Having slipped the basement keys into my pocket I check the documents in the safe, but they’re only legal and insurance papers relating to the house and contents. I then take a quick look at the jewellery collection, which is tucked up in a pink velvety box, and alongside this treasure trove I find the Jiffy bag containing five hundred pounds: Susanne’s pay-off if the police move in and she has to dump the steel box in the river.
I gaze at the steel box at the back of the safe. Then I unearth a screwdriver from the toolkit which lives beneath the kitchen sink and have a go at jimmying the lock.
Once I open the lid I see a nice new passport, crisp and shiny, in the name of Elizabeth Tremayne and with Elizabeth’s picture in the photo-slot. Attached to the passport are various credit cards issued in the new name plus details of the Cayman account which I’ve already seen on the computer, the account designed to finance the new identity. Delamere, Mayfield, Tremayne . . . Funny how she gives herself names which suggest the spotless heroine of a romantic novel. I wonder what her real name is.
Returning to the box I excavate the next item. It’s a folder labelled G.O.L.D. RITUALS, and inside there are several closely typed sheets of paper with diagrams which are about as interesting to me as a book on Church liturgy. There are also several packets of photos, but they just show the rituals being enacted. There’s nothing particularly porno there except that in the last batch everyone gets to be naked. No, wait a minute, the last one of all shows a bloke wearing a fake phallus and there’s a bunch of silly gits, male and female, kneeling down with their bottoms in the air as they wait to be done. Even so, this is hardly going to give the Vice Squad a coronary (no children, no animals), but I think I understand the point of this folder. It’s a souvenir of Elizabeth’s favourite project, something she can sigh over with nostalgia in her old age.
I turn over the photos, but nothing’s written on the backs, not even a date. I was hoping to see the word BETZ, but no, Elizabeth wouldn’t have wanted to keep a photo of him after he caused her so much trouble. So I haven’t found a smoking gun here, but I still put the folder on my takeaway pile. At least the stuff links her to GOLD.
Then I see there’s another folder in the box. This contains some copies of bank statements for the Guild of Light and Darkness, and I learn that GOLD has two banks, one a normal London high-street bank and the other the Swiss bank I already know about. Both sets of statements are dated 1989 and they’re clipped to a copy of a GOLD tax return. This is when I discover that only the high-street bank income gets reported to the Revenue. This is the bank which receives the membership subscriptions (called “tithes” to make them sound religious). All the extra gifts go to Switzerland, which I now realise is the account used for any number of off-colour dealings, not necessarily confined to GOLD.
This has to be Elizabeth’s insurance. This is the evidence that can sink Asherton for tax evasion if ever the two of them fall out—the evidence that’ll allow the police to turn over Asherton’s affairs. But how did Elizabeth get hold of this lethal weapon? Although she was a VIP in GOLD from the beginning, she wouldn’t have handled the money. I flip through the tax return to the end and finally discover it’s been signed by Asherton, as managing director—and by the treasurer, a certain Joachim Betz.
I think: GOTCHA!
This is the cast-iron proof that Carta wanted—the proof that GOLD was the scam which hooked her husband. It’s also the cast-iron proof that GOLD employed “Elizabeth Mayfield,” referred to in the accounts as a “consultant on religious ritual” who received quarterly payments for her expertise.
Obviously Elizabeth had a hold over Betz and got him to disgorge copies of these papers. Equally obviously she wouldn’t want her connection with Betz to be known now, but as there’s no mention of the Delamere name she could still tip off the Revenue by sending the evidence anonymously—she still has the power to make Asherton back off without putting herself in danger.
I put the folder on the takeaway pile. It’s nice to think of the police having a whole new area to explore.
There’s only one item in the steel box now and that’s a chunky envelope. What’s this? Lifting the unsealed flap I pull out a video, and as soon as I see the label on the spine my eyes go spherical. Elizabeth’s written: (1) JASON (2) TONY.
My predecessors. The boys who got sacked after failing to stay the course. What the hell’s all this about? Is Elizabeth really so sentimental about them that she keeps a video of their best gay moments with the punters? No way!
Crossing the living-room I shove the video into the machine below the television, and the next moment the horrors begin.
At first I don’t take in what’s happening. I just stare dumbly. Then understanding hits me and I nearly drop dead with shock, my heartbeat’s missing for God knows how many seconds before starting up again. Then I think: no, no, I’m not seeing this, I’ve freaked out, I’m hallucinating. But I’m not. I see Asherton drooling on-screen as he starts to cut up living limbs.
I can’t watch for much longer. I fast-forward to the end before backtracking and playing the last few seconds. In an ocean of gore a heap of skinned flesh twitches and lies still. That must be Tony. Jason would have met an identical end in the first half of the spliced tape. Two blokes like me, drop-outs, drifters, with no one to care enough to ask questions if they disappeared. Fingers shaking on the remote control, I press the stop button and rewind. I’m so shattered I can only think of all the times Nigel and I cracked black-humour jokes about Asherton making snuff movies. Of course we never thought he’d actually done it. I mean, that kind of thing always happens somewhere else among people you don’t know. Sure Asherton’s a sadist, sure he’s a creep and a perv, and yes, of course he’s nuts, but—
Struggling to be calm I ask myself if this tape too was kept as evidence against Asherton, but I know it wasn’t. Just possessing the tape converts Elizabeth into an accessory to murder, and that makes it much too dangerous to use in any power struggle. So why has she kept it? Well, for her it must be all about seeing villains get what they deserve. Jason and Tony became villains, not doing what they were told, maybe trying to go their own way, perhaps even being dumb enough to stop calling her darling and start accusing her of being a nasty old bag. Well, they got their comeuppance, didn’t they? The horrific truth is that Elizabeth’s kept this home movie because she finds it emotionally satisfying.
Hardly knowing what I’m doing I slip the tape into its case, switch off the machine and cram all the takeaway items back into the steel box. I also cram in Susanne’s five hundred pounds before I close the safe.
Back upstairs I dump the box on my bed and try to take deep breaths to stop myself shivering, but it’s no good, I have to go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine and drink it straight off. Only then do I start to breathe normally. But I don’t drink more than one glass. When you’re travelling along the edge of the abyss and you’ve just looked down you don’t start tap-dancing if you want to avoid the long drop. You chill out and refocus.
With the drink finished I make a crucial decision: I’m not going to nick the Tucker tapes. Susanne was right to disapprove of this scheme and of course I can see now it was crazy. I’ll call Gil tomorrow, I’ll make sure he never goes to Asherton’s house, but I’m not retrieving those tapes—sorry, mate, but I can’t risk getting caught, can’t risk Tommy pulling a knife on me, can’t risk winding up at the Pain-Palace. Gavin Blake Dead Martyr is a role I’m just not gasping to play.
Having made this decision I glance at the steel box. No reason why that can’t go in my car straight away. I tie the lid down with string to compensate for the busted lock, and run downstairs but in the hall I hesitate. Better check on Tommy who by this time could be back from Austin Friars or wherever he went earlier. I open the front door a crack. Yes, his car’s back on its slot. Out on the front doorstep I glance down at the windows but all the blinds are drawn so I’m safe. I look quickly up and down the street to check for would-be ca
r thieves, but although traffic’s thundering along the road, no one’s walking along the pavement. Darting to my car I stash the box in the boot and zip back into the house.
Upstairs again I make a big effort not to panic, not to rush as I continue the task of gathering together all I want to take with me. I’ve put on a CD to soothe my nerves, but I’m not playing opera. I don’t want to be reminded how Gavin Blake Prostitute used to anaesthetise himself, but on the other hand I know I need beautiful music, so I’ve chosen a piece which sounds like opera but isn’t. It’s become popular recently but so far nobody’s desecrated it by turning it into a chart-buster fit only for Top of the Pops. It’s a Mozart number, it’s Wolfgang Amadeus talking directly to The Bloke, it’s that nape-tingling church piece known as the Laudate Dominum.
The famous lady’s singing. After a while I find myself singing along with her, can’t stop myself, each sequence of notes is so bloody beautiful, and suddenly it strikes me as miraculous that amidst all the filth I’m wading through tonight something beautiful should be alongside me, not blotted out by the filth but towering above it, and as I sing those Latin words it at last occurs to me to translate them. Laudate Dominum: Praise the Lord.
I tell myself this is one of the CDs I have to take with me. “Amen!” sings the famous lady as I make this decision. “Amen, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahhh . . .” The final amen spans an amazing number of notes but at last the music finishes and there’s silence.
I pause. The silence is unbroken, as my bedroom’s not on the side of the house which faces the road. Opening the window I lean out and see that no light’s shining from the basement into the back garden. Tommy must have gone out again. Or maybe he’s in his workroom. Or maybe he’s just having an early night after his orgies in Amsterdam. Anyway I don’t have to worry about him any more.
Up I go to the junk-room to retrieve a suitcase and the St. Benet’s fundraising brochures. No sense in leaving the brochures behind to provide Elizabeth with a big clue about where I might have gone. I don’t want her running away before the police can collar her. Let her just think I’ve beetled off into the blue with Susanne.
I’ve decided to take my large suitcase rather than the medium-sized one because this’ll enable me to pack more books and CDs. But when I reach the suitcases my scalp crawls. The large one isn’t quite covering the crucial floorboard. It’s been moved.
Okay, so Elizabeth’s now so suspicious that she’s searched my luggage for clues, but that needn’t mean . . . I drop to my knees, shove the case aside and lever up the floorboard.
The St. Benet’s brochures are still in a neatly stacked pile but they’re no longer exactly parallel to the pipe which runs under the floor. I always leave them exactly parallel to the pipe, always, so that I’ll know if—
Well, I know now.
She’s found them.
For the second time that evening I feel fit to drop dead. It doesn’t take me long to piece together the probable sequence of events. When I told Nigel yesterday that I was bored with Serena and there was a special someone I wanted to shag, I wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular, not even Susanne. I was just trying to turn off the conversation so that I could escape from the house. But when Nigel found himself forced to repeat the conversation to Elizabeth, she’d have jumped to the conclusion I was referring to Carta. Elizabeth’s chronic paranoia about St. Benet’s would have ensured she then searched for evidence—and once she started messing around in the junk-room with my suitcases she must have noticed the floorboard. Proof at last, she thinks after uncovering the brochures. She now knows I’ve been disobedient on the grand scale and lying to the back teeth as I double-cross her in the biggest possible way. This has to be worse than anything Jason and Tony ever did. And look what happened to them.
I lurch to my feet as my thoughts skitter on, driven by a rising tide of panic. Forget the stories about Elizabeth meeting Eva and Nigel going to a party. All I really know is that Elizabeth’s decided to be out, she’s given Nigel the evening off and she’s even taken care to shoo Susanne from the premises. And why? Because something’s going to happen here tonight. The talent scouts are going to come recruiting for the new snuff movie.
I’m tiptoeing to the door of the junk-room. Why am I tiptoeing? Because the house is so quiet that even my muffled footsteps sound creepy. Shit, I’m scared! Supposing someone’s hiding in Nigel’s room?
I take a deep breath and shove open his door but the room’s empty. I’m about to relax when I notice a strange thing. All the surfaces are bare. There’s nothing lying around. I open the doors of the closet. That’s bare too.
Nigel’s gone. Sacked. Wiped. Whatever. Somebody’s said Gavin won’t be needing him any more.
The next thing I know I’ve grabbed a case—the smaller of the two, no time to pack the larger one—and I’m in my room hurling the essential stuff into it. Somehow I remember to add my mobile from the living-room. Then I lock the case and pull out my house keys so that I can slot the key on the same ring, but no, this is dumb because I don’t need the house keys any more. Abandoning them on the chest of drawers I slip the suitcase key into my pocket.
I switch off the lights but switch them on again. Let the talent scouts think I’m still up here. Skimming downstairs with my suitcase to the landing outside Elizabeth’s bedroom, I pause. The house is totally quiet, totally still as I edge to the banisters and look down into the hall.
Everything’s exactly as it should be. I relax in relief, but before I can skim on down the staircase, something happens which once more brings me to the brink of heart failure.
The door at the top of the basement stairs, the one Elizabeth always keeps locked and bolted, slowly starts to open.
I don’t wait to see who or what comes out. I shoot into Elizabeth’s bedroom and stand panting in the dark. As I wait I realise that Elizabeth must have left the door to the basement stairs unbolted and unlocked before she left. I never noticed the drawn bolts on my journeys through the hall that evening, but that’s not so surprising since the door’s just part of the hall furniture, not the kind of thing one would normally look at.
The intruders are on the next staircase now, the one that connects the ground floor to the first. Someone mutters a couple of words but someone else hisses: “Shhh!” and the voice ceases. But the stairs creak. Those Big Boys weigh a lot, all bulging grotesquely as the result of steroid abuse. Wondering how many of them have come I watch through the crack above the door hinge, and I’m hardly breathing as the procession comes into view. Tommy’s leading, showing everyone the way. He’s followed by three of the Big Boys, shaven-headed, black-clad, loaded with earrings, nose rings, all kinds of rings—two of the scumbags, I know, even have rings through their equipment. And behind the Big Boys prowls Asherton.
To ease the abduction along, the Big Boys are carrying a whip, a pair of handcuffs and a large roll of duct tape. They’ve probably got knives too, hidden in their leather jackets. Asherton’s so keen on knives.
Tommy opens the door onto the stairs that lead up to my flat, and the light from the second floor hallway illuminates all their faces. Asherton’s wet-lipped, bright-eyed, hardly able to wait for the joys of the sadism to come.
Up the stairs they go, quiet as rats in silk slippers. As soon as Asherton’s disappeared from view out I slip with the case and shoot down into the hall—but here’s the hell of a twist: the front door won’t open. It opened earlier when I dumped the steel box in the car, but now it’s stuck fast. Asherton must have borrowed Elizabeth’s keys and activated the Chubb lock as he came through the hall a moment ago. He’d have wanted to ensure that if I broke loose and made a run for it, I’d wind up either trapped in the house or else fatally delayed by pausing to use my house keys.
Well, I don’t have my house keys, do I? I abandoned them in my room.
So I’m trapped.
Sounds indicate that my absence from the lower part of my flat’s been discovered, but the bastards’ll check the at
tic before they double back. Still gripping my case I streak down the basement stairs to Tommy’s flat but fucking hell, the front door there’s locked too—well, yes, it would be, wouldn’t it, since Asherton’s been busy closing down my options. I glance in Tommy’s bedroom nearby and see the steel shutters are now masking the windows.
I start thinking of the back of the house—of the French windows opening onto the patio—but any escape I try to make through the garden would be doomed because the back gardens of all the houses in the block are surrounded by the houses themselves—it’s a no-exit scene. But I could smash those windows—no steel shutters at the back—I could create a diversion, make the buggers think I’ve gone out into the garden. Then I could double back upstairs to get my keys—no, wait, there’s a spare set in Elizabeth’s kitchen—but no, you can bet the spare set won’t be there now.
I dump my suitcase behind the door of Tommy’s bedroom and head for the back of the flat, but as I pass his workroom a memory hits me and I flick on the light. The Tucker tapes are still sitting on the counter. Instantly I grab them. In the kitchen I snaffle a supermarket bag from a pile by the swingbin and shove the tapes inside. Then I snag a saucepan from the stove and start bashing the French windows—and let’s hope to God the bust is audible at the top of the house.
The glass is still falling as I drop the saucepan, grab the bag of tapes and dive back to the front of the house where I rejoin my suitcase behind Tommy’s bedroom door. Have the scumbags heard or haven’t they? And if they haven’t—
They have. Down they come, crashing like a herd of elephants. Tommy charges past and the Big Boys pound along behind him. I wait till they’ve rushed outside, footsteps crunching on the broken glass, and then I’m tearing up the stairs again on the journey to retrieve my keys.
The Heartbreaker Page 45