by John Harvey
“Will do.”
Elder gave her the number of his cell just in case.
BY TEN THE NEXT MORNING, ARMED WITH MOST OF THE information he wanted, Elder was logged on to one of the library’s computers and starting to work through the most likely combinations, searching for Claire’s password.
It took time, but less than he had thought.
cowdreyc
As simple as that: she’d gone back to who she was before.
Elder thanked his stars that, like most people, she’d eschewed being clever for something obvious: no wonder Internet and bank fraud were as prevalent as they were.
Two clicks and the most recent contents of her inbox were there on the screen. Claire, it seemed, had been a subscriber to no fewer than three Internet dating agencies. Personal introductions for compatible partners, country-loving singles, and unattached professionals.
I was intrigued by the description you gave of yourself, said Norman from Northampton, and would very much like to meet you.
Please send a recent photo, pleaded Roy from Leicester, nude if possible.
I am a recent widower, wrote Gary from Kettering, semiretired, energetic, warm and sensitive. Hoping to meet a lady to share experiences and happiness with. Please do reply.
There were seventeen unopened messages dating back to the day on which Claire had disappeared. Scrolling down, he paused over a pointed but fairly innocuous promise of a lost weekend in a Cotswold hideaway, complete with brass bed and open fires. What Elder was looking for, aside from a clue as to where she might be now, was something that would explain her mid-February trip to London.
Then there it was.
Delighted that you’ve decided to accept my invitation. Will meet you at St. Pancras as planned. Stephen.
There was no sign of Claire’s response. She seemed to have been scrupulous, in fact, about deleting whatever mail she’d sent herself: that folder was empty. Neither were there any incoming messages that went back beyond the turn of the year. No matter: if necessary, and with a court order, any IT expert worth his salt could trace—what was it called?—her audit trail—without difficulty, he was sure.
This was as far as he could go for now. Composing the message in his head, he clicked on Stephen’s e-mail address.
[email protected]
JENNIE WAS INCREDULOUS. “SHE’S WHAT? SHE’S BEEN what? No, no, no, don’t tell me. I heard what you said.”
“It seems as if she went down to London mid-February. Spent the weekend with a man named Stephen. Stephen Singer. Ring any bells?”
“None at all.”
“I’ve arranged to meet him. Tomorrow afternoon.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“There’s no need.”
“I’m coming.”
“Okay.”
“Let me have the address and I’ll meet you there.”
“MUM’S BEEN DOING WHAT? DATING? ON THE INTERNET?” James’s voice had taken on a decided Australian burr. “Well, good for her.”
Not exactly the classic Freudian response Elder had expected.
“It doesn’t bother you then?”
“Nah, why should it? Little surprised, I suppose. Everyone over there’s so uptight, sitting round behind twitching curtains, criticizing. Thank God it’s not like that over here. It’s why I like it.” He laughed. “That and the surf. Being twenty minutes from the beach. Great for kids. You got kids?”
“One. Grown-up now.”
“I was going to say, if you had kids, bring ’em out. Holiday of a lifetime.” He laughed again. “Course they might never go back.”
“Your aunt and I...”
“You mean Jennie?”
“Yes. We’re going to talk to someone your mother had met through the Net.”
“You think he might know where she is?”
“Not necessarily. Not directly. But what he does know might help.”
“And they were what? Having an affair? Mum and this bloke?”
“It seems as if they spent the weekend together, beyond that we don’t know.”
“My bet, that’s where she is now, off in some love nest somewhere. That’s the case, I’m pleased for her. Couldn’t be happier. After all that time nursing my dad, it’s what she deserves. She’s still a youngish woman, right? Fifty-five nowadays, it’s not old. Not old till you’re past sixty, these days. If that.”
Elder liked to think he was right: right about all of it.
“You find out anything, anything at all,” James said, “you’ll let me know, right?”
“Right.”
It had been like talking to someone no more than a couple of streets away, yet at the same time, a long, long way off. Another life.
AS IT HAPPENED, JENNIE CALLED HIM AND SAID SHE’D meet him between eight and eight-thirty; they could have some breakfast and then drive down to London together in her car.
No argument.
She arrived early, wearing a black quilted vest over a white shirt with loose sleeves, dark cord jeans tucked into brown mid-calf boots. Smart but casual. The weekend. Elder thought that kind of vest had some special name, without remembering what it was.
He chose scrambled eggs and bacon from the buffet, toast that had stood for too long, coffee, and juice. Jennie asked for an omelette, freshly cooked; filled a bowl with yoghurt and fruit, with a sprinkling of nuts.
“Conferences,” she said as they sat. “Drink too much, smoke too much, too much of the wrong kind of food. That and blokes hitting on you when they’ve drunk enough to get the guts to do to.”
“That happens?”
Jennie’s eyebrow arched. “Only all the time. Guys there are in a minority, anyway, so they’re always going to think they’re in with a chance. And if you’ve got any kind of clout in the company, like me, that’s enough to give them fantasies of bending you over some executive desk.”
She spooned up a portion of yoghurt and prunes.
“What do you do?” Elder asked. “Situations like that.”
“Oh, kid them along, try and pass it off as a joke. If that doesn’t work, tell them to go home to their wives and kids.”
“And then? If that still doesn’t work?”
Jennie licked something from her lips. “It doesn’t usually get much further than that.” Her omelette arrived and she nodded thanks. “One time when it did, this fellow was being a real pest, I got Derek to come and meet me. That’s my boyfriend, partner, whatever it is you’re supposed to say these days. Derek. He lifts weights, right? Least he used to. Atlanta Olympics. And he’s still big. As in B-I-G, you know?” Jennie laughed. “I didn’t have any problems after that. Not with that jerk at least.”
They were on the road by nine fifteen, Jennie’s car a sporty little Mazda that she drove this side of reckless, passing almost everything in the outside lane.
“You always go this fast?” Elder asked, concern in his voice.
Jennie grinned. “You want fast?”
Elder tightened his seatbelt and did his best not to look concerned.
Closer to London, speed cameras and the volume of traffic slowed them down, and Jennie switched on the CD player. “Listen. You know this?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Boz Scaggs. Some name, yeah? The voice, though. Blue-eyed soul, I think that’s what it’s called.”
Easing up the volume, she sang along.
Chapter 9
STEPHEN SINGER LIVED IN A TINY MAISONETTE IN Hampstead, South End Green, to be more exact; the ground floor and basement of one of a row of older terraced houses, no more than a stone’s throw from the southwestern edge of the Heath. Each room was small with low ceilings and mostly book-lined walls. He doubted if Jennie’s Derek would have been able to get through the front door, even on his knees.
Stephen himself proved to be a sprightly sixty with graying hair and the neat suggestion of a beard, and not tall, five six or five seven at best. He was sporting a Fair Isle cardigan over a faded purple shirt, gree
n canvas jeans, and, despite the temperature outside, open sandals on his feet.
There was music playing from one of the other rooms. Mozart? If it was classical, Elder usually assumed that’s what it was.
“Coffee? You’d like coffee? Or I could manage tea?”
Coffee was fine.
They sat angled toward one another, knees almost touching.
“When I first bought this place,” Stephen said, “long, long before I retired, I thought of it more or less as a pied-à-terre. Oxford, that’s where I was teaching, where I spent most of my time. Then, when I took early retirement, and gladly I might say, I came here to live. Almost ten years ago now.”
He looked around as if he could scarcely believe it had been that long.
“My sister...” Jennie said, jerking things to the matter at hand.
“Of course, of course. Claire. From what you said in your e-mail, Mr. Elder, I can see you must both be sorely worried. Very sorely indeed.”
“You haven’t seen her?” Jennie said. “Since whenever it was?”
“Since February. No.”
“Nor heard from her?”
“No.”
“You’re sure? No phone calls, letters, e-mails?”
“Nothing.” He gave a slow shake of the head. “I only wish I could say there were.”
“The weekend that you spent together,” Elder said. “Was that the first?”
“Yes. I mean, no. Not exactly. We’d met twice before, just for the day. Once at the end of January, and the other occasion was in November. November last.”
“And this was where?”
“In London. We met in central London and spent a few hours together before Claire caught her train home. It was only on the last occasion that she came here, to the flat. I’d invited her, you see, to stay.” Breaking off, he glanced at Jennie a shade anxiously. “Stay for the weekend. We’d got on so well, at least that’s what I’d thought. My presumption, at least. At first she said no, she didn’t think it was right; didn’t think she was ready, that’s what she said. And then she changed her mind.”
“Do you know why?”
He gave a birdlike shake of the head. “Not really, no.”
“You must have asked.”
“Of course. ‘I’m here now,’ she said, ‘isn’t that enough?’ It was.”
“Did you sleep with her?” Jennie asked, an edge to her voice.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think...”
“Did you sleep with her, for Christ’s sake?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. We did. If you’re concerned, it was something she was entirely comfortable with. There was never any suggestion of...”
“All right.”
“I just didn’t want you to think...”
“All right. I said all right.” Jennie swung her head away.
“The weekend generally,” Elder said. “Would you say it went well?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so. We went to Tate Britain on the Saturday. ‘Turner, Whistler, Monet.’ It was crowded, of course, but a marvellous exhibition. Quite breathtaking. Claire was very appreciative. Later in the afternoon, we had a stroll on the Heath. I made dinner here. On Sunday morning there was a concert at Wigmore Hall. She caught the train home midafternoon.”
“Happily?”
“Yes. I think we’d both had a splendid time. I had, I know. And Claire, Claire sent me a lovely card. Just a little thank you, you know...”
“You’ve still got it?” Jennie said quickly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Let me see.”
Stephen got up and went into the other room, returning moments later with a postcard Claire had presumably bought at the exhibition. On one side there was a reproduction of Whistler’s Nocturne in Blue and Gold; on the other she had written in a neat, rounded hand: “Dear Stephen, So many thanks for a delightful weekend. Affectionately, Claire.” A solitary kiss.
“You said you haven’t seen her since?”
“That’s right.”
“There’s been no contact at all?”
“On Claire’s part, none.”
“And on yours?”
“I wrote several times.”
“Wrote?”
“Yes.”
“Not e-mailed?”
“No. It’s so impersonal. And besides, she’d given me her address. She hadn’t wanted to, I realized that at the time, and perhaps it was wrong of me to insist. But I did want to see her again, and it seemed the best way.”
“Clearly not,” Jennie said. “Persuading women to do things against their will, it rarely is.”
Stephen started to say something, but fell silent.
The Mozart, if that’s what it had been, had come to an end. There was the sound of a dog barking outside, faint and then loud. Cars passing. Someone whistling as they walked by.
“Did Claire say anything,” Elder asked, “anything at all about any other relationships?”
Stephen shook his head.
“Nothing about any other men she might have been seeing, been involved with?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Even so...”
“I did ask her, just in the way of conversation, if she’d made use of the Internet before, to meet people, and she admitted that she had.”
“Admitted,” Elder said. “That’s an interesting word.”
Stephen looked at him. “Because it implies guilt, you mean?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
Stephen considered it a moment longer. “I think for people of my age, there is that connotation. Something secretive, furtive. I dare say for some that’s a great part of the attraction.”
“And for Claire?”
“I don’t think I’d go that far. Although I did get the impression that she liked to keep that aspect of her life quite compartmentalized from the rest.”
NOT SO MANY MINUTES LATER, THEY HAD LEFT STEPHEN Singer on his doorstep and were walking up toward Hampstead High Street in search of lunch.
“So,” Elder said, “what did you think?”
“Of Stephen?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure. A bit self-controlled for my liking. Bit too clever, too. Oxford, was it? But I suppose he seemed decent enough.”
“Trustworthy, then?”
Jennie glanced sideways. “Yes, I think so.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know.”
They walked on up the hill. “Did you believe him? When he said he hadn’t seen Claire again.”
Jennie stopped in her tracks. “Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. My first inclination is to say yes, I do.”
“But?”
“But one thing I’ve learned, first inclinations, first impressions, they’re not to be trusted. Not always, anyway.”
“So you think he might be lying? He might have seen Claire more recently, that’s what you mean? You think he might know what’s happened to her, where she is now?”
“Whoa, whoa. Not so fast. That’s one hell of a leap.”
They stood aside to let a pair of joggers go past.
“But it’s possible?” Jennie said.
“It’s possible.”
When Elder recommenced walking, Jennie fell into step beside him. The implication was clear in her mind, but best unspoken: in one way or another, Stephen Singer could have done her harm.
“There was something about where he lives, didn’t you think?” Jennie said, as they turned on to the High Street. “That place of his.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. There was this atmosphere. Sort of strange. Unreal. The size of it, for one thing. It made me feel like Alice, Alice in Wonderland, remember? When she goes into the White Rabbit’s house to look for his gloves? And it all gets smaller and smaller around her until she’s trapped and can’t get out. It felt like that.”
“When we get back,” Elder said, “I’ll have a word with a friend. See if we can’t find out a few things about Stephen on
the quiet. Just in case.”
“She was taking a risk, wasn’t she?” Jennie said, a few moments later. “My sister. Meeting people like that. Mind you, once you’ve passed a certain age, if you do want to meet someone, a man, what else can you do? She’s not exactly going to go clubbing, is she? Out on the town on a Friday night. And whatever I’ve learned about Claire recently, and that’s been quite a bit, I still can’t quite see her as the speed-dating type, can you?”
Though his experience of speed dating was precisely nil, Elder thought that was probably true. All else aside, Claire didn’t seem the kind to rush into things without weighing up the pros and cons and being able to maintain some element of control.
“It’s got to be something to do with all this stuff, though, don’t you think?” Jennie said. They were outside a pub advertising Toulouse sausages and mash. “Meeting someone through the Net.”
“It’s all we’ve got to go on,” Elder said. “For now.”
It was two clear weeks since Claire had last been seen.
JENNIE DROPPED ELDER OFF AT HIS HOTEL, AND BEFORE she swung back out into traffic, rang Derek on her cell.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “You’re running late.” A smile, not anger, in his voice.
“Think again. Five minutes tops.”
“How come you’re calling me then?”
“Thought you might want to start pouring the wine.”
When she and Derek had become enough of an item that her friends had started asking her if she was thinking about getting married again, Jennie had been quick to disabuse them. Once, thank you very much, was quite enough. Besides which, she’d never really seen Derek as the marrying kind. He was there, most of the time, when she needed him, and that was enough. Enough for him, too, or so it seemed.
Two years this summer and they hadn’t as much as moved in together, hadn’t seriously considered it. Jennie had her house, Derek his flat: both had their space. Derek’s was close enough to the city centre for him to be able to walk to work.
Along with his cousins, Derek ran the door at a number of the city’s clubs and pubs. Bouncers, doormen, call them what you will. Most nights, Saturdays in particular, Derek would make the rounds, check that everything was cool, under control, sort out any little problems that had ensued. It’s what he would be doing later on.
