The Know (28 page)

He sighed once more. This time his voice was louder and far more authoritative.

‘Well, I think you have. Your daughter or grand-daughter or whatever was supposedly nonced by that cunt and I want to know what happened. I ain’t going nowhere until I find that out.’

He had made his point, he knew there was no sense in labouring it. They stared each other out. Mrs Rowe was small, almost birdlike. She had grey hair which had once been black scraped into a bun, and wore large gold hoops in her ears. She was wearing enough tomfoolery to open a jeweller’s shop, rings, bangles, and necklaces - so many necklaces she looked like Mr T’s little sister.

She wore an overall pinafore, the type that fastened at the side to keep her clothes clean while she worked. But it was her face that fascinated Jon Jon most: it was wrinkled up in all the wrong places. She looked like a little spider monkey, her brown eyes filled with either cunning or intelligence. He wasn’t sure which yet but he was going to find out.

‘Now we can do this the nice way or the nasty way, Mrs Rowe. It’s up to you.’

He looked aggressive enough to make her think twice about what she was doing. She stared him out for a few seconds more before grudgingly opening the door wide enough for him to pass her.

‘
He
ain’t coming in.’

She nodded at Earl who grinned.

‘Don’t want to, love.’ He looked at Jon Jon. ‘I’ll be in the car, OK?’

Jon Jon nodded.

‘Sure you’ll be all right? The woman looks vicious.’

‘Fucking smart arse!’

She was annoyed but it was a friendly animosity now. She had taken what Earl had said as a compliment. Mrs Rowe walked into the flat without another word, her back stiff and her manner still unfriendly.

Jon Jon followed her, wiping his feet on the mat and shutting the door gently behind him. Inside he could smell scones cooking, a homely smell that suited the surroundings.

In the tiny front room there was a two-seater sofa and an easy chair, a tiled fireplace with an ancient gas fire, and a hand-built red-brick shelving unit to one side that held an old portable TV and an ancient radio.

It also held photographs of three smiling girls, all blonde and blue-eyed. He guessed one of them was the child in question.

Above the fireplace was a painting of a crying boy. The walls were papered in burgundy flock and the dado rail was chipped and yellowed from the gas fire.

Jon Jon felt the powerlessness of old age in this room and it made him upset. The poor old bag had lived through a world war for
this
- a poxy flat that was damp, dilapidated and overdue for knocking down while warehouses along from here were being stripped out and sold for hundreds of thousands as yuppy ‘lofts’.

He smiled at her with an effort. Fear for his sister was overriding everything else in his life. He had been keeping it together for his mother’s sake but he was on the edge and no amount of cannabis would change that.

The old woman stared at him again and he could practically feel her sizing him up, but the funny thing was he liked her more every time she blanked him. She had heart and he knew that whatever she said would be the truth.

‘Want a cup of tea?’

It was said grudgingly, good manners overtaking her innate racism. He nodded. Anything to get her talking without having to resort to violent language or behaviour. He had the distinct feeling he was the first black person to step across her doorstep in the whole of her long life.

‘Sugar and milk?’

He nodded again, and when finally she was settled by her fireside with a mug of tea he spoke once more.

‘I really need your help, Mrs Rowe. You must know about me sister - Kira Brewer? She’s only eleven and she’s missing. Well, I heard off one of your old neighbours that some bloke who lives near me now was accused of noncing by someone in your family. This is really important, Mrs Rowe, because he might know what’s happened to Kira . . . might know where she is.’

She looked him over, her natural animosity coming to the fore once more. Finally, after what seemed an age, she spoke.

‘My big boy, my eldest, is doing thirty years: drugs and armed robbery. His wife Leigh, a trollop of the first water, lived nearby.’

She sipped her tea to give herself time to phrase this carefully.

‘She started to leave the girls with this Little Tommy Thompson. Anyway, the next thing we knew she had taken up with his old man, Joseph.’

She sipped at her tea again, playing for time once more. Jon Jon guessed it was hard for this woman to talk about her family to a stranger.

‘Her middle girl, Caitlin, was always round there - she loved it, you couldn’t keep her away. Then she said that she had been touched like, physically. But we never got to the bottom of it, see. She never said who it was, the father or the son, all we knew was she said it had happened. Leigh kept us out of it all. Didn’t want anyone to know, see, because of me boy. He was well banged up by then but Leigh knew he would still want answers so she went on the trot with the kids. He loved them girls . . . whatever
he
was, he loved them. But their mum - he hadn’t long got sentenced and already she was out more often than the local tom. It was fear of him finding out how careless she’d been with the kids that sent her on her way. She was gone overnight and so was they, the Thompsons. They knew once it got out they couldn’t stay round here. Shit sticks, don’t it? And I ain’t seen none of them since. They all went on the trot, mate.’

Mrs Rowe sighed heavily.

‘No one knows where Leigh and me grandkids went. It’s my guess someone gave her a wedge to go, and believe me, son, she wanted to. She wanted out of it all. I can understand that in some ways. My boy wasn’t the easiest of husbands, a violent sadistic bastard like his old man, but like I said, we never got to the bottom of any of it, see. The only people who know what really happened are Leigh, her daughter and the blokes concerned. And let’s face it, they ain’t going to say anything, are they?’

She sat back in the chair as if tired out from all the talking. He guessed rightly that visitors were few and far between for her. She spent her days visiting her son or waiting for letters from him. It was a terrible existence for anyone, especially a proud woman like her.

‘And you have no idea where Leigh is?’

The old woman shook her head.

‘What I can tell you, though, is I never liked the father or the son, but out of the two give me the boy every time. He was treated like shit and he swallowed all that he was given. I couldn’t say much, see, about the situation because my daughter-in-law was already trying to get out of my son’s life and that meant getting out of mine as well. I had to be careful what I said like because I knew she wanted shot. I’d lost me son, and then I lost me grandkids as well. What’s left for me now, eh?’

She could see the answering fear in this boy’s eyes and offered him a crumb of comfort.

‘I have her mother’s address. I don’t know if she’s still living there but if she is she’ll know where her daughter is. Closer than close, them two. She won’t tell me fuck all and I’ve given up trying. Thinks I’ll tell me son, which in fairness I probably would. But if you find out anything for sure, let me know, would you?’

He nodded.

‘’Course I will, mate. How are you coping without your son?’

She shrugged.

‘Best I can, what else can you do?’

‘Are his mates seeing you all right?’

It was the law of the street: you looked after the family of friends banged up. They had lost a wedge and you provided it for them.

‘Look around you, son, what do you think?’

She went into the bedroom and came back with an envelope, the address written neatly on it.

‘I ain’t got no phone number for them and I don’t know if they’re still here but you can give it a try.’ She sat back down before saying quietly, ‘If you find me grandkids, let me know how they are, OK?’

His heart went out to her. She was obviously missing them.

‘I promise I will.’

He stood up. Taking both her hands in his, he said: ‘Thank you, Mrs Rowe. I really appreciate your help.’

She smiled then, for the first time, and he knew he had finally won her over.

‘I was no help really, son. But I hope you find your little sister.’

He took out a wad of money and peeled off five hundred quid. She eyed the notes hungrily.

‘Treat yourself, mate.’

She seized the money in her claw-like hands.

‘I won’t knock it back, son, I appreciate it.’

He wrote down his mobile number and gave it to her.

‘If you hear anything, Mrs Rowe, give me a bell.’

She nodded.

‘And if you ever need anything, you use that number, you hear?’

She nodded once more, knowing that he meant what he said.

‘I wish you luck with your search.’

He sighed.

‘If it was left to the filth we’d still be none the wiser.’

‘Always the way with them.’

Spoken with the voice of experience.

She saw him out of the flat and he shook her hand once more.

‘Take care, Mrs Rowe.’

‘And you, son, best of British.’

She didn’t shut the door straight away but watched him to his car, waved and finally went inside. He was a nice boy. Respectful. She would tell her Harold all about him on the next visit.

She hugged the money to her chest then looked at the clock. If she got a move on she could still make the bookie’s before the last race.

 
Paulie was enjoying the look of fear on his wife’s face. It was years since he had even remotely felt that he had the upper hand. Virtually all their married life Sylvia had been the mother of his children. He had respected her for that much, if for nothing else.

Now, though, he hated her. Whatever he was, he had always taken care of her and she should have known he would have taken care of her and his kids for ever. If she had wanted to leave that badly, he would have got over it. He would have seen them all OK, kept up the school fees and everything else. But instead she had caused trouble. Serious aggravation. Did she think he was so stupid he’d swallow that?

He saw the table set for one. She was going to have a marathon lunch as usual. Sylvia got through more food in the course of a day than most women did in a week. He opened the fridge. It was stacked with grub; just looking at it made him laugh.

When she finally came into the kitchen he was still laughing. She was wearing a thick dressing gown, belted tightly at the waist. The only thing missing was a No Entry sign. But that was hardly unusual for her. Her face was scrubbed, oily skin shiny in the daylight.

Paulie looked at her and wondered how she had ever come to belong to him. He must have had shit in his eyes. She felt as far from his life now as the Man in the Moon, but he was determined to stop her getting all her so-called rights.

‘All belted up, are we, Sylv?’

‘What do you want?’

So she had regained her voice, had she? She was speaking to him as if he was a servant or a shop assistant. Someone beneath her notice.

Paulie leaned back against the granite work surface and crossed his arms nonchalantly.

‘Who you fucking talking to?’

She didn’t answer. She knew by his voice that he was going to lose it at any moment. She kept quiet, just stared at him and waited for him to talk once more.

He knew the signs; she was good at this, was Sylvia. In the end you believed it was you who was in the wrong. She could keep up the silent treatment for days on end. She even did it to the girls.

‘You’d better start talking, Sylv, because I ain’t got all day. Me and you are going to sort this out, once and for all.’

He moved towards the sink and the action made her jump. It pleased him that he had frightened her. She needed a good scare did Sylvia. She needed a good hiding as far as he was concerned and if she wound him up today she was going to get one.

He put the kettle on.

She moved slowly towards the back door and he said quietly, without looking at her, ‘You go near that panic button and I will rip your fucking tits off, you hear me?’

He turned to face her then and she nodded.

‘Now you sit down and you talk to me properly, and if you attempt to talk down to me or try any of your tricks, me and you are going to fall out big-time, do you understand me?’

She nodded once more and sat at the table.

He placed a pot of tea there and two cups. As he poured the tea out, he said, ‘Where are my daughters? ’

‘At the country house.’

He smiled sarcastically.

‘It ain’t a country house, Sylv, it’s a mock-Tudor that happens to be in the country. Who’s with them - your mother?’

She nodded.

‘Oh, great. And is Morticia doing her usual good job of turning them against me - against all men, for that matter? Like she did with you?’

She didn’t answer and he decided to leave it. He didn’t care anyway.