Читать книгу The Heights - Parker Bilal - Страница 9

Drake put Marco Foulkes at just north of fifty. His taste in clothes was definitely older. A rust-coloured corduroy jacket that displayed just the right combination of wear and exclusivity to make the owner appear both down on his luck but also unmistakeably wealthy. The kind of look Drake wouldn’t be caught dead in any time soon. The ash-blond hair was cut boyishly, hanging down a little too long in the neck. It all added up to the impression of a man who was having trouble shaking off the fact that his youth was behind him.

Foulkes was seated on one of the chic black leather armchairs that Crane had inherited along with the office. They were designed by an architect whose name she had told Drake but which he had subsequently forgotten. Van something or other. Dutch? German?

His mind was wandering. Truth be told he was still undecided about this private lark. There was the change of pace, but there was also the fact that clients were paramount. You needed them. He was having trouble disguising the fact that he had instinctively taken an immediate dislike to Foulkes. Maybe it was because he was a writer (and what did someone like that have to write about?), or maybe it was just the paisley silk scarf slung artistically around his neck. Something about the smug way he waltzed in here expecting them to swallow his story.

The dislike was clearly mutual.

‘Ever since your father moved back, my mother has been taking care of him. She’s concerned, says the place is like a menagerie.’

Foulkes was addressing Crane and could barely bring himself to throw a wary glance at Drake as he went on. ‘I gather you haven’t seen Sir Edmund for a while. He’s the one who suggested I look you up.’

Crane cleared her throat impatiently. She was behind her desk, taking notes in a big ledger with one of her fancy pens. She liked doing that, writing things out slowly in longhand. It gave her time to think, and also, in this case, to hide her annoyance. Drake guessed that this had something to do with Foulkes’ overfamiliarity. One thing Drake understood: there were some areas where Crane liked to keep a certain distance. The subject of her family being one of them. That much he knew about her and Foulkes walking in here playing the old family friend was clearly rubbing her up the wrong way.

‘So, Marco,’ Drake smiled, taking the initiative. ‘Remind me again, how did you meet this woman?’

‘How did I meet her?’ Foulkes carried himself like a man who did not like being taken lightly. ‘I already explained that.’

‘Cal is a former Detective Inspector with the Met,’ Crane explained. ‘It’s an interview technique, to get people to repeat their stories, in order to sift out the holes.’

‘I’m not a suspect,’ Foulkes pointed out. ‘I’m a client. Potential client,’ he added for Drake’s benefit.

‘Sorry, Mr Foulkes,’ Drake said, trying to make amends. ‘Old habits die hard, but perhaps you could humour me and go back over it one more time?’

With a sigh, Foulkes began his tale over again.

‘Her name is Howeida Almanara. She’s from Kuwait. She’s doing a postgrad at LSE. That’s how we met. I was doing a reading there one evening and a few of us went for a drink afterwards.’

‘Is that something that happens often?’

‘Well, it depends. If there is a good vibe with an audience, and I have no other pressing engagements, then I’m happy to socialise. The personal touch can really help to gain the loyalty of readers.’

‘Right.’ Drake managed, just, not to roll his eyes. ‘And I’m assuming that the fact that she is an attractive young woman didn’t hurt.’

‘Well, no, of course not.’ The smile on Foulkes’ face faded.

‘And this was five months ago,’ said Crane, following up with a glance back over at her notes.

‘Six months. It was just before my birthday, which is in September.’

‘Exactly. Five months, then.’

Drake could see the irritation on his face. Was that because she was a woman, or did he just not like being corrected by anyone? His manner suggested he felt a certain propriety over the girlfriend.

‘Is it possible that she hasn’t disappeared?’

‘How do you mean?’ Foulkes turned back to Drake.

‘I mean, is it possible she just doesn’t want to see you again?’

The half-smile wavering on Foulkes’ face seemed to suggest that he wasn’t sure if Cal was trying to be funny.

‘I’m just stating the obvious,’ Drake continued. ‘You claim she’s disappeared. Before we can take on this case, we need to know that you’re not mistaken. You can understand that, right?’

The creak of leather broke the ensuing silence as Foulkes leaned back in his chair, his hands folded together over his slight paunch. He looked over at Crane.

‘Perhaps this was a mistake.’

‘All my partner is saying is that we need to examine this from every angle.’

‘Which includes treating this as a joke? Dammit, I came here because I think she’s in danger.’

‘We appreciate that, Marco.’ The use of his first name was an offering. Ray was trying to roll it back. The truth was that she too was having trouble suppressing her real feelings. She had never really liked Marco Foulkes when they were growing up. She had stayed at what was then her grandfather’s family home quite often, whenever her parents were going through a bad patch, and later when she was alone with her father and he simply couldn’t cope. It had been a difficult time for her, and she still felt vulnerable talking about it.

The other problem was Drake. They would have to talk. He still carried the attitude of a police officer about him: the suspicion, the sense of authority, of power. If they were to make a success of this game he was going to have to brush up his personal skills.

‘You mentioned an uncle of hers.’

‘I mean, I don’t want to be judgemental.’ Another micro glance in Drake’s direction felt like a cautious feeler. A means of gauging whether he might be treading on sensitive ground. Drake was silent. ‘I just have a feeling about this guy.’

‘A feeling?’ Drake fought the urge to laugh. ‘Meaning you didn’t like the cut of his jib?’

‘The cut of his …?’ echoed Foulkes.

‘Do you have a name?’ Crane interjected quickly. ‘For the uncle?’

‘No, sorry.’ Foulkes shook his head. ‘I only met him once. He wasn’t happy for her to be around men. I got the feeling he was a little jealous. I mean, I think he wanted her for himself.’

‘He said this?’ said Crane.

‘No, he didn’t say it. But it was clear, in the subtext.’

‘The subtext?’ Drake exhaled slowly. ‘So, what you’re saying is that this nameless bearded male relative planned to throw her over his shoulder and cart her off to Arabialand?’

‘Are you taking the mickey?’ Foulkes was offended. ‘Look, I don’t have to put up with this.’ He appealed to Crane. ‘I actually thought I was doing you a favour coming here. You know, your father said …’

‘Hold on.’ Crane lifted a hand. ‘You spoke to my father about me?’

‘I came here partly because I felt sorry for him. He wasn’t doing well.’ Foulkes sighed as he got to his feet and headed for the door. ‘Obviously, that was a mistake.’

‘You seem to have trouble grasping the fact that we actually need clients,’ said Crane, when Foulkes had gone.

She had walked Foulkes to the door. Drake was standing by the window watching their lost client walking towards his car. A nice little two-door Porsche, white with a racing stripe down the middle. It looked like a later version of the 911, not as stylish as the original. The kind of car that screamed insecurity. Holding open the door, Foulkes paused to look straight up at Drake. It wasn’t a kind look.

‘In the Met you were paid whether you solved the crime or not. Out here in the real world, it’s a little different.’

‘Right.’ Drake leaned his weight on the window sill and folded his arms. ‘What exactly is your connection to this guy?’

‘We’ve been over this.’ Crane shooed him away as she went behind her desk. ‘Our families were friends, back in the days when I had family.’

Drake waited, expecting her to go on, but Crane was looking at her wristwatch.

‘Oh, what the hell. Is it too early to go for a drink?’

‘Not by my watch.’