of bin bags next to where I have driven in, but otherwise it’s fairly tidy. There’s no sign of anyone. Not even dogs. But a small generator hums, and a smudge of smoke comes from the chimney pipe of one of the trailers.
I get out of the car, shut the door, and wait for something to happen.
A door opens in the largest trailer, bright with chrome and glossy paint, and a small, stout woman comes out. She is in her late fifties, with dyed black teased hair fluffed around her face and heavy tan makeup. She wears a brown-and-cream trouser suit and holds a cigarette in her hand.
“This is private land. No trespassers.”
“Hello. My name’s Ray Lovell. I’m looking for Ivo and Tene Janko. I was told they might be here.”
She looks me up and down for a moment or two.
“Yeah? Who told you that?”
“Tene’s sister, Luella.”
“Lulu? Christ! You’ve seen Lulu?”
“Er, yes.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Ray Lovell. Are you Mrs. Smith?”
Her mouth twitches—she obviously doesn’t want to answer. “What’s this about?”
“Well, it’s about . . . I’m trying to track down Rose Wood—Ivo’s wife.”
“Bloody hell. She’s not here, so you’ve wasted your time.”
“I know it was a long time ago. I’d just like to talk to them. I’m a private investigator. I’m talking to everyone who knew her.”
She seems to think about it for a minute: a minute in which she scrutinizes me carefully. She has doubtless registered my Gypsy name, but even without that, she could tell by looking at me. I think of what Leon said—how he was right: a gorjio wouldn’t stand a chance.
At last she says, “Hang on,” and goes to another of the trailers—the one farthest from the entrance. I look around at the others as I wait. The woman—who I assume is Kath Smith—came out of the most expensive trailer, and the largest. The one she has just gone into is older; a 1960s Westmorland Star about twenty feet long. The other two are smaller, and modest by comparison. I wonder if anyone else is watching me—there are usually plenty of people in a Gypsy site, lots of children and dogs— although I’ve seen no sign of either here. I’m curious, but I don’t want topoke around too obviously. It would be rude, so I wait by my car until she reappears and tells me to come in.
Inside, I feel as though I’m stepping into another era.
The trailer is dim, the windows obscured by short net curtains, and there’s a faint odor of tar. The kitchen area is bleak, but the stove is lit, making it warm and stuffy. At the back, right in the middle of the bay window, an elderly man sits behind a fold-down table. He seems large for the space, or perhaps it’s the ornaments that make it feel crowded— the top cupboards are full of china and cut glass, and almost every inch of the wood-veneered walls is hidden by photographs, plates, and pictures.
“Please . . . don’t mind if I don’t get up—not so spry as I used to be.” Tene Janko has thick dark gray hair springing off his forehead and curling over his collar. Dark brown eyes, a pleasantly weathered face, and a heavy mustache. Deep lines around his eyes give him a look of good humor. He looks like a romantic painting of a Gypsy elder; a handsome, old Romany rai on the cover of a children’s book. I didn’t think anyone looked like that anymore.
From where he sits, he extends his hand to me and shakes firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Janko . . . Thank you.”
I ease myself onto the seat he indicates.
“Kath, let’s have some tea.”
He speaks without looking at her. She goes to the kitchen through the keyhole arch, and puts on a kettle.
“Perhaps Mr. Lovell fancies a nip.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine with—”
“Well, I do.”
Kath glares at her brother, bangs down the tea caddy, and goes out of the trailer.
Tene looks at me, elbows on the table.
“It’s a lovely trailer you’ve got here, Mr. Janko.”
“Thank you. I’ve kept it the
I get out of the car, shut the door, and wait for something to happen.
A door opens in the largest trailer, bright with chrome and glossy paint, and a small, stout woman comes out. She is in her late fifties, with dyed black teased hair fluffed around her face and heavy tan makeup. She wears a brown-and-cream trouser suit and holds a cigarette in her hand.
“This is private land. No trespassers.”
“Hello. My name’s Ray Lovell. I’m looking for Ivo and Tene Janko. I was told they might be here.”
She looks me up and down for a moment or two.
“Yeah? Who told you that?”
“Tene’s sister, Luella.”
“Lulu? Christ! You’ve seen Lulu?”
“Er, yes.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Ray Lovell. Are you Mrs. Smith?”
Her mouth twitches—she obviously doesn’t want to answer. “What’s this about?”
“Well, it’s about . . . I’m trying to track down Rose Wood—Ivo’s wife.”
“Bloody hell. She’s not here, so you’ve wasted your time.”
“I know it was a long time ago. I’d just like to talk to them. I’m a private investigator. I’m talking to everyone who knew her.”
She seems to think about it for a minute: a minute in which she scrutinizes me carefully. She has doubtless registered my Gypsy name, but even without that, she could tell by looking at me. I think of what Leon said—how he was right: a gorjio wouldn’t stand a chance.
At last she says, “Hang on,” and goes to another of the trailers—the one farthest from the entrance. I look around at the others as I wait. The woman—who I assume is Kath Smith—came out of the most expensive trailer, and the largest. The one she has just gone into is older; a 1960s Westmorland Star about twenty feet long. The other two are smaller, and modest by comparison. I wonder if anyone else is watching me—there are usually plenty of people in a Gypsy site, lots of children and dogs— although I’ve seen no sign of either here. I’m curious, but I don’t want topoke around too obviously. It would be rude, so I wait by my car until she reappears and tells me to come in.
Inside, I feel as though I’m stepping into another era.
The trailer is dim, the windows obscured by short net curtains, and there’s a faint odor of tar. The kitchen area is bleak, but the stove is lit, making it warm and stuffy. At the back, right in the middle of the bay window, an elderly man sits behind a fold-down table. He seems large for the space, or perhaps it’s the ornaments that make it feel crowded— the top cupboards are full of china and cut glass, and almost every inch of the wood-veneered walls is hidden by photographs, plates, and pictures.
“Please . . . don’t mind if I don’t get up—not so spry as I used to be.” Tene Janko has thick dark gray hair springing off his forehead and curling over his collar. Dark brown eyes, a pleasantly weathered face, and a heavy mustache. Deep lines around his eyes give him a look of good humor. He looks like a romantic painting of a Gypsy elder; a handsome, old Romany rai on the cover of a children’s book. I didn’t think anyone looked like that anymore.
From where he sits, he extends his hand to me and shakes firmly. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Janko . . . Thank you.”
I ease myself onto the seat he indicates.
“Kath, let’s have some tea.”
He speaks without looking at her. She goes to the kitchen through the keyhole arch, and puts on a kettle.
“Perhaps Mr. Lovell fancies a nip.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine with—”
“Well, I do.”
Kath glares at her brother, bangs down the tea caddy, and goes out of the trailer.
Tene looks at me, elbows on the table.
“It’s a lovely trailer you’ve got here, Mr. Janko.”
“Thank you. I’ve kept it the
Similar Books
