He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2)

by Oliver Tidy

‘Might have. What’s it to you?’

  Like a magician, Jo pulled out a twenty-pound note and held it up for him to get a good look at.

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  He actually licked his lips. ‘Man and a woman. Man was a bit bigger than him,’ he said, nodding in my direction, ‘and older. She was about as tall as you. She was older, too.’

  ‘Were they police?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Did they say what they were after?’

  ‘Looking for him. Bloke what runs the place.’

  ‘How were they dressed?’

  ‘Smart.’

  ‘If you had to guess, what would you say they were?’

  ‘Trouble. I told them nothing. She was in charge.’

  ‘Anything distinctive about either of them?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘He had a tattoo of a small bird on his neck and one of them stupid little ponytails. Fat ponce.’

  Jo handed over the money and her business card and said, ‘If either of them comes back, or anyone you think isn’t after a picture comes looking for the owner, give me a call, eh?’

  He withdrew, mumbling something.

  As we walked back towards the station, I said, ‘I thought they only did that in the movies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pay for information with folded notes.’

  ‘Where have you been living, David? Money opens doors and mouths. Always has, always will. Most people like him will fall over themselves to tell you what they think you want to hear for the price of a good bottle. The thing is, knowing who and what to believe.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes. But I might give coffee shop Paul a ring to ask his mate, Harry, for descriptions of them. That tat sounds distinctive.’

  ‘I’ve never seen police with tattoos and ponytails,’ I said.

  ‘No. Me neither. But some of those undercover boys need to blend in with some very nasty people.’

  ‘And they’d get a tattoo on their neck for it?’

  ‘Think about it, David. It would certainly be a touch of authenticity at a time when the police find it harder and harder to break into criminal gangs.’

  ‘Yeah, but still. A tattoo. Would the police pay to have it lasered off?’

  Jo said she had no idea and she didn’t sound very interested in continuing the conversation.

  We were back in St Pancras waiting for the train when Jo’s phone rang. She had a brief conversation and finished with a ‘thank you very much for your help.’

  She said, ‘That was Paul.’

  ‘Coffee shop Paul?’

  ‘The same. He has a common social-network friend with Natalie. He’s had a chat with her.’

  ‘Natalie?’

  ‘The friend. The friend hasn’t seen Natalie for a couple of days and that’s unusual.’

  I had one of those bad feelings in my stomach. It must have shown on my face.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ said Jo, reading my expression.

  ‘So what’s happening?’ I said.

  ‘Paul’s friend is going to call me.’

  ‘Now?’

  Jo’s phone rang. She had another short conversation, during which she asked where Natalie lived. Then she asked where the friend lived. Jo suggested they should check on Natalie together. It seemed that the friend agreed.

  Jo ended the call and said, ‘She’ll meet us outside the station in twenty minutes.’

  ***

  32

  Natalie’s friend was also a young woman. Early twenties. A little overweight. A lot of peroxide. She’d brought an escort. That was sensible. Natalie’s friend introduced herself as Irene. She sounded foreign. If pressed I’d have said eastern European. Irene’s escort was not introduced, like he’d tagged along uninvited, but it was obvious he was there as Irene’s protector. He was all hair, ink and piercings. He was dressed all in black. Even his hair was jet black and I think it was dyed. It certainly didn’t look natural. He was fatter than Irene and looked like he was trying to convince everyone he could look after himself if it came to a fight. I smiled at him, trying to let him know I didn’t want to fight him. He didn’t smile back.

  Irene asked to see Jo’s identification. Jo obliged. She gave her one of her business cards as well, which seemed to ease some of the uncertainties Irene appeared to be harbouring. Jo summarised the parts of the story she wanted Irene to know. Irene visibly relaxed further with us but became concerned for her friend.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Natalie?’ said Jo.

  ‘Tuesday. We are not that close. But I have not heard from her and I have tried. I tried again today.’

  ‘So did we,’ said Jo.

  ‘You think she could be in trouble?’ said Irene.

  ‘I have no idea, but if you know where she lives it might be a good idea to check on her.’

  ‘I know where she lives but I can’t go now. I have work soon.’

  ‘Will you tell me her address?’

  Irene made a decision. ‘I am worried about her. If you see her, will you tell her to call me? Let me know she is all right?’

  ‘I’ll call you myself if you like?’

  They exchanged numbers and in doing so Jo acquired a path to Irene if she needed one in the future.

  Irene gave Natalie’s address. It was out near Finsbury Park. She advised us to get the Tube to Manor House and hoof it from there. We went in search of subterranean mechanical serpents. The day was becoming interestinger and interestinger.

  Yale Road was all one might expect from a residential street in that part of London: too compact, too congested, too crammed full of little homes and big cars. A keen bitter draught was being funnelled down the narrow highway, driving litter and debris before it in little playful swirls. The leaves played games with each other. Their irregular dashing and twisting and rushing and leaping put me in mind of energetic little children.

  The address we’d been given for Natalie was a two-storey terraced property. Like a good number of the houses down there, the one we were looking for was split into two flats. Irene had not given us a flat reference. As I was staring at the buzzers, working out which we should press, Jo leaned in and pressed both.

  In seconds a curtain twitched to our right at the downstairs lounge bay window. An old woman’s face loomed out. She looked a bit lost, like someone who’d just gone blind.

  Jo gave her a little wave. The old woman took over a minute to crack one of the windows so that she could speak with us. At least she could see.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said. She wasn’t particularly friendly. It was London, twenty-first century Britain – I couldn’t begrudge her her suspicions or her frostiness.

  Jo said, ‘We’re looking for Natalie. Do you know if she’s in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No you don’t, or no she’s not.’

  ‘No she’s not.’

  ‘But she does live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know she’s not in?’

  ‘If she was in I’d hear her moving about, wouldn’t I?’

  Jo said, ‘Good point. When were you last aware of her being home?’

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  Jo took out and held up her identification and said, ‘We just want to make sure she’s all right. She hasn’t shown up at work for a few days and she’s not answering her phone.’

  ‘She in trouble?’

  ‘I hope not, Mrs...?’

  ‘Pope. I haven’t seen or heard her for days.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen her leave with luggage or anything that looked like she might be going away somewhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had any other visitors like us? People looking for her?’

  The woman shook her head.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Mrs Pope. You might get a visit from the police now.’

  That changed the woman’s attitude. ‘Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

 
; ‘They’ll just need to check that she isn’t in the flat and had an accident or something like that. Maybe she had an epileptic fit. Did you know she suffers with those? People are worried about her.’

  ‘What if I let you in to have a look?’

  ‘If she’s not lying on the floor unconscious or worse then you won’t get a visit from the police.’

  ‘Wait there,’ she said and shut the window with a bang.

  ‘You played on that poor woman’s fears,’ I said, as we waited. ‘And you lied to her. You don’t know Natalie’s got epilepsy.’

  Jo said, ‘We don’t know she hasn’t.’

  There was a rattling of a key in a lock and the door was opened. There was no chain in place. We waited to be invited in.

  ‘Hurry up then,’ said Mrs Pope. ‘You’re letting all the heat out.’

  We went in. Mrs Pope shut the door behind us and then pulled a heavy curtain across. We were in what was the old hallway of the original house. The passageway that would have led through the house, probably to the original kitchen at the back, had been blocked off – cheap panelling with a cheap door in it. The only way forward was up the stairs. It was tidy and bare. Just a small table for post and a little bunch of artificial flowers in a cheap vase. An ugly energy-saving light bulb protruded from beneath the small central lampshade. A faint smell of cooking hung in the air.

  My guess was this was Mrs Pope’s home and she lived downstairs and let upstairs to supplement her pension.

  ‘How long has Natalie been your tenant?’ said Jo, obviously thinking similar thoughts to mine.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘No problems?’

  No. She’s good as gold. Always pays on time, polite, quiet, keeps herself to herself.’ It sounded like a reference.

  ‘Visitors?’

  ‘I don’t spy on her,’ said Mrs Pope and I didn’t believe her. ‘And I do ask my female tenants not to bring men back. I’m not running a knocking shop.’

  ‘You’ve got a key, then?’ said Jo.

  Mrs Pope showed us the key and said, ‘We’ll just make sure she’s not in and hurt herself. I won’t let you poke about.’

  ‘We’re only concerned for her welfare, Mrs Pope. We can wait down here if you like?’

  ‘I don’t want to go in on my own,’ she said, sounding a bit afraid.

  We trailed the old woman up the stairs and I thought I could have climbed Everest quicker. There was a little landing at the top in front of a door with a Yale lock that wasn’t an original fixture. Mrs Pope fumbled with the bunch of keys and her breathing was heavy. Up close I got a whiff of onions from her. I exchanged a quick look with Jo and I felt like laughing for it.

  Mrs Pope got the door open. I saw Jo sniff at the air and I realised why I didn’t feel like laughing any more. I inhaled gingerly but only got trapped homely smells for my trouble.

  Mrs Pope called out for Natalie. And got no answer.

  ‘Shall we have a quick look, then?’ said Jo.

  Mrs Pope seemed like she had changed her mind about us all being there, ready to invade her tenant’s privacy.

  Jo said, ‘You stay here, David. Mrs Pope and I can just check Natalie isn’t hurt in here.’

  They went in and I heard them moving about the rooms. In under two minutes they were back out and Mrs Pope seemed mightily relieved that the seeds of the fears Jo had planted had not rooted and grown into something ugly.

  The door was locked and we all piled downstairs again feeling a lot better about things.

  ‘When we were standing in the little shared area at the foot of the stairs, Jo said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Pope. I’m sorry if I worried you. But it’s best to be sure.’

  Mrs Pope looked pleased with the way things had turned out. Or maybe she was pleased that she wasn’t going to be visited by the police now.

  Jo said, ‘I used to be a police officer, Mrs Pope. You shouldn’t let anyone into your home without first checking their credentials. Always ask to see identification – they can pass it through the letter box – and then you ring whichever organisation they claim to represent. I’ve seen too many trusting little old ladies taken advantage of by unpleasant individuals. Do you understand me?’

  Mrs Pope looked a bit crestfallen.

  ‘Promise me, now,’ said Jo.

  Mrs Pope nodded.

  ‘Good. Here is my business card. Please, when Natalie comes back, get her to call me, would you? Or you can.’

  We heard the chain put on the door and the noise of the curtain going back across as we stood back on Mrs Pope’s doorstep.

  ‘A wasted journey,’ I said, as we walked back towards the Tube.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Jo. ‘Natalie wasn’t hurt and she’s cleared off somewhere. That might tell us something.’

  ‘You don’t know she’s not hurt, just because she isn’t in there. She could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere.’

  ‘Bit dramatic but you have a point.’

  ‘She could be hiding somewhere, or held against her will.’

  ‘Calm down, David. She might simply be visiting her mum. Let’s not get carried away. It’s the details – the parts of the puzzle – that we have to collect and then put together. And now we know what Natalie looks like.’

  I said, ‘I know you have superhuman detecting powers but how on Earth can you work out what she looks like without seeing her?’

  Jo held up a strip of passport sized photographs. A rather attractive and detached-looking young woman stared back blankly.

  We spent the time walking back to Manor House station having a good-natured discussion regarding issues of ethics and principles associated with abusing the trust of vulnerable old women and stealing from the homes of absent tenants. I took the high road of morality and Jo took the low road of expediency and neither of us arrived at the Underground ahead of the other.

  The Tube was busy and didn’t encourage conversation of a sensitive nature, or any nature for that matter. We were both forced to stand and apart from each other all the way back to St Pancras. I spent most of the journey only inches away from – and fully focussed on avoiding closer proximity to – the naked, hairy armpit of a tall strap-hanger who obviously didn’t see the weather as something to influence his dress code, or toiletries as something to waste his money on. Maybe he was just used to smelling that way getting him some personal space on the Tube. It was working. His dirty smell was getting him some dirty looks, too. Other than thinking him a selfish bastard, I had to marvel at his nerve and the obvious lack of figs that he gave for the opinions of others.

  With all our London leads knotted there was nothing else to do but grab a baguette and a drink for the journey and head home.

  ***

  33

  We got four seats to ourselves. As we refuelled, I tackled Jo over what was next.

  ‘All right with you if we call in on Mrs Swaine on the way back through?’

  ‘You’re going to tell her about the gallery?’

  ‘Naturally. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve found something out during the course of an investigation that she’s paying me to conduct. She’s my client. She’s not employing me to keep secrets from her.’

  ‘And what about Natalie?’

  ‘What about Natalie?’

  ‘Are you going to tell your client about her?’

  ‘Haven’t decided.’

  ‘Isn’t that keeping secrets from your employer?’

  Jo gave me the look and changed topic. ‘I’m a bit concerned about her.’

  ‘Me too. Missing since Tuesday is a coincidence that makes me uncomfortable. She might be in danger or hurt or worse.’

  ‘Leaving aside that we don’t know exactly when she disappeared, why do you think that?’

  ‘Because coffee shop Paul and the caretaker from the charm school said there were people asking after Nigel. Maybe they caught up with Natalie.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Perhaps she turned up at the shop and they were arou
nd, waiting.’

  ‘Say they found her, it doesn’t mean that that they would have hurt her. Paul said they were like police. They could have been any authority: tax officers, bailiffs, local council, selling advertising. They could have been customers.’

  ‘True, so where is she then? Why hasn’t she been home for days or in contact with her friends? With those kinds of considerations and two people dead I’m always going to fear the worst for anyone else who’s involved and missing.’

  ‘Even though they were both clear-cut suicides, I’ll say fair point. Interesting change of career path for Nigel, don’t you think?’

  ‘Mmm. Sigmund liked to paint.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And he’s dead.’

  ‘I remember that, too.’

  ‘Connections?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I’d say likely.’

  ‘Maybe. I think I’ll give Marion a call, let her know what I’ve found out and tell her there’s a missing person.’

  Jo placed the photos of Natalie on the little table between us and spent a minute composing and taking an image with her phone, which she then forwarded to Marion Pardew as an attachment to a text message. Before we reached Ashford, Marion replied thanking Jo for sharing and to let her know she’d find out whether it was local police who were sniffing around for Nigel, and that she’d pass on the concern over Natalie’s disappearance.

  Rebecca Swaine said she’d be happy for us to call on her. So we did. I couldn’t help looking up for the ghost of Sigmund at the window as we pulled up noisily on the drive. We knocked on the door, waited and knocked harder. We got no reply.

  Jo suggested we looked in at some windows. Mrs Swaine might just be asleep. I hoped so.

  Guided on by the sounds of classical piano music drifting on the breeze, we surprised her in her greenhouse exercising her green fingers. She was wearing clothes that suggested she’d been outside for a while. Over the shock of our sudden appearance, she apologised for not being ready for us, saying she hadn’t expected us quite so soon.

  The greenhouse was very impressive. Not aesthetically – it was all about functionality – but in its size. The only other time I’d been round the back of the property was in pitch darkness so it was no surprise I’d missed it. It was not particularly old. It was well equipped with sprinklers and heating. The temperature reminded me of a butterfly house I’d been in once. There were rows of neat and sturdy staging on top of which dozens of empty shallow green plastic trays lined up for attention. There were a number of black bin liners bulging with the efforts of Rebecca Swaine’s labours and the contents from the trays. People dealt with their grief differently. Keeping mind and body busy was traditionally regarded as good therapy by many. Mrs Swaine caught me sizing the place up and it seemed to concern her.