Thirty-seven
‘Charles? I’m worried about Freddie. He’s still not home.’
Bingo stirred in her sleep. ‘Who is it?’
‘Jane.’
Charles put the light on and squinted at his watch.
‘Jane, it’s two o’clock!’
‘You were the last one to see him. Did he say anything? Did he say where he was going?’
Charles assembled his thoughts. ‘Home. I wanted to give him a lift. “You go ahead,” he said, “I’ll grab a cab.”’
‘He actually said he was going home?’
‘Not in so many words. He wanted a quiet moment. He knew everyone was coming back to Chester Terrace…’
‘I know he’s been drinking. He’s never not come home. It’s not like Freddie. Do you think there could have been an accident?’
Bingo’s head was on Charles’ shoulder listening to the conversation.
‘Tell her to ring the police.’
‘Do you think I should?’ Jane said.
‘It can’t hurt. Do you want me to come over?’ Charles yawned.
‘There wouldn’t be much point. I’m sorry to wake you. And Bingo.’
Bingo took the phone. ‘Darling? I’m sure Freddie’s all right. He’s just upset. He’s probably crashed out somewhere.’
‘At this time of the morning?’
‘At his club…?’
‘Freddie doesn’t have a club. I’ll try James. Perhaps Freddie said something to him. Then I’ll ring the police.’
‘Keep in touch.’ Charles put down the telephone. ‘I don’t know what’s come over Freddie. I think he’s going off his rocker. He’s certainly been acting very strangely.’
‘I’m sorry for Jane,’ Bingo said. ‘He’s been giving her a rough time.’
When neither James, nor Piers, could suggest where Freddie might be, Jane dialled 999. And waited. She could have been murdered several times over. Hearing the sound of her own voice reporting an errant husband, she thought that the Duty Officer must think her ridiculous. He took her concern seriously however. He would make some enquiries and call her back. She was glad when Rosina came to sit on her bed.
‘I’m getting worried.’
Rosina took her hand. ‘What do you think has happened?’
‘I don’t know, Rosina,’ Jane was trembling. ‘I’m frightened.’
There was no question of going back to sleep. They waited in the kitchen where Rosina made hot chocolate.
‘I heard noises.’ Tristan appeared in an old bathrobe of Freddie’s.
Rosina told him what had happened. Picking up the message pad and a pencil, Tristan took charge of the situation.
‘Let’s make a list of places where he might be. Charles?’
‘I’ve called him.’
‘James?’
‘I’ve called him.’
‘Piers?’
‘Daddy isn’t exactly on speaking terms with Piers at the moment.’
Tristan looked surprised. ‘What’s Piers done?’
‘That’s just the trouble. He hasn’t done anything.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘I’m waiting for them to ring back. It’s 3.30! Did Daddy…say anything to you in church?’
Tristan shook his head.
‘Think, Tristan.’
‘I am thinking.’
The telephone rang. Tristan was first on his feet. ‘I’ll get it.’
Watching him, gauging from his reactions what was being said, Jane thought how much he resembled Freddie. Even at sixteen.
‘There’s been no accident reported. They’re going to check the hospitals. They said not to worry. People often stay out all night.’
‘People,’ Jane said. ‘Not your father.’
For the past week, ever since she had broken the news about Lilli, Freddie had hardly spoken to her. He avoided being in the same room. He avoided looking at her. His frigid behaviour had had its effect. It had been getting her down.
The day before the funeral she had discussed the matter with Bingo, going over to ‘Bingo’s’ where she had sat before a triple mirror staring unseeingly at herself in a black crushed-velvet hat reminiscent of Napoleon.
‘Freddie has got it into his head that just because Piers sat next to me at the dinner party, just because I spoke to him, just because I danced with him, we’re getting it on…’
Bingo, wearing a leather mini-skirt and platform shoes in a confusion of styles which only she could get away with, was removing other hats, one more bizarre than the next, from the drawer of a marquetry commode.
‘…he refuses to talk to me.’
Bingo pulled out a chapeau à melon in cerise felt, and held it aloft.
‘Freddie should go to the doctor.’
‘You know Freddie and doctors.’
‘He needs therapy.’
‘Try suggesting that to Freddie.’
‘Not me, Jane. You.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
Bingo held out the chapeau à melon.
‘Try this one, darling. It will clash gloriously with your hair.’
She removed the Napoleon number and arranged the hat on Jane’s head. ‘You have your ways.’
Jane took off the cerise felt and ran her fingers through her hair. She was in no mood for hats.
‘Not any more.’ She met Bingo’s eyes in the mirror. ‘It’s like sharing a house, sharing a bed, with a stranger. I don’t know how long I can go on like this.’
‘Freddie will be all right when he gets a job.’
‘There are no jobs. Freddie is being totally unrealistic. He won’t even discuss the situation any more. Lilli’s death hasn’t helped. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else, Bingo, but there have been times lately when I wish I was having an affair with Piers.’
Jane went back to bed but not to sleep. She dozed fitfully and waited for the telephone to ring. At five o’clock, in a state of agitation, she tried the police again. They had checked the hospitals. Nothing had been reported. She put her electric blanket on, but she was still cold. It may very well be that people stayed out all night. Not Freddie. There was an unfamiliar trepidation, a sense of premonition in her heart. The last time she had seen Freddie he had been standing opposite her at the graveside. As the coffin containing Lilli’s body was lowered on its ropes into the ground, her heart had gone out to him. His black coat was turned up at the collar. He hadn’t bothered, not even for Lilli’s funeral, to shave. He had been a good son. He had nothing to reproach himself with. Only that he had not said goodbye to Lilli, had not made his peace. Afterwards she had waited in the funeral car for Freddie to get in beside her. Tristan said that his father was coming later, under his own steam. His absence at Chester Terrace had been commented upon. He had been expected at every moment. When he did not appear, the friends who had come to offer their condolences had drifted away. When they had gone, despite the fact that Jane had Tristan and Rosina for company, the house had seemed desolate. Without him, it was as if Freddie had died.
Getting up and going into the bathroom, Jane opened the cupboard and searched for the pill bottle labelled ‘Mrs L Lomax’. It was not there. Unsure of the significance, she telephoned James. At 6.30, dressed in his tracksuit, he came round. James said Freddie could have finished Lilli’s sleeping pills. Could have thrown the bottle away. Jane knew that he had not. She worried away at the fact, which did not help.
It was seven o’clock. Up and dressed, she was making coffee for James in the kitchen.
‘I know this sounds ridiculous, James, but do you think Freddie might have gone to stay in an hotel?’
‘Why on earth should he?’
‘No reason.’
They made a list of hotels. The Ritz, the Connaught, the Churchill, the Portman, Grosvenor House, the Inn on the Park.
Patiently James made the abortive calls.
‘I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Jane darling. Why don’t you go back to be
d, try to get some sleep? I’m going out to look for Freddie.’
‘What about the airports?’ Jane said. ‘Perhaps he’s gone abroad.’
James was shocked at the chaos in Freddie’s usually immaculate dressing-room. ‘A pile of paperwork is a pile of postponed decisions.’ It was Freddie’s motto. Papers and bills were stacked on every available surface. The room was in a state of total disarray. They found his passport, amongst the unopened letters in a drawer. Looking at the photograph of Freddie which, despite its size and poor quality, captured his former joie de vivre, brought home to Jane how much he had changed.
Going down the stairs she said lightly to James: ‘I suppose Freddie hasn’t got a girlfriend?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
But something was troubling James. He stopped in the hall.
‘You know something,’ Jane said.
‘No, I don’t. It was just a thought which occurred to me. The longest of long shots.’
‘Please, James!’
‘We didn’t try the Berkeley.’
‘The Berkeley? Why the Berkeley?’
But James was already in the kitchen dialling directory enquiries. The robot gave him the number of the Berkeley Hotel. He did not wait while she repeated it.
‘Do you have a Mr Lomax staying with you? A Mr Freddie Lomax?’
‘I’ll put you through to reception.’
‘Please hurry.’
‘Reception. Can I help you?’
‘Mr Freddie Lomax. Has he checked in?’
‘Just one moment.’
‘Please hurry.’
‘We have a Mr Maxwell, a Mrs Lom. Sorry, sir, no Mr Lomax.’
He replaced the receiver. ‘It was just an idea.’
It was an idea which refused to go away. He opened the front door as George, the postman, was delivering the letters. He had been about to ring the bell.
‘Recorded delivery.’ George handed James a pencil and the red slip.
‘Derek Abbot,’ Jane said. ‘Freddie doesn’t even bother to open them.’
‘Mr Lomax all right?’ George put the pencil back in his pocket.
Jane nodded as James went back into the kitchen. He picked up the phone.
‘Berkeley Hotel, can I help you?’
‘Put me through to Room 333.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Room 333 isn’t taking any calls.’
‘Could you tell me who’s staying there?’
‘Hold a moment. I’ll put you through to reception.’
‘I called you a few minutes ago,’ James said. ‘I was looking for a Mr Lomax. A Mr Freddie Lomax. It’s possible he checked in under another name. Could you tell me who’s staying in Room 333?’
‘I’ll have a look for you.’
James waited.
‘A Mr Smith.’
Freddie never did have much imagination.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Smith.’
‘I’m sorry, sir…’
‘Okay, okay. What time did Mr Smith check in?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’d need to ask my colleague. I’ve only just come on duty…’
‘Forget it,’ James said. Putting down the receiver, he took Jane’s hand. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve found him.’
Time extended itself in tenuous threads as James, at the wheel of his Bentley, drove like a madman through the early morning park. The dedicated joggers reminded Jane of Freddie. In Wilton Place, ignoring the doorman, who said he could not leave his car in front of the hotel, James ran up the steps with Jane.
The concierge, who tried to make sense of his story, had no reason to suppose that Mr Smith, who had checked in the previous day while he was on his break, was anybody other than Mr Smith. And even if he was, it was not the business of the hotel. It was 7.30 in the morning. It was not their policy to disturb a guest.
‘Call the police,’ Jane said.
James held out a banknote.
The concierge wanted to get rid of them. They were cluttering up his hall. Putting the money into his pocket, he picked up the house phone.
‘I’ll get Mr Fourbouys. He’s the manager.’
‘Please hurry,’ Jane said.
‘It could be a wild-goose chase,’ James said, while they were waiting.
Jane did not reply. She wondered what she was doing standing in the lobby of the Berkeley Hotel at 7.30 in the morning. In addition to Freddie being missing, she felt that perhaps James had gone mad.
Mr Fourbouys, in his black jacket and striped trousers, took them into his office. He had just come on duty and as well as looking very young, looked very clean. He listened sympathetically to them and, although he had been trained not to show it, thought privately that James and Jane were grabbing at straws. Making a series of calls, which seemed to Jane to take for ever, he established that Mr Smith wore a black overcoat, that he carried no luggage, that he had had a bottle of Black Label sent to his room, and that he had asked not to be disturbed.
‘That’s Freddie,’ James said, and not waiting for the lift, ran up the stairs to the third floor.
Outside Room 333, hung with the green plastic trapezoid ‘Do Not Disturb’, Mr Fourbouys elbowed James aside.
‘Just one moment, if you please.’
He tapped gently on the door.
‘What the fuck…?’ James said.
‘Allow me to deal with this, please, sir.’ He knocked more loudly. ‘There are procedures which must be followed.’
Golden Boy Page 29