‘Why do you think? Money,’ she said grimly. ‘It always comes to money, no?’
‘And who was this man? Was he called Hadi Kattan?’
‘She would not tell me exactly who. But I know he is – very powerful.’ She ground her cigarette out so hard that it was pulverised. ‘She goes to him and asks for money – and one month later, she is dead.’
Lana’s phone began to ring. She looked at the curly pink clock on the mantelpiece and stood. ‘I have to get ready. There is nothing else I can tell you.’
‘Do you – did she have family?’
‘Her mother. She is very sad now, I think.’
‘I’m sure. Do you know where I could find her?’
‘Her mother?’ Lana shrugged. ‘She lives in that old place.’
‘Where?’
The girl clattered the coffee cups into the sink. ‘Where all the clever ones go. I can’t think – how is it called?’ She swung round triumphantly. ‘Ah yes. Oxford.’
Before I left London I went to meet Xav. I got a taxi that passed through Parliament Square on the way to the City; I stared out at the fairy-tale turrets of the building that housed our government and it jogged my memory.
I sat up straighter, thinking of Danny’s words last night. How could Kattan possibly have diplomatic immunity? It made no sense. I’d turned up so little when I was looking into him earlier this year; I’d found no mention of any kind of diplomatic status. I wondered about the secret service rumours in Iran: he’d obviously had some connections in Iran in the eighties or nineties but if anything, that surely made him a bigger threat here.
My meeting with Xavier was so tense, though, that I forgot all about Kattan. We met in a fashionably white restaurant in busy Spitalfields, the kind where children are not welcome and celebrities pretend they don’t want to be seen. From the very start, it felt uneasy. Xavier was preoccupied, but I didn’t know why – the abiding theme of my life at the moment.
‘You look very pale,’ he said accusingly after we’d ordered.
‘So do you, actually,’ I batted back. ‘Burning the candle, my dear Xav?’
The cash Liam had eventually sorted would tide me over for a while. But I needed to start earning again, that was quite apparent. The obvious solution was to go back to work full time, and Xav’s offer now made sense. I’d pack up the house and rent it out; move the children back to the flat in London for the time being. I wouldn’t be sorry to leave our stifling village, especially since the story of James’s arrest had broken. I needed to be near my old friends right now.
‘So when do you want me?’ I finished my chicken and wiped my mouth on the pristine napkin. ‘I’m going to move back in the summer holidays. But I can start from home sooner. I’ve got to get the cash rolling in pronto or we’ll be living in a cardboard box soon.’
Xav summoned the waiter and ordered an espresso. He buttered his bread roll, then abandoned it; added salt and then pepper to the tomato salad that he hadn’t touched. He did everything but look me in the eye or respond.
‘Xav. Did you hear what I said?’ I smiled at him but my heart was sinking. ‘I can come back?’
He looked at me, then away again. My old friend, so gaunt and strained.
‘Can’t I?’
Xav picked up his BlackBerry, turning it over and over on the white linen tablecloth incessantly until finally I laid my hand over his to stem the fiddling.
‘Stop, Xavier.’
He looked down.
‘I see.’ I felt the clench of nerves in my stomach. ‘So it’s a no, then?’
‘Rosie, it’s not me, darling.’ He sighed long and hard. ‘I’d have you on the staff in a shot, you know that. It’s – well, orders from above.’
‘Higham.’
‘No.’ he took a gulp of his water.
‘Xavier! At least tell the truth.’
‘I – oh, I don’t know, Rose. Things are changing radically since the downturn. Budgets have been slashed. And I have so little hiring power at the moment. My hands are tied.’
‘Not literally, I hope,’ I tried to joke. But I felt the thud of the floor come up and hit my feet away from me. I was diving through thin air, spinning away from my own world in freefall.
‘And to be honest, Rose, I’m stepping back a bit anyway. I’ve not – I can’t live for work any more.’
‘I see,’ I said slowly. ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? To take some time out?’
‘I guess.’ He drained the espresso that the waiter had just put before him and gestured for another one. ‘Is something wrong?’
He gazed into the middle distance like the answer to all our woes lay there.
‘Xav?’
‘No, no. Of course not.’
‘Are you sure?’ I felt a cold wave of fear. ‘Xav—’
‘I’m fine,’ he snapped. ‘Just leave it.’
‘Right. OK. Good. Look, I’ve been thinking. The Kattan story—’ I began.
‘Rose, for Christ’s sake. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘It’s just – he’s involved with James’s case.’
‘Are you mad?’ Xavier stared at me. ‘Or just paranoid?’
‘Both. Neither. I don’t know, Xav. We met him and then – well, James swears Kattan introduced him to the guy who organised the shipping of the furniture. Only he’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘Christ.’ Xav rubbed his eyes; they were already bloodshot.
‘And now – now someone’s told me he’s got immunity. The police aren’t interested in him apparently. Someone’s hiding something.’
‘Who?’
I felt my frustration mount. ‘Actually make that, everyone’s hiding something. I want to find out the truth. And I want to bloody well know where he is.’
‘But you’ve got no evidence?’
‘What am I going to do, Xav – just lay down and die? And, Christ, let Higham ruin me professionally now because of some old grievance?’
‘What old grievance?’
‘Never mind. Something that wasn’t my fault.’
I thought of the picture of Charlie Higham in Katya’s room – debated whether to mention my new concerns to Xav, but it seemed pointless.
‘Look, I’m not going to just walk away from my life.’ I was more emphatic than I had been in months. ‘Not because they want me to.’
‘But you’d walked away from it anyway, hadn’t you? Your career, anyway,’ he said tiredly.
‘Not really. I was just … changing priorities.’
‘They’re good priorities to change,’ he said quietly. ‘Putting your kids first.’
‘Yes, I know, they’re the best priorities. But it doesn’t mean it’s OK for them to tarnish my reputation permanently. And to be honest, Xav, I need to work right now.’ I pleated my napkin into angel wings. ‘It’s the only thing I know how to do.’
‘Rubbish,’ he said vehemently. ‘There’s loads of other things you could do.’
‘But I don’t want to do anything else.’
‘Because you are addicted. You always were. That’s what gave you your edge in the first place. You were like a bloody Jack Russell down a fox-hole.’
‘Well, there you go. And now I need to ferret out this bit of truth.’
‘You’ll be sub judicious if you even try to write about James, or Kattan, if they’re investigating him too. Plus, you’re married to the defendant.’
‘I could do it under a false name.’ I knew I was desperately grasping at straws now. ‘Anonymously.’
‘Just leave it, Rose.’
‘But I need to know the truth. James is looking at prison, Xav, that’s become very clear. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m sick of doing nothing. I’m just sitting here letting it all happen, and I haven’t got a clue what reality is any more.’
Xav took my hand. I looked at his face and I felt a plunging in my stomach.
‘What is it?’
‘Sometimes – som
etimes, angel, the truth is just too painful to know.’
Before he could say any more, his phone rang. He paled visibly when he heard the voice on the other end.
‘I’ve got to take this, Rose,’ he said, moving away from the table to stand in the window. I sighed. Something told me I wasn’t going to get anything else from Xavier that day – other than a free lunch.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Of good and evil much they argued then,
Of happiness and final misery,
Passion and apathy, and glory and shame:
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy!
The Devil’s Council, Paradise Lost, Milton
I packed up our overnight bag and took Freddie to Hyde Park whilst Jen took the girls shopping for clothes. I pushed him on the swings and held him tight on the see-saw to stop him bouncing off through the air, whilst he giggled raucously, and all the time my mind rattled back to Lord Higham. Why this vendetta now? Where did this all link up? I had done nothing to hurt Dalziel; I’d loved him very much, adored him even. So why did I feel now like I was being held accountable for the past?
Something had happened somewhere, and I was missing the obvious clue. I needed to speak to James again, but there was no chance of that for at least a week.
‘Which superhero do you want to be, Mummy?’ Freddie said as I lifted him to ring Jen’s doorbell.
‘Batman?’
‘No. I’m Batman.’ He considered me kindly for a second. ‘You can be Under-woman if you like.’
‘Under-woman? OK.’ I kissed him and plopped him down on the pavement again.
‘She wears big pants actually. And a cake.’
‘Big pants and cake?’ He meant cape. ‘My type of lady.’
A man suddenly stood behind us, too close. ‘Mrs Miller?’
My scalp prickling, I glanced round, clutching Fred’s hand tighter.
‘Would you accompany me please, Mrs Miller.’ It didn’t sound like a question. Quickly I pushed Fred between me and the front door.
‘Sorry – who—’
‘Lord Higham would very much like to see you.’ He was politely unsmiling. ‘Now.’
‘Now?’
‘It’s important.’
‘I’m sure it is, but as you can see,’ I picked my protesting son up again, ‘I’m busy right now.’
Jen opened the door, Effie in her wake.
‘I’m sure your friend can help out,’ the man said. He had a very faint accent and greasy pock-marked skin. ‘Can’t you, madam?’
Jen’s eyes flicked anxiously between us. I hesitated, rapidly weighing up my options. Then I pressed Freddie into Jen’s arms, kissed Effie’s head and turned away. A black limo purred at the kerb, the windows darkened.
‘I’m really sorry, Jen. I’ll explain later.’
‘Are you sure this is wise?’ She looked worried. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Take down the number-plate,’ I muttered into her ear, ‘and if I’m not back by six, call the police.’
I followed the man to the car. ‘See you for pizza in a minute, kids,’ I called, waving cheerfully. ‘Do what Auntie Jen tells you, OK? And no fighting.’
The man didn’t quite push me in, but his hand was merciless, and when he slid into the front, he locked every door.
In an alleyway somewhere between the Houses of Parliament and Victoria Station, I was led past great stinking bins through a cramped and sweaty kitchen into a tiny dark restaurant.
A group of men, some of whom I recognised, were hunched over a table apparently finishing a meeting over a meal, papers and dispatch boxes strewn between carafes of wine, half-empty glasses, bits of bread and reeking, sweaty cheese. At least one was a Tory ex-cabinet member whom I had investigated in the past. I ducked my head instinctively, wondering what they were discussing now. How best to explain their latest expenses maybe, after the Conway and son scandal. Whatever it was, the tension was palpable in the small hot room.
The driver signalled our presence to Lord Higham, who sat in the middle of the table, calmly holding forth about something, the men at either end arguing and gesticulating. When Higham saw us, he quickly made his excuses to the other men, moving down the back of the room to greet us, brandy balloon in hand. His half-moon glasses gave his rather lugubrious face a professorial air.
‘Welcome to Pandemonium,’ he said wryly, and I stared at him in disbelief, the eerie echo of his son’s words from years ago in my ears. ‘You have caught us at a precarious time.’
The other politicians hardly glanced round, so immersed in their discussions, and I had a sudden ghastly vision of Lucifer’s council: Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy. Dalziel had been obsessed with the rebel angels.
‘Or possibly our last supper,’ Higham smiled wearily. He was older, of course, and thinner than I remembered from our brief acquaintance after Dalziel’s death. More stooped; more avuncular, somehow. I thought again how he looked nothing like his son. His face was much broader, the features cruder than Dalziel’s finely boned beauty, his skin now folded in on itself as if it had been neatly creased in the middle of his cheeks.
‘So good of you to come.’ His mellifluous voice was assured as he removed his glasses now, courteously inclining his grey head. Instinctively I crossed my hands before me.
‘I’m not sure I had much choice.’
‘Well,’ he smiled. ‘I should apologise for asking you here at such short notice.’
‘I’m not sure ask is the right word, but I’m intrigued, Lord Higham,’ I said casually. Inside I didn’t feel the least bit casual, but I couldn’t let him see that.
I followed him upstairs to another dining room, most of the tables upended, red velvet chairs against the wall, one young waitress busy folding linen in an office at the far end. The walls were dotted with framed photographs of politicians and singers, many signed to someone called Mario, interspersed with small watercolours of Italian and English countryside.
Higham indicated an unlaid table in the corner, the white tablecloth ringed with old wine stains.
‘Can I get you something?’ he asked, offering me a chair beneath a watercolour of the white cliffs of Dover. ‘A glass of Chianti? A brandy perhaps?’
‘I’m fine.’ My heart was beating uncomfortably fast. ‘I don’t have much time. The children, you know … ‘
‘Of course.’ He inclined his heavy head. ‘How many do you have now?’
How did he know I had any at all?
‘Three.’ I prayed my calmness belied the turmoil inside.
‘Three.’ He smiled and smoothed a hand across the tablecloth. He wore a heavy gold signet ring that looked like it should weigh his little finger down. I tried to remember the family motto. Dalziel had had a copy of the crest hanging in his hallway; something about Truth and Fortitude.
‘And you?’
‘Oh, you know.’ He met my eye, and the sheer insouciance gave me a sudden flash of his son. I dropped my gaze. ‘I lose count sometimes.’
I felt my past galloping at my heels; a faint sweat broke out across my top lip. I stared at the tired white rose in a small green vase on the table between us. I forced myself to speak. ‘So, Lord Higham. What did you want to talk about?’
‘I’ve been thinking …’ He gazed at the painting behind me for a moment. ‘There’s a nice little spot coming up on one of the red-tops. A kind of upmarket gossip column, if you like. More classy than those silly 3 a.m. girls. Do with it what you will. Make it your own.’ He looked back at me, reached into his inside pocket for something. ‘Might that appeal?’
‘That’s kind,’ I muttered, ‘but I’m not sure it’s really my field.’
‘You could make it your field, of course. If you so chose.’
‘I’m more current affairs, you know.’ I thought of Xav’s discomfort earlier. ‘Why are you making this offer now?’
‘Why not?’ He brought a cigar out now, rolled it between thick fingers. Each one sprouted a patch of springy
hair. A goat, I thought, he’s like a large apparently benevolent goat. And then I thought of Azazel, devil goat; horrid Brian in that nasty mask bending over the insensible Huriyyah. I shuddered involuntarily.
‘I’ve just—’ I didn’t want to mention Xavier’s name. ‘I know there’s no place for me on the Guardian. So why now?’
‘Is it not good to have friends in high places, Rose?’ he smiled. But the smile went nowhere near his eyes. ‘And current affairs, well. There’s a time and a place. And this is most definitely not the time.’
‘High places?’
‘I imagine you’ve heard the rumours about the party. There’s likely to be an election soon; the government can’t possibly keep up this ridiculous charade. It’s time for new blood. Or rather,’ he tapped the cigar hard on the table, ‘old blood.’
‘What kind of old blood?’ I frowned.
‘Our own kind. Far too much new blood in this country. And so you see, well, we know, Rose – may I call you Rose? – we know there are some things that need to stay in the closet, as it were. And of course,’ he took my hand. I felt a wave of nausea, ‘of course, I like to take care of my own.’
I couldn’t suppress the sound of disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes steely, and the fatherly air dissipated.
‘I’m so sorry about your husband’s arrest.’
‘Oh.’ I stared at him stupidly. ‘You’ve heard.’
‘Of course. I met young James at Oxford, you remember. He’s done well, I believe. A great entrepreneur, no doubt. But – prison, I believe … not fun.’
‘No. Not fun.’
‘Poor man. Oh dear, Rose.’ Higham let go of my hand as quickly as he’d taken it. He turned the vase around until the flower drooped its weary head towards me. ‘O Rose, thou art sick! I remember that poem from my schooldays. Pretty creepy, I always thought.’ He smiled at me, a rather ghastly smile. ‘Are you the sick rose, Mrs Miller?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I mumbled.
‘And if so, who, I wonder, is that nasty little worm?’
‘There isn’t one.’ Panic was building slowly but inexorably in my chest. I felt like I was headed into a tunnel and I could just about see the light at the end.
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