‘Okay, Leo, here I come!’
But then Mrs Boscombe detained him with a whispered apology. ‘She’s been in a bad mood all morning, your grandmother has, I’m so sorry. Don’t worry, she doesn’t really mean it, you know.’
‘Are you sure she doesn’t mean it?’ he whispered back.
‘No, of course I’m not sure! I was just meaning, you know…’
He acknowledged gratefully Emily’s effort to calm troubled waters, but then the whispering became more serious. ‘It’s the car,’ she said. ‘In the garage.’
‘What about it?’
‘Someone wants to buy it. The chap from next door. Do you think it should be sold?’
‘Emily!’ came his grandmother’s voice.
‘Just think about it, Mr Joseph. Next time when you come.’
She patted him on the arm. He thanked her, wished her the best in dealing with his grandmother and let himself quickly out of the house.
******
Whenever Leo Kamen flew over from California he stayed in his business apartment near Victoria. It was swanky like Leo himself. Gilded upright armchairs and sofas stood about idly like so many flunkies on the smart, thick-piled cream carpeting of the sitting room. They were reflected in a huge, gilded mirror set above a bijou marble fireplace, simultaneously multiplying themselves and looking confined by the room’s smallness. In one corner was an Italianate alcove made out of deep-blue Venetian glass (Leo insisted it was Venetian) in which a small fountain usually played, shimmering in concealed lighting and emitting a faintly urinal tinkle. The romantic smartness was emphasised by a very faint muzak, Tchaikovsky-like and waltzy, that lingered surreptitiously about the walls among half-a-dozen gilded reproductions of Italian landscapes and Watteau-esque garden scenes. ‘Tasteful’ is how Leo liked to describe it.
‘Sure, sure, sure.’
He opened the large panelled door of his apartment to admit Joe, speaking petulantly as he did so into a phone and waving curtly towards one of the sofas. Slightly built, compact, white-haired, with a sallow, stippled complexion, he had handsome dark-brown eyes and a well-shaped mouth. The jacket of his dark suit came with wide lapels. A small, tight-packed red rosebud in the buttonhole lent a bohemian blob of colour to the stiff white collar and neat, full-knotted necktie that projected an ultra-smart image of business efficiency matching his sharp mid-Atlantic accent. ‘Sure, sure, sure, you do that! He’s what?’ A pause. ‘Oh, sure, he’s an idiot!’ he switched off the phone. ‘So, Joe, good to see you. Have a seat. You found something?’
‘Nothing,’ Joe sat down on the rather hard upright sofa in front of a glass-topped coffee table.
‘You sure?’
‘Leo, I want to get one thing clear. I mean, I get attacked, branded, my laptop’s stolen, as I told you over the phone, so what the hell…
‘Yeah, sure. I ought to explain!’
‘Yes, you ought!’
‘Right!’ Leo shook his head. ‘I reckon I should’ve known!’ He clapped the palms of his hands together and then held them up in a semi-religious gesture of piety, still nodding a little guiltily. ‘You called when I was still at that Scythian Gold place. It’s Goncharov! He’ll know. They’re like that.’ He lowered his arms. ‘So what happened?’
Puzzled by this odd reaction, Joe tried to control his temper. He gritted his teeth and, staring down at the glass surface of the table in front of him, gave an account of how he had initially suspected someone had been in the Courtier Street flat before he was attacked. Then he described the attack and the branding.
‘Show me!’
The watchstrap was quickly unbuckled, the piece of plaster stripped back. ‘What’s it mean?’
Leo shook his head again. ‘They play old games.’
‘So?’
‘It means you’re a fake.’
‘A fake? What the hell’s that mean?’
‘I’ve seen that mark before. Have you shown it to a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Yeah, that’s wise. I got some medication here if you like.’
Joe declined the offer as he re-taped the plaster. ‘Leo, you’re changing the subject. You’ve seen this before, so you must know what it’s about. It’s that thing I translated for you and showed you yesterday, isn’t it? Well, they’ve got my laptop, but they won’t know the password or the code. I’m right, aren’t I?’
Leo conceded he was right and added a warning. ‘I reckon they knew you’d be there in that flat. I can guarantee that. But the strong-arm stuff, I’m sorry about it. That’s a whole new ball game. Who’ve you told?’
Ronald Salisbury, Billy, Jenny Malden were duly mentioned.
‘Not the police?’
‘No.’
Leo drew in a deep breath. He seemed satisfied by the negative. During their conversation so far he had been standing watching the little fountain amid the Venetian glass and speaking in his normal voice. He now moved slowly across the white carpet to a desk set between the windows. Then he lowered his voice, as if addressing one of the heavily curtained windows:
‘Again that’s wise. Okay.’
Simultaneously the ubiquitous muzak, until that moment scarcely as loud as the tinkling of the fountain, became more audible. Leo turned about and came quickly across the room holding a translucent plastic wallet that he placed on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Then he seated himself beside Joe.
‘Old Believers,’ he whispered.
‘Old Believers?’
‘Keep your voice a shade quieter. I’ve got to tell you some things that are best not overheard.’
‘You mean…’ Joe was on the point of asking the obvious when it struck him that the persistent muzak evidently had a purpose. Leo had a reputation for conducting deals on behalf of clients in the film world, TV, publishing and the media generally where the utmost secrecy and discretion were essential.
‘Listen, Joseph, I’ve augmented the sound baffle and all the other security stuff. No, no, I know you want to ask questions. Just listen a moment.’ The whispering lips came very close to Joe’s face, but what impressed him was the serious, even anxious, expression of the fine dark eyes. ‘There are people at Scythian Gold known as the Old Believers. They’re a new phenomenon. I didn’t know they were there. They’ve come into existence since I was last here in London. If I’d known I wouldn’t have arranged for us to have lunch there yesterday. I suspect they’ve had you in their sights ever since you were last there. Were you in some fight?’
‘Yes, the Kiss. Potseluev. I hit him.’
‘And?’
‘I lost my job. I told you.’
‘Okay, okay, not so loud! That’s, you know, partly what the money’s all about. So you can probably also guess who these Old Believers are – they believe in the old USSR. They believe it was politically correct, especially its ideals and its beginnings. Now this material you left with me…’ One finger adorned with a large gold ring tapped the plastic wallet ‘…you don’t know where it came from?’
‘I don’t know how it got into my laptop or how you knew about it, no.’
‘That’s not what I asked. I asked whether you knew where it came from.’
Joe licked his lips. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Okay, so you don’t want to tell me where it came from or how it got into your cellphone or computer or whatever or any more about it. I respect that. We all have our contacts, just like we all have to rely on each other. But you’re privileged, Joseph, in this particular case and I’m not the only one who knows it. I can fix Goncharov. I’ve got privileges, too, and he knows it. See, I…’ He took from the plastic wallet two sheets of paper and laid them side-by-side on the coffee table. They were the photocopy of the Russian text and Joe’s translation. Leo had asked for them and been given them at the previous day’s lunch. ‘What I mean is, how really genuine is this?’ Leo slipped spectacles over his ears and then he tapped the sheet on the left. ‘If this one here is a copy of the genuine article in Rus
sian, well, I’m no linguist, that I’ll admit, but this funny-looking writing, with all the squiggles at the end of the words, it sure reminds me of the way my great-grandfather used to write. He had a whole diary, a big ledger, full of this writing with all the squiggles. And my great-grandfather, who changed his name from Stein, because it sounded too German, to Kamen, pronounced like that Bizet opera so he could pass for Russian, he was still writing like this when he was in New York, an old man in his eighties… You know my family came out of Russia in what they call the Great War, didn’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, it’s the truth.’ He paused. The spectacles were removed with a flourish and allowed to hang loosely from his forefinger and thumb. ‘What I’m wondering, you see, is – maybe this letter about birds isn’t as old as it looks, know what I mean?’ He puckered his eyebrows in graphic query so that his sharp brown eyes looked surprisingly youthful in their brilliance. Then he tapped the other sheet. ‘Your translation is quite clear – names of birds, all these book titles and stuff. What sort of a letter is that?’
‘It’s the letter I translated. It’s handwritten, as you can see, and not very legible in places. You can’t see clearly who it’s addressed to and who it’s from. And it’s in the Old Style, in the alphabet before the revolution, and you said you wanted it.’
‘Yeah, well, I paid you, didn’t I?’ Leo gave a short laugh. ‘Okay, so we keep an open mind. Always remembering that the simplest way to confuse is to do the unnecessary.’
Joe found this too cryptic and said so.
‘Yes, it’s cryptic. I’m just being cautious. You see the Old Believers have some support among the oligarchy. If they think it’s genuine, then they’ll want it. Probably there’s quite a lot of greenbacks here.’ Leo rubbed two fingers together. ‘That’s why you’ve got to be cautious. Your mother thought there’d be more, you see. Are you sure there was nothing at all back home?’
‘My mother thought what?’
‘More. There’d be more.’
How could she know? There was a largely unspoken agreement between Joe and this supposed stepfather of his that on his visits to London Leo always brought money, usually saying ‘Your mother has this fear of flying, as you know, and can’t be with you but she sends her love,’ or words to that effect and a bank transfer had been arranged or a cheque or a filled envelope would be passed across, but when it came to talking about his father’s matters, especially since the provisions of the will had still not been acted on, mention of anything as private and secret as the infamous ‘bank box’ was virtually prohibited. Now it was the pretext of this translation. Joe blinked back at the profile of Leo’s face.
‘More of what?’
The dark brown eyes were swivelled towards him. ‘Yesterday you told me about that black box you had back home. Your mother said it was there.’
‘I’ve looked. There’s nothing written or printed.’ He explained the damage done by the Blitz. ‘All I got was this.’ He fished the sepia photo of the couple out of his pocket. ‘I don’t know who they are.’
Leo took the photo, replaced his spectacles, studied it and turned it over to find the dedication and the name Cherbourg, almost erased by the rusty ink strokes, on the back. He sniffed it, returned it to Joe and removed his spectacles. ‘I’ve got a sensitive nose but my history’s not much good.’
‘Your history?’
‘It may be historically important.’
‘Who are they, then?’
‘At a guess I’d say they were lovers.’
‘I could guess that, too. Are they my relatives?’
‘The petite probably, yes.’
‘So who?’
‘Your mother might guess. I can’t.’
‘Do you want to have it, then? Take it! Show my mother!’
Joe saw at once the faint hardening in the other’s expression and knew that it meant the possible re-opening of old hurts associated with his parents’ break-up. He regretted having spoken. There was the equally sensitive matter of his mother’s fragility after her recent treatment for cancer.
‘Don’t let’s go there.’
Leo spoke quite calmly but his voice had an edge of dismissal. Rather awkwardly, as if embarrassed, he leaned forward, pushed the two sheets back in the plastic wallet and raised his head, still leaning forward. Then he looked backwards directly into Joe’s face, giving the impression he was about to get to his feet. The strong, broad lips formed a slightly quizzical smile.
‘Joseph,’ he said, ‘there are things I’d love to tell you. About yourself. But I’m not going to.’ He tapped the plastic wallet. ‘And it’s best if you say nothing about this. For the time being. Of course you’ll phone and email your mother, but don’t contact me directly. Involve no one. And use your cellphone, your mobile, your smartphone, whatever it is, as little as possible. It’ll be hacked into.’ Wrinkles could be seen gathering at the edges of his eyes. ‘I am not prying. I’m asking you to observe reasonable caution.’ He smoothed his white hair in a backward sweeping motion of his right hand and stood up.
‘Why, Leo, why? What’s so important about this old letter and where it came from?’
‘You must trust me.’ Leo stooped and picked up the wallet. His expressive lips were parted in a candid smile. ‘You wouldn’t believe it even if I told you. Just trust me.’
‘But Leo I deserve… surely?’
‘Go and see that Goncharov at Scythian Gold. You’ll get everything back.’
The plastic wallet was quickly thrust into a drawer in the desk. It was then, as the doorbell rang suddenly, that Joe glimpsed a look less of surprise than momentary fright in Leo’s face. His whole posture became frozen. The shock of that reaction instantly repeated itself in Joe’s own sudden awareness of danger. For a couple of seconds neither of them moved. Then the little monitor screen beside the door flashed up an image of the exterior corridor. A man of Joe’s own age wearing a smart suit and tie but also in a peaked baseball cap was holding up a packet.
‘Why, it’s Christopher!’
Leo opened the door. Christopher, it was explained, was Leo’s assistant and the packet was promotional materials of some sort. The introductions could not hide the momentary display of uncertainty that had appeared in Leo’s eyes. It was like a chink in his armour, not even eradicated by the claim that the video’s arrival was something he had waited for all morning.
‘I’ll be in touch, Joseph, I’ll be in touch.’ This was the promise Leo uttered as he said goodbye. ‘Thank you, my boy, I’m very grateful for what you’ve done. And of course I’ll give your love to Lois. I fly back tomorrow. But remember, go-see Goncharov at Scythian Gold. He owns the place. Then come and see us, come to us!’
4
He opened the top-hung window of Room 613. It had a view of Waterloo Bridge and the National Theatre. The noise of a train leaving Hungerford Bridge and booming its way slowly towards Waterloo East came thunderously up to him with all the resonance of a Victorian iron foundry. The noise reverberated like his anger through the small opening at the foot of the frame while raindrops rolled down the tilted exterior glass. He closed the window and resumed the same old discussion with himself.
All afternoon he had been thinking. Choices kept on shooting into his brain. Attend promised interviews for new jobs? Read the riot act to his grandmother and sell the house? Forget about the bloody letter? To love Jenny in, er, the way he most wanted? To find out more about that old sepia photo? Perhaps to fly out to California? To insist the letting agent fix the key panel on the de luxe flat a.s.a.p. or he’d… He’d what? He’d want compensation for the cost of this noisy hotel room. Or, no, he’d want to find out what the hell the bloody letter meant. Or why Leo had bought it and thought it important. Or how it could possibly be related to him, Joseph Richter, in a personal sense, along with the sepia photograph and the supposed heritage in the notorious ‘bank box’.
No, better to love Jenny in, er, the way he most wanted. No, b
etter still, not to think at all and resign himself to watching afternoon TV in this hotel room, keeping his mind off Jenny, keeping his mind off Leo…
It was early evening when he ran a bath. Lying in the steaming water, he became intimate with the bruise to his stomach and the mark on his wrist. The latter was still very sore and the water made it sting. A marked man, that’s what he was. He wondered what Jenny’d think if he showed her. Immediately, though, he thought of Boris – sorry, Ben – and felt certain that was where he should look first, at the places where he’d met him most often once they were out of reach of RGD and were, quite simply, friends. Otherwise where had the material come from? Okay, so he already knew the answer. Which meant thinking about Leo again.
Scythian Gold.
He climbed out of the bath and let the water run slowly off him, hardly moving the towel across his body at all. He was consumed by a vague sense of menace. It was like one of those anxiety dreams when you know something terrible’s happened but you can’t remember exactly what it was. To his nakedness the air seemed to have a tense, threatening stillness. He attributed it to shock. No, he wasn’t going to be frightened off, he told himself. Whatever the brand might mean, it wasn’t going to stop him. He felt sure of that. But he had to try and make sense of it all and he knew he had to start where he’d last seen his friend.
Scythian Gold was where he had last seen Boris Krestovsky a couple of months before, in one of their so-called ‘private’ rooms. Something would be sent to him, Boris had whispered. He would receive some material. A word was whispered. Maybe it was a word like ‘Lennon’ but he wasn’t sure. Anyhow, why Lennon? Boris always lowered his voice to a whisper when he wanted to impart confidences, but there didn’t seem to be any need to whisper about John Lennon. Apart from sophisticated listening devices or CCTV or sheer fear of surveillance, so much in Russian life always had to be whispered. Joe was about to query the name Lennon and why the need for whispers when Boris insisted that the greatest confidence, to be imparted in the faintest of whispers and therefore beyond the reach of any listening device known to man, concerned two things, both very, very personal. First was Joe Richter’s duty to translate what he received. Second was Boris’s plan to ‘disappear’. He would ‘disappear’ and no one would ever find Boris Krestovsky again.
Mr Frankenstein Page 4
