Connections

by Hilary Bailey

  “You’re back early, aren’t you?” he asked. “How was the holiday?”

  “Hot,” she told him.

  He looked at her curiously, but said no more. He told her, “Two people came in asking for you before Christmas. One was a man and then there was a girl.”

  “Who were they?” she asked.

  “They didn’t say,” he replied. “The girl left a Christmas card, but it got lost.”

  Fleur, suspecting they might be debt collectors who had caught up with Verity Productions, asked no more and began putting glasses in the washer. In some ways she didn’t regret leaving Barbados and her father behind, but she was worried, very worried. If Ben wasn’t going to come back to help her settle things she was in a tricky position.

  Jess’s father had advised her to go to the firm’s old accountant and ask for help. He’d added, “Send the bill to me. I’ll pay it and you can pay me back when you can.” Touched by his offer, Fleur had agreed to see Gerry Sullivan as soon as possible, with or without Ben.

  Since Patrick had now begun a new regime of producing pub meals Fleur worked an eight-hour shift at top speed, the Cray Hill residents evidently having decided that one more turkey meal was too many and descended in force for lasagnes and shepherd’s pies. During her half-hour break she phoned Gerry Sullivan’s office, which was closed, and left a message.

  Next morning, as she was unpacking her bag, Dominic rang her doorbell and called out, “Will somebody open up in there, for God’s sake?”

  She opened the door and found him there, looking fit and cheerful, with Jason beside him wagging his tail. “You look well,” she said. “So does Jason.”

  He came straight in and embraced her. “I’ve missed you, you know. I wished all the time you were there. But aren’t you back a bit early? What happened?”

  “It’s a long story,” she said.

  “We’d better lie down while you tell me,” he declared.

  He still smelt of the sea. It had been a rough crossing and he brought to her a land of country vigour; she heard waves crash, saw bare trees against a skyline, walked a lane, crunching with frost.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Ah – that’s the stuff. That’s the business. Why did I miss you so much? More important – did you miss me?”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Oh – the family. Joe and me built a fence for my uncle. They’d killed a pig and a turkey. It was grand, being out there in the country. It wouldn’t do forever, mind.”

  “Any girls?”

  “They tried to marry me to my cousin. But I left the offer on the table, as you say in your world. What happened to you?”

  She told him about the place, the arrival of Ben, the offer of money, her escape. “So I spent Christmas at Jess’s. Jess said I’d done the right thing by leaving. Surprise.”

  “It looks like they were trying to give you everything you wanted, even a husband,” he said neutrally. She hadn’t told him she’d slept with Ben, he hadn’t asked, but they both knew she had and Dominic didn’t like it.

  “I’m glad to be back in Cray Hill,” she said, “and I never thought I’d say that.”

  He seemed to push aside the idea of Ben. “So why did you say no to all that?”

  “I’ve told you – I didn’t want to be bought.”

  “That’s not the whole thing, though, is it?” he said.

  Lying there with Dominic, content and detached, she said, “No – it was too much, too soon. Two days after I arrived, suddenly there’s Ben, next day a big offer of money. I thought I was just being wet to be startled by all this, and scared. I thought somebody with a bit of gumption would have just grabbed it, made something of it. But even Jess said it was too quick. It’s like – they were desperate. My father was desperate. He must want a child who isn’t on drugs or isn’t living far away and won’t come back. Probably his only fault was trying too hard. He’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dominic said, not convinced.

  “To hell with them,” said Fleur.

  “Including Ben?” he asked.

  “I don’t know about Ben.”

  “Tell me when you do.”

  Fleur’s phone rang. She got up to answer it.

  “Fleur – it’s Robin. I’m surprised you’re back already. We’re just back from Portugal. I’m sorry not to have rung from there, as promised. It was awkward. Of course, you’re owed an explanation. Grace and I were wondering whether you were free to come down here?”

  Fleur was reluctant. She would have to go by train, which would cost more than she wanted; the weather was awful and she would, having got Patrick to give her a shift at the Findhorn, be obliged to let him down straight away.

  She was explaining to Robin when she saw Dominic signalling from the bedroom door. She put her hand over the receiver. “Joe’s bought a van. I’ll run you down,” he said.

  Fleur thought. In a van the journey would take less than two hours each way, even allowing for bad traffic. She could be back for an evening shift at the Findhorn. “Now?” she asked.

  “Whenever.”

  “OK.”

  She told Robin she could get a lift from a friend and be in Kent by lunchtime at the latest.

  They got dressed and got into Joe’s van, which still had Irish number plates and a basket of vegetables at the back.

  “Didn’t know you could drive,” she said to Dominic on the way out of London.

  “I learned on the farm as a boy,” he said. “Then in the city, well – taking and driving away was what it was called, legally.”

  “Have you got a licence?”

  “Is the Pope a Jew?” he asked charily, cutting up a taxi driver.

  Fleur had a lift and, she now realised with relief, a witness to what was going to occur at Bucknells, which she felt oddly nervous about. So, telling herself she couldn’t have everything, she kept her fingers crossed on the journey, hoping there would be no point where Dominic got stopped and had to produce a driving licence.

  Leading Dominic up the garden path at Bucknells, past the old yew, old lawn and the flower beds, now tidied and mulched, she could feel his cynical amusement at the picture of southern comfort he was seeing. She even turned, before she pressed the doorbell, to make sure he wasn’t grinning openly. He was not.

  Grace opened the door, Fleur stepped in. “This is Dominic,” she said. “He’s a neighbour and he kindly gave me a lift down.”

  “You’ve made good time,” Grace said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  It was awkward, Fleur knew, having Dominic there when they were meant to be discussing family business – worse because it was family business connected with money, worse still perhaps because Dominic did not give the impression of having had the luxury of much family or money. Fleur didn’t care.

  They sat in the sitting-room talking about the journey. Then Grace said, “Jess told me you left Barbados early.”

  “I got ill,” Fleur said and then, realising this was nothing but a childish bid for her mother’s sympathy, added, “She must have told you why I left.”

  Grace shook her head. “Really, Fleur,” she said in wild reproach.

  Robin said, “Come out and see my workshop, Dominic,” and they left the room.

  Fleur and her mother were now alone. “You tipped me into it, Mum,” Fleur said. “If you or Robin had called me back and told me how long you’d been getting my father’s money, and how much, I wouldn’t have felt so threatened.”

  “Really, Fleur,” her mother said again, this time with some indignation. “Threatened? Who or what was threatening you?”

  “I was in a strange place with people I didn’t know. I didn’t even have any fare back until Ben turned up. So I was trapped as far as I knew. Then an awful man who’s supposed to be a relative and keeps on making passes at me, though he’s married, came in when I had sunstroke and presented me with information about you and Robin receiving generous sum
s of money from this unknown father of mine – which I knew nothing about… What do you think I felt like?”

  “I should have thought you might have felt rather privileged,” Grace said. “As it is, you must have upset your father very much, bolting away like that. What did Ben say?”

  “He wasn’t there most of the time,” Fleur told her mother. “Didn’t Jess tell you? He’d gone on a cruise to St Lucia.”

  “Oh – I don’t know,” Grace said. “I really thought this holiday would do you good.”

  Fleur sighed. “You aren’t going to tell me about this money, are you?”

  “I don’t think I need to go into all the details,” her mother said. “You know now that Richard assisted in your support. Naturally: you’re his child, he’s a wealthy man.”

  Fleur gave up. She knew she was never going to learn from her mother the extent of Dickie Jethro’s financial contribution to all their lives. At any rate she was now about one hundred per cent certain he had never stopped the donations. Grace and her stepfather were Dickie Jethro’s pensioners.

  Grace said, “Once I was pregnant my career as a dancer was over. Richard knew that. I didn’t want to explain all that to you. It might have implied you put a stop to my life as a dancer. How could I burden you with that?”

  “I suppose so,” said Fleur. There was a grain of truth in what Grace said, and about a pound of omission.

  Grace added, “Granny advised me very strongly to accept an allowance from Richard. That was what finally persuaded me.”

  “It was the obvious thing to do,” Fleur said.

  “I’m glad you see that, at last,” Grace said, an edge to her voice, “and – I won’t say any more about it after this – but I do think you should think about your father’s offer.”

  “That’s really between him and me, now,” said Fleur.

  “Exactly – that’s why I’ve said I’ll make no further comment. Why don’t you go out and see how your friend’s getting on with Robin? What a remarkably handsome young man, by the way. He’s your neighbour?”

  “Yes. He’s Irish,” said Fleur.

  “I’d gathered that. What about Ben, by the way?”

  “He may come back to Britain to help clear up the mess – or not. I don’t know.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” said Grace.

  “I’ll go and see how Dominic and Robin are getting along,” Fleur said.

  In Robin’s workshop, large, well-windowed and kept warm by a fan heater, Dominic and Robin were bent over a vice. Robin was saying, “You just have to twist it, very gently, persuade it almost, to the left. Yes – that’s right. The trick is to get it in place fast.”

  He quickly undid the vice, flashed a glue brush and, taking the bent strut, slotted both ends into the chair seat by his work bench.

  “That’s a lovely shape of chair,” Dominic said. “Traditional. Classic.”

  “Thank God someone still wants them,” Robin said. “In fact everyone does these days. There’s a shop in Guildford I supply. They can’t get enough of them. I’ve been thinking of getting a bigger workshop.”

  “You couldn’t very well extend here,” Dominic said.

  “I know,” Robin said. “It’s a problem. The other being that the vicar wants me to replace some of the carved choir stalls and if I’m pumping out chairs I won’t have the time.”

  Fleur stepped outside to enjoy the familiar pleasures of the garden in winter, the dull green of grass, the skeletons of trees behind the wall at the back, tiny shoots of snowdrops just tipping through the black earth of the flowerbeds, waiting for the end of winter. She walked slowly back into the house.

  Grace was in the kitchen, chopping cabbage for coleslaw. “They’re getting on well,” Fleur told her. “It’s the great fellowship of manual labour. They’ll be under the van soon, with wrenches, if no one stops them.”

  “What does Dominic do?”

  “He’s a builder. He’s working on a big block in the City.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with honest labour,” Grace declared democratically. “Are you still starting that computer course?”

  “On Monday,” she said.

  “That’s one good thing about abandoning Barbados,” her mother said. “You can start the course on time.”

  Fleur laughed. The argument about the money was over. All was well, at least for the time being.

  In the van, going through Brixton, Dominic said, “Robin’s thinking of selling the house and putting the money into a small factory – big workshop type of thing.”

  “Robin? Selling the house? I don’t believe it.”

  “He thinks your father’s going to cut off the money,” Dominic said. “He didn’t say as much, but I’m as good as sure that’s what he meant. It may already have happened. That would mean he’s got to earn what they spend.”

  “Oh Christ,” Fleur cried. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do. He doesn’t seem too happy.”

  “Cutting them off – that’s just vindictive,” Fleur said.

  “That’s what it takes to be a man like your father – brains, guts, initiative, energy, readiness to take a risk and a vindictive streak. I got the impression Robin might be relieved to give up the money.”

  “People always surprise you,” said Fleur.

  Twenty-One

  So William, not for the first time Prothero sent for me. I thought I’d go and see what he had to say. Anyway, he had the drop on me over the Irish Farm business, so I had to be civil. He got some tea sent in on a tray, nice teapot and cups, plate of expensive bikkies.

  Prothero, proffering the plate of biscuits, said, “We want you to look for someone.”

  “Can’t you find him?” I cheekily asked.

  “We don’t want to find him officially. But unofficially we want to know where he is.”

  “I hope if I find him you won’t want me to dispose of him,” I said, laying out my attitude for inspection straight away.

  He ignored this. “It’s a sensitive matter,” he said. “The man’s name is August Tallinn.”

  Why wasn’t I surprised? I said, “This is the Russian smuggler you’ve been protecting from extradition to Germany.” I tactfully didn’t mention Uncle Roger and the failed assassination attempt. Prothero, meanwhile, was looking at me carefully. I guessed if I found Tallinn Prothero would ask me to kill him, so I told him, “I’d rather not. I’m pretty busy. Can’t your own men find him? Anyway, from what I’ve seen I doubt if he’s still in Britain.”

  Prothero leaned forward and said, “We’re getting a lot of pressure from Sinn Fein to examine the Irish Farm incident more closely. As you know they’ve never been happy that the investigation was in the hands of the army.”

  So we were back with that one. I realised I had to go along with him. So I put my hands up. “OK. Any fee involved?” I asked. He just looked at me.

  He gave me an address in Finsbury Park where, according to a snitch they had inside Russian circles, Tallinn was supposed to be hiding out. For two nights and three days we watched the bloody flat, seeing a seemingly innocent couple going about their business.

  I rang Prothero and told him that there seemed to be no sign of Tallinn where we were. He said to keep on observing. I put listening equipment in a white van with a breakdown notice on the front and Scottie and I spent twenty-four hours in it listening to the refugee family getting up, eating, playing with the kids, leaving for work, arriving home, watching EastEnders, washing up, making love, going to sleep. If Tallinn was in there he had to be lying down saying nothing, not eating, drinking or going to the toilet.

  Again I reported back to Prothero and told him I was ninety-five per cent certain Tallinn wasn’t there in the flat. I told him I couldn’t stay in Finsbury Park indefinitely. I had other jobs to do.

  Prothero said, “Get in there and make sure.”

  Goolies and Kemal got themselves up as men from London Electricity, waited for Mr Mishkin to depart for another shift, banged on
the door, held up their ID and marched straight in. The woman, a bit scared and with little English, didn’t stop them while they went from room to room testing plugs and sockets, though she followed them anxiously, the nippers in train.

  I went round to Prothero’s riverside office and said bluntly, “He’s not there. Why don’t you just let him leave the country, if he hasn’t already? If he doesn’t want to be here, and you don’t want him, let him go. Easy.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, a thought too deep for tears. It worried me. He said, “We’d regard that as a rather sloppy solution.” If it had been the sort of solution they favoured, Prothero would have described it as “pragmatic”. Obviously since it had been classified “sloppy” the option of letting Tallinn go was not recommended. They didn’t want Tallinn running around unsupervised, wherever he was – Moscow, Rio or Miami. Or so I thought.

  I told him, “There’s no point in me doing things you can do better yourself. If you really want Tallinn, use the police. Claim he’s done an armed robbery somewhere, circulate his picture and hope the cops can bring him in.”

  Prothero was too pissed off to reply. I saw he wasn’t really pissed off with me apart from the fact that I was there. Something about the situation annoyed him. He knew if Tallinn wasn’t in Finsbury Park, and perhaps never had been, he couldn’t find him without another tip-off, unless he instigated a police search, which obviously he didn’t want to do. Why not? Presumably because the police couldn’t be relied on to keep the matter under wraps. Someone might recognise Tallinn from the picture circulated, someone might talk, the press might get hold of the story. Prothero didn’t want any publicity about Tallinn. I suspected this wasn’t only because they’d been incompetent and let him escape, but perhaps, just maybe, Tallinn had a tale to tell, knew something Prothero or his masters wanted to keep secret. Which would explain the British reluctance to hand him over to the Germans. And why, when it became embarrassing to go on protecting him, they – perfidious Albion as usual – decided to bump him off. But Tallinn, who’d grown up in a hard school, had anticipated this. Now he was running around like a loose dog they couldn’t find and didn’t want anybody else to find, and poor old Prothero was going to get the blame. Oh dear.