But Rebecca was devoted to him, he was her baby, and in many ways she was his real mistress. Her pockets were always filled with treats and snacks to reward him when he came and sat and lay down and stayed, and she spent hours brushing his long coat, gathering up tufts of blond fur, which she collected, saying she would one day have enough to make a pillow, or perhaps even a mattress. Paul didn’t know if this had ever materialized, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had. Robbie had died, in an accident, not long after Sarah had gone to Switzerland, and Rebecca had always blamed Paul.
As he drove down the hill from Calderwood Hall to the valley below, Paul remembered Robbie’s death, and his own part in it. He had felt guilty and tortured, more for Sarah’s sake than Rebecca’s, but he wanted to believe he hadn’t been totally responsible.
When Sarah had been sent to Switzerland, at the age of 14, Paul had not been invited to continue his visits to the Castle grounds. Like the island, two years previously, the whole estate was now out of bounds. A no-go area, forbidden territory. But he still had the back garden to play in, and Robbie would often come ambling across the lawns to see him, wagging his tail, expectantly waiting for something to be thrown for him so he could display his retrieval skills. Paul had obliged, tossing sticks and balls and frisbees, and patting and cuddling the dog when he obediently laid something down at Paul’s feet, asking for more. He was convinced he could still smell Sarah’s perfume on Robbie’s neck and ears, where she used to nuzzle up to him and whisper the nonsensical, fond gibberish that all dog-owners use with their pets, in private at least, and that Paul had mimicked and teased her for. Robbie had been his last link with her. And then he too had gone.
One long throw of a tennis ball had rebounded off the roof of the garden shed and flown over the wall, outside the Castle grounds. Robbie sniffed and snuffled and looked up and around and finally found the hole in the wall behind the rhododendron bushes and dived through it. Paul had panicked, as Robbie never left the estate. He had no collar and no ID tag, and was prone to wander wherever he pleased. Paul slipped through the hole after him and looked anxiously around… The ball was lying near one of his mother’s rose bushes, but Robbie had disappeared. Then he saw him, running off, a hundred yards away, sprinting towards the lane, perhaps chasing a rabbit or a fox, which he often did on his own turf. Robbie passed out of sight as the land sloped down, and Paul ran after him, shouting his name. Then he heard a squeal of brakes and perhaps a dull thud and his heart sank. A tractor had swung round a corner on the lane and been unable to stop. When Paul reached it, Robbie was lying on the ground, motionless, and the driver, a young man whose brother was in Paul’s class at school, was standing over him, his face screwed up in horror, his eyes dripping tears.
His mother had gone to inform Mrs Hartley and Paul could remember seeing Rebecca running awkwardly towards the Cottage, and then her words to him as she knelt down next to Robbie’s body and ran her fingers over his muzzle. She had looked up at him with a chilling hatred in her eyes that he had felt in his bones.
“You have taken away my family. Everything I have ever loved, you have destroyed.”
He had not known what to say. He had felt his mother’s arm slip over his shoulder and gently guide him away. It was the last time Rebecca had ever spoken to him.
Chapter 20
Wednesday April 24th 2013
When he arrived at the pub he carried his case upstairs to his room and sorted out what he would require over the next few days. He would need to do some laundry at some point, he thought. The Pulitzer would do a good job, no doubt.
He showered and changed and went down to the bar.
He settled into a quiet corner with a pint and his laptop and did some research into the upcoming Queensday celebrations. He pulled up some old articles he had written about Amsterdam and wondered which parts of them he may be able to use again and which parts he should avoid repeating.
He ordered some soup and sandwiches and continued to work as he ate, occasionally glancing at a small screen behind the bar where the barman was following the second Champions League semi-final between Real and Dortmund.
The bell for last orders rang and Paul returned to his room. He undressed and lay on the bed and again wondered what he was doing, where he was going and why.
Amsterdam held certain memories… was he going back there to try to exorcise them? Or was there another reason? Was the article he was to write merely a pretext? Was he being drawn there as he had been drawn back to Halifax, just a few days ago?
Once more, he decided to make a determined effort to cut down on the self-questioning. To do what had to be done, to keep things simple and clear. One step at a time.
When he switched off the light, he stared at the ceiling for a long time, watching moving shadows and faint patches of light from car headlights passing on the road. He thought of Robbie and of his neighbour’s dog back in Brighton.
He thought of Sarah, and wondered if she was safe.
Phone intercept 2
Wednesday 24/4 23.27
- We have a problem.
- What?
- A busybody.
- Who?
- You’ll see tomorrow. I’ll text you the details. Take care of it.
- Like the last one?
- That’ll work.
Chapter 21
Thursday April 25th 2013
The next morning, he washed and dressed and packed and took his things out to the car. He looked at the day’s papers over breakfast. There was still no news of Sarah. There had been more sightings, throughout Europe and beyond, and one report said she had been spotted in Venice, close to the Cipriani, but it turned out to be a well-known American actress, the star of a TV cop series, who only vaguely resembled Sarah. She had been more than annoyed to see the Italian police turning up at the hotel restaurant as she dined with a young man who wasn’t her husband. The paparazzi had been tipped off and they had followed her around the city for hours before she gave a petulant interview to a talk-show film crew and threatened harassment charges. The real Sarah Hartley was still missing.
The flight from Leeds-Bradford landed at Schiphol at 10.15 and he took the train into the city and walked to the Pulitzer.
It was a fine hotel, made up of a whole block of restored 17th and 18th-century houses on Prinsengracht. It was beyond Paul’s personal price range, and his taste, as he generally preferred simpler and smaller places, bed & breakfasts or chambre d’hôtes, but the editor who had commissioned the piece was a friend of the manager, and had worked on a short documentary about the hotel that had been broadcast in numerous countries and by several major airlines on their in-flight programmes, and it had done wonders for its reputation and renown. Paul had been twice before and knew some of the staff well enough to chat to. Plus, this was the busiest period of the year in Amsterdam and everything had been fully-booked for months. The hotel always kept back a couple of rooms for unforeseen emergencies and Paul was to benefit from their generous offer of a last-minute booking.
He checked in and stopped by the manager’s office to say hello, then headed for the Town Hall where he was to meet a woman in charge of some of the events planned for the following Tuesday.
Koninginnedag is a national holiday in the Netherlands, celebrating Queen Beatrix’s official birthday. There are street parties and concerts and markets everywhere, with upwards of a million people drinking and dancing and partying in the streets. Cars are banned from the city centre and there are no trains or trams or buses. It’s a major event, starting the night before, on Koninginnenacht, and this year was to be even more special than usual.
Sacha Hejkoop was a 30-something short-haired brunette, harried and fidgety as she gave Paul details of the day’s agenda in between countless phone calls and knocks on her office door.
It was to be the last Queen’s Day party. For the simple reason that Queen Beatrix was abdicating, to be replaced by her son, Willem-Alexander. From 2014, the event would be
known as King’s Day.
Holland was getting a new king, and the capital was about to pull out all the stops to celebrate his inauguration.
He got most of the information he wanted and needed from Sacha and thanked her and went to another office handling press accreditation and he received some official press releases concerning the royal hand-over and the party calendar. He was given a website address and a password so he could log on and obtain exclusive official high-definition pictures for publication, both before and after the events.
He went back to the hotel and grabbed a sandwich and spent a couple of hours writing everything up while it was fresh in his mind and when he’d finished he sent off an email to his editor with a first draft outline.
He left the hotel and walked along Prinsengracht, past the Anne Frank house with its perpetual queues, feeling content and satisfied, glad that his thoughts had been occupied with something other than memories and foreboding.
He felt like a coffee, and turned into the Jordaan quarter, heading for a place he had been to before and which served the best coffee he had ever tasted. It was a gedoogbeleid, a coffee shop, an establishment more frequently associated with more potent drugs than caffeine, but it still served coffee, and Paul was sure he could smell it as he wound his way through the maze of narrow streets. People were busy putting up bunting and flags and brightly-coloured flower-pots and awnings in preparation for the street party, which would probably kick off unofficially at the weekend.
He found the café and went in and sat down and ordered a cup of Blue Mountain. The beans were grown on the east side of the Blue Mountains in Jamaica and were the same ones that were used to make Tia Maria. They probably cost about as much as some of the other products on sale in the café, Paul thought, but he was no expert. The coffee came and Paul savoured it and he wanted a cigarette, but the smoking room was upstairs and it wasn’t a very welcoming place. Smoking meant tobacco, but not cannabis. People around him were smoking pure joints and bongs. It was a contradiction that never ceased to amaze and amuse him.
There were bars in Amsterdam where if you asked if you could smoke, the owner or the barman would tell you it was illegal and that the bar would be fined if they were caught breaking the law, but that if you wanted to contribute to the fine fund, then fine, no problem, go ahead. So a tin was brought out, and customers dropped a coin or two in it whenever they wanted to light up. The bar may get caught and fined, or not… but no-one lost out, and there was no hypocrisy. Paul thought it was a good system.
The coffee shop owner stopped at Paul’s table, recognising him from a previous visit. He was a big man from Surinam, with thick, coiled dreadlocks and a penchant for dungarees. They said hello and chatted and then the man leant over to the bar and picked up a bong and invited Paul to take a hit. He hesitated. He hadn’t smoked dope for a few years but he thought, what the hell, and he took a big toke, and then another one. The man went away and Paul didn’t want a cigarette any more and he felt relaxed and he watched people passing on the canal bank outside and thought about nothing for a while.
He got up to leave and he paid, and the man gave him another toke and they chatted for a few minutes more and finally Paul left.
It wasn’t dark yet but street-lights and bar signs were coming on and reflecting off the water and the windows in the canal-side buildings and Paul was reminded of what a beautiful city Amsterdam was. He wandered around, turning left or right as he was drawn by a sound or a smell or a familiar or unfamiliar sight, losing track of exactly where he was, but knowing that the compass in his head could tell him where the hotel was when he needed to find it.
He crossed a small square, with an old church to one side, where a group of children were rehearsing a traditional dance under the guidance of a stern-looking woman wearing a Dennis Bergkamp Arsenal shirt… and then he saw her.
She was standing in front of a shop window, a shoe-shop that was still open, and in the light from the shop and from a wrought-iron lamp just above the door he could see that she was wearing a green trouser suit. Her hair was long and blonde and curled halfway down her back. She was carrying a brown handbag, Hermes or Louis Vuitton he thought, and she was slim and tall, even in flat-soled shoes…
His heart stopped for a moment and he felt a cold flush of panic and a sensation of déjà vu… But he pressed forward, bumping into an old man with a stick, ignoring his mutterings as he pushed on, watching her step away from the shoe shop and turn into a street that Paul thought lead to the Amstel River. He followed her… His pulse was racing now but he swept aside any thoughts that he might be a bit stoned and under the influence… She stopped and half turned as she glanced into another shop window and Paul saw her profile and he picked up pace and almost caught up with her. He was five yards away… and she kept on walking. He wanted to shout “Sarah” but he didn’t. He walked faster and they reached a crossroads, and stopped at the same time just as a tram rumbled past, followed by a flurry of bicycles and he stood alongside her and opened his mouth…
“Excuse me”, he said, and she turned round.
Paul looked at her and he suddenly felt the hole in his head, and it was cold and empty, and his stomach felt cold and empty too as she smiled at him and she said: “Yes?”
She wasn’t Sarah.
The nose was too thin and the eyes were rounder and the cheek-bones not so well-defined. She was a very attractive woman, he thought, but she wasn’t Sarah.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”
“It happens all the time”, said the woman with a slightly clipped English accent. “I must have a very ordinary face.”
“I wouldn’t say that…”, Paul began, but the woman was already crossing the road and Paul stayed stuck to the pavement, watching her, hoping that someone somewhere would not think she had a very ordinary face, but would find her beautiful in her own right and not just because she looked like someone else.
He followed the compass in his head back to the Prinsengracht and crossed it and continued on to Herengracht and then a small side street and a bar he knew where he could smoke.
The bar’s outside terrace was packed with students and tourists and locals but he found a place to sit on a wall overlooking a narrow canal and drank a large beer and lit a cigarette.
He knew he wasn’t stoned… he hadn’t smoked enough to be that zonked, but he certainly felt stoned. Heightened sensations, unreasonably hungry, his mind flitting from one thought to the next like a bumble bee… a little paranoid, too, he thought. And delusional. He was being ruled by his imagination and by wishful thinking. His sense of logic was shot… he was antsy and jumpy and not thinking straight. He finished his beer and bought another one. He began to simmer down.
He started chatting to a Canadian couple at the next table and before he knew it he was feeling calmer and a little drunk.
The Canadians left and two gay French guys took their place and he chatted to them and it turned out that one of them knew the manager of the hotel near the Pantheon in Paris where he had worked all those years ago and so they bought some more beers and then something to eat and Paul laughed and he realised he was having a good time when he thought of the woman he had seen and managed to laugh at himself for his own stupidity.
It was almost midnight when he arrived back at the Pulitzer and he swung into the hotel doorway and then out again as he decided to have a last cigarette before calling it a night.
He crossed the road to the edge of the canal and leaned against the railings. It was chilly but not cold and the air was clear and he heard nightingales singing in a tree not far away. He could smell spices and hot fat from a restaurant across the canal and thought about Indonesian food. Perhaps tomorrow…
A boat drifted past, faint music coming from inside, jazz piano… maybe Keith Jarrett. He looked across at the opposite bank and saw a woman emerge from Rozenstraat, just to his right. She looked left and right and then across at the hotel. She stepped forward and let
a car drive past before she crossed the road and came to stand against the railings exactly opposite him.
They were maybe 25 yards apart. Paul stared at her and she seemed to be staring back at him. He wasn’t panicking now… he was lucid and logical and clear-headed, despite the beer…
The woman was wearing a long skirt, below her knees, dark-coloured, and what looked like a suede jacket over a light blouse. She was still looking at him. Paul could see her face, although it wasn’t well lit. The nose wasn’t as thin as on the woman he had seen earlier, and the cheek-bones definitely had the right definition. Her eyes were more almond-shaped than round…
As she stepped to one side, falling under the light of a lamp-post, Paul saw her more clearly, as apparently she intended him to. She raised a hand, signalling to him. He looked around but saw nobody else anywhere near him, and he raised his own hand in reply. She nodded in confirmation. Then she looked down for a moment, and then back up. She shook her head from side to side, sadly he thought… the shaking went on. The message was clear. She was saying ‘no’.
He held his arms out, shrugging, asking: why? Asking: what did she mean? She shook her head again, and then raised her hand as before, not to say hello, but to wave goodbye.
Paul didn’t move.
He glanced quickly to his left and then to his right and he saw that the nearest bridge was a good fifty or sixty yards away. He looked back across the canal and she shook her head for the last time, firmly, with a grim sort of finality, and then she turned round, crossed the road and disappeared into the street she had come from. Paul watched, imagining he could hear footsteps… but there was nothing. No sounds at all, not even a nightingale… there was just a very dead silence.
The King's Shilling Page 14
