He Made Me (Booker & Cash Book 2) Page 16

  He listened for a moment.

  ‘No, nothing like that, madam.’ He looked up and over his glasses at Jo and said, ‘I have a visitor here, a private investigator. She claims that her client is missing and it could be a matter of life and death. She’s asking to speak with a senior member of staff of the college.’

  He listened a little longer and said, ‘Yes, madam.’ He handed the phone to Jo.

  Jo said hello and thanked the woman for speaking to her. She repeated what she had told the security guard and said, ‘I need a name for a face in a photograph. That’s all. He’s standing with two other gentlemen, Sigmund Swaine and Nigel Tate.’

  Jo listened and said, ‘That’s good. They are both dead. They died last week in separate but probably related suicides. My client is Sigmund’s sister. She is missing as of tonight and there is foul play involved, which I’d rather not discuss over the phone, but would be happy to tell you about in private. I repeat: I’m just after a name for a face. It really could be a matter of life and death. Five minutes on your doorstep is all I need.’

  Jo listened and said, ‘Thank you very much.’ She gestured for a pen and paper, which was handed over quickly. She scribbled down the address and read it back. Then she handed the phone back to the security guard.

  We sat quietly while he took his instructions, said ‘yes, madam’ twice more and hung up.

  ‘Mind if I just make a note of your credentials, madam?’ he said to Jo.

  Jo handed over one of her business cards. He looked up at me.

  I showed him the only identification I had on me: my plastic driver’s licence.

  He looked faintly disappointed and noted down my details. And then we were seen off the premises.

  Before he shut the door on us, Jo said, ‘Thanks very much for your help.’

  He said ‘Good night and good luck,’ and went back inside.

  ***

  43

  It was only the second time I’d needed the GPS since purchasing the car. If things carried on the way they were going it might even turn out to have been worth the indulgence.

  The London boroughs were appropriately quiet for a late Sunday night in the middle of January.

  Herbert Street in Camden was not hard to find. One of the good things about being in the metropolis and relying on satellite navigation was that there was no danger of being directed into a field. The house we were looking for was not hard to find either. It was the only one in the street in the iron grip of scaffolding and shrouded with plastic sheeting, as Jo had been told over the phone.

  Mrs Jenner had the door open for us before we’d negotiated the builder’s debris that cluttered the concrete handkerchief of front garden. The light spilling out helped us see what to avoid tripping over.

  ‘Miss Cash?’ she said.

  Jo shook the hand that was offered and then so did I. I gave my name because it seemed the right thing to do.

  ‘You’d better come in. Please, wipe your feet. As you can see, it’s a terrible mess out there.’

  We made appropriate noises of understanding and performed our ice-skating impressions on the mat. Mrs Jenner showed us through to a small parlour. It was cold in there; the heating hadn’t been on. It was clear that she hadn’t been using the room prior to our arrival. It was formal and tidy and made me think of a proper reception room, something part of the house but not the home.

  Mrs Jenner gestured to seats and we sat. I sneaked a quick look at the artwork on the walls. It was mostly sketches. The only thing they had in common was similar mounting and framing. I wondered if they were hers, or ex-students’ work, or valuable because they were done by someone famous. They looked a bit simple.

  I saw her looking at the case I’d brought in with me, as though it had all been a ruse and she expected me to try to sell her insurance or something. I set it down on the floor next to my chair.

  In the dim light cast by the little shaded bulb mounted in the centre of the ceiling, Mrs Jenner looked a pretty old bird, but sprightly with it, I reckoned. Her hair was completely grey, silver really, and short, and her face was heavily wrinkled, but her eyes, behind her designer specs, were sharp, intelligent and clear. She was a small woman but I could imagine her cowing others younger and bigger than her.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to speak with me, Mrs Jenner,’ said Jo. ‘I’m sorry to call on you so late on a Sunday night. It really could be a serious matter.’

  ‘Over the phone you said foul play is involved.’

  ‘Yes. My client has been abducted against her will.’

  I sat and wondered if there was any other kind.

  Jo said, ‘I received a phone call about that this evening.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘Then surely this should be a police matter.’

  ‘It is. I’m ex-police and I’ve been trying to get in touch with an ex-colleague to alert her, but it’s Sunday night and she’s not answering her phone. In the meantime I’m trying to find the missing woman, too. My client,’ Jo added for emphasis.

  ‘You mentioned Sigmund Swaine and Nigel Tate.’

  Jo nodded.

  ‘And that they both committed suicide last week?’

  ‘In separate incidents. They both shared a home with my client, Sigmund’s sister. Nigel Tate was married to her.’

  ‘How tragic.’

  Mrs Jenner didn’t qualify that statement, but I imagined she was referring to the two deaths and not the union of Nigel Tate and Rebecca Swaine.

  Before the woman could fire off more questions, Jo held up the picture and said, ‘Do you recognise anyone from this photograph?’

  Something like a happy memory passed over Mrs Jenner’s features. It softened her a little and I realised that she’d been a bit tense, which was perfectly understandable in the circumstances.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she said. ‘Sigmund was a brilliant artist. He had such tremendous potential. He could have been very important, in my opinion. But he lacked confidence in himself as an artist. He could never seem to be happy with anything he painted. Like so many great artists, he was a troubled man.’

  Jo wasn’t too interested in discussing Sigmund’s mental health. She pointed to Nigel Tate and said, ‘And this one?’

  ‘Nigel. He was not a bad artist. He lacked imagination, originality, a purpose. And he was lazy. He was a little too fond of the bohemian lifestyle traditionally associated with the life of an artist.’

  ‘Do you know the third man?’

  Mrs Jenner nodded and it seemed the recollection was not a happy one. ‘Lewis Edwards.’

  ‘Was he also a student of the college?’

  ‘Yes. Average talent. Innovative but confused with it. Could never seem to find his own style.’

  ‘Did you tutor any of them?’

  ‘Each of them was my student. Sigmund was the only real artist among them, the only one worth any time and effort. I’m so sorry to hear of his death. And Nigel, of course. Suicides. How awful. What a terrible waste of life. Do you know why?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m searching for answers for my client.’

  ‘And now she has disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you looking for Lewis? Has he got something to do with your client’s disappearance?’

  ‘What makes you ask that, Mrs Jenner?’

  ‘He was a bad apple, a bit of a wide boy. And you seem to be interested in him, of course.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. That’s a tattoo on his neck, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. A bird, I remember.’

  ‘A man with a bird tattoo on his neck and a ponytail has been described as looking for Nigel Tate recently. He was with a woman.’

  Mrs Jenner had nothing to say about that.

  Pointing at the photograph, I said, ‘This was taken at the opening celebration of the painting department in two thousand and nine. Were you there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  �
��Did you speak to these three?’

  ‘Yes. Each of them, I remember.’

  ‘Did you catch what Lewis Edwards was up to at the time?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. If he mentioned it, I’ve forgotten. I wouldn’t have spent much time with him.’

  Jo seemed disappointed. But we’d got a name and it hadn’t been too difficult. I thought we were doing well.

  ‘Would you know anyone who you could suggest might be able to help us further in locating Lewis Edwards?’ said Jo.

  ‘The best I could do for you would be to ask around at the college tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jo. ‘I’d really appreciate that. Could you do it without saying why?’

  Mrs Jenner smiled and she lost ten years with it. ‘I should think so.’

  ‘Do you still tutor at the college?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It’s my life.’

  We shook hands again and she saw us out, urging us to be careful where we trod and offering her hopes that we managed a swift and satisfactory resolution to our quest.

  We were almost at the car when I let out a loud, ‘Shit!’

  ‘What is it?’ said Jo.

  ‘I’ve left the bloody money in there.’

  ***

  44

  By the time I’d troubled Mrs Jenner for the hundred thousand pounds and stumbled back up the darkened path, Jo was leaning against the car, talking on her phone. Whoever she’d called was talking back. I gathered it was Marion Pardew. Jo was still talking as we got in. I waited and listened.

  Jo hung up and said, ‘She’s going to look him up. See if he’s got form and if anyone knows where he can be found.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her why we’re looking for him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t she ask?’

  ‘There’s no proof he’s involved in Rebecca Swaine’s abduction.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you at least have mentioned it?’

  ‘If something comes of it, I will.’

  I let my silence speak for what I thought of that.

  When I’d made my point and because I thought we could be in the capital a bit longer yet, I said, ‘I saw a cafe that’s open late. Fancy a coffee?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  We were sipping our beverages in a comfortable silence, sitting on uncomfortable stools at the window and staring out at the shadowy London street when Jo’s mobile next started up. It was approaching midnight. I felt like someone out of a Hopper painting.

  Jo made some room for herself and some privacy. I had to hope this was because of the couple sitting behind us and nothing to do with me, her partner.

  When she came back to me, she said, ‘He’s not known to the police.’

  I was surprised and it must have shown on my face.

  Jo said, ‘Not even a parking ticket.’

  We sipped our drinks and contemplated our options.

  Jo said, ‘What if I ring them and tell them we’ve got it?’

  ‘The money?’

  ‘Yes. The money.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we can do a trade tonight.’

  I thought about it. It made some sense. Maybe we should have done it sooner, if not immediately the balloon went up. It was only money. And, as far as we knew, a woman was being held against her will. Also, the money could well belong to the mystery woman and so she might well have a legitimate right to it, regardless of her methods.

  I communicated all this to Jo. She made a face and said, ‘Let’s do it in the car.’

  I hid my smirk. It wasn’t appropriate. I threw back the rest of my coffee and we took turns to use the facilities and guard the money, which I was beginning to have mixed feelings about bringing with us.

  Back in the car, and before Jo dialled her client’s abductor, we had a quick conversation about whether or not to involve the police. Jo said no. I felt we should. Jo won. Jo always won.

  Our call was answered quickly. Jo had her phone on loudspeaker. In the well-sealed confines of the car the mystery woman came through loud and clear.

  ‘Who’s this?’ said Jo.

  The woman laughed. It seemed genuine. ‘I’ll give you a point for effort. You have news?’

  ‘We have what you’re looking for?’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘We can talk about that later.’

  ‘You are sure you have it? You wouldn’t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes, would you, Miss Cash?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Let’s have a little test then. How much do you say you found?’

  ‘Let me talk to my client.’

  ‘You’re on speakerphone. Talk away. We have no secrets from each other any longer.’

  Jo said, ‘Mrs Swaine?’

  ‘I’m here. There is nothing for you to worry about. We have had a frank discussion and I want you to help them find what they are looking for.’ She sounded like she was reading.

  ‘I think I’ve found it, Mrs Swaine. Do you really want me to give it to them?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘Happy now?’ said the mystery woman. ‘So, how much do you think you’ve found?’

  ‘Forty thousand.’ I gave Jo my look but she wasn’t interested.

  ‘That’s not the amount I’m looking for, Miss Cash.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve found. It was all in one place in used twenties. How much should there be?’

  ‘Ten more.’

  Jo said, ‘Maybe he spent some.’

  There was a quiet pause.

  Jo said, ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘You found it quickly.’ I still don’t think she quite believed Jo.

  ‘I’m a detective. It wasn’t hard to find.’

  The woman let a little chuckle find us. It sounded a bit forced. She made a decision. ‘Let’s meet.’

  ‘Fine with me. Will you be bringing Lewis with you?’

  Another, longer pause.

  ‘You have been busy, haven’t you? I can see I’m going to have to watch you, Miss Cash.’

  ‘Where are you? We could come to you.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You’ve got your partner, I’ve got mine.’

  ‘Why don’t you come to my home, then?’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  She provided an address. Jo asked for the postcode for the sat nav and the woman reeled it off.

  ‘Got that,’ she said. ‘We can be there in twenty minutes.’

  That encouraged another pause and then another chuckle.

  ‘You’re already on your way?’

  ‘We’re already here.’

  ‘How marvellous. I’m starting to look forward to meeting you, Miss Cash. You sound quite... interesting. Now let’s just get one thing straight: Ms Swaine is here of her own free will, correct Ms Swaine?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Ms Swaine.

  ‘Good. So there is no need for you to start involving... others. It would only be to waste their time and cause considerable embarrassment and unwanted attention for your client. Make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘Super. I’ll get Lewis to put the kettle on.’

  She hung up.

  ***

  45

  I looked across at Jo. She continued to stare out of the windscreen. I gave her some thinking time. Then I said, ‘I’m confused. We found a hundred thousand, you tell her there’s forty and she says she’s after fifty.’

  ‘It occurred to me as I was talking to her that the demand note must be from her. She was asking for fifty in it. That pretty well confirms it, don’t you think?’

  ‘So whose is the other fifty thousand?’ I said.

  Jo said, ‘I have no idea, but I think she’s going to go for forty.’ She turned to face me. ‘You heard her.’

  ‘The kidnapper?’

  ‘No,
Rebecca Swaine.’

  ‘What she said doesn’t mean anything under the circumstances, as you well know. They could have been holding a gun to her head.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If we walk in there with the money and no support we deserve all the trouble we get. It’s not sensible, Jo.’

  She surprised me by grinning. ‘I know. What’s your idea?’

  ‘We go in without the money. If all’s well we go and get it and hand it over.’

  ‘Leave it in the car, you mean?’

  ‘No. Too obvious and too easy for it to be taken away from us by a determined party, who, worst case scenario, if they are particularly determined and armed, let’s say, and not wanting to leave any loose ends...’ I’d made my point.

  Jo said, ‘Bit dramatic.’

  ‘So is abduction and holding someone against their will for tens of thousands of pounds in cash.’

  ‘Where then?’ Jo stole a glance at the dashboard clock. ‘Time’s getting on.’

  A thought occurred to me. ‘What about Mrs Jenner’s? It’s only down the street.’

  ‘And how would you explain that to her?’

  ‘She doesn’t have to know. Why don’t we just hide it in the mess of her front garden? It’s as good a place as any and probably as safe as anywhere else. We’re only going to be a couple of hours at most.’

  ‘You hope.’

  ‘If all goes well.’

  Jo said, ‘Hide a hundred thousand pounds in a front garden?’

  ‘Got a better idea?’

  Jo thought about it as one of London’s street-cleaning vehicles crawled by making a racket, its twirling orange rooftop light turning the street into the cheapest of light shows.

  Jo said, ‘We’ll need to take some of it to prove we’ve got it.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  I’d parked in full view in a well-lit area; I didn’t want my Range Rover broken into while we were quaffing coffee. I started it up and headed back in the direction of Mrs Jenner’s. I stopped under a broken street light. It was as dark a place as we were likely to find in a hurry in the light pollution capital of England. We divvied up the contents of the briefcase.

  We left twenty thousand in the case. We decided to hide fifty thousand in a recess in the boot – the mystery woman wasn’t after more than fifty in total anyway. Then we hid ten in the car where it could easily be found, just in case we weren’t believed that we’d only recovered forty in total, and someone where we were heading decided to search the car with or without our permission. (Leaving the ten for them to find quickly would give them no reason to look harder and get a nice surprise.) That left twenty – the balance of the forty thousand we’d claimed to have found – which needed to be stashed in Mrs Jenner’s garden. It went into a plastic shopping bag I had in the boot.