Felicity Young - Take Out

‘More than likely, Mr Marius,’ Stevie said. ‘I’d like to know more about this partnership of theirs.’

‘I’ve already been asked all this.’

‘Not by us.’

Marius gave in with a weary sigh. ‘Each man holds the majority of shares in the businesses they originally established, so their interests are closely connected. They go to Asia frequently to negotiate for fresh produce.’

‘Any specific country?’ Stevie asked.

‘Thailand, mostly—we import a variety of tropical fruits, mandarins, asparagus, garlic, potatoes et cetera. Both men believe in quality control and choose only the best.’

‘Ever been with them on one of these jaunts?’

‘No.’ Marius looked away from Stevie, keeping his expression rigid. Maybe he was pissed off because he’d never been invited. Maybe he knew there was more to these trips than fruit and veg.

‘We can check your passport,’ she added.

Marius, summoning up his indignation, leaned heavily on the desk on flattened palms. ‘Be my guest. I’m only the manager, there’s no need for me to go, I just see to the running of the shop floor. I have very few dealings with Ralph Hardegan. Until now I didn’t even know he was missing.’

And now he is, Stevie thought, you might at last get your slice of the pie.

As if sensing that Stevie had seen through him, Marius made an effort to relax into the padding of his chair and tried for a look of respectful calm. ‘Of course I’m devastated by Mrs Pavel’s death and as mystified by Jon and Ralph’s disappearances as you are. I—I just can’t see Jon as the type to murder his wife.’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘And I also can’t see why you think I’m somehow involved.’

‘We never implied you were,’ Stevie said, responding to his aggrieved look with a deliberately unnerving smile.

‘We just need to eliminate you from our enquiries, sir,’ Fowler added.

‘Is there a type who murders his wife, Mr Marius?’ Stevie asked, not smiling now.

‘You know what I mean,’ Marius blustered. ‘I only said that because the officers who spoke to me before implied it.’

‘What about girlfriends? I imagine in this kind of business the temptations must be pretty strong,’ Stevie said.

Marius manufactured a chuckle, directing his reply to Fowler. ‘Any red-blooded male would be tempted.’ He couldn’t have made a worse choice for some man-to-man bonding; Fowler’s return expression was less animated than the living statue’s they’d seen earlier in the street.

Marius touched the knot of his tie. ‘Yes, he had girlfriends, Mr Fowler,’ he said as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Most of the girls behind the bar obliged him at one time or another.’

And they probably oblige you too, you greasy toad, Stevie thought. ‘Is there one he saw more than most?’ she asked.

Marius moved as if to get up from his chair, but she put out a hand to stop him. ‘It’s okay; I’ll find her myself. Just tell me who to ask for.’

‘Her name is Rodika, she should be behind the bar now. She doubles as Jon’s secretary.’

Versatile woman.

‘Rodika,’ Fowler rolled the name on his tongue. ‘Is that a Romanian name?’

‘I believe it is, Mr Fowler.’

Stevie headed for the door.

‘Please, have a drink on me, madam,’ Marius called out.

Stevie needed something to eat before she could risk a drink. She pushed her way through the bodies on the dance floor, the sticky surface like velcro under her feet. At the circular central bar, finding no evidence of bar snacks, she plunged her hand into a bowl of nuts, which tasted like old cardboard—so much for quality control.

A bottle of water cost six dollars. She took one from the young barman and shouted above the din to chalk it up to Marius. She asked where she could find Rodika and he pointed to a woman wiping down a table next to the DJ’s set up. If Stevie had known the song blasting forth, she would never have recognised this remixed, pounding version, which burrowed deep into her chest and stayed there.

And boy was it hot. She swallowed several mouthfuls of water and began to push her way through the writhing bodies. She glanced at the people around her. It looked liked she’d chosen the wrong outfit again; never seemed to be able to get her dress style right these days. Sometimes she wished she really could pull off strappy and frills. Most of the women dancing under the flashing mirror ball wore skimpy dresses. The guys flashed luminescent smiles back, assorted bling bouncing to the beat.

She tapped the barmaid on her bony shoulder. The woman swung around with an exaggerated startle response, looked ready to plunge her dirty dishcloth into Stevie’s face. Stevie stepped back and smiled and put her palms up. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a fright,’ she shouted above the music.

Rodika responded with a wide smile of relief. One of her side teeth was missing, Stevie noticed; others flashed with gold. Her hair was platinum blonde and fluffy as an exotic chicken’s, her false eyelashes long enough to bat over a wineglass.

‘I’m with the police,’ Stevie said. ‘Can we go somewhere quieter to talk?’ Rodika glanced toward the club’s entrance. ‘It’s okay,’ Stevie told her, ‘Marius said I could talk to you.’

The woman indicated the fire exit with a tilt of her feathery head.

It was blissfully cool in the stairwell, though not as quiet as Stevie had hoped. Music still pounded in her ears and chest.

‘Is this about Jon? Have you found him?’ Rodika’s English was hard to decipher, her accent guttural. Stevie thought back to the police phone log. Yes, Rodika might sound unintelligible down a bad line if the cop on the other end was harassed enough or lazy enough not to give her his complete attention.

‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t found Mr Pavel yet,’ Stevie said.

The woman let out a sigh. Stevie examined her closely in the bright light of the stairwell. Despite her trim figure and scanty clothes her age was ambiguous. The delta of creases around her eyes, the deep marionette lines of her mouth, suggested anything from a worn out thirty-five to a well-preserved fifty.

‘Were you told about the baby found abandoned in the house?’ Stevie asked.

‘Yes, poor little Joshua. I feel sorry for him. How is he?’ There was concern in her voice, even though her look remained distracted and flickering. What was she frightened of, Stevie wondered: the police? Rodika had come from a country with a history of repression; fear of the police was ingrained. But Ralph Hardegan, Marius? The same virus of fear seemed to have infected them all.

‘He’s fine now,’ Stevie said, still searching Rodika’s heavily made-up face. ‘Fully recovered and being looked after by a foster family. But he wasn’t left alone in the house as long as we first thought. It turned out that someone had been coming into the house to feed him.’ Stevie saw surprise in the woman’s features, fear still, but no evidence of guilt. ‘Would you know anything about this, Rodika? Did you feed the baby after his parents disappeared?’

Rodika shook her head and clutched at Stevie’s arm. Bordering on hysteria she said, ‘No, not me, I have nothing to do with this! I no kill Delia, I no feed the baby!’

Stevie tried to calm her down. ‘It’s okay, Rodika; no one’s accusing you of anything. If I thought you were responsible, I’d be arresting you now and taking you down to the station, wouldn’t I? Have you visited the Pavel’s home at all over the last few months?’

‘No, I never go there. Jon always keep me away from Delia, he says we separate.’

Made sense to keep the wife and mistress apart, still, Stevie didn’t trust this woman any more than she did Marius. She’d make sure to get Fowler to take her prints and see if they matched any in the Pavel house.