‘Persistent shoplifting. I don’t know how long she’d been at it when she was caught. She swore that was the first time. Don’t they all? She was cautioned then caught again a few weeks later with a shopping bag full of Armani tights and T-shirts. Shortly after this she was spotted on camera taking a Ghost evening dress from Liberty’s. A woman had been in the day before, trying it on, taking ages over the business, attempting to get them to reduce the price, and it was thought Carlotta might be stealing to order. A much more serious business than the odd impulse snatch. When the police took her home they found a roomful of stuff, all very classy. Molton Brown, Donna Karan, Butler and Wilson jewellery.’
Troy gave his pen a rest. He saw no point in writing down all these names which, in any case, were Greek to him. No wonder Mrs Lawrence had suspected the girl when her earrings had disappeared. She was lucky to have a rag left on her back.
‘Would that be the last address you have for her?’
‘Yes. Close to Stepney Green.’ She was already writing. ‘I hope you find her. Alive, I mean.’
‘So do I,’ said Barnaby. As Miss Calthrop handed the slip of paper over, a concentrated whoosh of a perfume that dare not speak its name zoomed up the inspector’s nostrils. Bordello Nights, thought Barnaby, or some copywriter’s missed his vocation. On recovering, he asked if they might take Carlotta’s file away and extract any information that could be of help to them.
‘Certainly not,’ replied Miss Calthrop. ‘I have told you everything relevant to your inquiries. Our clients may be on the lowest rung of society, Chief Inspector, but they’re still entitled to some privacy.’
Barnaby did not pursue the matter. He could always make a special application should he feel it necessary. He smiled across at Miss Calthrop as warmly as if she had been fully cooperative and changed tack.
‘Have you sent many ... clients to the Old Rectory, Miss Calthrop?’
‘Over the past ten years or so, yes. Regrettably, not all have benefited. Several have even betrayed the Lawrences’ trust.’
‘No,’ said Sergeant Troy on a drawn-in breath. He thought he might run with this line in mock amazement for a bit then remembered the chief’s nagging about alienating interviewees.
‘Hard to understand, I know,’ said Vivienne Calthrop. ‘You would expect them to be so grateful that they would seize any opportunity to transform their lives. But I’m afraid it rarely seems to work like that.’
‘That’s very sad,’ said Barnaby. And meant it.
‘They’re like animals, you see, who have never known anything but cruelty and neglect. Sudden kindness is often viewed either with suspicion or disbelief. Even contempt. Of course,’ she smiled, ‘we do have our successes.’
‘Young Cheryl, perhaps?’ asked Barnaby. Then in the pause that followed. ‘Sorry. Confidential?’
‘Just so, Chief Inspector.’
‘What about Terry Jackson?’
‘Not one of ours.’
Barnaby looked surprised.
‘Lionel sits on at least two rehab. boards. The young man may have become known to him that way.’
‘They’re all young, are they?’ asked Sergeant Troy. ‘These people Mr L takes on.’
Miss Calthrop turned and stared at him. ‘What is the implication behind that remark?’
‘Just a question.’ Troy remembered the chief putting the same one, to himself as it were, a couple of days ago. ‘No offence.’
‘Lionel Lawrence is a saint among men.’ Miss Calthrop’s bulk started to agitate itself, heaving and trembling like a mountain on the move. Her magnificent voice developed a volcanic rumble. ‘His wife’s inability to have children is a tragedy. Do you wonder he is paternalistically inclined?’
‘Yes. Well, I think that’s—’ Barnaby, rising, was cut off.
‘And now they are old—’
‘Old?’ said Sergeant Troy. ‘Mrs Lawrence isn’t old. Thirty-five if she’s a day.’
‘Thirty—’
‘Nice looking, too.’ On their way to the door Troy stopped at the tacky white table and peered into the Amaretti tin. It was full of rubber bands. ‘Slim, blonde. Lovely—’
‘Open the door, Sergeant.’
Miss Calthrop was still vibrating at full throttle as the DCI thanked her and the two men left.
As they got into the car Troy said, ‘Talk about well built. I bet one of her legs weighs more than our garden shed.’ Then, when there was no reply, ‘We’re really meeting them today.’
‘We meet them all the time, Sergeant. The trouble with you is, you’ve no relish for eccentrics.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
Relish, huh. What’s to relish? As far as Sergeant Troy was concerned, eccentrics was just a poncy word for weirdos. He liked people who ran along predictable lines. The others just tossed a spanner in the works and screwed up life for everybody else. He put the keys in the ignition, revved hard with showy and quite unnecessary vigour and asked if they would be going straight to the address they had just been given for Carlotta Ryan.
‘May as well.’
‘Good. I like driving in London. It’s a real challenge.’
Barnaby winced. Then, as they drove away, his thoughts turned again to Vivienne Calthrop. Her pretty face: blue eyes, perfect small nose and soft, rosy lips lost in a surrounding sea of wobbly fat and double chins. The wonderful hennaed hair tumbling over her shoulders, and eyebrows dyed exactly to match. It was the eyebrows, Barnaby decided, that got to him. There was something touching about the trouble taken.
‘I’d love to hear her sing.’
‘Yeah, great.’ Troy spoke absently. He was watching the mirror, signalling, pulling out. ‘Who?’
‘Who? Didn’t you hear that woman’s voice? It was practically operatic.’
‘Me and opera, chief.’ Troy sighed then shook his head, feigning regret at this mutual lack of enchantment.
‘You don’t know what the word Philistine means, do you, Troy?’
‘Certainly I do,’ Sergeant Troy responded quickly, on solid ground for once. ‘My Auntie Doll takes it for her blood pressure.’
Lomax Road was a turning to the left halfway down Whitechapel just past the London Hospital. A tall narrow house which looked to be as grotty inside as it was out. A blanket was pinned up at the ground-floor window, grimy nets at the one upstairs.
‘Be a laugh if she’s in there, won’t it? Feet up, watching the box, having a bevvy.’
‘Nothing would please me more.’ Barnaby studied the various bells. The wooden backing was half hanging off the wall, the wires rusty. Benson. Ducane (Chas). Walker. Ryan. He pressed them all. A few minutes later a small sash window was pushed up and a young girl looked out.
‘Whaddya want?’
‘Police,’ said Sergeant Troy.
‘No police in here. Sorry.’
‘We’re looking for Carlotta Ryan.’
‘She’s gone.’
‘Could you perhaps spare a minute?’ asked DCI Barnaby.
‘’Ang about.’ The window slammed shut.
Troy muttered, ‘What a dump. Just look at that.’ The concrete front garden was full of splitting bin bags, festering rubbish and dog mess. ‘I bet the rats queue up to have it away on that lot.’
They could hear her clattering downstairs, clopetty clop, clopetty clop, like a little pony. Which meant stone steps or old lino, about what you’d expect in a dump like this.
A tall, slim girl stood facing them. She wore sprayed-on leather hipsters and a once-white jumper, well short of her waist. Her hair was apricot with bronze tips, in a rough poodle cut. Glitter dust bloomed and sparkled on her cheeks and eyelids. Her navel was pierced with a ring from which depended a very large, shiny stone. Her hands were grubby with bitten nails. Barnaby thought she looked like a shop-soiled angel.