I went back to the desk and sat down. ‘So why wouldn’t she?
‘And why would Harry Cohen advise her not to?
I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, bad publicity?’
‘Who, for Marcia? Her career’s basically over – might even give her name a boost in the public’s eyes.’
‘So why don’t people call in the police then?’
‘Fear.’
‘Fear?’
‘Marcia’s been told not to.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Could be Janie’s a hostage.’
‘A hostage?’ Where was Gold going with this?
‘She could have got mixed up in something to do with Randall and it’s gone pear-shaped.’
‘And Marcia knows?’
‘Yes, and she’s confided in Cohen who wants to keep the police out of it for some reason, and so he calls you.’
I opened the desk drawer and took out the piece of paper with Marcia Johnson’s address and phone number on and looked at it.
‘Fancy a trip to Hampstead?’
‘You drive, I’m not driving across London. It’s starting to rain and the traffic will pile up.’
‘Nor am I.’ I called an Uber.
CHAPTER 3
Marcia Johnson’s house in Hampstead reflected a career earning top dollar. A large fake Tudor-style 1940s build set behind gates, and surrounded by well-kept gardens. She looked pleased to see me, even though I was unannounced. I told her I didn’t have any good news and just wanted some more information. I introduced Gold and we followed her through a large open hall with a winding wide staircase leading up from it to the upper storey, through into a rear lounge which had French doors that would open onto a well-maintained garden in better weather. A late middle-aged man was standing looking out of them. By his work clothes I took him to be the gardener.
Marcia introduced us. ‘This is Mr Layton, he looks after the gardens for me and keeps the house in decent repair. Houses are a bit like people, aren’t they? The older they get, the more maintenance they need. George, this is Mr Nevis and Miss Gold. I told you about how he is helping me find Janie.’
George Layton held out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Miss Gold – and you, Mr Nevis.’
Gold gave him a perfunctory nod as I took his hand. ‘It’s Ben.’
Layton raised his eyebrows. ‘Ben Nevis, is that for real?’
‘Yes, and it’s a long story before you ask.’
‘I already explained your name to George, Mr Nevis, just as Harry explained it to me. Do sit down.’ She waved us towards a sofa and armchairs – four of them, which I thought was overdoing it a bit, but it was a large room. We took the sofa. ‘Tea, coffee, cake?’
‘Just eaten thank you, Mrs Johnson.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ George opened one of the French doors. ‘Looks like the rain has eased off so I’ll carry on with the garden. Nice to meet you both.’ He gave a nod and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
‘Well then, how can I help you?’ Marcia gave a false smile and perched on one of the armchairs opposite us, very prim and straight-backed, hands clasped in lap; straight out of the RADA handbook.
I started slowly with a soft smile. ‘We’ve been to your daughter’s flat and there’s nothing there out of the ordinary, nothing out of place – nothing to suggest she’d been taken against her will.’
When we were in Harry Cohen’s large office Marcia Johnson hadn’t said anything about going to her daughter’s flat herself, but she had no doubt been there – of course she had, first place you’d go if you were worried about your daughter and hadn’t heard from her for a while. I passed the keys across to her, having had a copy set made at Timpson’s when I’d left Cohen’s. ‘One thing that worries me, Mrs Johnson, is why you didn’t call the police?’
‘I was going to, but Harry thought it was too early to call them in. Janie could walk in at any time, and I’d look foolish and have wasted their time.’
‘It had been a fortnight. No contact for a fortnight? I find it strange he would advise that.’
She sat motionless. Something told me I had hit pay dirt, so I continued. ‘I think we should call them now, get Janie’s description out.’
Marcia Johnson took a deep breath and sat for a moment; tears were filling her eyes. She shook her head slowly from side to side.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t? You can’t what, call the police?’’
‘Yes.’ She rose from her chair and fetched an envelope from the drawer of a side table and offered it to me.
Gold was ahead of the game and stayed my hand with hers. ‘Wait.’ She opened her shoulder bag and pulled out a pair of paper gloves and gave them to me. I put them on, took the envelope, opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It was the same West London Cleaners flyer that was in Janie’s drawer at the flat, only this one had a message written on the back:
YOU GET HER BACK WHEN WE GET OURS BACK
Marcia Johnson sat down again. ‘That was on the kitchen table when I went round to Janie’s flat.’
‘What does it mean, do you know?’ I asked her.
‘No.’ She shook her head in despair. ‘I’ve no idea – if I did then whatever it is they want I’d give it to them.’
‘Did you show this to Harry?’
‘Yes.’
So, a distraught mother, a ‘national treasure’ and an old friend had gone to Harry Cohen with a ransom note for the return of her daughter, and Harry had called a private eye. He hadn’t called the police, and more to the point he hadn’t told me about the note. Why was he so intent
