by Ruth Rendell
‘Turtles don’t have voices,’ said Zeinab and, more kindly, ‘We’re having dinner at Le Gavroche tonight, right?’
‘Right, my star. And I want you to meet my friend Orville; he’ll only pop in for five minutes to be introduced. He’s dying to meet you but he’s just recovering from his second divorce so his spirits are a bit low.’
‘He’s the one who owns all those hotels, isn’t he?’
If Phibling had been more observant he would have noticed a brighter than usual gleam in Zeinab’s eyes but he saw only the long, long black hair, the red softly parted lips and the white fluffy sweater. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘and he’s got a five-star one in Bermuda that specialises in weddings. I thought we might think about …?’
‘Why not?’ said Zeinab happily as she received the jeweller’s box from Phibling’s hands.
No work on Saturdays, so Will usually had a lie-in. He wasn’t nervous about the evening ahead but nor was he excited, only anxious to behave properly and do what was expected of him. Long ago, when he was still living in the children’s home, he had seen a television film in which a young man, going out with a girl, took her a bunch of flowers. Will himself had sometimes taken Becky flowers because he had known her take a bouquet of daffodils to a friend. Perhaps he should buy flowers for Kim.
He got up and made himself breakfast, the kind a child who knows nothing of cooking can prepare, cornflakes and a slice of brown bread with marmalade. Several slices. When Becky had asked him what he would like for Christmas he had said a toaster, but she hadn’t given him one, he didn’t know why not, though she had given him an electric kettle and even a microwave. He hadn’t really expected a gas hob, they were too expensive. After breakfast he washed up his dishes and the mug he had had his milk in, and then he cleaned the flat, dusting the surfaces and vacuuming the floors. He cleaned the sink and the basin in the bathroom but not the shower. That could wait until after he’d been in it. He and Becky had been out shopping together and he had wanted to buy himself razors but she didn’t like that and got him an electric shaver instead. Shaving wasn’t something he did every day, being so fair, but he would do it before he went out with Kim.
It was going to be a fine day. It was a fine day now, the sky blue and dotted with little pure white clouds, the sun shining and flowers coming out everywhere—even in the Edgware Road. Spring was really here. More signs of it could be seen outside the immediate area, and as Will walked through Church Street to Lisson Grove and up Lisson Grove into Grove End, he saw narcissi coming out in the gardens of the big houses, though he didn’t know the names of the white flowers with orange centres, and he saw others whose red buds were opening and which he knew were tulips. Hyacinths scented the air and in front of a block of flats where Grove End Road curved away from Abbey Road stood a pink tree covered in blossom.
In St John’s Wood High Street he went into a florist’s and bought a bunch of violets for Kim because they smelt so lovely and were quite small. She could take them into the cinema with her and smell them while the film was on. Will also bought a pizza for his lunch and a tub of chocolate chip ice cream, which the shop assistant wrapped up in several layers of newspaper so that it wouldn’t melt on the way home.
He had a little fridge in his flat, not much bigger than the microwave, but large enough to hold a carton of milk, 200 grammes of butter and a chop or piece of chicken. Will was quite good at measuring things in grammes and millilitres and millimetres but hopeless at pounds and ounces. Becky couldn’t manage grammes and one of the things that pleased him most was teaching her about grammes in shops, he was proud of that. He knew he wasn’t clever like some people and although he tried, knew too that he would never be cleverer. It brought him great satisfaction when he found that there were things he could work out that others couldn’t, like knowing fourteen degrees was warm for March, what five centimetres looked like and how to put things together. When Becky had sent for a mail order cabinet and it had come in pieces packed flat in a box, she hadn’t been able to assemble it but he had. He had followed the plans on the papers that came with it and within an hour all the separate pieces were a nice cabinet with drawers and a door that opened and shut. Perhaps Will differed in several respects from a ten-year-old who was good with his hands but in one in particular: he didn’t boast about his accomplishment like the child would have. He’d mention it once and then say no more.
After he had had his lunch he had a shower, cleaned up after himself and sat quietly, doing nothing, thinking about the evening ahead.
She called for him in her brother’s van, which she had borrowed for the evening. The Treasure of Sixth Avenue was showing at the Warner Village in the Finchley Road. It had car parking so Kim was able to put the van inside, somewhere it wouldn’t be towed away or clamped. Will, well-dressed in a white shirt, blue tie and his leather jacket, had given her the violets and she had seemed genuinely pleased. No boy had ever given her flowers before, she said. She was wearing a white jacket over a purple T-shirt, the same colour as the violets, and when she pinned the bunch on to her lapel Will thought they looked fine.
Inside the cinema he bought a big polystyrene beaker of Coke and an even bigger bucket of popcorn for each of them. He couldn’t remember ever eating popcorn before but he was happy to try it. Will never had much to say but Kim did and he listened quite contentedly while she talked about her family, her mum and dad and brother Keith and brother Wayne, and about the hairdresser and the problems of getting to work by public transport, and the weather, and where was he going for his summer holiday? If Will had been more sophisticated or experienced or simply had more nous, he would have recognised this last as the stock enquiry all hairdressers put to their clients. But Becky always cut his hair, so he told her he would go wherever his auntie went—for which he got a wary look—and that his mother was dead but he liked the spring because all the flowers came out. On the question of his mother she was sympathetic, she couldn’t imagine anything worse than her mum dying, but maybe his aunt had taken her place. Will agreed that she had, they drank their Coke and ate their popcorn, the commercials came to an end and The Treasure of Sixth Avenue began.
Kim had already said how much she liked Russell Crowe and Sandra Bullock, so Will identified these actors and was pleased with himself when they soon reappeared and he recognised them. The story wasn’t difficult to follow. The principals were a bank robber, his girlfriend and a sidekick, played by an actor even Kim had never heard of before, but this time, instead of a bank, the three were planning a jewellery heist. Where all this was taking place was unclear to a British audience. It might have been New York but it might also have been almost any big city in the United States, a forest of towers, a row or two of shopfronts and the residential streets spokes that ran from this central hub.
Will didn’t much like it when the Russell Crowe character shot a guard in the jewellery store but no one else in the audience seemed much affected. Kim went on calmly eating popcorn and the man on the other side of him continued chewing gum, so he told himself to shut his eyes tightly next time it looked as if people were to be hurt. The three broke into a kind of vault where they found dazzling amounts of jewellery, diamonds mostly in necklaces and bracelets and rings. Worth millions, said the Sandra Bullock girl, maybe as much as a billion.
They escaped from the place without anyone finding them and went back to where Russell Crowe lived in a strange dark old house which would have frightened Will even to set foot in.
‘Scary,’ Kim whispered to him with an exaggerated shudder.
Pleased he wasn’t alone, he nodded. ‘I’m scared too.’
He was also enjoying himself but just as he was growing sure he was going to understand everything that happened on the screen, things became complicated. There were new people appearing who found the dead guard, then swarms of policemen, the camera moving into places never before seen, clubs and bars and cellars, all full of people the officers questioned in harsh incomprehensi
ble accents. It wasn’t really for children any more and Will had completely lost it. He tried to sit still because he had been told by Becky on previous cinema visits that he mustn’t disturb the people around him, but it was hard not to fidget. There was also a strong sense of disappointment, which made him indignant. It had been so straightforward and simple. Why couldn’t it go on the way it had begun?
And then, suddenly, it did. The three jewel thieves were in a car, which was racing at top speed through the streets. Will had never seen a real car go so fast. Its brakes squealed as it sped round corners, shaking off pursuers who were chasing it. The thieves’ car turned into a street where a sign on a lamp-post read ‘Sixth Avenue’. Will could read it without difficulty because the letters were big, they lingered on the screen and he recognised what they said from the title of the film. Sixth Avenue. The car swung into a parking lot and the three got out, Russell Crowe carrying the leather bag in which the jewels were, the other man a spade. There wasn’t much talk. Now it was action. They were in a backyard, a squalid place with dustbins and an old iron dump and a ruined shed. But there were bushes too at the end of it and areas of earth on either side of the broken and crazed concrete path, out of which straggling grass and weeds grew. Overhead the cloudy wild sky was stained red by city lights. The man who wasn’t Russell Crowe began digging a hole. When her boyfriend shouted at her to help, the girl found another spade in the remains of the shed and got to work. There seemed to be a desperate urgency in what they did and again Kim shivered. She clutched Will’s hand, which was unexpected, but somehow nice and comforting. He gave the hand a squeeze.
The three robbers buried the leather bag in the hole and shovelled the earth back. They stamped it down and threw a couple of bricks and a piece of board over the top so that it looked as if the ground hadn’t been disturbed for years. Then they heard sirens in the distance and Will, with a shock of excitement, recognised the sounds as those he heard in Paddington every day. All this was happening here, in London! The robbers heard the sirens too, they all listened, looked at each other and within seconds were over the wall, over the next yard and the next wall, and back in the parking lot. After that complexities came back and Will had difficulty following it, but five minutes from the end Russell Crowe was shot dead by a policeman, the friend was crippled by a bullet and would never walk again, and the girl was getting into an aircraft that took off as soon as she had fastened her seat belt. Will shut his eyes during the killing and maiming, opened them to see Sandra Bullock on a beach with palm trees and bright blue sea, a new man beside her, saying, ‘Why don’t I go fetch us a drink, babe?’ and walking away.
The girl waited till he was out of earshot, then said dreamily, ‘I guess the treasure’s still there. It’s not for me, I can never go home again …’
The lights went up and Kim got to her feet. Will followed suit. He thought of asking her if she thought the treasure was still there now. But Sandra Bullock had said it was, she seemed sure. Why couldn’t she go home? He worked it out carefully. Because she’d done something wrong, so wrong that the police had shot the men who’d also done it and if she went back they’d shoot her too. Was that it? It must be.
‘I’m starving,’ said Kim. ‘That popcorn doesn’t fill you up, does it? It’s so light.’
Excitement had killed Will’s appetite, but he might start to feel hungry when he saw food. There were cafés in the complex. They went into one, sat at a table overlooking the Finchley Road and Kim ordered a pizza and Will omelette and chips. He had already had a pizza for his lunch, a fact he imparted to Kim. Ordering food wasn’t unfamiliar to him. He sometimes went out for his lunch when he and Keith were working near a restaurant. They had more Coke to drink and Kim talked about the film while Will, somehow knowing it wasn’t necessary to listen or say more than yes and no and that’s right, thought about it.
The treasure must be still there. Sandra Bullock had said it was and she would know. Russell Crowe couldn’t go back and dig it up because he was dead and the other man couldn’t because he couldn’t walk and never would. It must be still there. But where? Wherever there was a Sixth Avenue.
‘Do you want any more to eat?’ Kim was saying.
‘I wouldn’t mind some ice cream.’ He had had it also at lunchtime but he didn’t mind how much ice cream he ate or how often.
‘Let’s both have it, then. Chocolate?’
‘I like chocolate best,’ said Will happily.
‘So do I, it’s my favourite. Isn’t that funny, us both liking chocolate best?’
Will laughed out loud because it was funny. Not only was chocolate ice cream their favourite but they found they both hated coffee and quite liked a nice cup of tea. So they had that too. He noticed that the violets in her buttonhole still looked quite fresh. She saw him looking.
‘I’ll put them in water the minute I get home.’
Will paid for the meal. She offered to go halves but he said no, he’d pay, the way Becky always said she would.
On the way out she read a headline on an evening paper someone had. ‘“Fears Grow for Missing Girl. Mother says, ‘I’m Devastated.’” I’m glad I’ve got you with me, Will, I’d be scared out on my own.’
This time it was he who took her hand. ‘You’ll be OK,’ he said, but he said it automatically. Inez had said something like it. He was thinking about the film, wondering where Sixth Avenue might be.
Kim drove him home. ‘Thank you for coming with me,’ he said politely, the way Becky had taught him. Thank you for having me, thank you for the tea, thank you for coming …
She gave him a kiss on the cheek, locked all the doors on the van and drove off. Will went upstairs. How could he find out where Sixth Avenue was?
CHAPTER 5
At the rear of Star Antiques was a small garden. Americans would have called it a yard and that description best fitted it. The walls which enclosed it were so thickly hung with ivy that no brickwork could be seen, while the area in the middle was mostly covered with large concrete slabs between which weeds were starting to sprout. But just inside the walls were narrow borders of earth scattered with bricks and pebbles and broken shards of pottery, where scrubby bushes struggled for life and the withered stalks of golden rod and Michaelmas daisies and fireweed still lingered. Freddy Perfect, who never looked at the garden much when those plants were in fresh bloom, now gazed with concentration on the two men who were poking under bushes, lifting up dead stems and peering into the ancient coal bunker which, squeezed into the far left-hand corner of the garden, was similarly overgrown with ivy.
‘Ludo,’ he said to the woman who was still in bed. ‘There’s a couple of guys outside searching the place for something. Come and see. They’re going to start digging.’
‘You can give me a running commentary. I’m not getting up yet.’ Her accent today was north London with hints of Estuary English. Ludmila Gogol had long given up much pretence with Freddy. ‘Is it the police?’
‘They’re not wearing uniform. Wait a minute, there’s another one come and he is, helmet and all. Shame, though, they’re not digging.’
‘Why is it a shame? You don’t want them finding a body, do you?’
‘Is that what they’re looking for? That’s an idea. I wouldn’t mind them finding a body, I could do with a bit of excitement. Wait a minute, though, they’re finished, they’ve done. One of them’s got mud all over his trousers. I’m going down, see if they come in the shop.’
Ludmila turned over and quickly went back to sleep. She could sleep anywhere, at any time. Like a cat, Freddy said, lie down, curl up, close her eyes and she’d be asleep in thirty seconds. He padded down the stairs. True to his hope, the two policemen not in uniform were in the shop with Inez, Crippen and a different bloke, not Osnabrook.
‘Good morning, all,’ said Freddy. ‘How may I help you?’
Inez ignored him. Crippen and the other one, a man Freddy thought resembled his friend Anwar Ghosh, nodded in his direction. Freddy str
olled through the shop, coming to rest at the place where, for the past two years, the urn with the Parthenon frieze had stood. A miniature display table had replaced it, the key to its glass lid in the keyhole. Freddy turned the key, lifted the lid and began taking out objects to be scrutinised.
‘As I was saying,’ said Crippen in rather a sour tone, ‘before I was interrupted, in answer to your enquiry, Mrs Ferry, we are in fact searching all the backs of premises in this area today. The area we’re covering extends from Paddington Station in the west to Baker Street in the east but today we’re concentrating on the Edgware Road neighbourhood.’
‘What are you looking for?’ said Freddy, waving a Victorian lorgnette in their direction. ‘A body? Or those bits and pieces the Rottweiler took off the corpses?’
‘It’s my job to ask questions,’ said Crippen, ‘not answer them.’
‘Oh, dear, sorry I spoke, I’m sure. Excuse me while I apologise for existing.’ Freddy wasn’t really offended, as his broad smile showed.
‘Please put that lorgnette down, Freddy. Of course they’re searching for that poor girl’s body, the one that’s missing. Is there anything else, Inspector?’
‘I don’t think so. Except—yes, well, if anyone comes in here asking questions of the kind we’ve just heard from that gentleman, if anyone shows too much curiosity, we’d like a name. I mean, you’re in touch with a lot of people. It might be helpful.’ When Inez promised nothing, he addressed his sidekick, ‘Come along, Zulueta, we’ve work to do.’
‘Unpleasant job, they have,’ said Freddy cheerfully. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any tea going?’
‘I’m sorry but I’ve had mine and washed up the cups.’
‘Cups with an “s”, is it? I think you’ve got a secret admirer, Inez, coming calling in the wee small hours.’
