Sight Unseen Page 6

  ‘Is this something between you and your dad?’ I ask him.

  ‘Yeah. He’s stopped paying me.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Yesterday. I’ve been drawing on an account of his through ATMs. They won’t take my card any more.’

  ‘Have you contacted the bank?’

  ‘Yeah. They say it’s confidential between them and the account holder.’

  ‘And H?’

  ‘I can’t get hold of him.’

  ‘You’ve tried?’

  ‘Of course I have. He doesn’t pick up. Doesn’t return my calls. All I’ve got is a single text.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  For the first time, Malo falters. He’s looking at Pavel. Pavel has his eyes closed and his hands are folded in his lap.

  ‘Well?’ I ask Malo.

  ‘He wants me back at Flixcombe. I think he wants to bang me up. Keep an eye on me.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that? Just be honest with me.’

  ‘Fuck knows.’ He’s eyeing the door to the kitchen. ‘Have you got any bread? Maybe some bacon?’

  I have a couple of rashers in the fridge. In the kitchen, with the door open, I watch Malo preparing a bacon sarnie. When it comes to a top-dressing of tomato sauce he hoses most of it over the work surface.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’

  ‘How would I do that? I’ve told you, I’m running on empty.’

  ‘Then how come you’re so …’ I frown. ‘Hyper?’

  ‘Maybe it’s getting to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everything.’ He looks round at me, then nods back towards the lounge. Taking the hint, I close the door.

  ‘You mean Clem?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course. I wait and wait for something to go down but nothing ever happens.’

  ‘No one’s got in touch?’

  ‘No. I live by the phone. I’m always checking, just in case. You’ve no idea how that can stress you out. It’s being in her place, too. She’s everywhere I look. I go to bed and lie there all night and the pillow and everything smells of her but that’s just a wind-up because she’s not there.’

  ‘There’s no one you can talk to? No friend? No mate?’ I can’t help thinking about his dreadlocked companion, whether he’s involved in Clem’s disappearance or not.

  ‘No. I want to be around, need to be around, in case anyone phones her landline. You’re the only person I’ve talked to for days. Otherwise it’s just me.’

  I nod. He’s sitting at the table now, wolfing down the sandwich. A curl of tomato sauce has smeared the corner of his chin.

  ‘I came round earlier,’ I say quietly. ‘Banged on the door. Shouted through the letterbox. The place seemed empty to me.’

  ‘I was in bed.’ Malo wipes his chin with the back of his hand, something H would do.

  ‘I thought you said you couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I got there in the end. Fucking wonderful, Mum. Didn’t wake up until this afternoon. That’s when I tried the ATMs. Nothing worked.’ He pushes his plate away and checks his watch. ‘Maybe a couple of hundred quid? If you’ve got it?’

  I haven’t. My bag’s in my bedroom. I manage to rustle up ninety-five in cash and return to the kitchen to give Malo a cheque for the balance. He’s still on his feet. I ask him to sit down.

  ‘What is this? Some kind of interview?’

  ‘Please?’

  With some reluctance he complies. His right foot is tap-tapping on the lino. He keeps squeezing his eyes. He can’t keep still.

  I sign the cheque and lay it carefully on the table.

  ‘If you’ve got anything to tell me,’ I say, ‘now would be a good time.’

  Malo is staring at the cheque. I want him to tell me about his new black friend. I want him to explain exactly why they met and where they went. But I want this to come from him, not me.

  ‘Well …?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  Our eyes meet for no more than a second before he’s on his feet, reaching for the cheque. A cursory kiss lands on my upturned forehead and he tells me he loves me. Then he’s gone.

  ‘Cocaine,’ Pavel says. ‘You can hear it in his voice. The boy’s manic. He’s also very confused.’

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘Lost.’

  It’s hard not to agree. I’m not sure whether Pavel’s being diplomatic or not but I prefer ‘lost’ to any other description. It means, among other things, that I can help him get his bearings.

  Pavel and I are together on the sofa. I’ve broached a bottle of decent Rioja I was saving for a girlie get-together next week. When Pavel asks me what happened in the kitchen I’m happy to tell him. ‘My son’s lying to me,’ I tell him. ‘The important question is why.’

  Pavel, in the vernacular, likes to play these scenes long. In his view, the pair of them – Clem and Malo – have found themselves in bad company. Her looks and what I agree is my son’s reckless overconfidence have swept them out of their depth. One misplaced conversation with the wrong people might have triggered the kidnap and now Malo hasn’t a clue what to do about it.

  ‘That’s one interpretation,’ Pavel says. ‘As any screenwriter will tell you, there are, of course, others.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like something more complicit. Anything’s possible. Which is rather the point.’

  ‘The point?’ I’m getting angry. ‘You think Malo’s behind all this? You think he helped kidnap his own girlfriend?’

  I’m staring at him. Once again I’m finding his sense of apartness just a little hard to take. This is no time for showing off, for treating real people, precious people, people I love, as ciphers in some plot synopsis. Pavel is undoubtedly clever, and witty, and inventive. For a blind person, ironically, he also has the rare gift of insight. On the evidence of his other senses, his judgements about H and Malo have so far been faultless. But these talents come with an almost autistic detachment. He seems wary of soiling himself with the way people really are, of the traps they lay for themselves, of the messier consequences of our many imperfections.

  Some of this I try and put into words. Infuriatingly, he understands at once what I’m saying.

  ‘You think I don’t care?’

  ‘I think you’re used to your own company. I think you trust no one else. In my book that’s very sensible. If I was living in the dark I’d probably do the same.’

  Pavel looks briefly shocked. Then his face is a mask once again, giving nothing away. At length, he stirs.

  ‘I don’t need your approval,’ he says quietly. ‘Or any kind of excuse. I’m sorry. I’m letting you down here.’

  He puts his glass carefully to one side and gets up. So far he hasn’t touched a drop. He says he’ll call a cab from the sidewalk below.

  ‘Sidewalk? Is this an American script?’

  I’m trying to make light of this little exchange. I’m trying to say I’m sorry. It doesn’t work. He’s already at the door.

  I struggle to my feet. A nightmare day has just got darker still. I follow him down the hall, try to catch his hand. He half-turns. He has no dog tonight, no Milost, just the collapsible stick he uses to map his next footfall.

  I cup his long face in both hands, ask him to stay, plead with him to stay, but he shakes his head.

  ‘Goodnight.’ His eyes are half-closed. ‘Take care, eh?’

  TWELVE

  I wake in the middle of the night. A fitful sleep, punctuated by fragments of dreams I’d prefer not to share, has left me groggy and a little ashamed. None of the relationships that matter in my world are working out. I seem to have developed a real gift for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Maybe I should arrange to go blind and then, at the very least, I’d have an excuse.

  Pathetic, I tell myself. I roll over and peer at my bedside clock: 02.57. I lie on my back for a moment, listening to the low hu
m of the city beyond my windows. Then I hear another noise, closer, distinct. Metal on metal, I think. From somewhere down below.

  I roll out of bed and reach for my dressing gown, resisting the temptation to turn on the light. The noise is coming from the rear of the building. This is where we park our cars, all sixteen of us, each with our allotted bay. From the lounge window I can peer down on the grid of vehicles on the blackness of the tarmac.

  I stand motionless for a full minute. The parking spaces are bathed in that orange sodium glow that comes with life in a big city. My little Peugeot is at the end of the line, almost below my window, and I’m watching a man on his hands and knees beside my boot. One hand is reaching underneath the car. In the other is a tiny flashlight which he uses very sparingly. At last he seems to have finished whatever he’s doing. Then he gets to his feet. He’s a big man, tall, and he moves into the shadows with the ease of someone who works out. Something, some other noise in the half-darkness, brings him to a sudden halt and as he freezes and looks up I realize that the face beneath the big afro is black.

  Seconds later, he’s gone. Expecting the cough of an engine and a departing car, I hear nothing. My heart is thudding. I feel the clammy chill of real fear. Has he rigged some kind of bomb? Has he cut my brake lines? Has he helped himself to the Pavel book of plot accelerants in a bid to bring this sad little movie to an end? Is he still out there? Whatever the answer, as my pulse begins to settle, fear gives way to anger. My car, my space, my castle. This must have something to do with Malo, with Clem, but I’m past trying to cope with any of this by myself.

  I dial 999 and ask for the police. When the voice at the other end enquires about the nature of the emergency I explain what’s happened. Someone’s just been interfering with my car. I watched them do it. And now I’d quite like a second opinion on what might happen next.

  Moments later, I’m talking to a different voice. He introduces himself as one of the despatchers in the control room. I go through the story again and sense him trying to categorize the urgency of my call. I confirm that I’m alone in my flat on the fourth floor. I give him my mobile number and the exact address. No, there’s no one I feel like waking up for support. And yes, I’ll be on hand and waiting for help to arrive. The despatcher checks my name again and says he’ll arrange for a response car to call by to assess the situation. I tell him I’m grateful and the conversation comes to an end.

  Normally, under circumstances like these, I’d take the hint from the despatcher and knock on my neighbour’s door for moral support, but Evelyn’s in Venice just now and there’s no one else I would call on at three o’clock in the morning. After twenty minutes at the window watching for movement – any movement – in the shadows below me I give up and make myself a cup of tea. As an afterthought, I cork the Rioja, stow the bottle away and wash up the two glasses. I’m expecting company at any moment. First impressions are all-important.

  The response car announces its presence just after four o’clock with a call to my phone. PC Wallace and PC Cleverdon are outside the apartment block. Would I mind coming down and identifying my car?

  Not at all. I slip into the trackie bottoms and loose top I used to wear for running round Kensington Gardens and make my way downstairs. The two police officers get out of the car as I emerge from the front door. I lead them round to the rear of the building and point out my little Peugeot.

  PC Cleverdon is young. She looks a little like me back in the day when I first realized I might make it in a proper job. She’s blonde and watchful, and doesn’t give much away. While her colleague circles my car looking, I imagine, for signs of forced entry, she produces a flashlight and disappears down the line of neighbouring vehicles until I can hear nothing but the faint burble of voices on her radio. PC Wallace, meanwhile, is asking where, precisely, the intruder was at work.

  I point at the boot. ‘Under there.’

  ‘Did you see what he was doing?’

  ‘Not really. It didn’t take very long. Maybe a minute at the most. Then he was away.’

  PC Wallace is an older man. He has glasses and a neatly trimmed beard and introduces himself as Jerry. He also thinks he recognizes me.

  ‘Actress, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  He names a couple of films I made a while back, one with Liam Neeson.

  ‘Top movies,’ he says, bending to take a closer look at the boot. ‘Loved them both. Netflix? Can’t do without it.’

  He’s on his hands and knees now, the beam of the torch sweeping left and right. Then, abruptly, it stops. I hear a grunt of satisfaction. With his spare hand he pulls something free and stands up. In the pool of light from his torch, I’m looking at an object a little bigger than a bar of soap. It’s black and it has two metal discs on the top.

  ‘Magnets,’ he says. ‘This is a tracker. Talks to someone who wants to know where you’re going.’ He glances up at me. ‘Can we have a chat inside?’

  Upstairs in my apartment I make them both tea while Jerry flips his notebook to a fresh page. He scribbles a date and a time and then asks me to describe exactly what I saw. Sadly, my description is far from detailed. Tall. Fit-looking. Jeans and a hoodie and what might have been basketball shoes. Also, he was black, with a big afro.

  ‘A black gentleman?’ Jerry looks up. ‘You’re certain? Age?’

  ‘Hard to work out. Thirties? Forties? Younger? Older? I’d be guessing.’

  He nods, doesn’t pursue it. I pour the tea and apologize for no biscuits. The female PC, whose name is Dawn, is watching me closely. Jerry wants to know a bit more about me.

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘I was. Once.’

  ‘Divorced now?’

  ‘Nearly.’

  ‘And have you made any other enemies?’

  It’s a nice line and I oblige with a smile which Jerry – justifiably – takes as applause.

  ‘My ex-husband’s Swedish,’ I tell him. ‘To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t been here for months. He’s also hopeless with anything practical.’

  ‘You’re telling me he’s black?’

  ‘No. Au contraire. He’s very white and very blond. It goes with the passport.’

  ‘But he could have hired someone? Paid them to keep tabs on you? Would that have been possible?’

  ‘It might,’ I agree. ‘But he’s flat broke. Or at least that’s what he tells me.’

  Jerry nods, makes a note, glances up. ‘Anyone else in your life? Anyone married or partnered who might be cheating on their other half?’

  I give the question some thought. I’m thinking about Pavel. Might he have a secret consort? Some insanely jealous woman who’s hired some heavy to scare off the opposition?

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nothing like that.’

  A nod of the head from Jerry and another scribble in his notebook. A voice on his radio has just reported a stabbing on Camden High Street. The victim is deemed critical. Hotel One is already airborne.

  ‘Chopper,’ Jerry grunts. ‘Busy as you like, those boys.’

  We go back to the tracker. While it isn’t strictly mine I’ll have to sign for the device while attempts are made to trace the point of sale. I’m not to hold my breath at this piece of detective work but it might save a great deal of time if I could come up with a name or two.

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘That’s my question, Ms Andressen. Have a bit of a think. Is there anyone or anything that’s happened recently that might explain this little incident?’

  This, I know, is the killer question. This is the moment when I can spill the beans about Clem, about Malo, about mysterious black strangers with dreadlocks and teardrop tattoos. All of this will doubtless make Jerry’s week. Not some lowlife slapping a tracker on the wrong car but a tiny piece of a much sexier jigsaw. I happen to know that kidnap is up there with murder and arson when it comes to proper crime. Despite the kidnappers’ warning, is now the moment to break the news about Clem?

  I’m still trying to m
ake up my mind when there comes another message on Dawn’s radio. A passer-by has reported a B&E in progress at a phone shop in Notting Hill Gate. I know this shop. It’s only minutes away. Both Jerry and Dawn are on their feet.

  Jerry drops a card on my lap and heads for the door. Dawn has already acknowledged the tasking.

  ‘Bell me tomorrow after two o’clock,’ Jerry says over his shoulder. ‘I should be up by then.’

  ‘B&E?’ I ask. But they’ve gone.

  THIRTEEN

  Getting to sleep again, oddly enough, is no problem. Not only have I forcibly addressed the mystery of my unbidden intruder, but luck has also bought me half a day before I have to decide whether or not to come clean about the kidnapping. The proposition about the wrong car seems more than likely. I can live with that. Case closed.

  Next morning, early, I phone H. Contrary to what he told me yesterday he’s not at Flixcombe at all.

  ‘I’m in Brixton,’ he grunts. ‘Having breakfast.’

  I tell him we need to talk. Has he heard from Mateo at all?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you tried to get in touch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But something might have happened. Have I got that right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  H is eating and talking at the same time. I also get the feeling he’s not alone.

  ‘I had Malo round last night,’ I say. ‘Why have you stopped his money?’

  ‘Because I had no choice. Talk later, yeah?’

  I try to ask when, but he’s gone. Angry, I send him a text. Eating and being offensive at the same time? Here’s to multi-tasking.

  He phones back past midday and suggests he buys me lunch. I say yes and within an hour he’s outside the apartment. It’s been raining all morning and once I’m in the passenger seat I notice two wet patches, one over each knee. He’s booked a table at a local restaurant he knows I like. He has to be gone by half two.