Mixing With Murder Page 3

  ‘All I want,’ I said, ‘is my dog.’

  ‘Better be quick and get it done, then, hadn’t you? They pine, dogs, as I’ve heard. Right, Harry?’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Harry expressionlessly.

  Allerton held out another slip of paper. ‘It’s all arranged. This is the address of a bed-and-breakfast place where you can stay. The woman who runs it used to work for me. She’s expecting you.’

  So even when I got to Oxford I wouldn’t be out of Mickey’s orbit. There would be someone there, checking on me, making sure I was doing what I’d been sent there for.

  I’ve read of people gnashing their teeth in rage and it’s what I felt I wanted to do. It wouldn’t have helped and I didn’t. At least I could prevent Mickey seeing just how upset I was. Not that he didn’t know it, but a refusal to let him see it was the only way I had just at that moment of depriving him of complete satisfaction.

  Harry moved forward and held out his hand. I bent to stroke Bonnie’s head and then I handed the lead to him, meeting his gaze.

  ‘I like dawgs,’ he said again. I knew he was trying to reassure me.

  ‘Now scram!’ ordered Allerton. ‘I’m a busy man.’

  Harry escorted me out. Ivo was still in the foyer. He was in deep discussion with the girl who’d been up there on the stage. She wasn’t in her leotard now, but skintight pants and sleeveless shell-pink satin top. Pink was obviously her colour.

  I write ‘discussion’ but she was doing the talking, haranguing him in that language I didn’t recognise. However, the fluency the two shared suggested the girl and Ivo were compatriots. In a foreign country, that can count for quite a bit. Even if you’ve nothing else in common, exiles stand together.

  When I was young, various elderly Hungarian visitors would appear at the house and be given coffee and chocolate cake by Grandma. They weren’t friends in any deep sense. They were part of the community, the Hungarian Diaspora which had followed the revolution of 1956. They’d known my grandfather, by then deceased. They saw it as a social obligation to call on his widow. I’ve flunked any opportunity I’ve ever had to learn another language. At home we spoke English. Occasionally I’d hear Grandma and Dad out in the kitchen exchanging a few words of Hungarian. I suspect now they were discussing something they didn’t want me to know about, like where my mother had gone and why. I could have asked either of them to teach me but I never did. At school they tried to teach me French; but all I remember is someone called Pierre going somewhere on his bicycle. I was busy at the back of the room fooling around, as usual.

  Under the onslaught of words from the girl Ivo stood looking almost sheepish. Big tough guy that he was, he put me in mind of a small boy caught being naughty. I wondered briefly what was going on.

  The girl was aware of my curious stare; she was a sharp one, I reckoned. She turned a look on me which was definitely hostile. I’m used to dealing with unfriendly scowls and returned hers with interest. At this, real anger flashed in her eyes. I had intended to avoid eye contact with Ivo, mindful of Harry’s warning. But he gave me a quick sullen glance which made the hair on the nape of my neck tingle. They both fell silent and unsuccessfully attempted to look uninterested. I knew immediately that the two of them had been talking about me. But what was I to them?

  I hadn’t time to puzzle it out. Bonnie, by Harry’s feet, had recognised Ivo and growled softly. Harry gave a warning tug on her collar.

  ‘You’ll manage it all right,’ he said to me. It was less an expression of comfort than an instruction. ‘Be a doddle,’ he added.

  The moment of parting had come. I patted Bonnie’s warm little body which was quivering with anxiety and walked out of the club, leaving her behind. She didn’t understand and yelped protestingly. I turned to call back to her reassuringly and saw her straining at the leash, almost choking in an effort to follow me. Tears of rage and frustration started to my eyes as I hurried round the corner. I’ve never cried over bad luck. But this filled me with such anger I felt I would burst and the tears popped out propelled by the power of fury. I was angry with Mickey, who’d done this to me. I was angry because of the look in Bonnie’s eyes. It wasn’t my fault this was happening but she couldn’t know that. As far as she was concerned, I’d walked away from her. Bonnie would never have forsaken me but I’d left her, to make things worse in the hands of people I didn’t trust not to harm her. If I got her back again, she’d forgive me, but I’d find it less easy to forgive myself. As for Allerton, I’d never, ever forgive him. Not that my grudge mattered a jot to him. He probably had more serious enemies than me.

  I cursed the fact I’d been walking Bonnie when Harry found me. But although that had made things easier for Allerton, it hadn’t materially affected the outcome. If I’d been alone, Harry would still have taken me to Mickey’s office. While I was there, someone would have gone to my flat (visitors of that kind always know how to let themselves in), collected Bonnie and brought her to the Silver Circle. And now, to get her back, I had to carry out Mickey’s wretched errand. I dashed away the tears and scowled murderously at innocent passers-by who naturally assumed I was another case of Care in the Community and gave me a wide berth. I felt physically sick. I felt just as I’d done that day long ago when I’d been forced to the top of the slide and shoved on my way by hands more powerful than mine. I was hurtling down, unable to control events, towards an unknown and unpleasant destination and there was no Grandma Varady any more to make it better.

  Chapter Two

  When I’ve got a problem I generally make straight for my friend Ganesh to ask his advice. I don’t necessarily follow it, which annoys him. I should, because he thinks clearly and is generally right. (I don’t tell him this, naturally.) But I like his opinion because it helps me form my own opposite one. I’d been on my way to the newsagent’s where he works, anyway, before I’d been hijacked and taken off to the Silver Circle, so the newsagent’s was where I made a beeline for now.

  The shop usually presents an innocuous standard appearance for such undertakings. There is a board in the window carrying personal ads. For fifty pence you can hope to sell your old fridge, gain customers for your home hairdressing service (but not for other home services; Hari is a very moral man) or swap something you don’t want for something someone else doesn’t want. That way you probably end up with something no one wants. A would-be-cute placard showing a row of depressed dogs bears the legend ‘Please leave us outside!’ I hadn’t thought anything could make me feel worse, but that did. Bonnie is the one and only dog to whom the restriction does not apply. Hari makes an exception for Bonnie because he’s convinced she’s a good watchdog. There is a stand outside the door with today’s headlines scrawled on it and a dented waste-paper basket which no one uses, preferring to scatter sweet and ice lolly wrappings on the pavement for Ganesh to sweep up later, grumbling. These things are fixtures. But today was different. Even in my distraught state I couldn’t ignore the addition.

  Outside the door, the sun’s rays sparkling on its pristine new surface, was a garish yellow and pink space rocket. It bore the legend ‘50p a ride’ and a small child had already found it and clambered inside. From there he was loudly demanding that his mother put fifty pence in the slot and she was equally loudly declaring, ‘I ain’t got it, right? So get out of there!’ I edged past them.

  Ganesh’s Uncle Hari was at the counter. He beamed at me from between stacks of chewing gum, chocolate bars and disposable cigarette lighters.

  ‘Ah, Francesca, my dear. How are you?’ He leaned closer and whispered, ‘You have seen it?’ He waited, glee and hope on his face, for my reply.

  ‘Yes,’ I confessed. ‘You can’t miss it, Hari.’

  ‘No!’ he crowed. ‘All the children want a ride. It will be very successful.’

  It isn’t like Hari to see success on the horizon. Hari believes that unless you keep a sharp lookout, disaster will creep up and tap you on the shoulder at every stage of life. The way I felt that morning
, I was inclined to agree with him. It was disconcerting to find him rubbing his hands over his new project.

  A shrill wail was heard from outside. The mother had hauled her toddler from the rocket and was dragging him down the road.

  Hari’s optimism shrivelled and died. ‘So little money,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘To make your child happy, so little money. I can’t understand it. What is the matter with people that they can’t see a bargain?’

  ‘It’s new,’ I said. ‘Once they get used to the idea that it’s there, it will get plenty of use.’

  Hari considered that and accepted it. He nodded. Then he peered down at my feet. ‘Where is the little dog today?’

  ‘A friend’s looking after her,’ I said dully.

  Ganesh came out of the stockroom at that moment and said, ‘Hi!’ He then looked at me more closely and dumped the boxes he was carrying on the counter. ‘OK if Fran and I nip off for a coffee break?’

  This was addressed to Hari whose eyes immediately searched the shop for some urgent job that Ganesh had to do at once. But he wasn’t quick enough to trap Ganesh, who’d already opened the door leading to the flat above the shop and was halfway up the stairs.

  I mumbled at Hari and followed.

  ‘All right!’ said Ganesh who was waiting for me, arms folded, in the middle of the sitting room. ‘What now?’

  ‘How do you mean, what now?’ I asked defensively.

  ‘Something’s wrong. You’ve got a long face and that shifty look that always means you’re in trouble. Out with it. What have you done now?’

  When Ganesh lectures me I get annoyed as anyone would. And why should he assume I had done anything? But, as I was saying, I have to admit he’s the voice of wisdom in my life. If I listened to him, as he’s fond of telling me, I wouldn’t have half the problems I wrestle with almost daily. On the other hand, if I listened to Gan, I’d be working behind the counter of a dry-cleaning business. This is Ganesh’s obsession: that the area needs another dry-cleaner’s and he and I could run it. I’ve told him, I don’t like the chemical smell of those places. I don’t like the idea of handling other people’s dirty clothing. I particularly don’t like the idea of running a small business because it’s just so much hard work and you never get any time off.

  ‘Look at Hari,’ I say to Ganesh. ‘Look what running this shop has done for him. He’s a nervous wreck. He works all hours and never ever relaxes. Even when the place is closed for trade, he’s sitting over the accounts and scratching his head over the VAT returns.’

  But Ganesh always replies that’s just Hari. He and I would do things differently. I don’t believe it.

  ‘I’ll make the coffee,’ I said now to gain time, and made for the kitchenette.

  Ganesh followed and hovered impatiently in the doorway as I boiled the kettle and spooned out coffee granules.

  ‘What’s with the space rocket?’ I enquired.

  ‘Don’t ask!’ growled Ganesh. ‘Does he ever listen to me? No, never! Does he listen to some wise guy who turns up persuading him that he’ll make a fortune from a plastic rocket? Oh yes, he’ll listen to him. I’ve had dozens of good ideas for improving business. He’s turned them all down. Then he goes and sticks that - that eyesore right outside.’

  ‘It might turn out popular with the kids,’ I offered.

  ‘It’s downmarket,’ said Ganesh loftily.

  I told him he was a snob. But the rocket was obviously a touchy subject and best avoided.

  ‘Well?’ he demanded when we’d got our drinks and retreated to the worn red plush sofa.

  I would have to tell him all of it eventually, but I jumped in with both feet and gave him the situation in a nutshell.

  ‘Mickey Allerton has kidnapped Bonnie and is holding her hostage.’

  ‘Do I look like I’ve got time to listen to your rotten sense of humour?’ retorted Ganesh crossly. ‘Hari will be yelling up the stairs at any moment, wanting me to go back down to work. Get on with it.’

  ‘That is it, honest, Gan.’ I explained what had happened that morning.

  Ganesh listened, sipping coffee, and then observed, ‘It stinks.’

  ‘Yes, it does. I suppose I can trust Harry to look after Bonnie but I don’t trust that Ivo. You should see him, Gan. He’s like an android. And why should Mickey do that to me? It’s a mean, despicable trick.’

  ‘I don’t mean the dog,’ Ganesh interrupted.

  Ganesh doesn’t share his uncle’s enthusiasm for Bonnie. This is not because he has anything in particular against her but because he mistrusts all dogs. They do tend to bark at him. I tell him it’s because they sense his fear. He says he isn’t afraid of them; he just doesn’t like them, all right?

  ‘I mean, the whole story Allerton told you stinks. Don’t have anything to do with it, Fran.’

  ‘I’ve got no choice, have I?’ I retorted bitterly.

  There was a long silence. I finished my coffee. ‘What in particular strikes you as not being right?’ I asked at last.

  ‘None of it’s right,’ said Ganesh firmly. ‘But if you want to take just one point, how did this girl come to work for Mickey Allerton in the first place and how long had she been there before she ran off? He tells you she’s not a native Londoner but comes from Oxford. She talks posh and he thinks went to a good school. What’s she doing performing for the sad old gits and grubby little pervs who frequent that club? What brought her down to London in the first place? I know he says he never employs runaways, but this sounds to me suspiciously like just that.’

  ‘He says she’s my age, twenty-two,’ I countered.

  ‘He’s not going to tell you she’s sixteen, is he?’ snapped Ganesh.

  ‘Mickey’s not a fool. If she was sixteen he wouldn’t go chasing after her - or send me. Too tricky. I’ve got a photo.’ I extricated the glossy Mickey had given me and handed it to Ganesh.

  Ganesh studied it, cowboy hat, rhinestones, mauve eyeshadow and all. ‘She looks about twenty-two,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Not that you can tell underneath all that muck on her face. But why does he want her back? Yes, I know he’s setting up in Europe and he wants her to work in Spain for him, or so he says. That sounds like a story he thought up on the spur of the moment to me. If it’s the truth, why didn’t he tell her when she was there in London, working for him? Did he offer her the job and did she turn it down? Why did she turn it down? Why did she run off back to Oxford without a word to Mickey? If she’d been working there for a while, what was it suddenly made her think she couldn’t stand it any longer? Was there a row? As a story it’s got more holes than a sieve.’

  He drained his coffee mug. ‘And how does he have her home address? Even if she told a fellow dancer she was going home, she’d be crazy to let the other girl know her parents’ address. She’d be crazy to tell the other girl what she meant to do, anyway. I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she did tell this other girl she meant to go home. If she was running away without telling Mickey, she wouldn’t tell anyone who worked for him, either. Would you? Think about it.’

  He was right, of course. ‘Perhaps he has her parents’ address because he needed to have the name of next of kin? You know, something to do with insurance?’ It was a feeble attempt at explanation but I couldn’t think of anything better.

  ‘Oh?’ said Ganesh sarcastically. ‘What insurance would this be? In case she fell off the stage and broke her neck?’

  The carpet beneath our feet quivered from a series of hefty blows from below. Hari was banging on the shop ceiling with a broom handle, a signal that he needed Ganesh downstairs.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Ganesh, getting to his feet. ‘I suppose you’ll go to Oxford because you’re worried about Bonnie. But the girl might not be there. The only explanation I can think of as to why she told someone she was going home, if she did, is that she was laying a false trail. That does make sense to me. Even if she is in Oxford, you might not find her straight away.’

  ‘Mickey’s fixed
up a Band B for me,’ I said gloomily. ‘It’s run by some former employee of his.’

  ‘Thinks of everything, Mickey Allerton, doesn’t he?’ growled Ganesh. ‘He hasn’t given you a street plan of Oxford, I suppose? How are you going to find your way about?’

  ‘I’ll get one at the station when I arrive.’

  He frowned. ‘Hari might have one. Hang on, I’ll look.’

  I followed him to the battered roll-top desk in the corner of the room. ‘Why would Hari have a street plan of Oxford? Has he ever been to Oxford?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ganesh. ‘But you know Hari. He keeps everything, just in case it turns out to be useful one day. We’ve loads of junk around the place with zero chance of any of it being useful. He’s like a perishing squirrel. He’s got dozens of street plans. I don’t know where they all came from.’