Old Flames (Frederick Troy 2)

by Lawton, John

  Troy caught a taxi as it came down the Avenue George V, pointed at the back of Foxx’s cab as it crossed the bridge and said, ‘Suivez.’

  The driver rolled his eyes upwards—boredom and exasperation as though all the English ever wanted was that you should waste time following another taxi. As they swung left on the opposite bank, onto the Quai d’Orsay, Troy could see Foxx’s blonde head through the cab’s rear window. His own driver was muttering and cursing, but they had her clearly in sight, and he turned his attention to what mattered. Was anyone else following? He looked behind him every few seconds, he peered into every car that drew level with them and watched the cab in front with one hand on Madeleine Kerr’s little golden gun as they paused at traffic lights all the way along the Boulevard St Germain.

  He was pretty sure they were not being followed. The cab turned off the Boulevard into the Rue de l’Odéon, with two cabs behind them, then off the Rue de l’Odéon and into Rue Racine, and then there were none. His cab and hers were the only cabs in the street. Foxx turned right, and Troy knew she would stop outside the hotel. He stopped his cab at the corner and walked the last fifty yards.

  Five minutes hanging around in the lobby and no one else had entered. He went up to their room. It was empty. The smallest of the pink cases lay on the bed unopened. Her shoes lay on the carpet where she had kicked them off. He pushed at the bathroom door, stepped inside. Only the rush of air told him the blow was coming. He ducked and a Perrier bottle wielded like an Indian club smashed on the wall above his head.

  ‘I thought you’d be here,’ Foxx said, standing over him. ‘You said you’d be here. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’

  Troy got to his feet. Knocked the shards of glass from his hair.

  ‘I was watching you,’ he said. ‘If I’d told you, you’d have been looking out for me, whether you resisted the impulse or not, you’d’ve had one eye cocked for me.’

  ‘Someone’s following us?’

  ‘No. I don’t think anyone is. But this was the only way to be sure.’

  ‘Who’d be following us?’

  He took a towel, mopped the mineral water from his head and face as they moved back to the bedroom. It was not a subject he wanted to pursue.

  ‘How did it go?’

  He sat on the bed next to the pink case, shrugged off his jacket and rubbed at his hair with the towel.

  ‘Fine. Just the one awkward moment. I addressed the manager in French; he replied, and told me my accent had improved, then he switched to English, and we stayed in English till we got out to the street. Me with “how now brown cow” running through my mind and trying to sound home counties. I think he and Stella had a routine—a bit flirty I should think—but I couldn’t work it out, I could only fit in with what he did. But I don’t think he suspected a thing.’

  ‘And the box?’ said Troy.

  Foxx flipped the catches on the case. Huge bundles of white five pound notes, a brown envelope and several strips of gold coins in plastic covers.

  ‘I took everything. I don’t know how much there is in paper money, but each of those strips holds fifty sovereigns and there’s six of them.’

  Troy tore open the envelope. Five sheets of paper. Five double-spaced typed sheets of the five-block numerical code he had found in the London bank. He was not good with numbers. Hated numbers. It would take him all day to decode this using the instructions Clark had given him.

  He looked at Foxx. Standing, arms folded, in her stockinged feet, the tight, red burgundy skirt, the crisp cotton blouse and the token string of pearls. She shook her newfound fringe from her eyes. Pale, green, looking back at him, trusting him and waiting on him. He had a day’s work cut out for him, and all he wanted to do was fuck her. He held the heart of the mystery in his hands, gold and revelation, locked away in cellophane and cypher, and all he could think of was her on her back with her legs locked around his waist.

  ‘You’re soaked,’ she said, in a matter of fact tone of voice. ‘Your shirt’s wet through. Here, let me.’

  She pulled at the knot in his tie and began to pop the buttons on his shirt—a maternal, sexless gesture he could not take as maternal or sexless —and he knew he was lost. She was the heart of the mystery, locked away in cotton and nylon. Down there was the dove. All he had to do was strip off the wrapper.

  §92

  It was past noon before they surfaced. While Foxx bathed he set out the five sheets of foolscap on the small table in the window. By the time she emerged from the bathroom he had decoded the first sentence and ground to a halt on the second. It was going to take a lot longer than he had thought.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Why don’t you see the sights? I’ll meet you for dinner.’

  ‘Where should I go?’

  ‘There are plenty of places within walking distance. The Jardin du Luxembourg is only a quarter of a mile or so from here, and the river’s even less the other way. Why don’t you see the jardin, walk over to the Île de la Cité, do Notre Dame, and then if the sun’s still out, sit in the little park at the opposite end of the island. It’s a beautiful spot. Read a newspaper and watch the Seine barges go by. I’ll meet you at Lapérouse about eight o’clock.’

  “Where’s that?’

  Troy sketched the flattened U of the Seine on the back of the room service menu, drew in the elongated blobs for the two islands and marked the Quai des Grands Augustins with an X.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘See you at eight.’

  But by eight he was no wiser. He had tried every variation on the crib Clark gave him, all twenty-six possible starting points. To no avail.

  He found her in a dark corner of Lapérouse, buried in its deep black and gold, her burgundy suit blending into the near-subterranean setting like natural camouflage. A corner table, lit by a single sputtering candle. She held a half-empty glass of champagne in her hands, and was leaning back against the panelled wall with her eyes closed. They flickered open momentarily as he sat down.

  ‘I’m dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven. I went up the Eiffel Tower. It was magical. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’

  He would and he did. He’d known Paris magic. His mother had taken him to Paris half a dozen times in the 1920s. They had heard recitals by Ravel and Stravinsky. They had eaten in this very restaurant. She had reminisced about her own Paris magic, her first visit when she was seventeen, when she had been introduced to Maupassant and Zola, and seen the Eiffel Tower half-built, and had considered it ‘vulgar’.

  ‘It seems a shame to go back so soon.’

  Foxx opened her eyes fully, smiled at him.

  ‘You’re not,’ said Troy.

  ‘I’m not?’

  ‘I can’t crack the code. There’s something wrong somewhere. I have to go back and set my sergeant to work on it. I’m due back at the Yard anyway, and I doubt I can stall them a day longer. You have to go on. I need to know what’s in the next box. It might be different. It might be easier.’

  ‘Go on where?’

  ‘Another city. Monte Carlo, Zurich, Amsterdam. Take your pick.’

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Pencil,’ she said simply, and Troy took one from his inside pocket.

  She tore thin strips off the wine list, scribbled down the three cities, and arranged them like a game of three card monte. A quick shuffle and she asked him to ‘pick a card’.

  He had difficulty in believing her lack of volition, but picked.

  ‘Zurich,’ he said. ‘It’s Zurich.’

  §93

  Onions had a civilian secretary he referred to behind her back as ‘the gorgon’. Her real name was Madge.

  ‘You’re late,’ said Madge, standing in front of his desk, a huge sheaf of papers pressed to her bosom. ‘I was told to expect you this morning. I called you four times.’

  ‘Doctor,’ Troy lied. ‘Had to see my doctor.’

  He had stayed with Foxx, wrapped up in Foxx t
ill dawn, and travelled back in the wan light of early morning. He felt dreadful.

  ‘But you’re fine now?’ Madge said without concern.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  The sheaf of papers hit his desk with a thud.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Mr Wildeve’s in Hammersmith. Mr Clark’s trailing along behind him. The boss is in Manchester and Mr Henrey’s dead. So somebody round here had better do a bit of work. Read and initial, except where it says sign, and you sign pp. Mr Onions.’

  She strode to the open door. Troy stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  ‘When?’ he said.

  ‘When what?’

  The woman had the sensitivity of a reptile.

  ‘When did Tom die?’

  ‘Last night. I wasn’t ringing you to check on your health.’

  It was not that Madge had no regard for Tom. She had no regard for anyone but Onions.

  ‘What word from Manchester?’

  ‘The boss’ll be there till Thursday he reckons.’

  ‘I have to talk to him.’

  ‘He says not to call. I don’t know what you’ve done, Troy. But you seem to be a major bone of contention with “our Val”. If I were you, I’d do as he says and let sleeping dogs lie for a while.’

  He let her go. He felt a moment’s pointless guilt. The fleeting surrender of intelligence to coincidence. An old colleague had breathed his last while he was in the arms, between the thighs, of a woman half his age. And then it passed. He and Tom had not been the best of friends, and he was a lousy copper.

  Troy wondered if he could get through the next three days without a major case he could not delegate dropping onto his desk. His share of Onions’ work was routine; he found himself initialling orders for paper clips and truncheons. He found his mind wandering. Could he work Clark’s coffee machine? Could he conjure a cup from this Heath Robinson affair? And as he stared at the Thames, cup in hand, he found he could conjure the image of Foxx like a genie from a lamp.

  In the morning Clark returned from a house-to-house search. Troy gave him the new papers. He looked at them like a master plumber confronted with a blocked lavatory and sucked air through his teeth.

  ‘I’ll need time,’ he said.

  In the afternoon Jack returned from Hammersmith. Troy sat while he brought him up to date on bodies rotting under floorboards in the terraces of Bedford Park, a case that at any other time would have had him gripped. And at the end of it, he could see guilt in Jack’s eyes, much as it was so often writ in Rod’s.

  ‘You’re fine now, aren’t you, Freddie?’ Jack said. ‘I mean, that was a narrow scrape.’

  Jack had had him suspended, shoved him into hole and corner.

  ‘Yes,’ said Troy. ‘I’m fine.’

  On Thursday morning Madge graced his office with her steely presence to tell him Onions would be a day late.

  On the Friday there was no sign of Stan. And no sign of Clark either.

  ‘I have to phone him,’ Troy told Madge.

  ‘Tough tittie,’ she said. ‘Val’s had one of her fits with the poker. Smashed the china, smashed the mirrors, smashed the phone too. Boss calls me from a box now. You’ll just have to wait.’

  But he could not wait. He was out of his depth and he knew it. He had to tell someone. Stan was the best person. Stan was the logical, the legal conduit between the Yard and the intelligence services. He had unearthed a crime beyond the scope of his powers. Worse, he had no idea who the criminal was. He had worked out, and he was pretty certain Clark had too, that either side could have killed Cockerell, Jessel and Kerr.

  And so, he made the call he had put off for weeks, and in the larger context had put off for twenty years.

  ‘Charlie, I need to talk. It’s business.’

  ‘Yours or mine?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Both,’ said Troy.

  Charlie paused so long Troy had begun to think they had been cut off.

  ‘Fine,’ Charlie said at last, with no music in his voice. ‘I’m up to my neck today, and come to that tomorrow morning too. But we could meet tomorrow afternoon. How about tea at the Café Royal? Fourish?’

  They had crossed a line, one he had never wanted to cross. One he was sure Charlie had never wanted to cross either.

  §94

  Troy sat in Goodwin’s Court in the encroaching dusk of Friday evening. He had left messages everywhere for Clark to call him—at the Police House and in every pub within walking distance of the Yard. He sat by the telephone in the darkness and silence, willing it to ring. And when it did his spell went awry—he had summoned Madge from her circle in hell.

  ‘The boss is back in Acton. He says he’ll be in in an hour.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Troy said.

  He put the phone down, and it rang again at once. He almost ignored it. They did it of their own accord half the time.

  ‘Freddie?’ said Johnny Fermanagh’s voice. ‘We have to talk. I must see you.’

  ‘You’ve picked a lousy time,’ said Troy.

  ‘Please. S’important.’

  Troy heard the sound of laughter in the background, the umistakable roar of pub jollity.

  ‘Johnny, where are you?’

  ‘Colony Room. Dean Street.’

  ‘What happened to “on the wagon” and “the love of a good woman”?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I stuck to it. I’m sober as a judge.’

  ‘Then what are you doing in a place whose sole function is to allow Soho layabouts to get pissed at any time of the day or night, with no restriction from the licensing laws?’

  ‘Freddie, I’m sober! It’s just that after twenty years a drunk you’ve nowhere else to go. All you know are the old places. You try killing a wet Friday afternoon in Soho!’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m on Britvic, and bloody awful it is too! Here, Muriel, you tell him. I’m sober aren’t I?’

  Troy heard a remote voice saying, ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘We have to talk. You put your finger on it. Woman. The love of a good woman.’

  Troy looked at his watch. He knew he’d only wear holes in the lino waiting for Onions. Why not give Fermanagh a crack? It had the attraction of true banality compared to his present problem.

  ‘All right. Back room of the Salisbury in fifteen minutes.’

  He would head him off at the door. That way they could talk in the street, neither in the pub nor in his house. It would make it so much easier to stop when he’d heard enough.

  It had come on to rain. A steady drizzle, putting a haze around the street lamps, and a come-hither glow onto the pub windows. Troy turned up the collar of his overcoat and stood in the doorway of the Salisbury. A couple of minutes later, he saw Johnny coming down St Martin’s Court from the Charing Cross Road, in the uniform of their class—the black cashmere overcoat, the brown trilby and the red scarf, wrapped up against the drizzle, but smiling. He seemed genuinely happy to see Troy.

  ‘Are we not going in?’ he asked simply.

  ‘No,’ said Troy. ‘Not if you’re telling me the truth. It will be no hardship to stand on the pavement for ten minutes. It will test your willpower and your liver.’

  ‘I’ve not had a drop since June, Freddie. Not since the last time we met.’

  Troy was not wholly sure he believed him, but looking at him closely, peeking under the brim of the hat, his skin was tighter and healthier and for the first time in years his eyes were not bloodshot. They were his sister’s eyes, a deep, beautiful bottle green.

  ‘Then say your piece.’

  This flummoxed him. He scraped a foot across the paving and could not look Troy in the eye.

  ‘Johnny, just spit it out.’

  ‘You know I said there was a problem with my . . . er . . . my good woman’s marriage.’

  ‘I thought that was the problem, that she was married?’

  ‘Quite. I’m not putting things too well, am I? Well, it’s simple really. She’s willing to leave h
im for me.’

  ‘So, she’s told him?’

  ‘No. But she’s going to. This weekend.’

  Troy wondered if Johnny was really as gullible as he sounded.

  ‘How often have you heard that in a film or read it in a novel, Johnny?’

  ‘No—Freddie, I know what you mean, but it’s real this time. This time it’s for real.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because . . . because . . . because she has courage.’

  Troy groaned aloud at the innocence of it all.

  ‘Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. For God’s sake.’

  ‘Because . . . she’s your sister!’

  ‘Which sister?’ Troy said involuntarily, and as soon as the words were out he knew how stupid a question it was. Which sister? It could only be Sasha. She had been having an affair with somebody for months. He’d seen Masha set up her alibi for adultery time after time. He’d seen the friction between Sasha and Hugh all but strike sparks at the family dinner when he had introduced them all to Tosca. Of course it was Sasha.

  He knew then that there was no dismissing Johnny. He would have to give the poor sod all the attention he could muster.

  ‘You picked a lousy time,’ he said.

  ‘I know. You told me.’

  Troy fished into his coat pocket for his keys.

  ‘I have to go to the Yard. Take my keys and let yourself in. I’ll be back in an hour and a half or so. We can talk then.’