The Richmond Diary

by Peter Rawlinson

  She ran up the Brompton Road and found a call box. Shaking, she looked up the number of News Universal and got through to the legal department.

  ‘Godfrey Lacey is in Manchester. He’s due back late tonight,’ the woman’s voice said. ‘I’ll give you his home number. At least, it’s the number where he’s staying. He’s moved. He’s with a friend.’

  Godfrey had indeed moved. He’d left Alice. ‘Why all of a sudden?’ Alice had asked. ‘Why not before?’ He’d replied that he’d said he’d go when she was settled. ‘You’re pathetic,’ Alice had said. He had filled a suitcase and when he came downstairs she had the baby in her arms. He’d put half a dozen fifty-pound notes on the kitchen table that he’d drawn from the office to meet his expenses in Paris. ‘I’ll keep up the mortgage,’ he’d said. ‘The father will have to support the child.’ As he left, she stood in the door and shouted, ‘You’ll have to pay, you’ll have to pay a fucking sight more than that.’

  He’d gone to a friend, Brian Reed, who had been his best man and lived in Fulham. They’d been in chambers together, Patrick Foxley’s chambers. Brian had not been surprised when Godfrey had asked him. He’d known the marriage couldn’t last. Godfrey and the foulmouthed cockney. It was just sex, he’d supposed.

  Brian let him have his attic room, reached from the hall by a built-in ladder. Godfrey could stay there until he found a place.

  When Anna called asking for Godfrey, Brian answered. Godfrey, he informed her, was in the north and expected back late. Then he said, ‘You sound upset. Can I do anything?’

  Hesitantly Anna told him what had happened. ‘I need a lawyer and he’s the only one I know in London.’

  ‘Where are you?’ Brian asked. When she told him he said she was just round the corner from him. ‘Come to my place. I’m a lawyer. We’ll see what we can do.’

  Brian, fresh-faced, tubby, was in the street outside the house where he had his flat, waiting for her. When he brought her upstairs and they entered the sitting room a tall dark man was standing with his back to the fireplace. ‘This is Patrick Foxley,’ Brian said. ‘Now let me get you a drink. You look as if you need it.’

  He brought her vodka on the rocks while Patrick Foxley watched as she sat, still trembling. ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’ She nursed the drink in both hands. ‘It’s silly but I got rather frightened. I just wanted to get away from the studio.’

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ Brian said.

  When she’d finished, Patrick asked, ‘Have you the telephone number?’ She handed him the slip Streatley had given her, and he picked up the telephone and dialled.

  ‘An answer service,’ he muttered over his shoulder. Then Anna heard him say, ‘This is Patrick Foxley QC, speaking on behalf of Miss James. She has reported your threats and your outrageous behaviour. Unless the light is restored the police will be informed and you’ll be taken to court.’ He slammed down the receiver and stood looking down at her. ‘He may be keeping away from the telephone deliberately so there’s probably little we can do tonight. Tomorrow we’ll get him.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You seem exhausted. You need something to eat.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t want anything.’

  For a time no one spoke. At last Patrick said ‘We won’t be able to get the light on and he may not be back tonight. What will you do?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll have to go back. I’ve nowhere else to go.’ Again there was silence.

  Then Patrick said, ‘You had better come to me.’

  She looked up, questioning.

  ‘You can’t go back to your studio. Brian has no room here. I live round the corner in Tregunter Road and I have a spare room. You can spend the night there. In the morning we shall deal with Streatley.’

  ‘But I can’t—’ she began.

  ‘Yes you can. You look all in. You’d better come now.’

  Almost before she had time to consider he had her by the arm, walking her out of the flat and down the Fulham Road. As they went, he said ‘I know about Streatley. He sold a diary to the Sunday News. They are Lacey’s employers so Lacey mightn’t be able to help you.’ He paused. ‘How did you meet Lacey?’

  ‘In Paris. At least, on the train. I didn’t know any other lawyer in England.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see to Streatley.’

  ‘Are you a lawyer?’

  ‘I am, but I’m not the kind you need for this. I’ll get you the right man.’

  ‘How did you know about Streatley?’ she asked.

  ‘Through my work.’

  ‘He’s not very pleasant.’

  ‘I imagine that he is not.’

  ‘I’m putting you to a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I have plenty of room,’ he said shortly. He had taken his arm from hers. ‘In case you’re worried, you’ll be quite safe.’

  She stopped. ‘I didn’t think I wouldn’t be,’ she began angrily.

  He took her by the elbow. ‘We’re nearly there.’

  He was walking very quickly and he hurried her along. They turned into Tregunter Road and he led her into a ground-floor apartment in a tall house. ‘The spare room is downstairs in the basement.’

  He went ahead down some stairs and threw open the door of a bedroom. ‘The bathroom leads off it,’ he said. ‘Would you like a hot drink?’ She shook her head. ‘I’ll bring you some pyjamas.’ He reappeared a moment later and handed them to her. ‘I’ll arrange for an alarm call for eight o’clock. The telephone is by the bed. The daily woman will be here soon after eight. Here’s a sleeping pill.’ He paused and looked at her seriously. Then he smiled. ‘There’s a lock on the door. Now I have to work. Goodnight.’ And he was gone.

  She wandered around the room. It was like a room in an hotel: no photographs, no books. Flower prints on the walls. Nothing to indicate the personality of its owner. There were soap and towels in the bathroom.

  He’s very cool, she thought. She held up the pyjamas. The trouser bottoms reached six inches beyond her feet. The jacket would be enough. She washed in the bathroom, swallowed the sleeping pill and got into the bed, deliberately not locking the door. In bed she thought about him. Soon she slept.

  The telephone woke her with a start. She jumped from the bed, wondering where she was. Then she saw the note that had been pushed under the door.

  You have an appointment with Max Wainwright, a solicitor, 2 Norfolk Street, off the Strand, 10 a.m. sharp. He is experienced and tough. He’ll know what to do. I have suggested to him that you might be better off out of the studio but not to take a penny less than fifty thousand. Mrs Lane, my cleaner, will be here at 8.30. She will give you coffee or whatever you want. Good luck.

  Patrick Foxley

  Max Wainwright was bald and fat, but with a twinkle in his eye and she liked him. He asked her how well she knew Patrick Foxley.

  ‘I only met him last night,’ she replied.

  ‘He’s very bright,’ Wainwright said. ‘When you know him, you’ll like him.’

  She told him of the visit by Streatley and his so-called ‘assistant’ and he listened gravely.

  ‘Monstrous,’ he said when she had finished, ‘perfectly monstrous.’ He’d make sure that didn’t happen again but it mightn’t be very agreeable to go on living there. He wouldn’t be able to stop every piece of harassment and unpleasantness. Streatley was obviously desperate to get her out. He probably did have a buyer for the whole property. So it’d probably be best if she left and the sooner the better. He’d get her a good price.

  With Anna sitting opposite him, Wainwright telephoned Streatley. He put on the loudspeaker so that Anna could hear what was said. When Streatley came on the line, Wainwright told him that if there was any more harassment of Miss James he’d call in the police and take him to court. There’d be publicity and he’d be in trouble. He’d not be able to sell after that. Streatley began to make excuses. Wainwright cut him short, asking how much Streatley would pay for vacant possession. Streatley said fifty thous
and, provided Anna left immediately. ‘Having regard to your behaviour,’ Wainwright replied, looking at Anna, ‘the price will be a hundred and fifty.’ And he put down the receiver. He told Anna he should be able to get her between fifty and a hundred, and suggested she look for another place straight away. ‘I’ve nowhere to go. I don’t know London.’

  ‘I’d thought of that,’ he replied. ‘So had Patrick Foxley.’

  ‘Patrick Foxley?’ she asked. And to her annoyance, she coloured a little.

  Wainwright smiled. ‘He wants to make sure you are all right. You made a great impression. As I said, when you get to know him, you’ll like him.’

  He took from his desk the particulars of two flats he said he’d been instructed to sell. ‘The best’, he said, ‘is the one in Clapham. It’s not yet on the market and I’ll hold it until you’ve seen it. If you like it, I can arrange a rental agreement and give you credit for the deposit against Streatley’s payment. Provided’, he added with a twinkle, ‘you invite Patrick and me for a drink when you’re settled.’

  Nice, reassuring Mr Wainwright, Anna thought on the bus on the way to Clapham. And clever Patrick Foxley. He was not so comfortable as nice Mr Wainwright but it was about him that she thought the most.

  Chapter Eight

  Some weeks later, shortly after 8.30 in the evening, Oliver Goodbody arrived at the door of Mordecai Ledbury’s apartment in Albany off Piccadilly. Mordecai, in his dressing gown and the legs of white silk pyjamas protruding from beneath it, opened the door.

  ‘Only just risen?’ Goodbody asked, amused.

  ‘Taking things a little quietly today,’ Mordecai replied, leading Goodbody into the drawing room, which overlooked the central Albany passage, bordered by the flowerbeds under the glass awning. It was an oddly feminine room for such a masculine man. Which of his women, Goodbody wondered, had supervised the decoration? Above the fireplace hung a Boucher, two pert and pretty women playing with a swing, the one on the seat revealing her thighs. Worth, Goodbody thought, around twenty-five thousand pounds?

  On the table between two armchairs were a tankard and an open bottle of Dom Perignon, standing in an ice bucket. Mordecai limped over to the corner cupboard and produced another tankard.

  ‘Have you any whisky?’ Goodbody asked.

  ‘No,’ Mordecai replied, ‘wine or nothing.’ And he filled Goodbody’s tankard before collapsing into a chair.

  ‘I thought I should report progress. Price’s people have produced plenty of information about the society women. Most of it amusing and some of it, incidentally, concerning you.’

  ‘They were my friends. But thanks to you and what you’ve got me into they are not now,’ Mordecai growled, his face buried in his tankard. ‘But why should Price be interested in them? They’re not suing him. He should be concentrating on Tancred.’

  ‘No one has seen Tancred since he walked out of Downing Street. They’ve come up with his background. Father dealt in antiques in Suffolk, mother French. Both dead. Privately educated, mostly in France; won a scholarship in modern languages to Cambridge, entered the Foreign Office, served in Bangkok and South Africa, before leaving to go into business with a firm in Birmingham making machine tools, eventually managing director, then chairman, and finally went into politics. No wife, no family, no mistress.’

  ‘And his connection with Sleaven?’

  ‘They are analysing all the contracts between the Ministry and Sleaven Industries while Tancred was the Minister. This’ll take time.’

  ‘If Price is unable to prove a financial connection between Tancred and Sleaven he’ll have to settle.’ Mordecai rose and, using the trolley on which stood the now empty bottle as a support, moved slowly towards the dining room. ‘Richard Tancred saw his chance of getting a great deal of money out of Price by suing him,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and if Price doesn’t come up with some evidence that money passed between him and Sleaven, that’s what Tancred will get it.’

  ‘Price understands well enough. He has an army investigating Tancred. He’s confident that he’ll unearth what’s needed.’

  Mordecai disappeared into the small dining room, went through to the even smaller kitchen and opened the EuroCave, which comprised his cellar, and took out another bottle of Dom Perignon.

  Goodbody remained in the drawing room looking at the Boucher. He had not told Mordecai, nor was he going to tell him, that in Price’s latest instructions from Paris orders had come to target Tancred’s solicitor, Cranley Burrows. As a result the investigators were now shadowing Burrows, noting wherever he went, to whom he spoke, recording what visitors he received and sifting through the waste-paper baskets and refuse bins at his office. They had even approached one of his women clerks and reported some progress. Goodbody knew that if Mordecai were aware that Price had ordered Tancred’s solicitor to be targetted he’d be outraged. He’d not tolerate unethical conduct. He’d throw in the brief – and not be sorry he had. But Oliver Goodbody was well aware that he himself could not afford to do that. There was too much at stake for him. So he kept silent.

  Mordecai returned with the fresh bottle, again using the trolley. ‘We cannot go into court without some convincing evidence of a money link between Tancred and Sleaven,’ he repeated. ‘If Price can’t provide that, then it’s our duty to tell him he must settle and get what terms he can.’ He opened the bottle. ‘If he doesn’t, the case will cost him a fortune.’ He poured the wine. ‘I cannot pretend that the loss of a fortune by that scoundrel would give me many sleepless nights. Provided he has paid you the fee you need.’

  Goodbody made no reply. He had received from Spenser a payment on account but it had not been large. He had not demanded more for he’d feared that his anxiety to have more in advance might reveal the situation of his firm and Spenser would lose confidence in its capacity to handle the case. Anyhow, he comforted himself, there was no worry about fees. Not with a client such as News Universal. So he sat in silence, drinking Mordecai’s champagne.

  Later he spoke to Spenser and reported what Mordecai had said.

  Next morning, in the rue Casimir Perrier in Paris, Digby Price took Spenser’s telephone call. ‘Tell Goodbody to stop fussing. I’ll get the evidence,’ Price said. Then he got angry and began to shout. ‘And tell him once again that whatever the lawyers say, I’m not paying that bastard one penny, not even if it brings the whole of News Universal crashing down on my head.’

  Our heads thought Spenser.

  Price, as he shouted down the telephone, looked across the room to the woman who was sitting on the sofa, her slim legs curled beneath her. She had a perfectly shaped Oriental face under short black hair; her eyes were narrow and darkened with kohl, and her lips bright-red with lipstick. The scent of fracas filled the apartment. She smiled as Price went on. ‘I’m paying out a bloody fortune for my people to come up with something and that’s what they’re bloody going to do. I know that man is a crook. That’s all there is to it. So tell the lawyers to stop whining. I’m never going to settle. That’s final.’ He slammed down the receiver.

  The woman put out her hand and he walked to her and sat beside her, raising it to his lips. Then he rose and went to the wall safe hidden behind a Modigliani above the fireplace. He came back to her carrying a velvet case. He sat and, opening the case took out a slim diamond necklace. ‘Turn,’ he said. He fastened the necklace and she rose and ran to the looking glass at the other end of the room, looking at herself, twisting this way and that so that the jewels shone in the sunlight.

  She turned back to him and stretched out her hand. ‘Come,’ she said and he came to her. When he was close she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. While her tongue was exploring his mouth she slipped her hand down to the front of his trousers, undoing the buttons. She took hold of him and turning, led him into the bedroom.

  He had first seen her outside the entrance to the Crillon Hotel in the place de la Concorde. It was not long after the Hungarian had been dismissed and he had made the decisio
n to publish the Richmond diary. He had been giving luncheon to Spenser who had come to Paris to report. Spenser had left for the Gare du Nord but Price had been detained, approached by an acquaintance. When he left the hotel it was raining and she was standing on the pavement, a short, slight figure holding above her dark head a red umbrella. The concierge was in the street, searching for a taxi. Price saw him turn and shake his head, shrugging his shoulders. The woman under the umbrella stamped her foot. ‘Merde,’ she said; then she looked up at Price and smiled, and he smiled in return.

  Price’s car drew up with a spray of rainwater. ‘Merde,’ she repeated stepping back.

  ‘Can I give you a lift?’ he said. Two days later she moved into his apartment. Ever since, he could not take his hands off her and he would not leave her alone. He took her to restaurants but rarely to friends. He kept her as if in purdah in the apartment, and when he was working she would come and sit near him in the office off the hall. So she was often beside him when he took and made the constant telephone calls to Spenser and Goodbody, or when he harried the team of investigators in London. She encouraged him and soothed him when, as happened frequently, he exploded with anger and frustration at the lack of initiative or progress by his servants. ‘Don’t worry so,’ she would say, leading him to her bed. ‘Have patience. You will succeed. I am sure that you will succeed – in the end.’

  On the day that Spenser spoke to Price about the concerns of the lawyers he took Oliver Goodbody to lunch at the Savoy Grill, at the table in the alcove in the corner that was reserved for him on every weekday. ‘You must understand that for the Chairman this is more than just a law case,’ he said when they had ordered. ‘It’s a mission; an obsession. Nothing will ever induce him to settle.’