Martin Lomax takes the tray of coffee and biscuits down to his home cinema. Twenty leather seats all angled towards the screen, which takes up an entire wall. The most people he has ever had in here was four, when the Azerbaijani cup final coincided with a particularly profitable heroin deal. Martin Lomax had brought them down nibbles and everybody seemed to have a good time. Lomax didn’t really understand much about having a good time, but he was good at blending in and not spoiling things for other people. When there was money to be made, at least.
He points the remote control at the screen and brings up his library of movies. Martin Lomax can’t see the point in films at all. It’s just some people acting, how could everyone not see that? Someone writes some words, some idiots from America say them and it seems to send everybody cuckoo. Lomax had gone to the theatre once, and that seemed marginally better. At least the actors were there. At least you could talk to them when you disagreed. He had been asked to leave, but he certainly wouldn’t rule out going again one day.
He scrolls past countless films he will never watch, although he knows lots of the titles by now. He finally reaches another film he will never watch. It is called The Treasure of the Sierra Madre and you can tell by the picture that it is black and white. Black and white? People really were fools. He selects the film and then navigates down through the menu until he finds ‘Subtitles’. A list of languages appears, and Martin Lomax scrolls down until he finds ‘Cantonese’. He selects it. He immediately hears those three familiar electronic beeps, and the cinema screen disappears up into the ceiling. Painted on the wall behind is a rainbow. Martin Lomax places his fingertips at either end of the rainbow. There are three more electronic beeps and a door slides open. Martin Lomax picks up his tray and walks into the vault.
Martin Lomax often likes to have his coffee and biscuits in the vault. It is lovely and cool so as not to damage any of the banknotes, or the priceless paintings that are rolled up against the far wall. He has just received his first Banksy, and he is unimpressed. It is a rat looking at a mobile phone. Why would a rat be looking at a mobile phone? Modern art is beyond Lomax, but he bets that Banksy would be delighted to know his work was now valuable enough to be used as a down payment on an international arms deal. The man who had dropped it off, a Chechen, had said that Banksy’s real name was a secret, but he told him what it was, regardless. Lomax has already forgotten it. Art was a racket; give him gold any day of the week. You didn’t have to understand gold.
The vault is also very quiet, thanks to the six-foot-thick walls surrounding him. You could easily kill someone in here and, in fact, that did happen once. It caused quite a kerfuffle at the time.
Lomax dunks a chocolate-chip cookie in his coffee. The Open Garden week starts today. What will people think of the grounds? Too ornate, too cultivated? Not cultivated enough? Would it rain? Google says there is a zero per cent chance, but how could it possibly know? Would people come? Would they buy his brownies? Would anybody try and get into the house? They would soon discover it was impossible, but what if they got close enough to see all the lasers and the tiny cameras in the hanging baskets? He will leave a comments book outside the pagoda, and he can spend Monday looking through it. Will people write their names? Perhaps he will leave a space for people’s addresses too. If anyone leaves an unpleasant comment he can send someone to pay them a visit.
Lomax sips at his coffee, noticing a couple of cookie crumbs floating on the surface. The coffee is Colombian, as was the man who was shot in the vault with a bolt gun that time. The man’s boss – who had done the shooting, and presumably had his own reasons – had asked Lomax if he might bury the body in the gardens, but Lomax had quite enough buried there already, and so had politely said no. The boss had been understanding, and Lomax had helped drag the body out to his helicopter by way of an apology.
If Lomax sells all of his brownies then he thinks he will be able to raise seventy pounds. He wonders what he will spend it on.
On the whole, Martin Lomax enjoys his job. It is lucrative, and while money isn’t everything – far from it – Martin Lomax has been poor and he’s been rich, and he prefers rich. There is variety, no two days are the same, and that is psychologically healthy. One day will run smoothly, you’ll return some gold bullion to a Bulgarian and everyone is smiles and handshakes, then the next day there’s a car bomb in Kabul and person Y is cutting off person X’s fingers, and everyone wants their money or their paintings or their racehorse, and Martin Lomax is rushed off his feet. It certainly keeps his mind active. Best of all, though, he gets to work from home. Everyone knows that. Martin Lomax won’t come to Monte Carlo or Beirut or Qatar or Buenos Aires. Martin Lomax won’t even travel to the Winchester M&S if he can avoid it. No, you come to Martin Lomax, whether you’re a warlord, whether you’re a trafficker, or whether you’re Ocado.
But sometimes – not often, touch wood – the job is stressful, and this is one of those times. He flips open his laptop and rings the number he has been sent on his encrypted phone. Frank Andrade Jr, the second-in-command of one of New York’s leading crime families. Lomax knows that if the conversation goes badly, the next person he will be speaking to is Frank’s father. Who, from memory, is also called Frank. And if that happens, then Martin Lomax really would have to travel. Probably against his will, in the hold of a private jet.
The Americans want to know what has happened to their twenty million pounds’ worth of diamonds. Of course they do, that’s natural. Martin Lomax doesn’t suppose the value matters all that much to them – they can afford to misplace the odd twenty million every now and again – it is more the issue of trust. Martin Lomax has provided an invaluable service for a long time now, and he has provided it with skill and discretion. He has been a well-oiled cog in the wheels of these huge organizations, beyond reproach and above suspicion. But now?
Andrade’s face fills the screen, suddenly, and he immediately begins to remonstrate with Lomax, his arms windmilling. He brings a fist down on his New York desk.
‘Frank, you’re on mute, I think,’ says Martin Lomax. ‘You need to click on the little microphone. The green button.’
Frank Andrade leans into his screen, mouth open and eyes scanning for the button. He presses it.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘That’s perfect, Frank,’ says Martin Lomax. ‘What were you saying? When you were banging your fist on the desk?’
‘Ah, nothing,’ says Frank. It always disappoints Martin Lomax that Frank doesn’t have a thick New York accent like in the films. He just sounds like a normal American. ‘I was just creating a mood.’
‘No need to create anything with me, Frank,’ says Martin Lomax.
‘Listen, Lomax,’ says Frank. ‘I like you, you know that. My dad likes you. You’re English, we respect that.’
‘I sense a “but” coming, Frank,’ says Martin Lomax.
‘Well, sure,’ says Frank. ‘If we don’t have our diamonds back by the end of next week, we’ll kill you.’
‘OK,’ says Martin Lomax.
‘Maybe you stole them, maybe you didn’t, we’ll deal with that another day. But I will fly over to see you, and if you don’t have them then we will conclude our business with you.’
Martin Lomax nods. This and worrying if everyone will be able to park later. What a day!
‘I will do it myself,’ says Frank. ‘It’ll be quick, I promise you that. That’s the least I can do.’
‘Do you never get tired of all this?’ says Martin Lomax. ‘You know I didn’t steal them, but there always has to be melodrama. I know you have a boss, but really, you should listen to yourself sometimes. You don’t always have to kill everyone, Frank. Douglas Middlemiss stole the diamonds from me …’
‘You say,’ says Frank.
‘Yes, I say,’ says Martin Lomax. ‘And you’ve worked with me long enough to trust me when I do. I am tracking him down as I speak, and soon I will have news for you.’
‘I don’t need news, M
artin, I need the diamonds, and I need them the second I see you. Or …’
‘Or you’ll kill me, yes,’ says Martin Lomax. ‘I’ve got it. Nice and quickly as a mark of respect.’
‘Get my diamonds,’ says Frank.
‘Right you are,’ says Martin Lomax. ‘Love to Claudia and the kids.’
Frank shouts off camera, then returns to the microphone. ‘Claudia says hi back. See you soon, Martin.’
36
When Bogdan was ten years old, his friends had dared him to jump off a bridge. The drop was, perhaps, forty feet, straight into a fast-flowing, rocky river. A boy had died a few years before making the same jump. For a while the local authorities had put barbed wire along the parapet to stop anyone being quite so foolish again. But by this time the barbed wire had rusted and buckled and fallen into the river below. No one had thought to replace it, because money was tight and memories were short. Also, the boy’s mother had killed herself shortly afterwards, so it very quickly began to feel like the whole thing hadn’t happened at all.
Bogdan remembers looking over the side of the bridge, down to the furious white water and the jagged grey of the rocks. There were three main ways he could die if he jumped. The simple impact of his body on the water from this height might kill him instantly. He could easily avoid the rocks he could see, but there were plenty of rocks hidden just below the surface, and if he struck one of them he would die for certain. And if he avoided both of those deaths? Well, the current was fierce and unforgiving, and he would need strength and luck to make it to either bank.
His classmates were goading him, calling him tchórz, a polecat, which is what they called being chicken over here. But Bogdan wasn’t listening, he was staring at the drop. What would it feel like? Flying through the air? He bet it would feel pretty good.
Bogdan knew, even back then, that he was not an especially brave person, and he certainly wasn’t foolhardy. No one would ever accuse him of that. Bogdan is not a risk taker; he is never driven by testosterone or by insecurity. Nonetheless, he remembers taking off his sweater, one his mum had knitted him, and climbing onto the parapet, to the horror of his suddenly frightened friends.
It was a long way down.
‘Do I present the football?’ asks Ron from the back seat. Bogdan is suddenly brought back to the here and now. Driving Elizabeth, Joyce and Ron to visit an international criminal.
‘No,’ says Elizabeth.
They hadn’t been able to agree on a radio station, and so they were playing Twenty Questions, trying to guess the identity of famous people. Ron had guessed Joyce’s one, Noel Edmonds, after getting a ‘yes’ to the question ‘Do I shout at the TV when he comes on?’ They are currently at a dead end trying to guess Elizabeth’s.
‘Am I … who’s the man I’m thinking of, the actor?’ says Joyce.
‘No,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Can we give up?’ says Ron.
‘You’ll kick yourself,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Go on,’ says Ron.
‘I was the murdered Russian oligarch Boris Berezovsky,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh,’ says Ron.
‘Denzel Washington!’ says Joyce. ‘That’s who I was thinking of.’
Bogdan has a bag of sweets, and every twelve minutes he passes them round, because he knows it will keep everyone quiet. He also knows he won’t need to save any sweets for the journey home later, because these three will be fast asleep.
They had talked a little about the murders. Ron thinks that Douglas and Poppy were killed by the mafia. He asked Bogdan if he had ever seen Goodfellas and Bogdan agreed that he had, and Ron said, ‘Well then.’ Joyce thinks that some doctor is involved somehow, and Joyce is usually right. Although, Bogdan thinks, looking down at the friendship bracelet on his wrist, she can’t knit.
What does Elizabeth think? Who knows? She will wait until she’s spoken to this Martin Lomax.
Bogdan would have driven much faster if it was just him. But the combination of Ron’s Daihatsu and Bogdan’s respect for his passengers meant he kept to a steady eighty miles an hour the whole way. Elizabeth would occasionally tell him to put his foot on it, and then Ron would say, ‘Slow down a bit, Bogdan, this isn’t Poland.’ Which suggested he had got it about right.
He sees the signs for Hambledon at around one thirty. As he knew he would. Not satnav either, he refuses to use them. Bogdan turns right or left when Bogdan chooses to turn left or right. You don’t need to tell Bogdan that he’s approaching a roundabout.
Hambledon is a pretty English village, though as they drive through Bogdan spots a few roofs that could do with a bit of attention.
‘This is where the first-ever game of cricket was played,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Probably still going on, knowing cricket,’ says Ron.
They pass a primary school, a pub called The Bat and Ball and even a sign to a vineyard before the first signs to Martin Lomax’s ‘Open Garden’ appear. Soon they reach a broad entrance off a small country lane, iron gates wide open, and welcome notices nailed to trees. Bogdan drives in and parks next to a hedge the size of a house.
As ever, it is taking his three passengers a while to ‘get their things together’.
‘I see you back here, OK?’ says Bogdan. ‘You take as long as you want.’
‘Thank you, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It is very unlikely we’re about to be murdered, but if we’re not back in two hours then come looking for us, and kick up a fuss.’
‘Gotcha,’ says Bogdan, and checks his watch. Saying ‘Gotcha’ always makes him feel very English.
‘And the leaflet says there’s loos, if you need,’ says Joyce, zipping up an anorak and manoeuvring her way out of the car.
‘I won’t need the toilet,’ says Bogdan.
‘Lucky sod,’ says Ron.
And with that they are gone, and there is blessed silence.
Bogdan thinks back to the parapet and the raging river. His friends were begging him not to jump. The sweater his mother had made was yellow, and he sees it now, neatly folded up beside him. He was always good with creases.
He took one last look down. Three ways to die, sure, but we all die someday. To the screams of his friends, Bogdan jumped.
What a feeling, just magical.
He broke three ribs, but they soon healed. It was the right choice, as he had known it would be.
People love to sleep, and yet they are so frightened of death. Bogdan has never understood it.
37
Joyce
What a long day. We’ve just got back from seeing Martin Lomax and now there’s this meeting at Ibrahim’s to go to.
Luckily, I slept all the way back. I woke up with my head on Ron’s shoulder. He has a reassuring shoulder, though no one will hear that from me.
Lomax was not what you would expect at all. Or not what I would expect at all. If you met him in the street, you would think he was a solicitor, or a man who owns a dry cleaner’s, but doesn’t work in it. I would say I found him attractive, except he turned out to be a bit boring, and I can’t find boring men attractive. Believe me, I’ve tried. Wouldn’t it make life simpler?
Although perhaps he isn’t really boring, if everything you hear is true? Killings and gold, and helicopters and whatnot? Though if you need killings and gold and helicopters to make you interesting then I suppose you are still boring at heart. Gerry never needed a helicopter.
And, regardless, I wouldn’t date somebody who killed people.
But all I’m saying is that he looked a bit like Blake Carrington, so don’t blame a girl for looking.
Elizabeth was on to him in a heartbeat, of course. Oh, you must be Mr Lomax, what beautiful gardens, what a beautiful house, is that a pagoda, have you been to Japan, Mr Lomax, you must, you simply must. She is a terrible flirt.
Poor Martin Lomax looked half scared to death, though perhaps that was the point?
Ron was next up. He nodded to the house and said, ‘How much did that set you back?’
Lomax had no answer, and when Ron added, ‘You’ve got effing turrets, mate, effing turrets,’ Lomax pretended to see someone in the crowd and said he must be off.
Elizabeth linked her arm into his and said, ‘Well, let’s walk together, what a day, glorious,’ and Lomax tried, very politely, to shake her off. But no such luck for him.
Elizabeth wondered if she might ask him a few questions, and Lomax said everything she needed to know about the gardens was in the leaflet we’d picked up at the entrance. And Elizabeth said, ‘Well, I doubt very much the information I need to know is in the leaflet, I doubt that very much indeed, Mr Lomax.’
Slight worry crossed his face at this point. People really don’t buy that Elizabeth is a harmless old woman for very long. With me it lasts much longer, but Elizabeth doesn’t have that gift. So Lomax wrenched himself away and said he wished Elizabeth good day and he had plants to attend to.
Elizabeth let him get a couple of metres away before saying, quite quietly, ‘I just wondered, before you’re far enough away that I have to raise my voice, did you kill Douglas and Poppy yourself, or did you send someone else to do it again?’
Well, that got his attention all right. He turned – and honestly he really does look a bit like Blake Carrington – and he said, ‘Who are you?’ and Elizabeth said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ and told him they really should chat, because they were both looking for the same thing.
‘And what are you looking for?’ he asked, and Elizabeth said, ‘Let’s talk about that, shall we?’
So, arm in arm, she led Martin Lomax away from the crowds, and around to the side of the house, and introduced herself, and me and Ron. Bogdan had driven us, but he stayed in the car. He is learning Arabic from a tape.
Elizabeth asked Lomax if Douglas had told him where the diamonds were before he’d shot him, and Lomax said he had no idea what she was talking about, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes and said, ‘Look, let’s just be honest with each other, we’re both old hands.’
The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Page 14