Heaven's Light

by Hurley, Graham

  Zhu began to talk about a hotel. It was called the Imperial. Barnaby nodded. ‘It’s on the seafront,’ he said at once, ‘big old place.’

  ‘Are you familiar with it at all?’

  Barnaby hesitated before replying. The Imperial had fallen on hard times. Inside and out the building was a wreck.

  ‘Are you thinking of staying there, Mr Zhu? Only I could possibly recommend something a little more suitable.’

  Zhu produced a silver cigarette case and, for the first time, Barnaby detected the beginnings of a smile. Zhu opened the case and offered it across the desk. Barnaby shook his head, looking for the matches he kept in the drawer.

  ‘Tell me about this hotel, Mr Barnaby. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘It’s very big, as I said, and it’s very old. It’s got a wonderful position looking … south-west, I think. It’s Victorian. Lots and lots of rooms, and a great deal of history. It used to be extremely grand. Now?’ He spread his hands, a sign of regret. ‘I’m afraid it isn’t what it was.’

  ‘But once?’

  ‘Once it was the best. The very best.’ It crossed Barnaby’s mind that he might have a photograph of the place, one of the archive shots that the city records office had started to issue as postcards. His secretary had begun a collection in the belief that one day they might come in useful. Barnaby sorted quickly through the box file in which they were kept. There were lots of shots of the naval dockyard, and the cathedral, and the Edwardian hey-day of Southsea’s fashionable shopping arcades, but he couldn’t lay hands on the photograph he remembered. It had shown the Imperial at the turn of the century. It looked like an enormous birthday cake, a confection in elaborate white icing, and the foreground had featured women promenading in extravagant hats.

  At the bottom of the box was a view of the Common. Barnaby took it out and crossed the room again, examining it in the light from the window. A path known as Ladies’ Mile ran the length of the Common, flanked by trees, and at the far end stood the Imperial.

  Barnaby showed the photograph to Zhu, pointing out the tiny line of horse-drawn cabs waiting in front of the hotel. The Chinese touched the photograph. The fingers of his right hand were yellowed with nicotine.

  ‘Big,’ he said slowly. ‘A very important place.’

  ‘It was.’ Barnaby sat down again, pushing an ashtray across the desk. ‘That was ninety years ago. I think it had a little bomb damage during the war. Afterwards, they tried to keep it going but times were difficult. I remember…’ He was suddenly aware that he was straying from the point, but Zhu signalled for him to carry on, a tiny motion with his right hand, and Barnaby smiled, watching the curl of blue smoke drifting towards him.

  Some of his earliest memories revolved around visits to the Imperial. His father had regularly entertained clients there for afternoon tea and his mother would sometimes meet him afterwards for early-evening drinks in a cluttered little cocktail bar beside the dining room. On these occasions, Barnaby would go too, largely because there was no one else to look after him. He remembered a fat porter called Mr Jones, who did tricks with an inkwell and a handkerchief, and he remembered, too, the smell of the place, a mixture of furniture polish and stale alcohol. He’d liked it in the hotel. It smacked of grown-ups and money, two items for which he’d developed an early enthusiasm.

  Zhu followed his descriptions with grave interest. ‘You had no brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, I was an only child.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He was a barrister.’ Barnaby gestured round. ‘Barristers are like solicitors. But richer.’

  Zhu sucked at the cigarette, ignoring the joke, and Barnaby was aware of the eyes watching him through the curtain of smoke. The conversation was fast developing into an interview, himself on the receiving end. He thought of the hotel again, the gaunt shell that housed so many memories.

  ‘It was bought by one of the big chains,’ he said. ‘I’m not quite sure what happened after that.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It’s very run down. The kind of people that made the place pay don’t go to that sort of hotel any more. It used to be different, of course. Families came down to the coast for a couple of weeks in the summer. If they had money, they’d stay somewhere like the Imperial. And there was the navy too. Lots of officers and their families. Lots of comings and goings. The Imperial was where you’d be seen, where you’d meet for a drink or a meal. Now?’ He sat back, trying to think when he’d last driven past. The place had become a blemish, an eyesore, something you wouldn’t spare a second glance.

  ‘But it’s still a hotel? It still has guests?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Probably not. These big places have often been converted into …’ he tried to find the right phrase, ‘boarding houses for unemployed people, people without homes, people with no money.’

  ‘So who pays the owner?’

  ‘The state does. We do. All these people get benefit. Some of the money goes straight to whoever runs the place. It’s very profitable but it’s not a hotel any more, not the way I described it.’ Barnaby was sure now that he’d got it right. A week or two back, he’d been duty solicitor down at the magistrates’ court. A couple of the men he’d had to represent had given their domicile as the Imperial Hotel and he remembered them sharing a sour joke when he’d questioned the address. Imperial fucking dosshouse, one had told him. Stained mattresses, cracked wash basins, and a little barred window on the ground floor where you handed in your Giro cheque.

  Zhu stirred in the chair, uncrossing his legs, and Barnaby leaned forward across the desk, curious to know the reason for all these questions about the Imperial.

  ‘I want to buy it,’ Zhu said simply.

  ‘The Imperial?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

  ‘Not at all. I intend to turn it back into a real hotel, the kind of hotel you remember from your childhood.’

  ‘You do?’ Barnaby tried to mask his astonishment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re aware …’ he hesitated, not wanting to give offence ‘… what that would involve? The amount of work? The capital outlay?’

  Zhu gazed at him with an expression of mild reproof. Then his hand went to the breast pocket of his tunic and he produced a card. It read ‘Mr Raymond Zhu’. Underneath, similarly embossed, was a Singapore address with phone, telex and fax numbers.

  ‘I run a number of companies,’ Zhu was saying. ‘Most will be of no concern. That address will find me.’

  Barnaby put the card carefully to one side. Zhu didn’t look like a businessman, far from it, but personal appearance – as his father had once told him – was often the worst possible guide. He glanced up, remembering the Daimler outside in the street. That, on reflection, should have been an early clue.

  ‘Have you … ah … begun negotiations?’

  ‘Negotiations are complete.’

  ‘You’ve agreed a price?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask how much you intend to pay?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He paused. ‘Mr Seggins has agreed to accept a hundred and ten thousand pounds, plus a small percentage of my first year’s trading figure. That’s profit, of course.’ He smiled. ‘Net.’

  Barnaby scribbled down the name and then the figure. £110,000 was a steal. In the eighties, at the height of the boom, hotels had been valued at £60,000 a room. The Imperial must have a hundred rooms at least, probably more. Barnaby’s pen went back to the owner’s name.

  ‘You’ve met Mr Seggins?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘He holds title to the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he’s happy with this figure?’

  ‘He’s accepted it.’

  Barnaby caught the nuance, the hint of amusement that warmed Zhu’s voice a degree or two, and he looked up, adjusting his preconceptions yet again. This man was tough as well as clever, and Barnaby began to wonder exa
ctly how much he really knew about the hotel. Nobody would bid for the Imperial without having done a great deal of background research.

  Barnaby tore the top sheet off his pad and put it to one side. Then he picked up his pen and began to take Zhu through the usual checklist. If nothing else, it might define his own relationship to this strange deal.

  ‘You’ll need a full survey,’ he began. ‘I can organize that if you wish. Then there’s a schedule of works and a proper inventory, assuming one doesn’t exist. Someone will have to talk to Mr Seggins’s solicitor. You need to check his claim to title, any outstanding mortgages, any—’

  ‘There are none.’

  ‘No mortgages?’

  ‘No.’

  Barnaby made a note. Stuffing the Imperial full of DSS folk was even better business than he’d been led to expect.

  ‘The local authority people?’ he enquired, looking up. ‘Have you talked to them at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m afraid you must. There’s a search to be done, just to make sure there are no orders out on the place. Does it have a bar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’ll need a licence when the time comes. That’s an application to the magistrates’ court. Will the Imperial be in your name, Mr Zhu?’ He looked up. Zhu was gazing peaceably out of the window.

  ‘Mr Zhu?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Will it be your name on the—?’

  Zhu was getting up. He shuffled towards the window, peering down at the street. In profile, he barely had a chin at all.

  ‘I understand you normally charge one per cent,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. There’s room for negotiation, of course, but it’s normally around one per cent. Plus or minus. In this case …’ Barnaby looked down at his pad, recognizing how little room he had for manoeuvre. Big properties like the Imperial could easily turn into a nightmare. If things got tricky, one per cent of £110,000 would barely cover the photocopying.

  He looked up. Zhu was waving to somebody. ‘Mr Hua,’ he said absently, ‘has returned.’

  Barnaby checked the street below. The black Daimler was parked opposite, legally this time. ‘May I assume you want us to represent you …?’ he asked.

  Zhu nodded. ‘Yes. You will be my solicitor.’

  ‘For the purchase?’

  ‘Yes. Afterwards there will be much to do. Building. Improvements. A very great number of things. Unlike the current negotiations, I anticipate significant costs. Also, significant problems. One per cent of a lot of money, Mr Barnaby, is a lot of money.’ He lifted his arm again and then turned back into the room. ‘I suggest we agree a thousand pounds for the purchase of the hotel, Mr Barnaby. Does that sound acceptable?’

  Barnaby fought the urge to say yes. If Zhu was serious about restoring the Imperial, then Zhu was big time. And big time people respected caution.

  ‘There’s no substantial change of use,’ he mused aloud. ‘What about vacant possession? Does Mr Seggins anticipate any problems getting his lodgers out?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barnaby was impressed again by Zhu’s lack of self-doubt, by how clear-cut he made everything sound. The deal on offer couldn’t have been more explicit. As long as Barnaby kept his nose clean on the conveyancing, then the rest of the job, the real money, would be his for the asking. Tidying up a dump like the Imperial, doing it properly, wouldn’t cost less than a couple of million. Conceivably, it could go well beyond that, providing ample scope for a fat management fee.

  Barnaby tapped his pad. ‘Will you need us to arrange a mortgage? For the purchase price?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you intend to pay?’

  ‘By banker’s draft. I’ll need the details of your client account. I intend to deposit the money at once.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there some kind of deadline? Is it urgent?’

  ‘Of course.’ Zhu inclined his head. ‘Your city has a great future, Mr Barnaby. I intend to be part of it.’

  Zhu studied him for a moment or two and Barnaby got to his feet, extending a hand, promising to speed the purchase over the inevitable hurdles. Depositing the entire sale price was extremely unusual, a gesture – Barnaby hoped – of intent.

  Out in the corridor, Barnaby enquired, as a courtesy, whether there was anything else he could do. Zhu was scanning the row of framed nineteenth-century engravings hanging on the wall. The one at the end, Barnaby’s favourite, showed a huge tract of the naval dockyard. Zhu was looking at it now.

  ‘I need more,’ he said. ‘This is just the beginning.’

  ‘More hotels?’

  ‘More everything.’

  ‘Business opportunities?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you want me to look?’

  Zhu was peering ever more closely at the print. ‘Yes, Mr Barnaby,’ he said. ‘I’m sure that would be advantageous.’

  Liz Barnaby sat in her car, watching the drinkers milling around the garden of the pub. The Whippet was the kind of place she normally read about in the pages of the Sentinel. It cropped up time and time again, mostly in the special reports they carried on Mondays, gruesome descriptions of weekend vandalism, drug busts and assaults on local householders brave or silly enough to complain about the noise and the broken glass. The Whippet, by reputation, was one of the hardest pubs in the city. You went there at your peril.

  Jessie was sitting at a table near the back of the garden. She was drinking something fizzy from a pint glass, taking tiny sips, no real enthusiasm. She was wearing a black T-shirt under a pair of denim dungarees and the way she kept scratching herself made Liz wonder about lice. The third time she’d called round to the basement flat, she’d summoned the courage to try the door. It had been unlocked and the flat empty, but the smell alone had been enough to make her stomach churn. From the chaos of the front room she’d collected what she could, disentangling Jessie’s clothes from Haagen’s, and she’d found an empty Lo-Cost bag for the books, cassette tapes and other knick-knacks that she knew belonged to her daughter.

  In the kitchen, beside the gas stove, she’d found a syringe. Holding it up to the light through the back window, she’d seen the smear of fresh blood inside the barrel. When she’d returned to the electric stove and tested the rings with the back of her hand, one had still been warm. They’ve been back here, she’d thought. They’d made themselves a cup of something or other, and they’d used the syringe to inject more of that filthy stuff.

  Afterwards, knocking at the door of the flat upstairs, Liz had managed to rouse a skinny youth who’d blinked at her in the evening sunlight and told her that Jessie and Haagen had gone out. Try the Oxford, he’d muttered, or the Whippet. The Oxford, a gloomy dive near the pier, had been virtually empty. Jessie’s name had meant nothing to the woman behind the bar but at the mention of Haagen she’d bristled visibly. The boy was nothing but trouble. He’d been banned for weeks. If he ever appeared again, she’d kick his arse.

  Now, watching Jessie across the road, Liz understood why. Haagen lay sprawled beside her on the grass. He’d been collecting a small pile of what looked like beer mats and from time to time he’d flick one across the garden towards the four-piece band performing in the corner nearest to the road. Each time he did it, he got up on his knees, watching the flight of the little mat, digging Jessie in the ribs when one scored a direct hit. It was an infantile game, the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a kindergarten, and Liz marvelled at the dutiful way her daughter provided the applause. Whatever the syringe contained, thought Liz, had certainly warped her sense of humour.

  The band were getting louder now, the volume of the big black amplifiers turned up, and Liz wondered for the umpteenth time exactly what she should do. Simply walking across and dragging Jessie away wasn’t an option. Had she been braver she might have risked it, but her real fear was o
f social embarrassment, of being out of place, of having everyone else stop what they were doing and look at her. That, she couldn’t bear. It would be ghastly, a humiliation, infinitely worse than physical injury. All her life, she’d wanted to be looked at, admired, talked about, but not like this, not by these people. She knew in any case that the plan wouldn’t work. She’d get to Jessie. She’d try to talk to her, reason with her, but one or other of them would lose their temper and then there’d be a row. She closed her eyes, imagining the audience they’d command, the cat-calls, the whistles, the howls of derision. No way, she thought. Absolutely no bloody way.

  She leaned back in the seat, pushing hard with her feet against the pedals, trying to ease the tension coiled inside her. What she really needed was a man, a husband, someone close, supportive, someone who loved them both enough to care. She thought of Hayden, and of what Charlie Epple had said about him, and she asked herself yet again whether or not she could risk believing it. Did she really matter to him that much? Would he really be lost without her? She knew that the answer was immaterial. What mattered in a marriage was action. If Hayden loved her that much, why wasn’t he here now? Applying that stupendous lawyer’s brain to the tricky issue of his daughter’s heroin addiction?

  Heroin. Liz shuddered. Even the sound of the word frightened her. She read about it in the glossy style magazines she bought. She’d seen the evidence they dragged up on television. She was word-perfect on the damage it did you, the way it took a grip on your life, enslaving you, turning you into a monster. The sergeant from the drugs squad had been right. It was the devil’s drug. It paved the way to hell.

  Abruptly, she heard the sound of breaking glass. The heavy thump of music stopped and a girl began to scream. Liz opened her eyes, struggling upright in the seat. Across the road, some kind of fight had developed, men lashing out wildly, bottles flying, a blur of fists and boots. There was more screaming, louder this time, and the mill of drinkers fell back as the pub bouncers plunged in, seizing a small wiry youth. Liz barely had time to recognize Haagen’s snarl before he folded over a heavy blow, raising his face again to spit at his attacker. One man had his head in an armlock, lifting his chin, and the other paused for a second, measuring his distance before slamming his fist into the side of Haagen’s mouth. He did it again, then again, until the lower half of Haagen’s face was a mask of blood. The grip around his throat relaxed and he fell to the ground, curled in a ball, trying to protect himself from the savage kicking that followed.