In Search of Love, Money & Revenge

by Hilary Bailey

  Madame Katarina, who had made no effort to pretend she wasn’t listening, and whose face had slowly taken on a look of satisfaction, stared at Ben.

  ‘Unless they start digging up a garden in Rutherford Street and find Dennis Neilson’s been at work again,’ Ben told her, ‘that story will go in.’ He felt movement under the table and grasped the large envelope she was pushing towards him. ‘I’ll have to read this and ring my editor. He’ll probably have to contact the managing editor. Will you be around over the weekend?’

  ‘Stick a message on the answering machine if I’m out,’ she said. ‘Or you can leave any message with my flatmate. She knows all about it. I’ve got to go. See you, Ben.’

  ‘See you, Sue,’ he murmured, watching as she disappeared into the crowd on the pavement outside. Madame Katarina, catching his eye, smiled at him. He was startled. Then he turned and looked across at Vanessa, and smiled.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she mouthed.

  Ben got up and went over to her. ‘I’ll ring you tonight,’ he said.

  ‘I thought you were going to—’

  ‘I’ll have to cancel it. Something’s come up. A big story, biggest of my career, possibly. Will you be in?’

  She nodded, ‘Yes. I’m a sucker. Sorry, love, no Coke at this counter. Ask the lady over there.’

  ‘Can I have a glass?’

  As Vanessa turned to reach for a glass she heard Ben shout across the café, ‘How far is Savernake Road from here?’ He was already in the doorway.

  ‘Straight down the High Street, past two sets of lights, then right, left, right again and that’s it,’ said a man near by. And Ben was gone.

  In bed that night Ben went methodically through the dealings of Kenton Council with Savernake Developments for Vanessa’s benefit. ‘Two months of secret deals between planning department officers and the company involved,’ he concluded. ‘And only some of the department privy to the deal. My informant works there and found out by going in on Saturday morning and hacking into a computer while pretending to do something else. She guessed at the key word. Got it second guess. “Savernake” – not very bright, eh? The road-widening scheme went through that department on push and pull and I don’t know if the roads people knew why they were passing it. The whole plan was designed, of course, to assist traffic flow for the new development no one had heard about. Two months of secrecy, in a council pledged to open government. You can bet your socks most of the councillors don’t know. It’s a major scandal.’

  At the start of the story, Vanessa had committed herself to lying there dreamily, looking sometimes through the bedroom window at a patch of dark sky, and sometimes at her lover as he spoke. She felt pleasure as he told her the story, because he was telling her, because he was there, and not with his wife. However, the words planning department brought her back to reality with a start. Horrible memories of the row in the supermarket with Cindy Abbott, the equally nasty scene in Geoff’s office, the whole awful business began to flood in. She began to pay attention. ‘I’ll check Companies House tomorrow,’ Ben was saying, ‘and find out who’s in charge at the so-called Savernake Developments,’ when Vanessa said, ‘Cindy’s father, Mr Abbott’s in it. He must be. That must be why he wants to buy the Arcadia.’

  ‘He what?’ Ben said, startled. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘He rang again yesterday,’ she said. ‘Annie spoke to him. She’s worried. “Time’s nearly up,” he said. We’ve got to make up our minds. We’ve more or less decided to go ahead and sell it. We’ve only got till mid-week, and nothing’s improved. He said it was for his retirement. But do you think this has got anything to do with it?’

  ‘He must think the plan’s going to go through,’ Ben told her, ‘bringing people with a lot of money into the area, making an up-market restaurant a better proposition.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ Vanessa said. ‘I must tell Annie. What are we going to do?’

  ‘He must be pretty sure Savernake Developments will have their way with Kenton Council,’ said Ben.

  ‘It’s a shame to think of the park going,’ Vanessa said. ‘There’s hardly anywhere else near by you can take children. We’ve always moaned about the dogshit and the dossers and muggers, but that’s better than not having it at all. And what are they going to do with all the people on the estate? It makes you feel insecure. If the council can do that to them they can do it to me, tomorrow. All they need to do is decide they want to turn the bit of Rutherford Street they own into a multistorey car park and then what happens to my home? It’s like the wicked landlord. I mean, it’s not just those people who’re going to worry – it’s all the tenants in Kenton.’

  ‘Good point. Still, they’re not going to do anything here. Anyway, to do them justice, they’re offering terms—’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Vanessa said. ‘Alternative accommodation on the worst estates—’

  ‘Savernake’s not much to write home about—’

  ‘It’s their homes,’ Vanessa said fiercely. ‘You can’t go taking away people’s homes.’

  ‘Well, that’s exactly what they’re planning to do,’ Ben said.

  ‘I think I’d better phone Annie straight away,’ Vanessa said, getting out of bed.

  To Nigel Fellows’s annoyance Jasmine arrived late in their box at Covent Garden. Her husband might have been surprised at the reason for her unpunctuality: the demand of handsome Gerald Rafferty, Nigel’s old schoolfriend, now at the Department of the Environment, for one last act of intercourse in his Tufnell Park maisonette. Jasmine saw it as helping herself to another card in the game of life to which she was committed.

  She smiled apologetically, assuring herself of her husband’s forgiveness for her childish lateness, and slipped into the empty chair on Nigel’s right. Jasmine knew she looked beautiful in a shimmering dark blue dress, golden hair piled up on her head, a double row of pearls round her throat. On Nigel’s left sat Mr Katario and Mrs Sumi Ikeda and just behind them the glamorous Tamsin Bell, in purple shot silk, with Julian Vane. Right at the back of the box, half in shadow, Max Craig, the company astrologer, like Nigel, pursued his own thoughts. The much-delayed consultation at Durham House had, to Nigel’s way of thinking, been unsatisfactory, and a further meeting was planned for later that evening in Kensington.

  ‘I see a death,’ Max had said. ‘And I see a project which may be hard to bring to fulfilment. The reasons are obscure. The strands involve love, and money, and vengeance, and something which is almost, but not quite, supernatural. It’s a very cloudy picture, and my strong advice is to do as little as possible at the moment. If you wait, all may yet be well—’

  ‘Waiting’s not my strong suit, Max,’ Nigel had said, with some impatience in his voice. They were sitting in the library at Durham House late at night. Nigel’s long day and car breakdown had made him tense. The news he was receiving was not what he wanted to hear. ‘With all due respect, Max, I’m an impatient fellow, active – and sometimes circumstances are such that one just cannot wait.’

  ‘I know. But my advice is to put as much as possible on hold.’

  Nigel had the idea the clairvoyant was trying to punish him for having made him wait about all day. He sensed malice in the less-than-good prognostications. He also wanted to hear something about a coming child, but was reluctant to expose his need, in all its depth. He’d thrust his hot hand at Craig and said, ‘Here – take another look at the entrails.’ But Max Craig was standing and trying to excuse himself.

  ‘I’ve done the chart, for you and for the company you asked about, and I’m tired. And that means, quite frankly, I can’t start on palmistry.’

  ‘Oh, do your stuff, Max,’ Nigel said irritably.

  Then, seeing Craig’s face and suddenly recognising that if he gave way to any more impatience he might lose a perfectly good forecaster, he paused. He recalled what had happened to Sammy Tideman at Grosvenor Mutual when Craig had walked out on him just before he went ahead with the takeover against Craig’s
advice. A nice combination of the Monopolies Commission and the Fraud Squad had put old Sammy firmly into retirement in the Canaries. Of course, Sammy had rejected a lot of other advice and warnings over eighteen months, not all of it from Craig and his crystal ball, so the collapse wasn’t such a surprise. But there were other examples of the dangers of ignoring Craig’s predictions – of a coup overthrowing a government here, a dawn raid there. Those who retained him, when you discovered who they were – the managing editor of ten newspapers, a royal prince and an African dictator – seldom did anything but praise him. To be on the safe side, Nigel reflected, he’d be well advised to keep Craig sweet. He had apologised and blamed the long day followed by a difficult journey for his bad temper. An owl hooted. Craig, about to reply, paused. Another hoot came. Craig smiled. ‘Let’s meet again, shortly. I’ll work on it all, see if I can give you a more exact picture.’

  Nigel masked his boredom and impatience as Turandot went on its noisy way. As the tenor belted out ‘None shall sleep’, he noticed Jasmine’s head droop and her eyes close. Giving her a little friendly jab in the ribs, he thought how very, very fond of her he was. She was lively, affectionate, pretty and good-humoured. But he wanted, needed, a child. Aside from his natural desire, there were practical reasons. At their father’s death, Sim, his elder brother, would become a baronet and inherit half his father’s majority shareholding in Samco, Nigel receiving the other half. Durham House was entailed to the eldest male heir – Sim, Sim’s son, his grandson would inherit it. Their sister, Claudia, would get a lump sum, a few Samco shares and little else, since it was assumed, by custom, that she would marry and that her husband would be responsible for her. If she needed other help, Sim would be expected to supply it. But now things were changed – if Sim was dead everything which would have been his would go to Nigel and then to his son, if he had one. Embassies had been contacted, foreign governments appealed to, detectives employed, but all the searches had not produced Simon Fellows. The family were terrified now that he would never turn up.

  Nigel tried not to slump in his seat. The thought that he might never again see clever, peculiar Sim drained him. But there it was, and already his father was making provision for him to receive everything if Sim never reappeared, or was found to be dead. It had to be done. He waited impatiently for the end of the last act. At least they had all had dinner earlier, so once the opera was over they could part. His guest, Mr Ikeda, had more or less assured him that afternoon that his bank, given all the necessary guarantees, would front up ten million for the Savernake development, a bit less than half the full sum required. Samco would produce the other half. The interest payments on Ikeda’s loan would be heavy, but on balance that method of financing the scheme would be better than digging too heavily into Samco’s pockets. In fact, Nigel wasn’t sure that if he went to the Samco board and asked them to finance the Savernake development in full they would be all that happy to do so. Harry Paine, a senior director, had hinted as much to him a month or so before, warning him obliquely not to ask.

  Meanwhile, the thought of Sim’s death, perhaps in a foreign gaol, or bowing out in a shabby hotel room in a small town in Thailand or Peru, produced a heavy lump in Nigel’s chest. On the other hand, if Sim was alive, he’d just like to get his hands on the bastard. Their mother was growing ever more papery and silent, and if Sim were capable of getting in touch and wasn’t doing it, then it was cruel beyond belief. But it was hardly possible that Sim would behave like that. He must be dead, or in bad trouble somewhere. Max Craig was as useless as the Foreign Office and the private investigators, except that Craig had apparently declared to Lady Mary that Sim wasn’t dead. Thin comfort, thought Nigel, and he’d believe it when he saw Sim with his own eyes, and not before.

  Jasmine was managing to nod off again, the finale in full flow. Nigel nudged her once more. It was understandable that she hadn’t wanted to have dinner with the Ikedas, Julian Vane and Tamsin Bell, since Vane had dumped her sister for the Bell woman. For his part, he could see why. In her light, shiny number, all out at the front and in at the waist, with flashing eyes and teeth and tossing hair, Tamsin Bell looked like a hotter number than Annie, nice as his sister-in-law was. Annie was no doubt a lot more civilised in a cardigans-and-hard-library-books sort of way but she lacked glamour. She was the wife you went into the jungle with, as was Jasmine in her way, but who wanted to go into the jungle?

  Nigel had had to explain that Jasmine had another date and couldn’t be with them for dinner. Julian had left his wife high and dry, without any warning, and had apparently refused to consider repaying the legacy she’d trustingly put in his hands while he was building up his firm. It was a bad business and Nigel was angered by the sneaky, victorious little look the couple exchanged when they guessed the real reason for Jasmine’s absence from the dinner. It was a snub to him, as Annie’s brother-in-law. Stupid to be caught out in a silly thing like that, Nigel thought, especially in a matter concerning someone’s family, an area always about as safe as picking primroses on the Irish border. He had to deal with Julian because Julian’s services were extremely useful, in many ways unique. He’d heard Julian had expanded the firm quickly on the strength of his new woman’s rich family – yet another of Julian Vane’s enterprises funded with the help of money produced by the woman he was living with. Obviously, some men were like that. He, Nigel, was quite pleased he wasn’t one. Nevertheless, when they stood up to applaud and get ready to leave, Nigel observed Julian greet Jasmine cordially, as if there was nothing wrong.

  ‘And it’s such a wonderful opera,’ Tamsin said enthusiastically. ‘Don’t you think so, Mrs Fellows?’

  Nigel had to introduce his wife to her sister’s supplanter and wasn’t surprised when Jasmine ignored the introduction, turning immediately to Mrs Ikeda, saying, ‘My goodness. That is a lovely dress. And so cool in this weather,’ and to Nigel, ‘Nigel, shall we start to leave, before the crowd gets too thick? It’s terribly hot.’ And again, to Mrs Ikeda, ‘We’re just not used to such heat in this country.’ Without forcing the pace, she led the way out of the crowded box and into the corridor. Julian would have to listen to some protests from his snubbed woman on the drive home, Nigel reflected, but she might have expected something like that. In the circumstances it would have been more tactful to have stayed at home.

  Nigel took Tamsin’s arm as they walked out, saying to Julian, who came behind, ‘I know the quickest way out. If we move, we may be able to avoid the crush.’

  ‘But I love that moment when the whole audience is outside Covent Garden on a fine night,’ Tamsin said, meaning, Nigel presumed, that she wasn’t averse to being seen in select company, if that’s what you could call it these days.

  Julian’s response was, ‘Well, not if it means queueing up for the car, darling.’

  Tamsin hadn’t given up. ‘Julian was telling me about your beautiful house in the country. I’d so love to see it.’

  ‘So would I, at the moment,’ Nigel said. ‘I’m afraid we’re all going to be stuck in London for a little while, until we’ve got things moving.’

  ‘It must be wonderful to be able to go to such a lovely place, after London,’ Tamsin persisted.

  Jasmine, further along with the Ikedas, called, ‘Hurry, Nigel. We’re getting separated.’

  ‘Yessir,’ called Nigel, thinking, She’s a lovely girl, Jasmine. I do love her.

  Joe Banks was in the Arcadia with Councillor Leslie Dowell, unofficial leader of what was termed the Kenton Cadre, a group of five very socialist councillors from five very poor wards of the borough. Banks had known all along they would spearhead the attack on the plan to sell the Savernake Estate and Savernake Park. Looking round the restaurant, empty but for four salesmen celebrating the birthday of one of them, Banks said, ‘It’s a nice little place, good food. I can’t understand why more people don’t come here.’

  ‘I should think the prices put it out of the range of the average Kenton resident,’ Les Dowell said gl
umly. He was a tall, lantern-jawed man of forty in a white open-necked shirt and black trousers.

  ‘I know you’d rather have a pie and a pint, Les,’ Banks said, ‘but, as I’ve explained, I’m having to be careful about my stomach. I’m getting on, and I’m taking tablets for ulcers. The doctor tells me it’s not unusual where people had a poor diet in childhood. Four of us on a docker’s wages – when he was in work, which wasn’t always—’

  ‘Yes, Joe,’ Les Dowell said. ‘I’ve heard that song before. Let’s get down to business. What am I here for?’

  ‘You’re going to have to hear me out on this one,’ warned Banks. He put it to himself that he hated Les Dowell and his side-kick, the angry red-head Betsey Jones. He firmly believed they were covert members of the Workers’ Revolutionary Party. They’d challenged him two years running for leadership of the Labour group on the council; he’d beaten them off fairly easily so far, but he knew they were always at his heels. He feared that one day, for some reason, they’d win, and start working to make the Socialist Republic of Kenton not a joke, but a reality. They’d declare war on central government, which would come down on them like a ton of bricks. The residents of Kenton would wake up and find they’d become cannon fodder in a civil war between Kenton and Westminster. The Government would starve and batter Kenton into submission, the cadre would have scored a moral victory, Kenton residents would find yet another old people’s home shut and a large feeder road for the Channel Tunnel traffic going right through their homes.

  He glared at Dowell, who stared back. A cloud of rage and disgust hung over their table. And he was a vegetarian, Banks thought, giving orders to the young waitress in a black dress.

  ‘How old are you?’ Les Dowell asked Melanie, looking her up and down.

  ‘Oh my God,’ groaned Banks under his breath.

  ‘What do you want to know for?’ demanded Melanie who still left a lot to be desired as a waitress.