But Tarquin was charmed with oddly fine features. A short and chiseled aquiline nose arched out below a pair of well-placed clear blue eyes and terminated above a small thin-lipped mouth. Above the eyes sat a heavy brow and a wide, furrowed forehead—not unlike an imposing frieze on a piece of Roman architecture. The overall effect was of a man who could have been a brute, but one whose brutishness had been hobbled by a perceptive and empathetic nature. There was, of course, one other defining feature of Tarquin Stanhope; he was hopelessly vain.
Wrapped in a colourful bathrobe, he stood in his dressing room sifting through a small box of cuff links. Percy, his border terrier, lay curled up asleep on a thick jersey by the foot of his heavy bateau bed. After a few moments he closed the lid and strode purposefully towards a large antique mirror. He viewed himself briefly, and after running his fingers through his damp hair, went to the door to switch off the overhead light. The room with its curtains closed was now lit only by the reddish glow of a small table lamp, but the subdued effect seemed to satisfy him.
Turning his head, first this way and then that, he eventually settled into an angled position as though posing for Caravaggio, the master of chiaroscuro. He studied himself gravely and then, imagining himself on stage, took a deep breath and said in a loud, pompous voice …
“All the world’s a stage … and all the men and women merely players … they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays …”
Tarquin was stepping back from the mirror for full dramatic effect when his mobile phone gave vent to a piercing ring. Snapping to his senses, he took hold of the plastic lump.
“I’m on my way, darling,” he shouted guiltily, closing the phone as quickly as he’d opened it. Without hesitation, he now dashed around the small room, plucking various items of clothing from drawers and hanging rails, and then throwing them on, in a frenzy of arms and legs. Finally, he slipped into a pair of tan loafers, grabbed his coat, and launched himself down the stairs (three at a time).
A short time later his car slid to a halt at a mansion block in the Prince of Wales Drive. This was where his longtime girlfriend Diana lived—an ambitious and somewhat bossy estate agent. Behind him, and at a discreet distance, the black Sprinter also pulled in and waited.
“You never seem to learn, Tarquin,” Diana began, having folded herself into the low-slung seat of Tarquin’s ageing Mercedes. Short, curvaceous, and amply endowed, she was pretty, in a pink and milky complexioned English way (though Tarquin had long since stopped noticing).
“I was reorganizing some photographs, darling, and the time just seemed to …”
“Just seemed to what, Tarquin?” she said sourly.
“Well, you know, darling. When one’s concentrating … time just … just seems to …”
“Tarquin, how often have I heard the same old patter of you being so engrossed in something that you lose track of time!” she said hotly.
“But it’s true, I do lose track …”
“Tarquin, you have more spare time than anyone I know, and yet you’re still always late!”
“Look, you don’t seem to appreciate that I’m really quite busy and …”
But before he had finished his sentence, her derisory laughter exploded all over him like a shower of acid.
A short while later they were standing at the bar of the Garrick Theatre in Covent Garden. Thankfully Diana’s mood had lightened and she smiled politely as he handed her a cold glass of champagne. Studying him over the rim, she took a long cool sip.
“Now … darling,” she began, fixing him with her dark eyes, “have you rung Freddie and at least shown some interest in the gallery? He really likes you, and you could find a nice little niche for yourself there; the art world’s quite racy, you know … I can see you taking to it like a duck to water.”
Tarquin shifted uneasily and took a huge gulp of champagne.
“I know. I should,” he mumbled, “but I’ve been sort of busy really.”
“What … still plugging on with your ideas of amateur dramatics,” she said with a whiff of sarcasm.
“It’s something I’m really into, darling. I’ve been talking to various people,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
“Talking about doing something, darling, is very different to actually doing something!” she said, adjusting her hair band. “We’ve been through all this. Freddie has a fat wallet and he wants you in his gallery. He thinks you’re exquisitely mannered, well dressed, and perfect for the place. His clients will adore you, and before you know it, you’ll have started a new chapter in your life and be wondering why … why …”
She trailed off, staring fixedly at a group in the corner.
“My God!” she exclaimed. “There’s Christopher Bentham!”
Tarquin felt a fist grab his guts. Glancing over his shoulder, he was able to confirm in one millionth of a millisecond that it was indeed Mr Bentham—the glamorous god of estate. A man whose knowledge of the property market combined with an unerring ability to sniff out the ‘in people’ had transformed him into a celebrity in his own right.
“Do you mind … I’ll be back in a moment,” she said urgently.
Tarquin felt sick as she pushed past him. He wouldn’t follow—no, that was out of the question. Memories of dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club the previous Christmas came flooding back and filled him with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. Bentham was everything he was not. Successful, sophisticated, and revered by his business peers. He didn’t belong to anything so pedestrian as an established company. No, Bentham was an independent property specialist and acted for a small but elite clutch of wealthy clients.
A few long minutes passed, during which he heard loud spurts of synthetic laughter coming from Diana. Then the bell rang. Tarquin hastily poured himself a large glass of water and a moment or two later she joined him, flushed and agitated.
“Christopher’s well … is he,” Tarquin said, making clear by his expression this was a dig, not a question. Diana bristled.
“C’mon, for God’s sake … we need to shift,” she said, plunging ahead brusquely. They took their seats. Although touching at the shoulders, it was obvious there was now an invisible barrier between them—an emotional disconnect. Her demeanour had changed and the blood-red nails on her fingers fumbled nervously with the programme.
“What an extraordinary thing to bump into Christopher,” she said in a loud, formal voice. “He’s looking well … I must say.”
Tarquin twisted his lips downwards by way of an answer but said nothing.
“Looks like he’s just come back from the Maldives!” she continued. “He’s a very smart operator, Tarquin … we could both learn a lot from him.”
Tarquin mumbled something and scrutinized his mobile phone.
When the curtain eventually rose, he struggled to concentrate. He was all too aware of Diana’s attraction to Bentham—he’d witnessed it before. Yes, he had got drunk that night at the Club all those months ago. Good God, who wouldn’t have? Was he to watch the ugly spectacle of Diana’s flirtatious behaviour towards Bentham sober? The evening had been a disaster from start to finish and had very nearly ended in a brawl.
Gradually, as the play proceeded, Tarquin succumbed to the warmth and semidarkness of his surroundings, and his eyelids fell. He entered a fitful daydream. No longer was he sitting in the Garrick Theatre surrounded by people … he was approaching a dimly lit bedroom. Diana and Christopher were entwined at a ridiculous angle on a bed, sheets tangled erotically around their bodies. Clothes were scattered across the floor, whilst Bentham’s trademark bow tie hung limply from a lampshade. He was whispering breathlessly into her tousled hair whilst she giggled beneath him. Unseen, Tarquin approached and viewed with disgust the damp tanned neck of Christopher Bentham.
This guy needed to be taught a lesson. How dare he think that his status could allow him to snatch any bit of pretty fluff which drifted his way. He may be a property mogul with a house or three on eve
ry continent, but so what? So bloody what?
Tarquin, now hopelessly lost in fantasy, was just considering how to deal with Bentham when, in the real world, his phone suddenly leapt into life and peeled shrilly across the breadth of the theatre. Electrified, he jumped awake, and in a blind panic his knee flexed upwards, dislodging the water glass in its holder and hurling the contents in a great arc of liquid, over his neighbour.
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” the woman sitting next to him shouted in strangled tones, whilst jumping up. “You bloody fool …what on earth are you doing? I’m … I’m soaked!”
Tarquin, dazed, looked at her aghast.
“Oh no … no … no, I am so sorry,” he stuttered, squirming with embarrassment and pulling out a handkerchief. “Can I help?”
“No, get away from me! Go away!” she sobbed, moving along the row with her husband. “You’ve ruined my evening, you bloody oaf!”
“What in the hell are you playing at, Tarquin?” Diana whispered sharply in his ear, whilst grabbing the phone and switching it off. “For Christ’s sake!” The lead was fluffing her lines. There was an awkwardness on stage which took a couple of minutes to smooth over. Tarquin’s mind was scrambled. Should he stay … or go?
All around, people’s heads were swivelling round to give him disapproving looks. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as his head dithered through the options. Then, a few minutes later, as if by magic, his legs threw him into an upright position and transported him with a determined stride to the emergency exit. He didn’t even glance back.
At the crowded bar of the Nags Head, in a street nearby, Tarquin ordered two double whiskeys as though in a dream. He drained the first glass in two gulps and then paused to look around him and reflect on his predicament. How had he fallen asleep and made such a fool of himself? Yes, Christopher was a threat, a sort of walking insult to his own shortcomings, but to let this happen, to have to leave his favourite theatre by the emergency exit—this was beyond appalling. He shuddered at the memory, and picking up the second glass, drained it in a similar fashion to the first.
“Blimey, you was thirsty,” the big-bosomed girl now wedging herself against him said, having watched him down the two shots in close succession. Tarquin squinted down at the cheeky stranger for a second or two, taking in her fleshy rouge lips, blue eye shadow, and short pink skirt.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said loudly, a small trickle at the corner of his mouth, “but sometimes a man needs a drink, and he needs it fast!”
“I’m Shirley, by the way,” she said chirpily. “Nice to meet you. I like a man who’s tall. I only seem to know short arses—fat short arses at that! What do you do then?”
“What, when I’m not throwing drinks over my neighbours in the theatre?” Tarquin replied, dissolving into a fit of hysterical laughter.
“Throwing drinks over your neighbours?” Shirley said, puzzled. “Oh well, whatever! It’s nice to meet a bloke who’s in a good mood with a happy-go-lucky nature. My boyfriend Terry is so bloomin’ bad tempered. Like this evenin’, I told him I wanted to go out with Claudia—that’s her there with the bald geezer—and he flies into one and starts screamin’ and hollerin’, over what? Aren’t I allowed to have some fun for a change? I told him he drinks too much Coke and eats too many burgers and it ain’t doing him no good. I mean, he can’t work it off ’cos he’s a lorry driver, sitting on his fat arse all day!”
“Deary me,” Tarquin replied obligingly. “Seems we’re both in the same boat. What’s your tipple, Shirley?”
“You better tell me your name before you get me a drink,” she giggled weezily.
“Tarquin,” he said, gazing down at her.
“What?”
“Tarquin!”
“Tarquin? Cor blimey … you’re the first geezer I’ve ever met with a name like that!” she said with a shrill giggle. “Sounds right poncy … are you a toff?”
“Well … I didn’t choose it,” Tarquin said resignedly. “And I probably am a toff!”
“Let’s drink to that, Tarquin!” she said, clashing her glass clumsily against his.
She turned towards a group behind Tarquin and screeched, “Claudia, come over ’ere and meet my new friend Tarquin!”
The tall blond girl broke away from her group and sauntered up to Tarquin. She looked him straight in the eye and he felt her measured scrutiny.
“Hello,” she said cooly, extending her hand. “I am Claudia.”
“He already knows that, love … you can forget the formalities. His name’s Tarquin, and before you say it, he already knows he’s a toff!” Shirley said, cackling raucously and slapping Tarquin on the shoulder.
“It is nice to meet a tall Englishman,” Claudia said in a familiar accent, “and a well-dressed one!”
He liked her style immediately. She was confident and wore a strongly waisted black leather jacket over a white T-shirt. The line of brass buttons up the centre and small epaulettes gave her a military flavour. Below her black jeans he noticed a pair of quality leather shoes; classic, bordering on old fashioned.
“Thank you,” he said, returning her gaze. “I was beginning to feel a little out of place in here.”
“Well, of course … you need to dress like a gypsy to fit in here,” she said, clutching the bald head of the man next to her, like a hawk might grab an egg. “Isn’t this right, Cliff!”
“Might be,” her overweight sidekick replied, whilst bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music.
“Are you here alone?” Claudia said, turning to Tarquin with a searching look.
“Jesus Christ, girl … show some tact!” Shirley hissed at her shoulder. “Don’t be too obvious!”
Tarquin made the connection … the Russian cleaner he used to have.
“Well, at the moment I am; I was in the … erm … theatre and left early. Are you Eastern European?”
“Sure. I been here some time now … like five years. Actually I am Romanian. But my accent is obviously not very good yet!” she said with a small smile.
“Come on! All this serious chitchat!” Shirley said, thrusting her large bust into the conversation. “We’re here to ’ave some fun, not discover each other’s bloody life histories!”
“Are you ready for that drink now, Shirley?” Tarquin said loudly, like he was talking to an old friend.
“Yes, I bloody am … a black velvet, please … me mouth’s bloomin’ parched!”
“And you, Claudia?” he said, pulling his wallet from an inside pocket.
“Err … okay, I will. I don’t usually have more than two … but on this occasion … a gin and tonic, please.”
“A gin and bloody tonic?” Shirley screeched. “You haven’t had one of those since I’ve known you, girl. Jesus, you’re turning poncy as well, Clauds!”
Claudia smiled warmly and revealed a set of perfect teeth. Tarquin strolled to the bar.
* * *
“Well, what a nice surprise!” Christopher said to Diana at the bar during the interval. “I really didn’t imagine we would ever meet again; such are the ways of this impersonal town.”
He handed a bottle of champagne and some glasses to the outstretched arms of one of his friends.
“Come and have a sharpener with us until Tarquin gets back. What on earth was that all about? He very nearly brought the whole thing to a close!”
“God, don’t remind me!” Diana said in an exasperated tone. “I think he fell asleep and that bloody mobile of his went off!”
“Rather an extreme reaction,” Christopher said, giving Diana a searching look.
“He spilt an entire glass of water over the woman next to him, Christopher … I don’t blame her! God knows what he’s up to now, probably getting sloshed somewhere. He hates scenes … and come to think of it, I hate driving that car of his; and guess who’s going to be chauffeur tonight!”
Christopher put his hand softly on Diana’s arm and very gently stroked her with his thumb.
“Don’t w
orry,” he said soothingly, looking into her eyes. “I’ll look after you until he gets back.”
* * *
Meanwhile, across the street from the Garrick and tucked discreetly into a narrow passage, the black Sprinter sat unnoticed by the swirling crowds. Inside, the two men viewed the entrance to the theatre with watchful eyes. Reg Guston, better known as Gus, and his trusty henchman, Robert ‘Bob’ Stiles, were both west London men and worked for Viktor and Zoltan.
“Look, G, I’m not being funny or nothin’, but I still don’t think we’re on to the right geezer,” Bob said, turning to Gus. “Zoltan said—and I heard ’im clear as day—that Oliver drove one of those Volvo estates, and that he was about five-eleven, and on the porky side. This guy is big, about six-three, and he drives an old Merx!”
“Shut it, B,” Gus said cuttingly. “You know as well as me that Zol is prone to a few errors of detail every now and then. We both saw him come out of number nine, and that’s the address he give us, okay? Regarding his car … he’s probably got the Merx as well as the Volvo … as his lady puller. For romantic nights at the theatre! Something you know nothing about, my friend, ’cos you only has romantic feelings for fancy tools, mobile phones, and all things with buttons, lights, and batteries.”
He elbowed Bob with a wink and revealed a row of stained teeth.
“And what about the dog?” Bob said, ignoring Gus’s rudeness.
Gus lowered his head and peered at Christopher and Diana through the spy hole. They were still talking at the door of the theatre, people milling around them.
“Look, I’m trying to do a job here. What about the mongrel? We both saw the bloody thing being walked a couple of days ago. Have you forgotten already?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, mate,” Bob continued. “We saw a dog being walked, all right, but it wasn’t the animal that Zol described. He said it was a boxer dog.”
“A what?”
“A boxer—a big dog with long legs and can run like the frigging clappers,” Bob persisted.
The Freiburg Cabinet Page 6
