Wexford 22 - The Monster In The Box (25 page)

   'Do you live over the shop, Mr Manor?' Wexford asked.

   A note of pride came into Manor's voice. 'No. I have a home in Taxed. I drive here each day, it isn't far.'

   'You didn't see the man who parked the Mercedes here?'

   'As I say, I go home to Taxed each evening sharp at five. Indeed, you might call that afternoon rather than evening, but that is when I drive to my home.'

   'If someone wanted to get to Stinted airport from here and had no car, what would he or she do?'

   'He could walk.' This was such an alien notion to Mr Manor that he burst out laughing as if he had been exceptionally witty. 'If he was mad or stricken by poverty, yes, he could walk. It is seven miles. Better to get a taxi. You will find the taxi man's home opposite the pub. It says Tip-Top Taxis on the gate which is rather a silly name, in my opinion.'

   Today Mr Manor's side of the street was parked with cars almost nose to tail, there being just two gaps large enough for someone to squeeze a vehicle in. If there had been even a single car or van on the other side the space left between would have been wide enough for no more than a bicycle.

   'What happens when something comes the other way, Lynn?'

   'That happens, sir,' she said, pointing.

   The van which had just about passed the halfway mark in the street moved relentlessly on while the Fiat coming towards it was forced to reverse, a maneuver which was a challenge to the old man at the wheel who was several times in danger of scraping the bodywork of a Rolls-Royce, a VOW and a Transit van. They watched with interest but desisted from applause when the older driver succeeded in escaping with no damage to his own car or the others. They walked up the path to Tip-Top Taxis.

   Wexford was almost certain the taxi driver was going to tell him he had received a phone call from someone requesting to be driven to Stinted airport or even to a station on the London to Cambridge mainline at midnight on the relevant date. But the owner of Tip-Top Taxis disappointed him. Mr Davis kept his books efficiently. No such call and no such appointment were recorded.

   'I'd have remembered anyway.'

   'Why is that, Mr Davis?'

   'Because I'm sixty-five years old and I reckon I'm past driving some lazy sod to Stinted at that hour when there's no flights before six in the morning.'

   'It could have been in the morning,' said Lynn, thinking of Targo sleeping in his car. 'Have you any bookings to the airport or a train the next morning?'

   'Not a sausage, Miss. I do a regular run Wednesday mornings without fail. Take a lady to see her mum in an old folks' place in New market, wait for her and bring her back. That satisfy you?'

   So Targo had parked his car and vanished. He was strong and fit and resourceful. He could have walked. 'Along those lanes, sir?' Lynn asked as they walked back to the car. 'In the dark? You noticed how fast the locals drive. He'd have been lucky not to be killed. Do you remember that woman that passed us on the way here?'

   'I do. A pedestrian would get short shrift from someone like her.'

Hannah was put on to someone called a personnel coordinator at the Spice well supermarket headquarters. This was far from London and even further from Kingsmarkham on an industrial estate outside Peterborough.

   'Kingsmarkham Crime Management. This is Detective Sergeant Goldsmith. Can you tell me if you're employing a Tamima Rahman at any of your branches? R-A-H-MA-N.'

   'I'll check.'

   In the days when such information was kept in files she would have had to call Hannah back. As it was she didn't even have to ask her to hold the line. She knew within thirty seconds. 'No, we don't employ anyone of that name.'

   Hannah was always thorough. 'Would you check again, please?'

   The second check afforded no different data. Hannah's next call was to Mrs Asia. Her tone was waspish. 'Don't ask me. I haven't seen Tamima since she left here. I've told you. She's living with Jacqueline and Clare in Wands worth.'

   As soon as the words were out Fatima Asia realised she had inadvertently let out Tamima's place of residence. Using a wheedling tone usually foreign to her, Hannah asked if Mrs Asia could, please, be more specific.

   Tamima's aunt hesitated – or had she put the receiver down?

   'Are you there, Mrs Asia?'

   'Oh, well, I suppose it won't do any harm. Manchuria Road, Wands worth, SW18. It's number 46.'

   'Thank you very much.'

While she had been checking on supermarkets, Damon Coleman had also been round the shops. When Wexford was young, engaged to Alison, Kingsmarkham's men had only one shop in which to buy their clothes, an old-fashioned (even then) outfitters in the centre of the high street. This was Prior's, where women also bought skirts and suits and their children's school uniform. Now there were six, one of them in the run-down Kingsbrook Centre, one (very trendy) in York Street, the rest in the high street where Prior's still held a pre-eminent place but under its new name, minus the apostrophe, of Priors Prime of Life. Damon went there first and met with no success. The smart place in York Street was no help and nor was Young Adult three shops along from Priors. The last shop he visited was called Heyday, its window full of jeans, sweaters, baseball caps, heavy metal-studded belts and Wild West ten-gallon hats.

   No, Mr Targo hadn't bought anything there on the afternoon in question but they knew him. He wasn't what you'd call a regular customer but he had bought a couple of pairs of jeans there, one pair two or three weeks before.

   'You're a snappy dresser, Damon,' Wexford said. 'Is that expression still used?'

   'Not so far as I know, sir.'

   'You'd know. Let's say you care how you look. Would you leave the country with only the clothes you stood up in?'

   'No, I wouldn't. But then I wouldn't be fleeing from justice, would I?'

   'Fleeing' was hardly the word. Shilly-shallying, loitering, hanging about, would be more appropriate. Targo hadn't even been shopping. Surely if you embarked on a flight without a suitcase full of clothes, Wexford thought, you would only do so because you'd find clothes at your destination. Not necessarily in the shops of some foreign city but because you kept them there in a friend's home. He phoned Mavis Targo.

   'My daughter? Lois? He wouldn't go to her. The only time they met they didn't get on. It was here and she's allergic to dogs. She only stayed one night but I had to lock the dogs up and you can imagine the sort of fuss Eric made.'

   'Just the same, I'd like her phone number, please.'

   'What time is it? 2 p.m.? Well, it's only seven where she lives. I'll give you the number but you'll have to wait till a more civilized hour.'

   Wexford didn't bother with civilized hours but called Mrs Lois Leggett in Colorado Springs five minutes later. Her 'I wouldn't have him in the house' had a familiar ring. He remembered that Adele Thompson had said she wouldn't be in the same room with Targo and Mrs Rahman wouldn't allow his dog to cross the threshold.

   People had been telling him over the years that a good way to think clearly was to go for a walk. If you sat down in a chair and tried to think the chances were you'd go to sleep. First put the monster in the box, he thought. Throw the box away – but he couldn't do that, it was the monster he had to think about. He had always considered walking as therapeutic in that if you did enough of it it would use up some of the calories you put in by means of red wine, cashew nuts, Chinese food, fruit pies and snacks. Might it also be beneficial in a psychological way? That is, affect the mind so that it concentrated on the problem in hand?

   Beautiful the botanical gardens were no longer. Or perhaps it was only the time of year, the untidiest time when lawns are brown with scattered leaves and a few dying roses linger on straggly bushes. The tropical house had become a coffee bar, the pomatum had been vandalized by those such as the Molloy gang and the rare trees enclosure turned into a (seldom used) children's playground with swings and see-saws. The grass was too wet to walk on so he kept first to the main drive, then turned off along a path between lawns shaded by great cedars and beeches shedding copper-coloured leaves.

   A woman was coming towards him and because he was always aware of women's fear when encountering a lone man in a lonely place, he took a few steps off the path on to the wet turf. He smelt her scent, then heard her say, 'Keep off the grass, Reg. Do you remember saying that to me before these gardens were here?'

   He had no idea who she was, a tall thin woman, very upright, white hair piled on her head in a chignon. Unrecognizable – yet she had recognised him.

   'Why did I say that?'

   'Most of those words weren't needed, you said. Cut out "keep" first and you get "off the grass", then "the" which isn't necessary, finally "grass" because what else? You've just got "off" left and that says it all. I've never forgotten it. You don't know who I am, do you?'

   He did now. 'Yes, Alison, of course I do. How are you? Tell me you don't live here and I couldn't have seen you all these years.'

   She laughed. 'I live in France. I lost my first husband and married a Frenchman. I'm here because my mother died. She was immensely old but it's still awful, it's still a shock.'

   'Let's walk,' he said.

   They went back the way he had come. So much for thinking and concentrating on his problem. He was telling her about his life, his children, his grandchildren, when she took his arm and, looking down at her right hand resting on his sleeve, he saw the ring she wore on her third finger. It was the engagement ring he had given her when he was twenty-one and she had kept when he offered it. He looked at it and she saw him look but neither of them said anything.

   At the gates she said, 'I'm staying at the Olive. Where else? Back to France tomorrow on the Euro star.'

   'Goodbye, my dear,' he said and he took her in his arms and kissed her. She walked away, waving once.

Back to the police station and back to earth. DS Goldsmith, he was told, had gone to London in pursuit of Tamima Rahman but was expected back shortly. He felt vaguely annoyed. He had told her to have one more go at finding Tamima's whereabouts. Perhaps it was that word 'shortly' which irritated him. What was wrong with 'soon'? He was trying to do the thinking which the fortuitous meeting with Alison had put an end to, when Burden walked in frowning, the corners of his mouth turned down. He seldom swore but he did now.

   'That bloody lion's escaped.'

   'What?'

   'King or whatever it's called, it's escaped. Mavis Targo's been on. She went to feed it and it got out.'

   'For God's sake, Mike. When did this happen?'

   'Early this morning. She was scared to tell us, thought it might come back of its own accord. She phoned the RESACA first and then something called the Feline Foundation, then us. We were a poor third. The media haven't got it yet but they will without help from us. I've been on to Myringham Zoo and they've got someone coming over, their Big Cats expert apparently.'

   'How did it get out?'

   'Well, normally, she says, she wouldn't go into its enclosure. Targo does and apparently he strokes the thing. She throws half a side of lamb or whatever over the wire – he hangs it on that hook thing – only she missed and it caught on the top. She unlocked the gate, went in and tried to reach it but failed. The lion was in its cave. She fetched a pair of steps to climb up, forgetting that the gate was unlocked. When she came back the gate was open and she saw the lion out in the meadow where the manta deer are. She was so frightened she ran back to the house, locked herself in and drank some brandy. I don't know what she hoped for, some miracle, some waking up from a nightmare maybe, but it wasn't till half an hour ago that she phoned us.'

   Wexford's phone was ringing. He picked it up.

   '
Kingsmarkham Courier
here. Lionel Smith speaking. What can you tell us about this escaped lion?'

The widespread publicity was welcomed by Wexford. If anything could bring Targo back, this might. The news that his wife was missing or one of his children would very likely leave him indifferent, but the loss of one of his precious pets would be a major disaster in his life.

   Of course the story figured mostly in the British media but Damon Coleman found, via the World Wide Web, references to it in French, German and Spanish newspapers. Bulls might stampede through the streets, wandering bears terrorize the unwary or animals resembling a lynx be spotted on the moors, but this was a lion, a man-eater, truly the king of the beasts. British newspapers loved it. The
Sun's
front page was all lion, a magnificent full-page photograph under the single word headline ESCAPED! Whether this was a picture of King hardly mattered. One lion is very much like another and this one had the recognised leonine attributes, a noble head, a flowing mane and a powerful muscular torso. The
Guardian
scooped with a photograph of Targo inside his lion's cage, the animal standing six feet away from him. Mavis must have dug that out of her archives, Wexford thought. He liked the
Daily Mail's
version best, its headline A DOUBLE FLIT with a picture of Targo jogging in shorts, T-shirt and scarf and another of some unnamed lion crouching and poised to spring.

   Kingsmarkham filled with reporters and photographers, all hoping, Wexford said, for King to emerge from his hiding place to attack and devour some unsuspecting citizen, preferably in public, preferably a woman and preferably a blonde.

   Burden laughed. 'I don't know about "unsuspecting". The whole place is galvanized with terror. Down the high street half the shops aren't opening. Their staff haven't come in to work. There's no one about on foot but the traffic's heavier than usual. Everyone who's got a car is out in it.'

   'He'll come back, won't he, Mike? He won't be afraid of the wretched beast not being found. He'll be afraid of it being seen and shot.'