Page 18 of Fortune's Ashes
‘Well, you know now.’ He sniffed.
I gritted my teeth. ‘I guess so. I want to ask you about another matter.’
Carmichael sighed heavily and stopped again. ‘What is it?’ He looked over his shoulder at me with an expression that suggested he was certain that I was using diversionary tactics to learn more about Cobain.
‘Two words for you,’ I said, tamping down my irritation. ‘Quincy. Carmichael.’
Phileas jerked and faced me. The name of the long-missing gremlin was clearly the last thing he’d expected me to mention. ‘What about him?’
I straightened my back. ‘You know him, then?’
‘I did know him, but he’s been gone for a long time.’ He folded his arms across his chest, creasing his pin-striped suit and messing up his perfectly folded pocket handkerchief. ‘He was my nephew.’
Bingo. ‘You’re talking about him as if he were dead.’
‘As I said, detective, Quincy has been gone for many years. His mother – my sister – passed away four years ago. He didn’t attend the funeral and he didn’t get in touch. If he is alive, he’d do best to stay away.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘We don’t need him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He chose to leave and not return. He didn’t leave a note or any word about what he’d done, and I strongly believe that his disappearance hastened my sister’s death. Quincy is no longer welcome.’
Families are messy things; however, I wasn’t going to leave it at that. ‘Did you know Quincy was going to leave before he did so? Did he give any indication that he wanted to go away?’
I could see that Phileas’s impatience was growing. ‘Not that I recall, but the boy was always flighty. He could never stick to one thing.’ He glanced at his watch and frowned.
I persisted. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘The family had Sunday dinner the weekend before he vanished.’ Carmichael stepped back. ‘Now I really do have to go. The press conference is due to begin any moment and I have to be there.’
‘Press conference?’
‘Goodbye, DC Bellamy,’ he said firmly. He turned away again and marched off. This time I let him go, but my eyes followed his stiff back and swinging arms.
Then my stomach lurched and I leaned over, certain I was about to be sick again. I heaved once, twice, before the moment passed.
When I straightened up, I saw Max watching me with concern from across the street. I waved at him, pretending that everything was fine, then turned on my heel to retrieve Tallulah.
ChapterSeven
Given that it was almost thirteen years since Quincy Carmichael had disappeared, there would be no physical remnants of him. Even so, I wanted to visit his old home and places of work and speak to people who might have known him. It was possible that I might unearth some useful details.
Despite his uncle’s disgusted dismissal, Quincy’s working life intrigued me more than his personal life so I decided to start there. The last business he’d started, manufacturing and selling fake-blood products, was the logical place to begin. As far as I’d been able to glean, Quincy had outsourced the manufacture to a small factory on the furthest corner of Lisson Grove, tucked away from the more residential streets. Quincy might be long gone but the factory still maintained a presence.
I parked outside it, murmured a gentle warning to Tallulah to behave and headed inside.
There was a small, neat reception area with a smartly dressed woman behind the counter, a few healthy-looking plants and a flickering television on silent that was bolted to the wall in the far corner. From beyond the internal door, I could hear the sounds of machinery and people hard at work. I listened for a moment, then approached the receptionist and drew out my warrant card. ‘Good afternoon. My name is Detective Constable Emma Bellamy.’
The woman’s eyes flared in alarm. I pretended not to notice and consulted my notes. ‘I’m hoping to speak to the owner of this factory if he’s available. Birch Kale? Is he here today?’
She swallowed. ‘I’ll check and see. Can I ask what this is in relation to?’
‘It’s nothing to worry about. I only want to ask him a few questions about someone he used to do business with.’
The receptionist visibly relaxed. I couldn’t say for sure why she was so nervous, but I suspected it had something to do with the faint smell of weed that lingered in the air around her. I had far better things to do than chase up recreational pot smokers.
I continued to smile blandly in the hope that she’d continue to relax. Antagonising front-line staff never worked out well.
She edged out from behind her desk and disappeared through the door. As I swivelled around, my eyes fell on the television screen. It was tuned into the news and I watched a reporter outside the Houses of Parliament for a moment or two before the receptionist returned.
