21
Incarnations of the Past
When he saw the woman stood behind Monica’s desk he almost gave a shriek of alarm. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in his office.
‘Edith, what on earth are you doing here?’ he snapped, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the office door.
The young woman looked awkwardly about her for a second or two. ‘I’m cleaning your office, like I usually do, Mr Caldwell,’ she explained.
‘Cleaning it?’ he repeated brusquely.
‘Yes, sir; cleaning it. It’s what I do.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his index finger tracing one of the fine lines on his forehead. ‘Yes, sorry, I understand. You startled me.’
‘You startled me too, Mr Caldwell; you’re in much earlier today than normal.’
‘I am?’
‘Nearly a full hour or so.’
‘That right? Yes, well I have work to do. Have you finished here?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Edith scuttled around the desk, picking up her duster and can of Pledge furniture polish and made a hasty retreat.
Caldwell shut the office door, hung his keys up on the board on the wall filled with a multitude of other such keys. The place reminded him of a jail, he thought. He slid open a desk drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. He didn’t bother with a glass, took a hefty, breath-sponging swig from the neck. He wiped a hand across his mouth, was tempted to take another drink but resisted and screwed the cap back on. He’d stuffed the bottle back in the drawer when a knock came at the door.
‘What is it now?’ he said harshly.
Edith poked her head round the door. ‘Sorry, Mr Caldwell, but there’s a man from the Langbridge Gazette to see you.’
‘Send him to Vince. He takes care of all that crap.’
‘He specifically asked to speak to you. Says it’s very important.’
‘It always is. Send him in.’
A young man entered, probably just sneaking into his twenties, thought Caldwell. He was dressed in a cheap suit that was too long in the arms and a tad too short in the legs. The knot of his tie did not cover the top button of his shirt; a sin Caldwell found unforgivable. To top-off the sorry-looking picture his hair was far too long and badly cut. Caldwell groaned inwardly as the young man dashed out a hand to shake.
‘Mr Caldwell? Good morning!’
Caldwell gave it a half-hearted shake. ‘And you are?’ He didn’t invite the man to sit down.
He didn’t reply. He was looking animatedly about the office, giving an enthusiastic nod as he did so. ‘I love cinemas,’ he said. ‘The glitz, the glamour of Hollywood and all that.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Caldwell, ‘lots of glamour here.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flipped the top and popped one out. He offered one to his visitor who declined. ‘So who are you exactly and what’s so urgent?’
‘Oh, sorry, please forgive me! Leonard Kimble, pleased to meet you.’ He plonked himself down in a chair opposite Caldwell.
‘Kimble – as in related to Mrs Kimble, my admin assistant?’
‘Ex-admin assistant,’ he corrected. ‘You sacked her.’
‘We came to a mutual understanding,’ he said, lighting up the cigarette and blowing out smoke. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘She’s my grandmother, if you must know,’ he went on.
‘You came here to tell me that?’ said Caldwell. ‘I’m pleased for you but very busy…’
Leonard Kimble fumbled in his ill-fitting jacket for his wallet, and fumbled inside this for a business card. He showed it to Caldwell. ‘I’m from the Langbridge Gazette.’
‘That much I know already,’ he said. ‘What is it they say about that local rag? That’s it – tomorrow’s chip paper today.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘So you’re a reporter, if the Gazette has such a thing.’
‘That’s right, Mr Caldwell – features reporter,’ he said proudly.
‘Features, eh?’ he said. ‘How thrilling. The last review your paper gave of my cinema it said it smelled of damp and suggested people ought to bring hot water bottles.’
‘That wasn’t me, Mr Caldwell. I like the Empire, though admittedly it can get a trifle cold in winter.’
Caldwell sat back in his chair. ‘What is it you want, Kimble? I’m a busy man.’
The young man took out a notebook and pen. Flicked paper. ‘Can I ask you a few questions?’
‘You’ve got exactly five minutes.’
‘It’s about Monica Andrews.’
The cigarette was removed from his lips. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, she’s still missing.’
‘No shit, Sherlock. Look, that’s not something I’m going to talk to you about. I’ve already had the police in here asking about her. Go ask them.’
He grinned disarmingly. ‘Already have, thank you.’
‘Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?’
‘Do you think Monica had any enemies?’
‘Haven’t you articles on missing cats and dogs to write about?’
‘My grandmother said that Monica was, let’s say, not the friendliest person she’s known.’
‘She would, wouldn’t she? Monica took her job.’
The man nodded. ‘Yes, she did. I understand Monica’s background in admin was limited. So limited as to be virtually non-existent. I couldn’t help but wonder what special something she possessed – as she obviously lacked certain charms and people skills as well as a distinct lack of practical ability – that a woman of thirty-five years experience in the trade did not possess.’
‘What’s with all this Columbo stuff, Kimble?’
‘I’m writing an article, hoping we can help in our small way to trace her, jog people’s minds, that kind of thing. Her sister has asked us to and we thought we’d oblige.’
‘Fine,’ said Caldwell, stuffing the cigarette back into his mouth. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘My grandmother said Monica used to do the odd-bit of cleaning for a number of folk around Langbridge, besides here at the Empire.’
‘Your grandmother knows a lot. Best ask her.’
‘Did she tell you of some of these other places?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Care to tell me?’
‘Not really. I’ve told the police all I’m going to say on the subject of Monica Andrews and I’m not about to repeat myself to a second-rate arse-wipe of a newspaper.’
It didn’t faze Kimble. ‘Devereux Towers ring any kind of bell?’
Caldwell stared hard at the young man. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Ah, the Witch of Devereux Towers,’ said Kimble with a smirk.
‘I hear some people call her that,’ said Caldwell. ‘Some people can be quite horrible when they have a mind. Have you finished, Mr Kimble? I believe your five minutes are up.’ He indicated the door with the flat of his hand. ‘Talk to Monica’s friends – if you can call them that. She has a few here. Wait until their shift is finished; they’ll use any excuse to down tools as it is.’
‘Will do, thanks, Mr Caldwell.’ He got up, went to the door, stopped and turned. ‘One more thing…’
‘Now you really are sounding like Columbo.’
‘Are plans still going ahead to redevelop the Empire? Multi-screen and all that?’
‘Yes. Is that all?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to show me around, give our readers an indication of what it’s going to look like.’
‘You suppose right. Some other time perhaps, when your readers can actually read.’
Leonard Kimble smiled, stowed away his notebook. He thanked Caldwell profusely for his help and left. Caldwell stubbed his cigarette out into an ashtray, crushing it into an unrecognisable stub of paper. He put his head in his hands. ‘F*ck!’ he said. He took out the bottle of vodka and downed a couple of good measures. This time he didn’t put it away.
She was supposed to go to the f*cking police, he thought. Why hadn’t she done that? When he’d written the letter to Laura Leach telling her all about Felix and Katherine’s plans to screw her over, even telling them details like where they lived in Glastonbury, he expected her to go straight to the law. That would have been enough to frighten them off and he’d have been shut of them, possibly for good. But no, the stupid bitch didn’t play game and now it was all turning into an even bigger mess. The last thing he wanted was some dumb hack reporter making even the slimmest connection between him and Laura f*cking Leach. This thing with Monica – it was running away with itself. Christ, he wished he’d never gotten involved with the woman. It was his own stupid fault.
He’d raised a hand to his wife, struck her. He’d been drunk, of course, but that wasn’t an excuse. He desperately wanted to believe he had changed but in a foolish instant all his illusions were swept away and his wife had temporarily kicked him out of the house. Not for long, but long enough for him to hit the bottle again and seek solace where he could find it. Monica just happened to be the wrong woman at the wrong time and it soon became apparent that she was as ruthlessly manipulative as he had been in the past. He also bet the pregnancy wasn’t an accident either. Bitch.
He had to get out. He couldn’t stay in Langbridge. He thought that by coming to this out-of-the-way place he’d be able to lose the old Martin and reinvent another to stand in his place. Start afresh. But you can’t shake off the past that easily, he thought grimly. It was always with you, waiting to spring out at you when you least expected it.
There could never be a future, just various incarnations of the past.
* * * *