“I really can’t tell you, Jess. Especially here.” Fleur was still not sure she could trust Jess not to tell Adrian, so she prevaricated. “I’ll come over tomorrow.”
“OK,” said Jess. “But can you find time to read some scripts? We’ve still got a living to earn.”
“I’ll try,” said Fleur.
Jess looked around her, sighed, got up from the fire and said reluctantly, “I must go.” Fleur went upstairs to read scripts in her bedroom.
The snow continued to fall outside her window and she imagined Joe and Dominic, and Jason, out in the street in it. Where were they? she worried, while she sat, as if wrapped in cotton wool, in the warmth and luxury of her father’s house.
Twenty-Seven
After I left the pub I went down to Goolies’ smallholding. It would take a bit of time for Robinson to report he hadn’t been able to contact me, a bit longer for Prothero to flounder about, wondering what it was safe to do. I guessed I’d be all right at Goolies’ place for as long as it took me to organise my transport out of the country.
On the way down to Kent I stopped and gave Hoppo a ring. I asked if he’d go round to Eaton Square and take pictures of those who came and went at Jethro’s house. There might be a percentage, if things were hotting up, to seeing who was coming and going at Eaton Square.
Down in Kent I relaxed. Goolies and I sat in his front room with the blue curtains and the red velvet suite. There were pictures of his family – weddings, holidays and christenings – all over the room on every surface. Goolies’ missis had gone off to bed with the grandchild, one that Goolies’ daughter had dropped and left two years earlier. This infant slept in a crib in their bedroom.
We sat up late in front of the fire, drinking beer. I told him the whole story as I knew it and added, “I’m sorry, Goolies, but it looks as if I might have to suspend operations. For the foreseeable – maybe forever.”
He said philosophically, “All good things come to an end. But it may get sorted yet. It looks like a cock-up to me. That’s what happens when men behind desks get involved. They don’t have to stand the consequences like you do in the field. It seems to me at stage one they should either have knocked off the three homeless kids or paid them heavily to leave the country and never come back. Threatened them a bit.” He paused, thinking. “Maybe they weren’t taking them too seriously at first… Tallinn and the girl’s father, if it was him, had to be doing some private business neither of them wanted anyone to know about. Then Tallinn lost it with the girl he picked up and the others, Floyd and Carter, were suddenly witnesses. So Jethro called the plod and claimed the three of them burgled him, in case they went to the police with their story and all this private business came out. Accusing them of burglary would take the wind right out of their sails. Who was going to be believed – Sir Richard Jethro, important guy with plenty of contacts, or three toe-rags off the street, one a drug addict? So the police enquiries send them flying – then it’s over. But then you get called in, months later, to find them. And you can’t, not with the time and money available. I can’t see why they needed you. Or why they gave up looking.”
“I think Jethro just wanted to keep tabs on them. So he had a word at the Home Office. He wouldn’t have needed to supply any explanations. They’d just help out a pal. So Pugh was put in charge of the search. He called me. I don’t know what Jethro, if it was Jethro, planned to do when he’d found them. Maybe it was just sensible reconnaissance, no action till necessary. When I couldn’t find them he just thought they’d gone and were shutting up and his mind moved to other things. He’s a busy man.
“Five years later, when they called me in to find the threesome again, something had to have changed. Must have. Between the first attempt to find them and the second, something else had happened.”
“Got to have been all this business with the Germans wanting the Russian,” Goolies said.
“That’s what I think,” I told him.
“Then the Dirty Tricks Department hired some fellows to kill him while he was in custody,” Goolies remarked. “Nasty man, though, supplying deadly weapons to the enemy.”
There was a silence as Goolies put another log on the fire and we both had another beer.
“I reckon Jethro would have been laundering money for Tallinn,” Goolies said into the silence.
“I keep coming back to that,” I agreed.
The baby woke up and Goolies went up and got her, so that his wife wouldn’t be disturbed. He sat there with the little girl asleep against his shoulder.
“It’s funny,” he said. “I feel more love for this little one than I ever felt for my own kids when they were young.”
I didn’t comment. I just nodded. He said, “I wonder where this Tallinn is now.”
“Russia, if he’s got any sense. No one can find him there.”
“His only problem is, if he’s in Russia, his money’s still here,” Goolies said. “Perhaps he got it out in time.”
For an hour or so we sat yawning over the fire like two old soldiers, then went to bed, Goolies carrying his granddaughter upstairs tenderly.
I lay there, a bit angry. Goolies was quite right, this was a cock-up by other people and because of it I had to leave the country in a hurry. I’d organised my trip – the Dover captain would be taking me out on the next evening’s tide. I just hoped none of the many stupid people involved would make any stupid moves before I got away. Can’t happen, I told myself. Then again – anything can happen, I reminded myself. Anything.
I got up after half an hour, and went down to Goolies’ computer.
Twenty-Eight
Fleur, wearing her new dress, stood that evening in the drawing-room at Eaton Square beside her father, who had been at his office all day and had, he told her, returned at five. He looked determined and perhaps a little tired. Now he glanced at the white and gold clock on the mantelpiece and said to her, “Do you think you could go up and remind Sophia of the time? She doesn’t always leave herself enough time to dress.”
As she left the room he was moving towards the drinks, which were laid out on a long marble-topped sideboard. Her father had come a long way from the semi in Gravesend, she thought, to stand, a masterly figure in a dinner jacket, pouring himself a drink in his drawing-room in Eaton Square, looking as if that were his natural environment. It was now, of course.
Sophia’s bedroom was empty and Fleur discovered her in the dining-room, her face and hair done but still wearing an elaborately embroidered robe de chambre. Head tilted, she was examining the large circular table which had been laid with napkins, glasses and cutlery. In the centre were three little silver filigree bowls of ferns and cream roses.
“The flowers. What do you think?” she asked Fleur. “Would dark blues and reds be better? I can’t make up my mind.”
“Dickie asked me to remind you of the time,” Fleur told her.
“One needs colour in the winter,” Sophia mused.
Fleur looked over at the two large urns filled with flowers and dark foliage which stood on each side of the French windows, over which cream curtains had not yet been drawn. “There’s the colour,” she said, indicating the urns. It was dark outside. Only shadowy trees could be see in the ever-present garden under the glow of London night-time skies. But the snow, now a thick carpet, cast another, whiter light upwards. Then she thought she saw, about twenty metres down the garden, a black figure crossing the white surface of the ground. “Sophia!” she cried out. “There’s a man in the garden!”
Sophia ignored her. “I think you’re right. The roses are very sweet and Sir Peter’s such a puritan at heart. They’ll please him and his wife.”
“Sophia,” Fleur insisted, “there’s someone in the garden.”
“It must be a man from the security firm,” Sophia told her. “There’ve been some threats to the bank. It happens sometimes, but because Sir Peter’s coming, Dickie called them in as a precaution. There are a couple of men at the front, too. It’s horrib
le, but if we were anywhere else but London we’d have them with us all the time.”
She crossed the room briskly and swept the curtains across the windows, saying, “We don’t want to see heavy men prowling about while we’re eating. I’ll dress now. Go and do the honours for me, Fleur, and tell Dickie I’ll be five minutes – less, perhaps.”
Fleur returned to the drawing-room to find Hugh Cotter and Valentine and Diana Keith had arrived.
“We’re only short of Sir Peter and his wife and the Haussmans. You speak Spanish, don’t you Hugh?” Dickie queried. “I gather Sophia’s put you next to Mrs Haussman, Francisco’s new bride.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Hugh. Fleur realised that Ben must have been dropped in favour of Spanish-speaking Hugh. She found she didn’t mind at all. Not his fault. Nor hers.
Sophia swept in. She went over to kiss her husband and he put his arm round her. The door then opened and Sir Peter Strauss, a tall, thin, long-faced man in his fifties, came in with his small, plump wife. By now Fleur had come to recognise the vintages of wives in these circles – the old ones, dusty bottles acquired in youth and preserved thereafter, lovingly or unlovingly; the younger, but not very young ones who were the second wives, more suitable, reliable vintages; then came the third, or fourth, or even fifth wives, late pressings, sparkling wines without much flavour but plenty of fizz and pop. Lady Strauss was an old wife, her hair cut and permed by a hairdresser who knew how to keep order and wearing a very pretty gown patterned with roses.
Introductions were made and Dickie told Sir Peter, “We’re just waiting for Francisco Haussman and his wife.”
“Good,” Sir Peter replied. “Might have a word after dinner, if Sophia doesn’t mind?”
“As long as it’s only a word,” she agreed.
Lady Strauss, having commanded a strong gin and tonic, began to interrogate Fleur. “I was astonished to see from Hello! magazine that Dickie had an older daughter – and such a pretty one. The photographs were enchanting. Why did he keep you a secret for so long?”
“He and my mother agreed about that, I think,” she said.
“These things happen, of course. But still – if my husband had such a pretty daughter I’d insist on his producing her. Not that it’s very likely,” she said, glancing at the grave figure of Sir Peter Strauss, who was talking earnestly to Valentine and Diana Keith. “No – I don’t think Peter has a secret daughter. What a pity. We have only sons. Now – tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself all this time. Are you married, or going to be?”
“Emily’s incorrigible,” said Sophia, at Fleur’s elbow. “She won’t rest until she knows everything about you.”
“There isn’t much to know,” Fleur said.
“I ask only because, as you know, I need someone to marry my son,” Emily Strauss told Sophia. “Thirty and still on the loose. I really must have a nice daughter-in-law soon and some grandchildren. Did you see that awful piece in the Daily Mail about him? Who didn’t? I told him to sue but he said it wasn’t worthwhile.”
“That’s probably true,” Sophia said.
“I need someone just like Fleur,” she said, peering at her. “I can tell immediately by looking at her. Now – have you a husband or are you dedicated to a career?”
Fleur was laughing when Francisco Haussman, a tall, lean, blond man in his forties, came in accompanied by a woman no one was likely to mistake for his first love and the wife of his youth. She was no more than twenty, exceptionally beautiful, with huge dark eyes and piled black hair in which small pearls had been woven. She wore a clinging gold dress and high gold sandals.
“She used to be a model – or something,” whispered Emily Strauss. “My goodness, look at those diamonds.” Round Maria Haussman’s neck was a long chain of large diamonds. Fleur gazed in awe at the glitter and sparkle. “I must just go and say hullo,” said Emily. She bustled over to the Haussmans, while Sophia went off elsewhere and Fleur found herself alone until Diana Keith came up, a cold and mercantile gleam in her eyes.
“Get those diamonds,” she remarked. “It certainly pays to be a teenage lap-dancer.”
“I suppose we’re both too old to take it up,” Fleur said.
Diana ignored this. “We were a bit amazed when you bolted off like that. We hoped it was nothing we’d done. Is all forgiven and forgotten?”
“I think so,” said Fleur, thinking glumly about what she was meant to be doing at Eaton Square – finding out the truth – and how far she was from doing it.
“So you’re the blue-eyed girl again,” Diana said. “Listen – don’t let Dickie down like the others. Oh,” she said, as Valentine came up, “I wish I was at home. I can’t stand these dos, bankers and their wives. At this time of year one yearns for a comfortable chair, a good fire and a video.”
Valentine told her, “Bear up, darling. We’re going in.” He took her arm.
Hugh said, “Nice to see you again, Fleur,” and taking her hand led her across the hall into the dining-room.
The lights were low and candles burned on the table. With his back to the window Dickie Jethro sat with Peter Strauss to his left and Sophia on his right. Fleur, sitting opposite her father, had Francisco Haussman on one side and Emily Strauss on the other.
The housekeeper brought round the promised smoked salmon. There was also a concoction of shrimp on each plate. While Emily Strauss kept up her interrogation of Fleur she noticed Hugh further down the table chatting energetically with Maria Haussman. Dickie was talking to Peter Strauss, whose long face expressed no emotion at all. She looked at her father, solid and determined, outlined against the pale dining-room curtains, and saw him suddenly as a portrait of some old merchant of an earlier age. She explained to Emily Strauss that she had a new job, which she thought she might enjoy.
“You’ll have to give it up when you marry my boy,” Emily said sternly.
“And what will you be doing while I marry your son and bear the grandchildren?” asked Fleur.
“I’ll be in my garden,” she said very seriously. A conversation about orchids, highly technical and incomprehensible to Fleur, began between Francisco Haussman and Emily. His rather intimidating face broke up as he spoke. Fleur, relieved from the struggle of trying to find something to say to her neighbours, who were speaking over her, leaned back a little and let her eyes drift round the table. The conversation murmured on. Sophia bent a shining head the better to catch what Valentine was telling her. Maria Haussman laughed loudly at something Hugh had said. A second course, tiny tournedos steaks in a sauce, was served. Glasses were filled with red wine from which a gentle bouquet arose.
A servant in a white jacket brought Dickie a message, which he read and put in his pocket, with a wry glance at Peter Strauss, indicating, perhaps, that some people always had the ability to disturb others in their own homes at meals, however unimportant their business might be. Diana Keith, leaning forward, asked, “Liking it here?” Fleur nodded and smiled. It was true that she felt less uncomfortable than she had during her first visit to the house. It was surprisingly easy to fall into this warm bath of good food and unchallenging talk round a pretty table. She saw Sophia lean towards her husband, smiling, patting his hand.
There was the crash of breaking glass, the curtains were parted roughly from outside and a tall man in a long, dark leather coat, black trousers and a sweater, his long white hair flying, stepped through.
A complete silence fell, broken only by the screeching of the alarm. Then Maria Haussman screamed.
Dickie Jethro had turned in his chair when the glass broke. Now, seated in his chair, he was only two metres away from the intruder. He began to rise.
“Sit down,” said the man in black.
Dickie went on getting up saying, “August — what are you…?”
The man reached into his jacket and brought out a 9mm revolver. “Sit down,” he said.
Maria Haussman began to cry. Fleur heard Valentine Keith moan, “Oh my God,” under his breath. No
one dared move.
The intruder said to the housekeeper, standing in the doorway with a dish in her hands, “Turn the alarm off.” With her eye on the gun she crept from the room and moments later the noise stopped.
Fleur thought she must be ringing the police, that it would not be long before this scene was interrupted. This gave her some comfort. She thought if they could just hang on, soon it would be over. She noted an empty place at the table, Maria Haussman’s. She must be on the floor, underneath the table, Fleur concluded, and wished she was too.
Meanwhile the man had pushed Jethro back into his chair and said loudly, “I want my money. Give me my money now.” He had a strong Russian accent. It was Tallinn, Fleur knew. And understood immediately that the story of Vanessa’s attack, and possibly the hiring of an assassin to eliminate the witnesses to it, Dominic and Joe, was true too. And that they were all in danger. She was praying no one would do anything to upset Tallinn. If someone did, someone might die. They all might.
Nervelessly, Peter Strauss, his head turned towards Tallinn, asked levelly, “Who are you? What do you want?”
Looking down on him Tallinn said, “I am a man who wants his money from his bank. Who are you?”
“I am Peter Strauss, chairman of Strauss Jethro Smith,” he said.
Dickie Jethro said, “August – we must go and discuss this somewhere else.”
“We have discussed this,” Tallinn said. “We have talked and we have talked. Now you will give me bearer bonds for my money, all of it. Tonight.” He glanced at Sophia, who flinched.
Peter Strauss asked the banker’s question. “How much?”
“I’ll take twenty-five million. It’s all OK – in trusts and those things. He will tell you.” He gestured at Jethro with his gun and Jethro nodded. “I will have it now,” Tallinn said.
“August,” Jethro said desperately, “you’ve had three already. The rest will take three days.”
Connections Page 29
