Quid Pro Quo

Chapter Three

I woke late the following morning, showered later, and belatedly ate breakfast in lieu of lunch. I rolled into work with the Edge file tucked under my arm and was met with a look from Joan that would have fried eggs in their shells.

"Joan!" I began cheerily.

"Satchmo, your report is now overdue, I would like it in the next half hour as you are costing this company money," she snapped.

Ah yes, the paperwork for the dog food job. I heard satisfaction in Joan's voice, a certain I told you so element that grated on me.

"Good morning to you too, Joan," I cast in her direction as I breezed into my office and swung the door shut behind me.

I dropped the Edge folder onto the mountain of newspapers that had taken up residence on the far corner of my desk and stifled a cough caused by the resultant dust mushroom cloud.

It was now time to swing into action; the great private detective at work, tackling dastardly paperwork with the fervour of the Just and a steely glint in the eye.

Actually, I just needed to give myself some breathing space as far as Joan was concerned. There were only so many disapproving looks I could take in a short period, and I would have to bite the bullet and convey to the manager at Chow Down that Andy was not defrauding him.

With a breezy wave of my forearm, I swept a clutter of papers, files, and folded newspapers off my desk and into the corner of the room to join a growing pile. It was an elephants' graveyard of stale lines of enquiry, tedious jobs, and half-done cryptic crosswords.

I reached into my drawer and took out a well-used notepad; the spawning ground of failed ideas and successful paper planes.

Finding missing people could be easy or very hard depending on the exact way in which they were absent. People who decide to go AWOL are usually straightforward enough to find; most can't do without the trappings of modern life.

Use of credit cards, mobile phones, utility bills, the deed poll and even access to doctors or dentists can locate someone who tries to stay hidden, if you know how to employ them.

Finding missing people becomes truly difficult when the person concerned has had no part in their disappearance. If the Fates conspire to pluck you from your established and comfy existence and wipe you from the slate, then you become exceptionally hard to find.

Luckily it seemed that in the case of Tyrone Edge I was dealing with the former.

Tyrone Edge was described in the file left by his uncle as a loner; fiercely independent and entirely self-sufficient. Old Morgan Edge even implied a mild social phobia in his nephew. Making provision to find Tyrone suggested that Morgan knew he would need to be found. Tyrone's disappearance probably had more to do with Tyrone himself than with any external foul play.

I wrote TYRONE EDGE at the top of my pad, under which I added the words CLASSIC HERMIT and underlined them three times. I chewed the end of my biro for a second, then scribbled EXPECTED TO BE HARD TO FIND and joined my headings with a line. Then, in a spider fashion, I circled my last entry with a cluster of possible leads; birth/death records, hospitals, land registry, credit/mortgage, utilities, doctors. It was my usual list and formed according to my own personal contacts and preferred methods.

My father had been a respected policeman and had made many friends in many industries during his time on the force; a few were still in their positions and would help me out if and when I asked. Some helped less out of respect for my father and more for the fee that I offered.

The first call I made was to Walker.

Walker Pelc was a solicitor of sorts. He was the product of a fiery union between a Second World War Polish fighter ace and an English shop worker, and he closely resembles a stoat in a charity shop suit.

Walker feeds voraciously on human misfortune and misery like a shark in chum. He can smell the blood of despair in the water from a goodly distance, and he possesses the humility and empathy of a rock.

All-in-all, he is an excellent solicitor and a total shit of a man. We had developed a symbiotic relationship over the past years; I used his knowledge and abilities, and he liked my money and the further opportunity for a glimpse into the depravity of man.

Walker's office phone connected, but after about ten unanswered rings I gave up and dialled his mobile.

"Satchmo. What you want?" he answered swiftly, his voice gruff from chain-smoking. There was a constant low rumble in the background.

"Are you on the motorway again Walker?" Walker's office was a brief walk from a flyover on the M6. He often stood there and watched the traffic. He claims it's an interest in cars, but we both know that he's waiting; hoping to see a pile-up.

"It's a bit quiet today," he mumbled. I could tell from the disappointment in his voice that he was not referring to his office.

"I've got a fresh missing person case here," I began to explain.

"Yeah? OK. Name and Address?" Walker's voice remained a flat rasp, I imagined his beady eyes flicking across the drivers that sped below, waiting for a mistake.

"Edge, Tyrone. NFA," I gave him the details.

"Great. Usual checks, usual fee," Walker grunted in response.

"Sure Walker, Credit and Land registry please. Fifty in the post," I confirmed that I understood our typical arrangement.

I never asked exactly how Walker got his information, as he never asked how I got any of mine. I was sure that it wasn't all legal though. After hanging up, I dialled another number. A young girl answered.

"Hello, Accident and Emergency," she sounded bored which was precisely what I needed.

"Hi," I said, trying to sound worried, or as worried as you can sound with one syllable.

"My brother went in an ambulance about an hour ago, and what with the worry I forgot to ask which hospital he was going to," I continued.

"OK sir, if you can just give me his name and date of birth..."

Shit, I mouthed the curse silently. D.O.B. I should have seen that coming.

"His name is Tyrone Edge." I shuffled some papers. Ah there it was.

"And his birthday is 10/10/84." I heard rapid taps on a keyboard.

"I'm sorry sir, he hasn't come here, and he's not on the wards either," the girl replied.

One down, I thought. If at first you don't succeed...

"Thank you," I said and hung up.

A similar call was repeated as I checked the major hospitals across the West Midlands. No joy anywhere. I crossed one entry off my list. I unscrewed the top from an old squash bottle, now full of water, and chugged thoughtfully, drinking half in one long bubbling pull.

OK Satchmo, I thought, time to bring out the big guns. I rang the local Clinical Commissioning Group.

"Hello, Medical Records Department," a tinny voice crackled down a bad line, or a cheap handset.

"Yes, at last. I'm sick of being transferred," I snapped, putting on my most officious tone, and adding a dash of pompous anger for good measure.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that sir," came the crackling response.

"Doctor, young man. Good Heavens!" I snorted back.

"Of course, Doctor. I apologize."

"Yes, well, my name is Dr. McIntosh," my own GP, "and I'm trying to chase down the records of one of my patients," I pressed the attack.

"OK Dr. McIntosh, can you give me his name and NHS number please?"

"Tyrone Edge, I obviously don't have his NHS number because he hasn't joined my list yet because you haven't released the card!" I shouted, feeling somewhat sorry for the man on the end of my belligerence. Again, I heard rapid tapping on a keyboard.

"Tyrone Edge, D.O.B. 10/10/84, 56 Windwood Close, Bilston..." the young man read from his screen.

"That's the one," I smiled and wrote 56 Windwood Close on my pad.

"But Doctor, we have no record of him having switched to your list," the young man said, sounding concerned. Not as concerned as he should be given he had just breached all kinds of data protection policy, but concerned nonetheless.

"Well, that is not my problem, please sort it out!"

No doubt the good Dr. McIntosh would be getting a confused letter from the CCG, which would go ignored by all involved.

After a series of trial and error calls, I managed to get the gas and electricity details of 56 Windwood Close. One was registered to a Manmohan Khera and the other to Mr. M. Singh. It could be a cunning alias, or more likely a dead end.

Buoyed by the faintest sniff of success, I decided that would be a good point to scribble my report on the previous job. Perhaps with the right degree of inspiration and creative writing I might avert the wrath of the dog food king. I soon realized the futility of trying to polish a turd.

It was the usual stuff; reports of movements, sightings, attach a few photos, transcript of interviews, an overall conclusion and then finally a tally of time and expenses. It represented a good forty-five minutes of effort stuffed into a folder, carried outside and placed lovingly into Joan's hands.

"Satchmo, not only is this late, it is also exceptionally shoddy work," she sighed whilst leafing through the pages with obvious disdain. "Even by your standards."

"Thank you, Joan," I gave her my smile again. I really should learn not to waste it on her.

"Completed the missing person job yet?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"Joan, please, I've only just started on it," I chortled back.

"Of course, you've spent all morning working on this," she tapped a painted nail on the folder I had given her.

"Indeed," I said, deliberately ignoring her tone. "Well, must get on."

"Quite," she replied as I turned to enter my cubbyhole. "But remember, Satchmo, your name no longer guarantees you employment here. It would be a shame to hand the Yeoman's the bullets prior to the AGM," Joan called after me.

Those remarks stung, but they weren't offered maliciously. Joan was giving me more of a pointed reminder. I had hardly settled in behind my desk before the phone rang. It was Walker.

"Alright Satchmo, you bastard?"

He was all charm.

"What have you got, Walker?" I said. Other than no discernible morals and probable lung cancer, I thought.

"No freebies Satch, you know that. The fifty is in the post, right?" Walker replied slyly.

Ah, the remorseless pursuit of Mammon, how strong it was in the solicitor.

"Of course! You know me Walker; it's on my desk ready to send," I lied.

"Post... bollocks!" he shot back. "I'll be round to get it at six."

"Right-oh Walker, I look forward to it," about as much as Montezuma's Revenge, I thought.

"OK. Your man, Edge. I checked Credit, and nada, zilch," Walker growled.

"What?" I replied, surprised.

"He has no credit history, no current credit, no outstanding debts, and no registered bank account," Walker explained.

"How can he have no bank account, Walker?"

"Well, no legal one. He might have bonds, stocks. Or maybe off-shore tax haven..." This was the famous Pelc sarcasm.

"So, he lives without money?" I concluded.

"Not necessarily, come on you're the Super Detective, maybe he works cash-in-hand. I did a little work once for a woman whose mother died with twenty-five grand in tenners stuffed in jam jars in the cupboard. Anyway, I checked Land Registry and bingo! One house registered to Mr. T. Edge, address 56..."

"...Windwood Close," I interrupted.

"Yeah..." he sounded a little disappointed to have the wind taken out of his sails.

"I am the Super Detective," I couldn't help smiling.

"Well, fuck-off!" Walker hung up.

I underlined the address on my pad; perhaps it was worth checking after all.

I spent the rest of the afternoon making a few more calls to little or no effect, then clipped the phone sex adverts from the back of a tabloid in the waiting room, put them in an envelope marked 'For Attention of W. Pelc' which I left with Joan on my way out.

I sat in my car, smelling its peculiar scent which was somewhere between the leather of the seats and the sweat of my gym kit in the boot.

I fished my A-Z out from under my seat and looked up Windwood Close. Every time I brought out the dog-eared and stained road map, I wondered whether I should invest in a smartphone. Everyone else in the world seemed to have surrendered the noble art of getting lost to Google.

Windwood Close turned out to be a decent street in a shabby area; a row of semi-detached houses stretched down either side, some pebble-dashed, their neighbours painted and streaked with green lichen. Small, gravelled parking spaces or litter filled front yards lined both sides of the road. The odd side of the street backed onto a railway embankment and the even side seemed to merge into a belt of scrub land, the verdant tips of trees just peering over the roofs.

I parked halfway down and found number 56 on foot.

It was a fairly anonymous pebble-dashed semi, with a Sky dish and a hideous decorative butterfly affixed to the frontage. Somewhat browning net curtain hung in a bay window to the right of a double-glazed front door that had leaflets for local takeaway places dangled out of the letterbox. The material seemed to twitch slightly when I strolled up the paved parking area.

Someone's home, I thought.

I rang the bell and waited. No response. I banged on the door and waited some more. Eventually a dark form emerged behind the frosted glass of the door, and it opened a full six inches until it halted on a heavy chain.

A small, withered face peered up at me from a height of around five feet. A tiny Indian woman who could have been anywhere from fifty to a hundred and fifty studied me intensely, her eyes shining with a fire that matched the blood-red of her sari. Her nose bent down at an odd angle that gave her the look of a bird of prey, although gently melted.

She said nothing. I cleared my throat.

"Hello," I started. There was no change in her expression. I smiled.

"Manmohan Khera?" I said. She replied with a long rattle of Punjabi, shaking her hand through the open gap in the door.

"Tyrone Edge?" I tried again only to be met with another stream of Punjabi, this time shorter.

"Mrs. Khera?" I attempted one more time, getting increasingly exasperated. She answered very briefly, I recognized one of the few Punjabi words I knew. She very definitely said "no."

I paused for a few seconds while she fixed me with a piercing gaze. I had just drawn a final breath to ask one more question when she promptly shut the door in my face. I looked at my distorted reflection in the frosted door glass, sighed and turned on my heel.

Reaching the road again I had a thought, turned, and pulled the leaflets trapped in the letterbox in the front door. Amid a gaudy Pizza menu and some free tokens for a Chinese takeaway was a utility bill, addressed to Mr M. S. Khera.

I pushed the bundle through the door, returned to my car and listened to the football commentary on the drive home.

I was tired, but when I got home, I fed Rommel and Fang, then worked up a sweat with my free weights whilst Led Zeppelin blared out of my stereo. After five good sets I slumped to my bed, feeling the cosy warmth in my arms and thighs, and considered my day.

There was certainly something in the Windwood Close lead, but I'd need a little help. I crossed into the kitchenette and jotted a note on a sticky pad, then stuck it firmly to the fridge door.

Visit Priya

Not that I needed any excuse for that.