The drugs were partly to blame for that, of course, or to thank, since the condition was both a curse and a blessing. It had certainly kept the police off Nick’s back until he had been able to assemble a version of events that did not involve admitting he had helped Andrew dump a body in Hamilton’s Shaft. The irony was that he had pleaded memory loss for the period prior to the accident merely as a delaying tactic. There had been no danger of his forgetting the night he and Andrew had tipped a tarpaulined bundle into the black mouth of a disused mine shaft. Nick had assumed a moment of reckoning for it was bound to come in the end. But it never had, for the most astonishing of reasons: when the police had gone to look, the body had vanished.
Nick could share his astonishment with no-one. Nor could he point out to the police that the voice on the tape belonged to Elspeth Hartley. If he did, and if they found her, she might swear the two figures seen in the video were his brother and him. She would only be telling the truth, after all, which would be a first of sorts. But what would he say then? How would he explain what they had done?
He turned and headed up Albert Road towards the railway station. His car stood gathering grime and guano in the yard behind the Old Ferry. Its bumper was crumpled and one set of lights smashed as a result of being rear-ended in a minor adjunct of the major collision that had claimed Andrew’s life. The vehicle was still driveable, but not by Nick. His nerves had been shredded far more drastically than his memory.
He very clearly remembered driving down to Saltash five weeks before, comfortable in the assumption that he would be staying only for a couple of days. Now, at last, he was leaving, at dawn, on foot, with much lost and nothing gained: his father and brother dead, a family sundered, a carefully composed life carelessly dismantled. As he had said goodbye to Irene over breakfast, he had sensed one of the bitterest of those losses: trust. Nick was sure the police must have shown her, and Anna and Basil, the video and played them the tape. But nothing had been said; not a word. They had obviously claimed not to know the voice, otherwise the police would have been back on to him. But all had been silence from that quarter. Nor had they said what they must have realized: that he had assisted Andrew in covertly disposing of something which, if not a body, looked as if it might very well be one. There had only been solicitous enquiries about his health amidst a welter of reticence. Yes, there had been a lot of reticence: a whole conspiracy’s worth of it.
There were a few people gathered at the station, waiting for the train to take them into Plymouth for the working day. Some were smoking or reading newspapers. These few moments on the platform at Saltash were part of their fixed routine. Nick did not know whether to envy or pity them, because for him routine was something he had as much difficulty recalling as envisaging. The doctor had signed him off work until the end of March. He was supposed to use the period to reduce his drug dosage and ease his way back to stability and normality. That was not exactly what he had in mind, though. He had already halved his pill intake without suffering a recurrence of the panic attacks and he planned to halve it again. What he needed was to be sure of himself, confident that his state of mind was his own, not some pharmacological ideal of moderation. It was time to reclaim his life.
The train came in and the passengers shuffled aboard. They trundled over Brunei’s bridge and on by way of the commuter halts to Plymouth. Nick picked up a discarded Western Morning News and read it aimlessly through, noticing little until one small article seized his attention. Foot-and-mouth disease had been detected at an abattoir in Essex; there were fears it might be the tip of an iceberg. He suddenly imagined Andrew’s anxious reaction to the news, forgetting, for one split-second, that Andrew was no longer around to react to anything. Tears welled in Nick’s eyes. He dropped the paper and took several deep breaths to calm himself. The neighbouring farmer had taken over Carwether on a peppercorn rent, pending a decision from Tom about selling the place. But it was a foregone conclusion, of course. Now Andrew had gone, Carwether would go too. His struggle with the land was over.
They reached Plymouth with ten minutes to spare before the London train was due. Nick made his way slowly across to the platform and waited, staring vacantly into space. He wondered if he should drop into the bookstall and buy something to read on the journey, but he knew he would be unable to concentrate on whatever he chose. There was no refuge to be found in fiction. And he no longer craved refuge anyway. He was done with that.
‘Good morning, Nick.’ A familiar voice sliced through his thoughts. He turned to find Basil standing next to him, dressed as if for hiking, in cagoule and walking boots, with a bulging rucksack on his back.‘Surprised to see me?’
‘You could say that, yes.’
‘Irene told me which train you’d be catching.’
‘Are you catching it too? You surely didn’t pack a rucksack just to see me off.’
‘I’m going on holiday. I thought we could travel to London together.’
‘Holiday? This is the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘Anna didn’t take me seriously until I packed this morning. Couldn’t believe her luck, I suppose.’
‘Where are you going?’
Basil’s reply was drowned out by the Tannoy announcement of their train. Nick thought he heard him name a destination, but could not quite believe he had heard correctly.
‘What?’ he shouted above the recital of West Country station stops.
Then the recital abruptly ceased. And he heard Basil’s answer, clear as a bell.
‘Why are you going to Venice?’
Nick managed with some difficulty to delay asking the question until they had settled in their seats and the train had pulled out of the station. Strictly speaking, the question was unnecessary. There was one very obvious reason for going to Venice. And a guided tour of the Doge’s Palace was not it.
‘Well?’
‘I think we’re in the quiet coach, Nick. Have you turned off your mobile?’
‘What are you up to, Basil?’
‘Nothing hole-in-the-corner, I do assure you. After all, I could easily have caught another train, couldn’t I?’
‘In that case, why not just come out with it?’
‘Because Irene has told me to tread carefully where you’re concerned. She didn’t exactly say “Handle Nick like Dresden china”, but it’s what she meant. As for Venice, my interest in Byzantine history can never be slaked. I’ve been meaning for a long time to immerse myself in a study of the treasures the Venetians looted from Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade. This—’
‘Demetrius Paleologus.’ Nick’s mention of their mysterious cousin was no more than a murmur, but it sufficed to halt Basil’s peroration in its tracks.
‘Ah.’ Basil smiled.‘Memory not so very fallible after all, Nick?’
‘What do you hope to achieve?’
‘An understanding of the Venetian address system, to begin with. Houses are numbered by sestiere, providing no clue as to their precise location. San Polo three one five-o, to cite an example, could be anywhere within the sestiere of San Polo, one of the six the city comprises. Fortunately, there is a directory available, the Indicatore Anagrafico, which—’
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘To explain that, I need to tell you a story. But first, I think, I’d like you to tell me a story.’
‘What about?’
‘This trip of yours to Scotland. This northern progress. What precisely is it in aid of?’
‘You already know. I owe Tom a better explanation of what happened to Andrew than I was able to give him when he was down for the funeral.’
‘And is it a better explanation—a complete explanation?’
‘As complete as I’m capable of.’
‘Really? You don’t happen to have brought any cards with you, do you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I think it’s time we put them on the table. You’ve seen the video, Nick. So have I. You’ve also heard the tape. Well, so have I
. Irene and Anna are all for letting sleeping dogs lie. But I fear they’re failing to guard against the day when the dog wakes and comes snapping at their heels. Sorry. Too many metaphors. But I trust the point is made.’
‘I’m not sure it is.’
‘Then let me be specific. I’ve been packing up some of Dad’s possessions for disposal. Books, clothes, bric-a-brac, that kind of thing. Don’t worry. Nothing’s gone yet. Irene and Anna merely thought it prudent to separate the decent stuff from the obvious rubbish and delegated the task to me, as one with time on his hands. Naturally, they didn’t like to bother you with the details and I’d be happy to spare you them myself, but for’—Basil lowered his voice—‘a discovery I made in the cellar.’
Nick said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stared fixedly at the seat-back in front of him.
‘I put everything back as I found it. If it was filled in with concrete and painted over—as it’ll have to be before the house is sold—no-one would notice anything amiss. Of course, as one who’s also seen the video, I have little doubt as to what was there when you and Andrew came across it. I assume removal was Andrew’s idea. He was always too headstrong for his own good. I quite understand why you cooperated. It must have seemed a simple solution to a complicated problem. You might tell me: approximately how long had it been there, do you think? You have the advantage of me. You know what condition it was in.’
Nick forced himself to turn and look at his brother.‘Ten years or more,’ he whispered.‘At a guess.’
‘Thus is Dad’s reluctance to sell explained at a stroke.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Poor Nick. It must have been a harrowing business:’
‘It was.’
‘Had you and Andrew seen the video before he went up to Tintagel that day?’
Nick nodded.‘A copy was put in my car during the wake at Trennor.’
‘You suspected Dr Farnsworth?’
‘And/or Davey.’
‘Plus Miss Hartley.’
‘Yeah.’
‘An unholy alliance formed in pursuit of what exactly?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘I spoke to Dr Farnsworth the day after the accident. He told me about an old army buddy of Dad’s: Digby Bray bourne.’
‘Did he, now?’
‘Present whereabouts unknown.’
‘Like one or two others.’
‘I telephoned Dr Farnsworth a few days ago. After seeing the video, I was suddenly curious to learn more about the long-lost Mr Braybourne.’
‘Get anywhere?’
‘Don’t tease, Nick. You had more or less the same conversation with his housekeeper as I did. She was hardly likely to have forgotten the name Paleologus. Why do you think Dr Farnsworth’s gone to Edinburgh?’
‘To visit an old friend, the housekeeper said.’
‘I know what she said.’
‘It could be true.’
‘And the Pope could be infallible. But you don’t believe it. Which is why you’re going to Edinburgh. To find out what Dr Farnsworth is up to.’
‘I’m worried about Tom.’
‘With good reason, I’d say. Irene tells me you’ll be seeing his mother before going up there. Is that right?’
‘I’m staying with Kate and Terry tonight, yes.’
‘Will you be mentioning any of this to them?’
‘What do you think, Basil?’
‘I think pretending the problem will go away is a fool’s counsel. These people aren’t going to give up until they’ve got what they want.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I’ve no more idea than you. But we have to find out. Which is why I’m going to Venice. And why you’re going to Edinburgh. Isn’t it?’
No more was said until the train left Exeter. Nick sifted his options slowly and carefully, while Basil, sensing he needed to be left to do so, leafed contentedly through a Michelin guide to Venice. Nick could not decide how much to tell his brother. Basil had been right about everything, of course. There was a time when Nick had been reckoned the most brilliant of Michael Paleologus’s children, but now he realized that all along, brilliant or not, Basil had been the cleverest of them, happy though he had often seemed to be thought the most foolish.
‘We could both be taking a big risk,’ Nick said at last, as the train gathered pace through the flooded water meadows of the Exe.‘You do understand that, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes doing nothing is the riskier choice.’
‘But only sometimes.’
‘And this is one of those times.’
‘What will you do when you reach Venice?’
‘Locate our cousin’s abode. Spy out the land. Consider how and whether to approach him. I think I will find a way. For one Paleologus not to call upon another could almost be considered impolite. If he is there, I believe I can create an opportunity to make his acquaintance.’
‘And if he isn’t?’
‘I shall learn what I can. Certain it is that I shall learn nothing without trying.’
‘Be careful.’
‘I will be. And I trust you’ll do likewise.’
‘Do you have my mobile number?’
‘Of course not.’ Basil grinned and handed him his train ticket.‘Write it on there.’ Nick obliged.‘I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know where I’m staying.’
‘Do that.’
‘Much of what’s happened has been our own fault, Nick. I don’t need to tell you that. If we hadn’t destroyed Dad’s will—’ Basil shrugged.‘Who knows?’
‘Clever of you to memorize Demetrius’s address.’
‘I thought I might have need of it.’
‘Is he Tantris, do you suppose?’
‘Possibly.’
‘If he is, you’ll be stepping into the lion’s den.’
There are a lot of lions in Venice. Bronze or marble, for the most part.’
‘You will call tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘I said I would.’
‘I might have some valuable information by then, you see.’
‘So soon?’
‘I’m meeting a guy I know in London.’
‘From whom you may learn—’
‘Quite possibly nothing.’
‘But then again—’
‘It’s a stab in the dark. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Very well.’
‘I’d thought I might have to go to Venice myself, you know. After Edinburgh. Depending what happened.’
‘You may still have to go.’ Basil chuckled.‘There’s just no telling what trouble I’ll get into on my own.’
They parted at Paddington. As was only to be expected of a confirmed aviophobe, Basil was travelling the whole way to Venice by train. It would be Friday morning when he arrived. The next leg of his journey was the Eurostar to Paris. He ambled off down the steps leading to the Underground, pausing at the bottom for a farewell wave and toothy grin. As an eccentric middle-aged backpacker, he was entirely convincing. As a brother, he was the only one Nick had left. And Nick had never fully understood how fond of him he was until he saw him turn and lose himself in the Tube-bound crowd.
Nick left the station on foot and headed south towards Hyde Park, reckoning he had time to walk to his rendezvous with Marty Braxton. A former and fleeting colleague of Nick’s at English Partnerships, Braxton was a fast-talking chancer with a barely veiled contempt for the observances of bureaucratic life. He had moved on and up since they had shared an office in Milton Keynes into the more fitting and remunerative domain of a West End advertising agency. To counter his many vices, he had some stubbornly endearing characteristics, notably a willingness to repay favours. As it happened, he was substantially in Nick’s debt, on account of the blind eye Nick had turned to his use of the office telephone and computer systems for the operation of a customized numberplate mart. And the time had finally come to call in the debt.
They were to meet at the Windmill, halfway bet
ween Bond Street and Regent Street. Braxton had described it as a pub he knew but seldom used; he doubted he would bump into anyone he knew there. Nick hoped he was right. He also hoped, very much, that he would have something to report.
Braxton was already installed at the bar when Nick arrived. Judging by the inroads he had made into a steak and kidney pie and a pint of beer, he had been there for quite a while. He had put on weight since Nick had last seen him, but was carrying it well. There had always been something faintly phocine about Marty Braxton. Now he had acquired an extra layer of sleekness to go with the honking laugh and smug expression.
‘Hi, Nick,’ came the greeting through a mouthful of pie.‘You’re looking well.’
‘That’s a minority view at present.’
‘Really? Well, dare to be different is my motto, mate. Pint?’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘I can recommend the snake and pygmy.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Braxton signalled to the barmaid and a pint was pulled.‘Want to stay here—or slope into a corner?’
‘Wherever you’re comfortable.’
‘In the circs, we’d better slope. Come on.’ Braxton piloted Nick off to a table near the stairs and toasted happy days as soon as they had settled.‘My finely tuned emotional antennae tell me they aren’t so happy for you, though, Nick. Is that right?’
‘Family problems.’
‘Can’t help you there. My earliest memory’s the underside of a gooseberry bush.’
‘I was hoping you could help me, actually.’
‘Ah. No time for foreplay, then?’
‘ ‘Fraid not.’
‘The direct approach wouldn’t do you any good in the advertising game, I can tell you.’
Days Without Number Page 18
