Murder... Now and Then (7 page)

He had had to tell Margaret, of course. If he had thought for one moment that he could have got Catherine back before Margaret came out of hospital, he wouldn't have told her. But Catherine wasn't half as guileless as she appeared; she wouldn't be easy to find. He had thought that Margaret would insist on the police being brought in, but it had been surprisingly easy to talk her out of it. They would have wanted to know what had happened to his face; the whole thing would have become even more of a disaster than it already was.

Margaret had accepted that; she had always accepted that his way of life was hazardous, and that the less the police knew of it the better. She had surprised him the day she had agreed to marry him; she could always surprise him, even now.

‘What was she wearing, Mr Holyoak, do you know?'

He had no idea. ‘ I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I don't know what she was wearing, but she will almost certainly be wearing something different by now.'

‘Well – perhaps your wife could tell me—'

‘My wife is in hospital,' he said.

‘Oh – I'm sorry. Nothing serious, I hope.'

‘Not really,' he said. ‘ But my wife is paralysed, you see. Minor illnesses can be dangerous – the doctor thought she should be under supervision.'

The man nodded sympathetically. ‘Do you know why Catherine should have run off?' he asked carefully.

Oh, yes. He knew all right. But he wasn't about to tell him or anyone else. Holyoak pointed to his stitched and dressed face, ‘She unfortunately witnessed this,' he said.

‘Ah, yes. I was going to ask …'

‘A dissatisfied customer,' said Holyoak. ‘I answered the door, and …' He shrugged.

The man looked a little startled. ‘What business are you in, Mr Holyoak?' he asked.

He might well want to know. ‘I run a finance company,' Holyoak said. That was true; that was the legitimate arm of his business. ‘Some people don't think they should have to pay back loans.' That was true too, but they didn't usually take cut-throat razors to you as a result. Holyoak's business, and how he came by his current looks, were not fit subjects to discuss with even private detectives to whom he was paying enormous sums to ensure confidentiality.

‘Have you reported the attack to the police?' he asked suspiciously.

The others had respected his privacy; Holyoak might have to get heavy with this one. ‘ No,' he said. ‘I accept these things as an occupational hazard.'

This one's a bit iffy, said the detective's look But that was all right; he had always been a bit iffy, but he wasn't going to have the police getting curious about him at this late stage. If that was too rich for the private eye's blood, he'd better turn down the work now before he was in too deep.

‘Is that why you don't want to involve the police in Catherine's disappearance?' he asked.

‘Is that a problem for you?' asked Holyoak, his voice deceptively polite.

The man shook his head. ‘None of my business,' he said.

‘Good.' Holyoak relaxed a little.

‘So you were badly hurt, and she just took off?'

Holyoak sighed. ‘ No. She called an ambulance, and waited for it to come. But when I got back from hospital, she wasn't here. I went to bed, and this morning I realized that she hadn't come back. Then I got the call from London.'

‘Did she see your attacker?'

‘No.'

‘So you don't think she's in any danger – I mean, she couldn't identify him?'

‘She didn't see him, and it wouldn't matter if she had, because I know who did it,' said Holyoak.

‘This is a very nice place,' he said, looking round the extremely comfortable sitting room in which they were talking. ‘My guess is that she'll not want to fend for herself for too long.'

‘Your guesses don't interest me,' Holyoak said.

But yes, he had done well for himself. He had had the house built for his wife, who now had to use a wheelchair; everything was within reach. He had a full-time nurse. He had a Daimler and a chauffeur. But Catherine had chosen to run away just when he was in danger of losing it all; perhaps the lure that the detective guessed would bring her back wouldn't be there for much longer. He had a lot of thinking to do, and this joker had better not be a time-waster.

‘Do you get on with your stepdaughter as a rule?'

Victor had had enough. ‘What's that got to do with it?' he asked.

‘I … I thought that if she was frightened by what happened—'

‘Don't think,' Holyoak said, his voice quiet.

The man looked at him, his eyes widening slightly.

‘Catherine wasn't frightened,' Holyoak went on. ‘ She disapproves of me, of what I do. She was ashamed, maybe, but not frightened. And I just want you to find her, not psychoanalyse her. Whether or not she can cope with my lifestyle is something her mother and I have to worry about – not you.' He leant forward, and the other man shrank back. ‘I'm employing you to find her with minimum fuss and maximum efficiency. Don't think. Just look.'

The man licked his lips slightly, nodding. ‘Just trying to get the picture,' he said hastily. ‘No offence. I just meant that if you and she don't exactly … hit it off, well – she'll probably just stay somewhere until her mother's back.'

‘Didn't you hear what I just said?' asked Holyoak.

‘Yes – but …'

‘Find her and you'll be banking more than you've ever banked at one go in your life. Start ‘‘just thinking'' instead of doing what you're being paid to do, start poking your nose into my business – and
you
won't have a business any more. Got it?' He stood up. ‘And if you don't want the job, then you've just wasted an hour of my time. I could get very angry about that.'

‘No – no. I want the job. I'm not wasting your time. Did your stepdaughter have any money on her?' he asked, swiftly getting back to impersonal questions.

Holyoak nodded. ‘I expect so,' he said. He sat down again. ‘She usually does.'

‘And she took clothes, you said.'

He nodded again.

‘Do you have a photograph?'

Holyoak had sorted out photographs that morning; he had chosen the ones taken on her sixteenth birthday, and handed the last one to the detective. ‘If you find her, you report back to me,' he told him, as he had told the others. ‘You make no contact with her.'

He nodded, and took the photograph. ‘London's a big place,' he said.

‘Use your head,' Holyoak said. ‘Use your wallet. Use muscle if it helps jog any memories, but don't let the police get interested, and don't let her out of your sight if you do find her.'

London was a big place. But she'd be found. Sooner or later, she would turn up somewhere. She couldn't just disappear.

Saturday, mid-morning. Grey, overcast but dry, thus far. Geraldine stepped from the car, taking her father's arm. Her matron of honour held up the creamy folds of material clear of last night's puddles as they picked their way through the cars which had spilled over from the church's tiny car park on to the pathway.

A white wedding. A cream wedding, at any rate. It was supposed to be her big day, but Geraldine had never cared for all the razzmatazz of church weddings. Charles was the one who wanted it this way, who wanted the bridesmaids and the confetti and the picture of them cutting the cake, who wanted top hats and morning suits and a reception in an hotel that cost the earth.

And it was her father who was having to pay for it all, of course, because she and Charles couldn't afford it. They were saving every penny for the practice. Not that her father minded in the least. What he hadn't liked was Charles's and Geraldine's habit of holidaying together, and going off for the occasional weekend together, as they had done for the last four years. Despite the fact that she was now a qualified doctor, her father tended to regard her still as his little girl, and this was what he had wanted, just like Charles, who had never seemed too keen on their premarital forays.

Charles had been planning this since he and Geraldine had met, practically. She smiled. He was a great man for plans, was Charles. As soon as they had saved enough, he had said, they would marry, and they would set up a practice in Stansfield. She wanted all of that; she just hadn't wanted this. And more than anything, she wanted a baby. But she hadn't told Charles that yet.

She stood in the doorway of the church, with her dress being arranged, and smiled at her father, trying very hard to make herself feel romantic. In truth, she just felt a little silly in her bridal gown, with flowers braided through her long hair. Her father had had
tears
in his eyes when she came downstairs. Because she was wearing an off-white dress. That was what it amounted to.

The inner door opened, the vicar nodded to the organist and ‘Here Comes the Bride' heralded her entrance She felt sillier than ever, not looking right or left, but staring straight ahead at the back of Charles's head, at the soft dark brown hair that had curled down over his collar, but which was shorter this morning than it had been since she had met him.

He turned. His face was pale, his eyes distinctly red-rimmed and dark-circled. As she got closer, she could see the perspiration darkening the hair behind his ears. She saw the fabled Max Scott for the first time; she had heard about him as long as she had known Charles. He was attractive, and clearly didn't have a hangover, as he gave her an amused glance. He was hanging on to Charles for dear life. Poor Charles. They must have got him drunk last night; he must feel like death. She could imagine him dragging himself to the barber so as not to offend her father with the length of his hair, climbing into his unfamiliar hired clothes, with an even less familiar hangover; now he was standing there, probably praying that he wouldn't faint.

He could faint if he liked. He could fall asleep if he liked. The sheer effort of will that it must have taken for him to be here was what brought a loving tear to her eye, and he could be sick all over her cream bridal gown for all she cared. She wouldn't mind.

She loved him.

‘I'm a married man with two children, and I'm falling in love with you. Is this going to be a problem?'

‘Yes,' said Judy firmly, to her half-pint of lager.

The West End pub was warm, with a smattering of conversation and quiet background music as it waited for the Saturday lunchtime crowd to arrive. Lloyd's foot had rested against hers under the table; now, he drew it away.

‘Why did you agree to come for a drink with me, then?' he asked.

‘Because,' Judy solemnly told her lager, ‘I can't pretend that nothing's happening between us. I wanted to see you.'

‘You'd find that easier if you looked at me,' he said, his voice gentle.

She loved his voice. Slowly, she raised her eyes from the glass to his face; the Celtic colouring, the dark wavy hair that fell untidily over his brow, the blue eyes looking directly back info hers.

‘That's better,' he said, smiling.

She didn't smile back. She didn't feel like smiling. So many of them were crass and stupid; so many of them were anti-women, and the odd one, God help her, was like Dave, the one who carried out routine indecent assaults on prostitutes, and had got away with it. Judy hadn't seen the incident; she had put two and two together, but she hadn't witnessed it, and she could only report what she had seen and heard. They only asked her about Annabel; she had answered them, and hadn't volunteered any other information. Even sergeants were supposed to turn a blind eye to anything short of full-scale corruption; one PC shopping another was unthinkable. Sometimes she hated the whole police force, from the commissioner down. Because they had all taken Bannister's word against Annabel's.

Lloyd wasn't like any of them. But if she wasn't careful, she'd be like them soon. Bannister had interpreted her silence as a personal favour. She had had a long chat with Annabel, in the hope of persuading her to give up life on the streets; it hadn't been successful.

The pub began to fill up, and people sat down at the next table, noisily organizing who was having what.

‘Do you want that drink?' Lloyd asked.

She shrugged.

‘Then let's go somewhere else.'

‘Where?'

Lloyd stood up, and bent towards her. ‘I don't care,' he whispered. ‘I just don't want to carry on this conversation in a pub.'

She followed him out into the diamond-hard air, and they walked through the streets, not saying anything at all. Buses shuddered, Big Ben chimed, taxi engines chattered as they waited at the lights. The smell of a dozen different national dishes wafted out of the restaurants as they passed.

‘No money,' said Lloyd.

‘No appetite,' said Judy.

‘I know,' he said, grabbing her hand, running with her, jumping on to the open platform of a not yet phased-out Routemaster, pushing her upstairs ahead of him, to the empty upper deck, where he pulled her down into a seat. The bus groaned as it pulled out from the stop, and car horns sounded.

Judy stared at him. ‘ Well?' she said.

‘Well We're on the top deck of a bus.'

‘Where's it going?'

He grinned, ‘Who cares? We'll get another one back when we've been.' He turned as the conductor laboured up the stairs, his girth making the task only just this side of possible.

‘Fares, please,' he said, in a deep West Indian baritone.

‘Two to the terminus,' said Lloyd. ‘Thank you.'

The machine spat out the tickets, and the conductor stayed where he was.

‘Thank you,' Lloyd said again, a little more loudly, rather as though he were talking to a hard-of-hearing butler.

The conductor didn't move, and Judy's mouth began to twitch. She didn't really know how Lloyd was likely to react to being laughed at; she gave him a sideways look, to find him winking at her. Then he literally fell on top of her as the bus swung round a seemingly endless bend to the right.