by Peter James
'Good.'
Ross dialled his secretary. She had no idea he was in Spain and he did not enlighten her. She knew only that he was taking this Tuesday off as part of the long weekend. He did not want anyone knowing he was here.
As they left the airport behind and wound up the fast road into the hills above, Ross barely glanced at the views across the dry, scrubby landscape down towards the Mediterranean as he concentrated on going through his appointments for the following three days with Lucinda. On Thursday, she told him, he had the corrective operation on Lady Geraldine Reynes-Rayleigh. And, she added, she had opened a letter this morning from the woman's solicitor putting him on notice that their client was dissatisfied with his work, was inconvenienced by having to have further surgery and would be seeking compensation.
When he finished the call, he pulled out his Mac PowerBook, made several notes on it, then concentrated on his reading, trying to put aside his anger towards Lady Geraldine Reynes-Raleigh.
An hour later, when he next glanced out, they were crawling in heavy traffic past a parade of smart shops. He looked at a Bang and Olufsen display in a window. A few minutes later, they pulled up on the quayside of the Puerto Banus yacht basin.
Ross felt a tightening of anxiety in his chest. The chauffeur turned, gave him another glinty smile and said, 'Just a short walk, Senor Ransome. Two hundred metres.'
47
The taxi made a right turn off Notting Hill Gate. Faith looked out of the rear window to see if any other vehicle followed them. Nothing did. Then, after a short distance, the taxi made a left into Ladbroke Avenue. Again she peered through the rear window. When she turned back she saw the cabby's eyes watching her in his mirror.
She glanced at her Rolex: it was twenty-five past eleven. To save her the trek across London to his clinic, Oliver had suggested they meet at his home — he had a patient at the clinic at nine thirty whom he had to see himself, and he would drive across after that.
She swallowed nervously, scared by the urgency in Oliver's voice.
Faith, I have the results back from your tests. I need to see you.
What the hell did they show?
The taxi slowed, then halted outside number thirty-seven. Faith climbed out, paid the driver and tipped him, then stood on the pavement as he drove off, looking warily around her. It was a fine morning, and the sky was cloudless. She was wearing a blue blazer, jeans and boots, and already wished she had on lighter trousers and shoes.
Suddenly she shivered. There had been something about the tone of his voice. Something not good at all.
Ladbroke Avenue was a grand residential street, wide and quiet and lined both sides with plane trees in full leaf. Behind them rose imposing terraced houses, with columned porticoes and tall sash windows. The multiple entryphone panels showed that, like most London homes of this size, they had now been carved up into flats or bedsits. The quality of the cars parked along the street showed that they were still occupied by money: Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, Porsches and assorted off-roaders. No sign of Oliver's jeep. Maybe he had a space at the rear. A Jaguar rolled past, then a people-carrier, then a flatbed truck loaded with scaffolding, followed by two crash-helmeted riders on mopeds with clipboards on the handlebars — apprentice cabbies doing the Knowledge.
She checked both directions for any sign of the man in the leather jacket she had seen outside the clinic last week, or for anyone else who might be watching her. Then she walked up the steps to the columned porch, glanced around once more, scanned the list of names and found Oliver's.
Moments later a voice crackled over the intercom. His American accent sounded more pronounced than usual. 'Hallo?'
'It's Faith,' she said.
'Come right up — top floor, no elevator, I'm afraid.' There was a buzz then a sharp click, and she pushed the door. Nothing happened. The buzzing continued and she pushed again until it yielded and she stumbled into a narrow, gloomy hall, with bare floorboards and tired paint.
She walked past a row of mail-boxes, a mountain bike propped against the wall, and a large box with a DHL delivery note taped to it, then began climbing the stairs, her boots clumping loudly on the bare treads.
When she reached the third floor, she heard a door open above her.
A chirpy English voice said, 'I've checked all the sensors. The one in the bedroom was definitely on the blink and I've replaced it — no charge for that, it's still under warranty.'
Then Oliver's voice. 'Thanks, appreciate it.'
She heard footsteps, then a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a blue tunic with Languard Alarms sewn on the breast pocket, and carrying a tool-box, crossed her on the stairs.
She was breathless, which surprised her. Before Thailand she'd considered herself reasonably fit. And in Thailand, she'd swum fifty lengths of the pool every day.
Why am I breathless? A month of no exercise? That all it takes?
'Faith?'
She stared back at him, puzzled. It was Oliver Cabot, and yet it wasn't Oliver Cabot at all. He was wearing a green sweatshirt over a t-shirt, baggy blue jeans and trainers. The same build, the same features, the same hair colour, and almost the same voice. But this man looked a good five years older, and there were subtle changes in his features. He wasn't so good-looking, he—
Stretching out a hand, he shook hers with a firm grip. 'I'm Harvey, Oliver's brother.'
Surprised, she said, 'Oh, hi. I'm sorry, I didn't know Oliver had a brother.'
He grinned. 'I guess if I had a brother like me, I wouldn't go around bragging about it either.'
She laughed as he ushered her in and closed the door. 'He just called, the traffic was bad, he'll be right here. Can I fix you something to drink?'
She barely heard him. She was staring around in awe. 'Some tea, please. This is incredible!'
'It's kind of a neat place,' he said.
It was vast. Like something out of a lifestyle television commercial. A loft apartment that seemed to stretch far away into the distance, finishing in a fine metal staircase that rose gracefully up to a crescent-shaped mezzanine sitting area. The ceiling was a good thirty feet high, girdered with raw oak beams. Picture windows looked out across miles of rooftops. A polished wood floor covered with Persian rugs ran the length of the apartment, and the place was richly but sparely furnished with stunning Oriental pieces. There was a fine Chinese screen, a black lacquer dining table and chairs, an ornate fireplace set amid rows of bookshelves, several tall jardinieres, and some massive sculptures of what looked like Indonesian gods. Tapestries, mirrors and abstract paintings hung on the walls, and every hard edge was softened by a flourishing plant. Exotic fish swam slowly in a handsome tank.
Faith was entranced by the atmosphere. 'So much space and light! You both live here?'
He sounded almost apologetic. 'I'm just on a visit right now — I live in the States, North Carolina. Ever been there?'
'Not to North Carolina. I've been to New York, Washington and Florida.'
'It's beautiful. I'm an hour's drive from the Blue Ridge mountains. Great place to live. Different pace from London, but London's a great city, don't you think?'
They went into a starkly modern kitchen. He filled the kettle. In the same laconic voice as Oliver he said, 'Guess you're pretty brave, letting an American make you tea.'
Smiling she asked, 'Are you over on holiday?'
'Work and holiday mixed.' He ducked down and produced a tin of biscuits. 'Cookies?'
'I'm fine, thanks. What work do you do?'
'Research. Quantum physics. I'm over to give a paper at a seminar in Switzerland, next week and I'm grabbing a few days' vacation in London either side, hanging out with my kid brother.'
It was strange watching him move, and listening to him speak, because there was so much of Oliver in him. Little gestures, expressions, the way his eyes widened as he talked, the way his hands moved, even the articulation of his lean frame. And then, behind her, she heard Oliver.
'Hey, I'm sorry, the tr
affic!'
She turned, and he was standing in the kitchen doorway.
'Faith, good to see you.'
And it was good to see him, too. He was looking smart, wearing a jacket and tie, chocolate brown chinos and brown suede loafers. It was the first time she'd seen him in a tie and she liked the serious, authoritative air it gave him.
As he smiled, she could see the shadow of worry in his eyes. They kissed, each cheek in turn, Oliver holding her tenderly but firmly. But she sensed a distance and her fear deepened.
'My bro taking good care of you?'
'He's making me very welcome.'
Harvey raised a hand in the air. 'I'm outta here — going to check out your Royal Academy and the Tate and the Wallace Collection. Oh, the alarm guy came, said he found the problem and fixed it. One of the sensors was toast.'
'Good,' Oliver replied. 'Thanks.'
'No problem.' Then, putting on the same jokey Oxford accent Faith had heard Oliver use, his brother said, 'And old bean, who's to know — might even get invited to join your jolly old Queen for a spot of tiffin.'
Faith laughed.
'Nice meeting you, Faith. See you again.' He pumped her hand, then turned back to Oliver. 'What time is the theatre tonight?'
'Seven forty-five,' Oliver said.
'Great!' And he was gone.
For a moment Faith and Oliver stood still, smiling at each other.
'Nice guy,' she said.
'He is,' Oliver replied, with feeling. 'Got a terrific wife and three great kids — they're in school right now which is why she isn't with him.' He looked at her for a moment. 'How have you been feeling since I saw you?'
'Up and down. The attacks come and go.'
'Any change in their frequency?'
She nodded. 'They're getting more frequent — and stronger.'
The kettle rumbled, steam belched from its spout, then it clicked off. 'Tea?'
'Thanks.'
He unscrewed the lid of a glass jar. 'Clear or with milk?'
'With milk.'
He pulled out two tea-bags. 'I have triple glazing here — I don't like noise. I checked with a scientist friend who knows about radio signals, and just in case our friend from last week is lurking around, he won't be able to hear us through it.'
'I wasn't followed,' she said.
He looked at her again, and she could see that the worry in his eyes was more pronounced. Suddenly she felt uncomfortable, and walked back into the vast living area, in need of its calming space.
She went across to a row of bookshelves and looked at some of the tomes. Organic Psychiatry William Alwyn Lishman. Risk and Probability, Dr David Veale. The Social Transformation of American Medicine, Dr Zara Cholimsky. Health and the Human Circadian Cycle, Dr Oliver Cabot.
She pulled it out, turned it over and looked at the photograph on the jacket. A small square black-and-white of Oliver looking serious. It wasn't a good photograph, she decided. It captured none of the essence of the man, none of the passion for life he exuded. She opened the book and glanced at the table of contents, but she was too nervous to read. Her eyes skittered over the words.
Oliver came out of the kitchen carrying the two mugs, and they sat in deep sofas, looking out across the west London skyline. Oliver hunched forward, watched Faith intently. She cradled her hot mug in trembling hands and, trying to ease the tension, said, 'So, tell me, how many hours have I left to live?'
A thin smile, then he looked deadly serious again. 'Plenty, Faith. But the news from your tests isn't good and we have to deal with that.'
Some of the light seemed to drain from the room, as if it had suddenly clouded over outside. 'Wh-what did they show, the tests?'
'Did Dr Ritterman tell you anything?'
'No. After I rang again on Friday and gave his secretary a rocket, he phoned Ross, told him I have some bug, a tourist thing, and he's given me some antibiotics.'
'You have them with you?'
She opened her handbag and passed the Moliou-Orelan container to him. He read the exterior wording. 'Dr Ritterman provided these?'
'Yes — via Ross.'
He shook out one pill into his palm. 'What are your instructions?'
'I have to take two three times a day.'
'Faith, what did Ross tell you these were?'
Disturbed by his tone, she said, 'A new antibiotic' Hot tea slopped over the edge of her mug and on to her hand, and she put the mug down on a mat. 'Do you know about them?'
'I know Moliou-Orelan, sure, but this is a new drug that's not on the market yet — it doesn't even have a brand name, only a code. Did he say anything to you about taking part in a clinical trial?'
'No.'
Oliver examined the pill for a few moments. 'Have you ever heard Ross mention something called Lendt's disease?'
'I don't think so, no. What is it?'
'You have it, Faith. I wish to God you didn't, but you do.'
She searched his face for comfort, and for the first time felt none. Outside, somewhere beyond the tranquillity of this room, a siren howled. And deep in her heart, a siren howled also and she shuddered with the vibrations. 'What is Lendt's disease, Oliver? I want to know everything. Please tell me the truth. Tell me everything you know.'
Slowly, and in as positive a light as he could frame it, he told her.
48
The pimp opened Ross's door, relieved him of his briefcase, and pointed a warning finger at a bollard that was hazardously close to the Mercedes. He stepped out of the air-conditioning on to the quayside of Puerto Banus, into bleaching sunlight and a salty breeze tarred with the smells of rope and marine paint. Ross had been here once before about fifteen years back, on a men's golfing weekend and hadn't cared for the place then. It used to have a reputation for housing British villains — taking advantage of Spain's lax extradition laws — as well as a few ageing dregs from the Third Reich eking out the last of their looted gains. It seemed smarter now.
A gull circled above the boulder breakwater of the harbour mole, soared for a few moments, then began to tack lazily westward.
Putting on his sunglasses, he looked around. The whole port reeked of money. Flash boats lined the pontoons. Young blondes lined their sundecks. Paunchy middle-aged men dressed in shorts and yachting caps strutted around their bridges, holding beer cans and cellphones.
The riff-raff were kept at bay by security guards, permitted only to watch from the seamless row of bustling bars, cafes and restaurants lining the waterfront. A two-million-pound Sunseeker motor yacht was capturing the attention at this moment. Holidaymakers watched her nosing out towards the harbour mouth, listening to the bellow of her engines as enraptured as if they were listening to an orchestra.
It was the morning exodus. Cast-off time. A chain-gang of Filipinos were loading cool boxes on to a gin-palace. A wooden Riva reversed erratically from a pontoon, engine revving too hard, the skipper making a pig's ear of it, sweating profusely and shouting instructions at his blonde companion who was waving a boat-hook like a demented lion-tamer at other boats in her attempts to fend them off.
Ross followed his escort past a security guard, and along a pontoon where the largest yachts of all were berthed. It was quiet here; just the clattering of slack halyards, the flapping of ensigns and the faint beat of music coming from the interior of one floating villa.
The pimp stopped at the gangway of a boat that seemed more like a liner than a yacht. The name Soozie-B-too was emblazoned in gold copperplate capitals on her rounded stern, and beneath, in slightly smaller lettering, was the name of the flag of convenience under which she was registered, Panama. Ross, who knew a fair bit about boats, priced this extravaganza well north of fifteen million pounds.
Two flunkeys in dark suits and designer sunglasses materialised from the aft saloon, and eyed Ross as he followed the pimp up the red carpeted gangway, past a small red and white sign showing a pair of stiletto heels crossed out, and on to the teak decking.
Ross pocketed his sungla
sses as he entered the saloon, which was dimly lit and vulgarly plush: white leather furniture, deep white carpet, gilded mirrors and a curved bar covered in animal hide in one corner. There was a strong smell of cigar smoke, and Ross, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom, could make out its source, the instantly recognisable, short, stocky figure of Ronnie Milward.
He was lounging on a sofa near the bar, wearing a dark polo shirt buttoned to the top, white trousers, crisp plimsolls, and sunglasses the size of patio doors. A smouldering stogie was clamped between his lips and he was in deep concentration, playing an electronic game on the glass table in front of him. A tall tumbler containing ice and the remnants of a pink drink sat next to the ashtray.
Ronnie Milward was in his late sixties, but with his sleek, tanned face, which reminded people of the late shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis, and his hair dyed black, with only flecks of silver showing stylishly at the temples, he passed easily for a man in his mid-fifties.
Without looking up as Ross approached, Ronnie Milward said, in his coarse east London accent, 'You ever play bridge, Ross? I'm trying to learn. Everybody's playing it these days. You want friends, you gotter play bridge.' A thin curl of smoke rose from the cigar as he pressed one key, then another. 'Good for the brain cells. That's what I need now, new brain cells. You gimme everything else, Ross, but you din't give me what I really need, you see. Fresh grey stuff. Maybe a fresh dick, too.'
'I can give you one of those.'
Milward pressed another key. 'Fuck it, you broke me rhythm.'
Ross studied the man's face with interest. Five years, almost exactly. It was wearing well. Milward switched off the machine, stood to his full height of four feet, eleven inches and seized Ross's hand with a grip of steel that belied his size. Then he swung his arms around Ross's midriff and gave him a huge bear-hug. 'Hey, hey, hey! Good to see you, Ross, boy!'
Hugging him back, Ross said, 'Good to see you too, Captain.'
Milward gazed at him. 'Yeah, you look all right. Done some surgery on yourself, have you?'