by Peter James
Chapter Ninety-one
Headlights flared through the windscreen, momentarily dazzling Michael. Shadows leaped up at him as if they had torn free from the road. A car driving on full beam, thumping out a bass beat, turned across him then headed off up the wide Cheltenham avenue.
It was a quarter to one in the morning. The traffic light changed to green and Michael drove on, following the town-centre signs. The radio, badly tuned into a station it had found by itself, played hotel-foyer music. He pulled onto a garage forecourt to ask directions; the shop was locked and the attendant, seated behind a bullet-proof window with voice holes, was buried in a book propped against the window – Minette Walters’ The Echo – and didn’t notice Michael until he tapped on the glass.
With some reluctance he put down the book and produced a map from somewhere beneath him. ‘Royal Court Walk?’
Michael nodded.
The attendant found it, gave him the directions then yawned and returned to his novel.
Michael drove for another mile, as he had been instructed, down a series of wide, almost deserted avenues with silhouettes of Georgian façades beyond their edges. Then he saw the landmark pub the attendant had mentioned and turned left.
The first road on the right was Royal Court Walk. He pulled the Volvo over to the kerb and switched on the map light to check the number: 97. Then he looked up at the elegant terraced houses. On the right he saw number 5. On the left number 4 and then number 6. Odd numbers on the right. He drove on: 17, 19. Further, then he looked again: 31 . . . 33 . . . 35. Further: 71 . . . 73 . . . Further, 91 . . . 93 . . . 95.
The street ended in a T-junction at 95. Puzzled, he did a U-turn. The last house on the opposite side was numbered 96. Then, just to make sure, he got out of the car and walked round the corner. Sometimes houses on a corner took the smarter address of their neighbouring street. But there was no 97 round the corner either.
Back in the car, he kept the driver’s door open and under the interior light checked once more the number that was on the form. Clearly written. No possibility of either digit being mistaken for anything else. This was deliberate.
Dr Terence Goel had chosen this number because he knew it did not exist.
He switched off the interior light and sat in the shadowy glow of the street-lighting. Amanda had disappeared only days after Goel had first come to see him.
He was now even more convinced that Goel was involved. The man who could help him was here, in Cheltenham, a GP, a man who did not return phone calls.
He tried Directory Enquiries, to see if they had a home address listed for Dr Sundaralingham. They did, but it was ex-directory. Michael pleaded with the operator that he was a doctor and this was an emergency, but her only suggestion was for him to try the police.
He considered calling Roebuck, but it was now after one in the morning. He wasn’t going to get the best out of Roebuck or Sundaralingham at this hour.
Ten minutes later, Michael drove into the tired-looking crescent where, according to the letterhead, Dr Sundaralingham’s practice was located, and pulled up outside number 20.
There was a list of names on a brass panel beside the front door of the building, but no Dr Sundaralingham among them. Or any other doctor.
The crescent was quiet, no traffic, just the warm silence of the night. He took his mobile phone out of his car, walked up close to the building and dialled Dr Sundaralingham’s number. Moments later, somewhere up above him, he heard a phone ring. Four rings, and then the same recorded voice he’d heard before, through the receiver.
‘Dr Sundaralingham can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and he’ll get right back to you.’
He hung up, and to make sure, redialled the number. Again, after a few moments he heard ringing above him.
He tried each of the doorbells in turn, twice, but there was no response from any of them. He got back into his car, reversed a few feet until he had a clear view of the imposing columned steps that led up to the front door, then reclined his seat a little, and locked his doors. His body felt dog-tired but his brain was still churning. He would hear footsteps or a car. Anyone arriving here was going to wake him if he did doze off.
He closed his eyes to find his thoughts spinning in a whirlpool. Like a centrifuge, they held him, giddy and helpless, slowly drawing him down into the funnel of pure dark dread that was their centre.
There he slept.
Chapter Ninety-two
Beneath the Philippe Starck desk lamp, shadows from his fingers prowled over the keys.
Sometimes Thomas felt these were the keys of a Steinway piano, and that he was a great musician playing with all his soul, as he sat in his den, lost to the world, mesmerised by the glow of the monitor, the keys clicking under his fingers, his body swaying to the rhythm of the words that streamed across the screen.
Words that came out of the ether, pouring from his hands as if he was merely the conduit between the creator and the screen. Surgeon’s hands, his mother had told him. Yes, slender hands, with long, beautiful fingers, the nails trim and spotless, the cuticles exquisitely manicured.
She had been sad when he left medical school. Sad and angry. ‘You’re not right in the head, you do know that, Tom-Tom, don’t you?’
Why had he left?
It was so far in the past, it was hard to remember any more. He was never exactly sure at the time. People at the school were angry with him, yes, but they were constantly angry with him over such petty stuff. Maybe it had been the bitch nurse he’d punched in the face when she’d laughed at him when he asked her to touch his choo-choo. There had been some big anger about that. His mother had been right about her. But was that the reason he’d had to leave? So much went clean out of his mind, and it seemed to be getting worse all the time. But not this morning. His memory was good this morning,
Powered up like a fully charged battery. Cool summer air bathed his body, which was naked beneath his silk dressing gown. Freshly bathed, shaved, cologned, ready. Busy day today. Cora Burstridge’s funeral in Brighton. Then the mastectomy operation at King’s. Then he would operate on Dr Michael Tennent’s bit of fluff.
His supplies chest was light on anaesthetics; he’d used up most of his stock on Tina Mackay and the punky little newspaper reporter, Justin Flowering. Trying to keep them alive long enough to go on experiencing pain. He had forms printed in the name of Dr Sundaralingham but maybe they weren’t necessary. Perhaps he could have more fun if Amanda Capstick remained awake.
Much more fun.
The cursor blinked on the screen in front of him as he sat in the darkness of drawn curtains in his den, responding to an e-mail that had arrived minutes ago from across the world.
Joe,
always quite magical to hear from you. I am coping well with my sad loss, thank you, it is kind of you to be so concerned. It was Gore Vidal, I believe, who said we are all fading to black at different speeds. How true! Bereavement is difficult – I cannot remember, did you tell me that you, too, had lost your dear mother? Too bad you couldn’t make the funeral, it was quite something. We had to have a police presence to control the crowds. Understandable, of course, there was quite extraordinary love for my mother. It is hard to turn on the television at the moment without finding a Gloria Lamark retrospective of some kind, and I find these painful to watch.
The weather is hot here in London at the moment, yes, we are having a heatwave!!!! I know you think that we poor Londoners live permanently in fog and smog and drizzle, but really we are having an incredible heatwave. Hot also in Hong Kong, I expect?
What have you read about quantum vortexes? did you see the piece in Nature? I think the government are using these for mind control – electromagnetic influences on the brain, we talked about that. the US govt grid in Alaska using the power grid equivalent of ten major cities. Come on, what is this???
Stay in touch!
Your friend.
Thomas
The doorbell rang.
Have I fed the thing? Last night, I took it down some food. Must not forget breakfast. I want it to keep its strength up today of all days. Yes, Amanda, the stronger you are the more pain you will tolerate!
He went into the hall. Eight o’clock in the morning. Yes, it must be the postman. Black slippers slapping on the grey flagstones, past the long-case clock, past the lacquered table, up to the door, he slid the top and bottom bolts, then peered through the spyhole. He saw a man he did not recognise, in a suit and tie, his face blubbery in the distorted fish-eye lens.
There was, of course, no need to open the door.
Thomas felt uncertain about this man: Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons came in pairs. Postmen wore uniforms.
He listened. Positively no sounds from the thing down in the shelter beneath him.
Be careful.
He opened the door, relaxed, natural, the way any man in a Paisley silk dressing gown who is happy to be alive on such a fine morning might open his front door. ‘Yes? Good morning?’
The stranger was a tall man with a hefty frame shoehorned into a cheap suit; the muscles of his bull neck bulged through his open-throat drip-dry yellow shirt. Alert grey eyes in a baby face beneath a crown of fair hair cropped to a fuzz.
‘Mr Thomas Lamark?’ The bland North London accent carried a certain authority.
‘Yes,’ Thomas continued his charm offensive, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Detective Constable Roebuck from the Metropolitan Police.’ He showed Thomas his identification. ‘I apologise for coming by so early. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time, sir?’
The sharp bob of Thomas Lamark’s Adam’s apple gave DC Roebuck his first clue that he was facing an anxious man. But that wasn’t anything to get lit up on; from experience he knew that many innocent people became nervous in the presence of policemen.
The man’s voice remained calm. ‘It’s a little inconvenient, Officer. I have to go to a funeral.’
Instantly Thomas cursed himself. He hadn’t meant to say that.
The detective looked suitably contrite. ‘I’m sorry – someone close?’
‘No, not really. I mean – you know how it is, one has obligations in life.’ What do you want?
‘Of course.’
They remained staring at each other, a silent freeze-frame on the top step.
‘I really won’t take up more than five minutes of your time,’ Roebuck said.
There was an insistence in his voice that concerned Thomas. Eight o’clock. He had time. Half an hour maximum to deal with this man, to give the bit of fluff its breakfast, and to leave. He needed to find out what the man knew. ‘Please come in. Would you care for coffee? Colombian roast? They are excellent beans, I can recommend them. Harder to come by than usual this year, because of coffee-rust disease, but well worth drinking, I can assure you.’
‘Thank you, I’m fine.’
They entered the hall. Thomas saw the detective admire an oil painting of his mother stepping from a limousine in a blaze of flashguns.
‘My mother, Gloria Lamark,’ he said proudly. ‘At the première of her film, The Widow of Monaco.’
‘Ah, right. She died recently, I believe. I’m sorry. I gather she was quite famous, once.’
Thomas had difficulty containing the anger that erupted through him. Once!
With balled fists and white knuckles, he took the detective through into the grand drawing room and opened the curtains. Every inch of wall space was filled with photographs, paintings and framed photographs of Gloria Lamark. Thomas led him over to a photograph of his mother shaking hands with Lord Snowdon and Princess Margaret.
‘A very beautiful lady,’ Roebuck said.
‘She was.’ It came out like an explosion of air. Thomas’s nerves were going haywire. He turned away from the policeman, taking deep breaths. This was not good. He needed to calm down, but the man was jangling him around inside his head. He led the detective to a sofa, then sat down on the edge of the one opposite, and tried to calm his mind again. But it was no good: his thoughts were jumping, his brainwaves a mess of spikes and troughs.
Roebuck pulled a notebook out of his pocket and opened it. The man was going to a funeral. He remembered the Sussex detective, Glenn Branson, last night saying he was going to a funeral this morning. The same one? Unlikely.
He stared directly into Thomas’s eyes. ‘Mr Lamark, on March sixteenth of this year I understand you submitted a manuscript titled The Authorised Biography of Gloria Lamark to the publishers Pelham House. Is that correct?’
It was so unexpected that the words hit Thomas like a punch. And yet it wasn’t unexpected. He had known that, sooner or later, someone would make this connection, that there would be a policeman coming round, making routine inquiries, and he had it all rehearsed, he knew exactly what he was going to say.
Except now he had forgotten.
‘Yes.’ He frowned, suddenly starting to feel calmer again. ‘Yes, that was one of the firms I sent it to – I think.’ That came out well, confident. Doing better now. He managed a smile. ‘I’m afraid I sent it to several publishers.’
‘Did anyone accept it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Were you a little surprised to get this kind of reaction?’
The detective’s eyes were roaming. Up to the ceiling. Down to the floor. The man was fishing away. Thomas pressed his hands together. Body language. He leaned back more expansively on the sofa. Maintain eye-contact. He smiled, disarmingly.
‘Officer, I think too many people today take Mr Warhol’s dictum of fifteen minutes of fame a little too seriously. They find it hard to accept that true talent broaches all boundaries of time. The films that my mother made are as important to the world today as they always were. Some were so far ahead of their time that their true value is only just starting to be recognised. Naturally it is disappointing to be turned down. But I take solace from the knowledge that mediocrity recognises nothing higher than itself. Only talent recognises genius.’
The detective continued to watch him in silence. Then he said, ‘I understand that you made several phone calls to Pelham House in connection with your manuscript. Can you remember the nature of those calls?’
Relaxing totally now, Thomas grinned broadly. ‘Sure, I was pissed off. I didn’t hear a word for two months after I sent them the manuscript. Not even a letter of acknowledgement.’
Roebuck said, ‘I had a mate who wrote a book about a police officer – the first publisher he sent it to took over a year.’ He raised his eyebrows then grinned. ‘Pretty frustrating.’
Thomas grinned back, but let out no slack. This man was playing a game, trying to get some communality between them, trying to make him feel comfortable enough to drop his guard. ‘Your friend was upset?’
‘Yes, he was.’ The detective nodded. Still smiling, he said, ‘So is it your normal pattern to phone publishers up and be abusive to them?’
Thomas did not like this question. But he opened his arms and laughed. ‘Do I look like a flake to you, DC Roebuck?’
The detective shook his head.
‘I’m just a regular guy who wanted to do the right thing by his mother. She was a very great actress. She turned down hundreds of offers from people to write her biography because she didn’t trust them to get it right. She went to court four times to stop unauthorised biographies. You know what the problem is? Today’s publishing houses are filled with ignorant young people still in their shit-stained nappies who can’t believe anyone older than the Spice Girls or younger than Darwin could possibly be of interest to the world!’ Thomas slammed his fist furiously down on the side arm of the sofa.
Then he clocked the expression on the detective’s face and knew that he was blowing it.
With his eyes locked on Thomas Lamark’s, DC Roebuck said, ‘I don’t know if you have seen the news, sir, but Tina Mackay disappeared three weeks ago.’
And Thomas knew that DC Roebuck suspected him. He knew that DC Roebuck was intending to try to get a search warrant. A few bits of the Alfa Romeo were still in the garage. He wasn’t ready to be searched yet. This was dangerous. This was a very bad situation.
Stupid.
Simon Roebuck watched Thomas Lamark stand up and say, ‘Would you excuse me for one moment? I have to go to the bathroom.’
‘Of course.’
He watched Lamark leave the room. Something felt wrong. He stood up and paced around the room, thinking. He stopped by the mantelpiece. Two invites stood there, both for previews at art galleries, both several months old. Strange, he thought, that a man in a house this grand, with a celebrity mother, did not have more invites.
And why the hell was Lamark so edgy? He was trying to put on a calm, jovial, relaxed front, but that’s what it was: a front.
Roebuck thought hard. He wanted to have a thorough look around here, but did he have enough evidence to convince a magistrate to grant a search warrant?
He walked over to the window and looked out into the garden. A beautiful garden, but in a state of neglect. No one had cut the grass in weeks. Why not? Perhaps Lamark was just in a bad way from his bereavement, but surely in a house this grand he would have staff. A gardener?
Thomas Lamark stood behind him.
‘DC Roebuck, would you mind if we continued this conversation on another occasion?’
Roebuck turned round, startled. ‘Er – no. When would be convenient for you, sir?’
‘Later today, perhaps, after the funeral?’
‘Shall we say five o’clock?’ Roebuck’s mind was racing now. Was he going to a funeral? Or to Amanda Capstick’s hiding place? He decided to follow him.
‘Five o’clock would be entirely convenient.’
They walked through into the hall. Thomas stretched out a hand. Roebuck shook it firmly. Then Thomas opened the door, glanced down at the palm of his left hand, then swung it forward.
