Always the messenger boy. Raymond Forrest was furious with his client and her instructions. He drove into the town in a bad temper, not improved by traffic jams on the way. He hated his solid car and his solid frame, and he hated the way she was right. His wife, that is. Just act as mediator, she said. Give Di my regards. Met her once and liked her very much.
His ears buzzed with the conversation that had begun yesterday morning and lasted until well into the evening, when Gayle and Beatrice and Edward forgot he was there, listening on the speakerphone to everything else they were saying.
He’s there, he must be there.
No, he must be at the flat. We took him there, didn’t we? Go there.
We’ve been there.
No, wait.
Wait? It’s your son we’re talking about.
Wait. He’s perfectly capable of getting home by himself. Gayle’s voice.
All that way?
He’s been there before. He’s been in cars and trains. Are you there, Raymond?
Beatrice’s voice. Di’s abducted him. She’s taken him away. She’s been speaking to him and telling him to come. I want to call the police.
His own voice. Is he in danger?
Can’t wait. Yes, He’s in danger. Di’s a pervert, too.
Beatrice, again, before the voices melded in the background, Edward’s uppermost.
Wait, he could be useful … Use him, the little shit …
He won’t come to harm. Don’t you see, we’ve got her? She lured him there, she’s a kidnapper. We can use it … if that’s where he’s gone, he can be our spy. Let her hang herself.
Beatrice. WE’RE GOING TO PHONE THE POLICE.
‘Good luck to you,’ Raymond Forrest said and put the phone down. Picked up the other one and called Diana Porteous. By that time it was late and there had been more conversations. Why didn’t one or both of these parents just go and fetch the beastly child if they knew where he had gone? Why weren’t they out searching? Even if there were flood warnings on that part of the coast, dammit. If it was his child, he would have got in the car and driven through hell.
It followed, he told himself as slowed down to turn into the High Street, looking at the litter of a storm, wishing he knew a better route, that the parents of the boy were not worried about him at all. As soon as they knew where he was, they knew he was safe. There was another agenda. Edward had refused to speak to Di, the bitch, such an overused word for anybody and anything, only a name for a female dog. They would only have him as an intermediary, and Di agreed. I’ve just got back, she said. Sorry to have missed your earlier calls. Yes, he is here and well looked after, not by me. Please tell them that and please tell them that yes, of course, he must come home as soon as possible. I agree it isn’t appropriate for him to be here. They won’t want me to bring him back and they won’t want to come here and collect, so could you do it, Raymond? Third party, adult, neutral, utterly responsible lawyer. Trusted by all. Tasked with the impossible.
What had he said to her? Keep your nose clean, keep good company. And what did she do? Failed to respond to the draft of a will he had sent her, surrounded herself with riff raff and treated him like a servant. Here he was now, chauffeuring a silent child who sat in the front seat of his solid car on the way back, drawing things in the book he got out of a canvas bag, the only luggage he had apart from a picnic for one. Raymond felt neutered. All right, he was paid by the hour, but not enough for this. He felt as if he had been kidnapped rather than this child who was not exactly a child, more of an alien.
The boy started to hum as they approached the outskirts of London. Then he started to talk, a slight improvement on silence.
‘I like Jones. He’s going to teach me to fish. He’s bent, you know.’
‘Is he? Bent like what?’
‘Bent like bent copper. Not gay bent, like Saul is. And Peg’s going to teach me stuff. She’s going to tell me about sex.’
Raymond Forrest shook himself and groaned.
‘Jolly good,’ he said.
Peg was that surly teenager with spiked hair, who covered the lad with kisses. Bye, bye sweetheart, come back soon. She had bosoms hanging out, like flower baskets on a balcony, not good for a boy; not good for Raymond Forrest’s own temperature either. Such undesirable companions Di had chosen.
Raymond felt heavy and clumsy, his emotions, such as they were, in conflict, and what made him most uneasy of all was the sometime presence of Saul Blythe, briefly glimpsed at the door of the kitchen, that trusted friend of all, the hell he was. Raymond slowed down. Sat nav told him his destination and there was precious little time to talk.
‘And Saul?’ he asked. ‘What’s he going to teach you? What was he like? Was he nice?’
‘Dunno. Not sure. Peg says he used to be a thief, but he isn’t any more. He could teach me about that.’
Raymond groaned again.
‘And what are you going to say to your parents about this motley crew?’ he asked in his unconvincingly avuncular fashion.
‘What’s a motley crew? It sounds pretty. Shan’t tell them anything about them,’ he said. ‘They won’t want to know. You won’t tell them either, will you?’
‘No.’
Patrick leaned forward, breathing into Ray’s ear. ‘Just as long as Di knows it wasn’t my mum. My mum’s smart.’
Duty was duty. He drove slowly. Raymond Forrest had been instructed to deliver this child to the safe territory of Thomas’s London flat, and that was what he did. Duty did not extend to saying anything. The child was in good condition, speaking for himself. His client was in control.
There was no need for a key. The door was open. The interior was a scene of dereliction, nothing like the state Raymond had seen it in before. Everything had been taken down off the walls or out of boxes and systematically torn and smashed into pieces. It must have taken some time. Gayle sat in the wreckage of broken things.
Patrick looked at her, sadly. She did not run towards him, or he to her. Raymond watched as the boy walked across the floor and hugged her knees. She began to cry.
‘It wasn’t me did this,’ she said, waving at the room. ‘It wasn’t me. And it isn’t fair. My own son runs away to another woman. Everyone hates me.’
She glared at Raymond.
‘I hate her,’ she said softly. ‘She stole my child. Why does everyone love her?’
The child is father to the man. Raymond looked at Patrick with new respect. There can be no sadder moment for a child when they realise that not only is their mother deficient, but that they have wounded her deeply. He stood there, battling with pity. Everything was broken.
Gayle wiped her eyes and stood up, smiling at the boy.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Did you find them? That’s what you went for, isn’t it? Tell me that’s why you went. You went all that way to help us, didn’t you? That’s why you went.’
‘Yes, Mummy. Yes, I did. They’re there, Mummy, the best things.’
She turned to Raymond with an unnerving, glacial smile.
‘Thank you, Mr Forrest. You can go now.’
He did not want to go. He did not want to see if she struck him; he did not want to see a child so desperate to please. He left. Patrick’s high voice followed.
‘I found them, Mummy. I found them. There’s two of them. I found them. Granny’s paintings. I drew a map.’
‘Good boy,’ Mummy said.
Tell them what they want to hear. Love your mother. Even when you know she is very bad, and smashes things up. Make her happy.
‘Gayle will hate you for this,’ Saul said to Di.
‘Will she?’ Di said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Picture: An oldish man with fluffy hair, seen in half profile, waving a pen, gesticulating. Brown eyes, and an open mouth, as if speaking. A teacher. A dreamer? Subject William Porteous, headmaster. Small dimensions; X cm by X cm.
Oil on canvas, dated on the back, looks like 1960. Style more like 1890s. Possibly portrait of a
headmaster by a pupil.
‘You do have a roundabout way of going about things, Di,’ Jones said, standing next to her in the furthest attic room, later in the morning, looking at the picture of Thomas’s father. ‘Seems like you can’t think unless you’re looking at some fucking painting or other. Or writing summat. You sent for me, madam?’ He peered at the small picture. ‘Lovely man, old William Porteous. Not like your dad, eh? ’Cos that’s who we’re talking about it, isn’t it? Not this old fella. And we gotta make it quick, because that Saul’s got me that busy, installing cameras and such. I’ve got my work cut out as it is. And Peg’s not happy.’
‘I look at pictures to clear my mind of other impressions,’ Di said. ‘This man calms me, because he looks like Thomas.’
‘It’s only the sea clears my head,’ Jones said. ‘Nothing else does it. Get on with it, Di, love.’
She lit a cigar. It was nice up here, out of the way. These, and the laundry room, were the ones Peg liked best. Hot in summer.
‘Like I told you, Quig was on the pier, walking towards us. I just had the feeling that he was going to snatch Patrick and I was afraid that I’d be paralysed and not able to stop him, though I could have stopped him, easy. Now you tell me that he might have followed Peg home, that he might have tried to get in that night when I was in the nick. And it might have been, might have been him belted you on the pier. What do I do about it, Jones?’
‘You mean what do we do, girl. My problem, too.’
‘OK, what do we do? What does he want?’
‘Don’t fucking know, can only fucking guess. But before I do that, you’ve gotta come clean with me about what you feel about him. Like you might try telling me that it was him who led the team who stuffed you through the shutters here, when was it, ten years ago this week. You always said it was someone else, but it was him, wasn’t it? Oh, all right, he wouldn’t be the leader, he never is, but he was there. Am I right, or am I right?’
She nodded.
‘He was there. He wasn’t the leader, but he was there, standing back.’
‘And ain’t that typical of him, and ain’t that typical of you, Di, never to say. You couldn’t shop your own dad, could you? You know there’s one clear way of getting rid of Quig. You can shop him now, for that and God knows what else. He’s buried a few bodies, your dad, and you know where they are. You can make a call and send them hunting, but it would have to be you, and you can’t fucking do it. What’s he got on you, Di?’
He looked at her. She looked at the picture of William Porteous, as if searching for a clue.
‘He knows things. He knows … ’ she faltered, and Jones thundered on.
‘Nah, you couldn’t shop even the lowest of the fucking low, ’cos you think anyone’d rather be dead than go inside. You’d kill him first before you told on him. Right,’ Jones scratched his head and took refuge on the view from the window. ‘Now I think I’ve got it straight. There’s no point trying to fucking psychoanalyse a screwed-up bastard like Quig, and you’re not going to deal with him by telling the cops, so we just have to deal with the fact that he’s here. And with the fact that he’s kept tabs on you all these years. Got someone in this town to keep him informed.’
Jones decided not to tell her who, and omitted to mention that Quig had been outside the Town Hall on the day Di got married. Later, maybe. There were a lot of things they were going to have to cover later, such as what really went on the night of the storm, all that, but Jones was transfixed by the present and highly excited by Saul’s plan, which he thought was pretty damn fine and made him feel indispensable. It was really going to work. He looked out of the casement window and saw a lowering sky, God he would like to be on the pier, but then he liked where he was, too. Being fucking useful. Get this over and then think about Quig: don’t let Di lose her bottle. And don’t remind her she was still subject to those police enquiries, which his contact told him had gone quiet at the moment. Gone quiet, but not gone away. They didn’t like Di; they’d be back. One thing at a time.
‘I don’t know what Quig wants, Di love. He might want his daughter back, he might want money, he might want to hurt you. He might just want to help, but lets look at what he is.’
Another deep breath.
‘Take it in order, he don’t work for anyone unless he’s paid, and Thomas’s kids aren’t going to do that. Nor would that Edward have an inkling how to deal with someone like Quig for long, he ain’t even got the same fucking vocabulary. So Quig’s on the sidelines, probably doesn’t know what he wants, apart from being homesick. Might also be sick as a fucking parrot about his kid living up at the big house.’
Jones took a dead cigar out of the ashtray, lit it with his own lighter, found it disgusting and put it out, glad of the distraction all the same.
‘Look at what he is,’ he insisted. ‘You’re not afraid of what he might do to you, you’re afraid of him for what he knows.’
She looked at him, blankly, opened her mouth to speak, closed it again.
‘But you’re only afraid of him for what he knows about you, about this house where he went to school. But look at what he is. He’s a busted flush, love. He can’t run and he hasn’t got a gun and he’s frightened to be seen. All right he clocks me on the pier, but only because I was pissed and halfway down already. He might chase you and Patrick, but he can’t outrun you. He might try and get in when he thinks the place is empty, and he’ll bury anything already dead, but he never comes at anyone full on, never comes on to someone who might hit back. So what’s the worry? Think of what he is.’
Di gave up. The moment passed. It was knowledge that she feared, not brute force.
He shook his head, walked to the window at the other end, raised his binoculars.
‘Quig won’t be here long, unless he gets an instant result. And what you’ve gotta fucking remember, Di, he won’t hurt you unless you’re lying down first, all by yourself, waiting to be kicked, and that’s not going to happen, is it? You’re not going to be alone, not once.’
She was listening.
‘Quig gives up easy, Di. Runs as soon as he’s spotted and he’s been spotted. Ignore him, get on with the main stuff.’
‘Any way of telling him that I’m never alone?’
‘If he’s still here, he’ll find out.’
He thought of Monica. Better not mention Monica: he wanted to wring her neck. Monica, the contact, the informer, who always knew where Quig was. Di looked better: she was suddenly businesslike and smiling at him, accepting reassurance like a good girl.
‘Anyway,’ Jones said, grinning back, ‘gotta get on with stuff. Get yourself back to the control room. Saul’s in overdrive. All this with Patrick and bloody Quig, just makes everything more urgent. And Di, after this, we’re really going to talk, aren’t we?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘And pigs have fucking wings, right? In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I take orders from Saul, do I?’ He was still grinning. ‘It’s a pleasure.We’re sorting out the details. Good plan. Concentrate on that, hey? Forget your fucking Dad.’
Back downstairs in the gallery room, she began to write to Thomas, only to find that beyond a few lines, she couldn’t.
Accusing a man who reveres children of abusing the trust of a child is a worse accusation than murder. I can see why you can’t forgive them, or her. You want to hoist them on the mast of their malice and greediness. And yet you want them protected from the knowledge of what their mother was like, and the worst she could do.
You said: tempt them, make them steal something; make them fight in a way they never have. Give them something and make them take risks.
I think I understand, but I don’t always know where you are.
She turned to the inventory of paintings instead.
Di was still writing in the afternoon of the day that remained dull after Patrick had gone and she had talked to Jones. Before that, there had been an argument with Saul and then with Peg. You can’t send him away, Peg h
ad yelled. Let Patrick stay, he can hang out with me.
No, he has to go home.
And what about me, what about me, will you do the same to me? Hysteria lurked near the surface.
No, Peg, I won’t. You’ll go when you’re ready.
Peg was rude to Raymond Forrest, Jones, as well. All of them had retreated to the various ends and heights of the house, and even after she had talked to Jones, there was still the retreat position of the back yard. Best to let it all simmer down.
Saul came in. He stood by the desk and looked at the description she had typed. Old man with kind eyes.
‘Back at the addictive keyboard, are we? When do I see the personal diary? You’re getting on with the alternative inventory, I see. I do love your descriptions, Di. They’re so flippant and frivolous. Not a great help to a valuer. They’re written for a collector. Nothing about the quality of the fucking paint, abstract qualities, only about the narrative. Like they were all fucking stories. Sorry, I’ve been talking with Jones. It gets infectious.’
He moved to the window and looked out towards the sea, in which it seemed he had no interest, except for the changing colour of it. The rain had removed the salt from the windows and the view of the sky was painfully clear.
‘Have you sorted it out with fucking Jones? I thought so. He’s a good man for the purpose. Mustn’t let Daddy distract, nor any other neanderthal. I must say, my dear, that if your fortunes and your chances of winning through were to rest entirely with that lump of a lawyer, I don’t know where you’d be.’
‘Raymond’s a good man,’ Di said. ‘And much abused.’
Di had a tendency that annoyed him. If you criticised anyone, she defended them: if you sneered, she praised, if you denigrated, she supported. It was the same when they looked at paintings. If you said something was valueless, she pointed out the virtues in it; she said what it could be, not what it was: she existed to defend people, things, even pieces of flint which excelled hand-hewn sculpture in her eyes, it was all the same. If you put it down, she would try and bolster it up.
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