Others (5 page)

As I hit the first cigarette of the day I thought of the baby’s mother, Shelly Ripstone, and wondered why she was so positive her son was still alive. Just on the word of a possibly fake clairvoyant? Didn’t make sense. And something else that didn’t make sense was why I shared the same intuition.

6

I was on my second repo of the day when I got the call from Philo on my mobile.

The first of the two vehicle repossessions had been for a BMW, which unfortunately was parked in the driveway of an upmarket residence situated in a plusher part of Brighton’s suburbia. The car’s owner - or non-owner, because he hadn’t kept up his payments - was one of those flash businessmen who knew all the answers, someone who did well by living on his wits and running up debts. He was aware of his rights and was only too pleased to inform me of them when I rang his doorbell and showed him the letter of authorization from the credit company that empowered me to take the BMW away. With a self-satisfied grin he’d snatched the letter from me and torn it to pieces (that was okay, I had three photocopies, two of them in my briefcase). Standing on his doorstep, he towered over me, yet still he stretched himself to full height (I could see him pivoting on the balls of his feet) in an effort to intimidate me even more. I got that kind of thing all the time: people either patronized me, letting me know my deformities meant nothing at all to them, that I was just one of the chaps, or they got nasty and made the most of what they considered my shortcomings. Either way, it made no difference to me: I was there to do a job, that’s all there was to it.

This debtor had been expecting my call, no doubt forewarned by a prior visit from the finance company’s own man, and his only surprise was my appearance itself. He hadn’t bothered to lie by telling me the cheque was in the post, or that the lender and he had come to some agreement about the unpaid sums only an hour or so before I’d arrived; no, he didn’t bother because he knew that legally I couldn’t touch the BMW while it was on private property, i.e. his own driveway. If I tried to repossess, I’d be guilty of taking and driving away without consent, and the police held a dim view of auto theft, whatever the circumstances. However, in such cases there is an answer as far as the poor old repossessor who, after all, is only trying to do his job, is concerned: you turned the tables, reversed the situation. I stuck a copy of the authorization letter under the windscreen wiper and informed the defaulter, who remained on the doorstep, hands in pockets, grin mouldering into a scowl, that the vehicle had been officially repossessed by the finance company and that if he took it out on the public highway (my address was as formal as this) it would constitute an arrestable offence because he was no longer the legal owner. The police would be informed and if he were to be stopped by them, he, himself, would be charged with taking away and driving without the owner’s consent.

That ruse hadn’t pleased him one bit, but I knew as he slammed his front door on me that by the time I returned next day he would have seen sense and given in to the inevitable. He might throw the keys at me, but at least I’d be able to drive the BMW away.

My second ‘bust’ that day was a lot easier. The car was a Golf GTi and I had expected some trouble: you can usually tell by the vehicle the kind of person the driver is likely to be and a sports model invariably meant ‘aggressive’. So I was delighted that the GTi was parked in the roadway and even more delighted that when I knocked on the debtor’s front door, there was nobody in. Pushing the authorization letter through the letterbox, I went back to the car and opened the driver’s door with the Slim Jim (a thin metal strip that slides down easily between the window glass and rubber sealing strip, its hook contacting the doorhandle locking pin and opening it by a sharp pull) I always carried on such occasions. Once inside, it was almost as easy, although it took a little longer, to hot wire the ignition and drive off. It was as I was pulling away from the kerb that Philo’s call came through on my mobile.

‘Dismas,’ I said.

‘Dis?’

‘Philo?’

‘Yeah. Just left the Family Record Centre. At the GRO?’

Yes, I know, Philo.’ I pictured him outside the registrar office, mobile phone, compliments of the agency, clamped against his ear to cut out the sound of busy London traffic. ‘I’m in a repo at the moment, so give me a couple of seconds to get round the corner.’

I didn’t want the debtor returning to find me driving away the vehicle he still considered his own. Like I say, GTi drivers often mean trouble and I could do without that today. Parking around the corner and tucking nicely between a Metro and a Volvo estate, I retrieved my mobile from the passenger seat.

‘Still there, Philo? Good.’ I took a look around the street before switching off the car’s engine. ‘So what’s the story?’

That’s just it, Dis. There isn’t one. No birth or death certificate for the Ripstone - sorry, the Teasdale - baby was ever issued as far as they can tell at the registrar office.’

That’s impossible. Our client had the child and it was delivered at the Dartford General.’

Well, you know the place burned down.’

‘Sure but that was some years later.’

Yeah, but the point is that the records can’t be checked at the point of source if there was an error or oversight at this end. That’s what they’ve just told me.’

There’s another GRO in Southport; we can check with them.’

‘Uh-uh. Already did. They did it here for me. No record of the baby there either.’

I sat in silence for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. Was Shelly Ripstone
nee
Teasdale lying? But why should she, what was there to gain? Could she be deluding herself, imagining she’d given birth all those years ago? No, she was overwrought at the loss of her husband, but she didn’t seem crazy or hysterical. I wondered if the clairvoyant, this Louise Broomfield, had planted the thought in Shelly’s troubled mind. Some kind of auto-suggestion. What would be the point of that, though? I shook my head in mild frustration: I had no answers.

‘Dis?’

‘Sorry, Philo, just thinking.’

What d’you want me to do?’

‘Get yourself off to the Search Room at Companies House. It isn’t far from where you are now.’

In the investigation business you always tried to kill two or three birds with one stone to justify the expense of long excursions; it was important to cover the expense in time and travel for the agency. In this case, one of the national banks’ local branches in Hove had asked me to look into the commercial background of a prospective client who was seeking a substantial loan for a new business venture and the bank had a feeling that other branches and different brand banks had been approached by the same man before for similar type loans, but under different company names. They were aware that money had been lost on those deals and didn’t want the same to happen to them. Reluctant to turn away a future and apparently well-heeled client, they were, nonetheless, proceeding with extreme caution. Hence my agency’s assignment.

‘Sure thing,’ Philo came back at me. ‘I’ve got the details. Anything else while I’m up here?’

‘Can’t think of anything. Just get the train back as soon as you’ve finished - no loitering around the fleshpots. Keep away from Soho. I need to work on a report for the bank tonight, if poss.’ I didn’t, but neither did I want my apprentice roaming the big city on my time.

‘Right, Boss. Catch you later.’

The line went dead and I switched off the mobile. Because of my hump, my face was only inches away from the steering wheel and I leaned even further forward, resting my forehead against the warm, hard plastic for a moment or two. What the hell was Shelly Ripstone playing at? Why waste my time and her money? I straightened again - that is, I straightened as much as possible - and lit a cigarette. I could end the assignment there and then, call her with my apologies and close the case. But something - I didn’t know what: instinct, intuition, I had no idea - prevented me from doing so. It was an odd reaction at the time, but it makes sense to me now.

The first thing I had to do before making any final decision, I told myself, was to find out more about Shelly Ripstone herself. And there was one particular person who could help me with that.

I tapped numbers into the mobile.

Early that evening we met at Brown’s, one of the seaside town’s trendy eateries, where the waiters and waitresses were hip and friendly. Etta was a few minutes late and stood briefly by the door, searching the tables for me. I gave her a wave and she returned a smile.

Etta Kaesbach was slim, almost skinny, with long brown hair and intelligent eyes. I’d always be grateful to her for helping me set up business in the first place, giving me the chance to do work for her firm of solicitors after I’d bombarded her with letters, mailshots and phone calls. She’d been the first solicitor - and it was from this profession that most private investigations agencies got their work - to provide me with the opportunity of proving my worth, not, she once told me when we’d got to know each other better, because of my obvious disabilities, but because of my overwhelming enthusiasm (yes, I had been over-anxiously keen in those early days, eager for the work, desperate to show I could do a difficult job as well, if not better, than the best of my particular trade).

She sat opposite me at the round table, her face a little flushed from her obvious dash from her office to meet me. Etta’s hair was held back from her forehead by a child’s hairgrip, not a slide, and her hazel eyes were encircled by round, wireframed spectacles, somewhat like ancient National Health specs, but which were Armani and probably cost well over two hundred quid. Perched on her fine, straight nose, they actually softened the intelligence of her face rather than enhanced it, and the absence of lipstick on lips that were already a pretty shade of pink, as well as nicely defined, combined with the neat-but-dated hairstyle, gave her a fresh attractiveness that was easy on the eye (literally in my case). She wore a deep-brown soft velvet jacket over a flowing maroon skirt, the collar of her beige shirt/blouse overlapping the jacket lapels. Etta was in her mid-thirties, although she looked ten years younger, had one disastrous marriage behind her - it had only lasted eighteen months, due mainly, she admitted, to dedication to her own career (although I knew there was more to it than that; she’d chosen a real bastard for a partner) - and had suffered poor on-and-off relationships since. As far as I knew, there was no man in her life at the moment and, I have to own up, I’d often dreamt of playing a larger part in her life myself, but had never had the nerve, nor the encouragement from her, to make a move in that direction. I was too scared of spoiling things between us. And too afraid of rejection.

A young girl in white shirt and black leggings was at the table before Etta had placed her briefcase by her chair.

‘Hi,’ greeted the waitress, all sleeked-back hair and stunning smile. What can I get you?’

‘Just coffee, regular.’ Etta smiled back, then glanced at my brandy glass. ‘One of those might be useful too.’

‘You’ll need to order some food if you want alcohol,’ I said, indicating the remaining half of my chicken salad sandwich, brown bread, no mayonnaise.

That’s okay,’ said the waitress obligingly. We’ll count yours as the meal. Unless you’d like something to eat?’ She raised her eyebrows at Etta.

‘No thanks. Coffee and a brandy will be fine.’ Etta smiled back, then returned her attention to me as the waitress left us.

‘Busy day?’ I enquired.

Etta rolled her eyes. ‘Like all others. You switching from whisky these days?’

‘Needed something a little more substantial.’ I sipped the brandy to show how necessary it really was.

‘Having problems, Dis?’ It wasn’t an idle question; those hazel eyes were full of concern.

‘Uh, no, nothing drastic’ The episode last night with the broken mirror wasn’t one I cared to relate.

‘Nothing to do with the new client I sent you, I hope.’ She pulled a wisp of hair away from her mouth.

‘Shelly Ripstone? Uh-uh, she’s fine. But I did want to talk to you about her.’

‘So I gathered from your phone call. Oh Lord, I hope I haven’t sent you trouble. I thought it might be an easy one for you, a straightforward trace.’

‘And so it should have been,’ I reassured her. Thanks again, by the way.’ I meant for the continuing work and she acknowledged with a shrug.

‘You’re the one who’s helping me out, Dis. I’d hate to refer a good client to the wrong agency.’

I gave Etta my lop-sided grin. ‘So long as you know it’s always appreciated.’

‘Are you getting sentimental in your old age, Dis?’ She was smiling too, but she watched me keenly, a little puzzled I suppose.

‘God forbid,’ I joked. ‘You’d only take advantage.’ I was suddenly embarrassed by the sexual connotation of that remark - like as
if -
and I quickly moved on. ‘I only wondered if you could tell me more about Shelly Ripstone.’

Etta gave me a surprised look as the waitress arrived back at our table with her coffee and brandy. I quickly drained my own glass and tipped it towards the girl. ‘Sorry, I should’ve asked a minute ago.’

‘No problem.’ No strain at all in the waitress’s smile. ‘Back in a moment’

I put the empty glass down and returned Etta’s gaze. ‘S’okay, Mrs Ripstone isn’t being difficult. I’d just like to know some more about her background. We drew a blank on tracing her baby at the first hurdle and I wondered how badly she’d take it.’

‘I see.’ I could tell Etta didn’t quite believe what I’d said, but she seemed prepared to indulge me. ‘What did Mrs Ripstone tell you when she came to your office?’

‘She was distraught, missing her late husband. I gathered she was afraid of being left alone in the world and the thought of finding her long lost son seemed to provide her with some comfort. I told her a trace on the child wouldn’t be easy after all these years, but she didn’t want to hear it. I guess getting her son back might have compensated for the loss of her husband in some way, so I was sympathetic’

Etta gave a small shake of her head before sipping the coffee and it was my turn to be surprised, this time by her cynical smile. A fresh brandy was placed before me and I nodded a thanks to the waitress as she retrieved my dead glass. Picking up the new brandy, I held it towards my companion and Etta lifted her own glass. We clinked them together, a minor ritual I always believed in when I was with a friend.