by Mark Timlin
‘I also saw a bloke holding a gun on the way in, except it wasn’t a gun, was it? It was a Nikon 35mm with a pistol grip and I could have killed the poor bastard on the strength of it.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m being a bit of a nuisance, aren’t I?’
‘I’m getting well paid,’ I said.
‘Money isn’t everything.’ Only fuckers with loads ever say that.
I changed the subject. ‘Elizabeth is very worried about you.’
‘I know.’
‘She wants me to guard your body from here on in. I told her what you told me last night about the telephone calls you’ve been getting.’
‘I wish you hadn’t.’
‘I had to. We both want to know who’s threatening you.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course.’
‘Think about it.’
‘Did you agree to be my bodyguard?’ she asked, evading the question.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Thank God, I’m so pleased. Have you got a gun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to.’
‘You’re the boss.’ I took the Baby B from its ankle holster and held it up to show her. She got up to get a better view. She ran her fingers along the short blue barrel and looked at me through hooded eyelids. I swear to God it turned me on, hangover or no hangover.
When she spoke her voice was husky. ‘Would you use it?’ For a minute I didn’t know if she was referring to the gun or what.
‘As a last resort,’ I said.
We stood there in silence for a moment. ‘I thought we were going shopping.’ I put the gun away.
She snapped out of it. ‘Yes, we are,’ she said and the moment had gone.
I hate shopping. My spree the previous day had been done on my toes and took forty minutes max. I just knew that Catherine was a serious shopper.
And so she was, a real pro. We shopped all the way from Covent Garden to Knightsbridge, touching base in Bond Street and St Christopher’s Place. She shopped with manic intensity and pretty soon the boot of the Rolls was full and parcels were intruding onto the back seat.
I trailed after her like a pet poodle. Yes, I carried some bags but I kept an eye out to see if we were followed and I saw no one.
‘I haven’t been shopping since my father died,’ she said as we stopped for Bloody Marys at the Connaught. ‘You must be good for me.’ And she touched my cheek with her fingertip.
I won’t say that I didn’t like it, because I did.
We lunched in Beauchamp Place and had tea at the Savoy. We got back to Curzon Street around five and I went off to soak my weary feet in the bath.
‘Dinner’s at eight,’ she told me as we parted at her door. ‘Be there or be square.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said.
8
Dinner was an unforgettable experience, as were most of the meals I took at Curzon Street. But this one was the worst. I crawled out of the bath about six fifteen and wandered about the room in clean boxers for a while, smoking and sipping at a beer. I was sitting on the bed and running the previous two days’ events through my mind when the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Elizabeth on the internal line inviting me to meet the family in the drawing room at seven for drinks. Another bloody room with a title of its own, I thought.
I changed into a new, navy blue suit, pale shirt and patterned tie. It took me some time to find the drawing room but I eventually heard the sound of conversation from behind a closed door on the ground floor. I pushed the door open and rolled in feeling as sharp as a new razor blade. The three people on the other side were togged up like they were off to a night at the opera. I felt as under-dressed as a lettuce leaf that had missed the oil and vinegar boat.
The three, two men and a woman, were all strangers to me; neither Elizabeth nor Catherine were anywhere to be seen.
‘Sorry,’ I said, standing at the doorway. ‘But the invitation said “come as you are”.’
Three pairs of eyes swung towards me and I gave the owners the benefit of my teeth in a big, disarming grin.
‘How fortunate you weren’t in the shower when it arrived,’ said a tall, willowy fellow in a white tux and black tie, who was half folded up against the mantelpiece of the dead fireplace. He held a cigarette languidly in one hand; a half-full cocktail glass was tilted in the other. His hair was dirty blond and a fringe flopped in an untidy comma over one eye. I knew at once we were going to be bosom pals before the night was out.
‘I almost was,’ I said.
‘That might have made life a little more interesting,’ remarked the woman in a low-cut black evening gown, who was sitting in an over-stuffed armchair. Her bodice was a little over-stuffed too and looked in danger of surrendering to gravity at any moment. Her expression was bored and miserable and although she wasn’t bad looking, her face had already begun to set into middle-aged crossness that I guessed would be her expression for the rest of her life.
I kept the grin on until it felt as if it might turn round and bite me.
Elizabeth saved the day by walking through the open french doors and coming to my rescue. ‘Mr Sharman,’ she said, ‘forgive me for not being here to greet you, and most of all for not telling you about our habit of dressing for dinner. It completely slipped my mind that you might not have a dinner jacket with you.’
I made a mental note always to carry one with me in future, possibly in a holster strapped to my other ankle.
‘If you give Courtneidge your size,’ she continued, ‘I’ll have one sent around tomorrow.’ She made it sound as casual as ordering an extra pint of milk. ‘I think Mr Sharman is wearing a very nice suit,’ said the blond man holding up the chimney breast. ‘Although possibly his tie is just a little chi-chi for evening wear.’
I felt like hooking him onto the picture rail. Elizabeth stopped me with a cool hand. ‘Pay no attention to Simon,’ she said. ‘He always has had leanings towards comedy, but his attempts don’t always come off.’
I said nothing, just let her keep her hand where it was on mine. I liked it.
‘Now let me introduce you to everyone. Simon Pike is my late father’s nephew. He’s staying here until his own house is ready for occupation.’
I nodded to the comic but made no attempt to shake hands. For his part, he didn’t even nod in response.
‘Unfortunately it’s taking rather longer than he expected,’ said the woman in the chair. ‘And a brief visit is slowly turning into a marathon stay.’
Simon shot the woman a withering look.
‘This is Claire,’ said Elizabeth. ‘My brother David’s wife.’
Claire raised her hand and I walked over and took it. It was chubby, with fat little fingers made even thicker by jewelled rings. I squeezed it gently and gave it back intact. ‘How do you do?’ I said like a good little boy at his first grown-up party, which is just about how I felt.
Claire gave me an impersonation of a smile and told me how delighted she was to meet me, which is not at all how she looked.
The other man in the room stepped between us and stuck out his hand. ‘David Pike,’ he said. ‘How do you do, Mr Sharman?’
‘I’m fine. How was the US trip?’ I asked.
‘Exhausting, but it accomplished what was necessary. At this moment I’d rather talk about why Lizzy thinks we need an in-house private detective.’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Private reasons, and it’s as much my house as yours.’
‘At the moment,’ said David.
I was left holding his hand while this short altercation took place. It was dry and strong and its grip was more than firm.
After he released my aching fingers the whole family stood back and gave me the once-over. I felt like shuffling my feet and saying something like ‘Gee shucks’. I was suffering from aristocracy awe and I didn’t like
it one bit. I thought back to my days in the job and tried to get my mind right.
‘Miss Pike feels that a little security on the premises at this time wouldn’t go amiss,’ I said. ‘The arrangement is between us and – ’
Simon didn’t let me finish. ‘For however much you can screw out of her for a wild goose chase.’
Elizabeth butted in before I could speak. ‘Mr Sharman is charging his usual rate,’ she said. ‘Not a penny more.’
‘Then he must be more stupid than he looks, or else it’s your body he’s after,’ said Simon.
That one went closer to the target than I liked and I was halfway to the fireplace and ready to give Simon a right-hander when Elizabeth caught my arm again. ‘No,’ she said.
Simon hadn’t even flinched. He must have been tougher than he looked or else someone had always been around to fight his battles for him. I suspected the latter.
I stopped and felt like a berk. ‘I think you should apologise to Miss Pike,’ I said. It sounded a bit weak, even to me.
Simon sniggered.
‘Simon,’ David intervened. ‘You are in my father’s house, behave yourself.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said sarcastically to Elizabeth.
I felt as if he’d got the better of me and I didn’t like that one bit.
Elizabeth defused the situation by offering me a drink. She poured me a vodka rocks from the side table that groaned under its load of bottles of booze. The drink was freezing cold and tasted good on my parched lips. ‘If that chump makes any more cracks like that I’m going to punch his lights out,’ I said quietly.
‘Ignore him,’ she replied.
At that point Catherine blew into the room wearing a black lace creation that left so little to the imagination that it almost made an imagination redundant. In her hair was plaited a fresh gardenia.
‘Good evening,’ she said, as we all stood pop-eyed at her entrance. ‘Do you like my new frock?’
‘I’m sure it will be splendid when it’s finished,’ said Claire.
Catherine went to the drinks table and poured three inches of vodka over an iceberg of cubes and a small slice of lemon, and showed it the tonic bottle. She’d told me her mother was a piss artist. Like mother, like daughter obviously. ‘Oh Claire,’ she said. ‘You’ve always got your finger on the pulse of chic. How I wish I’d taken you shopping with me today.’
I could see the old claws were coming out with a vengeance.
Catherine picked up her drink and made directly for me. She crooked her arm into mine. ‘Fat old bitch,’ she said, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘She gets all her outfits from C & A.’
‘Catherine,’ said Simon, ‘if you will insist in fraternising with the staff, at least be kind enough to let us all in on the conversation. It’s so rude to whisper.’
I stiffened but Catherine just smiled. ‘Simon,’ she said smoothly, ‘I didn’t see you lurking there in the corner. You really should have taken those self-assertion classes I was telling you about.’
He flushed slightly and was just about to make another snide remark, which I’m sure would have left me no option but to deck him, when a maid who wasn’t Miranda so who must have been Constance appeared at the door and informed us that dinner was served.
We de-camped and strolled to the dining room. It was the size of a rugby pitch and looked out over Curzon Street. The dining table was a desert of white linen set with gleaming silver cutlery.
I’ve enjoyed more sociable meals. For a start, we were seated as far away from each other as was possible, which given the personality of certain members of the family wasn’t a bad idea. Then what with all the fancy silver decorations and flowers and crystal shit that were piled up across the centre of the table, it was difficult to believe that you were doing anything but eating alone. Courtneidge and Constance served the meal.
We ate cold salmon and salad followed by strawberries and cream. It was hardly worth getting all dressed up for. But what did I know? For the previous few months I’d eaten most of my meals out of a tin or between two slices of bread over the kitchen sink to save on the washing up.
We got to the coffee and port stage of the meal with hardly any conversation. But when the cigars came out, the claws came out again with them. I was sitting next to Claire who was placed opposite Catherine, and Simon sat opposite me. We were closest to the foot of the table – which still looked about a mile away – at which Elizabeth was seated. David sat at the head of the table.
Courtneidge left the pot of coffee on the sideboard. The port bottle was moving round the table. I half expected the ladies to leave us but the three of them stayed in their seats as if superglued.
Simon was the first to speak after the two servants had left and Courtneidge had closed the double doors behind them.
‘So how was the launch of your new magazine?’ he asked.
‘Excellent,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I saw you in the papers this morning. It’s a pity I wasn’t invited.’
‘Would you have gone?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ replied Simon. ‘Anything for a free drink.’
‘Except it wouldn’t have been free. Pike Publications were paying for it.’
‘It would have been free to me,’ said Simon cattily. ‘I don’t have any holdings in the company, as you well know.’
‘Which is why you weren’t invited,’ piped up Catherine.
‘You bitch.’
‘Steady,’ I said.
Simon turned his venom onto me. ‘Oh, the knight in shining armour has woken up. Only it’s rather tarnished these days, so I’ve heard.’
‘Oh, do be quiet, Simon,’ said David. ‘You can be such a crashing bore at times. You know we have important things to talk about.’
‘Yes, but I didn’t realise we were going to talk in front of the hired help,’ said Simon.
I glanced over at Elizabeth and saw the pleading look in her eyes. I didn’t take the bait. Simon looked well pissed off and I knew I’d done the right thing.
‘Simon, I shan’t tell you again,’ said David. ‘Mr Sharman is Elizabeth’s guest, and I insist that you treat him as such.’
‘A guest!’ spat Simon, but that was all.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Sharman,’ David said to me. ‘Now where were we? Oh, yes. Tomorrow, my father’s will is going to be read. We are to gather at the solicitors’ at ten. I imagine we will all go together with Vincent in the Rolls. Is that satisfactory?’
‘I want Mr Sharman to come,’ said Elizabeth.
It was news to me.
‘Whatever for?’ asked David.
‘Because I do.’
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, but I really can’t allow Mr Sharman to be present.’
‘But I want him there.’
‘Why?’
I watched the exchange like a game of tennis with the words being batted back and forth across the white tablecloth.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Slow down. If you want to talk about me, perhaps I’d better leave.’
‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Elizabeth.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.
‘My dear Elizabeth,’ said David with the kind of exaggerated patience you save for fools and children, ‘is it really necessary?’ He looked at me. ‘And forgive me, Mr Sharman, for talking about you as if you weren’t here. Is it really necessary for Mr Sharman to be present at the reading of the will?’
‘It really isn’t,’ I said.
‘It is if I say it is,’ responded Elizabeth stubbornly.
‘I could just come along and wait outside,’ I offered. I really didn’t know what all the fuss was about. I was damn sure I wasn’t a beneficiary.
‘That sounds like a fine compromise,’ said David. ‘Elizabeth, is that all right with you?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said icily. ‘But I don’t know why you should always have the last word on everything.’
There was a lot of shit going on under the surface o
f that room and I didn’t particularly want to be around when it floated to the surface and stank the place out.
‘Because he thinks he’s going to get lucky in the will tomorrow and end up king of the castle,’ Simon said nastily.
‘Why don’t you be quiet, Simon,’ snapped Catherine. ‘You really do have appalling manners. Perhaps Mr Sharman could teach you a few.’
‘When I need lessons in manners from him or an Australian bastard, I’ll ask for them, thank you.’
That did it. I got ready to do a leaper over the table and knock some manners into him.
‘Nick, don’t,’ Elizabeth begged.
‘So it’s Nick, is it?’ put in Claire. ‘How cosy.’
‘Shut up, Claire,’ shouted Elizabeth. ‘I can’t stand any more of this.’ She jumped up from her seat, knocking her port across the white damask where it pooled like fresh blood. She threw her napkin into the pool and fled the room.
I pushed my own seat back and followed her. As I went I said to Simon, ‘You’ve been lucky so far, pal, but your luck’s running out.’ He toasted me with his port glass and I gave him what I hoped was a killing glare. I might as well have sent him a begging letter.
I chased Elizabeth through corridors and hallways with polished wood floors and panelled walls that amplified our footsteps like gunfire. I caught up with her on a staircase hung with old masters which I wouldn’t have given to a dog to look at. I held her by the arm and pulled her round to face me. She was crying and her mascara had run into black lines down her face. She brushed the lines into streaks and leant against the wall, sobbing bitterly.
‘What was all that about?’ I asked.
‘Oh Nick,’ she said, through her tears. ‘I do so want to keep the family together, but I feel like I’m banging my head against a brick wall.’
‘Maybe you’re trying too hard.’
‘At least tomorrow when the will’s been read we’ll know what’s happening.’
‘There seems to be enough to go round. Why worry?’
‘Because it was Daddy’s company, and his life, and now he’s gone. I want to see it get bigger and better. I miss him so much. And now you tell me that Catherine, my one true friend, is in danger.’