Enough Rope: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery)

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got great literary skill. Most talented boy I’ve taught for years.’

  They passed the glazed doors leading to more art rooms. In the third one, something caught Lee’s eye. It made him step back and look inside.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ McCullough said. ‘That is one of the mannequins the boys have made for the Harvest Festival service next term. There are four of them, representing earth, water, fire and air. I believe that one’s meant to be air.’

  The figure was blond, its face contorted in what looked like pain. The hands of the figure behind it lay on its shoulders.

  ‘That one is fire, I believe,’ McCullough said.

  *

  Shazia froze. He was in the shop again. What was he doing coming in twice in two days? He was messing with her head. But then how did he know she knew who he was? Had she made her feelings apparent to him in some way? Maybe scowled at him in the street? She didn’t think she had. He’d abused her under his breath, yes. But then maybe he was just watching her for his own purposes? Maybe he’d come to try and abduct her, as Amma always feared?

  Cousin Aftab was out picking up toilet rolls. He said he’d only be a mo and had left her in charge of the shop. She’d have to serve Naz Sheikh.

  She walked up to the counter. ‘Can I help you?’

  He smiled. He was good-looking. But he was also a monster, so it was difficult for Shazia to smile back. She gave it a go, but she was sure what resulted was weird.

  ‘Owner about is he?’ Naz asked.

  ‘No, at the cash and carry,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

  He stared at her. Shazia began to feel her skin heat up. She knew what a man’s lust felt like and she lowered her eyes.

  ‘I need to speak to Mr Huq on his own,’ he said. ‘Much as I’d like you to be able to help me.’

  ‘OK. I don’t know when he’s going to get back . . .’

  ‘Just tell him I called.’

  Ludmilla came into the shop with baby Tomasz in her arms.

  ‘Tell him who?’ Shazia even picked up a pen and a Post-it note.

  His smile vanished. ‘Don’t play games, little girl,’ he said. ‘You know exactly who I am.’

  He pushed past Ludmilla, almost treading on her feet as he left. Shazia shook with fear. What did he want with Cousin Aftab?

  Ludmilla, shocked at Shazia’s appearance, walked behind the counter and hugged her. Baby Tomasz giggled.

  ‘Who is that pig?’ Ludmilla asked. ‘I see him yesterday. I hear him call me bad names. What he want?’

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ Shazia said.

  *

  Was he being led into believing he’d seen a mannequin at the window? But then had he? At which window had he actually seen the boy? He couldn’t remember now. The mannequin certainly looked like the kid he’d seen at the window. It had to be.

  Vi had just called to say that Venus’s Islington flat was already under offer. He’d put it on the market at eleven. The London housing market was insane and getting worse every week as people scrambled to get on the property ladder at any price. Lee felt cold and then hot as McCullough took him into the small bedroom that Harry Venus shared in term time with George Grogan.

  There wasn’t much to see. Two small single beds, a couple of desks.

  ‘The boys take all their personal possessions home at the end of the academic year,’ McCullough said. ‘But I can tell you that this room was quite sparse. Youngsters don’t seem to go in for posters and photographs these days. They’re allowed to put them up if they want to, but they don’t. All on their laptops or tablets these days.’

  Magnolia-coloured and anodyne, the room gave nothing away. ‘Malcolm, you said before that Harry Venus wasn’t really a member of the in-crowd,’ Lee said.

  ‘Yes. Awkward. But he isn’t the first to feel like that and he won’t be the last. We’re still quite old-fashioned here at Reeds, inasmuch as most of our boys are British and from upper- or upper-middle-class families. Next year a large proportion of our intake will come from the former Soviet Union.’

  ‘Oligarchs’ kids.’

  ‘Indeed. But as for Harry, he’ll grow into his own man eventually. A bit of adversity at school is no bad thing, toughens a boy up.’

  Lee had heard this excuse for allowing bullying to happen before – when he’d been in the army. It hadn’t worked for him, just as it probably hadn’t worked for Harry Venus. Unhappier than he let on, had he organised his own ‘kidnap’ to punish his parents for sending him to a place like Reeds?

  He would have to have had help. Maybe he’d had it from his mates. But then they weren’t really mates, were they? And also, if he had arranged his own abduction, how cruel was that to his parents? He didn’t know Harry, but he was finding it hard to believe that any child could be that vile to its parents.

  They walked through what McCullough still called ‘dorms’ but were in fact all single or double rooms, and into the refectory. Not in use for now, it was just a large empty space with stacked tables and chairs at one end and a service counter at the other. The only other thing in the room was a large glass trophy cabinet.

  ‘Reeds does rather well at cricket and we’ve got a couple of really good tennis players,’ McCullough said. ‘I was always a rugby man myself, but Reeds, for some reason, doesn’t produce many really good players. Tom de Vries was a good bat at one time, but his creative work takes up all his time. And he’s a bit of a character, if you know what I mean.’

  Lee frowned.

  ‘Oh nothing awful,’ Malcolm said. ‘Not for these days.’

  There was a variety of silver or silver-plate cups, vases and shields in the cabinet, some of them accompanied by photographs of the teams who had won them. However, the tennis trophies were for singles tournaments and accompanied by the winners’ portraits. There were two: one for under-fourteens and the other for older boys. The latter, although it took Lee a few moments to work it out, was apparently George Grogan.

  He looked very different when he wasn’t arsing about in Bethnal Green dressed as a nineteenth-century undertaker.

  *

  Brian Green hadn’t contacted Venus at home, which, given that it had been tapped by Vi Collins, was a mercy. But the Superintendent knew that the old lag would want to know where his money was soon. Brian was not the type to allow his business affairs to slide. But having Tony Bracci on his heels was not conducive to making contact with someone he should only be on the most casual terms with. Trying to save his son and preserve his career was taking its toll, and Venus found that thinking straight was difficult. Eventually he called Tina and told her to contact the ‘bank’ about the money they’d borrowed. Tina knew what he meant. It was after all Tina who had first introduced Paul Venus to Brian Green. When she’d been in lots of cheeky-chappy tit comedies in the seventies, Brian Green had been one of her escorts. Later, he’d helped her get the part of the granite-faced Rita in Londoners. He’d been disappointed when she’d ‘gone queer’ after her marriage fell apart, but by that time he was cosy with her husband, which was where he’d always wanted to be since he’d first met Paul. A copper in the pocket was always worthwhile, even if the relationship didn’t last.

  Paul put the phone down.

  ‘Your lady wife all right, Superintendent?’

  ‘As well as can be, thank you, DS Bracci.’

  ‘Would you like a cuppa, sir? I’m gasping.’

  ‘Yes, that would be very nice.’

  Tony went into Venus’s kitchen and riffled about for cups because he’d forgotten where they were. He really wasn’t a bright man. But at least he was out of the way.

  Venus looked at the piece of paperwork the estate agent had handed to him before he’d left the flat. It said that an offer had been made to Mr Venus for his flat by a Mr Adlam, which he had accepted, of six hundred thousand pounds. With two hundred and fifty thousand going to the ‘Harry Fund’ he’d sure as hell never be able to live in Islington again
. He’d either have to settle for some ex-council flat, or go and live in somewhere like bloody Newham. There was of course a third way, but he didn’t want to think about that now.

  *

  The Grogan family had the type of home that was very well protected from view. McCullough had called it an arts and crafts house, which meant, because Lee had googled it, that it had probably been built in the early twentieth century and that it looked a bit cottagey. He knew there was a swimming pool round the back because Tina Wilton had told him about it and because he could hear people splashing about and shouting from his car.

  When he’d left Reeds he’d driven straight over to Twyford and parked across the road from the Grogans’ house. It was a hot late afternoon and he hoped to be able to see the family outside, so that he could confirm that George was who he thought he was. People who lived this close to London rarely went there for their holidays. George and his mates had to have been on a day out when he saw them. But then they’d talked about staying out all night . . . Staying out as opposed to going home to Twyford, or somewhere else? George did have an older brother who lived in London. Could that have been the young man in the suit? And was any of this relevant to Harry Venus anyway?

  Lee phoned Vi.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  He told her about Reeds, his weird experience with the blond boy on the landing, and about George Grogan.

  ‘Well, thanks for the tip about George,’ Vi said. ‘We’re gonna have to interview him now he’s back.’

  ‘You’re still keeping Harry’s disappearance under wraps?’

  ‘Officially. But if we’re gonna find these kidnappers we’ve got to get more info, which means very carefully tapping up contacts and suspects. I’m getting an impression of Harry as a bit of a disconnected kid. Clever, but not really involved in much. No sport or clubs going on.’

  ‘It’s like he’s got no personality,’ Lee said. ‘Certainly couldn’t find any evidence of one in his bedroom in his mum’s house. At school he’s taken up and put down by his posh mates as and when they feel like it. Only bit of spark about him is when he goes and gives some of the younger kids a hard time.’

  ‘What? Like fagging?’

  ‘No. Well his teacher says not, but what do I know? He’s a lost kid, Vi, and I don’t just mean because he’s missing. In fact, I’ve been wondering if he is missing. I don’t know that he didn’t kidnap himself. With help, you know.’

  ‘Well, if he did he’s likely to end up giving his dad a heart attack,’ Vi said. ‘Tone said Venus looked proper rough.’

  ‘I would if my daughter was missing and I had to sell the flat to get her back. Not that what my flat’s worth would get me far. What did Venus get for his?’

  ‘Six hundred grand.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Do you think this George might have helped Harry to kidnap himself?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was hanging around Bethnal Green/Shoreditch with a gang of other posh hipster kids when I saw him. But then all that type gravitate to that area now.’

  ‘One of the ransom drops was in Brick Lane.’

  ‘Yeah, but in Bangla Town to an Asian lonely hearts PO box. There was a kid who looked Asian with George and his mates in Bethnal Green last night, but again, he was posh. He wasn’t local. He certainly wasn’t one of the shalwar khameez-wearing brigade. Maybe I’m wrong, Vi. Maybe some really bad-ass gangsters that Venus has really pissed off have got Harry. Or some mental fan of his mum, or something. But the whole thing’s so chaotic, I can’t help but think that kids are involved somewhere. And Harry Venus is a sad kid. His parents are separated, neither of them really have much time for him. Tina Wilton admitted that they both spoil Harry materially to make up for the time they don’t have with him, and the poor fucker’s at a boarding school where he’s a social misfit. That’s a creepy fucking place.’

  ‘Mmm. And yet, all the voices the kidnappers use, the drops, the changes of plan, the violence, it’s all a bit adult, bit clever,’ Vi said.

  ‘True. Oh, hang on, someone’s coming round the side of the house.’

  Lee put his phone down beside him and watched as a large, sopping wet black Labrador and a stark-naked skinny boy ran into the front garden. The boy, screaming with laughter, was definitely George Grogan.

  13

  ‘Sister?’

  Mother Katerina put a hand on Sister Pia’s shoulder and shook her very gently. The old nun opened one eye and said, ‘What is it, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘You have a telephone call,’ Mother Katerina said.

  ‘A telephone call?’ Slowly and in some pain, she sat up in bed. ‘Who wants to call me at this hour, Mother?’

  ‘Sister, it’s ten o’clock, you were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to disturb you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Mother Katerina put the phone into the old woman’s hand. For a moment Sister Pia looked at it and then she put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Sister Pia?’

  She didn’t recognise the voice, which was old, male and British, but she thought she should know it.

  ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  There was a slight pause, which made her put a hand to her chest.

  ‘It’s Francis Chitty,’ the voice said.

  ‘Oh.’ Had that Asian detective woman been to see him? What had he told her?

  ‘Dr Chitty, Sister.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know. Doctor, I haven’t heard from you in many years. How are you?’

  He laughed. She could hear shouting in the background. He was in a home with crazy old people, poor man. ‘I’m old, sick and I watch far too much television,’ he said. ‘And you, Sister?’

  ‘I am ready to go, but God has not seen fit to take me yet,’ she said. ‘Cancer grows slowly in old bones.’

  ‘It does. I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need. This life has become a burden. I look forward to being with Our Lord.’

  In spite of being in a care home, the doctor was as lucid as she was. Sister Pia feared what he would say next.

  ‘And it is with the afterlife in mind that I call you today,’ he said.

  Mother Katerina was listening from across the room. Sister Pia wished she would go, but then in all probability it was the Superior who had told the Asian woman where Dr Chitty lived. If his call was about that. She still hoped that it wasn’t . . .

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Sister, I have just today been made to think about something from the past, something I took part in, which was a mistake.’

  She said nothing. She couldn’t.

  ‘Remember the baby girl, Madonna?’

  For a moment her voice wouldn’t work. Then she said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘A woman telephoned here, asking to speak to me about her,’ he said. ‘At first I thought it might be Madonna herself, but this woman has an Asian name.’

  ‘I know her, she’s a private detective. Mrs Hakim. She is employed by Madonna.’

  ‘Ah, that makes sense.’

  That one day, someone would come about the baby was as inevitable as death, and she knew that she should welcome it. She was dying and one of the things she needed to do was cleanse her soul of all her sins. But she still felt cold and afraid.

  ‘Has she been to see you, Sister?’

  ‘She has.’

  ‘And what did you tell—?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I repeated what is known by everyone.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I said that you attended the child when she was here at the convent.’

  ‘I gave Mrs Hakim Dr Chitty’s address,’ Mother Katerina interjected.

  ‘Mother gave the lady your address.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. She heard him clear his throat. ‘Well, Sister, I am going to meet this lady and talk to her. Madonna must be forty-two now and I think that the time has come for her to know.’

  ‘She’s dying.’ It just came out. She hadn’t wanted it to. She reached for her rosary on h
er bedside table.

  ‘Madonna?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mrs Hakim told Mother.’

  Across the room she saw the Superior gravely nod her head.

  ‘Then she must be told,’ the old man said. ‘Sister, I will tell her everything. If you would like to be present . . .?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you don’t—’

  ‘What good will it do after all this time?’

  ‘What, the truth?’ he said. ‘Maybe no good at all, but if the poor woman is dying she deserves to know. Sister, I probably know what she is dying from, and so do you. I will see this lady and I will tell her. I call you now out of courtesy only, I don’t need your blessing or your permission.’

  ‘No.’

  She ended the call and put the phone down on her bed.

  Mother Katerina walked over to speak. ‘I don’t know what happened back in 1971, Sister, but I do know that what was done was wrong. If Dr Chitty is now going to try to put that right to some extent, then you should support his actions. And you should confess because, I may be wrong, but I don’t think that you have done so.’

  She left. Alone in the heavily curtained bedroom, Sister Pia felt as if she were about to cry. But she couldn’t.

  *

  ‘Harry often changed his mind, about all sorts of stuff.’

  George Grogan had spectacular cheekbones. Slim and self-assured, he was the result of good breeding. A doctor for a father and apparently a baroness for a mother. The whole family looked like racehorses – sleek and slightly disapproving.

  Vi Collins fought not to feel like a hobbit. She smiled. ‘So he often made arrangements to do things and then didn’t?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘He not turn up to your house before?’

  ‘Once or twice. But he rang to say he was doing other things.’

  ‘Not this time, though.’