I headed up Tommy Taylor’s Lane, past the swimming pool and, turning right, cut across the Evesham Road and into Western Approach. On one side, a tennis court and skate park, Pittville Pump Room on the other side. Dan was easy enough to pick out from the other long-limbed youth. So this was how he studied for a degree.
I hollered, my voice competing with the screech and grind of metal on tarmac. Dan looked up and gave me a ‘what the fuck is he doing here’ look? Undeterred, I marched towards him. He cast his eyes to the ground, walked with a low lope, shoulders rounded. Not happy to associate with me, it seemed. In his eyes, I was the opposite of cool.
‘Yep?’ he said.
‘Simone. Where is she?’
‘How should I know?’
I bit down hard to stop myself from giving him a slap. ‘Let me rephrase. Where did you last see her?’
‘At home.’
‘When was that?’
‘Dunno, a couple of hours ago, maybe more, can’t remember.’
‘What about Jack and Gonzo?’
Dan shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask them.’
‘I would if they were there.’
‘Must be in bed.’
‘They’re not. I checked.’
Dan scratched his ear. ‘What day is it?’
I pulled a face. ‘Wednesday.’
‘Explains it. They’ve got lectures, solid.’
‘Does anyone else have keys to the house?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What’s with the interrogation?’
I flung him a look that startled him. He took a smart step back. ‘Someone trashed Simone’s room,’ I said darkly, ‘and she isn’t there.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Fuck, indeed.’
‘Was she there last night?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Did you see her this morning?’
‘Nope.’
‘You didn’t take her a cup of tea?’ I said, in a facetious tone.
Dan scowled, his look the equivalent of giving me the finger. ‘Did someone rearrange your face?’
Tempted to rearrange his, I stalked off.
Skirting the perimeter of the tennis court, I noticed a young girl, around fourteen years of age. Reaching up and over, she thwacked balls with immense style and precision over the net, her coach throwing one after another to improve her swing. Dark-featured, she could have been a young Simone. I ski when I can. I enjoy tennis and polo.
Shaken by the way my mind was working, I sat down on a low wall and pulled out my phone. I checked through the information I’d captured from Simone’s laptop and the list of hotel bookings she’d made in the past twelve months. It took me several minutes to find what I was looking for. Thinking it had to be a blind, I decided to corroborate the information before springing to hasty conclusions. Closing the picture, I logged onto the internet and punched in ‘New Forest Polo Club’. A website popped up with a list of fixtures. I compared it with the date Lars Pallenberg died – 20 May – and discovered that the Dunlop Cup was played on the same day. Scrolling down revealed that a high-class hotel sponsored the club, presumably in some kind of reciprocal deal whereby polo teams and social members could take advantage of hotel facilities. I called the club first and spoke to the polo manager.
‘Hi, I wonder if you can help me.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ So it was true what the website said. They really were friendly. Frankly, I was banking on it.
‘My girlfriend has let her membership lapse and I’d like to renew it, is that possible? She doesn’t know a thing about if, of course,’ I wittered on.
‘A surprise – what a nice idea. You say she’s a member, would that be social or player membership?’
I hesitated. ‘Social.’ I recalled Simone had told me she liked to watch. ‘The name’s Fabron.’
‘Simone Fabron?’ the manager asked.
I closed my eyes, cut the call and followed up the hotel connection, the same hotel that had appeared in Simone’s personal file. I started off the same way with a subtle variation.
‘Hi, I want to book a double room for next weekend.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, sir. May I ask how you found out about us?’
‘My girlfriend has stayed with you before and she recommended it.’
‘That’s always good to know.’
‘Would it be possible to have the same room? She stayed around 20 May last year, maybe the night before. The name’s Fabron.’
‘One moment, please.’ I waited, looked at the ground, made a pattern with the sole of my shoe, thinking about connections and lies, those we tell to ourselves and those told to us by others.
‘Yes, Miss Fabron stayed in room 10 on the 19th. Would you like –’
Moving fast, I hung up.