‘You have it in a nutshell,’ says Amelia.
Ben says, ‘So maybe something happened when I push him on what he’s been doing in the boathouse.’ At last! ‘It bugged me why he was lying about it, but my questions didn’t get me anywhere. Still, maybe something clicked inside his head, because I remember now he got a bit rattled and came back at me on something completely different – a blatant switch of subject.’
Amelia says, ‘That’s interesting. What was the subject?’
Ben says, ‘I’m not sure – the main thing is it had nothing to do with the boathouse.’
I say, ‘Bakhtin.’
‘Oh yes,’ says Ben, ‘he asked me if I had heard what Bakhtin had done to Connie’s business.’
I explain to Amelia, ‘I was human resources director in a medium-sized plastic packaging business before I decided to join the NHS. We got torpedoed and went under with all hands. Ben, you had better finish the story, I think.’
He does. ‘I said I had heard something, but it’s a large group and Bakhtin expects his businesses to operate very independently. I said I was in an analytical role at headquarters. What do headquarters people ever know about what’s going on?’
---
Ben
Amelia is going to ask me about my lie, I’m sure of it. But instead she glances at the clock. ‘My goodness, look at the time!’ she exclaims. ‘Let’s turn to how dinner ends. Who decides it’s time to go rather than have another drink?’
‘I do. I apologise that it’s only half past nine, but I have a hell of a day coming up.’
Connie says, ‘And Frank needs to pack. So I’m going to drop Ben back at the college and then head home. That’s the way the conversation is going.’
‘And then?’ Amelia asks.
Connie says, ‘And then Frank wishes the two of us all the best in our future lives. He’s kind of speaking to us as if we were a couple. At least that’s how I remember it.’ She looks at me.
I nod. Is she anxious once more? I think it’s just a tear in her eye because we’re remembering a goodbye moment. ‘Frank fetches a poem and reads it to us. He says it’s his favourite. It’s how he says goodbye. He gives me a hug, and Connie a peck on the cheek and we go.’
‘To your separate beds?’
I think, that’s a bit personal, isn’t it?
‘Yes,’ says Connie. ‘Ben hadn’t had much sleep that week and was yawning his head off. And I had to look through my wardrobe at home for something to wear to the gala dinner.’
‘What’s the poem? More importantly, what do you think Frank is saying in the poem?’ Amelia looks expectant.
I say, ‘I hadn’t heard it before. I don’t remember the words, but I thought it was a bit romantic. Like wishing us luck as a couple. It was a very simple poem, a bit like that song Doris Day sings, “Que Sera, Sera”.’
Connie kicks me hard. ‘You idiot, you’re unbelievable!’ She looks up at the ceiling. ‘What is the point of men?’
She turns to Amelia. ‘It’s a poem by Erich Fried, originally in German, called What It Is. I think Frank’s talking about the kind of love that has the courage to be honest. Frank dedicated his life to truth, to seeking out the truth.’
‘I agree about Frank, but not about the poem,’ I say.
‘Let’s listen to it, shall we?’ Amelia says. She presses buttons on the remote. The screen goes blank. We hear background noises and then Frank is speaking.
Connie screams.
I jump out of my skin. ‘You bugged Frank’s house?’ I exclaim, shocked.
Frank recites:
It is nonsense, says reason
It is what it is, says love
It is misfortune, says calculation
It is nothing but pain, says fear
It is hopeless, says insight
It is what it is, says love
It is laughable, says pride
It is frivolous, says caution
It is impossible, says experience
It is what it is, says love
When he’s finished, Amelia plays with the remote and gives another of her nods. ‘In Frank’s case we were rather late into the bugging game. Unfortunately, he didn’t call anyone or talk to himself, which is a shame, so the dinner party is our prize exhibit. Classified, as I told you.’
‘Why ask us about the dinner when you have it all on tape?’ Connie is nearly hysterical.
‘Because we don’t have it all on tape. I’m not talking about sound quality – technology can clean up the words. What the technology can’t tell us is what the words mean. What the poem meant, for example. As we’ve just seen, it meant different things to the two of you.’
‘You’re checking up on us, whether we’re being honest.’
Amelia stands up. ‘In part. After lunch we’re going to talk about what happened on Thursday. For most of that we’ll only have your word for it; we only have audio for one bit.’
‘When I come back to Frank’s house,’ Connie says, quietening down.
‘Exactly. So if the two of you had decided to play some peculiar game, we would have saved ourselves a lot of bother.’
‘That’s hilarious, you talking about us playing a peculiar game!’
I’m looking at Connie, wondering if we are going to walk out and not come back. Amelia looks at us and says, ‘I’ve been completely honest with you. I think, curiously enough, that is what Frank would have wanted. Would you like to know what I think his goodbye poem is about?’
That’s an unexpected offer. After a while, Connie nods.
‘For me it’s about what he’s going to do the next day. It’s nonsense, it’s misfortune, it’s pain, it’s hopeless, it’s laughable, it’s frivolous and it’s impossible – but it is what it is.’
The room goes very quiet. We all sit down. Amelia offers us the chance to remember how the dinner party actually ends – what Frank says after the poem. We say yes. She’s on the remote for the last time before lunch.
Frank says, ‘You take care. It’s all going to work out fine.’ He’s talking to Connie as he gives me a hug. ‘And you look after him.’ Then he is giving Connie a kiss, and patting her pocket to make sure she’s got the spare keys to his house. ‘Stay overnight tomorrow if you want. I’ll put out some clean sheets. As I recall, the beds in the student rooms are singles.’
Someone like me is a bit drunk and says, ‘Have you been in one? In your time here?’
‘No comment,’ Frank replies, laughing. ‘No comment and not interesting.’
Someone like Connie says, ‘We’ll be the judge of that.’
Frank says, ‘Come tomorrow and be the judge of everything.’
THURSDAY 21 JUNE (TO MID-AFTERNOON)
The tower opening day began as it would end, in magnificently clear light. Breakfast was offered in a college dining room filled with triangular blocks of the sun’s nuclear energy and shade. A study group from one class was sitting by the windows; Ben and Vanessa were in the opposite corner for some privacy. A white van like every other in England pulled up outside.
Of all days, Ben began today as he meant to go on – in charge. He had asked Vanessa to join him for a working breakfast. Ben’s choice was to keep things light and ready for action: working grapefruit segments, two working boiled eggs and some working toast. Escaping from Gyro’s office and having breakfast cooked by somebody else were treats for Vanessa, and she was celebrating by having the full English, including kidneys. Both of them were studying the masterplan of the day – all coloured index tabs, annotations and timings down to the minute (I wish, thought Ben). But it was a terrific piece of work by Vanessa, and Ben told her so.
Ben and Vanessa were working through the list of outstanding problems. With his back to the other table, it was only by intermittent glances Ben realised two men and a woman he did not recognise were standing by the table of students
.
Vanessa explained the latest problem, which had arisen overnight. ‘The Maharishi Swami Tandoori wants us to fix a room.’
‘Offer him a student room.’ They had six to spare.
‘He wants a suite.’
‘Okay. The Kings Arms. I knew there was a reason I went there. Tell him they have an exquisite suite which is famous for its cuckoo clock.’ One of the strangers was showing the students some sheets of official-looking paper.
‘Good thinking, master. But not quite good enough. He wants us to provide a suite with two young women. Girls.’
Ben was confused. Young women? Girls? Was Hampton now some kind of brothel? A woman student stood up, left the group and went with the visitors. Ben saw the man in charge telling the group something like, this will just take a few minutes. The students were very polite, a credit to the college.
Vanessa explained the problem again.
‘Oh shit,’ says Ben. Improvise, improvise. ‘Okay. Tell him we will arrange this. But hush-hush, with a very high-class agency. Top, top girls, like they use for Arab princes. Lay it on with a trowel. Do you think two girls will be enough?’
‘You might have the experience to know, but I don’t. I expect he would have asked for more if he needed more.’ Vanessa was sucking the goodness out of a rasher of streaky bacon after dipping it in brown sauce.
‘Tell him three girls. A blonde, a brunette and a redhead. They will come to his suite at the Kings Arms at 11pm. But in case of problems, I need his personal mobile number, on which I will leave the telephone number of the agency.’
‘If you’re expecting me to find this agency, forget it.’
‘Vanessa, get with the programme. There is no fucking agency. It’s just bullshit. But he won’t find out until 11pm and that will get us through the tower opening. He’s not going to write to Gyro about it to complain, is he? But make sure you make a big song-and-dance about getting his personal mobile number.’
After breakfast Ben headed off towards his office. He detoured to walk past the tower, which was ringed by security hired by the college. Tom and his engineers were making final checks. Tom’s BMW and another white van were parked at the base of the tower.
The photograph on the flyers had not exaggerated: Luscious’ waves of psychedelically-coloured hair resembled a Beatles album cover. She was in jeans and a busty long-sleeved polo neck while a security guard helped wheel her sound system into the lift. Tom waved and gave a thumb’s up sign. Not looking where he was going, Ben walked into someone who had been on his mind a lot in the past week.
‘Alex! I mean, Lord Bakhtin.’
‘My goodness, Ben.’ The visitor ran his eyes over Ben from the satin interior of a £5,000 hand-made suit. ‘I had heard you were here. How is it all going?’
‘Very well up to a point.’
‘What point is that?’
‘This point. The point of bumping into you.’
Alex’s expression shifted slightly. ‘But you are expecting me, I think. Certainly your security people had me on their list. They gave me a lovely pink lapel pin.’
Different coloured pins would admit to different areas; Ben had not yet picked up his. ‘You fired me, you scheming coward. And you lied. You told me I was the best thing since sliced bread but you were lining up Charlie Driesman behind my back.’
Alex assessed the situation silently.
For Ben, nearly two weeks of bile was erupting. ‘Come out with it, you bastard. What didn’t I do that you wanted, you selfless git?’
‘Be careful whom you accuse of lying, Ben. When I said you were the best, I wasn’t lying. Some days Charlie hasn’t got a clue and I could string him up; I never had a day like that with you.’
‘Commitment, then? I didn’t give you enough hours in the day? Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, for how many years?’
‘Oh, commitment. You were committed, Ben. Though these days everybody is committed – everybody who matters. It’s a sine qua non, not a competitive advantage. We’re at a business school, aren’t we, so let’s put some of their expensively taught concepts to use.’
‘What then?’
‘You really don’t know, do you?’
‘I fucking don’t!’ The singer and the tower security guards looked over. A woman came out from the college building behind Ben and began to approach.
‘You’re not ruthless enough, Ben. I can only have one apprentice. You’ll probably be the best apprentice I ever have – the best at being the apprentice. But I have an apprentice now so that in ten years’ time there will be two or three senior people around the group, people whom I have trained and trust through and through, one of whom will have the potential to seize the business out of my hands and run it brilliantly after me. You would never be ruthless enough for that. So, onwards and upwards.’
Ben was stunned. Alex appeared to feel mild curiosity at Ben’s ignorance and a slight irritation at being detained.
Not ruthless? Well, Ben knew how to reply to that. ‘Venice in the Evening’ by the new Australian designer Haribel Mâché reached his olfactory nerves too late. ‘So what were you doing screwing the dean’s wife in the Kings Arms while I was giving your speech?’
‘This is your business because – ?’ queried Alex in puzzlement, before turning to plant a peck on the woman’s cheek. ‘Dianne, a little reality seems to have upset the nice young man whom I sicked onto you. I’m sorry. But he’ll be gone soon, won’t he?’
And the fight was over. While a shrug of Dianne’s shoulders re-arranged her breasts, her scent enveloped and re-arranged both men as if they were pieces on a chessboard. Now they were her two fighting cocks, presumably fighting over her. She smiled at Ben, and then Alex, resting one forefinger on each.
‘Ben is a very nice young man. Of course on a bad day that’s three strikes down – nice, young and man – but today he is our absolute hero. I won’t hear a word said against him. Now, Alex, come with me. London’s top colour specialist has come down. No pouting – you’re going to look your very best for the television cameras if it’s the last thing I do.’
---
Towards the end of the morning Ben and Greg headed to the police mobile command post. It was in the main car park, a blue-and-white articulated truck with a large painted number, a satellite dish and several radio aerials on top. A constable helped them put on small ear-pieces.
‘We’ll be saying a lot which you won’t hear,’ Haddrill reminded them. ‘But you’ll hear anything we say on the open circuit and, of course, you’ll hear when we call either of you.’
‘To respond to us, just hold the button down like this while you speak,’ explained the constable.
‘Let’s try it,’ said Haddrill. After a couple of goes they had the idea.
‘No need for that ‘over and out’ stuff,’ the constable added helpfully.
Haddrill looked at his watch – nearly noon. They all looked around. Two officers in short sleeves with protective vests and automatic weapons were patrolling the tower terrace. There were two more on the other side of the car park, two in the dining room, and other pairs out of sight at the checkpoints on the two roads into the college. Ben and Greg now had lapel pins with yellow tops: access all areas.
Ben’s mobile gave the chirrup he had programmed for Vanessa.
‘Yup.’
‘I’m texting you the Maharishi’s personal cell number.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘The caterers have got a towing-car to the ice truck that broke down. So it will be late but it will be here by 3pm, which is okay.’
‘Even more wonderful.’ Although the college and the tower were air-conditioned, it was a hot, cloudless day.
‘And a group of students is getting agitated that one of them has gone missing. A Palestinian. Missing, possibly abducted. They’re concerned because her father wasn’t k
een on her coming to England to study.’
‘Well, tell them they’re in luck, the place is absolutely swarming with police. Tell them to report it right away. But just in case there is something funny going on, report it yourself as well.’
He responded to a text from Connie checking that the meeting with Roger Sling was still on for 2pm. The moment when he and Greg walked out of the command post was when Ben started to feel that he had the hang of this security thing, although he could tell the ear-piece would fall out all afternoon and annoy him. Greg looked as if he had been born with his.
---
‘Ms Yung. Always a pleasure, and sometimes a surprise.’ Gyro surveyed the group assembled in his office for the 2pm meeting. Apart from Connie and Ben there was Roger Sling, who looked to Ben like a damp jellyfish with a nervous condition.
Connie was in one of her power outfits – elegantly cut jacket and trousers in blue pin-stripe, open-necked blouse with a lot of straight edges. ‘Your deputy told me she was going to let you know: as part of my induction I asked to sit in on a range of meetings. This one with our bank manager looked particularly appropriate. Who knows, I may be able to help with the Chinese angle.’
‘The Chinese angle?’ Gyro’s eyebrows buckled momentarily into a circumflex. ‘Well, well. You’re right. There is a Chinese angle. Connie – may I? – you certainly know how to make your mark. If all our governors were up to your speed I’d hardly be needed. Never mind. Roger, your meeting I think? What’s on your mind?’
That was unkind, thought Ben, watching the bank manager squirm. Words slipped out of Sling, twitching like fish on a slab. ‘Been a while since … your travels … update … end of the month … the …’ (violent coughing) ‘… loan.’
Damn it, thought Ben, there is a loan.
‘Which loan is that, Roger?’ said Connie brightly. She made a show of taking a copy of the college’s report and accounts out of her bag.
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