Sean reached for his Dictaphone, put it back into his bag. “OK,” he said. “Is …”
“Now I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” the tension emanating from the DCI was palpable as he walked round the desk and opened the door before Sean even had chance to stand up. “I got something urgent to attend to.”
* * *
“So,” said Francesca, not expecting this burst of Old Testament thinking that so closely resembled her own thoughts, noticing that Rivett’s eyes had come to rest on the pendant around her neck as he spoke. “I think what DCI Smollet is doing at his old school sets a good example. I’m going to make it the first part of a series, a weekly thing.”
“Oh yeah?” Rivett’s eyes shifted back up to meet hers. “Who else you got lined up for it, then?”
“A community youth leader, a scout master, a stay-at-home dad,” Francesca reeled off a list of the role models she thought would probably irritate Rivett the most. But then, as she took a breath to say the next thing that came to mind, a jolt of fear ran through her.
What if he already knew?
As she thought it, the smile returned to the old detective’s face, and he leaned back in his chair. “A male teacher, I would have thought,” he said. “There in’t too many of them left, these days, are there? Or so I hear …”
* * *
“Thanks again, Mr Ward,” Smollet hurried Sean towards the door of the station, holding it open for him. “Nine-thirty then.”
“Nine-thirty,” repeated Sean as the door swung shut behind him.
He stood for a moment on the top of the steps, watching Smollet hurry away across the foyer, nod to the copper on the front desk and then disappear through a door behind it. Then his mobile phone began to ring.
* * *
Francesca gave a start as someone rapped on the door, spilling some of the water out of her glass as her hand jerked upwards.
Rivett snapped his head round impatiently. “Yes?” he demanded.
The waiter stood in the doorway. “Sorry to disturb you again, sir,” he said, “but you’re wanted on the phone. He said to say it was about Eric. And that it was urgent.”
* * *
“Hello?” said Sean. The number that flashed up was not one he recognised.
“Is that Sean Ward?” a man with a Norfolk accent, a hesitant delivery.
“That’s right,” said Sean, “who’s calling?”
“Oh, well, you don’t know me, but my daughter asked me to ring you. Francesca Ryman. I got some information for you she said would be important.”
Philip Pearson, thought Sean. “What’s that then?” he said, starting to walk down the steps, away from the station, back to his car.
“Well,” the other man said, “if I’m reading this right, I think she’s about to put herself in some serious trouble. Do you mind me asking who you are first?”
“Hold on one second,” said Sean, picking up his pace, rummaging for his key in his pocket and pressing unlock. The lights flashed on his car. “I just want to get to a place where no one else can hear me,” he explained. He opened the door, slid inside throwing his bag down on the passenger seat beside him, and glancing up into the rear-view mirror as he slammed the door shut again.
“Sorry about that, sir,” he said. “I’m a private detective, working for a London QC.”
“A detective?” Mr Pearson sounded puzzled.
“I’ve been sent here to work on a cold case,” said Sean, “and your daughter’s been giving me a hand with it.”
“Don’t tell me,” Mr Pearson said, “that’s something to do with Corrine Woodrow?”
His voice was drowned out by a cacophony of barking.
* * *
“I won’t be long,” said Rivett, standing up and crushing out his cigar in the ashtray. “Don’t go anywhere.”
As soon as the door shut behind him, Francesca saw again in her mind that terse expression on Pat’s face as she’d passed her desk, heard that muttered comment of suppressed rage, before she forwarded the call from the police press office …
Replayed the caller’s voice in her mind. She was sure of it now. The “press officer” she’d spoken to was actually Rivett.
Feeling panic welling in her chest, she pulled herself into her coat and grabbed hold of her bag. Then she realised – she could not simply leave by the door she’d come through. Rivett, or one of those dapper men, would see her, make some smooth excuse to keep her here. Her heart hammering in her chest, she pulled back the red velvet curtains.
* * *
“Mr Pearson?” In the rear-view mirror, Sean saw movement in the station.
“Sorry about that,” Francesca’s father came back on the line. “Just had to shut the dogs in the other room. They’ve been giving me gyp all night. Right now, I don’t know what the pair of you have been up to, but Frannie said I had to trust her on this, so I hope you know what you’re doing. I got a load of faxes through from Frannie’s ex-husband, Ross. He’s been doing some kind of company search for her, and there’s a name on here I don’t much like the look of. Leonard Rivett,” he said. “It say here that he and Dale Smollet are partners in Leisure Beach Industries Inc of Ernemouth …”
In the rear-view mirror, Sean saw Smollet remonstrating with another man, a uniform of about his own age. Smollet was red in the face, shouting and waving his arms.
“… and have been since the March of 1989. Do that mean anything to you?”
Sean watched Smollet open the station door and run down the steps. It took him a second to process everything that Mr Pearson had just said to him and realise that the man was expecting an answer.
“Yes,” he said, watching Smollet sweep straight past him, heading towards a silver Audi TT, its lights flashing with an electronic bleep as he keyed it open. “Yes, it explains a lot, Mr Pearson, thank you for telling me. Where is Francesca now, do you know?”
“She rung about half an hour ago,” said Mr Pearson, “said she was going to be late back this evening. But she didn’t say why. If you’ve put her in any danger …”
“Maybe she’s left me a message,” said Sean, watching the Audi’s headlights come on, Smollet reversing past him without registering him, manoeuvring out of the car park.
“Well, would you mind checking?” said Mr Pearson. “Only that in’t just the dogs that have got the wind up ’em tonight.”
“Course,” said Sean, “I’ll call you straight back soon as I have.”
Smollet was pulling into the road as Sean got the first of his saved messages, the one from Noj, which he had to hold away from his ear, her voice was so loud.
“Second message. Message recorded at eighteen-thirty,” his phone informed him.
“The monkey kindly agreed to finally meet me this evening,” he heard Francesca say. “I’m just about to do the interview now. Should be through by about half-seven, eight at the latest …”
Sean looked down at the dashboard clock.
Eighteen-thirty. When he himself had been interviewing Smollet. Here, in the station.
Which meant … The organ grinder?
When Sean looked in his mirror again, the monkey was long gone.
32
Seven Seas
May 1984
“You two are at school together, aren’t you? Mr Pearson’s class?”
Smollet’s mother stood between himself and Samantha, a glass of Asti Spumante in her hand. Samantha, who had been talking to her grandfather, turned her head, casting her eyes over Mrs Smollet with a quizzical expression.
“Oh,” she said, flicking a glance towards Dale, “yes, that’s right. Are you …?”
“Karen Smollet,” the woman with the Alexis Carrington shoulder pads offered a hand encrusted with gold and diamonds. “Dale’s mum. And you’re Samantha, aren’t you?”
Samantha’s smile was incredulous. Dale felt the colour travelling up his neck. He couldn’t believe his mother had just dragged him all the way across the crowded r
oom just to embarrass him like this. He already felt stupid enough in the black tuxedo she had insisted that he wore for the occasion, the little dickey bow she’d tied around his neck.
“That’s what a black-tie dinner means,” she had said. “Remember that. It won’t be your last.”
He stared down at his Italian leather slip-on shoes, the only piece of clobber he was not ashamed to be wearing.
“Eric!” Karen blabbered on. “Happy birthday, darling!”
Eric leaned across to kiss her on the cheek. “Karen,” he said, “looking glamorous as ever.”
“Oh,” said Karen, mock coquettish, “this old thing?”
She did a twirl, so that her red sequinned dress swished around her hips.
Dale closed his eyes, wishing the floor of the Lodge would open up and swallow him. Almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a soft voice beside him say: “God! I didn’t realise your mother was as embarrassing as mine.”
Opened them to see Samantha standing there, grinning at him mischievously.
He started to laugh and she winked.
“Which one is yours, then?” he replied, sotto voce.
“That shameless old bitch over there,” Samantha motioned with her head towards a woman who could have been Karen’s blonde twin, except for the fact that she was wearing a layered black chiffon creation that didn’t completely hide the bump in her stomach. “With her toy boy, Wayne.” She pronounced the name with disdain.
Dale took in the sight of an uncomfortable looking guy with curly brown hair, sideburns and an ill-fitting tuxedo that made his own look like the razor’s edge of suave. Wayne appeared to have left style behind some time in the middle of the last decade.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Underneath that jacket, he’s got a tattoo of an anchor on his arm. Underneath where it says your mum’s name.”
Samantha’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect “O”.
“How’d you know that?” she said.
“My uncle Ted,” said Dale, motioning his own head backwards, “is just the same.”
Samantha strained her neck, then put her hand over her mouth and giggled delightedly as she caught sight of the only other man in the room wearing flared trousers.
Dale didn’t think he had ever seen her look more lovely. Her hair had grown out of that stupid style that Rowlands kept taunting him about. It was long and feathery, quite sophisticated. And the simple, long black dress she wore did everything for her figure – although he quickly moved his eyes back up when she had stopped laughing at Ted.
“Well,” she said. “We’ve got more in common than I thought.”
* * *
“I say,” Edna leaned across to whisper in Amanda’s ear, “who’s that nice-looking boy talking to our Sammy?”
Amanda followed her mother’s gaze. “I don’t know,” she said, “but he does look smart, doesn’t he?”
“Much more like it,” Edna agreed.
* * *
“You see,” Rivett slipped alongside Eric, “what did I tell you? Make a handsome couple, don’t they?”
“He scrub up all right, I s’pose,” said Eric, grudgingly.
“He’s going to go far, Eric,” said Rivett, “right to the top. He’s got all the qualities I need to make an outstanding policeman and a model member of society. And in the meantime, something to put a smile on your face, even before I do my speech. I’ve found you a lovely new ingénue for your next production.”
“Yeah?” said Eric, not taking his eyes off Samantha. “She won’t be as good as the last one.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Rivett. “She’s a chip off the old block. And,” he leaned closer, whispered into Eric’s ear, “she’s only sweet fifteen.”
* * *
“Corrine,” Gina yelled up the stairs, “get down here now. And,” she added as an afterthought, “make sure you look decent.”
Corrine looked down at the collection of talismans she had spread across the surface of the pink plastic dressing table, given to her long ago by a grandmother she barely recalled. She had no idea how much of it was down to what Noj had taught her and how much of it was the absence of Rat, but in the weeks since she had been back here, Gina had not come into her room to steal, destroy or disturb any of the items from what she now thought of as her altar.
Corrine’s eyes ran across the red and black crushed-velvet scarf that served as her altar cloth. Noj had bought her the candles and the highly patterned little Indian brass dishes in which they sat from the head shop in Norwich, impressing upon her the need to keep things tidy and in order for the spell to continue its work.
Two white candles, which she had first rubbed with sandalwood oil while saying the incantation, were burning between a brass bowl containing sea salt, dissolved in hot water. Beside each one, joss sticks smoked from lotus-shaped brass holders, filling the room with the scent of frankincense and myrrh.
Protected by the candles were her prize possessions, the books and the pack of tarot cards that her mentor had given her. The Goetia and The Necronomicon. The first one, the one that had saved her from Gina that night in the police station, was the one she treasured the most. Without Noj’s guidance, she wouldn’t have been able to pronounce it, let alone understand a word of it. But Corrine felt that this book in particular, radiated a protective power all of its own.
“Corrine!” Gina’s voice got louder and there was an ominous banging from under the floor. “I said get down here, now!”
Corrine stared at her face in the mirror, imagining a white light all around her. Repeated the lines that she now knew off by heart. Said them three times and then bowed her head to the altar, stood up and went downstairs.
There was a man standing in the kitchen with her mother.
A man she didn’t think she had ever seen before, but at the same time, seemed so familiar she did a double-take as he turned around to face her.
A tall, broad shape in a sheepskin coat and a black trilby with a feather in the side of it. Dark, almond-shaped eyes deep-set under black brows in a wide, weather-beaten face. A broad smile cracked across it, revealing pointed canine teeth. Corrine put a hand up to her own face as she looked at him, a question forming in her mind.
“This,” said Gina, before Corrine could find her voice to ask it, “is your Uncle Len.”
Corrine frowned. Her first thought dissolved into a lurch of fear. Was this, then, Rat’s replacement?
“Hello, Corrine,” said the man, offering her a huge paw of a hand. Gold rings flashed on his every finger.
Corrine took it gingerly and he gave her palm a little squeeze. The funny feeling came back as she looked back at him. The strangest thought hit her: was it possible that Gina was actually not lying for once? That this man really was her uncle?
“I in’t seen you,” he said, as if reading her mind, “since you were a little girl, asleep in your pram.”
Corrine looked to her mother for verification.
Gina nodded. “That’s right, Corrine. Uncle Len in’t seen you since you were a baby. But now he want to make up for lost time.”
* * *
Corrine sat on the passenger seat of the black Rover.
“This is a really nice car,” she said, impressed with the leather seats and the smell of Uncle Len’s cologne. She had been studying his face all the while he’d been driving, was almost certain about him now. Uncle Len was funny. He made her laugh.
“Glad you approve,” he said. “A man should only drive the best of British.”
Corrine took her gaze away from his profile and looked out the window. They were cruising down the seafront, towards the big hotel where Julian worked for his summer job, waiting tables in the restaurant. The Albert, it was called.
The indicator began ticking as Uncle Len pulled across and into the car park at the rear of the building. Corrine looked up at the high walls, the little slits of windows, the rows of tall, wide steel bins for the slops. The hotel didn’t look q
uite so nice from this side.
“We in’t goin’ here, are we?” she asked.
“Why not?” said Uncle Len. “That’s supposed to be the best in town. I’ve got a friend work here, got us a special deal,” he winked. “That’s why we have to go in round the back way.”
“Yeah, but,” Corrine said, “I got a friend who work here an’ all. He say there’s cockroaches all over the place. He say one even fell off the ceiling into an old lady’s bowl of soup one night.” She giggled at the thought of it.
Rivett stopped the car. “He must have been exaggerating,” he said. “Like all boys do. But I tell you what, if there are any cockroaches, I’ll slay ’em for you. Come on.” He saw Eric’s face appear at one of the narrow windows in the stairwell.
“You better,” said Corrine, still laughing, unclasping her seatbelt.
They had got about halfway to the back door when Rivett saw Eric shake his head and make a cutting motion with the side of his hand across his neck. He frowned.
Eric repeated the gesture more vehemently, then ducked his head out of sight.
“What?” Rivett said aloud, halting in his tracks.
Corrine, who had been chattering away beside him, kept on walking for a few paces, until she realised he was no longer at her side. She turned around. “What’s up?” she asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” Rivett said. “Go wait back by the car a minute, while I find out.”
Corrine stuck out her bottom lip. “OK,” she said.
Once she was out of earshot, Rivett leant against the back door, knocking softly.
It opened the merest fraction of an inch.
“Get her out of here,” hissed Eric.
“Why?” Rivett whispered. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s fucking mental, that’s what. That’s the bitch what shaved Edna’s dog, frightened the stupid thing to death. Get her out of here, Len, and don’t ever bring her anywhere near me or my family again.”
The door slammed shut in Rivett’s face.
He turned around slowly. Corrine was standing next to his car, or more accurately, dancing next to his car, immersed in some little dream world of her own, a song she could hear in her head. Despite all her war paint and her ridiculous hair, she didn’t look fifteen, really. She looked like a little girl, skipping on the pavement. A little girl who had always been left to play on her own.
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