Others (12 page)

It didn’t take long to locate the tree-lined road and I slowed the Ford as I drove along it, noting the house numbers on the gates of small, tidy front gardens. The homes were mostly bungalows, ideal for people of a certain age for whom climbing the stairs was an unnecessary grind. I drew up to the kerb when I saw the one I was looking for and, as I wound up the window, leaving a narrow gap at the top for air to circulate, a face appeared over the hedge of the garden across the pavement. The face belonged to an elderly man wearing a checked flat-cap, his creases and wrinkles deepening as he eyed me through horn-rimmed bifocals.

‘Mr George Wilkins?’ I called out, winding the window down again.

Who wants to know?’ came the reply.

‘Nick Dismas,’ I told him, satisfied that this was the person I’d come in search of. I pushed open the car door. ‘I’m with Dismas Investigations.’

I reached back inside for my jacket and slipped it on before approaching the gate (whatever the weather, I always felt more comfortable fully clothed, something to do with concealment, I suppose). He watched me without saying a word.

‘May I come in?’ I asked, pausing at the entrance to his God’s little half-acre.

‘Depends,’ he responded noncommittally.

The tiny lawns on either side of the stone path leading up to the bungalow’s front door were parched and brownish, despite yesterday’s showers, but the flowerbeds that edged them were well-maintained and full of begonias, petunias and geraniums, their reds and oranges slightly past their best, the recent hot weather having sapped their vibrancy.

‘Ain’t been usin the ‘osepipe, if that’s what yer’ve come about,’ the old boy insisted gruffly.

I rested my hand on top of the gate. ‘Didn’t know there was a hosepipe ban in force.’

There’s always one down ‘ere, every bleedin summer. Always been the same, ever since water was privatized.’

‘Profits before services,’ I agreed amiably.

‘Bleedin right.’ He eyed me up and down again and moved closer to the gate on his side.

He was a spry little guy, the paunch beneath his faded NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS T-shirt (I hadn’t seen one of those in many a year) belying the thinness of his arms and exposed lower legs. He wore scuffed sneakers (imitation Nikes), no socks, and long shorts (below his knees) and I was mildly disappointed that he’d chosen an old-fashioned flat-cap rather than a back-to-front baseball cap to cover his silver hair (which protruded enough to top large stick-out ears). Dirty green pads covered his knees and in his hand he held a short hoe.

‘So what d’you want?’ he asked suspiciously.

I showed him my card and he squinted at it through the lower half of his bifocals. ‘You are Mr Wilkins, aren’t you? You once owned the newsagents’ and confectionery shop opposite what used to be Dartford General?’

That was a long time ago.’ He pointed at the bruised swelling above my cheek. ‘Get that bein nosy, did yer?’

Walked into a door,’ I lied.

‘Oh yeah?’

I don’t think he cared one way or the other.

‘So what you after? I been retired years since.’

‘Yes, I know. But you and your wife ran the shop for quite a number of years, didn’t you?’

Too bloody long. Weren’t a bad business, though. Emma liked it, God bless her.’

‘Emma’s your wife?’

‘She was. Dead now. Passed on six years ago.’ He shook his head as though still mourning his loss. ‘Never had much of a retirement, shoulda sold up long before we did. You gotta get the most out of yer life, son, all work’s no good to no one. You want some lemonade?’

Maybe the mention of his late wife had softened him now.

He suddenly seemed pleased to have company, someone to chat to for a while, and that was fine by me.

‘I’d love some, Mr Wilkins. It’s a little too hot today, isn’t it?’

‘Never complain about that, son - it’s a bloody long cold winter.’ He lifted the latch and opened the gate. ‘Come on through. You can sit on the doorstep while I fetch us both a nice drink.’

I followed him up the path and waited as he placed the short-handled hoe against the step.

Take a pew and get rid of your jacket - you’ll roast in this heat’

I did as I was told and the old boy disappeared into the house. I lowered myself awkwardly on to the scrubbed stone doorstep and draped the coat over my knees. Squinting around with my good eye, I took in this little piece of suburbia heaven, the neatly-kept dwellings, the immaculate miniature front gardens, all under a vast, clear blue sky. It held an ambience far removed from the drama and aberrations of my last couple of nights in Brighton, the eerie whisperings of only that morning, the very normalcy surrounding me, although probably boring to some, offering a pleasant kind of comfort.

There y’are, boy, get that down yer neck.’

Wilkins was back with two still-bubbling glasses of lemonade in his gnarled old hands, one of which he gave to me. I shuffled my bottom along the step but, instead of sitting next to me, he reached back inside the door and dragged out a foldaway canvas chair. Wrestling it open with one hand and one leg, he placed it on the pathway in front of me and sank into it. His grimy kneepads stared me in the face, the thin legs beneath them bristling generously with white hair.

Tour very good health,’ he said tilting his glass and taking a long, glugging swallow.

I sipped more moderately, although I relished the cool taste as much as my companion apparently did.

‘Ah,’ he sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Nothing better than a nice cold lemonade after a couple of hours’ gardening. Beats all the booze, or tea and coffee. Now then, Mr… what’s your name again, son?’

‘Dismas.’

‘Mr Dismas. The good thief, eh? Yer don’t look too dishonest.’

At another time I’d have wondered what he thought I did look like, but at that moment I was too surprised he had caught the religious connotation to my name. Not many people did.

‘Now then, Mr Dismas, what’s this all about? Why d’yer want to know about the old shop? Yer not from the VAT, are yer? Finally caught up with me, eh?’ He chortled to himself, fully aware that I was from no government department.

I grinned back at him. ‘Nothing like that. As I said, I’m from an enquiry agency and I’m trying to trace someone who worked at the Dartford General eighteen years ago.’

He studied me seriously, pinching his grizzled chin with thumb and index finger. ‘Eighteen years, yer say? We had a lot of them doctors and nurses comin in buyin their fags and newspapers and all that. Lot of ‘ospital visitors used to pop in for sweets and chocolates for sick relatives and friends, too. No shop in the ‘ospital itself, yer see, not like nowadays. Oh yeah, we had a good turnover in them days. Even had my boy workin for us full-time. Afore he went off into the music business, that is. He loved all that punk - we had him late, yer see, so regular rock ‘n’ roll, which we could’ve stood, wasn’t good enough for him. No, he had to go potty with all them earrings and face studs and things.’ His eyes rolled behind the glasses. The rows we had.’

As he shook his head I caught the connection with the Sex Pistols T-shirt. Anxious to get back on track, I prompted him: ‘So would you remember any of your customers?’

‘Don’t see much of him any more. lives in Newcastle. Come down for his mum’s funeral, that was the last time.’ His attention was still a long way off.

‘You must have got to know some of them quite well, didn’t you?’

What’s that? Oh yeah, sorry, son. Driftin, yer see? Comes to us all.’ He took another swig of lemonade and smacked his lips. ‘Yeah, we were busy, but we did make friends with a lot of ‘em. Blowed if I can remember their names, though.’

The person I’m looking for was a midwife. She went by the name of Hylda Vogel. A foreign lady, German.’

Why didn’t you say?
Hildegarde
Vogel, not Hylda,’ he corrected.

‘You remember her?’

My eye must have lit up, because he gave me a broad, pleased grin.

We were good pals of Hildegarde’s. My old girl and her used to go to the pictures together. Lovely little woman, very kind, very generous. Mind you, she might’ve been a midwife, but she looked like a strong fart would knock her flat. Tough as old boots, though, really; couldna’ done the work otherwise. Very good to kids, she was, always buyin the little mites in the wards sweets and comics. Spent a lot of her ‘ard-earned wages on that.’

He was silent for a while and I didn’t press him. He gazed over my shoulder, eyes distant, as though recalling his old friend.

I waited an appropriate time before asking hopefully: ‘D’you happen to know where she lives currently?’

‘I don’t even know if she’s still alive, son.’ He took off his cap and wiped perspiration from his forehead with it.

My heart sinking, I said, ‘You lost contact with her?’

‘Oh, we stayed friends long after we retired. Hildegarde was always poppin round to see my Emma until she took ill.’

‘Until your wife became ill?’

‘No, son, it was Hildegarde who took ill first. She was never the same after the ‘ospital caught fire and they was all left out of work. Most of the staff either moved away or got took on by other local ‘ospitals, but Hildegarde decided to call it a day. Some of the kiddies died in the fire, yer see? Down to the smoke, not the fire itself. If y’ask me, I think that done her in a bit. Loved the kids, didn’t she? Anyhows, she was past retirin age, so it was no bad thing in that respect: she’d worked long and hard enough. She was terrible upset at the time, though. Loved her job, she did.’

‘She moved away from the area?’

‘Had to in the end. Stayed hereabouts for a while, but when her health got too bad, they took her into an old people’s home. She was gettin on a bit, y’know.’

This home - is it local?’

He shook his head gravely. ‘No. That’s the pity of it. Meant Emma couldn’t visit her as often as she’d have liked. Somewhere on the other side of London, near Windsor I think it was. Never went there meself - don’t like them places - and my old lady only managed a coupla times. Too fur, y’see? And anyway, accordin to Emma, it was a bit snooty and they didn’t seem to like too many visitors. Hard place to get to, enall. When Emma became poorly she couldn’t travel that fur any more.’

‘So you really don’t know if Hildegarde Vogel is still alive?’

Told yer, didn’t I? I suppose I shoulda tried to keep in touch meself, but after Emma went… well, I didn’t have much heart for anythin. Kept meself to meself, got on with the gardenin in spring and summer, played indoor bowls down the club in winter, and looked after me canaries all year round.’ He nodded towards the front door just to let me know where he kept his pet birds. ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if the old girl was still around. Had bags of energy, did Sparrer, even when she retired. Always flappin around!’

‘But you still have the address of the home, don’t you?’ I was leaning towards him, my elbows resting on the jacket over my knees, knuckles almost touching his dirty green kneepads.

‘Got it somewhere, phone number enall. Emma always used to ring her after she packed up visitin.’

Would you mind finding it for me?’

He lounged back in the seat, the almost empty lemonade glass resting in both hands on his lap. What’s this all about, Mr Dismas? What d’yer want with Hildegarde? I don’t want to be causin her any trouble if she is alive and kickin.’

‘Oh no, no,’ I assured him. There’s no trouble at all. She might just have some information that’s important for a client of mine. I promise you, I won’t bother her in any way.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Client confidentiality.’

He weighed me up, undecided.

‘It really would be helpful,’ I said.

He appeared to make up his mind - maybe he thought I could do with any small break life would give me.

Placing the glass on the stone path, he hauled himself out of the canvas chair and went into the house. ‘I’ll do my best… to find it, son,’ I heard him say as he disappeared out of sight.

It was a good ten minutes before he returned and I was pleased to see he carried a scrap of paper in his hand. I stood and on the doorstep he towered over me; NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS was at eye level.

Holding up the piece of paper, he fixed me with his gaze. ‘I’m trustin yer not to pester Sparrer too much, mind.’

‘I promise. No pressure whatsoever.’ I held out a hand for the address.

With one last moment of reservation, he gave it to me.

I examined the scrawled writing, then looked back at the old man. Tell me something,’ I said.

‘Go on.’

Why did you call her Sparrer?’

‘Sparrow, son. Like the bird. Sparrer. She was always flappin her arms around when she was excited or busy. Just like scrawny little wings. Went with her name, too. That’s why I started callin her that’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘I spent some time in Germany just after the war, picked up some of the lingo. A bit of National Service wouldn’t do some of the yobboes ‘angin around the street corners and muggin’ old ladies nowadays any ‘arm, either. Soon straighten that lot out. Would’ve done my own boy a bit of good too.’

‘I still don’t understand. Why Sparrow?’

‘Because of her name, Vogel. Don’t you know what it means in German?’

‘I don’t know
any
German.’

‘Means “bird”. Vogel’s German for bird.’

I suddenly had an image of hundreds - thousands - of flapping wings beating at the glass of a mirror.

That’s what she was like, yer see? A little bird with flappin wings. A little sparrer.’

13

I was still in a mild daze as I closed the car door behind me. Old man Wilkins had gone back inside his house for his ‘usual afternoon’s kip’, leaving me to find my own way out of the gate. I sat and stared out the Ford’s dusty windscreen.

Wings… birds… Sparrow… Vogel
- what the hell was that all about?

Merely a coincidence? Or was I truly being sent some kind of message through the clairvoyant and mirrors? Before I had left Shelly Ripstone’s home earlier that morning, Louise had claimed it was the disturbances that had jogged the widow’s memory, helped her think of the old midwife’s name. Even though neither Louise nor Shelly had witnessed the phenomena in the dining-room mirror, those thousands of tiny wings, they had both heard the sounds before the whisperings in the lounge. Although more subliminal than the vision itself, had the effect been the same? It still begged the question why I had been the only one to ‘see’ the wings, but Louise had suggested that the full power of the communication was directed at me and that she, herself, was only some kind of conduit for it.

I gripped the hot plastic steering-wheel in both hands and watched as a small bird - a sparrow, no less - landed on the car bonnet. It eyed me with beady detachment, cocking its head to one side and issuing a throaty little chirrup. If I had been more fanciful, I might have assumed its arrival was of some special significance: but I wasn’t - as yet - that far down the road. No, it was just a sparrow taking a breather.

As if in agreement - although, in truth, displaying no such interest - it chirruped again and flew off.

Better to be like that bird, I told myself. Okay, things that I didn’t understand were happening and, it seemed, with increasing frequency. And the clairvoyant insisted I was a key player in all this. So go with it. You don’t
have
to understand, just let it roll. Maybe then the answers will find their way through. The feeling I’d had up on the Downs that morning, that something momentous, perhaps even portentous, was about to happen? Well, everybody got that same kind of feeling at least once in a lifetime, and it didn’t necessarily signify anything, it was only chemicals in the brain overloading or mixing in the wrong way. No big deal. Not necessarily so, anyway. The thing of it is, there’s nothing you can do except ride it. Go along with it and see what happens. Feel a little better? No, not at all.

Resignedly, as if my own free will was no longer playing a part, I reached for my mobile and tapped numbers, glancing at the scrap of paper old Mr Wilkins had given me.

The number rang at least eight times before: ‘Perfect Rest, how can I help you?’

It was a woman’s voice, more brisk and efficient than the time it had taken to pick up the phone might have suggested. It was also totally cold.

‘Ah, yeah, um, I wanted to visit one of your residents today, if that’s possible.’ I had deliberately chosen not to enquire if Hildegarde Vogel was still living - I didn’t want to appear to be a stranger to her if she was, because some of these residential care places could sometimes be fussy about visitors and private enquiry agents in particular.

‘We do usually require at least twenty-four hours’ notice for visits,’ came the curt reply. Whom did you wish to see?’

‘Uh, Hildegarde Vogel. She’s been with you for several years.’

‘Of course she has.’

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. So the midwife was still around.

‘Unfortunately,’ the voice on the other end continued, ‘Ms Vogel is quite unwell at the moment’

‘Yes, I know,’ I improvised. That’s why I wanted to come and see her.’

‘Are you a relative?’ Same cold tone.

‘Not exactly. I knew her some time ago and I’ve only just learned of her illness. I’m a friend.’ If the ex-midwife was poorly, all the more reason for the care home to be reluctant to allow a ‘snooper’ to bother their charge.

‘Oh, just a friend? That’s a pity. Ms Vogel doesn’t appear to have any relatives - at least, not in England.’

I wondered just how ill the old lady was. Well, I am a kind of
special
friend. I know she’d be very pleased to see me, so can I come along?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Let me put you through to someone who might be able to make that decision.’

Before I could say another word I heard distant clicks down the line. Within seconds, another voice came on.

‘Hello. I understand from our receptionist you wish to see one of our residents?’

This new voice also belonged to a woman, but oh, the difference. It was soft, almost gentle, with none of the aloofness of the first speaker.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I’m an acquaintance of Hildegarde Vogel.’

‘I’m afraid she’s very ill these days.’

That voice. My response might seem ridiculous, I know, but over the years as a PI I’d learned to tell a lot from disembodied voices at the other end of telephones. This woman - girl? She sounded quite young - had a sweetness of tone that threatened to turn my natural, in-built cynicism to mush.

‘Is she getting worse?’ I had to keep my mind on the job in hand.

‘I’m afraid there
is
no cure for emphysema, Mr…?’

‘Nick - Nicholas - Dismas.’

‘… Mr Dismas. And of course, she is very elderly. We can only keep her as comfortable as possible and protect her from infection. Then, of course, there is the other problem we have to deal with.’

I guess I was too distracted by the sound of her lovely voice to pay full attention to what she was actually saying, so I failed to follow up this last remark. It was probably just as well though - I didn’t want to appear too ignorant of the old lady’s condition.

You say you’re an acquaintance? Our receptionist informed me you were a friend.’

I had to think fast. ‘Yes, I am a friend. A special one. Hildegarde delivered me into the world.’ I tried to put some lightness into my own voice. You know, when she was a midwife? That was a long time ago, of course.’ I gave a little laugh. Too long, in fact. The years have gone by so fast.’ Why did I feel so guilty deceiving this woman? ‘She always kept in touch and was very kind to me when I was growing up. Haven’t seen Hildegarde for a long, long time though.’ Despite the guilt, how easily the lies came.

‘How did you find out Hildegarde was here?’ She didn’t sound suspicious, only interested.

‘A mutual friend, George Wilkins. His late wife used to visit Hildegarde at Perfect Rest.’

Yes, I remember her. I think we can make an exception with you, Mr Dismas. You’re obviously very anxious about Hildegarde. But we will have to see how she is when you arrive, so I can make no promises. Are you sure you want to make the journey? I’d hate you to waste your time.’

It’d be worth it just to put a face to your beautiful voice, I thought. ‘No, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll take the chance.’

With a sweet goodbye, she rang off.

***

I had checked the road atlas before setting off on the long hike around the M25, feeling both apprehensive and strangely drawn. To break the tedium of the drive I hummed bars of old songs - Twenties and Thirties stuff, the sophisticated, romantic ones that came out of that era - but I was constantly distracted by the memory of her voice. I chastised myself for not having got her name, irritated that I didn’t even know her position at the home - nurse, supervisor, carer, administrator? I tried to put a face to those sweet, almost soothing, tones, an overall image of her, visualizing an elegant yet soft-featured girl/woman, graceful in movement and manner as the voice suggested. I was sure she was beautiful and, as such, way out of my reach.
What the hell was I thinking of?
I’d had one brief conversation with this person and I was already thinking in terms of a relationship. Was that how desperate my fantasies had become? And anyway, she didn’t have to be beautiful to be out of my reach - she could be ugly and still be beyond me. When
was
your last love affair, Dismas? Oh, never? Yes, that’s right, you’ve never had someone fall in love with you, have you? So quit dreaming and just do your job. Be who and what you are, that way you won’t get hurt. Not too much, anyway. All right, not as much as you would be by entertaining notions of romance.

Angry at myself, I took my own advice and rang the office, a diversion that might just get me back on track. Henry, as ever, was heavily involved in paperwork, but took time to inform me that Ida was at that moment swearing affidavits on papers she had successfully served, while he, himself, was writing a ‘letter of appointment’ to some scallywag who was never at home (or pretended not to be) whenever legal documents had to be served on him. If he failed to answer the door or was ‘out’ next time, despite the appointment having been made through the letterbox, then the matter would go to court anyway. Philo had nothing special to do, so Henry had set him the chore of cleaning the insides of the office windows (which, apparently, our apprentice was none too happy about). Henry wanted the okay from me to contact a computer data agency for information on a particularly elusive debtor whose personal and business affairs appeared to be uncommonly complicated and I expressed doubts about the expense of doing so.

Well, it’s the client who pays, Dis,’ was his unconcerned reply, ‘and I honestly believe it’s the only way we’re going to get this joker.’

‘Get the client’s agreement first, then.’

Will do. Hey, I’ve got a good one for you. Who played the bombshell in the 1933 film
Bombshell?

‘Come on, Henry, you can do better than that. Jean Harlow.’

‘Right, right. It was based on a true story about a movie star who was abused by her studio and family. So who was the real star it was based on?’

‘Clara Bow, Henry. Clara Bow.’

I heard a curse from the other end - he had expected me to say Jean Harlow - so just to cheer him up, I added: ‘Did you know she once slept with the entire USC Trojans football team?’

‘Clara Bow did?’ His voice had brightened.

‘Yup.’

‘How do you
know
these things?’

‘Just love the old movies.’

Yeah, but that’s not the kind of thing you find in old movie mags.’

Well, I picked it up somewhere.’

‘Sometimes I suspect you make up half these little tidbits. Hard for us to know, isn’t it?’

‘Just trust me.’

Wish I could, Dis. But I know how despicable you can be.’

We both laughed and I said, ‘Okay, gotta go. I think I’ve got a date with a beautiful lady.’ Briefly I told him of the new lead in tracing Shelly Ripstone’s ‘alleged’ missing son and of my destination that afternoon.

Henry wished me good luck. ‘But I’m not sure all this is worth it, Dis,’ he said. We’re spending a lot of time and effort on something that might turn out to be a wild goose chase.’

‘Like you say, Henry, it’s the client who pays the bill. I’m going to hang up now before the patrol cops stop me for using the mobile while driving. I’ll call back later, let you know how I got on with old Sparrow Vogel.’

Who? Did you say “Sparrow”?’

‘I’ll explain later. So long.’

It would have been too complicated and would have sounded too foolish to explain to Henry about wings and birds and German names over the phone. Then again, it was going to sound just as foolish face to face.

PERFECT REST wasn’t an easy place to find. According to the map book, it appeared to lie directly under the flight path to Heathrow airport, just a few miles away, which was surprising as it was supposed to be a
rest
home. I’d come off the great circular motorway around London at Exit 13, then driven along B roads towards Windsor, passing vast half-empty water reservoirs along the way, until I reached a long, winding main road that had many inconspicuous lanes along its length. In fact, so unnoticeable were some of these that I had to turn back and drive more slowly to locate the one I was looking for.

A sign of some kind giving a clue to the home’s whereabouts would have been helpful, but there was none. Aware that the River Thames, on whose north bank Perfect Rest was situated, was nearby I began trying each lane one by one, heading in the general direction of the river. Most of the properties I passed looked pretty expensive, and the area itself, with fields and woodlands lending a rural setting, would have been an estate agent’s dream had not the constant drone of aircraft disturbed the natural peace and quiet. After a while, though, the sound of those engines high overhead became almost subliminal and I realized that was how the locals here must cope: the noise was no more than a background hum if you paid it no mind. Only when Concorde flew over did the noise become an intrusion, one that lasted minutes after the hook-nosed jet was out of sight.

I came across no pedestrians along these lanes and, although tempted to knock at one of the houses to ask directions, I decided against it: it was sometimes a shock for people to find me unforewarned on their doorstep, an embarrassment I tried to avoid whenever I could. I’d try one more lane at least before I took that risk.

Fortunately, I had at last found the right one. It was a long, narrow lane of hardened mud, with a few twists and turns and mostly fields and hedges on either side. It was difficult to believe it might lead to the kind of establishment I was looking for, but I knew Perfect Rest had to be somewhere in the area, so I persisted. I passed very few houses and these were mainly gathered near the lane’s beginning, although I did eventually come to one that appeared deserted, its lower windows boarded up, front door heavily padlocked. The further I travelled down the winding lane, the more I had the feeling of being miles from anywhere, of venturing into a remote part of the countryside, even though I was aware that the city itself was no more than thirty or forty minutes away. Even the steady stream of air traffic high above failed to convince me I wasn’t in some distant hinterland.

Soon, however, and just when I was considering turning back, I spied rooftops and chimney stacks rising above the trees ahead. Judging from what I could see, it was a large, tall building, at least three storeys high, its roof and gables topped with aged, red slates, a multitude of television aerials attached to the chimneys. Relieved, I drove on and soon came to a wide entrance, its large iron gates closed. The sign on one of the stone pillars on either side of the entrance was discreet and in faded gold script on a deep brown background declared: