He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

  ‘Legwork.’

  ‘Why look further afield when probably the answer is at Goldenhurst?’

  ‘Because I already looked there and found nothing and the only person at Goldenhurst who could have helped us is dead.’

  ‘Maybe Joan can. She’s not dead. And then there’s the gardener.’

  ‘Maybe, but my copper’s intuition says this has got something to do with what Nige was doing out of the house all day.’

  ‘Want some company?’

  ‘I thought you had an empire to build.’

  ‘They’re not built in days, don’t you know. Anyway, nothing’s going to happen for a while yet. Archie needs to formalise the formal plans, clear them with me, then submit them to the Parish and Shepway councils for planning permission and building regulations.’

  ‘How long will all that take?’

  ‘Weeks. Possibly months. Depends if there’s opposition.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Only God knows.’

  ‘Blimey. Bummer.’

  ‘So I’m at a bit of a loose end at the moment. The shop’s not busy and the ladies can run it without me breathing down their necks.’

  ‘OK. Why not? But it could get pretty boring.’

  ‘If I complain you can say I told you so.’

  ‘If you complain I’ll say more than that.’

  ***

  30

  Jo rang Mrs Swaine and asked if she could have a picture of Nigel Tate that was a good and recent likeness. We picked it up from Goldenhurst on our way through the next morning.

  While we were there, Jo asked if she could have a quick look at Nigel’s car. Mrs Swaine let her into the garage and she was back out in seconds.

  ‘Not the most rigorous search I’ve ever seen,’ I said, as we were bowling along the road through the woods towards Aldington.

  ‘Got what I needed.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Confirmation that Nigel Tate used the parking facility at the train station. There’s a parking permit attached to the windscreen.’

  I wished I’d thought of that.

  Jo said we’d ask at the station to see if anyone recognised Nigel. I suggested it might have been a more rewarding exercise, information wise, if we’d done it on a weekday and during his normal travelling time-frame, meaning before nine o’clock when the commuters were about.

  ‘We won’t be talking to them,’ said Jo.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘The railway people.’ The way she said it made them sound like, The Borrowers. ‘They always remember faces better. They work here. They can’t help themselves. And Saturday won’t be such a busy day for them.’

  So we walked into the station and enquired in the ticket hall with our wedding photograph of Nigel Tate. Jo had folded it over so that Rebecca Swaine was not visible and I could understand why. No red-blooded male was going to pay too much attention to Nigel’s not unattractive features when there was a beautiful woman, revealing rather a lot of shoulder and cleavage in a summer wedding frock, to gawp at.

  The man at the ticket office recognised Nigel as a season ticket holder. Jo asked to where. He said Nigel went all the way. And he didn’t smirk when he said it. St Pancras, he added. On the fast train.

  I thought that was that then. Job done. Jo had other ideas. I didn’t share her belief that we’d have a chance of finding anything more out; London, I reminded her, was a big place. She was not to be deterred. I asked when we should go then. She said, no time like the present. And we were already halfway there.

  So we bought a couple of day returns and went through to our platform. She said it was only going to be forty minutes each way and that it took longer to get from Dymchurch to the platform than it did to get from Ashford to central London. She was almost right.

  She asked a couple of guards who were loitering around the staffroom door if they recognised Nigel. They both did. A regular early bird, they agreed.

  The high-speed rail link leaves Ashford every half an hour so we didn’t have a lengthy wait. We got on and settled in. It wasn’t long before the call of ‘tickets, please’ came echoing up the aisle. Jo showed him the photograph.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ said the friendly man. ‘I recognise him. A frequent traveller. He usually catches an earlier train than this one, though. The seven-forty-five, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  ‘Do you know where he gets off?’ she said. There are two other stations that the high-speed train stops at en-route to the metropolis and I suddenly appreciated why Jo was asking. Jo couldn’t simply assume that Nigel Tate went ‘all the way’. It needed checking.

  ‘He goes all the way every day, madam,’ said the friendly man. It was obviously an injoke on the railways. ‘St Pancras. Very dapper gentleman. Always polite. Haven’t seen him for a couple of days, mind.’

  Jo didn’t tell him he’d never see him again. We thanked him and he went about his business.

  When he came back he stopped next to us. He’d obviously been thinking about things. ‘Mind me asking why you’re asking about the gentleman?’ he said.

  ‘He’s gone missing,’ said Jo.

  The friendly railwayman raised his eyebrows at that. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, madam.’ As an apparent afterthought, he said, ‘You police?’

  ‘Private. Working for the wife.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Seven-forty-five you said?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Yes madam.’

  ‘Weekends, too?’

  ‘Saturdays.’

  Jo thanked him and he went away.

  ***

  31

  We got out at St Pancras half an hour later. I’d never set foot in the place before. And it fairly took my breath away. As I was marvelling at the space, the structure, the architecture of the place, Jo had taken off in the direction of a gaggle of railway employees hanging around the ticket barrier. I left her to it, figuring she’d have more success on her own. Assuming there was any success to be had, which I thought highly unlikely.

  She was back soon, wearing a puzzled look.

  ‘What did you really expect?’ I said.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They must see thousands of passengers every day. Did you honestly think they’d be able to help you?’

  ‘One of them recognised Nigel Tate.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘He knows where he works.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  Jo shook her head. ‘He said he’s got a picture gallery near here. Says he walks past it on his way home.’

  ‘A picture gallery? He must be confusing him with someone else.’

  ‘He said it’s called Tate’s Modern.’

  That shut me up.

  We exited the station onto Midland Road, followed it south, crossed Euston Road and ended up in Judd Street. That’s where we needed to be. According to the railwayman, Tate’s Modern would be somewhere down on our left. It was. And it was closed. No matter. It was progress. I had to admire Jo’s copper’s nose.

  Judd Street was very smart up to a point about a couple of hundred metres down where a high-rise loomed over everything, spoiling the view and the skyline. The conservative in me was glad we didn’t have to go down that far. The street was a mixture of residential and commercial: a terrace of houses, a front of businesses with flats above and so on. There was a coffee shop, a specialist bookshop, a chartered accountant’s, a bespoke travel agent’s, a pub and what looked like the headquarters of the RNIB. Nothing tacky. Nothing essential for daily life, unless you were a visually-impaired alcoholic looking to buy something to read while you waited at the accountant’s to see whether you could afford that holiday of a lifetime you’d been planning.

  The gallery was not large. It occupied the ground floor of a three-storey property that could have been Regency or Edwardian-influenced – that era of construction remains a bit of a grey area for me. We rattled the door handle even though there were steel grilles over th
e windows and they were padlocked. We cupped our hands to see better. It didn’t help much.

  It was definitely an art gallery. There were pictures on the walls and not much else. It looked flashy and modern and pricey.

  A man clutching a couple of straining black bin bags came struggling up the stairs from the basement flat. He spared us a cursory glance as he tossed his load into a wheelie bin.

  Jo hailed him. ‘Excuse me.’

  He turned without much enthusiasm for it. ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ he said. He had half an inch of roll-up stuck in the corner of his mouth. He needed a shave and a haircut.

  ‘What isn’t?’ said Jo, and she’d closed the gap between them so he couldn’t really just scuttle back down to his burrow.

  ‘The gallery. I just live here. Look after the building. Watch them come and go.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tenants, of course. Who d’you think I mean?’

  ‘Right. This hasn’t been here long, has it?’

  ‘Few months. Looks like they’ve thrown in the towel on it.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Neither of them been in for a couple of days. It’s always a sign.’

  ‘But the place is still full of paintings.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Who’s responsible if the alarm goes off?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘You haven’t got numbers for the tenants of the shop then?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  Jo said, ‘Do you know who deals with the letting of the premises?’

  For answer he pointed a nicotine-stained digit down the street on the opposite side. We followed his gesture to see a small estate agent’s. When we turned back to him, he was already making his way back to his lair.

  Jo called out her thanks. It sounded a bit sarcastic. He didn’t acknowledge her.

  I said. ‘He said them. Neither of them.’

  Jo said, ‘I heard.’

  We traipsed down the pavement and looked in the estate agent’s window. A couple were sitting across from a pretty young girl who looked about twelve and they were all staring at a computer monitor, like friends sharing something on Facebook. Jo led us past a couple more properties to stare in the window of an art and craft shop.

  ‘What now?’ I said.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For that,’ she said, raising her nice chin in a direction over my shoulder.

  The couple were coming out of the estate agent’s shop.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jo. ‘And don’t speak unless spoken to.’

  I said, ‘Who are you, my mum?’

  ‘Just follow my lead.’

  We went in and were greeted by the pretty young girl showing us nearly all her very white teeth. They were big, too. They were almost comical, like something I’d once made out of reversed orange peel. She was on the phone and it was quickly clear it was a personal call. She terminated it without ceremony and offered us a warm welcome.

  ‘How can I help?’ she said in her sing-song voice. She had to work her jaw a lot just to get the sound out of her mouth.

  Jo became friendly and helped herself to a seat. I remained standing. ‘We hope you can. We’ve driven a long way and they’re shut.’

  The girl’s plastic smile melted a little in her puzzlement. Her eyes gave away her confusion.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jo, ‘I should explain. We’ve come to the art gallery, Tate’s Modern, to pick up a painting. And they’re shut. They shouldn’t be because we arranged to come today, didn’t we dear?’ Jo turned and looked up at me and I nodded a bit slowly. A bit stupidly.

  Jo said, ‘The building’s caretaker told us you might be able to help seeing as you were the letting agents. I’ve been trying Mr Tate’s mobile all morning but he must have a problem with it. If you could just give me the phone number for his associate, if you’ve got it, I’m sure he’d be really grateful, as would we.’

  The girl hesitated for about a second before saying, ‘Sure. If we’ve got it. No problem.’

  She punched a couple of keys on her computer and said, ‘You said you’ve being trying Mr Tate?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got his number. It’s his associate I spoke to last. The one who arranged to meet us here. My husband’s left his phone at home and I haven’t got the number.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the pretty young girl. ‘It’s only Mr Tate’s name and number on the leaseholders database.’ She still sounded like she was trying to fit her words to music.

  I said, ‘What about if the alarm goes off? Is there a different number?’

  She studied the screen again. ‘I’ve got two numbers for that. We have to have two numbers. One is the same as on the lease agreement database, so that must be Mr Tate’s.’ She was being smart and letting us know it.

  ‘What does the other one start with?’ said Jo.

  The girl read out a couple of numbers.

  Jo pounced, ‘That’s it.’ She repeated what the girl had said as she typed it into her phone and then waited for the rest of it. The girl obliged. It turned out that there wasn’t a name to go with it. We offered our sincere thanks and left.

  When we got onto the pavement, Jo said, ‘Well done. That was good thinking. Let me buy you a coffee.’

  We retraced our steps until we came to the street’s nice little independent coffee shop. We went in. Being in the independent coffee shop trade I took a keen professional interest in the place. I was looking for ideas to steal.

  Jo had offered to buy me a coffee but it was me standing at the counter ordering with my wallet in my hand while Jo settled herself at a table. About half of the tables were occupied and the place had a good ambience going on – casual, relaxed, easy-going. But this, I soon understood, was created by the clientele. Local professional people dressed down and chilling out on their day off with broadsheets and weekend supplements littering the table tops. There wasn’t a child in sight. These weren’t representative of my customer demographic. Romney Marsh just didn’t have the same sort of job market as central London.

  I put the tray down and said, ‘Are you going to ring it?’

  ‘When I’ve thought of what to say. I need to bait it properly or we’ll lose them in the time it takes them to press end call.’

  ‘We don’t even know if it’s a man or woman, do we?’

  ‘True, but I can think of a way to find out.’

  Jo caught the eye of a young man who was clearing a table and wearing the apron of the establishment. He came over looking like he was expecting a complaint. His name badge said Paul.

  Jo said, ‘Hello, Paul. Do the people from the gallery ever come in here?’

  His face relaxed a little. ‘Every day, when they’re open.’

  Jo took out her photograph of Nigel Tate and showed it to him.

  ‘He’s the boss,’ said the young man.

  ‘We’re looking for the other person who works there.’

  ‘Natalie?’ Something happened to his face then. If his look had been captured on canvas, I’d have called it Penny Dropping. He became guarded but remained interested.

  Jo sensed a change in his attitude and went for the heart of the matter: ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Only from coming in here. Are you police?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask that?’

  ‘We had people asking questions about them a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘They acted like it.’

  ‘Did they speak to you?’

  ‘No. Harry. He told me about it.’

  ‘And they were definitely police?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Is Harry here now?’

  ‘No. Day off.’

  Jo’s questioning had been quick fire and the youth had been answering almost reflexively. With the short pause, he recovered some of his wits.

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  Jo ignored it. ‘When was the last time you s
aw Natalie?’

  ‘A few days ago. Is she in trouble?’

  ‘Have you got her phone number?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I need to talk to her. I’ve got a phone number and it might be for Natalie. If you had her number, you might have been able to confirm it.’

  Paul said, ‘Why don’t you just ring it?’

  Jo smiled at him. ‘Because she doesn’t know me. She might not want to talk to me.’

  ‘You want me to talk to her?’

  I sensed that Paul had an ulterior motive for this suggestion.

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘Sure. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, if she doesn’t want to talk to me, how about I pass her over to you and you can explain who we are and what we want to talk to her about?’

  ‘You haven’t told me.’

  Jo showed him her Security Industry Authority identification and said, ‘The boss is dead. He committed suicide recently. I’m working for the family trying to find out why. I want to talk to Natalie but, like I say, she doesn’t know me. All I’ve got is this phone number that might be hers. If I call she might just hang up and then I’ve lost her. You understand?’

  He nodded and he was frowning.

  Jo didn’t give him time for further questions. She dialled and the three of us waited. Eventually, Jo made a face and hung up. She said, ‘It went through to a personalised answer phone message. If I ring it again can you listen and just tell me if it’s Natalie?’

  Paul nodded. Jo pressed redial and handed the phone across. He listened until the message had ended.

  ‘That’s Natalie’s voice.’

  Jo thanked him for his help and gave him her business card on the off chance Natalie showed up in the near future.

  We had a look in the gallery window again on our way back to the station. Nothing had changed. On an impulse, Jo went down the steps to the basement flat and banged on the door that the unfriendly man with the bin liners had disappeared back into.

  He was still being unfriendly when he opened it. ‘What you want now?’

  Jo dispensed with any pleasantries, ‘Have you had other people asking about the gallery recently?’