Into the Blue

by Robert Goddard

  ‘No deal, Harry. Don’t need you now. I’ve done it all on my own. Besides, I can’t trade what I don’t have and I don’t have any idea where Dysart is.’

  ‘What about Virginia? Does she know?’

  ‘Ask her yourself. She and I have … fallen out. Seems she thinks she should’ve been forewarned of the story Cornelius gave me. Didn’t enjoy being written up as the wife of a closet queer. Wanted Dysart ruined, of course – always has – but on her terms, not mine.’

  ‘Your terms?’

  ‘Well, Cornelius’s then. God knows why he decided to put the knife in. Lovers’ tiff, perhaps. Whatever the reason, he gave me what I wanted: the hammer to drive a nail through Dysart’s life.’

  ‘Satisfying, is it, to have destroyed him?’

  Minter took a long drag on his cigarette. ‘Not as satisfying as I’d anticipated. Too easy, I suppose. A phone call out of the blue. A meeting last Saturday at Paddington station.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Yeh, just around this time. And there’s Cornelius handing me the full story. A signed statement. A taped confession. Compromising letters. The whole shooting-match. Well, I didn’t have to do a lot of work for it, did I?’ He sprang from the chair and ambled across to the window. ‘I’ve spent years wondering what it would feel like to ruin that man and now I know.’

  ‘What does it feel like?’

  ‘Like I’ve been cheated, if you must know. Like I’ve fought hard to beat an opponent, only to realize he’s thrown the game away; let me win; handed me victory on a plate – for reasons of his own.’

  ‘What reasons?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what sucks all the pleasure out of it. What’s the point of winning if you know you’ve been allowed to? Ever play a card-game called solo whist, Harry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I feel as if Dysart’s called misère ouvert and won the hand. He’s shown me every card he holds. He’s defied me to stop him losing every single trick. And he’s got away with it. God rot him, he’s got away with it.’

  ‘Where do you think he is now?’

  Minter gestured towards the sky and the city, towards the river and the sea beyond. ‘Somewhere out there.’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘If he isn’t, he ought to be. Some of the people who are looking for him aren’t doing so just for the pleasure of offering him their sympathy.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘I imagine the intelligence services would like a lengthy chat with him. As would the IRA. They probably think he could point them in Cornelius’s direction. Then there are members of my own august profession, followed by a rag-bag of freelancers and grudge-bearers. Rex Cunningham for one. He’s been on to me lately for the same reason you’re here now – where’s Dysart? He seems determined to dredge up that old story about a defenestration at Oxford in the wake of my article, though God knows why.’ Minter grinned. ‘Behind that lot, Harry, you finish a pretty distant last.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ll find him?’

  ‘I don’t think anybody will find him.’ Minter drew on his cigarette. ‘Unless he wants them to.’

  63

  JUST AS HARRY was beginning to think his detour to Kensal Green was completely in vain, Mrs Tandy opened her front door, frowned towards the reggae music billowing from a neighbouring first-floor window, then fixed her attention on him with the sweetest of smiles, as if he were a schoolboy paying his respects to a great aunt.

  ‘Mr Barnett! What brings you here?’

  ‘I was just … er … passing. Wondered if you had any news of Zohra.’

  ‘You’re in luck. She came back last night.’

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘No. She went to do some shopping for me about half an hour ago. Such a kind and helpful girl, Zohra, don’t you agree, Mr Barnett?’

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘But here she is now!’ Mrs Tandy’s smile grew radiant. ‘She must have known she was wanted.’

  Zohra was standing no more than six feet away when Harry swung round, the collar of a winter coat turned well up about her face. She neither flinched nor blinked. In her expression it was impossible to detect the slightest reaction to his presence. But in her right hand, where it clasped the strap of her shoulder-bag, there was the faintest of tremors.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ she said neutrally.

  ‘I found her, you know,’ Harry replied. ‘In Athens.’ He timed a pause. ‘Small thanks to you.’

  Still there was no sign of discomposure. Zohra glanced at Mrs Tandy, then back at Harry. ‘Why don’t you come upstairs? We can talk there.’

  But Zohra did not talk. She led the way to her flat, opened the door and closed it behind them, took off her coat and carefully put it away, lit the gas fire and began preparing coffee for one. And throughout she said nothing.

  ‘Heather thought Dysart must have been blackmailing you,’ said Harry with stubborn emphasis, following her into the kitchenette. ‘Blackmailing you, that is, into deceiving me.’ There was no response; she stared intractably at the blue flame playing around the kettle on the stove in front of her. ‘I don’t know what to think, of course.’ Still no response. ‘But you did deceive me, didn’t you?’ Another few moments passed; the water in the kettle began to sizzle. ‘Didn’t you?’

  Zohra reached slowly forward and extinguished the gas. ‘Yes,’ she said, turning slowly round to face him. ‘I deceived you!’

  ‘The suspicions you claimed to have about Dr Kingdom’s attitude towards Heather?’

  ‘False.’

  ‘The discrepancies in his itinerary at the Versorelli Institute?’

  ‘Imagined. ‘

  ‘And the file notes on Heather?’

  ‘Faked.’

  ‘In fact, the whole story, from start to finish, was a pack of lies?’

  ‘Entirely. ‘

  ‘And you did all this at Dysart’s bidding?’

  ’Yes.’

  ‘Did he tell you why? Did he explain the purpose?’

  ‘No. But I guessed. He was convinced Dr Kingdom was sheltering Heather at the Versorelli Institute. He needed you to flush her out. And he needed evidence to persuade you to do so.’

  ‘And you helped him, knowing what he meant to do to Heather if he ever found her?’

  ‘Yes. But I was sure all along he was mistaken. I was confident you’d fail to find Heather – at the Versorelli Institute or anywhere else.’

  ‘Is that your excuse for what you did? Is that supposed to justify the lies you told me, the distortions, the falsehoods, the misrepresentations?’

  ‘No. Nothing could do that.’

  ‘All right. Forget excuses. What about explanations? Why did you do it?’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘Was Heather right? Was Dysart blackmailing you?’

  ‘In a sense.’

  ‘Threatening to have you deported?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, to avoid being sent back to Sri Lanka, you were prepared to put Heather in danger – and make a fool of me.’

  At last her gaze fell, her chin dropped. Harry felt sympathy surge perversely within him. Then Zohra recovered herself, tossed back her head and confronted him anew. ‘Everything you have said is true, Harry. Everything you could say I richly deserve. I betrayed Heather. I deceived you. I abused a position of trust. And I regret it all. I am ashamed of what I have done, bitterly ashamed. I said I had no choice, but of course I did. I could have refused his terms. I could have defied him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Because I was frightened. There: I have said it. Fear took precedence over loyalty and friendship. Do you think it always must, Harry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither do I. Which makes it doubly sad, doesn’t it?’ She shivered. ‘It’s cold in here. Come and sit by the fire.’

  Harry followed her back into the lounge; she lowered herself wearily into an armchair in front of the gas fire. But Harry remained st
anding, keeping his distance, waiting for her to continue.

  ‘My work permit was due to expire at the end of June last year. I’d already been told it wouldn’t be renewed: the Home Office wanted me to leave the country. I said nothing to Dr Kingdom because I was afraid he would dismiss me straightaway if he knew I might have to resign at short notice. Instead, I confided in Heather. Knowing her sister had worked for an MP, I thought she might be able to influence the authorities. She was very sympathetic and arranged an introduction to Alan Dysart. He seemed equally sympathetic and promised to do what he could. That turned out to be quite a lot, because I was immediately granted a three-month extension. Naturally, I asked him what the chances were of a longer-term extension and that’s when he began to apply pressure. The chances were good, he said, if I helped him.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Spy on Dr Kingdom. He wanted to know every detail of Heather’s case. He wanted copies of every note Dr Kingdom kept and every letter he sent pertaining to her. He wanted me to report anything he said about her and everything he said to me. He wanted it all.’

  ‘And you agreed to give it to him?’

  ‘Yes. It seemed harmless enough at first. And, sure enough, another three-month extension was my reward. Then Heather disappeared. I tried to persuade myself that the information I was passing to Dysart had nothing to do with it. By then he’d begun to suspect Heather and Dr Kingdom were in league. That changed to a firm conviction when you told him you’d seen Dr Kingdom in Lindos a few days before Heather’s disappearance. My instructions were to plant the idea in your mind that Dr Kingdom was holding her against her will at the Versorelli Institute. I never asked them for the dates and times of his appointments there. I merely relayed to you the dates and times which Dysart calculated would arouse your suspicion. As for the file notes, they were a mixture of genuine material and Dysart’s own concoctions, slanted to support his theory. Our nervous conferences and secret rendezvous were simply designed to compound the effect.’

  Harry remembered the double of Heather Miltiades had sent after him in Rhodes. Then and ever since, it seemed, he had been grasping at shadows and pursuing impostors. ‘When we took Mrs Tandy to the cemetery,’ he said, not troubling to disguise the bitterness of his tone, ‘a man photographed us. Were you expecting that?’

  ‘Yes. Dysart had warned me. But I didn’t know why it was done.’

  Zohra did not know, but Harry could guess. He had believed Kingdom was behind it: that was what he had been intended to believe, that and all the rest. ‘What was your reward this time?’ he asked.

  ‘Permanent residential rights.’

  ‘And they made it all worthwhile?’

  ‘They seemed to, yes.’

  ‘So you’re satisfied – even if nobody else is?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ For the first time since sitting down, she looked directly at him. ‘You could say I’d had my reward all right, Harry, but it isn’t the one I’d hoped for. Even if Dysart intended to honour his promise, his fall from power means he’s in no position to. It leaves my case tainted by association, linked with his name in the eyes of the Home Office. As a result, I go down with him. See that letter on the mantelpiece?’

  There was a crumpled manila envelope propped behind a china crocodile. ‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘I see it. ‘

  ‘Take a look at it.’

  He picked the envelope up and slid out the single sheet inside.

  ‘It’s a deportation order,’ said Zohra. ‘I’m to be gone by the end of the month. And believe me, it’s no forgery.’

  Harry glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand and let his eye wander for a moment across the bureaucratic prose. ‘You are required to leave the United Kingdom by the thirty-first day of January … No right of further appeal against this ruling … In the event of non-compliance, forcible deportation to your country of origin will ensue …’ Then he replaced the letter in its envelope and met her gaze with neither sympathy nor condemnation. ‘Is it really so bad?’

  ‘Oh yes, Harry, it’s very bad. I have a distant cousin on my mother’s side who’s a solicitor. I’ve been to see him this week in the hope that I could contest the ruling or at least go somewhere other than Sri Lanka. But the case is hopeless and he doubts any other country would admit me.’

  ‘So you’ll go back to Sri Lanka?’

  ‘I must. There’s no alternative.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll soon settle—’

  ‘You don’t understand. My brother Arjuna is a prominent member of the Tamil separatist movement. The government regards him as a dangerous terrorist. There’s not much they wouldn’t be prepared to do to force him to surrender to the army. By returning I would become their hostage. Ever since Arjuna went underground three years ago, I’ve been trying to avoid a return to Sri Lanka – for my sake and for his. That’s why I was prepared to do as Dysart asked. Had the need not been so pressing—’ She looked away. ‘Never mind. Never mind what I might have done or should have done. That letter is the consequence of what I did do. That letter is my just reward.’

  Now it was Harry who averted his gaze. What Zohra had said could not excuse her conduct, but it had succeeded in planting in his mind a disturbing thought: what would he have done in her position? He returned the letter to its place on the mantelpiece and stared down into the mischievous eyes of the china crocodile. She had tried to warn him, had she not? In her own way, she had urged caution upon him. ‘Be careful,’ she had said to him as he prepared to leave for Geneva. ‘Be very careful.’

  The telephone was ringing. Seemingly from a great distance, but actually from just the other side of the room, its insistent note forced its way into Harry’s thoughts. He heard Zohra rise from the chair and walk slowly across to answer it, so slowly that he half expected it to stop before she reached it. But it did not stop.

  ‘Hello? … What? …’ Something in her tone made Harry turn and look towards her. She was pale and trembling. ‘Yes, but … Very well.’ She looked at Harry. ‘It’s Dysart. He wants to speak to you.’

  How Harry crossed the room, how he took the telephone from Zohra’s hand, what glance passed between them as he did so, he could not afterwards have said. As soon as he heard Dysart speak, his world shrank to the dark realm of that distant voice. All else lay beyond his perception.

  ‘Harry?’

  ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I saw you go in. I followed you from Minter’s flat. From Swindon, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Nearby. It doesn’t matter where. You couldn’t find me if you tried.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To meet, that’s all. To talk. To understand each other.’

  ‘Where and when?’

  ‘Tyler’s Hard. Four o’clock this afternoon. Can you be there?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘No more until we meet. I’m trusting you, Harry. Come alone and come on time.’

  64

  FOUR O’CLOCK. A still and cloudless day that had known a few deceptive hours of mildness was releasing its feeble hold. Colour and warmth were fleeing as the light failed, draining all comfort from the motionless trees, the calm water, the winding lane, the empty fields. Harry heard his own footfalls and no other sound as he walked towards Tyler’s Hard, the jetty casting out its shadowed finger across the estuary, the house unlit and silent, crouched and withdrawn, unwelcoming yet expectant.

  The gate stood open. Harry looked about, noting the absence of a car, the lack of a bonfire, the chill breath of emptiness hovering at the blank windows and smokeless chimneys. He walked through the gate and on towards the front door of the cottage. Nothing moved. Nothing rustled or flickered or hinted at a presence. Yet the certainty of being observed was absolute and incontrovertible. ‘Come alone and come on time.’ He had done both and was not, he knew, to be cheated now.

  The door was ajar. It creaked as he pushed it open, then silence was
reimposed. A short passage, stairs and a kitchen towards the rear, doors to either side of him, both ajar. Then, at last, independent sound. Wood on wood. Something closing, gently, like a desk-lid being slowly lowered, in the left-hand room. With little consciousness of movement, he headed towards it. And entered, as if waking far from where sleep had begun, as if re-discovering a place he had never visited before.

  It was a small and conventionally furnished lounge dimly perceived in the twilight that lace curtains had filtered to a grey and shifting herald of total darkness. Harry saw Dysart standing in the corner one second before he snapped on the standard lamp beside him, an erect and unmoving figure lost in a sudden flood of brilliance.

  ‘Hello, Harry.’

  His voice was unaltered, assured and mellow of tone. His clothes were impeccable – shoes polished, trousers pressed, shirt an unblemished white. And he was smiling. Beneath the swept-back fair hair, he was smiling. Only in the eyes – only in their fractional loss of clarity and confidence – could any trace of change be detected …

  ‘It was good of you to come as I asked.’

  As Harry approached, he saw Dysart was standing by a low glass-topped cabinet, with medals displayed on a green baize bed within. The thought that the sound of its lid being closed was what he had heard from the passage caused his gaze to linger on the contents.

  ‘Mostly my maternal grandfather’s,’ said Dysart. ‘He commanded a cruiser at Jutland, you know. He died before I was born, but stories of his achievements made me want to follow him into the Royal Navy. I think he’d have been proud of my career, but I can’t be sure. He might have held it against me that I wasn’t really his grandson at all.’

  It was said. It was admitted. It was conceded between them. Harry looked up from the colourful ribbons and their pendant medals to see that Dysart was still smiling, still enfolding him in the strange intimacy of a friendship he had betrayed but not renounced. ‘I met Barry Chipchase in Athens,’ Harry said slowly and deliberately, so that his meaning could not be mistaken. ‘By chance.’