‘Unlike selling overpriced houses?’
Don summoned a grin. ‘Exactly.’
They climbed out and walked round to the back of the Volvo. Perkins looked at them, but did not speak.
‘Mr Perkins?’ Don ventured.
Perkins nodded. ‘Mr Challenor? And Miss Blake?’
‘You can drop the “miss”,’ said Blake.
‘Will do.’ The accent was flat, faintly estuarine, the tone neutral and non-committal.
‘Good of you to meet us,’ said Don, striving for a touch of amiability.
‘Got to check everything out in my line of work.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘We’re not here to waste your time,’ said Blake pointedly. Don sensed she was not warming to Mr Perkins.
‘I won’t waste yours, then. What’ve you got for me?’
‘You’re interested in the Nightingale account,’ said Don. ‘So are we.’
‘Why? Does Harkness owe you money?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘We’re interested in the holder of the account,’ said Blake.
‘D’you know who that is?’ Perkins asked.
‘Do you?’
Perkins took a last drag from his cigarette and flicked it away. Then he gave both of them a long, hard look. ‘Are we in “I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours” territory here?’
‘Maybe.’
A people carrier with a large family aboard pulled in a few bays away. Children and a dog burst energetically out of it. Perkins regarded them with a jaundiced eye. ‘Let’s get in the car.’
He stood up and closed the tailgate, then plodded round and got into the driving seat. Blake headed for the rear bench-seat, signalling for Don to sit next to Perkins.
As they settled in their places, Perkins adjusted the mirror so he could see Blake. She had had to push an anorak, a laptop and a bulging briefcase to one side to make room for herself, while Don found his feet obstructed by several empty takeaway coffee cups and a burger carton.
‘What did Miss Walsh tell you about me?’ Perkins asked.
‘That you’ve been hired by some of Harkness’s creditors to look for their money,’ said Don.
‘Yeah. That covers it. I’ve nothing to do with Quintagler. A lawyer representing smaller fry – sub-contractors and such – has called me in. Now, what’s your interest?’
‘Luscinia,’ Blake said simply.
‘I can’t discuss the details of my enquiries with you, young lady.’ Young lady did not strike Don as a profitable way for Perkins to address Blake; he foresaw trouble ahead. ‘If you’ve got something to tell me and it turns out to be helpful, I might be able to recommend an ex gratia payment. That’s it.’
‘We’re not looking to make money out of what we know, Mr Perkins,’ Don said levelly.
‘You’re not?’
‘Do you know who Luscinia is?’
‘Whatever I dig up I pass on to my clients in confidence.’
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘It’s neither. There are people paying me to supply hard-to-get information. They wouldn’t react kindly if they found out I was giving it away for free to strangers. I mean, what exactly is your stake in this?’
‘We know who Luscinia is,’ said Blake suddenly. It was a big claim, one Don knew they could not back up. But Perkins had annoyed her. And that had made her impatient.
‘If that’s true,’ said Perkins, ‘what d’you need from me?’
‘The link to Harkness.’
‘Why does it matter to you?’
‘It just does.’
‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere,’ Don cut in. ‘Maybe we should lay it on the line for you.’ He had Perkins’ attention now – and Blake’s. ‘I expect you know Amos French.’ Don thought he detected a tensing of Perkins’ jaw muscles at the mention of French’s name. ‘He’s offered to pay us – handsomely – for what we know. We haven’t taken him up on it because he can’t give us what we think you may be able to give us. The connection between Luscinia and Harkness. But if we can’t get anywhere with you, well, we may decide to cash in. So, are you in a position to trade – or not?’
Perkins took his time about answering. He lit a cigarette and lowered his window to disperse the smoke, letting in a gale of shrieking and barking from the nearby stretch of grass, where the children and dog were cavorting. ‘I’d need to check with my partner,’ he said at last.
‘No point if you’re against it,’ said Blake.
‘I’m not,’ Perkins replied, holding Blake’s gaze in the mirror.
‘Are we in business?’ Don asked. They had the advantage now. It was time to press it home.
‘Yeah. There won’t be a problem. But … I’ll have to run it past her.’
Her was a surprise. Was there a Mrs Perkins? All the signs were surely against it. ‘How long will that take?’
‘Come to my office tomorrow morning. Let’s say ten o’clock. We’ll both be there. Over the tanning salon at the top of Stockwell Road, opposite the Tube station. That suit you?’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Don.
‘You can count on it,’ Blake added for emphasis.
‘Yeah.’ Perkins looked at her in the mirror again. ‘I’m sure I can.’
We’re getting somewhere, like really somewhere. That’s what I tell Don as we head on up the motorway. He can’t exactly deny it, but still it’s obvious he’d prefer to have hit a brick wall with Holly – or with Perkins. This isn’t working out like he imagined. We’re on the trail. I don’t know where it leads. But we’re on it. And that feels good.
We’re going to stay at Don’s place overnight. That was an easy decision – nothing else makes sense – but it’s just a bit worrying as well. Don’s home may show me more of him than I’ve seen so far. And it may not be good.
Then there’s the whole thing of London, the great grey, gobbling metropolis. I went there, of course, when I made a break for it from Birmingham. Cliché, right? Poor little runaway girl heads for the bright lights and big chances of the capital. Well, we all know how that ends. And it could’ve gone that way for me. Not sure where I found the nerve – the honesty with myself – to pull back and take a different road. The road west.
Don’s place is in Islington. Good area, he tells me, though nowhere here looks that good to me. He lives in a tall yellow-brick house, part of a terrace, Georgian, according to Don, as if that’s supposed to impress me. It’s divided into flats. His is on the first floor. ‘The best floor.’ Naturally.
Big relief. The flat’s not bad. Spacious, tidy and comfortable. Not a whole load of personality, apart from a huge bookcase full of paperbacks and a stack of CDs and DVDs by the hi-fi. No framed photographs. No art. Not much in the way of knick-knackery. But that’s OK. Clean and simple is fine by me.
‘Bet you thought it’d be like the inside of Perkins’ Volvo,’ says Don.
‘You’re getting perceptive, Don,’ I lob back at him. ‘Must be my influence.’
I follow him into the kitchen and suggest a multi-coloured stool made by a struggling young Cornwall-based artist could really lift the room. He says I can give him one for Christmas and I think for a moment about how strange and remote and yet cheering the idea is that we’ll actually still know each other six months from now.
Don says he can cook risotto after he’s been out to the local Tesco Express. Meanwhile, I can take a shower. But the shower has to wait while the water heats up, so we have a drink: Don a bottle of beer, me a G&T seeing as there’s actually a lemon in his fridge.
‘When all this is over, Blake,’ he says, slumped on the sofa next to me in the lounge, ‘I could try and get you a job with an estate agent. Nothing special. Glorified tea-girl at first. But it might lead on to better things.’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘No.’ He looks offended. ‘If you dressed the part and, well, moderated some of your attitudes, you could probably make a go of it. A
nd then …’
‘I could turn into a version of everybody else.’
‘I’m only trying to be helpful. Some people would jump at the chance.’
‘I’m not some people.’
He grimaced. ‘I’ve noticed that.’
I suddenly see myself from his point of view and realize I’m being really ungrateful. I can’t help it. But I can sugar the pill. I turn round to face him. ‘It’s kind of you, Don. I appreciate it. I do, honestly. But I can’t be …’
‘Fenced in?’
‘Definitely not.’ I smile. ‘Big mistake even to try.’
‘Not one I’ll repeat.’
‘Good. Because we have much more important things to worry about than my career prospects.’
He sets down his glass and looks at me seriously. ‘It’s not too late to bail out of this, Blake. We don’t have to keep our appointment with Perkins tomorrow. We don’t have to go on asking questions.’
‘Why would we stop?’
‘Because stopping might be the safest option.’
‘Fuck that.’
He smiles wearily at me. ‘Right. Of course.’
‘I mean, you can stop. But I won’t.’
‘No.’ He picks up his glass again and swallows some beer. ‘You won’t, will you?’
When Don returned to his flat from Tesco Express, shopping bag in hand, he noticed the bathroom door was half open, with steam billowing out. Blake moved briefly into blurry view. Somehow he was not surprised to see her naked again. He was almost growing accustomed to it.
‘That is you, Don, isn’t it?’ she called from out of sight.
‘It’s me.’
‘I’ll be out soon.’
‘Got something against closed doors, Blake?’
She leant round the edge of the door, wet hair plastered to her head, shoulder beaded with water, and blinked at him. ‘Hasn’t everyone?’
Later, while Don rustled up a risotto in the kitchen of his Islington flat, Fran Revell packed a case for her trip to Cornwall at her house in Belsize Park.
The atmosphere between her and Peter had been tense over the weekend and the girls had been no help at all, engaging in a contest to determine who could be the more difficult daughter of the two.
They, of course, did not know about their father’s gambling addiction – conquered now, he claimed, though Fran was not sure – and Peter did not know the full extent of what she had been obliged to do to repay Harkness for bailing them out. As far as he was aware, the trip to Cornwall was a simple and straightforward assignment.
The truth, which worried Fran whenever she considered it, was that she had no clue as to what Harkness’s long-term intentions were. Nothing she had done for him so far had been to Mona’s disadvantage, rather the reverse. But Harkness was a man in deep legal trouble. He surely had to have some plan to extricate himself. How Fran might be implicated in that worried her deeply.
Go to Cornwall. Expedite the sale of Wortalleth West. And ask no questions. That was what Harkness required her to do. And she was bound to do it. But it would not end there. She knew that. She was a pawn in a game Harkness was playing for very high stakes. And she had no idea what the rules of the game were.
She closed the case and pulled it off the bed. A glance at the clock told her what she already knew. It would soon be time to leave.
At Wortalleth West, nothing moves. The house is silent and empty. The video screens in the room behind the mirror show only stillness. The hidden cameras record only absence. The digital clocks mark the passing of every second, in London, Frankfurt, Moscow, Beijing, Tokyo, Los Angeles, New York. The counting goes on. The waiting continues.
But it will not continue for ever.
SIX
THE WEATHER CHANGED overnight. Low cloud hung over London and there were drifts of rain in the fitful breeze. Don and Blake took the Tube to Stockwell as the morning rush began to abate. The contrast with the start of a day on the Lizard could hardly have been greater: the close horizons, the stale air, the litter blown on a tunnelled wind, the mournful saxophone of a distant busker, the hurrying, self-absorbed travellers, heads down, eyes averted.
‘This is the city full of golden opportunities, right, Don?’ murmured Blake as they were jostled first by those leaving the train at King’s Cross and then by those boarding it.
‘People your age are supposed to enjoy the buzz,’ Don retorted.
‘What I enjoy most is being free.’
‘It’s fair to say, Blake, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone freer.’
‘Wow.’ She grinned. ‘That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.’
The sun was still shining in Cornwall. Fran had left the sleeper at Truro and picked up a pre-booked hire car. She had had a surprisingly restful night, lulled by the motion of the train, and felt more optimistic than she had before leaving London. She was on the road to Helston now, hoping to find Robin Pawley in his office at the start of the working week. She had emailed him the previous evening and anticipated he would be keen to take over where Don had left off. Maybe this was all going to be easier than she had feared. Maybe there really would be no problems.
The Stockwell Tanning Studio had not yet opened for business. A door leading to the floors above had two bell-pushes fitted next to it, one labelled Perkins Associates, which Don prodded at. He strained to hear the buzz of the lock-release over the roar of the traffic on Clapham Road, but failed. Only at the third attempt did he manage to time a shove at the door correctly.
‘Impressive entrance,’ Blake muttered as they went in.
‘I’d have asked you to do it,’ Don rejoined, ‘but I know you’ve got a thing about closed doors.’
‘Just get up the stairs without falling over, will you?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
Up they went.
Up we go. Don’s switched to a different suit since we got to London, but basically he still looks standard-issue white-collar male. I’ve gone for tight jeans and my favourite black leather bomber jacket. The way it creaks slightly when I move sounds way more expensive than it was. I want to come across as sharp and savvy. Something in scruff-bag Perkins’ eyes when he looked at me in the mirror in his scruff-bag car told me he’ll secretly enjoy being given the runaround by the likes of me.
I can’t predict what Perkins’ partner will make of me, though, or me of her. As it turns out, she’s a curvaceous black woman, probably in her forties, with big watchful eyes and a soft voice. Clarice Dow’s the friendly but cautious type. She isn’t giving anything away. Better be sure we don’t either.
My guess is Clarice’s partnership with Perkins is business and that’s it. He’s no catch and he’s looking gruesomer than ever today. They’ve got the blinds down this grey old morning and light the place like the electricity bill’s a big concern. There are more PCs and laptops than two people can reasonably need, with lots of cables snaking off to extra hard drives.
‘Are you worried about surveillance?’ Don asks, gesturing at the blinds.
‘I would be if we didn’t take precautions,’ says Perkins.
‘You’re on Mendez Chinnery estate agency’s website, Mr Challenor,’ says Clarice. ‘But when I called them this morning, they said you’d left the company.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me?’
‘That’s what we do,’ says Perkins. ‘Check up on people.’
‘Nothing on you, though, honey.’ Clarice smiles at me almost maternally. ‘But then one name doesn’t give us much to go on.’
‘Good.’
‘How’d you two hook up?’
‘Don hired me for S&M sex.’ I enjoy watching her trying not to look startled. ‘But we agreed I was better suited to an admin role.’
‘Are we going to talk seriously?’ growls Perkins. I get the feeling he’d register a zero on the sense of humour scale.
‘Of course,’ says Don the genial negotiator.
‘You don’t know who Lusci
nia is.’ I’m looking at Clarice as I speak. I’d rather deal with her than Perkins. ‘Right?’
‘At this time,’ she admits, ‘we don’t.’
‘But you want to find out?’
‘The operator of the Nightingale account is a person of interest to us.’
‘Why?’
‘He or she ties together a whole web of suspect dealings.’
‘How exactly?’
‘If you know who Luscinia is, tell us and we’ll let you in on what we’ve uncovered so far.’
‘About Harkness?’
‘He’s not someone you should necessarily be asking after.’ Clarice seems genuinely concerned about me. ‘Keith says you’ve been in contact with Amos French.’
‘We have,’ says Don.
She goes on looking at me. ‘Just so you know, we’re investigators pure and simple. We dig up whatever we legally can. We might cut a few corners, but we’re basically respectable. French, on the other hand, is from a whole other area of the business. You shouldn’t get involved with him. You really shouldn’t.’
‘Look, this is what I suggest,’ says Don. ‘We tell you as much as we know about the person we think Luscinia is without actually identifying her. Then you give us what you’ve got on Harkness. And we give you her name.’
‘We’ll give you an outline of what we’ve got on Harkness,’ says Perkins.
‘We’ll answer your questions about him,’ says Clarice more reasonably. ‘Isn’t that what you want?’
‘Yeah,’ I say to her. ‘It is.’
Perkins slumps down in a swivel chair and creaks round in it to look at us. ‘So?’ He spreads his hands impatiently.
Don starts. I’ve got to give it to him. He knows how to make half a story sound like most of it. ‘Luscinia’ met Harkness in Cornwall in the early nineties and disappeared while she was at university in 1996. She’d be forty-three now. This doesn’t seem to ring any bells with Perkins and Clarice. I guess they’ve been concentrating on his recent financial ducking and diving. Don reveals ‘Luscinia’ was a schoolfriend of Holly Walsh and volunteers that we think she’s been using the Nightingale account to pay for Holly’s Ditrimantelline treatment.
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