Cordon mostly failed to recognise. In a gilt frame above the empty fireplace was a self-portrait of Peter Blake holding a copy of
Books were everywhere: in piles on the floor, haphazard on the table, wedged along the window ledges, seated on chairs. A collection of poems by Frank O’Hara, the cover a mass of sharply angled reds and blues;
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Either. Whichever’s easiest.’
It turned out to be tea. Wagon Wheels in the kind of wooden biscuit barrel he remembered from his gran’s sideboard.
‘Didn’t know you could get these any more,’ Cordon said, helping himself.
‘Relaunched in 2002. Any smaller, mind, they’d bloody disappear.’
It was true: two bites and gone.
‘You can search the place if you like,’ Carlin said. ‘For Letitia. If you don’t believe me.’
Cordon said nothing; waited. Drank some tea.
‘After her mum and I split up,’ Carlin said eventually, ‘I didn’t really see her for years. Oh, at first I tried, you know, going back down — I was in Bristol then, working in this music shop, guitars mostly. But Maxine was out of her head half the time and there were always other blokes around. We were still married, officially anyway, not that it mattered to her, not one bloody scrap. Then, when she had the first of the boys, and moved in with his dad, some druggy living in a squat in Penzance, things turned nasty and I kept away. Wasn’t as if Rose — that’s what she was then, Rose — wasn’t as if she paid much heed if I was around or not. Least, that was how it seemed.’
He looked at Cordon for some sign of understanding. Men together, something of the kind.
‘Didn’t see her for years after that. Not from when she was four or five up till she was near thirteen. I was in Brighton, then. My first little shop. Down the Lanes.’
He lifted his cup, but didn’t drink.
‘Run away from home, hadn’t she? Got my address from some card or other, birthday, something of the sort. Stayed for a couple of days till I put her on the bus back home. Turned up regular after that — not often, but regular. Every eighteen month or so, couple of years. Whenever things got too rough at home, out of hand. Whenever she reckoned as how she couldn’t cope. Letitia, by now. Using God knows what. Track marks on her arms. Did what I could to talk her out of it, but it weren’t no good. Small miracle she saw twenty-one, but she did.’
He drank his tea then; sat back and crossed his legs at the ankles, searching Cordon’s face. ‘What kind of a friend exactly? You never said.’
‘We crossed paths a few times.’
What was he going to say? She used to walk my dog?
‘Line of duty?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘This, though, not official?’
‘Not official.’
‘Personal, then?’
‘Her mum …’
‘Maxine.’
‘Maxine asked me, see if I could find her. After she never showed here. She was worried.’
‘About Letitia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not before time.’
Cordon spread his hands, palms up.
‘And now that you’ve not found her?’
‘The card. The Lakes. Seems as if she’s probably okay.’
‘I didn’t fake it, you know.’
‘The old postcard trick.’
‘Here, I’ll show you. Take a look at the postmark.’
‘I did.’
‘Still you came round here.’
‘Mistrustful bastards, police. Case of having to be. Goes with the job.’
Carlin gestured towards the door. ‘Sure you don’t want to look around? In case I’ve got her stashed away upstairs after all?’
‘It’s okay.’ Cordon set down his cup, got to his feet. ‘Curiosity satisfied. But if you do hear from her, you will let me know? Ask her to call me, at least.’
‘Okay, no problem.’
‘Maybe I’ll see you at the funeral?’
‘Maxine’s?’
‘There’ll be an inquest, of course. Bound to be. But the way everything’s pointing, accidental death, straightforward enough. Shouldn’t be long before the body’s released for burial.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Carlin said. ‘Maxine and I, we said our goodbyes a long time back.’
‘Fair enough.’ Cordon moved towards the door. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
On the walk back into town he ran over what Carlin had told him, what he’d learned. The date Wagon Wheels were reintroduced aside, maybe not a great deal. He’d pass on the details of Maxine’s funeral to Carlin just in case, time and place. They might even find their way on to Letitia, now they were sort of back in touch.
The next London train was due in thirty minutes and he bought a newspaper to while away the time. More troops promised for Afghanistan. Failing bank to pay New Year bonuses in excess of fifteen million after all. Four- year study shows that children of families with only one parent living at home are less likely to go on to university. How many hours, how many thousands, Cordon wondered, did it take for them to come up with that?
He found a window seat on the train without difficulty, leaned back and opened his book but failed to read more than a few lines. No fault of the author’s. Letitia happily working at a hotel in the Lake District, welcoming guests, supervising, perhaps, the change of bedlinen, the servicing of rooms, arranging taxis to the station, excursions to Beatrix Potter’s house or William Wordsworth’s grave — what was wrong with that picture?
22
Paul. Paul Milescu. Were it not for Google, Karen would never have known that Paul was the fourth most popular male name in all of Moldova. How had Clare Milescu put it, harking back to the time she spent in the country working for the UN? A directive urging them to engage with members of the government, one she’d taken all too literally. Paul Milescu had been something important in the Ministry of Justice and, despite being married, he had become popular with her, too.
Now they were separated, going their different ways. Clare still fighting the good fight, following her conscience, working with refugees, while Paul, once in London, had used the connections he’d built up and gone into business. Nothing wrong with that. Except now it seemed he’d tried using those connections to bring pressure to bear on Karen’s investigation; pressure enough to get a detective chief superintendent out trawling the streets of north London at night like something out of Len Deighton or John le Carre.
Explicable enough, in a way; commendable, even — a father’s natural instincts, offering protection to his son, wanting to keep him from trouble. Or was it more? A pre-emptive move to keep the police at arm’s length from himself, his family, his business?
What was his business?
Here Google didn’t really help. Import/export, that and not a great deal more. Importing and exporting what? No details, certainly. Maybe, like Terry Martin, it was sportswear, women’s clothing. And possibly Martin was right, Karen thought, it was all we did in this country any more, import stuff made cheaply elsewhere now that we made
