The Only Game Page 6

  Now there was concrete underfoot once more. She moved forward swiftly and as she passed the curtained window, she gave it the double rap with which she usually presaged her arrival.

  Inside there was movement and as she approached the door, it opened.

  There was no light on in the hallway and for a second she hesitated, unable clearly to make out the dimly silhouetted figure that awaited her there.

  Then it moved forward, and the dark was light enough for her to recognize the stubbly blond hair, the bright blue eyes, the slightly crooked and very attractive smile as he reached out his arms and said, ‘Hello, Jane. I’ve been expecting you.’

  11

  It was a lousy night for driving. Traffic was heavy and the rain had thinned to a glutinous mist which speeding juggernauts layered across his windscreen. It felt like a pointless journey. Far simpler would have been to ask the local force to talk with Mrs Maguire and keep an eye on her house in case her daughter returned. Instead here he was letting himself be carried along at eighty in the outside lane on the doubtful grounds that if he got involved in a pile-up, he’d prefer it to be fatal.

  So why was he doing it? Possibly to escape from Tench. Or, more accurately, to escape from what he feared Tench might provoke him to. To be fair to the man, he had laid it on the line.

  ‘The way I see it, Dog, it’s likely I’m wasting my time. Could be she’s just got so strung out taking care of the brat that she hit him too hard, and he snuffed it. Happens more and more, especially with a boy friend around. Could be she’s telling the truth, even though there’s no witnesses, and some weirdo’s snatched the kid. Could be that none of this has got the slightest to do with the late Ollie Beck and his Irish connections. In which case, I’ll be more than happy to say, over to you, Mr Plod, and get back to the bright lights. But until I do, you’d better understand this is my case, my son, and you don’t do nothing that hasn’t been agreed with me first. OK?’

  Parslow, when consulted, had said, ‘Can’t argue with the Branch, Dog. National Security, and all that.’

  ‘More like National Socialism,’ Dog had retorted but the superintendent had preferred not to hear.

  So, he had announced challengingly that he was going to drive up to Northampton and interview the mother.

  Tench had considered, smiled, and said, ‘Good thinking, Dog. You do that. One thing though. Keep a low profile. Don’t give the local plods any details. Don’t want them muddying the waters, do we? Above all, I don’t want anyone getting a sniff that the Branch is interested, not till I’m good and ready. So, mum’s the word. And watch out for Indians north of Watford!’

  Tench’s agreement as much as anything had convinced him he was probably wasting his time.

  It was his first visit to Northampton, so when the traffic on the approach road slowed to a crawl he had no local knowledge to make a diversion. The problem turned out to be a roundabout next to which some planning genius had built a superstore whose car park spilled a steady stream of late shoppers into the carriageway. On the other side, bright and compelling as a wise man’s star, beamed a sign: CLAREVIEW MOTEL: Accommodation, Fuel, Cafeteria, Toilets. Feeling the need for a pee, a coffee and a map of the city, preferably in that order, Dog turned in.

  Five minutes later, all his needs satisfied, he sat in the cafeteria smoking a roll-up and studied the map. The Maguire house was in a suburb quite close on the ring road, but it wouldn’t do to head straight there. Courtesy, and also common sense, required a visit to the local nick to reveal his presence and check out any local knowledge.

  He got lost twice in a one-way system before he made it to Police HQ. There he was passed on to a grizzled chief inspector called Denver. Dog outlined the situation, following Tench’s instruction to keep things as low key as possible. Without actually lying, he gave the impression that Noll Maguire had probably just wandered off and his mother had gone looking for him and possibly one or both of them might fetch up at the grandmother’s house. He anticipated some probing questions. Instead Denver’s face lit up when he heard the name Maguire.

  ‘Janey Maguire! She was at school with my girl. Lovely lass, and by God she could move! I mean move. National standard, international maybe. Sprints, hurdles, cross-country, they were all one to her. If you could run it or jump it, she was your girl. And when it came to throwing things, she was no slouch either. Modern pentathlon, that’s what she should have done. But you need encouragement at home to buckle down to that kind of training.’

  ‘Which she didn’t get?’

  ‘No, more’s the pity. From all accounts she didn’t get much encouragement to do anything. Mrs Maguire sounds like a real throwback. Type who thinks decent Catholic girls don’t need educating for anything but keeping house, getting married and having babies. As for athletics, that was carnal display! Their parish priest backed her up. He was out of the Middle Ages. You a Catholic, Inspector? Name like Cicero …’

  ‘Was,’ said Dog.

  ‘Then you’ll know what I mean. Fortunately, her uncle, old Mrs Maguire’s brother, was a priest too, taught at the Priory College, Catholic boarding school, just a few miles out of town. All boys, naturally. But at least he was able to put his vote in for education so Janey didn’t leave school after “O” levels like her mam wanted but went on into the sixth form. She still did her athletics, but never lived up to her promise. Some said she lost her edge because she filled up too much up top. Me, I don’t think so. There’s been plenty of world beaters with big knockers. I think she was just so worried about not making the grade that she spent more time on her books than she needed to. It was her escape route, see? Get away to college, then get a qualification that’d get her a job anywhere.’

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ commented Dog.

  ‘My daughter. She was a little bit younger and she thought the sun shone out of Janey’s bum! I used to get Janey Maguire night and day and, of course, she was always round at our house.’

  Another line of enquiry? Dog said, ‘Is your daughter living locally?’

  ‘No.’ The man’s face saddened. ‘Melbourne. We’re going out to see them when I retire next year. But she’d not be able to help even if she still lived here. They kept in touch through college, but after that they lost touch. More Janey than my girl. She had a bit of bother in her first job. After that, she seemed to cut contact with all her old mates.’

  ‘She never came back here?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Denver. ‘My girl heard she’d married some Yank and settled down over there. Then she got married herself and next thing, Australia. They say the world’s getting smaller. It doesn’t feel like it! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. I hope you get things sorted out, Inspector. She was a nice kid and I’d hate to think of any harm coming to her. You’ll keep me posted? I like to know exactly what’s going on on my patch, preferably before it happens.’

  There was a warning in his voice. He’s no fool, thought Dog. He’s wondering why the hell I’ve come up here personally when a phone call would have done. Sod Toby Tench! It’s my case and Denver ought to be told that there’s a possibility his daughter’s nice school friend’s on the run from a charge of child-killing.

  He was on the point of saying something when the phone rang. Denver picked it up, listened, covered the mouthpiece and said, ‘Sorry, this’ll take a bit of time. Are we done?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dog. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  And left, feeling both relieved and guilty.

  He found Mrs Maguire’s house without any difficulty. It was a thirties semi, narrow and single fronted. There was an old Ford Popular parked in front of it. He drew up behind, locked his car and went through a wrought-iron gate and up a scrubbed concrete path alongside a tiny garden so compulsively neat, it seemed to owe more to needlework than horticulture. The doorstep was an unblemished red, the letter box glinted like a Guard’s cuirass, and Dog found himself touching the bell push gingerly for fear of leaving a prin
t.

  The small middle-aged woman who opened the door looked a fit custodian for such a temple of neatness. Her hair was tightly permed like a chain-mail skull cap, her lips were like a crack in the pavement, and her eyes regarded him with fierce suspicion through spectacles polished to a lensless clarity. She bore such little resemblance to her daughter that Dog’s ‘Mrs Maguire?’ was tentative to the point of apology.

  ‘And who wants to know?’

  The brogue was there, strong and unmistakable as poteen.

  He produced his warrant card, certain that proof was going to be needed before he got over this step.

  She examined it and said, ‘Cicero. That’s not an English name.’

  ‘It is now. I mean, I’m English and it’s my name.’

  She nodded sharply as if the logic satisfied her sense of tidiness, and motioned him to enter. He followed her into a chill and cheerless sitting room where a bearded man in a dark suit and clerical collar sat on the edge of an unyielding armchair, a cup of tea in his hand.

  ‘Father Blake, this is Inspector Cicero, he calls himself, come to see me, I don’t know why. Now there’s no need for you to go with your tea still hot.’

  The priest had risen with an expression of alarm. He was a tallish man in early middle age, his beard beginning to be flecked with grey. He looked at Dog anxiously through heavy horn-rimmed glasses and said in a low, unaccented voice, ‘I hope there’s no bad news, officer.’

  ‘Just some help with an enquiry,’ said Dog vaguely, not wanting to encourage a disruptive third party to witness his interview with the woman.

  ‘Fine,’ said the priest. ‘In that case, I will be running along. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Maguire. I’ll call again soon. I’ll see myself out.’

  He gabbled a blessing and made for the door.

  Dog said, ‘Oh, Father, is that your car outside? I may have blocked you in. Better have a look.’

  He followed the priest into the hallway and at the front door he said in a low voice, ‘Look, there is some news, potentially bad. I need to talk to her alone but if you could come back in twenty minutes, say?’

  Father Blake said, ‘Could you give me some idea … I’m not her parish priest you see, more a friend of the family.’

  ‘You’ll know her daughter then?’

  ‘Jane? No. I’ve never met her but naturally we’ve talked about her. Why? Is there something wrong? There hasn’t been an accident?’

  His voice had risen and Dog glanced warningly towards the sitting room door.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ said Dog. ‘I’m sure Mrs Maguire will tell you all about it. Twenty minutes?’

  He didn’t give Blake time to reply but urged him out of the front door and closed it behind him. Then he returned to the sitting room where Mrs Maguire was sitting by the empty fireplace. She motioned him to the chair Father Blake had occupied, which proved as hard as Dog had suspected.

  ‘Sorry to chase the Father away,’ he said. ‘He’s not your parish priest?’

  ‘No. He’d not be coming to my house in a suit if he was at St Mary’s, I tell you,’ she said scornfully. ‘He’s from the Priory College, if it’s any business of yours. A friend of my brother Patrick’s, God rest his soul.’

  She glanced at a photo on the mantelpiece of a man in a soutane standing in front of a gloomy Gothic pile. It was her pride in having had a priest in the family which had made her uncharacteristically forthcoming, Dog guessed. Now, as if in reaction, she snapped, ‘What have you done with your face?’

  The question took him by surprise. He was used to the curious side-glance or the carefully averted gaze, but direct questioning was a rarity.

  ‘A car accident,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Oh yes. The drink was it?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. The drink played a part,’ he said softly.

  Sitting in the bar, wanting another, hardly able to rise and go for it. The barman setting a pint of Guinness and a chaser before him. ‘Compliments.’ Nodding across the room to where a man stands, face beneath his old tweed hat unmemorable enough to be a forgotten acquaintance. A faint smile, a glass half raised, then the unmemorable blocked out by the unforgettable, a woman, her face candle-pale with emotion, her hair a flame that never burnt on any mere candle. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Dog? After what happened you must be mad! Let’s get you home.’

  ‘Men,’ said Mrs Maguire contemptuously. ‘If it’s not the fancy women, it’s the booze.’

  Coming out of the bar, his arm across her shoulders. Light and the sound of laughter behind them; ahead, darkness and a rising wind with a caress of soft Irish rain. Her face turned up to his as he staggered on the uneven surface of the car park. ‘Darling, are you all right for the driving?’ His own voice slurred and angry. ‘Why not? No one asks me if I’m all right for the killing, do they?’

  ‘You’re so right, Mrs Maguire,’ he said. ‘It’s usually one or the other.’

  She looked at him sharply, suspicious of irony. Then, surprised at detecting none, she folded her arms and said, ‘All right, Mr Cicero, what’s your business with me?’

  He brought himself back to the present and said, ‘It’s about your daughter.’

  ‘Has there been an accident?’ she asked in alarm. He examined the alarm, found it genuine. Why not? Love was not a prerogative of the attractive.

  He said, ‘Not an accident. An incident. As far as we know your daughter is fine.’

  It was an evasion, also an economy with the truth, but he wanted as many answers as possible before the direction of his questions hit her.

  ‘When did you last see Jane?’ he asked.

  Use of the Christian name seemed to reassure her.

  ‘At the weekend. Saturday,’ she replied.

  So she had come here when she fled the social worker’s knock.

  ‘Were you expecting her?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I wasn’t. They came right out of the blue,’ she said in an aggrieved tone. ‘I had nothing ready, I might have been out or anything.’

  He noted they but didn’t comment. He guessed that the moment she got wind he was interested in the boy, there would be no progress till she learned what was going on.

  He said, ‘How long did Jane stay?’

  ‘Not long.’ A barrier had come down.

  He said, ‘Overnight?’

  ‘No. She could have done. The room was there like it always has been.’

  ‘But she decided to leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You quarrelled,’ he said flatly.

  She hesitated then said, ‘What goes on between my daughter and myself is our business. What’s this all about, mister? You said she was all right …’ Then her face went stiff as if she at last felt the chilly north in his questions. ‘It’s not the boy, is it? Nothing’s happened to Oliver?’

  There was nothing for it but another fragment of truth.

  He said, ‘I’m sorry to say that your grandson is missing.’

  Her hands seized the hem of her apron and threw it up to cover the lower part of her face beneath her fear-rounded eyes. It was a gesture he’d only ever seen in films, but there was nothing theatrical about it here in this cold front parlour.

  ‘Believe me, there’s probably nothing to worry about,’ he urged, justifying his lie with his need to get coherent answers from this woman who might turn out to be one of the last to see the boy alive. ‘Children go missing all the time. Most of them turn up fit and well.’

  Slowly the apron was lowered. She didn’t believe him but her wish to be reassured was still stronger than her disbelief.

  He went on quickly, ‘Tell me about the visit on Saturday. It might help.’

  ‘Has he run away, is that it?’

  He didn’t answer but smiled encouragingly and felt a pang of shame as she took this for agreement.

  ‘And you’re wondering if he’s come up here.’

  ‘Do you think he would come back here?’ he asked. His intention was sim
ple evasion, but he provoked an indignant response.

  ‘And why wouldn’t he? We get on all right, me and Oliver. But he’s only a baby, how’d he find his way up here? And do you think I’d not let her know straight off though that’d not be easy? We might not see eye to eye, and, yes, I think the lad’d be better off here where there’s someone at home all day, but I’d not keep quiet about something like that. What do you take me for?’

  Cicero again felt the distress beneath the indignation, but he was a policeman, not a counsellor, and there were points to get clear.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it have been easy to let her know if Oliver had turned up here?’

  ‘Because I don’t have her address!’ she burst out. ‘There, that surprises you, doesn’t it? Four months since she left, and I still don’t have an address.’

  ‘But how do you keep in touch?’

  ‘She rings me, usually on a Sunday. We never talk long. She rings from a call box and them pips are forever pipping. I tell her to reverse the charge but she’s not a one to be obligated, our Jane.’

  ‘Did she ring this Sunday?’

  ‘No. Something better to do, I expect. Hold on! He’s not been missing since Sunday, has he? Not since Sunday?’

  The thought constricted her throat, turning her voice to a thin squeak.

  ‘No,’ said Cicero. ‘So you’ve no way of getting in touch with her direct?’

  ‘She told me in emergencies I can ring that friend of hers, that Maddy.’ Her lips crinkled in distaste as she spoke the name.

  Maddy. The name in the copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience.

  ‘Who’s Maddy?’ he asked.

  ‘One of her college teachers she got friendly with. Too friendly.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Family comes first in my book, mister. Besides, she must be near on my age!’ said Mrs Maguire indignantly. ‘If you must have friends, stick to your own age, your own kind, that’s what I say. I knew this Maddy would be the cause of trouble, and wasn’t I proved in the right of it?’