“Yes, of course it is, Reynard. It must be like saying goodbye to a child. But time moves on, things change, and it is better for everyone this way.”
“What are your plans for Gyges, Mr Li?”
“It is too soon to say exactly of course, but we think there is a lot of unlocked potential in its assets. Including Reynard House, of course.”
“And your plans for Gyges investors?”
“Well, of course there are regulations to be followed, and we will be careful not to do anything, um, uncompliant.” He sips his champagne, then licks his lips.
“Yes, of course. Will you close the fund?”
“It is too early to say anything, of course.”
“Of course.” I nod and take a swig of champagne. “Can I ask a favour, Mr Li?”
“Yes, Reynard, of course you can ask, although I can't promise anything.”
“I would like you to keep the name of Reynard House.”
“Yes, I am sure you would! It is clearly something that matters a lot to you.”
“Well, it was my pride and joy.”
“Yes, well, we have big plans for Reynard House. It is unlikely to stay in its current form, let's just say that.”
“A new building?”
“A tower, if all goes to plan.”
“Reynard Towers! You have to admit it has a certain ring to it.”
Mr Li splutters then dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief. “Ha! Not likely, I am very sorry. But I will never forget your request, or indeed you, Reynard. You are truly unique! A man of great appetites!” He raises his glass, and we clink them together.
I start to make my goodbyes and place a genuinely affectionate peck on the cheek of Jun Li. Lucija hasn't yet returned, but I must go. I shake Julian's hand and say, “Thanks for anything helpful you might have done in the past, Julian. I know Roger rates you.”
“Erm, thanks Reynard,” he says, but I'm already heading for the exit, released from my burden, free at last.
When I’m back in the flat, waiting for Michael Tanaka to bring round the legal documents, a present arrives from the Chinese, complete with a card: For the man of appetites, with thanks. The present claims her name is Brenda – an anachronistic assumed name if I've ever heard one – and she's utterly exquisite. She has Akemi's indigo-black hair, but she's even more sylphlike; some mythical oriental nymphet. A doll's porcelain face, large eyes, fluttering eyelashes.
But she's a bit too young. She's barely eighteen, possibly younger. She's too delicate, too doll-like, and frankly too perfect. As she lets the Burberry trench coat fall from her porcelain shoulders to reveal the sheerest of negligees, I hear myself groan: the animal within stirs, and there is nothing one can do about it. But she is too young, and so it's with some reluctance that I let her fellate me expertly, then she guides me gently into her, gyrating gymnastically on my cock as her little hands press down on my chest. I mustn't cum in her; she's too perfect and shouldn't be despoiled, but I can't help it. As I cum loudly, she smiles graciously, which only prolongs my joy. She leaves wordlessly, and I'm left, spent, smiling, and with a scrambled mind.
A quick shower, then Tanaka arrives with a smile.
With both of us sat at the dining table, papers spread out in front of him, he says, “This is a big gesture, Reynard. I think I’ve misjudged you. You are clearly a man of great generosity.” He slides a document in front of me. “This is the arrangement with Akemi, more than enough for anyone to live extremely comfortably on. The second section is the trust for your child, when — or if — it is born. If the worst were to happen, then the monies will roll back into the charitable trust.” He slides a third document in front of me. “You know this is an enormous gesture, you should get public recognition for this. Honours, perhaps. This amount of money will pay for an awful lot of drug treatment and rehab. As regards trustees, I would be delighted and honoured to serve. Is there anyone else you would like to ask?”
“Yes. Lucija Istina from Gyges. She’ll be surprised by this, but she’s a moral person. She talks about public duty, she’ll do right by the trust.”
Tanaka writes in his moleskine notebook, then slides a fourth document in front of me. “And finally, your will. Upon your death, when taxes, et cetera, are dealt with, half will go to Akemi, half to your child, proviso as before. Are you sure there’s no one else you want to benefit from it?”
I shake my head. “Sad to say, no.”
“Okay, we’re pretty much done. We’ll get these signed and witnessed, and you’re all sorted. I’m pleased, Reynard. I see you in a new light.”
50
In my office – sorry, former office – clearing out my desk contents into a cardboard box.
Lucija stands in the doorway, hand on hip. She says, “I started to empty it, but it was too grim. Some very dodgy-looking stuff in there which, you know, I really do not want to know about.”
I say, “What happened to you yesterday? You just disappeared. Very rude indeed.”
“With all due respect, I will not be lectured by you on social etiquette. I do not report to you any more, remember?” Her posture is almost comically defiant: both hands on hips, lips pursed, chest pushed out.
“Oh, just grow up. You know, you’ll change your tune soon enough. You’ll be sorry. But get me Roger, will you? Is he in?”
She disappears, and I continue to empty the contents of my desk, most of which I throw into a black bin bag. Three bottles of Grey Goose and four wraps of Leo's finest. An anal probe; a Marks and Spencer negligee (black, size 8); three flavoured condoms; two cock rings; five USB memory sticks; a jar of mayonnaise (congealed, rancid). A leatherette gimp mask. Printouts detailing my liquid assets from various points in time, which I shred immediately. A stained photo of my mother, which I slip into my Lanvin jacket pocket. I retain a carrier bag’s worth of tramadol, cocodamol, and pregabalin, for which I have plans.
I look up to see Roger watching me from the doorway.
“Hello, Rog, looks like it's the end, then.”
He nods then closes the door behind him and sits down facing my desk. He looks smaller than I remember, grey-skinned, his eyes like milk and water. Quietly and carefully he says, “Reynard, you've behaved extremely badly and against the interests of our investors. You've consistently ignored my advice and always acted in your own interests, no one else's.”
“That's just your opinion, Rog. And without being too brutal about it, your opinion doesn't really matter.”
“Maybe so, but the regulator's opinion matters.”
“The regulator's got nothing to do with this. I'm out of here, the Chinese own Gyges now. Your problem, not mine.”
He shakes his head and places both his hands, face down, on my desk. “Are you familiar with that quote by, I think, Edmund Burke?”
“Remind me.”
“He said something like, 'The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.'”
“And your point is?”
“I can't just do nothing. I can't let you get away with this.”
“Rog, you instigated the whole thing. You’re at least as culpable as I am. You were in bed with Ish and the Chinese from the start.”
“That’s just not true.”
“It’s true. My advice to you is to get your head down, do as Mr Li says, trouser the big pay packet every month. Or retire — you're looking pretty rough, if you ask me.”
“Thanks, you are too.”
“I'm looking great, ask anyone.”
He doesn't reply, just carries on watching me emptying my desk. I break the silence. “I won’t ever forget your disloyalty.”
Roger still doesn't reply, then he starts to play with his lips with the fingers of his right hand. He stares unblinkingly past me; he doesn't respond when I call his name or when I move my hands in front of his face. It's as if he's possessed by some external force — perhaps divine intervention for his disloyalty. I finish emptying my desk and place the lid on the now
-full box. I leave a note saying Rubbish – throw away on the full bin bag and walk to the coat stand for my Givenchy overcoat.
A grunt then from Roger, then another. “What?” he says.
“Are you okay, Roger?”
“Yes. What?”
“Are you okay?”
“What?”
I open the door of the office and shout for Lucija, who comes trotting over.
She pushes past me, crouches down next to Roger, and places her hand on his. She's whispering something, but I can't hear what it is. She turns to me, and says, “He's had one of his mini-seizures again. He just needs some quiet time. He'll have to stay here for a bit. Cup of tea and he'll be okay.” She pushes back past me and heads towards the kitchen.
“Bye, Roger,” I say, lift the box past him, and head out into the street with a cheery “Au revoir!” to the backroom boys.
A black cab takes me home, I dump the box in the living room, then head out for a walk. The clouds have parted and the sun's warm on my face. It’s a morning of such dazzling clarity that one cannot help but be moved by it. The dirty splendour of London is laid out for my delectation. I take a broadly circular route around Mayfair, then I walk along Piccadilly, past Green Park tube and towards Piccadilly Circus. It's nearly lunchtime, so the streets are clotted with office workers; my progress is slowed. I continue northeast along Piccadilly, and suddenly looming up on the horizon like a majestic anachronism is the grand four-column portico of the London Pavilion (now housing Ripley's Believe It or Not!). Imposing and transcendent like some displaced Parthenon, that's exactly the kind of monument any man would want built in his name. But it’s far too late for anything like that.
Now the traffic's too heavy, the tourists are swarming too close to me, and I find myself heading instead back towards the office. Suddenly on the other side of the road I see Roger, head down, trudging like the sick old man he is. Clearly back on his feet after his little episode, I'm intrigued to see where he's headed, so I remain on my side of the road and slow to his pace. He seems to be headed towards St Saviour's. A visit for old-time's sake or a weak man's search for solace? Head still bowed, he disappears under the grand portico and through the front door. A couple of minutes later, I also slip into St. Saviour's but through an unlocked side door.
Back in the cold quiet of St Saviour's, I feel a presence, but God's not here. A man kneels at a pew, his eyes closed, his hands clasped together. His lips move soundlessly, head bowed in supplication. There he is: Roger, the great rationalist, the man of numbers and logic, begging for help from a supreme being who is not here.
Across the church you can hear his breathing, shallow, urgent, with the rasp of the bronchial. The light is dim, but I see him now raise his head and look up. Then a few muttered words and a shake of the head.
In time, he stands, walks towards the altar, and genuflects. He looks to the heavens once more then turns to head towards the exit. As he walks, his path starts to meander – gently at first, then more erratically, then violently; suddenly he's pawing at his face, and he goes down, catching a glancing blow on a pew. On the cold stone floor his body fits and writhes, as if pulsing with electricity. His face is contorted, riven through with an unknown force. He's momentarily still, then convulses once, twice more. There's a gargling sound, then with surprising rapidity his skin turns from ashen grey to pink to blue. Something flickers briefly across his face as his choking subsides, then he's still.
Silence returns to St Saviour's once more. Sunlight briefly passes through the stained glass window above — myriad colours projected across the floor and across Roger’s face — and then it's gone, and shadows return.
Justice is done, and all is quiet in the house of God. I leave by the side door.
51
Up early, a cold bright morning. Things are in order. My will’s signed and witnessed. The legal framework for the Reynard Xavier Rehabilitation Centre is complete, the funding is in place, the registration process is underway. Letters to Akemi, Lucija, Uncle Ish, and David Bligh are typed and stored in Tanaka’s safe, ready for distribution when the time is right. All loose ends are dealt with, except one: Detective Inspector Mutch.
As agreed we meet by Eros in Piccadilly Circus. Mutch, shod in the usual grubby raincoat, clutches a steaming cup of tea in a polystyrene cup.
“Look, let’s go somewhere warmer. My club’s not far from here. You hungry?” I say, and he nods and dutifully follows. The crowds thin as we cross St. James’, Mutch struggling to keep pace as I stride ahead.
A light lunch in a private dining room at the Bacchus Club follows: pressed terrine of duck and rabbit; roasted lamb rump with confit shallot and mash; cheese board. All washed down with a couple of V&Ts, a bottle of 2003 Krug, and a couple of bottles of 1994 Pauillac.
D.I. Mutch raises a glass and says loudly, “Say what you like about the French, they make a bloody good red.”
“Well, you’ll have a chance to drink plenty more soon. I’ve given instructions for the payment to hit your Bitcoin wallet tomorrow. You know you can buy an awful lot of good red wine for three million quid.”
Mutch smiles widely. “Look, thanks a lot, Reynard, you’re being ever so reasonable about this. I almost feel bad about it.” We clink glasses.
“Look, I’m a pragmatist. I just want a clean break. You’ll have seen the headlines. I’ve sold up, and I just want the quiet life now.”
“Yes, I saw the news. Pretty surprised, to be honest. Had you down as someone who needs to be centre stage, you know, calling the shots.”
“Maybe that was true once.” I pour the rest of the Pauillac into his glass; there are only dregs left. “You know, I’ve come to like you, Mutch. Were you not blackmailing me, I think we could be friends.”
Mutch says, “Blackmail’s an ugly word. Let’s call it business.”
“Okay, it’s business,” I say, and raise my empty glass. A waiter appears, and I whisper my request to him.
I turn back to Mutch and say, “Time for coffee and cognac, I think.”
A cafetière and a bottle of Hennessy XO duly arrive. I ask for a double measure of cognac to be poured for us both, and I propose a toast: “To the quiet life!” We clink glasses.
“So where do you think you’ll go, Mutch?”
“Probably Bangkok first. Been there a couple of times to, you know, sight-see. Might spend a little while there, then maybe check out Vietnam, Cambodia, places like that. Then maybe South America somewhere, maybe Brazil. Quite fancy spending Christmas on Copacabana. Or maybe the Caribbean, or Melbourne. I’ve got the fake ID sorted, but I don’t want to be complacent, you know, will move around a bit.” He stands and says, “Please excuse me. Nature calls.”
As soon as Mutch leaves the room, I push the plunger on the cafetière and pour us both a cup. I take the envelope from my jacket pocket and shake some its contents into his cup, but not so much that he’ll notice. A soupçon of my own special blend: ground-up tramadol, pregabalin, cocodamol, and cocaine. I add a spoonful of sugar and stir thoroughly.
“Damn good coffee, this,” I say, sipping my own coffee as Mutch returns to his seat and wipes his hands on his serviette.
I continue, “It’s the best stuff, single-origin Colombian, stupidly expensive. You know there are rumours that they use only topless virgins to harvest the beans?”
Mutch leers. “Sounds like my kind of brew!” He sips tentatively, then more confidently. “Wow — unusual taste. Really distinctive, isn’t it?”
“You bet. Just lacking one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Cigars.” I gesture for the waiter and whisper to him once more.
Ten minutes later, Mutch and I are ensconced on the balcony of the fifth-floor smoking room. The gas patio heaters whistle as they warm us, and Mutch puffs contentedly on a Partagas Series D No. 4. Thick blue smoke spirals into the leaden sky above Pall Mall.
“Mellow, eh?” I say.
“Ah yeah. Mellow, but
I’m pretty pumped too. Strange mix, bit spaced, actually.”
“Sounds like you need more coffee.” I stand, turning my back on Mutch. I say, “Would you mind turning down that heater next to you though?”
As Mutch struggles dopily to fathom how it works, I pour him another coffee, add the rest of the envelope’s contents, and two spoonfuls of sugar. I stir. Then, as I see him still fiddling with the heater, I say, “Don’t worry, Mutch, I’ll get the waiter to do it in a minute.”
I hand him his coffee, which he takes with slow deliberation. “Cheers,” I say, raise my empty cup, and Mutch drains his own full cup in two large gulps.
“Are you okay?” I say.
“I think so,” says Mutch as he sits down. “Maybe it’s the cigar?”
“Possibly, they’re quite potent, especially if you’re not used to them. Maybe some fresher air would help.” I stand in front of Mutch and offer both my hands, which he takes in his. I haul him to his feet, then guide him over to the balcony’s edge and tell him to rest his hands there for a moment. Sweat beads on his forehead and upper lip.
“I feel like shit,” he mutters, and I gently push the back of his head so he’s now leaning over the handrail. His entire body shakes as if possessed.
I take a couple of steps back and call out, “Close your eyes if you start to feel sick.”
“Hmmmm, okay.” Mutch is bent nearly double now, his head resting on the handrail. I glance behind me, make sure that we’re alone, then go to stand alongside him, a stench rising off him like cattle.
“How are you feeling now?” I say.
“Urrrgh.”
I look behind me once more then snap him into a headlock. He starts to struggle, but I can feel his strength already starting to fade. I release my arm from his neck, encircle his torso from behind and start to lift. He thrashes his arms and legs, catching me once in the face, but which serves only to strengthen my resolve. With his waist now above the handrail, I lean over him, forcing his weakening body to bend, his head now well over the balcony and below his feet, his face pointing back towards the balustrade. One more shove and he’ll be gone for good. I can see the newspaper reports now: a tragic accident following a boozy lunch with a friend; a dedicated officer with an unblemished record; Reynard Xavier reported to be devastated by the loss of his good friend.
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