by Marjorie Orr
Her eyes, glittering with hostility, never left his face. ‘And?’ she demanded.
The tannoy gave out the call for their boarding so Herk lifted his bag. Harrister put up a warning hand, an inscrutable expression on his face. Looking her directly in the face, he said: ‘I don’t suppose there’s any possibility of me persuading you not to go into print.’
‘No,’ she said, vehemently.
‘You realise if you go ahead I cannot help you find out about your father. Indeed, I won’t be in touch with you again. My position would not allow it.’
‘Not career-friendly, you mean,’ she spat back. ‘You know exactly what an asshole Stone was and you’re trying to buy my fucking silence for your godawful superiors. What kind of jerk are you?’ She was breathing heavily, oblivious to Herk tugging at her sleeve.
Harrister gave a tight-lipped smile and said: ‘It’s the way of the world, I’m afraid.’
‘Yours maybe. Not mine,’ she responded. ‘And what about Greengate? You’re just going to let him rot in prison?’
The second call for boarding wheezed out above their heads. He ran a hand down his coat lapel and said in precise, professional tones: ‘I have my instructions. If you insist on going ahead, that is your choice. We do not live in a dictatorship.’ She gave a sarcastic snort as he added in a tone could have been mildly threatening: ‘Though you may not find it that easy. He was very well respected.’
They stood looking at each other, her eyes sparkling with dislike and his coolly detached. Then he said quietly: ‘You know Harman, the son, has disappeared to South America? He’s been moving money out for a while. So you won’t track him down in a hurry.’
The final boarding call came so she bent down, lifted up her bag, which contained Stone’s laptop and documents, and gave Harrister a contemptuous look. As she brushed past him, she thought she heard him quietly say: ‘Good luck.’ Was that ironic, she wondered, or a genuine off-the-record sentiment?
‘By the way,’ he called from behind her, ‘I gather the police think Paul Stone destroyed all his records and threw them into the sea. His office was wrecked and empty when they got there.’
CHAPTER 51
In Glasgow, Tire, mindful they had a plane to catch to London in three hours, rattled through Stone’s confession, their imprisonment in the house and the finale at the fort on the cliffs. At the end she paused, looked at her knees and said quietly to Wally: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t ask which of his goons killed your nephew.’
Wally waved a magnanimous hand. ‘Don’t you worry your head about that. The one Dorry leant on.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Janski. He coughed before we handed him over to the polis. He’s up for torching Jimmy and Elly’s flat. He won’t be out in a hurry since that old biddy died in the fire.’
There was an audible whimper from the far end of the conservatory, then Elly’s knitting needles continued clicking faster.
He blew a perfect smoke ring and turned to smile broadly at Herk. ‘He said it was Anton, the one you did away with in Spain. So honour is done and I owe you, pal.’ He nodded approvingly.
Tire winced and said anxiously: ‘I don’t think we want to admit to that.’
‘What do you take me for?’ Wally asked, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘It was an accident. We all know that. But the right people will know what kind of accident. So my reputation is safe.’
‘He didn’t happen to mention who bumped off the journalist Davey up north?’ she asked.
‘Aye, Anton and his brother, Ilic. He’s the one you knocked off in the States, isn’t he? Doubt you’ll get him on that. Too long ago.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Just tying up loose ends.’ Turning to Ricky, who had been sitting listening intently, she said: ‘What about Jimmy? There’ll be a horrendous mess with Stone’s finances if he really was bust and some big guys will be bullying for first dibs at whatever is left. Bankers and the like.’
‘Scum,’ rumbled Wally. ‘Worse than fucking criminals, most of them.’
‘I’ll let you know when my accountant has run through the figures. I’ve got most of Stone’s info here.’ She patted her travel bag. ‘Tell your cousin that at least two statues from Italy went to the resort in Spain. The alabaster ones that Jimmy painted.’
Ricky ran a finger along the crease in his trousers and smiled uncertainly. ‘Sure. Maybe you can talk directly to Lorenzo. All that high finance is beyond me.’ He looked disconsolate. ‘I had just so hoped he would get a decent lump sum out of it to buy a place of their own.’
‘There’s no worries on that score,’ Wally interrupted. ‘He’s keeping my nephew’s name so I’ve kind of adopted him. There’s a property of mine in Glasgow, off Queen Margaret Drive, overlooking the river and the Botanic Gardens that would suit him.’ He turned to smile at Elly, who kept her head down. ‘It’s on the top floor so there’s good light and enough space for a big studio as well as living accommodation. And walking distance to the shops.’
‘That is very kind of you.’ Elly’s voice was trembling. She laid down her knitting and came across to perch uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa. Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she said: ‘Jimmy doesn’t want any fuss. He just wants to live quietly and do his paintings. And Dr Donaghue says he has to take it slowly. It’s all been quite a shock.’ She stood up awkwardly and smiled apologetically to Tire. ‘He really is very grateful. But he just can’t show it at the moment.’ She shuffled quietly into the corridor leading to the kitchen.
Ricky waited till she was out of earshot and whispered: ‘The psychiatrist came here to visit Jimmy. Nice man, very kind and sensible. He said we shouldn’t expect too much of him, given what he went through in that dreadful place for most of his life. And he’s got that dreadful woman Birch, his colleague, off Jimmy’s back. Elly said she was quite useful, but she was only interested in boosting her career with a juicy story for her thesis..’
‘Ach, Jimmy’s strong as an ox,’ Wally growled. ‘I’ve known guys come out after decades in the slammer and they were like zombies, less wits than that potted fern there. Jimmy’s going to be OK. He’s got support now and Tiresa here will sort out the money end with your cousin, and I’ll fill in for the meantime. No problem.’
He stood up, waving his cigar at her, his other stubby hand resting on the head of the Rottweiler, which had risen in unison. Herk was given a warm nod of approval by the dog before it walked out onto the terrace heading for home, followed by a lumbering Dorry.
They took their leave of Jimmy, who was dabbing blue furiously on the canvas, seemingly oblivious to their presence. On impulse, sensing his tension, Tire walked forward and held his arm with the paintbrush from behind to prevent any mishaps and hugged him. ‘It’ll be OK, you’ll see,’ she whispered. As she reached the step up into the house, Jimmy cleared his throat and said hesitantly: ‘What would you like me to paint for you?’
She thought for a moment and said with a grin: ‘Do you paint birds? Herk would like that.’
The rush-hour traffic was building as their cab headed for Glasgow airport. A crash near the Clyde Tunnel threatened to delay them further. They just managed to get their luggage checked in before the flight closed and were through the departure gate straight onto the plane. Despite a howling baby in the row behind, Tire spent a fruitful eighty minutes transferring Herk’s photographs onto her laptop and updating her list of urgent tasks for when she hit her apartment. She had already texted Russell telling him to expect a deluge of scanned documents and sent a further text to her hacker to turn up after nine to get into Stone’s computer.
A strategy was also coming together about how to circumvent any dirty tricks by Stone’s influential friends. Don’t go in cold. It was too big and shocking a story. Create a context. A small story here, another there, preferably on foreign media sites, not under her name. The internet would join the dots and start to spin interest up to centrifugal force: what an old rock singer boyfriend had called ‘howl round’, as amplifiers picked up ech
o sound and doubled and tripled the effect. At that point, the UK media would be begging for information. Then she could step in.
Once she had Paul Stone cleared off her schedule, she’d turn her attention to her father’s story. Damn St Clair for dying before he could tell her what he knew. And double damn Harrister for using it to threaten her into silence. Nothing was going to shut her up and she’d find out for herself if he refused to help. A project for the future. She filed it away.
Only when they had landed, collected their luggage and were stowed in a taxi did she notice that Herk, leaning against the armrest and staring out of his window, had been unusually silent.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is.’ She kicked his boot with her toe. ‘Spill.’
‘No big deal. I was just pondering on my options for what comes next.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Suppose I could always go back and stay with Ma.’
A great gale of laughter bubbled out of her before she could stop it. ‘Give me a break,’ she gasped. ‘And do what? Help her polish the family medals?’
He attempted to look affronted and failed, giving a small chuckle. ‘I dunno. OK?’
‘Herk, I don’t know how to put this to you.’ She took his hand in hers, holding it firmly as he tensed. Leaning across, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered in his ear: ‘Those photographs of yours. The disgraced philanthropist meeting his maker on the top of a ruined tower in a scene of unimaginable drama. They’re iconic.’ She moved back to her side of the seat, her eyes sparkling. ‘Have you any idea how much money you are going to make from them? Never mind the thirty per cent you’ll get from anything I earn from the Stone saga.’
His look of wary disbelief brought on another bout of giggles. His boots were wrapped tightly round one another and his hands were clasped with the thumbs pressed together as he absorbed what she’d said. His eyes were narrowed as if he feared he was the butt of a joke.
Taking pity on him, she grinned and said: ‘You’ll be able to get yourself a nice little pad in Camden near your Dying Duck barmaid and help out Speedy Charlie, until you decide on your next career move.’
He sat nonplussed and eventually said, gruffly, fixing his eyes on the back of the cabbie’s head: ‘One – you’re no organising me. Two – you shouldn’t count chickens. Three – I’m not taking money from your writing.’
‘Oh yes you are. I couldn’t have done it without you. It was a team effort. And its thirty per cent of net, minus agent fee and expenses. Plus a hundred per cent for your photographs.’
The argument raged until they arrived in Soho, with neither of them budging.
Outside the apartment, she was fishing in her bag for the key when Herk pulled her back, his ear against the door. An irregular thumping was drawing closer, then a clatter, a muffled curse and then the door was thrown open. A dishevelled, broad-shouldered figure leant against the frame, one leg in plaster up to the knee with a slit jean leg flapping round it and a crutch lying halfway down the hall behind him.
Jin was back. Tire’s eyes widened and she hoped the expression on her face was delighted, which was partly true.
‘Your lousy stars came early,’ he grunted, giving her an amused look, his hooded eyes dancing between delight and irritation. ‘Fell down the goddamn aircraft steps in Hamburg on the way back.’
Believe it if you like, she thought to herself, giving him a hug as he wobbled on his cast. Guarantee it happened somewhere else. She sighed. Just her luck. Desperate as she was to see Jin, this was not a good time. Why couldn’t her life schedule itself more sensibly?
‘Right,’ she said, resolutely. ‘Work first. Jin, you help Herk with his photographs and send them off to your agent to hold, till I say go. I must get stuff sent out.’
Later that night, lying beside Jin in bed, having made love gently and drifting into an exhausted sleep, she wrapped her leg round his cast and sighed contentedly. He understood a crazy lifestyle. He’d cope. For as long as he was here.
EPILOGUE
Paul Stone’s death by suicide, when suffering from advanced leukaemia, was announced two days after he shot himself. The obituaries applauded his charitable efforts to alleviate the suffering of others and his devotion to his mother. Several MPs, lawyers and business leaders spoke warmly of their personal experience of his charm and compassion.
A week later, the media pendulum started to swing and cracks appeared in the Paul Stone story. Questions were asked about the origins of his wealth on internet forums. The fissures widened, with a savage attack on his financial dealings in the US press led by an ex-business associate, Chip Nathon. A story followed in the German media about his son’s mysterious disappearance, with comments by a disgruntled holidaymaker. Rupert Wrighton was named as a business associate. A Scottish tabloid revealed exclusively that ex-Dunlothian Hall painter Jimmy Black was Stone’s stepson.
Within a month, a six-page exclusive in a UK Sunday newspaper under the byline T.A. Thane laid bare the progression of Pol Pedra’s life from inauspicious beginnings, through two name changes, two dead, wealthy wives, an abandoned and defrauded stepson, several circumstantial deaths, a mad mother, a son who was also a brother, illegal drug testing on children, high social status and ultimate financial failure. Photographs by Herk Calder. The headline read, ‘By the Light of a Lie’.
Barrister Sebastian Crumley successfully appealed the conviction of Jack Greengate for the murder of his wife on the basis of new evidence from Paul Stone’s former bodyguards in prison in Scotland and the USA. Lorenzo Marinello, an Italian lawyer, reclaimed a small part of Louis Neroni’s lost inheritance after lengthy arguments with other creditors, and emerged with half a million pounds and two alabaster statues.
A biography of Paul Stone was being rushed out for publication in six months’ time.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to playwright Shaun McCarthy whose inspiring approach to drama gave me the impetus and tools to switch to fiction. And to Chris Wakling of Curtis Brown Creative, who gave me the heart and confidence to finish the first draft. James Pusey of The Literary Consultancy was invaluable with constructive comments and encouragement when my morale was flagging. Plus the CBC gang who stayed together online as we supported each other through the soul-destroying and hair-tearing process of crafting our perfectly-tuned pitches and synopses for agents. Any mistakes, needless to say, are entirely owned by me.
Hina Pandya picked me up off the floor when I was ready to jettison the project altogether with a million marketing plans. Louise Bolotin was a wonderful proof and continuity editor. And James of Spiffing Covers produced exactly the design that was needed.
Last but not least, thanks to Turtur, a turbo-charged Weimaraner, who kept me healthy, dragging me away from my writing desk for snake-hunting forays in the vineyards twice a day.
