She raised a hand to her forehead. A man standing a few yards away stared at her in evident puzzlement. The calm reasserted itself.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Napier. I don’t propose to turn the villains into victims.” Her voice was back under control. “This is goodbye. You won’t hear from me again.”
“Who are you?” I repeated.
“A friend of a friend, you might say. And in the final analysis not a much better one than you.” With that she turned and headed down the cut-through towards the Metropolitan Line, moving slowly, as if tempting me to follow.
I knew the layout of the station was against me and so did she, but I couldn’t just watch her walk away. I started running along the platform, up over the footbridge and down the steps towards the other end of the cut-through. There was no immediate sign of her, though one dark-haired rain coated figure among so many was easy enough to miss.
I reached the Metropolitan Line platforms and moved as fast as I could through the crowds to the top of the stairs leading down to the Bakerloo and Jubilee Lines.
And there I stopped, recognizing the futility of what I was doing. I could blunder on in random pursuit, but I stood no realistic chance of catching her. She could have taken any one of half a dozen different routes. It was as if she wanted me to understand her mastery of the situation. And so I did. But still there was a chance, however slim.
I could guess right, or I could see through the deception. The least likely course was probably the one she’d followed.
Trusting the hunch, I doubled back towards the Circle Line, sighting an eastbound train standing at the platform as I neared the footbridge. I ran towards it, but already the doors had closed and it was pulling out. And there, strap-hanging calmly in the second carriage to pass me, was Pauline Lucas. She smiled as she caught sight of me and raised one hand in ironic farewell.
Then she was past me and gone. The train accelerated away into the tunnel, until only the fading rumble of the engine and the dwindling sparks of static on the track could be heard. Silence descended in the stale air, as vast as it was brief. I stared on into the black mouth of the tunnel. But I saw nothing.
Frankie’s story, painfully extracted over three exorbitantly priced mineral waters at the bar of the Zenith Club, was that he had, as promised, asked around about the woman I knew as Pauline Lucas -without success.
“Nobody knew nothing, mate. Or, if they did, they weren’t telling.”
“Then how do you account for her knowing about our arrangement?”
“Word must have got back to her. Can’t say I’m surprised. She looks like one of the sisterhood.”
“What sisterhood?”
“The high-class hookers who bring their clients here for an appetizer.
They don’t all patrol King’s Cross in fishnet stockings and miniskirts, do they? There’s a smarter set for your more discerning customer. We get quite a few of them in. They tend to stick together. Know what I mean?”
“So, you think she’s a prostitute?”
“Well, from what I remember of the picture you showed me, she’s no nursery schoolteacher.” He grinned. “Unless that’s the day job.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
“No problem. But, here, before you go…” He leaned confidentially across the bar in a gust of spearmint. “Why are you so desperate to find her? When it comes to special services, there’s always someone else.” He winked. “I could give you a personal recommendation.”
Who was she? A friend of a friend, by her own description, which surely had to mean a friend of Nicky. But nobody who’d known him had mentioned anyone who fitted her description. The consensus was that Nicky had had precious few friends of either sex, and Pauline Lucas seemed a singularly unlikely acquaintance for an emotionally insecure librarian in Clacton. But perhaps his CND days held the key. Perhaps they’d met on an Aldermaston march. Hadn’t Considine said something about a girl involving him in the campaign in the first place? Yet that would imply she was about the same age as Nicky and me, whereas I’d have put her at a good ten years younger. Whichever way I turned, there was no obvious answer.
Next morning, I was breakfasting late, the dismal prerogative of the unemployed, wondering how or if I could find out about more recent friendships Nicky might have struck up, when a possible method presented itself literally at my door.
I thought it was the postman when I went to answer the bell. Instead I found Neville Considine standing outside in a shabby raincoat, smiling foxily as if relishing the unpleasant surprise his visit represented.
“Good morning, Mr. Napier. I’ve just walked round from Gray son Motors. They told me I might find you here. I gather there’s been a fire at your workshop. Most distressing for you, I’m sure.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Could you spare me a few moments of your time?”
“I suppose so. You’d better come in.” I walked back to the kitchen and reluctantly offered him tea, about which I had little choice since a fresh pot was standing conspicuously on the table. He accepted and I was aware of him eyeing me as I poured a cup and handed it to him. I had the impression he knew what I really thought of him, and I could almost believe he knew why I couldn’t afford to disclose my opinion.
“What brings you here, Mr. Considine?”
“I’m thinking of trading in my car. You remember the Fiat?”
“I remember it.”
“I need something more reliable. It occurred to me, since you’re in the trade, so to speak …”
“The only car I have for sale is a Bentley Continental. You probably saw it at the showroom.”
“I did, yes. Very classy.”
“But probably out of your price bracket. I doubt I can help you. But maybe you can help me.”
“How so?”
“You once mentioned a girl who you blamed for introducing Nicky to the ban the bomb campaign.”
“Yes. Gillian Hendry. She was a bad influence on him.”
“How old would she be now?”
“Goodness me, Mr. Napier, what a question. Let me see.” He drank from his cup with an audible slurp. “She was a few years younger than Nicholas. Forty, I suppose.”
“No younger than that?”
“Not much. Why?”
“Could this be her?” I took the photograph from the pocket of my jacket, which was hanging behind the door, and handed it to him. He glanced down at it and the glance became a stare. For a fraction of a second, no more, it seemed clear he recognized the woman. But he said nothing. “Well, could it?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “Definitely not.”
“Some other friend of Nicky’s, then?”
“I don’t think so.” He handed the photograph back and looked straight at me. “I’m not acquainted with this woman.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Certainly.” He gulped down some more tea. “When was the picture taken, might I ask?”
“Why should you want to know, if it’s the picture of a total stranger?”
“Oh, mere curiosity.” He dredged up one of his leering grins. “After all, it’s scarcely an everyday snapshot, is it?”
“It was taken quite recently.”
“And have you … met the woman?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I believe her to have been responsible for the destruction of my workshop.”
“Really? But you … don’t know her name?”
“Not her real one, no.”
“It’s a pity I can’t help you.”
“The man she’s with is my brother-in-law. The photograph’s led to the break-up of his marriage. There’s been an attack on my parents’ house as well. It seems awfully like a vendetta, which is why it occurred to me there might be a connection with Nicky.”
“If there is, I’m unaware of it. I’m sorry to hear of your family’s difficulties, Mr. Napier, really I am. And I’m even sorrier to have to add to them, but…” He drained his cup and
set it down on the table. “Needs must.”
“Whose needs are those?”
“Mine. They amount to rather more than a new car, I’m afraid. That’s why I’ve called on you. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your father, but I gather he’s a man of considerable substance, not to say great wealth. I’m wondering if you might feel able to make certain representations to him on my behalf.”
“What kind of representations?”
“The financial kind.” He took a few steps to the window and gazed out into the garden, slapping one hand thoughtfully against the other behind his back in perfect time with the dripping of the tap in the sink beside him. It seemed he was about to ask me to negotiate a loan of some kind, but the idea was so preposterous I knew something else was coming. He turned and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I require a million pounds, Mr. Napier.”
“You whatT
“One million, to be paid into a specified bank account, of which I’ll supply the details. I require ten per cent by the end of this week, as a deposit, so to speak, and the balance within another week. Adequate notice, I think, for your father to liquidate sufficient assets.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Failure to comply will oblige me to notify the authorities of the manner by which Edmund Tully met his death twelve years ago and the reason for his murder. I have the letters Tully left at his lodgings in Truro in August 1947 and I have, from your brother-in-law, an estimate of where in Bishop’s Wood his body’s to be found. I also have, as next of kin to Michael Lanyon’s widow, a legally sustainable right to the entire estate of the late Joshua Carnoweth. Hence I think you will agree and be able to persuade your father to agree that the sum I seek in settlement is … entirely reasonable.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The viewing enclosure at Culdrose Royal Navy Air Station was loud with the whirr of helicopters, the noise reverberating even through the closed windows of my father’s car. Two days had passed since Neville Considine’s delivery of his ultimatum and they looked to have added as many years to Dad’s age. He sat in the driving seat, shoulders hunched, face set and brooding, his lower lip protruding in a sign of pent-up anger, his eyes following the take-offs and landings with pointless concentration. I’d broken the news to him by telephone, knowing I’d have to confront him in person before the way ahead became clear. Now, here we were, conferring in secret under the improbable camouflage of helicopter-spotting. Each of us blamed the other for what had happened, so deeply that we would infinitely have preferred not to meet, let alone speak. But Considine had forced us to do both.
“A million pounds,” Dad grumbled. “My God, he doesn’t do things by halves, does he?”
“Depends how you look at it,” I countered. “A million’s roughly half what Michael Lanyon would have inherited from Uncle Joshua.”
“And he seriously expects me to pay him that much?”
“He’s certainly serious about what he’ll do if you don’t. Starting at the inquest.”
“Hell and damnation.” Dad rubbed his forehead and I noticed a scab on his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving. He was having a nerve-wracking time of it and I was surprised by how momentarily sorry I felt for him even though it was in so many ways richly deserved. “Why did Trevor do this?”
“You know why. Because he resents being cast adrift, as he sees it, and because divorce is likely to cost him dear. I suppose he saw the secret you and he shared as an asset to be cashed in.”
“But he comes out of it just as badly as I do, for God’s sake.”
“Not quite. Besides, I imagine he’s pretty confident you’ll pay up. In which case, he’ll come out of it with whatever cut Considine has promised him.”
“He’s a fool to trust a man like that.”
“Well, that’s his problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what kind of deal they’ve made and I don’t care. Frankly, neither should you.”
“They can’t prove a damn thing.” His brow furrowed in hopeful thought.
“What do the letters amount to assuming Considine really does have them? How can Trevor be sure where we buried Tully -when I wouldn’t know to within a quarter of a mile? Who’s to say this isn’t just a try-on a bloody ramp?”
“No-one. Considine claims he tracked down the address of Tully’s landlady from old press reports of the evidence she gave at the trial and paid the present owner of the house to let him search for them. But he could be lying. So could Trevor about how accurately he recalls the burial spot. It could be one gigantic bluff. If that’s what you think
“I could tell Considine to go to hell.”
“Exactly.”
“But then he’d shoot his mouth off at the inquest. And even if he didn’t have any real proof, the papers would start digging into it and like as not track down that old fool Vigus and drool over his every word and from there …” He shook his head. “I can’t risk it. I simply can’t risk it.”
“So you’ll pay Considine the million?”
“You think I deserve this, don’t you, Chris?” He glared round at me.
“Being made to squirm by some oily little schemer. Well, just remember one thing. Whatever I have to pay Considine you effectively pay him as well. Your mother and I can live off our income quite comfortably, thank you. This will have to come out of capital. And what’s left Pam will have first call on.”
“That’s fine by me. You can give it to Battersea Dogs’ Home as far as I’m concerned. Money started all this off, Dad. Don’t you understand?
Uncle Joshua’s money and the lengths Gran was prepared to go to in order to be sure of getting it. One lie. Then another. And another and another and another. You could have told me the truth last week
-just as recently as that and I might have been able to forgive you.
But you left me to hear it from Trevor. The truth now is that part of me wishes you’d refuse to pay. Then maybe the whole story would come into the open.”
“If that’s how you feel, why did you agree to act as Considine’s messenger boy?”
“Because it’s only how part of me feels. The other part fears what the truth would do. To Pam and Tabs. To Mum. And to you, of course. When all’s said and done, you are my father.”
“Pity you didn’t remember that sooner. But for you lifting up every blasted stone to see what was hiding under it…”
“Considine wouldn’t have you dangling on a hook? Is that how you see it? All my fault, is it?”
“In large measure, boy, yes.”
I stared at him, knowing I should feel angrier than I did. But his eagerness to blame me was too pathetic even to be contemptible. It was the thrashing of a drowning man. I sighed. “What do you want me to do, then?”
“Find out where Trevor’s hiding. When I think of everything I’ve done for him…”
“Nobody knows. I told you that. He booked out of the Trumouth Motel last Thursday saying he was going abroad for a holiday somewhere in the sun, with a friend, by implication female. I asked Pam who and where she thought that meant, but she hadn’t a clue, and I couldn’t press the point without making her suspicious. Tabs is equally in the dark, likewise the hotel staff: the grapevine has its limits and Trevor’s old girlfriends are beyond them.”
“The letters, then. We ought to check Considine’s story. If he can trace the address where Tully stayed from old newspapers, so can you.”
“All right. I’ll try. But it could be a time-consuming job. And you only have until tomorrow to pay Considine the hundred thousand, otherwise he says his piece to the coroner on Monday.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Dad snapped. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“What I think you are is short of options. Do you want me to tell Considine you accept his terms?”
“Yes. God damn it.” He grasped the steering wheel and slowly straightened his arms, leaning back against the headrest. “I’ll have the down payment transferred to his account by close of business tomorrow. As
for the rest, well, once the inquest’s out of the way, he has no ready-made audience for his claims and we have some breathing space.”
“Not much.”
“Any’s better than none. Let him believe I’m caving in. It’ll give me a chance to put out some feelers about where Trevor’s bolted to, while you find out if the letters really exist and whether Considine’s got them. If I can get Trevor back on side they won’t matter so much. And they won’t matter at all if they’re not in Considine’s possession.”
“All right. If that’s how you want to play it.”
“You have a better suggestion?”
“I don’t have any suggestion at all. Besides, you’re not likely to break the habit of a lifetime and listen to my advice.”
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