came home. She wasn’t with him either. They called 999. Then sat up the whole night staring at the front door. The next day two detectives came and spoke to them. They gave them the only photos they had. And then, in the three months that had passed, they found precisely nothing.

  They got excuses, of course. And assurances that they were doing everything they could. But in ninety-one days they hadn’t found a single piece of evidence. The girl had vanished.

  The mum told her story in broken English, I was told the dad spoke it better, and the girl better than both of them. Probably better than me. The girl had teachers and friends to learn it from, the parents not so much. She just had the other parents, and he had a few other Pakistani mates at their mosque. I say their mosque as though they had much choice in Brighton.

  With absolutely no idea what I could do I told the mothers I would do what I could. They told me they would pay me if I did. I told them I would need money now, in case I had to buy information. They emptied their purses and I ended up with a hundred and seventy-five quid, and a lot of change. I told them I needed somewhere to sleep, and Debra said she had a caravan in her drive. I was more than welcome to it, on the condition that I never came in the house. I felt a warm glow inside to be so trusted.

  The only condition they gave me about my investigation was that I was not, under any circumstances, to speak to the father. He didn’t know about this little idea of theirs to get me involved, and he was not going to know. He was ‘very traditional’, whatever that meant. I told them I understood.

  Afterwards, Debra gave me a lift to hers like I was still a little boy. My moped scuffed the boot of her pointless people carrier (she didn’t have any people to carry). When I was fourteen she had lived near Queen’s Park, but since then she had divorced and moved. Now she lived in a small square house in Hollingdean, round from the estates. At least it came with a drive. I had to wait on the doorstep whilst she got the key to the caravan, and then she gave me the briefest possible tour. I don’t think she liked being in the tight space with me.

  Despite being only fifty-something she had the coiffured helmet of hair you expect to see on a pensioner. Hairsprayed to the point where it could be removed in one piece and swapped for something different. Except that it couldn’t, of course, because if it could there was no way you would choose that one. I could see why her husband had left her, I couldn’t live with that hair either.

  The first thing I did was use the shower, which because the caravan wasn’t hooked up, was cold. And the water was scummy. But it was more than I usually had. Then I climbed into the bed, which to you I’m sure would be lumpy and thin, and make you miss home, but to me was heaven.

  It was then, lying there, listening to the rain pinging on the roof, that I finally thought about what they were asking. They wanted me to do something. Just something. I didn’t know what. I don’t think they did either.

  Michael Greene, a male, sixty-three, had just got back from walking Bessie, a black labradoodle, four, along the Eastbourne seafront when he returned to his flat, and stepped into the living room. As he let the dog off its lead and took off his flat cap, he looked pretty bloody surprised to see me sitting there, casually smoking a cigarette, in his favourite arm chair.

  For a moment he looked around, as though there might be an innocent reason for this stranger being in his house. But then it died. Bessie half ruined the moment by trying to lick my face.

  ‘Bessie!’ he barked, and she came back to him. Then he tried his best to sound intimidating. Or at least less intimidated. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Greene.’

  He lurched. I knew his name. The doorbell said “K. Black”.

  ‘Why not?’ he whispered.

  ‘If you try to call anyone I’ll strangle you with the cord.’

  ‘It’s a handset, you prat.’

  ‘Then I’ll make you eat it.’

  He stared at me.

  ‘Sit down,’ I commanded.

  He didn’t.

  ‘You’re going to answer some questions, or I’m going to beat the answers out of you.’

  We could hear Bessie scratching at the cupboards in the kitchen. ‘She wants food,’ he cheeped, ‘she always gets fed after her walk.’

  ‘Then feed her.’

  He shuffled into the kitchen. A foil tray was opened, biscuits tinkled into a bowl, a tap ran, then silence. I fingered the flick knife in my pocket. But then he sidled back in and lent on the wall facing me.

  He had curly grey hair, and a beard that hid his face. What was visible beneath was a mass of wrinkles and sadness. Tight, thin skin, was stretched over his cheeks until I felt I could see the bones themselves.

  The flat was small and cramped, and filled with the smell of an old person. Textured wallpaper was peeling away, a green granny chair filled each corner, and the carpet was nylon, pink, and you could probably lose a shoe in it.

  From some other room a clock struck seven, and we could hear Bessie munching away.

  ‘You don’t abuse the dog, do you?’

  His eyes opened a fraction more than the squint he was giving me. Then he hissed, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You served ten months for making and possessing indecent images of children.’

  He didn’t deny it.

  ‘You’re going to give me a list of names—’

  He scoffed at that, his arms folded, looking down at me over them.

  ‘Aren’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘You want a list of names?’ he barely asked, ‘of whom, the kids?’

  ‘No,’ I spat.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Other sick bastards like yourself.’

  ‘Oh sure, I’ll go get my Filofax, shall I?’

  I launched out of my chair and grabbed him by his flee
ce. Then I threw him down where I’d been sitting.

  ‘This isn’t a joke.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said defiantly, ‘it is. You want me to give you a list of other people who have served their time so you can go and intimidate them too?’

  I swished the blade out of my flick knife.

  ‘I can’t tell you any names!’ he screamed.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Honestly, I only looked at stuff, I never met anyone or spoke to anyone. Not even online.’

  ‘You were charged with making illegal images.’

  ‘That just means I copied them!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I downloaded a few of them onto my hard drive, that’s all that means.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Please, please, it’s the truth. Technically I made another copy, that’s all that means. It dates back to copying printed photographs, please, you have to believe me, it’s the truth...’

  He collapsed into a pile of blubbering noises. He was weeping. Bessie came in and sniffed at him, trying to cheer him up.

  I put my knife away and sat back in a chair, finishing my cigarette.

  Slowly, he stopped sniffling, and after a while he sat up slightly, watching me smoke.

  ‘What is this about?’ he breathed.

  I explained the situation in broad details.

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What I did, that was just pictures.’

  ‘But who takes the pictures?’

  He looked down at the pink nylon. ‘I don’t know.’ He picked dog hairs out of the chair. ‘People like me, we’re cowards. That’s why we’re sitting alone at our computers. This girl, if that’s what you think this is—’

  ‘I don’t know what this is.’

  ‘—there’s no way they would break into the house. Or even abduct her at the door. They would lure her somewhere—’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Would you just listen to me?’

  I shut up.

  ‘They would be speaking to her online,’ he said.

  ‘I’m pretty sure they don’t have a computer.’