“The curves,” she said. “The Poisson distribution. Fractals. The Fibonacci sequence. All the little miracles of mathematics—the magic of numbers.”
“Those too,” He admitted.
“And after everything you’ve said,” Alice challenged him, “you really do believe there’s more?”
“I know there is,” he said. “I suppose I would say that, if I really were suffering from a mild nEurological disorder, one of whose definitive symptoms was an unjustifiable sense of conviction—but I’d still know. The question isn’t whether I’m a fool to believe in the Kilcannon luck, Alice—the question is, how do I find out what’s actually necessary to its maintenance, and what isn’t, without testing it to destruction? That’s the question that Daddy faced, when he wanted to marry against the rules; it’s the question that every earl in the line has faced, as soon as his father died. It’s pointless trying to convert me to your kind of skepticism, Alice, because the faith is incarnate in my flesh and blood, hardwired into my brain if not engraved in my DNA by the letters of sacred tetragrammaton. The point is to figure out what’s really necessary and what’s not—and which risks are worth taking, and which aren’t. So far, I’ve risked more for you than I have for Lissa Lo, by the way, and I’m adding to that margin with every sentence I say to you.”
“Perhaps you should have dropped me at King’s Cross, then,” she told him, soberly. “That would have been the safe way to play. Your confidence might not be dented yet, but we’re only just past Milton Keynes. I may already be half way to delivering you from your pact with the devil You’re a captive audience, after all. If I play my cards right, Helen of Troy won’t get a look in—it’ll be dear, sweet Marguerite all the way.”
“I think you’re confusing the Goethe and Marlowe versions of Faust.”
“You think I’m confusing? Try listening to yourself some time.”
“I do,” Canny assured her. “And you’re right—sometimes, I don’t make a lot of sense.”
“I don’t believe that there’s anything supernatural about your good luck, Canny,” Alice said, flatly. “I don’t think you have any rational grounds for believing in it either, no matter how much supposed evidence you’ve collected. I think that when you find yourself saying that you know something, when you also know that it’s false, it’s time to reappraise what you think the word know actually means.”
“I’d already gathered that you thought all that,” Canny told her. “Ellen’s not the only Proffitt sister who isn’t very big on subtlety, even if you’re a little smarter than her. I must introduce you to Lo Chen some time—I’m sure that you and she could have a fascinating discussion about nEurological disorders, the practical implications of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle and the symbolism of yin and yang. But that kind of skepticism is no good to me, Alice—believe me, I’ve tried and tried, and I just can’t get the thin end of the wedge into my head. If I’m mad, the problem isn’t to find a cure, because there isn’t one—not even the love of a good woman. The problem is to find the best way of living with my madness. Except that, to me it’s not madness at all—it’s pure magic. It’s luck—the honest-to-goodness real thing that everybody wants and hardly anyone can have.”
After a long pause, she said: “I’m not a good woman, and it wasn’t love...which is a stupid thing to say, given that this isn’t about me at all, or even Lissa Lo. It’s about you. I admit that. Do you suppose that Stevie Larkin sees flashes, too?”
“I doubt it,” Canny said. “It wouldn’t be very convenient in the middle of a football game. It was bad enough when I used to turn out for the village cricket team. I was a lucky player, of course—most of my edges went straight through the slips for four and you’d never believe the number of times I was dropped on the boundary—but the problem was that I always looked it. I never looked as if I’d actually earned my runs. I was a clown. Stevie isn’t. He’s the real thing. He got to where he is because he can play, end of story.”
“And you envy him that?”
“Of course. It cuts both ways, though—when we used to bump into one another on the Riviera, and he had to ask me to translate for him, he always thought that he was the fraud and I was the real deal. He never suspected that I thought exactly the same. It all depends on your point of view. He thinks he’s infinitely luckier than me, because chance not only gave him the ability to play football but a world in which playing football to that sort of standard is the nearest you can get to godhood without having to learn to play the guitar. To him, every match that passes without some bastard berserker of a central defender crashing into his ankle and taking it all away from him is another pat on the back from generous fate.”
“But you don’t think so. You let him take the credit for his skill, while refusing to take any credit for your own.”
“Oh, I take the credit,” Canny assured her. “You have no idea how good I feel every time I collect the house percentage—or, if you do, it’s a theoretical idea. I give myself credit—it’s just that it’s a different kind of credit from the kind that Stevie Larkin deserves.”
“I don’t think so,” Alice declared.
“I know—but I have to make my own judgments and decisions, don’t I? I have to figure things out for myself.”
After a pause, she said: “I really wish I could help, Canny. I really do think you need it.”
“You have helped,” he told her, sincerely. “You probably will again. Won’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, unresentfully. “I suppose I will. But I ought to warn you that I won’t give up. I’ll never believe in the Kilcannon luck—not in the way that you do—and I’ll never believe that it will work any better as a folie à deux.”
“That’s okay,” he assured her. “That’s the deal. You can insult me, curse me, call me mad. You can play court jester to your heart’s content.”
“Bastard,” she said. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” he told her. So, in my own peculiar way, am I. Shall we stop for breakfast at the next services? I’m starving.”
“Me too,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Canny dropped Alice at the house in Leeds. “How do you feel?” he said, as she got out of the car.
“Better,” she assured him. “Much more relaxed than I did this time yesterday. Like a cow with bloat whose belly’s just been punctured by the vet’s giant hypodermic.”
“That’s a truly repulsive analogy.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about going on at you so much—it was just more bloat, more hot air. I’m okay now. I’ll see you back in Cockayne.”
“Sure,” he said. “Take care.”
“I always do, she assured him.
It only required a further twenty minutes to drive back to Cockayne. Bentley had the usual stack of telephone messages for him, and the mail that had accumulated over the previous few days was unusually prolific—a further effect of his father’s death.
“I’m afraid some of it’s urgent,” the butler said.
“I can see that,” Canny told him. “I’ll do what I can before lunch. Will Mummy be in?”
“No, sir. Lady Credesdale is out until dinner.”
Canny took time out to shower and change his clothes before he started work on the mail, but that only took him twenty minutes. When he did sit down he set aside all the items that Bentley had opened and sorted for him, directing his immediate attention to one item that stood out from all the rest: a package marked with instructions CONFIDENTIAL—TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY and EXTREMELY URGENT.
This legend was handwritten with a marker pen. Bentley told him that it had been delivered earlier that morning by a courier service.
“You could have opened it,” Canny said.
“I could not,” the butler contradicted him, severely. “Even if the labeling is a mere publicity ploy, concealing some ludicrous commercial special offer, I am bound to take it seriously.
“Well,” Canny said,
“if it’s a bomb, I’m never going to forgive you for not taking the blast.” He tore open the package.
It wasn’t a bomb. It was a mobile phone.
Canny’s first thought was that Bentley had been right, and that it was some kind of promotional offer—an impression heightened rather than dispelled by the fact that there was nothing accompanying the handset but a single piece of paper containing a handwritten instruction to call a number that obviously belonged to another mobile phone.
Canny was inclined to drop the phone, the instruction and the packaging into the bin, but he hesitated. There was an electrical sensation in the air, and a certain fugitive darkness. He didn’t know whether he was being warned to ring the number, or to avoid ringing it, and his conversation with Alice about nEurophysiological disorders was still all-too-fresh in his mind, but he still believed in the reality of the Kilcannon luck.
In the end, he thumbed the number into the keypad.
“Lord Credesdale,” said a male voice that contrived to be flat, businesslike and menacing at the same time. “We had hoped to hear from you sooner.” The voice was slightly accented, but Canny had no idea what kind of accent it was. He had to presume that it was Eastern European, but if he hadn’t been pointed towards that conclusion in advance he wouldn’t have been able to draw it with any confidence.
“I’ve just got back from London,” Canny said. “What do you want?”
“We want a million Euros, Lord Credesdale, by five o’clock this evening—and your silence, of course.”
Canny felt his body react to the words—or to the muted streak that came with them. The shock was dull, and only subtly nauseating, but he had no idea whether its half-hearted quality was a consequence of the diminution of his ability or the relatively low level of the danger with which he was faced.
“And what do I get in return?” Canny asked, trying to keep his voice level. His eyes, meanwhile, met Bentley’s inquisitive gaze.
The voice that replied to that inquiry wasn’t the same one. It was easily recognizable, in spite of its strained tone, as Stevie Larkin’s.
“Canny? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Canny confirmed. “What is this, Stevie?” The question was necessary, even though he knew perfectly well what it was. He needed confirmation.
“I’ve been kidnapped, Canny. I was in the country for secret talks. I took an opportunity that came up to go home to see the family. They boxed the car in, shot out the rear window to show me they meant business. God only knows why they contacted you—I told them to ring my agent. I can get the money, Canny—but they insist that you have to raise it for me. I’m truly sorry.”
“It’s okay, Stevie,” Canny said. “I understand why. It’s me they’re after, not you. They won’t hurt you, if I do what they say. I’ll get you out, Stevie—depend on that.”
“They say they’ll do my knee, Canny,” Stevie told him, plaintively. “That’s all—but it’d mean that I’d never play again. They know what it’s worth to me. The club’s insured, but that’s not the point. Do you understand, Canny? If I have to pay a million Euros to keep my knee, I’ll do it, no matter how hard it is to get the money together. I’m good for it, Canny. Just do as they say, and I’ll see you right. Can you get the money?”
“I don’t know, Stevie,” Canny said. “I hope so. I’ll certainly try, as hard as I can.”
The other voice came back. “You can get the money, Lord Credesdale. Five o’clock. Ring back, and we’ll give you further instructions. Don’t involve the police. If anything goes wrong, Mr Larkin’s career is over—and it won’t end there. You do understand that, don’t you, Lord Credesdale? This is business, not war—but you were the one who raised the stakes.” The accent was still indecipherable, but Canny couldn’t believe that any member of the Uzbekistani mafia would be quite that polished. He was dealing with authentic Europeans, not displaced tartars, more likely Magyars or Czechs than Bulgars or Chechens—not that it mattered.
Canny didn’t bother to complain that he wasn’t the player who had raised the stakes, let alone the one who had started the game in the first place. He wasn’t the one who was setting the rules, either—and he had no idea how far his luck could now be trusted, if at all. He was fairly certain, though, that the threat was serious. If he were callous enough to refuse to help Stevie out, they’d not only cripple the footballer but go after someone else until they struck the right nerve. They’d be ripping open a hornets’ nest if they went after Lissa Lo’s face, but they probably didn’t even know about her. If Stevie’s knee didn’t do the trick, they’d turn their attention to the village.
“I’ll try to get the money,” Canny said, as calmly as he could. “You don’t have anything against Stevie—there’s no need to hurt him. I’ll try as hard as I can to get you what you want.”
“That’s good,” the voice said, grimly. “If you deliver, and keep quiet, no one will get hurt. A million Euros in notes—Euros, sterling or US dollars are acceptable, but nothing else. Ring us as soon as you’ve got it together, not before. When we have it, Mr. Larkin will be released. It’s a simple business transaction, nothing more.”
Canny had to figure that the kidnapper was almost certainly lying—he didn’t need any kind of gift to work that out—but the game still had to be played out.
When Canny had put the phone down he still had to answer Bentley’s inquisitorial stare, but that was the easy part. “Trouble,” He said. “Bad trouble. I need to raise a lot of money very quickly. Utmost discretion required. No police—and Mummy mustn’t suspect a thing. You’ll have to cover for me if anyone asks. I need you to do that, Bentley—but the less you actually know, the better. Okay?”
“Yes sir,” Bentley said, dutifully.
“Good,” Canny said. He picked up the mobile phone and put it into his left-hand jacket pocket—his own phone was in the right-hand pocket—before moving to the land-line and phoning Maurice Rawtenstall at the mill.
He didn’t have time for diplomatic niceties. “It’s Lord Credesdale, Maurice,” he said. “I need the slush fund—all of it. Pounds, dollars and Euros. I’ll try to get to back to you within the week. No questions—and if anyone else asks, no answers.”
“Of course, Lord Credesdale,” was the answer he got, after a few seconds hesitation. “How would you like the money delivered?”
Canny made sure that his sigh of relief was inaudible. For a moment or two, the politeness and sheer matter-of-factness of Rawtenstall’s reply seemed utterly bizarre—but he was Lord Credesdale now, and it probably wasn’t the first time that a Lord Credesdale had telephoned the mill to demand a large sum of cash, with no questions asked.
“I’ll collect it in an hour or so,” Canny said. “How much is there?”
“I don’t know the exact sum,” Rawtenstall said. “About a hundred and fifty thousand.”
That would be pounds, Canny knew. He had a further fifty thousand in his own safe. Given that a million Euros was currently equivalent to seven hundred thousand pounds, that would leave him with a further half million sterling to raise.
He phoned the first of the three Leeds banks with which the family had accounts and asked to talk to the senior manager. “This is Lord Credesdale,” he said, again. “We met last week. I need to raise a considerable sum in cash by five o’clock this afternoon. Sterling, dollars and Euros are all acceptable. How much can you let me have?”
The manager didn’t bother to query his use of the term “considerable sum”, or quibble about practicalities. “I can probably let you have a hundred thousand immediately,” the manager said. “I ought to be able to raise a quarter of a million by five, although it might be a close-run thing.”
“Would that involve obtaining cash from other banks in the city?” Canny wanted to know.
“Yes it would.”
“I’ll have to go to Lloyd’s and HSBC myself. If you can obtain cash from other parts of your own organization, that would be more convenient. I know there�
�s no time to transfer notes from London or Birmingham, but Manchester’s not so far away.”
“I might be able to raise two hundred thousand without troubling the other institutions you mention,” the manager said. “I might, however, have to draw on other sources to which they would have recourse in their turn, reducing their own capacity to help you. How much do you need?”
“Too much. Start raising what you can. I’ll get on to them directly, and I’ll come back to you if it looks as if there might not be enough. This has to be handled with the utmost discretion, though.”
“Of course, sir. Will you be collecting the money in person?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch.”
By the time Canny had made two further phone calls, the entire half million had been promised. He was astonished, and slightly appalled, by how easy it had been.
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