Trio

by William Boyd

  “We can send it,” Joe volunteered, “no trouble at all.”

  “No, I’ll just pop it in the post. It’s not urgent.”

  Joe gave her Janet’s address in Brighton, Elfrida wrote it down and thanked him. “Don’t tell Janet,” she said. “It’s a surprise.” Then she called her Rottingdean taxi firm and booked a “wait and return.” It might be a long wait, she warned them.

  Her taxi driver turned out to be a young Asian man who told her his name was Dalgit. He was chatty and Elfrida was pleased to be distracted answering his many questions. He asked her what she did for a living and she said she was a novelist. She wrote books, stories.

  “You mean, you just sit at home, make up stories and write them down?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s a fair description.”

  “And you get paid for doing this?”

  “Yes. They buy the stories off you.”

  “Kutsik narak!” He glanced back at her. “I am finding this hard to believe. You sit, you think, you write. And money comes. I’m going to do this. Better than driving a taxi.”

  “It’s not quite as easy as that. They have to like your stories, first, and if they do, only then do they pay you.”

  “What about writing songs? Write songs for pop music. Much more money, nah.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s just not my thing.”

  Dalgit parked up in the street across from Janet Headstone’s house. Elfrida peered out. An ordinary terraced house but painted purple and with one of those vulgar yucca bushes in the front. She asked Dalgit to park again, further away, where she still had a good view of the house, and he duly did so. Ten minutes passed, then thirty. This is what surveillance is like, she supposed, time dragging by, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Dalgit left the car for ten minutes to try to find something to eat. He returned with a bag of fish and chips—she declined the offer of a few chips—and sat there as he ate, the car filling with the smell of vinegar. She wished ardently that she’d brought a hip flask of Sarson’s with her.

  An hour passed.

  “What is in this house?” Dalgit asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  At about 8:30—they’d been waiting for over an hour and a half—a saloon car pulled up outside Janet’s house and Reggie stepped out, slinging a bag over his shoulder. He strode up to the front door and smoothed his hair down before he rang the bell. The door was opened and he went in but Elfrida couldn’t see anything of Janet Headstone.

  She felt her body stiffen, now having witnessed Reggie arriving, being welcomed and admitted. The ocular proof had been delivered: what she had imagined had been proved to be real. So much for the night shoot and the complicated set-ups. She exhaled and inhaled slowly, she could feel her heart beating faster, and she noticed that the saloon car remained parked outside the house. Of course, a car and a driver at his beck and call—director’s privileges.

  She sat back, feeling a muscle spasm in her neck, and, simultaneously, a slight nausea. This had happened with Reggie before. She had caught him out at least five times over the years of their marriage, therefore she suspected that a multiple of two or three (for the times she hadn’t caught him) would be a more accurate reckoning of his infidelities. So why was she so bothered by this sneaky little transgression? Because the other woman was a writer—a novelist, like her. It was irrational but that fact made the betrayal all the more bitter. It was as if she had gone and had an affair with another film director. Reggie’s ego would take a serious, terminal battering. He would never forgive her. Just as she was never going to forgive him.

  “Two minutes,” she said to Dalgit, and opened the door.

  She had been warm in the car and was struck by the advancing evening’s coolness as she walked towards Janet Headstone’s house and shivered. She stopped by the saloon car and tapped on the window to wake the dozing driver.

  He wound down the pane.

  “Excuse me,” she said, smiling her broadest smile, “I was just passing but I’m sure I saw that it was the film director Reginald Tipton who you dropped off. Is that right? I’m a huge fan of his work.”

  “Yes, it was, actually—though he calls himself Rodrigo Tipton, these days.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “No. He’s having a script meeting with the writer.”

  “Right. How fascinating! Thank you so much.”

  She stepped away, her eyes on the house, and saw lights come on upstairs. For a second, she thought about going to the front door and ringing the bell but she knew, almost instantly, that she would come out of such a doorstep confrontation badly. She would be the one shamed, not Reggie—who would make up some preposterous, ingenious lie and be backed up by his girlfriend. She walked back to Dalgit and his minicab and told him to take her to the Repulse.

  It was strange being in the Repulse at night—she had only ever come at lunchtime, she realised. For a start the place was packed, full of young people in their bright sloppy clothes as far as she could tell. And the noise! She pushed her way to the bar and stood there, money in her hand. She was served by a young girl with a fringe as long and eyelash-resting as hers. Large gin and tonic, please. She was served and drank it in ten seconds and held up a pound note to order another.

  Drowning your sorrows, she said to herself. If only they could be drowned, like an unwanted litter of kittens. Her gin arrived, she paid and drank, wondering what to do about Reggie and this new—this vilest—betrayal. Do you want to be married to a man who can do this to you? she asked herself. Answer: no. Well, he’s living in your house, this interlocuter in her head reminded her. And when this film’s over he’ll come back to the Vale of Health and recolonise it anew. Will you tolerate that? No. Will you kick him out?…She thought about this for a few seconds before she replied. Yes. This time I think I will—but I will choose my moment. Let him dally with Janet Headstone, unaware, until this stupid film is over and then he’ll get his comeuppance. On my terms.

  It seemed a good plan and she smiled to herself, and said “Yes,” quietly. One more gin then Dalgit can whisk me back to Rottingdean.

  She saw the young barman with the incredibly long hair and signalled to him.

  “Large gin and tonic, please.”

  He brought it to her.

  “Hello,” she said. “Remember me? I usually come in at lunchtime.”

  “Are you with the Salvation Army?”

  “Never mind.”

  She finished her drink and went to the ladies’ lavatory where she unwound the crêpe bandage over her festering scratch. There they were, the little creatures, swarming under the skin, feeding off her wound. Little bestioles, she thought, the French word suddenly coming to her, proliferating and squirming around her scratch like some kind of loathsome culture in a Petri dish. Stupid, stupid Dr. Ingham. What did she know about anything?

  10

  The Disappearance of Anny Viklund. Good title for a film, Talbot thought. A horror film, perhaps. The call had come in from DI Desmondson himself at eight o’clock on Monday morning. Miss Viklund had not returned to the hotel, Desmondson had reported flatly. Her room was empty, unslept in. He was issuing a warrant for her arrest. He thought Mr. Kydd would like to be apprised of the latest situation.

  Things go wrong on films all the time, Talbot knew, all the time, regardless of the size or prestige of the film. Dysfunction was in the very nature of the art form that was cinema. But not in this way. In his own experience as a producer he had had to deal with drugs, divorces, physical punch-ups, mind-numbing incompetence, drunkenness on the set, week-long sulks, shrieking anger, the vilest insulting abuse, sexual molestation, scene-stealing one-upmanship—generally the sort of behaviour that a three-year-old would be ashamed of. Even the recent business with Tony During and the theft of film stock seemed run of the mill. But the dis
appearance of Anny Viklund was something else. Never this. Aiding and abetting a terrorist. This was breaking new ground.

  He told Desmondson that he hadn’t any idea where Anny Viklund might be. Maybe she’d gone back to America, for all he knew. Meanwhile, on the film, it was time for massive damage-limitation. Shoot around her, he told Reggie, make stuff up, film pick-ups and any amount of “shoe-leather” that he hadn’t had time to schedule before. People getting in and out of cars, walking up to front doors, walking away from front doors, driving along, establishing shots, you know the drill. Spend a couple of days filming Troy mooching around Brighton—who could tell, it might come in handy during the final edit. The main thing was that they would track her down and bring her back—she’s probably had some sort of brainstorm or panic attack, he said. Everyone would be looking for her and the advantage was that she was a huge American film star—not some runaway adolescent with a drug problem, or a battered wife who had decided to end it all. It could only be a matter of time, Talbot said, reassuringly, but he could see from the panic in Reggie’s eyes that he wasn’t that confident.

  Troy Blaze had been his saviour.

  Talbot had been standing at the set where the day’s filming had been due to take place—a funfair. This was where Emily and Ben were meant to go after their reunion under the pier. Troy wandered over from his caravan and stood quietly beside him.

  “Mr. Kydd,” Troy said, “I think you should know. I got a note.”

  “A note?”

  “From Anny.”

  He showed it to Talbot.

  In neat American high-school copperplate Anny had written: “Troy, honey. Gone to Paris for a few days. I have to sort a mess out. Love you, Anny.”

  Talbot handed it back.

  “Bless you, Troy. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll go to Paris and find her and bring her home. But let’s just keep the whole thing between you and me. Right?”

  “Got the message, Mr. K. Don’t worry.”

  And then Talbot had an exceptionally good idea.

  * * *

  —

  Ken Kincade buckled his seat belt slowly, as if endeavouring through the process to understand how the simple mechanism worked.

  “Fuck me,” he said vaguely. “Seat belts. Jesus.”

  He turned to Talbot, a strange smile on his face.

  “I think you should know, Mr. Kydd, that I’m a very nervous flyer.”

  “You’re not alone, Ken.”

  “Yeah. But I took a couple of—actually, three—Librium in order to get on this plane. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “I understand. Just relax. It’s a short flight.”

  “It’s just that if I don’t seem my usual self then it’s the Librium talking, not me.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s the take-off and landing that does me head in.”

  Talbot patted Kincade’s arm, reassuringly, wondering if his exceptionally good idea was melting before his eyes like butter on a hot griddle.

  Ken Kincade was in his usual black suit with his cowboy boots but he had no bootlace tie. He was wearing a t-shirt with the word “SEX?” on the front. Talbot wondered if that had been a Librium-inspired decision, watching him settle back in his seat and close his eyes tightly. He noticed that Kincade had a distinct tremor in both hands, even though they were clamped to his knees.

  Talbot turned away and thought about his own problem. How to find Anny Viklund in a city as large as Paris? Furthermore, how to find Anny Viklund in Paris if she didn’t want to be found?

  He had telephoned Anny’s agent in Los Angeles the moment that LA had opened for work and had received a series of abrupt and unhelpful negatives. No. This was not possible. Not Anny. She would never do such a thing. And no, she had no notion of where Anny might be in Paris. The woman—her name was Bernadette Shaw—said she had to step away from her desk for a moment and she would call him right back. Of course, she didn’t and for the rest of the day she remained unavailable. After many hours of vain attempts to reach her, Talbot asked her assistant to say just two words to Bernadette Shaw when, if ever, she returned to her desk. These words were “contract” and “litigation.” Sure, I’ll be glad to pass that on, the assistant said, brightly, and wished him a nice day.

  Then Talbot had his brainwave. If anyone could find Anny Viklund in twenty-four hours it was surely Kenneth Kincade (LLB), the man who had so swiftly solved the mystery of the missing film stock.

  He called Kincade and explained quickly about the mission to Paris and its extreme urgency and delicacy.

  Kincade said that when he worked abroad his fee doubled.

  Not the slightest problem, Talbot assured him.

  “Looks like we’re off to La belle France, then, Mr. Kydd. Do please send the travel details to my office.”

  And so, on Tuesday morning at Gatwick airport, they found themselves on the first BEA flight to Paris.

  * * *

  —

  Talbot and Kincade strode along a wide corridor in the terminal at Le Bourget airport. The plane had been on time, the flight turbulence-free and Kincade had relaxed marginally and asked for a brandy before the fasten-seat-belts sign went on as they began their descent, at which point he retreated into his near-catatonia mode.

  “All airports resemble each other, yet there’s something indisputably French about this one,” Kincade said, musingly. “Don’t you think?” He seemed altogether more lively now that they had touched down safely and were back on terra firma.

  “Maybe it’s because all the signs are in French,” Talbot said, wondering if Kincade was still being affected by his tranquillisers or if he was playing his usual provocative games.

  “You may have hit the nail on the head.”

  “But I sort of know what you mean,” Talbot said, trying to ease the mood. They seemed to be sparring with each other, rather, and that was all wrong, under the fraught circumstances.

  “I’ve never been to Paris,” Kincade said.

  “You’re not serious, surely.”

  “No, seriously. Never set foot in France until today.” He looked at Talbot and smiled, unabashed. “My interests have always been focussed on the other side of the Atlantic.”

  “You can practically see France from Brighton.”

  “Maybe that’s the whole point,” he said. “I already knew too much. Needed a strange culture. Something new.”

  “Fair enough. But when it comes to culture France wins hands down.”

  “That’s just your opinion, Mr. Kydd. No, I’m pleased to be here, don’t get me wrong. Foreign travel—one of the perks of the job.”

  As they waited for their luggage Talbot thought it would be civil to ask Kincade more about himself. Here they were on the same mission, travelling together, staying at the same hotel and the man was a virtual stranger. He stirred up some bland conversational starting points in his mind.

  “What does your wife think about your trip to Paris? I bet she’s jealous.”

  Kincade glanced at him oddly, as if Talbot had said something exceptionally stupid.

  “Is that meant to be a joke?”

  “Just an idle question.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “What about your girlfriend, then? She’d love to be coming, I bet.”

  Kincade sighed.

  “I’m…How shall I put it so you understand? I’m not that way inclined, Mr. Kydd.”

  “You’ve lost me. Sorry.”

  Kincade looked him in the eye. “I’m musical. Light in my loafers. Make my own macaroons. A friend of Dorothy.” He paused. “I bat for the lavender team.”

  “Right. I see.” Talbot managed a smile. “Sorry for being so obtuse.”

  “I prefer the euphemisms,” Kincade said, “to the blunter denigrations. You know: queer, homo, fa
iry, poofter, faggot.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Kydd.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “That I’d spotted you. Even though you hadn’t spotted me.”

  Talbot saw his suitcase appear on the carousel, took a few paces and hefted it off, glad to have some seconds to collect his thoughts. He now felt he knew Kincade all too well. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  Kincade was beside him collecting his own bag.

  “I should tell you,” Talbot said, quietly, “that I’m a married man with two children.”

  “Yeah. So was Oscar Wilde. Talking about Paris, I might pop over to Père Lachaise if we’ve got time to spare.” He smiled. “We could go together—pay our respects.”

  “Let’s find Anny Viklund first, before we plan any jaunts, shall we?”

  They headed for an exit, customs and a taxi.

  * * *

  —

  Talbot had booked them both double rooms in a hotel off the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs called the Hôtel Cardinal. It was a place he knew well, small, but with a dark bar and a perfectly acceptable restaurant—and half the price of the grander, more famous hotels that the city boasted. He and Kincade checked in, were led to their respective rooms and agreed to meet in the bar to make their plans.

  Kincade was already established at a small table when Talbot arrived and he noticed Kincade had a glass of red wine on the go. Talbot ordered a Perrier water.

  “So,” Kincade said, taking out his little notebook. “She’s in Paris. That much is established.”

  Talbot had tried to talk to him on the plane but had swiftly seen it was useless—his fear of flying making coherent conversation impossible.

  “We have one other lead,” Talbot said. “She has a boyfriend here called Jacques Soldat.”

  Kincade asked him to spell it and wrote it down.

  “What does he do?”