Spider Trap bak-9

by Barry Maitiland

  ‘All right, you got me going.’

  And yet, the reason she had fallen for it was that she had seen a quality in him that made it seem all too plausible.You might call it impatience with due process, or reckless courage, or the Nelson touch. She admired it, but also mistrusted it. Maybe she recognised a shade of it in herself.

  ‘I called in on Brock yesterday,’ Tom said later, as they were finishing their lunch.‘Have you seen his office lately? Like a paper recycling dump.We have to do something, Kathy, bring him back to the real world.’

  They had arranged to meet at a small restaurant in Chelsea, a favourite haunt from years ago when Suzanne had lived in nearby Belgravia before she had moved down to the coast to open her antiques shop in Battle. Brock wasn’t sure what to make of her choice of venue, whether it was meant to resurrect the feelings they had shared when they first met, or to demonstrate how different things were now. He felt both sensations tugging at him as he stepped across the familiar threshold. Nothing had changed, not the decor, the layout of tables, or even the management. He was the first to arrive, and took his seat at a secluded table at the rear, ordered a dry martini because that was what they had done in those days, and sat watching the door with a trepidation he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  She’d had her hair cut he realised as he rose to his feet, remembering the travel-worn figure he’d seen at Heathrow. The thick, shoulder-length dark hair had been trimmed back to her jawline in a new style he liked. He smiled to himself, for he too had visited the barber on his way over here. For a moment, as she approached, he wasn’t sure what to expect. Then her face broke into that warm generous smile of hers and she was holding out her hands to him.

  ‘David!’

  He took the offered hands, then pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Suzanne,’ he murmured, with enormous relief. The maitre d’ beamed approvingly and eased out her chair and they sat.

  ‘Oh, dry martini! Yes, please.’

  For a moment they said nothing, hands laid on the white tablecloth with fingertips just touching in mute contact.She looked reinvigorated, he thought, charged with new life.

  ‘Thank you for ringing,’ he said,‘for suggesting this.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if it was a mistake, until I saw you just now. How have you been?’

  ‘The same.You look marvellous.The trip has done you good.’

  ‘Yes, I feel refreshed . . . in different ways.’

  But he detected a shadow behind her words, and had the sudden awful suspicion that the purpose of this meeting was to make a final break.

  ‘A new perspective?’

  ‘Yes …’

  He sensed some hard thing about to emerge, but then she veered away and spoke about the things she had done: riding horses on a cattle station, scuba diving on a reef, hiking through a rainforest.

  Her martini arrived and he raised his glass to hers.‘Welcome home.’

  She lowered her eyes.‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Every day. Three months is a long time.’

  She was about to reply to that when the waiter came for their order, and when he left she instead turned the conversation to the restaurant and its memories. Did he remember the old couple that always sat at that table over there, and how they’d invented their story from small clues-his taste in shoes, her silver-tipped walking stick, the tiny appointment diaries they would compare?

  And how they would get tired of that, or discover a new clue, and invent a completely new story for them?

  ‘I had this idea that I could change our story too,’ she went on. ‘I used to think you were suffering from a malignant condition that I called Brock’s Paradox, a belief that you could only keep a relationship alive by not allowing it to reach its full potential.’ She gave a little smile.‘I thought if I could get you away for long enough I could show you that it needn’t apply, so I planned a long trip for us, overseas, but at the last minute you backed out.Work, you said.’

  She propped her chin on a hand and looked at him quizzically. ‘Where did Brock’s Paradox come from, do you think? Was it your wife leaving you? Or does it go further back? Something to do with your mother?’

  Brock was recalling that it was on the tenth anniversary of his divorce that he’d first seen Suzanne,been immediately struck by the woman getting out of the red sports car and going into the small antiques shop she ran just off Sloane Square. He had followed her inside and got her to tell him all about her cabinet of eighteenth-century English glassware.

  ‘So things didn’t quite work out as I’d planned. Quite the opposite, in fact. The thing was that, even though I’d put thousands of miles between us,every time I saw something interesting-green shoots coming out of the ground after a bushfire, an electric storm out to sea, a flock of pink-chested parrots filling a tree-I mentally turned to you to compare notes. I thought I could change you, and there I was, unable to change myself.You were still inside my head, and I decided I didn’t want to let you go.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said, and was.

  ‘But that wasn’t why I came home.’

  The waiter appeared with oysters and a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Last week I got a panicky phone call from Ginny, who’s been running the shop.’

  Brock stiffened. Had Roach made a move against her after all? It would be ironic if he’d been the cause of bringing her back.

  ‘Stewart had been in touch with her. He said that he and Miranda had been living on their own for the past two weeks,without anyone knowing-doing their own shopping and cooking, getting themselves off to school-but now they’d run out of money, and didn’t know what to do. He was quite apologetic. He had no idea where their mother was.’

  Suzanne’s grandchildren would now be ten and eight, Brock reckoned, and it was their return to the care of their mother, after Suzanne had looked after them for a number of years in her absence, that had precipitated Suzanne’s plans for an overseas trip.

  ‘Ginny called the police, who traced Amber to the psychiatric hospital in Hastings. Apparently, she’d been found lying on a headland outside the town after taking an overdose. She had no identification.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You know what she was like,always erratic in her moods.After she came back from living with that man in Greece she went through a black period, very depressed. Her doctor referred her to a psychiatrist who diagnosed her as suffering from Bipolar I Disorder.That did make sense.It’s a long-term illness,and it seemed to explain a pattern of extreme mood swings over the years. Also it’s heritable, and her father had similar symptoms-and you know he killed himself. The thing is that it’s treatable, with drugs and psychotherapy,and when she went on the medication she improved so much that I was tremendously relieved. When she said she wanted to look after the children again, I was really confident that she could do it. She was doing fine when I left . . .’

  Neither of them had touched their oysters, and Suzanne’s voice had dropped to a flat murmur. Brock tasted his wine and she followed suit.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have kept in touch with them. I never thought.’

  ‘No, you couldn’t, not after the way we parted. It seems the hospital disagrees with the diagnosis. They think she’s suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder, which has similar symptoms but is less amenable to treatment. Also, when the social services went to the house to see the children, they found drugs-cannabis and methamphetamine. It seems Amber had never really given them up. I didn’t know. I should have been more careful.When I got home I discovered she’d taken things from my house, little things she could sell, and Ginny told me she’d discovered things missing from the shop.’

  He watched the distress building in her, and reached out to put his hand over hers.‘You don’t deserve this. It isn’t your fault.’

  She took a deep breath, reining her feelings in. ‘Anyway, I wanted you to know; that’s why I’ve come home.’ She picked up her fork and stabbed i
t at a grey mollusc.

  They ate in silence, then she said, with a forced attempt to change the subject,‘So,and what are you doing at the moment?’

  He told her about Dee-Ann and Dana, and despite her preoccupation, she gradually became drawn into the story.

  ‘Michael Grant, yes, I’ve seen him on TV. I thought he was very impressive. I wish there were more like that at Westminster. So the other three victims were his contemporaries. I suppose he could have been one of them, if things had been different.’

  ‘Exactly. This is why he’s taking such a personal interest in the case, that and his suspicions about Roach.’

  ‘But if he has evidence against him he should give it to you, surely?’

  ‘He’s giving us access to his files, but I don’t know if he’s holding something back. So far we’ve seen nothing we can act on.

  We’re looking for a pattern of incrimination, you could say. My

  lot are beginning to think I’m obsessed.’

  ‘What, you?’ She laughed.‘Don’t they know you by now?’

  ‘When your hair turns grey people start to look for signs of a similar deterioration inside your head. Kind of applied metonymy. Even Dot’s giving me funny looks.’

  ‘And how’s Kathy?’

  ‘Okay, I think. She’s going out with a bloke who’s working with us at the moment, on secondment from Special Branch. I’m keeping a close eye on him.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be glad about that.Why don’t you just let her get on with it?’

  ‘I don’t interfere!’ he protested. ‘I’m just not sure about her taste for Special Branch officers.Why can’t she meet a nice lawyer or something? Someone with a safe desk job. Anyway, you can catch up with her yourself this evening, if you feel like it, and Michael Grant too.’ He explained about the concert.‘And maybe afterwards . . .’

  ‘I have to get back this afternoon, David,’ she said quickly.‘I’ve got a note of the train times. Thanks.’

  ‘Of course.’ He stiffened, mentally cursing himself for spoiling everything.‘They’re staying with you now are they,the children?’

  ‘Yes, back to the old routine. I must say they seem happy about it. I wonder what went on, what they saw.’

  The main course came, and suddenly they both discovered that they were very hungry. Later, over a shared dessert, Brock casually came out with the question that had been haunting him all week. It seemed that the tall, tanned man pushing Suzanne’s trolley at the airport was an acquaintance of her sister’s from Sydney, who just happened to be on the same flight.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The concert was to be held in a new library and community centre in Michael Grant’s constituency. The radical-looking structure, a prismatic blue oblong supported along one side by oddly angled columns,looked as if it had been dropped in,by helicopter perhaps, among the jumble of scruffy buildings cowering beneath the street lights and drizzle along the high street. As she and Tom made their way towards it, Kathy could see other people, some in suits with umbrellas and others in anoraks and jeans,heading under the raking columns towards the entrance. They waited in the shelter of the overhang until they saw Nicole and Lloyd running towards them, hugged and shook hands and made their way inside, where a stairway took them up into the belly of a curving pod, within which they found themselves in the foyer of the community hall.

  Michael Grant was there, welcoming visitors. He shook their hands warmly, showing where they could leave their coats and find a glass of orange juice or wine, and said to Tom, ‘You must introduce your friends to Andrea. There she is, over there.’

  He gestured towards a very attractive young woman who was talking animatedly with another couple. As they approached, however, the group broke up and the young woman turned away to speak to someone else.Tom led Kathy and the other two past her to a small, erect, grey-haired woman whose glass was being refilled.

  ‘Andrea!’ he cried, and bent to kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Tom!’ The elderly woman’s eyes twinkled with delight.‘And is this Kathy? At last, I’ve heard so much about you.’ She took Kathy’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  Andrea, Kathy later discovered, had been the CEO of a merchant bank in the City and then the head of a large charity before retiring, becoming very bored, and joining Grant’s office. As she talked, pointing out people who were present, it was clear that her mind and her wit were razor sharp. It transpired that the attractive young woman they had seen was Michael Grant’s daughter Elizabeth, who would be performing for them that evening with three of her friends from the Guildhall School of Music and Drama.

  ‘She’s extremely talented,’Andrea whispered,‘and very beautiful. Isn’t that the most perfect complexion? Creamy butterscotch. One day,when the mixing pot has done its work,we’ll all have skin like that,the ultimate human colouring.Too late for a wrinkled old mouse like me.’

  She pointed out Grant’s wife, too, an elegant, rather calm-looking woman alongside her husband’s restless vitality, in conversation with a couple who looked as if they’d dressed for the opera at Covent Garden, and whose stiff expressions suggested they wished they were there instead.

  ‘Nigel Hadden-Vane and his wife,’ Andrea explained. She pronounced his name with an exaggerated posh accent that made it sound like ‘hard and vain’. ‘Tory MP, on Michael’s HAC-sorry, Home Affairs Committee. The enemy,’ she added,‘or one of them. Margaret Hart does her best to keep him in line.’ She pointed out a woman wearing a dramatic deep-red cloak.‘She’s the chair of the committee. Great fun. She tells people exactly what she thinks of them.You can watch them live on webcast. There’s another round of sittings coming up. But of course you’ve got better things to do.

  ‘Talking about the enemy, the person I’d really like to have invited here is Edward Roach-I’ve never met him in the flesh. Have you? No. But your Mr Brock has, hasn’t he? Is he coming tonight?’

  ‘He was invited,Andrea,’Tom said.‘Though he seems to have a lot on his mind at the moment.’

  But at that moment Kathy spotted him arriving at the top of the stairs, making his way towards Michael Grant, who greeted him enthusiastically. She watched them talking together and was struck by how different Brock looked from when she’d last seen him in his office, weary and preoccupied. Now he had a smart haircut and seemed ten years younger and as animated as Grant. The MP led him over to meet his wife and daughter, and it was apparent from the way they were responding that he was being amusing and charming.

  There were other faces there that Kathy recognised-Father Maguire,Winnie Wellington and, to her surprise, George Murray, trying to keep out of Winnie’s line of sight. He looked anxious when he saw Kathy watching him, and she smiled and gave him a little wave. As they took their seats, Lloyd made some comment about classical music and what to do if he started snoring too loudly. It occurred to Kathy that Lloyd had insulated himself with a few drinks before coming. ‘The tragedy is he means it,’ Nicole said, as Michael Grant appeared on the stage and silence fell.

  Grant welcomed them and gave an outline of the youth programs their money would support,then introduced his daughter and her companions.Elizabeth took the microphone and explained that they called their ensemble ‘Doctor Breeze’, taking the name of the warm trade wind that soothes the beaches of Jamaica.They had selected a variety of pieces of music, she said, to reflect the diversity of the audience and the community they represented. She was a flautist, holding her flute as she spoke, and she introduced a classical guitarist, a cellist, and a young man at the piano, but behind them the audience could see other more esoteric instruments laid out on a table-a lute, a viola da gamba and others.

  They began with Telemann, and Kathy heard Lloyd groan softly and saw him close his eyes. From Baroque Europe they then moved to twentieth-century South America with a piece by Villa-Lobos, then further south to Argentina and Astor Piazzolla, for whom Elizabeth exchanged her flute for an accordion-like bandoneon, to capture the poignant spirit of the T
ango Nuevo. As the group moved from classical to jazz to world music, exchanging instruments, centuries and countries, the audience seemed to fall under a spell, both stimulated and lulled by every unexpected twist in the journey. They finished with a Vietnamese piece by an American composer, Monica Houghton, ‘We Rise Above Our Little Quarrels’, and by the end the listeners really did seem transformed. The applause was spontaneous, a single roar of sound, to which the group responded modestly. An encore was demanded, and they ended by returning to the eighteenth century from which they had begun, this time with Marin Marais. Lloyd had fallen asleep, and mumbled his objections as Nicole dug him in the ribs and they got to their feet.

  Kathy wondered if she should say hello to Brock before they left, but he was deep in conversation with Jennifer Grant and the others were keen to leave, so they joined the crowd milling around the cloakroom. Kathy found herself standing next to Kerrie, the manager of Grant’s office in Cockpit Lane, and they were chatting about the concert when the imposing figure of Hadden-Vane swept by.Stopped momentarily by the congestion,he half turned to them. Noticing the flounce of a blue silk handkerchief in his top pocket to match his tie, Kathy thought of Martin Connell’s story about the MP and the knickers. She smiled, then abruptly suppressed it as Hadden-Vane turned and looked straight at her.His eyes connected, then passed on to Kerrie and lit up. He leaned towards her in a little bow and said softly,‘Hello,Kerrie.Enjoy the show?’

  She smiled back and he continued on his way. Seeing Kathy’s look of surprise, Kerrie, still smiling to herself, said,‘He’s an MP. Full of himself. Reckon they all are over there, don’t you?’

  Their coats arrived and Kathy said goodbye and joined the others. They headed down the street for a curry at a place nearby that Lloyd recommended. They took their seats and while they waited for their drinks to arrive they talked about the concert. Lloyd queried the fact that they’d played so many different instruments. He seemed to think this was a bit flashy and disreputable until Tom suggested it was like being a pentathlete. Then Lloyd caught the look on Nicole’s face and changed the subject. ‘Your boss didn’t show up then, Kathy?’