‘Yes, but all the same, if I might just . . .’ James took out several blocks of banknotes at random and tore off their wrappers. He flicked through them, taking the occasional note out of its thick pile, and holding it up towards a naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling. Occasionally, he sniffed one of the notes.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said at last. ‘This all seems to be in order. Thank you.’ He picked up the phone and dialled for the operator. He gave a number, and after a moment, he said: ‘Get her in a taxi. Go to the Negresco. Her mother’s in the main lounge.’
He replaced the receiver and shrugged. ‘And now we wait. Not that I really need to, Oliver, but I am a man of my word. So we wait for the beautiful Diana to telephone and say the indomitable Stella is safe and sound and back in the maternal embrace. And then we all go home and life goes on. Are you sure you won’t have that drink now?’
‘I’ll wait for the call, thanks. And I’d rather we didn’t speak.’
‘As you wish.’
Both men sat in silence for several minutes, Mr Arnold seemingly calm and relaxed, the younger man fidgeting and bored. He yawned occasionally, displaying perfectly white teeth.
At last the phone rang. James gestured politely to Mr Arnold, who picked up the receiver.
‘Oliver Arnold.’
‘It’s me, Daddy. Stella’s here. She’s absolutely fine. She’s a bit tired, but she’s fine. We’re going straight back to the villa. Are you all right at that end?’
‘Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me. All’s well that ends well. I’ll see you back at the house.’ He replaced the phone on its cradle.
James was transferring the money from the canvas bag into a soft leather briefcase. ‘Thanks again for this, Oliver. You did exactly the right thing, I want you to know that. If it had been left to that fool Douglas, who knows how things might have turned out.’
He stood up. ‘I think we’re all finished here, don’t you? Can I get you a cab? I can have one here in a minute to take you up to St Paul de Vence.’
‘I’ll make my own way, thank you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ James hefted the briefcase under one arm. ‘Goodness, this is heavy. I suppose this is goodbye, then.’
‘Indeed it is, James.’ But Mr Arnold remained seated. He pointed at the marks on the other man’s face. ‘By the way, what are those cuts? And why is your wrist bandaged?’
‘Your granddaughter, old boy. She has a high spirit and sharp teeth. I was considerate enough to give her the good news of her impending release this evening, and this was my reward.’ He rubbed his wrist ruefully. ‘I won’t hold it against her, though. I didn’t take any nonsense from anyone when I was a kid, either.’
He made to leave the room, then hesitated and turned around.
‘I know this is probably the last time we’ll see each other, but oddly enough, it’s been good meeting you again, Oliver. You know, if I hadn’t been shot down that day, things might have been very different. I told Diana that.’
Mr Arnold gave a short laugh. ‘I very much doubt it. You were a snake in the grass from the start, I realise that now. But this is certainly the last time we’ll see each other, James.’ He reached down into his valise and brought up the service revolver that he’d never quite got around to handing back in, cocking the hammer as he did so. The barrel pointed directly at the other man’s head.
‘How theatrical.’ James burst out laughing. ‘Are you going to say “this is a stick-up” and grab your money back? Do you really think I can’t take Stella, or Diana, any time I like, Oliver? Do you have any idea what I am capable of?’
Mr Arnold smiled at him, almost kindly. ‘Oh, yes. I know exactly what you’re capable of, James. That’s the point. I have absolutely no intention of letting you threaten my daughter and granddaughter ever again. You really haven’t given me any choice. I’m afraid I can’t possibly let you leave this room.’
James looked incredulous, his eyebrows arching in genuine surprise.
‘Good grief! You’re actually threatening to kill me!’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter again.
‘Well, that raises an interesting point, James.’ Mr Arnold nodded thoughtfully. ‘You see – you’re already dead, aren’t you? James Blackwell died eleven years ago. He can’t be killed twice. He no longer exists. You’re a walking, talking ghost. One can’t kill a ghost.’
James’s smile faded slightly.
‘I’m not a ghost here in Nice, Oliver. I’m quite the man of the moment. Flesh and blood. And I don’t go under the name of Blackwell. I have serious contacts, associates. Kill me, and you’ll be taking on forces far more powerful than you can begin to know.’
Now it was Mr Arnold who laughed.
‘James, I know exactly who your associates are and they couldn’t give a damn about you. If I hadn’t turned up tonight with the money, they’d have stolen your business and probably killed you into the bargain. You’re way out of your depth. This whole kidnapping scenario – your own daughter, for God’s sake – it’s pathetic. But I’m not here to punish you; I’ll leave that to God.’
The revolver steadied.
James blinked. He licked his lips.
‘Be that as it may . . . now look, Oliver. You need to think carefully. You’re a civilised man; a lawyer, for heaven’s sake. You couldn’t possibly kill a fellow human being in cold blood. How would you live with yourself afterwards?’
James realised that a pleading note had entered his voice and he strove to re-assert himself.
‘Look me in the eyes. Go on, look at me! We’re six feet away from each other. Could you really do it? I think not. Put your antique pistol down, Oliver, and let’s both go home. You’re an old man. Our business here is over and done. I’m no threat to your family. Not now.’ He patted the bag. ‘I’ve got what I came for.’
Mr Arnold sighed. ‘James, I’m perfectly content to look you in the eyes. I was in the trenches for four years. I was in the tunnels under the trenches, groping and fighting and stabbing in the dark. I shot and knifed and strangled so many men, face to face, that I lost count of them. You do, after a while. One more death won’t make any difference.’
James Blackwell stared blankly back at him.
Mr Arnold sighed again. ‘To be perfectly frank, James, I’ve killed better men than you before breakfast.’
He pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the small room and James Blackwell’s brains exploded through the back of his head and showered the wall behind him. He toppled sideways and landed full length on the floor, his body giving a single, convulsive shudder. Then he was still.
Oliver Arnold picked up his champagne flute and drained it in one swallow. He removed the canvas money sack from the briefcase, and replaced it in his own valise, along with the gun.
James Blackwell’s legs were partly blocking the door. Mr Arnold kicked them away.
He opened it and listened carefully for a moment. There was no sound of any approach. Le Loup Anglais had given specific instructions about not being disturbed.
Mr Arnold slid quietly from the room and closed the door behind him.
He’d killed better men before breakfast.
59
She knew the moment she saw his face.
‘I didn’t have any choice, my dear.’
Diana let her father into the villa and closed the door. ‘But, Daddy – how did you . . .’
He briefly showed her the gun, before dropping it back in his bag.
‘Dear God.’
‘If I’d thought there was any other way, Diana, I promise I would have taken it.’
She shot the bolts at the top and bottom of the door before turning back to face him.
Oliver Arnold watched his daughter carefully. She was pale, and trembled slightly.
‘He’d never have left us alone,’ she said with sudden resolve. ‘I’m glad he’s dead. Really dead, this time. But how did you bring yourself to do it, Daddy? It must have been horrible.’
He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. ‘That’s a conversation for another time, my dear. Don’t worry about me. As you can see, I’m quite all right. But what about you, Dee-Dee?’
She started. ‘You haven’t called me that since I was a child.’
‘Haven’t I? I suppose I’m feeling particularly protective of you tonight. After all, once you were so very much in love with him, and this week you were reunited, and I’m sure you must have . . .’ He gave an awkward shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being presumptuous.’
‘No. No, you’re not,’ Diana said quietly.
‘Anyway,’ he went on after a pause, ‘then the awful business with Stella – and now tonight. You must feel very confused and angry, Diana. With me too, perhaps, after what I’ve just done.’
Diana put both hands on her father’s shoulders, gripping so firmly he almost winced.
‘No! Don’t ever think that, not for one second! James was an evil, evil man. He kidnapped Stella, he threatened to cut her hand off if we didn’t pay him the money. He would have done it, too, I’m sure of it. His own daughter! If anyone was ever in league with the Devil, it was James Blackwell. You exorcised a demon tonight.’
She released him. ‘Come on.’
They walked slowly into the sitting room, where Diana poured two large whiskies.
‘I’ve behaved unutterably foolishly,’ she confessed, as they both sank into comfortable chairs, ‘from the first moment I suspected James was still alive. Although I do believe that he managed to sort of hypnotise me after we met again. Actually, I think he hypnotised all of us, right from the beginning, didn’t he? John at Cranwell, you and Mummy at the Dower House, and me at Girton.’
Oliver nodded slowly. ‘Yes. He had a remarkable facility for making one want to like him and believe in him. Even tonight he was . . . I don’t know, Diana; it’s very strange. I found myself wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, even though I knew he was extraordinarily manipulative and dangerous. I very nearly let him leave the room, you know. He was a very charismatic person.’
Diana sipped her scotch. ‘He was. But I did my mourning a long time ago for him; the man I believed I knew and loved. It certainly wasn’t the person you killed tonight. That was the real James Blackwell.’
Oliver loosened his tie and eased himself down in his chair, emptying his tumbler in one long steady swallow. ‘Where’s Stella?’
‘In bed, fast asleep. She’s absolutely exhausted.’
‘I’ll bet she is. And Douglas?’
‘He’s staying in Cannes tonight.’
Mr Arnold raised an eyebrow.
‘We’ve come to a decision,’ she said.
Epilogue
By the time the gendarmes were peering at James Blackwell’s shattered skull, Oliver, Diana and Stella were back at the Dower House.
They’d left Nice on the first train to Paris and were crossing the Channel before the manager of James’s club had plucked up the courage to gingerly tap on the door of his notorious client. If Le Loup said he wanted to be left undisturbed, you took him at his word.
It wasn’t until nightfall that the manager discovered that nothing would ever disturb the Englishman again, and he called the police.
There was nothing to connect Mr Arnold or indeed anyone else to the killing, and detectives almost immediately wrote it off as a Mafia hit. There had been rumours for weeks that Le Loup was in the Italians’ sights; clearly they had made their move.
‘Let dog eat dog,’ the head of the city’s murder squad told his assistant. ‘Close the file. No one gives a shit.’
James was buried in a dreary civic cemetery under his last assumed name of Peter Walker, even though police checks quickly established that his papers were false.
Le Loup’s protection racket was quietly and efficiently taken over by the Mafia.
Before long, Nice forgot all about him.
Douglas had quickly realised how completely he’d underestimated James Blackwell’s reputation. As Diana had predicted, the private detectives he sought to employ in Cannes had been slippery and evasive, even in the face of huge financial inducements. He simply could not persuade them to even begin looking for Stella.
By the time he’d called Diana to admit defeat, his stepdaughter was already home and tucked up in bed. Douglas felt foolish and emasculated.
‘I think we need some time apart,’ Diana had told him carefully. ‘We’ve both got a lot of thinking to do. I’m going back to England with my father in the morning.’
Almost as soon as she arrived at the Dower House, Diana decided she would not go back to Nice. There was no need to rush through a divorce from Douglas, but it was clear to her that the marriage must be dissolved. She would admit her adultery, if Douglas allowed her to. Knowing him, he would insist on shouldering the blame.
In September, her daughter was enrolled into the same public school that her mother had attended. The girl calmly accepted the news that Diana and Douglas were to separate. She was genuinely fond of her stepfather, but he simply hadn’t had enough time to properly establish himself in her world.
Within weeks of returning to Kent, Stella had comfortably slipped back into her old life with her mother and grandparents. In fact, she was even becoming a little bored, and so was thrilled to be told she was to begin a new adventure in the autumn.
For the first time in years, Diana had found her thoughts returning to Girton. Women had at last won the right to read for full degrees at the university, and Diana decided there was now a point in resuming her studies, if her old college would have her back. She wrote a tentative letter to Girton, and to her astonishment received an enthusiastic reply almost by return, suggesting she enrol the following month, the start of the new university year. With Stella away at boarding school, Diana felt there really was nothing to stop her completing her degree. She wrote back, accepting the offer of a place.
So it was that a few weeks later, on a sunny October morning, Mr Arnold’s big green Humber swept under the familiar gate-house and past the neo-Tudor red brick and terracotta façades around Girton’s grassy quadrangles. The car pulled into the same space that James Blackwell’s battered sports car had occupied on a snowy day so long ago.
‘Think you’ll finish this time?’ Oliver asked his daughter, smiling to show her he was not being serious.
Diana smiled back at him. ‘I think so. Anyway, I’ll have to set an example.’ She nodded towards another new arrival who was stepping from her own parents’ car. ‘Look at her. I’m practically old enough to be her mother. I’m certainly dressed as if I were.’ Diana looked ruefully down at her new tweed jacket and skirt, and plucked at the cuffs of a dark red woollen polo-neck.
Mr Arnold laughed. ‘You look extremely stylish, my dear, as always – but yes, you’ll probably end up being everyone’s mother hen and unofficial tutor.’
Something in her face gave him pause.
‘Of course.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘I should have guessed. You’re planning to stay on here when you’ve got your degree, aren’t you?’
Diana nodded. ‘Yes. I’m going to study for my doctorate. I want to lecture here. With any luck I’ll have my PhD by the time Stella’s ready to go to university herself. It’d be wonderful if she came here to Girton.’
‘Well, it’s a good enough plan to be going on with,’ he told her. ‘Come on, let’s get your bags and find your room.’
They got out of the car and almost at once Diana gave a little cry.
‘My goodness – it’s just struck me! This is the exact spot where James parked his car when he came to see me here.’
Her father, about to heft two heavy cases from the boot, paused and squinted at her in the bright autumn sunshine.
‘All right, Diana? Bad memories?’
‘No, not at all,’ she said firmly. ‘I hardly ever think about him any more. Not since he . . . not since you . . .’
Oliver waited.
‘In fact,
’ she went on, ‘I realised the other day that my memories of him are getting fainter all the time. It’s almost as if they’ve been drawn in vanishing ink.’
Mr Arnold hauled the big cases out and handed her a third, smaller one.
‘How curious that you should put it like that,’ he said. ‘I thought more or less exactly the same thing, only the other day. He’s just fading away, isn’t he? I wonder why.’
They began walking together towards the building’s entrance.
‘I think I know,’ Diana replied. ‘It’s because he never really existed, did he? Not as we thought we knew him.’
Father and daughter walked under the stone arches that led into her old familiar home.
She looked around her. ‘This is real. You and I are real.’
The college clocks began to chime the hour.
‘But James?’ she continued. ‘There’s a poem, isn’t there . . . how does it go? Oh, yes: The other day upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there.
‘That was James Blackwell, wasn’t it? A man who never was.’
The two of them went to find her room.
About the Author
Richard Madeley was born in 1956. He worked on local newspapers before moving to the BBC. He met Judy Finnigan when they both presented a news programme on Granada TV. Their eponymous TV show ran for seven years and was an enormous success. His first book, Fathers & Sons is a moving account of three generations the Madeley family. Someday I’ll Find You is his first work of fiction. Richard Madeley has four children and lives in London and Cornwall.
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