Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Details?’

  ‘We’re convinced he’s been the money behind several illegal pods and their use. Our Mr Wolfe has a penchant for the past. He’s invested a great deal of money in the attempted retrieval of various items. Unsuccessful retrieval, so far. We’ve managed to hoover up his associates but never been able to pin anything on him. But we don’t believe he’s given up and that, Max, is what makes him so ideal for your purposes.’

  I’d taken that nugget of information and run with it and now, here I was, in my by now quite shabby uniform, lowering the tone of an establishment that was, officially, definitely not a sex club. I wondered what Dr Bairstow would say.

  31

  Accustomed as I was to the lived-in look of St Mary’s and the bland sterility of the Time Police, the inside of a sex club was a bit of a revelation to me.

  Given the neighbourhood it was a good bet it wouldn’t be furnished with sticky flooring and easily washed vinyl seating. The lighting wasn’t low to the point of non-existence. Nor were there any discreet areas where more advanced ‘conversations’ could take place.

  Everything was open plan. I don’t know if that was a metaphor or not. There were different levels, but everywhere was visible from where I was asked to wait, just inside the door.

  I stood in a wide, welcoming hallway. The floor was of a dark parquet, covered by a Turkish carpet whose rich colours glowed like jewels in the soft light. The walls were panelled with Regency-style wallpaper and there was art on the walls. Good art. A skilfully chosen mix of traditional and modern stuff and it worked very well. There were leather chesterfields and armchairs scattered around for those whose strength had presumably failed them after the short march from the door. The leather looked soft and buttery and was worn just enough to be fashionable.

  Shaded wall lights highlighted the paintings and a glittering crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Over in the corner stood a grand piano. A real one, not a digital one, which is what you mostly see these days. I think it was a Bechstein. A man in evening dress played ‘Spiegel im Spiegel’.

  Members were deftly relieved of coats, umbrellas and other paraphernalia by staff who emerged, did the biz and then faded away again. No one was left alone for a second. From the hallway they were escorted into the main area which was where things started to get interesting. If they’d pre-booked – or whatever the expression is – then their “company” would be ready and waiting for them, welcoming them with a charm and enthusiasm so professional that it actually looked genuine. If they hadn’t pre-booked, or had just dropped in on spec, they were introduced to a group of three or four equally professionally charming people sitting in the lounge area. I never saw how it worked, but somehow, a choice would be made, those who hadn’t made the cut would discreetly fade away and the guest left to enjoy the “company” of their choice.

  Everything was smooth and quiet. There were no scenes. No raised voices. Everyone was happy and smiling and relaxed. I couldn’t help thinking what the St Mary’s version would be like. For a start, there would be Angus.

  Of course, this elegant mix of traditional and modern concealed what I was convinced would be state of the art security. This building would be regularly swept for listening devices and hidden cameras. They would have that special glass that blocked wi-fi. There would be very few electronics. And no tills, of course, because no money changed hands. Not here, anyway. I bet if you wanted to pay your membership fees in cash then you’d need to bring the money in a security van.

  They kept me waiting for a while. I’d thought they would, and it gave me time to look around and note the position of any emergency exits should I require them later.

  All the staff – and there were a lot of them around – wore dark suits, white shirts and ties. Women wore dark dresses and good jewellery. Most had put their hair up. A door on each side of the hall led off to the restrooms. One of the doors opened and I caught a glimpse of a beautiful room with sofas, dressing tables laden with expensive toiletries, and even more attendants.

  Two wide shallow steps led down into the bar. It was gleaming and mahogany and ran all the way down the right-hand wall with well-stocked glass shelves on the wall behind. Two barmen were mixing cocktails. They wore white shirts and black waistcoats and looked extremely smart. And they were very good-looking. As were all the staff. No one waited at the bar. I rather had the impression that standing at the bar was a bit of a no-no. There were about twenty people in the room and all of them were seated. Drinks were served at the tables.

  Most people sat in pairs – one man, one woman, or the occasional same-sex couple. Everyone was in evening dress. I passed some time trying to work out who might be the member and who the “company”, but such was the quality of the establishment it was impossible for me to tell. I suspected most of the women were “company” but that was only because they were, all of them, good-looking, impeccably dressed, and listening with every appearance of rapt attention to whatever their companions were saying.

  Everywhere was the low hum of conversation. Drinks were served promptly and empty glasses whisked away almost before they could be set down.

  Looking through the bar, I could see the dining room beyond – a beautiful vision of white tablecloths, shining cutlery and winking glasses. There were fresh flowers on every table. One or two tables were occupied. Waiters – all male – stood against the wall, waiting.

  The lighting was quiet, rather than low. Well, they wouldn’t want anyone falling down the steps, would they? Men who, in other, lesser establishments would be bouncers, stood in discreet corners, their hands clasped lightly in front of them. And every single one of them was looking at me.

  I felt very conspicuous and considerably underdressed. Which I was. I’d tidied my hair and washed my face but I suspected that might not have been enough. I was surprised they’d left me lying around like this where anyone could see me.

  I turned my attention back to the bar again, watching the people in there. Yes, I know I should have been concentrating on the job in hand, marshalling my arguments and anticipating what might happen, but I couldn’t help wondering at what point the . . . arrangements were made. If it wasn’t all pre-arranged then was it before dinner? After? During? What would happen if the ‘company’ you’d selected fell short? Suppose you changed your mind. Did you hand them back and request another? And, if so, did you have to buy them dinner, too?

  One or two heads were beginning to turn my way. I wondered if they thought someone had ordered in a bit of rough.

  Before I had too much time to worry that I’d failed to make the social grade in a sex club, another man presented himself to me. This one was black again; although not as enormous as the man-mountains outside, he wore the same black get-up and had an earpiece.

  His voice was quiet and very courteous. ‘Good evening, madam. How may we be of assistance?’

  I took my cue. Quiet and courteous back again. Standing up, I said again, ‘Good evening. I was hoping for an opportunity to speak to Mr Wolfe. No, I don’t have an appointment and I’m afraid this isn’t a matter about which I would care to speak to anyone other than Mr Wolfe himself.’

  ‘I am Mr Wolfe’s personal assistant, madam. You may speak to me with confidence.’

  Time to give in gracefully. I leaned towards him and said very quietly, ‘My name is Maxwell, late of the Time Police. I have an offer which I think might interest Mr Wolfe,’ and stepped back again to watch his reaction.

  He stood very still for a moment. He would want me out of public gaze and as quickly as possible. I wondered how he would do it.

  ‘I wonder if you would be more comfortable in one of our private salons, madam?’

  I smiled. ‘I’m sure I would, but I should perhaps warn you that my non-appearance at a certain place and at a certain time will cause others considerable consternation . . . and cause you extreme inconvenience.’


  ‘I do not doubt it, madam, and I am certain Mr Wolfe will do everything in his power to ensure you make your rendezvous. My suggestion that you repair to a salon was based solely on the need for discretion.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘My name is Khalife,’ he said solemnly. ‘Demiyan Khalife at your service, madam. This way, please.’

  The small salon turned out to be quite large. By my standards, anyway. I really must tell Dr Bairstow about all this and see if we couldn’t get St Mary’s remodelled along the same lines.

  I seated myself on a very comfortable sofa. This was obviously some kind of waiting room. A selection of magazines was laid out on the coffee table, just like at an upmarket dentist. Accustomed as I was to the Spartan living conditions of the Time Police, I looked around for the drinks machine in the corner. Obviously, there was nothing like that here. The door opened and a waiter enquired whether there was anything I needed.

  I shoved aside my overwhelming urge for a margarita. I needed to lay off the booze if I was going to get through this, so I asked for a glass of water. He reappeared a moment later bearing a tray with a glass that he set before me as if it were the Hope Diamond.

  I thanked him.

  The glass was smoked and heavy and the ice clinked expensively. It wasn’t until I swallowed that I realised how dry my mouth was. Still clutching the glass, I extricated myself with some difficulty from the sofa and wandered around the room, checking out the art. Here it was mostly modern. I was unfamiliar with the artists, and I was peering at a small landscape, trying to make out the signature, when the door opened behind me. Mr Khalife was back. And with a young woman in a sharply tailored suit.

  ‘I hope, madam, you will not be offended.’

  I’d been warned to expect this. ‘Of course not.’

  She was very thorough, going over every inch of me. I had to take my top layers off. Mr Khalife studied the wall, which I appreciated. She ran her fingers over every inch of my skin, examined my clothes minutely, and ended by passing a wand over them and me. She paid particular attention to my hair and ears, eventually saying, ‘Thank you, madam. May I assist you to redress?’

  I’d never had anyone help me to put my clothes back on before. Leon sometimes assists in getting them off but that’s because he’s the impatient one in our relationship. ‘Thank you, but I can manage.’

  She nodded and I scrambled back into my clothes, trying not to think about the CCTV because it wasn’t anything I could do anything about so no point in worrying.

  When I’d finished, she left the room, saying to Mr Khalife, ‘Nothing.’

  He turned around. ‘Dr Maxwell, would you care to come this way?’

  My heart sang. I had what I needed.

  Still clutching my drink, I followed him across the hall and through a door marked ‘Office’.

  If this was an office then I wanted one just like it. Another thing to talk to Dr Bairstow about. There was more fine art on the walls. Very fine art. I itched to get over there and have a closer look. Concentrate, Maxwell.

  A complete arsenal hung from one wall. Spears, daggers, knob­kerries, swords, shields, slings and other weapons. None of this was my speciality but the period looked medieval and most of them appeared to be of African or eastern origin.

  Another wall was floor-to-ceiling books. And not just posh but unread, leatherbound, carefully selected to make you look good, bought by the yard books, but real ones. Some looked new. Good to know books make it into the future.

  A beautiful Persian carpet occupied the centre of the floor, surrounded by gleaming parquet. Three bronze lamps stood in the corners, sending out a soft, warm gleam which was reflected off the curtains, themselves shot through with bronze thread.

  The fourth corner was occupied by a magnificent ebony statue of an African warrior. Two huge masks hung either side of it. They looked Greek. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. They were genuine – I was convinced of it.

  There was a proper working desk, not some magnificent edifice hewn from an endangered forest somewhere. Two cardboard jacketed files lay open before him. I remembered there was probably no wi-fi. Behind the desk was the most imposing object in the room: the man sitting behind it.

  I’ve never been a portrait painter. I’ve done a couple of Leon, one of which he quite liked, but Matthew never sits still long enough for me to get a good likeness of him. Looking at this man, I could see why an artist would be inspired. I guessed from the width of his shoulders that he would be tall. His hands were beautifully shaped. His grey suit was the best I’d ever seen. His skin was the darkest I’d ever seen – and he had light grey eyes. I was transfixed. Speechless.

  Someone coughed. For God’s sake, Maxwell, focus.

  ‘I beg your pardon. I was distracted by your wonderful masks.’

  He smiled and it was a genuine smile. ‘Do not apologise, Dr Maxwell. I am perfectly accustomed to taking second place to the treasures in this room. Allow me to introduce myself. Atticus Wolfe.’

  ‘Maxwell,’ I said. Which he knew but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He didn’t rise from his desk or offer to shake hands. That was fine by me.

  We looked at each other. He was an extraordinarily handsome man. His bone structure was superb. His skin so dark as to be almost black except it wasn’t black. Black was far too dull a word. There was deep, deep purple in the shadows under his eyes, olive green in the hollows in his temples, and his brow gleamed rich brown and crimson. A golden light caught his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His shaved skull was the most perfect shape. Even his hands, long and slim with tapering pianist’s fingers, were elegant.

  I blinked and became aware I was staring.

  ‘Well, Dr Maxwell – I believe you have a proposition for me?’

  I did it all wrong. We should have danced around each other – neither of us committing ourselves to anything that could be construed as illegal in a court of law. There should have been elegant repartee and oblique allusion while we took stock of each other. There wasn’t any of that.

  I blurted out, ‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’ And it would have been hard to say which of us was most surprised by the question.

  He glanced up at Mr Khalife, who had moved to stand behind his right shoulder in a manner that rather reminded me of Commander Hay and Captain Farenden, and then back at me.

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘Well, if you ever do, would you consider offering me the commission?’

  ‘Is that what you wished to speak to me about?’

  ‘No. I have just never met someone who would make such a spectacular subject.’

  He leaned back and smiled. ‘And how would you represent me?’

  I thought of the statue, the African artwork. In for a penny . . . in for a pound.

  ‘Could you stand up, please?’

  He looked surprised and for a moment I thought I’d gone too far, then he cast an amused look at Mr Khalife and came out from behind his desk to stand in front of me.

  The two men outside had been colossal but this man wasn’t far off. He was powerfully built, but not bulky. His head gleamed under the light from the chandelier.

  ‘I see you leaning on your spear. The day is ending. Your lion skin hangs over one shoulder. Jebel Barkal stands behind you. You are watching the sun set. You are alone.’

  There was no reaction of any kind.

  I stopped, stepped back and muttered, ‘Sorry.’

  He stood for a moment longer and then motioned me to a sofa. It was as comfortable as the others. He sat at the other end and we turned to face each other.

  ‘So that is how you see me.’

  It was how he saw himself but no need to tell him that.

  ‘Yes, but I regret I have allowed myself to become distracted.’ As if any man mind
s being a distraction. ‘It is on another matter that I have come this evening.’

  ‘Yes,’ he smiled, a man enjoying a joke. ‘I believe you have something unusual for me.’

  He knew I wasn’t wired. I had no such comfortable conviction. I was certain there were two, maybe three cameras in this room. Hidden eyes would be watching my every move.

  ‘I do. You should know, however, that despite my uniform, I no longer work for the Time Police. We have . . . parted company.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘They were pursuing a course of action of which I did not approve.’

  ‘I see. Do you frequently disapprove of those around you?’

  ‘No, but on this occasion, yes.’

  He waited.

  I swallowed. ‘There is, in existence, a pod. The Time Police have been pursuing it and its occupants for a very long time. Eventually, they were successful. They proposed to execute them. I disagreed with this policy – deeply disagreed with this policy – and so I facilitated their . . . departure. And that of their pod.’

  I stopped and waited again, but he still said nothing so I ploughed on. ‘I must now speak frankly.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘We are fugitives. The Time Police will never rest until they have recaptured us. We need protection and sanctuary. Not many people are able to provide this. The Time Police are powerful. We need someone even more so and who, for a remuneration, would be prepared to offer us what we need.’

  ‘And what form would this remuneration take?’

  ‘In return for our safety, we would undertake to . . . work for this person.’

  ‘In what capacity?’

  ‘Well, it occurs to me that, for example, should this person collect certain objects that are not always easy to procure, we could be instrumental in obtaining some very choice items for him.’

  He made a dismissive gesture. ‘But you are describing something that cannot happen. Everyone knows that nothing can be taken from the past. The Time Police make that very clear to everyone. There are safeguards, protocols and so forth. And consequences.’