Boxing it up would take her mind off things, and if her donation helped children in Romania have a better life, it would be worth it.
Chapter Five
Over a thousand miles away in Bucharest, the heat was no less oppressive. Which was perhaps why, Anca decided, the shopkeeper was in such a filthy temper. He’d turned his back, just for a second, and she thought she’d had time to grab the loaf and make her escape without being seen. She hadn’t. He was after her.
“Come back, you no-good thief, or I’ll call the police.”
Terror spurred her on. She and Crina hadn’t eaten a crumb for two days. Surely he could spare one small loaf of bread.
Head down, running as fast as her young legs would carry her, she cannoned straight into a man. Her head flew up as his arms steadied her.
He wasn’t a policeman. At least, he wasn’t in uniform. He was tall, handsome and foreign-looking. A suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, a blue tie was loose at his neck, and Anca had never seen a shirt so crisp, so white.
The shopkeeper, breathless from his exertions, caught up. “Thank you, sir. I’d seen the little devil hanging around. I should have known she’d steal something.”
The man looked down at Anca. “Did you steal from this gentleman?”
What could she say? The proof was in her grubby hands. “My little sister and me—we’re hungry.”
“Have some compassion, man.” Anca’s well-dressed saviour fished in his pocket and pulled out a note. “You might be willing to let these street children go hungry, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
The stranger spoke with an accent Anca hadn’t heard before.
“If I let them all eat for nothing, I’d have no business, would I? I wish I could afford to be more generous, but I can’t.”
“Here.” Anca’s new friend pushed the note at him.
“Thank you, sir.” Happy with his profit, the shopkeeper returned to his business.
“Thank you,” Anca said.
“So—” Smiling kindly, the man looked down at her. “What’s your name? I’m George.”
“Anca.”
“Anca is a very pretty name for an exceptionally pretty girl.”
Anca blushed. Everyone said she was pretty but she knew Crina, younger than her by two years, was far prettier. With dark, almost black hair touching her waist, Crina could pass for an angel.
“Where do you live, Anca?”
Live? She didn’t live anywhere.
“I—we move around,” she said. “We’re down by the railway station now.”
It was supposed to be easy picking with lots of tourists visiting the city, but it wasn’t. The police moved them all on. Tourists visited Bucharest to see the tree-lined boulevards, the Casa Presei or the Arcul de Triumf. They recoiled in horror and pretended they didn’t see the bundles of rags begging for coins.
She and Crina had run away from the orphanage in November and were new to life on the street. If they hadn’t met Danut, she dreaded to think what would have happened to them. Danut was sixteen. He was clever, wily, funny and had proved himself a good friend.
“Who’s we?” George asked.
“Me and my sister, Crina.”
“How old is Crina?”
“Thirteen.” She was grateful to him, but she wanted to get away now. Crina would be worrying. Besides, she was hungry.
“And is Crina as beautiful as you?” His voice was teasing.
“She’s as pretty as an angel.”
“Really?” He took her arm. “Come with me and we’ll buy you some real food. What would you like?”
“I have to get back to Crina.”
“And so you will, just as soon as we’ve bought some nourishing food to take to her. Now, what would you like?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed at that and they began walking back to the station. Anca clung to her loaf of bread. If he bought her food, he’d want something in return. He’d already paid for the bread and probably thought that entitled him to do as he wished with her. It didn’t.
In a street near the station, stalls sold mouthwatering hotdogs, pork kebabs, helpings of goulash and slices of pizza.
“Pizza?” As soon as Anca had it in her hand, she’d make a run for it.
“Pizza?” He laughed at that. “My dear girl, if you want pizza, you shall have pizza.” He stopped walking and turned to look down at her. “You have no other family? Just your sister?”
“No one else.” Her eyes were on the pizza stall.
“Have you heard of England?”
“Of course.” Danut was always talking and dreaming of travelling to England. Perhaps he was there now. She hadn’t seen him for weeks. “I’ve heard it’s very beautiful.”
“It is. That’s my country, Anca. I was born in England. Would you like to go there?”
“Of course.” He was wasting time with his idle chat. If they weren’t quick, all the pizzas would have been sold.
“No money, eh?”
Anca had to look down at her trainers to make sure they were the same ones she’d rescued from a bin. Her jeans had worn so thin that they had more holes than denim. The grime, accumulated from months of sleeping rough, still clung to her jacket.
“No money,” she agreed.
“If I could get you to England, would you like to go?”
The pizza was forgotten as Anca’s mind flooded with images of England. Reality soon returned though.
“Let me tell you what I do, Anca. I’ve been working in Romania for many years now. I run a charity, and help as many homeless children as I can. Sometimes, I take them to England where they can find work. It’s very expensive, but I might be able to get you and your sister there and find jobs for you both. You’d have to pay me back, of course.”
“Why would you do that?” A tiny spark of hope flared. Maybe, just maybe, he was a kind, honest man who really did help people.
“Why? My dear Anca, I have money to eat. You don’t. No one on this small planet of ours should starve. I would like to help you. It’s as simple as that.”
Anca shook her head. “I’ve heard about what happens to girls who—”
“Anca.” He was smiling. “Do you speak English?”
“No.”
“Then no one would put you into prostitution, if that’s what frightens you. Believe me, there are more than enough English girls willing to make a living that way. Besides, it’s far too risky.”
Anca didn’t know what to think, much less what to say.
“You could earn more as a prostitute admittedly,” he said, “but the only jobs I can find are in hotels. English girls don’t like cleaning rooms. They feel it’s beneath them. But perhaps you prefer to take your chance in Bucharest.”
“No!”
There was no future for them here. Ever since Danut had told her about England, she had longed to go there. “You can earn a fortune,” Danut had said. “People like us can work in bars and hotels. It’s big money. Really big money.”
If George was telling the truth, they would live in London. Just her and Crina. They would have money for food and clothes.
“Crina’s only thirteen,” she said. “She couldn’t—”
“And no one would expect her to. You’re right to be on your guard, Anca, but I promise you I don’t have any dealings in the sex trade. I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me on that one. All I may be able to offer is cleaning jobs. The pay wouldn’t be very good as too many people are fighting for too few jobs, but it would be a weekly wage.” He patted her hand. “Let’s get you some food and take it back to Crina.”
Anca had lost all appetite. She was too busy dreaming of England. She’d seen pictures of London. Someone had dropped a book about it at the station and, although Anca hadn’t been able to read the words, she had spent hours gazing at the pictures.
She was soon holding a bag filled with pizza slices, donuts and Coca-Cola and marching, beside George, to the shelter that was currentl
y their home.
Crina was waiting but, shy of strangers, she backed away when she saw George.
“It’s all right,” Anca said. “This is George. He’s a friend.”
“Indeed I am and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Crina.” He looked at her sister for long moments, then nodded. “Have a think about what we talked about, Anca. If you decide you want to go to England, meet me outside the station at eight o’clock on Monday morning.”
“We’d work as cleaners? We’d have somewhere to sleep?”
“Of course.” He smiled warmly. “Eat your pizza before it gets cold. Perhaps I’ll see you on Monday.”
Anca watched him stride away with a sudden fear in her heart. What if she never saw him again? He’d offered his help and she hadn’t trusted him. What if he found someone else to take to England? Someone more grateful?
Chapter Six
Everything about the hotel was familiar, from the threadbare carpets to the small, creaking lift and missing light bulbs. Dylan had stayed at the Pennine before and, despite the icy temperatures he’d suffered then, the place had grown on him. The food was good and the staff were friendly and helpful. There had to be worse places to stay.
This week he’d been given a different room, a larger one on the fourth floor. If he lay on his double bed, he stared straight at a painting of a voluptuous purple nude. At least, it looked like a nude. Very modern, with sweeping brushstrokes, it was difficult to tell.
He took a couple of painkillers—his lip was still throbbing as a reminder of this morning’s unwelcome encounter—and then poured himself a generous helping of brandy from the bottle he’d had the foresight to buy from the nearby off-licence. He’d need a second mortgage to drink from the room’s mini-bar.
Sitting comfortably on his bed, with his drink beside him, he opened the envelope Hunt had given him.
The black leather address book that had been parted with so reluctantly was crammed with addresses and phone numbers. Some friends had moved house two or even three times, and each old address had been carefully crossed through before the new one was added. The colour of the ink varied from blue and black through to green but Sam’s handwriting was small and neat. These days, most people carried friends’ contact details on their phones. Not Sam. Perhaps she’d learned early that phones could fail and swallow data.
Dylan put the address book aside. He would go through every name in that book over the next few days.
He sorted out the photos and looked at each one in turn. It was impossible to see a young woman capable of having an affair with a married man. All Dylan saw was a lively, fun-loving teenager growing into a happy young woman. He also saw someone with a penchant for wearing baseball hats back to front. A snap taken at a wedding, and another at a dinner of some sort, showed Sam wearing a dress with her long, curling red hair cascading over her shoulders. In the other pictures, however, she was in jeans, T-shirt and baseball cap with her hair tied back. Her dog, Rusty, appeared in a few. Some had been taken where she worked, young men with spanners gathered round her, laughing for the camera. Jack stood by her side in several.
Dylan studied those more closely as he tried to work out what sort of man Jack was. It was difficult to tell yet he looked slightly in awe of Sam, as if he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune.
A couple of snaps showed Sam with her sisters. Half sisters, as Hunt had described them. Sam’s mother or stepfather didn’t feature anywhere.
He put the photos in a pile and read through the letter Sam had received offering her the job at Carlton’s Classics. It told him the hours were long and the pay was poor but promised as much overtime as she liked. It also stated that her position would be reviewed after three months. As Sam had worked there for almost two years prior to her disappearance, Dylan assumed she’d been a satisfactory employee. He knew they’d been paying her, and that she’d taken advantage of overtime, because Hunt had provided copies of four payslips.
He poured another measure of brandy for medicinal purposes. If the paracetamol he’d swallowed weren’t going to have an effect, the alcohol would have to.
He ought to call his mother. So far today, he’d managed to ignore her seven calls.
Taking a deep, self-righteous breath, he hit the button on his phone. For a moment hope flared, as it always did, that she would be out of earshot, unable to answer, but that was soon dashed.
“Dylan, I was wondering where you’d got to. You arrived all right then?”
Dylan wouldn’t have used the term all right, but he’d arrived. “Yes. What can I do for you, Mum?”
He could hear her hero, Bob Dylan, singing something about staying forever young. That bloke had a lot to answer for—including Dylan’s name. He could picture his mother clad in long skirt with bells and bangles tinkling as she moved, listening to her favourite singer, rolling a joint, filling Dylan’s flat with the pungent smell of marijuana and scented candles, looking at holiday brochures that promised adventure—
“Me? Oh, I was just ringing for a chat, love.”
No change there then. He wished, just for once, she could find someone else to chat with. “About what?”
“You’re sounding decidedly tetchy,” she said.
“Am I? I’m sorry. A busy day, that’s all. I’m ready for my bed.”
“I’ll let you go then. Oh, Bev phoned this afternoon. Have you spoken to her?”
“No.” Chance would be a fine thing.
“She asked if Luke could stay here Friday and Saturday nights. Apparently she’s off somewhere for the weekend. She rang me because she didn’t know if you’d be home at the weekend.”
“Of course I’ll be back. Where’s she going?”
“She didn’t say. So that’ll be nice, won’t it? Luke being here when you get back on Friday, I mean.”
“Yes.” Of course it would. But where—“Didn’t you ask her where she was going?”
Dylan’s question was greeted by a burst of laughter. “I certainly didn’t. Heavens, I’m not Bev’s keeper. She’s entitled to a bit of fun just as you are.”
Fun? Dylan’s life could be called a lot of things right now—crock of shit being top of his list—but fun certainly wasn’t one of them. Besides, he didn’t want fun without Bev. They were married. They should have fun together.
“Are you sure she didn’t say where she was going?”
“Dylan! No she didn’t and I didn’t ask. Why would I?”
Presumably for the same reason she insisted on asking him where he was going, who he was going with, how long he would be—
Of course, Dylan had learned long ago that there were different rules for men and women.
“Anyway, I won’t keep you, love. I expect you want a good night’s sleep after that drive. I put some camomile teabags in your case. They’ll help you sleep.”
They might have if Dylan hadn’t seen them when he’d changed his bloodstained shirt and slung them in the bin.
“Yes. Right, thanks, Mum. I’ll see you on Friday.”
“Okay, love. Don’t forget the camomile.”
As if he could.
He wondered if anyone other than a mother could make a man feel so guilty. Dylan felt guilty when he didn’t phone her and guilty for being so unsociable when he did. It was a lose-lose situation.
Forgetting her for the moment, he stretched out on his bed and drank his brandy. An angry rumble of thunder rolled around the hills as he mentally planned the following day. First he’d call at Carlton’s Classics and chat with Sam’s workmates.
Then he’d track down the boyfriend. It would be interesting to know if Jack realised he’d had competition.
Chapter Seven
Carlton’s Classics surprised Dylan. He hadn’t known what to expect, but certainly something a lot less classy than this.
He parked the Morgan on the forecourt and went inside a long, sleek showroom that was constructed almost entirely of smoked glass. It would have looked more at home in Mayfair than the no
rthern mill town of Dawson’s Clough.
Given Samantha’s payslips, Dylan had expected old sheds, grime and oil. Here were dust-free glass and chrome tables and blue upholstered chairs where presumably people sat to admire the three Ferraris on show. All red, of course. A 308 GT4 sat alongside a Dino 246. A 328 GTS, its paintwork acting as a mirror, had pride of place.
A young woman smiled a greeting from a long curving reception desk. “Can I help you?”
Dylan recognised her from one of the photos Hunt had given him. She and Sam had been holding cocktails and smiling for the camera.
“I hope so.” Dylan gave her his warmest smile and winced as his lip objected. It hurt more than ever this morning so talking was difficult. He felt as if he’d just been released from the dentist’s chair having had enough Novocaine to fell an elephant. “I’m Dylan Scott.” Perhaps it was a mistake giving his real name. Perhaps not. “I’m looking for Sam Hunt.”
“Sam?” Half a dozen paperclips fell from her hand and her face drained of all colour. “She—um, no one’s seen her for months.”
She was in her mid-to-late twenties. A plain girl, although not unattractive, with shoulder-length dark hair. Nails were bitten to the quick, and the skin around those nails had bled recently.
“She no longer works here?”
“No. She vanished. August it was.”
“How do you mean ‘vanished’?”
“She didn’t turn up for work one morning and no one’s seen her since.” Her face didn’t lose its startled expression but the words sounded rehearsed. Or perhaps she’d simply spoken them too often.
“Good God. You know her, though? Know who I’m talking about?”
“Yes, course I do. I’ve worked here for almost six years so, yes.”
Unless Dylan was mistaken, she looked guarded. She lowered her head slightly and her hair fell around her face. She wasn’t looking him in the eye.
“What am I to do then?” Dylan spoke more to himself than to her. “I’ve got to find her.”
Dead Silent (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 5
