Even Money Page 7

  “Where is Freddie?” I asked, looking around at the empty hallway.

  “In pub,” she said.

  “Which pub?” I asked patiently.

  “I not know which pub,” she said crossly. “This pub, that pub. Always pub.”

  This was going nowhere. “Thank you anyway,” I said politely, and left.

  Even if my father had been staying there, I wouldn’t have known about it. It had been a stupid idea, I realized. I thought that if I found out where he had been staying, and recovered his luggage, I might learn why he had really come back to England. There had to have been more of a reason than simply to see me after a thirty-six-year absence. After all, he had risked getting arrested for murder.

  Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn hadn’t asked me if I knew where my father had been staying in England, so I hadn’t told him. I wasn’t really sure why I hadn’t. I was generally a law-abiding citizen who, under normal circumstances, would be most helpful to the police. But the circumstances hadn’t been normal and the chief inspector hadn’t been very nice to me. He had point-blank accused me of lying to him, which I hadn’t, but, I now realized, I had also not told him the whole truth either.

  I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was a hopeless task. Over half the hotels and guesthouses I had been into either had no proper record of their guests or they wouldn’t tell me even if they had.

  Just another couple more, I decided, and then I must leave for Hemel Hempstead.

  Many of the properties in Sussex Gardens had been constructed at a time when households regularly had servants. The grand pillared entrances had been for the family’s use only, while the servants had access to the house via a steep stairway down from street level to a lower ground floor behind iron railings.

  The Royal Sovereign Hotel was one such property but, nowadays, its name was rather grander than its appearance. The iron railings were rusting and the white paint was flaking from the stucco pillars set on either side of the dimly lit entrance. And the doormat looked as if it had been doing sterling service removing city dirt and dog muck from travelers’ shoes for at least half a century.

  “Do you, or did you, have a guest this week called Mr. Talbot, or Mr. Grady?” I asked yet again, placing the driver’s license photocopy down on the Royal Sovereign Hotel reception desk and pushing it towards the plump, middle-aged woman who stood behind it. She looked down carefully at the photograph.

  “Have you come for ’is stuff?” she asked, looking up at me.

  “Yes, I have,” I said excitedly, hardly believing my good luck.

  “Good,” she said. “It’s cluttering up my office floor. ’E only paid cash in advance for two nights, so I’ve ’ad to move it this morning. I needed ’is room, you see.”

  “Yes, I do see,” I said, nodding at her. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

  “But we only ’ad ’im ’ere,” she said, looking down at the picture again. “Not any other one. And ’is name wasn’t Talbot or Grady. It was Van-something or other. South African, ’e said ’e was. But it was definitely ’im.” She put her finger firmly down on the picture.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “There is only one person, but he sometimes uses different names.” She looked at me quizzically. “One’s his real name and the others are professional names,” I said. She didn’t look any the wiser, and I didn’t elaborate.

  “Where is ’e, then?” she asked, pointing again at the picture.

  What should I say?

  “He’s in the hospital,” I said. Technically, it was true.

  “ ’ Ad an accident, did ’e?” she asked.

  “Yes, sort of,” I said.

  “Looks like you did too,” she said, putting her hand up to her own eye.

  My left eyebrow remained swollen, and my whole eye was turning a nasty shade of purple with orange streaks. I was getting used to it, but it must have been quite a sight for all the hotel and guesthouse reception staff I had encountered.

  “Same accident,” I said, putting my hand up to my face. “I’m his son.”

  “Oh,” she said.“Right. Back ’ere, then.” She disappeared through a curtain hanging behind her. I placed the photocopy carefully back in my pocket, went around behind the reception desk and followed her through the curtain.

  To call it an office was more than a slight exaggeration. It was a windowless alcove, about eight foot square, with a narrow table on one side, piled high with papers, and a cheap yellow secretary’s chair that had seen better days, the white stuffing of its seat appearing in clumps through the yellow vinyl covering. Most of the remaining floor space was occupied by mountains of megasized packs of white toilet paper.

  “Got ’em on offer,” the woman said by way of explanation.

  Must have been a good one, I thought. There were enough rolls here for an army on maneuvers.

  “There,” she said, pointing. “That’s ’is stuff. I ’ad to pack up some of ’is things. Wash kit and so on, ’cause, as I said, ’e only paid for two nights.”

  There were two bags. One was a black-and-red rucksack, the other a small black roll-along suitcase with an extendable handle like those favored by airline stewardesses. I found it strange to think of my father with a rucksack on his back, but things were different in Australia.

  “Thank you,” I said to the woman with a smile. “I’ll let you have your floor back.” I picked up the rucksack by its straps and slung it over my shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t I get a signature or something?” she said.

  “On what?” I asked.

  She dug around on the desk for a clean piece of paper and ended up with the back of a used envelope.

  “Could you just put your name and signature?” she asked, holding out a pen. “You know, just so I’m covered. And a phone number as well.”

  “Sure,” I said. I took her pen and the envelope. Van-something, she had said my father was called. I printed my name as Dick Van Dyke and signed the same with a flourish. The number I wrote down could have been anywhere. I made it up. I didn’t really want Detective Chief Inspector Llewellyn on my telephone asking questions that would have been difficult for me to answer.

  “Thanks,” she said, tucking the envelope back under a pile of stuff on her desk. “ ’E only paid for two nights,” she repeated yet again. “ ’ Is stuff’s been ’ere for nearly three now.”

  At last, I worked out her meaning.

  “Here,” I said, holding out a twenty-pound note. “This is for your trouble.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the money rapidly and thrusting it into a pocket in her skirt.

  “I’ll be off, then,” I said, and backed out of the claustrophobic space with the two bags. “Thanks again.”

  “I ’ope ’e gets better soon,” she said. “Give ’im my best.”

  I promised her I would, and then rapidly took my leave. If she had known her erstwhile guest was now dead, she may well not have given me his things. If she’d been aware that he’d been murdered, I was sure she wouldn’t have. But she wasn’t to know that the Royal Sovereign Hotel had been about the twentieth such place I had been into that evening asking the same question. For all she knew, my father had directed me straight there to collect his belongings.

  I turned out of the hotel and moved quickly down Sussex Gardens towards my car, which I had parked near Lancaster Gate tube station. I didn’t want to give the woman time to change her mind and come after me.

  I looked down at my watch. It was five past nine. I would have to get a move on if I was to be at the hospital in time for the television news at ten o’clock.

  I was still looking down at my watch when a man came out of the building to my right and bumped straight into the roll-along suitcase I was pulling. “Sorry,” I said almost automatically. The man didn’t reply but hurried on, paying me no attention whatsoever. I had glanced up at his eyes, and I suddenly felt an icy chill down my spine. I realized I had seen those eyes before. They were the shifty, close-set eyes th
at I had seen in parking lot number two at Ascot on Tuesday afternoon when the man who owned them had twice punched a knife through my father’s abdomen and into his lungs.

  I didn’t stop walking. In fact, I speeded up, and forced myself not to look back. I prayed he hadn’t seen me, or at least he hadn’t recognized me with my swollen and blackened eye.

  Only after another twenty or so rapid strides did I step into another of the pillared entranceways and chance a glance back. There was no sign of him. I must have stopped breathing when I first saw him and I now gasped for air, my heart pounding in my chest like a jackhammer.

  I peeped around the pillar and saw him come out of one of the hotels and then disappear into the one next door. It looked as if he might be on the same errand that had also brought me to Sussex Gardens.

  I noticed with dismay that if he continued to work his way along the road, the very next place he would go into was the Royal Sovereign Hotel. High time, I decided, to leave the area.

  Checking that he was still inside and out of sight, I nipped back out onto the pavement and hurried away, turning right at the next street. It wasn’t the most direct route to my car, but I was keen to get out of sight of the Royal Sovereign. I could imagine the plump, middle-aged woman standing behind her reception desk. Oh yes, she’d say to the man, ’is son’s just been ’ere. ’E took the bags. Only a moment ago. ’E’s got a nasty black eye. I’m sure you’ll catch ’im if you ’urry.

  Not if I could ’elp it, ’e wouldn’t.

  Surprisingly, I made it back to my Volvo without actually walking into any lampposts, so preoccupied had I been with looking behind me. I flung my father’s bags onto the backseat and quickly climbed into the front. My hands were shaking so much that I couldn’t get the key into the ignition. I held tightly to the steering wheel and took several deep breaths and told myself to calm down. This plan seemed to be working well until I saw the man again. He was jogging down the road, and he was coming straight towards me. My heart rate shot up off the scale.

  I tried again to get the key in the hole, but the damn thing wouldn’t go in. I leaned to my right to see better and was still looking down, trying to match the key to the lock, when I heard the man walk calmly past me and climb into the car parked right behind mine. I slid down farther so that he wouldn’t see that there was anyone there. From my lowly position I could just about see the top of his car in my wing mirror.

  He sat there for what seemed like an age before he finally started his engine and drove away. I began to breathe again. I seriously thought about following him, but I was worried that in my present state I would quite likely run straight into the back of him when he stopped at traffic lights.

  I should be grateful to Luca, I thought, that I hadn’t waited until the following day to do my private-detective act. My father’s bags would, by then, have been long gone. But it would have been much less stressful on my body.

  I sat in my car for a good five to ten minutes wondering if I should go report the encounter directly to Chief Inspector Llewellyn. I had been so eager that the man shouldn’t see me as he drove past that I had slipped down to a nearly horizontal position on the seat. Consequently, I hadn’t even seen the make or color of the car he drove, let alone the license plate number. I wasn’t much of a private detective after all, and I would have had little to tell. And I particularly didn’t relish having to explain to the chief inspector why I had said nothing to him earlier about any hotel or guesthouse in Sussex Gardens. In the end, I decided to have a look at the luggage first. I could always call the police then if I wanted to.

  My breathing and pulse had at last returned to their normal rates, so I started the Volvo and made tracks to Hemel Hempstead and the hospital.

  I sat in the sitting room of my house in Kenilworth, surrounded by the contents of my father’s bags, wondering what it was amongst this lot that his murderer would bother spending an evening looking for.

  I had made it to the hospital to watch the second half of the news with Sophie. Jason had given me a stern look as I had arrived, and he had tapped his watch. What could I tell him? “Sorry, I’m late, I’ve been dodging a murderer on the streets of West London.” Fortunately, Sophie didn’t seem at all perturbed, and she gave me a warm kiss on the cheek without even appearing to check if I had been touching demon drink. She hadn’t even objected when I’d made my excuses and left. I’d had things to do.

  So here I sat at nearly midnight surrounded by piles of my father’s clothes.

  There was nothing much else in the bags. His washing kit was minimal, consisting of just a toothbrush and a half-full tube of paste wrapped up in a cheap, see-through plastic case with a white zip along the top. He didn’t appear to have any regular medications, although there was a half-used pack of painkillers loose in the small suitcase.

  He’d obviously had a penchant for blue shirts, of which there were six, all neatly folded but not very well ironed, and he had preferred an electric razor to a wet shave, and boxer shorts to briefs. He’d worn woolen socks, carefully folded into pairs, of mostly dark colors, and had clearly favored large handkerchiefs with white spots on a dark background.

  But there was nothing that struck me as remarkable, certainly nothing worth killing for.

  “Where’s the money?” the man had said to my father in the Ascot parking lot.

  What money? I wondered. There must be something I had missed. I went through everything again, searching through the pockets of the two jackets, and even taking the top off his electric razor in case there could somehow be a safe-deposit-box key hidden in the minute space beneath. Of course, there wasn’t.

  The only things I found that sparked my interest were his passport, a mobile telephone and some keys. They had all been in one of the side pockets of the rucksack.

  Nothing happened when I pushed the buttons of the telephone. Either it was broken or the battery was flat. I searched in vain for a charger, then put the phone to one side. I picked up the keys. There were three of them on a small split ring. House keys, I thought, and not very exciting without the house.

  The passport was more informative. It was an Australian national’s passport in the name of Alan Charles Grady, and tucked inside it was a printout of a British Airways e-ticket receipt and a boarding card, both also in the name of Grady. I noted with interest that he had actually arrived at Heathrow ten days previously. So where had he been staying for the first week of his visit? The lady at the Royal Sovereign Hotel had clearly said that he had only paid cash in advance for two nights, and she’d moved his stuff on Thursday morning. That would mean he’d arrived there on Tuesday, the same day he had come to Ascot to see me, or possibly on the Monday if she hadn’t moved his bags straightaway. That left at least six nights unaccounted for. Obviously, I’d been wrong in thinking he must have come straight in on the Heathrow Express from the airport and found the first available hotel room. Unless, of course, he had flown elsewhere in the interim. I looked again at the British Airways ticket receipt, but the only other flight listed was his return to Melbourne via Hong Kong scheduled for two weeks from Sunday. A return flight he wouldn’t now make.

  I again pulled the driver’s license copy from my pocket and looked at the address: 312 Macpherson Street, Carlton North, in the Australian state of Victoria.

  Where exactly was Carlton North? I wondered.

  I went upstairs to my office, to the nursery that had never been, and logged on to the Internet. Google Earth provided a fine close-up view of Carlton North. It was a mostly residential suburb of Melbourne just two or three miles north of the city center. Macpherson Street, appropriately for the address of a dead man, ran along the northern edge of an enormous cemetery that covered several blocks in each direction. I rubbed the keys from the key ring between my fingers and thumb and wondered which of the properties on the screen they opened.

  I’d never been to Australia, and it was difficult to imagine the upside-down world of Melbourne from the pictures on my com
puter screen. I sat there looking at the images and wondered if my sisters lived in one of those houses packed so close together into squares or rectangles, each element of the grid separated from its neighbors by relatively wide, tree-lined streets.

  As far as I was aware, both my parents had been only children, and I had consequently grown up with no aunts and uncles, and hence no cousins either. My mother’s parents had died before I was born, at least that is what my paternal grandmother had told me, but I now wondered if I could still take her word for it. Teddy Talbot, my father’s father, was certainly dead-as with my father, I had seen his cooling body-but my paternal grandmother was still alive, though nowadays more in body than in mind. She currently lived, if that was the right term, in a residential-care home in Warwick. I went to visit her occasionally, but age and Alzheimer’s had taken their toll, and she was no longer the woman who had raised me and whom I had known for so long. Thankfully, she wasn’t unhappy with her lot, she was just mostly lost in a different existence from the rest of us.

  In spite of all her troubles, I had always envied Sophie for having had several siblings and masses of cousins. Despite the rift with her parents over her choice of husband, she had remained as close to the rest of her large family as her illness had allowed. I, meanwhile, had no one other than my demented old grandmother, who sometimes didn’t recognize me anymore.

  Except that I now knew I did have family after all. I had two half sisters in Australia. The only problem was that I didn’t know their names or where they lived, and they, in turn, would have absolutely no idea that I existed. I couldn’t imagine my father had told his new family that he already had a son, the offspring of a wife that he had strangled in England before fleeing by ship to the Antipodes.

  I went downstairs again and back into the sitting room.

  Once more I sifted through the sad piles of shirts, underwear and handkerchiefs as if I would now find something I had previously missed. But there was nothing.

  I looked at the black-and-red canvas rucksack. An airline baggage label with LHR printed across it in large, bold capital letters was fastened around one of the straps with the name GRADY printed smaller on it alongside a bar code, but there was no actual indication of where the label had been attached to the strap. Once again I stared into the rucksack as if I might have somehow overlooked something. As before, it appeared to be completely empty, but, nevertheless, I tipped the whole thing upside down and gave it a good shake. It was more out of frustration than in any expectation of finding anything.