by Peter Watson
For a moment O’Day appeared angry. But all he said was, ‘Very well, sir.’
Lockwood looked at his watch. ‘Lunch-time. Enjoy it. The Marbles were the lead item on The World This Weekend. I have a feeling that this may be the last square meal any of us is going to get for some time.’
The lights dimmed, there was a pause as blackness enveloped the room – and then the saxophones of the Sulphur City Saturday-Nighters barked out in unison. The lights came on again, the drums weighed in and the brass capped everything, a delicious wail that thrust itself against the eardrums and throbbed under the balls of the feet. Midnight, and the main set of the evening at the Albatross.
Edward let the sound and the vibration wash over him. He would have preferred it even louder, but that wasn’t a complaint. He looked around the club. Considering the wildness, the flamboyance, the sheer energy of the music, the audience was a fairly sober bunch. On his visits here, Edward had often remarked to himself how straight, how tidy, how … worthy even the average jazz junkie was. How much the Albatross belied the world’s ideas of what a jazz club was like. It would disappoint Sammy.
He lifted his whisky to his lips. The Albatross was familiar, comforting. He was well known here, though only as a regular. He had a vague idea that most of the regulars at the Albatross would be as thrown by his royal connections as Mordaunt or The General would be if they knew about his jazz habit. Nor had it escaped Edward that he too led a sort of double life, like Blunt. Edward’s double life wasn’t as deadly as Blunt’s but … the Nancy connection was compromising. He had tried her home phone three times over the weekend. No reply – and no answering machine either. Wasn’t that unusual, for an American? Or was he just being hypersensitive? He had tried the hotel where he had last spoken to her, where they were supposed to have spent the weekend, but Nancy had left no forwarding address. Just as he was about to ring off, Edward had had an idea.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the receptionist at the other end of the line. ‘I was supposed to spend last weekend with you but had to cancel at the last minute. A double room was booked, in the name of either Andover or Tucker. Is there anything to pay? Because of the late cancellation, I mean.’
‘Just a moment, please. I’ll check.’ The receptionist wasn’t long. ‘No, sir. Nothing to pay. We have no record of a booking in either of those names.’
So Nancy hadn’t booked the room when she said she would. Was that because she knew Edward wouldn’t be able to go? Because she knew that the second picture would arrive and that, once Mordaunt was involved, everything would move up a gear?
Sitting in the Albatross, Edward was at his most clear-headed. At last he could admit certain things to himself. He had been set up – there was now no doubt about it. He was an integral part of the plan so that the blackmailers would know, in the early stages, how their demands were being received. Waves of anger engulfed him, like the saxophone sounds of the SaturdayNighters. He had liked Nancy Tucker more than any other woman he had known. Now she made him feel … a fool. Another wave of anger surged inside him and he gulped at his whisky.
As he lifted his glass, the movement caused Victoria to look across at him. It had been a sudden decision to come on here. After lunch Lockwood had taken a few of his guests for a walk of the Chequers grounds and then Edward and Victoria had shared a car back to London. She had invited him to the houseboat for tea and he had accepted. Tea had consisted mainly of Edward watching Victoria get ready for Greece: her flight left at ten the next morning. The houseboat fitted her character – what he knew of it. It was small – tiny. Almost clinically tidy. Small pictures, small jugs of flowers, a miniscule desk beautifully polished and preserved. Small items of silver or treen perfectly positioned. The houseboat was actually more cluttered than Edward’s flat but it didn’t feel like it. He had returned the compliment by inviting Victoria for dinner and she had accepted. That had been surprising, in view of the little time they had known each other and in view of the fact that she was travelling the next day. But he had been even more surprised when, after dinner, preparing to bid her goodnight, he had announced his intention of going to the Albatross and Victoria had said, ‘Oh, I’ve heard such a lot about it but never been. May I come?’
As she looked across at him now and smiled, she seemed to be enjoying herself. So far as Edward was aware, Victoria was no jazz freak but at least the noise hadn’t thrown her. They had heard nearly forty-five minutes of the Sulphur City SaturdayNighters before she murmured, ‘Take me home now, please.’
In the taxi he asked, ‘You said you’d heard a lot about the Albatross – how come?’
‘One of my neighbours is a musician. He’s played there.’
‘He has? What’s he called?’
‘Fraser Franklin –’
‘The saxophonist!’
‘The same.’
‘And why have you never been before?’
‘Fraser treats his wife badly. He’s either playing around in London or he’s on the road out of London and playing around. I like Fraser but any invitations to the Albatross with him would involve deceiving his wife.’
‘You sound as though you get a lot of trouble from married men.’
‘I don’t think I’m hassled any more than any other woman.’
The taxi had reached the river. The embankment looked very pretty at this late hour, amber lights reflected in the water, the sparkling lace of the Albert Bridge, the explosion of light upstream at Chelsea Harbour.
‘Why a houseboat?’ said Edward as it came into view.
‘I was left it by my communist aunt.’ Victoria smiled. ‘She was a character more than a communist, really. She’d been to all sorts of places which used to be exotic: Havana, Shanghai, Bucharest. She liked to say she’d been to Hanoi but not to Hackney. She was a snob but also an ardent feminist. No children of her own but four nephews and one niece – me. So when she died she made her point: I got everything. I liked her and I like her houseboat. It’s a bit different. It faces west, you know. You get lovely sunsets over the river, the water seems to burn. Maybe, when this is over …’
Edward nodded. The taxi had come to a stop. ‘Good luck in Greece.’
‘Thank you for the jazz. Don’t get squeezed between Lockwood and Mordaunt and O’Day.’ She leaned across and, very lightly, kissed him on the cheek.
WEEK THREE
The Windsor Rubens
13
Monday
The clouds over Hyde Park were so low that the tops of the tallest buildings around its edge were lost in the mist. Rainy days sound different – not just the pellets of water on the window-panes but the traffic in the distance, slower than usual. Edward speared some bacon on his fork and brought his attention back to the newspaper in front of him. On the surface it appeared as though the rest of the press had not known exactly how to follow the Sunday Post’s exclusive. Owen Cutler hadn’t spoken to anyone else, Downing Street was stalling, and of course no one else knew anything at all. In the event, most of the papers had hunted around for reactions and these had not been difficult to find. The Shadow Minister for the Arts had condemned the whole idea – but then he would, Edward supposed. More interesting were the views of one or two keepers at the British Museum, who said that the Trustees were the proper guardians of the museum and promised that there would be ‘spirited resistance’ from the curatorial staff if the government tried to impose its will without proper consultation. The director of the museum. Sir Martin Ogilvy, and the chairman of the Trustees, Lord Renfrew, both refused to comment. Edward was curious to see that, in the context of the stories as written, this made it seem that both men knew what was going on and were part of a campaign of secrecy, whereas Edward knew that the precise opposite was true.
One of the tabloids had had the cunning idea of telephoning the current Lord Elgin, at his home in Scotland. He had deplored the idea of returning the Marbles and complained that it would injure the good name of his distinguished ancestor.
The bacon and toast were finished. Edward looked out again at the rain. If anything it had worsened: he’d have to take the Aston today. With his finger he brushed some wisps of hair across his forehead. His hairdresser said he wouldn’t recede any more but Edward didn’t believe him. But for once he didn’t dwell on it. He felt remarkably breezy this morning. He heard a plane in the distance but the clouds obscured it. It was too early for Victoria’s flight to Athens anyway – it wasn’t nine yet. He tried to imagine her as she was now, in all probability checking in at Heathrow. That kiss from Victoria … it was a slight thing maybe but he had liked it. Indeed, he liked Victoria. At the same time, there was Nancy. He tried to examine his feelings about Nancy. One minute he felt a longing, the next he felt sick. The sense of well-being he’d had a few moments before began to slip away. Where was Nancy? She had now not been in touch, even via the answering machine, for three days. Who was she, in any case? Was she really a casual west-coaster, able to pick up and discard relationships as if they were clothes or books – books which, once read, were no longer needed? Nancy’s sudden disappearing act was entirely in character – but then perhaps she had deliberately created her ‘character’ so that when it came to her final disappearance he wouldn’t be suspicious until it was too late.
After Nancy, after the doubts she had inflicted on him, Edward found Victoria’s manner rather comforting, flattering even. She seemed honest, straightforward and, most important, happy with herself. Edward now realized, in comparing the two women, that Nancy had never been straightforward. She had seemed happy in her skin when they had met, but he couldn’t be certain even about that.
The phone rang and he started. Was it Nancy at last? The chances were it was more mundane – the general maybe, or Mordaunt, God forbid. He picked up the receiver.
‘It’s me, at Terminal Two.’
‘Victoria! Are you all right? Is the flight on time?’
‘Everything’s fine. Have you seen any of the papers?’
‘All of them.’
‘Nothing Lockwood can’t handle, I would have thought.’
‘I’m no expert. I actually rang to thank you for last night.’
‘No need for thanks. Maybe … when this is all over … some canelloni?’
‘Yes, canelloni, Ponte Alberto, the house speciality. Oh dear … the flight’s being called. I was just going to …’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Edward gently. ‘Enjoy the flight, and don’t do anything dangerous in Greece. Plenty of time when you get back.’
‘No! Oh – all right. I was just going to say … I don’t know what I was going to say. Dammit. All of a sudden, I find that English is a hard language!’
‘Where next?’ said O’Day. He and Riley were standing in the lobby of the Schlüssel Hotel in Basle.
‘The Uster,’ replied Riley. ‘We can walk there from here. Along Eisengasse and then right, into Holbeinstrasse.’ He led the way into the street.
As they walked, O’Day reflected that Riley had a cushy life here in Switzerland – and it showed. His most prominent feature was his stomach, which hung over his belt like an alpine roof loaded with snow. Hauling that thing around had given the man a wheeze. Yet he had a rather pleasant face, round, fleshy lips and blue eyes set wide apart. His main job for the department in Switzerland was to keep an eye out for financial shenanigans and to monitor the international organizations – Unesco, the Red Cross, the World Health Organization – in case they were being infiltrated. There was also a lot of drug money passing through Zurich these days. O’Day made a mental note that, after this was all over, he would have to find more for Riley to do. If nothing else, it would be good for his health.
They had reached the end of Eisengasse and turned into Holbeinstrasse. The Uster would be the eighth hotel they had tried so far. O’Day had flown in the night before, immediately after the Prime Minister’s lunch, flights to Switzerland being rather more frequent than those to Greece.
They reached the Uster and went in. By now they had refined their technique. Although O’Day had yet to meet a Swiss who didn’t speak English better than he did, he had none the less judged it prudent to conduct their enquiries in German. They needed co-operation and were more likely to get it, he thought, if they questioned people in their native tongue. It also fitted the plan they had concocted. O’Day therefore hovered near the entrance to the Uster while Riley approached the concierge: Riley was fluent in German and would take the lead for the moment.
For a short while, however, Riley hung back. It was a big hotel and there were three people behind the concierge’s desk. Only one of them was suited for the story Riley planned to spin.
Eventually, his target – a grey-haired, tired-looking man in his early fifties – was free and Riley moved forward.
‘Bitte?’
The man looked across and attempted a smile.
Riley proffered his embassy identification card. ‘Anthony Riley, sir. British Embassy, Berne. I was hoping you could help us.’
The man looked more interested now, but he still hadn’t managed a full smile.
Riley leaned over the counter, so that he could speak quietly. ‘This is a confidential investigation, sir, because it is a delicate matter. We haven’t involved the Swiss police yet because we don’t think the Swiss taxpayers’ money should be involved.’
Now the concierge was really hooked, though his near-smile had turned into a frown.
Riley nodded towards O’Day, still pacing the lobby near the main door to the street. ‘That man, sir, is a British citizen. He’s here because his daughter has been abducted.’ The concierge’s eyes flashed and Riley prayed that he had chosen his man correctly. He had waited for this particular concierge because he was more or less O’Day’s age and therefore, in theory at least, might have children of his own who were the same age as the ‘victim’ Riley had invented.
‘We have reason to believe, sir, that the girl was brought to Switzerland – at least to begin with. We are trying to trace her movements and to find out the names of the man – or men – she was travelling with. I can give you her name, the relevant dates – and this.’ Riley handed across a hundred-franc note, about £30.
The concierge stared at it for a moment without moving.
Riley left the note on the counter. ‘The British government would be very grateful for your help, sir.’
He was relieved when the man reached forward and took the note. Perhaps he did have a daughter who was a handful. ‘Come through here, please.’ The concierge led Riley around the counter and into a back room, where there was a computer screen. ‘What were the dates and the girl’s name?’
Riley gave him the three dates. ‘Her name is Leondaris, first initial A.’ Riley and O’Day were worried what to do about that initial. A father would certainly know his daughter’s name. ‘Her real name is Alexandra but she has several nicknames – Alex, Lex, Sandra.’
The concierge nodded and began to play the computer keyboard. The screen shone green, went blank, shone green again. There was a pause, then the screen-went blank again, to be replaced almost immediately by columns of numbers and names.
‘Yes,’ said the concierge. ‘Oh … I don’t know. Look … Aristotle Leondaris stayed here on the first date you gave me. Is that a girl? Aristotle? Surely not?’
Riley did his best to control his wheeze, which always got worse when he was excited. ‘She might have changed her name as part of the deception … You see, she was seduced away from Britain by her lover … Maybe the person she was with checked in on her behalf – and changed her
name to be safe, to cover their tracks.’ He paused, for effect. ‘It has to be her. Of course it does! The times and the names fit too closely. Who was she travelling with – can you tell from your records?’
‘Hold on.’ More tapping on the keyboard. ‘Yes, her bill was paid by a Mr Dimitri Kolettis. Just a sec …’ He looked up at Riley. ‘They had separate rooms.’
‘Of course they did,’ wheezed Riley. ‘They would have done that so as not to attract attention to themselves … Tell me, who made the reservations? Was anyone else involved?’
The concierge turned back to the keyboard. After a moment, he pointed to a set of figures and letters on the screen. ‘That code means that the reservation was made locally, by phone. No names, however, just Mr Kolettis’s credit card number. Does that answer your question?’
Not really, thought Riley, but he nodded all the same. It confirmed there was someone here in Basle – but they already knew that. What they wanted was a name. ‘Is there a list of the telephone calls they made?’
The concierge shook his head. ‘Sorry. Our equipment isn’t so fancy.’
Riley smiled in mid-wheeze. He thanked the man on behalf of the British government and went back to tell O’Day. As soon as he had finished, O’Day approached the concierge himself.
‘Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?’
‘But of course.’
‘You have been most helpful – but I wonder if you could help me with one other thing?’ Now O’Day held out a second hundred-franc note.
This time the concierge pocketed it straight away.
‘My daughter’s lover was Greek, but she may have been abducted with the help of people here in Basle – either Swiss or Greek. It is very important for us to trace this local person. The only other thing I can think of is this: my daughter was a great cook – she would have wanted to try the local restaurants. The reservation may have been made by the local man … in his name. Do you have a list of local restaurants? Good ones, I mean.’
