She went downstairs and rang the bell to the flat below. She knew that Mr Grobowski, a Pole who ran a community centre down the road, always sat by his front window and watched the world go by. It was his idea of Neighbourhood Watch when he wasn’t organising social events for his fellow Poles. Not that his vigilance ever resulted in him catching anyone, but he routinely claimed that this was because they knew he was watching.
‘Yes, miss. How are you?’ he yelled with a generous smile when he saw her standing there. In spite of repeatedly asking him to use her name, he insisted on calling her ‘miss’. Built like a concrete block, with a craggy face and hair which looked as if it had been ironed on, he was slightly deaf and so figured the rest of the population was, too. His accent, unchanged after more than sixty years in London, mangled his words into a stew, from which, if Riley was fortunate, she got the general gist of what he meant. If she frowned, he simply shouted louder.
Riley showed him the cutting. ‘Did you see anyone put this through the door? It would have been in the last couple of hours or so.’
He snatched the cutting and tilted his head back to catch the light from inside, mouthing the words as he read carefully. Then he shook his head and handed it back. ‘No. I too busy doing thinks. What you think, miss, I got time to sit here and dreams all day?’
‘Worth a try,’ she said, wondering if he was having her on; everyone knew he used his window like a watchtower. She turned to walk over to the stairs, but his next words stopped her dead.
‘The other mens, though, they sittink out there a lot. You should maybe talk to the polices, I think.’
‘Other men?’
‘Sure. Mens in a white van. Bloody gangsters, probably. Why else they have those dark windows, huh? You tell me.’
She told him she had no idea, her attention suddenly distracted by a nagging thought.
‘But don’t to worry, miss,’ he continued, waving a meaty hand. ‘I look after thinks.’ He grinned proudly and pointed towards the front of the building as if it was his field of fire and therefore of no more concern.
Riley smiled gratefully. ‘It must have been one of them, I suppose. Thank you, Mr Grobowski.’
‘No worries, miss. And if the other mans come back, I get his names, you bet.’
‘Other man?’ Jesus, this was getting confusing. ‘You mean my colleague?’ She described Frank Palmer.
‘No, not hims. Hims I know look of. This mans he walk by several times. Last two days, he was here. Maybe three times. Smart suit, like banker, only look tired.’
‘He looked tired?’
‘No. Suit. Clothes good but tired like charity shop. Like he worn too long. Good stuff, though. Nice cut. I used to be tailor once… I know good clothes.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Tall mans, maybe six foot. Thin. Look hungry.’
‘When did you see him last?’
‘Yesterday. He walk by but don’t come near.’ He jabbed two fingers towards his eyes. ‘But I know he is looking at this house.’ Something hissed and spat in the background, and Mr Grobowski turned his head. ‘Excuse, miss… my dinner boil over. Moment.’ He disappeared, and Riley heard the clatter of a saucepan lid. He came back shaking his head, bringing with him an aroma of spices and a bead of moisture on his forehead. ‘I should get better timing clock. Recipes say only cook for ten minutes. Very specific, otherwise shit for food. Sorry, miss.’
‘You’ve been cooking?’ Mr Grobowski’s kitchen was at the back of the building, overlooking the communal gardens.
‘Sure. I very good cook. I chef once. Many times I do food for old mens at Polish Community centre. They have kitchen, but… ‘ He waved a contemptuous hand. ‘I prefer my own thinks. All afternoon in kitchen. Bloody hot, I tell you. Good for losing weight, like sauna.’ He laughed and patted his stomach to show it wasn’t working.
Riley thanked him for his help and asked him to let her know if the mystery watcher came back, then went back upstairs. She wondered how many of the day’s events right outside his front door were missed because of his various distractions. Enough, it seemed, for the mystery postman to have delivered a message without being spotted.
She checked the telephone directory, then made a call. It rang twice before a voice answered: ‘Evening Post.’ She asked to speak to Nikki Bruce and waited while being treated to a piece of modern classical music.
‘Bruce.’ The single word snapped down the line, as if she had just been caught on her way out of the office on important business.
Riley introduced herself. ‘The piece you ran about the dead runaways,’ she said shortly. ‘I might have some information for you.’
Thirty yards along the street, a shadow detached itself from the gateway of a house under renovation and walked away. The owner was tall and wore a suit, and as he passed beneath a street light, the glow briefly highlighted a gaunt, tired face, before he vanished into the next pool of shadow.
Chapter 16
Nikki Bruce in the flesh turned out to be older than her picture in the Post suggested. Tall and bony, with pale skin and a brittle smile, she wore a burgundy designer suit with knife-edge creases. A rattle of jewellery accompanied her as she pushed through the door of the coffee shop and checked out the pre-lunchtime crowd.
Riley waved and indicated the chair on the other side of the table. The Post reporter sat down and gave her a wary once-over. ‘Well,’ she said dryly, ‘this is different.’ The coffee shop was an independent, situated just off Wardour Street, and what it lacked in big-chain glitz and bustle, it more than made up for in atmosphere.
‘Sorry it’s not the Savoy,’ said Riley. She wondered if this had been a mistake. She had met many reporters in her time, and found most were generous in the help they would give to a fellow journo. Others jealously guarded every scrap of information as if the next acquaintance was going to wrestle it away and sell it for a small fortune. Time would tell which category this woman fell into.
‘You said you had information,’ said Bruce, flicking back her sleeve to reveal a slim gold watch. ‘I’ve got twenty minutes.’ She had agreed to meet Riley without particular enthusiasm, and then only if it was in the Soho area.
Riley ordered coffees, then said: ‘I was intrigued by your story about the dead kids. It might tie in with something I know, and I wondered how far back it goes.’
‘Not far. Why the interest?’
It as the question she’d been expecting. After setting up the meeting yesterday evening, she had wondered how much to tell Bruce. If the Post reporter was generous, it would be no problem. But right now she wasn’t so sure. ‘It’s a personal thing… a story I worked on some years ago. A fifteen-year-old girl walked out of her house one day and disappeared. It seems she did so voluntarily, but it made no sense at the time. There was nothing in the family background and no obvious reason which drove her away. The usual stuff, on the surface. Your piece set me thinking about what might have happened to her, that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘I’m not after your story, by the way.’
Bruce looked faintly sceptical, but shrugged as if it was no big thing. ‘My stuff doesn’t go back that far. My boss put me on it weeks ago because he thought it would run. In my opinion they’re just rough sleepers being fed poor quality shit by dealers who couldn’t care less. To be honest,’ she allowed a hard smile to edge around her lips, ‘it’s not as if I need to worry about it anymore. Not after today.’
‘Really?’ Riley felt a flicker of irritation at the woman’s coldness. She was dismissing those dead kids as no more than detritus cluttering the streets of the capital.