Читать книгу The Disappeared - Ali Harper - Страница 11

The three of us stood there in the women’s toilets, staring at each other as we let Carly’s statement sink in. This time it was me that cracked.

‘She can’t have.’

Carly turned to face me, so I could see the back of her head in the mirror. She folded her arms across her chest. ‘She did.’

‘Jack’s mum died?’ I repeated. I saw Mrs Wilkins in our offices, twisting the wedding ring on her finger.

‘He could be telling you a sob story,’ said Jo. ‘Blokes’ll tell you anything if they think they’re in with a mercy shag.’

Carly shook her head in a way that didn’t brook any argument. ‘She was killed in a car crash. He was in the car. He survived. She died. He’s never got over it.’

No one spoke.

Jo frowned at me. I felt panic stir in my belly.

‘You need to be careful,’ said Carly. ‘This woman could be anyone. What did she look like?’

‘What about his dad?’ Jo asked.

‘Never talks about him. Never talks about his past. All I know about his dad is that he’s a workaholic. They have no relationship. Jack never goes home.’

‘Where is home?’

‘He doesn’t have one. He was sent to boarding school when he was like 7.’

‘His dad must live somewhere.’

‘Some posh village outside of Manchester but, I’m telling you, Jack has nothing to do with him. He sells cars,’ she said, like this was the worst thing a man could do. ‘He’s only into making money. Jack hates him. Wherever Jack is, it’s definitely not with his dad.’

She seemed certain on that fact, so I didn’t press it.

‘What were you going to see?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘At the Hyde?’ The Hyde Park Picture House is a small, independent cinema nestled among the red-brick terraces. It shows arty films, often subtitled – the kind of film I can never understand.

Carly stared at me without recognition.

‘On the Sunday, when Jack didn’t show?’

‘Oh, right. The Ken Russell one – what’s it called it – Daniel something.’

‘I, Daniel Blake,’ said Jo. ‘Awesome.’

It was difficult to think of anything else to ask, so we left Carly in the toilets. She wrote her number down on the back of one of our business cards, and I promised her we’d be in touch if we heard anything.

‘The custard thickens,’ said Jo as we hit the pavement and the chill evening air.

‘Do you believe her? About his mum being dead?’

‘Dunno.’ Jo shrugged her shoulders – like the fact our client may have told us a pack of complete lies was a mere blip in an otherwise ordinary day.

I pictured Mrs Wilkins in our offices. Remembered the shake in her hands as she crushed out a cigarette. ‘She’s got to be his mother,’ I said as we headed through town, no real idea what we were going to do next. I felt the need to burn off some energy, see if I could outrun the smell of beer that was clinging to my clothes. My throat ached. ‘If she’s not his mother, why would she want us to find him?’

‘He’ll have been spinning Carly a sob story. You know what blokes are like. Lying, cheating—’

‘You reckon?’ I clutched at the paper-thin straw Jo offered.

‘We need to talk to Brownie.’

‘She could be his stepmother. Maybe his dad remarried.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jo, but her voice lacked the conviction I was looking for. ‘When you next speaking to her?’

‘She’s ringing at nine tomorrow.’

‘So, ask her then.’

‘We can’t wait till tomorrow. We need to know who she is.’ The words fell out of me, without me really knowing what was coming next. ‘She’s our client, the whole fucking point of why we’re here. She said she was his mother. Why lie? Maybe that’s a thing – we need to get ID from people.’

‘Ring her then,’ said Jo. ‘That’s why I bought you a phone.’

‘She didn’t give me her number.’ I tried not to notice Jo’s raised eyebrow. ‘She’s staying at the Queens.’ I grasped her arm. ‘She said not to ring her husband. Said he’d go apeshit if he knew what she was doing.’

‘Might be true,’ she said.

‘Or she might not be Jack’s mother; in which case, ’course she doesn’t want us ringing his dad.’

Jo put a calming hand on my arm. I shrugged it off. ‘Why don’t we drop by?’ she said. ‘It’s not that far.’

The Queens Hotel underlines Queens Square – the first thing you see when you come to Leeds by train. Even in the dark it stands out – a huge silver-white building that looks up at the whole city, while its doormen in funny suits look down on the mere mortals milling around its streets. Mind you, at that time of night – half past nine on a Friday – I could understand their disdain. On the walk down, I hadn’t seen a single person who wasn’t rat-arsed.

One of the doormen gave us a questioning stare as we climbed the front steps, but he let us in all the same, once Jo announced we were meeting someone.

Jo marched up to reception. She’s never fazed. ‘We’re supposed to be meeting one of your guests,’ she said to the male receptionist. ‘Could you let her know we’re here?’

The receptionist looked cynical. ‘You have a room number?’

Jo glanced at me. I shook my head. ‘It’s Mrs Wilkins,’ she said. ‘Mrs Susan Wilkins.’

He hesitated but turned to the screen in front of him. He typed in a few letters, then turned back to Jo and smiled without warmth. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have anyone of that name staying at the hotel. Was there any—?’

‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘Late thirties or something, blonde.’

‘We have over two hundred guests—’

‘From Manchester? Staying the whole weekend.’ I leaned across the desk. He tilted the screen away from me. ‘Wears big, kind of round, earrings. Like pearls.’ I made weird hand signals in order to help him imagine what a woman wearing earrings might look like.

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ He turned to indicate our opportunity to waste his time was now over. The telephone rang, and his hand shot out to pick up the receiver. ‘The Queens. How may I help?’

Jo grabbed my arm and moved me away from the desk.

‘Maybe she used a false name,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t want her husband to know what she’s up to.’

‘Maybe,’ said Jo. I had the sense she was humouring me. She led us through the foyer and back out the front doors.

‘She’s got to be his stepmother. Who else would be looking for him?’

Jo pulled a face at me while I realized that was possibly a silly question.

‘She wasn’t a drug dealer,’ I said. A middle-aged couple on their way out for the night frowned at me as they passed us on the steps. I lowered my voice. ‘She didn’t even smoke fags properly.’

Jo shrugged, grabbing my arm to pull me across the road, ducking between the cars.

‘Drug dealers aren’t going to hire private investigators.’

‘They might,’ said Jo.

‘If she is his stepmother, and she’s disappeared, she could be in trouble. Maybe the dealers have found her. Maybe they’re trying to get her to pay up to cover her son’s debts. She did say they’d helped Jack out financially in the past. She could be in trouble.’

We crossed the square. ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Jo said. ‘We haven’t got a phone number.’

I bristled at that, couldn’t help feeling that Jo was blaming me for not correctly completing the form.

‘We have to hope she rings tomorrow like she said she would.’

‘I did ask,’ I said. ‘She said it was better if she rang us. Maybe she knows about the drugs. Maybe he’s been in this kind of trouble before.’

Jo shrugged, and we walked up through the city in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. It wasn’t until we reached the Town Hall, right in the centre of town, I realized I had no idea where we were headed.

‘Where we going?’ I asked Jo.

‘Brownie,’ she said, rolling a fag as she walked.

‘How do we find him?’

‘It’s quarter past ten, Friday night, he’s an anarcho-hippy, lives in Woodhouse. Where do you think?’

When you put it like that, it was obvious. ‘The Chemic,’ I said.