NATIONAL TREASURE Barry Faulkner (the little red hen ebook .txt) 📖

gave me a serious look. ‘Well, if you know Bogdan you don’t need me to tell you to be careful.’

We shook hands and I left.

*******************************************

Gold wasn’t impressed. ‘Do you really want to ignite the flames of that battle? Bogdan knows you disappeared two of his men so he’s not likely to welcome you with open arms if you start digging into his business – and you don’t even know that he’s involved.’

We were having a sandwich at the concourse cafe at Charing Cross station. We meet there when a case is ongoing; simple reason is that if there is anybody involved that wants us out of the picture they would be looking for us at my office, so we give it a miss. The concourse cafe at Charing Cross is ideal; a window seat gives a full view of anybody approaching. The food’s okay, but stay away from the British Rail coffee – there’s no known antidote.

Gold continued, ‘If Randall’s men moved across to Bogdan and now work for him, where’s the reason for him to take Janie? If they or one of them got away with the drugs from Epping Forest, Bogdan would have them.’

‘What if he hasn’t got them? What if Randall was bringing them in for Bogdan, and Bogdan had paid upfront and didn’t get them? He’d want his money back.’

‘And he thinks Marcia Johnson has it?

‘Why not? She was his wife, and there was no divorce, so he probably thinks they are still together. So why not?’

‘So he thinks Marcia has the coke or the money.’

‘Or both if the drop was made.’

‘She’s in a pretty bad position, isn’t she.’

‘Which is one good reason to go and talk to Bogdan.’

My mobile buzzed.

‘You’ve reached Ben Nevis Private Investigations, how may we help you?’ Corny, eh? But every other company says ‘How may we help you’ and then proceeds not to. I’m different; I usually do.

A sombre voice said, ‘Detective Sergeant Ansty, Hampstead crime squad. You know Marcia Johnson?’

‘Yes.’ I was worried what would come next.

‘She says you’re working for her, is that right?’

Well, at least she’s not dead.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘You’d better get over here to her house then. She’s had a break-in and taken a beating.’

‘I’m on my way.’

   **********************************

You know when you see the bruised faces of elderly people who have been mugged on the TV News you get angry inside? Well that’s how I felt when I saw Marcia Johnson’s face – more blue than pink.

DS Ansty had met me at the door. Old school copper, mid-fifties, heavy build, receding hairline, expanding stomach; seen it all and didn’t take prisoners. Marcia’s house was swarming with white paper-suited forensic officers. I put on a pair of overshoes and followed Ansty into the lounge, where Marcia sat on the sofa next to a victim support officer and a man I took to be her doctor by the stethoscope hanging round his neck. She looked relieved to see me. I couldn’t see any result of a break-in; everything was as I remembered it. Nothing broken, no drawers emptied over the floor, the French door glass unbroken.

‘You okay?’ Stupid question, but what else should I say?

She gave me a smile. ‘I think so, nothing broken.’ She managed a weak smile.

‘What’s your relationship with Mrs Johnson?’ Ansty was asking. Ansty was suspicious.

‘Her daughter’s gone missing, I’m trying to find her.’

‘Is she on the missing persons list?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’ Ansty arched his eyebrows.

I thought quickly. ‘Bearing in mind Mrs Johnson’s public persona, her agent thought it best to have a low key look for her first. She may have just gone away for a break and forgotten to tell anybody. Put it on missing persons and the press would be all over it.’

‘Did you agree with that, Mrs Johnson?’ Ansty asked.

Marcia nodded. ‘Yes, my daughter is twenty-two, not a slip of a girl. I’m sure she’s probably just done what Mr Nevis said, gone on holiday or something and not told me, that’s all. Probably walk in any minute. Not worth taking up police time.’

Ansty looked at me. ‘You agree?’

‘No, but I’m the hired help, not the client.’ I changed the subject. ‘I thought you said it was a break-in? Nothing seems out of place.’

‘Yes, strange, isn’t it?’ Ansty was giving me that suspicious look again. ‘Mrs Johnson says two men came to the door – foreigners – bundled her in here and one stayed with her whilst the other searched the house.’

‘Searched for what?’

‘You tell me, Nevis. It was a professional search, gloves worn and everything left in order – nothing chucked on the floor, nice and clean. So what were they looking for?’ His eyes pinned me down.

‘No idea. Probably a pair of random chancers taking a punt?’

‘And leaving Mrs Johnson’s jewellery untouched on the dressing table in her bedroom? The foreigners bit is unusual. If they were a pair of illegals after money, they’d have taken the jewellery to sell on. No, these were pros, and they were after something specific. I reckon you know more than you are saying, Nevis.’ The look I got was made of granite.

Thankfully the forensic boss poked his head round the door to say they’d finished and were off. Ansty would get a report in a day or two, but there wouldn’t be much to it. And that was that. Mrs Johnson was to go to the local police station tomorrow to make a statement and look through the mugshots of known local ne’er-do-wells, in the forlorn hope she might recognise someone. Not a hope in Hell. Maybe a file of known felons from the Politia Romana would offer a better chance. It was time I had a chat with Alexandru Bogdan; I was moving into dangerous territory, but there wasn’t any alternative