Gone Tomorrow (25 page)

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ he said kindly. He looked round the room in a rather lost way. ‘It hard without her. I try to keep things nice, the way she did, but I can’t get used to it. I keep thinking she going to come in the kitchen door and tell me tea’s ready.’

‘So you live here alone?’

He inclined his head, and the faintest gleam of humour came into his eyes. ‘Doesn’t sound like it sometimes, eh? Hall day long they go on like that. Young people! Why don’t they go out to work? I wish I went out to work, then I’d get a bit o’ peace. I’m retired now.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Train driver. I drove trains for London Underground. Hit was quieter in the tunnels than it is in here when they playing that stuff.’

‘I believe you. Does your daughter come and visit you?’

‘Mary? No. I haven’t seen her in nearly two years. She used to phone sometimes, but since her mother died, she hasn’t phoned me once.’

‘Oh dear. Why is that?’

The lines of his face grew stern. ‘It that man she live with. That wicked, evil man. I suppose that’s what you’ve come about.’

Bullseye, Swilley thought with relief. They had got the right Mary after all. ‘You mean Lenny Baxter?’

‘Our Lord forgive me, but I hate that man for what he did to Mary. I saw on the TV he’d been murdered. So he got what he deserved. Just not soon enough.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask. What did he do to Mary?’

‘Put her feet on the path of evil. Took her from us, and from the Church. Now she living in a state of sin, and if—’ He stopped and swallowed, and then asked with a quiet, desperate courage. ‘Have you come to tell me something bad happen to her? Is she dead?’

‘No – I mean, we don’t know anything about her, except that she’s not at Lenny Baxter’s flat. Some of her clothes are missing and we assume she’s gone into hiding. We’d like to find her and we hoped you might know where she is.’

‘I don’t know anything about her life since she left us. But she
in a state of sin. If anything happen to her now—’ He shook his head, unable to articulate the awful possibility.

‘How did she meet Lenny Baxter?’

‘Her cousin Ev introduced them. You know Everet Boston?’

‘We have talked to him.’

‘That boy always getting into trouble, from the time he could walk. But Angela – my wife – she had a soft spot for him. She thought he was a good boy underneath. Otherwise we wouldn’t have let Mary see him.’

‘Did they go out together?’

He frowned, evaluating the question. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. Everet older than Mary. He like a big brother to her. He was round here a lot when he was a boy. His ma – Angela’s sister – lived round the corner, but she was a bad mother, so Angela tried to do her best for the boy. Teresa wasn’t married, you see. The black sheep of the family.’ He looked to see if she disapproved, and she pursed her lips in what she hoped was a noncommittal way. ‘She was a bad mother, so I suppose hit no wonder Ev went wrong too. He not a bad boy really, but he got mixed up with bad company.’

‘Like Lenny Baxter?’

‘I wish to God Ev never introduced Mary to him. Ev used to go down the snooker hall couple of times a week. He always fond of Mary, an’ he took her sometimes. We didn’t approve of that, but Ev said it was a respectable place. What could we do? If we forbade her to go with her cousin, she might do something worse. And Ev swore he’d look after her. But Lenny Baxter play at the same snooker hall – that how Ev knew him – so of course Mary get to know him.’

‘They went out together?’

He bowed his head in assent. ‘We think nothing of it at first. But we see a change come over Mary. She wouldn’t go to church any more. Then we find she smoking that weed. Lenny Baxter give it to her. I don’t know what else he getting her into.’ His eyes were distant now, reliving the old misery. ‘But she a different girl. Disrespectful to her mother. Paying no heed to her father. It was row, row, all the time.’ He focused suddenly on Swilley. ‘She not a bad girl, you understand? But she was yong and full of life and she wanted fun, and she got into bad company.’

‘Yes, I understand. It happens all the time.’

‘I never thought it would happen in my house,’ he said sternly.

‘Was that when she got into trouble with the law?’

‘You know about that?’ He seemed pained. Swilley nodded. ‘She stole a lipstick. The police were very kind. They know we not that kind of people. They let her off with a warning. But it a terrible shock to Angela and me. We just couldn’t understand how she could do such a ting. Then one day she tell us that she moving hout, going to live with Lenny Baxter.’ He shook his head slowly, goaded by memory. ‘It broke our hearts. Angela was never the same afterwards. We always been churchgoers. After Mary left, Angela wouldn’t go to church any more. Said she too ashamed, with a daughter living in sin with a bad man like Lenny Baxter, God forgive him.’

It was odd, Swilley thought, how believers could say ‘God forgive him,’ as if it meant the exact opposite. ‘Do you know what line of work Lenny was in?’

‘I don’t know what he did at first. But Ev working for this bookmaker – we didn’t approve of that, but at least it a job, and Ev did pretty well at it, enough money to dress nicely and buy a car. Hanyway, he got Lenny Baxter into it, working for the same boss.’

‘Do you know the name of the boss, or the company?’

He shook his head. ‘I wonder sometimes,’ he said painfully, ‘if it all legitimate. I wonder if they not mixed up with some criminal hactivity.’

It was fortunate he didn’t know the half, Swilley thought. ‘Is Mary your only child?’ she asked.

‘Angela and me had tree sons. Much older than Mary. She was our little afterthought, Angela always say.’

Menopause baby, Swilley translated.

‘But we loved her all the more because of that. She was a gift from God. That’s why we called her Mary.’

‘But when she was arrested for shoplifting she gave a different name.’

‘Yes. She made up a name. I don’t know why she did that. Maybe she was a bit ashamed.’

‘Is it possible she’s going by that other name again now?’

‘I don’t know what she doing hany more,’ he said with bitter dignity. ‘At first she used to phone her mother sometimes. But when Angela died—’ He paused, coming with difficulty to
perhaps the hardest part. ‘She didn’t come to her mother’s funeral. After that I never hear from her again.’

‘What does she do for a living?’

‘Nothing that I know of. That man give her money, I suppose.’

So he didn’t know about the prostitution, Swilley thought; or knew and wasn’t allowing himself to believe it.

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘No. She knew better than to bring him here. But Everet talk about him sometimes. Said he very free with his money. Maybe that’s what Mary liked about him. He gave her a watch one time – expensive one. Angela and me never wanted for anything, but we couldn’t afford loxuries. We thought we’d brought Mary up to know that the things of this world are a snare and a delusion. All our boys turned out straight. Good, hard-working boys, married with families, always paid their way, like we did. But Mary stole a lipstick. It was like she slapped me and her mother in the face. How could a child of ours do such a thing? It was never the same afterwards. It was like something in us died. And then she went away with that man …’

He stopped talking, as if it was all too much effort, lowering his head and staring at his hands. Swilley was beginning to get a picture of a lively teenager fretting against the restraints laid on her by staid and elderly parents and the heavy hand of the Church. Yes, if every minor peccadillo – things her contemporaries didn’t even think were wrong – was portrayed as a dagger of ingratitude through the heart of her mother
and
the BVM, one could see why she might prefer to hang out with the street-cool Ev and, ultimately, his friends. Every influence in her life other than her parents would be pulling her in a contrary direction. Maybe it just got too much for her.

‘Well, we really need to find Mary,’ Swilley said, interrupting his reverie. ‘Would she perhaps have gone to stay with one of her brothers?’

‘I don’t think so. She never had much to do with them. They were grown up and left home before she was born.’

‘I think we’d better check, just in case. Can you give me their addresses?’ He nodded. And also, can you give me a recent photograph of Mary?’

‘I haven’t got a recent one, not since she went away. The last one I have must be two years old at least.’

‘That would be better than nothing,’ Swilley said.

He got up and went over to the piece of furniture in the corner, a mixture of display shelves, drawers and cupboards usually called, with unconscious irony, a unit. A moment later he came back cradling a photograph in his big palm, which he bestowed on Swilley as if passing over a baby bird.

In front of a grim, modern urban church a stout, bespectacled black woman in a yellow print dress, white hat and handbag beamed at the camera; beside her was a slim young girl, mini-skirted and skinny-jumpered, leaning on her mother’s shoulder as if on a lamp-post, legs crossed, other arm outstretched in some obscure gesture. She was remarkably pretty, from what Swilley could tell, but in her age, her clothing, even her pose, she looked like the woman’s grandchild rather than daughter.

‘You’ll let me have it back?’ Mr Coulsden asked.

‘Yes, of course. Thanks. Now can you think of anywhere at all Mary might have gone? An old friend? Another relative?’

He shook his head. ‘She dropped everyone when she went off with that man. Everyone except Everet. If he doesn’t know where she is, no-one does.’

A sense of futility came over Swilley. Nothing in this case seemed to lead anywhere. Every little rivulet ran out into the sand. And this place was beginning to get her. Though there was no smell of damp the room struck cold, despite the bright sunshine outside. Cold as a tomb. Swilley wanted to be gone. She knew now what this quiet old man was waiting for.

He showed her to the door, and said suddenly, ‘There was a woman. When Mary get to know Lenny Baxter, they went out as a foursome with Ev and a woman called Susan. I remember because when Mary came back one time after she moved out to collect some more of her things, this woman drove her, waited for her outside in the car. She was older, more Everet’s age. Did he tell you about her?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe it nothing then. Just a casual acquaintance.’

‘Still, it might be worth checking. Did you get her surname? Can you describe her?’

He shook his head. ‘I only caught a glimpse at the door. And I never heard another name. Mary just said, “I’ve got to go,
Sue’s waiting,” or “Susan’s waiting.” And then I remembered that she’d mentioned her before. That’s all.’

Swilley thanked him, shook his cold, old hand, and left. As she filed between the Fiesta and the rusting junk, she felt his eyes on her, and resisted the urge to turn back and look. She didn’t think she could bear the sight of him, standing all alone in his doorway, a dry rock out of the flow of life.

Atherton assured Slider that he needed his company when he went to interview Mr Bates. ‘I’m the one that knows about schmutter.’

‘I’m only going to ask him the name of his driver,’ Slider said. ‘I already know the name of his tailor.’

‘Well, I promised James Mason I’d take care of him, and it makes it more natural for me to ask this Bates bloke, since he and I have a whistle or two in common.’

‘Feebler and feebler. Why don’t you just admit you want to see your rival face to face?’

‘Rival?’

‘You’re afraid he’s better dressed than you.’

‘I have no rival,’ Atherton said. ‘I am the nonpareil. Anyway, there’s no need for
you
to go at all. Why don’t you just admit you want to see the house?’

‘Certainly, if it will make you happy,’ Slider said genially. Architecture was a passion of his – or an interest that would be a passion if he ever had time to indulge one. All right, you can come with me, if you think you can control yourself.’

‘Do what?’

‘I don’t want you dribbling on this bloke’s lapels.’

‘Ditto his parquet flooring.’

Aubrey Walk was a posh small street in the posh area of Campden Hill, which itself was the priciest part of Kensington; but the house Slider and Atherton found themselves standing in front of was far beyond expectations. It was detached, a mid-Victorian villa standing in a small square of ground entirely surrounded by high walls. The only ingress was through a stout and high pair of electronically operated gates topped with a security camera; the ten-foot-high walls were embellished with revolving spikes and an almost invisible wire which Slider guessed would trip an alarm if touched.

Through the gates they could see a gravel sweep up to the front door. Doors and windows were all hard shut and there was no sign of life. The upper ones seemed to have blinds pulled down over them. The square, handsome villa had a false parapet around the top of the façade which partly concealed the pitch of the roof, and Slider caught a glimpse of a satellite dish lurking there, together with a cluster of tall and powerful radio aerials and a telephone mast that looked like the upturned fitment from a giant rotisserie. Apart from the electronics and security, the condition of the house alone – the attention to detail, the quality of the paint job, the immaculate state of the gravel – would have been an indicator of the real-estate value, which, added to the location, the size and the detachedness, made it a seven-figure job.

‘This bloke must be earning serious biccies,’ Atherton remarked.

‘Unless he inherited it,’ Slider suggested.

‘Either way, it makes me like him more.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Because for a really seriously rich man it would be very easy for him to get his clothes from a posh outfitter up in Jermyn Street, or even from Paris or Milan or whatever. And of course,’ he added fairly, ‘he may do that as well. But he must have real taste and judgement to go to a funny old geezer like James Mason; and taste and judgement like that do not come automatically with the large bank balance.’