by M. P. Wright
“I don’t want another drink, thank you, but I may be able to address your financial difficulties, should you wish to consider my proposal. I’d like you to look into Miss Hopkins’ disappearance and to locate her current whereabouts. I’m sure a man with your talents, a discreet man such as yourself, could be useful when making inquiries for a third party.”
“What if she don’t want finding? Maybe your Stella’s found some guy and is shacked up with him somewhere. Maybe she’s happy an’ in love and she ain’t coming back. It happens.”
Linney appeared to be visibly shocked by my remarks, as if I’d touched a raw nerve.
“Stella is . . .” Linney hesitated, searching for the right word. “Stella is vulnerable, Mr Ellington; she is a simple soul with a pure, God-fearing heart. If she had met a man I would have known of it; she was not comfortable around strangers, especially men.”
“In what way is she vulnerable?” Despite my reservations, I thought I’d let him tell his tale a little longer.
“Some would say that Stella Hopkins is more child than woman. She is a mute and can barely read or write. She sees the world differently to you and me.”
“Differently? How does Stella see tings differently?” I was starting to become intrigued by the Jamaican’s description of this Hopkins girl.
“She sees the world in a very simple way, trusts very few. Mr Ellington, she’s naive, gentle. It’s those qualities that make me fear for her well-being. She’s a young woman who could easily be taken advantage of.”
“Why ain’t I heard any of this in here?” My finger tapped down on the open pages of the Bristol Evening Post in front of me.
Linney reached over to the chair where he’d left his raincoat and fumbled in the inside pocket, pulling out a small newspaper cutting.
“This appeared on the bottom of page twelve of the Post, some four days ago. I contacted the editor, whom I know personally, and asked that he have his staff report on the matter. It should not surprise you to see that such a meagre amount of column space was allocated. Stella’s disappearance, as you can see, does not make for interesting print.”
I read the eleven lines of simple, factual prose.
Police are investigating the disappearance of Miss Stella Hopkins, a 22-year-old Black Female, of Number 45 Thomas Street, Montpelier, Bristol, who has been missing since Thursday January 8th at around 5pm after leaving her employers at Bristol City Council. Miss Hopkins is of slim build and approximately 5 ft 4 in. in height with short dark hair. If anyone has any information regarding her whereabouts could they please contact Detective Inspector William Fletcher at Bridewell station on Bristol 4362.
“Did Stella live on her own, Mr Linney?”
Linney hesitated before answering. “Yes, she has done since the passing of her mother. I knew Stella’s mother, Victoria, well; she died three years ago, cancer of the throat, quite tragic. Despite some obvious limitations, Stella coped admirably well living alone. We, that is, myself and my wife, Alice, provided the things that she was unable to do herself.”
“What kinda tings?” I asked him bluntly, wanting to get him to cut to the chase.
“Well, our help, of course. Stella doesn’t understand the value of money, so I pay the rent on her flat, we handle her bills. She’s paid a salary, Mr Ellington, but she knows little of what to do with it. Alice will cook and she takes hot meals to Stella’s flat every other day; otherwise, she’s quite self-sufficient.”
“You say she worked at the council offices fo’ you: doing what exactly?”
“There was always something for Stella to do. She had certain duties, let’s say, things that only she could do.”
“Are you talking about her making tea and tidying your desk?”
“Absolutely not. I told you, she is a valued and trusted member of my staff.”
I wasn’t sold on what I’d been hearing. Something about it stank, and my guts told me to drink up and get the hell out. If Linney thought that his lost Little Orphan Annie tale was gonna tug at my heart strings for the price of a pint, he was mistaken. I knew I wasn’t that cheap. Thing is, so did Earl Linney.
“I’m willing to pay for your discretion, Mr Ellington; I’m willing to pay you to ask the kind of questions a man in my position can’t, without people . . .”
Again, he carefully considered his words before continuing.
“Without people wanting to know why I’m asking, shall we say.”
“When you say people, by that you mean the police?”
Linney’s round-the-houses way of answering my questions was beginning to grate on me, and my mentioning the police had unsettled him. He sat with a sour expression on his face, like a cat had just took a shit under his nose.
“All the usual methods of inquiry into the matter that concerns me have been unsuccessful; I have many contacts within Bristol City Constabulary, Mr Ellington, and they continue to question and search for Stella. All their conventional investigations appear to have failed. I could consult a private agency, but if the police cannot get people to come forward and talk, I doubt if a white detective could either. It is the unconventional I’m seeking, hence the reason we are talking tonight.”
Linney took a sip of his beer: he was weighing me up like a prizefighter before landing the knock-out blow, saving his best till last.
“I’d be willing to pay you five pounds a day, plus expenses, for your services.”
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a brown, wage-packet-sized envelope and dropped it onto the newspaper.
“That should get you started,” he said with all the arrogant self-assurance of a man used to getting what he wanted.
I picked up the envelope and peeled it open. Inside, neatly folded, were ten crisp five-pound notes and a small black and white photograph of Stella Hopkins.
Linney got up from the stool and reached for his raincoat, pulling it over his large arms and tugging at the lapels to bring it into shape across his chest, then buttoning it. He picked his briefcase up from the floor, and then looked back down at me, waiting for my reply.
I downed the remainder of my pint and looked at the alderman.
“So where can I contact you?”
2
I lay staring from my bed at the brown envelope that I’d left on my dressing table after I’d got in from the pub the night before. There was more than enough money in there to pay the arrears on my rent and put food inside of me, that was for sure.
It was Sunday morning, just after 6.30 a.m. I’d slept very little, and Earl Linney’s proposition that I find the missing girl had been rolling around in my head for most of the night. I was still unsure if I’d done the right thing in taking the man’s money. Was Stella Hopkins alive? If she was, she was obviously lying low and didn’t want to be found. If the police were struggling to find her, what difference would it make if I was chasing her tail?
Feeling the worse for lack of sleep, I knew I had to drag my ass off of the mattress or I’d not be getting up for the rest of the day. I pulled on my pants and opened the small cupboard door that was home to the immersion heater. I flicked the switch on, hearing the tank fire up, then went into the kitchen. Filling my old tin kettle with water, I lit the gas and put it on the hob to boil. There was about half a teaspoon of Nescafé Blend 37 in the almost empty jar, and I made a note in my head to add it to the milk I needed to buy.
After making myself a drink, I sat on a high-legged stool at the tatty breakfast bar and took a sip of the liquid masquerading as black coffee. It was a world away from what I used to drink back in Carrington Village, but so was I.
It was hard, but I tried not to think of St Philip parish and the family I had lost. I missed that old life, my job, the white sands and azure sea of home, and I sure as hell missed fresh coffee. It’s strange how the simplest of things brought back memories best forgotten. I rubbed at the two-day-old growth of salt-and-pepper stubble on my chin and decided I needed to clean up; I was st
arting to stink as bad as my kitchen. I pushed myself up, dropped my mug into the sink and let the excuse for coffee drain away down the plughole.
I went into my tiny damp bathroom and ran hot water into the sink. Staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I looked every one of my forty-two years. I’d a little grey hair around my temples, and the small half-inch scar that ran along the left side of my brow had faded little since my sister, Bernie, had thrown a broken conch shell at me when we were playing catch as kids.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I took out my cut-throat razor, shaving brush and soap and sank the brush into the water before lathering it. I painted my jowls in the lightly scented suds, took my blade and let it glide across my face. It took me all of three or so minutes to shave.
I threw the now lukewarm water over my face and took a bar of soap from the edge of the sink and rubbed under my arms and chest with it, using the remaining water to rinse before drying myself off with a navy-blue hand towel.
Returning to my bedroom, I took from the wardrobe my grey herringbone tweed jacket, a white cotton shirt, charcoal tapered cuffed trousers and a pair of black leather plain-toe derby brogues, and quickly got myself dressed. The only items of luxury clothing I possessed were an Aquascutum overcoat and a black felt trilby hat, both hung in the hall and which had been invaluable these last few days in keeping me dry.
Walking over to the window, I wiped away some of the condensation with the flat of my hand and looked out down onto the snow-filled street below, which was unsurprisingly quiet. My thoughts turned to breakfast, my guts churning. I didn’t have anything in to eat, but I knew exactly where I could get my fill of the best food in St Pauls even this early on a Sunday. Picking up the brown envelope, I pulled out Stella Hopkins’ photograph and placed it on my dressing table, then took the two fivers out, unfolded the bills and put them into my wallet, before putting it into the breast pocket of my jacket. I went into the hall, picked my keys off the hook, and grabbed my hat and overcoat from the stand before heading straight out of the door to pay a visit to my uncle Gabe and aunt Pearl.
Gabe and his wife, Pearl, lived on Banner Road, just three streets away from my place. Their rented Victorian-built double-bay home was the bolthole I’d run to when I found myself short of a few pounds or if I needed the taste of some home cooking. They’d lived in the house since Gabe had left the army, renting it from the same miserly landlord who owned my digs. Along with my sister Bernie back home, my cousin Victor and his parents were the only family I had. Gabe was my father’s brother and they looked a helluva lot like each other. My own papa had been dead for over twenty years, but Gabe and Pearl treated me like one of their own. Their front door was never locked, and I made my way up the three granite steps, which my aunt Pearl scrubbed every other day, and went inside without knocking.
“Hey Gabe, Pearl, where you both at?” I shouted down the hallway.
“Joseph, is that you, boss man?” Gabe called from his kitchen.
“Sure is. Man, it is freezing out there.” I beat at my arms with my hands, the watery snowflakes falling from my coat onto the hard wood floor in my aunt Pearl’s hallway. I kicked off my shoes, the soles sodden from the sleet and ice, and I took off my hat and coat and hung them on the top of the banister at the foot of their stairs before finding the two of them sitting at their dining table.
The old black Aga was thankfully throwing out some heat; a pot of cornmeal porridge bubbled gently away on the back. I pulled up a chair and drew it in towards the table, directing my wet feet at the warmth of the metal range. I patted at my stomach with the flat of my palm and stared over at my aunt’s breakfast pans. My hunger settled over the room like a shroud on a corpse.
“There ain’t no need axing why you here at this time in the marning, I suppose you’ll be wantin’ me to cook you up some eggs?” my aunt Pearl asked me as she rose from her chair, already knowing what my reply would be.
Her accent was deep, rich Bajan. Our language, to those not familiar with it, could sound stern and authoritarian, but to me its lilting tones were a gentle reminder of happier times from my childhood. My years with the Barbadian police force had clipped my own use of our mother tongue, the service preferring its men to replicate the speech of its British Metropolitan counterparts here in the UK.
“You know I ain’t gonna say no to you, Pearl. Eggs sound good to me. How about you bringing me some of that fine cornmeal pap.” I rubbed my hands together in eager anticipation. I felt like a child again, eleven years old, sat around my mama’s table waiting to get fed. I forgot the cold and smelt the exotic aromas of the Caribbean rising from my aunt’s old metal cooking pan.
Pearl dished me up a bowl of the steaming hot cereal, which she had sprinkled on top with cinnamon, and brought it over to me along with a spoon. Back home we called it “pap” because of its thick consistency. It looked like baby food, but thankfully didn’t taste like it. Pearl returned to her stove and cracked two hen’s eggs into a black iron skillet and gently began to fry them while I filled my face.
“So what you gotta tell us, Joseph? You dressed real sharp, brother,” Gabe said, lifting his head outta his newspaper as he spoke to me. He was one of the few people who used my given name; Pearl, what was left of my family, and the few friends I had always called me JT.
“I’ve been offered work, but I’m not sure if it’s fo’ me, Gabe. That’s why I came over; I wanted to run it by you.”
“You did? When did you need me tell you to take a job? You sure as hell need the money, that’s fo’ damn sure.”
“I’d be working fo’ a guy named Earl Linney.” I waited for Gabe’s reaction, unsure of how he’d take the news. Historically, Jamaicans looked upon the other, smaller Caribbean islands with disdain, calling our home in Barbados one of the “little” islands. It was fair to say there was no love lost between the two peoples when it came to the hierarchy of our individual atolls.
My uncle Gabe was distrusting by nature and I could tell that he was not impressed by the possibility of me being employed by the wealthy Jamaican politician. I watched the old man sit back in his old armchair and prepared myself for a grilling.
“The alderman, what the hell kinda work a man like Earl Linney got fo’ you? You ain’t an airplane engineer and you know nuttin’ ’bout pol’tics,” Gabe snapped at me sharply.
I didn’t reply and quickly skirted over my uncle’s aggressive questioning, changing tack a little and perhaps digging a bigger hole for myself at the same time as I offered up a little more information to him as to the real nature of my new job offer.
“Gabe, you read ’bout a young woman from Montpelier go missing a short while back? Name’s Stella Hopkins?” I asked him gingerly, then wished that I hadn’t.
“We heard,” Aunt Pearl interrupted. “Pastor at our church, he got us pray’in fo’ her. You axe me, that poor ting she in the ground.”
“Nobody knows that, Pearl; just cus she not been around, don’t mean she dead,” Gabe growled back at his wife.
“Well, you tell me where that girl walking ’bout then?” Pearl was having none of her husband’s bullishness. Nevertheless, my uncle Gabe continued to make his point.
“Woman, it ain’t fo’ lack a tongue that a horse can’t talk. Ain’t no good sayin’ that she’s dead when you don’t know a damn ting.”
“Well, I read ’bout that poor child in that paper you go poking through every night. She ain’t been seen fo’ over a week, where she be then, you tell me?”
Gabe sat in silence, knowing better than to continue the argument with Aunt Pearl, a battle of words in which he would not be finally victorious.
Pearl picked up my empty bowl with one hand and placed a plate of fried eggs in front of me with her other. She had sliced some bread that she had recently baked and put it onto another, smaller tea plate along with the butter dish.
“Help yourself, I’ll bring you some coffee,” she said, her finger pointing at the bread and butter as she
spoke.
“Thanks, Aunt Pearl, my belly sure is grateful to you.” I soft-soaped the old lady and began to tuck into my breakfast.
Pearl walked back to the kitchen sink, shaking her head and mumbling to herself ’bout how my uncle Gabe had “hard ears”, that he didn’t listen to her. I could see her point of view, but Gabe’s sixty-three years had made him wise. He was a thinker, calm, reflective. Everything his dead brother, my papa, wasn’t.
“He wants me to ask around this area, but kinda on the sly, Gabe, if you know what I mean?”
“Oh, I know what you mean. But you needs to be axing yo’self, why’s the man need you to do his donkey work on the sly, Joseph? He’s a big enough fella, he should be doing his own sniffing around if you axe me. Someting stinks to high heaven ’bout the whole story.”
Gabe was on a roll, there was no way I was going to get him off of his soapbox. I was regretting that I’d ever opened my big mouth.
“An’ another ting. If Linney wants this Hopkins girl finding, then you tell me why he not gone to the police?”
My uncle Gabe was fishing for the truth. But I had none to give him; I could only offer up what the shady councillor had already told me. As I retold the alderman’s tale to my uncle, I felt his words were already making a liar out of me.
“Linney said that he’d been to the local law, Gabe, says they’ve come up with nothing. The man knew I’d been on the force back home on Barbados, thought I may be able to help. Poke around without upsetting folk. He said he was prepared to pay me well fo’ that kinda help.”
“Yeah, is that so . . . You know that’s the first ting I’d be worrying ’bout if I was you. When a man offers you big money fo’ work he don’t wanna touch himself, that either means he’s damn lazy or he’s lying ’bout what kinda job you’re gonna end up doin’ fo’ him. Just remember: man needs money, but he also needs to be able to sleep at night once he’s earned it. You be sure you can do that, Joseph, just be sure.”
