‘This is denial, of course. You probably don’t want to hear this, but spinal patients pretending everything’s going to be fine are all too common. I’m afraid the neuropathy is against Pavel. We may be able to coax a little sensation back into his hands and arms but there’s absolutely no guarantee. We’ve done our best to explain that but you’ll forgive him for choosing not to believe us.’
‘I will. Of course I will. Pavel’s problem is credibility. He has an amazing talent for making the most unlikely things live on the page. I shouldn’t be confusing fact with fiction. I should learn from my mistakes.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I should make allowances. All I’ve got to deal with is my own gullibility. He’s got to cope with a great deal more than that.’
‘You’re telling me he’s fooled you?’
‘All the time. Sometimes it matters. Sometimes it doesn’t. Just now I think I need a little time to adjust.’
‘You want to talk to him? Now?’
I give the proposition some thought. Then I shake my head. ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
THIRTY-THREE
I’m downstairs in the kitchen when I get the call. Jessie is outside with a pair of scissors raiding the herb garden for mint and rosemary. I’m looking at my smartphone. Number withheld.
‘Hello?’
It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize. Faint hint of an American accent. She asks whether I’m Enora Andressen.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’
‘We need to meet. You know Lockett’s Copse? Off the Beaminster road? I’m there now. As soon as you can. And don’t bring anyone else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I didn’t catch your name. Who are you?’
I wait for an answer but nothing happens. She’s gone. I slip my phone into my jeans pocket and abandon laying the table. I’ve been up to Lockett’s Copse with Malo. He’d discovered it on an outing with the trail bikes with Andy and he wanted to show me the view. You get there on a series of country lanes that narrow and narrow until they end in a turning circle of loose dirt and gravel. Park up, walk the fifty metres through the trees to the top of the rise, and the Flixcombe estate lies before you, stretching away towards Bridport and the sea. H loves the place. He says it makes him feel baronial.
I check my watch. It’s nearly midday. We’re heading for lunch and Jessie has readied a bowl of new potatoes. She’s back in the kitchen with a fistful of herbs. When she checks what time I’d like to eat, I tell her I have to go out.
‘Now?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Can’t it wait till after we’ve eaten?’
‘No.’
I’m tempted to offer an explanation, not least in case I get myself into some kind of trouble, but I know this will raise too many other questions. Just now, I’m on my own.
It takes less than ten minutes to get to the copse. The weather, after weeks of Mediterranean heat, has begun to break and rags of cloud shadow the parched yellows and browns of the surrounding hills. At the end of the lane I pull on to the springy turf and park. There’s no sign of any other vehicle.
I get out and stand for a moment in the fitful sunshine. Up here, just for one moment, I can taste autumn in the wind. I look round, wondering what’s supposed to happen next. Will this woman be alone? Is she out there, among the trees, watching me? I wait, feeling slightly ridiculous, an actress without a script or stage directions.
When nothing happens, I start to make my way up towards the crest of the hill, under the gaze of a gaggle of crows high in a beech tree. Then, abruptly, the crows have lifted and gone and I’m aware of another figure, tall, striding down towards me. She’s wearing jeans and a fleece over a collarless patterned shirt. She’s dark, with an explosion of wild black curls, and the closer she gets the more certain I am that I’ve seen her before. Her face is unforgettable: high cheekbones, flawless olive skin, and a full mouth that curls easily into the widest smile. To my surprise, she seems pleased to see me.
‘Thanks for showing up,’ she says. That American accent again.
‘No problem.’ I gesture round. ‘So what’s this about?’
‘It’s to do with my guy.’
‘Your guy?’
‘His name’s Brodie. You met him yesterday.’
‘The swimmer? At the pool?’
‘Sure. Me? I’m the messenger here. You’re ready? You’re listening? ’Cos sure as hell I ain’t gonna say this twice.’
I can’t take my eyes off her face. This has to be the woman Jessie mentioned, the woman at the pool. All the clues are there: her complexion, her beauty, her age. Brodie is a very lucky boy, I think. And I’m more certain than ever that I’ve seen her before.
‘You’re an actress,’ I suggest. ‘Am I right?’
Her smile fades. She has very distinctive brown eyes, the colour of amber. I take her silence for assent.
‘Takes one to know one,’ I say lightly. ‘Where would I have seen you last?’
She won’t tell me. This conversation isn’t about her, she says, or even me. It’s about Brodie.
‘Really?’
‘Yep. Here’s what you need to know. You two never met, never talked. As far as you’re concerned, he doesn’t exist.’
‘But he does. And for a drug dealer he was very helpful.’
Mention of drug-dealing draws an emphatic shake of her head. Brodie has nothing to do with drugs. Brodie is the cleanest guy she’s ever met. End of. Period.
‘So why is he selling?’
‘It’s a business thing. I’m sure that’s what he told you and here’s something else about the man: he never lies.’
I study her for a long moment. ‘You’re his agent?’
‘I’m his very best friend.’
‘And he’s frightened I might speak out of turn?’
‘Frightened isn’t a word we recognize, ma’am. Brodie doesn’t do fear. Never has. Never will. Brodie is ice. Brodie is a dream. We need to protect him here, you and me. Me because I take care of my men. And you because we think alike.’
‘Meaning?’
‘People you love? People who matter to you? No one wants them hurt. Stay cool here and no one comes to any harm.’
I’m staring at her. The menace behind the smile couldn’t be any clearer. The wind is starting to ruffle that amazing hair and the dialogue belongs in a soap but I’m beginning to get the picture.
‘You mean Malo? Clem?’
She nods. She’s meeting my eyes without a trace of a smile. ‘We agree about my Brodie?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Then everyone stays safe.’ She takes a step further and – with a curious formality – extends a hand. ‘I loved what you did with Arpeggio,’ she says. ‘Some of those reviewers were way out of line.’
I carry the memory of her face back to Flixcombe. By the time I’m turning in through the gates at the bottom of the drive I’ve realized exactly when I saw her last. One of Pavel’s favourite shows is EastEnders, a soap he describes as bespoke drama for serial depressives. He tunes in to every episode and treats it like a series on the radio. Recently, the storyline called for an American love interest and I’m near-certain that the actress the producers brought in was Brodie’s admirer.
I’m still working out the quickest way of putting a name to that remarkable face when I slow to make room for an approaching car. It turns out to be Andy. He signals for me to stop and pulls over on to the grass. Moments later, he’s opened my passenger door and climbed in.
‘Something to show you.’ He swipes his phone screen. ‘This was posted a couple of hours ago. Facebook’s bound to take it down but Danny says it’s gone viral already. He thought you might be interested.’
He finds the image he’s after and hands me the phone. I think I’m looking at a body lit by the harshness of a flashlight. Receding into the darkness beyond, I can make out the curve of a pebble beach and on the right of the picture the dim shape
of what I take to be a tent, but that’s not the point. In the middle of the shot, sprawled face down on the wet pebbles, is a thin figure. Torn jeans and a scruffy grey T-shirt. Bare feet. One thin arm flung forward, fingers outstretched. The face is turned to the brightness of the light, one eye still closed, the other open but unseeing.
‘You know him?’
I don’t answer. Noodle, I think. Poor, broken Noodle. Danny, a couple of nights back, had warned me that one day this man would end up dead on some beach or other and here he is, the prophesy fulfilled. The shot is full of pathos and reminds me of a similar photo of a dead child on a beach on a Greek island, washed ashore after drowning at sea. The same inert accusation. The world failed me. And look what happened.
‘Here. Take it.’
Andy has found a tissue from somewhere. I dab at my eyes. Tears, I tell myself, are the least I owe an image like this. I blow my nose. When Andy asks for the phone back I won’t let him have it.
‘Who took this shot?’
‘I’ve no idea. The Facebook page was created specially. That’s all I know.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Very.’
‘Killed?’
‘Danny thinks drowned. He’s got a mate who’s a lifeguard. He helped recover the bloke just now. They put him in a body bag and shipped him across to the harbour.’
‘No injuries?’
‘I’ve no idea. Danny didn’t say.’
I nod. I’m still staring at the phone, at the face, at the patches of pale skin beneath the torn jeans. Noodle would never have gone swimming, I tell myself, not in the state I left him. Someone paid him a visit. Someone carried him out of that draughty tomb of a tent and dumped him in the sea.
‘And the police?’ I glance at Andy.
‘They’re all over it. Danny’s doing a roof nearby. Turns out he’s got a grandstand seat. The Bill have taped off the beach and last time we talked there were blokes on their hands and knees in grey suits crawling all over the pebbles. It’s Crimewatch, he says. For real.’
I’ve seen more than my fair share of TV crime shows and I’m thinking very hard about the treasure of forensic clues I must have left last night. My fingerprints on the inhaler, on the spoon, even on the bloody syringe. Fragments of my DNA plastered over other surfaces. Not to mention the probability of CCTV at the car park. Game, set and match, I think. If they’re looking for a prime suspect, it may well be me.
‘You know this guy?’ Andy asks again. ‘Was that why you borrowed the torch last night?’
‘I needed the torch to see in the dark.’ I nod at the shot on the phone. ‘Which has nothing to do with that.’
Andy doesn’t begin to believe me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he retrieves his phone with a tiny shrug of his shoulders, in the final backward glance he spares me as he gets into his car. But by now I don’t care about Andy. What’s far more important is what the contents of the new Facebook page tell me about Brodie. I was summoned to Lockett’s Copse because The Machine knew only too well that the first port of call for Bridport’s finest was likely to be me. And the last place he wants his name to be mentioned is in any statement that I might chose to make.
I need Pavel again. Badly. This has all the makings of a prime-time script. Am I wrong in thinking that Brodie, aka The Machine, somehow knew that I’d paid a visit to the beach last night? And that Noodle might have been a little too loose-lipped for his own good? Is that why he’d been silenced? Carried bodily out of the tent, dragged into the sea and put to death? And is that why the body on the beach is doubtless appearing on smartphones across Bridport? A terrible warning to anyone else who might step out of line?
Shit. The car park, I think. The headlights that suddenly appeared after I’d made my way back from the beach hut, after I’d abandoned Noodle to what turned out to be a death sentence. One circuit of the car park. One glimpse of the woman behind the wheel. That’s all it would have taken. And after that, the boy had barely minutes left to live.
I know now what real guilt feels like. Not the shame of helping someone into a stupor but the far larger charge of ignoring the probable consequences. Stuck behind the wheel in that car park, I’d been engulfed by what I’d just witnessed. I’d let down my defences and poor Noodle had paid the price. I should have been cannier, I tell myself. I should – at the very least – have gone back and watched over him. That’s what he needed. That’s the least he deserved.
From nowhere comes the blast of a horn. It makes me physically jump and the moment my eyes find the rear-view mirror I realize I’m doing it again, compounding one moment of inattention with another. Behind me, filling the rear window, is the bonnet of a black Range Rover. H, I think, back from London. Perfect bloody timing.
THIRTY-FOUR
Jessie, bless her, has stayed lunch until we both turn up. H has driven down alone. Wes has taken the train back to Pompey. With Jess at the table, our conversation is limited to small talk. The iniquities of the A303. The curse of the congestion charge. How hard it is to meet anyone English in central London in high summer.
Lamb chops and new potatoes, plus a glass or two of chilled Sauvignon, give the meal an almost festive feel. We’re rich. We’re successful. We’re living the rural dream. Only when Jessie has cleared the table and retired to the cottage do we crash land where, days ago, we were last together.
‘Well?’ H enquires. ‘What’s gone down?’
‘Gone down’ is a phrase I know he’s picked up from Malo. I want to know where he is. I need to know what’s happened to our son.
‘You first,’ H grunts.
I tell him everything’s been fine. I’ve seen a bit of Jess. I’ve taken a stroll or two. I’m halfway through a good book. I’ve done a bit of shopping.
‘You make it sound like a holiday.’
‘Really? How about you? Last time we talked you were about to let Wes loose on Clem’s front door. Any luck?’
‘We got in.’
‘And?’
‘We had a look round, gave the place a going over. Tell me something – why do women need so many pairs of shoes? Wes counted more than seventy. That girl needs locking up.’
‘Very funny. Any sign of our son there?’
‘Plenty. That boy needs to learn how to wash up, make a bed and all the other stuff you should have taught him. The place was a khazi.’
I ask yet again about Malo. Was he there in person?
‘Christ, no. The closest we got was the hair in the shower pan and the roaches down the side of the sofa. I’m telling you, the boy’s a dosser.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Was there any sign of the gun, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘So where is he?’
H ignores the question. Then he tells me something I hadn’t expected. Mateo, he says, has had a run-in with the K&R King.
‘You mean O’Keefe?’
‘Yeah. It turns out Mateo has been taking a leaf out of our book. He doesn’t believe O’Keefe has a clue what he’s up against and he’s decided to talk to these people himself.’
‘What people?’
‘The jungle bunnies who lifted Clemmie.’
‘And?’
‘He won’t tell me, not yet, but you get a nose for these things. Number one, we’re definitely dealing with a bunch of Somalis, mad bastards, all of them. These guys do the heavy lifting. They’re street level. They’re in it for the money and the pose. A handful are down in Bridport and they work with some guy called Brodie and answer to Larry Fab. Number two, like you thought, Mr Dreadlocks is the Plug. He gets the stuff down to Brodie and Larry Fab. Sitting above Mr Dreads is the top management, probably a white guy, but Mateo thinks the Somalis have declared UDI, told the management to fuck off. This is a shop-floor rebellion. The Somalis obviously want a bigger slice of the action – more say, more dosh, more control – and though Mateo won’t admit it, he thinks the key might be Clemmie. Two million US would fund a hostile takeover bid. And fro
m where I’m sitting, that sounds more than plausible.’
‘You’re telling me that Mateo is talking to these people? These Somali kids?’
‘One way or the other, yes. Either the Somalis or Mr Dreads, or the top management. My guess is that Mateo has walked into the jungle here. Major turf war. No one really in charge. None of this will be easy. Texts? Phone calls? Face-to-face? I’ve no fucking idea but Mateo’s certainly an improvement on the K&R King.’
‘You think Mateo’s in some kind of negotiation?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And he’ll pay the money?’
H doesn’t answer. There’s someone knocking at the front door. With Jessie gone, he gets up to investigate. I’m still sitting at the table, nursing the last of my wine, listening to the rap-rap of his heels on the polished marble floor. After he opens the door, I hear a murmured conversation. Then he’s back in the kitchen with two strangers in tow. Both of them are uniformed.
‘Filth,’ H grunts. ‘Asking for you.’
I’ve never been arrested in my life, nor taken into custody, though I’ve played this scene on a number of occasions. On-screen, it often calls for panic, hysteria and occasionally physical violence, roughly in that order, but I’m surprised to find that the real thing is a great deal more civilized. The sergeant in charge is polite, even solicitous. He asks for ID, checks that I have no one vulnerable to look after, and then invites me to accompany him and his fellow officer to Bridport police station where detectives are waiting to interview me.
‘In connection with what?’ H has been listening.
‘A young man has been found dead, sir. This morning. We think Ms Andressen might be able to help with our enquiries.’
‘Yeah?’ H is looking at me.
I shrug. Short of making a scene there’s very little I can do. I try to step towards the hall but H is standing in my way. ‘So what’s this about?’ His face is inches from mine.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘You need a proper brief. Say nothing. I’ll bell Tony, right?’
Tony Morse is H’s favourite lawyer, a suave Pompey veteran whom I met when H threw the party for Malo. According to H, Tony always does the business. He has immense presence both inside and outside the courtroom and I certainly felt a little of that when we shared a midnight conversation at the party last year.
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