For one thing, he was curious why the Big Ben demo had been pulled. But apart from that, it seemed a long time since he’d last seen her and the memories of them in the tent and having sex, still pleased him. They arranged to meet at seven in Giovanni’s, an Italian taverna, just off Tottenham Court Road. He knew it. It was an ordinary restaurant, used by the locals, with mid-range prices, and good plain Italian food.
He arrived early, ordered a bottle of the house red, and sat at a table at the back of the restaurant, and began thinking about what might lie ahead. The reality of spending time with Nixie’s mother for the next hour or two and acting normally after seeing the pathetic letter she’d left on Jura all those years ago, didn’t exactly fill him with enthusiasm. Worse, if he thought about it in detail, it enraged him.
He’d have to cover up, blag it, but he was good at that, and if they were late, that would suit him just fine. It would give him time to prepare. In fact, the later, the better, as far he was concerned. He was on his third glass when they entered the restaurant. Nixie smiled and walked across to him, followed by her mother who excused herself to go to the loo. Nixie didn’t sit down but stood gazing at him. Her intensity made him feel uncomfortable.
‘Anything wrong?’ he said.
‘You look different; you’ve shaved off your beard and you’re more spruced up. What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘But since I was seeing you, I made an effort.’
He smiled and, looking straight into her eyes, leant forward to kiss her, but she took a step back, so instead, he squeezed her hand. Their eyes locked, as if each was trying to read the other’s mind, before she sat down. She was wearing a tight black tee shirt with her usual straight-cut jeans, and an expensive-looking leather belt. Even if her clothes were routine, she managed to look classy. He poured her a glass of wine, conscious of the atmosphere of awkwardness as they waited for her mother to return, and a further moment as they shuffled round the table, while her mother decided where to sit.
He glanced again at Nixie. She was sitting opposite him and his mind went back to when they’d first had sex. It seemed a long time ago. He began mentally undressing her, but stopped when he noticed her mother watching him. Did she know what he was thinking? She looked the same as when he’d first seen her in the farmhouse: a middle-aged woman who, like her daughter, must have been a stunner in her youth.
But she seemed to be studying him. Was it his imagination or could she mind read? He tried avoiding her eyes, but decided that might look as if he was covering something up, which actually, he was. He felt increasingly uncomfortable, and so ill at ease he had to speak. He had to act as if everything was totally normal and not dwell on the fact how much he knew about her history.
‘What film did you see?’
‘Nixie chose it. It’s called The Cove. It’s old, a documentary made about the annual killing of dolphins in Taji, Japan.’
‘Doesn’t sound much fun. Why see that?’
‘Nixie takes after her father; she has a big interest in marine conservation.’
Nixie spoke then. ‘I’m interested in Japan. I have a half sister who lives there. That’s where dad is now, visiting Nami.’
‘I didn’t know you had a half sister. Where does she live in Japan?’
‘Well, how would you know? It’s a place called Tokai, not far from Tokyo. She takes after Dad, as well as her mum. She teaches marine ecology, and comes over here about once a year to visit him. They alternate visits.’
Seb was silent, wondering how Matt came to father a Japanese child. He decided against asking any questions. He said, ‘It seems to run in the family, an interest in the sea.’
Nixie said, ‘An interest? More than that, it’s an obsession. That’s one of the reasons I’m involved with the proposal at Langhithe. Ever wondered why nuclear power stations are built by the sea?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘It’s because the reactors need water for cooling, but when the water is discharged into the sea, the ecological systems are messed up, big time.’
‘Really?’
Nixie’s mention of Langhithe distracted him. His mind returned to the weekend in Lavenham − images of breaking into his father’s office, the emails, to the beach at Aldeburgh, the fear on Imogen’s face, Makepeace’s bloodied face. How long would he have to wait until the emails he’d posted hit the news?
Nixie picked up something in the tone of his voice. ‘Why do you sound so surprised?’
He side-stepped her question. ‘No surprise.’ Turning to Flori, he said, ‘So, Flori, what are the plans for the rest of your stay?’
‘Tomorrow I’m seeing Rose, she’s a friend and goes back to when I worked in London. I haven’t seen her for years and I’m looking forward to seeing her again.’
‘Was that when you were at Harrods?’
There was a silence.
‘How did you know my mother worked at Harrods?’
‘You told me.’
Nixie looked sharply at him. ‘No, I didn’t. I’ve never said my mother worked at Harrods.’
Seb paused, she hadn’t. She was right. He only knew because of his newspaper research. He had to blag it, cover up fast. ‘I’m sure you did, Nixie. When I saw you in Wales, you were talking about your mum, and that’s when you mentioned it.’
‘Well, I don’t remember that. I’m sure I didn’t.’ She seemed suspicious.
‘Well, how else would I know? But don’t let’s argue. Does it really matter? Let’s agree to differ.’ He smiled at Flori. ‘Don’t you agree, Flori?’ He knew Flori would respond to his flirtatious manner as she had before, and it would work this time as it had before.
Flori said, ‘Well, Seb, who ever did tell you, was right. I worked there with Rose.’
‘Mum, I wish you wouldn’t keep going on about the past, does it matter… let’s talk about something else. I’m sure Seb isn’t interested.’ She glared at her mother. ‘We haven’t even eaten yet. Let’s order.’ She glanced down at the menu and passed it to her mother.
The conversation may have irritated Nixie, but her irritation was nothing compared to how Seb felt. Inside, he was seething. Sitting in front of Flori, knowing now what he did, how she’d come to snatch him; the help she’d had from Rose and an unknown other, the note, the giraffe she’d left with him when she’d been on the run, was so awful he felt he couldn’t bear to sit with her mother any longer.
But it was the giraffe which enraged him more than anything. The giraffe was pathetic, a symbol of his dependence and vulnerability and he hated it; its softness, its stupidity, its simplicity. It was only a toy but he couldn’t get it out of his head. It was part of his past, and he wanted to destroy that.
He glanced at Flori. She was smiling, complacent, unconcerned, and still ready to chat about her past. The woman had no conscience. How else could she meet up with Rose, her accomplice in the crime? He felt like walking out, but this would make things worse. Instead, he withdrew. He made little effort to engage in the conversation. He sat, half listening to their conversation, his mind taken over with how he might take revenge. He wanted to do something, something that would disturb Flori; something extreme, something unpredictable, something that would destroy her complacency − an idea came.
Ten minutes later, he stood up, excused himself and went to the loo. It was empty. He went into one of the cubicles and locked the door. He set the alarm on his watch to ring in half an hour, and then returned to the table.
Flori was talking about an ecological house which had just been built along the coast from her parents’ farmhouse, a mile or two from St David’s. He forced himself to join in the conversation. It was interesting but irrelevant. He was waiting for his watch to ring.
It rang, right on time. He brought his wrist up and glanced at his watch. ‘Christ, Nixie. I forgot that I’ve made
an arrangement to meet my mate. I’m really sorry but I have to go.’ He stood up. She seemed to have forgotten about the dispute.
‘Do you have to? Can’t you say you’re otherwise engaged?’
‘I can’t. He needs help with his computer. It’s some kind of glitch. I’m sorry. I promised. How about if I give you a ring tomorrow?’
‘Promise?’
‘First thing. Trust me.’ He bent down, kissed her briefly and shook hands with her mother. ‘Good to see you again, Flori. Enjoy the rest of the time here. Here’s my share of the bill.’ He put down three ten-pound notes, walked out onto Tottenham Road and caught a cab back to his flat. Pretending everything was hunky-dory stuck in his gullet, but it was just about bearable because he had a plan. He was about to get his own back.
He didn’t have much time. He unlocked the door to his flat and moving quickly changed his clothing. He picked out a pair of trainers, packed a head torch, a small- and medium-sized jemmy, a screwdriver and some protective gloves into his rucksack. He took the letter, the toy giraffe and placed them in the glove compartment of his van. Heading out to the M4, he drove out of London. Luck was on his side, the roads were clear that night and he could drive fast.
By the time he arrived in Pembrokeshire, it was the early hours. He drove towards the isolated country lane near Caefai. It was where he’d camped previously and he pulled off the road into the field beyond. Parked where he couldn’t be seen by passing vehicles then, changing his shoes for trainers, put the giraffe and the note in his rucksack, put on his head torch and made his way across the fields to the farmhouse.
There were no cars in the drive. The place was in darkness. Nixie’s mother must have forgotten to switch the security light on when she left for London and Nixie’s comment that Matt was in Japan was helpful, very helpful. He smiled to himself. Knowing that he was away made his project easier. He was about to play his own version of mind games. She had to understand. Have a dose of her own medicine; know how it felt to be the victim, to be powerless, to be the object of someone else’s craziness. She was too complacent, too pleased with herself. She had to feel threatened, confused, destabilised, frightened, as he had been.
He pulled on his latex gloves and walked slowly round the outside of the house, looking for a way in. Nixie had said it was safe living round here. There was no crime, she’d said, we leave our doors unlocked, even when we go out. She’d failed to mention the security system, which he avoided by trying a door at the back of the house. It was locked, but the downstairs toilet window had been partially left open and it was the work of a moment to apply his jemmy and prise it open further.
He climbed in, switched on his head torch. He had to be fast. He had a job to do and the sooner he did it, the sooner he’d get away. He walked upstairs looking for the main bedroom, opening every door until he came to the largest one. It contained a double bed and the curtains were still drawn. This had to be their bedroom. His head torch lit up the room. Clothes were draped across a chair. The bed was unmade. A bra hung from the corner of the wardrobe door. The linen basket was almost full. Books were piled sideways along the bookshelf, and on the floor, along each side of the bed lay a book. He picked one up, glanced at the cover. Psychometric Testing: A Critique. That had to be one of hers. The other, Marine Conservation and the Global Crisis, one of Matt’s.
He pulled the rucksack off his back. He’d planned the next step. He took out the giraffe. He walked over to her side of the bed, pulled the bedclothes up, and placed the giraffe underneath so it was concealed. When she got into bed, and pulled the duvet back, she’d see it.
The giraffe would be lying there. It would stare. Its eyes would accuse her of the crime of theft. She’d be reminded of the time she took a defenceless baby. How would she react? Disbelief? Hysteria? Terror? Would she scream? She’d get the message. In her absence, someone, someone unknown, had got inside the house, had been in her bedroom, knew who she was, where she lived, what she’d done, and they wanted her to know that they knew.
He smiled. It was a version of what she’d done all those years ago. Then it was a mansion flat in Earls Court, now it was a farmhouse in Pembrokeshire. History repeats itself, the first time a tragedy, the second time a farce.
He slung his rucksack on his shoulder and ran back downstairs to the kitchen. One more thing left to do. He took out the letter she’d written, the one he’d found in the attic, the one she’d left with him on the mountain at night. He read it one more time.
‘He likes going out, either being pushed in his buggy or in a car. He likes it if you sing to him. His loves his fat giraffe and on no account must this be lost. It’s his only possession and has been with him forever. It’s precious to him.’
He paused. Fuck. Something had changed. The first time he’d read it, he was enraged, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was something poignant, almost sad about it. He stood tapping the note against his hand, wondering whether to leave it. It was after all, a copy, and he still had the original. That’s what decided him. He placed the copy, open and unfolded, on the table, where it couldn’t be missed. Revenge, he’d keep to his plan.
Exalted with success and high on an adrenalin rush, he left the way he’d come, through the downstairs window. He sprinted back along the fields to his van, removed his trainers and drove back to London without stopping. He arrived in the middle of morning rush hour. The stop-go of London’s traffic delayed him an hour but his overwhelming feeling, apart from exhaustion, was an enormous sense of achievement. His anger after the previous evening’s meeting with Nixie’s mother had been channelled. He’d made sure she’d had her comeuppance. His aim had been to freak her and he was fairly sure it would.
But how would he know? Only if Nixie mentioned it. Not that that mattered. The thought of her mother’s possible reaction was enough. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight thirty. He’d promised to contact Nixie. It wasn’t too early. He texted her, asking when they could meet. Within a minute she’d replied. I’m at home, come any time after eleven. My mum will have gone by then. He took off his watch, set his alarm for ten thirty, flung himself on the bed and was asleep within seconds.
It was after eleven when he woke. He was late, but there was still time to take a quick shower to wake up. He arrived at her flat just before twelve. He rang the bell and stared along the long corridor running outside the flats. He was exhausted, despite his sleep. He didn’t wait long. Nixie opened the door and stood smiling in a white bathrobe, her wet hair wrapped in a towel.
‘I’m just out of the shower,’ she said.
‘So I see. Sorry I’m late.’
‘No worries. You’ve come at the right time. Mum’s just left.’
‘Sure it’s okay? I can come back later.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ She stood aside to let him in. ‘Want a coffee?’
They walked into the kitchen. He sat down and watched as she took out two mugs.
‘I’ve only got instant, is that okay?’
‘Instant will do. It’s you I’ve come to see.’
She turned round, smiled, looked straight into his eyes and walked across to him.
It was invitation, one he accepted. He slowly undid her bathrobe, and unwrapped the towel from round her hair, ‘You’re beautiful, but you know I think that, don’t you?’ He pulled her towards him. ‘And you smell good.’ He kissed her, ‘You see,’ he said, ‘I’ve missed you.’
He was alone when he woke, and as he sat up, for a split second he feared she’d left him, but then he heard the clatter of crockery in the kitchen and the radio. He called out but she couldn’t have heard, so he lay back, and waited for her. She was carrying two coffees and still wearing her bathrobe when she appeared. She placed the coffees on a side table and sat next to him on the side of the bed.
‘How did you know I was awake?’
‘I didn’t, but I thought it was time fo
r you to get up.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Three. But listen. Something interesting has happened. The press have been tipped off by an anonymous whistleblower. Financial stuff. An MP called Fortescue, and another with the name of Makepeace. Did he make that name up? It’s stupid. But I’ve heard of him. He’s on the Energy committee. They’re both involved with some kind of wheeling, dealing financier.’
‘Who’s the financier?’
‘It didn’t say. Some rich bastard, no doubt. You know what they say – much makes more.’
He sat up, so there’d been a response already. Great. He couldn’t ask for anything better. So far, so good, but he had to play his cards right, which meant keeping his mouth shut.
‘You know what? I don’t give a shit. We can talk about it later. Like you once said to me, if you remember, don’t talk politics, there’s a time and a place for that. Right now. I’ve got other things on my mind.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘What time does your mother get back?’
‘Round about four, she said.’
‘Good, we have enough time, then.’
— 13 —
A series of images flashed across the screen; a girl’s face, ‘pixelated’ to protect her identity, a long, shingle, beach, the bruised face of Makepeace. The place was Aldeburgh, the girl, Imogen, and the police were asking for anyone who’d been in the vicinity on that morning and who may have seen the possible attacker, to get in touch. The police hadn’t mentioned, or even implied, a possible motive why Makepeace was attacked and, it seemed, he wasn’t being held for questioning. A destructive burst of energy coursed through Seb’s body. Hitting the arm of the chair he was sitting in, he leapt up, punched one hand into the other and, lurching towards the television, snapped it off.
Truth and Lies Page 14
