Into the Blue

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Until she disappeared on Profitis Ilias?’

  ‘Yes. Until then. Of course, I’m in no position to give a professional opinion on Heather’s psychological condition. For that, you’d need to speak to her psychiatrist.’

  ‘I’d thought of doing just that. But he’d be unlikely to give me confidential information about a patient and, besides, I can’t see the Mallenders volunteering his name and address, can you?’

  Dysart smiled. ‘As it happens, you don’t need to ask them. His name’s Kingdom: Peter Kingdom. He has a London practice. I don’t know his address, but Heather spoke of visiting his consulting rooms in Marylebone. You should be able to find him in the phone book – if you think it’s worth trying.’

  Harry could not suppress a flare of resentment that Heather had confided in Dysart where she had not confided in him. But he was in no position to indulge the sentiment. Once again, he found himself in Dysart’s debt. ‘It’s worth trying all right,’ he said, struggling to sound grateful. ‘I’ll contact him as soon as possible.’

  When they left the Goddard Arms, Dysart suggested a drive into the country. Harry was surprised he had no business to attend to, but did not object. They headed south, out through Wroughton and up onto the Marlborough Downs. At the top of Barbury Hill, Dysart parked with the car facing back the way they had come. The Vale of the White Horse stretched away below them and a keen wind tugged at the tussocky, sheep-cropped grass beyond the windscreen. Harry, who would energetically have denied any affinity with nature, nonetheless felt some emotional attachment to the scene. He assumed this was because the distant towerblocks of Swindon represented, for good or ill, his point of origin in the world. Dysart, whose origins lay elsewhere, nevertheless seemed to share the mood.

  ‘During the Falklands business,’ he said, ‘I used to dream of views like this: England caught in some perfect, pastel miniature. That’s the worst of danger: it makes you homesick. Now that I live here all the time, I hardly ever think about how beautiful the country is.’ He paused for a minute or so, then resumed. ‘Clare and Heather walked the Ridgeway Path together when they were both students. Did Heather ever mention that to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, it must have been about the last thing they did together.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I think Heather felt overshadowed by her sister. Clare was older, more intelligent, more successful: superior in every way, it must have seemed. Charm, brains and beauty. Without her help, I’m not sure I’d have been elected in ’83. But an all-round sportswoman with a degree from Oxford and a budding career in politics makes a timid primary school teacher look and feel drab by comparison. When Clare was killed, nobody said “What a pity it had to be the talented sister who died and the dormouse who remained”, but Heather believed they thought it, which was just as bad.’

  ‘You think that contributed to Heather’s breakdown?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Incidentally, it may have crossed your mind, given how highly I speak of Clare, that she was rather more than just my assistant.’ It had crossed Harry’s mind, but he was not about to admit it. ‘I wouldn’t blame you for wondering. God knows, it’s common enough in politics. The truth is, however, that ours was a purely professional relationship.’

  A silence fell. Dysart had not made the mistake of protesting too much and Harry had no reason to doubt what he had said. It was true Mrs Dysart had seldom visited Rhodes with her husband, but a dislike of sailing explained that. As far as Harry knew, theirs was a happy marriage, in which the strains of political life had been accommodated as easily as the separations of naval command. Harry had attended their wedding, down in Devon, all of eighteen years ago, and he supposed a match which had lasted as long as that could scarcely be an unstable one. His mind wandered back to the occasion: a South Hams village church, Naval officers and Wrens in dress uniform, the county set in their buttonholed finery, a vast pink marquee in the grounds of a farm-cum-manor house, as much champagne as anybody could … Suddenly, at the blurred edges of his memory, something familiar, something significant, made a vague and shifting appearance. What was it? What had he heard, or seen, that now he sensed he should recall? Just as he was about to apply greater concentration to the effort, Dysart spoke again, and whatever it was fled before his words.

  ‘I’m glad we’ve been able to have this talk, Harry. I was worried I might miss you, because I’m due to fly out to the States tonight for a NATO pow-wow. Fortunately, the flight’s from Brize Norton, so a stopover in Swindon was no problem. I’ll be away for a week. When I get back, I’d like to hear what you make of friend Kingdom.’

  It was almost, Harry thought, as if Dysart was not merely giving him what help he could, but was pushing him in a particular direction. He could not be certain now which of them had first suggested approaching Kingdom. ‘Have you ever met the man?’ Harry asked neutrally.

  ‘Yes. En passant, that is. But I wouldn’t want to slant your impression of him. We disagreed about politics, as I recall, but that doesn’t necessarily invalidate his medical opinion.’ Dysart smiled faintly at his own joke. ‘On another track, Harry, how are you for funds?’

  It did not stop at direction, then. There was even a suggestion of payment. ‘I’m solvent, thanks.’

  ‘If you need a loan, let me know.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  ‘It’s what friends are for. I’m a wealthy man, and you’re as deserving a recipient as my accountant, believe you me.’

  ‘Even so …’

  Dysart held up a hand in acknowledgement of Harry’s reluctance. ‘I won’t press you. The offer’s there if you need to take it up.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Time to make tracks, I think.’

  They drove back down the hill in silence, the Daimler purring extravagantly along the lanes towards Swindon. Returning to England, Harry realized, had clarified his relationship with Dysart. He was the younger man’s mascot, his reminder of humbler days, his representation of what a man becomes without luck and money and talent. He had seen a film once in which a victorious general returning to Ancient Rome led his legion through the streets, cheered to the echo by the crowds along the route, applauded by them to the point of worship. Behind the general in his chariot, standing by his shoulder as he saluted the adoring masses, was an insignificant man in a horsehair tunic, who whispered in his ear as they went along: ‘Remember, you are human; you are not immortal; you are not infallible; you are an ordinary man.’ That, Harry saw clearly for the first time, was his role in Dysart’s Roman triumph of a life. He symbolized for this perpetually successful man the possibility of failure. Dysart’s generosity could more accurately be called patronage and Harry’s acceptance of it his consent to play the part assigned to him.

  Harry stared ahead at his reflection in the windscreen as they sped down the damp, sloping lane, whilst rooks flapped up in cawing, black-winged flight from the grey-green fields to either side. What he saw, and bleakly recognized, was the face of a man he no longer was. The drunken, feckless caretaker of the Villa ton Navarkhon had ceased to be. And Harold Mosley Barnett had set out on the road back to whatever he was destined to become.

  14

  ALL HARRY TOLD his mother when he left Swindon the following day was that he was travelling to Weymouth in order to return Heather’s belongings to her family and that he might spend a night or two down there. He did not feel free to speak of what he really hoped to gain by the journey, because he was not entirely sure himself.

  He was in London by ten o’clock on a cold, wet morning. As Dysart had suggested he would, he found Dr Kingdom’s address in the telephone directory. It was within walking distance of Paddington station: first-floor offices off Crawford Street, with the doctor’s brass plate beside the door dwarfed by the platinum insignia of a Middle Eastern concern that conducted its business on the ground floor. The upstairs waiting room was empty, but, in an adjoining room, Harry found a secretary audio-typing at her desk.

  ‘Excuse me. I wond
er if it’s possible to see Dr Kingdom.’

  The secretary was a young Asian woman of elegant, disdainful bearing. After a calculated delay, she removed her headphones, gazed up at him through spectacles which made her dark eyes look haughtily immense, and said: ‘You do not have an appointment.’ This was not only pointedly phrased as a statement rather than a question, but accompanied by a faint twitch of the eyebrows which suggested she inferred from his shabby appearance an inability to afford the good doctor’s fees.

  ‘I realize that, but—’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Barnett. Harry Barnett. He won’t—’

  ‘You are not a patient of Dr Kingdom’s.’ Again she asserted, she did not enquire.

  ‘No, I’m not. However—’

  ‘He only accepts new patients by written referral from their general practitioner.’

  ‘Let me explain.’ With a smile intended to be disarming, Harry sat down on the edge of a nearby chair. ‘I don’t want to consult Dr Kingdom. I want to speak to him about one of his patients – a friend of mine – who disappeared recently. Maybe you read about her in the papers: Heather Mallender.’

  The secretary’s self-control faltered, he felt certain, at the mention of Heather’s name, as though more than mere recognition of a patient was involved. But she said nothing, either to refute his suspicion or to confirm it.

  ‘Have you read about her?’

  The response was guarded and accompanied by a reluctant nod of the head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve read about me as well, then.’

  ‘Barnett?’ A frown, then another nod. ‘Yes. You were with her when she disappeared. In Greece. Last month.’

  ‘And she is a patient of Dr Kingdom’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then maybe he’d welcome talking to me. After all, he must be worried about—’

  ‘Dr Kingdom is abroad at present. He will not be back until Monday.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  Suddenly, she seemed to remember something. ‘There was an article about you in The Courier, Mr Barnett. Yes, I recall reading it.’ Her gaze intensified, as if she were deciding for herself, now he was in front of her, whether Minter’s description had been accurate. It struck Harry as typically unfair of fate to decree that everybody he met should be a Courier reader. ‘Are you really a man with plenty to hide?’ she asked, after a moment’s deliberation.

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers, Miss—’

  ‘Labrooy. Miss Labrooy.’ She smiled for the first time: a flashing, transforming smile that was unaccountably superior. ‘As a matter of fact, Mr Barnett, I believe nothing I read in the newspapers.’

  Harry was becoming aware of a curious sensation. It was as if Kingdom’s secretary was subjecting him to as much analysis as might Kingdom himself. ‘The truth is, Miss Labrooy, I’m very worried about Heather. Contrary to what the papers think, I’ve no idea where or how she is, but I’m trying every way I can devise to find out. I was hoping Dr Kingdom could tell me whether her disappearance could have a psychological explanation. She was reading this just beforehand—’ He fumbled in the rucksack and pulled out The Psychopathology of Everyday Life.

  ‘Dr Kingdom’s dealings with his patients are completely confidential. He would not be free to tell you anything.’

  ‘These are exceptional circumstances.’

  She considered the point for a moment, then glanced at the book he was still holding up and said: ‘Do you know what chapter she was reading?’

  ‘Determinism, Belief in Chance and Superstition. Page 327.’

  She jotted the information down on a pad. ‘Thank you. Dr Kingdom may consider it material to his analysis.’

  ‘Does that mean he’ll see me, then?’

  ‘I do not know.’ The hint of a smile, then: ‘I will ask. I can make no promises. He is a very busy man. But I will ask.’ And the way Miss Labrooy said it suggested she would not ask in vain. Harry felt suddenly cheered by the thought that here, at least, he might have found an ally.

  The offices of The Courier were anonymously plate-glassed and a long way from Fleet Street. Harry had read somewhere of the revolution which had overtaken British journalism in his absence and this, he supposed, was a representation of it. He could, in the event, have spared himself the visit, since, as a security guard curtly informed him, Minter had the day off. And no, his telephone number was not available.

  Harry retreated to the nearest pub, procured a supply of ten pence pieces and commenced dialling the numbers of every J. Minter in the book. At the fourth attempt, he found the one he wanted. True, it was only a recorded message, but the voice was unquestionably that of The Courier’s acerbic correspondent. Half an hour and another drink later he tried again. This time, he was in luck. Just as the answering machine commenced its routine, it was cut off by the receiver being picked up. But nobody spoke. Harry braced himself for Minter’s sneering tones, only to be greeted by silence.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, as soon as he had abandoned hope of Minter speaking. ‘Is that—’ Then the phone went down. It had not been slammed, merely calmly replaced, as if Harry had failed to say the magic words.

  Already angered by what Minter had written, Harry was now irritated as well. He made a note of the address, gleaned from the barman that it was a twenty minute walk away, swallowed another drink and headed straight round there.

  London was fast assuming for Harry the character of a city he had never visited. Wapping’s old warehouses, for instance, had mostly been converted into Porsche-fronted apartment blocks. Everywhere Harry went in his homeland, he was confronted by a material prosperity which he could not help resenting. The hardships of a wartime childhood and the grim years of rationing that had ensued stood emphasized in his memory by the complacency and extravagance that seemed to have followed. For this, as much as for what he had written in The Courier, Harry was determined to make Minter answer.

  The entrance to Kempstow Wharf, where Minter lived, was security-locked, with a separate bell and speaking grille for each flat. Harry’s heart sank at the thought that Minter might simply refuse to admit him. Then, just as he was considering how to announce himself, the tinted-glass door was opened from the inside and a girl in a tracksuit and training shoes, carrying a squash racket and a bag, walked out, leaving the door to slam shut behind her. As it swung back on its hinges and the girl strode away, Harry stepped inside.

  Minter’s flat was on the third floor. From the landing window, where Harry paused to catch his breath, there was an imposing view of the Thames winding upriver towards Tower Bridge. The Courier, it seemed, paid well.

  The absence of a fish-eye viewing lens on the flat door was a stroke of luck, Harry felt. He knocked. There was no answer, though he thought he could detect music within. He knocked again, harder.

  A moment later, the door opened. The person opening it was at first invisible; Harry merely had a glimpse of a hallway leading towards a large, picture-windowed lounge, with Tower Bridge again visible in the distance, and heard a woman’s voice say: ‘Sorry, Jon. I forgot I’d put the catch—’

  Suddenly, she was in front of him. Tall, taller than Harry in fact, naked save for a bath towel tucked beneath her arms that only just covered her hips, with long strands of wet hair clinging to her head and neck and droplets of water standing out on her shoulders and thighs. She was neither young nor old: a mature woman confident of her looks, her face high-boned and aquiline, her expression one of pleasure transformed into horror, though her horror could, in the circumstances, scarcely eclipse Harry’s: she was Alan Dysart’s wife, Virginia.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said, glaring at him affrontedly.

  Could it be true that she did not recognize him? Harry found it hard but not impossible to believe: she had never been one to waste attention on the likes of him. Besides, they had not met in years.

  ‘I said: who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m looking fo
r Jonathan Minter.’

  ‘Well he’s not here. How did you get in?’

  ‘The … ah … front door was ajar.’

  ‘Then shut it on your way out.’

  With that, the door was closed in his face. Not slammed, he noticed, remembering his telephone call, merely closed.

  Harry took a boat from Tower Bridge to Charing Cross, intending to walk from there to Waterloo station. He sat on deck, gazing at the steel-grey, altered skyline of London and wondering what use to make of his latest discovery. Privilege. Hypocrisy. Corruption. They had been Minter’s own words. And now they were laid at Minter’s own door. It was all so wantonly predictable. Minter on leave. Dysart in America. And Virginia Dysart in Minter’s bed. The seducer who had villified him. The cuckold who had befriended him. And the adultress who had forgotten him. A triangular link in the winding chain that could only lead, as Minter had predicted, to ‘something very nasty indeed’.

  More, and worse, occurred to Harry’s mind as he sat aboard the Weymouth train, drinking canned beer and watching Surrey and Hampshire flash past him through the grey afternoon. He had taken Heather’s photographs out to remind himself of what Nigel Mossop now looked like and had begun leafing through the pictures. When he came upon the unfamiliar gravestone of Francis Hollirake, he wondered again who the man was and what he had meant to Heather. It was doubly puzzling, since not only had Heather never mentioned him, but she could only have been twelve when he died, all of fifteen years ago.

  Then he remembered. Hollinrake. Of course he knew the name, from rather more than fifteen years ago. The ruddy-faced father of the bride who had crushed his hand at the entrance to the marquee. ‘Glad you could be here,’ he had growled amiably. ‘I’m Frank Hollinrake.’ Yes, that was it. Hollinrake was Virginia Dysart’s maiden name. And Frank Hollinrake was her father.