by David Barry
Alice hesitated before answering. ‘His name was Jack Dawe.’
Bill and I looked at each other and stifled a laugh.
‘Yes, I know it sounds - well, a bit unusual. He said his name was John but he’d been called Jack in the army and the name stuck.’
‘Have you got a number for Mr Jack Dawe?’ I asked.
She rummaged through the clutter of her shoulder handbag and handed me a business card. They all watched and waited as I dialled the man’s number. As soon as it clicked into the final digit, I held the phone up so they could all hear the discontinued tone.
‘So he was telling you the truth about going out of business.’ I put the phone down. ‘But the question is, was it personal or was it something far more sinister?’
‘At the time I didn’t question it. But in view of what’s happened since - ’
‘Is there a mobile number on the card?’ Bill asked, but the question was redundant because I had already started dialling. The call was answered after the third ring.
‘Hello? Who’s this?’
The voice was cloaked in secrecy, guarded and suspicious.
‘Mr Dawe?’ I said. ‘Mr Jack Dawe?’
‘Who wants him?’
‘My name is Freddie Weston of Weston and Turner. We’re a firm of private investigators and we currently represent Alice Bayne. I believe a month ago you agreed to carry out investigations on her behalf, and then you backed out for some reason. I wonder if you could tell me what those reasons were.’
‘It was personal.’
‘Could you be more specific?’ Long pause. ‘Hello? You still there?’
A hissing noise. I wasn’t sure if it was him or the phone line. I strained to hear his words. ‘Do yourself a favour. Leave well alone.’
Although it was difficult to hear him clearly, I could still detect fear and urgency in his voice.
‘I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Forget it. And that’s all I’ve got to say. Don’t call this number again.’
The line went dead. I knew if I redialled it would probably switch to voice mail. Alice stared at me, eyebrows raised.
‘He hung up. Having first warned me off the case. Told me to drop it.’
Bill pointed a finger expressively. ‘Which means someone has got to him.’
‘Exactly. Why would a self-employed bloke suddenly go AWOL and abandon his business? An ex copper at that. And it looks as if this Peter Chapmays could have been an ex undercover copper.’ I stared pointedly at Nicky. ‘Now can you see why going to the police is not an option?’
She wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Surely you don’t think...’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ I cut in. ‘But I know one thing. This Peter Chapmays is definitely the killer.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Find him, of course.’
Nicky spluttered. ‘What? I can’t believe this is happening. The man’s dangerous. A cold-blooded assassin, and you think you can just - what happens if he finds out you’re looking for him?’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’
‘Huh! That bridge could collapse while you’re only halfway across it.’
I didn’t say anything. But I had to admit, she had a point.
Chapter 16
Having discovered from the electoral roll the whereabouts of the two anarchist women, Bill and I set off in the late afternoon. We had decided that, instead of conducting our investigations separately, it would be safer if we worked together.
I let Bill drive while I contacted Michelle to see if Olivia had been hounded by Eclipse again. So far so good. It looked as if whatever technological wonders Brad Shapiro had performed, it was working.
Although we knew the names of the protesters from their court appearance, we had no way of knowing which of the two women was which. The first one we decided to visit was Sandra Beeston, who lived at Upper Norwood in south London.
We parked a 100 yards from the housing estate where she lived. As we walked away from the car I noticed Bill limping more than usual.
‘Ankle playing you up?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, a sure sign it’s going to rain,’ he grinned. ‘It’s like a barometer. The pins in the ankle fear the rust.’
As we neared the housing association flat on the ground floor of a respectable-looking block, and walked up to the double-glazed glass front door, covered on the inside by a net curtain. I heard Bill chuckle.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘It’s comforting to know our anarchists are well provided for these days.’
We rang the bell and waited. Presently the door was answered by a woman with blue and red streaks in her hair. At a rough guess I would have given her age as early thirties, which made her quite young back when she was involved in planning the Canary Wharf demonstration, and I wondered if her anarchy was a thing of the past and was she now a respectable citizen in a more humdrum situation. Apart from the brightly-coloured hair, the clothes she wore didn’t seem to suggest she was an activist. Far from it. She wore a dress that could have been from Laura Ashley, but may have been purchased from a charity shop. In fact, if I’d been asked to describe her in a sentence, it would be camp village maiden!
But she wasn’t the woman who Chapmays had his arm around. I clocked the wedding ring on her finger.
‘Mrs Beeston?’ I enquired.
Suspicion grew quickly like a an invisible and protective wall between her and us. She stepped back a pace and I could see she was about to slam the door shut; so I put my hand on the glass to prevent it from closing.
‘We’d just like a quick word about someone you appeared in court with back in 1999, after the party to plan the Canary Wharf demonstration.’
‘What business is that of yours?’
I handed her one of our business cards. ‘We’re not police. This is not official. We’d just like some information.’
She stared at the card, then looked up and said, ‘Private detectives are even worse than the police. You bastards work as agent provocateurs, working against socially responsible and decent citizens who are trying to unite the country against tyranny. And you got the name wrong. Beeston was my maiden name.’
‘So what’s your married name?’ Bill asked, smiling brightly.
She stared at my partner and shivered, almost as if he had made a lewd suggestion.
‘If you don’t know, why should I tell you?’
‘We only want to ask you about Peter Chapmays,’ I said.
Her eyes flickered briefly at the name, and then she composed herself and her face became an expressionless mask.
‘He joined Free the People Now in 1997, and we’re trying to locate him. Would you happen to know where he is?’
‘I haven’t a clue. And even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘You might if you knew how he betrayed you. Chapmays was an undercover cop. Didn’t you ever wonder why your party was raided prior to the demonstration at Canary Wharf?’
‘If that was true, it was a stupid thing the police did.’
‘Because you all got off scot-free? But that doesn’t alter the fact that someone betrayed you, and it looks like it might have been Chapmays.’
‘So what? It was a long time ago, and Peter’s vanished off the scene. Disappeared. Leaving poor Chrissie...’ She stopped speaking as she realised she had said too much.
Bill pounced. ‘Christine Bailey was his girlfriend, wasn’t she?’
She stepped back, then pushed her body against the glass. ‘Piss off!’ The door slammed shut.
Bill shrugged. ‘Well, at least we know she was the girlfriend. Next stop Christine Bailey.’
***
Described in the newspaper court repo
rt back in 1999 as a primary schoolteacher, Christine Bailey lived in her own house - a modest Victorian terrace house - in Neasdon. It was much nearer our office than Sandra Beeston’s flat, so we felt we’d had a wasted journey to Upper Norwood, but we had no way of knowing which woman was Chapmays’ girlfriend. The drive from south London to Neasdon had taken us forever and it was almost five-thirty. But if Christine Bailey still worked as a teacher, at least she would be home by now. After Bill rang the bell, the door was opened by a surly teenage boy.
‘Is your mother home?’ he asked.
The boy nodded, staring at us with a mixture of suspicion and hostility, but made no effort to summon his mother to the door. I wondered if he was in trouble with the police.
‘Who is it, Dan?’ a female voice called from the back of the house.
‘There’s two blokes to see you.’
‘What?’
Provoked by his mother’s response, the boy shouted angrily over his shoulder, ‘I dunno. Two blokes.’
We waited, staring at the boy while he stared back at us. The face-off didn’t last long because he soon lost the battle of wills and stared at his feet, clearing his throat nervously. I noticed he wore a Queen’s Park Rangers supporters’ shirt, with the ‘Air Asia’ sponsorship logo on the front, and not a school uniform, so I guessed he must have changed once he got home. His mother, wearing a flowery apron, appeared from a door at the end of the hall. Her mouth fell open as she approached us.
‘Blokes to see you,’ the boy said to his mother, then made his getaway, taking three steps at a time up the stairs.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ the woman said, her tone cold and defensive. Her hair had changed from her photograph, and was now cut short and had been dyed a uniform black. Apart from the apron, she dressed in the style of rock chick: a pencil skirt with a slit up the side, high heels, and a glittery T-shirt.
‘Would you happen to know where we can find Peter Chapmays?’ Bill asked.
Christine Bailey looked as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. Her mouth opened and closed before she found the courage to speak. ‘What did you say?’
‘We’re looking for your boyfriend, Peter Chapmays.’
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
I handed her a card, and she accepted it with a trembling hand. ‘A client of ours is trying to trace the whereabouts of Peter Chapmays,’ I said. ‘Have you any idea where we might find him?’
She stared into the distance wistfully, and for a minute I thought she was going to break down. She shuddered, and I could see thoughts racing through her head. Using a displacement activity to control herself, she fumbled with the back of her apron, untying it. Then she stood aside and eased the door open wide.
‘I think you’d better come in.’
She took us through to the small kitchen at the back. It looked as if it had been recently refurbished with brand new units and a built-in hob. A chilli con carne was bubbling in a large pot. From upstairs I heard a bass and drum beat, not so loud as to be intrusive, but clearly putting up a defence against our invasion of his home.
‘You’d better sit down,’ Christine Bailey said, and glanced at the ceiling. ‘If Dan comes downstairs, I don’t want him to hear whatever it is you’ve got to say. Is that clear?’
I nodded. She sat down by a weathered pine table and we sat opposite her.
‘So what do you want Peter for?’
I cleared my throat softly before replying. ‘A client of ours is looking for him. I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that. We’re bound by client confidentiality.’
‘Do you happen to know where he is?’ Bill asked.
‘Last I heard, he was in South Africa.’
I exchanged a brief look with Bill and waited for her to elaborate.
‘We met in 1997, and started going out together.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘He was introduced to me at a meeting of Free the People Now. We were interested in the same things: saving the planet, giving ordinary people more control, and trying to get the powers-that-be to see sense. We started going out together. Then it became more serious.’
She stopped, and withdrew to her memories, clearly thinking about her relationship with Chapmays.
‘Go on,’ I prompted gently.
‘We started living together. Of course, because of his activism and commitments, Peter was away a great deal of the time we were together.’
I bet he was, I thought, as I tried to imagine the double life he led.
Christine Bailey dropped her head and patted her stomach. ‘Then I became pregnant.’ She glanced up at the ceiling again. ‘Dan is Peter’s son.’
After this revelation, she stared at us both, as if challenging us to disbelieve her.
Bill said, ‘And did he vanish off the scene once you became pregnant?’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. For the first couple of years, Peter was a devoted and loving parent.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Dan would have been almost two. And Peter was showing symptoms of a nervous breakdown. He used to burst into tears, almost for no reason. He told me he was scared for his life, saying government killers were out to get him. Then he suddenly disappeared at the start of the new millennium. The end of January.’
‘How did you know he’d gone to South Africa?’ I asked.
‘He wrote to me. He said he was sorry but he had to get away from Britain. He said we could go and join him when the time was right.’
‘And when did he get in touch, asking you to join him?’
‘I never heard from him again. He vanished from my life completely.’ Her eyes darted sideways to avoid our probing stares.
‘Not even a letter or a phone call?’
Still she avoided eye contact with us as she answered my question. ‘Nothing at all. I don’t know what happened to him. Dan keeps asking about his father and I told him his dad had a nervous breakdown. What else could I say?’
‘It must have been difficult for the boy,’ I said, and she looked at me once more. ‘Do you still have the original letter he sent from South Africa?’
‘I tore it up.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘I suppose I was angry at the time. Now I wish I’d kept it.
‘And it was definitely posted in South Africa?’
Her mouth fell open before she replied. ‘Of course. Where else could it have been posted? The stamp and postmark were South African.’
‘Have you any idea where in South Africa he might be?’ Bill asked.
‘None at all.’
‘For all you know, he might have returned to this country.’
‘Why would he do that and not contact me?’
Bill shrugged. ‘So you’ve really no idea where he is.’
Her eyes flared with sudden anger. ‘I’ve just bloody-well told you I haven’t a clue where he is, and he’s never been in touch since that original letter. What is it you find so hard to understand about that?’
Bill held his hands up in surrender. ‘Sorry. Just trying to understand about your boyfriend, the father of your son, disappearing like that. You must admit, it does seem - well - a bit strange.’
‘Oh, tell me about it,’ she replied bitterly. ‘Why are you looking for him anyway? Surely I have a right to know.’
‘We just want to ask him a few questions about some of his anarchist friends,’ I lied.
She laughed humourlessly. ‘You don’t think he’d tell you, do you? Split on his friends. I don’t think so.’
‘Well, we’re sorry to have troubled you.’ As I stood up, I noticed her fiddling with our business card on the table. ‘I don’t expect you’ll need the card now. Shall I take it?’
She held on to it. ‘You never know. If Peter should get in touch, I’ll know where to contact you.’
Strange, I thought, why would she offer to do that?
We thanked her, and she walked us to the door and shook hands with us, almost as if we were old friends parting. As we drove away I asked Bill if he noticed the way she had avoided looking at us when we asked her if she had heard from Peter Chapmays.
‘Notice?’ he chuckled. ‘Not a very convincing liar, if you ask me.’
‘So you think he’s been in touch with her since his defection to South Africa?
‘Maybe. That’s if he ever went to South Africa.’
‘You think she lied about that?’
As I turned the corner out of the narrow street, from the corner of my eye I saw Bill shake his head.
‘Not necessarily. Just because she received a letter from South Africa, written by him, doesn’t mean he went there.’
‘He could have got someone to post it for him, you mean?’
‘It’s easily done.’
‘Did you notice how she hung onto our business card when I offered to take it off her?’
Bill laughed solemnly. ‘It was so fucking obvious, mate, it was like a flashing Coca Cola sign in the Sahara desert. I think he contacts her from time to time. But I don’t suppose she knows what he does for a living now. She probably still thinks of him as a white-hearted activist out to save the world, and being persecuted by the government.’
‘If she has our card,’ I said, ‘and he contacts her...’
‘I’m way ahead of you, pardner,’ Bill broke in. ‘If she tells him about our visit, I think we might get a visit. So I think we’d better be prepared. You still got that shooter I leant you?’
‘That little Glock 26? I’d forgotten all about it. It’s still hidden under my floorboards at home.’
‘Well, I’d get it out if I were you... said the bishop to the bishop.’
‘Don’t you mean actress to the bishop?’
‘I know what I mean, mate.’
Chapter 17
By the time we got back to the office, Nicky had gone home. We decided our best bet would be to trace the whereabouts of Jack Dawe, the private investigator who had abandoned Alice’s commission and escaped back home to Peterborough. That’s if Peterborough was his home.
