‘Not to worry,’ Mark said. ‘I’ll nip down to Tesco’s in a minute and get some for you. Your friend Brad’s on her way over. I saw her in the chip shop. Where’s your plates? She’s bringing in fish an’ chips.’
‘An’ pickled onions, an’ Coke, an’ death by chocolate cake,’ Brad’s voice said from the door. ‘How’s that fer service?’
She solved Alison’s problems with a flick of her hands. No light bulbs? They’d plug in the table lamps. ‘And what about the radio, Ali? You need a bit a’ music’ No pyjamas for the kids? They’ll sleep in their pants and T-shirts. ‘That’ll be fun!’ No plates? OK. Then they’d eat their fish and chips from the paper.
‘Tuck in,’ she said. ‘Last one to finish is a cissy.’
The meal made Alison feel better. Company and familiar food made her feel more at home. Afterwards, when the meal was eaten and the lorry unpacked, and when Mark had taken her mother, Jenny and the children home with the promise that they would all come back over the weekend, she heaped the dirty dishes in the sink. Then, leaving the kids playing in the bath, she and Brad assembled their beds and made them up.
‘We’ll do yours an’ all, while we’re at it,’ Brad said, narrowing her eyes against the smoke from the cigarette stuck to her lip. ‘You’ll need a bed to fall into when this day’s over.’
‘I could fall into it now,’ Alison admitted. ‘I’m so tired my bones ache.’
‘Still,’ Brad comforted, shaking out Jon’s duvet, ‘you got through the worst, aintcher?’
‘Yes,’ Alison said. ‘I suppose I have. I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so down.’
‘I’ll tell you one good thing about being at the bottom,’ Brad said, grinning at her.
‘Yeh, yeh. I know. There’s only one way to go. And that’s up.’
‘Well it’s a cliché,’ Brad admitted. ‘But it’s still true.’ And she gave Alison a hug.
When Elsie Wareham got home, the phone was ringing. It was Andy wanting to know how his sister had got on.
‘She’s in,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s a terrible pickle but she’s in.’
‘Tell her I’ll be down next weekend to give her a hand. If she wants shelves putting up or anything like that, leave it for me.’
‘All right. Mark’s been helping. And Jenny. And the kids. They’ve been ever so good.’
‘So she’s all right?’
‘Oh yes. Quite cheerful really. You know our Ali. She takes things in her stride. Always did.’
Neither of them would ever know it, because they would never be told, but they were completely wrong. At that moment Alison was sitting in the litter-strewn muddle of the living room in Barnaby Green, weeping and in despair.
Chapter Fifteen
Morgan Griffiths was hiding in a wardrobe, feeling embarrassed and extremely uncomfortable. Ever since the accident in the mine, he’d suffered from mild claustrophobia, so a wardrobe was the worst place for him to be. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening and he’d been sitting inside this one for nearly half an hour. Although the door was open, his palms were wet, his heart was pounding and it was all he could do to control the urge to escape. But he sat it out because, unpleasant though it was, it was part of his job and he had to get on with it.
He’d been hired by Mrs Percy Whitmore, the lady of the house, who was suing for divorce. She was afraid her husband was going to attack her: Morgan and the wife were both wired for sound. He also had a walkie-talkie in one pocket and a portable telephone in the other. Roger, sitting in the car outside with a spare key to the house in his pocket, was waiting for the signal to join in should the husband become too violent.
For the last twenty minutes, husband and wife had been charging about downstairs, shouting at one another. There was no doubt that the man was bad-tempered and abusive. He’d plunged into a quarrel as soon as he entered the house and his language was pretty choice, but he wasn’t being physically violent. Yet.
Feet sounded on the stairs and the argument rose towards the bedroom. Angry words and accusations; she sarcastic and whining, he enraged and bellowing. Action at last. Morgan eased the wardrobe door shut and put on his headphones.
Then they were in the bedroom, crashing about within inches of the wardrobe door. Feeling easier now that he had work to do, Morgan waited.
There was the sound of a slap and the woman gave a little shriek and burst into a torrent of abuse. It went on and on, punctuated by slaps and growls and at one point blurred as though she was being shaken. Under cover of the noise, Morgan opened the door a crack to assess if it was time to intervene.
Mr Percy Whitmore was a small, swarthy man in an electric blue suit. At that moment he was chasing his wife around die bed, punching at her as he ran. She ducked out of the way as well as she could, defending her head with her arms, so that some blows went wide of the mark. But some connected. There was a bruise reddening the side of her forehead and a trickle of blood running out of her nose and her eyes were huge with fright.
‘Time,’ Morgan said quietly to Roger. Then he opened the wardrobe door and stepped out into the room, stretching himself to his full height and bulk as he went. ‘I think that’ll do, sir,’ he said.
The husband was so surprised that for a few seconds he stood stock still and gaped, first at Morgan and then at his wife.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.
Morgan gave his usual answer with his usual calm. ‘Alexander Jones, detective agency. Here at your wife’s request, sir.’
‘You little whore!’ Percy Whitmore yelled. ‘You’ve set me up! You bloody little whore! I don’t believe this.’ And with that he sprang at his wife’s throat.
He was very quick, but Morgan was quicker and much more powerfully built. Within seconds he had the man spreadeagled across the bed with his arms pinned behind his back. By the time Roger made his entrance the whole thing was over.
‘Let me go, for Christ’s sake,’ the man begged. ‘I can’t breathe.’
His wife had retreated to her frilly dressing table and was examining her face in the mirror. ‘Now what?’ she said. Her voice was surprisingly calm for someone who had so recently been battered.
‘That’s up to you, Ma’am,’ Morgan said. ‘You could call the police and have him charged with assault, if that’s what you want.’
‘What do you think, Percy?’ she addressed her husband through the mirror. ‘Should I charge you with assault? You can let him go, Mr Jones.’
‘Do what you bloody want,’ Percy said, when he’d been released. ‘You always do. Why ask me?’
‘Because you’re the one who’s going to be charged.’
‘I shall deny it, whatever you say.’
‘You can’t deny bruises darling,’ his wife said, touching hers with the tips of her fingers.
‘I can deny how they were caused.’
‘I feel I should warn you, sir,’ Morgan intervened, ‘we have a recording of what has happened this evening.’
‘What?’
‘You’re on tape, darling,’ his wife said sweetly. ‘It’s all on record. You can’t deny anything.’
For a few seconds, the man’s face was so suffused with rage that Morgan was afraid he would start punching his wife again. But he recovered himself, picked up two brushes from the dressing table and began to tidy his hair.
‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said calmly. ‘What do you want. A divorce?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said, even more sweetly than before. ‘I shall have to think about it, won’t I? It depends how you behave.’
‘Do we have to have these two…?’ Percy asked, grimacing towards Morgan and Roger, who were standing back against the wardrobe, keeping still and observing carefully.
‘Not if you don’t want them.’
‘Well I don’t.’
‘In that case,’ the wife said, turning towards Morgan, ‘would you mind, Mr Jones…’
Roger’s face was registering more amazement than was profession
al. ‘Of course,’ Morgan said. Propelling his colleague before him, he left the room and the house as quietly and quickly as he could.
‘I shall never understand women if I live to be a hundred,’ Roger said, as they drove away. ‘All that screaming and shouting and she sits there as cool as cucumber saying it’s up to him and will we leave. You’d have thought they were discussing the weather and here we’ve been waiting about in the cold for hours and hours like idiots. I don’t think she’ll divorce him, do you?’
‘Couldn’t say,’ Morgan answered, concentrating on his driving.
‘I think it was all an act,’ Roger said. ‘I think they like an audience. She was putting it on at that mirror. Her eyes were going from one to the other of us all the time.’
‘Just so long as she pays the bill, boy. That’s all we got to worry about.’
‘It’s being rich, if you ask me,’ Roger said. ‘They don’t have anything to do all day, so they make dramas. I’ll bet she’s got a dishwasher an’ a charlady an’ a gardener an’ all sorts. I’ll bet she never has to do a hand’s turn from one week to the next. You never really know them, do you though? Women. You think you do and then they go and do something so stupid you can’t believe it. My Dad says they’re a breed apart, an’ if you ask me, he’s right.’
Do I really know her? Morgan wondered, thinking about Alison. I feel I do when we’re on the beach and the sun’s shining, but she was different at that tea party and different again at the theatre. It still hurt him to remember how distant she’d been then. I really don’t know her at all well, he thought. I’ve only ever seen her with the children. She could be a different person when she’s with someone else. How would I know? I don’t even know what sort of person she is when she’s with that husband of hers. If she’s ever with that husband of hers.
The dazzling lights of the oncoming traffic took his attention for the next few seconds. Perhaps I ought to leave well alone, he thought. Try to find someone else to get interested in. Someone less complicated. Someone who isn’t married. Even if they’re not so tender-hearted and they don’t have such beautiful green eyes.
But Jaffa Jewels of Birmingham had other plans for him.
Early the next morning, after Morgan and Roger had come into the office, Mr Fehrenbach phoned to say that he wanted someone from Alexander Jones to fly to Spain on his behalf to find Mr Rigby Toan.
‘I’ve been hearing some rather disquieting rumours from Chichester,’ he said. ‘Apparently Mr Toan has shut down all his shops and done a runner. Without paying any of his creditors, naturally. Now I’ve just been on the blower to that insolvency feller and he won’t tell me his address. Says he thinks he’s in Spain. Fuengirola. But that’s all he’ll give me.’
‘You want us to find him,’ Morgan said. ‘Is that it?’
‘Right,’ Mr Fehrenbach said. ‘There’s something fishy going on. I’m sure of it. That insolvency feller says there’s nothing he can do to get our money for us if Mr Toan stays out of the country. I don’t believe it. I’ve been on to some of the other creditors and they think we ought to take action. We’re prepared to club together to pay your fee and your air fares and accommodation and suchlike – nothing too costly mind. Can you do it?’
‘When?’
‘The sooner the better. I’ve made some preliminary enquiries. There are quite a few cheap flights from Gatwick these days. Because of what’s going on in the Gulf, I expect.’
Morgan didn’t hesitate for a second. It was just the sort of challenge he enjoyed and the irony of hunting down Alison’s husband gave it an irresistible zest. ‘Right,’ he said, reaching for the Portsmouth Yellow Pages. ‘Leave it to me.’
He spent the rest of the morning phoning estate agents in Chichester, at first with little success. Two had heard of his ‘friend Rigby Toan’ but neither had sold him a flat in Spain. The man who answered his eighth call, however, was more helpful.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know old Rigg. Great chap. Haven’t seen him around for ages though.’
‘You didn’t sell him his flat in Fuengirola did you?’
‘No, sorry. Wish I had. Why?’
‘I’m looking for something similar.’
‘In Fuengirola?’
‘In the same block if poss.’
‘We haven’t got anything in Fuengirola at all, I’m afraid. Try “Apartments in the Sun”. They specialise in Spanish properties. Ask for Nigel. He and Rigg were very thick one time. Used to go up to London together with that chap Francis.’
‘Cheers.’
Nigel was out with a customer. His secretary thought he’d be back in an hour but it was mid-afternoon before he rang. He turned out to be a pushy salesman with a well-preened voice.
‘I hear you want a flat like Rigg Toan’s,’ he said. ‘A wise choice, if I may say so, sir.’
‘Right.’
‘That was a real snip. A beauty.’
‘Yes I know. That’s why I want one.’
‘In the same block?’
‘Right. Rigg’s isn’t for sale again by any chance, is it?’
‘Not with this company, no sir. Did you think it might be?’
‘I hoped.’
‘A faint hope, if I may say so. He was well pleased with it.’
‘I know. That’s why I want one the same.’
‘Well now, we’ve got a slight problem there. Only a slight problem. No hassle. Quite solvable. I’ve got two absolute beauties – just the sort of thing, two bedrooms, pool, maid service, sea views – only they’re not exactly in the same block. Did it have to be in the same block?’
‘Well as near as I can get.’
‘“Arabesque” is virtually next door.’
‘That might do. How far is virtually?’
‘Two blocks down. In the right direction, naturally. Shall I send you the details?’
‘Fax them to me.’
Mention of a fax impressed this young man. His voice changed from suave to fawning. ‘A pleasure, sir. They’ll be with you directly.’
Which they were. Complete with a picture of a hideous white concrete tower block set against a black sky. Now all Morgan had to do was to book the first available flight to Málaga and arrange to hire a car at the other end.
By eight o’clock the next morning he was driving along the highway to Fuengirola, under the bright winter sky of the Costa del Sol, with a local road map and Nigel’s specifications in his pocket, determinedly on the trail of Mr Rigby Toan.
The promenade at Fuengirola is four miles long and lined with concrete apartment blocks from one end to the other, so it took a little while to discover the one called ‘Arabesque.’ But it was found at last and so were the apartments two blocks down on either side of it. Now it was simply a matter of prowling the bars and restaurants until he found the ones Rigg used. And that took less time than he expected.
The fourth bar he tried was run by a burly American who said his name was Fred and was happy to acknowledge that Rigg was ‘a great buddy.’
‘I’m a friend of a friend,’ Morgan said. ‘Francis.’
Fred appeared to know Francis too. ‘A great guy!’ he boomed. ‘You just missed him. They were all down last week, did you know that? That was some party! Rip-roaring or do I mean rip-roaring. Great guys!’
Morgan was wondering how he could ask for Rigg’s address without appearing crafty or stupid. ‘I thought he’d be here by now,’ he said.
‘Rigg?’ Fred said, as if the idea surprised him. ‘Naw! Not till midday. Never gets up till midday.’
‘It’s midday now,’ Morgan glanced at the wall clock.
‘Try the pool, honey,’ a woman’s voice said from behind the counter. ‘He takes a dip most mornings.’
She was middle-aged, fat and affable. ‘The thing is,’ Morgan admitted to her, ‘I’ve left his address behind. I can’t remember whether it’s “High Towers” or “White Mill”.’
‘“White Mill”, honey. You try the pool. That’s where he’ll
be.’
Back into the car, back to the white tower block with its inappropriate name, turning into the car park, walking out into the grounds among the tropical trees … heading for the bright blue oval of the pool, finding it hard to believe that March was still more than a week away because it was so warm out there. Warm enough to be sunbathing if nothing else. Was there anyone sunbathing?
Yes, there was. A fair-haired young man, sprawled out in a deckchair, fast asleep – designer jeans, his arms crossed over a faded T-shirt, sandals on his feet and an expensive jersey flung on the tiles beside him.
‘Mr Toan?’ Morgan said.
Rigg opened his eyes and squinted up at his visitor. He was heavy with sleep and bad temper. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said.
‘Friend of a friend.’
‘Francis, is it? You’ve missed him.’
‘Yes, I know. He was here last week.’
‘Take a pew,’ Rigg said, waving one hand at an empty deckchair. ‘D’you want something to drink? I could send out for a beer or something.’
‘No thank you,’ Morgan said, pulling the deckchair into position so that they were facing one another. ‘I’ve just had breakfast.’
There was a pause while the two men took stock of one another and the midday sun warmed the tops of their heads.
‘You been here long?’ Morgan asked.
‘Too long,’ Rigg said, looking sorry for himself. ‘Bloody awful hole this is. Full of bloody old women and retired colonels.’
‘I thought it was where the criminals came.’
‘Criminals! That’s a laugh!’ Rigg said sourly. ‘You don’t get criminals here. They’re in Marbella. Different altogether, Marbella. There’s some life there. Too bloody expensive though, that’s the trouble. You need to be a millionaire to live in Marbella.’
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