Richard
In the hallway, I hover before tapping into my contacts, considering what to say. I don’t wish to lie to Will, either as my friend or as Commissioner of Police.
And the phone vibes in my hand… Will’s avatar flashes up.
“Will, I was about to call you…”
“Hello, Richard. What about?”
“I want to request copies of the hospital camera data going back for at least the last month. We’d like to go over it between us.”
“You beat me to it, Richard. In fact, that’s why I was calling you. Let James and Michael know to check their messages. I’ve just had the lab send exactly that across. How are things over there? How are they bearing up?”
“Not good. James especially. He knows it wasn’t his fault but…”
“Yeah… it goes that way. Misplaced guilt. He’s going to have to deal with that. And Mitch?”
“She’s shattered, as you can imagine. But with all of them, being able to go over the video footage gives them something useful to contribute.”
“‘Course it does.” In the background, the sound of a ringing phone. “Richard, I have another call. I’ve got to go.”
“Will… Before you hang up, are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
Surprise chimes through his voice. “Lunch, Richard? Under these conditions?”
“Yes, there’s something I need to discuss with you, urgently.”
“Lunch it is.”
*****
Charlotte
Inside, there’s that sliding sensation I get when she’s moving. My stomach ripples and bulges and I rub back at the bulge with my hand.
Is that her foot?
Shhh… Sweetheart… They’ll come for us…
Then I recoil, gasping from the thump inside as she kicks hard up and inwardly…
Go to sleep, Baby.
And there’s that odd crampy feeling that’s been growing for the past few days. It gripes at me…
Don’t try to come yet, Baby.
Not yet…
Then I double up with a fit of coughing that comes straight from my chest…
*****
Klempner
I rise early, rubbing at the crick in my neck where the couch wasn’t long enough to stretch out on.
James is up too.
“I’m going out to talk to some people. Do a bit of research. I’ll be a few hours.”
“Want company?”
“Not for this. I’ll catch you later.”
*****
“I’ll have a sparkling water.”
“Coming right up, sir.”
“And a newspaper.”
“Help yourself, sir.” The barman nods me to the stack of papers and I slide a couple of coins across the bar. Then, scanning the headlines, I wait and watch.
It doesn’t take long.
There he is…
Mickey Miller: small-time con-artist, purveyor of news, gossip and scandal of all kinds, the biggest flapping mouth in the City. And about as predictable as it’s possible for a human being to be.
Edging back into the shadows, my newspaper open, I watch him for a few minutes.
He sits by himself in a corner alcove, nursing a beer. Neck craned upwards, jaw hanging slack, he’s glued to some football game on the TV. Occasionally he pops a peanut, tossing it into his mouth without looking but with the ease of long practice.
Completely in character.
Folding my newspaper, drink in hand, I move in from behind, taking the seat next to him and effectively trapping him between the table and the wall.
“So, Mickey, what gives?”
He coughs, slopping his beer, some of it down his front. “Larry… Uh, Mr Klempner… I didn’t know you’re in the City. You’re… er… you’re back?”
“Yes, I’m back and I thought I’d drop by on my old friend Mickey to find out what he knows.” I help myself to a couple of his peanuts.
“Know? Know about what, Mr Klempner?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say. Anything. You tell me.” I pop another peanut. “What’s on the grapevine?”
“Um, dunno.” He squirms and gulps at his beer. “Don’t know anything.”
“What? Not anything at all? In a city this size, there’s nothing happening? That sounds unlikely.”
“Dunno.” His head drops and he takes another swill of his beer.
I take a mouthful of my own drink, let him wait a few seconds, “So, what do you make of this kidnapping, Mickey?”
He freezes. “Um, what kidnapping’s that, Mr Klempner?”
I unfold my newspaper, spread it flat. “The one all over the headlines. What else?” I read from a headline. “Speculation is rife that the kidnappers took the wrong woman and their intended target was Elizabeth Haswell, wife of billionaire, Richard Haswell… What d’you reckon, Mickey?”
He giggles. “Hey, Mr Klempner, you think I rub shoulders with the kind of people who could pull that off?”
“No, Mickey, I’m sure you don’t. But I do think you hear things.”
“Not heard anything about that.” He sucks at his beer, draining the glass, which shakes in his hand.
“You don’t think it’s a bit odd?” I say. “Pros trying for the supposed Beth Haswell at the City hospital?”
“Yeah, that’s right. She’d be at some fancy clinic, wouldn’t she?” Then he clutches at his glass, shoulders rigid.
Mmmm…
Useless little runt…
Harmless though…
And scared shitless of something…
Me?
Or someone else?
I scribble my phone number on a beermat, tuck it into his top pocket. “Well, if you decide you have heard anything, Mickey, you will get in touch won’t you.”
“Course I will, Mr Klempner. You know me.”
“Only too well, Mickey. Only too well.” On my way out, I flag down the barman, toss a coin across the bar. “Give him another one.”
*****
Lawns neatly mown…
Fences maintained…
Walls white, bright, and clean with fresh paint, except for one green streak trailing down from the roof.
I press the bell. After a few moments, the door opens to reveal…
“Good Morning, Mrs Polevski. How are you? Well, I hope?”
From her position stooped over the walking frame, her face lights up. “Oh, Mr Green. How nice to see you. It’s been ever such a long time.”
Wearing a pink cardigan over a flour-covered apron, five-feet nothing in her sensible black shoes, and her hair tinted to a shade matching the cardigan, Mrs Polevski achieved middle-aged respectability sometime in her forties and hasn’t moved on since.
“I know. I’ve been away on business. But I was in the area and I thought I’d drop by to see how my favourite tenant is doing.”
“Oh, do come in, Mr Green. Can I get you a cup of tea? And I’m baking scones. I have a batch fresh out of the oven.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
I step inside, almost immediately breaking into a sweat under the assault of central heating set to High. The lounge hasn’t changed since I last saw it: a sense of taste that settled in the 80s and every surface covered in battalions of knick-knacks, cheap souvenirs and photographs of assorted family members.
The tea comes in fine white porcelain served on a tray draped with a white linen cloth, the ironed creases sharp and clear. And beside the pot, a plate of scones, still faintly wisping steam, beside a small bowl of cream thick enough to slice and a pot of jam bearing a handwritten label: Gooseberry – July.
“Do help yourself, Mr Green. Oh…” She raises a hand to her mouth. “I hope you like gooseberry jam, Mr Green. I have strawberry as well. That’s more traditional with scones, isn’t it. Let me get you some strawberry.”
She starts struggling up to her walking frame, but I lay my hand on her shoulder. “That’s really not necessary, Mrs Polevski. I’m very partial to gooseberry jam. Thank you.”
I slice a scone in half, lightly crusted on the outside and breathing fragrant warmth from the inside. Slathering it with enough cream to support a respectable dairy industry and jam that smells of springtime and warm meadows, I bite in.
Wonderful…
“So how are you, Mrs Polevski? Is everything alright with the property?”
“Oh, it’s lovely. Such a nice area to live.” She reaches forward, patting my hand with hers, veined and liver-spotted. “You’re very generous letting me have it at the rent you charge.”
“We can’t have our old folks living in substandard housing, now can we, Mrs Polevski? So, everything is as it should be? Maintenance? Fences repaired? Security alarm?”
“Well, let me see… There’s a bit of a drip on the bathroom basin. The noise keeps me awake at night. And there’s a leak on the roof, I think. It’s not much but…”
“Yes, I saw that. The guttering needs clearing. Why don’t you get a tradesman in to clean it out. If you pay him, you can send me the bill and we’ll knock it off next month’s rent, shall we. Now, let’s have a look at this dripping tap. Do you have a spanner?”
From the bathroom, I can check over the area. Plenty of nosy neighbours, overlooking the house, all twitching curtains.
Perfect!
The old lady potters in as I tighten up the nut. “Mr Green, I was wondering, since I can’t use the garage, would it be alright for me to put a small shed at the back? Somewhere for the lawnmower and my nephew’s bicycle.”
“Of course it is, Mrs Polevski. I should have thought of that myself. You’ll be sure to fit a good strong lock on the door, won’t you. You can’t be too careful.”
“Oh, I will, but I feel ever so safe here, with the alarm and the security lights and everything.”
“That’s good, but if you’re having a shed at the back, we’ll have an extra motion-detector light out there, shall we. Then you don’t fall over in the dark. Has the security company done the annual maintenance on the alarm system as they should? I’m paying them, so I’d like to know the work’s being carried out.”
“Oh, yes, they are. They’re very good. They sent an engineer around only, oh, six weeks ago.”
“That’s good. I’ll just check it over. Make sure everything looks okay.”
The maintenance log is completed and signed, the batteries are new and a quick test run has the bell ringing loudly enough to wake every household within five hundred yards.
“And you have the telephone number for the police station if you see anything suspicious outside? Tell you what…” I jot it onto the labelling on the alarm system. “I’ve written it here for you, then you can’t lose it.”
“Oh, thank you. And there’s the neighbourhood watch too. We all look out for each other.”
She beams up at me. “It’s so good of you to go to all this trouble, Mr Green, helping an old lady like this. You’re the best landlord I’ve ever had.”
“My pleasure, Mrs Polevski. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I just need to pick up a couple of things and then I have to be off.”
“Another cup of tea?”
“Another time, Mrs Polevski. You take care. And if you think there’s any trouble at all, you ring that number, eh.”
*****