by William Boyd
Talbot glanced at it and handed it back.
“You can keep it, man,” the investigator said.
Talbot looked at it again and placed it on his blotter. It read:
CRIMINALITY RISK CONSULTANT
“Are you on the borderline? We can help”
Kenneth Kincade (LLB)
“Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Kincade,” Talbot said.
“Please call me Ken.”
Talbot noticed that Ken seemed to have a slight American accent.
“Are you American?” he asked.
“I’m from Brighton. Born and bred.” The scuffed pointed toe of his visible winklepicker jigged up and down, metronomically.
“Excellent. I see you have a law degree.”
“Almost. I dropped out in my third year. That’s why I put brackets round the LLB.” He made the shape of the brackets in the air with his forefingers.
Talbot nodded. Maybe Ken Kincade would work—he hadn’t time to go looking for another investigator, anyway. He explained the situation, telling him of the significant theft of film stock, some hundreds if not thousands of pounds’ worth having gone missing. The obvious suspect would be someone in the camera department.
“How many bozos in the department?” Kincade asked, frowning and still chewing.
“Four. The orders for film stock come from the camera department. It must be one of the crew.”
“Stands to reason. Or all of them. Could be a conspiracy.”
“I hadn’t thought of that but I somehow doubt it,” Talbot said. “I just want you to find out the guilty party. Then I’ll take care of everything.”
“Rough justice, eh?”
“I simply want to keep this under wraps.”
“Capeesh. I’m twenty bucks a day, plus expenses.”
“Bucks?”
“Pounds. Sorry. Two days up front if you don’t mind.”
Talbot went upstairs to the accountancy department where Geoffrey Braintree provided him with eight £5 notes. He handed them over to Kincade with the names and addresses of the members of the camera crew written on a piece of paper. Kincade counted the notes twice and pocketed them.
“Don’t I have to put my moniker on a contract or something?”
“Let’s keep this as informal as possible, if you agree,” Talbot said, beginning to weary of Kincade’s ridiculous argot. “All I need is a name.”
“No es problemo, señor,” Kincade said, touching a finger to his forehead in casual salute. “I’ll send you an official receipt. You can tear it up if you want but I’m afraid it has to go on my books. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kydd. I’ll be in touch.”
He left and Talbot wondered if what he was doing were wise. Too bad—he had to find out what was going on: damage limitation and all that. His phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Talbot, me old mucker. Jimmy Appleby here.”
“How’re things, Jimmy? What can I do for you?”
“Everything’s diamond, Talbot. But Bob and I would like a quick meeting. Got an interesting proposition—think you’ll like it. Guaranteed. Come and see us when you’re next in town. Or maybe we’ll come and see you.”
“Whatever works.”
“How’s our baby boy doing?”
“Troy? ‘Like a duck to water’ is the expression, I believe.”
“Lovely-jubbly. See you soon, Talbot.”
Talbot hung up. A “proposition”? Why did that make him worried?
30
Mrs. Farthingly offered Anny another slice of Battenberg cake.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Farthingly, I’ve eaten too much already.”
“Nonsense. Eat like a bird. Go on, have another slice. Such a skinny little thing, you are. There’s more meat on a wren’s shin, as we say in these parts. We need to fatten you up, young lady.”
Anny, uncomprehending, took the proffered slice and put it on her side plate with the fish-paste sandwich and the buttered scone.
Mrs. Farthingly stared at her, warmly, full of benign interest. She was a small plump woman with pink-rouged cheeks and thin, perfectly white curly hair. She had a tic that made her blink in rapid spasms from time to time. Anny found this very disconcerting.
They were sitting facing each other on parallel sofas in the “back living room,” as Mrs. Farthingly described it. Through French windows Anny could see a fish pond, a sundial and a thin length of lawn divided by a crazy-paving path that led down to a garden shed. Beyond the shed was a high railway embankment and every now and then a commuter train would rumble and sway past, in both directions.
“Now, as I was saying,” Mrs. Farthingly resumed her analysis of her son’s career. “Nigel’s so pleased to be in this film. He’s had only two singles out in the last year and neither one made the top thirty. And this is somebody with a platinum disc.”
“Well, he’s great in the film. A natural actor.”
“That Paul Jones has been in a film. I think that’s what gave Mr. Appleby the idea.”
“Was that the film with Jean Shrimpton?” Anny was beginning to feel a bit faint, she realised.
“I wouldn’t know, dear.” Mrs. Farthingly cut herself a slice of Battenberg. “In 1966 Nigel was at the London Palladium. Do you know where his last concert was?”
“No.”
“The Tower Club, Warrington.”
“Is that bad?”
“Worse than bad. And then Mr. Appleby moved him from Decca to Parlophone, but they don’t seem to care about him. He’s not a group, you see. And it’s all groups today. I told him—you need a pop group, son. Like Cliff or Manfred. He doesn’t listen to me, no, no.”
She smiled at her. Anny didn’t know what to say.
“So who exactly are you in this film?” Mrs. Farthingly asked.
“I’m Emily, Emily Bracegirdle.”
“Yes. And what’s the story?”
“I’m meant to be a famous film star who’s making a film in Brighton. And then I fall in love with my driver. A young man from Brighton.”
“And that’s Troy.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Farthingly frowned.
“But you already are a film star making a film in Brighton.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem very clever.”
“I think it’s about how art imitates life. And life imitates art. That’s the point.”
“What on earth is that meant to mean?”
Anny saw Troy and his father emerge from the shed and amble up the path towards them.
“Here come the menfolk,” Mrs. Farthingly said, eyelashes batting. She stood and opened the French windows for them.
“You’ll have some cake, won’t you, Nigel?” she said as they entered.
“You bet. Thanks, Mum.”
“Did Nigel tell you he bought us this house?” Mr. Farthingly said. “We used to live in a council flat.”
“It’s a great house,” Anny said. She hadn’t really taken it in when they arrived. Semi-detached, pebble-dashed, a huge pampas grass plant in the small front garden. She looked at Mrs. Farthingly who was still smiling at her.
“More tea, dear?”
“Could I have a glass of water, please?”
Nigel/Troy disappeared, heading for the kitchen to fetch her one.
“We could never have afforded a house like this,” Mr. Farthingly said, emphatically. “Never in a million years.”
“Not in this part of town, that’s for certain,” Mrs. Farthingly added.
“I see,” Anny said. “Sure.”
“Nigel bought it for us when his first album went platinum,” Mr. Farthingly said. “One minute he’s in a talent contest in Slough and the next he’s got a platinum disc and signed to EMI.”
“I’m slowly getting to know Troy—I mean Nigel’s music.”
“If you can call it music!” Mrs. Farthingly scoffed.
“Would you like to hear the album?”
“Dad, leave it out,” Troy said, coming back in and handing Anny her glass of water. “Anny doesn’t want to listen to some old album. She’s come to meet you.”
“Mind you,” Mrs. Farthingly said, “that LP changed our family fortunes.”
“And he bought us a car,” Mr. Farthingly said. “A Jaguar S-type. Silver-grey.”
“That you never drive,” Troy said, reprovingly.
“I don’t like to risk it,” Mr. Farthingly said. “Only for very special occasions.”
“Where are you from, Anny?” Mrs. Farthingly asked.
“From Minnesota. In the U.S.”
“And to think you’ve come all that way to make a film with Nigel.”
“I have to say that Nigel is the only thing about this film that is keeping me sane.”
“He’s not a bad old fellow, our Nige,” Mr. Farthingly said and cuffed his son on the thigh.
“Compared to his brother,” Mrs. Farthingly said, her voice dry with disdain.
“Mum,” Troy warned.
“His brother is in prison,” Mrs. Farthingly said, flatly. “You might as well know, Anny. No secrets in this family.”
“Let’s not dig all that stuff up,” Troy said. “Anny doesn’t want to know about Godfrey.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother called Godfrey.”
“Godfrey,” Mr. Farthingly said the name slowly, then repeated it, “Godfrey is the black sheep of the family.”
“Are you familiar with that expression, Anny?” Mrs. Farthingly asked.
“Yes. May I ask why he’s in prison?”
Mrs. Farthingly sighed. “Because he’s a sinner.”
“He stole the lead off the roofs of over two hundred churches in the south of England and the West Country,” Mr. Farthingly said.
“Then he sold it to scrap metal merchants,” Troy said. “And used the money to buy drugs—speed, mostly—that he sold in pubs and clubs in Portsmouth and Southampton.”
“And Bournemouth,” Mrs. Farthingly added, disgusted. “My God…Heaven preserve us.”
“Now you know why we call him the black sheep of the family,” Mr. Farthingly said.
“Thank the good and merciful Lord above for Nigel,” Mrs. Farthingly said.
“Godfrey is a lot older than Nigel, by the way,” Mr. Farthingly said. “He’s twelve years older.”
“Nigel was my lucky baby,” Mrs. Farthingly said. “I was forty when I conceived.” She turned to her husband. “Imagine if Godfrey was our only child. Heavens!”
“Doesn’t bear thinking of. Doesn’t bear thinking of.”
Everyone was silent for a few moments.
“Can we change the subject?” Troy said. “Let’s stop talking about Godfrey. You’ll make Anny depressed.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Mrs. Farthingly asked.
“I have a brother. Lars. An older brother.”
“He’s not in prison, is he?”
“No. He’s in the army. In Vietnam.”
“Oh, my Lord!” Mrs. Farthingly squealed, both hands flying to her cheeks. “He’s fighting in the war in Vietnam? Your brother?”
“Well, he’s over there, but I don’t know if he does any actual fighting.”
“Godfrey should have joined the army,” Mr. Farthingly said with unusual bitterness. “Should have done his National Service. They should never have stopped it. It would’ve made a man of him—but now he’s just a common criminal.”
“Have some more cake, Anny.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine, thank you.”
She offered more Battenberg to Troy who took a slice. Mrs. Farthingly turned back to Anny.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Anny?”
“Mum, please, that’s a bit forward, that.”
“That’s OK.” Anny smiled. “Yes, I do have a boyfriend,” she said. “Nigel is my boyfriend.”
31
“Do I have to go?” Elfrida asked.
“You don’t have to—of course. But I think you should come,” Reggie said. “It might look odd if you didn’t.”
“But I won’t know anyone.”
“So what? You might meet some interesting people. It’s Dorian Villiers’ party, for God’s sake. It should be an interesting crowd, at the very least. For a novelist. Good copy.”
“I don’t need to go to a party to get good copy.”
“All right. You do what you fucking well please. I don’t care.”
“All right, I’ll come.”
* * *
—
“You have to promise to sit with me,” Anny said. “Promise me, Troy.”
“I promise. But there may be a seating plan. Or, maybe there’ll be a buffet.”
“Just stay close.”
“It’s just a party, Anny. No big deal.”
“I hate parties.”
* * *
—
Talbot was fumbling with the knot on his bow tie when the telephone rang. Who had invented the bow tie? Why was it so confoundingly difficult to knot? He should have bought a ready-tied version but some vague, ingrained snobbery made him resort to a real one, however lopsided the thing looked when it was done. Maybe that was the point. He picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Talbot, my dear, we need to speak.”
“I’m about to go to a party, Yorgos.”
“I am coming down to see you. I explain my—our—very complicated deal for Burning Leaves. It will work for us, Talbot. We will be very rich.”
“I have to say it all seems a bit odd.”
“Exactly. Precisely. This is the plan. Odd, difficult, confusing. Wait till I explain for you everything we are doing. The early bird will find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“Great. Let me know when you’re coming down.”
* * *
—
Anny felt strange and a bit nervous sitting beside Troy in the back of the car on the way to the party—probably because she couldn’t quite accustom herself to seeing him in a tuxedo. He seemed a different person, somehow—or at least visually. He looked older, and his handsomeness, his unique good looks, had become generic. He looked like any cool young guy in a tuxedo—no longer her particular Troy. Stop it, she told herself, and squeezed his hand. He turned and told her again how beautiful she looked. And she did look beautiful, she thought, or at least she had tried. She was wearing a black velvet dress with a low, scooped front, her breasts held, compacted and presented in a firm, perfect cleavage by a heavily wired brassiere. She had a red silk shawl around her shoulders and diamond studs in her ears. “Bloody hell,” Troy had exclaimed when she emerged from her bedroom. “You look like some kind of fucking film star!” He said her breasts were like two scoops of vanilla ice cream and he stooped and kissed them in an act of “homdage,” he said. She gently corrected him and thanked him on behalf of her breasts.
She glanced over at him as they motored through Brighton. He looked so different. She reached over and rubbed at his groin, feeling for his cock.
“Anny! Are you mad?”
“You look very handsome, Nigel. I couldn’t resist.”
“Stop it, girl. Behave.”
She leant her head on his shoulder. She hated parties but maybe she’d enjoy this one.
* * *
—
Elfrida covertly drank half a pint of vodka before she and Reggie left for the party. She felt reeling drunk but she knew she could remain coherent
as long as she didn’t drink any more. It was a trick she had learned—and it worked. Don’t go to a party to get drunk. Get drunk and then go to the party. She wore a bulky green satin dress that she had found in her wardrobe—what had possessed her to bring it?—it seemed dated, very 1950s, somehow, but she didn’t give a fuck, so she said to herself. She put on heavier make-up and wore some ostentatious paste amethyst earrings. No one could say she hadn’t made an effort.
As they gathered in the hall waiting for their taxi she saw that Reggie had opted for a red bow tie with his dinner jacket.
“Very counter-culture, darling,” she said. “You look like a croupier in a seaside casino. Are you sure that’s the impression you want to make?”
“Are you all right?”
“Right as rain.”
“You’re not going to disgrace me, are you?”
“Only if you disgrace me.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“I had a sherry before my bath. Sorry, I forgot to ask for written permission.”
“Sarcasm isn’t your tone, darling.”
“You should read one of my novels, one day. Might enlighten you.”
He seemed tense, almost chippy, she thought. Usually he enjoyed parties—he always abandoned her so he could prowl around the rooms assessing the guests, seeking potential professional purchase and advancement. She picked up her clutch bag. Inside she had the number of the Rottingdean taxi firm that she used written on a card. If she wasn’t enjoying herself she’d call and quietly leave. Reggie could make his own way home.
* * *
—
When Talbot arrived at Dorian’s enormous, double-fronted, white stucco house just off Marine Parade, he realised he was too early. Servants were lighting two flaming braziers on either side of the pillared portico and, to his astonishment, an actual red carpet was being rolled down and fixed to the front steps.
He lit a cigarette and waited for the final touches to be made before he went in. However, he was hailed from the first-floor balcony by Dorian himself, flanked by giant Ionic pilasters, like a dictator addressing a crowd. He was leaning out, in white tie and tails, Talbot noticed, with some kind of diagonal red-sash decoration across his chest.