The Invisible Ones

by Stef Penney

  I ease myself onto the seat he indicates.

  “Kath, let’s have some tea.”

  He speaks without looking at her. She goes to the kitchen through the keyhole arch, and puts on a kettle.

  “Perhaps Mr. Lovell fancies a nip.”

  “Oh, no, I’m fine with—”

  “Well, I do.”

  Kath glares at her brother, bangs down the tea caddy, and goes out of the trailer.

  Tene looks at me, elbows on the table.

  “It’s a lovely trailer you’ve got here, Mr. Janko.”

  “Thank you. I’ve kept it the way my wife had it, when she was alive.”

  “Oh . . . I’m sorry to hear that . . .”

  “So you’re a private detective. Never met one of those before.”

  “You haven’t missed much.”

  “Feel like I’m in the movies . . .”

  “Well . . . it’s not that exciting, Mr. Janko.”

  “Call me Tene.”

  “That’s an unusual name.”

  “An old family name. But you are a Romanichal, so not familiar with such names.”

  “Well, my father settled. My mother was a gorjio.”

  “But you’re still a Lovell.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought all private eyes were ex-policemen, but something tells me you’re not. Nor ex-army, either.”

  “No. I went to work for a private investigator after I left college. And liked it.”

  “College? You’ve done well. Your daddy must be very proud of you.” “He’s passed away now. But he was, yes.”

  “He was a postman, wasn’t he? Bart Lovell.”

  I feel a mild shock, and pause to breathe slowly.

  “That’s right. Did you ever meet him?”

  Tene shakes his shaggy head.

  “He wasn’t a one for the fairs, was he? Wouldn’t go to Epsom or Stowe, nothing like that.”

  “No, well, he was a postman, as you said. He didn’t have much time for holidays.”

  Tene nods.

  “As for us, we’ve always kept on the road.”

  “That must be hard, these days.”

  He shrugs.

  “So where is your family from? I don’t know the name Janko.”

  “My granddaddy came over with the Kalderash in the last century. From the Balkans, what was still the Ottoman Empire then. But he forgot to go home. Got married to a Romanichal girl name of Talaitha Lee. And they said her mammy was a Lovell. So you see, we must be related.”

  He smiles broadly. I take this as an indication that I am to listen to him with a large helping of salt.

  “Could be.”

  I smile, but I fear deep black blood cannot be far away.

  “Girl’s father hire you, did he?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t disclose my client.”

  He actually winks at me then, nodding. Like an actor in a silent film, all his gestures seem larger than necessary.

  “Why now, ’s what I’m wondering. She’s been gone a long time.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more open about that. I’m just talking to everyone who knew Rose—which you did. And Ivo, of course.”

  I wait for a bit, to see what comes up next.

  “ ’Twas very sad, all that. Her leaving. We were all very sad. Terrible.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “I don’t. And if you told me she was standing outside this minute, I’d have nothing to say to her.”

  “Could you tell me what happened?”

  “Certainly. I don’t know what her daddy told you, but this is the truth— and who else would know? She ran off with a gorjio and left my son and my dear grandson, and we’ve never seen her since. Not hide nor hair.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Six years ago . . . more or less.”

  “It would help a lot if you could tell me what you remember about that.”

  Tene shakes his head, wagging his shock of gray hair. There’s something leonine about him, almost regal. He stares out the window; painters would go wild for that profile.

  “A very sad thing. What mother could go off and leave her child like that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  Tene looks at me and grins.

  “We should have hired you six years ago!”

  “Did you ever try and find her?”

  He shrugs.

  “She ran off with another man. You can’t force people, can you?”

  At that moment, Kath returns with a bottle and a tray. Richly painted and gilded china, a cut-glass bowl full of sugar lumps, and plates piled with Jaff a cakes. She puts the tray on the table in front of Tene and pours tea into shell-thin cups. She plonks the brandy in front of her brother and goes out again.

  “And, of course, my grandson is afflicted. Afflicted from the day he was born.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Your sister Luella said something of the sort. What’s wrong with him?”

  “One of those . . . blood things.”

  “I don’t understand—one of those blood things?”

  “A disease in the blood. He was born with it. There are others in the family who have suffered. There is no cure.”

  He waves his hand, as if it’s too painful to talk about. He unscrews the brandy and pours a small glass for each of us.

  “They come up with new cures all the time . . . thanks . . . so maybe, there will be.”

  Tene nods, looking at the table. His face is tragic.

  “It must be hard for all of you.”

  “Yes. But we must follow our Lord’s example, mustn’t we? Bear our burdens without complaining. Not run away from them.”

  “Is that what Rose did?”

  “Some people don’t have the strength.”

  “Can you remember the order of events? Exactly when she left? How old was the baby?”

  He shakes his head with a deep, theatrical sigh.

  “It would be a great help. For example, where were you pitched at the time? Was it near here?”

  “I think it was maybe . . . It was winter. It was cold. It was a good stopping place, the Black Patch—before they sold it off. Yeah, that was it, up by Seviton.”

  I nod, not knowing the exact place, but there used to be hundreds of stopping places on common ground, or private land owned by a tolerant farmer. Now, over the last twenty or thirty years, most have been swallowed up by developers building new houses. Or councils have got too nervy to let people stop, what with the locals on their backs all the time.

  “When is your grandson’s birthday?”

  “Twenty-fifth October. He was just a few months old when she went. Five months, four . . . something like that.”

  “Was it evident by then, his illness?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. He nearly died. We had to take him to hospital.”

  “And how long after that did she leave?”

  “A couple of months . . . Maybe less? It’s hard to remember.”

  I note this down.

  “Had anything happened just before she ran off? Had she rowed with her husband?”

  “That wouldn’t be for me to say. All I know is one morning she wasn’t there. Just went, leaving Christo, leaving all of us.”

  “Christo’s your grandson? Did she take a lot of clothes? Personal possessions?”

  “Well, I’m sure she took clothes. She wouldn’t’a gone bare, would she?” He bursts out laughing, as though simply referring to a woman’s nakedness is a shocking indiscretion.

  “If someone takes a lot of possessions—clothes, money, personal items—they’ve usually planned it well in advance.”

  “She took most of everything she had . . . Yes, she planned it, all right.”

  I flex my writing hand to ease out the cramp.

  “Can you remember the names of her friends? Acquaintances?”

  Tene shrugs again.

  “I can’t honestly remember. She used to borrow the car and
go off now and again, but I don’t know where she went. Never met anyone, I don’t think.”

  “Rose was a proper Romany, wasn’t she? A full-blooded Romany.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I believe she was a shy girl. She didn’t have a lot of friends, according to her family . . . I’m just wondering, where would she have got to know a gorjio?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Lovell. But she did go off, after we found out about Christo; it was then. She couldn’t really cope. She must have met someone then.”

  “But you thought it was a gorjio, not a Gypsy, isn’t that right? That’s what . . . your sister said. What made you think that?”

  Tene leans suddenly toward me, his hand bunches on the table; it’s the first sign of aggression he’s shown. “If it was a Gypsy, we’d have known about it. We’d have heard. You know that. But there was nothing—so . . .”

  He leans back and drains his glass in a final sort of way.

  “You’re being very helpful, Mr. Janko, but I’d really like to talk to Ivo. Is he here?”

  Tene shakes his head.

  “He was broken when she left. All alone with that tiny baby. His dear mother had passed on by then, God bless her. What was he to do?”

  “What did he do?”

  Tene looks fierce again, the lion stretching out his claws.

  “What a man does: he’s father and mother to the child. Bringing him up all on his own.”

  “He hasn’t married again?”

  Tene shakes his head.

  “It’s hard for him. With a sick child. Ivo does everything for him. Christo is his life.”

  I nod sympathetically.

  “They live here with you?”

  “It was terrible for him. There’s nothing he can tell you. He was asleep with the baby when she left. He kept waiting for her to come back. Not knowing—that’s the worst. If she’d’ve left a note saying she wasn’t coming back—that would have been better. He wouldn’t have had to wait for months . . . years. Nearly drove him crackers. If you go and stir it all up again—I don’t want him going crackers. He’s the only parent that poor boy’s got.”

  “I understand. But he is still her husband. Don’t you think it’s strange that even her own family haven’t heard from her since?”

  Tene blows air out of his nostrils in an impatient snort.

  “If I’d have done something like that, I’d be ashamed to show my face, too.”

  “What if something had happened, and she couldn’t come back?”

  Tene looks at me, astonished.

  “Couldn’t come back?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Like . . . kidnapped, you mean?”

  “Not that, especially. Something may have happened to her afterward. Finding out what did happen . . . could give everyone some peace.”

  Tene snorts again.

  “My old dad used to say, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ And I’ve always found that to be advice worth taking.”

  I smile inadvertently. It’s not a cliché you often hear as a private investigator, although I feel like saying it to clients sometimes—on average once or twice a week. I never do, though.

  “My dad used to say that, too.”

  “Well, then. I’m asking you not to bother my son. It won’t help you, and it will hurt him.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve said, but I can’t promise not to talk to him.”

  Tene glares at me and then seems to make up his mind about something.

  “I understand, Mr. Lovell. You’re just making a living like the next man.”

  As I’m getting my card out of my pocket, I stand up and knock my knee against the table. Tene reaches out a hand to steady it, lifting the lace tablecloth as he does so. And I realize, with a shock, that his seat is a wheelchair.

  “I’m so sorry . . .”

  A checked blanket is tucked over withered legs, out of proportion to the rest of his body. I’m embarrassed. And I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.

  “Whoops-a-daisy.” Tene is unconcerned.

  “If you think of anything else, Mr. Janko—if you remember something that might be relevant—anything at all . . . You never know what can have a bearing . . .”

  Kath Smith is outside, to watch me clear off.

  “Got what you wanted, then?”

  “Yes, thank you for everything. I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about when Rose left? You don’t know who she went with?”

  “We weren’t there. It was just Tene and Ivo and her. We heard later on.”

  “Do you know where I could find Ivo?”

  “Last we heard, he was up in the Fens somewhere.”

  “He travels?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  A pause.

  “Wisbech way. I think.” She takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one. “Last we heard.” “Okay. Thanks.”

  I smile breezily.

  “Nice to have met you, Mrs. Smith.”

  As I pick my way through the worst of the mud to my car, I think there is a whisper of movement from one of the trailers—perhaps a flicker of a curtain. I wonder if Ivo Janko isn’t in the end trailer. If he isn’t, I’ll eat my investigator’s license for breakfast. But I don’t want to antagonize them. Not yet. And after six years, I don’t suppose another day or two is going to make a great deal of difference to Rose Janko, wherever she is now.

  14.

  JJ

  After class today, our form teacher, Mr. Stewart, held me back until everyone else had gone.

  “Well, JJ,” he started. Never a good sign. “End of term soon.”

  “Mm.”

  “And we still haven’t decided about your exam subjects, have we?”

  “Erm, no.”

  “Your mum didn’t reply to the letter we sent out.”

  “Oh.”

  That’s not surprising, as we don’t live where they think we do.

  As if he suspected something of the sort, he gave me an envelope. “Here’s another copy. We’d like her to come in so we can all sit down and talk about your future.”

  I nodded. It sounds so serious when they say things like that.

  “Will you make sure she gets it this time? There’s nothing to worry about. You could have a very promising future, you know.”

  “Okay.”

  He smiled. I think he was really trying to be nice. Mr. Stewart’s all right, unlike some of the teachers, even if he loses his temper sometimes. He can’t stand it when people muck about; he really shouts. Sometimes he throws chalk.

  After school, Granddad picks me up in the lorry. He’s been out totting. I’m glad everyone else has gone, because nobody else gets picked up from school in a lorry. It’s not that I mind, really—it’s just that some people take the piss, and I can’t really be bothered with that. Granddad’s all right. He doesn’t go on about how I should be working at my age. Although he doesn’t say so, I think he agrees with Mum about school. It’s fine not being able to read and stuff if you work with your family—tarmacking, say, or scrap dealing. But you have to stick together for that to work; there has to be lots of you—lots of children, or brothers marrying sisters (not their own sisters, obviously), and our family isn’t very good at that, on account of the disease. Even without the disease, look at Uncle Ivo and Mum: they haven’t managed to stick together with anyone. So they don’t think there’s much hope for me. If you’re on your own, it’s better to have an education. Anyway, I like school, in some ways. I like reading; I always have. This makes me a bit strange in my family; Mum will read only if it’s a form, or the paper if there’s a good murder. Great-uncle can barely read at all, but he knows more than anyone I know.

  Last year, when I first came to the school, we were on the council site. Some of Granddad’s relatives had gone on the road, and they let us sublet. You’re not supposed to, but still. It wasn’t that nice. The other people weren’t friendly, apart from the girls who u
sed to hang around Ivo. But most of them were young and stupid. By the time a girl’s Ivo’s age— he’s twenty-eight—she’s been married for years, unless there’s something wrong with her. And hardly anyone gets divorced. You don’t want to marry someone who’s been married before, or marry someone who’s a lot older than you. It’s just not done. When they told us we had to leave because we were illegal, we weren’t that sorry.

  This is a good site, the one we’re on now. It’s private, and there aren’t any neighbors to kick up a fuss. Granddad can bring scrap back, and there’s even a stream of clean water. Great-uncle and Gran love it—it’s like the old days, apparently. Ivo likes it, too; he is a very private person, and he didn’t like the girls pestering him all the time, and cooing over Christo, just because he’s so cute.

  Mum’s still out when we get back, so I have tea with Gran and Granddad. Granddad puts the telly on, and we eat bread and butter and watch an ancient American cop show. I think I get on best with Granddad when we’re watching telly. Gran is in a bit of a mood, but neither of us asks her why, which is sort of deliberate, to see how annoyed she’ll get. She gets her own back by waiting until the most exciting bit in the cop show to tell us.

  “A private detective came snooping round today.”

  “Kath, shush. We’re watching,” says Granddad.

  I say, “What?”

  “He came round asking all these questions about Rose.”

  “Rose?”

  Now she has Granddad’s attention.

  “Can you believe it? After all this time, her family want to find her.”

  “Well, they won’t find her here.”

  “I know, but Tene’s decided he doesn’t want him talking to Ivo. We said he was in the Fens. Wisbech. So don’t either of you say any different, if he comes back.”

  Granddad shrugs, turns back to Dragnet, and turns up the volume to let us know it’s over, as far as he’s concerned.

  I stare at Gran, wondering if she’s made all this up. It seems incredible— far too exciting to happen to us.

  “What did he look like?”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Yeah. The private eye.”

  “Well, he’s a Gypsy.”

  “Really? Is he coming back?”

  A Gypsy private detective—I’ve never heard of such a thing.