White Lines

by Mel Stein

  The waiter came over and refilled his coffee cup without him having to ask. This was a strange country. The man in the street was friendly and yet it was dangerous to walk the streets. There was something puzzling Mark. Over the past few years he had learned to train his mind to pursue those intangible things that he heard, yet found no place for in the world of logic. It was something that had been said at the tribunal, something about Barry Reed’s behaviour at the hotel. He’d stayed in his room on the phone. Anything that was out of the ordinary had to be worth following. Who could he have been phoning? And, more important, was it of any relevance to anything? He doubted it, but an inquiry would fill the gap in his morning. He didn’t fancy sight-seeing. Truth be told he’d already seen enough of Bogota to last him a couple of lifetimes. He finished his coffee, paid his bill and gave the waiter an over generous tip that immediately made him a valued customer.

  It was a fair walk to the hotel, but he didn’t fancy a cab, didn’t think the exercise would do him any harm and began to stride out through the ever-increasing heat. He didn’t know how people lived in it but he supposed it was the old maxim that in time you got used to anything. He knew he was being paranoid but he began to duck and dive in and out of shops, making sharp turns in the street, glancing back to see if he could pick out the same faces behind him in the crowd, a recognisable car in the road, but there was nothing and nobody. He tried to convince himself he was of no interest to anybody in this country. He had come here to do a job and he had completed the task. He’d dined with a friend, would lunch with him and would return to England none the wiser as to why or how disaster had befallen his lover and young friend. And as for Rob Davies asking him to find out what he could about Jenny Cooper, surely that was also going to be a case of whistling in the wind. Yet, she had been staying in the same hotel as he and Barry and the rest of the team. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone, or if not kill them, at least cause enough damage for him to have a good long hard look at them. Coming into the foyer brought back memories. The surprise of finding Patti in his room, the pleasure of rediscovery of her body, the worry when he could not find her, the speed of their initial departure and then the days and nights he had spent alone trying to secure her freedom. He struck lucky immediately when the receptionist recognised him.

  ‘Señor Rossetti, you are back to stay with us, perhaps?’

  ‘No just passing through,’ he replied, thinking it wiser not to say that he had sought alternative accommodation.

  ‘A pity. Can I help you with anything … while you pass through?’

  Mark returned the man’s knowing look. Doubtless he had a whole deal going with a bunch of hookers, but he didn’t want to insult the man by an outright refusal.

  ‘Thanks, but I’m afraid I’ve a plane to catch. Maybe next time when I have a whole night to spare. There is something you can do for me though. When I was here last you’ll recall the England team and officials were staying as well.’

  ‘How could I forget a famous victory? Although I think one of your players has a little help. So it is fortunate it is a friendly otherwise I think we would be asking for a replay.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, and you’d be getting it. There’s a place for everything, including drugs, but not on the football field.’

  The receptionist, whose name Mark could see from his badge was Carlos, nodded wisely as if the very mention of drug abuse had shocked him into silence.

  ‘Well, there’s been a bit of a problem about some of the expenses that have been claimed by certain members of the party, including the certain player of whom we were speaking. I’ve been asked to get duplicates of their accounts, particularly their phone bills, and I was wondering if you keep them for any length of time.’

  Carlos looked insulted.

  ‘Of course we keep them. We have the finest computer system of all the hotels in South America. Tell me the names you want and the dates and I will print them out again for you.’

  ‘Barry Reed and Jenny Cooper are the names, and the dates would be the whole period of their stay.’ He produced a fifty-dollar bill just in case Carlos was looking for the permission of any superior to provide the information Mark was seeking and the man pocketed it smoothly with well-practised discretion.

  It took him about five minutes to retrieve the information, leaving Mark waiting and watching the seething hive of humanity passing through, just as he had said that he was. He still could not shake off the feeling that he was being watched, but it would have taken the CIA to pick out an observer amidst the crowd. Carlos returned with the printouts and Mark literally grabbed them and hurried out even though he still had an hour to spare before he met up with Luis. He tucked the papers into his pocket. They could wait until the plane. Somehow he’d feel safer if he were to read them in mid-flight, away from any Colombian eyes.

  He left the hotel without looking back and once again was hit by the oven-like heat. It was unfortunate he did not stop to retrace his steps because, if he had done so, he would have seen another man approach Carlos and obtain from him, without payment of any money whatsoever, exactly the same information he had just provided for Mark Rossetti.

  CHAPTER 38

  He went straight from the airport to the Burrow. He’d been missing Patti more than he could say and he wanted, needed, to try and put his feelings into words. He wanted to dispel her view that he would rather do anything than focus on his emotional responsibilities. He knew it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but didn’t think it would go down particularly well if he told her so.

  Whatever instinct had guided him to Patti’s side was totally vindicated. She was sitting on the couch, a filled ashtray by her side, a bottle of wine down to the last dregs on the table. He knew something was wrong the minute he hit the silence that filled the room. Patti was hooked on television and, if she wasn’t watching it live, then she was watching a recording of one of the soaps with which she had, as it seemed to Mark, an irrational obsession.

  He’d let himself in with the keys she’d given him so long ago with the warning that he should never call unexpectedly. He’d known why then. There were still other men in her life. Now, of one thing he was sure, that whatever moods took her she was faithful to him. Faithful that was, as far as other men were concerned. Whether her fidelity extended to total honesty and trust concerning her own lifestyle, he could still not be sure. What he had to decide was whether or not he should continue with his efforts to push her into agreeing to marry him, or whether those same efforts could result in pushing them further apart.

  As it was, he had never seen her so pleased to see him. She practically launched herself off the couch and into his arms and, the minute her body touched his, she broke into huge, shuddering sobs.

  ‘Oh, Mark, thank heavens you’re back.’

  ‘Hey, hey, what is it?’ he said, holding her tight, feeling the tension begin to ease out of her as the tears fell.

  ‘It’s my mother …’ Mark knew exactly what she was going to say even before she began to tell him. Patti’s Jewish mother had been in and out of one clinic or another ever since he’d known her. Her Irish husband had died when Patti was young and, according to Patti, Mrs Valerie Delaney held herself solely responsible for his death. She had tried drink, tried drugs, and this time she had succeeded where she’d failed before, with a combination of them both.

  ‘I thought she was getting better, I really did. She seemed to have been coping with life on her own.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself, Patti, she only ever wanted to see you to make you feel guilty.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know because I could see what you were like when you came back from visiting her.’

  ‘I should have given her more time. I’ve been sitting here thinking about my life. I never give the people I love enough time. I never give them enough trust to want to share my life with them.’

  She began to cry again and Mark took what was left of
the bottle of wine over to the sink and poured it away. He filled the kettle, tossed a couple of tea-bags into the absurdly small tea-pot that was hardly enough for two cups. In a way that was symbolic of Patti’s life. If you could only make tea for one then it meant that if anybody wanted to move in you’d think long and hard about it. A new, larger tea-pot would be a major investment.

  He waited by the sink for the kettle to boil, then neatly divided the contents of the tea-pot between two cups, filling each one about half way.

  ‘Here have a cuppa … or a proportion of one,’ he said, wondering what he could say to comfort her, terrified to say the wrong thing when the right could mean so much, not just for now but for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Mark, I need you. I’m so sorry. I’ve been a real cow. Even when I came out to Bogota I lied about the real reason. I was there for a story from the start.’

  She took the tea in her shaking hands and sat herself down again on the two-seater settee.

  ‘Come and sit with me, please. I want to tell you all about it.’

  Mark obeyed and remained silent whilst she told him all about her schoolfriend and her chance meeting and how that had set her off on such a crazy quest.

  ‘It seems so silly now. All she told me was that there was a route out of Colombia, via Europe into England. She couldn’t even give me names. Or at least no names here; but somehow or other she knew the name Branco and I got the impression that he was so powerful that he didn’t even care if people knew what he did. I always intended to interview him and I couldn’t believe my luck when he was sitting a row in front of me at the football match. Then it all went pear-shaped. I started firing questions at him there and then, and at first he wouldn’t answer, got quite angry in fact. Then he suddenly became the perfect gentleman, apologised, said he was suspicious of all journalists, and didn’t like being button-holed when he was out for a social evening. Then came the real dozy bit as far as I was concerned. He said that as I was English he would give me an interview. There were two conditions. One was that I didn’t publish in Colombia and the other was that as he was leaving first thing in the morning for Brazil that I’d have to see him at some unholy hour. And like a thicko I believed him. The only plea I can give in mitigation is that I was jet-lagged.’

  ‘Listen, Pat, it’s all going to work out. I can understand why you’re feeling like you are about your mother, and there’s not a lot I can do about it right now other than just be here for you. As for Branco, you have to think. What was it that so rattled his cage that when you didn’t turn up to meet him he felt the need to frame you, to discredit you?’

  ‘You know, Mark, I’ve been asking myself that very question. I can only assume he never intended to give me the interview. That he only wanted to see me to discover how much I knew and perhaps what I was going to do about it, whether or not I posed a real security risk. It may have been that I didn’t ask anything specific, but he was just not taking any chances.’

  ‘Don’t you have any notes that you prepared for the interview? It’s not like you to go in unprepared.’

  ‘That’s the problem. I wasn’t ready. It all happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to think. I had to wing it. Unfortunately I didn’t wing it very well. Christ knows what I said to him in the stand at the match. I was dog-tired and I was thinking on my feet, saying anything that came into my head to get him sufficiently curious to talk to me.’

  ‘OK. Leave it be. It’s the sort of thing that’ll pop into your head when you’re least expecting it. Let’s talk about more important things. When did your mother die?’

  ‘Last night. It was horrible. I was here on my own when I got the call and by then it was too late. I haven’t even been to the hospital to make a formal identification. And the police say there’ll have to be a post-mortem and an inquest and I can’t do anything about the funeral until they’re through with all that. Even then I’m not sure what to do. She was Jewish but to say she wasn’t observant is an understatement. Can you bury Jewish suicides who marry Irish Catholics in Jewish cemeteries?’

  She paused to light another cigarette.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark, I know you hate it and the Burrow must smell like the inside of an incinerator and as soon as all this is over I’m going to give up, I promise, but right now if I don’t keep on having fag after fag I’m not sure if I can get through all this.’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll live with it, although I’m not sure my lungs will. We’ll sort out your mother’s funeral. You made all the arrangements for Leo, remember. This can’t be much different. How’s the tea?’

  ‘Good. It was always one of your talents.’

  ‘I had a lot of time to practice, and don’t forget my dad had the café.’

  ‘I know. And I know you’ve also suffered a lot of pain over losing your parents the way you did. It’s just this … my mother … was the last link with the past. I suppose we’re both orphans now.’

  ‘I suppose we are. What are orphans supposed to do?’ he asked, hoping for the right answer.

  ‘Look after each other. Do you think you could stay here for a few days?’

  ‘As long as you like. I’ll just go home and throw a few things together.’

  ‘Do you mind if I come with you? I’m not sure I really want to be here on my own. I keep thinking about what happened to Jenny Cooper.’

  Mark bit his lower lip, not knowing whether this was the right time to tell Patti his theories.

  ‘Yes, poor Jenny. I suppose you can consider yourself lucky that you only got arrested and not murdered.’

  ‘Not funny, Mark. You think there’s some connection as well, don’t you?’

  ‘Some connection with what?’

  ‘Everything, everything that’s happening to us, around us. It’s as if we’re a catalyst for tragedy, or at least I am. What do they call it in a book or a play? Deus ex machina? Or is it a McGuffin? I have to confess that, educated as I am, I tend to get confused between the two.’

  ‘What do I know? I’m just a burned-out ex-professional footballer.’

  She went into the bathroom to repair her face and as soon as she did that he knew she would survive. She cared about what the outside world might think of how she looked and that meant survival. They were both survivors, they had proved that in the past. He used the time to phone David Sinclair at the club to make sure there had been no hitches on the Ferrera transfer. Sinclair was in a meeting and he found himself speaking with Helen Davies.

  ‘Sorry about my husband. He takes his job seriously. I told him not to bother you and he told me not to interfere,’ she said.

  It was typical of her to go straight into a conversation without any niceties and Mark appreciated her practical approach to life. That was what he needed at the moment. Practical people who could find their way through the maze of problems that was his life and, more particularly, Patti’s.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mark said, ‘I didn’t take offence. I get suspected of violent crime most days of the week.’

  ‘Do you have to speak to David or will I do?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do. Is everything in order with the Ferrera transfer?’

  ‘Absolutely. You did a great job. He arrives the day after tomorrow, work permit permitting. We’ve pulled a few strings and it should be through by then. You’ll have to come down and see him. I hear he’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘Yes, he is. And thanks for the invitation.’

  ‘Send us your expenses as well. I’ll sort it out straight away. See you soon. Rob hopes so as well, socially that is.’

  Mark and Patti drove to his flat in Barnet in companionable silence. She had stopped crying and had agreed that as soon as Mark had packed he would take her down to the hospital to deal with the formalities. As he entered his living room he saw that the green message light on his phone was flashing. He pressed the play button and was surprised to hear Luis’s voice as he had left him only the previous evening.

&n
bsp; ‘Marco, I hope you got back in one piece. Ferrera is on his way, but I have some interesting news for you about your young friend Barry Reed. Maybe you can call me. I know you have no fond memories of our country, but I think when you hear what I have to say then you will want to pay us one last visit.’

  Mark looked at Patti, the very thought of another long haul flight making him feel exhausted. She stroked the side of his face.

  ‘Whatever he wants, leave it until tomorrow to call back. Get your things together, take me down to the hospital and then let’s go to bed.’

  He nodded. He knew that this time bed meant sleep, but sleep with her arms entwined around him seemed the most attractive option in the world.

  CHAPTER 39

  Golder’s Green Crematorium was not the sort of place to linger and, as soon as the ashes of Valerie Delaney had been consigned to their plot, Patti hurried away towards Mark’s car. It had taken three days to make all the arrangements. Patti had despaired of the obstacles that had been put in her way by the United Synagogue and had eventually arranged for a Reform Rabbi to officiate at what had been a brief and sparsely attended ceremony.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Mark,’ she said. She had shed no tears and he wondered how long she would manage to keep her emotions in check.

  ‘At least I understood more of what was going on than I did at Leo’s funeral. Who were the rest of the people there?’ He made no complaint that he had not been introduced, accepting that Patti herself was a stranger to most of her relations on her mother’s side.

  ‘My aunt, my mother’s sister, recognised me, although the only way I could tell she was related was by the eyes. It was spooky. Like my mother was looking at me through her eyes.’