The Invisible Ones (12 page)

“I understand. But he is still her husband. Don’t you think it’s strange that even her own family haven’t heard from her since?”

Tene blows air out of his nostrils in an impatient snort.

“If I’d have done something like that, I’d be ashamed to show my face, too.”

“What if something had happened, and she couldn’t come back?”

Tene looks at me, astonished.

“Couldn’t come back?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Like . . . kidnapped, you mean?”

“Not that, especially. Something may have happened to her afterward. Finding out what did happen . . . could give everyone some peace.”

Tene snorts again.

“My old dad used to say, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ And I’ve always found that to be advice worth taking.”

I smile inadvertently. It’s not a cliché you often hear as a private investigator, although I feel like saying it to clients sometimes—on average once or twice a week. I never do, though.

“My dad used to say that, too.”

“Well, then. I’m asking you not to bother my son. It won’t help you, and it will hurt him.”

“I appreciate what you’ve said, but I can’t promise not to talk to him.”

Tene glares at me and then seems to make up his mind about something.

“I understand, Mr. Lovell. You’re just making a living like the next man.”

As I’m getting my card out of my pocket, I stand up and knock my knee against the table. Tene reaches out a hand to steady it, lifting the lace tablecloth as he does so. And I realize, with a shock, that his seat is a wheelchair.

“I’m so sorry . . .”

A checked blanket is tucked over withered legs, out of proportion to the rest of his body. I’m embarrassed. And I can’t believe I didn’t notice before.

“Whoops-a-daisy.” Tene is unconcerned.

“If you think of anything else, Mr. Janko—if you remember something that might be relevant—anything at all . . . You never know what can have a bearing . . .”

Kath Smith is outside, to watch me clear off.

“Got what you wanted, then?”

“Yes, thank you for everything. I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about when Rose left? You don’t know who she went with?”

“We weren’t there. It was just Tene and Ivo and her. We heard later on.”

“Do you know where I could find Ivo?”

“Last we heard, he was up in the Fens somewhere.”

“He travels?”

“Yeah.”

“Whereabouts?”

A pause.

“Wisbech way. I think.” She takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one. “Last we heard.” “Okay. Thanks.”

I smile breezily.

“Nice to have met you, Mrs. Smith.”

As I pick my way through the worst of the mud to my car, I think there is a whisper of movement from one of the trailers—perhaps a flicker of a curtain. I wonder if Ivo Janko isn’t in the end trailer. If he isn’t, I’ll eat my investigator’s license for breakfast. But I don’t want to antagonize them. Not yet. And after six years, I don’t suppose another day or two is going to make a great deal of difference to Rose Janko, wherever she is now.

14.

JJ

After class today, our form teacher, Mr. Stewart, held me back until everyone else had gone.

“Well, JJ,” he started. Never a good sign. “End of term soon.”

“Mm.”

“And we still haven’t decided about your exam subjects, have we?”

“
Erm,
no.”

“Your mum didn’t reply to the letter we sent out.”

“Oh.”

That’s not surprising, as we don’t live where they think we do.

As if he suspected something of the sort, he gave me an envelope. “Here’s another copy. We’d like her to come in so we can all sit down and talk about your future.”

I nodded. It sounds so serious when they say things like that.

“Will you make sure she gets it this time? There’s nothing to worry about. You could have a very promising future, you know.”

“Okay.”

He smiled. I think he was really trying to be nice. Mr. Stewart’s all right, unlike some of the teachers, even if he loses his temper sometimes.
He can’t stand it when people muck about; he really shouts. Sometimes he throws chalk.

After school, Granddad picks me up in the lorry. He’s been out totting. I’m glad everyone else has gone, because nobody else gets picked up from school in a lorry. It’s not that I mind, really—it’s just that some people take the piss, and I can’t really be bothered with that. Granddad’s all right. He doesn’t go on about how I should be working at my age. Although he doesn’t say so, I think he agrees with Mum about school. It’s fine not being able to read and stuff if you work with your family—tarmacking, say, or scrap dealing. But you have to stick together for that to work; there has to be lots of you—lots of children, or brothers marrying sisters (not their own sisters, obviously), and our family isn’t very good at that, on account of the disease. Even without the disease, look at Uncle Ivo and Mum: they haven’t managed to stick together with anyone. So they don’t think there’s much hope for me. If you’re on your own, it’s better to have an education. Anyway, I like school, in some ways. I like reading; I always have. This makes me a bit strange in my family; Mum will read only if it’s a form, or the paper if there’s a good murder. Great-uncle can barely read at all, but he knows more than anyone I know.

Last year, when I first came to the school, we were on the council site. Some of Granddad’s relatives had gone on the road, and they let us sublet. You’re not supposed to, but still. It wasn’t that nice. The other people weren’t friendly, apart from the girls who used to hang around Ivo. But most of them were young and stupid. By the time a girl’s Ivo’s age— he’s twenty-eight—she’s been married for years, unless there’s something wrong with her. And hardly anyone gets divorced. You don’t want to marry someone who’s been married before, or marry someone who’s a lot older than you. It’s just not done. When they told us we had to leave because we were illegal, we weren’t that sorry.

This is a good site, the one we’re on now. It’s private, and there aren’t any neighbors to kick up a fuss. Granddad can bring scrap back, and there’s even a stream of clean water. Great-uncle and Gran love it—it’s
like the old days, apparently. Ivo likes it, too; he is a very private person, and he didn’t like the girls pestering him all the time, and cooing over Christo, just because he’s so cute.

Mum’s still out when we get back, so I have tea with Gran and Granddad. Granddad puts the telly on, and we eat bread and butter and watch an ancient American cop show. I think I get on best with Granddad when we’re watching telly. Gran is in a bit of a mood, but neither of us asks her why, which is sort of deliberate, to see how annoyed she’ll get. She gets her own back by waiting until the most exciting bit in the cop show to tell us.

“A private detective came snooping round today.”

“Kath, shush. We’re watching,” says Granddad.

I say, “What?”

“He came round asking all these questions about Rose.”

“Rose?”

Now she has Granddad’s attention.

“Can you believe it? After all this time, her family want to find her.”

“Well, they won’t find her here.”

“I know, but Tene’s decided he doesn’t want him talking to Ivo. We said he was in the Fens. Wisbech. So don’t either of you say any different, if he comes back.”

Granddad shrugs, turns back to
Dragnet
, and turns up the volume to let us know it’s over, as far as he’s concerned.

I stare at Gran, wondering if she’s made all this up. It seems incredible— far too exciting to happen to us.

“What did he look like?”

“What did he look like?”

“Yeah. The private eye.”

“Well, he’s a Gypsy.”

“Really? Is he coming back?”

A Gypsy private detective—I’ve never heard of such a thing.

“What are you so excited about?”

“I’m not excited.”

Later, I go back home to find Mum and Ivo and Christo about to
have supper. We quite often eat together, what with Mum working and Christo to take care of. Mum and Ivo are talking in low voices when I come in, and Christo’s watching telly. He cheers when he sees me. I stick out my hand, and he twines his fingers into mine: it’s our thing.

“Here’s trouble,” says Ivo. He used to say this when I was little, but it sounds a bit weird now that I’m fourteen. It reminds me that it’s been a while since he’s said it.

“You heard about this private detective?”

“Tchah.”
Ivo rolls his eyes.

“It’s daft, them coming round now. What do they think they’re going to find out?”

This is Mum. From this I gather they’ve been talking about it, too.

“You’re supposed to be in Wisbech.”

Ivo grins at me.

“Yeah, well . . . could be, I suppose.”

“Great-uncle tell you he’s a Gypsy?”

“Yeah. Half, anyway.”

“I’ve never heard of a Gypsy private detective. Have you?”

“No. Fancy it, do you?”

“Dunno.”

Mum smiles. I’m glad she’s not too tired tonight. Sometimes when she’s been driving around doing deliveries all day, she’s so tired she can hardly speak. She just collapses on the settee and falls asleep after supper. She usually cheers up when Ivo and Christo are around, though. She and Ivo are good friends.

There is one thing, though, that I’m not glad about. None of us are. Christo hasn’t been very well. It’s been four weeks since we got back from Lourdes, and he hasn’t got any better. In fact, I think he’s got worse. He talks less, and seems weaker. He does almost nothing but lie around on the settee at Ivo’s or ours, looking at everything with eyes that seem too big for his face. He’s so small and thin—about half the size of other six-year-olds. And sometimes he doesn’t even look at things. He just lies there, and you can hear his breathing, as though he’s panting, even though he’s
not moving at all. Sometimes I want to scream. Why can’t anyone do something?

How long does it take God to cure a six-year-old? I asked Ivo how long afterward before he started getting better, and he said he couldn’t really remember, but he thought it was so gradual you couldn’t really notice— which wasn’t very helpful.

I think we have to face the fact that there isn’t going to be any miracle, not this time. In fact, let’s face it, folks, it was all a big, fucking, stupid waste of time. And now what?

15.

Ray

The scrap of paper with Luella’s number on it is buried in the pile by the phone, where it’s been for some days. I know it’s there, but I sit by the phone for a couple long minutes before picking it up and dialing.

To my surprise it’s picked up almost immediately. Her voice sounds more relaxed than it did before, less defensive.

“Hi. It’s Ray Lovell.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

The defensiveness returns, along with reinforcements.

“I’m sorry to disturb you again, but I wondered if I could ask you some more questions?”

“I’ve got to go out. What is it?”

“Well, maybe we could meet? Whenever’s convenient. I can come to you if you like.”

“Did you see my brother?”

“Yes.”

I don’t say anything else. Perhaps she has some vestige of curiosity about him.

“I’ve got to go through Wimbledon. There’s a pub on the Broadway,
the Green Man. Near the theater. I could meet you there at nine. For half an hour. That’s all.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Janko. I appreciate your taking the time. I’ll see you there.”

To be honest, I don’t know what she can tell me. I’m not even sure what I’m going to ask. Possibly, I’d be better off spying on the encampment down in Hampshire, although that sort of surveillance is extremely difficult, with no buildings or vehicles around to camouflage you. It would mean hopping about in the bushes with a long lens like an idiot. Tomorrow is always a better day to be an idiot.

This time she’s waiting for me; I’m on time, but she’s early, sitting at a corner table, smoking a cigarette. She’s dressed more casually, in jeans and a long baggy sweater that makes her look even smaller. Still the heels and lipstick, though; I have a feeling she doesn’t leave home without them.

“Thanks for meeting me, Miss Janko. Let me get you something.”

“Just a tea, please. And call me Lulu. I keep thinking you’re talking to someone else.”

“Lulu. Gotcha.”

I get a tea, and a half for myself. No overdoing it tonight.

“So how was my brother?”

“I didn’t realize he was in a wheelchair.”

She shrugs and sips her tea.

“Must make living on the road very difficult.”

“He’s got family to run around after him.”

“Still . . .”

“Did you find out anything about Rose?”

“Not really. I wanted to see Ivo, but Tene doesn’t want me talking to him. Said it would be upsetting. Where does Ivo travel?”

“With Tene, or always used to.”

“They said he was in the Fens.”

She shrugs again; the sharpness of the gesture—though nothing else about her—reminds me of Tene.

“Maybe he is.”

“You don’t know?”

“I told you, we don’t have much to do with each other. I haven’t seen them for . . . about three years.”

“You spoke to Tene, though?”

“Yeah. He is my brother.”

“Of course. I met your sister, too. And I . . . I got the impression that Ivo was there. Why should she and Tene hide him?”

Lulu frowns at me.

“You think they’re lying?”

“I think they’re protecting him. But why?”

“Like he said, I suppose he’s still upset about it. And if he doesn’t know anything . . .”

“People usually know more than they think they do.”

“Is that why you’re asking me where my nephew is? Even though I told you I don’t know?”

I smile in acknowledgment. “I suppose so. And you have a phone.”

She tuts, smiles, and looks at the ceiling.

Are we flirting? I ask myself.

“Rose buggered off a long time ago. She didn’t want anything to do with them. Why should they want anything to do with her? Or with anyone who wants to ask about her?”

I sip my half and find it almost empty. Her tea is still steaming.