Forgive me. I know that I have very little ‘worldly wisdom’, as my father calls it. I am often too impetuous for my own good. You will probably not approve of what I have written or what I have done, but perhaps you will understand that I can also be ‘revolutionary’ in my own way even if I know nothing at all about politics. So far I have lived not to please myself but to please my parents. I have done that out of love and respect for them. Now I begin to feel that once the legacy is mine, hateful though it is to me to have to think about it, I will do certain things with it, but until that time comes I ask you to forgive me for not being able to act upon my promises.
The letter ended here, but the last paragraphs offered the first clear clue to its meaning.
MONEY!
The letter-writer was possibly an heiress or, if not rich already, justifiably writing in anticipation of riches. This possibility meant that G, her lover, was jealous about her relationship with the addressee, Mr Richter, the person, that is to say, for whom she had written the candid account (or, more probably, had copied from confidences originally set down in a private diary), because this Mr Richter needed money for what seemed to be a political cause. Was it ‘revolutionary’? That was implied, although the addressee was referred to as German and not Russian, which naturally contradicted the association with the Russian revolutionary movement and made any connection with what Joe’s assailant had said seem nonsensical. Or perhaps the material was in Russian as a way of concealing its political meaning? If the material had relevance to legal proceedings or the threat of them, that could be an explanation. But this was absurd and Joe knew it.
Equally absurd was what he was now doing. Each word, each sentence emphasized the fact. He was doing something inherently unnecessary, he felt, because he was growing more and more certain that he was translating what he felt sure had originally been in English. And a translator translating a translation back into its original language was engaging in about the most useless occupation imaginable.
So why the hell had he been put in this ridiculous situation? Why had Ben insisted on having this translated? It was unanswerable, impenetrable.
He stared out of the window at the redbrick backs of the opposite houses emerging very faintly from the darkness like escarpments. They seemed equally impenetrable. The whole world seemed impenetrable. But in the intervening air the rain shone green. There were gleams of meaning. Slowly an unsettling, eerie light probed its way among the roofs and deep channels between the buildings. It picked out, first spectrally and then as if it were an enormous rusting object gradually exposed to view by a falling water level, a huge chestnut tree still covered in leaves, many of which had already turned to a deep rusty brown. This was the tree Billy had mentioned.
Joe watched the light penetrate crevice by crevice the glistening layers of foliage. It was as if the tree’s private being, its intimacy as a living thing, were offered gradually to view, but the meaning of that intimacy and its relevance to him remained obscure, like the material he had been translating. Sheet after sheet of photocopy revealed glimpses of a life and a relationship, but the meaning of it could only become clearer if he knew who the addressee was, who G was and who the lady herself was. He could believe that the first letter with its codes and oblique references might have some connection with political conspiracy, but these – how could these candid, intimate, unsophisticated letters have anything to do with something like that? They couldn’t. His intuition as a translator strengthened his protective feeling towards them as human documents. They were not part of the public property that contributed to the making of history.
He fell asleep. Suddenly awake, aware his clothes were crumpled, he stripped, washed and shaved. Refreshed, he recognised the need for caution. Supposing the material had some very special value, particularly as it was accompanied by his DNA sample (or that’s what he had to suppose, though he could not understand why it had accompanied the material or what he was supposed to do with it), but more particularly because Ben had been so keen to have it translated, he wondered what to do to preserve it. He saved all he could on his laptop, including his own translation, and stuck the memory stick in his pocket. As for the Cyrillic photocopied material, he felt it was too precious to be left unattended in Ronald Salisbury’s flat, so he wrapped it in the polythene and stuffed everything in the Sainsbury bag.
His host had presumably tanked himself up well. Joe heard snoring from the bedroom as he went along the passageway to the front door. He let himself quietly out of the flat and ran quickly down the stairs. On the lower ground floor he found a corridor and, as he’d supposed, a door leading to the outside. It was tightly bolted but there appeared to be no lock on it or any sign that it had been wired to an alarm. He tried the bolts. They were rusty and only moved grudgingly at a third shove. He found he had access to a narrow area of tall grass dominated by the huge spreading chestnut. Many of the large brown leaves had fallen. No one had apparently been there for months. He stepped gingerly through the wet grass to where leaves had gathered in a low pile, stuffed the bag and its contents out of sight and, a moment or so later, shoved the rusty bolts back into place, climbed to the ground floor and went out into Courtier Street.
11
Silvester’s café was busier than usual. He ordered the version of full English with coffee. As he ate, he began to feel human. His mouth was still sore and the side of his face still tender. Otherwise he was momentarily free. I can walk away from it all now, I can pretend I’m free to do what I like. He smiled at the extravagance of the idea. Then he knew he was being texted. Jenny was telling him she had to go away again. Her Inchbald Terrace flat (‘my apartment’) would be free. Would he like to have the spare room? She was sure he could take care of it while she was away.
Free accommodation! Twice in twenty-four hours! He had to think carefully about this one. After all, he had yet to relinquish the room across the street. At that moment he knew he was being watched.
A man was looking in through the bottle-glass windows, his face oddly miniaturised and elongated, but Joe knew he was watching him. He didn’t know why. He could guess enough to know that he wanted something. And that something was very likely the little memory stick.
In a flash he jumped to his feet. The movement was deliberate. It tipped his coffee on the floor. The cup and the saucer both shattered and the coffee went over his shoes and the floor in a star-like brown stain accompanied by a shriek of alarm from a passing waitress.
Silvester gave a faintly startled Italian-American cry and emerged from behind the counter. He gaped for a moment at the mess, spread out both arms, summoned the boy waiter, dry-washed his hands, nodded at Joe’s apologies for clumsiness and capped it all with an admirably magnanimous, ‘Sure, sir, I understand, I understand, we’ll fix everything for you. Things happen, they happen, you take a seat, sir, we’ll fix it, things happen.’
He turned away. At that very moment Joe came face to face with the man he had glimpsed in the window.
‘Mr Richter?’
The man flourished in the palm of his hand a screen recognisably showing an image of Joe as photographed for RGD. The gesture was quickly followed by the display of a card with his own photograph and the name: R. Harlow. He looked down at the mess on the floor, stood back to let the boy waiter come with a mop and leaned forward rather unctuously with a faint smile. ‘Clumsy, sir, don’t you think?’
Joe stared at the man called Harlow. He had pale eyes like those of a Victorian doll that were fixed in glassy directness. They so concentrated Joe’s attention that he barely noticed the way his arm was seized and he was drawn to one side. A friend, he was told, would like to see him.
‘What the hell? What friend?’
‘Please, sir, be calm. As I say, a friend.’
But he knew what friend, of course he did, only this time the man called Harlow was not recognisable as one of the strong-arm security Russians like The Kiss. Despite misgivings and doubts, he felt a momentary read
iness to anticipate the name of the so-called friend in a stage whisper as he was being directed towards a table farther from the window.
‘Ollie Goncharov?’
‘Yes, sir, it is Mr Goncharov. He is anxious to see you. As I am sure you are aware, Mr Goncharov is a very busy man, sir, and can spare little time. He is to fly to Los Angeles at midday in his private jet.’
‘Why does he want to see me?’
‘I only work for him, sir.’
‘So you don’t know why?’
‘No, sir. I don’t know why. But he has very little time and I would be grateful if you would come at once. There is a car waiting.’
‘I see.’
The protocol in all this was obvious. Joe knew he was little better than a plaything in the world of Scythian Gold and oligarchs and wealth and Ollie Goncharov. Bourgeois filth! He felt gifted by some new wizardry in receiving such a label, but a momentary smarting of the brand on his wrist, not to mention the hurt to his cheek and mouth and the little USB stick in his pocket, were ample reminders. He was certain the man called Harlow would hardly be likely to offer sympathy or understanding, although his tone was so polite that the grip of his hand on Joe’s arm seemed to have more the pressure of friendship than restraint.
‘I am acting on his specific orders, sir. I am just the messenger.’
He was clearly becoming a little impatient. Joe looked him straight in the eyes.
‘You’re not Russian, are you?’
‘No, I am not,’ came the curt reply. ‘Mr Goncharov wished for an English gentleman’s gentleman, a valet, sir. I am trained in that profession. Please follow me. He is waiting.’
Suddenly another voice intervened.
‘Aren’t you Joey?’
Joe froze, as did Harlow.
‘Remember me? It’s little Joey, isn’t it, little Joey Richter?’
The words were almost shouted into both their faces with a shriek of excitement. The swing doors had swung open and a middle-aged woman had rushed towards them, her light-blue rain cape floating round her as vigorously as her loud, unstoppable voice and her whole face alert with recognition, lips drawn apart in a broad smile and eyes slits of light behind large round spectacles.
‘You are, aren’t you?’
She was!
There was no denying it. She was Mrs Eirene Clarke, primary school teacher extraordinaire, who had been known to little Joey Richter from age five at school in Wimbledon. She encased him instantly in an embrace so firm he stumbled backwards, almost falling against Harlow, who immediately released his grip. Then she drew back and scrutinised Joe’s face.
‘You’ve been fighting again, haven’t you? You always were a fighter, weren’t you! Oh, little Joey, how you’ve grown up! As soon as I came in just now I recognised you, you know, because you’ve still got that slightly fierce look you always had as a little boy.’
Embarrassment had always been one of Mrs Clarke’s endearing, if forgivable, skills as a teacher. It had the effect at that moment of forcing Joseph Richter, however fierce he might look, to glance away in the sudden certainty that meeting Ollie Goncharov might be preferable to prolonging this encounter.
Harlow could hardly fail to notice. On that instant, though, he was distracted by a summons in his ear and raised a hand sharply in response to it. The gesture along with his concerned look immediately focussed attention on the discreet antenna at the back of his ear and put a sudden stop to the flow of Eirene Clarke’s enthusiastic reminiscence. Some seconds of silence followed. Then Harlow said ‘Right.’ Pressing his lips together, he looked from Joe to Mrs Clarke and then back to Joe.
‘Well, sir, I must go. I’ll convey your apologies and regrets to my employer, Mr Richter. He will of course be disappointed.’ Joe saw he was smiling. It was a sly smile. ‘Good-day, sir. Good-day, madam.’ He nodded to each of them in succession and vanished into Courtier Street with the skilled professionalism of a true gentleman’s gentleman.
Joe was relieved but had no choice. He was faced by his former teacher asking who that man was.
‘He says he works for a Russian oligarch.’
‘Oh, of course, I should’ve remembered that your mother…’ She clapped her hands together at the sudden recall and then acknowledged her negligence. ‘No, I’m so sorry, it was your father I should’ve mentioned. I was very sorry to hear about his passing. I should’ve written. He was my doctor till about eighteen months ago, you know. So very sorry to hear about it.’ She asked about his mother.
He explained that she was now in California.
‘Oh, dear, what a long way away! Do you know how I recognised you?’
‘No.’
‘It was the photograph your father had. In his surgery. Remember? It was when you graduated.’
He remembered.
‘Of course, I know you’re a bit older now, but what a funny coincidence seeing you here like this! Oh, I see I’ve interrupted your breakfast, so sorry. What’s brought you to Silvester’s?’
He explained.
‘Oh, just over the road, well I never! So tell me what you’ve been doing.’
He was going to say ‘Disappearing.’ ‘I was working for a Russian outfit. Now I have some translation work.’
‘Of course, of course, so silly of me! Your mother’s Russian, isn’t she?’
‘Half-Russian, yes.’
‘So you’re keeping busy?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He knew this exchange of pleasantries could continue unabated as long as Mrs Clarke wanted. She could easily use the rack of her inquisitorial manner to make him malleable. Instead she began waving one hand in a wide circular movement above her head.
‘It’s Arnold,’ she explained. ‘He’s been having breakfast here because all the electricity’s went off in our flat. They’ve been working on it. I’ve come to fetch him now they’ve finished. So nice seeing you, little Joey. We must keep in touch, mustn’t we.’
Arnold, large, broad-shouldered, with a stoop and spectacles, had evidently seen the waving hand and now shambled towards them. He taciturnly nodded to both his wife and Joe before paying Silvester. It was obvious that his wife, however extraordinaire as a schoolmistress, was respectfully in awe of her elderly husband.
‘Arnold never knew you, did he? We’re living up here in London now. He loves concerts. So if you’re just across the street we’ll probably see each other, won’t we? I’ll introduce you. Oh, but I must… Well, it’s been so nice. Yes, dear, yes, dear, I’m coming!’
Obediently she made a hurried departure in her husband’s wake. Distant farewells were indicated with a flourish of fingers to ‘little Joey’ as she went through the swing doors.
Silvester offered him a fresh cappuccino. The spill had been cleared. With relief at being able to renew his interrupted breakfast, he sat at the same table near the window and wondered over the oddness of the last few minutes. He remembered clearly enough that his father had mentioned about Mrs Clarke being a patient of his, but if that boyhood past of his had so unexpectedly flitted into this present moment, the arrival of the man called Harlow and Ollie Goncharov’s wish to see him formed part of a much more immediate past that implied a much more serious threat. One answer at least lay in his pocket, he supposed. Why that second letter should imperil him he had no idea, but the thought of it revived a feeling of anxiety connected with the very fact of the studio apartment at the top of No 17 where he had been attacked, if not on Ollie Goncharov’s specific orders, then certainly because someone at Scythian Gold knew about the connection with Ben Leyton.
All he had been able to rely on was Ronald Salisbury’s goodwill. Without that he would not have been able to do any of the translation overnight. His gaze was automatically drawn towards No 17. There it was, an ordinary tall Victorian house with steps to the front door, in a terrace of similar houses. People strolled by just as vehicles came and went along the street. Discreet brass nameplates proclaimed accountants’ offices. The ordinariness of i
ts appearance left him wondering idly why the front door was ajar.
The sight gave him a sudden nudge into reality. The offices on the lower floors could be open, of course, since he had no knowledge of the usual opening times. On the other hand, he was quite certain he had closed the door firmly on coming to Silvester’s. If it were open because someone wanted his material…
He paid for his breakfast and dashed across the street. Opening the front door fully, he saw no sign of activity in the offices and no lights had been switched on. When he stepped across the hallway to the foot of the main stairs, he heard a noise from the top landing. Momentary fright held him rigid. Then rapid footsteps came down towards him at an increasing rate like falling stones and suddenly he was face to face with a hooded figure in a red jacket whose hazel eyes enlarged by spectacles made him instantly recognisable even in the unlit hallway.
‘Billy!’
The boy shook his head, trying evidently to turn away. He seemed strangely uncertain of himself.
‘What’s the hurry?’
No answer. The question was repeated.
‘Look, I didn’t do it! I mean it!’
‘Didn’t do what?’
The boy instantly shot out of the front door. Joe called after him, but he ran away down the street without another word, his white trainers leaving a series of splashes liked white paint behind him as he weaved his way among passers-by until his red jacket vanished into an obscurity of umbrellas and raincoats.
Joe was left confronting an entirely silent building. He closed the front door and the noise confirmed the fact. What the boy had said puzzled him. He went up the main stairs and then gingerly ascended the narrow flight to the top floor to find Ronald Salisbury’s door half-open. Maybe this was what Billy had been talking about. But there was something else. To his surprise, when he pushed the door fully open the movement instantly set up a low buzzing. He called out Ronald Salisbury’s name.
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