(2013) The Catch

by Tom Bale

  ‘All to your liking, I trust?’

  ‘Yes.’ Stemper approached the window, which was obscured by a net curtain. There was no view, other than that of the building in the street behind.

  ‘So what brings you to these sunny shores?’

  ‘Business meetings.’ Stemper noticed two flies caught in the net: one dead, one still struggling.

  ‘You’re not an actor, then?’

  ‘An actor? No. Why?’

  Stemper turned in time to see the proprietor shrug. His hands were clasped wistfully against his chest.

  ‘You might laugh, but I pride myself on guessing a profession, and I had you down as something theatrical. Definitely a touch of the Alec Guinness about you.’

  Stemper shook his head. ‘Nothing as glamorous, I’m afraid.’ A teasing pause, then: ‘Yourself?’

  Quills beamed with gratitude. ‘Oh, I only dabble these days. Amateur stuff, though I was a background artist on the remake of Brighton Rock. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A wonderful experience. I worked alongside John Hurt and Dame Helen Mirren. Such a gracious lady, Dame Helen—’

  Stemper nodded. ‘Marvellous. Well, I had better get unpacked.’

  ‘Of course. Please do call if you need anything.’

  The door closed, but Stemper could sense the other man standing outside, listening. He didn’t move until he heard the creak of floorboards along the landing. While he waited he reached out and crushed the desperate fly with his thumb.

  ****

  After locking the door, Stemper opened the briefcase, removed his netbook and sat down on the bed. On the opposite wall a framed poster from a 1960s variety show spirited him back to his childhood.

  His father, nearly sixty when Stemper was born, and coming to the end of a long and patchy career as an entertainer, one of the last of the spirited all-rounders who had been, in his time, an actor, singer, comedian, clown and illusionist. Stemper’s mother, more than a generation younger than his father, had been a dancer, a chorus girl and finally her husband’s foil and assistant.

  By the time Stemper came along she’d had her fill of the showbiz life, and her lack of enthusiasm must have shown in her performances. What Stemper remembered most clearly were the muffled screams, late at night, as his father had remonstrated with her, pinpointing each error, each failure on her part to provide the support that he demanded. First the lecture, then the beating, the cries that she tried to suppress – for Stemper’s benefit, perhaps, or so as not to scandalise their fellow guests in the small down-at-heel establishments so much like this one.

  Even at five or six years old, Stemper had grasped exactly what was going on. He had listened carefully to every word, every blow, and he had seen how important this was to his father; how much he cared; his merciless, unrelenting insistence on perfection. Perfection at all costs.

  Stemper had listened, understood, and approved.

  CHAPTER 34

  Robbie tried Bree’s mobile but got her voicemail. That could mean hubby was back, in which case leaving a message would be risky.

  He gave it a few minutes, picturing Bree with a gaggle of her female friends, idling over a boozy lunch in Terre à Terre or Due South. It made him resentful. Why didn’t she keep an eye on her phone, for Christ’s sake?

  He rang again. Somebody answered but immediately cut the connection. Shit.

  He stood up, aware that Indira was surreptitiously watching him. ‘Just gotta pop out.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘No such thing, Indira. You know that.’

  ‘Sorry. “Opportunity in disguise”?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He treated her to the same smile that had gifted him a blow job in the ladies’ toilets at the Metropole during the firm’s summer party.

  He’d already passed off Thomsett’s presence with the explanation that he was just some guy interested in buying the same model BMW as Robbie’s. He didn’t think Indira believed a word of it, but at least he had put something on record; just in case she should decide to pass it on to his mo—

  ****

  Indira gave a mocking laugh as the Jaguar XK pulled up next to his BMW. ‘A few more seconds and you’d have made it.’

  Robbie quickly strode outside. If there was going to be a confrontation, he didn’t want Indira listening in.

  Teresa Scott was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and a once-athletic frame that had thickened somewhat with age. In her teens she had played both hockey and netball at a county level, and nowadays she ran in charity events like Race for Life, as well as regular half-marathons. She boasted that she was fitter than either of her children: Cate might have disputed that, but Robbie didn’t.

  It went without saying that she was far more driven to succeed than either of them. In her Jaeger suit and Valentino heels, she was an imposing figure. After retrieving her briefcase – Prada, of course – from the passenger footwell, she turned to face her son. ‘What the chuff have you done to your hair?’

  ‘Looks good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Huh. No wonder you’ve been keeping such a low profile. To what do we owe the pleasure today?’

  ‘I’m on top of things, don’t stress. How was St Leonard’s?’

  ‘A whole morning I’ll never get back. KM and bloody A are already deep in the developer’s pockets.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Got a quick meeting,’ he said airily.

  ‘And is this “meeting” actually related to the business that pays you such a handsome salary?’

  He thought about lying, then grinned. ‘Not directly, no.’

  Teresa sighed, extending a long manicured forefinger and pinning it against his chest. ‘I can’t keep making allowances for you, Robert. It’s a constant battle just to keep my head above water.’

  ‘I know. We should have a proper catch-up. Dinner, maybe? My treat.’

  Robbie grasped his mother gently by the shoulders but her finger was still in place, as if poised to skewer him. He leaned in, pressing his lips against her cheek, and for that he earned a reluctant smile.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re up to, Robbie, and I probably don’t want to know. But wherever it is you’re going, will you please try to drum up some bloody business while you’re there?’

  ****

  His phone rang as he was cutting up a delivery van on the roundabout at Seven Dials. The driver blew his horn and gave Robbie the finger. Robbie stuck his arm out of the window and made a ‘wanker’ gesture, then accelerated across the junction into Dyke Road and took the call.

  ‘What is it?’ Bree hissed.

  ‘I need to see you. I’m on my way over.’

  ‘You can’t. Jimmy’s home.’

  ‘It’s urgent, Bree. Really urgent.’

  She sighed. ‘Okay. Hove Park, in ten minutes. By the Goldstone.’

  Robbie made sure the van wasn’t pursuing him, then eased up on his speed. At least it looked like he would reach Bree before DS Thomsett did.

  He started thinking about how to play it, but his mother’s parting shot lingered on his conscience. There was no doubt that he needed to accrue some brownie points. One solution might be to throw himself into this proposal of Bree’s, then find a way to launder some of the proceeds into Compton’s to improve the balance sheet ...

  No. Bad idea. If he was going to have sex with dodgy older women, he wanted to make sure that every penny went into his own pocket.

  He left the BMW in the retail park, thought about a quick scoot around Comet to look at gadgets, then remembered that he was down three grand, last seen disappearing into a muddy field. DS Thomsett had his mitts on it now.

  Crossing the road, he saw Bree jogging towards him through the park. The sight of her in skintight black Lycra made him forget all his troubles for a moment. He wanted to drag her into the bushes and shag her senseless.

  She slowed her pace, checking over her shoulder before accepting a kiss. He went for her lips
but she presented her cheek instead. Robbie frowned.

  ‘He hasn’t followed you, has he?’

  ‘Not the speed I run. Even so, you never know who’s watching.’

  ‘That didn’t seem to bother you yesterday, posing in the doorway in your knickers.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was excited about seeing you.’ Another look behind her. ‘But we ought to be more careful. Jimmy’s come back in a really funny mood. Like, normally, even when he’s dead on his feet he wouldn’t say no to a hand job.’

  Robbie grimaced. ‘Too much information.’

  ‘So it’s making me wonder if he’s getting it elsewhere.’

  ‘One less chore for you.’

  ‘He’s my husband. And I’m not a fool. I know he married me for my body. So if he’s found someone else he prefers ...’ She shook her head, as if despairing that Robbie could understand. ‘Anyway, what’s the big emergency?’

  ‘Turns out I will need that favour.’

  ‘Oh.’ Bree looked doubtful. ‘And you still can’t tell me what it’s about?’

  ‘Best if you don’t know. You’ve just got to say you were with me the last two evenings, from about eight till midnight. Keep it simple, say we took my car and parked up by the King Alfred while we talked, and maybe fooled around a bit.’

  ‘And who is it I’ll be telling?’

  ‘A DS Thomsett, or one of his colleagues.’

  ‘DS Thomsett?’ she echoed. ‘So it is a cop?’

  ‘Sshh.’ Robbie winced, looking round. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

  There was a buzzing noise: Bree’s phone, stored in a Velcro pouch on her belt.

  ‘Can you imagine how Jimmy’s gonna react if the cops turn up on his doorstep?’

  ‘Thomsett promised me he’ll be discreet.’

  ‘Yeah, right. And the next thing the whole of Sussex police will know every detail of my sex life.’ For all the scorn in her voice, Robbie sensed she was just blowing off steam.

  She took out her phone and checked the display. He watched as her features were transformed by a triumphant smile.

  ‘I’ve got your first client.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maureen Heath. Her hubby’s playing golf in Portugal this weekend. She’s dying to meet you!’

  CHAPTER 35

  Brighton was tawdry and brash, full of what Patricia still liked to call ‘the lower classes’, their numbers greatly swelled by unchecked breeding, courtesy of the welfare state and, latterly, by a massive influx of foreigners.

  ‘Everywhere you look, Gordon. Immigrants. Parasites.’

  Gordon gave a murmur of assent, but he saw things slightly differently. Yes, the place was brash, but it was also vibrant and thrilling. It was a city for the young, he thought, and he couldn’t avoid a wistful tug of longing. To be young, attractive, wealthy: that was the holy trinity.

  Their destination was one of Brighton’s finest seafront hotels. After parking beneath the building, they walked around the exterior to the bar where the meeting was due to take place.

  Reaching the corner, their attention was drawn to a cluster of people on the promenade across the road, pointing and staring out to sea. It was Gordon who spotted it first: movement in the sky beyond them, a mysterious shifting cloud of ... insects?

  Never before had there been such a plague of locusts—

  ‘Starlings,’ he exclaimed, with genuine relief. ‘They fly in formation at dusk. I saw it on a nature programme.’

  Patricia harrumphed. ‘It never ceases to amaze me what tiny minds find entertaining.’

  But she paused, all the same, watching the flock as it danced and writhed, now fat and billowing like a sail, now elongated and sinuous as a serpent. A minute or two passed, and then she said, ‘Actually, it is a rather compelling sight.’

  Gordon agreed. ‘There’s something almost supernatural about the way they change shape, keeping perfect time with each other.’

  ‘The herd instinct at work.’ Patricia snorted. Her hand grazed Gordon’s in a gesture that seemed intentional. ‘It’s served us well enough, I suppose.’

  ****

  It was their first visit to the hotel for some years. Patricia was aghast to hear Eastern European accents in the lobby – from guests as well as staff. Gordon’s practised eye had noted that the girls on reception had the kind of peachy complexion and fine bone structure that you rarely saw on English women.

  In the bar they found Jerry Conlon nursing a pint of bitter. Patricia suggested a more remote table, requiring him to move. A waiter took their order: mineral water and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. As soon as he was out of earshot, Patricia wanted to know how Jerry had got on.

  ‘I spoke to that barmaid again, but there was nothing new.’ Anticipating Patricia’s scorn, he added, ‘I pushed it all I could, but she was getting suspicious. She asked if I was a journo, so I said I was.’

  ‘Well, you are,’ Gordon said. ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘Yeah, but I didn’t want to give her my press card. Too risky, innit?’ Jerry shrugged, then made a none-too-subtle attempt to deflect attention from himself. ‘How did you get on with the laptop?’

  ‘It’s clean,’ Gordon said. ‘No hidden files. No encrypted documents.’

  ‘What we need,’ Patricia added, ‘is a genuinely thorough search of the house.’

  Jerry’s protest was cut short by the return of the waiter. They shared a glassy smiling silence while the wine was poured. When it was safe to resume, Gordon said, ‘There was one oddity. What do you know about a movie called Entwined?’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Apparently it’s a British romantic comedy. Hank had emailed an acquaintance at Channel 4, asking if he knew anyone at the production companies who made the film. He specifically asked about the location manager, but didn’t say why he was interested.’

  Jerry looked perplexed. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘The acquaintance was away. He replied a week later, unable to help, but Hank said he’d already made contact through other means.’

  ‘And nothing about why?’

  Gordon shook his head. ‘We were hoping you could shed some light on it.’

  ‘This might be important,’ Patricia said. ‘Think very carefully.’

  ‘I dunno. I remember him in a stinking mood, around the time he came back from Tokyo. I turned up one day and he was on the phone, shouting and bawling about being taken for a ride.’

  There was a moment of ominous silence. Then Patricia said, ‘And you didn’t ask him what it concerned?’

  Jerry gulped his beer and kept the glass raised, like a shield. ‘I think I did, but he just sort of fobbed me off. I assumed it was a utility company or something. You know the grief you get with those bloody call centres.’ He scratched his head with his customary ferocity. ‘I can’t for the life of me see how there’d be a connection between a British movie and what happened to Hank.’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t,’ Gordon said. ‘But in a situation like this we must leave no stone unturned.’

  Patricia nodded: not just agreeing with Gordon, but indicating the figure that was bearing down on them.

  ‘Here’s the man for turning stones,’ she said.

  ****

  Before any of them could react, Stemper had slipped into the armchair beside Jerry. There were no elaborate greetings, no handshakes or kisses: nothing that would draw attention to the group.

  ‘Glad you could join us,’ Patricia said, beaming. Gordon nodded in agreement, but Jerry only sniffed and shifted in his seat.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Stemper said. He didn’t appear to have aged in the couple of years since Gordon had last seen him. His face a little puffy but unlined, the features nondescript. There was a smattering of grey in his light brown hair, but Gordon had a feeling that it had always been there. Hadn’t it?

  ‘Can we get you a drink?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘I’ll have some of this water, if I may.’

  �
�Of course.’ A nod to Gordon, who duly poured mineral water into one of the spare glasses. Rather than hand it to Stemper, he slid the glass across the table in his direction.

  ‘Since none of us want to be here all night,’ Patricia said, ‘we’ll confine ourselves to the broad outline for now.’

  She paused, looked round the room and cleared her throat.

  ‘For many years Hank O’Brien was a Whitehall civil servant. A high-flyer, tipped as a future Permanent Secretary. I first encountered him when I was a special adviser at the Home Office during the Major administration. This was around the time that the government started using PFI.’

  ‘Private Finance Initiative,’ Gordon chipped in.

  ‘He’s quite aware of that,’ Patricia snapped. ‘Anyway, Hank grew increasingly frustrated with the public sector, quite understandably. In the late nineties he jumped ship to a company who’d been awarded a major construction contract – a contract that Hank himself had negotiated on the government’s behalf some months earlier.’

  Jerry muttered, ‘Jobs for the boys.’ He probably hadn’t intended Patricia to hear it, but she lasered him with a glare.

  ‘Quite. And where would you be without it, Jerry?’

  As Conlon’s face reddened, Stemper gave a thin smile. ‘If that’s the system, only a fool would decline to take advantage of it.’

  ‘Precisely. Gordon describes it as “gamekeeper turning poacher”. It’s an inevitable consequence of greater private-sector involvement, and of course the late nineties was like a gold rush in that respect. Consequently, O’Brien was headhunted by another firm, keen to benefit from his inside knowledge.’ She paused. ‘The firm was Templeton Wynne.’

  ‘Ah.’ Stemper gave Patricia a look which, to Gordon’s eye, seemed rather too knowing. It made him wonder what else had been said over the years: conversations between them to which Gordon had not been privy. ‘So there’s a personal element to this?’