by Marjorie Orr
Something had been niggling at the back of her mind all day, which only emerged as she reached Orly airport. Paul Stone had mentioned owning a Côte d’Azur house. She scrolled through her contacts. Michel le Lorier was a Paris financier she’d had a brief fling with two years ago, a firecracker month of passion that had fizzled out as quickly as it started, as she had expected from the volatile aspects in their relationship chart. She had been avoiding him since, although he had been slower to get the message. His father, if she remembered correctly, and she usually did, was senior partner in a firm of notaries on the Côte d’Azur. A flicker of embarrassment was suppressed as she clicked his number.
‘Michel, this is Tire. So sorry not to have replied to your texts. I’ve been away a good deal and locked in the attic writing apart from that.’
An amused ‘ouf’ indicated what he thought of that excuse. Her flight flipped to boarding on the display. She winced and plunged on.
‘Wonder if you could do something for me?’
‘Huh. Ignore me, then you need me. Absolument, non, if it involves my firm or their clients.’
‘Your father,’ she said, starting to walk towards the gate. ‘He has been a notary in Cannes for a long time?’
‘Oui.’ His tone was defensive.
‘I just wondered if he’d come across a Paul Stone who bought a Villefranche house years ago.’
There was silence at the other end as she was waved through into the departure lounge.
‘Mam’selle, you are asking for professional confidences to be broken. Again.’ Another pause. ‘I have heard him mention the name. He didn’t like him, not at all. I am phoning him tonight so I will ask. But, I warn you, this will cost you a dinner next time I’m in London.’
‘Bless you,’ she said, blowing him kisses. ‘Anything you can dig up, most grateful.’
A minicab driver was waiting for her at the Heathrow entrance, her name misspelt on his card as Thang. Refusing his offer to carry her case, she followed him to the ticket machine, then through foot tunnels to the car park.
An amiable Afghani, dressed neatly with a black jacket over a blue shirt and jeans, he answered her questions cheerfully on the forty-minute journey back, although not, she thought, truthfully. He had not been home for ten years, was settled into a new life in Harrow with his family, liked the way of life and the people. Since she was a single woman, she knew the cab firm never sent her the bearded drivers, one of whom had once tried to convert Jin with religious zeal. Many of the drivers she suspected disappeared back home frequently, having earned enough money in a few months to keep them in funds, when they reverted to being Taliban. It had crossed her mind as a responsible citizen she should really alert the security services. But she consoled herself with the thought that they must already know.
The M4 sped past with light traffic, but she found herself running out of conversation as the Hammersmith flyover approached. Normally, she would relax as the familiar bustle and busyness of central London welcomed her home. But now she found herself tense and almost tearful as the road swooped over the underpasses down into Knightsbridge. She pulled her cashmere jacket across her chest and twisted her scarf round her fingers.
It was a crawl from there, past Harrods and Harvey Nichols, the imposing architecture at odds with windows grasping for attention with a clutter of pert fashion on gawky dummies. A splash of green to her left brought Hyde Park Corner into view with the Wellington Arch marooned on a triangle of grass, the bronze Angel of Peace at its summit calming the frenzied horses of war. Piccadilly moved at snail’s pace towards the garish Circus, flooded with neon adverts for Sanyo, TDK, Cola and several hundred smaller pleas for shoppers’ money. Up Shaftesbury Avenue, left into Great Windmill Street, past the theatre and then she was home with a sigh of relief.
When she let herself in, she noticed the front door had been repainted and smiled. Herk was in the kitchen making himself tea, all the surfaces clutter-free and gleaming. To cover an awkward pause, she looked into the ceramic sink, which was cleaner than it had been for a while. Grinning, she said: ‘Bed tidy to regulation, with hospital corners then?’
‘You want to inspect it, ma’am?’
She reviewed him with mock superiority. ‘I don’t suppose you served under too many woman commanders?’
‘Nope, none at all and I don’t intend to start now, so you can get off your high horse.’
She laughed. ‘Suppose that means I have to make my own coffee. God, it’s good to be back. And to a clean house. Amazing.’
In the office she sat with her feet propped up on the desk while he moved an armchair into the opposite corner, his feet on the coffee table. He told her he had probably found an SUV that might have been the vehicle involved, but it had been stripped down and reassembled. The number plates were false and there were no serial numbers. The lock-up garage was about to ship the reconstructed version onto the continent and sell it there with false papers.
‘So, right-hand drive?’ she asked.
‘Aye, and a very pro job,’ he said, not meeting her eye.
‘How do you know it was that SUV?’
‘Because one of the guys who worked there said the bumper still had some traces of blood and ...’ He trailed off, waving an apologetic hand.
‘Bastards,’ she said. ‘Did you find out who dropped it in?’
‘Maybe. I was only there for a few hours while they tested me out. I spun them a line about doing prison time.’ He tugged one foot across his knee. ‘I got Sam, the chattiest mechanic, drunk last night and he said it had been taken it in before he arrived. The boss was a mean bugger, so I didn’t bother asking him. Sam did see a tall guy getting into a BMW round the corner when he was coming in. So could have been him. But no description.’
‘And no way of finding out more?’
‘Not a snowball’s. This lock-up works with the dodgy trade so they don’t invite questions and they cover their tracks. Anyway, the sod fired me. Said he didn’t like my face. So no going back there.’
Tire swung her legs onto the floor, rapped on the desk several times with her knuckles. Then, jumping up, she started striding up and down across the grey carpet, humming tunelessly, a low-register monotone. Her heeled boots pounded up and down. She knocked on the door lintel with her fingernails, then disappeared into the kitchen and after more banging and crashing emerged with two glasses and a bottle of wine.
‘Would you sit down, for god’s sake. You’re making me dizzy. If we’re to work together there’ll need to be some rules.’
‘Rules? It’s how I think,’ she said, glaring at him.
‘What? With your feet and knuckles? I thought that was my province,’ he said evenly. ‘Park your butt down and we’ll discuss tomorrow’s schedule.’
What had she landed herself with? A control freak and a bully. She waved a hand across her forehead in what could have been a salute.
‘Rupert Wrighton first thing. That’ll be a soft-pedal interview. No sense in ruffling his feathers too soon.’
‘Bob’ll drive you.’
‘Who?’
‘Owner of the BMW. He’s a mate, handy sort. Best if I’m not seen too often with you.’
She was beginning to feel kettled. How many more mates did he have?
‘Then I’ll speak to Russell about Cerigo’s finances. Erica’s funeral is in the afternoon.’
‘They organised that pretty quick,’ he said, blowing his cheeks out. ‘Must have yanked a few strings. Normally hit and runs lie in the morgue for weeks.’
‘Never underestimate the pulling power of the great and the good,’ she said, pouring herself another glass and pushing the bottle nearer him. ‘What are you going to be doing?’
‘Oh, this and that in the morning. Might be able to drive you in the afternoon. Will see.’
Her brows furrowed as she wondered whether it was worth pointing out that communication was a two-way flow. A sneak glance at him caught a bland smile. He was up to something.
>
Before she could demand an answer, he said: ‘I’ve something to say.’ Pursing his lips he continued: ‘Your flat was nearly broken into when you were away.’
‘What?’
‘Aye, but they didn’t get in. I was out, but luckily I’d set up a trip wire which alerted Ali. The two guys must have heard him and disappeared out the fire exit. They were in hoodies so he didn’t catch their faces. Maybe just scruffs taking a chance with the backdoor open when Ali was taking the rubbish out.’
‘You think?’ she asked slowly.
He shrugged and scuffed his boots together. ‘To be honest, that’s the third incident within a few days, which would make me suspicious. Well, four if you count your friend’s death. I’ve put a steel plate in your front door and bolts through the frame. So it’ll stop any but the most determined.’
The bottle was pushed back in her direction and he stood up. ‘I’m off for a drink with the lads. Might see Momo again.’
At the door, he paused. ‘Don’t let anyone in. I’ll be back before 11.’
CHAPTER 17
Two magpies hopped across the grass, looking around intently, unconcerned by the two elderly figures approaching up the path to the ornate Victorian glasshouse. Jimmy and Elly had walked to the far end of Byres Road. The supermarket was more expensive there, but Elly knew he wanted to go into the Botanic Gardens across the Great Western Road. He had been muted, almost sullen, since he returned from his hospital visit, refusing to say much beyond having met new doctors.
His head was filled with a thick fog, obscuring any clear thought. His breathing was shallow and his heart pounded uncomfortably, echoing up into his ears.
Once through the doors of the Kibble Palace, an ornate nineteenth century glasshouse, passing the giant tree fern and ornamental pond, they headed slowly, as always, for the house of desert plants. The dry, hot air made Elly cough, but Jimmy brightened as soon as he saw the spiky, grey-blue aloe at the far end, its tough, fleshy leaves jutting out at odd angles. The leathery stems towered at least three feet above his head. He stood, as he always did, in rapt silence, a faint smile lighting his face, as if worshipping at a shrine of the Madonna.
‘I’m sorry, Elly,’ he finally said over his shoulder, ‘this is boring for you.’
‘Not at all, I quite like those wee flowers they’ve got down the other end. I just don’t like the prickles on those cactus things.’
He laughed: ‘They can be difficult to get out if you get one in your finger. C’mon, just a quick look in the Tropical House and then we’re off. Maybe the passion flowers will still be out.’
Elly marvelled at his knowledge of the plants although she supposed they had been in the glasshouse often enough for him to memorise the labels.
‘No for long then, I can’t stand all that sweat in there. Maybe I’ll just wait at the entrance for you. Just don’t get lost. I’ll expect you in five minutes.’
Jimmy smiled, walking on through into the rainforest section with its dense luxuriant foliage climbing way up to the domed glass roof. Even he found the humid eighty-degree temperature hard to tolerate for long, but, hurrying down the slippery pathway, he found what he’d been looking for.
Passion flowers were his favourite, with their cross-shaped stamen centres. He really preferred the blue or purple ones, but here in the South American climate house they were a striking red. He always chuckled to himself when remembering a gardener had told him they were named by the Jesuits who first discovered them. The passion was of Jesus and his crucifixion, not of earthly lust. The priests saw great symbolism in their structure, with the stamens representing the nails and wounds of Christ on the cross; until they found other varieties that had a different flower centre, but by that time the name had stuck.
He stood gazing at the splashes of iridescent scarlet against the sombre green foliage, dotted at intervals as the stems clambered upwards over the neighbouring plants. His heart had settled to an even pace and his shoulders dropped. Luminous primary colours made him feel alive, gave him a moment’s space, his head not rattled by anxious thoughts.
His mind could not hold steady for long. The red led to thoughts of the passion of Christ, which led to an image of a bloody crucifix with the tortured face of Jesus looking down. He turned away in revulsion to find a gardener standing behind him. For an agonised instant he thought it was the man who tormented his dreams. Those cold, dark eyes, tight, cruel lips and sharp cheekbones. He froze.
‘You all right there?’
‘Aye, sorry,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Fine. Just fine. My mind was somewhere else.’ He let out a long breath and said: ‘Is there somewhere I can sit down?’
Now he was in a state again and needed to settle before he went back to Elly, otherwise she’d fuss. He had tried talking to therapists and social workers about the bogeyman who had haunted him as long as he could remember. All had assured him the tall, dark-haired man in the smart suit did not exist. Nothing he could say would alter their kindly dismissal. Nothing they said could shift his conviction that he existed.
His present social worker, Len, had produced photographs of all the previous doctors in the Hall, but none looked like this man, although he did have a bad turn seeing Dr Brand, now dead, whose special patient he had been in the early days. That gave him several wretchedly sleepless nights when he had trouble breathing.
Len had found his birth certificate and tried to trace his family, but they were dead or disappeared. Cirrhosis had seen off his Irish father, a construction worker, thirty years ago and his mother had followed ten years after that from a stroke. Neither had visited him, ever, as far as he could recollect. There had been four other siblings, but they had all moved away.
He knew Elly worried when he became obsessed with the face in his head so he needed to clear him back into a box, as one therapist had suggested, with the lid padlocked shut, before he rejoined her.
There was only one occasion he had disappeared, just after they had been let out of Dunlothian, when Elly had been in hospital having a hysterectomy. He had seen a newspaper picture that resembled the face in his head at a London society function in a Park Lane hotel. So on impulse he had borrowed money from another resident, plus an old army greatcoat, taken the bus to London and slept rough across the road from the expensive hotel where the photograph had been taken.
By the sixth night he was running out of money, was chilled and frightened. That’s when he saw the man again, dressed in a dinner suit and black tie. He had stared from across the road, unsure whether he did recognise him. Even in his muddled state, he knew that fifty years was a long time so the face etched in his mind wouldn’t be the same.
If the photographers had not been there causing the man and his elegant lady friend to pause at the entrance for several minutes he would have stood where he was in indecision. But it was almost as if a hand behind was pushing so he crossed the road walked up to the man, looked up at him from the bottom step and said loudly: ‘You’re tessoro’. He had no idea where the word came from or what it meant.
The silver-haired man with the dark eyes had looked at him for what seemed to Jimmy an eternity of frozen time. Then he had summoned a policeman standing nearby, who had removed Jimmy into a police van and off to the cells for the night. He had been pleased enough of a dry bed and some food, although his mind was in such a turmoil he barely knew what he thought. He wasn’t sure of anything.
Next morning the police, having found his return ticket and identity, phoned his social worker, drove him to Victoria bus station after a hearty breakfast and saw him back on his journey up north, with a kindly warning not to return.
‘You’re looking awfy pale,’ Elly said anxiously, when he rejoined her at the entrance.
‘I’m OK, just jangled at the thought of having to go back over those years in the Hall.’ His shoulders dropped so she gave his arm a squeeze.
‘There were some good times as well. The friends we both made.’
‘It’s that woman,
Dr Birch. She makes me nervous. Why is she so interested in me?’
The attendant at the door nodded to Elly and looked questioningly at Jimmy, who hadn’t offered his normal greeting. She shrugged an apology. Outside they bent into the wind, aiming downhill for Byres Road. Elly glanced at his crumpled face.
‘Maybe, it doesn’t matter why she’s so keen. What’s important is you get settled about that man in your head. If she can help, then she’s worth putting up with.’
They stood at the traffic lights and he leant against her. ‘You’re right. And about the good times as well. I was just thinking about Lachie this morning. He was a good mate.’ The green walker lit up and they moved across Great Western Road. ‘But I don’t want to talk about him to her.’ He sniffed, his eyes reddening. ‘I did think I might paint his grave. It’s a beautiful setting there above Greenock.’
‘Which you organised for him. You were the best friend he could have had, even if he didn’t get to enjoy his freedom.’
‘I still can’t believe it. All that time in the Hall and he gets killed when he’s just out. It was a crying sin.’
CHAPTER 18
Next morning at 7 am, Tire was awakened by the front door closing softly. Expecting Herk to be gone she wandered through to the kitchen, pulling her robe over her nightdress.
‘What the hell?’ she exclaimed, as she came face to face with a bright yellow workman’s jacket above orange waterproof trousers. A white hardhat sat on the counter.
‘I’m just going about my lawful business, that’s what,’ he remarked cheerfully.
‘Digging up roads?’
‘Nah. Checking out these watchers outside. Nobody ever notices workmen. Better than a burka for disguise. Workmen are always standing around, so won’t raise any suspicion.’