Every mirage dissolved at Vigeon’s words, every deception turned to confront itself. There had been no warnings he had not supplied, no intervention he had not arranged. And all – every single one – had been done at his client’s bidding. ‘Dysart hired you to follow me? He employed you to carry on this … this campaign?’
‘Call it a campaign if you want. I’d call it a commission.’
‘To break and enter? To harass by telephone? To dog my footsteps? Good God, I’ve a mind to—’
Vigeon’s hand clasped Harry’s forearm. ‘Moderation, Mr Barnett, please. Nothing you can prove I’ve done is illegal and anything illegal I may have done you can’t prove, so may I commend a little restraint? I’d hoped we could help each other.’
‘You? Help me?’
‘To find Dysart. He owes me money. As to what he owes you, I’ll not enquire. ‘
‘Don’t give me that. You must have some idea what all this was for.’
Vigeon’s expression suggested Harry had impugned his professionalism. ‘Certainly not. I make a point of knowing only what I need to know. And what I need to know at the moment is where my former client is hiding. He owes me a substantial amount of money.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘He’s not in London. I’ve tried every one of his bolt-holes. He isn’t at Tyler’s Hard. I spent yesterday there and all I had for my trouble was a mouthful of gibberish from his gardener.’
‘Well he’s not here either.’ It afforded Harry some slight satisfaction to know that Vigeon the arch-surveillant had been wasting his time at Tyler’s Hard during Dysart’s visit to Strete Barton.
‘So it appears. Where is he, then?’
‘I’ve no idea. Abroad, perhaps?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Listen, Mr Barnett.’ Vigeon’s voice dropped. ‘It’s vital I find Dysart. I reckon he’ll be in touch with you sooner or later, so—’
‘Why’s it vital? If it’s just a question of being paid—’
‘There are other … considerations.’
Suddenly Vigeon’s true motive unveiled itself in Harry’s head. ‘Another client, you mean. You’re working for somebody else now, aren’t you, Mr Vigeon? Somebody who wants Dysart found.’
‘Well, it’s possible—’
‘Who is it? Who’s your new client?’
‘As to that, I couldn’t possibly say. Absolute confidentiality is the watchword of someone in my line of work.’
The subterfuge was not over. Maybe it never would be. But for Harry the limits of his tolerance were fast approaching. ‘You’re going to offer me money for putting you on to Dysart, aren’t you?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Save your breath. I’m not interested.’
‘I’m sure we could—’
‘No we couldn’t.’ Harry leaned across the table to ensure Vigeon understood him clearly. ‘Go to hell, Mr Vigeon. And leave me alone. That’s all I ask of you. I don’t want your money – or your client’s.’
‘Oh dear.’ Vigeon pursed his lips. ‘Your uncompromising stance obliges me to broach a painful subject, Mr Barnett. My photographic activities were not confined to Kensal Green Cemetery, I’m afraid. They also included Strete Barton on the night of the twenty-seventh of December last.’
‘What?’
‘An uncurtained ground-floor window, with internal lighting, posed few technical problems, it must be said. I was able to obtain several arresting studies of events inside.’
‘You? You photographed—’
‘Mrs Dysart and your good self, explicitly juxtaposed. Yes, Mr Barnett, I fear so.’ Vigeon lowered his voice still further. ‘Now I’m no longer working for Dysart, the film I took is available on the open market, so to speak, and could be traded for cash or kind – money you don’t have, that is, or Dysart’s whereabouts, which you may yet establish. You take my meaning?’
‘Oh yes. I take it.’
‘Excellent. We can do business, then.’ Vigeon grinned. ‘I must say, Mr Barnett, that in all my years of matrimonial enquiries I don’t recall anything quite as entertaining as the display you and Mrs Dysart—’
The rest of the beer in Harry’s glass hit Vigeon’s face and drowned his words in spluttering dismay. He stumbled to his feet and scrabbled for a handkerchief, coughing and swearing as he did so. But before he could see clearly Harry too had risen. Charged with rage at all the man had said and implied, he swung back his fist and struck him somewhere under the right eye with a force he did not know he possessed. Vigeon was sent sprawling in a scatter of toppled furniture and smashing glass and Harry, not waiting to see what damage he had inflicted, blundered towards the door.
Outside, in the cold grey air, voices raised in alarm behind him, Harry was aware of a sharp pain in his right hand and a breathless sense of release. Hitting Vigeon proved nothing, of course, but striking back at all he represented held its own reward. Laughing at his folly, he hurried across the road to his car.
60
CHESIL BEACH WAS empty beneath a tenebrous sky, the wind-stirred surf crashing and roaring up the shore. At the top of the shingle bank, gazing out at the tumult of the ocean, Harry Barnett and Nigel Mossop stood side by side, pitting their voices against the gale that lashed their faces and tugged at their clothes.
‘Heather ph-phoned me t-two days ago, actually. It was a bit … a bit of a sh-shock, naturally. And a relief, of course. As for Dysart, well, I’ve no m-more idea where he might be than … than you have, Harry.’
‘I’m glad at least that he helped you out of the hole I dropped you in.’
‘It wasn’t really your f-fault, Harry, but … yes, Dysart p-put in a word for me. The Ministry of Agriculture, in Dorchester. I st-start next week. Looking forward to it. G-Glad to have left …’
‘Mallender Marine? You would be. I went to Sabre Rise this morning, you know.’
‘Oh … yes?’
‘I didn’t see Charlie, of course. According to Marjorie, he’s taken the revelations about Dysart badly. Feels betrayed, let down by somebody whose loyalty he thought was beyond question. It’s amazing really.’
‘What … What is?’
‘That a man who treated his daughter as badly as Charlie did – a man who was happy to bludgeon and bribe and defraud his way out of financial problems if he could – has the gall to feel betrayed by anyone.’
‘Well, it was a bit … a bit of a shock.’
‘Yes, I know, but even so …’ Harry looked at Mossop and smiled. ‘We’d better go back to the car, Nige. I think you’re shivering more than you’re stammering.’
They started back down the path towards the car park, Harry reflecting as they went that a second day of fruitless enquiry was fast drawing to a close. After leaving Blackawton the previous afternoon, he had driven straight to Tyler’s Hard, found only a dark and clearly unoccupied house, thought better of knocking up Morpurgo in the garage flat, returned as far as Weymouth, sought hospitality with Ernie Love and spent the evening becoming morbidly drunk whilst Ernie treated him to his assessment of the Dysart scandal at the bar of the Globe Inn. The following morning, he had struck out for Sabre Rise. Marjorie Mallender, evidently embarrassed to see him, had gritted out an unconvincing apology on behalf of her family for all the false accusations they had levelled against him; she was herself shortly to visit Heather in Athens; Charlie would not be accompanying her. As for Dysart, she had neither sympathy nor contempt; her daughter’s welfare was now her sole concern. Hoping for her sake that Heather never told her the full story, Harry had left on a note neither of rapprochement nor of resentment, rather of new-found indifference. It was a sentiment confirmed by his reaction to sighting Roy Mallender driving out of Mallender Marine a couple of hours later; he could no longer summon his former loathing for the man; he was finished with Roy; he was finished with the pack of them.
‘What … What will you do now?’ said Mossop, as H
arry started the car and headed back towards Weymouth.
‘I’m not sure, Nige. Go on looking for Dysart until I find him, I suppose.
‘But he could … could be anywhere.’
‘I know, but I can’t give up now.’
‘Why not?’
Harry did not reply. He had many motives for tracking Dysart down – the explanations he was owed, the promise he had made Cornelius, the tangled knot of Dysart’s deceptions that he was determined to unravel – but strangely, hovering beyond and behind them all, he sensed there was one that surpassed and preceded the rest, a purpose he could neither name nor know till it had attained its objective, a purpose only Dysart could make him understand.
61
HARRY ARRIVED BACK in Swindon early that evening to find his mother in a state of wide-eyed perturbation. A Mr Ellison, full of softly-spoken politeness and flourishing some kind of official identification, had called to see him more than an hour ago and had insisted on waiting for him to return; he was currently installed in the front parlour with a pot of tea, as patient and inflexible as when he had first rung the doorbell.
‘Mr Ellison?’
‘Indeed. Mr Barnett?’
They shook hands. Ellison had the firm grip and square shoulders of a military man, the languid gaze and drawling tone of the upper classes. His suit was as black as his hair; all about him was trimmed and regulated severity leavened only by a crooked hint of irony about the mouth. Beside his chair was a black briefcase with a coat of arms embossed on the flap in gold. Of colour the only trace lay in the stripes of his tie: old school, Harry suspected, though which he could not say.
‘Sorry to lie in wait for you like this, my dear fellow. Certain amount of urgency, you know.’
‘About what?’
‘Your friend, Alan Dysart.’
Take care, Harry instructed himself. ‘I’m not sure I follow.’
‘Come, come.’ A vexed frown. ‘I’m attached to the Ministry of Defence, Mr Barnett. I’ve been assigned to the inquiry into the Dysart scandal of which the newspapers have made so much in recent days.’
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘In itself, nothing, but there is official concern over how Dysart’s … compromising associations, shall we call them? … escaped notice for so long. This has necessitated a thoroughgoing investigation of all his activities and acquaintances. I am one of those charged with conducting that investigation and you, Mr Barnett, represent one of its most puzzling strands.’
‘Really?’
Ellison described a striding circuit of the room, twitching his eyebrows and nostrils at the fusty furnishings, the bric-à-brac cabinet, the To Thine Own Self Be True sampler, the plastic bag full of knitting stowed beside the armchair. Then he treated Harry to a one-eyed smile which stated all he did not need to say: thirty-seven, Falmouth Street, Swindon was as far from Dysart’s normal territory as Harry was from his normal society.
‘He worked for me once. He’s done me several favours. We’ve stayed in touch. Where’s the puzzle in that?’
Ellison moved closer. ‘I’ve been obliged to become a close student of Alan Dysart, Mr Barnett, closer than I’d like. I’ve explored his marriage, his finances and his friendships in detail: great and sometimes distasteful detail.’
‘What have you been looking for?’
‘The key, my dear fellow. The key to unlock what could create and then destroy such a man. Not for his sake, you understand, not for our general enlightenment, but in the interests of avoiding – or at least anticipating – any further such … embarrassments, shall we call them? … as Dysart has inflicted on his political masters. They do not like this kind of thing. Poovery and Popery: a nasty combination; very nasty indeed.’
‘Why don’t you come to the point?’
‘But I have. You are the point, Mr Barnett, you and what you mean to Alan Dysart. You did not go to Oundle or Oxford with him. You did not serve with him. You have not done business with him. You are not consonant with the life he has led. You are a discrepancy, an inconsistency, and therefore a puzzle.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure.’
‘And there is more. I understand you’ve recently been instrumental in the restoration of Miss Heather Mallender to the bosom of her family, the family whose other daughter was killed in an IRA attempt on Dysart’s life in June 1987.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well now, two thoughts have occurred to me, Mr Barnett. Firstly, why did Dysart’s … chum, shall we call him? … who was by his own admission privy to the IRA’s innermost secrets, not forewarn Dysart of his pending assassination? And why, when the said chum left this country so abruptly last Saturday, did he choose as his destination the very city where you were even then engaged in seeking out Miss Mallender?’
Harry tried to look and sound surprised. ‘Cornelius fled to Athens?’
‘Quite so. You saw nothing of him there, of course?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nor do you have any idea where he is now?’
‘Still in Athens?’
‘No, my dear fellow, not, we think, still in Athens. Cornelius has dropped out of sight, as has his … chum. Of course, you would also be ignorant of Dysart’s whereabouts, wouldn’t you?’
‘Er … yes.’
‘Then let’s try something you’re bound to know. Why did Dysart write you a cheque for a thousand pounds on the eleventh of December?’
Harry’s brain refused to supply him with a swift or plausible answer. He stared at Ellison blankly, he made to speak, he hesitated …
‘Where is he, Mr Barnett?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think you do.’
‘No.’
‘We’re very anxious to find him, very anxious indeed.’
‘Why?’
‘Matters can’t be left as they are. You must see that. Too many loose ends, too many … incongruities, shall we say? Where is he, my dear fellow? You must tell me, you really must.’
‘I don’t know.’
’I’ve spoken to Dysart’s old college friends, Ockleton and Cunningham: a treacherous pair. Also to Dysart’s wife, currently seeking solace with a ski instructor in Kitzbühel: a hard woman. On one point they all agreed. If there is somebody Dysart trusts – aside from Cornelius of course – it is you. Nobody else. Just you.’
‘They’re mistaken.’
‘What is it, Mr Barnett? What is it here or in you that Dysart clings to? A terraced house in an anonymous town. An old woman and her scapegrace son. Nothing that he knows or needs. Nobody that he should care a fig or give a damn for. And yet he does. A wife he hates. Friends he despises. Acquaintances he exploits. A lover he hides. And you.’ Ellison’s dark eyes roamed around the room before returning to Harry. ‘What binds him to you, Mr Barnett?’
‘Nothing.’
Ellison clicked his tongue and sighed. ‘It is better that we should find him, my dear fellow, than the others who may be looking, better by far.’
‘What others?’
‘My card—’ Ellison plucked one from his pocket and pressed it into Harry’s hand. ‘If you should have second thoughts … if you should wish to unburden yourself, shall we say? … I can be found on that number at any time.’ He turned aside abruptly and retrieved his briefcase. ‘Now I must away. Remember—’ He held Harry’s gaze with his own. ‘He needs help. He needs our help. Soon. In his own best interests. If you care anything for his welfare, call me.’
And then he was gone, swiftly and silently, leaving Harry to lower himself into the armchair and stare at the blank television screen on which he had seen Dysart the first night of his return from Rhodes. ‘I was slick. I was witty. I was word-perfect.’ But not just, it seemed, for the benefit of the camera. All his life had been the same: a slick, witty, word-perfect performance. And now it was over. The game was up, the disguise seen through, the mask ripped aside. Only the object of concealment remained unknown. Only the purpose of the pretence had not b
een found.
‘Has he left?’ Harry’s mother asked as she entered the room.
‘No, Mother. He’s hiding behind the television set.’
‘I suppose you think that’s funny.’
‘Not really.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Something I couldn’t give him. Something I don’t possess.’ Harry smiled. ‘Yet.’
62
TEN O’CLOCK ON Saturday morning found Jonathan Minter gravel-throated, unshaven and clad only in mules and a towelling bathrobe. Harry followed him down the short hallway of his flat to the large and anti-septically furnished lounge with its view of Tower Bridge, watched him slump into a low armchair, saw him reach for the cigarette left smoking in a saucer and felt contempt for this man’s youth and arrogance rise in his throat like phlegm.
‘Christ knows why I let you in,’ said Minter. ‘Curiosity, I suppose. What do you want?’
‘I’m looking for Dysart.’
‘Join the queue. We’re all looking for him. It’s the new national sport.’
‘I thought you might have some idea where he is.’
‘If I did have, I wouldn’t tell you, would I? I’d save it for tomorrow’s front page.’
‘Isn’t one front page story enough?’
Minter smiled. ‘One’s never enough. Why? Come to give me another? Come to sell me your slice of dismembered Dysart?’
Harry took a deep breath. Anger was useless. He looked at the blue sky beyond the window, at the absurd and dazzling majesty of the Thames, found there a measure of proportion if not of consolation and sat slowly down on the edge of the couch opposite Minter. ‘If you have any clue as to Dysart’s whereabouts, I’d be prepared to give you some of the information you offered to buy a few weeks ago.’
Into the Blue Page 48