Chapter
20
*
Ric’s phone rang. Without really thinking it through, I answered it.
“Hallo?”
Pause. “Who’s that?” Jeff Pike, the nasal edge to his voice more marked down the line.
“It’s Caz.”
“Not being Vikki today, then? Where’s Ric?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone out.”
“When will he be back?”
“He didn’t say.”
Pause. “Tell him to call me.”
“Okay. Bye,” but he’d hung up.
After a bit I went downstairs and cleared the breakfast things. I collected Ric’s documents and the diamonds, and went to the first floor workshop. A medium-size George Woodrow stood in the corner. He had horizontal cracks running along each side, and to repair the joints I’d have to lever them apart and plane the timber level. I pulled out the remnants of his gingery tail, rolled up the papers one by one and poked them into the one inch diameter hole, then pushed in the diamonds. The passport had me stumped for a moment, but I found it would just squeeze through the widest part of one of the gaps. It dropped into the body cavity. I put the tail back. It would take an exhaustive police search to find the stash. Rocking horses are so heavy, it doesn’t occur to most people they are hollow.
That done, I climbed the stairs to the flat. There was a spatter of blood on the black walnut floorboards, and I wiped it up. I stared out of the window; the sun had gone behind the clouds. A solid lump of misery settled itself below my heart. Ric might ring me from a call box when he’d calmed down. I turned on my phone.
Dog eyed the door, then me, in a pointed way, so I took him to Shoreditch Park. When we returned I got a grip on myself. It was a Friday, a working day, gone eleven-thirty, and there were jobs to be done. Saladin was waiting for his first coat of paint. I went to the second floor workshop.
The horse looked at me out of his glass eyes, head angled, as if contemplating flight. A stab of pride cheered me briefly as I admired my authentic carving of his replacement ears and jaw. Originally, he’d have had a nailed on bridle, but I would make him a detachable one with buckles, like a real bridle. I don’t like putting nails into an old rocking horse’s head. In his white gesso layer, you could see Saladin’s shape clearly, and it was superb. I’d promised the pensioner who sold him to me that I’d post him a picture when the restoration was complete.
F. H. Ayres horses were painted with a blue/grey base, to allow for the yellowing effect of the spirit varnish. I got the paints out of the cupboard, and mixed the colour in a clean jam jar.
What would Ric do? He had been angrier than I’d ever seen him. Angry with me. The way he shook off my hand, the way he’d slammed out… He might go to the coast, find a boat and go abroad, and I’d never hear from him, never see him again. But surely he wouldn’t do that…would he?
I turned Saladin on to his side, in order to paint his belly and the inside of his legs, then stood him upright once more. I painted his head carefully, using a flat varnish brush to minimize brush marks, then down his arched neck and on to his shoulders. It didn’t take long, though he’s a big horse. I’d just finished when my mobile rang. Eagerly I got it out.
It was James.
“Hi, James.”
“You haven’t forgotten we’re going to the Globe tonight?”
I had forgotten. “No, of course not. What time shall I meet you?”
“It starts at seven thirty – say we meet in the foyer downstairs at seven fifteen?”
“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll bike over.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m really looking forward to tonight.”
“You sound a bit…absent-minded.”
“I’m in the middle of painting Saladin.”
“How’s he looking?”
I didn’t want to chat to James. I wanted him to get off the phone, in case Ric rang.
“He’s looking …” I glanced at the horse. Oh my God, too blue. How could I do that? I’d painted him blue. “…fine. Great.”
“I must come and have a look at him.”
“Yes. Well, I’d better get on. See you tonight.”
“See you, Caz.”
I put the phone on the workbench and stared at poor Saladin. Not blue/grey. Definitely blue. A blue horse. Rats. I’d have to let him dry for a couple of days, sand him down and re-paint. I’d counted on doing the dappling on Saturday. Bugger.
I took the brushes to the sink and washed them, deciding to spend the rest of the day on Teasel, instead of the more demanding bridle-making I’d pencilled in. Teasel was a small, quite sweet Collinson, overpainted in black splodges on white; a typical Dad In Shed finish. The grotty but simple job of stripping and filing off her gesso was something it was difficult to mess up.
By four o’clock I’d had enough. Barely a third of Teasel was back to the wood, largely because of my totally pathetic compulsion to keep going to the window to check out the Yard. What on earth was the point of knowing Ric had returned twenty seconds earlier than I otherwise would? Cross with myself, crosser with Ric for not ringing, and anxious in case anything had happened to him, I decided to down tools, have a relaxing bath, wash my hair and make myself look my best for the evening ahead.
I love Shakespeare’s Globe. So did my mother. She contributed to the building fund when I was seven – I can remember her telling me about it – and just past the attendants as you go in there’s a paving slab with her name on: CHRISTINA TALLIS. I always look at it and think of her when I go to the Globe.
James was waiting for me inside the main entrance in the modern annexe. He was carrying two cushions and two seat backs (I do without and save the hire charge when I go on my own, though it’s unarguable that they make the benches much more comfortable) and two programmes.
“Hi Caz. You’re looking even nicer than usual.” He kissed my cheek.
“Thanks. You don’t look too bad yourself.”
We went upstairs and through to the Globe. There was my mother’s name on her paving stone, and beyond rose the oak beams, lime plaster and reed thatch of the theatre. James had booked two of the best seats in the house, dead centre at the front of the first balcony. We sat and read our programmes. My mind wandered. Maybe Ric would be at the workshop by now. I’d get back and he’d be there with Dog…James had said something.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Shakespeare was your neighbour. It says here he probably lived in Shoreditch when he was a young actor.”
“You see? Classy area.”
“Cheap and convenient, if perhaps down-at-heel,” James read. “Well, it’s certainly not cheap any more…”
“Shhh, it’s starting.”
In the interval James took me to the bar and left me on a stool in a corner while he went to buy the drinks. The play, a good production, had taken my mind off Ric, but now my thoughts settled on him again. I tried ringing his mobile. No answer.
James handed me a glass of wine, and sat beside me. “Cheers. So how’s everything going? What’s happening with your guest? Any progress there?”
My heart lurched unhappily. “Not really.”
“What’s he planning on doing? He’s been with you for over a month. He can’t stay for ever.”
“It’s just till his money’s sorted out.” If he comes back, that is…
“What’s the problem?”
Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to talk to him about Ric. Though there were things I wouldn’t tell him – like Ric and I had slept together, and the row – it would be a relief. Though he disapproved, he’d certainly listen and be interested, and care about how it affected me. And he’d know about the money aspect. I glanced around. The only people in earshot were Japanese.
“You’ve got to promise—”
“—not to tell. I know. I already have.”
“There’s a problem with Ric’s money. The thing is, three years
ago his estate went to his sister. Then when she died, her husband inherited it.”
“How much money?”
“Ric doesn’t know.” James’s eyebrows went up. “More than fifty million dollars, I think.” His eyebrows rose further. “But it’s difficult for Phil, that’s Ric’s sister’s husband, just to hand it over. He says if Ric goes abroad, and opens lots of bank accounts with fake ID, he’ll pay lump sums into them.”
“How much in each?”
“Up to fifty thousand pounds, he said. But with ten accounts, that’d only be half a million pounds, so Ric’s not happy about it. He’d have to open a thousand accounts, I guess, and he couldn’t do that. Though Phil’s talking about setting up a business as cover, or an offshore company.”
“How well does Ric know his brother-in-law?”
“He’s known him since he was a student.”
“And he trusts him?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I doubt what he suggests is possible.” James’s manner became authoritative; he looked the successful banker he was, rather than the amusing friend I’d known since kindergarten. “Governments are on the alert for criminals who launder their proceeds via international banks. Terrorists and drug cartels. A big thing in banking today is KYC – know your customer. If you deposit a large sum of money in a bank, they’re going to take an interest in you – not just because if you’re rich they want to sell you products, but because of the FATF—”
“What’s the FATF?” I’ve never figured out why men love acronyms.
“Sorry, Caz, it’s the Financial Action Task Force. It issued the Forty Recommendations for banks (plus nine on terrorist financing, if you’re being pedantic). They’re the anti-money-laundering standard. The recommendations are things like, do background checks on depositors, and report anything suspicious. So if you’re a modest earner, and suddenly you’re paying in shedloads of money, they’ll take an interest. Nowadays banks use computer programmes to detect dubious activity. The FATF suggests banks report transactions above a certain amount, and in most countries this happens.”
“Above what amount?”
“It varies, but I can tell you it’s one hell of a lot less than fifty thousand. And as for offshore companies, banks want to know who the ‘beneficial owner’ is – not just the person whose name the account’s in, but who is profiting from it.”
“What about putting the money into diamonds? Would that work?”
“Dealers in gold and precious stones come under the same rules – the Money Laundering Regulations, 2007. If it’s a cash transaction above the limits, they have to report it.”
I digested this. So Phil was misleading Ric, making it sound a lot easier than it was…why? To get him to leave the country, probably; he must have thought the package he’d put together would be more persuasive than it had proved. What were his options, now it hadn’t worked? Now that Ric’s hostility had exploded into violence, what would he do?
At the end of the performance, James walked with me north over the Millennium Bridge. It spans the oily black Thames like a dinosaur’s backbone; the view from it of a floodlit St Paul’s, rising above the lit-up offices edging the river, was fantastic. I love London.
James gestured at my bike. “Let me push that for you.”
“It’s okay.”
We reached Queen Victoria Street, and paused.
“Thanks for a lovely evening, James. It was great.”
“Have a drink before you go. There’s a place round the corner…”
“D’you mind if I don’t? I’m a bit tired.” Perhaps, when I got home, Ric would be there…
“Another time, then. And I’ll see you tomorrow for my birthday supper.” James bent forwards to give me a good night kiss. For the first time ever, his lips met my mouth, not my cheek. I was so surprised I nearly fell over my bike. “Good night, Caz.”
Why did he do that? He watched me set off. I turned as I pedalled up Peter’s Hill, and he was still standing there. I rang my bell and he waved.
James surely didn’t fancy me…did he?
Ric wasn’t there when I got back. I could tell as soon as my tyres bumped over the cobbles in the Yard; above the glare of the security light, all the windows were dark. When I opened the door, Dog jumped up at me as though he’d been alone for a week. I lugged the bike up a floor, then took him out for a quick walk.
On our return he followed me up to the flat. I was Ric’s deputy, in Dog’s eyes. I pottered about for a while, made myself a cup of coffee I didn’t want, and went to bed. I read a couple of chapters of Dick Francis’s Enquiry. I felt jumpy. When I finally put out the light, Dog sneaked on to the bed and curled up near my feet. He was not allowed to do this, and he knew it. I pretended not to notice. It took me a while to get to sleep; I couldn’t stop thinking, and listening to the small noises a building makes at night; waiting to hear a key in the lock. In the end I drifted off.
Suddenly I sat up, barely awake, sweating and panting. I glanced at the clock. It was five past three. I’d had a terrible dream. I was in my flat, but on the floor unable to move; the realization came to me that I was tied up. Below me in the workshop someone was dragging things about, quietly, furtively, and I knew when he had finished whatever he was doing he would come and kill me… I turned on the light. Dog’s eyes glinted behind shaggy fur, but he didn’t stir. He was lying doggo, so I wouldn’t see him and turf him off the bed.
I got up and went to the bathroom. My eyes were big and scared in the mirror. I drank a glass of water. A police siren screeched through the quiet. All at once the conviction gripped me that Ric was dead. I’d never see him again, or hear anything about him, or find out what had happened; how he had died. The days would pass slowly, like the hours were doing now, then the weeks, and eventually I’d settle back into my pre-Ric life. Not knowing. I felt cold.
I slid under the duvet and switched out the light. The dream reached for me. Think of something else…Emma had made Phil believe Ric had raped her. Phil had not told Emma Ric was alive, or that I was not Vikki Wilson. He hadn’t told me Emma’s rape story, even though he knew Ric was staying in my house. Or informed Ric it was next to impossible to hand over fifty million dollars. What else wasn’t he telling? I picked over what had happened, trying to make sense of it…and somewhere in my mind pieces moved, and clicked together to make one perfect corner of the puzzle.
I saw with complete clarity that Ric did not kill Bryan. It was not that I didn’t believe him capable of it, in the extreme heat of the moment; but his behaviour was not that of a guilty man. Only a psychopath could appear normal after murdering a friend, and I did not believe he was a psychopath. My reasoning might not impress anyone else, but it was enough for me, and it lifted a weight from me that had been there since I’d witnessed his attack on Phil. If only I could shake this feeling of foreboding…
I thought I wasn’t asleep, but Dog woke me as he jumped off the bed and skidded across the floor, his paws clicking fast down the bedroom stairs.
Ric.
I hopped out of bed and followed Dog. He stood by the door, intent, nose twitching at the crack. Footsteps came up the stairs.
“Ric? Is that you?” Hope and dread made my voice tremble.
“Yeah.”
I lifted the snib on the lock and opened the door. A blur of fur leaped past me and Ric crouched to catch Dog. Dog wriggled and squirmed with delight, his tail wagging, trying to lick Ric.
Ric laughed, holding his face out of reach. “Hey, Dog, I’ve missed you too.”
I watched them in the first dim light of dawn. Ric put Dog down. His arms went round me; I could feel his bike leathers like armour digging into my flesh through the thin cotton of my pyjamas, his cold contrasting with my warmth. I responded with uncomplicated enthusiasm and relief, like Dog had. Ric was alive. He’d come back.
His skin tasted of salt, his stubble was rough against my face. After a minute or two he held me away from him. “So you don’t
think I’m a killer…or maybe you do, but just can’t help yourself? God knows, I’m irresistible.”
“Don’t be a fool, Ric. I’m not some dumb heroine in a film. If I thought that, I’d have rung the police, then got the locks changed. Whatever my feelings for you…”
“So you say…” He kissed me again, till I pulled away.
“I’ve been thinking – Phil’s lying – not about Emma, he believes her – but I don’t trust him. James said the bank account thing wouldn’t work. He’s up to something. Where have you been?”
Ric stretched and ran his hands through his hair. “Brighton. I walked for a bit, went for a swim. Fucking freezing.”
“You should have let me know. Dog was worried about you. He thought you weren’t coming back and he wouldn’t see you again. You should have rung me.”
“Come to bed.”
“You’ve got to do something about Phil. I think he killed Bryan.”
“Leave it till the morning.”
“It is the morning, nearly. I thought maybe he’d got you, and he’d killed you too and I’d never find out what had happened to you.”
“Phil wouldn’t kill me.”
“How do you know?”
“Not the type. I’m here now. Bed. I’m knackered.”
“Jeff rang. He wants you to call him back.”
“Okay.”
We went upstairs, and Ric reached for his mobile and dialled. It seemed an anti-social time to ring a friend. I said, “It’s gone four in the morning.”
“Jeff keeps late hours, he may be up. Anyway, he won’t mind if I wake him…Hi.”
He spent ten minutes on the phone, mainly listening, undressing at the same time. I thought it could have waited. As Ric put the phone down, he saw my expression, shrugged and said, “He worries about me. Like Dog.”
Chapter
21
*
Saturday was James’s birthday, when he and Posy were coming over for dinner. Ric offered to make his curry. He still hadn’t made it, and as far as I was concerned there was absolutely no rush. I put my arms round him.
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