‘What’s the boy’s part? If you might not be there, there’s no point my going if I’m not to know which he is.’
‘You’ll know him,’ Trish said, hearing herself sound as dry as the Sahara. ‘But he’s the policeman.’
‘How suitable.’
Was there a desert even drier than the Sahara? Trish wondered. She wasn’t sure that Paddy would honour this commitment, any more than he’d honoured the rest, but she hoped he would.
“Bye now, Trish. Take care of yourself.’
So, she thought: none of the old friendly suggestions of meeting for drinks or a meal. Still, we’ve made some progress.
She tidied up her desk and slung on her thick dark-grey overcoat. On her way out, she saw that Steve had left his cherished brass reading light on and went in to switch it off. On his blotter was an envelope marked with her name in Antony’s writing. She reached over to take it and felt the strap of her shoulder bag slip.
The bag hit Steve’s pen pot, scattering his innumerable pens and pencils all over his desk and the floor. Cursing, she put down the envelope and bag and grovelled under the desk to pick them up.
‘I know you have to spend a lot of time sucking up to the clerks to get any decent work at all,’ said Robert’s voice from behind her. The shock made Trish’s head jerk painfully against the bottom of the desk. ‘But you don’t have to go quite that far, do you?’
Trish snaked her way out from under the desk and stood up with as much dignity as a dusty front, messy hair and a handful of leaking pens allowed. There was an ominous cracking sound under one of her shoes, but she wasn’t going to give ground by looking down.
‘Hello, Robert,’ she said, making herself sound casually surprised. ‘You still here? It’s not like you to work so hard. I thought a proper chap had to look as if his achievements were effortless.’
‘Oh, bugger off,’ he said, sounding more human than usual.
‘Have a good evening.’
For a moment she thought he was going to offer to stay and help, but her partial victory over her father must have turned her brain. Robert smirked and left her to her tidying.
She was afraid she’d trodden on one of Steve’s fountain pens in her rush to get upright, but the ugly sound had come only from the transparent plastic casing of a ballpoint, which was easily replaceable. She restored his desk to its usual order, gave his Churchillian brass reading lamp a propitiative stroke, then opened the envelope.
Dear Trish,
Henry and his wife are coming to the opera with us on 14 December. We have two spare tickets. Would you and George like to come, too? It’s Covent Garden, Richard Strauss’s Daphne. Very well reviewed.
Antony
Outside she turned up her face to the drizzling rain and wondered just exactly what the invitation meant. Had Henry managed to persuade Antony that her refusal to go on working for him was reasonable? Or was this invitation another bribe to stop her asking any awkward questions about Toby Fullwell’s sudden need to shift millions around, or Jean-Pierre Gregoire’s for a mule?
The drizzle turned to a deluge. Hunching her chin down into the thick collar of her coat, she hurried home, wondering how much to tell George. He would probably want to accept the invitation if he knew about it. Unlike Trish, he genuinely liked opera, and he might also need a new big client if Jeremy Carfield did withdraw his business as he’d threatened. An opportunity for George to cosy up to Henry Buxford would be helpful. But could she bear to watch him doing it?
She shivered as rain slid down the back of her neck, finding its way between her shirt collar and her skin. It felt like icy little worms, insinuating themselves down her spine. This was definitely not a night for mooning over the view of St Paul’s or congratulating herself for living in the centre of one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
Once, when she’d said as much to George, he told her not to be so smug and to think instead of Venice, or even Oxford, and admit that London was a mishmash of ugliness punctuated by some quite nice parks and a few admirable buildings. She’d thrown a pillow at him.
Toby felt lonelier than ever. He couldn’t stop thinking about Peter. The treacherous enemy who had caused all his torments and deserved his death had metamorphosed back into the matchless friend and fellow victim. Toby knew now that he could have saved Peter’s life, as Peter had once saved his, if only Jo hadn’t let them both down.
In fact, Peter had saved his life more than once. If it hadn’t been for him, Toby would never have survived Cambridge long enough to go to Nepal.
He wished he could bring back a mental picture of Peter in those days. But he couldn’t really remember anything properly now. His mind kept throwing up images of things that hadn’t happened and people who had never existed. Sometimes he had only to shut his eyes now to see Peter on the bridge and himself with a gun in his hand, pointing it at Peter’s head.
How could he have seen that if he hadn’t been there?
And yet he knew he hadn’t been. He hadn’t even known that Peter was in England until Jo had described the man who’d rung the bell that appalling afternoon. And he’d never had a gun.
Or had he?
Toby hit his forehead hard with a closed fist, trying to make his mind work. Logic, reason and sequential thought shattered whenever he tried to take a grip of any of them. And every idea split into a million dangerous glittering shards before he could look at it properly.
There seemed to be lots of versions of himself, too, and he didn’t know which was real and which was just a distorted reflection in one of the glass splinters. Was he the victim or the villain? Had he been the loathsome, lying, pathetic child of all those old accusations, ruining his mother’s life and causing his father’s death? Or he had tried as hard as he could to do what she wanted, be what she wanted, and put up with her rages as well as he could without crying too much?
Was he Ben Smithlock’s dupe now, or had he somehow called up Ben, like a devil from the hell that was undoubtedly waiting for him when going on living became more frightening than killing himself.
‘“To die”,’ he said aloud, remembering the endless performances of Hamlet he’d sat through for one radio arts programme or another. ‘“To die, perchance to dream.” Oh, God forbid!’
He thought that if he could just get the Clouet story straight, and then sleep a night through, he might manage the rest. All he’d retrieved so far was a memory of one winter’s afternoon in Cambridge, when he and Peter had been eating toasted Mother’s Pride and Golden Syrup, of all peculiar things.
Peter had asked him why François Clouet seemed such a good artist to fake. And Toby had started sketching the kind of elegant but empty coloured chalk portrait Clouet had produced, explaining that people had been commenting on the lack of psychological insight in his work since it had first been produced. One papal nuncio had written in the 1570s about his reluctance to send the Pope any portrait with so little individuality.
Clouet had had a huge studio of craftsmen working for him. Anyone with any real talent for drawing could produce a convincing version, Toby had explained, if only he could acquire the right sort of paper and black and red chalk. The black wasn’t charcoal, but a real chalk called carbonaceous shale and it had been found in France.
It was weird how even with his mind splintering on every idea it found, he could remember that: carbonaceous shale found in France. He said it again, like a mantra. Maybe it would straighten the splinters and bring them back together into a whole. Wasn’t that what a mantra was supposed to do? Peter would know. He’d have learned that much in the ashram.
Peter had watched him draw that afternoon and admired him and told him there was no one like Toby Fullwell in the whole world, and that together they could beat the whole world, let alone Goode & Floore’s.
So why had Peter given all that disastrous information to Ben?
That despairing question suddenly brought all the splinters together, and Toby’s mind began to work again, dig
ging an even bigger, more appalling pit. Had Ben been blackmailing Peter, too, and then had him killed because he’d decided to come clean? Or because he’d come to the end of his usefulness? Did they eventually kill everyone they’d forced into working for them?
Toby could see his own naked corpse toppling over the bridge into the Thames. The new fear made him feel as dirty and despicable as when he’d been shitting and sicking up his life at Peter’s feet in Nepal.
The phone rang, releasing him for a moment. He looked at the mobile and saw Margaret’s number on the small green screen.
Thank God! If he got her back, he might be able to fight the terror and Ben and his memories. Clicking the phone on, he told her he loved her before she could say anything. He heard her gasp, then sniffle a bit. They started to talk properly then, as they had in the old days before Ben had come crashing into their lives. Much later Margaret told him she’d called to remind him about Mer’s school play.
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ he said. It was a lie, but how could anyone remember something like that in all this?
Chapter 21
Two days later, Toby stood once more in the doorway of Goode & Floore’s great saleroom, looking round at the people who were already there and pitying them for their ignorance. Some of his panic was under control now. He had come to understand that if Peter had tried to talk to him about what was happening, then he had probably been talking to other people as well, and that must be why Ben had had him killed. It didn’t necessarily mean he’d kill Toby, too.
Silence might not save him, but telling anyone what was going on would definitely be fatal. If he did exactly what Ben had demanded and then kept his mouth shut, he might have a chance.
He couldn’t see either Henry Buxford or Ben’s dark woman this time, and he couldn’t feel any malign presence whatsoever. Glad of that much, he checked out his usual seat. It was still empty. That had to be a good omen, too.
Today there were fewer people in the room altogether, and a less dramatic atmosphere. It was even more of a help to see that the auctioneer wasn’t Marcus Orgrave. There was a woman on the rostrum, whom Toby had never seen before. He settled back in his chair and waited for lot 65.
Ben appeared just as lot 62 was being knocked down for a respectable enough three hundred thousand pounds. Toby tried to ignore him, but it was all he could do to control his urge to vomit. Ben positioned himself on the other side of the aisle, three rows ahead. Toby jammed the nails of one hand into the palm of the other and fought to swallow the acrid saliva that kept pumping into his mouth.
‘Here we have a particularly fine portrait by Gerrit van Honthorst. Unrestored and yet in surprisingly good condition, it would represent a major acquisition for any institution or private collector. Who will start the bidding at five hundred thousand pounds?’
Terrified he was going to throw up, Toby made his bids. When the painting was knocked down at last, he got up, not surprised to hear his knees crack. It always happened when he’d been tense.
It was so long since he’d bid successfully for anything that he’d almost forgotten the drill. But he’d have to go down to the office now to settle up and arrange for one of the specialist art moving firms to bring the painting to the gallery. Then he would have to put it in the darkest corner of the storeroom and pray that no one, particularly Henry Buxford, would ever ask why he hadn’t exhibited it.
‘Well done.’ Ben was right behind him, so close that Toby could feel Ben’s breath on his neck. ‘You’re nearly there now.’
He didn’t turn or acknowledge the remark in any way. As soon as he felt Ben leave him, he signed the cheque for the cashier and smiled at her as he handed it over. Turning at last, he saw no sign of Ben and headed in relief for the open air.
He thought he might walk back to Southwark this time. He could do with the exercise, and it might help remind him he was a free man.
There ought to be plenty of time to get home, grab a cheese sandwich and perhaps even a glass of wine, before changing to go to the boys’ school. That would make a fitting celebration. And after the play, he’d bring his family home. Maybe, after all, life could begin again.
Trish realized she would be in danger of being late for the play if she didn’t get a move on soon and exhorted herself to hurry up in a loud voice. Naturally Robert happened to be passing at exactly that moment.
‘I know, Robert,’ she said. ‘I know. It’s the first sign of madness. Still, at least I’m not looking for hairy palms.’
He was so surprised that she thought of explaining the very mild joke, then decided against it. There wasn’t time. She nipped into the loo before she left chambers and took a few extra minutes to ensure that the edges of her dark hair were sharp and there were no smudges on her face. She’d once been in court with a large dark-grey stripe down one cheek, where she’d rested her face on a hand that was grimed with newsprint. No one had bothered to tell her, but she’d noticed amusement on the faces of everyone around her, including the judge, and wondered why. Today all seemed fine. She added some mascara and a slick of lipgloss and left it at that.
Some of the Blackfriars Prep mothers would be wearing the latest Prada creations, with one or two shining in Escada glamour, but most would have rushed from work and be dressed in dark-grey, black or navy suits like hers.
All the effort on her hair was wasted because it started raining two minutes after she left the building, and she had no umbrella. Halfway to the school already, she thought there was no point going back to beg a brolly off one of the clerks, and so she ran, splashing the puddles up her legs, and arrived with dripping hair and face.
The first person she saw was Paddy, looking uncharacteristically nervous as he hovered outside the school hall, pretending to examine the notice board.
‘Hi,’ Trish said, casually laying a hand on his back. He flinched. Turning to see who had touched him, he glared at her.
‘And I thought you were concerned about my heart, Trish. What are you doing, giving me a shock like that? And why are you looking like something the cat brought in?’
‘Sorry, Paddy. It’s only the rain. How are you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ She understood exactly what he meant and was encouraged by the lack of the jokes and Irish accent. ‘He’s a nice child.’
‘So you said. Shall we go in or are we waiting for your fat solicitor?’ Trish didn’t think she had registered her instinctive protest, but her expression must have changed because Paddy went on: ‘Ah, come on now, Trish. ’Tis only like calling him the Fat Controller. Do you not remember how we used to read those train books together when you were little?’
‘I remember,’ she said, tucking her hand into his arm. She wanted to tell him he’d been a good father to her then, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could manage was: ‘It was fun.’
‘Wasn’t it?’
‘I haven’t thought of Thomas the Tank Engine for years. It’s a pity David’s too old for stories like that.’
‘D’you mean you still have the books, Trish?’ It was so unlike Paddy to ask directly for reassurance that she gave it to him at once.
‘Of course. I couldn’t have got rid of them. Or Sam Trolley. Do you remember that one? It was about a fireman with his horse-drawn fire engine?’
‘I do. Look, there’s your George.’
Trish squeezed Paddy’s arm before letting go to wave.
‘Jess is here,’ George said. ‘I met her outside, parking the car. She said Caro is tied up but still hoping she might make it before the end of the play. Even if she doesn’t, David should have a pretty good showing. I know Nicky’s planning to come. How are you, Paddy?’
‘Fine. Why don’t you and I go in and see if Nicky’s inside while Trish waits for Jess?’
Toby couldn’t believe it. The dark woman was here, still dogging him, and now actually in his sons’ school. Ben had promised he would be free after he’d bought the Honthorst this morni
ng. Like every sucker in the world, Toby had believed what he wanted to believe. Now he knew better. His hands curled into claws as he thought about what he’d like to do to the woman. And her brat.
She was thin and quite fragile looking. It would be easy to lure her on to one of the bridges after dark and just tip her over. But then she’d probably be undrownable, like any medieval witch. She’d need concrete boots or a bullet in the brain like Peter’s to keep her underwater long enough to kill her. And he wasn’t equipped to give her either. Still, he could probably break her neck. Fantasizing about it, seeing her white face bloated and discoloured with the gasses that would distend her drowned body and eventually force it up to the surface, helped to contain his loathing. For now, anyway.
Trish could feel Paddy’s nervousness as she sat down next to him. He was almost quivering with it. Maybe that wasn’t so surprising. After all, this would be his first sight of his son.
‘He’s not in the first scene,’ she whispered as the curtain went up, hoping to help Paddy relax. He didn’t answer.
She waited for the appearance of Mer Fullwell as the tramp and was surprised by his confident acting. He still had one arm in a sling, and he looked very pale, in spite of the greasy stage make-up someone had applied to his thin face.
Nothing she had heard about him had made her think he’d be capable of doing his stuff in front of a hundred-strong audience like this. But he could have been alone in the big room for all the embarrassment he showed. He knocked at the door of the banker’s mansion, which was economically suggested by a porticoed doorway painted on wavering canvas.
The boy who answered it and sent him on his way spoke his lines fluently enough, but like the child he was. Mer, on the other hand, had got fully into the skin of his part. Trish wondered whether that came only from skill or whether he had experienced the aching need he was portraying. As the curtain came down, and the audience clapped with encouraging vigour, Trish looked round for Margaret.
A Place of Safety Page 23
