Forget to Remember (22 page)

Carol explained about looking for Cynthia.
While she was talking, she had an idea. “You’re an art dealer. Did
you know Jacques, the painter who lived here two years ago?”

“Jacques. The bloke who was killed in the
accident? I did know him. Pity. He had good technique.”

“He painted a portrait of a girl I’m sure is
Cynthia. Lord Binghamton owns it. I was wondering if you ever met
Cynthia. She looks something like me.”

Melanie studied Carol. “I don’t remember any
Cynthia, but I do remember a model who looked like you. She had a
Japanese name—Iko or something like that.”

Carol was startled. “Could it possibly have
been Aiko (ah-ee-ko)—spelled A-i-k-o?”

“Sounds right.”

What was going on here? Aiko was the name
Carol had presumably used when she was a swimsuit model.
Unless…unless it was Cynthia who had made the swimsuit video under
an assumed name, not Carol. It made sense. If Cynthia had been
known as Aiko here, that might be one reason they couldn’t trace
her.

“Do you remember her last name?”

Melanie poured water into the cups and set
tea bags on the table, along with milk and sugar. “If she used a
last name, I never heard it. I only saw her once or twice. As I
recall, she disappeared after Jacques died.”

“Cynthia and Aiko may be the same person.
Cynthia gave this flat as a return address in a letter to her
parents.”

“London is one of the places in the world
where rootless young people come. She may not have had a permanent
address.”

“Where do these people hang out?”

Sean had just come over to join them.
Melanie repeated the question for him. He sprawled in one of the
chairs, threatening to break it. “Artists and models with no money
stay wherever they can. They mix and match their bodies to find
food and shelter.”

Melanie scowled at him. “That’s not helpful.
The poor girl is trying to find her friend. Isn’t there a sort of
commune where they live?”

“Yeah, but it has to change its location
from time to time. They keep getting booted from places.” Sean
chuckled. “Not likely there’d be anyone who’d remember who was here
two years ago, anyway. Wait a minute.”

Sean put his fingers together and leaned
back, staring at the skylight in the roof. Carol wondered if he
were having a vision. He snapped his fingers and came back to
earth.

“When I moved in here, I met the chap who
lived here after Jacques. He had known Jacques so he might have
known the girl. Of course, whoever came over here looking for the
girl probably already talked to him.”

“They would have asked about Cynthia, not
Aiko.” Carol thought it was worth a try. “Do you know where I can
find him?”

“He gave up being an artist and became a
street performer. You might want to check out Covent Garden.”

***

Carol took a bite of her McDonald’s
hamburger and ate a couple of fries, which were usually called
chips here. Potato chips became crisps. She felt entitled to some
fast-food after surviving a morning of posing. She had warned the
server about putting on too much mayonnaise, which seemed to be
glopped on all sandwiches in abundant quantities. For a drink, she
was having Coke and water, in rebellion against all the tea she’d
consumed.

She couldn’t remember the last name of the
girl in the swimsuit video. Aiko…what? Rigo would know. It was five
o’clock in the morning in California. She’d call him later. She
suspected she didn’t need the last name in order to talk to Andrew,
the fellow who might have known her. In London the name Aiko stood
out.

What she would like to have was Andrew’s
last name. Sean didn’t remember it. Carol finished her lunch and
went outside the restaurant. She found a relatively quiet spot on a
side street and called Lord Binghamton’s number. A woman, probably
the maid, answered the phone. Carol explained what she wanted to
know. She was put on hold.

“Carol.”

It was Lord B. “How are you, sir?”

“One tries to avoid answering that question
when one has the aches and pains I have. The question is, how are
you? Did you survive your first day as a model?”

“Yes, it went very well.”

“Excellent. In regard to your question,
Andrew’s last name is Martin. He lived in the flat for a bit, but
he couldn’t make it as an artist. He didn’t have the kind of talent
Sean and Jacques have. He didn’t care for a real job, so he decided
to become a street performer.”

“Do you think he might be at Covent
Garden?”

“That’s probably the best bet. I’ve lost
touch with him.”

Carol took the tube to the Covent Garden
station on the Piccadilly Line. The day had become sunny, bringing
out crowds of tourists and others to watch the street performers on
the flat stone surface, surrounded by unusual buildings such as the
Covent Garden Market Building, now a shopping center and tourist
attraction.

Carol despaired. How would she find Andrew
in this zoo? If he were performing, he’d have a schedule and a
venue. She waited through the performance of a young woman who was
a mime. She was in full costume with a painted face that was very
expressive. She received copious laughter and applause.

When she finished, Carol walked up to her,
ostentatiously dropped a pound coin in her hat, and asked the mime
whether she knew Andrew Martin, a juggler. Thankfully, the woman
could actually talk. She replied in the affirmative, and in answer
to Carol’s question about where to find him, she whipped out a cell
phone and made a call.

“He’ll be performing here at fifteen
thirty.”

Three thirty. Carol thanked her and watched
other shows while waiting for Andrew to appear. The performers were
very good, and they appeared to collect quite a bit of money. Of
course, when the weather turned bad things would be different.

She recognized Andrew partly because of what
he brought with him—a unicycle and various balls and pins like
bowling pins to be used for juggling. He was fairly short, with
unkempt hair, an old jacket, and pants that reached to just below
his knees.

However, in spite of his appearance, he put
on a good show. He even juggled a live chainsaw in his act. Carol
counted his fingers and toes; he performed his act barefoot.
Miraculously, they were all there. He obviously enjoyed what he
did, and she could almost understand why he preferred this life to
that of having a steady job. He received a boisterous round of
applause, and people gave him money. Carol trailed behind them with
her pound coin, dropping it into his hat and asking for a minute of
his time.

While he was packing up, she briefly told
him who she was looking for and mentioned the name Aiko.

He stopped and looked at her. “Aiko.
Japanese, isn’t it? Yes, it rings Big Ben. She must be the bird who
did some modeling for Jacques. I never met her, but the name is
unusual enough that it stuck.”

“Do you know what happened to her after
Jacques was killed?”

“All the information I have is thirdhand. As
I recall, she really liked Jacques and was heartbroken when he was
killed. I think I was told she went walkabout.”

“Walkabout?”

“Pardon. I’m from Australia. I think she
walked the End-to-end, from John O’Groats to Land’s End.”

Carol had heard of the End-to-end, which
went from Northeastern Scotland to Southwestern England. “That must
be close to nine hundred miles.”

“If you take the short route.”

“Who did she go with?”

“Now you’re really testing the grey matter.”
Andrew paused, thinking. “Someone from one of those quaint villages
the English are so proud of. It has a really old church. That’s no
help, is it? They all have really old churches. Polstead? No, I
think it was Rotherfield.”

“Do you remember a name?”

“Sorry. You’ve stretched my poor brain to
the limit, and now it’s about to explode.”

“Where’s Rotherfield?”

“South of here. Small place, but it dates
back over a thousand years. As I said, it has this old church—”

“Do you have any other information about
Aiko or the person she went with that might help me?”

“The person she did the End-to-End with—for
some reason, I think she might be a school teacher.”

CHAPTER 28

Out of the corner of her eye, Carol saw Sean
stand back from his easel and take a wide-angle look at the
painting and at her. He had done this plenty of times before, but
this time he spent longer than usual in contemplation. Finally he
said, “That’s a wrap.”

“Is it finished?”

“A painting is never finished. At some point
you just give up. Picasso said that, and he was right.”

Carol put on her robe. “May I see it?”

Sean waved his arm toward the easel in
invitation. She had been anticipating this moment for six days. It
was Sunday morning. They had worked every morning since Tuesday
with no day off. She was glad the painting was finished. She was
tired of posing. Any feeling of excitement or trepidation she had
at the beginning had degenerated into boredom and pain as she tried
to hold her pose, hour after hour.

Melanie dropped in, unexpectedly, often
enough so Sean hadn’t hit on her. She had grown to like him enough
that she wouldn’t have been put off if he had. She chose to think
he feigned indifference because of Melanie.

Now she found she was afraid to look at the
painting. Not because Sean might not have done a good job. She had
seen enough of his work to know he was an excellent artist. No, her
fear was that she just wouldn’t translate well to canvas. She
approached the easel gingerly and peeked around it.

Was that her? “You made me look better than
I am.”

“Don’t be so modest. I just painted what I
saw. Lord B will love it.”

***

Carol celebrated with another hamburger at
McDonald’s. She had her modeling money in her purse. She had come
close to breaking even since she’d been here, in spite of taking
tours of places like the Tower of London with its costumed
Beefeaters, seeing a Shakespeare play at the Globe Theatre, and
watching the show
Mamma Mia
at the Prince of Wales
Theatre.

What she hadn’t done in the last few days
was find any more information on Cynthia or Aiko. She had squeezed
all she could from Lord Binghamton, Sean, Melanie, and Andrew. Sean
had told her where some of the young artists and models were
living, and she had gone there and talked to a few, but they were
too new to London to have known the missing girl.

She’d completed her commitment to Lord B and
had some fun. Now it was time for her to get back to work.

***

The sky was gray, and it was drizzling rain
off and on as Carol got off the train at Crowborough Station. She
could probably take a taxi, or even a bus, but she didn’t know
exactly where she wanted to go. She figured it was somewhat less
than two miles to the center of Rotherfield. Her North Face
protected her from the weather. She wore her backpack and carried
the suitcase, switching hands frequently.

She could see more of the country while
walking than riding. She walked on the right, facing traffic,
because the road was narrow and she had to constantly be on the
alert for oncoming cars, stepping off the road when two cars passed
each other. Even so, she felt comfortable and enjoyed the scenery
that changed from urban to rural and back again as she approached
Rotherfield.

She was glad of the sidewalk that
materialized as she came to the center of Rotherfield, because when
cars were parked on the street, as they were now, it was reduced to
one-way traffic, with drivers headed in opposite directions having
to take turns to get through the bottleneck. She came to what was
probably the main road through the village and strolled along it,
admiring the old buildings.

She spotted an old brick building containing
a pub, the Queens Arms. That might be a good place to start.
Besides, she was hungry and thirsty. Carol went in, parked her pack
and suitcase at a small table, and went to the bar. She ordered a
sandwich and a half-pint of lager from the bartender—she was afraid
a full pint would put her to sleep. As she paid, she asked whether
he knew of any place to stay.

The red-faced bartender gave her a smile.
“You’re in luck, lass. We happen to have a room available for
tonight. Finish your food and you can have a look at it.”

Gratified things were going so well, Carol
ate beside the brick fireplace that had a fire in it to ward off
the chill. There were a number of customers who were talking and
joking, probably locals, but she also saw several couples who
looked more like tourists. When she finished, the wife of the
bartender took her upstairs and showed her the room. It looked nice
enough, and they agreed on a price.

Seeing a chance to get more information,
Carol found out her name was Lydia. She told Lydia she was looking
for a woman who might be a schoolteacher and had walked the
End-to-end.

Lydia laughed. “Rotherfield’s not a large
place, but that’s not much information with which to find someone,
and I’ve lived here all my life. The closest school is a primary
school. You wouldn’t have a hint of a name, would you, or know what
age she teaches?”

Carol admitted she didn’t have that
information. This might be a wild goose chase, as she had heard
Mrs. Horton say. The woman said she would call some of the local
schools and make inquiries. Carol protested she could do it herself
if she had their phone numbers, but the woman insisted, saying she
could do it more efficiently.

Overwhelmed by this offer, Carol thanked her
profusely and offered to pay her.

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t found
anything. If I do, the best thing you can do for us is to spread
the word in the States about Rotherfield and the Queens Arms.”