‘Right,’ said Sergeant Troy and smiled again. He couldn’t help it. In spite of the screwy gunge decorating her face and the stridently sexy clothes, there was something almost innocent about her. Her gelled hair stuck up in little points all over her head, like the soft spines of a baby porcupine.
‘We’ve been given some background from the Caritas office.’
‘You what?’
‘An organisation that helps young offenders.’ Barnaby read over the main points of his notes. ‘Could you add anything to that?’
‘Not really. I know she’d been thieving for ages before she were caught. And then she goes straight back to it. Seemed to think she were invisible. Like I said, living in a dream.’
‘Did Carlotta talk much about the theatre?’ Barnaby waved his hands in a vaguely all-inclusive gesture. ‘Acting, that sort of thing.’
‘She were dead keen. Had this paper with jobs in—’
‘The Stage?’
‘Mind reader, ain’tcha?’
‘My daughter’s in the business.’
‘She’d follow the ads up but never get anywhere. Reckoned you had to have this special card.’
‘Equity.’ Barnaby remembered the excitement and delight on the day Cully got hers.
‘Spent all her money on classes. Dancing, working on her voice. I mean, who needs it these days? That lot in EastEnders sound like they was dragged up in Limehouse.’
‘Do you have any idea where she went for lessons?’
‘Somewhere up West. Look, you still ain’t told me what this is about. Is she OK, Lottie?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Troy. ‘She’s disappeared.’
‘I ain’t surprised. She were bored rigid down in Fern whatsit. Bugger all to do. The old man always jawin’ and his wife treating her like dirt.’
Barnaby thought that didn’t sound like Ann Lawrence. ‘You talked to her, then?’
‘She’d ring up sometimes.’
Barnaby glanced around the cluttered little room.
‘There’s a pay phone in the ’all.’
‘And she didn’t come back here?’
Tanya shook her head. ‘I’d’ve heard her moving about.’
‘Maybe you were at work.’
‘I only work nights. Lap dancing in a club off Wardour Street.’ Tanya noticed Troy’s expression change and added, with affecting dignity, ‘It’s nothin’ like that. They’re not even allowed to touch you.’
‘How about visitors? Did Carlotta have any?’
‘Men, I suppose you mean.’
‘Not necessarily. We’re looking to contact anyone who knew her.’
‘Well, the answer’s no. She went out a lot but nobody came to the flat.’
‘Who has the place now?’
‘Nobody. You have to pay three months in advance so it ain’t run out yet.’
‘Do you have a spare key?’
Another head shake. ‘I can give you the landlord’s number if you want.’
As Troy wrote it down, Barnaby wandered over to the window. The back view was only slightly less depressing than the front. Tiny concrete yards or squares of hard-packed earth almost invisible under abandoned domestic detritus. There was a rusty fire escape that he wouldn’t have liked to trust his life to. He turned back into the room and asked Tanya about the people in the downstairs flat.
‘Benson’s a Rasta, spends most of his time over at Peckham with his girl friend and the baby. Charlie’s a porter at Seven Dials. But they both moved in after Carlotta left so they won’t know nothing.’
‘I believe she received several airmail letters at the Rectory.’
‘They’d be from her dad. In Bahrain.’
‘We heard,’ said Sergeant Troy, ‘she threw them away unopened. ’
‘Blimey.’ Tanya’s face became pinched and wistful. ‘Catch me chucking letters from my dad away. Always assuming I could find out who he was.’
‘If you can think of anything else, Tanya, give me a call.’ Barnaby gave her his card. ‘And, of course, if Carlotta turns up. Day or night - there’s an answering machine.’
On their way out Troy took down the number of the pay phone. Barnaby opened the front door and the two policemen were once more exposed to the weak autumn sunshine.
Sergeant Troy thought of his family: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Although at any given moment at least half of these assorted relatives would be driving him up the wall he couldn’t imagine life without them.
‘Poor kid. Not much of a start, is it? Not even knowing who your dad is.’
‘You’re not going soft on me, are you, Sergeant?’