Eleven
As they walked back towards the Old Bailey, Sam asked Charles Harrison if he’d known about his father’s involvement in protests against the multinationals.
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’d join any organisation that meant fresh totty to get his hands on.’
With that final burst of cynicism he bade Sam goodbye and hurried back into the Central Criminal Court.
The sun had come out, but there was a cold wind. Sam continued towards St Paul’s underground station, then took a diversion into a quieter side street to phone Duncan Waddell on his mobile.
His controller sounded out of breath and admitted to having run up several flights of stairs after going for a sandwich. Sam told him about Perry Harrison’s terminal illness.
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, sounding almost hopeful. ‘You mean you’ve found him in a hospice somewhere?’
‘No such luck. Has Kamata left the UK yet?’
‘Still in London. Flying back to Tokyo tomorrow.’
‘And after that? You’ve got his diary?’
‘We’re still working on it. His hotel room’s been searched, along with those of his staff, but nothing was found about his future travel plans. Tokyo station is trying to recruit someone inside Matsubara.’
‘It’ll take too long.’
‘And we don’t have the resources, to be honest.’
‘What about the search of Bordhill?’
‘That’s being worked on.’
Sam heard shouting in the distance. He swung round to see where it was coming from, but the street was boxed in by offices which blocked his view.
‘Duncan, I need a full breakdown of everything the Matsubara Corporation does. And a list of the countries it’s involved in. Every last tentacle, down to the smallest subsidiary.’
‘We’re collecting that already. I’ll email it to you. What are your immediate plans?’
The shouting was getting closer. Chanting too.
‘There seems to be a demo. I’m somewhere near St Paul’s.’
‘That’s the anti-global mob,’ Waddell told him gruffly. ‘The City police have pulled hundreds of extra men in on overtime. Don’t you ever read newspapers?’
Sam ignored the remark. ‘Perry Harrison took part in the last protest in June. Did you know that?’
‘Nothing surprises me with that man.’
‘Think I’ll go and take a look.’
‘For God’s sake, he’s hardly likely to turn up there …’
‘No, but some of his friends might. I’ll ring you in a couple of hours.’
Melissa Dennis sensed that today’s demo would end up being a waste of time. The turnout was poor and the atmosphere lacked the electricity of the last time she’d marched against the global corporations. She kept wondering if it would have been different had Perry been with them, but she suspected that even his enthusiasm and inspiring words would have failed to lift the glumness that hovered over her and her companions like a cloud of midges.
Three of them had driven up from Cambridgeshire that morning. Toby had hardly spoken to her since the incident on Saturday, save to remind her precisely what had happened at the pub in case the alcohol had wiped it from her memory. And the other man in their group, with whom she’d never had much in common, was a moody schizophrenic, whose stability depended on remembering to take his medicine.
So the morning had consisted of a rather silent drive south, followed by a miserable plod through the cold, damp fumes of London’s streets. Today, however, she didn’t mind the surly silence of her immediate companions. Welcomed it even, because her mind was far too busy with plans to want to be distracted by idle chatter.
The procession rounded a corner and she spotted the dome of St Paul’s. She had half a mind to break away from the demo and pop into the cathedral for a rest and to get warm. And to give the pain in her insides a chance to ease up.
Sam walked towards the noise. Emerging onto Newgate Street and facing north towards the tall, grey towers of the Barbican he saw the head of the procession approaching, its banners and floats tailing back. A police incident-control van crawled a few feet in front, an officer watching the crowd from inside a perspex bubble on the roof.
The protest looked small and unthreatening. Sam stood at the kerb as it passed, studying faces and banners. Some slogans were rants against the Big Mac, others were old-fashioned Marxist dogma. Their target list was wide – globalisation and almost anything bad that could be attributed to men with million-pound salaries.
Several of the faces were middle-aged and bucolic, looking uncomfortably rustic alongside those with spiky hair and studs. He searched their ranks for Melissa, his memory of what she looked like distorted by images of her puke-smeared pullover. She was shorter than Julie, he recalled. Less than five foot eight, therefore. Hair dark and unruly, eyes greyish.
A phalanx of banners proclaiming the evils of GM foods passed him by. Then the crowd began to thin. He glanced right. A second police van was bringing up the rear. If this was the demo, they’d had a wasted day. Wouldn’t even make the TV news. No windows smashed. No paint daubed. And no Melissa.
Sam began jogging towards the head of the parade to have another look. Then, all of a sudden, he saw her. At a bus stop, sitting droopily in the shelter, the seat beside her empty.
‘Hello,’ he exclaimed, sitting down next to her. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
She shot him a glance that bore no sign of recognition. The eyes, he noticed, were a sort of blue.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m Geoff, remember? Ginny and I visited Bordhill at the weekend. And we helped you home from the pub on Saturday night.’
‘Oh God. That was you?’ She looked acutely embarrassed. ‘I had a vague memory somebody had. Sorry.’
‘Happens to us all.’
She made no effort to continue the conversation. Then she closed her eyes as if in pain.
‘You all right?’
‘N-no,’ she winced. ‘Not too well at the moment as it happens.’
Still hungover, Sam suspected. ‘Can I do anything for you?’
She shook her head. A bus drew up, but she made no effort to board it.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘N-nowhere just now. This is the only place I could find to sit.’
‘You were on the demo?’
She nodded.
Sam looked over his shoulder.
‘There’s one of those coffee chain places down the road. Be warmer there. I’ll buy you a latte.’
Melissa fixed him with a stony glare. ‘Don’t you know those places exploit people? – Guatemalan farmers, their own employees.’
‘It just happens to be near,’ Sam answered apologetically. ‘You look in bad need of something to warm you up.’
A warm drink might help ease the pain in her stomach, she decided. Anything was better than freezing out here.
‘Perhaps there’s somewhere else.’ She stood up stiffly and peered along the pavement.
‘I can see a place with an Italian-looking name,’ Sam said, pointing. ‘Prepared to risk that?’
‘I guess so. Thank you.’ As they began to walk from the bus shelter, she pooh-poohed his offer of an arm. ‘I’m okay, really. Just the usual female trouble.’
In the warm fug of the café they sat opposite one another with cappucinos. She eyed him warily, trying to guess from his expression whether she’d said things she shouldn’t have done on Saturday.
‘How d’you think it went, the protest?’ Sam asked as an opener.
‘All right. Disappointing turnout though. People put off by the stuff in the press about violence. The trouble with anti-globalisation is that everybody’s got their own agenda.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Simply to make people aware of the fact that our lives are increasingly controlled by unelected bodies called corporations who exploit the poor of the third world,’ she said in a monotone, fixing him with a disparaging
look. ‘They dictate what we eat, what we wear, and how we spend our free time.’
‘You don’t strike me as being a person who’d let herself be dictated to.’
She ignored his attempt at flattery.
‘Perry Harrison not with you this time?’ he asked innocently.
Melissa felt a frisson of alarm. He’d asked a lot of things about Perry on Saturday night, she remembered. Suspected him of being a policeman or reporter. She shook her head.
‘Did you come from Bordhill all by yourself, then?’
‘There’s three of us.’ She held out her arm to look at her watch. ‘I said I’d meet them back at the minibus at three. We left it in North London and came into the centre on the tube.’ She did a quick mental calculation and decided she was okay for time. Despite her suspicions about him, she found she was quite liking the attention she was getting from this man. Nice to have someone interested. Because it didn’t happen that often.
‘You work near here, Geoff?’
‘Yes. In finance.’ He smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘I guess I must be the sort of person you’ve been protesting against.’
Melissa was far from sure he wasn’t really a journalist, but decided she didn’t care. The vapours from the coffee, the general warmth of the place and his friendly presence across the table were making her feel a lot better.
‘I hear Perry Harrison’s very ill,’ Sam said. ‘Sad news.’
Now she was really worried. This was very sensitive information he’d come out with. ‘Who told you that?’ She had a horrible feeling it must’ve been herself, letting it slip on Saturday night.
‘His son told me. I met him this morning at some City do. Quite by chance. Extraordinary thing.’
She gulped with relief.
‘Said his father had terminal cancer.’
Melissa nodded solemnly. She’d always found it hard to talk about serious illness and death and her eyes began to water. ‘He didn’t want anyone at Bordhill to know,’ she whispered, extracting a tissue from a pocket in her jeans.
‘But you knew?’
‘Well yes. Because he confided in me. About most things actually,’ she added, dabbing her eyes.
‘He tell anyone else?’
‘Ingrid, I imagine.’
‘Was he having a relationship with her?’
Melissa gasped. ‘What on earth makes you think that?’ Despite trying not to, she began to blush, then gabbled on rapidly to cover it up. ‘He’d have told Ingrid because she’s his deputy and has to plan for the future. She’s effectively in charge now that Bordhill’s become a trust. Perry made it over to them a fortnight ago. The house – everything. Ingrid is one of the trustees and general manager, so she has enormous power.’
Melissa had been warned not to talk about this, but she wanted people to know about the iniquity of what was happening. Didn’t care anymore whether this man was a reporter or not.
‘Who are the other trustees?’
‘Perry himself, until he passes on. A man calling himself Aung Shwe who leads a Buddhist order in the West Country. He’s actually an Englishman. And Robert Wetherby who’s a very old friend of Perry’s. Lives in Suffolk. They were in the war together. Aung Shwe’s been making eyes at Ingrid, so I suspect he has some protégé in mind for Bordhill.’
A lifetime’s work being picked over by his underlings – another possible reason for Harrison’s disappearance, Sam surmised.
‘What does Perry say about that? You must still be in touch with him – you said you were closer than anyone else at Bordhill.’
‘He’s very unhappy about it, of course.’ Melissa bit her tongue, aware she needed to exercise some restraint. ‘I know that, because I’ve been his PA for the past couple of years.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Nobody’s seen him since the end of the year.’
‘Oh yes. I read that in the papers. What did it involve, being his PA?’
‘Helping with admin. Lots of letters that needed answers. And there were odd things I sorted out for him, like the Internet.’
‘Internet?’ Naïvely, Sam had never imagined seventy-seven year olds tapping into the web. ‘He was online a lot?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ she replied. ‘Once I’d shown him how to use the browser and e-mail and set up some newsgroups for him, I left him to it.’
‘What sort of newsgroups?’
‘Anything to do with Burma.’
She closed her eyes in disbelief. Had she actually said that? Let the word slip out as if it had no particular meaning?
‘Because of being born there,’ she added in a rapid effort to fudge things. ‘He loved that country. Hated the fact the military rulers had changed the name to Myanmar. And was awfully exercised by what the regime’s done to suppress the will of the people.’
Sam’s suspicions multiplied. ‘He contacted other people interested in Burma? On the Internet – is that what you’re saying?’
‘I don’t really know. All I did was set up an anonymous email post-box for him – Myoman he called himself.’ She allowed herself a little smile, unable to resist the chance to show how close she’d been to her Master. ‘Apparently Myo is a name the Burmese give a child born on a Thursday. And Perry was.’
Myoman. Sam memorised it. ‘This was recent, him being on the Internet?’
‘Since learning he didn’t have long to live.’
‘D’you know why he suddenly took it up?’
‘To find out about Burma, I assume. He wanted to put things right, you see. Before he passed away. With the family. Hoped to make his peace with them.’ She kicked herself for telling him that. Engaging mouth before brain, as usual.
‘Was he still in touch with …’ Sam snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve forgotten the name of the Burmese wife.’
‘Tin Su. No, he wasn’t in touch. Which is partly what he was upset about. Not knowing what had happened to her and their two sons.’
‘So is that where he’s gone, d’you think? To Burma?’
Melissa’s insides turned over. This was absolutely not the conclusion she’d wanted him to draw, yet by letting her tongue run away with itself it was inevitable that he would.
‘Oh I wouldn’t have thought so. It’s the other side of the world and he’s very unwell.’
Watching Melissa’s face was like seeing curtains move on a stage. Sam couldn’t decide if anything meaningful was going on behind them.
‘My own, rather sad feeling is that he may have just slipped off somewhere to die,’ she declared, eyes widening with the ingenuity of her fantasy. ‘Well away from all the fuss over his succession at Bordhill. You know, like animals do. He’s always been close to nature. What does Charles think?’
‘Charles was concerned about what his father might do to that Japanese bloke …’
Melissa blinked. ‘What Japanese bloke?’
‘Kagata, Kamata or whatever his name is. The one who’s buying the Walsall car plant.’
There was still no sign she’d understood.
‘The man Perry mentioned in his book,’ he explained. ‘The Jap who tortured him.’
Melissa wrinkled her brow. ‘Yes, yes, I know all about that. But I still don’t understand. What might Perry do to him?’
‘You didn’t know about his letter to The Times?’
She felt incredibly stupid all of a sudden.
‘On New Year’s Eve. Saying Britain shouldn’t accept financial support from a man with blood on his hands. It wasn’t published but there was stuff in the Sunday papers about it yesterday.’
‘I don’t read newspapers,’ she said, defensively. ‘They’re so full of lies.’ But she was shocked that something as significant as this could have passed her by. And that Perry hadn’t told her. ‘But I still don’t understand why Charles should be so worried.’
‘It’s because of what the letter said at the end. That now Mr Kamata had come into the open it wouldn’t be long before one of his former victims d
id away with him.’
Her eyes widened. For several seconds she couldn’t speak. Her world had just turned upside-down.
‘The implication being that Perry himself might be the one to do it,’ Sam added, so she wouldn’t miss the point.
‘I … I have to go,’ she stammered. ‘The others … they’ll be waiting for me.’
Sam hunched forward, realising he’d touched a button.
‘Perry needs help, Melissa. If you know where he is …’
She stood up and backed away, recalling all the stupid things she’d let slip in the last few minutes.
‘I have to go now,’ she whispered. ‘Oh …’ She started digging in the pocket of her coat. ‘Can I give you some money for my coffee?’
‘Forget it.’ He stood up too and grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Where’s Perry gone, Melissa?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ She jerked herself free and headed for the door.
Sam followed close on her heels, but as they reached the pavement there was a squeal of brakes and a bus drew up. Melissa ran to board it. She stood on the platform as it pulled away, staring back at him as if he’d set the devil on her tail.
Twelve
Less than an hour later Sam was back in the Ealing flat, with two new leads to check out – the Internet sites and Harrison’s friend Robert Wetherby. It had begun to rain on the walk back from the tube. He hung his dripping coat on a hook in the hall and stuck his collapsible umbrella in the kitchen sink. It’d be another hour before Julie was home.
He powered up his laptop and was about to plug it into the phone socket to search for Burma newsgroups on the Internet when he noticed the answerphone flashing. He touched the replay button.
‘Hello Julie. I’m around for a few days. Love to see you. Could you ring me on my mobile?’ A man’s voice. Foreign accent. Eastern European by the sound of it.
Sam stared at the machine as if it had bitten him. There were east Europeans in his past who wanted him dead.
He played the message again, listening for anything familiar in the voice. Then he drummed his fingers on the table, realising it wasn’t his safety he was worried about.
He was jealous.
They’d had an understanding, he and Julie. An agreement that if they had the odd fling while apart, they wouldn’t let it intrude on their relationship. But this cock crow from inside that damned plastic box, had done exactly that.
The Burma Legacy Page 11
