3 of a Kind (6 page)

Darkus paused, torn between the detective life he knew, the teenage life he’d tried to know, and the ultimate realisation that maybe he didn’t know anything at all.

The question mark hanging in the air was supplanted by the two-tone chime of the doorbell – followed by a sharp rap on the front door. All heads turned, fearing the worst. Tilly checked their home CCTV remotely from her phone, which was wirelessly connected to a security camera over the entrance. It showed an image of a burly man waiting impatiently on the welcome mat, picking something out of his teeth. ‘It’s Draycott,’ she said, identifying the local police inspector who had appointed himself the Knightleys’ nemesis.

‘I’ll handle this,’ said Knightley Senior. He nodded protectively to Jackie, then strode through the entrance hall and opened the door.

‘Interrupting a dysfunctional family gathering, am I …?’ whined Draycott.

Knightley glanced over the man’s casual attire with disdain: a pastel polo neck sweater, a pair of permanent crease trousers and some tassly loafers. ‘Are you off duty, Inspector, or is this “casual Friday”?’

‘It’s
Chief
Inspector. How many times must I remind you?’

Knightley tapped his cranium. ‘You know me – brain like a sieve. Speaking of which, how’s the collapsed lung?’

Draycott winced at the mention of the ill-fated werewolf hunt on Hampstead Heath that he and Clive had conducted during the Knightleys’ last case. ‘It’s
fine
, as a matter of fact.’ The inspector unconsciously massaged under his left man-boob, which was just visible through his sweater. ‘The truth is, I’d popped by to see if Clive – our local celebrity – was free for a capp-u-ccino,’ he announced, employing the Italian pronounciation. ‘But my keen powers of observation couldn’t help noticing some unusual vehicles in the driveway. As a matter of course, I ran the registration of the white Transit van, and it appears to be
un
registered, which sadly – for the owner at least – is against the law.’

‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’

‘Fighting crime is a 24/7 business, Alan.’

‘And you’re wasting precious time,’ replied Knightley. ‘If you had the necessary clearance, you’d know that that licence plate is unregistered because it’s a
government
plate. SO42. Specialist Operations.’

‘Then I deduce that your son and that extremely large Scotsman are on the premises?’ Draycott pressed him. ‘Might I ask what you’re working on?’

‘It’s a family affair.’

‘I like to know everything that goes on in my parish –
especially
when it relates to
you
.’ Draycott worked himself up into a lather. ‘I don’t like you, Alan. You’re unhinged. Unbalanced. Un
usual
. Wherever you go, trouble follows you, like a foul stench.’

‘Judging by the unmistakable aroma of vinegar, and the fleck of haddock between your lower incisors, I deduce the fish and chip shop was your last port of call.’ Knightley offered him a box of toothpicks.

‘Oh, verrrry clever, Alan,’ retorted Draycott, running his tongue over his gums behind his lips in a swift left and right movement.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have work to do –’ Knightley moved to close the door.

Draycott wedged his loafer in the door jamb. ‘Right, that’s obstructing a police officer. I can make life very difficult for you, remember? You and your son left a trail of destruction on your last case: a dead crime boss, several dead animals, a teenage girl with grey hair, not to mention a horribly disfigured classmate, the unfortunate Brendan Doyle. Clive thinks you’ve recruited his daughter Matilda as well. Thick as thieves, you Knightleys. I could call social services right now and press charges of child endangerment, abduction, you name it.’

Knightley looked down to find his son had taken his place on the doorstep.

‘Chief Inspector,’ began Darkus, ‘I must inform you that you’re engaging in malicious prosecution and police harassment. Your actions have been recorded and may be used in evidence. Unless you have reasonable suspicion that a crime has been committed, you have no legal grounds to be here and I advise you to leave at once.’

Draycott’s moustache curled. Somewhere upstairs, a shower began running with Clive’s enthusiastic but off-key singing above the squeak of the soap.

Tilly joined the Knightleys on the doorstep in a show of unity. ‘Party’s over, Inspector.’

‘It’s
Chief
Inspector,’ moaned Draycott as the door closed in his face.

Knightley Senior stood in the entrance hall and took a moment to admire the two awkward-looking teenagers standing before him. ‘Darkus … Tilly …?’ he ventured. ‘Will you return to London and stay at the office in order to facilitate an early start?’

Knightley gazed at his son with a longing that even twenty-odd years of detective work couldn’t disguise. Darkus glanced at the imaginary question mark still hanging in the air and realised that, for once, Draycott was right: he and his father
were
thick as thieves – and
right now they had to remain thicker and closer than ever.

‘It is logical,’ Darkus conceded.

‘Sure,’ said Tilly, seeing her own father appear on the stairs in a bathrobe and towel turban. ‘I’d rather be anywhere than here.’

‘Fine with me,’ said Clive and flounced off into the bedroom.

Jackie appeared from the living room, with Uncle Bill shifting on his feet in the background. Knightley silently turned to his former wife, awaiting her permission.

‘Bogna is family,’ she admitted. ‘I trust you, Alan,’ she went on, weighing it up in her head. ‘You’ve never let any harm come to them …
yet
.’

‘I’d give my own life first,’ he replied with complete sincerity.

‘Aye, and ah’d take a bullet for ’em. Possibly even a grenade,’ Bill added, although it didn’t sound as reassuring as he intended.

Jackie examined Darkus, then Tilly, and then nodded. ‘Phones on. I want updates. Hourly,’ she insisted. She fixed her gaze on Knightley. ‘Alan, how are you going to manage without Bogna? Who’s going to make your sandwiches the way you both like them?’

‘I’ll manage,’ he answered. ‘I’ve managed in the past.’

‘I remember your cooking skills,’ she said, with a hint of a smile.

Knightley shrugged. ‘No one died. And I’ve improved a little since then.’

‘If I can be of any assistance, I’m always at the end of the phone,’ she offered. ‘I mean it.’ Her eyes brightened for an instant.

Knightley’s cheeks appeared to redden slightly. Uncle Bill peeked up from under the brim of his homburg hat.

‘Thanks, Jax,’ Knightley replied. ‘Me too. I promise.’ He picked up his tweed overcoat and slung it on, propping his tweed walking hat on his head. ‘The game is, most definitely, afoot.’

Darkus watched the fleeting moment between his parents evaporate, then followed his father, Tilly and Uncle Bill through the front door to the waiting Transit van.

‘Wait a second, Dad,’ he said, turning back to the house.

Darkus climbed the stairs and crossed the landing to his bedroom. He opened the door and walked with purpose to the closet. He inched it open and saw his Donegal tweed overcoat hanging there, wrapped in see-through plastic. Beside it was a three-piece tweed suit with a pair of polished brogues waiting below. He
gathered up his clothes, along with the secure mobile phone Uncle Bill had given him, his lock pick set, and the jeweller’s loupe that served as a magnifying glass. Darkus closed the closet door and left without looking back.

Uncle Bill drove them to London, through the warren of backstreets that made up the borough of Islington, past forgotten warehouses and railway tracks, until they reached the familiar curving row of terraced houses signposted
Cherwell Place
.

Knightley led Darkus and Tilly into number 27 while Uncle Bill decided to sleep in the van, claiming it would be ‘tae quiet’ in the office without Bogna present – and agreeing it would be wrong to take advantage of her empty bed. Besides, Darkus had already begun sweeping the housekeeper’s room for potential clues, which would have been considerably more challenging with a gigantic and somewhat weepy Scotsman occupying it.

Finding nothing of immediate interest to the investigation, Darkus and Tilly made up their respective beds, in the office and on the landing. Knightley Senior arrived with a tray of milk and some jam sandwiches – triangles
not squares, of course – but that was where the similarity ended. The triangles were uneven and Darkus suspected his father had used chutney instead of jam.

After Knightley exited, Tilly pushed her plate aside in disgust. ‘I can’t eat this.’

Darkus finished his round, out of duty, reluctantly swallowing the last bite before replying, ‘He’s doing his best, I suppose.’

Tilly nodded. ‘I guess you can’t choose your parents,’ she pondered. ‘And you can’t choose what happens to them,’ she added, directing her eyes to her smartphone screen.

Darkus knew she was referring to her mother’s death: the car accident in the ice storm; the event that shaped her entire being.

‘Dad mentioned the hard drive you found,’ he explained, unsure what the reaction would be.

Tilly held up her phone to show a timer counting down from seventy-six hours, decreasing in minutes, seconds and hundredths of seconds. ‘That’s the estimated time it’ll take to decrypt the files and find out what sort of game Underwood’s really playing.’

‘And you believe Bogna’s disappearance has something to do with it?’

‘I do,’ said Tilly soberly. ‘I’ve got my best contacts working on it round the clock at a secure online
location. With any luck it’ll deliver us the Combination on a plate, served cold – along with the names of the people responsible for leaving me alone in the world, with nothing but a third-rate TV personality for a dad.’

Darkus nodded, thanking heaven on a daily basis that Clive was only a stepfather – and an absentee one at that.

‘But I wouldn’t say you have nothing,’ he countered, choosing his next words carefully. ‘I mean, you can’t choose your step-siblings either,’ he observed. ‘But I’m very grateful to have you.’

Tilly blushed, momentarily lost for words. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Don’t mention it. Here’s to friendship,’ said Darkus, raising his glass of milk and clinking it with hers. ‘Now, my dear Tilly, we have a missing person to find.’

The pair sniffed their respective glasses, to make sure the milk was within its sell-by date, then drained them and got to work, falling into the familiar patter of long-standing detective colleagues. The plan came together quickly – but the execution would be anyone’s guess.

Uncle Bill mopped his perspiring brow, sucked the dregs of his stogie and stubbed it out, then appeared to wobble on his feet, complaining of a lack of sleep, a lack of chocolate digestives and a heavy heart. Darkus and Tilly supported him as best they could upon entering the depressingly colourful lobby of the office building. The trio approached the reception desk, which was decorated with giant pink and red heart shapes.

‘We’re the Billochs,’ Darkus informed the female receptionist. ‘I’m Darren and this is my sister, Tracy,’ he added, pointing at Tilly. Fortunately the matching tweed outfits added to the deception nicely. ‘We have an appointment with
Hearts of Poland
. Right, Pa?’ Darkus looked up in concern at Uncle Bill who was now sweating profusely and seemed to have forgotten his vital role in the operation. The best laid plans could fall apart due to human error – and Bill was riddled with those.

‘Aye, son,’ Bill finally replied, doffing his hat towards the receptionist. ‘Ah’d like to find a wife stroke mammy for these twae malinkies.’

The receptionist shuffled her mouse, checked her computer screen for a few moments, then replied, ‘One of our experienced matchmakers will see you shortly.’

After Bill had completed a folder of paperwork, a thin Eastern European woman with bleached hair and near perfect English ushered them into her office. The walls were decorated with photos of smiling couples, some holding champagne glasses, others wearing wedding outfits – obviously all successful matches. Bill wheezed, squeezing himself into a plastic chair alongside his two ‘kids’.

‘It’s very unusual to bring children to a consultation,’ she began.

‘We feel we can help Dad make an informed decision,’ said Darkus.

The matchmaker raised her eyebrows before returning her attention to Bill.

‘Well, let’s begin by telling me a little about what you’re looking for in a partner.’

‘Well, she must be Polish, ay course,’ said Bill.

‘Is there any reason for this?’ asked the matchmaker.

‘Force o’ habit,’ replied Bill.

‘I see. And what else can you tell me about your dream woman?’

‘She’s got tae be a big lass. I don’t gae for shrinkin’ violets or Gloria’s Secret models.’

Tilly elbowed Bill somewhere in the rib area, keeping him on message.

‘Preferably a good cook and a whizz with a vacuum cleaner tae boot,’ Bill added.

‘That image is a little … old-fashioned, don’t you think?’ asked the matchmaker.

‘Aye, she is a wee bit old-fashioned. That’s why ah love her.’

The matchmaker’s face softened a little. ‘It’s almost as if you can already see her, right there in your mind’s eye.’

‘Aye, I can. Ah cannae get her
oot
of mah mind’s eye.’

‘How romantic …’

‘She’s like a munchy box, with a roll ’n’ pie and a plate o’ clapshot.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Tilly nudged him in the rib area again.

‘Ne’er mind, lassie.’

‘Well, we do have one lady that fits that description,’ advised the matchmaker. ‘Her name is Bogna Rejesz.’

Bill winced and inflated his cheeks. ‘Aye, that’s a bonny name,’ he managed.

‘She’s employed as a housekeeper in North London,’ the matchmaker went on.

‘She sounds nice,’ added Darkus.

‘Yeah,’ Tilly chimed in.

The matchmaker pursed her lips. ‘I must advise you not to get your hopes up. Miss Rejesz has already been on a successful date with another
Hearts of Poland
member.’