Choose Your Parents Wisely (Joe Grabarz Book 2) Page 12

  I passed the cricket field on the right, and the AstroTurf pitch on the left, and now I could see the ethereal outline of white boxes ahead. I couldn’t see any lights, caravanners are always asleep by this time. Lights Out at 10pm.

  I skirted round the outside, and through trees, to arrive unseen in the little tarmacked car park/dumping ground that contained nothing but a couple of skips. Nothing but two skips, and one taxi, of course.

  The car was quite new, only a couple of years old. A Skoda. The standard turquoise and white. Turquoise being the officially agreed colour of the city. No dents, no chips in the windscreen. It was clean, except for some mud around the wheels. All four tyres were the same make. All things considered, Jilani looked after it.

  Ryan had left the key in one of the wheel arches. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves that I had bought from a chemist and carefully used the actual key, rather than the central locking, in case it blipped and flashed its indicators.

  The lights came on inside and I frantically spent the next thirty seconds trying to find the switch to turn them off, but by then they did it themselves. The first thing I did was root around on the floor. In the front there was nothing, and in the back there was even less. Underneath the passenger seat there was a Hayne’s manual. And under the driver’s seat there was a pound coin. Clever bastard. It was an old taxi drivers’ trick to leave a pound coin on the floor. Most people are nice and round up the fare to the nearest note, but you always get those tight types who demand their change. This way, when you gave it to them you always gave them a pound short. Most people don’t notice. But if they do, you just pretend they must of dropped it, and what do you know, there it is, it must have rolled under the seat.

  I couldn’t see the contents of the glove compartment without using my Zippo and lightly singeing the plastic. It stank. I made a note to buy a torch. Inside was the official car manual in a nylon case, a pen, a roll of electrical tape, a Brighton A to Z, and a phone charger that fitted into the cigarette lighter. The little pockets behind the seats were empty except for a Visit Brighton leaflet, and there was nothing on the parcel shelf.

  On the dashboard was the meter, his licence, tax disc, and something that would come to ruin taxi driving: a Sat Nav. Today in London they still make drivers pass The Knowledge, everywhere else they just give them a Sat Nav. Eleven years ago I had never seen one before.

  The boot was empty. Completely empty. And spotless. I guess it had to be empty for people with suitcases. I looked underneath; his spare tyre was still there, and a full-size one, not a space-saver. It was looking a little bald though.

  With a worried hand on my cigarette lighter I checked the wheel arches, under the bonnet, and even under the car, but there was nothing to find. I was going to have to get tough.

  I whipped out my flick knife and hacked at the carpet. I ripped it off the floor like it was clothes off Jennifer Lawrence. Or someone who was big in 2005. Jessica Biel, maybe. But unlike Jessica there was nothing underneath. I used the same approach on the seats, but despite my passion there was still nothing.

  I slumped into Jilani’s now ruined seat and lit a cigarette, staring out at the skeleton trees jittering in the darkness behind the orange glow of my own pitiful reflection. So far all I had achieved was to steal a man’s wallet and find nothing, then steal his car and disfigure it. I was not going to let that be it.

  There had to be more. If I was Jilani, where would I hide something? I looked around from where I was sitting, I even put my hands on the wheel, the gearstick, and the indicators. This is the position he occupied for eight hours a day, six days a week. There was no space behind the steering column and the dashboard, but what about the central panel? I used my knife to get behind the radio, but it was a right pain and there was nothing but connectors where an after-market radio could be swapped in.

  Below the radio were the heater controls, they couldn’t be removed, and underneath that was a little well containing some breath mints and a carwash receipt. The plastic clicked as I turned over the tin of mints. It hadn’t quite been seated correctly. I prised my knife under the side and it clicked again, allowing me to lift it out. It was probably designed that way so you could clean it.

  I could see something underneath. Nestled in the wires running from the cigarette lighter and the heater, was a brown padded envelope, folded over on itself and sealed with wrinkled brown tape. I delicately lifted it out, my heart pounding. It didn’t way much, but more than nothing. About the weight of a golf ball.

  I unpeeled the barely tacky brown tape and tipped the contents into my hand. A phone. A robust, not very modern, mobile phone. I grabbed the power cable from the glove box. It fitted, but I daren’t start the ignition to charge it up. I prayed it had battery.

  I even had to have a look out the windows, as though the laws of fate had to have it snatched from me the moment I powered it on. But there was no one around. Just sleeping bodies in the caravans through the trees, and I knew there was nothing more than a fox awake for a mile in every direction.

  I powered it on. The little green square inch of screen glowed eagerly. Contacts? None. Call history? Four outgoing calls lasting zero seconds. Messages? 27. The most recent was on the thirtieth of July. That put it about a week before his daughter was abducted.

  “Wordsworth Street/St Patricks Rd,” was all it said.

  Hmm. Poet’s Corner, Hove.

  The message before was from the twenty-fourth, the same format: “Balsdean Rd/Bexhill Rd”. Woodingdean.

  The one before was from the twentieth, “Grassmere Ave/Telscombe Cliffs Way”.

  I didn’t know Woodingdean or Telscombe Cliffs well enough to know the roads, but the first two were adjoining streets. Was it safe to assume the other ones were? I heard Daye’s voice ringing in my head.

  Fine. I got out my pad and a stubby pencil and scribbled down each message. Contents, number, date and time. Then I replaced the charger, stuffed the phone back in the envelope, and wedged it back into its hiding place.

  The fresh night air smelt almost sweet as I stepped out, and although it was bitingly cold it was invigorating to me. It was a good night. I had actually done something. I had found a clue, or a lead, or whatever detectives call them these days. In fact it was up to me, I was a detective now, I could call it what I wanted. It was something. I had found something.

  I was so proud of my moral superiority, my upstandingness, as I pulled the cheap bottle of vodka from my jacket pocket. I untwisted the lid and threw it into the wild grass. Then I fed in the rolled rag to douse it, pulled it out, fed in the other end, pulled out my Zippo and lit it.

  11

  Victory & Defeat

  ‘i don’t believe it,’ he said with the e-cigarette glowing between his lips. It was followed by a short burst of vapour from his nostrils like a chugging steam train.

  I didn’t ask why not. We never asked each other those kind of questions. If he wanted to tell me, he would tell me.

  ‘If she was raped,’ he continued, ‘how would she know the man’s surname?’

  ‘If she knew he was Polish then she might have known him. People can be raped by people they know.’

  ‘But if she was raped, why give the child his name.’

  ‘She might have hoped they would find him, then I would be his problem.’

  ‘Hmm… I don’t believe it,’ he said with another puff of steam, this time from his mouth.

  Daye was the only person I knew who ever sat in his front garden. I imagine people in the country do it sometimes, and people in Westerns sat on their wooden porches looking over their acre of dirt. But not in a city, not where people would see you. Not where you could see them. That’s the joy of sitting in a garden, isn’t it? Being able to imagine you’re the only person on the planet.

  But he sat outside his Woodingdean bungalow on his wicker chair, smoking his e-cigarette, and watching the people and the cars as they went past. It was the end of the day now and the sky was tinged pink.


  ‘Morning, Inspector,’ a man waving a newspaper said as he passed along the pavement in front of us.

  ‘Morning, Frank,’ Daye called back.

  He was like a sheriff. If there was any trouble at Old Mrs McGinty’s house then someone would holler for him and he would saddle up. Everybody leant on him. Roy Parker, Price, Hacker, Ben McCready and all the other fools in the council, at the paper, and at the PCC’s fundraising junkets, were all underneath the stone ceiling, chipping away at pillars like Daye. But he would never give up, I could rely on that.

  I had come to discuss the Tothova case, of course. He had some pretty strong opinions on it.

  ‘Nothing is what it seems,’ he told me, ‘Price is a good detective, but she’s taking the whole thing too literally. She’s letting the parents drive the investigation, and that’s the last thing you want.’

  ‘That’s the sort of talk that got you bumped off the case.’

  ‘Someone wants this circus; the newspapers, the TV coverage. Which is why I said those things, I wanted to make it a non-event. No abduction, no monsters in the shadows, just a lost little girl. Then they’d have to overplay it; a ransom note or a video. And that’s when they’d make their mistake.’

  ‘But there is a ransom note.’

  ‘Bill Harker wrote that.’

  ‘Hacker?’

  ‘Yes. I’d recognise his drivel anywhere.’

  ‘Would he really do that?’

  He just looked at me.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. The man’s a rat but I didn’t think he would put the girl in any danger.’

  ‘It’s a good thing he’s done it. I would have done the same.’

  I gave him a look.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he explained, ‘Bill’s doing it for his own reasons: he still dreams of working on one of the nationals. He’ll have his heart attack before that ever happens. But the fake letter is a brilliant idea, if the real abductor wants the ransom then he’ll have to make contact himself soon or he’ll be mistaken for one of the fakes. And there will be more. He may even feel the need to prove he’s the real thing, and anything he provides as proof will give us ten times the leads we have now. If, on the other hand, all the real abductor wants is this circus then he’ll be happy to let Bill create it for him.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want the circus, or the money; what if he just wants the girl?’

  ‘Then I think we’ll probably never find her.’

  He took another puff. He used one of those e-cigarettes that tries to look like a real one. They’re getting rarer these days as people prefer them to look like a gadget. But I guess it helped suspend disbelief.

  ‘Is there something I should know about their charity?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How do I know? That’s what I’m asking.’

  He frowned, it was against his ethics to tell me anything beyond speculation, even if he wanted to. ‘Let’s just say, I don’t know where they’ll find the hundred-thousand.’

  ‘Surely they could remortgage?’

  He raised an eyebrow, ‘Again?’

  ‘Are you telling me there’s no money in giving meals to homeless people these days? Surely the charity must have patrons.’

  ‘I don’t know, but they’ve already had a cash injection from the council. And I don’t need to tell you which councillor was behind that. He put more than our money into it, he put his reputation into it too.’

  I didn’t know quite what to make of that.

  ‘In all my years I never worked a case quite like this,’ he sighed, ‘it’s not a detective you need, it’s a good scene partner.’

  ‘What about the Jilani case?’

  ‘That was completely different.’

  ‘A girl. An abduction. No clues.’

  ‘That’s just the packaging. Different girls. Different parents. Different motives. And hopefully a different ending.’

  I nodded. He took another long drag. The orange LED faded into life and out again. A simulated cigarette. A pretend vice. He put it down.

  ‘I have to smoke one of these a day. Sometimes two. How did you quit?’

  ‘I just quit.’

  ‘You would.’

  He waved to another passing citizen. ‘I’m done, Joe.’

  I looked at him. He just stared ahead. His face had changed over the years. Marble had become oak. Gnarled, carved, but still solid. The sun had begun to set on it now.

  ‘Finished,’ he restated.

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘I don’t mean it in a bad way. I’ve been coming to it for a while now. I’m happy. It’s not my turn anymore.’

  He looked at me. Cars passed. People walked dogs. Nobody gave a shit.

  ‘How can you do it?’ I asked.

  He wasn’t insulted, I was still a boy.

  ‘There’s still work to be done,’ I pleaded, ‘how can you quit when He’s still out there?’

  ‘That’s your fight.’

  ‘You’re part of this city, aren’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘There’s always work to be done.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve got grandchildren,’ he said without apology. ‘I want to enjoy my life again, whatever I have left. I won’t do you the disservice of saying I’ve given everything I can, I haven’t. You give up, that’s what people do. At some point everyone gives up, I’ve made my peace with that. I’m no less human than the people I’ve dedicated my life to. You could destroy your body, your mind, but there will always be more that you could’ve done. You only get to maintain things in this world.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. If you can’t win then what’s the point in fighting?’

  ‘You can win, Joe, you can win. But victory and defeat have one thing in common: they are both temporary.’

  It was waiting for me when I got back to the office. I hadn’t been in all day, but it looked like Thalia had. Either that or the envelope had slithered its way from the letterbox onto my desk. It was perfectly square and an inch thick. “For the attention of Mr J. Grabarz, from Hermann H. Vogeli” was inscribed across the middle in elegant slanting script. The ink was purple in the moonlight.

  It was dark now, seeing as it was eleven o’clock, but I was in one of those moods I have where I don’t want to turn the lights on. Out on the landing they were on, and the light through the rippled glass projected “J. Grabarz, No.1 Private Detective” in big letters across the floor of the reception room. What a joke.

  No.1 Private Detective. I had chosen it because it sounded good. It was what people wanted to believe when they hired me. They wanted to believe that maybe this pokey fly trap was just a front, a way of keeping clients anonymous. Maybe they thought I was just a front too, designed to scare away the timewasters, the real detective was someone else. I could do with his help right now. I had been arrogant enough to think that Brighton’s No.1 Private Detective could succeed where every police officer and concerned citizen in the city would fail. In fifty-seven minutes it would be Tuesday. Joy had disappeared on Wednesday.

  I took the office bottle out of the third drawer down and drank a toast to the poor little girl. The same seeping dread that was probably slipping into every police officer’s mind that night slipped into my drink: the tide had turned against her, now we were looking for a body. Not even Daye could convince me that this defeat was temporary.

  I swivelled round to face the windows. The corridors of the Lanes were empty. The sky was empty. There was no one in the world but me. A cruel wind was coming in over the sea.

  Other men were giving their wives a back massage, talking through the turmoil of the day. Young men were chasing skirts and trying to find the bravery to kiss one. Children were being tucked into bed, being told that there were no monsters to fear. That old lie. They didn’t know He was out there somewhere. Stalking. Prowling for fresh meat. We’re all pawns in His game.

  I had my own misery to attend to. I picked up the squa
re envelope. It felt as heavy as a brick. Turning it over; he had even sealed it with wax. He didn’t lack a theatrical side, that was for sure.

  Daye didn’t believe it, that was a good excuse for me not to believe it. After all, he was a much smarter man than me. But somewhere, deep inside, in the darkest corner, some part of me knew it must be true. I’ve always known there was something wrong with me. They say the secret ingredient when making a baby is love. I’m what you get when you leave it out.

  My phone vibrated solemnly in my pocket. I dredged it up. It was from Monica Todman.

  “I will forgive you” it said.

  That at least made me feel slightly better. I knew she couldn’t resist me. I even smiled.

  It vibrated again. Another message. Another message from Monica Todman.

  “If…”

  Oh I see. I waited for the next one. It didn’t come. What did she want? Did she want me to make a suggestion? Fuck that. I wasn’t playing her games. I knew that would drive her even more mad.

  I had to wait twenty minutes for her to give in: “…you crawl on your hands and knees from your office to my bedroom.”

  Then the phone rang. I nearly fell out of my chair.

  I took my time sauntering over to Thalia’s desk, just in case it was her.

  ‘Hello?’ I answered. I never say any more after office hours.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Grabarz.’

  The accent sent a shiver down my spine. It was as precise and playful as a cuckoo clock. I don’t know why I didn’t just hang up there and then.

  ‘Mr Vogeli.’

  ‘I’m surprised to have caught you, it’s very late to be in the office.’