‘We’re authorised to conduct a search, so I’d say it suits us all. Unless you’d rather not. It would be irregular, surely, if you preferred it here to the comfort of your home.’
‘I have nothing to hide,’ says Maurice. ‘Quite the reverse.’ He smiles and sees the inspector’s mouth turn down at the edges, as if some upperness of hand has been wrested.
Nine
Maurice’s flat is housed within a slim, early Victorian affair that looks onto London Fields. A gentle stroll would get you to Carmelo’s home in a quarter of an hour.
Staffe shows the young fogey a photograph taken outside Carmelo Trapani’s house on the day Carmelo disappeared. It has been lifted from the CCTV footage and is taken from above, slightly behind, and is grainy and blurred, the perspective warped. Maurice doesn’t bat a lash. He stares straight ahead, pale-eyed.
Martin Goldman says, ‘That’s not Maurice. Unless you can prove it, which you can’t, and as we have said, Maurice was in his house from eight o’clock in the morning on the day of Signor Trapani’s most regrettable disappearance until noon the following day.’
Staffe reappraises Maurice, a fine-featured, oddly handsome man. He sports an educated voice but every now and then a hint of Italian singsongs through. His fiancée came to live with him after a trip to Siberia two springs ago. Maurice fell in love with Tatiana the instant he saw her and in her broken English she verifies that Maurice was home for all the requisite hours. Tatiana’s crystal beauty takes the breath away.
It appears that Maurice has no job; hasn’t worked a day nor claimed any kind of benefit since he left York University with a first in English and Carmelo gave him this flat.
Staffe regards Maurice long and hard, and he just can’t imagine Maurice having what it takes to account for Carmelo Trapani. ‘Carmelo took good care of you?’
‘I fend for myself now, inspector, though I do concede this might be a mystery to you.’
The slant of the sun catches the dust in long bugles of light. There is something of the Havisham about it, and though the flat is furnished in perfect keeping with its age, this is clearly an abode of the young. Magazines, from Grazia to the New Statesman, litter the coffee table and there is the paraphernalia that goes with recreational drugs. Books are piled everywhere and Staffe spots a Karenina in Russian.
‘There are too many mysteries associated with Carmelo’s disappearance.’ Staffe thinks about a mystery closer to home: why Carmelo was so keen to speak with Pennington.
‘Maurice loves Carmelo very,’ says Tatiana. They look at each other with the utmost quizzical intensity, like two curious, incarcerated and besotted creatures of similar, but distinct, species. Staffe cannot fathom them at all.
‘What do you do for a living, Maurice?’
‘That would be a private matter. I can’t see how—’
‘I consider it germane to this investigation. As is Carmelo’s relationship with Attilio. He appears to treat you more like a son.’
‘He’s my uncle, that is all.’
‘This is a nice place,’ says Josie, browsing Maurice’s papers. ‘But it has overheads.’
Maurice hands Josie a bank statement, says, ‘Minimal.’ Two sheets cover the whole year, the balance diminishing infinitesimally from £28,000.16 at the end of January to £27,904.87 at the end of July. A tenner in cash here, a modest cheque there. ‘No direct debits,’ says Josie.
Maurice nods. ‘I’m old-fashioned. I like to go to the town hall, hand over the lucre for the privilege of having my rubbish removed; my safety secured by our fine police.’
‘You live well, it seems to me, without working.’
‘Maurice is a writer,’ says Tatiana.
Staffe looks at the bookshelves. ‘Not published, yet.’
‘Verse,’ says Tatiana. ‘And a play. Maurice has a gift for words.’
‘It nourishes us,’ says Maurice, smiling encouragement at his girlfriend.
‘And he has a
‘I have nothing to hide,’ says Maurice. ‘Quite the reverse.’ He smiles and sees the inspector’s mouth turn down at the edges, as if some upperness of hand has been wrested.
Nine
Maurice’s flat is housed within a slim, early Victorian affair that looks onto London Fields. A gentle stroll would get you to Carmelo’s home in a quarter of an hour.
Staffe shows the young fogey a photograph taken outside Carmelo Trapani’s house on the day Carmelo disappeared. It has been lifted from the CCTV footage and is taken from above, slightly behind, and is grainy and blurred, the perspective warped. Maurice doesn’t bat a lash. He stares straight ahead, pale-eyed.
Martin Goldman says, ‘That’s not Maurice. Unless you can prove it, which you can’t, and as we have said, Maurice was in his house from eight o’clock in the morning on the day of Signor Trapani’s most regrettable disappearance until noon the following day.’
Staffe reappraises Maurice, a fine-featured, oddly handsome man. He sports an educated voice but every now and then a hint of Italian singsongs through. His fiancée came to live with him after a trip to Siberia two springs ago. Maurice fell in love with Tatiana the instant he saw her and in her broken English she verifies that Maurice was home for all the requisite hours. Tatiana’s crystal beauty takes the breath away.
It appears that Maurice has no job; hasn’t worked a day nor claimed any kind of benefit since he left York University with a first in English and Carmelo gave him this flat.
Staffe regards Maurice long and hard, and he just can’t imagine Maurice having what it takes to account for Carmelo Trapani. ‘Carmelo took good care of you?’
‘I fend for myself now, inspector, though I do concede this might be a mystery to you.’
The slant of the sun catches the dust in long bugles of light. There is something of the Havisham about it, and though the flat is furnished in perfect keeping with its age, this is clearly an abode of the young. Magazines, from Grazia to the New Statesman, litter the coffee table and there is the paraphernalia that goes with recreational drugs. Books are piled everywhere and Staffe spots a Karenina in Russian.
‘There are too many mysteries associated with Carmelo’s disappearance.’ Staffe thinks about a mystery closer to home: why Carmelo was so keen to speak with Pennington.
‘Maurice loves Carmelo very,’ says Tatiana. They look at each other with the utmost quizzical intensity, like two curious, incarcerated and besotted creatures of similar, but distinct, species. Staffe cannot fathom them at all.
‘What do you do for a living, Maurice?’
‘That would be a private matter. I can’t see how—’
‘I consider it germane to this investigation. As is Carmelo’s relationship with Attilio. He appears to treat you more like a son.’
‘He’s my uncle, that is all.’
‘This is a nice place,’ says Josie, browsing Maurice’s papers. ‘But it has overheads.’
Maurice hands Josie a bank statement, says, ‘Minimal.’ Two sheets cover the whole year, the balance diminishing infinitesimally from £28,000.16 at the end of January to £27,904.87 at the end of July. A tenner in cash here, a modest cheque there. ‘No direct debits,’ says Josie.
Maurice nods. ‘I’m old-fashioned. I like to go to the town hall, hand over the lucre for the privilege of having my rubbish removed; my safety secured by our fine police.’
‘You live well, it seems to me, without working.’
‘Maurice is a writer,’ says Tatiana.
Staffe looks at the bookshelves. ‘Not published, yet.’
‘Verse,’ says Tatiana. ‘And a play. Maurice has a gift for words.’
‘It nourishes us,’ says Maurice, smiling encouragement at his girlfriend.
‘And he has a
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