Willing Flesh (28 page)

He stands, wraps his arms around her, whispers into her ear, ‘You should have told me, at least told Pulford, where you were going.’

‘We thought it best not to. If you didn’t know, they couldn’t know.’ She leans back and he holds her by the arms. ‘You weren’t followed here, were you?’

‘Hopefully, he knows better than that,’ says Sylvie, standing by the door.

Rosa takes a step away and his hands slide down her arms, to his sides. She sees him looking at the empty wine bottles, then at Sylvie; back to Rosa, then at the floor.

Eventually, he looks at Sylvie and says, ‘You brought Rosa here, to protect her,’ contemplating the lengths you might go to in sheltering somebody. ‘Thank you.’

*

Staffe walks down the Castelnau with a real clip to his stride. It is just before dawn and he has slept for two, maybe three hours. He has the streets to himself, but cuts down to the river path before he reaches Hammersmith Bridge and walks to Putney. The Thames is swathed in a silver mist and the sky is clear, the moon full. Ducks glide by the bank, just the occasional light in the buildings opposite.

He thinks about the Howerds’ proud family line, all the way back to the Reformation; the culmination of so many lives of endeavour, of doing the right thing, and suffering that forfeit, that chink in the line of descent five generations ago. How it might suit Howerd to have Arabella disappeared over some horizon, gone the way of her errant mother before shame strikes. But that will all backfire now, if Absolom does his worst – which is what the serpent journo does best.

What will it take to bring young Roddy to preserve the family? All on his narrow shoulders. He checks his watch and slows down, not wanting to arrive too early. He wants Roddy all to himself this morning, so stops off for breakfast at a caff just off the Fulham Road.

The place bustles with truckers who have made their city drops, and builders in high-vis and rigger boots. They belch and joke and rib each other. Some bury their heads in the
Sun
.

An old girl in a tabard brings his sausage sandwich and his mug of tea and one of the builders slaps her backside playfully with a rolled-up newspaper. He gets a clip round the ear, which sets everybody off, and Staffe laughs out loud. He likes its sound, the shape it makes of his face.

The builders and drivers drift away and Staffe leaves his crusts and a healthy tip, returns the smile of the old girl who is clearing tables. Her husband wipes down the counter between slurps from a pint mug of tea and his happy glow flicks off like a light. Her too. You can hoodwink anyone in this city. They do it with global warming and credit crunches. If you wanted to disappear a black sheep, you might do it by disguising it as a serial killing of whores and junkies. How desperate would you have to be?

Staffe works his way up towards the south side of Hyde Park. He cuts up Kensington Church Street and past the palace with its endless Princess tributes. Staffe says aloud, ‘Families!’ and crunches across the frost-crusted grass, the morning light coming pale, the traffic up on Bayswater roaring and grinding.

And Bobo? Letting people think Elena was his lover when all along he was her brother. Why do that? And does it make him a Danya or her a Bogdanovich? Or neither of them either. And if he ever could trace Elena back, what family secrets might he uncover there? He remembers the savagery of Bobo’s grief. Grief, so close to shame.

It is now nearly three days since Arabella went missing. He calls Pulford to get on to T-Mobile to see when Arabella Howerd last used her phone. As he talks, he stops, looks ahead to Hyde Park Corner and rubs his head. He does it with such ferocity that people stop and watch. They think he is one of the nutters. He has walked five miles and round and round in circles.

*

‘My father is out,’ says Roddy Howerd. Even though he is a student, Roddy wears cavalry twills and a double-cuffed shirt. He wouldn’t look out of place in White’s, or the Lords.

‘It’s you I came to see.’

‘Me?’ says Roddy, as if everyone who calls comes for father.

Staffe sidles into the wide hallway with its Victorian tiled floor and an extremely rare upholstered Georgian settle. Classical music, presumably Radio 3, is playing at the back of the house and Staffe takes a half flight down to a large kitchen where the scullery, pantry and parlour have all been knocked into one. A large George III breakfast table is at the centre. He can smell roasted coffee beans, says, ‘There’s nothing finer than the smell of fresh coffee.’ Through the French windows he admires the beautifully planted private rear garden.

‘I take it you would like a cup.’

Staffe had seen the lever-pull Italian machine and says, ‘I’d like it cut, please. A thimbleful.’

Roddy smiles, approvingly, grinds beans afresh.

As he does it, Staffe takes a close look at a framed Onslow print of the Great Eastern Hotel, with diners dwarfed in its pillared and domed dining room. ‘I’d hazard you’ve been through Liverpool Street Station a fair few times, hey Roddy?’

‘You could say that.’

‘All those trips up to town from The Ridings?’

‘What do you know about The Ridings?’

‘They’re building one of those brand spanking new country towns up there.’

‘Do you have news of Arabella?’ says Roddy.

‘What did you do?’ says Staffe, jokingly. ‘Sell off a few acres of the estate?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I need to know more about Arabella’s friends. And I need some photographs, as recent as you’ve got.’

Roddy hands Staffe his coffee, served in a thick Illy cup, with saucer. ‘I wouldn’t know about her friends. Not my type of people.’

‘She had a boyfriend, Darius.’

Roddy shrugs.

‘She used to go back up to The Ridings?’

‘Never.’ Roddy is quite adamant.

‘She must have favourite haunts. Places she went with her mother when she painted, for example.’

‘They didn’t get on.’

The coffee is thick and hot and bitter. Staffe waits for the rush. Gets it. ‘How bad was it, Roddy, between Imogen and Arabella?’

Roddy turns on his heel and says, over his shoulder, ‘I’ll see if I can find a photograph.’

Staffe follows him into the hall, having noticed Howerd’s study at the back of the house. Looking into the drawing room, he says, ‘I’m a bit of a collector. Do you mind if I have another look in here?’

‘I won’t be long,’ says Roddy, climbing the stairs.

The moment he has disappeared from view, Staffe takes a half flight up into Howerd’s study, goes straight to a slant-lid desk. He thinks it might be Queen Anne and daren’t even guess at its value.

In the top drawer is a small leather ring binder with Howerd’s current-account statements in it. Coutts. At the last count, he was
£
220,000 over-drawn. Staffe looks quickly back through the statements, sees that amounts of
£
25,000 had been withdrawn in cash four times in the past four months. The last, three weeks ago.

He can’t believe the Howerds are quite on their uppers, but wonders why Leonard might run a personal overdraft at such levels. He goes through the small drawers on the desktop and takes out a batch of correspondence. Two letters from the Nationwide, approving in principle a mortgage of
£
750,000, and a letter from Binns Contractors in Ipswich, quoting
£
320,000 for repairs and renovations to The Ridings, Little Mumplings, nr Aldesworth.

In the bureau’s galleys, Leonard keeps old envlopes, to make lists or notes. Seeing a solitary pale lilac envelope, Staffe eases it out, takes it in his fingers, sees Leonard’s name and address, drawn in a long, elegant hand.

Staffe hears a fast tread on the stairs and slides the letter back, returns the drawer and positions himself in front of a large framed photograph. A beautiful woman, crinkling at the eyes but tall and with a model’s frame, stands beside a man in cardinal red. He has her cheekbones and straight nose. The same as Arra, also.

Roddy appears in the doorway, ‘You were going into the drawing room,’ says Roddy.

‘This is Imogen and Uncle Bernard, I take it,’ says Staffe.

Roddy looks out of the window, as if Imogen might rise from a crouched tending of the Michaelmas daisies beyond the arbour and wave up to him.

He holds open the album at a page that has three photographs of a teenage Arabella. Staffe takes a firm grip of the album and pulls it towards him. Roddy keeps a hold, saying, ‘Choose the one you want and I’ll remove it. My father won’t be pleased that the album has been tampered with.’

But Staffe smiles him in the eye and tugs, once, firmly. He sits in a club chair to the left of the window, leafing through the album.

‘It’s private.’

‘The more I know about her, the more chance we’ve got.’ And then he sees why Roddy was so reluctant.

Two young men are standing by a
taberna
with a turquoise sea beyond. They are laughing and the fair Roddy has his elbow on the other’s shoulder. The darker of the two is unmistakably familiar. Darius A’Court.

‘Is this how Arabella met Darius?’

‘I met him on holiday,’ says Roddy, his voice cracking at the edge.

‘I asked Darius if he knew you. He said he didn’t.’

Roddy shrugs, unable to disguise the fact that he is hurt.

‘Why would he do that, I wonder?’ says Staffe, leafing back to the photographs of Arabella. He removes one, hands back the album to Roddy. ‘And why would you – when I asked you earlier – imply you didn’t know him?’

‘I have things to do,’ says Roddy.

‘When was the last time Vassily Tchancov visited here, Roddy?’

‘I have never heard of the man.’ Roddy speaks without hesitation, is utterly convincing; almost as if somebody else had spoken for him.

‘I believe I know where I might find Arabella.’

‘What!’ Roddy’s assuredness collapses. He is neither happy nor relieved that his sister might be found. ‘Where might you find her?’ He is, no doubt about it, afraid.

*

The Elder has quite taken to driving his hackney carriage and can’t help but smile at the realisation that his plan has panned out so sweetly. He even has his story plotted ahead, should his Knowledge fail him. He looks in the mirror at his quarry, who desires to be driven to Barnes. The inspector, up close, has kind eyes and a soft look to his face, despite the hard lines of his jaw and eye sockets, his two-day stubble. But he seems troubled, the poor man, as if struggling with an impossible crossword clue.

He decides to go through the park, thinks this will show that he is what he purports to be. But halfway in, he takes a left around the Serpentine and immediately realises the error. It is a wrong turn no true cabbie would make.

‘I’m afraid we should have gone straight on. Unless you’re caught short,’ laughs the inspector.

Best tell his best lie, he thinks. And whilst he makes his volte-face, he says, ‘To be honest, sir, and I shouldn’t be saying this – but you look like a decent kind of fellow – this isn’t my cab.’

‘Aaah.’

‘No, it’s my son-in-law’s. Had it three years and going gangbusters he was, then they hit rough water, so I said I’d help out – doubling up on the shifts. I do my best, but this Knowledge business, it’s no walk in the park.’ The Elder laughs out loud. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he says, eyeing Staffe in the mirror. ‘Have this one on me. All this fannying about!’

‘Absolutely not!’ says the inspector.

When they pull up outside Sylvie’s urban cottage, Staffe looks up and down the street for signs of anything unusual. All the way, he has been checking whether they are followed. As he gets out, with the cabbie gushing his thanks, he stops, leans against the hackney carriage and says to the driver, ‘How do you fancy a proper fare, and a good run out?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I need to go up the coast. It’s a couple of hours. Switch off the meter and I’ll pay you a ton and a half. Same again tomorrow if you bring us back.’