by Marjorie Orr
He gave her an uncomfortable look and said: ‘I don’t think he would want this printed. If it is him. Which it may be. The child’s name was Pol. Pol Pedra. Paul Stone.’ He gave a sour laugh and shook his head. ‘I loathed him, all of the children did. But I should say no more.’
‘When did he leave here?’
‘About eleven, I think. He certainly did not come to senior school. They went to Barcelona, he and his mother.’
‘His father was Spanish?’
The old man gave a heavy sigh as Herk poured him another glass, and he stroked a mottled cat that had jumped onto the table. ‘No one knew who his father was.’ He paused as if embarrassed, then said: ‘His mother was a prostitute and was illegitimate herself, not quite right in the head.’ He tapped his skull. ‘They were outcasts and he was bullied because of it. It turned him nasty, very nasty. He hurt animals and the smaller children. Everyone was pleased when they left. It was thought she went to ply her trade where there was more money. They speak Catalan in Barcelona, so she would fit in easily. It was a real tragedy because he was bright. In different circumstances he could have done well.’
‘Well,’ she said cautiously, ‘we don’t absolutely know Pol Pedra and Paul Stone are the same person. So best to keep it quiet for the time being. Do you remember Lilou’s funeral?’
He shook his head. ‘No, and I attend most of them. I doubt he’d have dared to bury her in the cemetery. People have long memories around here. Maybe he just brought her ashes back and scattered them where no one could see.’
As they left, she assured him she would write when she knew more, and once back in the car, switched off her pocket recorder. The Range Rover bumped back along the track and turned, to her relief, onto a smoother, metalled road.
‘This helps does it, knowing Harman’s grandma was a whore?’ Herk’s tone was brusque.
‘If I can nail it all down, it fleshes out a background. The police only need the evidence. I need colour, the whole three-act family drama, to write a decent piece. Which will, I may point out, pay the expenses for all of this.’
‘None of which is going to happen unless we get the evidence as well,’ he retorted.
‘The proof’s all there in the astrology,’ she said, wagging a finger at him. ‘Father was bred in hell’s kitchen and managed somehow to claw his way onto a pedestal of respectability. But genes will out, at least the psychological ones. His unlived rage all got bundled down a generation, so became doubly toxic in Harman. Pity there’s no birth times, that’d help to anchor down more detail.’
‘Which would be as much use as illegally obtained evidence. The courts would slap any prosecutor daft enough to raise it into a straitjacket. And you already said you never use it in your books.’
‘Sod off. All I meant was it was interesting.’
‘Try thinking useful, not whimsical.’
CHAPTER 37
The rest of the day Tire spent in bed, her headache pounding even through Jean-Claude’s painkillers, although his sleeping pill gave her an uninterrupted night’s sleep. In the morning he insisted on checking her over again. No sickness or dizziness, he asked? She lied and assured him she was fine. He issued strict instructions about going to a hospital immediately if she had any symptoms and then shrugged with a smile and left.
While she waited for Herk to finish the handover with Fred, who had arrived from Barcelona with the BMW, she checked her messages. Matt, the researcher, had found a passenger list with a Louis Neroni entering the UK by ship in 1966, but there was no Stone mentioned. Thereafter, there was no record under passports, social security, or citizenship.
She emailed him back, saying could he check out the Dowancross Street, Glasgow address under J. Black? Also find a copy birth certificate for a Pol Pedra born 16 July 1939 in Arles-sur-Tech with full details of time of birth. Also find any people who had been given charity holidays at Cerigo resorts in Spain. There was something that just didn’t square about poor kids in that plush setting.
The ten-hour drive up to Calais was tedious but curiously restful. She alternately dozed and stared mindlessly out of the window at the countryside flashing past. They caught a late-night ferry and were on the outskirts of London before she allowed herself to start planning again. Her brain was whirring when Herk dropped her at the back entrance with the bags, having rung the bell for Ali, the porter, to help.
Once inside, she booted up her laptop and sat down with Stravinsky’s ‘Rite of Spring’ hammering out dissonant rhythms. Despite her renewed confidence, she knew they had precious little to go on. Felicity had emailed to thank her for finding a sponsor for Miranda’s residential violin course and said she would go directly from her friend’s at the end of the week. Wrighton himself had gone from Leeds to a further conference in Amsterdam so wouldn’t be back till she was gone.
Tire had no sense of strategy about how to tackle him as a suspect so she pushed it to one side. That would have to wait until after the Glasgow trip. And she was not sanguine about Russell finding enough about Paul or Harman Stone’s finances to be a real breakthrough. What the old school teacher had told them didn’t amount to more than a salacious gossip paragraph.
Then she remembered the Scottish journalist Harrister had mentioned, who had been investigating Stone and ended up dead. That would have to be tracked down and looked into when they were up north. She flicked through her address book idly, wondering who she knew who might be useful. A crime reporter who had helped her years ago on a story about money-laundering syndicates that had fizzled out. What was his name? She racked her brains. Murdo Scott, that was it. She faintly recollected he had taken to the bottle badly and been fired, but his paper might tell her his whereabouts.
A few minutes sweet-talking to the news editor on the pretext that she owed Murdo money produced his email address, but not his phone number. She dashed off a vague message to him saying she was trying to track down the name of an investigative journalist who had been killed in a car crash years ago. It sounded weak but she didn’t want to be too open at this stage, especially if he was drinking heavily.
The front door banged shut and there was a clatter in the kitchen as Herk brewed himself a mug.
‘Problem?’ she asked, when he came through to the office.
He sat down heavily and said: ‘Ali said there was a couple of guys hanging about when we were away. Different ones, obviously. Which is good in one way since it means they didn’t connect us to the Spanish trip. But it’s a pain in the ass all the same.’
At his insistence she booked a flight to Glasgow first thing in the morning.
‘Might as well tie up this loose end and then see if there’s anything else,’ he said, chipping the toe of his boot on the tiles. ‘If it’s nothing, then maybe we should back off for a while. Go about our normal business. They might get bored and go away, whoever they are. Have you another project you could be seen to be working on?’
The rain drenched the window, running in rivulets down the glass. Tire swung one way and another on the office chair, her heels tapping on the floor.
‘The bonking Buddha,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s an idea my agent was pushing, but I reckoned it was too tedious. Sex and money-mad, a total fraud. He’s down in Hampshire somewhere.’
‘That sounds just fine. You can immerse yourself in that and…’
‘Not a hope, sunshine,’ she smiled sweetly. ‘If I’m doing it, you’re coming too.’
‘Oh, hallelujah,’ he said wearily but, she thought, not unhappily.
An email from Matt arrived, she noticed over her shoulder, so she swung back round to her laptop. Dowancross Street in Glasgow, he wrote, was a low-rent housing association property. No specific information on the electoral roll. But he wondered if a diary piece about a James Black, artist, in the local paper, was the same? She thought it unlikely, but clicked on the URL. The headline read: ‘Local painter makes a splash. Ex-Dunlothian Hall inmate has first exhibition.’
‘Oh, fuc
k,’ she said after a startled moment, staring at the photograph of a greying, nondescript man with a long red scarf standing nervously beside a painting of two male nude statues either side of an exotic spiky plant.
‘What?’ Herk jumped up to peer over her shoulder.
Her hand was trembling when she pointed. ‘Those…,’ tugging at her hair, ‘… statues are on the patio at Castell Pajol.’
‘They probably churn them out by the hundreds at Homebase.’
She shook her head. ‘No, they were alabaster originals, hand-carved.’
‘They could still have made copies,’ he said, less certainly. Blowing out his cheeks, he wrinkled his nose and tapped the back of her seat. ‘Mind you, it’s odd, there’s no doubt.’ He scratched the back of his head, ‘If they are the only statues like that, then maybe Stone saw that photograph as well and it set a few bells ringing.’
‘Great minds,’ she said typing in a Google search. ‘Voila,’ she said triumphantly, as an art magazine website featured the same photograph. ‘That’s a London site. More likely he saw it down here.’
His hand went down onto her shoulder as she started to rise out of her seat. ‘No, you don’t. We’re going to Glasgow tomorrow, not today. The instruction about getting Jimmy Black went out to the guy who’s down the bottom of a Spanish gully. So there’s no great rush.’
She looked again at the photograph and shook her head, frowning. ‘That poor soul doesn’t look up to coping with Stone’s heavies.’
CHAPTER 38
The morning plane to Glasgow was taking an interminable time to move away from the stand at Heathrow. Tire glared at the stewardesses, the tarmac, the closed cockpit door and finally at Herk, sitting beside her reading the sports section of the morning paper. Her heeled boots were propped hard and kneading against the seat in front, until a cough alerted her to their pressure being an irritant. Mumbling sorry, she whispered forcefully to Herk: ‘I think we should have come yesterday. We may be too late.’
‘Nice perfume that you’ve got on,’ he replied after turning the page, which earned him a sharp elbow that pushed his arm off the rest.
The engines roared and the plane started to taxi so she tensed in anticipation.
‘Now, look,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll get there when we get there so you may as well relax. There haven’t been any more texts from the number that sent the muscle to Glasgow. So whoever sent it will reckon they’re on their way.’
‘But it was sent from the UK so it couldn’t have been Harman,’ she said, frowning as the thought struck her.
‘Could have been Wrighton, if we’re assuming they’re still in league. Or might be a security boss who gets his orders from god knows where. Fred got one of his guys to check and it was pay-as-you-go, so no way of checking. Leave it.’
He folded the paper noisily and immersed himself in a football commentary. She twisted away from him, staring morosely out of the window as they rose above the urban sprawl into cloud. Her night had been jarred, not by images of blood, but by suffocating smells of decaying cement dust and rotting manure, which woke her up several times scared to breathe in. And that croaking, wheezing sound that returned again and again. Even now, it leeched through the rattle and throb of the plane to echo in her ears.
With a sigh, she pulled up her bag and found a paperback titled Living through Loving, Learn from the Masters, which had a chapter on Shri Tantaalum, the Hampshire guru. After flicking through the disingenuous gush, she sighed again. Even as a camouflage project it was going to be tough going.
Glasgow was drizzling with a fine grey mist, the sky low and threatening heavier rain as they emerged from the terminal building into the car park to pick up the hire car. Herk set the GPS and raced along the motorway. Heading riverwards past the Southern General Hospital complex, they shot through an empty Clyde Tunnel and into the red sandstone territory of the west end and on into the city centre.
The first port of call was the gallery that sold James Black’s paintings, since she reckoned a few preliminary soundings would help to see how the land lay. The plate glass window of Marinello Arts displayed three small watercolours on easels, with a gilt card carrying the name James Black. Visible beyond, was an open exhibition space with more paintings and stands with small bronze sculptures. Two policemen were standing talking to an excitable, dark-haired man in his forties who was gesticulating wildly.
Tire’s stomach churned. They pushed open the door to hear him say hysterically: ‘I know nothing was stolen. The security system here is the best there is, but some bawbag tried to break in last night and it’s now nearly one o’clock.’ He screeched irritably, brandishing his watch. ‘There is CCTV footage. I want you to catch them.’ He glared at the larger of the two policemen.
‘Difficult, sir,’ the policeman remarked stolidly. ‘He had his face covered. But we’ll do our best.’ He put away his notebook, nodded to his companion and left.
Wafts of spicy aftershave flowed off the man as he ran his fingers agitatedly through his thick hair. Then he forced a smile, adjusted his turquoise silk tie and said silkily: ‘Just want to look around, do you? We’re shutting shortly but do feel free. I do apologise. A slight mishap last night. I’m Ricky Marinello.’
‘No, actually.’ Tire stepped forward and put out her hand confidently. ‘I’m from the Sunday Chronicle and this is my photographer. We want to interview James Black.’
His expression froze and he stamped his foot. ‘Really, this is too much. You can’t turn up with no notice. It just isn’t possible today. Come back tomorrow.’ He turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘No,’ said Tire sharply. At the same time, Herk stepped forward to say brightly: ‘It’d mean more sales for you.’
Ricky turned with an exaggerated gesture, thrusting a leg, tightly encased in flannel trousers, forward and pulling his open jacket back to put his hands on his hips. His eyes were wide open and he looked from one to the other. He spoke with dramatic slowness: ‘If I were to tell you exactly what I thought…’ He broke off and peered doubtfully at Herk. ‘You don’t look like any photographer I’ve ever seen, mate. More at home in a boxing ring, frankly.’
Tire moved forward to face him directly and said softly: ‘Look, we really need to see him. I can’t explain why, but it is very important.’ She gave her final words extra emphasis.
Indecision and suspicion spread across his face. ‘Why?’ he exclaimed. Clapping a hand dramatically to his forehead, he continued: ‘I quite forgot he’s gone off on a painting trip with his wife and he won’t be back for a couple of weeks. At least. Mull of Galloway, I think he said. We could perhaps fix a meeting when he returns? He doesn’t have a mobile.’
‘You’re sure he’s away?’ Tire said doubtfully, handing over a plain business card with only her name, email and mobile number on it.
‘Absolutely certain, dear lady. He wanted to sketch some sea scenes and landscapes in preparation for his next exhibition. I promise I’ll be in touch,’ he said, ushering them determinedly to the door with a fixed smile.
‘One last question. Did he ever talk about his early childhood in Italy?’
Ricky’s hand tightened round the door handle, his expression rigid.
‘Jimmy Black sounds Italian to you, does it? Last time I looked Govan was south of the River Clyde. You’re up a gum tree. Now go.’ The door slammed and locked behind them.
‘Did you believe him?’ she asked Herk outside.
‘Difficult to tell with all that gesticulating he does,’ he answered with a sniff. ‘He hardly looks as if he’s in league with the devil. But if Black is off elsewhere for two weeks and uncontactable, it might just be safer for him.’
She scuffed the sole of her boot against the pavement, then shrugged. ‘Best get on. Pity there’s no phone number.’
Inside the car she stared moodily out of the window as the rain lashed down. They stopped for a lunch of tagliatelle al pesto at a small Italian restaurant and delicatessen
on Hyndland Road, and then retraced their steps and drove back through the Clyde Tunnel, heading for the south side. Following the signs for Ibrox Stadium, they exited onto Shieldhall Road and, after overshooting the turning on the duel carriageway, finally made a dog leg back into a street of drab terraced houses with dark slate roofs, black-framed windows and dull khaki walls. The gutters were hanging loose in places and the flaking paint had not been renewed in years. The only concession to care was the polished television dishes attached at first-floor level, their cables running down the wall.
‘Now, what’s the story here?’ Herk said, drawing up outside number 68, which had an ironwork fence and gate with patches of rust showing through, and a patch of grimy, unkempt grass in front of the house.
‘I’m writing a piece about Cerigo charity holidays and you’re taking photographs. The kid is probably at school but best bring your camera in with you.’
The interior, in contrast, was neat and bright with a strong smell of lavender freshener, Tire noted, as they were welcomed in the door by Mrs Kinley. She was a white-haired woman in her sixties with a surprisingly unlined face and kindly brown eyes, and wearing slippers and a tartan apron. She led them through to the small sitting room, which was cheaply but comfortably furnished.
Within half an hour they had learned about her family’s woes with a daughter dead from breast cancer, leaving her only son in the care of her mother, his father having disappeared before his birth. She had been on Cerigo holidays in Spain two years running with her grandson Rory, organised through her Lifelong Friends membership, and had enjoyed the sunshine and free food. The boy had also enjoyed swimming in the pool and playing with the other children.
She spoke carefully and was keen to emphasise how grateful she was. They had been well looked after, staying in the block behind the main house, which had small rooms but was clean and the staff were polite, she said.
Tire pondered on her options since Mrs Kinley was clearly keen to return to Spain.
