Absent Light (16 page)

“And I hate to labour the point,” Stratton continued, “but it's been four years since you upset the woman.”

“Heard the saying about revenge being a dish best served cold?” Helen said, trying to impose an argument she wasn't sure she believed in.

“She's an art dealer, for God's sake, not Lucrezia Borgia.”

Helen let out a sigh. “You're probably right – sorry.”

“It doesn't matter,” Stratton said, clearly relieved to have won her round. “Now, what about dinner tomorrow night. Pick you up at eight?”

“Fine,” she said. “See you then.”

Later that evening she called her father.

“How are you doing?”

“All right,” he said in the way a patient describes their progress after a tricky operation. “And you?”

“Much the same.”

“Work OK?”

“Same old stuff.”

“Coping without Ray?”

“Yes.” But not without my mother, she wanted to say.

“That's good.”

“So what have you been up to?” she said.

There was a bit of a pause. “Sorting things out, financial stuff, really.”

Her mother's affairs, she thought, quick to pose a diversionary question. “Is Aunt Lily looking after you all right?”

“Yes.”

Oh God, she thought, this was awful. They never used to talk in monosyllables. “I'll come out and see you on Sunday.”

“That would be nice.”

“Maybe we could have some lunch somewhere.”

“Yes. Actually…”

“Shall I leave it to you to book a table?”

“All right,” he said haltingly. “Erm…Helen?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“I was wondering…well, it's a bit tricky, really,” he burbled.

“Yes?”

He paused, as if he were winding himself up to say something momentous, then seemed to change his mind. “Do you want to speak to Aunt Lily?” he burst out.

“If she's handy,” Helen said, confused.

“He's been rather introspective but he seems a little brighter today, a bit more like his old self,” Aunt Lily reported. Really? Helen thought, screwing up her face. “The Rudges are taking him out to lunch tomorrow. I've made plans to go back on Thursday.”

“So soon?”

“It's sink or swim,” Aunt Lily said candidly. “In my experience, the longer you leave it, the harder it is to be on your own. At least he's got Vic to keep an eye on him.”

“Aunt Lily,” Helen said. “You know when Dad was running the business, did he make a lot of enemies?”

“That's a funny question. Why do you ask?”

Christ, Helen thought, how am I going to explain this one? Start with the truth, she thought. “When I was going through Mum's things, I found one of her old address books. There were a lot of names crossed out. Some of them were Dad's old business colleagues.”

“Your father didn't build up a massively successful printing business without drowning a few kittens,” Aunt Lily laughed. “And there was all that trouble with Ken Bianci.”

Bianci had seeped into family folklore, though Helen wasn't entirely certain why. “What sort of trouble?”

“He was one of your father's early business partners. From what I can gather, he wasn't pulling his weight. Your father decided to off-load him.”

“Dissolve the partnership?”

“Yes, but Bianci reckoned he was ripped off.”

“Was he?”

Her aunt was cagey. “Maybe. Like I said, you have to be ruthless to succeed, especially nowadays.”

“So when did this spat with Bianci take place?”

“Over thirty years ago.”

Bianci would be an old man, and what had happened to her wasn't an old man's game. Another dead-end, Helen thought.

“Don't think badly of your father for it,” Aunt Lily said. “We all have skeletons in our cupboards, dear.”

Helen decided to take a peek at her own. She'd been tossing and turning since midnight. It wasn't simply the creaks and sighs of the old building that were keeping her awake, but the clamour in her head. From childhood to present day, she found herself running through a personal list of sins, like the time she'd thumped a girl who was bullying her best friend, the night she lost her cool and mouthed off at a voyeur slowing down at the scene of a fatal road accident. She also had a reputation for getting shirty with cold-callers, and for breaking hearts. More recently, her reserve was sometimes translated as contempt. None were exactly hanging offences. Hard as she might, she couldn't think of anything that she'd done to warrant a grudge – bar her involvement in the Jacks case.

She rolled over again, closed her eyes. Her past was impinging on the present because it was no more than she deserved. Guilt was driving her thinking rather than reason. Stratton was absolutely right: the information about her, including her well-publicised family connection, had been in the public domain for a number of years. Anyone who wanted to track her could, including Jacks, including the Roscoes. So, she thought, opening her eyes again, why did someone want to harm or frighten her now and not then? Didn't add up.

Unless it was unconnected.

And if unconnected, she thought, with a shiver, she really didn't know what she'd done wrong. She really didn't know what to expect next.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE CALL FROM HER
father came two days later.

“Free for lunch?” There was a positive note in his voice. He sounded much more like the Dad she knew. in control. Back in charge. Thank God, she thought, scanning her diary. A mother and young son were booked for a sitting at midday. She'd been trying to decide how to play it; children were notoriously difficult to photograph unless they were engrossed in something. She kept a box of studio props, stuff like golf clubs, tennis racquets, books, fake flowers, balls, wine glasses and teddy-bears, and hoped she could find something suitably diverting. “I could meet you around a quarter past one, is that all right?”

“Great.” He sounded relieved. “Meet me at the main entrance of Rackhams.”

Helen smiled. It hadn't been Rackhams for a while. It was now the newly revamped House of Frazer. She thought it an unusual choice, and then remembered it was where he'd taken her mother when she shopped in town.

The sitting went more smoothly than she expected and, after hopping onto a bus that took her into Corporation Street, she arrived a few minutes early. She could see her father waiting near the entrance as she walked along the pavement. Everything about his body language displayed acuity of purpose. He was standing very straight. He had his hands in the pockets of a large grey overcoat. Even at that distance, he looked like a man with a mission. Helen slipped one arm through his and kissed his frozen cheek.

“Waited long?” she said.

He gave a strained smile. She thought she caught a trace of impatience in his expression. “Not really.”

“Let's get you inside.”

They were greeted by a sudden gush of warm air. At once, she felt transported to a world of luxury and sophistication.

“How hungry are you?” she asked brightly, as they walked through the heavily fragranced cosmetic department to the escalators.

“Not exceptionally.”

She gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Why don't we eat in the restaurant here?” The French-inspired menu was consistently good, the service discreet. Because of the careful table layout, it was also the perfect place for confidential conversations, something she felt might be necessary by the look of him.

“Good thinking,” he said purposefully.

They were shown to a table and gave their orders to a young dark-skinned girl wearing a Muslim headdress. Helen plumped for Croque Monsieur with a glass of dry white wine. Her father said he'd have the same. The girl disappeared, reappearing minutes later with the drinks. Helen's father briefly talked about the weather, Aunt Lily's vain attempts to teach him to cook, the successful outcome of the holiday he'd been forced to cancel.

“Got the deposit back in full,” he declared.

“I should hope so in the circumstances.”

He nodded, snatched at his drink. That's not what he wanted to talk about, she thought.

“Anyway,” he said, forcing a smile. “Now I've got a few extra bob, and no one to spend it on, I thought I'd write you a cheque.”

“Dad,” she said, embarrassed.

His eyes connected with hers. “We can all do with a little financial help sometimes.”

“Yes, but…”

“And I know that money's been tight lately.”

Same searching look. Same steel in his voice. What the hell was going on, she thought? “I'm fine, really.”

“Are you?” His hawkish eyes were still fixed on hers. He was scrutinising her in the same way a father studies a small child who's done something wrong and won't admit to it; she still remembered that feeling.

“Dad, what's this all about?”

Their food arrived. He lowered his gaze, ran a hand over his chin. She watched him. In the space of weeks, he'd noticeably aged. There were heavy lines around his eyes. His cheeks pouched. The skin on his neck was slack. But he also had a grim determination about him. He took a pull of his drink, put down the glass, refocused on her. “You probably aren't aware, but your mother and I had separate financial arrangements. It was my idea. I didn't want her coming to me every time she wanted her hair done, or make-up or a new pair of stockings,” he said, his mouth softening with the fondness of the memory. “I wanted her to feel independent to make her own decisions. She had a number of investments, got clobbered like the rest of us in the stock market crash following 9/11, but she still had a reasonable portfolio. Since she,” he coughed.

“Died,” she interposed softly.

He flashed a grateful look. “I've made a number of discoveries.”

Her gaze sharpened. “What sort of discoveries?”

“In the last five months of her life, she cashed in three of her investments.” He looked straight at her and put his hand over hers. “I'm not cross, darling,” he said, in a way that conveyed he might be. “I know you've always been proud, liked to make your own way in the world, but there's nothing shameful about needing a bit of help now and then. It's just I can't bear the idea of being excluded. I loathe secrets. I'd hate to think you were in debt, or some sort of trouble, and were frightened to tell me.”

She stared at him wide-eyed. “I'm not.”

He stared back, raking her face for clues.

“I didn't borrow any money,” she repeated stupidly.

“You sure?” The pressure on her hand increased.

“It wasn't me,” she said, feeling her nerves jag. Suddenly, what little appetite she had vanished.

Her father pulled his hand away. “That's what I was afraid of.”

“When did she make the first withdrawal?”

“August, the 18th.”

“How much?”

Her father glanced away, looked back, leaned across. “Twenty-five grand.”

Oh God, she thought. What on earth did her mother need that kind of loot for? Her dad paid for everything. “And after that?”

“Two months later for another thirty grand.”

She suppressed a gasp. “And the next?”

“A few days after Christmas.”

“When exactly?”

“December 29th. This time for forty-five K.”

Christ, she thought, the day after she'd been mugged. “Surely, you can trace it?”

“To a point,” he said crisply. “She paid the cheques from her investments straight into her building society accounts. At first, I thought there was some mistake.”

“Go on,” she encouraged him.

“Once the balance cleared, she gave forty-eight hours notice and withdrew the money in cash. You were the obvious beneficiary.”

She felt spots dance before her eyes. The room seemed to spin. Her father was speaking again. His voice sounded far away. “What do you think?”

She felt as if her brain were clicking, stimulating the pathways, triggering the zone marked fear. “Apart from the money, did you notice anything different about Mum's behaviour?”

His eyebrows knitted together. “She was drinking a lot.”

She was always drinking a lot, Helen thought. Then another idea shot across her mind.

“Did she ever say anything to you about the porcelain in the drawing room?”

Her father looked at her blankly.

“You know, about it being cleaned.”

“Cleaned?” he frowned. “She said she fancied a change-around but, now you come to mention it, I'm not sure where she put it.”

“Is it worth a lot of money?” she said, her voice low.

He flashed her a knowing look. “It's insured for almost ten grand. There's a lot of hand-crafted details.”

So it could have been pawned, she thought, or given in lieu of hard cash. “Have you found any threatening letters or notes?”

“None. It was the first thing I thought to check.”

“Did anyone unusual phone or call to see her?”

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive.”

Wait a minute, she thought, remembering the man who claimed to be a window-cleaner. Was it possible…?

Her father interrupted her thoughts. “We should go to the police,” he said decisively.

Talk to Stratton, she thought automatically, talk to Harmon.

“Are you sure she wasn't donating to some charity or something?” Helen asked.

“Not that kind of money,” he said staunchly.

“She wasn't seeing a doctor on the quiet?”

“Why? We're fully covered by private health insurance.”

“A relative in trouble?”

“Apart from Gran, she didn't have any.”

Helen knew that she was clutching at straws but felt she had to consider all the options.

“So what do you think?” her father said, a glint in his eye.

She braced her jaw. “I don't know.”

“But you agree the police should be informed?”

She swallowed. It wasn't simply about her any more. It was much bigger than that. “I'll take care of it.”

“No, Helen, I…”

I can cut through the red tape, she thought, thinking of Stratton. “I know the right people, remember?” And they'll take my father seriously, if not me.

She was sitting back on the bus, listening to the slow chug of changing gears. Her head throbbed. Her throat felt dry. She could barely stop herself from shaking. People would think it was the cold, she thought, staring blindly out of the window. She ought to be seeing shops, pubs, places where she'd clubbed in earnest as a youngster. Instead, she saw faces: the faces of the dead.

She tried to process the information, to get her thoughts ordered so that she could tell Stratton, and inevitably Harmon, in something approaching a rational manner. Except she wasn't feeling rational. Her father's disclosure made her deeply uneasy. Were they leaping to conclusions, or was it possible that the mugging, the attempt to run her down were neither coincidence nor accident, but carefully orchestrated moves guaranteed to put pressure on her mother in an efficient attempt to extort money? She'd no evidence to prove her hunch. It could all be wild imagination. According to her dad, there were no notes, no unsolicited phone calls, nobody strange turning up at the house, but…

Her only source of relief was the feeling that Jacks and her past no longer seemed a factor. As for the mystery client, if she were an instrumental part of a heist, was she acting alone? Helen wanted to know. With surprise and the night on her side, the woman might have managed to push her into the canal, but had she driven the van? Remembering what Stratton said, was she capable of doing something like that? Helen really didn't know. And because she couldn't think straight, because her thoughts were running away with her, she felt deranged with despair and fury, at both the perpetrator, for what had been set in chain, and yes, her mother, for allowing it to happen. And that faced her with another blizzard of unpalatable questions: why hadn't her mother said something? How had she allowed her fear to take precedence over her own daughter's safety?

Helen remembered the time in the kitchen when her mother came over all apologetic and sentimental. She thought it was the booze talking. Now it seemed as if her mother were making a half-baked attempt to ask for forgiveness. But why was she prepared to sacrifice her in the first place? Helen thought angrily. How could she? Mothers were supposed to protect their children, lie for them, die for them. Was her mother too frightened, too weak, too pathetic to come clean? she raged. Maybe, she thought, grasping at straws, her mother said nothing because she genuinely feared what might be done to her only child. But that didn't make sense either. Her mother knew that she'd come within a whisker of drowning but had, crucially, survived. Another escalation and the outcome could have been quite different. Still she hadn't talked, and, Helen thought darkly, what if her mother were protecting something, or someone else?
Just like you did
, a voice inside her head whispered.

She closed her eyes. She pressed her hands to her temples. She felt fogged with thinking. Maybe they'd simply read it all wrong. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for her mother's actions. Blackmail happened to other people. Like muggings and threats of violence, the inner voice persisted.

She almost missed her stop and had to fly down the gangway. Getting off opposite the Plough and Harrow, she crossed over and began to walk the short distance back to the studio. It was after three in the afternoon but already it felt as if night were starting to fall. Men with tired-looking faces trudged past. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper. Pedestrians took their chances and weaved through streams of cars to cross the road. Helen glanced idly ahead of her and instantly felt her heart leap into her throat. She rubbed her eyes, felt the chatter in her head, and wondered if she were seeing things again.

Freya
was ahead of her. No doubt about it. Wearing the same tatty-looking clothing she'd worn three days before, she had the same purposeful manner, same roll in her hips, same spring in her stride. This time Helen was no longer fooled by the streaked blonde hair. It was nothing more than elaborate subterfuge.

Following her, they passed boarded-up hotels and hostels for the homeless, places that were torched, homes that had been substantial family dwellings, but had fallen on hard times, and were now inhabited by the kind of shadowy figures who only come out at night. The people in this part of town wore shabbier clothing, particularly the shoes. They had the haunted faces of the debt-ridden and dispossessed, Helen thought, rolling up the collar of her coat. It had started to sleet but she barely noticed. For the first time in a while she felt an adrenaline-spike; she felt alive.

After a quarter of a mile or so, they came to a set of traffic lights. The woman stopped and pressed the signal to cross. Helen held back, pretending to look into the window of a newsagent. As soon as she heard the beeping sound, signalling pedestrians could cross, she resumed the chase. It was easier than she imagined. Mothers were out in force collecting infant children from primary school. Shift-workers milled about, lighting cigarettes, cupping their weathered hands against the flame. The health message hadn't fully permeated all parts of the Midlands. Booze and fags and junk food still held sway.