Gallery Whispers

'Wait there,' said the woman. A few seconds later, through the hum of the intercom, they heard her voice faintly. Eventually she returned.

'It's all right, they say. You can come in. Come all the way up to the top floor.' There was a click as the lock on the heavy green door was released.

Inside, the building was a warren. Doors opened to no discernible pattern off the narrow winding stair; on one floor it divided, leading them on a brief wild goose chase. Eventually at the top of yet another flight, they turned, to find themselves facing a small, middle-aged, dark-skinned woman. She wore traditional Indian dress, bright cloths wound around her, embroidered with golden stars. Her oiled, greying hair was swept back from her forehead, upon which a caste mark was imprinted.

Mackie took out his warrant card at once and held it up, Steele following suit.

'Good morning, gentlemen,' she said in clipped proper tones, no longer apprehensive. 'Won't you come in.' She stood to the side and allowed them to walk past her into the flat.

Stevie Steele whistled softly as he looked around. 'Nice,' he whispered to Mackie. 'I fancy this.'

'Not on your wages,' the superintendent murmured. The apartment was virtually open plan, divided by sliding panels rather than doors.

Short flights of steps at either end led to galleried areas; one was a bedroom, while the other seemed to be a study. The decoration of the rooms was fresh, and their pictures and ornaments displayed a mix of Western and Asian influences.

'As you can see, detectives,' said the woman, 'my son is not here.'

'We didn't doubt you, Mrs Gopal,' Mackie assured her. 'But we do need to find him. We hoped that you could tell us where he is.'

The surgeon's mother shook her head. 'No. I cannot tell you that.

He is away.' She looked up suddenly, making eye contact for the first time. 'The kettle is just boiled. You will have tea?'

Both policemen nodded. 'Thank you,' said Steele. 'Darjeeling, of course.'

Shesmiled, 'What else, in this house?'

They watched her as she stepped into the small kitchen took a tea caddy from a shelf then picked up a big porcelain pot. 'No tea bags here,' she called out to them in a sing-song voice as she heaped in four measures.

'Do you live with your son?' Mackie asked her.

She looked over her shoulder. 'No, of course not. I live with my husband. Surinder is on holiday so I come here every morning, to get his mail, to clean and to feed his bird.' She pointed to one of the long room's two windows. There was a cage on the sill, and in it, a blue budgerigar sat on a swing, eyeing a piece of cuttlefish bone which was clipped to the bars.

'How long has he been gone?'

'About ten days, maybe; I don't know.' She put the pot on a tray, together with three china cups and saucers, and carried it out of the kitchen area to a carved wooden table in the centre of the room. 'Sit, gentlemen, please,' she insisted, as she began to pour the tea.

'What did he say to you when he left?' asked Steele.

'He told me that he was going away for two or three weeks, on holiday. He said that he had not decided on the places he would visit, but that he would take his car and tour around. Go to Europe, maybe, for the sunshine. He told me that he had been working too hard and that he was in terrible need of a rest. I said fine, son; you go rest, I take care of your house. I haven't heard from him since, but that doesn't worry me.'

'Does Dr Gopal ever talk to you about his work?' Mackie's question seemed to set the woman's dark eyes sparkling.

'Superintendent, that is all he ever talks about. Surinder loves his work. His only ambition is to be the best surgeon in the country.'

'Does he ever mention his colleagues?'

'He talks a lot about Mr Strang; he admires him very much. One day, Surinder will be Mr Gopal, like him. He tells me that the most important doctors are the ones who are called Mister.'

'What about the place where he worked before he went into orthopaedics? Does he ever mention that?'

'Not often. It's been a while since he left there.'

'Does he still have friends there?'

Mrs Gopal nodded. 'Professor Weston, he is still a friend. It was he who say to my son that he should go in for another sort of surgery, since there would be more opportunities there. The Professor still takes an interest in Surinder's career. He have them here for an Indian dinner once. Professor and Mrs Weston. Not so long ago.' Suddenly she looked around towards a low bookcase, which stood against the wall between the windows. She pushed herself to her feet, walked over to it and took a slim volume from the top shelf.

'They gave him this as a present,' she said, handing it to Mackie.

He looked at the cover. It was a copy of The Jungle Book, by Kipling.

Idly he opened it, at the title page. It had been signed; the words jumped out at him.

'For Surinder, in memory of a delicious evening, Nolan and Gaynor.' He handed the book to Steele, still open at the dedication.

Neither detective said a word; they simply sipped their tea.

'Do you know if your son intended to go on holiday alone?' the young sergeant asked, eventually; to break the silence, more than anything. Mrs Gopal stared at him as if she did not understand his question. 'Might he have taken a girlfriend with him?'

'My son, he does not have girlfriends.' She spat the word out as if it was something distasteful. 'Our family is traditionalist; he is traditionalist. When he is ready to marry, he will tell his father and a marriage will be arranged for him. Until then, he works.'

'Does Dr Gopal keep a diary?' She frowned at Mackie's question.

'An engagement book.'

'No. If he did I would have found it when I dusted.'

'Does he have a telephone answering machine, or service?'

'No.'

'I see. He really is out of touch then.'

'As I told you.'

Mackie nodded. 'Yes indeed.' He took out a card. 'If Dr Gopal should phone you, would you please ask him to contact either Sergeant Steele or me, on this number. Tell him it's important.'

Mrs Gopal's forehead wrinkled. 'When detectives come looking for my doctor son, I know it is important.'

39

a 'I should have asked you before. How was the hot date, then?' Leaning against the wall of the small office, Karen Neville looked at McGuire.

He wore a mischievous grin.

'Cool, actually. He was nearly half-an-hour late, then when we started to get to know each other, he turned out to be gay.'

The inspector gasped in surprise. 'What? Him and the bloke in the wheelchair, you mean?'

'I asked him that. No, they're just friends, apparently, from their younger days. I don't think Dennis is up to any sort of nookie these days, straight or bent, from what Wayne told me. He has to lift him in and out of bed, and on and off the toilet — unless it's disabled-friendly, that is. Plus he has to help him dress, bath and everything.'

'Where are they living? In one of the big hotels?'

'No. The University found them a serviced flat that's been specially fitted out for handicapped people.'

'Whereabouts?'

'Down in Canonmills, Wayne said. I think I know where it is. At least I hope I do. I'm picking him up from there tomorrow night.'

'What? But you just said he was…'

She smiled. 'In which case you don't have to worry about me giving away secrets in the heat of passion, will you, Mario. Anyway, he's a nice guy, good company and if he's only in the market for friendship… well, that makes a nice change from the usual.' She paused, and blushed slightly. 'Plus, I told him I was gay first. I thought if I did it might avoid complications.'

McGuire laughed out loud, drawing a stem look from the customs officer across the room. 'Jesus.' He shook his head.