Blood From Stone

by Frances Fyfield

Interruption.

  MS. All right, let’s get on. Boyd was freedom and a taste of the high life.

  AJ. For a week or two, that’s all.

  MS. Then you had to work and you don’t like work, do you? Cleaning work – all you’d ever learned to do, wasn’t it? Like your sister. With all your opportunities, shame on you both, isn’t it? You didn’t like work, did you?

  AJ. He lied to me.

  MS. No, he didn’t. More a question of real life intervening and him doing his best, wasn’t it? Nothing wrong with being a cleaner, but you resented it.

  AJ. No, I didn’t.

  MS. You thought you were going to be kept in style, didn’t you?

  AJ. I didn’t.

  MS. I suggest you did, you resented having to work at all and it was all a bit of a shock since you’d never had to do it. You thought you were going to be kept, isn’t that it?

  AJ. I didn’t like him lying to me.

  MS. But he didn’t lie to you, Angel. He never said he co-owned the bar he talked about. You made that up for your parents, to get them to give you the money. You made it up and you embellished it. It was always understood that you’d both get jobs.

  AJ. No . . . yes. I was going to work with him.

  MS. You were obliged to work for the first time in your spoiled little life and you didn’t like it. You didn’t like the flat he rented for you, you didn’t like anything.

  AJ. That’s not what I said. I liked the place.

  MS. Oh, you mean you liked it before you trashed it?

  AJ. I what?

  MJ. You trashed it didn’t you? You said it wasn’t good enough and you trashed it?

  Interruption; Witness not obliged to answer leading questions.

  AJ. Someone came in when we were out and trashed it. We had to go somewhere else, this little cellar. Rick said someone was after him and he had enemies. He said they wanted to hurt him, and me, too, and he got us this place. I was scared, you know? He said it would be better if he went away for a while, he did say that, only I had to stay and hide, we’d be burnt in our bed, otherwise. And that became the pattern. I went to work: he came back for two days a week, maybe. He took the money I’d got and then he’d go again . . .

  MS. Who were those enemies, Angel?

  AJ. He said he’d been a police informant, got some people put in jail and they wanted to kill him.

  MS. You do let yourself down, don’t you, Angel? I don’t know what’s worse. You, having the gall to suggest my client would come out with such rubbish to appease you, or you admitting you might be stupid enough to believe it. Which is it?

  AJ. He said it. I believed him.

  MS. Doesn’t take long to get through cash with a dope addiction like yours, does it Angel? He had to give you rations, didn’t he, so’s you wouldn’t waste it? He worked and you bled him dry, didn’t you?

  AJ. . . . And he said he couldn’t go to the police because they were in it, too. That’s what he said.

  MS. He said, he said. We don’t know what he said, do we? Truth is, Angel, he had to get you out of the first flat after you’d trashed it and he had to work all hours to pay for the damage?

  AJ. No.

  MS. Was it then, was it then when you really resented him, was it then that you thought up the idea that he also raped you?

  AJ. That’s when it began. Not the idea, the raping.

  MS. You mean that’s when you stopped begging for it every five minutes? You know what rape means? Sex without consent. Four counts on the indictment?

  AJ. Yes, I know what rape means. I know what it is.

  MJ. You joked with my client, didn’t you, Angel? You said the only things you were good at in life were sex and sewing. Didn’t you say that?

  AJ. I did say that, once. In the early days. That’s why he took off my finger.

  Peter Friel put away his rereading of the transcript.

  He’d needed to be reminded of the terrible, convincing details.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After what turned out to be two days of ease in which nothing happened and no one phoned except to cancel, Thomas Noble’s office was restored to order. So was his mind. Indulgence in either emotion or alcohol did not suit him so he washed it away with his morning shower and finished the cleansing of his spirit with a Floris aftershave. He was glad of the delay. It gave him extra time to look forward to meeting the Lover.

  The opinion that all moral dilemmas were soluble in eau de toilette was one obviously shared by the man facing him over the opposite side of his desk, entirely comfortable in the leather armchair drawn up for the purpose and quite oblivious to the effects of the comforting fire; a cold man who needed no warming, delightfully sweet-scented from his shoes to his collar. The contrast between this man, Frank Shearer, the scary Rick Boyd and the scruffy Peter Friel, who was the last to linger in his space, reminded Thomas that he must flex the muscles of his personal authority, because this old man presented the greatest challenge of them all. This old fellow was the real alpha male. Thomas had no conscience to speak of, save client loyalty, which had made him entertain the most dreadful persons and suffer the most appalling manners. No need to dwell upon these; there were problems and solutions, that was all. Such as where were Marianne’s documents and dispositions, apart from that wretched transcript, which he was never going to read any more, if he could help it, and what was he going to find out this morning? Did this man have the answers? Thomas relished the task and had to admit to a degree of excited curiosity which was, naturally, carefully controlled.

  The other man looked as if he was purpose-built for the keeping of secrets. The Lover sat like an elegant statue at ease with his elderly limbs, the sort of exhibit Thomas would have admired in a museum with no hesitation about following the instructions not to touch it. Better from a distance, he thought; not made of a tactile substance and not carrying about his person any invitation to stroke. If he were made of metal, it would be cold iron rather than warm copper, although Thomas considered his face could have been carved out of marble and left with a permanent expression of distaste. Was there ever such a thing as a smiling sculpture? The Lover reminded Thomas of certain statues in parks and squares, looking slightly outraged because they did not want to be there in the first place. Whenever he was at a loss with a person, Thomas would make himself wonder what they were like when having an orgasm. It was a way of cutting them down to size, but in this case, it defied imagination. He could not imagine this divine creature ever losing control or even having the ability to do so. Maybe his manner was dictated by the obvious awkwardness of the situation or by grief; Thomas hoped it was the latter and wondered how he could use the former to the advantage of his own investigation.

  The Lover must have been seventy-five if he was a day, albeit with the straight back and long legs of an officer schooled on a parade ground. He looked as if he could still climb hills without breaking stride or drawing breath, a man who made no concession to the years written in his heavily lined face and mottled hands. Surreptitious examination, becoming more obvious in the silence that hung between them, made Thomas conclude that the Lover was more of a dancer than a soldier. He would have suited a ballroom floor and looked ready to glide across the room and away. He was waiting for Thomas to start and he was giving nothing of himself, so that when he smiled, it was perfectly shocking. It took up every line in his cadaverous face and made his eyes disappear into their own folds.

  ‘Have you finished?’ he said.

  ‘Finished?’ Thomas echoed.

  ‘Your examination of me. I can imagine what you’re thinking. What on earth was Marianne Shearer doing with an old hound like myself and were we any good at it? Did we really make the beast with two backs? Yes and yes, although there was rather more to it than that. We did like to dance, you see, long after it was out of fashion. We were devoted to our own style in a cruel, style-free world. We didn’t like it out there, so we made our own, occasionally. Marianne was a demanding savage without her clothes,
you know. Properly dressed, she moved beautifully.’

  Thomas grabbed hold of a pen to hide his surprise and discomfort. He pulled a sheet of paper towards him and wrote down the Lover’s name. He was never going to think of him by name, only as the Lover. Or the Dancer. Everything about him was streamlined. His suit was double-breasted cashmere and Thomas was suddenly reminded of the sartorially obsessive Duke of Windsor and his temptress, Wallis Simpson, who had not really been a beauty either, but knew how to wear her clothes. The comparison made him want to giggle, the way he did when he knew he was outclassed. He stroked his own chin, thoughtfully, to massage away the smile and check whether his own neck was half as loose as the ancient Lover’s. Not yet, thank God, not yet. The dirty old dog. The Lover was staring into the fire and had not yet once met his eye, until now. The full force of his gaze was akin to being caught in headlamps. Amazingly pale blue eyes, possibly cruel.

  ‘I take it that I can rely on your discretion, Mr Noble. No one, and I repeat, no one ever knew about my affair with Marianne Shearer, and if there is the slightest risk of it ever becoming public, I shall deny it utterly. My name stays out of it. I have a loving and possessive wife who will certainly outlive me, children, grandchildren, and I am quite determined to bask in my own reputation for as long as I need it. Marianne understood that, entirely, and I trust that you do, too. She mentioned you in passing, but I did think I was relying on someone else to act as liaison. Peter Friel, she said.’

  Thomas was insulted, but did not say so.

  ‘I looked you up in Who’s Who,’ he murmured. ‘W. Stanton, Bencher. Arrived at Gray’s Inn as a barrister in 1954. Otherwise, dress designer with Charles Creed. What a career of contrasts, if I may say so.’

  ‘Not really. I specialised in patents and the protection and registering of ideas and inventions when I was in practice, not that that has anything to do with anything, but it did provide a sort of continuum. You could say my flourishing in the latter career happened in the late nineteen forties, when all you were allowed to design was economical clothing. An apprentice at seventeen. A challenge, of course, but unrewarding in those limited times, and one needed a living if one wanted the family one had lost. I’m a Jew, Mr Noble. Escaped from Germany when I was five. I was a designer at seventeen, realistic at nineteen, took to the law and started my dynasty. I have lost everything, once, and I’m not going to do it again. Am I absolutely assured of your silence, Mr Noble? Otherwise, there’s no point continuing.’

  Thomas fiddled with paper and pen, longing for something else to touch. Everyone wanted promises from lawyers and never seemed to realise they could not have them, but then, he was talking to another lawyer, Mr Stanton, QC, who, however long retired, should have known that. He shook his head with suitable sorrow, still feeling for the saggy bit beneath his own chin and relieved to find it not fully formed.

  ‘You contacted me, Mr . . .’ he almost said Mr Lover. ‘And it was conscientious of you to do so, but if you have anything to say that is relevant to the inquest, I shall have to confess your existence. That’s my duty as a solicitor of the Supreme Court . . . I shall have to tell the Coroner about anyone who might have any knowledge about Ms Shearer’s death, or indeed, any influence on it.’

  ‘Then I shall leave, now. If you don’t mind.’

  He rose with a stiff grace, revealing the crease in the trousers of his suit that he had hitched up as he sat and looked round for his coat, determined, but a shade uncertain of where he was. Thomas’s temper was on a far shorter lead than he had realised and he found himself shouting, ‘Sit down!’

  To his amazement, the paragon actually sat, composed himself and hissed, ‘I cannot give evidence, Mr Noble, I really can’t. You must know that. Where’s this Peter Friel she told me about, where is he? She promised me, she promised . . .’ He paused. ‘And I promise you, that I have no information that fully explains her death, or her motives. I knew about it from the newspapers; I opened a newspaper and saw her fall. And . . .’ He turned the pale blue eyes towards the fire again and for a moment, Thomas thought he had lost him, until the Lover continued in a stronger voice, ‘. . . she left me instructions. Which I have, and I am fulfilling to the letter.’

  ‘Where’s her stuff?’ Thomas said. ‘Her documents, her will, her things?’

  The Lover spoke very carefully, clasping his hands as if testing their strength. His initial, polite handshake had been like grasping tissue paper and even his neck seemed fragile. Not weak by any means, but vulnerable.

  ‘I have some of them,’ he said. ‘But nothing relevant, I assure you. Letters to me, letters from me. Her instructions; the least I owed her. She was the most undemanding mistress – no, mistress is the wrong word, a mistress is paid, is she not? I never paid her. She serviced me and I her. We loved the same clothes and music and how important is that?’

  He sat back in the chair, an almost perfect piece of symmetry, a graceful version of age.

  ‘It matters,’ Thomas said. ‘Very much.’

  The blue eyes were sardonic, making Thomas realise that he did not matter at all.

  ‘How long did you know her?’

  The eyes checked the room for recording equipment, obviously absent. It was as if ol’ blue eyes understood that Thomas could not have managed the equipment suitable for a spy. Again, faintly insulting.

  ‘Thirty years, in total, I suppose, although . . .’

  The long fingers gripped the sides of the chair and flexed, briefly, before he drew breath and continued, slowly.

  ‘The first year I knew her, she was twenty and desperate, and I was very much older and successful. Perhaps that’s why I was so cruel. She could have upset the whole cart. I had a wife with a beautiful face and a body like a truck. Marianne was the other way round, at least you could dress her. All I can tell you is that in the months before her death, she was conducting research into her own family and it upset her greatly. She was also reviewing the so-called achievements of her professional life and that upset her even more. She said, and I quote, that all she had ever done was liberate scum to float back and poison the water. She said she had betrayed the innocent.’

  He hauled himself out of the confessional chair, nimbly, strode towards his coat on Thomas’s artful coat stand and had the thing halfway on before Thomas could intervene with any vestige of politeness. He was into the coat, perfectly, adjusting its warm lightness in the way it deserved since it was made of vicuña, before he spoke. Thomas was powerless to stop him and felt the Lover’s revulsion from three feet away.

  ‘I hate queers, Mr Noble. Nothing gay about any of you, nothing at all. I share some prejudices with Hitler. If you want anything more, send that Peter Friel. I’m obeying instructions, that’s all. How can you possibly understand Love as I know it? She said you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She said you didn’t understand it all. She said you kept it in storage, just in case.’ He adjusted a white silk scarf with care. ‘Send this Peter Friel, soon. I’ve given you the address, it isn’t exactly far for him to come. It’s my bolt-hole away from family, at least once a week. Where I used to meet Marianne. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never been to this office at all. My wife would certainly not understand and nor do you. Good day, sir.’

  He was gone down the stairs without a murmur from the light coat worn against the cold to preserve the suit beneath. A veritable vision of geriatric loveliness.

  Thomas pulled down the sleeves of his white shirt, the better to show his cufflinks. He was suddenly hot, and took off his jacket which the Lover would never have worn and threw it to the furthest corner of the room. It bounced back and lay still and lifeless. That bastard Friel with his shabby clothes. Phone him now; tell him where to go and advise him to dress properly. And as for the phoney old crust, he would shove his reputation up his shrivelled old arse. He was no further forward than yesterday. The Lover knew everything and he wouldn’t tell Thomas a thing. Christ, all she’d preserved was that
ghastly skirt. Did she go down head first, so she hit the ground the right way up to keep her face clean? The back of her head imploded, he was told. She bled from the ears. Someone had had to sweep up her brain. Someone still was.

  Thomas phoned Peter Friel, furious enough to call his mobile. More furious to be told to leave a message.

  Peter felt the phone go in his pocket and ignored it. After a day of quiet contemplation, he was bewildered to find himself on the ground floor of the Victoria and Albert Museum with Henrietta Joyce and he was still wondering how he came to be there. Probably because he responded automatically to orders, however sudden and unexpected. He was enjoying himself very much.

  ‘So if I were obsessed with women’s clothes of the haute couture variety . . .’

  ‘There are plenty of men who are,’ Hen interrupted.

  ‘Only me not being one of them, this is the place where I might start, right?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly advise you,’ Hen said, ‘unless I knew exactly what you were looking for, what your particular fantasy was. Me, I clean and mend. I know a bit about design, not how they do it.’

  ‘All right. Suppose I were a woman and judging from the quality and design of that skirt, what else might I like?’

  Hen considered.

  ‘You’d be into vintage, for sure. Nothing like that available today. Not in a shop, anyway.’

  ‘What era of vintage clothes might I like?’

  ‘Something from the same decade, possibly? Nineteen forties, fifties? Earlier, I’d say. It would depend on your taste and your body shape. I’m trying to remember what Shearer looked like. I only saw her in that black robe, with a wig on. I thought she was ugly.’

  ‘She was slim, muscular, rather androgynous.’

  ‘She could wear anything then. I think she liked glamour,’ Hen said. ‘A complete contrast to the everyday black. Something that would make her feel operatic and in control, the clothes of a diva. She’d quite fancy one of Catherine Walker’s dresses for Princess Diana, a sheath of silk sewn with oyster pearls, worn in 1989, I think, but perhaps a bit modern. She might like that leather evening dress made by Versace, another kind of sheath, but not really for dancing. I think she’d like something less restricting. She might like the sort of evening wear made by Thierry Mugler. Ballet dancer turned designer, made wonderful, flamboyant evening clothes fit for the stage. I can’t see her relaxing with Coco Chanel. Lots of classic day clothes from 1916 on, beautifully styled and timeless, you could wear them now. Ideas often borrowed from the male wardrobe, suits and supple dresses; he liked navy, grey, beige. No, she would have had enough of that. She had a bit of an Audrey Hepburn figure, and Hepburn wore Givenchy. She liked colour for sure. Nineteen thirties, like Schiaparelli. Schiaparelli invented shocking pink, used dyed fabric and had hidden zips in the same colour. That was about the time when tanned skin became really fashionable. It looks wonderful with shocking pink. What colour was her skin?’