by Cathy Ace
Gary Gilchrist headed for the bathroom, and some peace and quiet. He might have to shut her up sooner than he’d thought; she was starting to drive him bonkers. Same as all women, his mother included. She’d nagged at him for years and years, until he’d had enough. Still, she wasn’t saying much now, was she? Not chattering away at him anymore, now she was under them bricks in the cellar.
He wondered how the Little Lady would feel if she knew she was locked up just feet away from the bones of a stupid old bitch who’d nagged her loving son just once too often. He smiled as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Women – can’t live with ’em . . . but you can kill ’em, and shut ’em up, he thought wryly.
Natasha lay on the bed, still worried, but now in a different way; what did Gary mean about cutting that bloke? And how would he know how to do it, anyway?
She’d always felt quite safe with Gary – yeah, he was a bit rough, and he’d given her a few slaps in the months they’d been together. But only when she’d deserved it, like he’d said. Which seemed to be more and more these days.
But, surely, he couldn’t really be anything like they said he was at the Slug on the Cromwell Road; surely he couldn’t be a ‘psycho’. He could be quite thoughtful at times, quite nice. Of course, that was usually when he wanted something.
Natasha slapped her own hand when she realized she was nibbling at her nails; she’d almost managed to stop that. Gary said only babies bit their nails. She’d get up and make a cup of tea for them both – strong, like Gary liked it . . .
Annie and Christine jumped out of the cab at the end of St Peter’s Terrace, and wandered along until they could see number eighteen. It was an unkempt house in a row of up-and-coming counterparts. With the standard Georgian three stories up, one storey down, these houses were obviously being bought up and renovated. But not the Gilchrist house; it was clear that whoever lived there cared nothing for the potential of the home, and owned neither a paintbrush nor a window chamois.
‘So?’ asked Annie, pointedly. ‘Come on, Chrissy – you’re the brainy one. We need something to get us in the door – something that’ll give us a good reason to go through the house. I mean, we’re assuming Poppy is there, right? I mean, actually inside the house?’ Christine nodded. ‘So what can we do that’ll get us past a kidnapper with a kidnappee on the premises? How can we make him let us in? Come on, Chrissy – suggestions, please.’
‘Hmm,’ replied Christine. She looked thoughtful. ‘We could be from the council; that might get us in and give us a chance to look around. A complaint about rats? Something like that?’
‘I don’t think he’s the sort who’d welcome a visit from the council,’ replied Annie glumly, ‘and I don’t think we look like rat-catchers, either. Besides, the last thing I want to do is go hunting around an old house that looks like it’s probably really got more than its fair share of vermin.’
Christine bit her lip – which Annie knew was a sign she was deep in thought.
‘I’ve got it,’ exclaimed Christine. ‘We could be estate agents with a client who wants to pay him lots of money for the house.’
Annie thought about it for a moment. ‘Good one, Chrissy – it might work.’ She sounded enthusiastic. ‘Clearly he’s a greedy bugger; we could play on that. But shouldn’t we have a card or something with an estate agent’s name on it?’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Christine. ‘We just passed an estate agents’ office around the corner. Come on, let’s go in, pick up some details and get a couple of cards for good measure; it doesn’t matter what they say, so long as they’re women’s names, then we can come back and be them.’
‘Good thinking, Batman.’ Annie slapped her colleague on the back.
‘Thanks, Dobbin,’ replied Christine, her spirits high.
‘That’s “Robin” to you,’ retorted Annie.
They each had a smile on their face as they rushed toward the estate agents’ office that Christine had spotted.
Poppy had managed to free her feet. She’d taken off her shoes, rubbed her toes back to some semblance of life, and had re-tied her laces. She was as ready as she would ever be to attempt to get out of the cellar.
But, before she even contemplated trying to somehow get up to the tempting plate in the ceiling above her, she decided to try to find an easier way out – the door to the basement. She knew the staff in a house like this would have needed direct access to the coal to be able to carry it through the house to the fireplaces on each floor; so the question was: where was the door from the cellar to the basement?
Poppy seemed to be completely hemmed in by piles of junk that loomed up at her in the darkness, but logic told her she had got in there somehow, so there must be a path out – somewhere.
She was still quite wobbly, and moved slowly, trying to push her feet forward without knocking into anything. She held out her hands in front of herself, to help keep her balance.
Her feet found the edge of a pile of junk, then she edged along in a different direction and found another, then another. She couldn’t determine angles, but she took her bearings from the little holes in the plate above; the plate was in the pavement, with the coal-hole part of the cellar extending out beyond the apron of the house, beneath the pavement. If this house followed the same general pattern as the shop, the door to the basement would be directly opposite the hole to the street – but that way seemed blocked.
Poppy stopped for a moment. She was feeling dizzy; no food, no water that she was aware of, no real circulation in her extremities and all this darkness had her dazed and confused. She felt so frustrated with her inability to master her surroundings she thought she might cry. She could sense tears welling, and felt very small and alone. Quite hopeless.
Why was she here?
Where was here?
What had happened to Rob?
Poppy felt that if only she could remember something, she’d be better able to come to terms with her predicament, but, other than having a drink with Rob at The Hereford Bull, her memory was a fuzzy, infuriating blank.
She sat down, hard, held her head in her hands, and wept. Silently. She didn’t want anyone to hear her. All she wanted was to be safe; to be at home in the glorious daylight, with her brother.
In the silence, something caught Poppy’s ear. It sounded like a front-door bell – the old-fashioned type that rings out loud. Maybe help was coming.
‘Don’t answer it Tash,’ shouted Gary roughly as Natasha moved toward the front door.
‘Why not?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. Think, woman,’ he spat back at her. ‘I’m not expecting no one, and you certainly ain’t, so it can’t be anyone we wants to see. Besides, think about down there.’ He nodded in the direction of the back stairs that led down to the basement and cellar.
‘Oh, yeah,’ replied Natasha. ‘But it might be someone we want to see,’ she added feebly. ‘Who is it?’ she called through the door, before Gary could stop her.
A woman’s voice replied. It was muffled by the heavy door, but sounded friendly enough.
‘My name’s Annabel Dixon. I’m from Freed & Henry, the estate agents around the corner. I wondered if I could speak with the owner.’
Natasha turned to Gary and raised her eyebrows in query. Gary pulled her roughly from the door and stood close to it himself.
‘I’m the owner,’ he shouted. ‘What d’yer want?’
‘Well, I think this might be easier if you would open the door, sir,’ came the reply.
Gary thought about it, then opened the front door a crack.
They certainly weren’t coppers; two women. One was a bit of a mess – tall, black, gangly and sweaty, the other one was young and slim, not a bad pair on her, nice enough face – not that that was essential. She looked posh; pearls and a fancy haircut, you could always tell. They each held out a business card. Gary took them both and read them.
Estate Agents. The posh one was Annabel Dixon – th
at suited her that did, and the older black one was Susan Potter. She didn’t look like a Susan Potter to him.
‘So?’ he asked gruffly.
Annie answered in character as Susan, who was currently sitting at her desk at Freed & Henry, eating a Pot Noodle, not five minutes from Gary Gilchrist’s front door. Annie used her best posh accent. ‘Might one enquire if you are the homeowner, sir?’
Gary smiled wryly. ‘Yes I am, and there’s no need to “sir” me, ta very much. Where you from, darlin’? East End?’
Annie looked at her feet coyly, then at Christine. ‘Sorry, Annabel,’ she said brightly to Christine, in her broadest accent, ‘the cat’s well an’ truly out o’ the bag.’
Then, to Gary, she smiled a cheeky grin and said, ‘No pullin’ the wool over your eyes, eh doll? Got a good ear on you. Mile End Road. Know it?’
‘A bit,’ conceded Gary guardedly.
‘Look,’ said Annie, lowering her voice and glancing about her furtively, ‘me name’s not really Susan Potter – I’m Annie, Annie Parker.’
Christine wasn’t acting when she looked at Annie in horror.
‘Anyway,’ continued Annie, ‘they’ve just taken me on at the estate agents round the corner, and this is my boss, Miss Dixon. They thought they’d give me a fancy name for all the fancy clients they’re gettin’ these days, but I can tell a real Londoner when I meet one, so here I am, plain, old Annie Parker from Mile End, and, my Gawd, have I got a sniff for you.’
Annie was laying it on thick, and Christine could see a glint in the man’s eyes. She knew Annie was good, but this was brilliant. She decided to play along in her role as Miss Annabel Dixon – boss.
‘Miss Potter, I mean Miss Parker,’ she interrupted. ‘This is not the way we do things at Freed & Henry – and I think we’ve put this gentleman to enough trouble already. He’s clearly not interested in what we have to say.’ She let the words hang in the air as she made to pull Annie away from the door. Christine hoped she hadn’t gone too far.
‘Oh, come on, Annabel. Sorry, Miss Dixon,’ retorted Annie, ‘I can tell you’re not used to dealing with people who have something that someone else wants – but don’t know it yet. Let me tell ’im at least, before you kick me out on my ear, that is.’
‘Tell me what,’ interrupted an impatient Gary.
‘See,’ said Annie triumphantly, ‘I knew he’d know he was onto a good thing.’
‘Look, will you two sort this out back at the office and just tell me what the ’ell you’re on about – you darlin’, spit it out,’ shouted Gary at Annie.
Annie ‘capitulated’. Drawing even closer to Gary Gilchrist, Annie repeated her act of looking around, as if to make sure she wasn’t being overheard, then whispered in her best non-whisper, ‘We’ve got a bit of posh tottie who’s interested in buying your house. She’s got more money than sense, and thinks she’s spotted the “next big thing” in this part of the world. We could be talking a mill or more.’ Annie finished with a conspiratorial wink, and all but poked out her tongue at Christine/Annabel.
Gary took in this statement for a few seconds then countered with, ‘How do you know she’s serious?’
Annie was ready for his question. ‘Well Mr . . . ?’ she paused, waiting for Gary to fill in the blank.
‘Gilchrist.’
‘Well, Mr Gilchrist – what a nice name – the lady in question is so serious that she’s asked us to get particulars of the house – numbers of rooms, layout, dimensions, that sort of thing. You see, she’s an interior designer and her husband is an architect – so they reckon they can do the whole place up on the cheap, by keeping it in the family so to speak, and make a killing on the resale. Now I know she’s got lots of dosh, ’cos I know where she lives now, and let me just say this—’
‘Miss Parker – remember our promise to retain client anonymity,’ interrupted Christine, right on cue.
‘Of course, Miss Dixon,’ replied Annie, brusquely, ‘all I was going to say was that she lives in a very expensive house and she’s just sold another one in Italy – so she’d be a cash buyer for anything under a million two, which might interest sir.’
‘It interests sir very much,’ replied Gary, feeling his mouth moisten at the thought of over a million for a quick, painless sale. ‘But I can’t have anyone runnin’ around the place today . . . it’s not . . . very tidy,’ he spluttered, not being as quick on his toes as the ladies of the WISE Enquiries Agency.
Christine’s phone rang and she looked at Annie, indicating she should carry on with the conversation as she excused herself to take the call. It was Carol.
‘Can you talk?’ asked Carol, sensibly.
‘We’re with the gentleman now,’ was Christine’s reply – she pointed at the phone and mouthed ‘the office’ at Gary.
‘Right then, so just listen,’ added Carol.
‘I understand,’ was Christine’s safe reply.
‘Your Aunt Agatha just phoned me – the police have been there, at Wraysbury Square. Don’t worry, I haven’t told anyone where you are, or what you’re doing – especially that, because I don’t know anyway. They’ve told her what Rob Brown told them about Poppy passing out in the pub last evening, and both Lady and Lord Wraysbury are now fully involved in the police search for Poppy. They are gravely concerned. The ransom note was apparently stapled to Rob’s ear, and was addressed to “Jacintha’s Father”. The police are puzzled as to how Poppy was identified as working for Jacintha. And they don’t seem to have the Gilchrist name yet – obviously that boy you told me about at the pub hasn’t phoned them yet, or else the information hasn’t got through to the right person, or they’d be there at Gilchrist’s house already, I should have thought.’
‘Oh my God!’ exclaimed Christine loudly – she couldn’t help herself – she’d just put two and two together. She needed to be able to talk to Carol without Gary overhearing her. She looked at Annie and Gary as if in a fit of embarrassment.
‘Just hold on a moment, Carol, would you dear – I have to talk to Mr Gilchrist for a moment.’ She continued, ‘Excuse me for exclaiming aloud like that, Mr Gilchrist, not very ladylike, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ Christine, too, could lay it on with a trowel when she wanted. ‘But it’s our client, you see. Well, our potential client; she’s phoned the office to say she’s found an alternative property – and it’s something that’s already represented by someone else. I’ll just have to have a detailed word with Carol back in the office to brief her on what to say to the client. Maybe you can help Mr Gilchrist understand why it’s even more important now that we do this quickly, Annie?’ Christine prayed Annie would pick up on her meaning.
Annie did, and went to work. Clearly Gary relented, because Annie called over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold to number eighteen St Peter’s Terrace, ‘Follow me in when you can, Miss Dixon.’
Could Christine hear panic in Annie’s voice? Surely not, she thought. But whatever Annie was trying to tell her, she had to talk to Carol. She kept her eyes trained on the half-open front door as she spoke rapidly.
‘Look, Carol darling, I’ve got to be quick, speakerphone please?’
‘Mavis isn’t here,’ answered Carol. ‘As soon as you two said you were planning on going into the house she grabbed the first aid kit and ran out to get a cab over to St Peter’s Terrace. She thought you might need her there.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Christine. ‘Now listen – Annie’s in already; she’s good, but I need to be there too. And I think I’ve just worked out this whole stupid mess; this idiot Gilchrist doesn’t know he’s got Poppy Brown, assistant florist, hidden away somewhere – he thinks he’s got my cousin, Lady Jacintha Wraysbury, herself.’
‘Why on earth would he think that?’ asked Carol, blankly. ‘Poppy doesn’t look anything like Jacintha. Well, I suppose they’re both small-framed, dark-haired, young women. Maybe Poppy talks like Jacintha, I don’t know. Maybe Poppy was passing herself off as her boss . . .’ Carol seemed non-plussed,
then added, ‘Maybe Poppy looks enough like your cousin for some mean-spirited, opportunistic idiot to think she’s the real thing. And obviously this Gary Gilchrist is just such a person. That’s why he dumped poor Rob on the street where he did – in Belgravia, just along the road from Wraysbury Square. Mind you – what’s really worrying is that he’s got away with this much. I most definitely think we should tell the police what’s going on,’ she added firmly.
Christine was torn. ‘If the police show up mob-handed while Annie and I are inside – and she’s inside already remember – it won’t matter if Poppy’s there or not; we’ll be the ones in danger. And if Poppy is there,’ added Christine desperately, ‘maybe Annie and I can get her out without it all turning into some sort of hostage nightmare with rapid response teams and goodness knows what else involved.’
There was a silence in the office at the end of the phone.
‘Here’s what I suggest,’ said Carol, in her best ‘organizing’ voice, ‘I’ll telephone the police in ten minutes and tell them what’s happening at the Gilchrist house, what our opinions are about the Gilchrist man himself, and why we believe he’s done what he’s done so far. During that ten minutes you get yourself and Annie out of the Gilchrist house – with some sort of opinion about whether you think Poppy’s on the premises or not. The police can be on the spot five minutes after that, I should think, and by then we’ll all have a good idea of who’s where. Agreed?’
Christine agreed, still not sure they were taking the right course of action – her instincts were to charge in and save Poppy herself.
As Christine walked up the steps toward Gary Gilchrist’s front door, Carol put her watch on the desk in front of her, willing ten minutes to pass without anything bad happening – to anyone. She wondered what she could do to make the time pass faster.
