People are superstitious about Gypsies. My mother used to play on it. At school fetes and local fairs she would set down her cloth-covered table and shuffle the tarot cards, telling fortunes at a few quid a time. Private readings were conducted in the cottage parlor, with the curtains drawn and incense stinking the air.
“The dead come back through children,” Daj would say. “They steal their souls.”
None of this crap about Gypsy curses and fortune-telling impressed me but sometimes when I interview a suspect, I notice them grow suddenly anxious when they see my ring. They look just like Joanne does now.
Her eyes move to my left hand—the one missing a finger.
“A bullet did that,” I say, holding it up for her. “Sometimes I think the finger is still there. It itches. You were going to give me the address.”
She shudders slightly. “I think her father might have signed her out. Sir Douglas Carlyle.”
“Don't bother about the address. I know where he lives.”
Sir Douglas Carlyle is a retired banker and a descendant of Robert the Bruce, King of Scotland. I interviewed him during the original investigation and he didn't seem to like me very much. Then again, he didn't have much time for Rachel either. The two of them hadn't spoken in eleven years—ever since she dropped out of university, embraced the politics of the left, and disowned him for being rich and titled.
Rachel did everything she could to provoke him, working part-time for homeless shelters, housing cooperatives and environmental groups, saving the world one tree at a time. However, the real sword in her father's side was marrying Aleksei Kuznet, a foreigner and a flower seller.
The thing that struck me about Sir Douglas was his equanimity and patience. He remained convinced that one day Rachel would come back to him. Now it seems he may have been right.
Parking out front of the large house in Henley, I self-consciously check my appearance in the side mirror. Titled people make me feel uncomfortable. I could never be a class warrior. A large white fountain dominates the garden, surrounded by paths that radiate between flower beds and angular patches of lawn.
I can hear laughter coming from outside and the gentle
The tennis court at the side of the house is hidden behind fences draped with ivy. We follow a path and emerge at a pagoda beside the courts, where trays of cold drinks have been set out on the table. Two couples are on court. The men are my age, sporting expensive suntans and muscled forearms. The women are younger and prettier, wearing miniskirts and midriff tops that show off their flat stomachs.
Sir Douglas is about to serve. With his aggressive countenance and eagle nose, he makes a social game look serious.
“Can I help you?” he asks, irritated by the interruption. Then he recognizes me.
“I am sorry to trouble you, Sir Douglas, I am looking for Rachel.”
Angrily, he slams the ball into the side fence. “I really can't be dealing with this now.”
“It's important.”
He troops off the court with his playing partner, who brushes past me as she reaches for a zip-up jacket to stay warm. She towels her face and neck. It's a very long neck. I read about Sir Douglas's divorce from Rachel's mother.
“This is Charlotte,” he says.
She beams. “You can call me Tottie. Everyone does. I've been Tottie forever.”
Sir Douglas waves to the far end of the court. “And those are friends of ours.” He shouts to them: “Why don't you go and get ready for lunch? We'll meet you inside.”
The couple wave back.
Sir Douglas looks even fitter than I remember, with one of those deep suntans you see on sailing types and Australians. You could cut off his arm and the tan would go all the way through.
“Is Rachel here?”
“What makes you think that?” He's testing me.
“You collected her from the hospital ten days ago.”
He plays an imaginary backhand. “I don't know if you recall, Inspector, but my daughter has never liked me very much. She thinks the Establishment is some sort of criminal society like the Mafia and that I am the Godfather. She doesn't believe in titles or privilege or the education that I paid for. She thinks there is only dignity in being poor and has swallowed the popular mythology of the working class being full of decent hardworking people possessed of piety and common sense. Breeding, however, is a curse.”
“Where is she?”
He drinks from a glass of lemonade and looks at Tottie. Why do I get the impression I'm about to be fed a plate of bullshit?
“Perhaps you should go inside sweetheart,” he says. “Tell Thomas he can clear these things away.”
Thomas is the butler.
Tottie stands and stretches her long legs. She pecks him on the cheek. “Don't let it upset you, dear.”
Sir Douglas motions us to the chairs, holding one for Ali.
