by Peter King
Sally dashed off two more signatures. The line of requestors was temporarily vanquished. She swivelled in her seat to look at me.
“I don’t see any scars. I should have used heavier books.”
“At least you’re writing heavier books. How many pages do you have here? 500?”
“Only 469.” Her face crinkled in a welcoming smile. “Nice of you to come. Not your kind of thing, is it?”
I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Always support worthy causes.”
“Liar. You didn’t support me.”
“That was because you always made more money than I did. Sally, you look great.”
“You’re lying again but I like it.”
She did look good. Her dark hair had an untamed appearance that was probably the result of hours in the beauty shop. Her small face had an elfin charm, just enough little girl in it to persuade you that she was sweet and innocent. Not at all obvious was the steely resolve to do whatever she set out to do and do it supremely well.
“You seem to have another hit,” I said, indicating the stacks of books.
“Coming out in the States next month, simultaneously in hardback and paperback. Should do well there.” She examined me more carefully. “What about you? Still gourmet detecting? You look well. Must be taking care of yourself. Undernourishment is never going to be a problem to you, is it?”
“I’m fine. I seem to be getting enough to eat.”
Her expression changed. “I didn’t get the chance to talk to you at the Circle of Careme. Wasn’t that an awful business?”
“Horrifying. I’ve never seen a man die once before—let alone twice.”
“I wonder what the police have found out.” Her eyes searched my face.
“Not too much as far as I know.”
“You’ve talked to them of course.”
“They’ve talked to me might be a better way to put it,” I said.
“And they’re not making much progress?”
“Last I heard,” I said casually, “was that they’re looking for some fellow called Alessandro Scarponi.”
I didn’t need to be Mike Hammer to spot the reaction to that. She gasped, turned pale under her make-up and bit her lip.
“Know him, do you?”
She nodded. “I did. I used him for some photographic work—he’s a freelance and a very good photographer. We became friends—went out together a few times.”
“Seen him lately?”
She shook her head.
“Know where he lives?”
“No. He used to live near King’s Cross but I know he moved.”
“You know who else he worked for, don’t you?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Ivor Jenkinson.”
She nodded, regaining her composure quickly.
“Sandro told me. Why are the police looking for him?”
I shrugged. “Just his connection with IJ. They’re checking everybody known to have had any contact with him.”
“Oh.” It seemed to satisfy her.
“What about all these rumours concerning you?”
She was quite her normal self again.
“Which rumours?”
“Changing publishers.”
She frowned. “Where did you hear that?”
“A friend in the trade.”
Her face darkened. “Must be that nosy bitch Nelda. Is she using the present vindictive tense again?”
“Thought she was a friend of yours,” I said mischievously.
“I’m glad she’s not. She picks her friends—to pieces.”
“Then she wouldn’t tell any secrets about you?”
“With Nelda, secrets are always too good to keep.”
“So you’re not thinking of changing publishers?”
“I keep an open mind about the future.”
“Even if it means breaking a contract?”
“They have lawyers to take care of that kind of thing.”
“Publishers have lawyers too,” I reminded her. “Aren’t you afraid you might get dumped?”
Her eyes widened. “Listen,” she said and her voice rose, “this book is going to be a best-seller in several continents and twenty countries. Think they’re going to dump me? If that’s what that boozy, overdressed lesbian is saying about me, just let her put in in her column—I’ll sue her so—”
Sally became aware that a small group was gathering around, whether to hear the rest of this fascinating diatribe or wanting to have books signed wasn’t clear.
A wispy little man came bustling up and said in a surprisingly deep voice, “If you will all get into line, Miss Aldridge will be delighted to write a personal inscription in each book. Now please, will you—”
“Bye, Sally,” I said but she didn’t hear me. She was turning on her best beam for her admiring public. I struggled through the mob and went in search of lunch.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I HAD RECEIVED A request a short time ago from a new Mexican restaurant just open in Hampstead. They wanted to know where to get quinoa, the protein-rich seeds of a high-altitude plant native to the Andes but used primarily in Mexican cooking. It resembles couscous but is much more nutty. I had to admit defeat in finding a European source but did manage to put them in touch with an old friend in Chile who could arrange direct shipment.
Ever since that episode, I had wanted to try their food and as I had time before my VDZH appointment—now was the opportunity.
The partners greeted me cordially. One was Mexican and the other his brother-in-law was English. The former was the chef and the Englishman ran the restaurant. It was a delightful place. The dining areas were on three levels and the walls and richly detailed ceilings were painted cream with a blue trim. Strikingly colourful wall hangings of Mexican tapestry decorated the walls and agaves stood in the corners.
I explained that I wanted a meal of several small courses so as to sample as many different dishes as possible.
“We call it Mod-Mex,” said Daniel. “Enrique prepares the basic food and I modify it wherever I think it necessary to suit the English palate. Not too much though.”
They began with a dark brown mushroom soup. The darker colour than usual was due to the cèpes in it and the taste owed something to the chiles serranos, while the floating croutes were sprinkled with salty anejo cheese.
Next came masa cakes—like tostados and made by frying balls of fresh corn-meal and stuffing them with chorizo sausage and chopped peanuts. The principal course was Lamb Picadillo, chunks of lamb stewed with almonds, currants and red chillies. It was not a true picadillo, more like a spicy lamb hash but still delicious.
Dessert was an empanada—like a flan—filled with blueberries and apple slices. Several French wines were on the list but to stay in the spirit of the place, I had a bottle of a quite passable Mexican table wine, the Santo Tomas.
They apologised for not being able to serve Quinoa as it was still on its long journey from the Andes. I promised to return when it arrived. I walked to Hampstead Station and took the tube to King’s Cross where I changed to the Piccadilly Une and alighted at Hyde Park Corner.
St Armand Street was in the heart of Belgravia. It was not an obvious address for a financial institution but if the intent was to convey near-unlimited wealth in one of the world’s highest rent districts, it succeeded admirably.
I examined the plate outside. It was brass and not gold. I touched the button and a voice answered—not distant and scratchy as with so many such devices but clear, loud and very authoritative.
There was a pause after I gave my name. Then there was a faint click and a tiny buzz. Looking up, I saw a movement of black metal as a video camera scanned me. “Please come in,” said the voice and the door opened smoothly when I pushed.
The hall was panelled in a light-grained wood and there were Persian carpets on the wood-tiled floor. What looked like a Klee was on one wall and a Hockney pool on the other. They weren’t copies. An exquisite sid
e-table in some rare wood had a silver ash-tray and an elaborate silver lamp. An umbrella stand with a silver base stood alongside it.
Again I heard the soft buzz of a video camera. I couldn’t spot it but it presumably liked what it saw for a door opened and in came a pencil-slim girl with varnished blonde hair and a light grey suit which must have been a Valentino exclusive.
She murmured my name and I nodded.
“Follow me,” she invited. She led me past an alcove containing an antique bronze head, round a corner past a wall with a Utrillo and knocked gently at a door. A voice from within said something unintelligible.
“Mr Broodman will see you,” smiled the girl as if she were granting me an audience with the Pope.
The office was furnished in the same style as the rest of VDZH, lush, plush, expenditure without crass consideration of money, the ultimate in wealth and power.
Mr Broodman was a big, burly man in his early sixties. He had one of those faces like a hairless bull terrier. His ears were large and protruding and he had short, scrubby grey hair. He didn’t greet me, just pointed to a chair.
I sat and pulled it nearer to his large polished desk so that I could place my card on it. He examined it as if it were in Sanskrit. As there was nothing on it to tell him my business, he didn’t seem too interested in it. He put it down before it could contaminate him.
“Yes?” he said.
Evidently the treatment of visitors didn’t match up to the decor or maybe he was an expert at sizing up people and had ruled me out as a client already. I thought I would shake him up a bit for openers.
“I had expected to talk to Mr Van Der Zwet or Mr Henningsen,” I said, pleasant but disappointed.
“You can talk to me.”
“They’re not available? Oh well, perhaps I should come back …” I rose to leave.
“You can’t see them. Not ever.”
“They’re not active in the business?”
“Not active, no. They’re dead.”
That certainly explained why they weren’t active. Broodman’s English was flawless and there was only the merest trace of an accent.
“Perhaps I can talk to you then?”
He nodded. His head only moved an inch but it was a nod.
I sat down and studied him doubtfully.
“This is a very confidential matter,” I said.
I was beginning to penetrate. There was a noticeable impatience in his voice as he said, “All the matters we deal with here are confidential.”
He was probably right there. They might be so confidential that I would get nothing out of him. Still, I was here and it was worth a try.
“You deal in venture capital,” I told him. “Mainly in businesses related to food and drink.”
“Only in such businesses,” he corrected me stiffly.
“Your clients are major companies and corporations—”
He said nothing.
“—or organisations such as … well, such as restaurants, for instance.”
He blinked but as far as I could tell he gave no other reaction.
“You say the matters you handle are confidential. Undoubtedly, your clients like to keep it that way.”
“Is there some reason for your visit, Mr—er,” he looked again at my card. He had forgotten my name already.
“Do you watch television, Mr Broodman?”
This time his head jerked.
“Really! If you are here for some reason, be so good as to tell me what it is.”
“If you watch television, Mr Broodman, you will know who Ivor Jenkinson is. You will also know that he died under mysterious circumstances. Now, Mr Broodman, if your clients are so confidential and you treat them as such—why did Ivor Jenkinson plan to use the name of VDZH in a forthcoming television programme?”
It wasn’t the blockbuster approach I would have wished but it was the nearest I could get. Perry Mason usually did it with more flair and Horace Rumpole did it with more aplomb but I was quite pleased with my version. It had some effect.
Mr Broodman’s Adam’s apple moved up and down twice. His eyes moved from my face and back to my card. He was thinking of several responses in turn and discarding them one by one. He wasn’t going to give away anything easily though, I was sure of that. He probably faced tougher situations than this every day of the week and with millions involved.
He decided on the hard man approach.
“Scotland Yard have been here already,” he said in a brittle voice. “I can call them and say that you are here asking me questions and you have no authority.”
I breathed a sigh of relief for having told Winnie.
To Broodman I said: “Call them. Talk to the officer who was here—Inspector Hemingway.”
That took him aback. He had thought he could get rid of me by threatening to call the police. Now he had to find another approach.
“I’m only concerned with the matter which brought Ivor Jenkinson here at 9.30 on the morning of the 12th,” I told him, hoping that the detail might be impressive. “I am not concerned with his death and I am not investigating it.”
He digested this.
“What business is it of yours?” he asked.
“Perhaps one of the principals in the matter is worried about all this publicity. They might want to pull out. They certainly don’t like the prospect of it all appearing in the media.”
“That is hardly our fault,” Broodman said curtly.
“They do expect confidentiality,” I said, rubbing it in.
I felt that the balance had tilted in my favour. He wasn’t quite as overbearing now and he was uneasily trying to find out how much I knew. One chilling thought followed though—IJ might have died because of how much he knew. Did I want Broodman and VDZH to think I knew as much as IJ?
Don’t be silly, I told myself. Banks don’t kill people. Well, all right, maybe in Robert Ludlum they do but not in Belgravia.
Broodman had been watching me as he worked out his next move. When he spoke, there was a disquieting echo of my thoughts:
“And how do you know this?”
“I was with IJ when he died,” I said.
He considered that with all its implications and I had tried to manoeuvre my statements so that they bristled with them. I was getting myself in deep, I knew that but I couldn’t back out now.
“It is true that publicity could damage the success of this project,” he said slowly.
I waited for him to say more but he stopped there. I had fired nearly all of my big guns and I would soon be out of ammunition. I pulled the trigger on what was left.
“Publicity is especially damaging to the restaurant business,” I said. “It’s very volatile.”
He might have nodded or I might have imagined it.
“You were working with Jenkinson?” he asked.
“He had a large and very active network,” I said truthfully.
“What will happen now to the information he had gathered?”
“We won’t know that for some time.”
His gaze moved back to my card on his desk.
“Why does a principal send you?”
“A low profile would seem advisable after an unexplained death, wouldn’t you say?”
“Who else knows about this?” His voice seemed to grate but perhaps it was because this was a question I hadn’t wanted to hear.
“Ivor Jenkinson was not a man to take others into his confidence—very few,” I added quickly. Turnabout was fair play, I thought and I asked him: “Who knows on your side?”
A lifetime of buttoned-lip banking regimentation stood firm and he sidestepped the question.
“I may talk with the principals and see if they wish to consider an alternate strategy.”
I clung on desperately. “Why should they? The death of Jenkinson makes no difference to their plans.”
He didn’t deny or confirm it. He repeated:
“I may talk with them.”
I made a last ditch effort.
“Perhaps you should talk to the decision maker, you know … maybe it could be kept out of the media. When I report back … who will you speak to first?”
It didn’t work. He picked up my card.
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe it can be kept out of the media. Let us hope so.” He gave me a nod of dismissal. “Thank you for your visit.”
The glossy blonde appeared in response to some hidden signal and conducted me out.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THERE WAS A MESSAGE waiting for me when I returned to the office. It was the kind Mrs Shearer liked to bring me in person as it said “Call Scotland Yard”. When she handed it to me, she gave me a look which showed she thought they couldn’t get along without me.
“I was thinking,” said Winnie when I got through to her, “about that suspect of yours…”
“Good,” I said. “I counted on feminine curiosity.”
“You’re mistaken,” she said crisply. “It’s police curiosity.”
“Whichever. I still want to tell you about it—and I was at VDZH this afternoon.”
“Any luck?” she asked.
“I learned a little.”
“Then you did better than the inspector. We’d better talk about it. Look, I can’t get away just now and I’m going to be on duty tonight. Can we meet for coffee at about six?”
“You can’t get away for longer?” I asked, disappointed.
“Afraid not.” She sounded sincere.
“Where do you have in mind?”
She named a coffee shop near Victoria Station and we agreed on six o’clock.
Winnie was not only prompt but she looked adorable in her neat uniform. Her blue eyes shone and a happy smile curved her lips as she sat down. The place wasn’t much but it was clean and quiet. I had been early so as to choose a secluded corner but it hadn’t been necessary. They were all secluded.
Pleasantries were out of the way quickly—Winnie was obviously anxious to hear of my investigations. First, I told her of my suspicions of Raymond. She listened without interrupting until I had given her the full picture as I had pieced it together walking along the Thames bankside.
When I finished, she drank some coffee and said:
“You think the poison was introduced deliberately? It wasn’t an accidental overdose? Why?”