Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you know how much a full set of implants costs? Fifty grand.’

  ‘Wow.’ He turned to face me. ‘Do you think Jack Vance was the one that got away? Was he really “Alfie”?’

  I could tell where this was going. Damian had always been ashamed of his father but I knew Jack remained a source of fascination – as did the whereabouts of his stash.

  ‘You’re going to ask me if I know what he did with the diamonds.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do you think Damian would tell me, even if he knew?’

  Tom sipped his beer. ‘Hypothetically speaking, what if Damian did know? And what if Jack has left him the diamonds? Would it be so terrible if your baby got the benefit?’

  I thought about it while chewing a piece of chargrilled aubergine.

  ‘It’s not going to happen,’ I said.

  ‘But if it did?’

  ‘You mean, Damian gives me a wodge of his dad’s haul, no questions asked?’

  ‘Would you say no?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  I sipped my coffee, playing for time.

  ‘I need to do the baby thing my way, Tom.’

  ‘It’s just a hypothetical. Humour me.’

  I rolled my eyes but Nan’s threat was still fresh in my mind.

  If you won’t tell his wife, I will.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If Jack Vance was who people say he was, and if he did get away with a bazillion pounds’ worth of diamonds that were never going to find their way back to their rightful owners—’

  ‘Because no one knows who the owners are—’

  ‘… Exactly. And if he did leave them to Damian, and if Damian lobbed some of the proceeds my way, to help with the baby, then I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Good. But promise you won’t ask Damian for money.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Or go near his wife.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  Eager to change the subject, I asked about the latest news of his mum (he’d had an email from Goa) and his grandfather (no sign). We ended up laughing at the absurdity of families and agreeing there’s no such thing as normal, let alone perfect.

  As we left the market, he insisted on buying me a bunch of lilies. I asked him to pose with me for a couple more selfies. Silk FM have told me I’ve got to sign up for Twitter and start tweeting about my life at least twice a day. I think it’s a waste of time, and I’m dreading the trolls, but anything to show willing.

  Parting company at the tube station, I gave Tom a peck on the cheek. For a moment, I thought he was going to do The Lunge and move in for a proper kiss but it was just my imagination.

  To be honest, although being with him all afternoon had given me goosebumps (hormones kicking in?) I felt relieved. Life was complicated enough – and about to get trickier still.

  TOM

  The idea of asking George about Jack Vance came while I was riding the night tube, listening to Harriet’s announcements.

  The next stop is Finsbury Park. Doors will open on the left hand side. Change here for the Piccadilly Line and National Rail services.

  Performance-wise, she’d nailed it with that one. If Trip Advisor did reviews for tannoy announcements Harriet would get, like, five stars – no, six! Okay, I may have been not entirely sober when I had that thought.

  I’d like to pretend I had a good reason to be on the Victoria Line at three in the morning but that would be a lie. The truth was I’d been working on the musical, alternating coffees and beers all evening. I was wired, drunk, and overcome with the urge to hear her voice. An aimless underground journey with pissheads and sleepy shift workers seemed to make perfect sense. The things we do for love.

  As far as I knew, George wasn’t a fully paid-up member of the criminal classes but with his reputation for fleecing wealthy widows he was the only person I knew with the right contacts. In fact, the more I thought about him, the cooler he seemed – an absolute ledge. So I rode the tube for, like, a couple more hours – listening to Harriet’s voice and changing trains every so often, just to mix things up and stay awake. Around five-thirty, I headed for home, made a fresh pot of coffee and waited until a decent hour to text my father. How can I contact George?

  He replied straightaway. I have no idea.

  Seconds later there was another text. Why?

  I pecked out a reply. Maybe I should get to know him.

  The reply was instant. Don’t even think about it. Stay away.

  Still drunk, I was tempted to send Dad another message – an apology for having assumed the worst about ‘his’ infidelities; sympathy over the impending divorce – but decided against it. It was probably the alcohol making me sentimental. Instead, I replied to Mum’s latest email from the Blue Moon Yoga Retreat on Patnem Beach, letting her know I was now in the picture about her and Dad, and about ‘Alex’ too. I decided not to say more, for now at least. That’s the thing about a parent with bipolar disorder – you end up skirting important stuff in case it sends them off the deep end. I said I hoped she was okay and enjoying Goa. Then I lay on the bed, fully dressed, and crashed out for, like, ten hours straight.

  * * *

  My subconscious must have gone into overdrive because my waking thought was of George’s passport and the note I’d found in his jacket pocket; those four words in black ink. Rochester House – Camden. Paddy.

  A Google search told me that Rochester House was a hostel for homeless men. I wolfed down a bowl of cereal, showered and shaved, then biked to north London, arriving at the imposing Victorian building as dusk was falling. I chained my bike to the railings then buzzed the intercom. I heard a man’s voice.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m looking for Paddy.’

  ‘Paddy who?’

  ‘I don’t know. He might be a friend of my grandfather’s.’

  ‘What’s your grandfather’s name?’

  ‘George Brocklebank.’ I hesitated. ‘Or maybe Lord Anthony Buckingham.’

  I thought I heard a chuckle but perhaps I was mistaken. The buzzer sounded, the door clicked and I entered the building.

  There was no sign of life. The place stank of fried food and disinfectant and the hallway was gloomy, lit by an overhead strip-light that flickered on and off, buzzing like an angry wasp. I walked through a fire door, into a corridor, and followed the sound of voices to an office. The door was ajar. Two men in their seventies were sitting by a two-bar electric fire, nursing mugs of tea.

  ‘You’re looking for Gorgeous George?’

  The speaker looked ill – almost bald with wispy hair and sallow skin.

  ‘Or Paddy,’ I said.

  ‘I’m Paddy.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I’m guessing you’re Tom? George said he was planning to try and find you.’

  The second man drained his mug, placed it on the desk then shuffled out without a word. Paddy got to his feet, keys jangling from his belt. He was wearing a pair of exotic leather slippers, the sort you’d find in a souk in Marrakech. We talked as I followed him along a corridor lined with closed doors and up a flight of stone steps.

  ‘Is George here?’ I said.

  He stopped at a door and gave me a wink.

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  He knocked. No response. He knocked again. Silence, apart from a distant bout of coughing from down the hall. He selected a key and opened the door.

  ‘Welcome to Shangri-La.’

  He stepped aside and ushered me into the room. It was small with a single bed, a white plastic table and a chair. A flimsy rack served as a wardrobe. There were hardly any clothes. I recognized the bottle green corduroy suit George had worn during his visit to my flat. The yellow pocket square lay on the table, neatly ironed and folded.

  ‘He lives here?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Paddy, shuffling inside and sitting on the bed. ‘When he’s not playing ch
erchez la femme.’ Another wink. ‘We go back a long way otherwise I’d tell him he’s outstayed his welcome.’ He opened a bedside drawer. ‘Did you know your granddad used to be a pop star?’

  He rummaged in the drawer and took out a vinyl record – a 45 rpm single with a photo of George on the cover, looking moody. He was instantly recognisable in a sharp suit topped off with, like, a trilby set at a rakish angle. The song was called ‘The Days Are Long (But The Years Are Short)’. To my surprise, I felt a lump rise in my throat as I stared at the picture. How old had he been? Twenty-five? Certainly no more than thirty; a man in his prime. I remembered the advice he had given me.

  Life is short, Tom. Eat the cake, buy the shoes, take the trip.

  Running a finger over the photo, I felt a sense of connection I’d never experienced before. Had ‘Gorgeous’ George’s near-miss with stardom influenced my father’s attitude towards music? Was this why Dad liked those old songs and had taken the job at Silk FM? I’d assumed his old-fogeyish attitude was a by-product of middle age but perhaps there was more to it. And maybe my own taste for musicals was part of a continuum – another branch of our gnarled and twisted family tree.

  ‘He only made one record,’ said Paddy. ‘It didn’t hit the charts but still – it was a moment in the sun.’

  ‘He said he was getting married.’

  Paddy rolled his eyes. ‘Chelsea Town Hall?’

  I nodded. ‘Followed by lunch at the Savoy.’

  ‘That was the plan.’

  ‘Was?’

  ‘Maybe still is.’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘Place like this, you don’t ask too many questions.’ He scratched his neck then turned to face me. ‘I don’t suppose he talked to you about a gold mine in Peru?’

  ‘He mentioned it,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  He ran his eyes over my clothes, taking stock of my dishevelled appearance.

  ‘Never mind.’

  I looked around the room, searching in vain for the red exercise book that had contained George’s ‘autobiography’ then I heard a voice at the door. ‘I see we have company, Patrick.’ I turned to see my grandfather, smartly dressed in a pinstripe suit and black brogues. ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Just in time for the cocktail hour.’

  He didn’t seem surprised to see me and there was no sign of embarrassment on his part.

  ‘Shall we adjourn to the local hostelry?’ he said. ‘This place has its virtues but the bar is a disappointment unless you care for cocoa.’

  Leaving Paddy to lock up, I followed George along the corridor and out into the fresh air. He peered along the street, looking in both directions.

  ‘I take it you weren’t followed,’ he said.

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  He took off at a pace that belied his age. There was a pub on the corner. We went inside. I offered to buy him a drink but he insisted on buying the first round – single malt for him, a pint for me. We sat at a corner table, exchanging pleasantries, neither of us mentioning his straitened circumstances. After a moment or two, he turned to face me.

  ‘Have you a girlfriend, Tom?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Someone in your sights?’

  ‘You could say that, yes.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘It does a chap good to have a young filly on his horizon. Keeps him fresh, sharp.’

  I smiled. ‘How are the wedding plans?’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted.’ He drained his glass. ‘Did your papa send you?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘To tell me to bugger off.’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’m here.’

  He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘In which case, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  I leaned forward and lowered my voice.

  ‘Do you know anything about a man called Jack Vance?’

  George studied my face, as if bringing me into focus for the first time. A sly smile crept over his features.

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  RICHARD

  Monday’s show went well, despite a hangover that defied coffee and Nurofen. During the final hour, with Perry Como crooning ‘Magic Moments’ as Harriet and I chatted off-air, I like to think I did a decent job of hiding my feelings about the photo of her at a flower market with a smug-looking Tom – the one that showed up on her new Twitter feed on Sunday afternoon. (Cyber stalking? Me?)

  ‘Looks like you had fun at the weekend,’ I said, doing my best to strike a casual tone.

  She said something about how sweet Tom was and how she loved lilies.

  ‘I associate them with funerals,’ I said then worried I might have sounded as if I was trying to put Tom down (which, with hindsight, I suppose I was).

  She skipped breakfast – again – and hurried off after the show; a doctor’s appointment, or so she said. I pretended not to mind, took myself to a café and booted up my laptop. Sipping a latte, I emailed my solicitor, telling her to expect to hear from Bonnie about the divorce. I can’t pretend it wasn’t a melancholy moment. Twenty-five years of marriage reduced to an exchange of emails and dry legalese.

  To cheer myself up, I googled articles about the Mayfair jewel robbery and found several obituaries of the late Jack Vance. The man seemed to have spent most of his life behind bars, progressing (if that’s the word) from domestic burglaries to Post Office robberies followed by a series of increasingly audacious bank and safe deposit heists. Not surprisingly, there was no clue as to what he might have done with his share of that final haul.

  I’d just ordered a second cup of coffee when my mobile rang. Usually, I ignore unknown numbers but this time I answered on impulse. God, how I wished I hadn’t. There was no preamble but the man’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘The lad came to see me.’

  I froze.

  How long since we’d spoken. Twenty years? More?

  Resisting the urge to hang up, I gathered my wits, letting the seconds tick by before finding my voice.

  ‘How did…’ I tailed off. My voice was little more than a croak. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘How did he find you?’

  ‘He’s clever,’ said George. ‘Comme papa, comme fils.’

  Silently, I counted to ten. The trouble with a charm offensive by my father is it’s all offensive and no charm. I did my best to rise above the most crass insult I’d ever heard but my hands were trembling and I could feel the blood thudding in my ears. How often had I fantasized about this conversation? What I would say, how scathing my words would be, barbs filled with recrimination and wounding wit. But when the moment finally arrived – this thunderbolt from the blue – it was as though the years had worn away the worst of my fury, like the ocean slowly but surely eroding a shoreline. I was still livid, yes, but most of all, I felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the effort of carrying so much rage, and for so long.

  ‘What do you want?’ I said.

  I heard him clear his throat. ‘Tom’s taking a risk. I thought you should know.’

  It seemed an unlikely pretext for breaking a silence that had lasted two decades. All of a sudden, the penny dropped: the man was dying, eager to re-establish communication before it was too late, to explore the possibility of redemption, even absolution, as if that could ever happen. In spite of everything – the rage, the weight of wasted years – I felt a pang of sympathy, recalling a phrase I’d come across in one of Bonnie’s self-help books. Forgiveness means giving up all hope of a better past. But if forgiveness was out of the question (and by God it was) then my father had succeeded in piquing my curiosity by telling me that Tom was at risk.

  Employing a technique I use when trying not to lose my cool (e.g., with police officers who pull me over for speeding, or hapless call centre workers in Bangalore), I decided to pretend that I was on-air, performing for my unseen audience. For the duration of the call, I wouldn’t be Richard Brocklebank – heartbroken son nursing a life-shattering grievance –
I’d be Richard Young, radio pro.

  ‘What sort of risk?’ I said.

  ‘He’s in love, poor sod. The girl’s up the duff. Not by him, apparently, by some toerag who’s trying to wash his hands of the whole affair. Poor Tom is badly smitten. He wants to help her.’

  ‘Help how?’

  ‘Money,’ said George. ‘He wanted to pick my brains.’

  ‘About?’

  He hesitated. ‘Is this line secure?’

  I fought the temptation to hurl the phone across the café.

  ‘I don’t think GCHQ care about a call between a DJ and an ageing gigolo. What did Tom want to know?’

  ‘He asked about an old lag, Jack Vance. Tom said you were up to speed about this – the girl too. I take it you know who I’m talking about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rumour has it Vance was involved in something big a few years ago. Tom seemed to think I might know people who knew him.’

  ‘Why would he think such a thing?’

  ‘I assume you’ve told him I’m some kind of crook.’

  If only ‘crook’ were the worst of it…

  ‘I made some calls,’ continued George. ‘Jack’s wife has been dead for years. There’s one son, Damian. Word is his old man shuffled off having made sure his son was extremely well provided for. His way of apologizing for being a lousy father.’

  ‘A father apologizing?’ I said, allowing the mask to slip. ‘Whatever next?’

  A pause. When George spoke again he had the grace to sound chastened.

  ‘Yes… Well, we are where we are.’

  ‘Which is where exactly?’

  ‘Tom’s keen to get his hands on what you might call Vance’s bequest, assuming there is one. He wants to give any proceeds to the jeune fille, to help her out with the baby.’

  He was right: Tom was smart. Then again, I’d had the exact same thought.

  ‘It’s his way of trying to win her affections,’ continued George. ‘I asked what was wrong with a box of Milk Tray.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘He seemed to think so,’ said George. ‘He wants to search the flat where Damian is staying. Either for the haul itself or something in writing – a will or a clue to “buried treasure”.’