And tomorrow he would know whether Nomora was heading north or into the Med. God! It had better be Turkey or Northern Cyprus. Otherwise, I’m back to first base.
Ratso loved walking in London after dark, at least in the better parts of the city. He was now in the heart of clubland, just off Berkeley Square in Mayfair. The streets were busy with taxis heading for restaurants or looking out for late shoppers. Round here there were better cars—stretch limos, Bentleys, Aston Martins and smarter-looking totty in designer outfits and coiffured with elegance unseen in his stamping grounds of Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush.
He had spoken to the secretary of the Poulsden Club the day before and had been invited for the evening, one of the occasional nights when members were allowed to bring a guest. His cover was that he worked in a senior role in the Home Office on matters linked to immigration but that was unlikely to be much of a topic because the secretary had seated him for dinner next to Bruce Sparsfield, the former England cricket captain, on one side and Don Geering, the Olympic rower, on the other. Sparsfield had captained a successful team to the West Indies but had suffered a humiliating tour of Australia, so he had been eased into resignation. Geering had captured gold and since then had delivered the fastest ever time over two kilometers when racing on Lake Bled in Slovenia last summer. If that were not good enough, the secretary, a former brigadier in the Royal Artillery, was going to give him twenty minutes before drinks to discuss Terry Fenwick.
As he entered the club, up a wide sweep of steps and through revolving doors, he felt curiously like a fish out of water. He had never been in an elite members’ club where to be admitted was proof of a status to which he could never aspire. Inside the carpeted entrance, beyond the porters’ glory hole, was a cavernous, vaulted room filled with deep leather chairs, flowers, statues in marble or bronze and what Ratso assumed were valuable objets d’art. Portraits of men famous in their time but now long forgotten hung round the pastel blue of the walls and spotlights picked out the rich colors of the oil paint. At one end, with pleasure, Ratso saw a portrait he recognised from school days as being the Duke of Wellington. I bet club members would recognise them all. Different upbringing.
At his local Comprehensive, Ratso had learned how to survive in an urban jungle and not much more. History had been Henry having six wives and Alfred burning some damned cakes. Oh yes and a spider in a cave. His eyes were drawn to a marble staircase that dominated everything. It rose straight ahead and then divided left and right to a balconied area. Everything oozed class, wealth, stability—a throwback to days when the British Empire ruled the world. Now it couldn’t afford just one vessel to fight a drug war, let alone protect the Falklands again.
The hall porter took Ratso down a side corridor and ushered him into a wood-panelled room with a desk straddling one corner. The carpet was old, thick and yet in good repair, an Axminster, its colors matching Ratso’s tie. Behind the mahogany desk was a crinkly haired figure with a broad smile and what proved to be a fierce handshake. He was aged about fifty-eight and introduced himself as Roger Herbison. He did not return to his desk but instead ushered Ratso to a pair of chairs positioned by a low table on which lay a decanter of sherry and two glasses. “Whisky, if you prefer?”
“Sherry will be excellent.” Ratso recalled he had last drunk sherry when still at school, over twenty years back. Also on the table was a printout of what Herbison had been working on. “Shall we get straight down to what I have established?” Herbison’s voice was mellow, slow and reassuring.
“One question first, if I may? I know the history of the club—becoming a member is harder than getting a straight answer from a politician. So how did Terry Fenwick get admitted? From what I know, he is an undistinguished solicitor and being a member of a profession is not enough anyway. You require excellence like a rowing gold medal or a knighthood or being one of Her Majesty’s judges.”
“High Court and above only. Circuit Court judges would not qualify.” Herbison ran his fingers through his pepper-and-salt hair and his eyes twinkled. “But Terry Fenwick got in because his father, a property developer from Birmingham, bought out our short-term lease and donated us one for 999 years on the condition that his two sons could join if they applied and would by right be entitled to be on our committee.”
“And the father?”
“Tragically, he died a pauper. A property crash revealed he was over too highly geared and he went, shall we say, bellyup.” He topped up both glasses with pale, dry sherry from the crystal decanter. “Terry did join. The other son never showed any interest.” Ratso noted that there was no third son.
“I bet some of the old-time members huffed and puffed about admitting an upstart.”
“Very perceptive of you. All hell broke loose. Terry Fenwick would have been blackballed by the majority, if not unanimously. But a pressing rent demand concentrated minds. Of course, the old man had us by the short and curlies. Acquiring a virtual freehold in Mayfair is gold dust. The club would have folded like many others if we had to pay market rents.”
“So everyone held their noses and voted yes.”
Herbison laughed. “Bang on!” Then he turned serious. “Is the Poulsden going to be mentioned in dispatches, Mr Holtom?”
“Do call me Todd, if you wish.” Ratso did not want to scare the horses. “That depends on many things that are at present … unpredictable. But if a member has been a naughty boy, then he will have to come down to the headmaster’s study.”
“I see.” Herbison smiled ruefully and let out a resigned sigh. “I feared you might say that.” He sipped thoughtfully. “But there is a bright side. Some of the older members will be able to say we told you so.”
“Boris Zandro?”
“Not a member. He has never applied.” Ratso reckoned that unsaid was a message that perhaps he too would be blackballed. “He is an occasional guest, sometimes even of a former Labour prime minister. Mr Zandro is a flash money cove, something the chaps don’t much care for.” He reached forward and handed a lengthy printout to Ratso. “You will not miss the salient point, I am sure.”
Ratso glanced at the list of dates going back eleven years. “Is this when records started?”
“No. That is when we got computerised. The older records are available in ledgers if you need them.”
Ratso checked the number of occasions when both men had attended the club on the same day—twenty-three times in the last five years and the visits came in clusters. “What does the A stand for?” Ratso asked of the letter beside Fenwick’s name. It did not appear every time but was beside all twenty-three times when Zandro had been a guest.
“That means Fenwick had accommodation—stayed the night in one of our club rooms.”
“So Zandro only visited the club when Fenwick had a bed here.” Even as he spoke, both men’s eyes met as if they shared a common thought. “No, I doubt either man is gay. But could Zandro be dining with Lord Bloggs of Tully Blagnett or whatever and then slip off to the bedrooms and meet Fenwick in private?”
“My dear chap, why not? This is a members’ club. There’s no security. Mattrafact, Fenwick always asks for a ground-floor room, so for Zandro to pop along would be easy.”
“Did the two ever dine together?”
“Not to my knowledge. Never saw them speak and I’ve been here four years now. I had no idea they might even know each other.”
“You said they were not here tonight.” Ratso’s natural suspicion that this was due to a leak had nagged away at him but Herbison was reassuring.
“Quite a few members loathe nights like this when maybe thirty or forty guests, call them strangers, invade their space. They vote with their feet. I’ve checked; neither man normally attends guest nights.”
Ratso drained his glass. “That’s good to know. You’ve been very helpful and I don’t have to remind you that this is wholly confid
ential.”
“Mum’s the word, old boy. Your secret’s safe with me. May I ask what this is all about? Crime boss, is he, this Zandro fellow?”
Ratso put down his glass and rather hoped his next sherry would be another twenty years away. “You may well think that but I couldn’t possibly comment. Sorry.”
The secretary looked up. “Ah! That wonderful Francis Urquhart line from House of Cards. Says it all, really. Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you, old chap?”
“I may have a big favour to ask and if the answer’s no, I won’t be able to accept it. But let’s not spoil this evening thinking about that.”
“You saw Fenwick’s staying overnight next Tuesday?”
“I did and I’ll get back to you about that. One more thing. I bet you have pigeonholes here? For members to leave messages or to receive mail from mistresses and so on?”
Herbison stood up, laughing. “You may well think that but I couldn’t possibly comment. My lips are sealed on the contents but yes, members communicate via pigeonholes all the time. Mostly it’s leaving tickets for Covent Garden or Twickenham but we’re not here to question if one of our members is receiving love letters from a popsy in Barnes.”
Ratso laughed too but quickly became serious. “I want every letter, note, message left for either Zandro or Fenwick to be photographed or scanned and its arrival time and date to be scheduled, please. By you personally but without causing raised eyebrows.”
Herbison rubbed his hands nervously. “Not steaming things open, I hope? That would not be cricket.”
Ratso quickly disarmed Herbison on that one. “No. Call me at once. Just copy the envelopes, the handwriting. But don’t just pick their mail. Pick other members at random and keep the nosy hall porters from becoming suspicious. You have a camera?”
“Even better. We have a scanner, believe it or not. We do move with the times here.” Herbison chuckled.
“Thanks. I owe you a favour.”
“Drugs, is it?” Herbison enjoyed dropping the word into the silence.
“You might think that but I could not possibly comment.”
Dinner of Parma ham followed by turbot and saddle of lamb flew by in a blur of repartee and alcohol. Nevertheless, Ratso felt very aware of his lack of education seated among so many with University degrees and a talent with words. But he held his own, living the lie that he worked in the Home Office. It was easy deflecting interest by keeping his celebrated neighbours talking about cricket and the Olympics.
When the evening ended in a glorious haze of fine wines, port and brandies, Ratso was fired up, enervated by the company and the testosterone-charged atmosphere. It had made him feel like a lion on the prowl. During dessert, when the former England captain offered him a lift, saying his driver would be heading for Kingston, whole new vistas emerged of how the evening might end. With the Stilton, the magnificent vintage port had begun circling the table quicker than tassels on a stripper’s nipples. After the third glass of Taylor’s 1970, Ratso found Bruce Sparsfield’s offer irresistible. To hell with the long-term. After all, he reasoned, he genuinely liked Charlene, indeed was very fond of her. She knew where he stood, no deception. And right now, being fired up, he fancied her something rotten.
As for spending time in a Mercedes 500 with one of his sporting heroes, that was a bonus that was almost wasted by the rampant urgency that pulsed through him. “Delighted to help you, Todd.” Sparsfield’s eyes were sincere, eyes that in their prime had seen the angle of the seam on a ball hurtling toward him at over 90mph. “On a promise, are you?” This time he winked as he put an arm over Ratso’s shoulder and they went down the steps into the street.
Arguably the most talented left-handed opener in decades, captaincy had hung heavily on Sparsfield’s shoulders. Now, he seemed carefree, though his golden hair had almost gone and what remained was silvery gray. “My driver’s taking me to Ham Gate. Your destination is only a couple of miles farther on.” As he spoke, a black Mercedes drew up and a chauffeur in a cap leaped out and opened the door. Sparsfield ushered Ratso across the back seat and the chauffeur closed the door behind them.
The journey passed in no time, with Sparsfield answering Ratso’s questions about everything from covered wickets to Hawkeye. “What about the Aussie crowd who got at you when you fielded by The Hill at Sydney Cricket Ground?”
“Boy, can they get under your skin,” Sparsfield admitted. “I dropped a sitter and from then on, I got hell. I can tell you, there’s no hiding place!” From the agony on his face, he was clearly reliving the chanting and jibes he had endured during the Fifth Test—his last as England captain.
“But from what you said over dinner, life’s been good to you since then?”
“Cricket opened doors. I’d been to Tonbridge and Oxford, so I’d had a good education. After hanging up my boots, I became a shipbroker and our company got bought out last September. No skill required—just lucky enough to be in the right place to pick up a tasty golden goodbye.” He looked at Ratso. “I say. Would you mind if I’m dropped off first? I want to watch the cricket from Australia.”
“Sounds a good plan, Bruce. Normally I would do the same but …”
“Say no more. Good hunting, Todd—that’s what I say.” He turned to the driver. “Drop me off first, would you and then take Mr Holtom into Kingston.” He looked at Ratso across the back seat. “Sorry, I’ve rather hogged the conversation. All this cricket talk. We never did get to talk much about immigration.”
“Counting sheep or counting immigrants, always ends in the same thing. It’s a conversation killer.” The car glided to a stop. As Sparsfield got out, he shook hands warmly and grinned. “Charlene sounds a bit of a cracker. If I were thirty years younger …” Then he was gone, his now rather stooped figure disappearing under an arch into a gravelled courtyard.
The chauffeur turned around. “And now, sir?”
“Wolsey Drive, please.” As the Mercedes rolled away from the grand houses lining Richmond Park, the idea of surprising Charlene gave everything an added frisson. He called for the chauffer to stop about a hundred meters from Charlene’s house. “Thanks.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
Ratso watched the car disappear from sight round the kink in the road. He crunched a Polo and then headed for Charlene’s semi. The street was silent, lines of small saloons parked neatly. It was only 11:45 p.m. and with the weekend tomorrow, lights were still on in many of the houses. The curtains glowed with the intermittent light of TVs. He reached Charlene’s pocket-sized front garden and walked the few steps to the familiar door, where he had been spotted by DCI Caldwell’s boys. He turned round and gave a drunken grin for any cameras that may have been watching.
He was about to ring when he heard the sound of laughter from the room to his right. It was Charlene’s laugh but the voice he heard next was a man’s. Was it the TV she was laughing at? He hesitated, then moved nearer to the window. He could hear voices now, a conversation and then Charlene’s flirty giggle.
Suddenly there was movement and the frosted-glass window in the front door filled with light as the couple left the sitting room and entered the tiny hall. Two shadows crossed almost within touching distance, separated only by the door; he heard more laughter and running feet on the stairs. For a moment, he imagined the man, whoever he was, lusting after Charlene’s wiggling hips as he followed her toward the bedroom. He found he was shaking. The power of the alcohol had evaporated. All he could feel was shock. So much for being the love of her life.
He stood transfixed for a long moment, wondering what to do. The port and brandy encouraged him to bang on the door but the nagging voice of common-sense stopped him. Moments later, the hall light was extinguished.
Slowly, he retraced his steps down the path and turned right along the pavement, pulling up his collar as a misty drizzle started to fall. Th
oughts of someone else removing Charlene’s skimpy underwear kept his stride aggressive for a good few minutes but once he hit the main road with its sodium lights, new feelings washed over him as if a burden had been lifted. She doesn’t need me anymore. I can play her on my terms now.
He saw a black cab cruising toward Central London and impulsively he hailed it. To hell with the cost. Like a shaken kaleidoscope, the pattern of his life had suddenly changed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Clapham, South London
Ratso dropped an Alka-Seltzer into a tumbler of water and watched it fizz while waiting for Tosh and Jock to enter his office. They did finally, lumbering through the door, reminding Ratso of the joke about how to get two elephants in the back of a Mini. He drained the last dregs. “Heavy night, eh, boss?” Jock grinned as if he was jealous of the king-sized hangover.
“I sank a couple of beers while watching cricket. Stayed up till after 4 a.m. Big mistake.”
“Yes,” agreed Tosh. “I saw the score.”
“I was thinking of brown ale chasing Courvoisier and Taylor’s 1970 port,” Ratso growled. “But you’re right. Our bowlers were tripe. Pie-throwers, the Aussies called them.” The two men sat, each with a new mug. Ratso had heard they’d exchanged mugs as Christmas gifts. Tosh’s said Even hairy men can be sexy. Where did you miss out? Jock had his hand over the slogan on his. “Come on, Jock: give!” Jock relented and Ratso read it out. “Ivor Bigun—the world’s biggest liar.” Jock grinned sheepishly while Tosh and Ratso did a high-five that Ratso regretted as a pain shot through his forehead.
Unusually, it was Tosh who wanted focus. “How did you get on at the Poulsden?”
“This could be big. We need to move fast. Suppose I’ll go up and wake Tennant.”
“Tennant?” Both men echoed each other before Tosh continued. “You haven’t heard?” He saw Ratso’s eager look. “He’s got a sickie for at least a month. That fall.”
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