The Loop

by Anabel Donald

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Polly came up just after midnight, and I was glad to see her. I hadn’t done anything since Barty left except drink his wine, and I’d never forget the taste. I just hoped I wouldn’t always remember it as the taste of a huge mistake.

  I couldn’t decide whether to go after him or to leave him in peace to get over it. And sober up.

  Polly’d brought two bottles of wine and she held them up to me. ‘Red or white?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘You’re upset,’ she said, when we finally settled down on the sofa. ‘You’re never upset. Irritated, yes, impatient, yes, but never upset. What is it?’

  ‘Barty. I’ve made him unhappy. I didn’t think I could, not really. And I don’t want to.’

  ‘Was it the Johnny Depp man?’

  ‘Only as a symptom. Do you think I’m ignorant, Polly?’

  ‘You? You know more than anyone.’

  I’d usually agree with her, I realized guiltily, and that was fundamentally wrong, because nobody knew as much as I thought I knew. Plus if I didn’t know something I said it didn’t matter. Which was smug. And narrow.

  Barty’s judgements are usually generous, but reliable. Particularly on the people he likes. So if he criticised me, there’d be truth in it, for sure. And part of what he said I’d also thought myself. So I felt lowered, diminished. Was I as small as he’d said? I hate smug people. That’s the unforgivable sin, because it stops you growing.

  But most of all I missed him. I wished he’d stayed, and we could have gone to bed and I’d have hugged him because that’s what I wanted to do. Hug him and make love to him and make him happy again. If I could.

  Something was itching away at the back of my mind. Something about making people happy . . .

  Polly was talking. ‘Are you going to marry him, Alex? Have you decided? He told me he’d asked you, when we were talking this evening, it’s so romantic he really loves you—’

  ‘Shut up a second, I’m trying to think—’

  Polly subsided, hurt. Not my evening. I stopped trying to locate my feeling about Barty, and concentrated on Polly, the one I was with. ‘Sorry, Poll. I am upset. I think I’ve made a mess, and I don’t want to. What did he say to you?’

  ‘All kinds of stuff, but you’ll know. About wanting children soon, and wanting your children, and about his mother and his grandmother and his childhood and his dog—’

  ‘His dog?’

  ‘Yes, the one who died, and wanting to protect you, and the first time he knew he loved you, and about where you’d want to live and he thought emeralds—’

  ‘Emeralds?’

  ‘Because of your eyes, and Comme des Garçons, and his friend and the production company and I think that’s very generous but then he is, and a very good idea and I’m sure you’ll make a terrific success of it, and about hinterlands and the meaning of life – why are you making notes?’

  ‘Keep talking,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘And feeling lonely, and I know exactly what he means about that because I always did at home even though everyone loved me, it’s sort of not fitting in, and if everything should be all right then it makes it worse.’

  I didn’t want to talk about Polly. I wanted to keep listing the things Barty’d told her that he hadn’t told me, but that would have been making the same mistake again. I put the pencil down and took a deep breath. ‘Is that what you’re feeling now?’ I said. ‘In Hong Kong?’

  * * * * *

  Polly left at half-past one, happy.

  That was something.

  I brushed my teeth and combed my hair and put on some of the perfume Barty’d bought me in duty-free. Then I put the list in my jeans pocket and walked up to Notting Hill, to Barty’s.

  He was still up: the lights were on downstairs.

  I let myself in. ‘It’s Alex,’ I called. I could hear music coming from the library. Piano music. Liszt. I walked towards it and opened the door.

  Barty was at the piano, with his back to me.

  ‘I didn’t know you could play,’ I said. ‘Liszt’s very difficult, isn’t he?’

  He stopped, but didn’t turn round. ‘He’s very difficult and I’m out of practice.’

  ‘It sounded good, to me.’

  ‘I was cheating. Playing one note in two.’

  ‘It probably improved it. Less sweet. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘A whole load of things.’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘OK. Let’s go to bed.’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  He didn’t sound angry, which was what I’d expected. He sounded tired, and his voice was thick. Why had he never told me he played the piano? Why hadn’t I asked? Probably because a piano with piles of old music on it was what I expected in the kind of library he had in the kind of house he had, which wasn’t my kind of house. ‘Play some more,’ I said.

  ‘What shall I play?’

  What did he like? I should know. He’d talked to me about music often enough, and I’d only half-listened because he knew so much more than I did and I’d wanted to find out for myself.

  He still hadn’t turned round.

  Somewhere in my head was all he’d ever said to me. I have a good memory. I soak up everything and I don’t forget.

  ‘Mozart,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s your favourite.’

  ‘Why?’

  He was really making me work for it. Fair enough, I supposed. ‘Because he makes your soul dance.’

  He gave a dismissive click of the tongue. ‘Did I really say that?’

  ‘I couldn’t invent such a corny line. Come on, play Mozart for me. And do turn round, I’m fed up with talking to your back.’

  He faced me. As I’d guessed, he was crying.

  ‘I do love you,’ I said.

  ‘Not now,’ he said.

  Chapter Thirty

  We hardly talked at all, after that. He played Mozart for a while and then we went to bed and hugged, and he fell asleep eventually and I lay awake and thought about him and me and what I could do. I slept for an hour or two and woke at dawn. I must have been crying in my sleep. The pillow was wet. Then I went back to sleep until eight, when I got up.

  I brought him a cup of coffee before I left and sat on the side of the bed while he drank it. He was polite but uncommunicative.

  ‘Bring me up to date on your case,’ he said. I didn’t want to. I suppose he thought it a neutral topic, or perhaps he assumed I was preoccupied with it, or perhaps I only ever talked to him about my cases. But the silence had certainly gone on too long, so I did what he asked. ‘Any ideas?’ I said finally.

  ‘Not really. You’ll have plenty of your own.’

  ‘Let’s meet later today. Are you working?’

  ‘Thanks for asking. You don’t usually.’

  ‘You usually tell me,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘And I’m glad, because I’m interested, of course.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody considerate,’ he snapped, ‘it’s out of character.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And don’t apologize.’

  ‘Let’s have dinner tonight. I’ll book, and pay.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Alberto’s,’ I said. It was our most successful compromise: a local Italian restaurant where the cooking was good enough for Barty and the ambience informal enough for me.‘I’ll book for eight-thirty. Come round to me about eight.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Back at my flat, Nick was waiting with a cup of coffee and the news that she’d just rung Jams to check she was all right. ‘She was fine, no problem.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Now what?’

  I hadn’t given the case one thought since Nick had left the night before, not even when I was telling Barty about it. ‘Give me a moment to work
it out. Just don’t look at me expectantly, it puts me off.’

  ‘Going for croissants,’ she said. ‘Petty cash?’

  I nodded, and she went.

  There were no telephone messages. I was pleased to be able to dodge Sandra for a bit longer, but annoyed that Jacob’s merchant bank friend hadn’t returned my call. He might well be abroad, for months for all I knew.

  I tried his number, got the answering machine. Then I rang Archie Lawson-Smith.

  He’d clearly been asleep, but when he realised who I was he snapped back on line. ‘Good morning, P.I.’

  ‘Good morning, capitalist lackey. I need more help. There’s only an answering machine at the number you gave me for Jimmy Wood. Can you track him down? Get a work number, find out if he’s away?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll ring you back.’

  The next thing on my list was the Doncaster company that had processed the duff video. Chances were they wouldn’t open till nine at the earliest, and it was still only ten to, and Nick was out, and I owed Barty an effort . . .

  Directory enquiries. William Alexander in Ealing. I was halfsurprised he wasn’t ex-directory – if I was a headmaster, I would be, to stop enraged parents ringing me at home – but I wrote down the number and dialled it. It was the school holidays, maybe he’d be in.

  A woman’s voice answered. Middle-aged and slightly whiny.‘The Alexander residence.’

  ‘William Alexander, please.’

  ‘Who wants him?’

  A flood of rage came from nowhere. I choked back,‘His daughter’ and said mildly, ‘Alex Tanner.’

  ‘In connection with what, please?’ she persisted.

  ‘From the BBC,’ I said. And that was my last effort. If he couldn’t fadge round her with that, then he was not only weak and selfish, but also a slow-witted twit, which was even less forgivable.

  ‘Just a moment,’ she said, pleased. Pause. Footsteps. Younger voices in the background. My half-siblings?

  ‘William Alexander speaking.’ A pompous, narrow, half-educated, reedy little voice, but perhaps I was prejudiced. ‘The BBC, you say?’

  ‘I’m not from the BBC. I’m Susan Tanner’s daughter, and yours. Don’t put the phone down. The BBC is just cover so you can lie to your wife, so you’d better pretend to be talking to me about something.’

  Pause. But he wasn’t a complete fool. ‘The school’s links with industry, you say?’

  ‘Good. This won’t take long. I just want the answers to some questions. First, is there any mental illness in your family? Schizophrenia? Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Any other hereditary diseases?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware of, no.’ Pause. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

  This was probably the only time in my life I’d ever speak to my father. What would I wish I’d said?

  He spoke again. ‘These things aren’t always as simple as they appear. Perhaps you could put me more in the picture?’

  What did he want to know? If I was going to make trouble for him? Or perhaps simply what I was doing, what I was like?

  I imagined his wife listening, eager for her William to be on the telly. She’d be disappointed. Serve her right. Whatever her life was, it’d be better than my mother’s.

  ‘If you give me your number, I could ring back from my office and discuss the matter more conveniently, with all the reference materials to hand,’ he said.

  An olive branch? Or an opportunity to tell me to piss off without his wife hovering at his elbow?

  No point in speculating. Not fair to refuse. I gave him my number, put the phone down, crossed his name off the action list, and wrote Barty – decide.

  Nick was back. ‘D’you want jam, or butter?’

  ‘Both,’ I said casually, then heard the words. Barty’d said I wanted to have my cake and eat it. I’d have to watch out for that. If I did try to take from him more than my share, more than was possible, it would hurt us both.

  Ouch.

  I ate my croissant, enjoying the jam and butter, checked the time, reached for the phone.

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ said Nick. I did.

  ‘Vari-Vision Video.’ A Yorkshire voice, male, very young.

  I told him what I wanted.

  ‘You gorra reference number on the cassette label?’

  I gave it to him and heard tap-tap on a keyboard.

  ‘Transfer from Super-8 to VHS, Jacob Stone?’

  So the original ‘means’ had been a film, not a video. Made sense, since it probably predated Jacob’s birth in 1969. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Worrabout it?’

  ‘I’m a private investigator, making inquiries in a missing person case. I’m calling from London. Mind if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘No, you’re all right.’

  ‘Did you make the transfer yourself?’

  ‘No, me dad does the old stuff.’

  ‘Could I speak to him? Is he there?’

  ‘I’ll gerrim.’

  Pause. ‘Hello?’ Older voice, gravelly, less Yorkshire. Perhaps he’d travelled a bit.

  I explained again.

  ‘I know that, me son told me.’ He was more cautious, less forthcoming. No point in pulling my punches.

  ‘I think Jacob Stone – the man who brought you the Super-8 – may be dead, and the film may be a clue.’ ‘You’re not police?’ ‘No. Have you still got the original film?’ ‘No. I returned it with the VHS cassettes.’ Cassettes, plural. ‘How many copies did you make?’ ‘Two.’ So there was another one somewhere. ‘And you checked that the transfer had worked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you saw what was on the film?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sounded reluctant, almost embarrassed.

  ‘Could you please tell me about it?’

  ‘Mebbe it would be better if you came in to see us.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t get away from London.’

  ‘It’s not a very nice thing, over the phone like this.’

  ‘It’s really important.’

  ‘How old are you, me duck?’

  ‘Thirty. And very experienced. How old do I need to be?’

  He chuckled. ‘Thirty’ll do for me. You’re nothing to do with the police, you say.’

  Nick was rolling her eyes in exasperation and making ‘get-onwith-it’ gestures. I waved to calm her and kept my voice steady. ‘Nothing at all. This is just between us.’

  ‘It’s a grey area, see, and I don’t want any bother.’

  ‘There’ll be no bother from me.’

  ‘Oh, well then – it was a loop, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah!’ said Nick.

  ‘A loop?’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘You wouldn’t know about loops, being a lass of your age, see, but I’ve been in the film industry all me life and down south in the late Sixties, and truth be told I shot some of them. Ten minuters, Super-8 porno jobs, semi-amateur performers, professional crew.’

  ‘Ten-minuters?’

  ‘To be shown in booths, in sex shops, like. Ten minutes being—’ he stumbled—

  ‘A satisfactory length of time? For the purpose?’ I looked firmly away from Nick, who was making crotch-rubbing gestures and mouthing ‘Design fault’.

  ‘You gorrit,’ he said, relieved.

  ‘Did you recognise any of the talent?’ I said, using the TV word for performers, trying for rapport.

  It worked. His voice warmed and relaxed even more.

  ‘Worked in TV, have you?’

  ‘Done a bit. You’re a cameraman, then?’ I said respectfully. Cameramen are the technical aristocrats.

  ‘Was. Got me own business now. Gives me more time with the family, and all. But I miss it. Yeah, I miss it. Oh, well, about the talent – no familiar faces. But there wouldn’t be, mostly, with the loops.’

  ‘Any credits?’

  ‘No crew-credits, of course. Three performers, two
women and a man. Sexy Sandra, Sweet Sally and Big Dick Tracy. Directed by Keeper Hardon.’

  I laughed. So did he.

  ‘I’ve got one of your cassettes here,’ I said. ‘But it’s been wiped.’

  ‘None of my doing. They both left here orright.’

  The call-waiting bleep went. I signed off from the Doncaster call quickly but gratefully, making sure I could get back to him, and took the new one. It was Archie Lawson-Smith. ‘Hi, P.I. Jimmy Wood’s at their Singapore branch for a month, it’s eight hours ahead, they tell me he’s still at his desk, here’s the number.’

  I took it. ‘Thanks very much, Archie.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Just tell Malise.’

  I put the phone down.

  ‘We’ve got the loop,’ said Nick, delighted.

  ‘We’ve identified the loop. We still haven’t got it,’ I said.

  ‘Bet you Sexy Sandra is Sandra Balmer.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. But who’s Sweet Sally?’

  ‘And Big Dick Tracy and Keeper Hardon.’

  ‘I’m not so bothered about them . . . I’ll try Jimmy Wood in a minute. I’ve got to work out the right questions to ask him, first.’

  ‘You sound disappointed. You should be pleased. What’s the matter?’ said Nick.

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said. ‘I expected the loop to be something else, I suppose. Something more significant.’

  Nick clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘It’s been significant enough for Jacob, I reckon,’ she said.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Jimmy Wood was at his desk, and we had one of those clear long-distance lines, better than a local call, that make you forget the thousands of miles between.

  He was very different from Archie Lawson-Smith. I should have expected that, since he was a friend of Jacob’s, and I couldn’t imagine the Jacob I knew having much time for Lawson-Smith, who sounded like Prince Charles on speed.

  Wood’s voice was deeper, much slower, and there was a perceptible thought-pause before every answer.

  When I finally put him in the picture, there was a very long pause indeed. Then he said, ‘I am extremely sorry to hear it. Jacob feared as much.’

  ‘As much? What do you think’s happened to him?’

  Pause. ‘Something unfortunate, clearly. I am very sorry.’

  Pause. ‘I hope not,’ I said, to prompt him.