by Susan Moody
Kate was out that evening. Encouraged by Janine, she had gone with friends to see the new James Bond, so Janine was alone in the flat. Closing the ledgers, finally, she decided that she had to say a permanent goodbye to her lover. She hadn’t decided which approach to take, but she fancied that telling him she was getting engaged might work best, him being such a proponent of marriage. She figured he would take it in good part, there never having really been any obligation between the two of them – in fact, when she thought about it, their arrangement had really been little more than a mutually satisfactory business agreement. And now it was time to move on.
Her eyes were tired from poring over figures for so long, so she flicked on the television, hopped from a football game between two European sides to a football game between two more European sides to a programme about removing all the plants from your back garden and filling it instead with white pebbles and mirrors, which seemed moderately boring but less so than soccer, and was about to pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle standing in the kitchen when the buzzer went.
She felt a frisson of apprehension. Earlier she’d told her lover on the phone that she had finished the task he had given her: now she wondered whether he had come to first collect his incriminating evidence and then to remove her. She had no reason to imagine anything like that – he had never, in all their time together, shown any kind of violence, either verbal or physical, though she remembered a call he’d taken in his room once, speaking in Spanish which, thanks to her long-ago evening classes, she had had little difficulty in following, his voice changing from genial to steely as she listened. ‘I told you to chat her up, find out what she knows, not fall in love with her, you are stupid, no, no, you are already promised elsewhere, do not go on being stupid, you will begin to annoy me, life is not about love, love is not important, family is important, work is important.’ And then, just before slamming down the telephone, ‘You will do as you are told, or answer to me for the consequences.’
Janine had pretended to be doing something in the en suite, waiting with the door open until he came back into the bedroom and called out to ask if she was ready. ‘What?’ she’d said, as though she could barely hear him, and hoped that he would feel sufficiently confident that she had not been eavesdropping, though even if she had, he would surely not have expected her to understand what he was saying or the import of his words.
The buzzer sounded again and this time she answered it. ‘Hello, who is it?’ she said and when the muffled voice answered, asked again, ‘Who?’ though she had perfectly understood that somehow she had managed to conjure up Magnus Lennox who even now was outside the main door of her building, causing her body to do all the things that happen to girls in Barbara Cartland novels, such as her heart beating so rapidly she could almost see the rise and fall of her snowy bosom (though in fact her bosom was a fairly attractive olive-brown, thanks to her genetic inheritance from her father), such as the blood staining her damask cheek a crimson-red, such as the electricity of the moment coursing thickly through her secret parts. ‘Just a minute,’ she fumbled, placing her mouth as close to the speaker as she could so that Magnus, three stories below, could not make the mistake of assuming that she was not going to let him in. ‘I’m pressing the button, just push the door and come on up.’
She rushed into her bedroom, squirted Miss Dior behind her ears, brushed her hair and let it sit on her shoulders, contemplated changing out of her sweatshirt into a demure blouse but decided none of her blouses were all that demure in the first place, and besides, Magnus had come to see Kate, not her, so what she wore was immaterial, and she’d look ridiculous if she hurried herself into one of her smarter outfits when she was supposed to be spending the evening alone, by which time he was knocking at the door of the flat. She peered through the peephole (really lovely eyes) and opened the door. ‘Come on in,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid Kate’s gone to the cinema with some friends.’
‘I knew she was out, and in any case, I didn’t come to see her,’ he said. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘You did?’ For a moment her heart did the Cartland thing again, until he added, ‘Yes, to . . . er . . . ask your opinion about how she’s getting on, while she isn’t around.’
‘Oh.’ What else had she expected? That he’d throw himself on to one knee, bring out a small box of navy-blue leather, open it to display a ring lying in a bed of crushed velvet, and cry ‘Marry me!’? Well, yes, in some tiny crevice of her perfectly sensible brain, that was precisely what she’d, if not expected, then at least hoped. She led the way towards the kitchen. ‘Coffee?’
‘Lovely . . . though actually, on second thoughts, if you don’t mind maybe I’ll—’
‘It’s all right, Kate’s bought all the makings for the real stuff,’ she said, trying not to laugh at the alarm on his face. ‘Or there’s your cognac. If you choose coffee, you’ll have to make it yourself.’ Such a performance, she thought, all that steaming and hissing, that grinding of beans and pushing down of plungers, that boiling of water and so on, when personally she couldn’t spot the difference between the end result and instant, except that the real stuff was so much more bitter, not that she’d ever tell him that.
Later, settled opposite each other, he said, ‘As I explained, the reason I’m here is that I wanted to find out how you thought Kate was doing.’
‘Like I said before, she’s very strong. Psychologically, I mean. What happened to her was hugely traumatic, but I honestly think she’s going to get through it about as well as it’s possible to do so. And although it’s a small compensation, at least the bastards didn’t rape her, though from what she said, had the mysterious Mick turned up, it might have been a different story.’
‘That’s a relief, I suppose.’
‘I expect she told you about the guy, this Stefano person, being murdered.’
‘What? No, she didn’t, probably because I’ve been up giving some lectures in Edinburgh.’
‘Apparently he tricked his way out of prison, and the next thing we knew, he was found beaten to death, right outside the back door of that wine bar where Kate first met him.’
‘Good heavens.’ He hesitated. ‘I suppose I should say that’s awful, but . . . Do they think it has anything to do with . . . with what happened to Kate?’
‘I don’t know. The police asked her if she had any idea who might have wanted to get rid of him. She thought they half-suspected she might have done it herself!’
‘How ridiculous! It could as easily have been me, avenging my sister’s honour.’
‘Or me,’ Janine said. ‘On behalf of my friend.’
Magnus twitched awkwardly, tugging at his grey cardigan (should she offer to sew the missing button on for him now or wait for a more apposite moment?), touched his hair, unwound his long legs and wound them up again, and she had an absurd urge to stroke him, calm him down. ‘Look, I haven’t eaten yet,’ he said. ‘Would you like to find somewhere, nothing fancy, we’ll do that another time, where we could have a curry or some pasta or something?’
‘But aren’t we coming to your house for dinner tomorrow?’
‘Supper,’ amended Magnus, ‘I’m keeping it simple, but Kate will be there, which means we shan’t be alone.’
‘In that case, I’d love to,’ Janine said, thoughts skittering round the pleasure of the phrase ‘we’ll do that another time’ like an Olympic freestyle skater, ‘we shan’t be alone’, oh lovely. ‘There’s a nice Italian place just a couple of blocks from here. They do wonderful veal.’
‘Terrific,’ Magnus said. ‘Get your coat and let’s go.’
Jefferson
Twenty-Three
‘Hi, Gordon, it’s Jefferson.’
‘Jeff, me old son, how the hell are you? Enjoy your holiday?’
‘It was fantastic. Thanks so much for arranging such a marvellous hotel for me – they wouldn’t even let me pay the bill!’
‘All part of the service, dear boy. How about the blue-sh
oed boobies, then?’
‘Elvis, eat your heart out.’
‘Nice one,’ Gordon chortled.
‘Look, I’d like to come down and have a chat with you.’
‘What about?’
‘I think it would be better if I came down, rather than talk about this on the phone.’
‘That serious, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘When would you like to come?’
‘As soon as possible. Oh, and Gordon, did you have any chance to find that police report you mentioned?’
‘Not yet. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’ve still got it. I dumped a lot of stuff from those days – too upsetting, considering what happened to your mum, didn’t want the reminders.’
‘I can understand that. But have another look, if you can. By the way, would it be all right if I brought a friend?’
‘The more the merrier. Come for lunch.’
Jefferson picked Magnus Lennox up at eleven o’clock the following Saturday morning. Magnus had suggested bringing his sister along, as she was so closely involved, had actually survived the crash, but not knowing the woman, Jefferson said he thought it better not to overload Gordon with guests, though this was not the real reason, his stepfather’s hospitality being boundless. The fact was that he had at least met Magnus, and knew he would provide moral support, whereas the sister was an unknown quantity and could well be the sort to get up Gordon’s nose in some way or another, thus damming up any stream of information that might have otherwise been supplied. He could picture her clearly, a female version of Magnus, an angular bluestocking with severe hair and dull clothes (another grey cardigan?), a gummy smile, talking too much and trying to challenge Gordon, which Jefferson knew from past experience was a lost cause. Gordon was genial most of the time, but could dig his toes in if he felt threatened, and besides, his attitude to women was very far from reconstructed, and Jefferson could just see the sister bridling as Gordon called her ‘dear’ and asked her to clear the table, on top of which Magnus had embarrassingly implied that she was one of those women who suffered from PMT, might even be doing so at this moment; he really didn’t want to go there.
Lunch awaited them in Gordon’s surprisingly restrained dining room, fire burning in the grate (‘I like to be warm when I’m eating, old son’), dark green wallpaper with nothing more extravagant on the walls than what looked like genuine antique prints of birds (though Jefferson seriously doubted whether Gordon knew a kingfisher from a kestrel), a fine mahogany table and a couple of beautiful sideboards. He wondered whether his mother had chosen them, and the toile de Jouy drapes over the French windows leading out into the garden.
‘I’ve gotta mate with a restaurant in town, got him to send some stuff over and Trudi, my housekeeper, she’s Austrian, organized the rest,’ Gordon explained to his guests as they appreciatively ate home-made mushroom soup laced with sherry and mustard, followed by cold poached salmon with an avocado and lemon sauce, freshly baked bread, a Brie and a Bresse Bleu cheese, a platter of fruit, and a dish of kumquats soaked in a Cointreau-flavoured syrup. They did not talk of the reason why they had come, instead touching lightly on Russian orthodoxy (Magnus), makes of cars (Gordon), England’s chances on the rugby tour of South Africa (Jefferson), and the current economic climate (all three of them, heatedly and with varying indication of stress).
‘Very nice indeed,’ Jefferson said, as finally they were drinking coffee in Gordon’s study. ‘What’s the name of your friend’s restaurant? I’ll have to go there next time I’m in the area.’
‘It’s called Mango, down that side street by the Town Hall. I’ll get him to give you dinner on the house,’ Gordon said.
‘That’s not necessary,’ said Jefferson. ‘I can perfectly well pay my own way.’
‘I’m sure you can, old son. But a freebie never hurts, does it?’
‘I suppose not.’ Though Jefferson had a powerful feeling that a freebie from Gordon might hurt quite a bit if he wasn’t careful. If there was one thing he’d like to avoid, it was being beholden to Gordon, and he was already regretting the fact that he hadn’t been more insistent on paying for his hotel in Quito, though on the other hand, since the management had been careless enough to let a sneak-thief or cat-burglar get into his room, he figured they owed him one. Looking back, he was quite certain they’d known all about the break-in, just from the way they glanced at him and then away, watching him in the mirrors of the foyer, just as he’d watched them.
‘Right, shall we get down to business?’ Gordon opened a box and brought out a cigar which, after a lot of fussing about with a multi-pronged silver (or possibly chrome) utensil and much unnecessary chat about the thighs of Cuban virgins, he lit.
‘Well . . .’ Jefferson looked at Magnus, who nodded encouragingly. ‘I don’t want you to be upset, but it looks very much as though my mother, Rhoda, was . . .’ He paused, feeling a sudden lump in his throat. ‘Was murdered.’
Gordon pulled himself upright. ‘Murdered? Your mum? You’re having me on.’
‘Not her specifically, I don’t mean, but she and the people in the car with her.’
‘But why?’ Gordon waved away the blue smoke which had gathered in a nimbus around his head, his expression, when it finally emerged, pretty much duplicating the look on the face of the blue-eyed duck-billed platypus. ‘Who’d have it in for your ma, what did she ever do to anyone?’
‘She was with my father – and his wife and child,’ Magnus explained. ‘Plus my other sister, the only one to survive the crash, and she doesn’t remember anything at all about the accident, but it’s beginning to look pretty obvious that their car was deliberately caused to swerve off the road.’
‘That’s terrible.’ Gordon held his cigar away from him. ‘Really awful. I’m so very sorry, not just for you, but for me, too.’ He stared down at the floor. ‘She was a good old girl, your mother, broke the mould when they made her, you wouldn’t believe how much I still miss her.’
Not that much, Jefferson thought, recalling the hard-looking white-stiletto-wearing blonde who’d arrived as he was leaving last time he was here – or was that Trudi the Austrian housekeeper? ‘I’m sorry, Gordon,’ he said sympathetically.
‘It was a long time ago,’ Magnus added. ‘I doubt if anyone will ever be brought to justice for it – even if we’re correct in thinking it was deliberate.’
‘Did you ever find the report you had from the police out there?’ Jefferson asked.
‘Matter of fact, I spent quite a bit of time looking for it, after you rang.’ Gordon shrugged, spewing more cigar smoke. ‘But no go, I’m afraid – I must have thrown it out. What about your dad’s papers, is there anything among them?’
‘I haven’t finished going through them completely, but at first glance there’s nothing resembling an official report. I’ve still got a few pages to wade through, though.’
‘At the time it happened, there was some talk of gunshots,’ said Magnus, ‘but the only witness, a young boy, subsequently disappeared.’
‘Someone probably paid off his parents,’ said Gordon. ‘Or the police. Or both.’
‘The thing is,’ Jefferson said, ‘gunshots or not, why would anyone want to cause such an accident in the first place?’
‘Exactly.’ Gordon looked baffled. ‘I mean, they were nothing more than a bunch of boffins, weren’t they, zoologists, marine biologists, whatever they were, ’scuse me, both of you, no insult intended, but why would anyone want to eliminate people like that, scientists, more interested in seaweed and turtle eggs than anything else?’
‘It could have been anything; the only thing we can think of is that my father was embroiled in some kind of dispute with someone who was despoiling the natural habitat of the Islands by illegally harvesting sea-cucumbers.’
‘Sea-cucumbers, you having me on?’
‘Not at all.’
‘It seems a bit drastic,’ said Gordon. ‘I mean, who’s going to cause the deaths of four people o
ver a few sea-slugs . . . even if they do make Viagra look a bit pointless?’
‘The aphrodisiac aspect isn’t really proven,’ said Magnus.
‘Back then, it was a pretty lucrative trade,’ Jefferson pointed out. ‘Still is, to a certain extent.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Magnus’s father was obviously spoiling their profitable little game – what you referred to the other day as a “loose cannon” – and they just wanted to get rid of him.’
‘So basically you’re saying that my wife died a hideous death, just because she was in the wrong place, with the wrong people, at the wrong time.’
‘I suppose we are,’ Magnus said.
‘This police report you saw, Gordon, I don’t suppose it had any of this information in it, did it?’
‘You’re not wrong there, Jeff. If I’d known anything of what you’re telling me now, I certainly wouldn’t have let the matter rest, no way.’ Gordon frowned. ‘Bugger it. If I’d only realized how important it could have been, I’d have taken a lot better care of that report than I did. Not that it said anything, not at first sight, anyway, and like I said, my solicitor fully agreed.’
‘It wouldn’t have mattered anyway,’ said Magnus. ‘It sounds as if it didn’t begin to get anywhere near the truth, almost as if they didn’t care about the truth, just wanted to get the ends tied up, sweep the awkwardness of it all under the carpet.’ He was aware of metaphors being mixed, but ignored them. ‘The only way we’ll ever know now is if my sister remembers what happened, and she’s not likely to do that, not after all this time.’
‘Probably better if she doesn’t,’ Gordon said, which Jefferson found remarkably astute of him, even compassionate. In fact, he thought, driving Magnus back, over the past few weeks he had found himself revising his opinion about Gordon: he might confuse Ecuador and Peru, but he had been a good husband to Jefferson’s mother, and what more could anyone ask?