by Peter Watson
‘But what about Question Time?’ Slocombe leaned forward.
‘Not a problem,’ replied Lockwood. ‘That’s why we leaked the story in the first place in the way that we did. So that it is deniable. I shall simply acknowledge that the committee has met and produced a recommendation. No more, no less.’ He turned back to Midwinter. ‘Anything in tomorrow’s papers?’
‘The museum demo makes the front pages, and the death of the baby – though the heat has been taken out of that, after tonight’s programme. One or two leader articles asking you to come dean. The Greek press conference – also on the front pages. Nothing startlingly new but it’s all damaging in a drip-drip sort of way. The foreign press have been on in droves today – the New York Times, Figaro, Die Welt, La Nazione. So I expect we’re going to get stick from all directions.’
Lockwood looked tired and fierce at the same time. ‘How much was the other side leading by at the last poll?’
‘Three points,’ growled Midwinter.
‘That must be five by now.’ Lockwood fixed Edward with his stare. ‘Maybe you’ve done me a favour, Andover. This business is already messy and could get messier still. If these Brigade people do go public, it does at least simplify things. The public’s disapproval will all be directed at the Palace, not at Downing Street, and we’ll be off the hook, ready to fight the election on straightforward issues. And the mistake will be down to a Palace employee.’ The Prime Minister gave Edward a tight smile. ‘On the other hand, if it does leak, thanks to you, Francis Mordaunt is going to be wilder than a bear in a beehive. And you will be out of a job.’
*
The green glow from Edward’s answering machine seemed to fill the flat. It tinged the pale wood of the easel next to the desk, where a small pastel portrait by Hugh Douglas Hamilton was propped on the pegs. It was reflected in the glasses on the tray that he called a bar. It made the leaves of the plant on the window-sill unnaturally vivid. He approached the machine without putting on the light. He was feeling bruised and angry. This business had rushed into his life, picked him up and deposited him in some heavy company. Now it had turned on him: it threatened his job, his career, his self-esteem. He stared at the answering machine with dread. The figure four glowed up at him. One must be from Nancy. But if it was, would it contain more lies? At least her silence, much as he hated it, was cleaner. He pressed the button and the clicks and whirs began.
‘Edward, this is Hillier. Please call after nine tomorrow. I’ve had some thoughts.’
Edward stared out of the window. A large black car was coming up the drive. The Waleses returning from some glittering affair? After today, he wasn’t sure if he could ever feel the same way again about the royal family.
‘Edward, it’s Wilma. Just one important message among all the dross. Geneviève Chombert called from Paris. They want to publish your lecture in the proceedings of the conference as if you had given it anyway – can you send her a copy? I haven’t done it yet but if you let me have a yea or a nay I’ll send it off.’ And would Geneviève Chombert still want it if he was no longer part of the royal household? God! His life was going to change if that happened.
‘Edward, it’s Mordaunt. I’ve been at Windsor all day with the Queen. We’d better confer very soon. Call me early tomorrow.’ Cool, clipped tones, the equerry already distancing himself from impending disaster.
‘Woodie, this is your Boston correspondent. Literally – I’m in Boston Spa, Lincolnshire. How do you like that?’ She sounded perfectly normal. Normal for Nancy anyway. I’m changing my mind about your machine – I’m growing to hate it. I’m here for two nights, so, if you want, if you are missing me even a little bit, you can call me. So long.’ She recited the number and rang off.
He scribbled down the digits. He was pleased and angry at the same time. Then it occurred to him that she was calling because the negotiations had foundered that afternoon. Did she want to find out how the Palace and the government were reacting? He was now far more angry than pleased.
Chapter Fourteen – Tuesday
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. For two? The reservation is in what name?’
O’Day said nothing. It was Riley’s turn to do the honours. This was the seventh restaurant they’d tried and by far the most beautiful. It was called the Greifen and had a glassed-in terrace that overlooked the river. The sounds of a piano could be heard from the bar.
The woman at the reservations desk was very attractive in a stern sort of way: hair swept straight back, high cheekbones, and she was dressed in a navy suit, crisp and businesslike. Riley moved forward. ‘We are not here to eat, miss,’ he said, lowering his voice and adopting a confidential tone. ‘I am British, but I live in Switzerland, in Berne – I’m attached to the embassy.’ He showed his embassy card and then turned back to O’Day. ‘This gentleman here is a British subject whose daughter has been abducted and has disappeared. We are trying to trace her last movements and we have established that she stayed in the Uster hotel. We believe she may have had a rendezvous with a man in one of Basle’s restaurants. We don’t know his name but he may well have made the reservation. I wonder if we could look at your reservations book for a particular date? . . . All we need is the name.’ Riley paused and waited. From previous experience they sensed that, in the chic restaurants, the flashed fifty- or hundred-franc note did not work. People would help if they wanted to. Otherwise, no amount of bribery would do the trick.
The woman looked past them. Four other dinner guests had arrived. She checked their reservation, crossed out the name, and said: ‘This way, please.’ As she led them to their table, she called back to Riley, ‘Wait in the bar. I’ll find you there.’
The piano was in the bar. The pianist was quite clearly the other woman’s twin sister. She wasn’t wearing a business suit. Quite the contrary, she had on a low-cut dress. But her cheekbones and swept-back hair were identical. She was playing Chopin.
Riley decided to order a drink. They had earned it. Before the drinks arrived, however, the woman from the reservations desk came into the bar. She approached Riley and leaned over him. ‘What date was it you were interested in?’
Riley turned to O’Day – they’d tried this gambit before – and asked a question with his gaze.
O’Day gave the last date when Kolettis and Leondaris were known to have been at the Uster.
‘Hmm,’ said the woman. ‘That means the old book. It’s in the bureau downstairs. I can’t leave the restaurant – but don’t worry, Inge will be able to fetch it when she finishes here in a few moments.’ The waiter brought the drinks. ‘Ah, good. Have your drink. I’ll tell my sister what to do when she finishes. Just wait here.’
The drink made them hungry. They made do as best they could – and finished off a dish of olives and cocktail onions.
The Chopin finished, the sister got up, smiled at them and walked out. Across the bar, in the lobby, they could see the two sisters talking. They looked towards Riley and O’Day. Riley glanced at O’Day and winked. ‘Twins, eh?’
O’Day frowned. This was hardly the behaviour of someone searching for a missing daughter.
They had now finished their drink and were contemplating another when O’Day noticed the pianist cross the hall a second time, towards her sister’s desk. She was carrying something large and square. Moments later, the first sister, the one in the business suit, brought the book to them. She handed it to Riley. ‘It’s very simple. Each page is a different day. The dates are written at the top. The column on the left is lunch, on the right is dinner. I’ll leave it with you, but please will you bring it back to me when you have finished. I need it to show the tax inspectors.’ She smiled and went back to her chores.
Riley moved their dead glasses and the empty olive dish on to the next-door table. He pulled the book towards him. ‘What was the most recent date – February?’
O’Day nodded. ‘The seventeenth.’
Riley found the day easily enough. The handwriting was florid, very
round and fulsome. It sloped, making it difficult to distinguish the ‘a’s and the ’e’s, the ’k’s and the ’h’s. There were some fifteen names for lunch and over twenty for dinner. He started to copy them all down, as they had been doing at the other restaurants. This was a bone of contention between them. Were they looking for a Greek name – or just any name? Certainly, if they found a name on two or more lists, coinciding with the dates Kolettis and Leondaris visited Basle, that would look very suspicious. O’Day, however, thought it was a waste of time. He was sure that, if they found it, the name they wanted would be Greek.
‘Let’s look at the other dates first,’ he said. ‘You know how distinctive Greek names are . . . it will be much quicker.’
Riley wasn’t convinced but gave way. ‘All right. There are no Greek names for February the seventeenth. What was the date before that?’
‘November the nineteenth.’
Riley flipped back through the pages of the book. He found November; he found the nineteenth.
They were silent for a moment, reading. Or, rather, deciphering the florid handwriting.
‘Look at that,’ breathed Riley after a while. ‘Doesn’t that say “Evrotas” – or “Evrotes”?’
‘“Evrotas”,’ repeated O’Day. ‘Four for lunch.’
‘Four! Another Greek? Or someone else in Switzerland?’
‘Maybe neither. Look at the dinner list – Zakros, or Zekres . . . a table for three.’ He was scribbling it down. ‘That’s our best bet yet. Pity they don’t do as the posh restaurants in Britain or France do – take a phone number in case you leave something behind. Come on, let’s check the first date.’
‘Oh, shit!’ hissed Riley when they had turned to the page. ‘All the Greeks in Switzerland must eat here.’
‘There’s only one name. Keep it in proportion. “Stavroupolis . . . Stevroupolis.” Another table for four.’ He caught the eye of the first twin and she came over.
‘Excuse me, I’m not sure of your writing. Is this Zakros, or Zekros?’
She looked. ‘Zakros – but he can’t be the man you are looking for.’
‘Oh? Why not?’
‘He comes here quite a lot. Such a nice man. Quiet, well-groomed, polite. Not at all the type of man you are looking for. He’s not flashy . . . I really can’t imagine him doing the sort of thing you say has happened. He’s respectable. I believe he’s an art dealer.’
*
Sir Martin Ogilvy sat back in his chair and looked about him. He liked the Garrick. He liked the portraits on the walls of the lunch room, he liked the habit of serving spirits in small pitchers rather than measly glasses and he liked the members, those that he knew. He even liked his host, Marcus Proctor, sitting opposite him. This was – what? – the fourth time he’d had lunch with Proctor, since the latter had become Minister for the Arts over three years ago.
Proctor had instituted these regular get-togethers with the barons of the art world: directors of museums, of the opera, the ballet or the theatre, conductors of orchestras. One to one, no aides, no notes. Informal chat, gossip, nods and winks. Proctor enjoyed them and believed that others did too. The lunches were also useful. It was amazing what two men – two people, he corrected himself – could accomplish if each had the will. They were set up well in advance and usually were quiet, discreet affairs. In one sense, however, today’s looked like being different. When the lunch had been arranged, more than a month ago, there had been no particular limelight attaching to the British Museum. As of the weekend, of course, all that had changed. This was going to be interesting. Proctor studied Ogilvy from across the table. The museum man had his eyes trained on the menu just now but, as Proctor watched, he snapped it shut.
‘I’ll have the whitebait to start with, then the mixed grill. And I think I’ll have beer rather than wine.’
Proctor wrote the order on a small pad at the side, where he had already recorded his own choice. A waiter approached and took the pad away. ‘Has Madeleine been up to any more tricks today?’ Proctor decided there was no point in avoiding the issue.
‘Did you see her on the box last night?’ Ogilvy broke his bread roll. ‘She was a bit scared by what happened, I think. Underneath it all. The Trustees are meeting later this week.’
‘What can they do?’
‘It’s an interesting point, Marcus. It’s true that things in the museum, which are not on loan, belong to the nation, and in that sense to the government. But in law the objects are ceded to the Trustees, and the government of the day does not – theoretically – have the right to dispose of them against the wishes of the Trustees without an Act of Parliament. Of course, the Prime Minister could dismiss the Trustees and replace them with lapdogs . . . Anyway, so long as this all remains a bluff, it shouldn’t arise.’
Ogilvy’s whitebait arrived, with some soup for Proctor. The minister sipped his consommé and tried to work out whether he had heard right. Bluff? What bluff? He knew nothing about any bluff. Not that he knew much about anything in this matter. In fact, unless he had misheard, Ogilvy knew something Proctor did not. More, Ogilvy assumed that Proctor knew what he knew. Because he was a minister, he supposed. Proctor racked his brains as to how to respond.
‘But you see why it has to be kept secret?’ The minister tried to look knowing.
Ogilvy stared at him sharply.
Proctor lifted his soup spoon to his mouth but didn’t take his eyes off the other man.
Ogilvy glanced around the club room, to make sure he couldn’t be overheard. ‘Lockwood wouldn’t tell me what kind of threat was being made against the Queen, just what the demands were, and that the Elgin Marbles may have to go in the end.’ He paused to fork some of the whitebait into his mouth. ‘What’s the threat, Marcus?’
At that precise moment, Proctor was bloated with a general rage against the Prime Minister. Something was going on, something that sounded like the biggest art scandal there’d been in a long time, and although Ogilvy knew about it, or a great deal about it, he – Marcus Proctor, Minister for the goddam Arts – was out in the cold.
Proctor hadn’t wanted the arts job in the first place. He’d hoped for a position in Treasury, that’s where the power was. But Lockwood had insisted. Although Proctor had quite enjoyed his three years, the arts were not the mainstream, not the fast track. Treasury, Foreign Office – even Defence, where his wife’s brother was – they were the powerful ministries. Yet if this really was the biggest art scandal it was his chance to get back centre stage. Ogilvy seemed to be saying there was some sort of threat against the Queen and that it was related to the Elgin Marbles. That sounded a big enough story for anyone. He wiped the soup from his lips with his napkin.
‘Martin, I can’t tell you. You should be flattered you know so much. Lockwood has played this one very close to his chest.’
‘Do you know how many pieces of stone make up the Elgin Marbles, Marcus? I’ll tell you: ninety-three. It’s an enormous job to take them down, pack them up and ship them to Greece. I hope you know what you are doing in the government, Marcus. It must be one hell of a royal scandal if this is the result.’
Proctor tried to look sanctimonious. ‘It is, Martin, it is. Very big. That’s why I can’t tell you anything.’ His mind was already elsewhere. This was more like it. A genuine, juicy, old-fashioned political scandal. Proctor hadn’t the faintest idea what the scandal was but he wasn’t worried. He had no feelings, one way or the other, for the royal family. All he knew was that he didn’t much care for the Prime Minister. He had been left out of this business but now he knew the important bits. He had contacts, in the security services, in the Home Office, in the police. In the Cabinet Office, come to that. He’d have no trouble fleshing out the details. The real question was: could he use it against Lockwood? If Lockwood were to be ousted as Prime Minister, as leader of the Party, would Proctor get a better job from his replacement? Nothing was certain in politics, of course. But if Proctor were to hand that replacement, on a plate,
the means to unthrone Lockwood, he could surely count on a big ministry in return. Especially if that candidate was his brother-in-law.
*
‘Archimedes Iridakis, the man appointed by the Greek government to liaise with Britain over the return of the Elgin Marbles, arrived at Heathrow airport this morning.’ The television screen switched from the newscaster to film of Iridakis walking up a jetway surrounded by reporters. He was a tall man, swarthy, with a fine head of grey hair. The skin on his heavy eyelids was a shade darker than the rest of his face.
Edward could not remember ever watching television in the middle of the day but all his old habits were, for the time being, in abeyance.
‘Mr Iridakis,’ asked one of the television reporters, ‘What do you hope to achieve by your visit? The British government has made no official statement on this matter and the reports published so far indicate only that a committee has been considering the question. Isn’t your visit just a little bit premature?’
‘Not at all!’ beamed the Greek. ‘My job is to do anything which facilitates the return of these glorious works of art to Greece. My government attaches the highest priority to this matter, and no expense is to be spared, no stone left unturned, as you might say, in order to realize the ambition of every Greek – to have those Marbles back on the Acropolis, where they belong. And in time for the Olympic Festival.’
‘Has anyone in the British government agreed to meet you?’
‘No . . . but then I haven’t asked to meet anyone yet. I shall be conferring with our ambassador here in London and the cultural attaché later today. We shall decide together how to proceed.’
‘How long are you planning to be here?’
‘As long as it takes.’
The shot changed again and the newscaster was back. ‘Downing Street is still offering “No comment” on this issue but the Prime Minister is expected to come under strong pressure at Question Time in the Commons this afternoon. Abroad now. In Poland, the –’