Eoin Miller 02 - Old Gold (12 page)

“And will you tell me what it’s all about?”

I didn’t need to lie. Because I didn’t yet know the truth.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can. Can you trust me on that much?”

“All right, what is it you need?”

“Drugs. Drugs in town. I’ve been told a few stories about a Polish national moving into Wolverhampton at cheap prices. I’ve been hearing about Gaines and the Mann brothers taking an interest. The guy’s name is Thomas, or something like it, maybe a Polish variation on it.”

There was a pause on the line. Too much of a pause. I’d touched on something familiar. Finally he spoke.

“Jesus.”

“Any of this sound familiar?”

“I’m going to have to look a few things up.”

“OK. And, Beck, why is this the first I’ve heard of it? Why hasn’t the press got a taste of this and made it front-page news?”

“I’ll add that to my list of things to look into. Eoin?”

“Yes?”

“This sounds, uh, big.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And this might take a while. I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”

“Any idea when that’ll be?”

“Probably not on my day off.”

Fair enough. There was silence on the line for a moment.

“Eoin? How are you getting on with the missing student?”

I paused too long before answering. “Fine,” I said, too late.

“You’ve not done anything, have you?”

“Well, this other thing I’ve got, it’s kind of important, you know? I’ll get round to it.”

“Jesus, Eoin, you’ve taken their fucking money. I need you to come through on this, to do the right thing. Have you forgotten what that’s like?”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

“No. No, it isn’t. Listen, you’ve taken on the job, you’re going to
do
the job. You want the information from me, you’ll have to get the work in on the student.”

He hung up.

Bollocks. I hated it when he was right.

I phoned the University of Wolverhampton, and the receptionist put me through to Chris Perry’s tutor. He said he could see me right away, and I drove into town to get there quicker. He was waiting for me at the reception desk. He shook my hand and introduced himself as I filled out the visitor’s pass and was allowed through.

His name was Paul Lucas. He was a skinny, middle-aged man with short red hair and absolutely no smile whatsoever. He led me through the building and out into the central courtyard, where he stopped to ask some students why they hadn’t handed their assignments in. Then we continued on to his office on the third floor of the Millennium Building. The building had been erected around the turn of the century to house displaced members of staff from closed campuses in nearby towns. A lot of brick and glass, it had no library but two coffee shops.

Lucas’s office was a cramped space that he seemed to share with two other lecturers. The room was dull and gray, and the window showed a view of the ring road, the circular dual carriageway that encircled the city like a concrete
moat. I decided that a career spent in this room would drive a man to murder, and I hoped I wasn’t right. We both sat down, and Lucas tried his best smile.

“So you’re working with the police?”

“No.”

“Oh. I thought—”

“Sorry if I gave you that impression. I’m working private—I’ve been hired by Christopher’s parents to find him—but both DS Becker and DCI Miller will vouch for me, if you need it.”

“No, it’s fine. Whatever helps.”

I pulled my battered old notebook out of my pocket and flipped it open. It’s a useful tool if you want to unsettle someone.

“When was the last time you saw Christopher?”

“I last saw him, let’s see—I wrote all this down when the police were asking.” He pulled out a pad that had notes written on it in very small, very neat handwriting. “I last saw him three days before he disappeared.”

“What mood was he in when you saw him?”

“Positive. Chris was always very positive.”

“Did he have anything here at university that might make him run away?” I leaned forward. “I mean, did he tell you anything that might help us?”

“No, nothing I can recall. Certainly nothing that would be worth giving it all up.”

“He wasn’t behind on work?”

“No. He used to be. When he first started here he had a lot of trouble with deadlines, with attendance. We thought he might not make it through his first year. But this year he’s really come into his own, hands everything in on time, gets decent grades.”

“Is that common?”

“Oh, sure. To be honest, we get all kinds here. Some students start well, then fall apart. Some start badly, then grow up. Chris was one of those, I think.”

“Was he a good actor?”

“He was OK. He’s never going to be a big star, and I think he knows that. But, and this has really started to come out in this last semester, he’s quite a talented scriptwriter. I think with another six months, he’d have realized that was what he should be pursuing.”

“Writing?”

“Absolutely. He was very polished. He was a natural at pacing, at leaving the right amount of room for the actors.”

“What sort of things did he write?”

“Comedies, really. Subtle comedy, more grown-up than his classmates’.”

“So he wrote feel-good stuff? Happy endings?”

“I’d say he wrote simple
rather than happy. He liked straightforward plots, a conflict and a resolution, simple characters. Writing simple
is something we spend most of our time here trying to get through to them. He has that naturally.”

“Chris was in a lot of your classes?”

“Yes, he’s been in a few of mine. I don’t teach the practical side of acting. I deal more with the other side. I go through how to approach scripts, how to break them down and research them, how to block the scenes. Like I said, it was that side of things that Chris was really starting to grow.”

“In your classes?”

“Well, yes.”

“How about personal problems? Did he have a girlfriend, any problems there?”

He paused. Not much, but enough for me to notice.

“No. He didn’t have a girlfriend. He didn’t seem to let things like that get to him. Not like some of the kids we get here who seem to come just to pull, like it’s one long game of kiss chase.”

“How about his parents? Did Chris feel pressured or harassed? Were there any arguments there?”

“I thought it was his parents who hired you. Should you be asking about them?”

“I’ve got to ask about everything. Do you think they were an issue?”

“No, I—look, all students feels pressured by their parents. Whether their parents are actually doing anything or not, they feel it. I wouldn’t say that’s worth looking into here.”

I wrote his responses down in my own scruffy version of shorthand. I wanted to see if I could force an error from him. Writing notes in front of him was a simple way to do that.

“Did he have any enemies on campus, anyone who might feel the need to hurt him or who might make him leave?”

“None.”

“And he didn’t drink too much?”

“Oh no, he didn’t drink at all. Chris didn’t touch alcohol.”

Strange. That didn’t fit with what his parents had said. I noted it in the book and circled it. I noticed the tutor’s gaze follow my pen as I did. “So what’s your take on it? What do you think has happened to Chris?”

He looked out of the window for a moment before answering, watching the traffic crawl around the ring road.

“Honestly, I think he’s OK, and I think he’ll come back when he’s ready, if we leave him to it.”

“Why? You said he had no problems.”

He hesitated again, holding something back.

“Well, nothing big, no, but all kids need time sometimes. You know, a break.”

“Isn’t that what their semester breaks are for?”

“Well—”

“Mr. Lucas, is there anything else you should be telling me?”

He looked straight into my eyes as he shook his head, leaving a pause between that and answering. I wondered if he used to smoke, the way he kept leaving gaps between thoughts like smokers will when they’ve got a cigarette in their hands. Some people can give up smoking but never give up the habits that go with it.

“Nothing,” he said.

I stood up to leave, pocketing my notebook. “OK,” I said. “Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch with more questions.”

“Please book in advance.” He shook my hand again. “My days fill up pretty fast.”

“One last thing. Did you used to smoke?”

“Why, yes, I did.” He paused. “I stopped about two years ago. Why?”

“No, no reason.” I smiled it away and left.

He knew something. It was obvious, hanging in the air.

If you want to tell what someone’s reaction is when they lie, get them to tell the truth. The pause as he recalled how long ago he’d quit smoking, the length of time it took him to access the truth, told me that he’d been lying to me with his other answers.

The afternoon had drifted into early evening by the time I got back in the car to drive to Wednesbury. I flinched at the bad smell as I got in and turned the key. The floor was littered with old meal wrappers and empty drinks cartons. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d picked it up or washed it, but I must have left some fried chicken in the back or something. Something else to add to my list.

I took a longer route than needed because I wanted a little breathing space. I drifted around the main roads and backstreets for a while, guided by the goddess of traffic lights and guitar chords.

Music helps me think.

I listened to an old mix CD, Lou Reed taking turns with Marah and the Twilight Singers. It all seemed perfect as I coasted around the town I’d grown up in, the town I couldn’t seem to escape from anymore. The town took its name from the pagan god Woden, a heritage that predates anything the Christians had to say. “God’s Town,” my father would always call it as a joke. There had been a fort dedicated to Woden, sitting on top of the hill that dominated the town, but now that space was taken by two churches, sitting in judgment on everything below.

Johnny Cash singing “I See a Darkness” with Will Oldham. Acoustic confessional, scary and honest. Johnny Thunder’s “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory.” Even stripped down and acoustic, it was still a sing-along, but my voice threatened to drown out Thunder’s. I crossed over old abandoned train tracks and past empty husks that were factories when I was younger. I drifted into “Crown of Thorns” by Mother Love Bone. I didn’t even remember owning that one, long and miserable, with piano that builds followed by loud and glorious guitar that rips the song a new one.

I pulled into the street where the Perry family lived and parked at the top. I could see the living room light was on as I approached, and a car was on the drive. I rang the doorbell and waited for a full couple of minutes before the door opened an inch, on a chain, and Stephanie Perry peered out at me. Her expression was blank for a second until she recognized me.

“Oh,” she said. The door shut, and I heard the chain move. Then the door opened wide, and Stephanie smiled at me.

“You didn’t call,” she said as she stepped aside so I could enter. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No, I’m sorry. Is it a bad time?”

“Oh no, no. Not for you. Is it good news?” I could see the hope framing her eyes.

“Not yet, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m here, for more information.”

I followed her into the living room, a brightly decorated space with photos of Stephanie and Chris, one of him in a Wolves football kit. My parents had similar photographs of me as a child. She waved me onto the sofa and asked if I’d like a drink. I asked for a strong coffee.

While she was gone, I examined the room at closer detail. It was a very feminine room. The furniture and the
decorations, the way the photographs were positioned—they all showed a woman’s touch. The only thing that really seemed like it might have been added by Michael or Chris was the widescreen television taking up a whole corner of the room.

Stephanie walked back into the room carrying two steaming cups.

“Sorry, Michael’s not back from work. We could have arranged for him to be here if you’d called.”

I apologized again and sat down with my drink.

“So you’ve got more questions.”

“A few, yes. First I’d like to go back over one or two things.”

She nodded. I sipped my coffee, pleasantly surprised that it was good.

“You said that Chris liked going out, liked having a good time?”

“Yes. Not so much lately, I think, but he’s always liked going out.”

“And part of that is drinking?”

“Yes, like we said, all boys round here like a drink or two.”

“But not to excess?”

“Not enough to be a big problem, if that’s what you’re asking.” I noted the defensiveness in her voice and an empty tumbler glass on the table next to her chair.

“It’s just that someone else told me today that Chris didn’t touch alcohol.”

“Well, I can tell you Chris drank. I can also tell you it wasn’t a problem.”

I gave her my nicest smile, trying to let her know I didn’t doubt her.

“How about Mr. Perry? Michael? I noticed at the pub he was drinking orange juice. Does he stay off the booze?”