Enough Rope: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery) Page 17

  The seating consisted of a weird, metal-framed chaise longue and some very low-slung leather bucket chairs. In the middle of what was a very big living room – which had probably been three little rooms back in the day – was a vast metal trunk that he used as a coffee table.

  ‘That came from a decommissioned car factory in Leipzig,’ he said.

  He handed her a square cup of coffee. The whole room smelt of what Vi recognised as patchouli oil. Had Henry been smoking dope? Back in her youth everyone who smoked doused themselves in patchouli to cover the smell. Apparently patchouli was in fashion again.

  He must have heard her sniff because he said, ‘Sorry about the air spray. There’s an awful smell in this room I’ve been trying to track down. I’m just swamping it for the moment. Hope it doesn’t make you cough.’

  Vi sat down. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Now, what can I do for you, DI Collins?’ He sat down.

  ‘I’m trying to get a handle on what happened the day Harry Venus was abducted,’ she said. ‘Your brother George says that he was in or around your mum and dad’s swimming pool all morning, until your dad got home at midday.’

  ‘If that’s what he said . . .’

  ‘Where were you?’ Vi said. ‘Your dad told me you came to pick George up that day.’

  ‘Yes, I stayed with my parents that night and then drove back to London with George in the morning.’

  ‘What time’d you arrive at your mum and dad’s?’

  ‘Arrive? Oh, I suppose about three,’ he said. ‘I took the afternoon and the following day off. Don’t get much time off, but I wanted to see the parents and get George settled into the flat. He loves it here.’ He smiled.

  ‘I bet he does, on the loose in the big city, all on his own.’

  ‘He amuses himself.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The atmosphere had become tense, which would be unhelpful. Vi looked around the room and said, ‘Like your Hitchcock posters, Mr Grogan.’

  He smiled and the atmosphere lightened. ‘Presents. When I left Reeds. I was never a literature buff – not really academic at all – but I’ve always enjoyed film. Not as passionately as Georgie does though. He’s crazy about books and film and Hitchcock was the master.’

  ‘He came from Leytonstone,’ Vi said.

  ‘Yes. Just goes to show, if you really want to do something, you can do just about anything, can’t you? Given the discipline and the will.’

  ‘Back in those days, yes,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t think it’s possible now, DI Collins?’

  ‘I think it’s harder these days, yes. Mr Grogan, can you tell me what your brother does when he’s staying here with you? You said he likes it here, but you’re out all day. What’s he get up to?’

  ‘What, apart from not getting out of bed until midday?’ he said. ‘Georgie strolls. He’s wandered all over the East End in pursuit of unusual items of taxidermy – it’s his hobby.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He goes to galleries; they’re all over the place round here.’

  ‘And friends?’ Vi said. ‘My recollection is that when you’re sixteen having mates is the most important thing in the world. Being Lonnie Loner ain’t the place to be.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that being solitary is considered cool these days,’ Henry said.

  ‘Yeah, but your brother isn’t on his own all the time when he’s here, is he?’

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Because, Mr Grogan, I know that George lied to me when I interviewed him at your parents’ house. He told me that he doesn’t see his mates when he’s up here in London, but I know that he does and I know that you’ve seen them too.’

  She was taking a punt on Lee Arnold’s observation. But Arnold had also told her George was a popular kid at school, and of course she knew the boy had lied to her.

  Henry Grogan shrugged. ‘Well, DI Collins, I don’t know how you know, but you do indeed “have us”, as it were.’

  ‘So he does meet his mates?’

  ‘Some of them live in London; it would be strange if he didn’t. And yes, I’ve met up with them too. They’re rather young and silly, but amusing in small doses.’

  ‘So why’d your brother lie to me?’

  ‘Well, my parents were in the room, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Explains it all,’ he said. ‘With the exception of Harry Venus, probably because he’s a policeman’s son, Mummy and Dad can’t stand Georgie’s friends, they think they lead him astray. Personally I think that my brother is perfectly capable of getting himself into trouble, but . . . Their particular bête noire is Tom de Vries, who has, it’s true, been busted by the school for smoking weed in the grounds.’

  ‘Didn’t he get expelled?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he smiled. ‘I gather you didn’t go to public school, DI Collins.’

  Vi said nothing. The bleeding obvious wasn’t her forte.

  ‘These things are dealt with at places like Reeds,’ Henry said. ‘Georgie and some of the others see Tom as some sort of hero. If our parents knew that Georgie was with Tom they’d have a fit. He’s always with Tom and Danny Duncan at school . . .’

  ‘And Harry.’

  ‘And Harry, yes,’ he said.

  ‘Although Harry’s not always in favour with your brother and the others, is he, Mr Grogan?’

  She expected him to deny this. But he didn’t.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sad fact of public school life is that first-generation boys have to work themselves in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that most boys’ fathers went to Reeds,’ he said. ‘If your dad didn’t go then you’re considered to be a bit nouveau riche. Mind you, that’s all about to change now. School needs money so the headmaster’s opened the doors to the Russians. It won’t mean much any longer if your dad’s a baronet. Whether your dad has oil wells and routinely executes his enemies will have far more cachet.’

  Vi smiled. ‘Afraid the old order’s passing away, Mr Grogan?’

  He smiled too. ‘Oh, no, not me,’ he said. ‘I’m a merchant banker, DI Collins, shifting fiscal realities are my thing. As long as the barbarians from the east give us their money, how can we possibly complain?’

  *

  ‘Of course I’ve wondered how the convent survived during the seventies,’ Mother Katerina said. ‘The story is that Mother Emerita’s predecessor had been diverting funds to her family in Naples for years. I knew that Mother had rescued the convent from bankruptcy, but I didn’t know how. If I am honest, I did suspect that something not altogether moral had happened. To go from a deep deficit to a good surplus is hard. I confess I closed my eyes to it.’

  ‘It’s not really your problem,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘Ah, but it is,’ she said. ‘What was done here was wrong, and I will speak to Sister Pia. Given her strong views on sexual morality, I am not sure she is even fully aware that what she did was a sin. I have known for many years that she has something on her conscience, but I didn’t know what that was until today.’

  ‘She is dying.’

  ‘All the more reason for her to confess before it is too late,’ she said. ‘I will have to contact the Bishop. What do we do with this money from a dictator that we have already spent?’

  ‘Perón is dead. You can’t give it back.’

  ‘No. But maybe we can make a donation to charities in Argentina. He robbed his people and some of that money came to us.’

  ‘Do you have spare money these days, Mother Katerina?’ Mumtaz asked.

  ‘No. But a sin is a sin, Mrs Hakim, we have to pay. If Alison wants to visit the convent and speak to me I will be happy to receive her. I will apologise to her. Whether Sister Pia will see her is another matter, but she is welcome. Her mother gave birth to her in this place. Tell her this will always be her home.’

  15

  The man who owned Veg was called
Jethro Nutt. He described himself as an ‘organic warrior’. The Veg website said he was also engaged in bringing ‘rural values to an urban environment’. In other words, Lee thought, he was some tosser from the Cotswolds whose name was really Sebastian. But it was unlikely that Jethro was a kidnapper. Mumtaz agreed.

  She’d come straight over to Lee’s flat from Chiswick with a story that came from a past neither of them could remember.

  ‘I’ve not even seen Evita,’ Lee said. ‘All I know about Argentina is the Falklands War.’

  ‘Same here,’ said Mumtaz. ‘But Mother Katerina was mortified when I told her that Alison’s mother had been Juan Perón’s child. She described him as an evil dictator. He used to have people tortured, his opponents would just disappear. And of course he got Alison’s grandmother pregnant when she was just thirteen.’

  Lee lit a cigarette and sat down. ‘That’s so messed up.’

  ‘Lee, this is going to be a lot for Alison to take in. She’s divorced, there’s just her and her young son. When I tell her she’ll need support. I mean, I can’t just drop all that on her and then leave.’

  ‘She got adoptive parents?’

  ‘No,’ she told him. ‘She was adopted, but they’re both dead. Any ideas?’

  ‘You’re seeing her tomorrow?’

  ‘First thing. I’ve got a prospective new client in East Ham at eleven.’

  ‘Can you move that appointment?’

  ‘I can try,’ she said.

  ‘I’m thinking that instead of trying to find someone else to support Alison, can you take it on yourself?’

  Mumtaz frowned. ‘Difficult,’ she said. ‘I’m going to be the bearer of bad news for her. The Perón thing aside, her mother is dead and no one knows who her father is, probably not even the man himself.’

  ‘But you do know that there was Huntington’s in the mother’s family.’

  ‘Yes, that is something. But what Alison will want to do with regard to the convent I can’t imagine.’

  ‘What would you want to do?’ Lee asked.

  Mumtaz exhaled. ‘I don’t know. Slap Sister Pia? Maybe not, but I’d want her to explain herself, even if she is dying.’

  ‘Would you want money?’

  ‘From the convent? What for?’

  ‘To keep shtum.’

  ‘What? No,’ she said. ‘What’s the point? Alison is slowly dying and she is alone, but her ex is rich and by her own admission, he is paying for everything. No, the damage is done.’

  ‘So what are you afraid of?’

  ‘That she’ll have a breakdown. She’s sick and alone.’

  ‘But you have to tell her.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So move your other appointment and take your time with Alison. It’s not like she can’t afford it.’

  He was right and she knew it, but he saw her wince. ‘We’re not a charity, Mumtaz,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She looked down. ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m charging Venus for every minute – poor sod – but I have to. He’s sold his flat in Islington to raise more cash, which is just as well because the kidnappers have been in touch again. They want another quarter of a million on Saturday.’

  ‘But if he’s only just sold, then he won’t have the money for at least six weeks,’ Mumtaz said. ‘What will he do? Borrow from the bank against the sale of the flat?’

  ‘I guess . . .’

  ‘You know one thing that I really can’t understand about this kidnapping is why target someone like Superintendent Venus? I know he and his wife have money, but they’re not super-rich, are they?’

  ‘It’s not just about the money,’ Lee said. ‘It’s a punishment. Trouble is there are a lot of people who have had problems with Venus, and I don’t mean the coppers at Forest Gate.’

  ‘Criminals he’s put away.’

  ‘And the rest. People who don’t like his wife’s character in Londoners. Harry could’ve even engineered the whole thing himself.’

  Mumtaz looked doubtful.

  ‘Daddy in the Old Bill doesn’t go down well at posh schools like Reeds. Maybe Harry felt that his pop was limiting his options. Maybe by releasing Venus’s money he can have a better time at school with his mates. You know, I’ve been told that unless your dad went to Reeds, the boys basically look down on you as some sort of pleb. I tell you Mumtaz, that place gave me the shudders.’

  ‘You briefly saw something that wasn’t there and it upset you,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you what that was.’

  He’d phoned her up in the middle of the night when he’d returned from Reeds. With her psychological training he figured she’d be able to unravel that mystery for him, and she had. Given the presence of life-sized mannequins on that floor, one of them had reflected onto the window. He’d even seen the one it had to have been. Why couldn’t he let that go?

  ‘Anyway, what about the proof of life the Superintendent requested?’

  ‘In the post, he’s been told,’ Lee said.

  *

  ‘Caught ya.’

  Zafar Bhatti almost jumped out of his chair. Then, when he saw who it was, he lowered the hip flask from his lips and said, ‘Oh, Mr Thorpe you almost gave me a heart attack.’

  The shop had a ‘closed’ sign up when DI Kevin Thorpe had walked towards it. But the door had been ajar. Probably left by Bhatti’s son, cross-eyed Jabbar, the man with the mental age of a five-year-old.

  ‘You’re gonna have to bolt that door yourself Zafar, unless you want any more nasty surprises,’ Thorpe said.

  ‘Oh!’ Bhatti made as if to move off his chair, but Thorpe stopped him.

  ‘It’s OK, I locked it on my way in.’

  ‘Ah. Thank you.’

  Thorpe looked at Bhatti’s hip flask. ‘Whisky?’

  ‘Mr Thorpe, I am a good Muslim!’

  But Thorpe sniffed the flask anyway. It wasn’t whisky or any other kind of spirit.

  ‘We call it karkade,’ Bhatti said. ‘Entirely non-alcoholic.’ Thorpe shrugged. ‘Good for you, Zafar. On the booze front,’

  Thorpe continued. ‘If I could say the same for the romance trade, you really would be a good Muslim. But you’re not, are you?’

  Zafar Bhatti shook his head. ‘What?’

  ‘Letting young Latife have illicit letter sex with Ali out the chip shop while she’s supposed to be engaged to old Mr Khan the jeweller? The names I made up to protect the guilty, but I know you run a dodgy PO box for dodgy couples and even dodgier businesses out of that empty house next door.’

  He stood up and waved his arms in the air. ‘Who told you such a lie, Mr Thorpe? Who? Who says things against my honour in such a way? Who is so jealous . . .?’

  ‘I’ve known about your little sideline for years,’ Thorpe said. ‘You think the white people who live round here don’t keep their ears to the ground just like you?’

  ‘Of course they don’t! They spend all their time riding silly bicycles and opening pop-ups . . .’

  ‘Not the hipsters, you doink. The actual East Enders. The ones who live here because it’s where they’ve always been. Me. I’ve known for years, and for years I’ve thought, “Well fuck it, in the case of the lonely hearts, he’s not doing a bad thing.” I was a bit more chary about the Haj businesses that run out of that place, but I thought why rock the boat when the boat’s dead quiet? Know what I mean? But now you’ve crossed a line.’

  ‘A line? What line?’

  Mr Bhatti sat down again.

  ‘Fourth of this month you sent seven parcels addressed to a Mr Shaw to a shop off Arnold Circus. Remember?’

  ‘Things come into that address and I get them delivered by a boy . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve seen him. Where’s he get in next door? Round the back?’

  Vi Collins had emphasised the importance of feigning ignorance about the entrance through the shop, so as not to drop Imran in it.

  ‘I don’t know of a Mr Shaw! Parcels? We get parcels. Tokens between lovers.�
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  ‘We know parcels addressed to Mr Shaw came through your PO box on the fourth. We know, Zafar.’

  Mr Bhatti drank from his hip flask of karkade.

  ‘And just so we’re clear, this is a matter of life and death, so you’d better tell me what you know, or it’ll be a trip down the station and goodnight Vienna to your reputation as a man of clean morals.’

  There was a pause before he answered, but it wasn’t long.

  ‘I have no idea who Mr Shaw is,’ he said.

  ‘So how’d you get his business?’

  ‘A woman came into the shop, very elegant, maybe one week before. She said that she knew about my service and would I take delivery of some parcels for a friend of hers on the fourth. She said a man would come and put the parcels through the PO box in the name of Mr Shaw. All I had to do was take them to a place in Bethnal Green.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘I don’t know! Some hippy shop.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  Thorpe knew it was on Navarre Street. ‘What was it called?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Didn’t you write it down?’

  ‘At the time, of course. But then I threw it away. These things go all over the place, I can’t keep note of all of them.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what was in these parcels?’

  ‘No. Why should I? I pride myself on my confidentiality. I wouldn’t get the customers if they thought I couldn’t guarantee their absolute security.’

  ‘Unless the coppers come to call.’

  Zafar Bhatti pulled a face.

  ‘Do you think your boy’d remember where he took the parcels?’ Thorpe asked.

  ‘No. He’s an idiot.’

  ‘Then why do you employ him? Because he’s cheap? I’m gonna talk to him anyway.’

  Mr Bhatti flung his arms up again. ‘It was just a job, DI Thorpe. Just a job.’

  ‘Well now it’s just a job that could have some serious consequences,’ Thorpe said. ‘What did this woman who came in look like? She Asian, white? You seen her before? What?’

  ‘Asian. She was Asian but in western clothes. Pretty. I had never seen her before.’