The years she stole, p.21
The Years She Stole, page 21
What is a mixed sauna?
It has paintings of palm trees on its white-brick walls, and a photo of some happy couples looking overtly jovial in a sauna hanging by the door, which, I have to say, has seen better days.
I toy with nipping into the mixed sauna, just to see what’s going on, but I realize I’d have to walk round in a towel tucked over my boobs with the bottom of my bum showing, and I decide I’m really not ready to inflict my huge pregnant fatness on the world of swinging. Because it must be full of swingers. Who else goes to a sauna that claims to be mixed, and shows photos of couples looking thrilled to be semi-naked?
No. Kelly Hopper’s offices are above the sauna, so I ring the bell of the door to the side of the main entrance. No-one replies. I ring again; then a frustrated voice squawks at me through an intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Rachel Taylor? I’ve got a two o’clock appointment with Kelly Hopper?’
‘Who?’
‘Kelly Hopper.’
‘No, who are you?’
‘Rachel Taylor?’
‘Who?’
I find myself shouting. ‘RACHEL TAYLOR.’
Then silence.
Then, ‘Oh, you may as well come up.’
I hear a buzz and the door disengages from the lock and I push my way in.
The carpet on the stairs is filthy. All I can smell is cats. It’s gloomy. The staircase twists and turns. Up ahead I hear a door open and an aerosol being sprayed. The smell that hits my nostrils says it’s very cheap air freshener.
‘Sorry!’ the voice calls. ‘Wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow! Come up!’
At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a mixed-race woman in a tweed two-piece and a string of pearls wearing mismatching shoes. They’re both court shoes, but one is shiny, one is not. Maybe she’s just the secretary. Which detective worth their salt wouldn’t detect that they weren’t wearing matching shoes? But she stretches out her hand and beams, saying, ‘Kelly Hopper. Lovely to meet you, Rashelle.’
‘It’s Rachel.’
‘Oh. You pronounce it like that, do you?’
And she ushers me in. Is this woman mad? Why would she think ‘Rachel’ was pronounced ‘Rashelle’?
I can’t tell if this woman is in her forties or sixties. If she’s forties she’s looking a bit jaded. But if she’s sixties, she looks amazing. And I usually hate the word amazing. But it’s true. She does.
If she’s eighty she’s incredible.
If she’s thirty, she had a very long paper round.
My mind’s jumping. I must be nervous.
The smell of cats gets stronger as I enter her offices. She points to an empty desk in the first room she leads me into. It feels like an outer office, and it’s thick with dust and litter trays. She kicks one tray under the desk and some of the small white stones fly off it onto the thick, dark carpet.
I don’t see a cat. Maybe it’s in the other room.
‘I did have a secretary. But between me, you and the gatepost she was an utter bitch, luvvy.’
She sounds a bit like Kim Woodburn from that cleaning programme.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘Scotch?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘I’d say tea or coffee but I’ve run out. Or I’ve a tiny bit of Baileys left.’
‘Erm. I’m actually pregnant.’
It’s clear even to a blind person that I’m pregnant. But she looks surprised and her eyes dart to my stomach. She still looks unsure.
‘One won’t harm the baby, will it?’
‘I’d rather not. And I don’t need a drink, I’m fine. I had a coffee earlier.’
Politeness will be my downfall.
‘My kind of gal!’ she says, and she really jabs me hard in the upper arm. ‘All the more for yours truly!’
And she opens a cupboard and pulls out a half-drunk bottle of Scotch and pours two glasses out. She’s a bit haphazard with her pouring and some of it ends up on the abandoned desk, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. She passes me one.
Can she really be that scatty?
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
Oh God. She’s pissed.
‘Who sent you, again?’
‘Oh, Tom. The vicar? Tom O’Neill.’
‘Bloody hell. Tom, eh?’
‘Yes. My mum died recently and . . . he took the funeral.’
‘Violent?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Was it a violent death?’ she asks, suspiciously.
‘No. Well, it was cancer.’
Her eyes narrow even more.
‘Assisted suicide? Or . . .’
‘No. Cancer.’
She nods to herself and looks out of the window as if she is in a scene in a TV crime series and she is weighing up the evidence. I wonder if she is showing off to me, whether she feels this is some sort of audition, to prove she can cut the mustard as a private dick.
‘Cancer, eh?’
‘Yes.’
She takes another hit of her drink.
‘And why did he send you to me?’
‘Well, he said you were good.’
She nods to herself again, not averting her eyes from the window.
‘Well, you know vicars, Tracy. They don’t fucking lie.’
‘It’s Rachel.’
‘What is?’
‘My name.’
‘I know that. We spoke on the phone.’
‘We did.’
‘Cancer, eh?’
‘Yes. And I need your help.’
She turns to me quickly. ‘Did he really say I was good?’
I nod. And think she is going to cry. But instead she moves to another room.
‘I need to make notes!’ she calls back to me. ‘Come through!’
I have a feeling this is a disastrous waste of my time. But I follow her through anyway, into her main office. I know this because in the glass on the door linking the two rooms it says in gold lettering: ‘MAIN OFFICE’.
A cat is sat on her desk, looking for all the world like a brown Bagpuss. It sees me and jumps, rather nimbly for a fat cat, onto the floor and hides under said desk.
‘Ignore Prudence.’
‘Okay.’
‘She’s a little shy.’
‘Okay.’
‘She’s a Norwegian Forest cat, don’t you know.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘They love the rain.’
‘Gosh. That’s . . .’
‘But she doesn’t go out.’
‘Oh. She’s a house cat.’
‘She sits on the windowsill. Staring at the rain. It’s almost moving.’
‘Right.’
Why is she telling me this?
I look about. Her office could do with a good dust and a good vacuum; no surprises there. It’s a larger room than I expected and the window looks out onto the busy high street. The lack of double-glazing on the sash window means I can hear very clearly every rev of an engine, every squawk of a pigeon. I can even hear the chatter of passers-by, despite the fact we’re on the first floor.
‘Cats are like detectives.’
‘Are they?’
‘Verrrrrry intuitive.’
‘I see. Well yes, I suppose they are. Though I imagine detectives get out more.’
I laugh, but she doesn’t join in. I realize she either hasn’t heard me or she just doesn’t think my jokes are very funny.
And who could blame her?
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Rachel.’
‘Friend of Tom’s.’
‘Kind of.’
Kelly plonks herself on a swivel chair and almost misses and the chair skids a bit and I think she’s about to hit the wall behind her, but she stops herself by braking with her feet.
‘Nearly,’ she says, with muted emotion. Then offers a smile. ‘Now. Notes.’
And she whips out a notebook from a drawer of the desk and clicks the top of a biro.
‘Take a seat.’
I sit the opposite side to her and pretend to take a sip of my drink. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I just feel like I’ve entered some mad alternative universe and am going along for the ride.
‘So,’ she says, scribbling something down. ‘You want to know why your mum died.’
‘No. I know why my mum died. I . . . I want to trace two people from my childhood.’
‘Who?’
‘Well. I don’t know how old you are.’
‘That’s no business of yours. I ask the questions.’
‘Sorry. Well it’s just I was at the centre of a big news story in nineteen eighty-one.’
‘You don’t look old enough. And I thought black didn’t crack.’
‘I was a baby. A newborn. And I was snatched from my mum’s back garden. Went missing for nearly a month before I was found.’
‘Are you shitting me?’
‘No.’
I’ve brought some papers with me. Everything I’ve found on the internet, printed off. I take them out of my bag and hand them to her. She takes them but doesn’t look at them.
‘What are these?’ she says, as if I’m trying to wrong-foot her.
‘Newspaper reports. Stuff like that. About the incident.’
‘Who do you want to trace?’
‘My dad.’
She writes something in her book. I look. She has written ‘DAD’. And then drawn a massive question mark.
‘You said two people,’ she says, like she’s trying to catch me out.
‘And the woman who abducted me.’
Now she writes ‘WOMAN’. And an even bigger question mark. And then for good measure she adds a massive exclamation mark. Blimey. She’ll be doing emojis next.
I’m getting cold feet. Any sensible person would have run a mile when they smelt the cats and the alcohol. This woman probably can’t even find her handbag, never mind Shirley Burke or my dad.
‘Look. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘Me coming to see you.’
‘I’m cheap.’
‘I’m sure, but . . .’
‘I’m good.’
‘I’m sure you are, but . . .’
‘Tom recommended me. A man of the cloth.’
‘I’ve just got a funny feeling about it.’
Then she leans across the desk, and suddenly she seems to sober up and mean business.
‘I’ll find them. I give you my word.’
‘But . . .’
‘I know what you think when you look at me.’
‘I’m not forming any judgement.’
‘Washed up. Washed out. Has been. Oh, I’m all of those things.’
‘Well . . .’
‘But I’ll prove to you I can do this. Give me two weeks.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘It’s not okay, you stupid bitch. You were kidnapped. I’ll find her. I’ll find the woman who did this.’
And now she looks at the printouts for the first time. She studies them and I don’t know what to do. She looks up.
‘I remember this.’
I nod.
‘Baby Diana. Named after Princess Di. Stolen the day she got married. I remember this.’
She flicks through the papers. Then takes a sharp hit of her whisky.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I need to find my dad. And I need to find the woman who took me.’
‘Why do you need to find her?’
And now I falter.
The real answer is I don’t actually know. I have no idea why, really, I have this overwhelming desire to find Shirley Burke. What will I say to her when I find her? If she’s even still alive.
‘I was with her for weeks. I want to know what I was like.’
‘You were probably some mewling puking little brat. Box ticked. Why do you really want to meet her?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Do you want to kill her?’
God, that hadn’t even crossed my mind.
‘No. NO!’
‘Wreak some sort of revenge?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘She was one of the most hated women in Britain. I’d want to hurt her. Like she hurt your mum.’
‘I don’t think I want to hurt her.’
‘Even if you do. I’ll still find her for you.’
‘How? How will you find her? This is the bit I don’t understand.’
‘I could tell you. But then I’d have to kill you.’
And now she’s scaring me. But then she emits a throaty chuckle.
‘God, it’s just a joke, luvvie. Get over it.’
She stands and starts walking round the room, a bit like I’d imagine Columbo would have done.
‘This job,’ she says, ‘is an unusual beast. It’s ninety-five per cent boredom, five per cent fear.’
‘Fear?’
‘Big dogs, mostly. But they don’t scare me. I was brought up with dogs. I get them. They get me. If I’m going to recover a debt they always set the dogs onto me. And they always. ALWAYS end up licking me.’
I smile awkwardly. It feels like she’s showing off.
‘I wanna track someone down? I go to ex-employers. They love to spill the beans. “Oh, she’s a hairdresser now”; “Oh, is she?” Then I speak to all the bloody hairdressers in the world till I find who I’m looking for.’
‘But Shirley went to prison.’
‘I’m an attractive woman, Philippa.’
‘I’m Rachel.’
‘And I’ve got a copper so bent he’s practically convex.’
I roll my eyes. She sees. I didn’t mean her to see.
‘He’ll give me any info I want about people who’ve been in trouble with the law.’
‘Even if it was thirty-odd years ago?’
‘He wants me.’
‘She might have changed her name.’
‘The police know everything. They are big brother. And they are watching you. He came round to check me out.’
‘Who?’
‘My source. Let’s call him Billy.’
‘But . . .’
‘I was operating from a bedsit. Put up a website. He came sniffing.’
‘Right. Well . . .’ I think it’s probably time to go now.
‘Probably because “enquiry agents”, as I called myself back then. Enquiry agents were mostly ex-cons. Like Tom.’
I feel my eyes widen.
‘Tom’s an ex-con?’
‘He wants to check me out.’
‘Tom’s an . . .’
‘You heard. Other enquiry agents tended to be ex-cops. So he wanted to know which I was.’
‘And what were you?’
‘Neither. Just naive. Few too many Miss Marples in the school library. That kind of thing.’ She smiles. ‘So he wanted to check I was kosher. Which I was. Which I am. Now he’s putty in my hands. Philippa? I will speak to him.’
‘Rachel.’
‘And he will unlock the secrets. And we will find whoever you want.’
‘Okay.’ It feels best just to go along with this. ‘And how much will it cost?’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘I do. Well, I don’t know you, but . . .’
‘How about this. No win, no fee.’
‘And if you win?’
‘Five hundred.’
Blimey. That’s a lot.
‘Each.’
‘Each?’
‘A grand if I find your dad and your abductor.’
I can just about afford that, I guess. And if this is just pissing in the wind, which it certainly feels like, then I’ve lost the grand sum of precisely nothing.
I stand, wanting this over.
‘Deal.’
I hold out my hand. She shakes it.
‘Deal. Now sit back down. I need to know EVERYTHING.’
Oh God. I’m beginning to feel like I’m not going to get out of here alive.
Chapter Fifteen
When I first moved to London, this particular area, it has to be said, was a bit of a shithole. All the locals called the area Kings Cross, but these days it’s reverentially referred to as Bloomsbury. My flat is in a red-brick apartment block overlooking the Brunswick Centre. These days the Brunswick Centre is a dazzling white slab of architectural quirkiness, staggered flats going up in steps, each one retreating away from you, all around a courtyard of destination shops and wannabe swanky restaurants. When I first came here it was the sort of grey colour I imagined you could only find in the liver of an alcoholic, and it always reeked of urine. In those days you took your life in your hands if you dared brave it inside to visit the large Iceland for some frozen foods, and when you did so you had to brave the elements, and a one-legged crack whore called Lisa, who spun round in circles in a tiny wheelchair with ‘PROPERTY OF GREAT ORMOND STREET HOSPITAL – DO NOT REMOVE’ written on the back.
These days the Iceland has been replaced by a Waitrose and Lisa and her ilk have long gone, more’s the pity. Bloomsbury has been gentrified. And most agree that, unlike other areas of London, it has come out the other side smiling.
The area is populated, it appears, by students from local universities, doctors and nurses from the local hospitals, arty farty types who love a good second-hand bookshop, posh people who escape to the country every weekend, and then the dyed-in-the-wool locals who’ve had their council flats on the many nearby estates since the year dot.
And me.
As I am back in London and my mother is well and truly deceased and dealt with – although there is still the small matter of putting her house on the market and kissing goodbye to the New Forest – it appears I have no other option but to go back to work.
Great.
I take the route I always do, walking up Marchmont Street, past the launderette where I kind of have a girl crush on the woman who works there – ‘Oh, I can always do a service wash for you, Rach’ – and the off licence where the girls are uber friendly, though I can never quite place their accents, and then I cut across the street and into Cartwright Gardens.
