She did not reply.
Then she said, ‘I haven’t been to see him for weeks. Oh God, Leo, what if he — ?’
‘Listen, you’ve been bloody marvellous to him.’
‘But — ’
‘You only missed the last couple of Sundays. And you were going this coming one.’
‘I know, but — what if — ?’
‘Don’t think that way. Think positively.’
In his mind he put together a montage of what he knew about Zoe’s father. He had first met him when she had gone to stay with him in that period which he now thought of as The Great Fear.
She had been the subject of a severe sexual attack and had gone to her father’s house to regain her courage and strength. Leo, who had saved her from mutilation and arrested the attacker, had visited her there several times and had taken to her father, a gentle ex-schoolmaster.
Brian Bertram lived in a world of his own, a kind of Lewis Carroll world, and Zoe’s mother had gone off to live her own life, in what she thought of as the natural world, when he took early retirement.
He lived in a detached house on the outskirts of the village. The lights were on and an empty police car, its radio burbling unheeded, was in the short drive.
Zoe ran for the door and Leo followed. By the time he reached the house she was in the living-room. He could see someone sitting in a chair, his head in his hands. Zoe was on her knees in front of him. There was a strange smell.
‘You the son?’ a voice said at his elbow.
He turned to one of the policemen and identified himself. ‘Who called you in? We thought he’d be in hospital by now. Where’s the ambulance?’
‘Could I have a word?’
‘Sure.’
The constable took him aside. ‘Neighbour saw him lying on the floor. Couldn’t get in so called us and the ambulance at the same time. It wasn’t a heart attack. Or a stroke. Drunk.’
‘Drunk?’
‘Falling-down drunk.’
Leo had never heard that Zoe’s father was a drinker. ‘You sure?’
‘Come and have a look at this.’
He made for the garage and Leo followed. They entered by a small side door and the PC switched on the lights. It was devoid of anything to do with motoring or the open road. Leo thought it was some kind of laboratory. There was a sink and taps and bottles and glass jars and plastic tubing. But the smell, stronger here, was of yeasty fermentation. Then, all around him, he became aware of a kind of frogs’ chorus.
Glup… glup… glup…
He found himself looking at a home winery. He thought there must have been about fifty one-gallon glass jars — with their glup-glupping airlocks — of fermenting wine; rose, white, and red.
These were stacked on shelves. Beneath them, in wooden racks, were dozens of corked bottles.
Leo pulled one out. It was neatly labelled: Riesling. And the date of bottling. He pulled out another. It said: Burgundy.
Leo recalled Zoe telling him that her father had taken up winemaking some time before. She had made it sound as though it was a simple rustic hobby. He had had no idea — and he didn’t think Zoe had either — that it was on this massive scale.
‘You think he’s selling it?’ the PC asked. ‘If he is I’ll have to report him to Customs and he’ll have to pay excise duty.’
‘Have you met Mr Bertram?’
‘Not until this evening.’
‘If you had you wouldn’t ask a question like that.’
‘Leo!’
‘In here.’
Zoe came into the garage. ‘He’s been drink — My God!’
Leo said, ‘Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.’
She took one of the heavy gallon jars from a shelf, pulled out the airlock, and poured the contents into the sink. The smell of yeast became even stronger.
‘Help me.’
Leo nodded towards the uniformed police officer. ‘You get the bottles.’
‘He needs looking after,’ the officer said to Zoe.
The three of them began to pour the wine away.
Chapter Four
‘George? George?’
Frenchy closed the door of Macrae’s house behind her. ‘George?’
She went into the unlit sitting-room. Detective Superintendent George Macrae’s large figure, in an easy chair, was silhouetted against the windows.
‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’
She switched on a couple of standing spots.
‘George?’
‘I thought you were working tonight.’
‘My punter cancelled. Rambo wanted me to go out to the airport but I thought why? Who needs the aggro? Anyway I was worried about you.’
‘Me? Don’t you be soft, lassie.’
‘It’s true, George. You haven’t been… yourself. Not since. You know.’
‘Aye. I know. Why don’t you say it.’
‘Well… since those yobs… you know…’
‘Say it!’
‘All right, don’t shout. Since they beat you up. OK? I said it. I just don’t like saying it, that’s all. I mean when I say it, it brings it all back. You think I like remembering how you looked? The blood and everything? And the bruises?’
‘Do you think I liked it?’
‘Of course not. I didn’t mean —’
‘Well, belt up about it then!’
‘You just said… Oh, never mind!’ She began to tidy the room, folding up a newspaper, straightening the sofa cover.
‘And for God’s sake stop fiddling!’
She flushed with annoyance. She was dressed for her meeting with the punter who had cancelled: a lacy top, a miniskirt made from what looked like a small scarf, and long leather boots that came up to her thighs. She was a big girl and often seemed to be on the point of bursting out of her clothes — something she was not averse to doing since she made her living by it.
Normally, after being apart for a few days, she and George would have been coiled about each other on the sitting-room sofa, with her knickers in the fireplace and her bra hanging from the lampshade.
But not tonight. Indeed not the last time she was in Battersea. Or the time before, if it came to that.
She knew there was something wrong. He was drinking more than he had before — which was a lot anyway — and he was sleeping badly, and he was touchy… And depressed. That was the worst, the depressions. He didn’t speak when he was depressed. Frenchy was of a sunny and sanguine disposition. As long as she had money in the bank and her astrological chart was set fair — well, life was OK. She couldn’t really understand depression.
The problem was she didn’t know what to do about George. In her line of work she thought of herself as a therapist. Her motto was: Make the punter happy. Simple. Effective. You sent him home to his missus relaxed but at the same time with a twinge of guilt which made him a better husband for a while.
But she couldn’t make George happy if she couldn’t get him between the sheets. She decided she’d speak to her mum about George’s horoscope. See if there was anything there to go on.
In the mean time she’d just have to put up with him.
Or not, of course, as the case might be.
But what the hell would he do without her? There were already two ex-wives in the background. The point was, George’s real marriage was to the Metropolitan Police.
No, she’d just have to swallow her pride.
‘You want some supper?’ she asked.
‘No, thanks.’
‘I bet you didn’t have no dinner. Did you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what I thought. You can’t go on like this.’ She moved past him to close the curtains and her foot caught an empty whisky bottle. She picked it up and dropped it in a waste basket.
‘Just some scrambled eggs and tea. How about — ?’
‘For Christ’s sake, lay off, will you?’
‘You want me to go?
He leant forward and put his big, bull’s head in his
hands.
‘I will if you like.’
‘Oh, God no, lassie. You’re the only good thing in my life. Get us a scotch and sit down.’
She got them both drinks and took off her boots and lay on the sofa willing him to be like the old George Macrae and look up her skirt. But he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘That fucking Scales is after me.’
‘I thought he was on leave.’
‘Aye. He is. His idea of a holiday is mowing the lawn in Sidcup. He’s on the bloody phone to the station half the day. He’s been on to Les Wilson about something — and I’m it.’
It was clear that Detective Chief Superintendent Leslie Wilson, Macrae’s immediate boss, was anticipating trouble when he asked Macrae to come and see him earlier that day. He had a bottle of Famous Grouse and two glasses on his desk.
‘What’s all this?’ Macrae said.
‘Thought you’d like a nip.’
‘What would dear Kenneth say?’
‘Never mind that.’
‘OK, Les, you’re very brave.’ He poured himself a shot. ‘What do you want?’
‘Want?’ Wilson’s eyes flicked round the room, never resting for more than a moment in any one place. He had long ago earned the soubriquet ‘Shifty’ for precisely this reason.
‘Aye… want. You keep telling me that drinking’s taboo. Now here’s this. And the Grouse too. Next it’ll be Glenmorangie.’
‘Put a sock in it, George. I just thought we could have a chat. Sort of relaxed.’ He poured himself a drink and raised his glass to Macrae. ‘Here’s to crime.’
Macrae walked over to the windows and stared out at the day. People were flushed in the afternoon heat. London was covered by haze. Even the Thames looked hot.
‘How’re you keeping, George?’
Tine, thank you. How’re you keeping?’
‘I mean it seriously. Have you been for that check-up we spoke of?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake…’
‘George, our bodies can only take so much.’
‘You’ll be prescribing evening primrose oil next. Isn’t that what Beryl takes?’
Wilson disregarded this jibe at his wife but pursued his mens sana line. ‘It’s the same with our minds, George. It’s a known fact that stress in the police is double the national average. You can’t take the sort of beating you took and walk away. Bound to have an effect.’
‘Who’s been sounding off? Scales?’
‘No one. But stands to reason. I think you should see the quack. Maybe take some time off.’
‘Sick leave? Forget it.’
‘Macho Man? Is that how you see yourself?’
‘Is that what this is all about?’ He indicated the whisky. ‘Pour a couple into George and send him to the doctor?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Because it’s not going to work, laddie.’ He threw back the drink and helped himself to another. ‘There’s nothing wrong that —’
‘A couple of whiskies won’t fix? We drink more than average too, George.’
They stared at each other. Then both drew back. They had come a long way together. They’d started on the same day at the old police college in Hendon. They’d been on the beat together, taken their detective examinations together, worked in the Murder Squad together, gone on holidays with their wives together. They knew each other pretty well and Les Wilson knew, when he looked at Macrae, that but for the grace of God — which translated meant but for his own bloody-mindedness — it would have been Macrae sitting in Wilson’s chair, if indeed he wasn’t occupying the Deputy Commander’s hot seat, now occupied by Kenneth Scales.
‘No, it isn’t all about your health,’ Wilson said after a moment. ‘Well, that’s something.’
‘It’s work. There’s been a rash of breakings on our patch and I’m getting it in the neck.’
‘What sort, night breakings?’
‘No, day.’
Macrae looked at Wilson and there was sudden menace in his eyes. ‘Not interested, Les.’
‘Just listen to me for a sec.’
‘Burglary isn’t my speed.’
Wilson leaned back in his chair. ‘Will you listen? We’ve got five or six big ones, valuable stuff. Hundreds of thousands of quid. And not a smell of who did it or where the stuff has gone to or —’ ‘Les! I told you. Not breakings. We’re part of AMIP, remember? I didn’t reorganize the bloody Force. I didn’t do away with the old Flying Squad. I didn’t create these new fucking acronyms. Area Major Investigation Pool. AMIP. That’s us. Eight Area. That’s where I belong. The word is major, Les. Breakings aren’t major.’
‘Half a dozen unsolved burglaries are and if Scales says it’s major then it’s major.’
‘Did Scales say that?’
Wilson nodded.
‘When?’
‘He was on the blower this morning.’
‘And did he say —?’
‘Yes, he did, George. You and Silver.’
‘Christ! You know why, don’t you?’
‘Because he wants them solved, that’s why. And you’re the best.’ ‘A pretty speech if ever I’ve heard one. No, Les, I’ll tell you why. He wants me to screw up, that’s why.’
‘You’re being paranoid, George. Go and see the shrink about it. Either that or get on with it.’ As Macrae reached the door, Wilson said, ‘Oh, and George, I don’t give a stuff who you sleep with, but if Scales ever finds out just who Frenchy is there’s nothing anyone could do to save your thick hide.’
Chapter Five
On fine weekends Dory was allowed to take her ladies up to the roof garden. She had a dozen ladies, but today she had brought only two: Princess Laksmi and Miss Gardenia. She had also brought the picnic set Max had given her at Christmas. It was a copy of the adult ones you could buy at the expensive stores: wickerwork, leather, cut glass, stainless steel and bone china.
They were sitting on a rug in the shade of one of several large structures which housed water tanks and the gardening tools.
The garden beds were like gigantic window-boxes about two feet deep with their sides made of wood. They were filled with earth and planted with flowers and shrubs. There were also large pots of geraniums and bay trees. The entire roof had been paved with terracotta tiles which, with the abundant geraniums, all now in flower, gave it a Spanish-Moorish look as though transported from Cordoba. From this eyrie Dory could look out over London.
It was a coffee morning. They were discussing ‘green’ issues. She was telling Princess Laksmi and Miss Gardenia about the international whaling conference she had seen on TV, trying to explain to them what conservation meant.
The day was hot; London had been hot for a fortnight. Of course it suited Princess Laksmi, coming as she did from tropical climes.
‘From far Cathay and full of Eastern promise,’ as Mr Pargeter had phrased it.
Here he came now with the red hosepipe that lived on the roof.
‘Good morning, Mr Pargeter.’
‘Morning, Dory.’
He was tall and thin and old and riddled with arthritis. It made him, in his own words, rather grumpy.
‘Tea party?’
‘Not in the morning.’
‘Of course not. Stupid of me. Coffee.’
‘We’re having Colombian. Would you like a cup?’
‘Just had mine. Costa Rican.’
‘Miss Gardenia doesn’t like Costa Rica.’
‘And I don’t like dahlias. Awful showy things.’
He looked at one of the raised beds. ‘Ralph sticks in whatever’s cheapest. Never thinks to grow his own. We could have a greenhouse up here. Bring on everything from seed. But not Ralph. Oh, no, always the easy way out with Mr Ralph. You know, I’d rather have marigolds than dahlias.’
Dory knew that Mr Pargeter waged a running battle with the professional contract gardener who planted — but did not properly look after — the roof garden.
‘Still, dahlias need water in this heat just like everything else.’ The wat
er smelled fresh in the close, fumey air.
‘You going away for your holidays?’
‘To my grandmother’s place.’
‘Oh?’
‘A castle by the sea.’
‘A castle by the sea? That sounds rather grand.’
He finished watering while Dory told Princess Laksmi and Miss Gardenia about the castle by the sea.
He rolled up the hose and hung it on the parapet wall then returned holding a pair of binoculars.
‘Let’s see what Mr and Mrs Kestrel are up to. You first.’ He held out his binoculars to her.
‘Look.’
‘Good God.’ He inspected her new binoculars. ‘Where did you get these?’
‘Max gave them to me?’
‘Do you always call your father Max?’
‘Of course.’
‘He spoils you. Does he give you everything you ask for?’ ‘Only important things. You said bird watching was important. You said we must always keep in touch with nature.’
‘Oh, so I’m to blame, am I?’
‘Anyway, how is he to know what I want if I don’t tell him?’ He was silent for a moment in the face of such logic.
‘I wish I’d had you in the jungle with me for a fortnight. Nothing but a handful of rice to eat or a little dahl if I was lucky. That would have sorted you out. And no riding round in big cars like you and your father. Bicycles. That’s what we had mostly. And muddy tracks with lots of thorns and lots of punctures.’
‘I asked for a bicycle but Max said there wasn’t any place to ride.’
‘You could ride in the square.’
‘I’m not allowed in the square. Adrienne says it’s too dangerous.’ She paused. ‘The burglars.’
‘Burglars don’t harm you in the streets. Only in flats when you get in their way. If I didn’t have this damned arthritis I’d take you to Hyde Park. It’s only a couple of blocks but — There he is! See?’
The kestrel was on the nest. It had something in its beak. After a moment it flew away again. Dory let the glasses zoom down to the pavement.
‘Looking for robbers?’
The curtains of the house were closed.
She began to count out loud. ‘Seven… eight…’
‘What’s that all about?’
‘Nine Rolls-Royces. Eleven is my record but that was a wedding. Eleven Rolls-Royces, fifteen Mercedes, seven BMWs, six Jaguars.’ ‘I pity your husband.’
Threats and Menaces Page 2
