by Mel Stein
He drove towards Golders Green itself, wondering at the microcosm of Jewish life; the men in their long dark coats, the women with their covered heads, the young boys made old before their time, with their black trilby hats tipped at rakish angles, the children with their yarmulkas. He envied them their faith, wondered if it were worth trying. But he knew Patti would laugh in his face if he even suggested it. Or would she on this day of all days?
‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ he asked, nervous in case she should think he was suggesting any kind of celebration of her mother’s passing.
‘Why not? You know, Mark, for the first time since I heard of her death, I feel hungry. I know it sounds strange, but I almost enjoyed that ceremony. I think she might have done as well. She wasn’t always like she was at the end. When I was little, when my dad was still there, she’d always be springing surprises. Little things, like making me gingerbread men, a new dress for my favourite doll, a cheap brooch. It didn’t matter what they cost. It was enough that she thought about me, enough that she cared.’
Parking was a nightmare. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to the restrictions and cars were not merely double parked, but at times even three in a line, the wardens coping with the same efficiency as the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke. Mark joined in the fray and slotted into a space which had been claimed by a large lady in a battered Volvo with innumerable children crammed into every seat of her vehicle. She yelled at him in a language he did not understand, and when he showed no inclination to make way for her she simply manoeuvred her car alongside his and left it there, oblivious to the fact that he could not get out even if he wanted to.
They found a coffee shop that was half filled with lady shoppers and elderly men.
Patti looked at the array of cakes behind the counter.
‘Do you think it would be too terrible to indulge myself?’ she asked.
‘I think it would show a lot of courage. Go for it. And I’ll have an eclair while you’re at it.’
The cappuccinos came with chocolate and cream on top and the waiter stood back, admiring his work and challenging them to get through both the drinks and the cakes. Almost as if he sensed Patti’s need he had selected the largest slice of Black Forest gâteau he could find, oozing chocolate and alcohol.
Patti lifted her cup in a toast.
‘May she rest in peace.’
Mark said nothing, but clinked his cup against hers and took a sip of the steaming liquid.
‘What happens now?’ she asked.
‘What do you want to happen?’ he replied.
‘I’ll tell you want I don’t want to happen. I don’t want to be alone tonight.’
‘Just tonight?’ he asked cautiously, having gone down that road before and been beaten back.
‘Perhaps not.’ She leaned across the table and stroked the side of his face with the back of her hand, raising a smile from a grizzled old man at the next table and a look of disapproval from an elderly woman with the skin of a prune.
‘Listen, Patti, I didn’t want to say anything before the funeral, but I’ve got to go back to Colombia.’
‘That call from Luis?’
‘That call from Luis,’ he replied apologetically.
‘Can you tell me what he said that makes it so urgent for you to return so quickly?’
‘I’d like to say that he’d got hold of something that would clear you, but I’m afraid it’s about Barry.’
She said nothing and he thought for a moment that she was about to launch into him once again for putting himself on the line for somebody else. But Patti was in no mood for an argument.
‘Have you told him?’
‘No, I didn’t want to raise any hopes?’
‘But obviously you think there’s some hope, otherwise you wouldn’t be going.’
She didn’t push him to tell her, but he didn’t want to miss the opportunity of proving that there were no secrets between them.
‘I’m not sure. I’m not even sure whether it’s worth the trip, but if I don’t go then I’ll always feel I left some stone unturned.’
‘And you couldn’t do that, could you?’
He searched her face for a hint of sarcasm, an element of criticism, but he could see nothing but sincerity there.
‘No, I couldn’t do that.’ He felt like a parrot, but could think of nothing else to say and didn’t want the flow of the conversation to end. Patti lit up a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. She watched it rise and disappear and that was when she began to cry as she thought of the smoke at the crematorium – the fire and the smoke that had left behind nothing but ashes of a person’s sad and wasted life.
The frowning prune-like woman tapped her on the arm and pointed to a no-smoking sign on the wall. Mark got to his feet and grabbed Patti by the arm. He tossed a note on the table to cover the bill. As they got to the door he turned and went back to the woman’s table.
‘We’ve come straight from her mother’s funeral,’ he said, loudly enough for everybody in the room to hear and, without waiting for a reply or a reaction, walked out of the café, leaving the woman open-mouthed.
By the time they reached the car, their exit had cleared and he drove down the Finchley Road towards Hampstead.
‘I have to go down to meet Mo Halid and report on my couple of days at Jet. I feel like somebody from M15.’
‘You’re not devious enough to be a spy, Mark,’ she said.
He didn’t reply, but realised that he still did not fully understand himslf what Luis had suggested he might learn in Bogota.
CHAPTER 40
He had little to tell Mohammed Halid and he was beginning to think that the whole charade was a waste of time. Yet the man hung on his every word, asking question upon question, as if he were preparing himself for some examination.
‘Alissa. Tell me about Alissa. Is she still in love with that bastard, Carr?’
‘I’ll ask her, shall I Mo?’ Mark replied, deciding he could no longer take the matter seriously.
‘Sometimes, I think Alissa is the brains behind the company,’ Mo said, ignoring Mark’s levity.
‘I rather like her,’ Mark said, immediately realising he had said the wrong thing as it would only serve to set Halid off on another tirade.
‘I’m sure you do. Most men would. She’s a very attractive woman. But she’s dangerous, believe me. The sort of woman who would eat a man after she had allowed him to make love to her.’
Mark was about to say that he could live with being eaten by Alissa Bland, but decided that would only encourage Mo further.
‘I have established one thing,’ Mark said.
Halid looked up, his face positively glistening with anticipation.
‘Which is?’
‘I saw a schedule of the tenders. Carr had left them on his desk.’
‘Careless,’ Mo said half to himself, ‘or maybe deliberate. I wonder if I was right in putting you in there. Believe me, Mark, the last thing I would want is for you to be in any danger. You’re quite sure that Carr has no idea that you’re still on our payroll?’
‘I’m certain of it. He talks quite freely around me. The only thing is that I’m not sure that anything much he says is of great interest.’
‘The tenders, were they interesting?’
‘Could be. Jet beat Ball Park by a mere $10,000.’
Halid’s eyes narrowed as the significance of that sunk in.
‘Only ten thousand. What about the others?’
‘Miles behind. It was a two-horse race. They needn’t have bothered to saddle up.’
‘He must have known what we’d offered. He must have. But how?’ Mo mused, pacing the room with the intensity of a Sherlock Holmes.
‘What’s more to the point, how did he get hold of the tenders?’ Mark added.
‘You have to find that out.’ Halid was becoming animated. ‘You see, I told you it would not be a waste of time, you going into Jet.’
Mark smi
led.
‘When do you pull me out, as they say in espionage terms? This particular spy would quite like to come in from the cold.’
‘Soon, soon.’
But soon was not soon enough. It was evident that Mark would have to return to Bogota as an employee of Jet, which posed him a problem. It was one thing flying off when Carr had told him there was little to do, but quite another to find an excuse when producers and editors wanted him for pilot shows, wanted to try him out with co-commentators, even wanted to see what he was like fronting a chat show.
‘Nathan, I’m sorry, but I have an understanding with Hertsmere. David Sinclair and I go back a long way. He wants me to go and iron out a few wrinkles on the Ferrera deal.’
He was getting used to lying and that worried him. What worried him even more was the fact that he was getting good at it.
‘I thought it was a done deal,’ Carr said.
‘So did Hertsmere, but you know what South Americans are like to deal with.’
Carr had nodded as if he were faced with problems from that part of the world every day of the week.
‘Maybe we could send out a camera crew with you and you could shoot a story on the transfer.’
Mark hesitated. He realised that there was every chance that he wouldn’t even see Ferrera if his work permit came through and that might be a little hard to explain to whoever Carr sent with him.
‘I’d have to ask David. I’m not too sure he’d be happy about any of the financial details leaking out. I know for a fact that what he’s agreed to pay Ferrera is going to blow the wage structure at the club to smithereens.’
He was getting used to thinking on his feet as well. He held his breath while Carr thought about it and had to fight to conceal his relief when he finally replied.
‘I guess it’d be expensive for what we’d get out of it. It’s not like it’s one of the big clubs. I have to say that our viewers are still not entirely convinced by Hertsmere.’
‘I’ll tell the chairman when I see him. I’m sure he’ll want to speak to you to discover exactly what it is that your viewers are after.’
Mark spoke with a smile and Carr laughed in response, but the former Hertsmere player was not amused. It had been a long, hard struggle for the club to come from non-league obscurity to a European title. The Cup Winners Cup was not easily come by and, although they may not have made the most impressive start to the season, there was still a long way to go. With a player like Juanito Ferrera in their ranks they had every chance of being in there at the death. Still, if the insult meant that he had a few days off to follow Luis’s leads, it was worth taking.
The immigration official at the airport in Bogota frowned as he checked Mark’s passport.
‘You are a regular visitor, Señor Rossetti.’
Mark could understand why anybody should find that surprising, but didn’t think such a comment would ease his entry into the country.
‘I’m hoping to establish some business contacts here.’
‘We are always interested in European business. What exactly do you do, senor?’
The queue behind Mark was becoming impatient, but the official seemed oblivious to them. Mark realised that his passport still described him as a professional footballer and just hoped that the man was genuinely curious and not about to take issue with his story.
‘I’m involved with the media. With a TV company that specialises in sport.’
The reply elicited a broad smile.
‘Ah yes, we love our sport here. I have watched the international a few weeks ago.’ He examined the passport again, ‘I see you were here also. It was an exciting match.’
‘Yes, yes, it was,’ Mark said. He felt tired and dirty and hoped the man’s English was not going to stretch to a kick by kick recounting of the contest.
In fact, the man stamped Mark into the country with a theatrical flourish and, as Mark collected his luggage, he could see the welcoming face of Luis standing just beyond the hall. It occurred to him that he had become very dependent upon Luis. But then this country made its visitors dependent. He didn’t know who the minister of tourism was, but he had about as easy a job as a man selling condoms in the Vatican.
Luis had acquired a new car, a gleaming Toyota. Two small boys stood proudly by it in the car park and Luis peeled off a couple of US dollar bills from a roll in his pocket and gave them one each. They bowed gravely and ran away laughing.
‘Security guards are getting younger and younger,’ Mark said, as Luis drove away at a speed that threatened take-off.
‘A good investment. Nobody steals my car and they do not damage it. Everybody is happy.’
‘What have you got for me that will make me happy? To say you were enigmatic on the phone is an understatement.’
Luis frowned as he wrestled with Mark’s English.
‘For an old professional footballer, you have learned some fancy words.’
‘It comes of living with a writer. She’s educated me in more ways than one.’
‘How is the beautiful Patti? Has she come to terms with her lawyer’s advice?’
‘Oh, she’s come to terms with it, all right. She’s ignoring it.’
‘You mean she still intends coming here to prove her innocence?’
‘She does. But her mother died. That’s why I delayed coming.’
Luis hit the horn on the car and a few stray dogs and derelicts leapt to the side of the road for safety.
‘Is it the money? If you lose the bail will you be broke?’
‘No, it’s not the money and we won’t be broke. It’s just that she doesn’t fancy getting a criminal record for something she didn’t do.’
‘Maybe I will talk to Salazar. Perhaps he can persuade the court to reduce the amount of the bail. The judge might be sympathetic to the death of her mother. Then you can persuade Patti to accept the inevitable.’
Before Mark could reply, Luis pulled into the drive of an apartment block.
‘I thought this time, as I have invited you, that you would be my guest. I have a spare room.’
Mark realised then just how little he knew about Luis. He didn’t even know whether or not he was married, whether he had any kids, or whether he was gay. As if reading his thoughts, Luis volunteered the information that Mark sought.
‘My wife left me a year ago. She took our only son with her. I welcome any company. I miss them both.’
‘I know how you feel,’ Mark said with genuine emotion, recalling how he had felt when Sally had left with their daughter, Emma.
When Luis’s wife had abandoned him she had not gone empty-handed. Mark could not believe that any married couple with a child could have lived in such minimalist surroundings. There was nothing wrong with the apartment itself. It was large and sunny, the air-conditioning successfully defeating the stifling heat that hung over the city like a threatening cloud of poison dust. Yet, from the picture window that led on to the balcony to the doors that led through to the bedrooms and kitchen there was virtually nothing. The walls were plain white emulsion, free of pictures or indeed anything. The floor was polished wood without any carpet to soften the look. A television and video were in one corner, opposite a single armchair. The bookshelves were virtually empty and were bereft of any vases or ornaments. The telephone was on the floor, and that was it.
Luis flung out his arm.
‘It is simple, I know, but I am rarely home.’
He saw the expression on Mark’s face.
‘And I rarely have visitors,’ he added by way of explanation, ‘but I do have a bathroom.’
‘Do I smell that bad?’ Mark asked.
‘Not at all. And if you did then I would be too polite to tell you. But I travel enough to know exactly how you feel at the end of a long flight. Please, relax in the bath and, when you are ready, we will talk. Tonight we eat here. However hard you try there is always a chance that somebody will overhear at a restaurant.’
Mark would have spent longer luxuria
ting in the hot water, but he needed to know what Luis had dragged him all these miles to tell him, and he needed to know with the minimum of delay. As he dried himself and put on a clean shirt and a pair of light trousers, something Patti had said as she had dropped him off at the airport suddenly struck home. ‘I’ll use the time you’re away to make some inquiries of my own.’
He couldn’t believe that he’d not reacted there and then, that he hadn’t given a thought to it on the plane. What inquiries was she talking about? The last time she’d gone off on her own had led to her arrest in this city. He shook his head in irritation. He’d been so tied up with Barry’s problems and Mo’s intrigue that he’d taken his eye off the ball when it came to Patti. He’d hesitated over leaving her because he thought she was still mourning her mother, but he should have been hesitating because, whatever her attitude to him, she wasn’t going to give up her pursuit of a story. She might be the woman he had every intention of marrying, but she was still a journalist. He looked at his watch. It was ten in the evening, still afternoon in London.
He came back into the main room which was now filled with the smell of cooking from the adjoining kitchen. Luis put his head round the door and nodded approvingly.
‘You look much better.’
‘I feel much better. Luis, much as I’m dying to know what you have to tell me, do you mind if I phone Patti first?’
‘Of course, I was forgetting her loss. Did you pass on my condolences?’
‘She was grateful. There weren’t a lot of people around to support her.’
There was a sizzling sound from the kitchen and Luis moved speedily back to his culinary tasks, only pausing to shout back, ‘Close the door if it is private.’
Mark thought it would be rude to accept the invitation and knelt on the floor to make the call. It took him three attempts to make the connection and, while redialling, he looked out through the window at the sprawling lights of Bogota. There were secrets out there and there were answers. There were the men who had planted the drugs on Patti, there were the men who had conspired to frame Barry Reed, and he wondered if there were also those who were guilty of the murder of Jenny Cooper.