by Marjorie Orr
Wally shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet. Could just have been an accident. These things do happen.’ He sniffed and furrowed his brow into a scowl. ‘But I do know that my nephew was bumped off, deliberate like. So it’s not a stretch to think they might have come back to get the right person this time.’
The room shrank to a dot, then expanded rapidly, almost explosively, in Jimmy’s vision. His head felt as if metal plates inside were grinding against each other, sending off sparks like a welder’s torch. He blinked rapidly then had to sit down on the sofa in a hurry, Elly pushing Ricky over to sit between them.
He desperately didn’t want to go forward in his search and now he clearly couldn’t go back. A numb terror tightened his chest, his shoulders twitched. His memory jerked him back to the Hall, sitting outside Dr Brand’s room waiting in abject fear for the terrible jolts that always followed.
‘Now, here’s what’s going to happen.’ Wally’s abrasive voice sounded far away. ‘You two can stay here till I hear more about the fire. If you’re reckoned as dead no one’s going to come looking. But I’ll put a couple of lads outside to keep an eye out just in case. They’ll bring you up any food you need. That’ll cover us for a couple of days anyway.’
CHAPTER 41
Back in London, the effects of days of constant pressure and dashing around were flagging even Tire’s energy. Her shoulder still ached and her head was muzzy, although whether from the concussion or just too much information flying round her brain she couldn’t decide. Two days to wind down and recoup was an inviting prospect.
The information Murdo Scott had given her about the investigation into Stone’s finances could wait for another day, she decided, until she could think straight although she texted Matt and asked him to dig around the car crash that had killed Davey Campbell, the journalist, in the north of Scotland.
The watchers had disappeared, according to Ali, which Herk suggested was probably something to do with their colleagues having gone AWOL in Spain.
‘Getting short-handed,’ he remarked. ‘Bit of a pain since it stymies any tracking. Maybe they’ll come back.’ He sounded almost hopeful.
Her mobile rang at the same time as the entry bell, so she answered the phone walking towards the door and collided with Herk emerging from the kitchen, a tea towel in hand. She swore as pain twinged down her arm to her elbow, then had to apologise to her caller.
‘Tom, how great to hear from you,’ she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
‘Drinks tonight, sweetie, at the Langsdale Hotel, 7 pm. Hope you can make it. I’ve put your name on the list, with a partner, since I won’t have time to give you much attention. We’ve got the film backers in and they need all my love and adoration. But great to see you. Lots of celebs coming, so you’ll enjoy yourself. Hope you’re not forgetting the wrap party in Big Sur this week. It’s gonna be great. And we’re all banking on your predictions being right for a stratospheric roller.’
He rattled on without pausing for any responses, breaking off occasionally to shout instructions at his PA, in a curiously hybrid English-American accent.
‘Ah, nearly forgot, angel. Acquaintance of yours will be there. Chip Nathon – you met him in Spain, he said. He got your name wrong, said it was Tres. But his description was spot on. See ya.’
She laid her head on the desk and said weakly: ‘I just want the world to stop turning. Please.’
Tom Bateson had been a light-hearted fling in Morocco years ago. She had been riding one of the old camel routes for a travel magazine and he had been producing a movie at Ouarzazate. They had nearly collided in the desert when his jeep planed off the rough track at speed and skidded sideways towards her. A week of grit, sand and seasickness from the erratic gait of her elderly mount had begun to pall, so she accepted his offer of a bath and a comfortable bed with alacrity.
His shoot of a biblical blockbuster had been plagued with problems and had claimed the lives of two crew members in accidents, so he had listened intently when she said that starting principal photography on risky influences wasn’t a help. Ever since he’d kept in touch with requests for propitious start dates and been impressed by the string of successes that followed. Now he was paying back with a connection to Chip Nathon.
A thump made her wince as a heavy package landed on a side table.
‘That’ll be from Russell,’ Herk said. ‘And I’m off. You need a day in bed. We’ll pick up tomorrow.’
‘No, we won’t,’ she said. ‘Drinks at the Langsdale tonight. Tom Bateson, a film producer friend.’
‘You don’t need me there. And I don’t have a tux.’ Herk stood in the doorway, with a canvas bag in one hand, his cheek muscles pulled tight.
She drew in a deep breath. ‘Chip Nathon will be there. I need to prise more info out of him. He’s the only decent link at the moment to the Stones. It’s a film party. Distressed jeans and a T-shirt will be de rigeur.’
There was silence from the hall then a thud as Herk’s bag hit the floor. He came in chewing his bottom lip. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What time? I’ve got to hand back the French car and pick up Bob’s.’ As he turned to leave, he added: ‘Does this mean we can skip the USA?’
An afternoon’s sleep revived her spirits and she slipped into slim, black velvet trousers, a low-cut, black silk camisole with a silver shawl on top to disguise the bruises on her upper arm. She climbed into the passenger seat, noting Herk’s ironed jeans and black T-shirt with a screaming eagle on the front.
The Mayfair hotel was only a short drive, although the early evening theatre traffic was heavy. Hyde Park Corner was brightly illuminated, with the Wellington Arch standing proudly at the centre, its columns and intricate cornices glowing a radiant beige. Into Belgravia the streets emptied, although nearer the hotel several stretch limousines, Bentleys and Rolls-Royces were blocking the drive into the Langsdale.
‘Do you really need me in there?’
‘What do you think? And that’s a straight question.’
After a moment’s hesitation he climbed out and handed the keys to a valet. The liveried doorman nodded them in through a discreet black door held open by a junior flunkey. In the sumptuously decorated foyer, a vast, multicoloured floral display on a circular table sat on a red and green patterned carpet. Cumbersome art deco standard lamps marched down either side of the long room, with enormous circular pendant lampshades hanging overhead. Both of them blinked.
‘Man,’ she murmured, ‘Downton Abbey meets Ivana Trump. Lord save us.’ Herk stared around, saying nothing.
The large reception room was humming with excited conversation, and three-quarters full, when they walked in unnoticed, except for a few fleeting glances that quickly wrote them off as nonentities. Dominating the scene were seven mammoth chandeliers, suspended above the hubbub, shaped like hollowed-out drums, with vertical glass slats and a cascade of crystal hanging from the centre.
She grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and whispered in his ear: ‘My optic nerves are going to shatter. This is worse than Gaddafi’s palace.’
Tom Bateson was across the room so she waved. In his fifties and fitter than the last time she’d seen him, his grey hair was crew-cut and he was dressed entirely in denim with tan cowboy boots. He was holding an enthusiastic discussion with two short, fat men in evening suits whose pencil-slim wives, in expensive evening dresses, were standing bored in the background.
‘Great to see you,’ Tom said as they passed, leaning out to kiss Tire on the cheek, gave Herk a sharp appraisal, and said with a nod of dismissal. ‘Chip’s down in the smoking lounge. Catch up later.’
‘Or not,’ Tire muttered as they moved away. a waiter pointed down a long corridor panelled in dark wood with olive green fabric on the walls and a brown carpet. After the ostentation of the earlier scene, it was a considerable relief. At the far end, double mahogany doors opened into a large space dotted with green pot plants, leather armchairs in groups and dimly lit by a few Moroccan s
tyle lanterns.
Adjusting her eyes to the dusky ambience, she searched for Nathon while Herk walked across to stand at the corner of the bar. All the seating areas were occupied by men in smart suits with exceptionally beautiful girls sitting close in tight dresses and towering heels. Russian hookers, she thought, giving one a cursory glance. A hand, waving from a corner, caught her eye and she smiled in return, suddenly feeling tense.
‘Tres, great to see you. Hope you’re recovered.’ The portly figure in the armchair, in a black suit with black shirt, levered himself to his feet. He gave her a cursory kiss on the cheek, enveloping her in wafts of cognac, and sank back down. A girl who had been hovering just behind him raised an eyebrow and glided away.
‘Oh, sure,’ she said, ‘just new medication gone wrong. All fine now.’
‘Yeah, we were worried about you. But there was an almighty flap going on, so I didn’t hear till next day that you were OK.’ He peered at her groggily and patted her knee.
‘Oh,’ she said, putting a concerned hand to her face. ‘I hope nothing was wrong.’
He shook his head with a grimace, ‘Two staff did a runner. Harman was kicking up hell about it. Don’t know why. Workers are always going missing in my experience.’
She chuckled politely and turned to accept a glass of cognac from a waiter and a cigarillo.
‘Did they find them?’ she asked, hoping the question sounded casual.
‘Yeah, three days later at the bottom of a ravine. Motor burnt out. Just a bad accident. Two of their best security guys. Don’t think Harman was too keen to tell the old man.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Pa would have blamed him for being careless.’
‘Does Harman share his security team with other people than his father, I mean?’
He gave her a straight look. ‘Do you mean does he go off the reservation? I’d think all the time. He’s a loose cannon, but he’s also terrified of his old man, so he’ll keep it below the radar.’
‘They don’t get on well?’ she asked, putting on a surprised expression.
‘Tell me who does? Senior is not easy,’ he answered sourly, waving to the waiter for another cognac. ‘Now, tell me about you.’
She dodged and parried his questions, prattling at length about her new book on the sex-mad guru and saying she hoped to go back to Cerigo to finish her write-up soon and talk to Harman Stone. Maybe she should interview Paul Stone as well? Would that be a good idea, did he think?
Nathon shot her a hard, although bleary stare, blew a smoke ring from his cigar and stared across the room. Eventually he said: ‘Now, look. You seem a nice lady. If I were you, I’d avoid both the Stones. I’m thinking of backing off myself.’
An anguished smile crossed her face. ‘What a shame,’ she purred, putting a hand on his arm. ‘And you were such good friends.’
‘Don’t know about friends. We did some business together. My wife hated him, and especially Harman. She‘s gone now. So too late to tell her she was right. You know, you remind me of her. Thought that first time I saw you.’ He slurped noisily out of his brandy goblet and slid further into the armchair, his fleshy face crumpling in misery.
‘Can you keep this to yourself?’ he said slowly. ‘I always discussed everything with Maybelle, but can’t now. I just got ta have someone to share with and you have so got her eyes. Warm and deep.’
‘Of course,’ she said, running her fingers down his arm to hold his hand.
Over the next fifteen minutes he blurted out his concerns about Paul Stone. He was, he said, involved in developing dodgy drugs at a Mexican research laboratory and testing them on human guinea pigs, poor kids, in Europe and the USA. Harman was in it up to his neck as well. The old man nearly went through the roof when he discovered Harman was marketing these drugs with an English partner. They weren’t safe. Tire couldn’t prise out of him, in his drunken state, precisely what he thought. He was slurring his words and repeating himself.
‘The name of this English partner? Do you remember it?’ She tugged his arm.
‘Hmm, Teddy something.’ He frowned blearily and then raised one arm and made a vague gesture with his thumb and index finger pressed together.
Charades were not her strong point. What was he doing? Writing.
‘You don’t mean Wrighton? Do you?’ She leaned forward and put a hand on his cheek, resisting a temptation to pinch. ‘Rupert Wrighton?’
‘Thass right. Harman called him a teddy bear. I met him once. A real jerk.’
Shit, so they were all in it together. She realised her hand was still on his face and sat back in her chair.
‘So Harman and Wrighton operate without Paul Stone’s knowledge?’
‘Dunno about that. Scrape off that surface charm and Paul’s not that different. Plus, I reckon he’s gone tonto. Harman always was, but the old man has lost his self- control. I really need to back away once this deal we’ve got is through.’
She pulled her hand away and watched him for a minute to see if he was properly asleep. As she was picking up her bag from the floor, he came to and grabbed her arm clumsily.
‘Really enjoyed our chat. Good to unload. Must do it again. You coming to Big Sur day this week? Be great. I can show you round Cerigo there if you like.’ He subsided again.
‘Useful schmooze?’ Herk asked, when she moved across to the bar, his eyebrows raised. He downed the rest of his fizzy water.
‘If I had a conscience,’ she replied as they exited, ‘it would be kicking me. But I don’t. This is too important. He reckons the Stones are dangerous and getting more unstable. Even Senior. America is definitely on. I need more.’
The main reception room was even more jam-packed with beautiful, skinny women, a few beautiful men and more who were not. Tire couldn’t see Tom, so they left quietly and quickly.
CHAPTER 42
Tire’s mobile jerked her out of a deep sleep. Blearily she looked at the clock. 10 am. Heavens, she must have slept for nearly eleven hours. She ignored it and turned over, pulling the duvet over her head. The phone rang again, so she swung her legs out of bed and rotated her shoulder, pleased to find the stiffness had almost disappeared.
‘Miss Thane,’ a well-bred voice she faintly remembered but couldn’t place, apologised for disturbing her. ‘It’s Jake Harrister. I don’t know if you remember?’
Fully awake, she rang a hand through her tousled hair and cautiously said yes.
‘I’m sorry to tell you that Jackson St Clair is failing fast, but he was anxious to see you before he… dies. I’m afraid by the look of it that would mean today.’
‘Ah,’ she said, wracking her brains for a sensible excuse. There was no way she wanted more clutter in her head.
‘It’s about your father,’ Harrister said gently. ‘I really think you should come.’
Struggling into her kaftan, she walked out of the bedroom to see the front door opening and Herk walking in. ‘Sandhurst today?’ she mouthed to him with a weary look. He nodded.
‘Sure,’ she said to Harrister, ‘be there soon as,’ and clicked the phone off.
The hour’s drive gave her a chance to skim through the notes Murdo Scott had given her about the investigation into Paul Stone’s business and background. Most of it was clippings from old financial articles with incomprehensible jottings on the margins, plus some balance sheets and old company reports. Her heart sank and she decided that sending it to Russell was the best idea. He might make sense of it.
The St Clair manor looked bleaker than before with grey clouds overhead and a chilly wind blowing leaves across the gravel as they drove up. Harrister opened the front door and raised an eyebrow when Herk followed her in, but didn’t argue. A nurse was coming out of a room at the right-hand end of the hall and he indicated to Tire that she should go in.
A hospital bed had been installed in a small library, sitting at an angle to the shelves behind to give a view of the garden. The frail figure propped up on pillows had a drip connected to one exposed, shrivelled arm. His
eyes were shut and his breathing was rough and stuttering. The sheet tucked under his chin had a towel on top with a few red spatters on it.
She sat uncomfortably on the chair beside him, her mind jerking back to a blood-stained Jesus Sanchez in the Mexican motel.
After several minutes he opened his eyes with difficulty, saw her and then shifted his gaze to the window. He swallowed painfully and still without looking at her said: ‘I’m glad you could come, my dear.’ The words came out one at a time with hoarse rasping in between, his thin chest heaving under the covers. ‘Your father. I’m sorry.’ His voice faded and his eyes closed.
She leant forward and put a gentle hand on his arm. A feeling of sadness brought a tear to her eye as she thought, this man was my guardian and I never knew him.
A thud at the window made her jump and she looked out to see a stunned pigeon standing groggily on the terrace, having left a smudged feather on the window. After a couple of ineffectual flaps, it finally made it into the air to fly low to a birch tree, where it clung to a lower branch. Higher up, a single magpie peered down intently. She shivered.
His hand twitched under hers and he looked beseechingly at her. She moved an ear close to his mouth to hear his whisper. ‘I only learned years after his death. The crash that killed your mother was not his fault.’ He sank deeper into the pillow, a trail of saliva bubbling out of the corner of his mouth, stained red. You can’t die now, damn you, she thought fiercely, feeling tempted to shake him back into consciousness.
After a minute or two of stuttering breaths, he rallied. ‘He was set up, of that I am sure. I was suspicious at the time but could never prove anything, although I did gather some evidence. It’s too late to right the wrong now, but I thought you’d like to know. Jake has all my papers.’
A hand on her shoulder pulled her reluctantly to her feet. She glared at Harrister, who shook his head with a weary expression on his face. Pulling her out of the room by her arm, he beckoned to the nurse standing in the hall beside Herk. He almost pushed Tire into the dining room, said he would organise coffee and left. Walking to the window, she stared down the lawn, which was glistening in a passing shower. The trees were swaying in the stiffening breeze, with blossom from nearby bushes fluttering to the ground.
