The sight of the tall white-sided prison transport coming up Brixton Hill and slowing to turn into Jebb Avenue jolted him back to life. He checked the time: barely three. This could be the one: only the magistrates’ courts disgorged their prisoners this early.
Adding another hour to the driver’s time, he calculated the fare and paid, with the firm instruction that the driver was to wait the full time. In the unlikely event of Pavlik having transport, Simon didn’t want to be left standing by the kerb. Pulling on the cap and sunglasses, stringing the bag over his shoulder, he climbed out and, crossing the main road, waited at a point where he could see along Jebb Avenue to the side of the prison but, with just two steps back, could move rapidly out of view.
After ten minutes, a youth clutching a brown-paper bag stepped out of the wicket gate. Five minutes later came an old man, puffing on a cigarette. Then, after another ten minutes, Pavlik. From the way he strode up Jebb Avenue he was not expecting transport.
With a lurch of excitement, Simon began to walk away from the prison in the wrong direction for town. When he glanced back, Pavlik had turned into the main road, heading north. Doubling back, Simon followed at a distance. Obligingly, Pavlik was wearing a bright blue jacket, which, with his dark hair and distinctive build, made him stand out like a beacon. Once, he paused for no apparent reason and looked round. Simon had to force himself to keep walking naturally, but it seemed Pavlik was only checking the route advertised on an approaching bus because, once it got close enough to read, he lost interest and resumed his earlier pace.
On reaching the bottom of Brixton Hill, he made for the underground. Closing up, Simon was four treads behind him on the escalator. A train drew out as they came onto the platform. For a time they were the only people waiting. Simon sauntered up to a chocolate dispensing machine and, hunting for some coins, selected an Aero bar. Other people dribbled onto the platform. Glancing back, he saw Pavlik waiting patiently, staring at the advertising hoarding on the other side of the track, apparently unaware that he was being followed.
When a train drew in, Simon got into the next-door carriage and kept an eye on Pavlik through the glass windows of the communicating doors. At Green Park, Pavlik got off and transferred to the Piccadilly Line. Again Simon took the precaution of getting into the next carriage, but as this train was far more crowded he didn’t attempt to keep Pavlik in view but stuck his head out of the open doors at each stop. He didn’t have to wait long; the bright blue jacket emerged at Leicester Square.
The walk up through Chinatown was rather pleasant in the weak sunshine. Simon began to relax a little. This whole business was proving far easier than he’d expected, although, as he hastily reminded himself, this was due not to any skill on his part but to Pavlik’s total lack of suspicion.
Pavlik crossed Shaftesbury Avenue into Dean Street and, just when Simon was wondering where he might be heading, he disappeared into a pub on the corner of Old Compton Street. A stiff drink after a week in the clink; Simon didn’t blame him. Simon rounded the opposite corner and leant a shoulder against the plate-glass window of a pasta restaurant that offered a view of the pub door across a table of gobbling tourists.
Pavlik didn’t drink for long he must have kept it to a quick double before he was on his way out again, and coming straight for Simon.
Simon hastened off ahead of him down Old
Compton Street and walked briskly into a sandwich bar. After Pavlik had passed, he came out again and followed him round the next corner into Frith Street. Pavlik slowed up now, going at a pace that was almost thoughtful, before stopping and smoothing his hair in the reflection of a glass shop front Apparently satisfied, he went a few more paces and stepped in through a door. Getting closer, Simon saw an old-fashioned Italian restaurant with pot plants and straw-clad Chianti bottles in the window. La Rondine.
The workplace, presumably. Would the management have kept his job open for him? If Gresham was to be believed, Pavlik had been in the same job for four years, a veritable old-timer in the flighty world of Soho. But Simon suspected that a few months would be more like it, and plenty of moonlighting after hours. Did illegal immigrants pay taxes? Presumably not. Asylum seekers got benefits, though. A beneficiary of the black economy twice over, then.
It was almost five and nearing the start of the evening shift. Simon was beginning to think he had an exceedingly long wait in front of him when Pavlik reappeared, heading back the way he had come. Turning hastily away, Simon found himself standing next to two slack-mouthed men, staring into a dark cavernous doorway lit by garish photographs advertising the bloated breasts and brassy attentions available in the basement beneath.
Following again at a safe distance, he had to hurry to match Pavlik’s pace as he turned west along Old Compton Street and down into Shaftesbury Avenue. He was walking so much faster now that Simon almost lost him in the crowds near Piccadilly Circus, only picking him up as he bought an Evening Standard at the top of the subway steps. Three minutes later Simon was safely ensconced in the next-door carriage to Pavlik on a Bakerloo Line train, heading north. It was no surprise when Pavlik got off at Queen’s Park, on the northern edge of West Kilburn.
As Simon followed him into the maze of residential roads that must surely mark the end of the trail, his exhilaration was overtaken by doubt. What next? Where was this really leading?
Pavlik stopped at a Pakistani corner shop, emerging a few minutes later with a full carrier bag. Simon judged his distance carefully now, staying far enough back not to be noticeable but not so far that he couldn’t identify the house once Pavlik finally got home.
In the event, he needn’t have worried. When Pavlik turned in through a black metal gate in a long street of identical two-storey villas he didn’t disappear immediately but paused for several moments in the porch, giving Simon plenty of time to mark the precise doorway. Striding briskly past a minute later, Simon noted the brass number on the door, and a single bell. He’d been expecting two or three bells, denoting rooms or flat lets but unless they had been placed somewhere unusual and he had missed them, the place had all the appearance of a single house. Was Pavlik a lodger then? Or a guest?
The road was called, in improbable imitation of grander places, Fifth Avenue, and when Simon examined the A-Z later he saw that it was indeed one of six.
His luck continued when, immediately on reaching the Harrow Road, a free cab appeared, going his way. Safely inside, speeding along against the flow of rush-hour traffic, he allowed himself some small sense of achievement. At least he’d established that Pavlik was intending to live at the address he’d given to the court. Now, at the slightest sign of trouble, Simon would know where to come. What he might do once he got there was, of course, an entirely different matter. He took refuge in the solemn promise he’d made in his heart to Catherine. I’ll make sure no one ever harms you again.
There was only one aspect of the day that did not slot neatly away in his orderly mind. The house in Fifth Avenue had looked too prosperous to take in lodgers. The fresh paintwork, polished brass house jiumber, new plantation-style shutters in the upstairs windows, fancy window boxes and plant tubs spoke of money to spare. As he realised too late that the cab was heading for Lancaster Gate and the bottleneck across the park, an answer presented itself. Pavlik was athletic and good-looking, one to stand out in a crowd. He might have a lover, a luster after firm flesh who kept him in style in Fifth Avenue.
The tailback across the park started at Lancaster Gate; it would be a long crawl. He retrieved his mobile phone from his document bag and switched it on. Before he had the chance to pick up his messages, however, it rang. He had forgotten about Alice until her voice sang, “How are you doing? Ready for that drink yet?”
Gripped by a mild euphoria, he agreed immediately and with an enthusiasm that surprised him. An hour later, having been home to shower and change, he found himself back in Soho, walking into the Atlantic Bar. Alice was waiting at the long curved counter, perched on a stool.
She smiled when she saw him. Her appearance took him aback. She had changed out of the cream trouser suit into a black dress that was low-cut and flimsy. Since her figure was by any standards full, it was a dress that displayed its contents rather too conspicuously. When she took a breath her breasts bulged over the rim of the dress, and he took care to keep his eyes firmly above her neck.
She was drinking something bright green called a Japanese Slipper, and, though he usually stuck to white wine, he allowed himself a rare impulse and joined her. She asked what he’d managed to find out about Pavlik and didn’t seem surprised or concerned when he reported a lack of success. Then, duty apparently done, she chattered about her life, which seemed to consist of a long succession of parties, dinners, and country weekends. She dismissed her work in an estate agent’s as boring, while the parties were spoken of with excitement, as though she regarded a packed social life as the only real mark of success. Once again, Simon wondered why she should bother with him, why she had gone to all this trouble to meet him for a drink. He didn’t doubt there was a purpose behind it all. At one point, he turned the conversation towards Catherine in case this should provide a cue, but she didn’t pick up on it.
“So,” she said with a soft smile, ‘what about you? Busy?”
While he talked of Bahrain and Argentina she listened attentively, with bright eyes that never left his face. He had the feeling he was being minutely appraised, and that so far, against all odds, he appeared to be passing muster. Under the searchlight of her gaze he ordered another round of the green drink -a concoction of vodka, lime and something he’d never heard of and, trying to enter into the spirit of this strange encounter, offered a breezy smile.
Alice said something that was lost in the general din. He bent closer. Whether it was the misguided smile that had encouraged her or she’d been planning to ask him all along, she said in her low musical voice, “You don’t have a significant other, do you?”
“Not significant, no.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said mysteriously. “Why not?” She tilted her head, she leant forward a little, and her bosom came towards him like he remembered reading such a description in a book somewhere a blancmange about to slide off its dish.
He said, “Too busy, too much work, no talent for commitment.”
“Ah .. . commitment.” She smiled with mock wistfulness. “What about non-significant others?”
“Oh, we all have those, don’t we?”
“Do we?” she said, clearly relishing the idea. Then, with a cat-like smile, a narrowing of her eyes: “So you’re not looking for a significant other?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Don’t want to be tied down?”
“Something like that.”
“Quite right!”
She seemed pleased by his response. She flashed her eyes at him over her drink. It occurred to him that in other circumstances, with anyone but Alice, he might have suspected that he was being flirted with. He found this thought sufficiently alarming to change the subject. “You know that I’m leaving RNP, that Ben and I are going our separate ways?”
Smiling dreamily, eyes still fastened teasingly on his, she came to this subject slowly. “Mmm?” When he’d repeated the question, she said, “I’d heard, yes.” Then, seriously: “I’m not surprised.”
“Oh?”
“Well, Ben’s a difficult sod, isn’t he?”
Simon made a show of considering this idea as if it were entirely new to him. “Yes, I suppose he is.”
“You know, I always used to envy Cath,” she said unexpectedly. “When we were kids. And later. You know. Looks. Could eat all day long without putting on weight. Never had spots. And there I was .. . wellV She rolled her eyes self-deprecatingly.
Feeling some response was expected of him, Simon framed a frown of denial.
Misreading this, she declared defensively, “Oh, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t actually mind. God, no! Quite the opposite.” She attempted a laugh. “It quite suited me, you see. I could just get on with my life, do my own thing, and no one was any the wiser. Got away with far more than Cath. God, yes! Pa was always eagle-eyed where she was concerned, wanting to know where she’d been, what she’d been up to. But me .. .” Her eyes slid away, as though she’d said more than she’d intended to. “So when Cath got Ben, we all thought she’d found herself the best, just like we’d always thought she would. Got the golden man, the pick of the bunch.” She gave a small shrug, she said enigmatically, “But now ... well, I rather think she’s got her work cut out for her, don’t you?”
Simon found himself arguing Ben’s case. “Whatever else, he’s doing his best for Catherine.”
“Do you think so?” The disdain in her voice left no doubt as to her opinion. “It depends what you consider his best.”
“What are you trying to say?”
She paused, she eyed him thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s behaving very well. I think he’s doing the dirty on her.”
“Oh? And why do you think that?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I could tell you it was just a feeling. I could tell you I’m just a clever judge of character.”
“But?”
“But,” she said with a heavy sigh, “I know he’s seeing someone else.”
Simon stared at his drink. He felt sick with sudden excitement, as if in one accelerated action Catherine had found out and the way was open for him to step in. “Ouch,” he murmured, to give himself more time. Then, with a look of suitable concern, he asked, “Who’s the woman?”
“That I don’t know.”
He couldn’t make out if she was holding out on him.
“But you know there’s someone?”
“Oh yes. It was when I went round early one morning to collect something for Cath. I heard someone moving around upstairs. Ben tried to make a clatter, to hide it. But I heard all right there was definitely someone up there.”
“It couldn’t have been I don’t know someone else? A friend?”
She let her head fall to one side, she rounded her eyes in a knowing expression of doubt.
“No,” he conceded. “Just ships in the night, then? A one nighter?”
She shook her head. “She’d left her car keys on the hall table. Think about it.” She raised a forefinger. “It’s only a regular routine that makes a woman do that.”
“You didn’t recognise the keys?”
“No.”
His euphoria had quite gone. He’d lost all taste for the gaudy green cocktail. The clamour of the bar seemed to rise around him, unacceptably loud. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said casually.
Alice stared at him, as if to be sure of his meaning. “Since they’ve been married, you mean?”
He gave a light shrug.
“Who was it?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“But there was someone?”
He met her eyes, and it was a confirmation.
“The bastard,” she said.
She was thinking of pressing him further, but he made a show of looking at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve got to go.”
He caught the flash of disappointment under the forced smile. “Oh, I was hoping to lure you off to supper,” she said.
“It’s work. Can’t escape. But another time.”
“Definitely?” She was still looking at him with something like suspicion, and it struck him that he must tread carefully with her.
“Definitely. In fact, next week? Tuesday?”
“Tuesday.” Brightening a little, she smiled lazily. “I must let you go, then.” When she leant forward it was for a traditional meeting of cheeks, a token pouting of the lips. But then, as he straightened up, she reached up and, framing his face in her hands, neatly guided his mouth down to hers and kissed him full on the lips. Her mouth was slightly open and it seemed to him that the taste of her stayed with him for hours afterwards.
Chapter Ten
“NO PERSONAL mail, no,” said Bridg
et’s voice in Dublin. “And none at Foxrock either.”
Sitting alone in the hotel suite, the phone tight against his ear, Terry stared unseeing at the gauze curtains stirring in the sluggish air, and thought: Well, what did I expect, for heaven’s sake? With half an ear to Bridget as she ran through the arrangements for his return to Dublin, he finally accepted what had been obvious from the start: Catherine would never reply. It had been ridiculous to think she would.
When Bridget had rung off he went to the window and, parting the swathes of fabric, watched the dusk creep up from the Mayfair streets into a crystalline sky. Hoping for a response had been foolish, though perhaps not so foolish as the belief that friendly words and weekly letters could overcome the resentments of the past. It was the arrogance of success, of course, to assume that everything could be fixed, that nothing, not even grievances, could resist the forces of determination and money. And what had he been out to achieve anyway? Forgiveness? Peace of mind? Just salves to his own conscience, he noted severely, surely one of the more shameful forms of vanity.
No, there would be no letter from Catherine, and he would write no more to her either. He should have learnt his lesson the first time and realised that the written word did not serve him well so far as Catherine was concerned. The letter he’d written her during the summer of Lizzie’s illness was incised painfully on his memory. He had never understood how he had come to misjudge the situation so badly, but misjudge it he had. There was no undoing it then, and there was no undoing it now. He would have liked his thoughts of that time to be filled entirely with recollections of Lizzie, to remember the many moments of laughter and celebration that had overlaid the recognition of her slow deterioration. But the choice of memories was another thing that willpower alone couldn’t provide.
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