Lost - Michael Robotham [75]
I can see him eyeing a butter knife on the table but it’s only a fleeting thought.
“It was about three weeks ago. I gave him a lift into South London and picked him up that afternoon.”
“What was he doing?”
“I dunno. He wouldn’t talk about it.” Tony’s voice rises. “None of this involves me, you know. Not a fucking thing.”
“So you think he was up to something?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know something, don’t you? You got suspicions.”
He chases spit around his mouth with his tongue, trying to decide what to tell me. “There’s a guy I used to share a cell with at Brixton nick. Gerry Brandt. We called him Grub.”
There’s a name I haven’t heard for a while.
Tony is still talking. “Never seen anyone sleep like Grub. Never. You’d swear he was dead half the time except his chest was moving up and down. Guys would be kicking off in their cells or getting beat up by screws but Grub would sleep through it all, drooling over himself like a baby. I’m telling you, that guy could sleep.”
Tony takes another swig of orange juice. “Grub was only in for a few months. I hadn’t seen him in years, you know, but about three months ago he turned up here looking like a playboy with a suntan and a suit.”
“He had money?”
“Maybe on his back, but he was driving a heap of shit. Not worth stealing, not worth burning.”
“What did he want?”
“I dunno. He didn’t come to see me. He wanted to talk to the old man. I didn’t hear what they were saying but they argued about something. My old man was spitting chips. Later he said Grub was looking for a job, but I know that’s bullshit. Gerry Brandt don’t wash glasses. He thinks he’s a player.”
“They were doing business.”
Tony shrugs. “Fuck knows. I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
“When you shared a cell with this Gerry Brandt, did you ever mention your old man to him?”
“Might have said something. Cell talk, you know.”
“And when your dad went up to London, what makes you think he was going to see Gerry?”
“I dropped him outside a boozer on Pentonville Road. I remember Grub talking ‘bout the place. It was his local.”
I take a photograph of Kirsten from my jacket pocket and slide it across the table. “Do you recognize her?”
Tony studies it for a moment. Lying comes easier than telling the truth, which is why he takes so long. He shakes his head. I believe him.
Back in the car I go over the details with Ali, letting her bounce questions off me. She is one of those people who reasons out loud whereas I work things out in my head.
“Do you remember someone called Gerry Brandt?”
She shrugs. “Who is he?”
“A nasty toerag with a toilet mouth and a taste for pimping.”
“Charming.”
“His name came up in the original investigation. When Howard was taking photographs outside Dolphin Mansions on the day Mickey disappeared, Gerry Brandt turned up in one of the shots—a face in the crowd. Later his name popped up again, this time on the sex offender’s register. He had an early conviction for sex with a minor. Nobody read much into the sex charge. He was seventeen at the time and the girl was fourteen. They knew each other. We wanted to interview Gerry but we couldn’t find him. He just seemed to vanish. Now he’s turned up again. According to Tony, he came to see Ray Murphy three months back.”
“It could be just a coincidence.”
“Maybe.”
Kirsten Fitzroy and Ray Murphy are both missing. Three years ago they provided each other with alibis when Mickey disappeared. She must have walked straight past Kirsten’s door on her way downstairs to meet Sarah. Meanwhile, Sir Douglas Carlyle was paying Kirsten to keep watch on Rachel and gather evidence for a custody application. Perhaps he decided to go one step further and have his granddaughter kidnapped. It doesn’t explain where she’s been or why a ransom demand has arrived three years later.
Maybe Ali is right and it’s all a hoax.