Good Bait

17

The London College of Communication was a little way south of the river, too close to the monstrous traffic island that is the Elephant and Castle for comfort. For reasons best known to its custodians, much of the frontage was given over to large panels bearing stylishly lit close-ups of a couple passionately kissing. It pays, Karen guessed, to advertise. Amongst a bustle of activity, legions of students were foregathered on the street outside, garbed for the most part like students the world over. She was glad she’d dressed down herself, cotton jacket, sweater, worn jeans, her second-best pair of black Converse. Scuffed leather satchel.

Winter sunshine reflected back off the glass.

Voices raised in greeting. Arms round shoulders. Laughter.

A bus pulling by on its way towards New Cross Gate.

She spotted Ion Milescu walking briskly, winding between small knots of people, rucksack slung over one shoulder.

Karen moved to intercept him and as she did so he stopped to talk to two fellow students, the man seemingly African, the girl Chinese.

‘Ion …’

At first he didn’t recognise her, a face seen out of context.

‘I just need a word.’

‘I’ve got a class.’

‘A quick coffee, that’s all.’

‘I don’t know.’ He seemed flustered, uneasy.

‘Look,’ the African said, ‘if he doesn’t want to speak with you …’

‘No,’ Milescu said, ‘it’s all right.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure.’

The African shrugged — ‘Catch you later’ — tapped the Chinese girl on the shoulder and they walked away.

‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ Karen asked.

What she was hoping for was a little pop-up espresso bar run by a couple of Kiwis working their way round the world; what she got was a tired cafe between a launderette and a newsagent’s, on a small row of premises laid back from the main road; a greasy spoon that had moved some way to catering for its increasing student population, then stalled. Paninis alongside fry-ups; soya milk cappuccinos and mugs of tea you could stand a spoon in.

Karen played safe with an Americano; Ion Milescu a Pepsi.

‘A few things,’ Karen said, ‘have come to light since we talked last. I just wanted to make sure I’ve got the right end of the stick.’

‘What kind of things?’ He was looking off in the direction of the counter, the far wall, anywhere but at her.

‘You and Petru, for instance, from what you said before, you didn’t know him very well at all.’

‘That’s right.’

‘A few kickabouts and stuff like that.’

‘Right.’

‘Which sort of leaves out Victoria Park.’

‘What?’

‘Victoria Park. Hot Chip. Lesley Tabor. You remember Lesley?’

He mumbled something that might have been slag. She hoped it wasn’t.

‘You do remember Lesley?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘I thought you went out with her, for a while at least.’

‘She thought so, you mean.’

‘You and Lesley, Petru and Sasha, quite a foursome.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It wasn’t like anything. I just went with her a few times because …’ Ill at ease, he took a quick breath, dipped his head.

‘Because?’

‘’Cause he asked me to.’

‘He?’

‘Petru. Petru, who else?’

‘This kid you hardly knew.’

‘All right, all right. God!’ His voice loud enough to turn heads, the workman on his right glancing up from the Sun, a couple of students looking across from the plate of beans on toast they appeared to be sharing.

‘All right, we hung out for a while, went to a couple of gigs here and there — he didn’t have many friends, I don’t know why. After we played soccer a few times, went back to the cafe…’

‘The Chiswick cafe?’

‘Yes, after that he sort of latched on to me. For a while anyway. I suppose I felt a bit sorry for him. Living with some uncle over Wood Green somewhere. Least, that’s what he said.’

‘You didn’t believe him?’

‘I don’t know. It was all a bit — you know — vague. We were going to go over there once, I remember, he sort of built it up, then at the last minute he called it off, something about his uncle being busy, not wanting to be disturbed. Way he said it, just seemed a bit strange that’s all.’

‘You carried on seeing him?’

‘Maybe not as much. I had all this work, you know, college. Different assignments. I was busy, and he — most of the time, he didn’t seem to be doing anything. Just hanging out. And then there was all that stuff with Lesley. Her friend, the one Petru was going with, Sasha, every time I’d see her it’d be, oh, why don’t you get in touch with Lesley, send her a text, she’s dying to see you, blah, blah, blah. I got sort of sick of it.’

Karen took a mouthful of coffee. No better nor worse than she’d expected.

‘Petru, you say he spent a lot of time just hanging out?’

‘Yes.’

‘He didn’t have a job, then? Wasn’t studying, anything like that?’

‘He’d applied. Some college, to do I’m not sure what. Computer stuff, maybe. IT. I don’t even know if he got in or not. If he did get a place, he never took it up.’

‘And a job? Presumably if you were going out places, he had cash in his pocket from somewhere?’

‘I don’t know. He helped out his uncle sometimes, that’s all he ever said.’

‘Doing what, d’you know?’

‘No.’ A quick shake of the head.

‘There’s a suggestion that he might have been dealing drugs.’

‘Petru?’

‘Yes.’

‘No way.’

‘You seem pretty positive.’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘He wouldn’t even …’ He hesitated.’ If ever, you know, there was something going round, a smoke, a few pills, he’d always pass. Always.’

‘That doesn’t mean …’

‘I know. But, no, Petru getting mixed up in something like that, I just can’t see it. Really.’

He looked at his watch.

‘I should be going.’

‘Okay. Fine.’ She pushed her half-full cup away. ‘This uncle — Petru didn’t mention a name? An address?’

‘Afraid not. He never said anything much about himself at all. Except something once about missing his family, his mother especially. So I guess he wasn’t living with them at least. I got the impression she was still back in Moldova.’

Karen nodded. So far any attempts to contact Petru Andronic’s next of kin via the Moldovan Embassy in Dolphin Square had foundered amidst red tape and inertia. She would get one of the team to make a fresh attempt, diplomatically kick a few backsides.

Out on the street, Milescu following, she took two paces, then stopped. ‘Apparently your father’s been talking to my boss, my boss’s boss. Whatever you’ve got yourself involved in, he seems a bit concerned about.’

‘You serious?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s crazy. I’m not involved in anything.’

I hope not, Karen thought. She slipped one of her cards into his hand. ‘Anything you want to talk about, any time, just give me a call.’