Behind Closed Doors (5 page)

‘Have you found out what's happened to Becky?' she asked.

I raised my eyebrows.

‘Yeah, I know.' She took a sip. ‘“Don't expect miracles.” Well at least you're looking. Hey,' her eyes widened, ‘have you got a name or anything? You know,' she shrugged, ‘to be friendly?'

She made it sound like names were a young-generation thing.

I shrugged back. ‘Call me Eddie,' I said.

‘Like Eddie Gumshoe? That guy off the old repeats?' She swung her right fist under my nose. If she'd followed through it would have been like a gnat had collided with me but her drink can sloshed threateningly. I shifted away but kept my tough-guy smile to let her know I wasn't intimidated.

‘How are you today, Sadie?' I said.

‘I'm okay,' she said. ‘What do you think's happened to her?'

Enough small talk.

‘I need to ask some questions,' I said. ‘Gina Redding gave me some details but I need more background.'

‘Sure,' Sadie promised. ‘I just don't know what will help.'

‘I'm looking for a bit more on Rebecca's parents.'

She shrugged. ‘There's not much I know. We never go to her house. Becky doesn't get on with Larry.'

‘Any particular reason?'

Again the shrug. Her eyes gave nothing. Whatever Rebecca had said to her friend she didn't see fit to pass on. ‘Larry's a dick,' she offered finally. ‘I think he bullies her mother.'

‘But nothing ever happened between him and Rebecca?'

She looked at me. ‘You mean like him coming on to her?'

‘It happens,' I said.

‘Ugh,' she said. ‘Sick. The guy's at least fifty. I'd throw up.'

‘Rebecca never mentioned anything?'

‘No.'

‘What about her mother? Does Rebecca get on with her?'

‘So-so,' Sadie said. ‘Jean's a control freak. Wants to rule her life, you know? Where Becky goes. Who she sees. When she gets home.'

‘Do the two of them argue about it?'

‘All the time.'

‘Would they argue enough to piss Rebecca off? Enough that she might walk out?'

Sadie shook her head. ‘No,' she said. ‘Becky's always pissed off with Jean but she's never talked about leaving. And she'd tell me if she was going to do that. She wouldn't be like “see you later” one minute then disappear the next. And she gets her diploma next year. Then she's out of there anyway. We're going to share a flat.' She looked at me again: ‘Becky hasn't run away, Mr Gumshoe.'

‘Eddie,' I said. ‘Does her mother have any problems?' I wondered if the drinking was under wraps.

‘Nothing I know about,' Sadie said. ‘She's okay. Like any mother.'

Maybe Rebecca saw things but didn't tell. Things you'd not want even your best friend to know. Rebecca was up-front about not liking her stepfather but there was no reason she'd want to shred her mother's name. Rebecca's family sounded as normal or abnormal as the next. It was just the thing with the stepfather that bothered me.

‘How's Rebecca been acting lately? Happy? Sad?'

She gave it some thought.

‘Just the usual. Rebecca's always up and down. She's a crazy bitch.'

‘A crazy bitch?'

‘You know what I mean. Life's a big saga with Becky. She should be in a soap opera.'

‘What kind of things make her crazy?'

‘You know.' She looked at me again. ‘Whatever.'

‘Whatever?'

‘Yeah. You know?' She lifted the can again.

I turned to look squarely at her. ‘No, Sadie,' I said. ‘I don't know. Detectives never know things until people tell them.'

She stopped swigging and rolled her eyes like I was diverting from the relevant.

‘Becky's had some problems,' she said.

‘What problems?'

‘She's split with her boyfriend. It kind of got to her. Now she's started hanging about with this older guy? He's like, a real creep. Into drugs. I told Becky she should be careful but she says there's nothing going on. Claims she just hangs out with him.'

‘The boy she split with,' I asked, ‘was that serious?'

‘Yeah. They were together for a couple of years. His name's Marcus. He's doing IT.' She tilted her head back towards the college buildings behind us.

‘When did they split up?'

‘Couple of months ago. I thought they'd get back together but I guess it's not going to happen.'

‘Why did you think they'd get back together?'

‘They were into each other. Like, real sweet. Marcus is okay. Not my type.'

‘What type is he?'

She rolled the question around and took a swig of her can. ‘Bookish,' she concluded. ‘You wouldn't think he was Becky's type but you couldn't separate them.'

‘So why did they split?'

‘Some kind of fight? Becky didn't say. One day it was all off.'

‘Has Marcus got over her?'

‘Dunno. I haven't spoken to him.'

‘What about this guy she's taken up with?'

‘He's called Russell Cohen. Becky's been keeping it low profile but there's definitely something going on between them. He works up the West End? She's down there every other night.'

‘You don't like this guy?'

‘Nah. I only met him a couple of times but he was all over me every opportunity. I wouldn't let a creep like that near me.'

‘In what way is he a creep?'

‘Every way. He's a smarmy bastard. Likes the girls chasing him. Thinks it makes him a celeb. Fancies himself – all muscles and fuzz. He tries to act tough but he's just a loser with no proper job.'

‘What does he do?'

‘Works on the door up the West End,' Sadie said, ‘but I heard he's into dealing. I went to the club with Becky once, saw him and his mates - guys trying to act cool and sluts who think they're something. Pricks, the lot of them. They'd never guess how stupid they all look.'

‘You said the guy is old.'

‘Yeah. Twenties or something. He just needs to grow up past ten.' She pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

I gave her my Sly Uncle. ‘I hear that smoking is what the girls do to act cool too,' I said. ‘They'd never figure how it makes them look either.'

‘Right,' she said. ‘Sod that.' She lit up.

Kids. You can only advise.

She blew a vapour trail and looked at me. My advice was on-target. The cigarette put ten years on her, lost the cute. Trouble was it would still be putting ten years on in ten years' time. The years would get behind, as the song said.

‘What's this got to do with Becky disappearing?' she said.

‘We still don't know if Rebecca has disappeared,' I pointed out. ‘But if she has, then anything might be relevant. You tell me she's had a rough time splitting with her boyfriend and now she's involved with a guy who's into dealing drugs. That doesn't sound irrelevant to me.'

‘So how do you explain the fact,' Sadie countered, ‘that Becky was fine that day. No mention of Marcus or Russell or anything. Then she's, like, gone! And what's with her parents?'

Smart one, this. I'd been asking myself the same question. Even if Jean Slater's story about illness was true the family was still acting strange. First thing I needed to do was find the aunt and confirm whether Rebecca was with her.

‘Have you got it?' I asked.

Sadie rooted in her bag. Pulled out a four-by-three photo. It was the two of them on a beachfront, Sadie in a mini skirt, Rebecca in jeans, both wearing tops that economised on material. Rebecca was side-on, arms around Sadie's shoulders pulling her in, but her face was turned to the camera and gave a good picture. I recognised Jean Slater's looks, the same well-defined bone structure, the pretty eyes, a face rolled back twenty-five years and unclouded by Jean's problems. Sadie was attractive if you looked beyond the eyeliner and the combative stare but you could see that Rebecca was the beauty in the act.

I slipped the photo into my pocket hoping that no one was watching, maybe wondering why I was taking pictures from a teenaged girl. People might jump to conclusions. Think I was a tutor.

‘What do you know about Rebecca's aunt?' I asked.

Sadie took a drag. ‘That's her Aunt Kath. I never met her.'

‘Do you know where she lives? Any second name?'

She shook her head. ‘She lives in Berkshire. Becky never told me where. I can't remember her surname. Something clerical?'

I already had Berkshire from Jean Slater but a clerical-sounding surname narrowed it down. A couple more gems like this and I'd be camped on her doorstep. I changed tack.

‘The last time you talked to Rebecca,' I said, ‘when exactly was it?'

‘That day. At lunch. I was right here and she came and sat with me while we ate.'

‘Did she say anything special?'

Sadie thought for a moment. ‘Only that she wouldn't be seeing me after class. She was going straight round to see Gina.'

‘And did she go to class that afternoon?'

Sadie shrugged. ‘I guess so.'

‘Does she always turn up for class?'

Again a shrug. ‘Same as any of us? No one goes all the time.'

A refuse truck pulled up ten yards away and started tipping bins. The noise stopped us talking.

Sadie stubbed her cigarette and picked up her uneaten lunch. She was looking over the road. Maybe she had a guy of her own. Wouldn't want to be seen chatting up a tutor.

I told her to let me know if she remembered anything else. Said I'd be in touch. The refuse truck moved on and she flipped her attention back to me.

‘Something has definitely happened to Becky,' she told me. ‘I'm scared, Eddie.'

I smiled. ‘We're on the case, Sadie.'

Maybe my smile encouraged her. She stood and returned a half-hearted smile then disappeared into the college entrance.

I sat watching the street, trying to figure which way to move.

I was only two minutes from the office so I headed back there.

Eagle Eye have the top floor in an Edwardian house backing onto the Great Western lines a mile out from Paddington Station. The area is mostly residential with a scattering of shops and cafes, but a nest of accountants and solicitors had got into a couple of the buildings part way down Chase Street, a cul-de-sac that curves and dead-ends along the railway. The eventual arrival of a private investigator at Number Twenty Six probably went unnoticed by the wider world.

The lower floors in our building were occupied by Rook and Lye, a law firm that mutated in the nineties from property conveyancing to the more lucrative world of personal-injury litigation. They'd cut loose their estate clients, expanded to full-page ads in Yellow Pages and bought slots on local radio. Then they redesignated their ground floor as a ‘clinic' and never looked back.

Six years ago, Eagle Eye took the top floor lease. If Bob Rook and Gerry Lye were still uncomfortable sharing a roost with another image-challenged profession they no longer mentioned it. In terms of image, ambulance-chasers and private investigators sat on the same pot. Where we differed was in client numbers.

I was barely halfway up the stairs when Bob Rook ejected himself from the lawyers' first floor offices and was suddenly rolling down towards me like the runaway boulder in
Indiana Jones
. I flattened myself against the wall to let him pass. It was either that or learn about the personal injury business from the sharp end. If Bob noticed me he made no sign. After six years he was still keeping up the pretence that he didn't have a flock of private investigators in his attic.

When we'd first moved in it was his partner Gerry who'd come up to request that we relocate our nameplate and bell push to the opposite wall of the lobby where it wouldn't clash with their own brasswork. Nameplates are stacked together for the practical reason that a visitor can see them all in one go. Also, the bell wiring was set up that way. Gerry showed neighbourliness by offering to stand the cost of us moving our plate. I talked it over with Shaughnessy and we rejected the offer. The matter was sorted amicably when Rook and Lye moved their own name-plate to the opposite wall where I never thought it looked quite right. Bob Rook hadn't spoken to me or Shaughnessy in the six years since. When we met on the stairs Bob's trick was to boost his twenty stones to planetoid mode and roar past in a cloud of incandescent gas. If we wanted to live, we got out of the way. If we got out of the way we never needed to talk.

I let Bob roar past and burst onto the street. When the building stopped shaking I continued up the stairs.

Shaughnessy was behind his desk chewing a stick of celery, and Lucy was packing to leave. She asked about Rebecca. When I hinted that I'd picked up a couple of things she hung around to get the story.

I made her wait while I poured a coffee. The filter machine's light was on but the hot-plate was dead. I'd mentioned this only a week ago but Lucy had countered by asking for money. Always the same solution. I poured a cold cup and shovelled in sugar, took it through to Shaughnessy's office along with a monster baguette from Connie's. Shaughnessy took a look at my lunch and gave me a smirk. I ignored him. Who needs sermons from a guy waving celery?

Lucy perched her backside on Shaughnessy's desk and I crashed in one of the leather and chrome easy chairs that he'd brought in to let clients know which partner had the class. I put my feet up on the other chair to confirm it.

‘How's the building trade?' I asked. Shaughnessy and Harry Green had been watching a contract foreman whose company was seeing too many thefts from the building sites he worked.

‘Booming.' Shaughnessy said. He watched me push my face into Connie's special and waited until I came up for air.

‘Need extra eyes?' I asked.

‘None,' he said. ‘It's a wrap.'

I sat up and made the best surprised sounds I could with a mouth full of coleslaw.

‘You've already got the guy?'

Shaughnessy's mouth slanted in what passed for a smile.

‘We watched our man lock up the site yesterday. Locking up included stashing about five grand's worth of electrical gear in the back of a Transit and cutting the locks on the store shed so it would look like a break-in.'

‘The ubiquitous inside job,' I said. ‘You get his fence?'

‘First thing this morning.' Shaughnessy dipped his celery in a tub of hummus, chewed slowly and took a swig of bottled water. ‘The guy offloaded the stuff at a dodgy DIY place in Ilford,' he said. ‘We snapped the whole deal. Site to store-counter.'

‘Any material proof?'

Shaughnessy leaned back and strained his muscles. He tossed something onto his desk. The object landed with a crash that sent Lucy yelping like a scalded puppy, which was what he'd intended. Shaughnessy's a sucker for the dramatic gesture. The gesture probably raised some blood pressure downstairs too. Lucy swore and looked at the thing as if it might bite.

It was a hundred metre reel of electric cabling. Heavy duty. Had to weigh at least thirty pounds.

‘You went right in and bought this from them?'

‘Like they say,' said Shaughnessy, ‘make hay.'

‘You get a receipt?' I said.

‘Do I look like a fool?'

‘Not you,' I said. ‘You don't look like an electrician either.'

‘They weren't looking too closely,' Shaughnessy said. ‘I walked into the shop while they were still stacking the reels. Told them it was just the gear I was looking for. What could they tell me? Come back when we've advertised the stuff on Crimewatch?'

‘A wrap,' I concurred.

‘The report will be in tomorrow,' Shaughnessy said. ‘Colour photos and all.'

‘Anything else?' I said. I was just stalling Lucy, who was only hanging around to hear about the girl. She looked at Shaughnessy.

‘We got a call,' Shaughnessy said.

‘New business?'

‘Ex-business.'

He sat back and waited for Lucy to elaborate. She took the cue and perched herself back on his desk where she could switch to schoolmarm.

‘Eddie,' she said, ‘you need a diplomacy course.'

I agreed. ‘I applied once but the admin clerk threw me out when I mentioned her halitosis.'

‘Well someone's pretty pissed at you.' Lucy wiggled her backside on Shaughnessy's desk, happy to be back on the familiar ground of my screw-ups.

Shaughnessy leaned forward. ‘I got in just before Lucy's ears burned off,' he said.

‘One of those,' I said. We got those calls all the time. Hazard of the trade. The utilities companies were the worst.

‘One of those,' Shaughnessy agreed. ‘This was the tricky type. The type with stuff about lawsuits.'

‘Lawsuits?' I gave him astonished. ‘Who've we been dealing with that knows about law? Are we going upmarket?'

‘Not unless you consider HP Logistics upmarket.'

I gave that some thought. Palmer and his dirty tricks had slipped my mind. ‘HP Logistics is definitely not upmarket,' I said. ‘What did they want?'

‘Something about damages. Vandalised equipment.'

‘A lousy office chair?' I said. ‘Let them sue.'

‘That and the lousy truck,' Shaughnessy said. ‘A Volvo FH tractor. HP were keen to read Lucy the list price. Eighty-six thousand on the road.'

‘Including road tax?' I asked.

‘Excluding.'

I pursed my lips. ‘And the chair on top.'

‘And the window.'

‘A pane of glass,' I said.

‘A thirty-foot pane of toughened plate glass,' Lucy said.

‘Yeah,' I conceded, ‘it was a big window. But we should challenge the toughened bit. The chair went through it like Perspex.'

‘I take it the consultation didn't go well,' Shaughnessy said.

‘We didn't land the job,' I admitted.

‘Personality clash?' Shaughnessy asked.

I nodded and finished my baguette. Swilled it down with cold coffee. ‘The guy wanted us to burglarise a competitor to set up a rigged bid.'

Shaughnessy looked thoughtful. ‘Did you give him our rates?'

‘He'd already trebled them before I gave him anything.'

‘And you threw a chair through his window? What were you pushing for? Share options?'

‘I wanted to hit him,' I said.

‘Might have been cheaper.'

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘But thirty foot of glass is a strong temptation.'

‘We're going to be bankrupt by the time you've handled all your temptations, Eddie,' Lucy said.

I looked at her. ‘You think I should phone him back? Say we'll take the job?'

‘On triple fees?' said Shaughnessy. ‘Might be worth thinking about.'

I swallowed the last of the coffee and looked pop-eyed at my partner.

Shaughnessy grinned.

‘Just kidding,' he said.

We decided to let the HP Logistics thing ride itself out. If they sued we'd fight our corner. I gave Shaughnessy and Lucy what I had on the missing girl, which wasn't much. There were six hours remaining of Gina Redding's commission. After that she'd have to decide whether to throw more money the same way or to call it quits. Six hours was tight to find out where Jean Slater's sister lived and confirm or disprove the story about her looking after the girl. But I wanted at least that much before I went back to Gina.

Plan A had been to report that Rebecca was safe at home and to refund the unused hours. The story about the aunt in an unknown Berkshire location expanded things awkwardly.

I needed a brainstorm to figure out how to track this aunt down. Berkshire was a big place. Until the brainstorm hit I had other jobs.

I headed back to my office for some research involving checking numbers on a long telephone list, looking for a name that shouldn't be there. Another commercial contract. Another suspect employee. This time it was a high ranking executive on the board of a mid-size pharmaceutical company, suspected of selling inside knowledge to a party that would gain from trading short.

Lucy went out and Shaughnessy soon after. I settled in behind my roll-top and stared at a computer screen for a couple of hours until the telephone numbers were dancing circles on my retinas. Time to quit. If I left I could still beat the traffic home.

Arabel had left a note on my table. She had a late. I had the evening to myself.

The frustration of not knowing whether the Rebecca Townsend thing was real or not was chasing around in my head and threatening to drive me crazy. The solution was to quit thinking. I showered and changed and went through to the rear attic. My therapy is painting. It's a hobby that actually brings in some small change. The random fads of city culture had worked to turn my stuff into cash in a half-dozen outlets around the markets and tourist spots. I sell occasional cityscapes and a few portraits in half-impressionist style – something like Augustus John but less unkind. Acrylics on canvas, or on hardboard in my cheapskate moments.

My rear attic had the original skylights. These leaked when it rained but gave the room a light that inspired on a summer's evening. The present weather was running more to leak but the light was good enough to give me an hour or so. My current work was a portrait of Arabel. Arabel had the perfect face with just the right blemishes to make what I saw sublime. But my fixation on capturing perfection was cramping my style. Fixate on perfection and you're as likely to bring out the blemishes. It's too easy to make an ogre of an angel. Ask John. I worked for an hour and a half and forgot about lost girls. When the hues began to go flat I called it quits and went out.

I crossed town, ate in Camden, then drove back to Paddington and parked the car behind Eagle Eye and walked the quarter mile to The Podium. The Podium was a spit and sawdust bar that played live jazz every night until two a.m. Weekdays were open house for new talent gigging to supplement day jobs and student loans. There was often more noise than talent but the jazz never lacked energy.

It was early for the live sets. I grabbed a beer and found a quiet corner. My phone rang. Probably Arabel, calling before going on shift. When I punched the button I was disabused. The background music and yelling didn't come from a hospital.

‘Hey! Mr Gumshoe!'

‘Sadie,' I said. ‘Nice to hear from you.'

‘I've got something.' Her voice was raised against the hubbub. A little too animated.

‘Are you drinking, Sadie?' I said. ‘Is seventeen legal now?'

‘Yeah,' she said, ‘tonight it's legal.' A voice broke through the background, yelling something unintelligible down the phone. Sadie yelled back to shut up. ‘Every night's legal,' she shouted. ‘It's what students do. Chill out, Mr Detective! You going to arrest me?'

I looked around. The Podium's noise level was barely high enough to cover what was coming from my phone. I remembered what I'd said to Shaughnessy. No kids under our feet. Now it was calls.

‘What's up, Sadie?' I said.

‘I've got her address!' Sadie yelled.

‘Whose address?'

‘Becky's aunt!'

That got my attention.

‘I found a letter,' Sadie said. ‘Becky sent it when she was staying with her aunt last year. The address is right there!'

‘Read it out, Sadie.'

‘Got your pencil out, Mr Detective?'

‘My pencil's always out, Sadie.'

That got a giggle. I let it go. Sadie shouted an address in Hungerford and I wrote it on a beer mat.

‘That's great,' I told her. ‘What about the aunt's name?'

‘Dunno,' she yelled. ‘I already told you. Something clerical.'

I must have forgotten. The address was enough though.

‘Good girl,' I said. ‘That helps me.'

Another burst of laughter came out of my phone. Sadie's voice in there amongst the racket.