by Frank Lean
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, he can’t get enough of it. He’s been married six times and now he’s looking for the seventh Mrs Harrow.’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I am and Clyde is. Why should a man who can’t stop at number one stop at number six? You could be the seventh Mrs Harrow.’
‘That’s definitely one harrowing experience I want to avoid. I told him I’d have to think about going with him.’
‘Think long and hard. Clyde’s methods of seduction are strenuous. He’s not above a spot of blackmail.’
‘Like you?’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Clyde’s a one-off.’
‘Is he the one who’s ruffled your feathers?’
‘Is he hell!’ I growled. ‘It would take more than an old ham like him to do that.’
Looking at Janine’s concerned expression helped me to make up my mind. If Brandon didn’t want me to see Levy, then I would see him.
‘Dave, you look better already,’ Janine said with a laugh. ‘The colour’s come back into your face.’
‘Great,’ I said gloomily.
‘If I can’t lure you to my bed I’ll have to love you and leave you,’ Janine announced. ‘I must go, the children will be fighting. Eleven tomorrow? And Dave, you’ve got the key if you change your mind.’
‘OK,’ I murmured. I could do without the fussing.
When she’d gone I brought the bottle over from the cupboard and poured myself another drink. I put a Leadbelly album on the CD player. I lay on the sofa for a long while watching the evening draw in. Gradually a chill, empty feeling began to creep over me. I shook myself and poured more whisky into the tumbler, but it did no good. There were no answers at the bottom of the glass. I felt as if I stood on the edge of a precipice. After a while, still lying flat on my back, I picked the whisky bottle up by its neck and held it above my face. It was more than half empty. I knew that if I had another drink it would all go downhill from then on.
‘Damn Brandon Carlyle!’ I thought.
I put the bottle down and lay there thinking for a long while, then I struggled to my feet, made myself a cup of coffee and had a shower and dressed. The heat put me in a better humour with myself.
Then I phoned Sam Levy.
‘I knew you had sense,’ he said.
‘That puts you in a class on your very own,’ I replied.
There was a pause while he thought about that, then, ‘The self-depreciating humour, yes? Nobody has that like us English.’
‘It’s self-deprecating, Mr Levy.’
‘Yes, so you call me in the evening to correct my grammar?’
‘Yes, I mean no. I called to tell you that I paid a visit to your old friend Brandon Carlyle today. He didn’t seem very happy about your mental status.’
‘I should worry what Brandon thinks about me? For this you call me? I think you called because you’re curious to find out more about Miss Marti and her papa. That’s the bone you want to chew, no?’
‘No, I mean yes. Hell, I’m so confused between you and Brandon I don’t know what I mean. Did you get in touch with Angelina?’
‘Don’t change the subject, Mr Cunane. Brandon leaned on you, yes?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Any meeting with Brandon is no joke. Self-depreciating, he isn’t. He likes to send people away with a flea in their ointment.’
‘He succeeded this time.’
‘And now you want to put something in his medicine? Am I right or am I wrong?’
‘No! Listen, he has some dirt on me . . . not dirt really, just something that’s better forgotten . . .’
‘Mucky stuff, dirt.’
‘I don’t care about me, but there are other people involved who might get hurt.’
‘If you play with tar, some sticks on your fingers.’
‘Spare me the philosophy, Mr Levy. I just thought that if I understood what’s at the bottom of all this I might be able to see my way out of this mess.’
‘God forgive me! I should tell you to move to another town but I won’t waste my breath. I know what sort you are. You’d better come round and we’ll talk. Maybe I can get some sense into your head.’
26
IT TOOK THE best part of half an hour to get to Sam Levy’s house. I’d thought it was isolated before but now, approaching it in the dark, it seemed to be crying out for attention from the criminal fraternity.
‘You ought to get some security lights and alarms and better locks,’ I said when Levy opened the door.
‘I told you already. If they want to rob me they can take the lot and welcome.’
‘No, really,’ I insisted. ‘You can’t see the house from the road with all those trees and bushes. You ought to do something.’
‘You want to come and live with me now, you’re so worried?’
I must have looked aggrieved at this because he laughed and led me into the kitchen. The kitchen table was laid with a meal for two. There were even candles.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ I asked.
‘What are you? A ghost? Indulge me, Mr Cunane. I satisfy your curiosity as far as I can and you share a meal with me. Don’t worry, the food’s not poisoned.’
I tried to smile but it came out more like a grimace.
‘I’m joking you, Mr Cunane,’ he said. ‘The depreciation’s too much for you, eh? Sit down. By the looks of you, you need feeding.’
There was nothing I could say that would stop him. Soon he was ladling a rich-smelling stew onto a plate in front of me. I gave it a half-hearted poke with my fork.
‘You want to know what it is?’ he asked with a laugh. ‘You guessed it’s not pork, eh?’
‘It’s not that,’ I said hastily. ‘It’s just that I don’t usually eat this late.’
‘Faddy eater, eh? Eat, then sleep. Let your digestion work while you rest. That’s what I say. Best topside beef, brandy, red wine, onions and herbs in that. No bacon though. Simmer slowly and eat it late. I always cook too much. Superstition, yes! I think if I have the food someone will come and join me, and now they have.’
‘Mr Levy, I’m sorry about Angelina. I can go with you if you want to try for a personal reconciliation.’
‘No, no, you were wise about that. Best to let her make her own mind up. Besides, the boats will still be sailing to Thailand and Manila next year, eh? Perhaps this time I’ll find a Jewish Philippine girl.’
The rich aroma was doing its work and I tucked in despite myself. Levy poured out a beaker of red wine. ‘Drink,’ he ordered. ‘I cooked the meat in this.’ I looked at the bottle: Musigny AC. I’m no wine buff but I knew enough to know that it was very expensive.
‘Extravagant, eh?’ Levy conceded, ‘but what else should I cook boeuf bourguignonne in but the best burgundy wine?’
‘You certainly know how to look after yourself,’ I agreed.
There was silence while we ate. I felt some of the tension drain away.
‘I know how to look after myself, but you’re too polite to say what you’re thinking,’ he said eventually. ‘If I live so well why has my wife left me? That’s the question, eh? What’s wrong with a rich old cocker that he can’t hang on to a wife from a country that has too much population and too few dollars? You think Angelina leaving me was all a trick laid on for your benefit, don’t you?’
‘Mr Levy, if I could understand women I don’t think I’d be in the trouble I’m in now,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why Angelina left. Why don’t you ask her? I know I’d like to ask Marti King what her game is.’
‘Hah! I like this. Direct, no messing.’
‘That’s me,’ I agreed.
‘Marti, I can help you with, but first tell me what Brandon’s been doing.’
I related the whole story, Dee, Janine, Marti, the visit to Vince, Celeste’s comments, everything.
When I finished Levy shook his head. He pushed the dishes away and gave a long sigh. I waited expectantly with a hundred questions to fire a
t him.
‘David,’ he said. ‘Can I call you David?’
I shrugged.
‘You did something for me. You found Angelina . . . you could have ripped me off but you didn’t. I owe you something. I know you suspect that my coming to you was part of some deep laid plot but it wasn’t. I had no idea that you were involved with Marti.’
‘Bit of a coincidence,’ I muttered, studying his benevolent expression for a sign that he was lying. He was so genial that it was hard to be sceptical.
‘Yes, but that’s all it was. These things happen. I was a bookmaker, I should know.’
‘All right, so tell me why my taking an interest in Vince King has got Brandon Carlyle in such a lather?’
‘I can’t. Trust me. If I told you what’s worrying Brandon there are people who’d snuff you out like that candle just to be sure that you didn’t share your knowledge with anyone.’
‘Brandon . . .’
‘No, not him. Your little chat with Brandon must have reassured him or you wouldn’t be here now. There are other people who have an interest in seeing that Vince King stays locked up.’
‘You promised if I found Angelina . . .’
‘I promised to tell you about Devereaux-Almond and I will. He was . . . well, let’s say he has a gift. With me it was numbers, with him it was pieces of paper. He knows how to create a screen of words and paper round matters which a man like Brandon has to keep hidden.’
‘So he helped Brandon ensure that Vince King was found guilty?’
‘No, no. Can’t you understand? The last thing a man like my former partner would want is to be tied up in something like that. All he did was to encourage Devereaux-Almond to handle King’s affairs. It was like entering a yearling in a race for three-year-olds. With the brief advised by Almond, a man who knew everything there was to know about shell companies but nothing about crime or juries, King was bound to take a fall. There was no need to fix anything, the legal system fixed him. King was a fool. He knew how important Devereaux-Almond was to Brandon and he must have thought they’d see him right. He gambled and he lost.’
‘But he didn’t do the murders?’
‘Murders, schmurders! Who knows? Who cares?’ Levy asked with a dismissive gesture. ‘Vince King did plenty of crime. He’s where he ought to be, believe me.’
‘Maybe I’d be happier if there were some other prominent citizens doing time along with him.’
Levy laughed at this.
‘You mean me, yes? More self-depreciation?’
I shook my head.
‘David, I’ve told you enough already. You must drop any interest in King now. Stop being noble, yes? He’s a dangerous man to know, particularly for you. Marti was naughty to get you mixed up in this. She must have known who your father was.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I’ve said enough.’
‘You haven’t.’
‘Enjoy the food and forget you ever heard Vince King’s name. He’s forgotten now and he should stay forgotten. Listen, I’ll give you a bonus for finding Angelina so promptly. You take your young lady and her children away for a long holiday. When you come back all this will have blown over and Brandon won’t have any interest in you. Yes, that’s a promise.’
I tried to coax more information out of him but it was like banging my head against a brick wall. I gave up and we talked about his holidays in Thailand and his house. I enjoyed the meal, which was delicious, and he was flattered when I told him so. We finished the wine. Eventually I left.
‘You really ought to get this place secured,’ I said again as I stood in the hallway.
‘Listen, David, the professional criminals know who I am,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘They know that if they messed with me they’d go home with their heads in a sling.’
‘What, do you practise karate or something?’
He chuckled at this thought.
‘David, how do you think a bookmaker collects awkward debts? I may be retired but I still know the right buttons to press if I want something done. Why, that little punk Lou Olley started out working for me.’
‘There are always amateurs.’
‘Yes, there are always amateurs to consider and sometimes one gets lucky, eh? But a bookmaker knows how to take a loss. If he’s any good he takes the occasional lucky amateur in his stride. What he has to look out for is the well-organised pro who’s decided to take a risk.’
As I drove back to Chorlton I felt easier in my mind, but for all his geniality and the touches of pathos there was just a hint of something sinister about Sam Levy. Was it chance that he called on me after Olley was killed? Some chance.
Back at Thornleigh Court everything was as calm as a megalithic tomb. Even the air seemed still.
I took Janine’s key and let myself into next door in my stocking feet.
‘Dave, is that you?’ she called.
I made no reply. Opening the door of her bedroom I shed my jeans and shirt and slipped in beside her. The warmth of her body was like fire, and I held on to her as if she was my one contact with reality.
27
ALTHOUGH IT WAS Sunday morning the trading at the Trafford Centre was relentless. Droves of drugged-looking people gawped at the endless succession of shop fronts. I’d gone there with Jenny and Lloyd on a whim. There were all kinds of ways I could have entertained them for the day. I could have gone to my parents if I hadn’t felt peevish about my last reception there. I could have gone to Chester Zoo but that would have been too painful. The whole situation there was too much for me: sad caged animals staring out at sad, divorced and legally restricted dads giving their separated offspring a permitted airing. At least, that was the fancy I’d had when I’d last trailed Jenny and Lloyd round there. There was a rival attraction I could have chosen, the Blue Planet Aquarium, but I’d seen enough of sharks and cold fish to last a lifetime. So the Trafford Centre it was. Before setting out I fixed the rack onto the car and put my bike on it.
I had a plan at the back of my mind.
First, we took an early lunch at the Rainforest. Artificial animals I could stand. Lloyd watched the gorillas vibrating as he munched his way through the unusual menu. That took us the best part of two hours.
Next we went into a bike shop and I bought Jenny and Lloyd a bike each, by no means the cheapest ones either. I bought them helmets and knee pads and elbow pads. I bought them cycling clothes. I bought them locks and I bought them gloves. I bought first aid kits, repair kits and route maps. I bought racks to mount the whole ensemble on my car and then spent half an hour in the car park getting everything squared away.
The kids were bubbling with enthusiasm. I almost had to tie Lloyd up to stop him trying out his stabilisers round the busy ten-thousand-space car park. Finally, we set off for Dunham Massey. Brandon Carlyle’s words were echoing in my head as we entered the National Trust property. Time had turned the bricks here to a pleasing dark rust shade though I doubted that they’d ever been that precise raw red favoured by Brandon. The immemorial oaks and the restrained architecture did something for my bruised spirit but they weren’t the objects of the exercise. We pedalled past the house, turned right at the water mill and went down to the tow path along the old canal.
We cycled for some miles before I made a discovery – you can take young children so far and then they flake out. We ate our sandwiches and rested and set off back. We didn’t get far. Lloyd came to a dead stop. He was falling asleep over the handlebars. I took him off his bike, and having tied it on top of my own, put him over my shoulder and walked. Jenny struggled along beside me on her own bike, needing constant encouragement and many stops. It took us hours to get back to the car park at Dunham Massey. We were almost the last to leave before it shut.
It was quite dark when I got the pair to their mother’s door, still in their cycling gear.
‘Oh, Dave!’ Janine gasped. ‘What have you done to them? I’ve been frantic.’
‘We went for a
little bike ride.’
‘It was great, Mum,’ Jenny, who had revived slightly, confirmed.
‘Look at them, they’re covered in mud.’
‘It’ll wash off,’ I muttered.
Janine started peeling the children’s clothes off. ‘Where’ve they got all these things from? I asked you to look after them for a couple of hours, not re-equip them from the skin out.’
‘Dave bought us new bikes,’ Jenny said. ‘Mine’s nicer than the one Michelle O’Dell’s got.’
‘Oh, really,’ Janine murmured. ‘Does Dave know that Michelle’s daddy owns a chain of car salesrooms?’ She shot me a fierce look.
‘And we got the helmets and the pads and the shorts and we had a meal at the Rainforest and a picnic by the canal bank and Dave carried Lloyd all the way back and the man at the car park was waiting to lock up when we got there,’ Jenny recounted breathlessly. ‘Miss Seagrave says we should write a diary about interesting things that happen and I’m going to write it all down and do a picture of Dave carrying Lloyd . . .’
Janine lapsed into an ominous silence. She led the children into the bathroom and I departed for my own flat. It was about an hour later that my phone rang.
‘Are you there, Hercules? You’d better come round and explain, hadn’t you?’
I went meekly enough.
‘Do you mind telling me what your idea was?’ Janine demanded
‘No idea, I just thought I’d like a bike ride and I could hardly fit the pair of them on my handlebars.’
‘This is some obscure way of getting back at me over Henry, isn’t it?’
‘No, and how did you get on with him?’
‘Don’t try to change the subject. I want to know why you suddenly decided to spend hundreds of pounds on my children. Is this your way of telling me that we’re breaking up?’
‘No, and since when are we into “my children”? I thought we were moving towards saying they’re our children.’
‘They’re my children, not yours,’ Janine snarled, her expression as fierce as any she-wolf defending her cubs.
‘Why shouldn’t I spend my money on them? We’re supposed to be partners, aren’t we? Do I have to ask your permission every time I buy them an ice cream?’
