Requiem

by Clare Francis

  ‘No answer,’ she whispered.

  ‘Try something else then!’ The thumb bit deep into the sensitive spot at the side of her spine.

  She still had the phone to her ear. As she moved to cut the line and dial Nick’s house, the ringing tone stopped suddenly. Perhaps, being a car phone, it had disconnected automatically. Her finger was moving to cut it off again when a voice grunted: ‘Yus?’

  It was a moment before she realized. ‘Campbell? Campbell!’ She gave a shrill cry of relief. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Daisy? Is that you? Where are you?’

  But she wasn’t allowed to answer that, and the warm moist fingers closed on the back of her neck as a reminder.

  The day had not kept its promise. The sky, which had been darkening as Nick gunned the car away from Victoria, became positively black as they crossed Chelsea Bridge and ran down the side of Battersea Park. Rain came suddenly, falling in long perpendicular lines like pencils, drumming loudly on the roof and bouncing off the bonnet in a dense ridge of spray that obscured the Mercedes insignia on the front and much of the road besides.

  ‘The western entrance?’ Nick asked Campbell.

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  They reached the south-western corner. Here the black iron gates were closed. Was there another entrance on this side? He couldn’t remember. Or had she meant them to wait here? He turned right, along the western side of the park, heading for the Albert Bridge. The spray from the other vehicles had him slowing to peer at the line of parked cars and railings marking the edge of the park. Finally he saw an entrance, black gates again but open this time.

  They drove in. There was a circular turning area, various roads spoking off, all of which sported barriers against traffic, and, to the right, a large parking area. Nick stopped on the circle beside a sign warning against stopping at any time, and looked through the trees towards the river. A woman ran head down along a path, dragging a small stiff-legged dog in her wake. A bent figure stood beneath a tree, huddled under an umbrella.

  They went on into the car park.

  ‘A blue Vauxhall?’ Nick asked Campbell.

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘What the hell does a Vauxhall look like?’

  A slight shrug. ‘The name’ll be written on it someplace, will it not? We can look as we pass.’

  ‘What, in this?’

  Nick heard the edge in his voice, and knew he was sounding unreasonable.

  They rounded the circle and headed into the car park, a long thin rectangle of hard-packed gravel interspersed with deep potholes and landscaped with trees. The blades flipped fluidly over the windscreen at double time, the rain continued its pounding. There were a cluster of cars at the near end. Further down there was just a scattering of vehicles: a Range Rover with steamed-up windows, a Fiat disgorging dogs, a saloon of indeterminate make, undoubtedly blue – also, on closer examination, undoubtedly a Honda and unoccupied. The fourth car was a metallic-grey Volvo, the fifth an ancient black Mini.

  Suddenly the wind came with a vengeance, picking up the rain and slamming it against the car, so that the wipers were momentarily overwhelmed. A car appeared out of the blur, parked at the far end of the parking area. They both craned forward. The car was canary yellow: the shape unmistakably that of an old Renault.

  Nick sank back in his seat. ‘Too early anyway, isn’t it? How long? Ten minutes?’ He knew perfectly well how long there was to go. Campbell looked at his watch and grunted in confirmation.

  ‘Definitely the western entrance?’

  ‘That’s what she said!’ He could hear the tension in Campbell’s voice. He remembered Campbell’s voice as it had sounded on the phone in the CID office high above Victoria Street, when Campbell had called up from the front desk and interrupted Nick’s second meeting with Inspector Morgan. There had been a bark of concealed excitement in his tone, and Nick had turned away in case Morgan should hear it or see the mixture of relief and alarm on his own face.

  Nick drove back towards the top of the parking area and pulled in at a place where they could see the western entrance.

  The rain eased, the drumming melted into a mild tattoo. Only the wind kept up its racketing, spiralling the rain upwards through the stands of black trees, buffeting at the doors of the car.

  Campbell broke the silence. ‘Suppose these people try some trick or other?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Suppose Daisy’s no’ there?’

  ‘Then – ’ The thought, which had been lurking with others at the back of Nick’s mind, pulled at him. ‘We leave it to Morgan.’

  For once Campbell did not argue.

  Pulling his jacket tight around his neck, Nick got out and walked up to the circle and looked out through the gates, then wandered a short way along a path towards the river. The mist had thinned and the trees stood out in ranks, like a waiting army. The thin suspension cables of the Albert Bridge were like long strands of cooked sugar falling towards the white haze of the river.

  He returned to the car. Time was up. Absurd fears flew through his mind. That this was just a game for some sick mind, that the car phone would ring and he would hear someone laughing down the line and telling him to go jump; that Campbell had got it totally wrong and they shouldn’t be here at all but in Hyde Park.

  Campbell made a sound. Following his pointed finger, Nick saw the car coming in through the gate. It stopped on the edge of the circle. The bodywork was dark; it could have been blue.

  It started off again, rounding the circle and heading into the parking area. It was definitely blue. He felt a lurch of excitement. He tried to make out how many people were in it, but it was hidden by the line of cars as it passed down the far side and when it emerged at the end he couldn’t see properly through the streaming side windows.

  The blue car continued towards the less inhabited end of the parking area and, executing a sudden U-turn, stopped on the near side, quite a long way down, facing the way it had come.

  In his eagerness to turn and follow, Nick stepped a little too hard on the throttle and the wheels spun. He eased off but not enough to prevent the car executing a flamboyant turn. He was aware of another vehicle, a large saloon of dark but indeterminate colour, emerging from between the lines of parked cars and braking in plenty of time to let him pass. He accelerated away.

  Passing the blue car on the far side, he made another much slower turn to come up behind it. He stopped five yards short.

  It was a Vauxhall Cavalier. Its exhaust was spewing vapour. Its back window was rain-soaked but demisted. There was only one head visible above the outline of the headrests.

  Nick put out a hand to Campbell for the documents.

  ‘But she’s no’ there!’

  Nick gestured again for the documents.

  Campbell glared at him. ‘But she’s no’ there!’ he shouted as if Nick were deaf.

  Nick glanced away to the right and saw that the dark saloon was trundling slowly down the far side of the parking area. There were at least three people in it. He said to Campbell: ‘The documents! Don’t bloody argue!’

  With a rasp of exasperation, Campbell pushed the roll of papers into Nick’s hand and reached for the door. ‘I tell you,’ he said threateningly, indicating the car ahead, ‘this fella’s no’ going any place till we say so!’

  Paying no attention, Nick got out and looked back at the dark saloon, which was turning itself round and parking twenty yards behind. Jamming the papers inside his jacket out of the rain he walked towards the Vauxhall with Campbell at his heels. As he came up to the driver’s door, the window opened. Nick bent down and saw a dark-jowled man with hooded eyes and a weary expression.

  ‘Maynard?’ Nick asked.

  Ignoring the question, the man drawled: ‘The delivery, is it?’

  ‘Are you Maynard?’ Nick pressed.

  ‘Look, I’m just the messenger boy, right? Like I take the delivery and radio through that I’ve got it. R
ight?’

  Nick, aware of Campbell hovering at his elbow, said: ‘What guarantees do we have?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Look, I’ve just been told to radio through, haven’t I?’

  Campbell had lowered his head and was glowering into the car. ‘I know you!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Nick hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘The one at the airport,’ Campbell growled in Nick’s ear. ‘The one we followed.’

  Nick motioned him silent with a sharp movement of his hand, and handed the roll of papers through the window. The man in the car spoke into his walkie-talkie, listened for a moment, then signed off. Throwing the radio on the seat, he reached forward to engage the gear lever. At about the same time he also opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything Campbell, seeing treachery in the movement, roared, ‘An’ where d’you think you’re goin’?’ and, elbowing Nick aside, pushed a hand through the window.

  But the other man’s reflexes were quicker; he had the gear engaged and his foot down before Campbell could get at the keys. The car jumped forward, Campbell was nearly pulled off his feet. For a few surreal moments he managed to stay with the accelerating car, his legs wheeling and kicking into the air like a racing cyclist’s, before his feet got mixed up and he nosedived towards the gravel. He saved himself with an astonishingly effective roll, all roundness and no arms like a barrel, and was already struggling to his feet as he came out of it.

  Nick loped forward, eyes on the disappearing car, choking with disbelief and fury. He was about to bawl at Campbell, to give him a small but furious taste of his mind, when the blare of a horn had him twisting round and jumping instinctively to one side as a car tore past, shooting out a heavy wedge of spray. It was the dark saloon.

  Nick ran back to the Mercedes and, jumping in, roared after the others, rocking briefly to a stop to let Campbell scramble in beside him.

  ‘Who’re that?’ gasped Campbell, barely articulate.

  Foot hard down, Nick blasted towards the exit without replying. Slowing to negotiate the bend at the entrance he shot out into the circle in time to see the tail of the dark car disappear through the gates, turning left. He accelerated across the circle and slewed out into the Albert Bridge Road as a car nosed its way across the junction from the opposite direction, turning south. Missing it by a couple of feet, feeling a brief surge of fear, Nick ignored the agitated bleats of the car’s horn and, straightening up, accelerated once again.

  The rain and spray mingled into curtains of moisture which closed in and lifted like drifting fogs. The dark saloon, lost one moment, reappeared the next. He saw that it was jammed up behind the Vauxhall’s bumper, flashing its lights. At the corner of the park, the two cars swerved in beside the closed gates.

  ‘Who is it?’ demanded Campbell.

  ‘Morgan,’ Nick said, adding firmly to crush any argument: ‘My idea. I asked him along.’

  By the time they pulled in behind the dark saloon, Morgan and his men had the driver out of the Vauxhall and into a tight box of tall backs. As Nick ran up the man was showing his driver’s licence and protesting rapidly: ‘Just delivering a message, lads! That’s all! Just doing a favour for a friend. Listen, the name’s Biggs, ex-Notting Hill CID.’ Turning to Morgan he added with forced camaraderie: ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘The message,’ Nick interjected, shouldering his way past the coppers and pushing his face close to Biggs. ‘What was the message?’

  ‘The message?’ Biggs had a ghastly smile on his face.

  ‘What you were meant to tell me!’

  Biggs looked at the waiting policemen imploringly. ‘I was just pickin’ up and deliverin’. I didn’t know what it was about. I was just told to – ’

  ‘The message.’

  ‘Yeah, well. It was “Albert Bridge”, wasn’t it? That’s all I know. Just doing a favour …’

  Nick didn’t hear the rest. He was already running back to the car.

  Susan threw the swatches of fabric onto the sofa and paced over to the window. Restlessly she turned away and went down to the kitchen to make another cup of coffee, then changed her mind and poured herself a drink. Only midday, but what the hell.

  It was the waiting that was killing her. Would Nick ring as soon as he’d retrieved this beastly file or whatever it was? On the whole she thought not; he was too puffed up with wounded pride, too self-obsessed, too self-righteous. Should she try Cramm’s man then? God only knew what sort of a reception she’d get from him. Or Schenker himself? No, she hated the thought of grovelling, and however mildly she couched her request, it would be self-abasement of an odious kind.

  Taking her drink, she went up to the bedroom and combed her hair and repencilled her eyebrows. The sound of a closing door echoed up from the hall. The front door? It couldn’t be. The daily had gone for the day. Camilla was away at college. She strode out and hung over the stairwell. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me.’ Tony’s voice, flat and sombre.

  Balancing her drink, she hurried down the stairs. ‘Good God, what are you doing home?’

  He was very still, his face set, his eyes black and staring.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, suddenly irritated at him for taking her by surprise.

  ‘I have to talk to you.’

  There was something about his tone and the oddness of his expression that infuriated her. ‘What is it?’

  He dropped his gaze, ran a hand up his cheek and over his forehead, and turned towards the drawing room. He walked untidily, as if he had just got out of bed.

  She followed at his heels. ‘Well?’

  He reached for a drink, lifting the gin bottle then letting it fall again. ‘I’m afraid – it’s bad news,’ he said with difficulty. ‘I’ve made rather a foolish mistake.’ He made the effort to look at her, but his gaze slid away again. ‘A stupid error of judgement.’

  Susan clutched at his arm. ‘What? What?’

  He looked back at the bottle and began to unscrew it slowly. Stopping again, he said suddenly: ‘There was a girl. It was nothing, absolutely nothing, believe me. She was just … Well anyway, it all got out of hand, I’m afraid.’ Abandoning the bottle, his hand dropped wearily to his side and he said in an abject tone: ‘I’m sorry, Susan.’

  ‘What do you mean? What’s happening?’ In her agitation she yanked on his lapel, pulling the shoulder of his jacket awry.

  ‘I’ll have to resign.’

  ‘Resign?’ She heard the shriek in her voice. ‘But why, why?’

  Grasping the gin bottle again, he poured himself a large one. ‘No choice. Money changed hands. She was a tart. They know all about it.’ He took a large swig.

  Before Susan could think, she had exclaimed: ‘But it wasn’t you! It wasn’t you who gave her the money!’

  Tony’s head jerked back, he almost spilled his drink. He stared at her in astonishment.

  ‘You mustn’t resign!’ she rushed on. ‘Why should you! Lots of people have women, half the cabinet are bloody divorced, for God’s sake – why should you have to resign?’

  He couldn’t take it in. ‘You knew?’

  ‘Of course I knew! Of course I knew! Just as I know that you don’t need to resign!’ She spaced the words out so that he would understand. ‘It’s all under control, you see. It’s not going to come out after all. By the end of the day we’ll have all the evidence back – all of it!’ She saw the amazement in Tony’s face. In her anxiety to convince him she gave an odd laugh, almost a shriek. ‘Trust me, trust me! All of it – back here! Every single bit. Then no one can touch you! No one!’

  She went on – she couldn’t stop – while he stared at her half in shock, half in something like wonder. Finally, keeping his eyes on her face, he put his drink down. ‘Susan. Susan!’ He touched her hand. She fell quiet, gripped by a fear she couldn’t name. ‘Susan … it was the press who called.’

  She felt a stab of terrible cold, for a moment she couldn’t speak. ‘Why? How? They couldn’t!
They couldn’t! Was it that woman? But it’s just her word against yours! It’s just – ’

  ‘They’ve got the whole story.’

  ‘How can they? How can they?’ Susan heard her voice rising and knew her face was ugly. ‘She’s just making things up, she’s got no proof!’

  ‘They’ve got details of hotels.’ His tone dropped to one of near despair. ‘And of three separate payments. And …’ His face creased into a mask of anguish. ‘A hospital visit.’

  ‘No! No!’ She pulled her hand free with a jerk and in her rage almost punched him. ‘No! They can’t! They can’t! It’s all in the file! All in the file!’ She gave a cry and stumbled away, making for the hall.

  He caught her at the telephone. ‘Susan – don’t!’

  ‘I’ll call that bastard Schenker! How dare he? Bastard, bastard!’

  ‘Susan – don’t. It’s all over.’ He grasped the receiver and for a moment they both pulled at it before she released her grip and burst into tears. ‘It’s not fair!’ she cried. ‘It’s not fair!’

  He put the receiver firmly back in its cradle and put an arm round her shoulders.

  But her rage was vast and inconsolable and, punching him on the chest, she struggled free and screamed at him. She was still hurling invective as she ran up the stairs and raced into the bedroom and fell raging onto the bed.

  The towers of the Albert Bridge rose like ornate candles out of a damp mist. The rain had eased a little, more of a steady drizzle than a downpour, and the wind had died right away, although as they came onto the bridge it produced a last fleeting gasp that pattered the rain against the side of the car.

  The traffic was heavy and when Nick slowed down he got an impatient horn from behind. There were a couple of pedestrians and a jogger braving the pavement on this side of the bridge. All of them were men. The tooting car overtook, sounding its horn again as it passed.

  They went on steadily, they crested the rise of the bridge. Campbell made a sound and pointed to the far end of the bridge on the opposite side, to an old-fashioned red telephone box just visible beyond the neat hexagonal band box which housed the cable anchor. A figure stood huddled against the box. Jeans, jacket, slight build, hair flat against the head. A boy. Or maybe not a boy. With shoulders hunched high and head dropped low as if to ward off the rain, it was hard to tell. Then the figure moved, folding its arms together as if in disgust and there was something in the movement that was so completely Daisy that Nick jabbed the accelerator, pulled out into the fast lane and roared towards her.