Little God Blues

by Jeffrey M Anderson

  “Wait, you can’t say something like that and leave.” Even if it was all fantasy.

  “You were the one who said it. I just don’t want you to think it’s your fault.”

  “What! Said what?”

  “Murder.”

  “What!? I didn’t say that.” Except now I remembered that, yes, I had said “murder” (about Kirk) at our first pub meeting, just to prod the near-catatonic Moira into some form of life. Moira must have passed my unthinking comment on to Francine, who took that accusation to heart. Was Moira saying Francine took it a lot further than that, like to the grave?

  “But she was in intelligence. You know, not some delicate flower.”

  Moira gave me a condescending head shake that said, How can you pretend to understand? She had a point.

  CHAPTER 6

  Neeta, the NE1 scheduler, called. She must have got the go-ahead from her boss because she gave me the name of Claudia’s most likely NE1 squeeze, Hugh Ravenhall of Kissingate Capital, a private equity company. She had booked me a meeting with him.

  Before that, I went to work on another slight angle I hadn’t pursued: Kirk’s call to Hamburg. I told the story to a German couple I was sitting next to in a wine bar in Covent Garden. Being practical Germans, they suggested I hire a private investigator. PIs in Germany? Wasn’t everything too organized and known for there to be any mysteries? I found one with a splashy web page, called up and spoke to a lady who spoke better English than I did. She took down the details and two hundred euros from my credit card. She was confident they could find out who was at that number on the date of the call, September 30.

  Ravenhall kept me waiting in Kissingate’s conference room, an elongated oval table in light brown marble. Pillowed swivel chairs in tan leather. The view out the window on one of the small sides of the rectangular room was over a clutter of rooftops and chimney pots. Just over there, a church steeple. On the long side, opposite the door, hung a large whiteboard with notes in marker all over it. Something to do with SWOT, four columns with bullet points. A phrase, “strength of management” had been underlined twice under a column headed “W.”

  Ravenhall finally strode in. He was wearing a blindingly white shirt, sleeves rolled up, no tie, sharply creased navy blue suit pants. The light caught the gold on his belt buckle. It sent a beam into my eyes. He had a puffy, vertical face, forehead and chin on the same plane, sharp brown eyes, a scar over his right one. His main feature was a creamy smile, lips that stuck to parts of his teeth as he pulled them back. We shook hands without any form of cordiality.

  “So, you’re a friend of the redoubtable Miss Crisnowary.”

  “Friend makes it sound so simple.”

  He considered that for a second, as if it were a card he didn’t need. But why not look at all angles? Then he dismissed it. So much for small talk. He sat down reluctantly. I explained about Kirk, went into detail, enjoying the fact that he couldn’t know what the connection to him could be.

  “So, two things,” I said, finally summarizing. “First, they met, Claudia and him. Second, he dies, and she’s gone a week later. It seems to imply a deeper connection.”

  “I’m not certain I understand your function here. You’re pretending to be some sort of investigator?” He said this neutrally, finishing with a prim so-there smile. So-there as in so long.

  I sat there, fumbling for a way forward. Clearly he had humored Neeta with this meeting. His reticence implied a forced favor which in turn implied some kind of leverage. Maybe Neeta had something on him. Or could it be to create goodwill with Neeta for future dates, either NE1 or Neeta herself? Leverage was the most likely. NE1 was, after all, disbanded; Neeta was no doubt impervious to all come-ons. If the first, then maybe this implied something between Ravenhall and Claudia.

  “What’s it like, one of your NE1 dates? What’s the attraction?” I asked, stretching his role of host to the snapping point. I tried for an easy, patient smile, telegraphing all the time I had at my disposal.

  “I imagine it’s like drugs.” A micro-pause here while he regarded me. “You try it once and…” His hand did a conductor’s finish here. “I am fascinated by watching…” He paused here mischievously. “What extraordinary liars woman are. So believable…‌it’s actually quite remarkable.”

  “And men?”

  “Men aren’t good liars. It’s rather an advantage…‌in business. Advantage to a man who can see this.”

  I thought of the great male actors. “Really?”

  “In life, between men, there is always one truth at the bottom. Call it physical truth.” Somehow he had picked up on my immovable object vibe, the fact he wouldn’t be able to throw me out.

  “Physical truth,” I repeated, considering it for both of us.

  Ravenhall made a point of looking at his watch. “I wish you luck with your…inquiries.” That was brusque, even for him, so he moderated it. “Shame I can’t be of more help.” He looked at me with a willed false humility. I had a sudden urge to grab a fistful of his brilliant white shirt. He sat there the busy, smooth, polished, untouchable finance guy. I needed to continue with the interview.

  “Have the police been to see you?”

  “The police? Yes, of course. They’ve interviewed all members who dated Claudia. Or so I understand.”

  “There’s a rumor you saw Claudia outside of NE1. You didn’t tell the police that.” A bluff born out of frustration.

  “That would have been strictly against the Club’s rules.”

  “So’s cheating on taxes. So what?”

  “Who wasn’t attracted to Claudia? To follow up on that attraction…‌they’d throw you out on your ear. I don’t mind confessing, I enjoyed the club immensely. It’s difficult to explain. There’s a wild freedom in being able to say anything you want. No pressure to force yourself into a dating cliché…tall, thin, fit, sensitive, caring, likes fine dining, movies, soulful bloody walks at sunset. And that sine qua non of all daters: GSOH.”

  “What’s that?” I’d never seen a dating site. I was guessing the S was sex. Gratuitous sex? Only hetero?

  “Sense of humor. I’m not certain whether the g is good or great.”

  “There’s gallows.” He didn’t respond to that. “So, you didn’t cheat on your taxes?”

  He gave me a quick, tolerant smile. “I hardly think I would lie to the police in an effort to stay a member of a club that is no longer…‌active.”

  “It would also make sense if you had something to hide.”

  That brought him up stiff. “Hide?” he said, making a show of considering the word. “You’re not trying to say that I’m involved in Claudia’s disappearance?”

  “I’m just saying that logically it explains why you would gloss over your interest in Claudia with the police.”

  “I didn’t invite you here to suffer such wild accusations.” It was here that he made a mistake. “It is absolutely ludicrous to suggest that I…” Here he dropped his voice to a few notches above a whisper, “had anything to do with foul play.”

  I made a point of looking at the door, which Ravenhall had left open. As a manager of public money, he could not afford any rumor of impropriety. “Is that what you think happened to Claudia?” I asked.

  “In my business, all companies are guilty until proven otherwise. I fear it becomes a habit that carries over to other aspects of one’s life.”

  Ravenhall stood up summarily, walked me to the elevator bank, the kind that materialized in the middle of Kissingate’s open plan office. We were now out where we could be overheard. Several of the open plan troops flicked their eyes up to us, wondering who I could be, this non-business guy their boss had spent his valuable time with.

  “I would like to wish you luck with your research,” he said, all business, something wry in his eyes.

  There was an awkward moment when we were done but the elevator hadn’t arrived yet. I wondered about Ravenhall and NE1. He didn’t seem th
e theatrical type, more poker player than putative poker.

  “I might need some help with the SWOT,” I said, aiming for a light touch. The elevator went bing to emphasize my point. We shook hands for all to see. It was either a deal, a good-bye or both.

  I walked from Ravenhall’s office near Hanover Square across Regent Street into Soho, then zigzagged east to Denmark Street on its far side, to the guitar shops there. There was no way I could replace Estelle. She was a one-of-a-kind instrument, barely known, like one of those girls who gets away too early. You could only hope she was happy, singing with her new player.

  CHAPTER 7

  I’d magnanimously let Sula off the hook by respecting her more immediate creative need. Surely that got me a gold star redeemable for one more “one last time.” I’d wait a few days, then hit her with an invitation. Before I had always embraced that hurried march that only had time to conquer, and move on. All part of a general restlessness that didn’t allow for lingering, or lingering regret. My many relationships were like struck matches, friction and flame. Then flame out. Another charred stick tossed into the psychic ashtray of my inconstancy. I was starting to learn that to walk away like that is a form of control that ends up controlling you. I texted Sula.

  Next I called Lucian Gee, asked him about data protection. This followed an inconclusive visit to Iken that morning—Trevor Caspian, the acting MD, was preoccupied: Iken was having serious cash flow problems. He continued to refuse access to Iken’s files, invoking privacy laws.

  Gee came up with a plan. He knew a business consultant who specialized in publishing. We would put him into Iken under the guise of investing. Guise? I wanted to know. He explained: “Iken needs money. You’re an investor interested in bailing them out for a piece of the action—at least ostensibly. Before you do this, your team needs to perform what we call due diligence. One can do all this with no intention of investing. One can be part of one’s own due diligence team and look at files under an NDA, a Non-Disclosure Agreement. One can run away in horror at what one finds, never to return. Or one can go through with it and write a large check.”

  I asked him how much. He didn’t know; how could he? Hundreds of thousands was his guess. His business consultant would tell me. First I’d have to hire him for a few thousand pounds. I instructed Gee to contact his contact and get moving.

  Would Gee allow me to play cynical, unethical games with Iken? Well, he was a lawyer. I knew I’d have to invest. Apart from the ethical—jobs were at stake, people’s lives, books needing to appear in the public arena. Apart from Natalie—Iken was her legacy now. There was that My Dream Returns karma: this lucky streak where money seemed to spontaneously reproduce while I wasn’t looking. Might as well push it.

  For a senior partner in a law firm, Gee was surprisingly accessible and willing to help. His comment about walking away from the investment showed his other side, though, as did the shrewd way he came up with the investment plan. My theory was he had made a mistake in divulging his Power of Attorney corner-cutting in sending Hardcastle to Sunnydown Hills, regretted it, and was now trying to keep me sweet. Or was it simply good business? Come to think of it, I did use his firm for the Iken loan documents. I’m getting ahead of myself, though.

  Gee wasn’t part of NE1. He didn’t know Claudia. He came into the case via Hardcastle. The obvious way into it from there was via Francine McLain. It was worth exploring that angle. I scheduled an early evening call.

  It turned out that Gee had met Francine McLain once, two years previously. She was writing a book about her Russia days. Gee called it a semi-memoir. She wanted information on the college version of Hardcastle—background. I mentioned earlier that Gee was always easily on my side. Now he bent the rules to help me along, at one point telling me that Francine had had an abortion during her time with Hardcastle, who was unaware of it—off in China for several months on high-level negotiations.

  “Francine told you that?” It was difficult to believe she’d divulge such a thing to a lawyer she’d met only once.

  “I knew about their affair—Charles’ one grand passion. Apart from that one confession, his private life was a closed book. But that wasn’t it. You see, Francine hadn’t told Charles about the abortion. What she was actually after was free legal advice. Would there be any legal repercussions if she mentioned this episode, the abortion, in her memoir? Without Charles knowing about it, that is. Should she tell him first? She made it clear she was weighing her options.”

  Gee’s theory was that the memoir was Francine’s form of revenge, shining a light on the shadow-seeking Hardcastle.

  I said, “There’s something else. How good are your contacts at MI5?” I had learned by now that all roads from British power led back to Oxford or Cambridge. The men, and some women, who went to Gee’s Cambridge College, Trinity, represented a cross section of the upper strata of productive English society. In this world there were at most two degrees of separation to anyone important.

  I told Gee about my Russian “ahnov,” that it may be the end of a name of a spy, or a former one. A dangerous Russian, known to a former MI6 executive, meant probable spy in my book. MI5 is the part of British Intelligence that deals with domestic threats, so presumably they would know about most spies operating in their backyard. What I needed was any idea of a spy with a name ending in “ahnov” who disappeared from England in October 2001. Gee promised to “make a few calls.”

  ***

  I met Sula at the Tate Gallery. It was late afternoon, mid-winter, bound to be uncrowded. We toured the Turners. I asked her which ones she liked. She turned the question back on me. I’d been there several times already. I had a favorite, but I wanted to know her tastes. “I think that one,” I said, pointing to a biblical parable, one I didn’t like much.

  “You will have to tell me why,” she said doubtfully. “This one I like.” It was the one next to it, and my favorite. Could she see through my cheap dodge? Who cared? We liked the same painting. The Sun of Venice Goes to Sea was a packet of fluttering color in the liquid amber haze.

  We repaired to the empty basement cafeteria and interrupted their end-of-shift cleaning up for coffees. Was this a date? It didn’t feel like one. I was okay with slow, if the alternative was “no.” It was comforting to be in the company of someone who had known me for weeks rather than hours.

  “I have something for you,” Sula said, her long, unadorned fingers working in her purse. “Here.” She handed me an envelope. The envelope said Department of Physics, Imperial College, London.

  “Sula, what is this?” What could she be giving me? A sheet full of equations was all I could come up with.

  “I talked with my friend, Lucia. She is same as me, but Molecular Biology.”

  I took the cue and opened the envelope. Inside was a quarter-piece of paper. It was on Imperial College letterhead, this time from the Division of Cell and Molecular Biology.

  Dr. Aaron Lifkin

  Dept. of Life Sciences

  Imperial College

  “Lucia says this professor will know about drug reactions in brains. He is head of Lucia’s department. She says to him that you are writing an article.” She smiled, seriously, all business.

  “Drug reactions in brains? It’s fairly well known that cocaine can cause cerebral problems; a few of them are fatal.”

  Sula smiled at me. Why did I find that annoying? Part of it was confidence, part of which was confidence in me, that I’d get there, to where she was. Is there such a word as matronizing?

  I strained my thinking muscles, desperate to catch up with her. I got there on sheer adrenalin, a potent mix of pride and desire. If Francine was a suicide, how did she know that the drugs she took were lethal? Sure cocaine took lives, even more so when combined with other drugs. That, however, was a long-odds, unpredictable roll of the dice. Not something you wrote a note over.

  “Lucia agrees with me that it is the combination of these two poisons. It has to
be.”

  She smiled, warmly, as if she knew me better than I remembered. I had never been with a woman like her. One moment was stiff and formal, the next an awkward date, then we were comfortable and settled, like now. Always those latter moments brought me back for more.

  She sipped her coffee, looking at me steadily.

  “Thanks. What about your idea, the one when we were walking over the bridge? How did that turn out?”

  “Quite good. You are a…” She had to consult her dictionary before coming back with “inspiration.” Now we were back to formal. She was fighting off any natural current that wanted to flow between us.

  “I would like to see you again. I guess that’s not what you want,” I said.

  “You will go home. I will stay here. I do not like temporary.”

  “Temporary can be fun.” Even I didn’t believe that; well, not with her. “Why begin, then cry over something that might have been,” I half-sung sotto voce. “It’s an American song from the ‘40s. It’s called ‘All or Nothing at All’.”

  She froze up for a second, suddenly gone somewhere else. Then her eyes refocused, came to me. She smiled, from further away now.

  “I get it, you did this,” I held up the slip of paper, “to help me…‌on my way back home.”

  Her look just then was close to indomitable.

  “If I book my plane ticket, will you solve my case for me?”

  She let off a trapped laugh, but didn’t ease up. Was this what she meant by competing with me?

  “Can we just see each other, as friends?” I asked.

  “I think no.”

  “Because?”

  “You will win.”

  “Maybe if I win, you will, too.”

  Her smile made me feel small, naïve, ignoble even. I asked, “Can I ask you, when was the last time you took a chance?”

  “This morning. But we will not talk about mathematics. Please, let me consider.” She said this as if we were making a business deal. Even I knew the first law of sales: when you’ve got them in the showroom close the deal, because they never come back.