Chapter 1
I was looking at the most expensive woman I had ever seen in my life. Expensive clothes, expensive face, expensive way of sitting and a very expensive whiff of perfume – don’t ask me what it was. You don’t expect much change out of a million for one of her sort. Not something I usually find when I come into the office in the morning. She looked up as I came in.
“Mr Weintraub?”
“Spencer Weintraub. What can I do for you?”
She held out her hand. “My name is Rachel Silver. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
The handshake was soft but firm if you know what I mean. I sat down and looked her from across my desk. Blond, one of those haircuts that turn up round the ears. Thirties, I would guess, though these types spend so much on themselves you never can tell. Normally I would have appreciated what I was looking at but I’d had a rough night, a very rough night. My head felt like it had been dragged backwards through an elephant’s arsehole. It could have been Marilyn Monroe draped starkers across a four-poster and I wouldn’t have wanted to know. Besides, why would she come to see me. Maybe she found the only cabbie in London that would come south of the River and he dumped her in Dogswell when he realised he hadn’t a fucking clue where he was. Anyway, I thought we had better start with the usual.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?”
“Tea would be very nice.”
I gave Fanackapan a shout. About time it did something.
“Could you do some tea for us please Miss Simmonds.”
Fanackapan came in; it was wearing a skirt that couldn’t have been much more than six inches long. I’ve seen wider tape-measures. She stood there, chewing gum like she hadn’t a care in the world. No question; she has definitely got to go.
“How do you like it? Milk? Sugar?” she asked.
“I’ll just have it without anything, thank you.”
“And I’ll have the usual, Miss Simmonds.”
She looked at me with a ‘is that the usual pint and whisky chaser, or is it the usual double brandy or do you just want a cup of tea?’ stare and then went off to do the necessary.
I thought I had better find out what this was all about.
“How exactly can I help?”
“I understand you can find people.”
“That’s right. We’re the Weintraub Location Agency, as it says on the door.”
She breathed in, then sighed, then it came out. “It’s my husband.”
What a surprise. It always is, unless of course you’re a man and then it’s the wife. Husbands and wives are what keep yours truly in business. Three cheers for the great institution of marriage say I.
“What’s he done?”
She wasn’t having that. She shook her head.
“Oh no. He hasn’t done anything. It’s what has been done to him. I think he may have been kidnapped.”
“Ah. Stop right there.” said I, “That’s criminal. We don’t do criminal. We’re finders. If your husband runs off with his secretary or whatever, we can find him, wherever he was hiding. But if it’s a crime you have to go to the Police. More than our licence is worth for us to get involved.”
I always put that bit in about the licence to impress. As the chairman and founder of the National Association of Location Agencies, I awarded the licence to myself. The real reason I don’t do criminal is because I don’t want to get my head bashed in. There are some right animals in our part of the world.
She looked a bit agitated.
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that. Actually, I think he may have kidnapped himself.”
I began to think somebody was having a laugh. Two could play at that game.
“Well, in that case he can pay himself a ransom and we can all live happy ever after.”
Now she was getting flustered. I even thought I saw the eyes begin to get a bit wet.
“I don’t think you are taking this seriously Mr Weintraub.”
“Look,” I nearly said “Darling”. My usual style is to call all female clients Darling. Saves any embarrassment about forgetting their names. On the other hand, you can be a bit previous with the darlings with some birds. She definitely looked like one of that sort.
“Look Mrs Silver. I don’t mean no disrespect, but you’re obviously a long way from home. Why would you come all this way with a story that is a bit unusual, to put it mildly? If you just want to find your husband we can do it or if you prefer there are big name private investigators you could use. I hear Hercule Poirot’s available right now. You look as if you could afford his fee.”
She didn’t like that.
“Mr Weintraub I came because my husband grew up round here. I had an idea that he might be tempted to return to his roots.”
“He wouldn’t get killed in the rush. Those that can get out of here stay out. Anyway, why pick me to come and see?”
She started blinking.
“Because …”
“Because what?”
“Because I thought you were, eh, Jewish.”
For once in my life I was fucking speechless. Where did that one come from?
“Pardon?”
“I assumed from your name that you were Jewish?”
“What, Spencer?”
“No, Weintraub. That is your real name isn’t it?”
“Real as any other. One name don’t last long in this game?”
“You mean that it isn’t the name you were born with?”
“Certainly not.”
“So what was that?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Reginald Nutbeam.”
“Why did you change it?”
I’ve heard some fucking stupid questions in my time. Where do you start? I didn’t bother.
“I wanted something a bit different for the company name.”
She gave me a funny look. Not sure she believed me.
“So why did you choose your present name?”
“Ah well, family reasons really.”
My Granddad, as it happens, was a big fan of Spencer Tracy. He loved that film where Spencer Tracy played that vicar who looked after all those boys. Wouldn’t be allowed now of course. He’d be banged up straight away for kiddie fiddling. But that was then, and anyway I don’t think Granddad would have minded a bit of that Kathryn Hepburn neither. He was a dirty old dog.
She perked up at that.
“You mean there is a Jewish connection. Is Weintraub a family name?”
Not exactly. Not at all, if I’m honest. Fact is, I was looking for a bit of distinction. I wanted a name that nobody else round here had. I got Weintraub off the back of an American bubblegum packet. “Manufactured by the Weintraub Bubblegum Corp.” So, truth to tell, Spencer is a bit short on the kosher credentials. On the other hand I do like a pretty face. If the lady wanted Jewish, the lady could have Jewish. Then I remembered my Granddad was always talking about someone called Holy Moses. Actually it was Holy Fucking Moses. That sounded a bit Jewish. He got the expression off a mate of his in the War, Izzy. They was in the ARP together. Now Izzy was Jewish, from the East End. And suddenly I had a brainwave—Jack Charlton.
Jack, as every aficionado of that great year 1966 remembers, was a stalwart of the glorious World Cup team, along with his brother Bobby, now Sir Bobby of course. When Jack hung up his boots, he was looking around for a job and someone suggested managing the Irish football team. Well, Old Jack was always one for a challenge but when he got to Dublin he took a quick look at the bunch of one-legged spud-bashers they had in the Irish team at the time and said to himself, “Sod this for a game of soldiers. I’m going to have to get myself some proper footballers.” So he scratched his head for a while and then it come to him. He announced that if your Granny even had a budgerigar called Shamus you was qualified to play for Ireland. Talk about a result! In a couple of weeks he had half the footballers in England banging on his door, begging to get a game for Ireland. So I thought where Jack goes Spencer will follow: if your Granddad had an ARP mate called Izzy, you was entitled to call yourself Jewish. Stands to reason.
“I’ain’t sure about Weintraub, but I’ve been having a think and I’m fairly sure I’m definitely part Jewish on my Granddad’s side of the family.”
She give a bit of a smile.
“Actually Jewishness descends from the female line, but never mind. You must think this is all a little odd. My husband and I are Jewish, but we’re reform. We’re not what you would call devout. It’s just that coming down here and not knowing anyone—it was a hunch really. I just didn’t know what to do—I just thought it might be easier to talk to someone who, well, shared a sensibility, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, course. Sensible’s my middle name. So what exactly is this all about?”
Right on cue Fanackapan barged in without a by your leave. She stopped chewing for a second as she put down the tray.
“D’you want biscuits? We got digestives and them ones with chocolate and jam in.”
“No thank you.”
Fanackapan gave her best “suit yourself” look and tottered off. If them heels were any higher they’d be stilts.
Rachel Silver leaned back and—what’s the word?—pursed her lips. Pursed is the right word. Purses are for money and you don’t get teeth like that for free. Not with the NHS these days. It’s a second mortgage job to get a filling. Fucking disgrace. It’s a wonder there’s any teeth left in England.
“My husband is an investment banker. He’s a director of Goldbury & Newman; you may have heard of them. Last week, Tuesday, he was supposed to go to Geneva for a couple of days. He’s often away on business. Later that day I received a call from one of the other directors asking if Reuben—that’s my husband—was at home. I was very surprised. I said, ‘No, he’s in Geneva. Didn’t you know?’ There was silence and then he asked if he could come and see me at my home that evening. Naturally I was a bit worried and tried to ring Reuben but his mobile was switched off. That wasn’t unusual. He always switched it off during meetings and he could be in a meeting at any hour of the day or night so I left a message asking him to ring.
“That evening one of the Bank’s directors arrived. He said that Reuben had been due in Geneva but hadn’t caught his flight and hadn’t contacted either the Bank or the people he was due to see. And then he looked rather embarrassed and said there was another matter. Had Reuben mentioned anything about an account at the Bank? I said that Reuben didn’t often discuss his work with me. The Bank frowned on it and he certainly hadn’t said anything about any particular account. Why did he ask? At that he looked even more embarrassed. He said this account was of a particularly sensitive nature. It was probably nothing but, what with Reuben being out of contact, I would understand that they had to make a few enquiries. When I did hear from Reuben I must tell him to contact the Bank immediately so that it could all be sorted out. I can tell you Mr Weintraub, I didn’t know what to do. I told him that I was thinking of contacting the police to report him missing but I asked if I did would that mean he would be in any sort of trouble? He asked me to wait until the next day to see if he got in touch.”
She stopped for a bit and looked at me. I looked back. I had to admit it made a change from the usual “My husband’s run off with Doreen from next door and he’s taken all the housekeeping too.” On the other hand, what was all that shit about kidnapping?
“So what you’re saying is that there wasn’t no kidnapping at all. Your old man—Reuben—has just done a runner with whatever there was in that account.”
The head shaking started again.
“The next morning the same director called. He sounded, how shall I say, distant. No, they hadn’t heard from Reuben but the good news was that the problems with the account had been cleared up. So why, I asked him, had Reuben gone missing? He felt Reuben had been under a lot of strain lately, a lot of very important projects, and he probably just wanted to get away to clear his head. He was bound to get in contact soon.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I wanted to, desperately. I wanted to believe that it must have all been a mistake. On the other hand, I had this nagging doubt. Reuben was a director. The Bank would have been terrified about news of a director being involved in impropriety getting out. Their clients would have left in droves. They would certainly have made up any deficit and no one but a very few directors would have known. And if Reuben hadn’t done anything wrong, why had he disappeared? I didn’t buy the strain theory. Reuben just wasn’t like that. I don’t mind telling you I was frantic. I kept calling Reuben’s mobile but it was always switched off. I spent a sleepless night, worrying about it all, and I decided to go to the Police.”
“So, what did they say?”
“I didn’t go. Yesterday morning I got a call to say if I wanted to see my husband again I was to follow instructions that I would receive and on no account to contact the Police.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t recognise the voice. It sounded funny—metallic, maybe even artificial. A bit like that scientist, what’s his name? Stephen Hawking. He said that I was to prepare to transfer £2 million to an account and that they would give me details of the account very soon. If I didn’t do so I would never see my husband again. As you can imagine, Mr Weintraub, this was the most enormous shock. I had to sit down and try to get a grip of my emotions. I just didn’t know what to think. It was then that I had this awful suspicion that perhaps Reuben had arranged the whole thing, that he had stolen from the bank and was now trying to get his hands on more by faking his kidnapping.”
By this time I was saying to myself, “Spencer, old son, this is a wind up.” A mental deficient baboon wouldn’t believe half of it. Nobody comes down here talking of kidnaps, two million quid and the rest. Take a look out the window. Knightsbridge it is not. Hitler would have done Dogswell a favour if he’d flattened it but even he couldn’t be arsed. His boys just flew straight over and done the East End instead. Says it all, don’t it? Besides, I may be the dog’s bollocks finder-wise, but even I don’t flatter myself that I’m Finder of choice to the Quality. And as for me being Jewish and all, it just didn’t make sense. On the other hand, the motto of our profession is “The client is King”—or Queen in this case—and this particular client looked like it was good for a bob or two, while, as it happened, at that moment in time, yours truly was more than a bit short in the spondulicks department. Two can play the wind up game, Spencer, I said to myself, keep turning the handle. Softly, softly, catchee money.
“Very interesting story, Mrs Silver. Not the sort of tale we usually hear round here. What exactly would you like us to do for you?”
“I would like you to find my husband, of course.”
Where did I start?
“Without wishing to state the bleeding obvious, if you’ll pardon the expression, if he really has kidnapped himself, why don’t you just pay the £2 million he’s asking for? After all, it’s his own money.”
She didn’t like that.
“No, no. I had better explain further. Not all Jews are rich, whatever you may think. Reuben came from a poor family. His father came over here just before the war a child refugee. He ran a cobblers shop near here for many years. I understand it was demolished a few years ago.”
Funny enough, that rang a bell.
“Was it in Hope Street, just up there on the right, off the High Street? Got knocked down for Council offices.”
“Yes, I think it may have been.”
“I remember the old boy. Spoke with a funny accent. My Mum used to take the shoes there to be mended when we was kids. There you are. Small world, innit?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. What I’m trying to say is Reuben doesn’t have that sort of money. He has only recently been made a Director of the Bank and, while he could be described as very comfortably off by most standards, he doesn’t have millions, yet.”
“So why would he be asking for it?”
“Because I do. My father left me a great deal of money, but he left it in trust for my use only. It’s not that he didn’t trust Reuben—he liked him really—it’s just that he was very cautious with money. That’s why he made so much of it.”
“What’s stopping you paying it?”
“Because I haven’t the faintest idea what has happened to him. If it were just a question of paying £2 million to have my husband back safe and sound, I would write a cheque this minute. But has he been kidnapped or not? Is he in financial trouble or not? I just don’t know …”
I spotted tears. Blubbing birds are a bit of an occupational hazard in this line of work. I always have a special box of tissues handy just for the occasion—pale lavender with smell to match. Very soothing, so I’m told.
“So why ask us to find him. Why not get yourself a big-time private firm?”
“Because he once told me—it was on our honeymoon actually and we were talking about where we would go to hide away from the world—he said that if he wanted to disappear he would come here. Much easier to hide in the anonymity of a place like this, where half the people are immigrants anyway, than on some Spanish Costa, where he would stand out like a sore thumb. If I was going to find him I had to start somewhere, so I thought of here. And then I thought it would be better to use someone who knew the area, so I looked in the Yellow Pages and saw your name. Your ad said you found people. How do you do it?”
Now there’s a question.
“We have our methods, but you wouldn’t expect me to divulge all the tricks of the trade, would you. Commercial confidentiality and all that. And since you brought up the subject, there is the little matter of the fee.”
“Yes, of course. How much do you charge.”
Paydays have been a bit thin lately so I thought I’d whack on a surcharge and see how it went down.
“We charge £350 a day for my services and £250 a day for my associates, plus VAT and expenses of course.”
“Your associates?”
“Yes, they’re specialists in this sort of work. Top boys. Essential if we’re to get a result.”
“And how long do you think it will take?”
“How long’s a piece of string? But we’ve got to get something to you by the end of the week, don’t we, so you can decide whether you’re going to pay this ransom or not. “
That brought on the tears again. Another hanky.
“That’s fine, that’s fine. Whatever it takes. Just be as quick as you can.”
I called Fanackapan in.
“Miss Simmonds, will you draw up our standard contract for Mrs Silver. Our usual rates, £350 a day for me and £250 a day for the associates.”
She looked like she’d been smacked round the gob by a wet haddock. She don’t do discreet that girl. I definitely feel a P45 coming on.
“No time to lose. Let’s get down to business. We got two possibilities. One, that your husband really has been kidnapped, in which case he could be anywhere, and two, that he’s done a runner and he could be around here somewhere. Not a lot to go on, either way, is it? Let’s start with what we have got. This phone call. Do you know the number?”
“Yes, it came up on my phone. I wrote it down, here.”
“OK, that’s a start. You were told that you had to pay money into an account. Do you know who owns the account?”
“No. I don’t even have the account details. He said he would be in touch again with them but I haven’t heard anything more. I know people who could do a search for me if I had those details but I’m willing to bet it would turn out to be a nominee account?”
She had me there.
“A what?”
“An account in the name of a company, which will be owned by another company or a number of companies all of which will be registered somewhere where they don’t have to disclose the names of directors or anybody connected with them. And once the money is in the account it will be spirited off somewhere else, to banks all round the globe, so that it will be untraceable, even by expert accountants.”
As a lead that didn’t sound too promising. Even going to my local bank does my head in.
“Do you have a picture of your husband?”
She fished inside her bag and took out a small leather picture frame. He looked like your standard issue banker wanker to me. Clean-shaven, sharp suit and tie, with that look that says we have all the money you need but it will cost you a packet.
“This’ll have to do for the moment. Now we need to know who he’s been contacting. What about his phone and computer?”
“His only phone—the only one that I know of anyway—is one that he uses for work. He probably has it with him, but it always goes to voicemail when I try it. He did have a computer but it broke a couple of years ago. He uses an iPad now.”
“What, all that important bank work on an iPad?”
“Oh no, they’re not allowed to do any bank work on computer outside the office. Security you see. These devices are easily hacked so I’m told. Reuben just uses it for web browsing and personal emails.”
“Is he on Facebook or Twitter or anything like that?”
Facebook and Twitter and all that social media bollocks are the location agent’s dream. You wouldn’t believe the number of dozos who scarper but still say what they’ve been up to and post pictures of themselves on the Internet, usually with a hand on the tits of their latest squeeze. Like as not they’ll say they’ve been at such and such a club or pub or else there’s something there that will tell us where they are. Easiest money I ever make.
“No, the Bank frowns on that sort of thing. They feel it might lead to compromising situations.”
“Well what about the personal stuff—letters, bills and all that?”
“My personal assistant and I handle all those things. I know this is going to sound funny to you, but for a banker he really isn’t very good with money. I have a degree in anthropology from Oxford and an MBA from Harvard. I think I can manage the Council Tax.”
“Is there anything else that might help—notes, letters that sort of thing?”
“Nothing. Believe me I searched high and low when this thing happened to see if there was anything that might give me a clue as to where he had gone.”
“Would you mind if I took a look? Could be something you missed. And I’d like to take a look at the iPad too, if possible.”
She seemed a bit hesitant. Probably didn’t want me bringing down the tone of her place.
“I suppose you must. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“Yes, we need details of all his credit cards and bank accounts. Sooner or later he’s got to want a bit of cash or use a card and then we should know where he’s been. And is there somewhere he likes to go—club, music, theatre, that sort of thing? Does he play golf or tennis or anything?”
She shook her head.
“He’s not much of a joiner, I’m afraid. He leaves all social matters to me and he’s not very sporty either. But bank accounts and credit cards, I don’t understand. Aren’t they all confidential? How can you possibly find out if money is being taken out?”
I put on my most professional expression—a bit smile, a bit wise nod, a bit don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’ve been perfecting it for a long time. It don’t often fail.
“That’s what you pay us for Mrs Silver. We have our methods. Nothing illegal of course, but we like to keep it in the profession. It’s not something that you need to know or should want to know.”
“Yes of course, I quite understand. Is there anything else you need from me?”
Certainly was. The time was right to ask for a bit of cash upfront.
“There is one thing. We normally require a deposit for a job like this. Two days fees for myself and one associate. Fully refundable of course if not entirely satisfied.”
I always throw that “fully refundable” bit in. Sounds good but the chances of anyone getting anything back is zero. The shyster that done the small print in our contract was an evil genius.
“No problem. Will you take a cheque?”
Actually there was a problem. The bank just changed our overdraft limit, “because of your past credit history” Fucking cheek, after all them banksters done! We was already way over the new limit. Any cheque would just be snaffled by the bank.
“Well we can take a cheque but our financial advisors won’t let us start work on a job until the cheque has cleared, which as you know can take a good few days. No disrespect but we’ve had some problems with rubber cheques in the past so our financial advisors make ‘no start until cheque cleared’ an iron rule. You know what financial advisors are like.”
“I take your point. Would a credit card be acceptable?”
“That would be much better. We could start straight away then. Ah, here’s Miss Simmonds with the contract.”
Fanackapan put the papers down and her mouth did a big silent Oooh.
“If you would just sign there and there Mrs Silver, we can then get to work.”
“I would like to read it first.”
“Naturally. Please do. It’s the standard contract you will see with any member of our association. There’s a little bit of legal jargon here and there but that’s lawyers for you. Protects you as well as us of course.”
She started reading and I could see her eyes beginning to look a bit glassy.
“Oh I suppose it’s all straightforward. Where did you say I signed?”
She took a gold pen out of her handbag and put her monicker, all girlie swirls, on the contract. Now I just had to sort out the card.
“I’ll just go and get the terminal for your card. Won’t be a minute.”
We can’t actually do the card ourselves. The bank would charge an arm and a leg for the privilege, even if they would let us do it—which they wouldn’t. I do it for cash with Ali who runs the Oh Calcutta Tandoori downstairs. We do get a whiff of curry in the office sometimes but the rent is cheap. You can’t have everything. Actually it’s a nice little system. There’s no Vat on restaurant food so I stick the Vat on my bill, run it though him and, hey presto, twenty percent extra for free. When we first started he wanted the whole of the Vat bit for himself. I wasn’t having none of that and I eventually beat him down to twelve and a half percent—still criminal if you ask me but what can you do?
Ali was in his usual place in his little cupboard of an office behind a mountain of paper. “You must have won the lottery Mr Spencer.” he said when I told him what to put through his till.
“Big client Ali. Important job.”
I took the terminal back upstairs and she put her card in. You have to hold it a certain way otherwise it don’t pick up the signal so I held it for her and shut my eyes as she put her pin number in. I pressed the button, the terminal said “card accepted” and out came the receipt. I handed it and the bill Ali made up to her and she started reading.
“What’s this? 26 poppadoms, 12 Tandoori Specials, 32 bottles of Cobra beer (600cl)—and I see there’s a lot more.”
“Ah, apologies, I should have mentioned it before. That’s our special client confidentiality system. We do a lot of domestics and some men round here can turn very nasty if they think their wife or girlfriend is spying on them—which they might do if they caught sight of a mention of the Weintraub Location Agency. So we always put though our bills as meals in an Indian restaurant. Nothing to get suspicious about then.”
“Very thoughtful.” she said as if she didn’t really mean it. “Are we done now?”
“Yes, I think everything is satisfactory. You can rest assured that if your husband can be found we will find him.”
She said she didn’t need a cab so I showed her downstairs and into the street. I came back upstairs and parked my carcase in the office chair. “Spencer, old son,” I said to myself, “this looks like it’s your lucky day. Maybe you should feel like shit more often.”
