By the Light of a Lie (Thane & Calder Book 1)

by Marjorie Orr

  ‘What’s more,’ Wally said, advancing towards him and putting an arm round his shoulders, ‘I think we could be related.’

  Jimmy’s body crumpled slightly, his mind spiked with alarm then diffused into a jumble of panic. He let out an audible moan.

  ‘There, there,’ Wally patted him awkwardly on the back. ‘No need to get upset. One of my sisters married a drunk called Black and I think one of their kids ended up in the Hall for being dumb, like. Bunch of no-hopers that family, total losers the lot of them. That could be you.’

  Jimmy turned away, his head swimming and barely able to focus, holding onto the corner of one of the display stands to keep him from falling over. A cacophony of bagpipes and drums blared up, jarring him further. It stopped after a few seconds as Wally started shouting into his mobile phone.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Ricky whispered in his ear, ‘he’s not very tactful, Wally, but he’s OK. He’s rich and he likes your work.’

  The paintings on the wall in front of him seemed to be pulsating, from light to shade, the images distorting and blurring. After a minute of heavy breathing, he began to see more clearly. His eye flickered down the wall only to see his watercolour of Lachie’s grave. Wincing, he looked away towards the bronzes further up the gallery. Hesitantly, as if he feared his legs wouldn’t hold him, he moved from one display stand to the next, putting a hand out to steady himself.

  A badly executed statuette of a female warrior with sword, shield and a large bird perched behind her helmet, was multicoloured in different patinas, looking more like a videogame toy than a work of art. He shook his head and walked more certainly on to the furthest corner, where a small, mottled-green bronze of a heavy horse bearing a barelegged man in a toga made him smile.

  ‘One of my kids wanted that one,’ Wally’s voice grated behind him. ‘She said it reminded her of Princess Zena from the television.’

  ‘No,’ Jimmy said calmly, turning back round, ‘It’s Athena, the goddess. See – you can tell from the owl and the snakes on her shield.’

  ‘My, my, aren’t you the knowledgeable one? Doesn’t sound like the Black family at all,’ Wally said grudgingly, giving him a doubtful look.

  ‘Where did you learn all this, Jimmy?’ Ricky asked, with a placatory smile.

  Jimmy stood silent, his mouth twitching as he tried to think what to say, then he blurted out: ‘Truth is, I don’t think I am Jimmy Black.’

  Elly, who had been sitting unnoticed in a chair by the front window, came across to put a steadying hand on his elbow. With a catch in his voice, he said: ‘I think I’m him, Lachie, down there.’ He pointed to the painting of the tombstone.

  Wally growled an exasperated ‘What?’ while Ricky blinked several times before saying with forced cheerfulness: ‘I think we all need a cup of tea.’

  In the office, Elly took over the explanations as Jimmy sat huddled miserably beside her. Wally’s cigar smoke swirled and eddied as he listened intently, with narrowed and occasionally flashing eyes. His anger reddened his cheeks and he leant towards Jimmy with a look of naked hostility.

  Jimmy cowered back, muttering: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mislead anyone. It’s all just come to light recently.’

  ‘That’s not the problem, son,’ Wally spat out, jabbing his cigar uncomfortably close to his face. ‘The problem is someone bumped off one of my family. And I did nothing about it. It’s bad for my reputation, that.’ He sat back, a deep frown creasing his forehead, his mouth pulled tight and rubbing his chin with a stubby, calloused hand.

  He gave an unpleasant smile and said: ‘No worries. I’ll find out who did this and see to him. I’ve got ears on the ground and contacts in the polis. Someone will know. You reckon it might be this man in your head had something to do with it, or was it just a random mugging?’

  Jimmy shrugged and said cautiously: ‘I dunno. Maybe.’

  Suddenly, Wally jumped to his feet saying he had to go, stubbing his cigar out carelessly in the copper ashtray on the office desk. He put a firm hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and said: ‘I don’t care you’re not a relative. Frankly, I’m relieved. I couldn’t believe that lot would produce any talent. I still want a painting from you, the bigger the better. Ricky says you’ll do me an oil. He’s got the keys to one of my flats you can use as a studio. If you need any protection, just give me a shout.’

  He strode out of the door without a backwards glance. The atmosphere in the office relaxed as he left and Ricky slumped back in his seat, fanning a brochure rather dramatically in front of his face.

  ‘What the hell do we do about your name, then?’ he asked, his eyes wide in mock puzzlement. ‘It’s all over the publicity. We got great coverage, by the way, for your exhibition, and a buyer for this one.’ A clutch of cuttings and printouts from several websites was thrust across the desk. On top was a photograph of Jimmy beside the painting of the giant aloe and two nude statues from an online London arts magazine.

  Jimmy shrank back, half-turning away from his success as if embarrassed, and fiddled with his scarf.

  ‘What’s better, they want the copyright as well as the painting. In one way that’s a pain, since it means we can’t make prints. But I tripled the price since he wanted a total buyout. That will be shipped to London this week. And there’ll be nothing to stop you doing another similar in oils in future.’

  The sound of small steel balls bouncing off each other filled the silence as Ricky’s finger strummed the strings on a desk ornament.

  ‘Your name?’ He sighed. ‘Too late to change it now. We’ll just have to regard Jimmy Black as a stage name. And the real Lachie stays out of sight in the background.’ He sipped at his tea and put the cup down with a clatter. His hair was pushed back off his forehead with an excited gesture. ‘But what a story you’ve got to tell. It’d be a pity to keep it quiet.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  Jimmy’s emphatic response brought a flinch, then a placatory smile across the desk. The metal balls clanked more loudly as they ricocheted off one another.

  Eventually Ricky said: ‘You’re right. Your decision entirely. But as my old granny from Umbria used to say, mal comune, mezzo gaudio. A shared trouble is half joy. We’ll catch up this afternoon and I’ll show you your new studio.’

  As they retraced their steps home past the blackened walls of the Art School, Jimmy kept his head steadily down, murmuring under his breath, ‘mal commune, mezzo gaudio’ over and over again until Elly yanked at his arm.

  CHAPTER 33

  Next morning Tire was wakened at 5.30 am by a knock on her bedroom door. A tepid shower woke her fully and she dressed quickly in clean jeans and a glittery white T-shirt she had bought specially for the occasion, with a lightweight, navy velvet jacket on top. She fished in her travel bag for gilt chains and bangles and a huge navy cotton sunhat, which had to be yanked into shape.

  Herk was waiting with a cup of coffee, which was all that was on offer. They spent the next two hours driving up and down the coast, along the only surfaced road leading to the motorway, and then along three heavily pitted tracks marked on his ordnance survey map. Two of them ended abruptly inland, collapsed into giant craters by the previous winter’s floods. Eventually he pronounced himself satisfied and they stopped at a roadside café for a breakfast of coffee, so strong it made Tire blink, and sweet pastries.

  ‘Now, let’s run over the story one more time, just to check we’re on the same page,’ he said half an hour later, as they sat outside the impressive locked gates of Castell Pajol, waiting for an answer to the entryphone. The name was discreetly painted on a board half-hidden by a sprawling clump of bougainvillea, so clearly not intended to attract passing trade. A huge privado sign was on the opposite wall.

  ‘I’ll do the chat,’ she said firmly. ‘Photographers follow along behind and do as they’re told. You’ll have to get back into humility mode.’ She beamed at him, pleased to see him grimace, and continued as the gates swung open. ‘We’ve taken the chance si
nce we’re in the vicinity to photograph part of one of the pilgrim routes to Santiago di Compostela. Not all the way. Just Olot to the shrine of the Black Madonna of Montserrat. Which is why we have an off-road vehicle. Got that?’

  He touched his forehead, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Both of us are freelances, so work for various magazines. What’s your name, by the way? I’m supposedly Patricia Haddington.’

  The long, gravelled drive curved and wound through heavily wooded land until the castle came into view, an enormous rectangle of ancient, red, stone blocks, with its lower reaches fanned outwards like a skirt to give a firm grip on the ground. Tall, elegant cypresses grew to one side on clipped grass intermingled with giant pots with red flowering plants. The extensive lawn on the other side ran down to the cliff edge, with a few parasol pine trees leaning exuberantly over the drop above a glittering blue sea below. Just visible behind the castle was a large swimming pool and beyond that several whitewashed villas.

  ‘Harry Connor,’ Herk whispered in her ear as a trim young man with slicked-back hair, and dressed in black trousers and a neat black waistcoat over a white shirt, approached the car. He offered to carry their travel bags in but Herk refused curtly, saying his camera equipment was breakable and he’d manage himself, after he had parked the car. The bellboy looked flustered, but after a moment shrugged and indicated to the left of the castle, where the gravel path led into a sunken parking area.

  Tire put on her brightest smile and walked ahead through the open door, a massive, varnished oak affair heavily studded with black iron straps and knobs. You wouldn’t hack through that in a hurry, she thought. She was ushered through to a large interior sitting room, designer-furnished with white sofas and chairs, antique chests and bow-legged coffee tables with tiled tops. An archway up steps led out into a glass-covered, sunlit sitting area looking out to sea. The heavy, dark terracotta tiles on the floor, combined with the bleached walls and furniture, gave it a luxuriously restful feel. Flamenco guitar music was playing softly.

  Another young man glided in to greet her, introducing himself as the assistant manager. He apologised, saying Mr Harman Stone and Javier Manresa, the manager, had been called away to Barcelona and would be back late in the afternoon. In the meantime, her bags had been put into an upstairs room and she should feel free to wander at will round the castle and grounds although respecting the privacy of the guests at villas two, five and nine. The other eleven villas were empty this week.

  Accepting his offer of a coffee, she indicated the sun room, which she noted had ashtrays on the tables, and moved through. Five minutes later Herk joined her, carrying a large camera case with an expensive-looking Nikon with zoom lenses hanging round his neck. He laid it carefully on an adjoining chair along with another small digital camera he took from his pocket.

  ‘I can’t see this as the place for poor kids and their impoverished grandparents, myself,’ Herk said. ‘Maybe they have a barn out back they stick them in when he’s doing his charity weeks.’

  ‘Me neither. It just gets odder and odder,’ she remarked quietly, although there were no other guests around. ‘Still, where there’s a mystery there’s usually a good story. So we’d best go explore. Lunch as per Spanish style is at least four hours away.’

  The property was extensive, ranging along the cliff top for almost a third of a mile, with fourteen hacienda-style villas, each with a pool discreetly shaded from the others by shrubs, pergolas covered in flowering climbers and small trees. There was another large, brick-built building tucked out of sight behind the car park, which seemed to be staff quarters. Herk raised and lowered his camera every so often. At the far end the trees thickened into a wood, well pruned but less manicured, with a rutted track leading away from the villas. The remnants of a ruined tower were just visible through a gap.

  ‘That might give me a decent shot,’ he said, ‘if I can climb up it.’

  ‘Is that necessary?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s an excuse, like?’ he whispered back giving her a withering look. ‘I want to see where that track goes.’

  She turned to walk back towards the cliff, shaking her head at his constant need to find escape routes wherever he went. A paunchy jogger in white T-shirt and blue shorts came pounding towards her round the perimeter of the grass, breathing heavily. Nodding politely, she was about to walk on when he stopped, said hello hoarsely and then bent to lean his hands on his knees.

  Smiling sympathetically, she said: ‘How far is that?’

  ‘Gawd, eight miles I think, been going round so often I’m dizzy.’ An American drawl petered out as he heaved and puffed. Finally he straightened up, wiped his hand on his shorts and extended it. ‘Hi, I’m Chip Nathon. You’re new here and clearly not going running just yet.’ He looked at her appreciatively and smiled.

  ‘No, I’m a travel writer, here to do a puff. My name is T… Trez, really. That’s my nickname anyway.’ Why the hell did I do that? she wondered, irritated at herself. Great undercover I’d make.

  ‘I just love English nicknames. Everyone over your way has them.’ He gave her a boyish grin, which sat oddly on his fleshy middle-aged face. ‘Might see you over lunch, Trez. Best keep going before I collapse.’ Off he panted.

  Herk joined her ten minutes later, a slight grin on his face, saying the track ran close to the road outside with only a flimsy wooden fence at the far end and no ditches either side.

  Lunch came not a moment too soon at 2 pm in a high-ceilinged dining room with wooden beams straddling overhead. The overall effect was sombre, despite the white walls, with the antique tables and sideboards in carved dark walnut. The gilt-framed portraits and still lifes spread liberally around had pitch black backgrounds. Tire and Herk sat opposite a forbidding Spanish matriarch of long ago. Herk murmured something uncomplimentary about his mother while Tire waved to Chip Nathon, who was dining on his own several tables away near the window, the only other occupant.

  The menu was substantial and pages long, so Tire ordered from the shorter specialities card, with asparagus for starters and sardines for the main course. Herk said dinner would be a long way off, probably not till 10 pm, so best to fill up when there was a chance. He proceeded to munch his way happily through shellfish soup, and a hefty sausage and bean casserole followed by a custard flan with caramel sauce.

  She was about to order her second coffee when Chip Nathon stood up and gestured to the outside terrace. Leaving Herk to finish his family-sized dessert, she followed, lighting a cigarette with relief when she walked through the open glass doors onto the stone patio, which was scattered with expensive, wickerwork chairs and with two alabaster statues of classical male nudes at either end.

  ‘Now, that’s what I like to see,’ Chip Nathon boomed, reaching into the top pocket of his flowery beach shirt for a packet of cigarillos.

  Initial questions to him about his business and knowledge about Castell Pajol were met with a friendly stonewall. He worked vaguely in IT, but too boring to discuss on vacation. He’d been before, but no specifics. He certainly didn’t want mentioned in her puff piece. Not as bluff and dumb as he looks, she thought.

  So she changed tack and gushed about walking and photographing the old pilgrim route to Santiago in bite-sized pieces. The Black Virgin at Montserrat, the magnificent scenery, the visit she hoped to make to the Cathar fortress at Montsegur across the border in France on the way back. Within ten minutes, he was relaxing and flirting with her in a rather clumsy way.

  ‘Ever come across our way?’ he asked with a glint in his eye, moving his knee closer.

  She knew it was a risk, but she took a deep breath and said: ‘Yeah, sometimes. I have a friend in the film business and he’s having a wrap party for his latest movie in Big Sur sometime soon.’

  ‘You don’t say! What’s his name?’ he said, looking impressed, and moved his chair closer.

  ‘Tom Bateson.’

  ‘Isn’t that a coincidence? I know him too.’

  O
h shit, she thought. I’ll have to phone Tom and get him to lie about me.

  ‘Well, when I say I know him,’ Chip waved his cigar in the air. ‘Have met him a couple of times. Throws a great party. There must have been three hundred at the last one.’

  Ah, an American best friend, that’s easier.

  The waiter hovered with more coffee and Nathon ordered himself a chocolate tequila liqueur, after which he started to open up. He was a major player, he informed her, in IT, with a software company in Santa Cruz and a biotechnology business nearby.

  She flattered him, playing girlish ignorance about biotechnology. It always appalled her how well it worked. Was he helping Paul Stone with his wonderful work for Alzheimer’s drugs, she asked ingenuously. He gave her a considered look and said no, different field altogether. Then he clammed up.

  Had he vacationed in any of the other Cerigo resorts, she twittered. She had heard they were wonderful. Sure, he said slowly, the Big Sur resort was one of his favourite weekend breaks. The Scottish one, too, in Wester Ross, great for shooting, he slurred, then paused uneasily before adding, although not for the weather.

  ‘Truly international,’ she twittered. ‘But then Harman is half-Iranian. It’ll give him a global perspective. And Paul Stone came from the Middle East as well, didn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ he frowned into his drink. ‘His mother was French, across the border from here. Arles something or other. At least that’s where he buried her a few years back.’ He shot her a suspicious look. ‘Hasn’t his office given you his bio?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I just haven’t absorbed it all,’ she said hastily, with an ingratiating smile. ‘It is so kind of Harman Stone to give poor children holidays here. He and his father do so much good, it’s touching.’

  Nathon looked out to sea, yawned and replied: ‘The charity comes mainly from pa. Kind of an obsession with him. Junior isn’t quite a chip off the old block.’ He blinked several times and yawned again. ‘Think I’m sagging. Must go and grab a nap.’