Ли Чайлд - Belfast Noir

I was mulling it over with a Pot Noodle (they were on special offer in Dunnes, Ma said, but I wasn’t to eat too much and spoil my tea), when my phone started ringing. “Aloysius Carson, PI.” Gavin says I should answer with “Carson’s the name, crime’s the game,” but he is very immature.

There was a sound like a deflating balloon on the other end. That was odd. “I’ve got voice-recognition software,” I lied.

“Please . . . come . . . come now.” It was Rosie’s ma.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Grant?”

“Rosie . . . her finger . . . please . . .”

“Her finger ?”

“Please!”

“I’m on my way.”

“The address—”

“No worries, I have it.” No need to explain Gavin had hacked into their tax return data. I wiped my chin, hopped on my Raleigh, and pedalled toward the Malone Road, Ma shouting after me that she wasn’t making any more dinners to be ruined if I couldn’t stay to eat them.

* * *

The Grants’ house was the biggest on a street of big houses. It took me a good few minutes to bike up their drive, getting my tyres stuck on the gravel. The door was opened by a teenage girl, the spit of Rosie but with glasses and heavy dark makeup. “Yeah?”

“I’m the detective.”

She sighed. “In there.” From the living room came the loud sound of crying. “Are you going to take your shoes off? The carpet cost like ten grand.”

I was wearing my Spider-Man socks. “I’ll keep the shoes on. It’s part of my process.”

She rolled her eyes. “Go on then. She’s too busy bawling to notice.”

It was a swanky room, with a big fire and nice squashy sofas, but I didn’t have time to take it all in because Mrs. Grant was on one of them, crying her eyes out. A red setter sat at her feet, looking up sadly. Standing by the fire was the sort of sports jacket–wearing fella you see in golf clubs. He was holding a big glass of what I thought was whiskey.

“Mr. Grant, I presume?”

He looked at me like the dog had done something nasty. “You must be the PI fella. Wee bit young, are you not?”

“Lots of people are, sir. What seems to be the trouble?”

Mrs. Grant started talk-crying and it sounded like, “Ba-ha-ha-ha finger, oh my Rosie.”

On the table lay a lot of bubble wrap and a big envelope. In the middle of it was some cotton wool, and on that was, as she’d said, a finger. It had on pink nail varnish and a gold ring. It was, I’d guess, the middle finger. “Rosie’s?”

“It’s her ring,” said her father, gripping the glass. “Her eighteenth birthday present.”

“Please,” sobbed the wife. “They want money. Half a million, look!”

It was a typed note, which unfortunately had got a bit stained with red. They’d been touching it, the eejits, but I was careful not to. I saw it was all spelled right. “Is there a name?”

“No. It’s that Magee family, I’ll bet. Bunch of ne’er-do-wells and not above kidnap.”

That was true, but I wasn’t sure Nasher could spell a word like imminently .

“Why do you think it’s them, sir?”

“He rang here once, that dreadful man. Said he wasn’t having his nephew going round with a stuck-up Prod. They must have taken her.”

“Did you call the PSNI?”

Mrs. Grant panicked. “No! We can’t do that. They said they’d kill her if we called the police.”

“Gurriers,” growled Mr. Grant. “I’ll take my shotgun to them.”

“Oh don’t, Harry!” she cried even harder. “Just give them the money.”

“It’s negotiating with terrorists, Marjorie!”

“It’s our daughter!”

In the corner of my eye I saw the other girl—the sister, she must be—had crept in. She was pretty under all the goth makeup. Same hair as Rosie. She was staring at the finger.

“Madeleine!” snapped her father. “I told you not to come in here.”

“Is that Rosie’s?”

“No, no, it’s just—a Halloween toy.”

“It’s February.”

“Maddy, will you please go away!”

“All right, whatever.” She went.

“Look here,” said the father. “There’s a time and a place given for the ransom. We want you to take it to them. There’s a key to a shipping container, in the docks.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You’re involved now. They said they’d give Rosie back if we send the money. Here.” He went behind the sofa and pushed out a pink wheeled suitcase, like the type girls take on planes.

“Are you telling me there’s half a million pounds in there?”

“Of course. I don’t like it but she is, as my wife says, our daughter. Now take it down to the docks and do the swap. Call us as soon as you have her.”

“But . . . wouldn’t you be better with the police?”

“No, it has to be you. I’d go myself but I’m a very important man. Thousands of people depend on me for their livelihood.”

“But, but—”

“Mr. Carson, if you don’t do this, our daughter’s blood will be on your hands.”

Their daughter’s blood was on their coffee table but I didn’t say this. “Can I go to the toilet first at least?” I needed time. Not knowing what to do, I took the case with me.

I heard Mrs. Grant call, “Would you take your shoes off if you’re going upstairs?”

I pretended not to hear.

On the stairs I found Maddy, painting her nails black. That gave me an idea. “Was your sister wearing polish when she went missing?”

“Doubt it. We’re not allowed at school. They make you clean it off.”

“Can I see if it’s in her room?”

She shrugged and we went upstairs. Rosie’s room made me dizzy, all posters and perfume and underwear hanging over chairs. Gav would have an asthma attack. I tried to focus. There was a whole drawer of varnishes, but no pink. Interesting.

“Do you think it’s her finger?” Maddy pretended to blow on her nails.

“You don’t seem bothered if it is.”

“It’s Rosie.”

“Meaning?”

“She never gets in trouble. She’s smart, you know. Like really, really smart. And mean. When I was ten my hamster bit her, so she drowned it, then told Mammy he’d escaped. I was never allowed another pet.”

I looked at her. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” she said. “Why, how old are you?”

“Eighteen. Well, nearly.”

“Can you drive?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve got a bike.”

“Huh.”

“Look,” I said, “I’ve got an idea. I need to go to the docks and check things out. Only I can’t ride my bike with a case.”

“Get a cab. There’s money in there, right?” She unzipped it before I could stop her. “Wow.” We blinked at the piles of crisp notes. “They’d hardly miss a tenner for a taxi.”

She was right, so I went outside. Part of me had been hoping I wouldn’t get one, and I’d have to give up, but just my luck one was sitting right in front of the house, its light on. I got in, clutching the case to me like a baby. “The docks, please.”

“Hello, son,” said the driver, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

It was Nasher Magee.

* * *

This was bad. On a scale of one to bad, this went up to eleven—a joke Gavin would appreciate, but he wasn’t here, and even if he was, he’d have been too busy crying and wetting himself to laugh.

“Where’s my nephew?” Nasher was driving nice and slow through the evening traffic.

“I don’t know! I’m trying to find Rosie. Her family think you have her.”

“What would I want with some uppity Malone Road cow?”

“Money?” I was hugging the little pink case to me.

He laughed. Not in a nice way. “Son, I’ve more readies stashed than Mr. Golf Club could ever dream of. I just want my nephew away from the meddling little bitch. So where are they?”