by John Connor
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll come with you …’ He saw her relax a fraction and held up a hand to stop her. ‘But there’s something you should know first. Just so we’re all straight about who we are, now that money isn’t in the equation.’ He took a mental breath, then told her the truth about getting kicked out of the Met, accused of corruption. He told her he thought her mother had perhaps confused him with his dad.
She didn’t react much. ‘Is he also Tom Lomax?’ she asked.
‘No. He’s John Thomas Lomax. But it wouldn’t be the first time people got the wrong Lomax. It happens.’
‘I couldn’t get anyone to get us,’ she said, meaning the ‘ride’. He thought his revelation might have gone in one ear and out the other. ‘No one is answering. So we’ll have to get a taxi from here. But I’ve no money.’
‘I’ve got pounds in my wallet. Slightly damp pounds. We can change them. Don’t worry.’
‘You’ll take me there? All the way there? You’ll stay with me until we get there?’
‘I’ll be stuck to you. OK?’ He dragged a half-smile up. It was meant to reassure.
She almost smiled back, but not quite. ‘What did you do?’ she asked, switching abruptly back to his revelation. ‘Why were you sacked?’
‘Long story,’ he said, feeling a twinge of shame. ‘Short version is I tried to help a friend when I should have known better.’
22
They took a taxi across Brussels and he thought about it all the way. His great mistake. It was over three years ago now. A turning point in his life, no doubt, but a petty, mundane story nevertheless. It galled him that he featured in it, his role so predictable that he really ought to have known better. He had made a phone call to Alex and warned him about an arrest warrant. That was the crime, the big secret, the thing he was meant to be so ashamed about.
The job behind it had been significant, but Alex’s part in it had been peripheral. He had been seen with someone who was connected to someone who featured in the target’s phone logs. But the policy was to pull everyone in, to pile pressure on the target. The intermediary had been Glynn Powell. Powell was connected to the target, and Powell was eventually arrested (later than intended, because Alex warned him after Tom warned Alex). Tom had known all along that Alex was one of Powell’s foot soldiers, but he had been convinced, back then, that Alex was unaware of the depth of Powell’s involvement. He wasn’t so certain about that now, but hindsight was a great thing. If Alex had been directly implicated, if he had been suspected of violence or something serious, then maybe Tom would have thought differently about it at the time. But Alex was nothing. The SIO admitted Alex was nothing, admitted that they merely wanted to use him to get at Powell.
And Alex was Tom’s oldest friend, his best friend. He had other friends through the job, of course, but Alex was the only friend he had who went right back to childhood. For no reason that Tom had ever been able to work out Alex had stepped in and protected him when he’d been on the receiving end of some childhood bullying. Trivial stuff. They had all been eight years old. ‘Minor’ was how the teachers had referred to it – how could it be anything else when everyone involved was no more than eight or nine years old? But Tom hadn’t known it was ‘minor’ at the time. It had felt major to him, made his life a complete and utter misery. He could still recall his fear – pinned against a wall by a group of seven or eight kids, as they went through his pockets, night after night on the walk home. The same kids every night. It had gone on for weeks, gradually getting more violent. Just kiddie violence, of course, nothing to cry about.
But cry he had. Bloody noses, bruises, a black eye. His dad had seen it all and asked, been down to the school, sat him down and tried to get it out of him. But he hadn’t been able to tell his dad a thing. For as long as he could recall all he had wanted to do when he grew up was what his dad did – be a policeman. And his dad had drummed it into him many times that the most important thing was to ‘keep his nose clean, keep out of trouble’. Being picked on, somehow, went against that – as if it were his fault. So he had said nothing, come up with stupid explanations, felt ashamed and guilty, put up with it. He couldn’t understand it, especially now he had a kid of his own.
It had stopped when Alex had intervened. Tom had hardly spoken to Alex before that. Alex had owed him nothing. Yet Tom could still recall Alex wading into the kids, knocking them down, kicking them, pulling their hair, sending them running. Even at eight he had had been a brutal little fighter, no holding back. It had been magnificent, a key moment in Tom’s childhood, a memory that would never leave him. The beauty of violence and strength. He could feel now the leaping joy he had experienced as the ringleader ran off screaming, nose pouring with blood.
And afterwards – very surprisingly – Alex had wanted to be friends. He had asked Tom, because that was the way eight-year-olds did it – no beating around the bush – Do you wanna be mates? And that friendship – awkward and odd from the beginning – had improbably continued right through school and beyond. It had survived everything, even his dad’s efforts to stamp it out. His dad wanted it to stop because Alex’s dad was some kind of crook, because he suspected Alex was fleecing Tom, somehow, conning him. But he didn’t know Alex. Alex had stood by Tom through a further eight or nine years of school and pulled him out of tough spots many, many times. And never – not even once – had he ever asked for anything in return.
Now they met once a week, had a drink and chatted the same way they always had – with no connection between their worlds. Parallel conversations. Alex went on about bodybuilding, his house, his kids, football. He bragged about all the women he shagged behind his wife’s back, letched and leered at women he didn’t know, told crude, sexist jokes, drank gallons of lager. Tom talked about other things, was altogether more moderate. They were totally different, always had been. But it took all sorts. It was possible to have as your closest friend someone who shared none of your world views, and with whom you could barely have an interesting conversation. Tom had learned that. Because Alex had been there through thick and thin for nearly eighteen years by the time his name cropped up in the paperwork of Tom’s drug job. So Tom made the call. No hesitation about it.
A miserable little DC on some squad set up to root out corruption had, by chance, come across a record of the call while doing a random audit. Not the detail, just the time and number. That had been enough, though – hours of uncomfortable interviews later, that had been enough. There had been no criminal charges, but he’d had to resign to avoid them. Did he regret his carelessness? He had made the call from his personal mobile, judging that no one would have an interest that would extend beyond a random check on his work phones. All the consequences could have been avoided if he’d been only a little more careful and used a phone work had no record of – so, yes, he regretted that. He’d been stupid. Did he regret making the call, though? No. Absolutely, no. They were two different things. So when he told Sara he should have known better he had actually told her a lie. As far as he was concerned he’d done the right thing.
The clinic her mother was living in was on a wide, four-lane boulevard with heavy traffic. Avenue Louise. Tom had never been to Brussels before, so had no idea where they were. He paid the driver and they walked very quickly to a set of double glass doors, then waited for someone to answer the buzzer.
‘This is a hospital?’ Tom asked. It didn’t look like one. It looked like a dirty-fronted nine-storey art deco building sandwiched between two ugly fifteen-storey modern office blocks.
‘It’s her clinic,’ Sara said, finger still on the buzzer. ‘I mean it’s hers only. She had the building converted. She’s the only patient.’
‘With her own doctors?’
‘Yes. Her own consultant. Monsieur Hulpe. I hate the fucker.’
Someone answered – a woman’s voice – and she snapped an introduction into the grille, in French. Some argument seemed to follow. Tom’s school French was nowhere near keeping up with it
. It ended with Sara shouting her name at the woman. That seemed to work. The door clicked open and they went in.
‘Was that your mother?’ Tom asked as they stood by a set of lifts in a narrow, wood-panelled hallway.
‘Of course not. Some assistant. She must be new. I don’t understand what’s going on here.’ She moved her head to indicate the large, empty atrium. ‘Where’s the security?’ she asked. ‘There’s normally people here. And outside.’
‘People?’
‘Armed guards. Here. On the roof, out the back. She keeps a team of them. She’s one of the wealthiest women in Europe. The risk to her is even greater than the risk to me. But like this anyone can walk in. I don’t get it.’
She frowned about this all the way up to the ninth floor. There, they emerged into a room that looked like a waiting room, also conspicuously devoid of security. The assistant was waiting for them right by the lift, a twenty-year-old with dark hair and glasses, a smart grey suit, a panicky look on her face. Her hands were up to bar their way. ‘Monsieur Hulpe is not here,’ she said, then said it again, this time in English.
Sara made to go past her. ‘I’m not here to see Hulpe. I’m here to see my mother. Are you here alone? Where’s the security?’
The woman took a step back and moved so that she was in front of Sara, blocking her. ‘Your mother?’ That seemed to cause alarm. ‘You are here for your mother?’
‘Yes. I’m Sara Eaton. That’s what I just told you. I’m her daughter …’
‘I see. I see.’ Her hands were still up. Sara made to go past, but she kept them up. ‘You cannot go through,’ she said quickly. ‘This is a private clinic. I will call the doctor. He will speak to you.’
That started a heated discussion. Tom watched it for a moment or two, and saw that the receptionist – if that’s what she was – wasn’t going to give in. She was getting increasingly nervous. Behind her – at the far end of the room – he could see a set of heavy, opaque sliding doors. Next to them was the semicircular desk this woman presumably occupied. It looked like it had been built specially – to curve out of the wall and end near the doors – and very recently. It was only half painted and there were still holes in the wall near it and a sheet laid out on the floor with plaster dust scattered across it. Nearer to them there was a suite of easy chairs and a set of coffee tables bearing pot plants. He assumed this was where Liz Wellbeck’s visitors waited to see the great woman. She was some kind of control and health freak, Sara had said – so undoubtedly the doors would be barred, or locked. He put a hand out and touched Sara’s arm. ‘Maybe we should just wait,’ he suggested. The last thing they wanted was for this woman to decide to call the police. Sara looked back at him and he tried to communicate that in his look. She got it, he thought, and gave in. ‘Tell Hulpe to be quick,’ she snapped.
‘Of course. Please take a seat.’
They sat on the chairs. The woman went back to the desk, then the doors opened and she slipped through.
‘I thought this was the routine?’ Tom said.
‘Hardly. I’m her daughter.’ Sara looked round her for the first time. ‘All this is new,’ she said. ‘It looks like a dentist’s waiting room. There used to be a big metal detector here, and an explosives scanner. It’s all been ripped out.’
‘There wasn’t a waiting room before?’
‘Of course not. Just security. Always security. My mother lives here. Only my mother. There needs to be security.’ She looked worried about it.
‘But you had to book an appointment before?’
‘Yes. And speak to Hulpe.’ She lowered her voice slightly and leaned over towards him. ‘I think she might be seeing Hulpe – I mean having some kind of affair. You can’t get near her without him having something to do with it. That’s why she’s here – in Brussels, I mean – because he’s from here. It’s ridiculous.’
Tom nodded. ‘It’s certainly not anything I’ve come across in my world.’ She shot him a sharp glance, so he smiled. ‘What illness does she have – if you don’t mind me asking?’ He assumed it was something trivial, perhaps imaginary.
‘Cancer,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘A rare bone cancer that is one hundred per cent inheritable. They can almost predict at what age you will get it – if you let them do the tests. I haven’t. But it’s coming to me anyway. Some time.’ She was looking round as she spoke, still fretting about the lack of guards. She didn’t seem perturbed by what she had just told him. ‘This is all new,’ she repeated. It clearly bothered her more than the inheritable cancer. ‘No guards, no cameras. I don’t know what’s going on. This is like … well … like anyone could live here. I mean, not my mother.’
‘I’m sorry about the cancer,’ he said. ‘Is she very ill?’
‘Not last time I saw her. But that was months ago. Not in her body, I mean. I worry about her mind more. Hulpe is being paid to deal with the cancer. He’s a consultant oncologist. The best for this particular thing. He’s famous for it – famous among doctors, I mean. She had him when we lived in Paris, but he decided to return here, to his family or something. So she followed him. Bribed him with this place, so he would care only for her. How bizarre is that?’ She was speaking too quickly, Tom thought, her eyes never still. ‘She told me she’s promised him this place when she dies.’
‘The building?’
She nodded. ‘So he can have his own clinic here.’ She glanced around again. ‘Looks like he’s already started.’
Right then the doors opened and a man walked through, heading straight for them. Sara stood at once. The man stopped in front of her. He was tall and well fed, in a suit, no white coat, about fifty years old. He looked more like a politician than a doctor.
‘Sara,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re here. I did not expect you.’
‘I’m not here to see you. I want to see my mother. Now. It’s very urgent.’
He nodded, as if he felt sorry for her, then looked over at Tom, eyebrows raised. ‘He’s with me,’ Sara said quickly. They were both speaking French.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘You will have to come to my office. We can talk.’
Tom went with them, through the doors, down a short corridor and into a room that looked like a dining room. There was a big table down the middle, expansive floor-to-ceiling windows the length of one wall. Various lesser tables and expensive-looking chairs. No paperwork anywhere, no computers. No trace of anything vaguely medical, in fact. They were offered chairs at the big table. Hulpe sat down one seat removed from Sara and turned his chair to face her. Tom sat behind her, so that he had to lean out a bit to see Hulpe. Sara started talking immediately, but Hulpe held a hand up to silence her, leaned in close and spoke very quietly. ‘Please listen to what I have to say,’ he said, in English. He took a deep breath. ‘I’m really very, very sorry. I don’t know how this has happened. A misunderstanding.’ He paused, frowning hard. Guessing something bad was coming, Tom shifted his chair and quickly closed his fingers round Sara’s right hand, where it was resting on the table. She didn’t react. ‘How what has happened?’ she asked mechanically, eyes on Hulpe.
‘I don’t know how you are here, now, like this. Has your father not spoken to you?’
‘About what?’
Another awful pause.
‘Your mother has gone, Sara,’ he said finally.
‘Gone where?’
‘I’m so sorry, but she passed away a week ago. She died.’
23
She didn’t react as Tom expected she would. He had thought, as Hulpe said the words, that it would crack her, right there and then. But everyone reacted differently. He had ample experience of it, from his years in the Met. She blanched immediately, then slumped back in the chair. For what seemed like ages she was just sitting there, her lips pressed tightly together, staring off to one side. Hulpe looked at the floor. Tom held on to her hand, no one said anything. But then she cleared her throat and her eyes narrowed. She pushed herself to the edge of the chair, stood up. She sta
rted demanding cold, rational explanations. That seemed to take Hulpe by surprise. Tom was still holding her hand, but he wasn’t sure she even knew he was touching her, and the position was now uncomfortable, so he tried to move his hand. But she wouldn’t let him. She was acting as if in control, but her grip on his fingers suggested she was hanging on for dear life.
It went on for over ten minutes – quickfire questions delivered with a voice full of suspicion. At one point she even told Hulpe she didn’t believe him. Then they had to go and see the room where it had happened. And other rooms. She insisted on having a tour of the place, all the time snapping out the questions, all the time hanging on to Tom’s hand – so that he had to walk right by her side – as if they were together, a couple. More than once he saw Hulpe looking at their joined hands and could see that he was thinking just that.
The huge room where her mother had apparently died was a major source of confusion to her, and she got very angry looking at it. ‘Where’s the bed?’ she demanded. ‘Where’s my mother’s bed?’ She was almost shouting. The room looked like a sort of rest room, with sets of low, easy chairs pulled up to the window to catch the sun, a big, flashy flatscreen on the wall, coffee tables, magazines, a drink dispenser.
‘We moved it,’ Hulpe said. ‘Our plans for this room are different now. Your mother knew all about them. And approved, of course. We planned all this together. This will be a social space for the patients …’
‘Your plans? This isn’t your property. You shouldn’t be changing anything. You’ve altered the area by the lifts …’
‘That will be the reception area …’
‘How long have you had all this planned?’
He held his arms up helplessly. ‘Your mother was a part of all these plans,’ he said again.
‘Has she already given you this place?’
‘No. But it’s in her will. It was part of our contract. As you know, the will is to be read on Friday, in London. It’s a formality, so we thought …’