Hold My Hand (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

New Year, new clients.

Steve Holden is having a fruitful week. January always brings in a rush of work; a combination of Christmas resentments and New Year's resolutions. Women who suspect their old man is playing away. Men whose business partners have done a Michaelmas bunk with the contents of the company bank account. Adoptees whose opt-in families have become op-out and think they're going to get joy from the mother who couldn't be arsed when they were babies. They all want him at this time of year, and all of them are good for a deposit, at least, even if half will have changed their minds before he's done more than make a few phone calls.

Not this one, though. He can usually tell the keepers, and this is one of them. He's got the look of a terrier about him, and everyone knows, once a terrier's sunk its teeth in you've got a job to make it let go.

“So what can I do for you?” he asks.

Kieran Fletcher shifts in his chair. He has difficulty sitting still, Steve notices. Hasn't stayed in the same position for more than thirty seconds since he got here. Crosses and uncrosses his legs, holds the arms of the chair and uses them to raise himself from the seat as though his back is hurting, slings himself from side to side as he takes in his surroundings with sweeping gaze.

Shifty, thinks Steve. Dismisses the thought. He's well-dressed; obviously not short of a bob. One of those barrow-boy traders in the City, if his guess is right And money is money, after all, and a lot of people look shifty when they first consult a private detective.

“I've got a problem,” says Kieran Fletcher,

You don't say. “Most people who come to me have,” Steve says noncommittally. “I'm used to people with problems.”

Kieran Fletcher produces a cigarette lighter from his pocket, begins to fiddle with it, turning it over and over between thumb and forefinger. Steve gets the ashtray from where he keeps it in his top drawer – he doesn't like to have it there on show; it looks seedy – and pushes it across the desk. “Feel free to smoke, if you want,” he says.

“Thanks,” says Fletcher. Gets a pack of Marlboro Light from the other pocket, removes a cigarette from the pack and sits there tapping the end, unlit, against the cellophane on the box.

“So perhaps,” says Steve, “you want to tell me about your problem?”

Fletcher looks irritated for a moment. Arrogant, thinks Steve. Doesn't like being told what to do. Then he settles back into the chair, breathes heavily out through his nose and says: “it's my wife.”

Now, there's a surprise, thinks Steve. He nods, encouragingly. “Uh-huh?”

“She's vanished.”

“Uh-huh?” says Steve again. He doesn't want to offer the wrong reaction.

Kieran doesn't say anything more, so eventually, he asks: “and when was this?”

“About a month ago,” says Kieran.

“I see. And have you reported it to the police?”

Again the look of impatience. He shakes his head, vigorously. “Not that sort of vanished.”

“I see,” says Steve again,

“I turned up to see my daughter,” he says, “and she was gone. I had to find out from her nosy neighbour. Took a lot of pleasure in telling me.”

“Aha,” says Steve.

“I wouldn't care,” says Kieran, “fuck her. I got rid of her years ago.”

“Ah.
Ex
-wife, then?” This would explain the lack of distraughtness. Men who haven't seen it coming are usually pretty shaky by this point in telling their story.

“Yeah. Useless – let's just say we weren't compatible, eh?”

“Okay.”

“It's not that. Couldn't care if I never saw her again. It's my daughter.”

“Ah,” says Steve. He understands now.

Fletcher finally jabs the cigarette between his lips, puts the flame to it. Inhales, exhales a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “She's taken my daughter with her.”

Steve can't help but feel sympathy for him. He doesn't find him likeable, but he remembers how unlikeable he was himself, when Jo took off. Women. They may get the credit as the peacemakers and the home-makers, but there are plenty of avenging harpies among them. Not a week goes by when he doesn't get a visit from some kid's father. Bereaved fathers, angry fathers, tearful fathers, fathers who have all but given up hope. A certain type of woman will do anything to punish an errant husband. He has plenty of proof of that.

“That must be hard for you,” he says.

Kieran Fletcher's face tinges near the jawline. “You have no idea.”

“So,” he clicks the clicker on his pen, sits forward ready to take notes, “perhaps you'd like to start at the beginning. Name?”

“Bridget.”

“Bridget Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

He writes it down. “Age?”

“Thirty-three.” He pauses, thinks. “Maybe thirty-four. I'm not certain.”

He doesn't feel any surprise that a man wouldn't know his own wife's age. Women can be pretty vague about these things themselves.

“Okay,” he says. “Thirty-three. And she was living at…?”

Kieran gives him the Streatham address. Looks sour. “My flat,” he adds. “Where I was living, 'til she thought better of it.”

Hmm, thinks Steve. Not the most watertight of back-stories. He'd got rid of
her
a minute ago. Still. You can't blame a guy for salving his dignity by pretending he was the sacker, not the sackee.

“And where do you live now?”

“A studio. Clapham.”

Steve feels a wave of sympathy. Isn't it always the way? He remembers the year he spent staring at the swirls on the carpet of his post-separation rental, the chipped laminate, the kitchen drawer with the front that came off every time you pulled it. He remembers the way he felt as he went to pick the kids up from his own house, the house where he was no longer welcome; looking through the windows as he waited in the car at the potted plants, the mirrors, the comfortable settee.

What he doesn't see, in his mind's eye, is Kieran's tubular-steel-and-black-leather reality. There are studios and studios, and Kieran's was built for one of the more successful of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. It's been Bonus Central in the City over the past couple of years. And without the millstone that is Bridget round his neck, he's been back on his feet a while, now.

“Does she owe you money?”

“Well,” he says bitterly, “I've certainly never seen anything back on all those mortgage payments.”

“And the flat?”

“Handed the keys back to the building society. No discussion with me. Just did it.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” says Kieran.

“Yes,” says Steve. “You might have some legal recourse where that's concerned.”

“I doubt it. The deeds were in her name.”

“Oh.”

“I don't know how it came to this,” he says. “I mean, I wasn't perfect, but who is? But all these lies she's told about me. It's like… she wants to punish me. She's… you know, you think you know someone, and then…”

“Yes,” says Steve. “A lot of people have nasty shocks when marriages break down.”

“But you know,” he grinds the cigarette out, starts playing with the lighter again, “I wouldn't care, but we've got a kid, you know? It's not just about her, and me.”

“No. I understand that. We'll do what we can. Maybe…” the clock on the wall is ticking on. He needs to hurry this up; free initial consultations don't pay the rent. “If you give me all the details you can think of, it'll be a start. So the name is Bridget Fletcher?”

“Yeah. Maybe Barton. She might have gone back to her maiden name, I suppose.”

“A lot of women do. And your daughter?”

“Yasmin. She's six. Seven in a couple of months. And I won't – at this rate I won't even be able to send her a card…”

His voice falters and he stares down at his shoes. Grips his hands into fists. Swallows.

It flashes through Steve's head: he's not as upset as he wants me to believe. He's putting this on.

Not my problem. I'm not here as an arbiter of how deep people's feelings run. God, if we judged people's fitness for parenthood on shallowness, most of the media world would have children in care. It's probably more of a pride thing than anything. He doesn't like having this woman call the shots. But fair enough. The guy wants to see his daughter. That's not a crime, is it?

“Okay, Mr Fletcher,” he says. “What I suggest is that you have one more go at seeing if you can find anyone who might have an idea where she's gone.”

“That bloody Carol knows,” says Kieran. “I know she knows.”

“Carol?”

“The neighbour. Upstairs. One of those bitter types. Can't stand men. She was always interfering, even when we were together. She'll know. But she won't tell me.”

Mmm, thinks Steve. A few issues about the opposite sex yourself, I think. Not that surprising, though. You go on a steep learning curve when divorce enters the playroom.

“Has she got parents? Family? Where she might have gone?”

Fletcher shakes his head. “Dead. Only child. No-one to be in touch with.”

“And this neighbour?”

“She hates me. I think she thought she was in with a chance once. Woman scorned and all that.”

Do I like this man? No. But it's not my job to like my clients. It's my job to do what needs to be done for them.

“Well, do you think you could try one more time?”

“Don't you think I've tried already?” His eyes flash, annoyed, like a teenager being nagged to clean his room. “I told you! There's no way she's doing me any favours.”

“Ok. Ok. Well, look, I'll tell you what we'll do. You come back here in a couple of days and bring as much detail as you can. NI number. Health Service number. Driving licence details, if you've got them. Any other names. Bank account details. You must at least be able to get those from the CSA. And a photo would be useful.”

Kieran Fletcher looks astonished. Not one to hang on to sentimental treasures, then. The he says: “yes. Yes, I've got one. Cause it's got Yasmin in it. But it's a couple of years old, now.”

“Better than nothing,” says Steve. “Well, I'll need you to write down every detail you can think of. How they look. What they like doing. What her qualifications are. How she might be earning a living. Hobbies. All of that. Anything you can think of. She'll be having to get money somehow, and if she's not she'll be signing on.”

“She was a florist,” says Kieran doubtfully.

“There you go.” He scribbles another note. Florists use wholesalers, delivery people, the Yellow Pages. “Now, look. It's not hopeless, by any means. People try to disappear all the time, but in the end there's usually a paper trail. Does she have a mobile?”

“Yeah, she can afford one of those all right.”

“Oh, right. And have you tried calling her?”

The flash again. “Of course. Hung up, of course. Of course she did.”

“And the bills go to…?”

“Pay-as-you-go.”

“Oh.”