Yet again her body had betrayed her. Her heart, which she had thought was already pumping to capacity, leaped to some entirely unsuspected level of activity. At the same time, almost in an instant, her hands grew icy as if the blood were seeking safety deep inside her body. Nigel fetched a glass of water, and she made her fingers open and close around it. He stood beside her while she took a few shaky sips. She could smell cinnamon, faintly, on his hands or breath.
Then the two of them let themselves out.
As soon as she heard the outside door close, Verona stood up. The glass fell from her fingers and bounced twice, unbroken, on the rug. And in the time it took to do so she dramatically revised her picture of herself. Just because she was tall and quick-tempered and could clean a sixth-floor window without feeling dizzy did not mean she was brave; she had simply not been tested. She ran to the door and fumbled the mortise lock into place. Then she checked all the windows and drew all the curtains and blinds. As she moved from room to room, it became apparent that listening to her answering machine was only the start; the men had searched the flat meticulously. The novel she was currently reading was at the bottom of the stack of books beside her bed; the CDs she had left out were back in their cases. When she went, unthinkingly, to put away her groceries she noticed that even the boxes of cereal and pasta had been examined.
She seized the phone to call the police, but at the sound of the dial tone the trembling intensified. What on earth would she say? The men had come and gone, doing her no harm, taking nothing. She did not, for an instant, doubt their accusations. She put down the phone, picked it up again, and dialed Toby’s number. Thank God, he answered. “Verona, I’m in the middle of cooking supper. Can I call you back?”
“No,” she said, but the rest came out jumbled and clotted.
“What is it? Are you on your mobile?”
She put her hand on her belly and, by dint of focusing on the lettering on the phone book, managed to say, “When I came home two strange men were in my living room, looking for Henry.”
“Why would they be looking for Henry?” said Toby, clearly still not grasping the enormity of what had occurred—and why should he when Verona, with the men actually in her presence, had taken several minutes to do so? She heard the ting of metal on metal, a whisk or fork perhaps. “Isn’t he in—” Abruptly the clatter of cookware ceased. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
She persuaded him to meet her at Henry’s house. Perhaps he had left some clue to his whereabouts. She called a cab, found the keys they’d exchanged in a rare sibling gesture, and turned on every light, two radios, and the television. Stupid to think light and cacophony could protect her, but, closing the door, she felt a little better. And a little better still at the sight of Frazer, who often drove her to the radio station, sitting behind the wheel of the taxi. As usual, he talked incessantly about his five sons, two back in Pakistan, three here, all flourishing. Verona’s only task was to say “Really?” or sometimes, for variety, “Great.”
Meanwhile her brain seethed. For nearly two decades she had allowed herself to hope that Henry had reformed; at the same time, she now realized, she had also been waiting for the ax to fall. There was a feeling akin to satisfaction in knowing that his true self had, at last, emerged. As the taxi turned into his street, she suddenly wondered if Nigel and George might have followed her. Or, even worse, not needed to because her next move was so obvious. She leaned forward to scan the sidewalks. In the spooky light of the streetlamps she made out a woman pushing a pram, a white car edging into a parking space. Then she saw a dark figure standing on Henry’s doorstep.
“Frazer,” she said.
“—and Charles is captain of the hospital cricket team—yes?”
The man stepped out of the doorway. As he bent to examine his watch, she recognized Toby. “Stop here,” she said, handing Frazer a ten-pound note. In the midst of his farewells, she extricated herself from the car.
“I thought you were never coming,” Toby said. “What’s going on?”
Even his irritation was reassuring. She handed him the keys and when they were inside, standing in the kitchen, she told him again about her visitors, starting with the groceries and ending with the business card. As Toby listened, his face grew pale—she could have counted his freckles if there weren’t so many—and his topaz-colored eyes widened. “My God, Verona. They could have killed you. Or the baby. Anything could have happened.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said, but when she looked down she saw that her hands were trembling again. This time, though, partly from cold. The house, unlike any place Henry had ever lived, was freezing. Then she remembered that she and Toby had forgotten the burglar alarm. “They were here,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“The men who were in my living room. They’ve been here too.” She covered her mouth with her still-icy hands and let the trembling take over.
“Don’t, Verona,” said Toby. “You’ve had a shock. I’ll make some tea.” He turned on the heat, set the oven on high with the door open, and filled the kettle. Then he made her sit down, close to the stove, and knelt before her, rubbing her hands. “That stupid bastard,” he said. “What’s he got himself into now?”
When they both had cups of tea—he insisted on adding two spoonfuls of sugar to hers—she did her best to tell him what the men had said about Henry. “I wish you’d been there. You’d have understood the implications.”
“The implications?” he repeated, his voice shrill. “I think the implications are fairly clear. Henry is involved in something dubious. He owes the men money and he’s done a bunk. The question is where to, and can the situation be sorted? When did you last see him?”
“Two or three weeks ago. We had dinner. Maybe you could talk to the men? If we knew what the problem was, perhaps we could fix it.” As soon as she’d spoken, she heard how foolish she sounded. This was not some childish scrape she could make better for Henry, some petty wrongdoing to be, at best, apologized for, at worst, concealed.
“Business isn’t really my area of expertise.” Toby pressed his lips together. “Henry’s always led a charmed life, financially and otherwise. I’m sure this is just a temporary setback.”
She had forgotten, in spite of repeated evidence, that he was usually on her brother’s side. “In general,” she said, drinking some tea, “I think a setback or two would be good for Henry, but not in this case. These men don’t play by the normal rules. I can picture them shoving him under a bus, throwing him in a ditch.”
“Don’t.” He stood up so quickly that his chair fell over. “Would you like some more tea?” He righted the chair and, not waiting for an answer, went to stand beside the counter.
During the two years Henry had lived in the house, she had been here half a dozen times but only once before, watering the plants while he was on holiday in Italy, without him. Now she looked around the immaculate kitchen as if seeing the sleek granite counters and glittering appliances for the first time. They spoke of something, something essential about her brother, and sitting there in the heat of his pristine oven, she at last understood the syllables they murmured. “The one thing Henry wants,” she said, “it isn’t fame or love. It’s money.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Toby said, at last turning around. “Here I am slaving away to write the introduction for a catalog that will earn me three hundred pounds.”
“No, that’s different.” In her impatience to convey her insight, words spilled out. “There are all kinds of things you won’t do for money. Basically you’re like me; you want to be paid for doing something you’d do anyway. Money is Henry’s raison d’être. I used to think he liked making mischief for its own sake. Maybe that was true when he was younger, but nowadays he’s much too practical to do something for its own sake. On the other hand, for enough cash, he would literally do almost anything.”
Toby stared at her. She thought he was going to contradict her, tell her not
to be so cynical about her beloved brother; then his eyes flickered. “I haven’t thought about this in years,” he said, pulling his chair closer, “but once at university some money went missing from my room—twenty pounds—which was a lot for me then. I reported it to the hall porter and there was quite a fuss, the cleaners taking umbrage and my saying I wasn’t accusing them, though of course I was. I remember Henry, lying on my bed, while I ranted on about how I couldn’t live this way, suspecting everyone. Finally he said you have to let it go, Tobes, and took me down to the pub. He bought three rounds in a row.” Toby shook his head. “Of course I didn’t suspect everyone. Henry was in and out of my room all the time.”
He set down his tea and tugged at the collar of his shirt as if it had suddenly shrunk. “I thought nothing Henry could do would surprise me.”
Verona stood up. “He cares about you,” she said, stroking his back. “He really does, but he lacks certain faculties. We’re at his mercy when we forget that.” On the counter lay her Christmas present to Henry: a book of photographs by a famous French photographer, recommended by her former boyfriend, Jeffrey. She had bought it not so much for the glossy images as for the brief biography of the photographer, which described how, at the age of six, he had resolved never to grow up. Henry was the reverse—he had longed to be an adult—but he shared the same stubborn disregard for natural laws.
Toby squeezed her hand. “That new espresso machine looks like a spaceship. So forgive me for asking, but what are we doing here?”
“I thought we might find some clue as to where Henry’s gone.”
“You mean like a ticket for Ibiza or a reservation for a hired car in the Orkneys?”
“Probably not, given that they’ve already searched the place. But you and I know Henry better than anyone. He might have left something that will speak to us.”
He stood up. “Come,” he said. He led the way up the two flights of stairs to the top of the house and then—stopping in the doorway of each of the three bedrooms, the study, the video room, and two bathrooms—back down to the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have a clue how to search all this, especially when I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Besides, as we’ve been saying, neither of us does know Henry quite as well as we’d like to think.”
She stared at him, beautiful, dependable Toby, less beautiful than when she’d first met him, more dependable. They no longer mentioned the nights they had shared a bed at university, affectionately but ineffectually, or his long-standing and, as far as she knew, unconsummated passion for Henry. Over fifteen years, Toby had been one of her closest and most constant friends and the only one who was in touch with Henry on a regular basis. Everything he said made sense except when she remembered switching on the light and seeing the men.
She was still staring at him when the phone rang. After four rings, Henry’s voice came on, urging the caller to leave a message, promising nothing in return.
“Verona, George here. How’s it going? We wouldn’t have bothered you this afternoon if we hadn’t searched Henry’s hovel with zero results. But if you do come across anything, please get in touch. You know how to find us.”
The block of flats where Toby lived was so solid and decorous, with its wood paneling and leaded windows, that it was almost impossible to imagine any kind of bad behavior occurring within its walls. Nevertheless, Toby wedged a chair under the knob of the front door like people did in films, while Verona locked the windows and drew the curtains. Without consultation, she headed for his bedroom, rather than the futon in the study. They both put their mobile phones on the bedside table, and she added a glass of water and the leather-bound book she had come across in the hasty search of Henry’s desk that Toby had permitted after the phone call. For one stunning moment she had thought Henry kept a diary, but a quick glance revealed that this was a much older document, written in faded blue ink by their grandfather. She had flung the book, along with various bank and credit card statements, into a shopping bag.
Now, wearing one of Toby’s shirts, she sat up in bed, opened the book to the first page, and read aloud:
This account of my life is for my granddaughter, Verona MacIntyre.
I was born in the town of Kendal in the Lake District in 1898. After several pregnancies that ended badly—one small stone in the churchyard, others too brief even for that—my mother was threatened with dire repercussions for any further attempt. She persisted, for which, I suppose, I ought to be grateful. In the heat of argument she would sometimes remind me of the act of heroism to which I owed my existence; of course it might equally be attributed to another kind of act on my father’s part. I was christened Edmund Alfred MacIntyre and, for reasons that remain obscure, known as Jigger.
“Why have I never seen this? How did Henry get his hands on it?”
“I don’t know,” said Toby wearily. He was lying beside her wearing a pair of dark-blue silk pajamas. “I don’t know anything. Would you mind turning out the light?”
It was months since she had shared a bed, and in the darkness she was acutely conscious of his body a few inches away. She lay back, listening to his soft breathing and the grumbling undertone of traffic on the Marylebone Road. Just as she was about to ask if he was all right, he gave a small sigh.
“I’m hopeless in this sort of crisis,” he said.
“What I keep thinking is that I should have seen it coming. I had plenty of warning.” At school, she told him, the English teacher had found Henry in the cloakroom, going through the pockets of the girls’ raincoats. “I remember he made me stay after class. At first I was relieved when it turned out that Henry was the one in trouble, but Mr. Sayers was so serious I was scared. He said he thought Henry had been born without a conscience.”
Beside her Toby shifted. “I don’t think I’d agree with that,” he said slowly. “No, Henry has a conscience. He just does a good job of ignoring it.”
Then he asked if he could feel the baby. Gently she placed his hand on her belly.
8
The next morning at the radio station, Verona’s first interview was with a young man whose mother had been defrauded by her cleaning woman. “You have to understand,” the man insisted—Brian was his name—“Evelyn was like a family friend. She came to all the weddings and christenings and birthday parties. When I used to drop in on Sundays, which was her day off, I’d often find the two of them chatting away over the crossword puzzle. And when Mum went into hospital, Evelyn visited her every day. But the day after she died, Evelyn didn’t answer the phone. We never heard from her again. After the funeral it turned out she’d taken over seventy thousand pounds.”
“But she loved your mother,” Verona suggested.
“I don’t know.” Brian’s protuberant eyes watered alarmingly. On television, tears could be effective; on the radio they were usually disastrous. “Six months ago I would have said yes, absolutely. They were inseparable. They were best friends. I can’t believe that was all pretense. At the same time, year after year, Evelyn was steadily emptying my mother’s bank accounts, and none of us had a clue.”
The next question on her list was, How much did you pay Evelyn? The answer was sure to be incriminating—they had paid the beloved family retainer a pittance—but seeing his brimming eyes, hearing his bewildered tones, she said, “And do you know how Evelyn got the money?”
“That was easy. She paid all the bills, opened all the mail. My mother trusted her completely. She would have signed anything Evelyn asked her to.”
“I thought she was your mother’s cleaner.” Over Brian’s shoulder, through the studio window, she could see the producer, spreading her hands. Why wasn’t Verona asking the real questions, the hard ones?
“Cleaner and everything else,” he said bitterly. “Don’t misunderstand me. I wanted my mother to live forever, but we had an agreement that when she died we’d have money to help with our little girl. She’s deaf and needs special care. Evelyn used to babysit for us.”
“I’m sorry,”
said Verona. “We have to stop now. Thank you for talking to us today. Before Brian came into the studio, we spoke to a senior officer at the Metropolitan Police. Apparently, incidents of caretakers taking advantage of their charges are on the rise. Be sure to keep an eye on whoever is helping the older members of your family.”
She read the news and the weather, and by the time she emerged Brian had gone. Sometimes people lingered after their interviews, misled by her attention at the microphone. Then she had to pretend an urgent appointment and be politely vague about the possibility of future meetings. She made her way past the studios and cluttered cubicles to her boss’s office. The angular, incessantly smiling Lois looked up from her desk and smiled even more broadly.
Before she could begin to shred the interview, Verona announced that she needed a few days off. “My blood pressure is a little high. They want to keep me under observation.”
“Oh, Verona,” said Lois, her smile fading, “why didn’t you tell me sooner? Take all the time you need. Casey can do the show. You know, she’ll be glad of the experience.”
The news flew across the office faster than Verona could retrace her steps, and every other person stopped her with advice and admonitions. Have you tried an aquarium, asked the research assistant. They’re meant to be very soothing. Verona promised to investigate. She had intended to go straight to the underground station, but in the street she loitered indecisively beside the newsstand. Contrary to what she had told Toby that morning, she was afraid to go home, and she didn’t feel safe at his flat either. At any moment his phone might ring, his door might open, and the men would be there with their questions and demands. Finally—the woman at the newsstand was darting her sharp glances—she crossed the road to the coffee shop.
She ordered a tuna sandwich and, choosing a table near the counter, tried to think what to do next. Instead she found herself remembering a conversation she’d had a couple of months ago with a girl she’d met in her midwife’s waiting room. They had exchanged the usual questions about due dates and morning sickness. Then the girl, she could not have been more than seventeen, confided that her mother had died when she was a few months old; she had been brought up by her aunt. She was great, the girl said. I never thought of myself as not having a mother until this. She patted her precise bulge. Now I really, really wish I’d known her.
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