‘But what about me?’
He let out an exasperated laugh, ‘What about you? You’ll find someone else. There’s always someone else.’
‘Are you jealous?’
‘Me? Jealous? Of you, and your other lovers? Give me a break. ‘
‘You’ve met another woman.’
‘Carole, I’m busy. I have a schedule to keep, and satisfying your sexual needs isn’t on it. Try your husband for a change.’
‘You’ve fallen for someone younger.’
‘And prettier.’
It was provocative and he knew it. She brought up her hand to strike him across the face but he caught hold of it, twisted it and held it briefly, before letting it go. He looked at her, his eyes cold. ‘I don’t hit women and I won’t say this again. Piss off.’
They stood eye balling each other. She was furious, breathing fast, her face red, her eyes hard, her mouth drawn in a tight line. She turned and stalked across the room. When she reached the door, she paused, and said in a low voice, ‘Fuck you. You’re a bastard. Like your father. Always have been and always will be.’
She left, leaving the door wide open behind her. He made no reply. He stood impassively, his arms folded, waiting for her to drive off. Until she’d gone, he couldn’t relax. For five minutes there was silence, she must have been sitting in her car, thinking what her next move could be, but then he heard her car engine revving up, and she accelerated off.
He walked over to the door, pulled it shut, locked it and went into the sitting room to get himself a drink. He was about to pour himself a whisky when his mobile went off. He glanced at it. Predictably, it was Carole, but he didn’t answer.
He’d changed. Perhaps it was since he’d become involved with Nixie, or perhaps he’d grown up and wanted more than just sex. He put down the whisky he’d been about to drink, and began to pace back and forth, stopped, thrust a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and stood slowly chewing. His mind returned to the past and how Carole used to turn him on. Not anymore. If anything, her assumption that he was always ready to attend to her sexual needs, whenever or wherever, he saw now as demeaning, if not exploitative. He deleted her number, switched off his mobile, and returned to listening to his music.
He waited until almost lunchtime before starting his investigation. He wanted to be absolutely sure his parents had gone and weren’t about to return because they’d forgotten something. Standing in the doorway of his father’s office, he glanced around. His father had always been tidy, perhaps obsessively so. His shelves, lined with files, were all arranged alphabetically, each one pertaining to a different investment. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and systematically began working through the files.
His father’s computer would be password protected but he knew how to bypass that and hack into the system ─ if he wanted. That was one of the many useful bits of information he’d gleaned from his computer security course, but since he was looking for a file at least twenty years old, and therefore much earlier than this computer, there’d be no point. The files weren’t in date order, but they were what they said they were; accounts and information about various types of business – nothing personal. He turned his attention to his father’s desk, pulled at the first drawer. All four drawers to the desk were locked. But that was no problem, unpicking desk locks was usually easy.
He pulled out his collection of tools. It included a strong bent paper clip which he pushed into the lock and within a minute the drawers slid open. Letters, memos and accounts had been placed in various folders, all of them relating to companies he’d heard of, when he’d worked in finance. He flicked through them, until he came to one that caught his attention.
Marked ‘Confidential’ it contained copies of recent emails and letters exchanged between his father and a certain John Fortescue. He’d heard of John Fortescue through Grassroots. He was a well-known and respected Tory Member of Parliament for Faring, but he also chaired the Energy and Climate Change Committee. Seb pulled up a chair, sat down, and began reading.
His father and Fortescue were on first name terms. It was also obvious they knew each other well, very well. The emails indicated that some deal was underway, but whatever that was, the contents indicated that it was to be a closely guarded secret. One letter in particular stood out. It was undated and from Fortescue to his father. Seb read it with increasing interest.
My dear Rupert,
Re Langhithe: Transportation Costs.
I very much appreciate your input. As you say, it is important we use known and reliable suppliers for the conveyance of goods and materials. That you have access to several such companies, is fortunate, but you will be aware that any contract will be subject to open tender. Given this, it is most important that due process is seen to be followed; that is, to all intents and purposes.
I note you recommend one company in particular and that a prominent member on the board of this company is also a Member of Parliament. As you point out, he is in a position to provide any information we might require as to costs.
Inevitably there will be a difference between the actual and projected costs, this difference giving, to those of us with a leaning towards the entrepreneurial, opportunities for maximising profit – at the Government’s expense.
In order to achieve the desired outcome, we will, of course, require some recompense. Primarily this will be financial, but you may also be in a position to assist in less conventional ways. I am referring to the procurement of what euphemistically may be called, ‘ladies of pleasure’. However, referring to the said MP, who for the moment shall be nameless, he has particular interests above and beyond the usual which, for obvious reasons, I think it preferable to meet face to face to discuss these matters more fully.
Also it is of the utmost importance these developments remain strictly confidential, so it would be wise to destroy this letter once you have read it. I look forward to your response.
Sincerely,
John
Seb placed the letter aside. This was dynamite. He was shocked, but not too shocked. He knew that mixing politics with business was often questionable and what he’d just read was no exception. Tip offs and ‘sweeteners’ were common in the business world, frequently to the detriment of the consumer. The emails and letters he’d just read made clear a game plan – a case of deal breaking, with his father as master of ceremonies negotiating between an unidentified MP and Fortescue. A triangular trail of tip offs relating to the construction of Langhithe Nuclear Energy Plant.
Government backing of buying and selling of goods and services provided the potential; the covert if not overt opportunities for those driven by greed. This particular development had however an added bonus; that of ‘sweeteners’ all round. For Fortescue, the aphrodisiac of power and influence, for his father, a possible peerage, for them both advance information on government contracts and, for the source of information, the unidentified MP, the hint of an illicit ‘sweetener’. It was ‘Cash for Access’ with all the pigs’ snouts well and truly in the financial trough. The stink of corruption had spread so far and so wide, he could smell it from where he stood.
He laid the folder out on the desk and stared across the room. He had to decide what, if anything, he should do with this information. He had to use it in some way. It was too good to ignore. He walked back and forth across the room working through the possible options. He was employed to infiltrate the anti-capitalist movements, but, ironically this trio of thieves were anything but that. Ostensibly, they were part of it. They supported the system but they used and abused it, exploiting every loophole for their own advantage. They were both inside and outside the system.
He knew the arguments. Operating in the grey area between legitimate and illegitimate business activity, their defence would be they were merely identifying and making use of the legal and organisational weaknesses of the
system. What they wouldn’t say, nor would many others, was that they were exploiting individual gullibility and stupidity, a skill which would earn them the reputation of being clever. The reality was they had no moral compass, no sense of social justice and like the cowboys of the old Wild West were travelling along the unregulated frontiers. In this instance those of the money markets. So the truth was, in the last analysis, they were oiling the wheels of capitalism, so why should he or anyone bother? Was he surprised? Not really. He also had little concern for the failings of the system and like his father, he took an amoral approach, because, albeit reluctantly, he recognised so far, he’d benefited from the system.
But something else drove him. He burned with an impotent anger, a visceral resentment which cut through his guts. It had developed in childhood, and was borne of a thousand petty asides and putdowns, leaving him stranded with feelings of powerlessness and rage. He’d always dreamt of revenge. Now here was the opportunity, handed to him on a plate, and he could use it, if he so desired.
His decision didn’t take long. He smiled; it was payback time for his father’s years of denigration towards himself and his mother as he’d grown up. He picked out the letter from Fortescue, walked across to his father’s photocopier conveniently kept in the corner of his office, and made three copies. He took out three A4 brown envelopes, placed a copy of the letter inside each of them, together with his father’s compliment slip. He addressed one to the Business Editor of the Guardian, one to the Finance and Business Editor of the Telegraph, and the remaining one to the Business Editor of the BBC. One or all three would pick this up. As an exposé implicating the City, Parliament, and the murky sex lives of certain Members of Parliament, it was an opportunity too good to miss and, with any luck, it would create enough noise to keep the media busy for days. He smiled again. A useful morning’s work; he’d post them in Central London on his way back.
It was time to eat. He returned to the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the salmon quiche with the Waldorf salad his mother had left for him. He removed a bottle of white wine from a stash left in the chiller, hardly looking at the label, except to notice, as he poured himself a large glass, it was a Sauvignon Blanc. He sat down. He was pleased, on a high. He leant back on the chair and reviewed his actions, tilting the chair so it balanced on its back two legs.
Although he’d interfered with the locking mechanism of his father’s desk, he was relying on his father’s lack of mechanical skill not to see it had been broken into. He’d assume there was a malfunction, but even if he was suspicious, he could hardly contact the police or challenge his own son. For one thing, he’d have to say it had been locked, and any complaint would be followed by a police investigation, and this would bring down the whole pack of cards.
Perhaps he should leave a note on his father’s computer saying ‘Invest in better locks next time’, but despite finding this thought amusing, he decided against it. For one thing, it would warn his father somebody was on his case. No, he’d make do with anticipating the uproar once the press got hold of the emails. He wished there was some other person he could tell but, other than Nixie, there was nobody and he’d be a fool to tell her. He finished his lunch and the last of the wine, but hit by waves of exhaustion he dragged himself to his bedroom, and fell into a deep asleep. An hour later disturbed by bad dreams of his father’s anger, he woke in a state of mild panic. He still had work to do.
He climbed the stairs to the top of the house, entered the attic and glanced around. It had been years since he’d last been there but as a child he remembered it had always smelt musty and strange. And it still did. There was something about its atmosphere, a kind of stillness, an unsettling sense of something unknown, which disturbed him. An anxiety so strong took him over, to the point he had to take a step back to gather his thoughts, and force himself to be logical and to think rationally.
Sunlight streamed through the gabled windows lighting up the dust on the piles of boxes and old trunks stacked against the wall. He walked across. He ignored the ones with his father’s and grandfather’s initials printed on them. He was looking for a comparatively new trunk, one used when he’d been sent away. A large trunk made from maroon leather had been pushed against a wall. It was stamped with Sebastian Melbury, the Christian name he’d discarded when he’d first been sent to prep school. He roughly pulled open the brass clasp holding down the lid.
Inside were piles of documents; reports and letters from school, programmes of plays, information about sports days, but bizarrely, lying amongst them was a giraffe wrapped in a plastic bag. He stared at it. This must be the toy that Rose had spoken of in her interview with the journalist. His initial reaction was mild curiosity. He removed the giraffe from the bag and turned it around in his hand. Some of the fur had worn away on the horns. He placed it on the floor, and continued looking through the trunk, unsure of what he might find or what he was looking for. Glancing quickly through the piles of random documents, he noticed something that stood out from the official-looking documents. A hand-written note, written on ordinary paper. It was folded over and on the outside in large handwriting were the words ‘To whoever finds Baby Owain’.
He held it in his hands and stared into space. His mind returned to the journalist’s account that he had seen at the Newspaper Archives. Rose told her that Flori had called the baby Owain. She’d also said the baby’s favourite toy was a giraffe, and that when she’d tried to escape from the police, she’d left a note with him. This had to be that note. It could only have been written by her.
He slowly opened it. It was on lined paper as if torn out of an exercise book. Steeling himself, he began reading. He was barely able to take it in, and had to read it three times before the words made any sense. It had been written by Flori in her actual handwriting ─ and it made clear what was going on.
Flori must have written this when she was being hunted down. She was alone on Jura, knew the police were after her and in an attempt to save herself, she abandoned him. But she was filled with guilt and remorse. The note was detailed; how he loved being taken out, the food he liked, and how he clung to his toy giraffe, his only possession. She wanted it saved for him. She referred to the poems she read to him, and one in particular, by Pablo Neruda. This must be the poem Rose had mentioned, the one she couldn’t remember the name of, when she’d been talking to the journalist. It was here.
He tried to read it, but he couldn’t get past the first line. The words were too much. It felt as if a knife was being twisted in his gut.
‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul’, followed by and ‘I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused everybody, and I especially want Rose to know that.’ It finished with, ‘With all my love to Owain.’
It was like a knife twisting in his guts. He felt dizzy, as if he was about to pass out. He sat down. The words and the phrases she’d chosen spinning round and round inside his head. Everything was true. It had happened. It was real. Real, but crazy. So crazy he couldn’t get his head round it. It was mad, she must have been mad. Questions, questions, questions, crowded in on him, until he felt like screaming. How did she get away with it for so long? How could she have taken him from his cot while his parents lay asleep in the next room? Had they had so much to drink? Were they so flat out, they were oblivious to what was going on?
Now he understood why his mother had refused to talk about it. It must have torn her apart. She’d been forced to endure two months of not knowing where he might be or whether he was dead or alive. It must have been unbearable. But how had he been snatched from under their noses? Were they so neglectful and so wrapped up in their own world, they’d been deaf to his cries? No wonder they were secretive about what had happened.
And what of Flori? How could that be understood? A woman who looked so normal and was now a mother herself. What had been going on for her? How could she snatch some
one’s baby in the first months of his life? When he was only two months old, and had no speech, no understanding, and was totally dependent on others. He’d been treated like a parcel, a thing, a pet, as if he were her plaything. She’d said she loved him, but how could she? He hadn’t been hers to love.
He’d hoped that finding out more about how he’d been snatched would settle him but, instead, it had raised even more questions. Someone other than Rose, must have helped her. She would have had to leave London with him, and travel hundreds of miles before she reached Jura. It couldn’t have been Rose, because her involvement had been thoroughly investigated.
That left only one person. Matt. Had it ever crossed the minds of the police to put the thumbscrews on him, to find out what he was up to at the time? He had a history of environment activism and law breaking, he’d virtually admitted that, and given he’d known Flori for years, it would make him a strong candidate for assisting her. Yet, somehow, he’d got away with it. Why had Matt had never been implicated and as far as he knew, never been investigated. There was only one conclusion possible. Matt must have been of some use to the police. Matt had been a police informer.
Conflicting emotions surged through him. The principal one, hate, but then rage. He felt sickened. The sour taste of bile filled his mouth. He began to heave. He sprinted downstairs to the bathroom and with his head over the toilet bowl, retched until he vomited. He stood up, but the heaving began again. His body convulsing, he leant over, spraying the remains of his lunch around the inside of the toilet. He felt as if he was inhabited by a malign force. He could trust nobody or anything. Everything was a potential lie. He walked over to the basin, threw water on his face, wiped clean his mouth and, forced himself to return to the attic.
He stared out of the window onto the garden, trying to clear his mind of the conflicting feelings and thoughts coursing through his head. Gradually a sense of normality returned. He turned away, was about to leave the attic, when he caught sight of the giraffe, lying on the floor where he’d left it.
Truth and Lies Page 12