Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 33: North London: October 30: 6:00 p.m.

  Clayton sheltered inside the station entrance and checked his route. Commuters were bustling all around him, nearly knocking his mobile out of his hand with their shopping bags and briefcases as he scoured Google street maps. Outside the foyer, traffic lights, drizzle and wind-tossed fast-food detritus advertised the joys of this forgettable corner of North London suburbia. He took a final look at the Google map, sidestepped a couple of loitering hoodies and joined the huddled shapes on the wet streets.

  But is was something more than the chill evening air that was making Clayton shiver. Something altogether different. The tension had started in the pit of his stomach back in Oxford, the moment he had passed the photo over to Sophie Palmer. Even the young girl’s staggering shock hadn’t brought him any amusement, nor had he felt any smugness in the confirmation of a long-held suspicion. He knew what was happening now, but he worried that twenty years of uneasy guilt might have made him soft for the fight ahead. And what confused him even more was the roundabout route Robbie was taking to his revenge. Oh yes, in a way, he felt he had to admire the way his inseparable friend of college days had hauled Goss in, but Robbie had left Easterby merely teetering on the brink – by no means sunk.

  And why all the games? Why the Ramli mission to the UK and all those investment projects? Why didn’t Robbie just move against him and McPherson directly? Why get at Alison through her daughter? There was a puzzling variety of loose ends that still left him with plenty to chase: red herrings or the key victory, who could tell? The question was, how long had he got to chase them?

  An interminable procession of Greek and Turkish shops flanked the length of the Stoke Newington Road in closer proximity to each other than they would have risked in their native Cyprus, though most the pedestrians he passed were immigrants from further afield.

  After a five-minute walk, a left and right turn led Clayton into Brayston Road. His footsteps slowed as he homed in on the number. Now he had got there he had little appetite left for the visit.

  There were three doorbells on the outside of the terraced house. Clayton found his name and rang the buzzer.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’ The voice hadn’t changed in the twenty years since he’d last heard it.

  ‘Hello Alison, it’s Max. Can we talk?’

  ‘Max!’ the voice on the other end of the intercom shouted in astonishment, then went dead. Clayton was left standing for some minutes in the miserable strip of concrete that passed for a front garden, barely big enough to accommodate a visitor in addition to the three dustbins it struggled to house. For a while he thought he would have to ring again, but eventually a light came on in the hallway and someone started to wrestle with the mould-jammed door.

  ‘Oh my God, it is you, Max! Whatever brings you here after all this time?’

  There was more hostility in the voice after the initial surprise. Clayton thought it better that way; if anything, it put them back on equal terms. He glanced at the woman in the doorway with mixed feelings of desire and regret. Alison Palmer had kept her looks and her figure well, and the sight of Alison reawakened long-forgotten memories and feelings that he hadn’t realized were still swimming around down there, hidden underneath all the darker stuff.

  She stood in the doorway waiting for an explanation, flicking her long hair back irascibly, a familiar and provocative trait that he had noticed in the daughter.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Clayton began, breaking the spell between them. ‘The years have been very kind to you, Alison. Very kind. Mind if I come in?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Alison asked, evidently more irritated than flattered by the compliments. ‘What on earth do you want with me now, Max, after all this time?’

  ‘I've come to offer you some help, Alison. To help both you and your daughter.’

  ‘My daughter?’ Alison shouted, flaring into outright anger. ‘Now look here, Max, you’d better leave my daughter alone. If I find out you’ve so much as tried to talk to her… I’ll have the police on you.’

  Clayton snorted contemptuously.

  ‘Police!’ he scoffed. ‘Funny you should mention them, Alison, because really, that’s who I represent. Or, to put it another way, I am probably the best hope your daughter has got of staying out of their way.’

  Alison Palmer finally looked worried.

  ‘Out of their way? What on earth do you mean, Max? Why would my daughter be in trouble with the police?’

  But Clayton only looked blank and askance, allowing himself the flicker of a superior smile.

  ‘As I said, Alison, I really do think upstairs might be better.’

  ‘Very well, then, come in,’ she huffed. ‘But you’d better explain what you mean about Sophie.’

  Alison led him up two flights of dank-smelling stairs to her flat on the first floor. Inside, the living room was cramped but tasteful, full of Liberty prints and summery colours. Clayton walked to the gas fireplace and inspected the personal knickknacks on show: a few shots of Sophie in various stages of adolescence, and one of mother and daughter together in the gardens of some tedious stately home; Hatfield House, perhaps?

  Having finished at the fireplace, Clayton turned abruptly.

  ‘So you never did remarry after what’s his name - Sophie’s father - died?’

  ‘Michael and I never had time for marriage; the accident happened before we could get to the altar. But you knew all that, anyway, Max!’

  ‘Didn’t, actually,’ he shrugged. ‘To tell the truth, I was surprised to hear you were still going by the name of Palmer. And what about after Michael’s accident, eh, Alison? Can’t believe a woman of your looks and appetites never found herself a suitable replacement - I mean you did get through the three of us in the space of those eighteen months!’

  ‘Look, If you’ve come to dig over the past then you’re wasting your time, Max,’ she spat angrily. ‘I may have had plenty of time to regret some of what happened back then, but not the break from you. So let’s get straight to the point: why are you here?’

  Clayton opened his mouth to speak then paused. The bitterness had got to him, and he decided against giving Alison the whole lot in one go. No, that would be far too easy. She could pick up all the loose ends piece by piece when Robbie decided to do whatever he had planned; it would hurt her more that way.

  ‘Have you been in touch with your daughter much over the last few weeks?’

  Alison’s eyes narrowed. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘Well, I suppose Sophie’s phoned and texted a little less than usual but she’s been busy. New boyfriend plus the workload. But what concern is that of yours?’

  Clayton could tell from the tone of Alison’s voice that she did not know. His visit to Oxford had been worthwhile.

  ‘It’s my job to know - because of the company she’s been keeping.’

  ‘Oh, do stop being so cryptic and just spit it out, Max. If Sophie is in trouble then tell me what she’s done. I’m sure it can’t be that bad. She’s a student at Oxford University, for Christ’s sake! Have you come to tell me she's been smoking pot?’

  Clayton shrugged and turned away from Alison, redirecting his attention to the mantelpiece. As he pored over the photos again, he started to tell Alison Palmer of her daughter’s involvement with a ‘dangerous’ Middle Eastern diplomat, elaborating from a jealous imagination where hard evidence was lacking.

  Alison Palmer was frowning, but she didn’t look convinced.

  ‘I find all that rather difficult to believe. Sophie’s just got a new boyfriend, as I told you just now. His name's Marcus.’

  ‘That's right. Marcus Easterby.’

  Alison Palmer’s mouth hung wide open in outrage.

  ‘Christ, Max! You seem to know an awful lot about my daughter’s private life,’ she gasped, taking a step closer towards him. But as soon as she got close enough to examine the microscopic damage twenty years had inflicted on Max Clayton’s handsome feat
ures, her face suddenly puckered up in confusion.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ she muttered less aggressively. ‘What name did you say again?’

  ‘Sounds familiar, eh?’ Clayton sneered. ‘That’s right, Alison, he’s Colonel Douglas Easterby’s boy.’

  ‘Oh my God, I never knew that,’ Alison Palmer wailed, sitting down on the sofa, her head bent in confusion and her long hair hanging limp in front of her eyes.

  The last two days had been traumatic enough: two names she shuddered to recall had filled the pages of the national press. Yes, they deserved each other all right, Goss and Easterby; and each deserved what the other had done to them. But their respective punishments had brought back harrowing memories of a more deeply personal nature, memories of a time that had almost destroyed her life, and which still left her with feelings of remorse and regret, even though it had all just been a series of unintended mistakes.

  Clayton liked the look of Alison’s despondency and he took a step closer. This was the time to get what he had come for.

  ‘Look, Alison, forget about Easterby,’ he urged. ‘Forget about the past, too. It’s your daughter you must think about now. You must talk to Sophie — discreetly, of course — get her to confide in you. And once she’s done that, you must persuade Sophie to cooperate with us. If she does, she’ll be OK, and we’ll look after her, I promise. But you must persuade your daughter not to muck us around any longer. She’s got herself involved in a very dodgy situation.’

  Alison Palmer had not been listening much to the beginning of Max’s spiel, but as he went on, she began to look up with crestfallen eyes.

  ‘What do you mean, Max? Who’s threatening my daughter?’

  Clayton’s neck twitched involuntarily and he was forced to look away from a sexy-sad look he had once known so well.

  ‘The Ramli prince; the one I was telling you about.’

  ‘Oh my God, I’ll call Sophie right away and get her to come home.”

  “No, no, that’s the whole point,’ Clayton snapped angrily out of his trance. ‘I need your daughter to stay put, and that's the best chance she's got of extricating herself from the mess she's in. Sophie should stay where she is and call me the moment this Ramli prince surfaces. You see, he’s gone to ground for the moment, but he'll be back. I can guarantee that.’

  ‘Now look here, Max. I’m not having Sophie used as bait to lure some dangerous Arabian tycoon into your trap. If she’s in danger, then she should be here with me. And how the hell are you involved, anyway, Max? Who is it you're working for these days?’

  But Clayton had heard enough.

  ‘Believe me Alison, she’ll be fine where she is,’ he sighed. ‘Your daughter isn’t in any physical danger, I'm pretty sure of that. Just make sure you talk to her and get her to tell you what's going on. And if there's anything you think I ought to know, Alison, it will help you and your daughter to tell me right away. I can't put it more bluntly: Sophie must be made to co-operate. It's her only chance in the long run.’

  Alison Palmer was left pensive and speechless. Clayton could sense Alison’s submission, a condition that tasted good; exquisite even, for being so very out of character. Accordingly, he decided to leave her that way and made for the door. But when he got there he couldn’t help himself from sticking the knife and stopped in the doorway to take one last look around her flat.

  ‘And this time, try to have a little more confidence in me, Alison,’ he sighed. ‘Don’t let me down again. Not like before.’