‘I’d be prepared to stand by him.’
‘Naturally. But if he’s lied to you, what then? If he’s set out to deceive you and in the process done untold harm ’ Farnsworth spread his palms.‘There’s something I need to show you.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t have it with me. Perhaps I could arrange for it to be delivered to you later. Are you staying with your nephew?’
‘No. I’m in a hotel.’
‘Excellent. I’ll have it sent to you there. Which one?’
Nick hesitated, but could see no reason to conceal his whereabouts.‘The Thistle. In Leith Street.’
‘Very well. Before the day is out, the proof will be in your hands.’
‘Proof of what?’
‘You’ll see.’ Farnsworth smiled.‘I promise.’
Farnsworth invited Nick to join him in a saunter round the National Gallery of Scotland, where he claimed to adjourn most mornings for a refreshing dose of fine art.‘I find ten minutes spent in the Impressionist room quite sets me up for the day.’ Nick declined and was happy to let Farnsworth turn left outside Robusta while he turned right.
He headed north to Circus Gardens, having promised Tom an immediate report on the encounter. Tom answered the door unshaven and dressed only in a thin towelling bathrobe. He looked as if skipping his normal early visit to Robusta had been no hardship. He looked, in fact, as if Nick’s departure the night before had not necessarily been his cue for lights out.
‘It’s well gone ten,’ Tom said huskily, dragging back the sitting-room curtains to let in a flood of grey light.‘I guess you must have found our friend.’
‘He was there.’
‘Said he would be.’ Tom slumped down in a chair and yawned.‘How’d he explain that?’
‘Implausibly.’
‘But slickly?’
‘Very.’
‘He didn’t admit to dogging my footsteps, then?’
‘No.’
‘But you can see he is.’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Then they must know I’m on to them.’
‘Guess so.’
‘Yeah.’ Tom rubbed his face.‘I could use a coffee. Want one?’
‘No thanks. I just—’
‘Had a decent cup at Robusta.‘Course you did. Well, see me to the kitchen. I might keel over on the way.’
Tom stood up, stretched and padded off to the kitchen, with Nick tagging along. Once there, he filled the kettle, switched it on and spooned some coffee granules into a mug, then propped himself against the work top and yawned again.
‘What am I going to do, Nick?’
‘About Farnsworth? I’m not sure. You can’t stop the man hanging around Edinburgh. And you can’t prove he and Terry are up to no good.’
‘Them knowing each other proves that to me.’
‘Setting up the Tantris fraud involved a lot of money. Half a million pounds in ready cash. Would Terry have that amount on tap?’
‘Easily.’ There was a spark of alertness in the glance Tom shot at Nick before the kettle boiled. He turned away to fill his mug.‘You think he bankrolled the operation?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It would fit, I suppose.’ Tom topped up his coffee from the cold tap and took a wincing sip.‘I’d wondered myself, to be honest. If the money was his contribution, I mean. I also wondered if Farnsworth might have told Dad that when they met up at Tintagel.’
‘In front of Davey? It seems unlikely.’
‘We’ve only Farnsworth’s word for it that they didn’t continue their chat somewhere else.’
‘Andrew said nothing about it to me.’
‘He wouldn’t, would he? The whole Terry, Mum and me situation would have been mixed up in his mind. He’d have worried that no-one would believe him, that they’d write it off as a pathetic attempt to get Mum back.’
‘I suppose.’ The layers of pretended knowledge and ignorance were becoming too much for Nick. He decided to cut through them. ‘Farnsworth’s sending me something later.’
‘What?’
‘Proof, he called it.’
‘Proof?’
‘Of why he’s to be trusted, I think he meant.’
‘But he isn’t to be trusted.’
‘No. So, it can’t amount to much, can it?’
‘The guy talks in fucking riddles.’
Tom thumped his mug down on the worktop and padded out into the hall, leaving Nick to contemplate a black crescent of spilt coffee at the base of the mug. From the hall came the sound of a lighter being flicked. A few seconds later Tom reappeared in the doorway, dragging on a cigarette.
‘Can you remember the last thing Dad said to you, Nick?’
‘Very clearly.’
‘What was it?’
‘ “Let go of me.”’
‘ “Let go of me.”’ Tom repeated the words so softly and swiftly they almost sounded like an echo. ‘And you did. We all did.’
‘He didn’t know they were going to be his last words, Tom. They don’t signify anything.’
‘I disagree. The fact that he didn’t know makes them all the more significant.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Yeah.’ Tom gazed at Nick through a slowly spreading haze of cigarette smoke. ‘Maybe I have.’
Nick left Tom to shower and breakfast and walked back into the city centre. He had no idea what to do next, except wait on Farnsworth’s promise. The man was not to be trusted. Tom was right about that. But who was to be trusted? The only name that came to mind was Basil’s.
And Basil, bless him, had telephoned at last. When Nick switched his mobile back on, he found a message waiting for him.
‘I’ve tried your hotel twice to no avail. It’s Saturday morning here, as I hope it still is there when you hear this. I have, as a matter of simple fact, nothing to report. Hardly surprising, since you’ve forbidden me to do anything until we’ve spoken, which I trust we’ll soon be able to do. I’ll try again later. Arrivederci.’
Basil’s impatience was understandable. But what was Nick to tell him? That he was being played for a sucker by someone but he did not know which of several candidates that someone was? It was true. But it was no help to either of them.
The rain was harder now and the wind was strengthening. His box of a room at the Thistle holding no appeal, Nick decided to take Farnsworth up on his recommendation of the National Gallery. It was busy but not unduly crowded. There was no sign of Farnsworth, even in the Impressionist room. Nick wandered round, gazing up at one picture after another, some of them beautiful, some brilliant, some neither, unable in his distracted state to appreciate the differences. After an aimless hour or so, he left.
A gale was raging by now. He struggled through it to the Café Royal and saw off his hangover with rather more than the hair of the dog. It was mid-afternoon when he returned to the Thistle. By then he had drunk enough to have stopped caring about the uncertainties gnawing away at him. He lay down on the bed in his room and fell instantly into deep, dreamless sleep.
It was dark when he woke. Night had fallen. He could hear the rain still beating against the window. He peered at the luminous dial of his alarm clock: it was nearly half past eight. He switched on the bedside lamp, waited until his eyes had adjusted to the glare, then sat up.
He saw it at once: a square white envelope, lying on the floor near the door. It had been slipped beneath the door while he was sleeping. There came a sudden, fluttering rush of palpitations. He took several long, slow breaths, waiting for the attack to pass. Then he rose, crossed the room and picked up the envelope.
It was blank, the flap unsealed. Nick carried it back to the bed and sat down again. He lifted the flap of the envelope, reached inside and pulled out an A5-sized black-and-white photograph.
The photograph had been taken through a Café window. There were reflections of passers-by in the glass and, beyond the window, a couple of tables in, a man and a woman were sitting opposite each o
ther. The woman appeared to be talking and was gesturing with her hand, while the man was listening impassively, staring at her apparently in rapt attention. They were in Robusta, Nick realized. The photographer was some distance away, judging by assorted blurs in the foreground. The pair were clearly unaware that they were being filmed. And no wonder, since the man was Tom Paleologus and he was sharing a table with Elspeth Hartley.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ground-floor flat at 8 Circus Gardens was in darkness, the curtains open. As far as Nick could tell as he craned over the basement railings, there was no-one at home. He rang Tom’s bell several times, more in hope than expectation. There was no response.
It was close to nine thirty on a cold, wet night. But it was Saturday, so Tom’s absence was hardly suspicious. Nick was suspicious, though. Tom was the conspirator, not Terry. The photograph proved that. The rendezvous between Terry and Julian Farnsworth on Plymouth Hoe could well have been an invention. But Tom’s rendezvous with Elspeth Hartley was real and undeniable.
Nick retreated to the Café Royal and sipped a pint till closing time. He was tempted to phone Farnsworth, but something held him back. The photographic evidence suggested he owed Tom nothing, but still he felt he owed him a chance to explain.
How could he explain, though? Tom had known of Farnsworth’s promise to supply Nick with what he had called proof. And he must have realized Nick would want to discuss it with him, whatever it turned out to be. Was that why he had gone missing? If so, it was a futile evasion. He would have to return eventually. And Nick would be waiting when he did.
But midnight came and went in Circus Gardens with no sign of Tom. It had stopped raining by then, but the temperature was plummeting. None of the windows at number 8 was lit. In the end, Nick had no choice but to give up—until the morning.
Nothing had changed when Nick returned, early on a chill New Town Sabbath. The curtains of Tom’s flat did not look to have been drawn overnight. Nick could see straight into the room where they had sat drinking whisky in the small hours of Saturday morning. And the room was empty. He took a few pointless stabs at Tom’s bell. Silence was the only answer.
Then, just as he turned away, a bustling figure rounded the corner from the next street and started up the steps leading to the door, only to stop abruptly at the sight of Nick, who found himself looking down at a short, plump, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairstyle that added at least six inches to her height. She was wearing a beltless fur-trimmed white raincoat, sheepskin mittens, black leggings and thick-soled cherry-red boots, with a pair of sunglasses perched somewhere in the auburn beehive. Under one arm she held a thick wodge of Sunday newsprint.
‘Looking for me, dear?’ she enquired with a quizzical smile.
‘No, er—Tom Paleologus.’
‘It’s a mite early for young Tom. He’s probably sleeping off last night.’
‘You know what he was doing?’
‘No. But he’s young and it was Saturday. Tell me’—she frowned at Nick -‘are you and he related?’
‘I’m his uncle.’
‘Yes, there’s a resemblance. So you’d be—’
‘Nick Paleologus.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Nick. I’m Una Strawn. I live in the first-floor flat.’
‘I’m anxious to contact Tom Una. I’m worried about him. His father died recently.’
‘So I heard. Terrible, quite terrible. But Tom seemed fine when I last saw him. Friday, it would have been. I don’t think you need to be worried.’
‘Even so—’
‘Tell you what. Come in with me and see if you can raise him.’
Una shook a key out of one of her mittens and led the way into the communal entrance hall. Nick went straight to Tom’s door and gave it several loud knocks.‘Tom?’ he called, following that up with some still louder knocks. But there was no sound from within.
‘Do you want a coffee, Nick?’ asked Una as she went on up the stairs.‘I set some to perk before stepping out for the papers.’
‘Well—thanks.’ Nick started after her.‘Very kind of you.’
‘Not at all. I may have misled you about Tom. He could have gone away for the weekend for all I know.’
‘I saw him yesterday morning. He didn’t say he was going away.’
‘Maybe not, but the impulsiveness of youth—’ Una opened the door to her own flat and Nick followed her in.
The layout was identical to Tom’s flat, but that was hard to remember when faced with Una’s enthusiasm for purple walls, shag-pile rugs and bead-fringed throws. The kitchen seemed to contain more books and magazines than pots and pans by about fifty to one, but the percolator had done its work in her absence. She filled a couple of chunky breakfast cups with the aromatic brew and invited Nick to sit down at the Tatler-littered table. Then she took off her raincoat to reveal a voluminous pink mohair jumper that reached almost to her knees and sat down opposite him.
‘Have you come far, Nick?’
‘From Cornwall.’
‘Where Tom’s father lived?’
‘That’s right.’ Nick sipped some coffee.‘I am worried about him, Una.’
‘So I can tell. And it’s true.’
‘What is?’
‘He’s not been himself this past month or more. Not since the turn of the year, in fact.’
‘We can’t put that down to his father’s death.’
‘No more we can.’
‘What, then?’
‘He did break up with his girlfriend. Such a pity. They made a lovely couple.’
‘Do you know what went wrong?’
‘There was someone else, I think.’
‘In Tom’s life, you mean?’
‘Yes, though she doesn’t seem to have made him very happy. I’ve never seen her, mind, and Tom’s said not a word. But Sasha—’
‘Who?’
‘Sasha Lovell, the girlfriend I mentioned. I bumped into her recently and she was still raw about the whole thing, but quite clear that Tom had ditched her because of—well, someone she called Harriet.’
‘Harriet Elsmore?’
‘Just Harriet.’
‘Take a look at this.’ Nick pulled out the photograph and showed it to her.‘Recognize the woman with Tom?’
Una peered closely.‘Where did you get this picture from? It looks like it was taken at the Robusta.’
‘It’s a long story. Do you recognize the woman?’
‘I don’t think so. Who is she?’
‘She could be Harriet.’
‘Well, as to that—’ Una gave a mohaired shrug.‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Maybe Sasha could.’
‘Maybe.’
‘How would I contact her?’
‘She’s a student at the university. She was a year behind Tom. They’d have an address for her, I dare say, though getting hold of it on a Sunday…’
‘You don’t know where she lives?’
‘No. That is—’ A thought seemed to strike Una.‘When I met her I was coming out of the Odeon in Clerk Street. My friend Queenie and I often go there of an afternoon. It’s cheap rate before five o’clock, you know. Anyway, Sasha was walking past as we came out, on her way home from the University. “I live just over there,” I remember she said, pointing across the road. We chatted for a few minutes while Queenie went to wait for our bus. That’s when Sasha mentioned this Harriet creature. “She’s no good for him,” she said, “but he just doesn’t see it.” Then our bus came along and I had to dash.’ Seeing Nick’s frown, she added,‘It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’
‘Sorry. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.’
‘I’m sure there’s no serious cause for concern. Tom’s grieving for his father and maybe wondering if throwing Sasha over was such a good idea. That’ll be all there is to it.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Nick lied, thinking as he did so: if only.
It was a long shot, but the only one Nick could take. Clerk Street was a stretch
of the main road leading south from the city centre. Nick’s taxi dropped him opposite a closed Odeon cinema in a neighbourhood of burger bars, kebab joints and betting shops, with bedsits above most of them. It was, he supposed, the sort of area where students lacking a wealthy stepfather ended up.
But Sasha Lovell’s name did not appear next to any of the bell-pushes in nearby doorways. Most bells lacked a name altogether, so Nick’s search was beginning to look as if it was over before it had begun.‘Just over there’ from the Odeon, as Una had quoted Sasha as saying, could have included the adjacent side-street, however. Nick decided to check it out.
Rankeillor Street was lined with Georgian terraced houses in varying states of disrepair. The Salisbury Crags loomed dull red in the middle distance, skewing Nick’s sense of perspective. He trudged from door to door, along the northern side of the street, the conviction growing on him that he was wasting his time, although what better use he could make of it was a moot point.
And mooter still when, at the far end, he found himself staring somewhat disbelievingly at the name SASHA printed in faded capitals on a small laminated card. He pressed the bell next to it. Ten seconds slowly and silently elapsed. He pressed it again.
There was a squeal of swollen wood somewhere above him, a rattle of window and sash. He stepped back from the door and looked up to see a round-faced young woman with orange, spiky hair staring down at him from two floors above.
‘What can I do you for?’ she called.
‘Sasha Lovell?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Nick Paleologus, Tom’s uncle.’
‘Are you now?’
‘Could we have a word?’
‘What about?’
‘Tom. I’m worried about him.’
‘Well, maybe I’m not.’
‘I really would be grateful for a few minutes of your time, Sasha. It’s important.’
Sasha looked undecided. She glanced behind her, then back down at Nick.
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