“They can’t help it,” replied Jerry. “They’re used to being deferred to.”
“And they have powerful connections,” May reminded them. “Three family members in the foreign office, four high up in the Department of Trade and Industry, others in the Church and the armed forces. Policy makers. Friends of nobility. They’re not a dynasty to be trifled with.”
“Do you think we could be dealing with political assassinations? It seems like they’ve made their fair share of enemies abroad.”
“It would be tempting to think that,” May conceded, “but it feels more personal, don’t you think? I get the feeling that none of them can imagine why they’ve been singled out. If they could, they’d probably be too embarrassed to tell us. Still, something should have come to light by now. At the moment we have their cooperation and we should be thankful for it. So let’s have none of your customary rudeness when dealing with the upper echelons, Arthur.”
“How dare you,” complained Bryant. “I was a paragon of civility. Even when that horrible devil-child kicked me.”
“Let’s see how you behave when the Whitstables exert pressure on Raymond. Or start demanding action from the Home Office. Because they will, you know.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Bryant gloomily. “And they’ll get away with it because their social standing will make sure that the right people listen to them. It’s not fair. Class has nothing to do with intelligence.”
“Arthur, they’re different from the likes of you and me. Jerry, you must agree with me.” May nodded in Jerry’s direction.
“They see you as servants rather than actual people. That makes them different.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Bryant. “Francis Bacon said that new nobility is but the act of power, but ancient nobility is the act of time. The Whitstables know their power is waning, and are trying to hide behind their heritage. We see it all around us these days: England is shedding its skin. It will no longer have to carry the weight of the past upon its shoulders. In all my years, I’ve found that the only real difference between one person and the next is what hurt them as a child and what kind of biscuit they like. Everyone has a favourite biscuit.”
Some of Bryant’s theories left Jerry behind. This was one of them. “If the Whitstables are victims of a postwar sociological change in the nation, I don’t see that it matters what kind of biscuit they like.”
“Childhood attachments,” explained Bryant impatiently. “Your favourite biscuit remains the same throughout your life, but life requires you to make certain changes if you wish to stay in pace with it. The Whitstables are being stranded in the past, left behind by the receding tide of history, and they can’t see it happening.”
“I still don’t see – ”
“Excuse me a moment,” said Bryant abruptly. “There’s something I really must find out.” He rose and took the empty glasses to the bar, catching the landlord’s eye. “Why is this pub called the Nun and Broken Compass?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” said the landlord, pulling a fresh pint. “And it’s rude. You know. A bit Rabelaisian. I don’t want to offend the young lady.”
“Tell us anyway,” demanded Bryant. “It’s been a long day.”
♦
After leaving Mornington Crescent, Jerry called in at the Savoy. She tried ringing Joseph’s room, but there was no reply. Just as she was leaving the lobby, he entered through the revolving doors. He looked terrible.
It was nine forty, and the hotel was finally quiet. The remaining Common Market delegates had left to attend a formal dinner at the Palace. Joseph dropped his bags beside the reception counter and rummaged in his leather jacket for his wallet. “I didn’t think you were on duty.”
“I’m not. What’s wrong?”
“You’ll have to make up my bill,” he replied. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Why, what’s happened?” She came around from the counter and lightly held his arm. “Want to walk for a while?”
The lights on the Embankment swayed like ropes of pearls, reflecting in the empty wet streets that led towards Blackfriars.
“I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “How could it have happened so suddenly?”
“You tell me. The Japanese just pulled out, without a word of explanation. Miyagawa called me into his office this afternoon and said that the Tasaka Corporation were returning to Japan at the end of the month. They’ve canceled their plans for the production and all subsequent events, and they’re selling the theatre to a British consortium. The deal has already been completed. They’ve fired the entire production team. Miyagawa was very apologetic.”
“Why couldn’t they have told you earlier?” asked Jerry.
“Perhaps they thought we might jeopardize their deal somehow. I’m out of a job.”
“What are you going to do now?” she asked. The thought of his leaving chilled her.
“Head back to San Diego, I suppose.” He looked up at the starless sky, his voice betraying the hurt he felt. “There’ll be other times. Other opportunities. They paid me for next month. It wasn’t the money. It was the chance to do something I believed in.”
“I’m so sorry, Joseph.” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t we find out who they’ve sold it to? The Savoy’s a listed building. It can only be used as a theatre. Maybe you can get work with the new company.”
“I was wondering about that.”
“Then it’s worth a try. There are loads of cheap bed and breakfasts around Earl’s Court. Please, you must stay on.”
The hand he slipped around her waist took her by surprise, but when his lips pressed against hers she yielded.
∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧
19
Lured
Jerry watched the platform posters slide by as the Tube train lurched on towards Chelsea, and thought back to the Friday when Max Jacob had appeared at the Savoy, summoned by one of the Whitstable brothers. Could that summons have somehow concerned the Waterhouse painting?
Suppose Peter had asked his lawyer to collect the package hidden in 216. Why would a respectable professional be skulking around with a pile of obscene photographs? Could it have been why Jacob was murdered?
Removing the envelope from her pocket, she longed to remove the single damaged piece of photograph, but did not wish to shock the stern-faced woman seated next to her. She held the envelope closer and noticed a row of digits. Someone had sealed the pictures in the envelope, then written a telephone number on top in pencil, hastily erasing it afterwards. In a few moments she had worked out the sequence, seven numbers and part of a name, the letters And. It could be Andy or Andrew. As soon as she alighted from the train, Jerry checked the penciled number and rang it from a call box at the corner of Sloane Square.
“Is that Andy?”
“Who’s calling?”
“A friend of his.”
“Hang on, I’ll get him.”
The receiver was set down and taken up a few moments later.
“Who’s this?” The voice had a heavy cockney accent. “My name is Jerry. I’m a friend of one of your clients.”
“Yeah? Which one?”
She cleared her throat. Time to take a chance. “I saw the set of photographs you left at the Savoy. Very impressive. Did you take them yourself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t take no photos.” Andy was indignant, or at least feigning it. She doubted his reluctance to talk would hold up for long if money was mentioned. Across the capital, the recession was biting deep; jobs were competitive on both sides of the law.
“I have some of them in front of me right now, and one has your telephone number written on it.” She tried to sound as friendly as possible. “I thought you might be available for another job. I’ll make sure you’re well paid.”
“What have you got there?”
Jerry turned the piece of photograph over, trying to see it in the dim light of the booth. Two bodies, na
ked, a full breast, unappetizing buttocks, a sausage-like erection. The man was still wearing black socks. No light in the room apart from the camera flash. Judging by the odd angle of their limbs, the revelers hadn’t expected to be captured for posterity.
“Well,” said Jerry casually, “the first one shows a gentleman enjoying himself with a very young lady in one of the suites, two sixteen, I think. I’ll pay you double the amount you were paid before.”
She held her breath and pressed her ear hard to the receiver. For a moment there was only the hiss of the open line.
“What, you want some more done?”
“That’s right, with the same couple. Could you do that?”
“I can’t get hold of the girl again. It’d have to be a different one.” So he supplied the woman, too. Handy service. “He’s not going to go for it twice, though.”
“Leave that part to me,” said Jerry. “I want you to get whoever you think he’d like.”
“Well, the Japs love blond girls. I could – ”
“Kaneto Miyagawa.” Suddenly it was obvious. Jerry drew a slow breath as the realization dawned.
She quickly replaced the receiver and left the booth. She needed to think. Andy had sent a girl to the Japanese executive at his hotel. She must have been a real professional; the Savoy would never have let her near his room without a valid reason. It meant that Miyagawa had arrived in London earlier than Joseph had realized. The Tokyo executive had been careful, but someone knew of his libidinous nature, and had exploited it.
She tried to reconstruct the order of events. The girl had come to Miyagawa’s hotel room, leaving the suite door unlocked, ready for someone to burst in and take compromising pictures. Which meant that someone had paid to have Miyagawa set up. Had the Tasaka Corporation been blackmailed out of the Savoy deal by the lawyer Max Jacob? Could the photographer have been instructed to do so by the Whitstables? She imagined the dishonour: the respected head of the Tasaka Corporation caught red-handed and blackmailed into abandoning his plans for the Savoy. By doing so he would avoid a scandal that would shatter company confidence and slump share prices. But could the Japanese have hit back by taking their revenge on both Jacob and his employers? And if this was true, why go to the trouble of killing the lawyer with a snake? Was this really the sort of thing that happened among the city’s power elite? It seemed more suited to an episode of The Avengers.
She needed to go to the police with the information, but first she would put her theory to the test. It would mean calling Joseph as soon as she reached home.
♦
Elton John’s ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’ came to an end, and Paul McCartney and Wings launched into ‘Band On The Run’.
Michelle turned off her transistor radio and listened for a moment, but no sound came from upstairs. From the window overlooking the lawn she could see low clouds shielding the weakening sun, like courtiers protecting a dying monarch. The garden foliage had darkened to the colour of tinned spinach. The bare winter branches of the cherry trees knocked in the rising wind.
“Daisy, what are you doing?” she called.
Small footsteps crossed the ceiling, then stopped.
“Playing.”
“Do you want a glass of milk?”
“No, thank you.” A tiny clipped voice, precise and polite. Michelle shrugged and headed for the kitchen to make some tea. At the age of twenty-three she had retained the plump figure and bad complexion of her late teen years, and was resigned to the fact that unless she lost some weight she would be unlikely ever to find a boyfriend. Not that she particularly cared. The magazines went on about finding a partner, as if it was the only thing in life that mattered.
Michelle preferred the company of small children. The pleasures of tending them had been bred into her by years of baby-sitting her younger sisters. Her responsible attitude reflected the genuine warmth she felt for her young charges. Still, she had never met a child like Daisy. A pretty little thing, thin and blond, with translucent pale skin and large blue eyes that stared flatly and observed everything. At the age of seven, Daisy seemed to have no friends at all. She never returned from school with the other girls in her class, and spent her free time playing alone in her room.
Her brother Tarquin was now eleven and had been packed off to boarding school. Daisy’s parents were hardly ever at the house. The father worked for one of the venerable City banks, and the mother was always organizing charity lunches. It seemed to Michelle that Mrs Whitstable was a modern-day Mrs Jellyby, spending so much time worrying about fund-raising for needy children that she failed to notice how introverted her own offspring had become.
She switched on the kitchen lights, momentarily alarmed as they buzzed and dimmed before returning to their full capacity. As the electric kettle clicked off, Michelle opened the caddy and dropped a teabag – a recent innovation she had only just come to grips with – into her mug. She tuned the radio to a phone-in, and failed to hear the wavering song that sounded from the street beyond.
Daisy rose from the floor of the playroom and listened. The tune was different from the usual one they played. Michelle had told her that it was called ‘Greensleeves’. The new one was much prettier. And fancy him coming around at Christmas! She looked up at the mantelpiece, at the tiny gold christening clock her grandfather had given her. The money bear sat next to it.
“Michelle, can I have an ice cream?” she called, but quite softly, so that Michelle might not hear her. She knew it was too near teatime for her to be allowed one.
Outside, the lilting melody played on. In the summer the van parked at the end of the street, but today it sounded as if it had stopped right outside the front door, as if it had come especially for her.
Daisy ran to the head of the stairs and looked down. The lights were already aglow on the Christmas tree in the hall, and it was growing dark beyond the frosted glass of the front door. She wasn’t allowed out of the front of the house by herself, because of the traffic. But Mummy and Daddy had gone to London, and Michelle was in the kitchen.
It wasn’t fair. She could eat an ice cream and still be hungry for dinner. In the street, the song came to an end. Her mind made up, she raced for the money bear and opened his secret door, releasing coins into her palm. Then she returned the bear to its place, tugged her skirt down, and descended the stairs.
She heard the radio fading down, and crockery being moved about in the kitchen. Michelle was probably foraging for something to eat. No wonder she was so fat. Daisy quietly opened the door and slipped the safety latch on, praying that she would not be too late. The van sat silently at the kerb. It was different from the one that visited in the summer, white instead of blue, and there was no man serving at the window. She walked to the edge of the pavement and looked up, puzzled. From within came a delicious smell of chocolate. Just then, the melody began its warped tape-loop again and the van slowly started to roll out into the street.
“Wait, please. Wait!”
Daisy darted forward with the coins clutched tightly in her hand. The van rolled slowly towards the disused railway arches at the end of the road, its distorted tune tinkling on. Daisy looked back at the house, and the opened front door. It was raining lightly, and there were no customers to be seen. The van driver hadn’t spotted her. Now that she had looked forward to it, she wanted the ice cream more than ever. She ran after the van as it rolled to a stop beneath the darkness of the railway arch, its red taillights glowing.
Daisy could see the driver moving from his seat to the counter window. Perhaps he had seen her after all. Inside the archway the song echoed eerily. Daisy stood beneath the window, her money hand raised in a pale fist. The interior of the van was in darkness. She wanted a Ninety-Nine ice cream cone. How could the man see to fill it properly?
She was about to ask him when he suddenly moved forward in the gloom and leaned down from the window, scooping her up in one swift motion and clamping his hand across her mouth. The counter panel slammed down, sealing
the van shut, and the vehicle rolled swiftly away into the darkness of the tunnel beyond.
∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧
20
Tontine
Joseph rose from the bed and placed his hands against the chill glass. It was late now, but night suited the area, and the streets remained almost as busy as they were during daylight hours. Above the boardinghouse, dank underlit clouds glowed like oilskin, brushing across the red brick and slick slate of a hundred rooftop turrets. Joseph’s new room was so small that Jerry could sit at one end of the sickly pink candlewick bedspread and see traffic moving through the rain on the Old Brompton Road.
The room was poorly lit, and made Jerry uneasy. “Can you put another light on?” she asked.
Joseph came to the bed and sat beside her. She could smell shaving soap, and a musky trace of perspiration. “No, let the dark come in.” He ran a finger along the seam of her jean-clad thigh. “There’s nothing in it that can hurt you, Jerry.”
Everyone thought she could just wish away the fear, but rationalizing it had no effect. “It’s not just in my mind,” she explained. “When I look into the night I feel every muscle in my body tighten.”
He brought himself nearer, shadow closing over his face. “Do you feel it now?”
The light on the far wall seemed to be dimming, blurring the pattern of the wallpaper. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her throat. His body pressed her back against the bed cover, the heat from his chest warming her breasts. She closed her eyes and allowed him to envelop her, his arms sliding around her back, one hand slipping into her tight waistband. They lay on the counterpane with their bodies lightly touching, exploring each others’ mouths, their hands establishing the contours of their arms, their thighs, their stomachs. A warmth spread inside her as his fingers crossed the buttons studding the front of her jeans.
The burr of night traffic buzzed like static beyond the windowpanes. He opened her shirt, kissing the tops of her breasts, moistening her flesh with his tongue, and she allowed her mind to drift. But in its eye she saw the stalking figure in the alleyway, the hunching creature of her nightmares. She opened her eyes. The faulty wall light had gone out completely. It was as if she had suddenly been struck blind.
Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks b&m-3 Page 18