by C J Carver
‘Hey,’ Ronja greeted me.
‘Hey.’ I looked around. The others were still settling in, making coffee, chatting. ‘Could I have a word? Um… just us two?’
She looked surprised, but nodded and got to her feet. I followed her into the meeting room, closed the door behind me.
‘Thanks.’ I ran a hand over my head, gathering my thoughts. Then I told her about Rob.
‘Good God,’ she said when I finished. Her blue eyes were wide, her mouth parted. ‘That’s incredible.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
Before I could ask about taking some time off, she said, ‘You must go and find him. Find out what’s going on. Take the time you need. I’ll look after HAPS for the moment. Are you okay with that?’
‘Of course.’
‘Can I do anything else to help?’
‘Giving me time off is fantastic. Thank you.’
‘Seriously, Nick.’ She came and stood close to me, and put her hand on my arm, expression sincere. ‘Call me if I can help in any way. I mean it. We’ve known each other a long time. We’re friends. I’d like to help.’
Before I could thank her again, someone knocked on the door and without waiting for our response, one of the designers opened it. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but there’s someone here to see Nick.’
He stepped back as a man walked inside. Thirties, flat brown hair cut short. Chunky build. He was wearing a big navy overcoat over dark trousers and jacket. ‘Nick Ashdown?’ he asked.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘DI Gilder.’
Even as I felt my lungs compress and my heartbeat accelerate, I somehow managed to keep my composure. He brought out a wallet, flashing a warrant card, too fast for me to see. I asked him to show it again, making a point of reading it properly and ignoring the way his mouth pursed. Metropolitan Police. Detective Inspector Barry Gilder. For no reason other than bloody-mindedness, I made a mental note of his six-digit warrant number.
‘You’re a long way from home,’ I remarked, glad my voice was calm, my attitude nonchalant.
DI Gilder sent Ronja a pointed look. ‘If you wouldn’t mind…’
‘You’ve found my brother?’ I asked.
Gilder was still looking at Ronja, waiting for her to leave.
‘If you need anything…’ she said, looking at me, not the policeman.
I gave her a nod. She closed the door behind her with a little click.
‘So,’ Gilder said. ‘You know he’s not dead.’
‘Yes. I saw him on TV last night, along with however many millions of others. Have you found him?’
DI Gilder shook his head. ‘I was hoping you might have.’
‘Me?’
‘I thought if he contacted anyone, it would be you.’
For a moment I was speechless. ‘But he let me think he’d drowned. I organised his memorial. Why the hell would he contact me? So I could punch his lights out?’
Gilder’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying he hasn’t been in touch?’
Caution rose in me as I remembered Susie’s warning that Rob might not want to be found. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Gilder held my gaze. He seemed to be considering how to answer. Then he said, ‘He might need help.’
‘What sort of help?’
‘My kind.’
I stared.
Gilder spread his hands peaceably. ‘I can understand you’re feeling angry, probably confused. But I’m sure he disappeared for a good reason. I just want to make certain he’s all right, and in a safe place.’
‘In a safe place?’ I repeated. ‘What does that mean? And what exactly was the “good” reason that made him disappear?’
Silence.
I took a breath. ‘You said he disappeared for a good reason. You can’t just drop that into the conversation as if you’re talking about the weather. What reason?’ My voice rose.
More silence.
‘Come ON,’ I said. ‘You have to tell me. I’m his brother.’
‘It’s complicated,’ Gilder said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might be? Any idea at all?’
My lips tightened. ‘No.’
He studied me at length. ‘Don’t think you can protect him.’
‘How can I do that if I don’t know where he is?’ Belligerence laced my voice. I could feel rage building. ‘Or why he vanished in the first place? Why does he need protecting? Come on, tell me.’ I took a step forward.
He didn’t like that. ‘Careful, Nick.’
He’d used my first name. I didn’t like that much either.
‘If you hear from him, call me.’ He put a hand in his breast pocket and withdrew a card. Passed it across. Without dropping my gaze from his, I snatched it from him and shoved it in my jeans pocket.
‘Don’t leave,’ I said. ‘Until you tell me what’s going on. How do you know Rob?’
He didn’t respond. His face turned perfectly bland.
‘What made him disappear?’ Emotions spilled as hot as molten lava, nearly choking me.
‘Just call me,’ Gilder said.
‘No, wait. You’re from the Met. You knew my brother in London, right?’
He turned to leave. I put out a hand, wanting to stop him.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he said.
His voice was like ice.
I snatched my hand back.
Without looking at me, he opened the door and stepped outside.
Chapter 7
I followed DI Gilder out of the office but my surveillance skills were obviously zero because within ten minutes, I had lost him. Had he known I was there? Or was I just useless at this game? Probably a combination of the two. That said, I hadn’t given up easily, scouring the area fast, widening my search until I ended up at the station. Since I was there, I bought a ticket for London, Victoria, and headed to the Italian restaurant in South Kensington where Rob had jumped on the terrorist.
When I exited the tube it was to a phalanx of white vans with enormous satellite dishes on their roofs, bunches of paparazzi and journalists swarming for sound bites. Police officials were everywhere. The whole area was bound with blue and white police tape. Members of the public crowded the pavement, gawking and taking snaps on their mobiles.
I stepped as close as I dared to see the chaos that had exploded inside the restaurant. Two floor-to-ceiling glass windows were shattered. Tables and chairs inside were turned over, cutlery and tableware scattered across the floor. In the deli section, bottles of wine and olive oil lay smashed. It was a large restaurant, seating around a hundred people. If Rob hadn’t intervened, many more would have died. No wonder he’d been labelled a hero.
‘Move on, would you, sir.’ A policewoman was looking at me, her eyes hard.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that a friend of mine said they were going to lunch here yesterday. Who should I speak to about finding out whether they’re okay or not?’
The policewoman gave me another stony stare. ‘Me, if you like.’
I didn’t like, particularly, but I ploughed on. ‘Thanks.’
‘What’s their name?’
‘Bethany Champs.’ God knows how I came up with that one. I didn’t know any Bethany’s, let alone Champs.
The policewoman turned away slightly and spoke into the radio clipped to the webbing on her shoulder. She turned back to me. ‘We don’t have a record of anyone by that name being here yesterday.’
‘She might have hidden in the toilets when the gunman opened fire then run away afterwards.’
The policewoman stood there and stared at me. I struggled to hold her gaze.
‘I suggest you move on, sir,’ she said, proving she was better at weeding out fraudsters than I was at lying.
I walked away. When she was out of sight, blocked by another plain white van, I peered again at the restaurant. Where had he sat? Where were the CCTV cameras? I craned my head, trying to imagine where his table had been positioned. I pictured him sitting there, calm as can be, and th
en the gunman striding inside and opening fire…
Someone coughed behind me.
‘You know someone who was in there?’
I turned to see a round-faced woman in a puffer jacket.
Wary, I shrugged, not saying anything.
She stepped forward and lowered her voice. I had to bend to hear her clearly which, I supposed, was what she wanted.
‘They didn’t get everyone’s name,’ she told me. ‘Three or four people disappeared before the police arrived. People who shouldn’t have been there because they should have been at home sick, or at work, or maybe they were here with someone they shouldn’t be with and didn’t want to get caught out.’
She looked up at me, her eyes asking the question, bright with curiosity.
I tried to work out if a journalist could help me and decided not to open that particular door. What was I doing here anyway? I looked around, feeling at a loss and oddly emotional.
‘He was meeting a woman,’ she said softly.
My eyes snapped back to hers. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘The superhero. He’d brought a small bouquet with him apparently. The waitress remembered.’
I stared at her, my mind filled with a rush of images. Rob aged four, clutching a bunch of wild flowers he’d picked for Mum. Rob pinning a corsage on Clara’s dress at his junior prom. Rob giving Clara a single red rose every Valentine’s Day. I felt a pain deep in my heart for Clara and the children, and also for Rob who’d loved his family so much.
‘Where is he?’ she went on, her voice gentle. ‘Do you know?’
I blinked.
‘Tell me, how does it feel to have a superhero as your brother?’ She put her head on one side. ‘He is your brother, isn’t he?’
For a second, I thought I’d misheard her, but then it hit me. Someone who knew Rob must have rung the media, no doubt wanting to sell their story. The media obviously had photographs and biographies of the entire family at their fingertips. My God, they moved fast.
I walked away.
She followed, calling after me. ‘Ted Scott told me Rob must have faked his own death. How do you feel about that?’
I would happily wring Ted’s neck when I next saw him. He ran the tea shop in Bosham and probably saw this as his great opportunity to put his tea shop on the national map and make him a millionaire overnight. I increased my pace.
‘Nick, wait a moment.’
I heard her pattering after me. I broke into a jog.
‘Hey, wait… we can give you an exclusive. Put your side of the story across.’
I lengthened my stride. Raced into the tube station’s entrance and galloped down the steps. I flashed my Oyster card over the card reader and ran down the escalator. Jumped on the first train I came to, which happened to be a Piccadilly line train for Cockfosters. Wrong train.
Nerves hopping, I checked the passengers but couldn’t see the journalist or anyone taking an overt interest in me. I changed at Green Park and one stop later, I was at Victoria Station.
My train didn’t leave for twenty minutes, which I spent in Costa Coffee anxiously keeping an eye out for anyone who might start to approach me. I brought up the BBC News website. Read a quote that was attributed to the waitress who had served Rob.
He’d brought a bouquet of flowers with him. I asked if he was celebrating an anniversary but he didn’t reply. He just smiled. He seemed like a nice guy.
Apparently, she’d given him a menu which he’d taken before ordering a jug of tap water. He was going to wait until his companion arrived before he ordered any wine.
The next quote was from Ted.
He was always in the thick of things as a kid. Bold as brass. Cheeky too. Everyone liked him. The whole village was devastated when he died, but now we know he’s alive we should celebrate.
I wondered if he’d supply the champagne at his tea shop or if we’d have to bring our own.
I trawled more newspapers to find more quotes from school friends, teachers, sailing friends, and friends of friends who pretended to know him when they didn’t. Not really. The Mail had a headline: Superman Where Are You? The opening paragraph detailed his vanishing act twelve years earlier, speculating he may have done something similar before. Some expert in missing people stated he could be a “ghosting”, a form of identity theft, whereby he’d taken on the identity of a deceased person.
Theories abounded, and for the first time I stepped outside and saw what an extraordinary story it was. Little wonder the media was going crazy. They’d sell the story worldwide with no problem, with book and movie rights attached no doubt.
Feeling unsteady and off balance, I walked to get the correct train, wondering if our family should offer one of the media outlets our exclusive story. It might be the only way we could keep other journalists from bugging us. I’d talk it over with Susie that night and then Mum and Dad and the gang before deciding what to do. Meantime, I wanted to know more about DI Gilder.
I googled Gilder, police but it wasn’t Barry’s face that popped up on my screen. An older man with pouches beneath his eyes and a deeply pockmarked face gazed gravely at me. DCI David Gilder was Assistant Commissioner with the Met and had, apparently, retired six months earlier. Barry Gilder’s father maybe?
I scanned his biography to find he was married to Elaine and had two children: Barry and Alisha. I pulled out Barry Gilder’s business card. Toyed with ringing him, but what would I say? I’ve just seen a photo of your dad on the Internet? I put the card back in my pocket. Then I brought it out again and put his details into my phone.
I spent the journey gazing outside, wondering where the hell my brother was, and why he hadn’t contacted us yet.
Chapter 8
It was raining by the time I arrived home, but it hadn’t put off a couple of journalists who were hovering on my doorstep. As soon as I saw them, I turned around and headed for Clara’s, texting her as I went. She told me to come through her neighbour’s garden around the back.
Feeling like a burglar, I slipped over the wall between them and rapped on Clara’s conservatory door.
She arrived in a flurry of sheepskin booties and curly blonde hair, bangles jingling. Her eyes were bruised, indicating she hadn’t slept much, but otherwise she appeared to be bearing up okay.
‘Dear Nick.’ She kissed my cheek and pulled me inside. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Or would a brandy be better?’
‘Coffee would be great. I can always add the brandy.’
We settled in the kitchen, the warmest room of the house with a wood-burning stove in the hearth. The kids were at school, John at work. I took a deep breath. Sipped my coffee. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. It was all I could think of to say.
‘It’s crazy,’ she said.
‘I know.’
We talked for a while. I didn’t mention the flowers Rob had apparently brought with him to the restaurant. We didn’t speculate much. I think we were too disorientated. She told me none of the family had given any interviews yet. We agreed we should come up with a plan to cover us all and implement it as soon as we could. I told her about DI Gilder’s visit. Then I asked about the men who’d visited the day before Rob had vanished.
‘I’d forgotten about them,’ she admitted, ‘until Susie asked me to remember if anything out of the ordinary had happened around the time he vanished. It wasn’t really unusual though because people dropped by all the time. I only remembered it because they were fairly big guys and it was a bit of a squeeze, especially with the toys and stuff.’ She gave a smile. ‘One of them played with Finn, he seemed really nice. They wanted to take Rob out for a beer.’
‘Had you met them before?’
She shook her head.
‘Anything bother you about them?’
Another shake. ‘No. Rob’s friends came around all the time, remember? He didn’t even have to be here, they’d simply walk in and help themselves to whatever.’
It used to drive her mad, I recalled, Rob’s open-house philosophy
. They’d had a huge row after one of Rob’s sailing buddies – who’d just sailed in from the Netherlands – had used the key tucked in the drainpipe above the back door. The friend had helped himself to a pack of beer and food from the fridge before falling asleep in front of the TV, which is where Clara found him when she got home. When she’d asked Rob to stop giving his friends carte blanche to their house, he called her miserly. She called him irresponsible.
‘Were they anything to do with his work?’
She brushed a curl back from her forehead. ‘Could have been, I suppose.’
‘You didn’t know anyone from his London job?’
‘Just Susie.’
I racked my brains as to who Susie had been with at Rob’s memorial. She said she’d come with a couple of his work colleagues but I couldn’t remember them. I could remember Susie though. She’d been wearing a sundress of strawberries and cream, a pair of strappy sandals, pearls at her ears. When she shook my hand, I thought I could smell wild flowers.
She said, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you.’ Even through the fog of grief, I couldn’t help but notice her. She was striking, with a shock of dark hair and deep brown eyes behind long eyelashes. ‘How did you know him?’
‘Through work. At the Home Office.’
It still came as a surprise to hear my wastrel brother had taken on, at least in the last year of his life, a real-life responsible job. Communications strategist, apparently, which in retrospect would have suited him, being a well-liked people person.
‘I only saw him at a handful of social events. He’s working with a colleague of mine…’ She closed her eyes briefly, took a breath. ‘Sorry. I mean he was working… I didn’t know him well but he seemed like a really nice guy.’
