Yes. That’s a lot of hiding.’
‘Yes.’
‘And his investment company seems to be named after a climb at the place where Moon fell and died. I mean, maybe a coincidence, yes, but a funny one, if so.’
‘Yes.’
Penry was a good copper once. He can be an idiot, of course. A posturing, macho idiot. But those things don’t bother me much and, anyway, I think we’re through most of that by now. In any case, I can tell Penry feels what I do. That there’s a withholding here, a mystery to be pierced.
He finishes his beer. Brains. That’s the brand. A brewery founded by Samuel Arthur Brain in 1882 and a gift to punning publicans ever since.
I say, ‘There’s more in the kitchen,’ and Penry goes to get another bottle. When he comes back he stays standing, surveying me, my mess of photos.
He says, ‘So . . .?’
I tell him about Francesca Ottilie Lockwood.
Ollie’s brother, Marianna’s daughter, Galton Evans’s lost girl.
The girl who hasn’t seen her father for years now. Who shed her father’s name. Whose brother says of their father that ‘he’s OK, but he is a bit of a dick.’
Penry looks disconcerted. Says, ‘What would you be hoping to find?’
‘Anything. I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I just know we ought to look.’
‘When?’
‘Saturday?’ It’s Thursday today.
He stays standing. Drinking beer. Staring down at me and my room. He says, ‘I think you’re a very bad person.’
A compliment.
He finds a bit of paper in his jeans back pocket, and tosses it at me. His scale of fees, I presume.
But I don’t care about that now. Just go to a drawer. Get out my set of pick locks. Ask if he knows how to use them. He says no.
I give him the picks and a few locks that I keep loose, for my own practice. I show him what to do. He starts out useless, but soon begins to get the hang of it. We go to my own front door and pick that. Go to my back door and pick that too.
I put everything – the picks, the spare locks – in a plastic bag.
Then ask if he knows anything about computers.
13
We do it.
Go to London. Penry goes up to Seven Sisters, the not-particularly-nice part of London where Cesca Lockwood has her flat. I head for King’s Cross. Central Saint Martins, where she studies.
It’s the first Saturday in May. Lockwood’s Facebook account has already pinned her to this place and this date. She doesn’t normally work Saturdays, but the school is running a fashion weekend event and the place is heaving.
Lockwood has a class in the morning, followed by an afternoon of ‘projects/workshopping’, and not enough time between the two for her to go home.
I’ve dressed vaguely younger than I am. A bit studenty. Black jeans, striped top, one of my sister Kay’s discarded jackets. Earrings.
But I don’t care, or not really. I’m not undercover exactly, just don’t want to attract attention.
I hang around in the café to start with, hoping to spot Francesca but no joy. Then drift along to the lecture theatre – Marek Adam, ‘On Drawing’ – and take a seat at the side. No one challenges me, or particularly looks at me. The tutor, with an accent that drifts between Paris and Central Europe, says, ‘In the battle of style and realism, we always have to be on the side of style.’ He pronounces ‘style’ stil , and ‘realism’ réalisme .
He shows us drawings of women with waists as thin as a bobbin of cotton, but with belts that are to die for.
Cesca comes in a minute or two late. Long, dark hair. Complicated silver jewellery and a black wrap top. She has a whiff of the dancer about her. Simultaneously gifted and vulnerable. Breakable.
She sits next to a girl who I had already provisionally identified as her flatmate – say what you like about Facebook, but we burglars love it. The two girls exchange a few words, then turn their full attention to the lecture. Take notes on tablets, faces slightly illuminated by their screens.
I text Penry: OK TO GO. I’LL
‘Yes.’
‘And his investment company seems to be named after a climb at the place where Moon fell and died. I mean, maybe a coincidence, yes, but a funny one, if so.’
‘Yes.’
Penry was a good copper once. He can be an idiot, of course. A posturing, macho idiot. But those things don’t bother me much and, anyway, I think we’re through most of that by now. In any case, I can tell Penry feels what I do. That there’s a withholding here, a mystery to be pierced.
He finishes his beer. Brains. That’s the brand. A brewery founded by Samuel Arthur Brain in 1882 and a gift to punning publicans ever since.
I say, ‘There’s more in the kitchen,’ and Penry goes to get another bottle. When he comes back he stays standing, surveying me, my mess of photos.
He says, ‘So . . .?’
I tell him about Francesca Ottilie Lockwood.
Ollie’s brother, Marianna’s daughter, Galton Evans’s lost girl.
The girl who hasn’t seen her father for years now. Who shed her father’s name. Whose brother says of their father that ‘he’s OK, but he is a bit of a dick.’
Penry looks disconcerted. Says, ‘What would you be hoping to find?’
‘Anything. I don’t know. Maybe nothing. I just know we ought to look.’
‘When?’
‘Saturday?’ It’s Thursday today.
He stays standing. Drinking beer. Staring down at me and my room. He says, ‘I think you’re a very bad person.’
A compliment.
He finds a bit of paper in his jeans back pocket, and tosses it at me. His scale of fees, I presume.
But I don’t care about that now. Just go to a drawer. Get out my set of pick locks. Ask if he knows how to use them. He says no.
I give him the picks and a few locks that I keep loose, for my own practice. I show him what to do. He starts out useless, but soon begins to get the hang of it. We go to my own front door and pick that. Go to my back door and pick that too.
I put everything – the picks, the spare locks – in a plastic bag.
Then ask if he knows anything about computers.
13
We do it.
Go to London. Penry goes up to Seven Sisters, the not-particularly-nice part of London where Cesca Lockwood has her flat. I head for King’s Cross. Central Saint Martins, where she studies.
It’s the first Saturday in May. Lockwood’s Facebook account has already pinned her to this place and this date. She doesn’t normally work Saturdays, but the school is running a fashion weekend event and the place is heaving.
Lockwood has a class in the morning, followed by an afternoon of ‘projects/workshopping’, and not enough time between the two for her to go home.
I’ve dressed vaguely younger than I am. A bit studenty. Black jeans, striped top, one of my sister Kay’s discarded jackets. Earrings.
But I don’t care, or not really. I’m not undercover exactly, just don’t want to attract attention.
I hang around in the café to start with, hoping to spot Francesca but no joy. Then drift along to the lecture theatre – Marek Adam, ‘On Drawing’ – and take a seat at the side. No one challenges me, or particularly looks at me. The tutor, with an accent that drifts between Paris and Central Europe, says, ‘In the battle of style and realism, we always have to be on the side of style.’ He pronounces ‘style’ stil , and ‘realism’ réalisme .
He shows us drawings of women with waists as thin as a bobbin of cotton, but with belts that are to die for.
Cesca comes in a minute or two late. Long, dark hair. Complicated silver jewellery and a black wrap top. She has a whiff of the dancer about her. Simultaneously gifted and vulnerable. Breakable.
She sits next to a girl who I had already provisionally identified as her flatmate – say what you like about Facebook, but we burglars love it. The two girls exchange a few words, then turn their full attention to the lecture. Take notes on tablets, faces slightly illuminated by their screens.
I text Penry: OK TO GO. I’LL
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