‘Take the car on to the station after you’ve dropped me.’
Godfrey stared out of the car window and thought about the News Universal team of reporters and experts slipping into offices, chatting in City bars, searching through records, copying, analysing, if necessary stealing documents – the financial men in their smart suits, the reporters in grubby raincoats going from house to house, questioning neighbour, cleaning lady, colleague at the office, probing the present, dredging up the past. And always with the chequebook in their breast pocket. No one nowadays, he reflected, can keep a secret safe from those rich enough and determined enough to uncover it. Homes staked out, tradesmen bribed, trash cans rifled, so-called friends offered money. Money. Always money. Every man has his price, Robert Walpole had said three hundred years ago, but at least that was bribery for political power or influence. Nowadays it was bribery to discover private secrets, the secrets of sex – and then publish them to titillate the readers. Every lover, spouse, parent, even child had his or her price. Everyone was eager to tell and betray when the man with the chequebook knocked on the door. And who was there who hadn’t something they wouldn’t want exposed by a News hack, slanted by a News sub-editor and served up to millions over their cornflakes at breakfast on a Sunday morning?
But then he reflected that this investigation was not just to provide a juicy read at the breakfast table. This was a legitimate exercise – preparing a defence against a claim for damages. After all, it was Tancred who had started it. It was he who was demanding damages. News Universal were defending themselves. They were entitled to investigate him. But had Tancred started it? Had it not been started by Price’s decision to print because he wanted to ruin Tancred? And before that had it not been the actor who’d hawked around the diary for sale? And before him, the diarist scribbling down the gossip and secrets about his friends?
But whoever had begun it, the machinery had now commenced to grind; the wheels were rolling, the cogs were turning – and he was one of the cogs. Or rather, he was more, for he was part of the team whose hands were on the levers, collating, tabulating the information dug up by the investigators, pointing them like bird dogs in the direction they should follow. He was a part of the scandal machine of the scandal rag. ‘Do reporters’, he asked suddenly, ‘ever invent a story or pay someone to tell a false story?’
‘They rarely have the need. People fall over themselves to reveal other peoples’ secrets, especially if they’re offered enough money. Most reports are basically true. The story, of course, may be slanted, made more exciting.’ Spenser paused, then went on. ‘And the journalists have to look after themselves. Their livelihood can depend on their ability to come up with a good story. If it looks good, it may not be gone into in great depth. Checks are made, sometimes even affidavits are taken but if the story is sensational enough and the corroboration is pretty thin, sometimes a risk is taken. If it turns out to be wrong, then we apologise and pay up.’ He laughed. ‘While making sure we put it about that the reason for paying up is that the story was true but it wasn’t possible to get the proof needed for a court of law.’
For a time they travelled in silence. Then Godfrey said, ‘This is going to be very different. They say Richard Tancred was the probable successor to the PM. The damages could be enormous.’
They would if Tancred succeeds, Spenser thought. And that, he knew, could spark a major crisis for the Corporation. For Spenser knew better than anyone how vulnerable at present was the financial position. The circulation war was costing News Universal millions and all the time circulation was declining, even if it had picked up a little on the publication of the Richmond Diary. But overall, News were losing the war. A massive award of damages in the Tancred case could have a devastating effect, whatever the Chairman might think. Vast damages and vast costs could bring the Corporation to the brink. Spenser knew the numbers even better than the Chairman. So if he decided that the defence of News Universal in the lawsuit was going to fail, he’d instruct his brokers to sell even more of his stock than he had already. He was not going to let himself be ruined by the obsession of the Chairman over his feud with Tancred. ‘You are right,’ he replied. ‘If the defence fails, the damages and the costs will be enormous.’
The car was drawing up at the tower block of the management and editorial offices of News Universal. ‘Which is why, young man,’ Spenser added, his hand on the car door, ‘we have to bust a gut, to use a vulgar phrase, to ensure it does not.’ He got out of the car. ‘Don’t forget I want you to get a statement from Streatley when you get back from the north. We must be ready to prove he brought the manuscript to us. I want you to interview Streatley as soon as possible.’
Chapter Seven
In the late afternoon of the conference in Mordecai Ledbury’s chambers in the Temple, Anna James was working happily in her studio. The evening before she’d got a model from the agency, a man called Cosimo, middle-aged, with an ugly, interesting face. She did a drawing in chalk of his head and shoulders. When she came to dismiss him he became difficult, pressing her to come out with him for a drink. She refused. His breath stank of gin. It had taken some time to get him down the stairs and out of the studio.
She was working on a new still life when the telephone rang. ‘I was a bit pissed last night,’ Cosimo mumbled. ‘No offence meant. When do you want me again?’
‘No hurry,’ Anna said. Never, she thought. She’d had enough of Cosimo. ‘I’ll let you know.’ That morning she had taken the drawing off the easel and leant it against the wall. Cosimo said he’d be happy to come again, any time she wanted. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she repeated and hung up.
The light was fading and she switched on the spotlights as she worked for another hour on the still life on the easel. Another bell sounded, this time the front door. Oh, no, she thought, not Cosimo. The bell rang again, a long, continuous ring. She went downstairs. ‘Who is it?’ she called from the hall. ‘If it’s you, Cosimo, go away.’
‘It’s your landlord,’ came a man’s voice. ‘Can we have a word?’
Her landlord? Job Streatley. She had not met him when Goodbody’s, the solicitors, had given her the keys and she had moved in. The house beside the studio had been shuttered and dark. She opened the front door. In the dim light that came from the hall and fell on the doorstep she saw a man in his early thirties with a thin face and blond hair. Beside him was another man, larger, with square shoulders. In the half-light, the pair seemed faintly menacing.
‘Job Streatley,’ the blond man said, smiling. He held out a passport, open at the page with his name and photograph. ‘Not my most flattering likeness, not the one I use in Spotlight for the theatre, but as we’ve not met and you’re on your own, I thought I should identify myself – like the coppers or the gas man.’ He smiled again, the smile flitting across his face, showing his white teeth, switching off abruptly. ‘I haven’t been around since you came and I thought we ought to meet. May we come in? I’d like to have a talk.’
Anna hesitated. ‘About—’ she began.
‘Oh, just a friendly neighbours’ kind of talk. I won’t keep you long.’
She turned, leaving the front door open and stood at the bottom of the steep staircase to the studio, her hand on the banister. The two men came into the hall, the second shutting the front door behind them.
Streatley was quite short, his yellow hair, she saw, was dark at the roots. He was dressed in a kind of black Mao jacket buttoned to the neck and close-fitting black trousers. The other man had a shaven head and the face of a bruiser with a ring in one ear. He was in a T-shirt and she could see the tattoos on his biceps.
‘I know this place well,’ Streatley said cheerily, ‘from when old Francis was alive.’ He peered down the long passage which ran beside the stairs and led to the small kitchen and the sole bedroom and its bathroom. It was there he’d brought his friends – and had so troubled Francis.
Anna had imagined Francis’s friend as someone graceful and willowy, ra
ther gentle. This man was hard.
‘This is Taylor, my assistant,’ said Streatley, pointing to the other who was standing behind him by the door. He’s even harder, she thought. Assists at what? she wondered.
‘Can we go somewhere where we can talk?’ he added, smiling again.
‘As you know, there’s only the studio—’
‘And the bedroom,’ he interrupted, the same unpleasing smile flashing momentarily across his face. ‘No, of course the studio. Just the place for a talk.’
Anna led the way up the stairs.
Streatley went to the canvas on the easel. ‘Nice,’ he said of the still life, ‘very nice.’
Taylor leant against the wall under the tall north window. Anna pushed the trolley on which were her palette, her tubes of paint and the jars of turpentine and linseed oil up against the easel, obliging Streatley to stand back. ‘Sorry.’ He ran his hand through his hair and smiled again. But his eyes were not smiling.
‘What do you want to talk about?’ she asked.
‘About this place, about the studio.’
‘What about it?’ She sat on the high painting stool near the trolley.
‘I’m an actor and I’m often out of London, touring and so on. I’ve my own place in Islington and this is too big for me. So I want to sell. But the studio being an integral part of the property and—’
‘It’s not integral. It’s separate.’
‘Of course,’ he agreed, ‘but it adjoins the house and is in the grounds, and you can only get to it through the same gate from the gardens. No one interested would want to buy if someone were occupying the studio.’
‘Why not? It’s two separate dwellings. In New York, there are plenty of places like this. There must be the same in London.’
‘Maybe there are,’ he said sharply, while the smile came and went. ‘But in a sale it’d be a disadvantage to have someone living on the property. So what I’ve come to ask is whether you’d agree to a deal.’ He paused, looking at her under his arched eyebrows. They were plucked, or at some time had been plucked, she noticed.
‘Because you want to sell the property?’ she asked.
‘Yes. The whole of it. And I’ve got somebody who is interested, really interested. I’ve the chance of a quick sale. They’ve seen the house – and the outside of the studio. I’ve described the inside and they only want to buy if the studio is included. They’re from overseas, Hong Kong, and they’re in a hurry. I don’t want to lose the chance.’
‘And I’m in possession of the studio.’
‘I want to buy you out.’ He was strolling around the room. ‘At a reasonable price, of course. I’ve no firm ideas about price but we can discuss that once we’ve decided the principle.’ He stopped, watching her.
‘What principle?’
‘That you agree to sell … And leave. Leave quickly.’ Until then he had made an effort to sound pleasant, his voice light. Now it became harder. ‘I don’t want to quarrel. Nothing’s more unpleasant than neighbours quarrelling.’
‘Why should we quarrel?’
‘We won’t, not if you’re sensible, not unless you turn me down or play silly buggers over the price. That’d make for bad feelings between us, real bad feelings.’ He began to patrol again around the studio. ‘To be strictly accurate, it’d make for bad relations between you and Taylor. I won’t be here myself.’ He turned to Taylor, who was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. ‘But Taylor will. Taylor’ll be in the main house, won’t you, Taylor?’
Taylor nodded. There was no mistaking, now, the menace.
Streatley continued, ‘There’ve been a lot of burglaries around here so I can’t leave the place unoccupied. I have to have someone here, someone capable of looking after it, of dealing with anyone who’s a nuisance.’ He grinned at Taylor who looked steadily at Anna. ‘Taylor’s the man for that. He’d be a match for anyone who makes a nuisance of themselves, wouldn’t you, Taylor?’
‘I should be,’ Taylor said.
‘He’s trained, you see. He knows how to handle villains and nuisances – and not be too particular about how he does it.’ Streatley turned back to Anna. ‘He’s just the man I need to look after my property.’
Anna said, ‘I haven’t seen anyone in the main house. There’ve been no lights since I moved in. I thought it was unoccupied.’
‘You’re right. No one has been here. Taylor came last night. I’ve been too busy to give the matter much attention myself but now that someone is so keen to buy I must.’ He walked over to Taylor and turned. Both men were facing her. ‘Buying the whole place, that is,’ he added. ‘That’s what they want and I don’t want to pass up the chance. We’re talking about quite a bit of money.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ Anna agreed. Then she added, ‘I heard you’ve been busy selling your friend’s private diary?’
He stared at her coldly. ‘I came here’, he said, ‘to discuss this property. Nothing else.’
‘I should think that the publication of that diary might cause a lot of people a lot of pain. Did your friend ever think it would be published? And in a rag like the Sunday News?’
‘That’s nothing to do with you. I came here to discuss buying you out. You’d get what’s fair.’ He was angry now.
Anna’s heart began to beat faster. She knew she shouldn’t have said that about the diary and wished she hadn’t. She got off the stool and pointed at Taylor. ‘Why did you bring that man with you? What has he to do with a deal between you and me?’
‘I told you. He’s my assistant. What happens here concerns him because he’ll be living here looking after my property. You’ll see a lot of him around the place … If you stay.’
She looked from one to the other. Her heart began to flutter. ‘I’ll get my lawyer to talk to you,’ she said.
He broke into one of his ingratiating smiles. ‘Do that,’ he said. ‘I’ll call him.’
He took a pad and a pen from the pocket of his black Mao jacket. ‘What’s his name?’
‘I’ll tell him to call you.’
‘All right.’ Streatley wrote on the pad and handed the sheet of paper to her.
‘That’s my number in Islington. What’s his name?’ he repeated.
She hesitated. Godfrey Lacey was the only lawyer she knew in London. But she also knew that he was not what she needed. She’d require someone tougher than Godfrey to take on Job Streatley. But there was no one else. ‘Godfrey Lacey,’ she said, looking at the piece of paper Streatley had handed her.
‘Well, tell him to call me at that number. What’s his firm?’
‘He’ll call you.’
‘Make sure he does. And soon. Just one word of advice. Tell him you’re going to be sensible, you’re going to be reasonable. Otherwise I don’t think you’re going to be very happy if you stay on here. I don’t think your life would be very comfortable.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No, just an opinion. You do understand that the garden is not included in your tenancy?’
‘I never thought it was.’
‘There’s only a right of access.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘Then please make sure your boyfriends understand it. Taylor found a drunk wandering round the garden last evening. Isn’t that right, Taylor?’
‘I did,’ Taylor said. ‘He banged on the door of the main house, shouting that he was looking for the studio. He said he couldn’t find it, it was too dark.’
Cosimo, Anna thought.
‘Bloody drunk,’ Taylor added. He picked up the board with the drawing of Cosimo she’d done the evening before. It was on the floor beside him. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘That’s the bloody drunk.’
Streatley looked over Taylor’s shoulder. ‘Nasty-looking brute,’ he observed. Taylor leant the board back against the wall. Streatley went on, ‘It’s not nice having someone like that wandering about my property at night, drunk, looking for his girlfriend. That’s a trespass. That’s the sor
t of thing that makes for bad relations, really bad. That could cause problems with you and Taylor living so close. And we don’t want rows, do we? Not rows in public or in court about drunken boyfriends calling in the middle of the night and disturbing the neighbours. Particularly when the place is on the market.’
‘He’s not a boyfriend,’ Anna said. ‘He’s a model and he wasn’t drunk.’
‘Taylor says he was. I’ve told Taylor to keep a sharp lookout from now on. He’ll deal with any trespassers or nuisances.’ He patted Taylor on the shoulder. ‘But I don’t want anything unpleasant, especially when someone’s interested in buying. But if things do turn nasty, Taylor won’t get the worst of it. Will you, Taylor? ’
‘I won’t,’ Taylor said, staring at Anna.
Streatley continued, ‘So see your drunken pals don’t wander about in my garden.’ He paused again. ‘It wouldn’t be nice for you if there’s trouble – not for a young woman living all on her own. Better make yourself a penny or two and move out. That way everybody’s happy.’ He walked to the studio door. ‘Make sure your lawyer calls me.’ He disappeared down the stairs.
Taylor came from where he’d been standing under the north window. As he crossed the room he managed to barge into the easel, which tipped over on to the painting trolley. The canvas fell to the floor, the palette on top of it. Pools of oil and turpentine flooded the floor; paints and broken glass from the bottles were scattered beside it. ‘Sorry, love,’ said Taylor as he too went down the stairs.
‘All right, up there?’ Streatley called from the stairs. ‘I thought I heard a crash.’
‘Just a little accident,’ she heard Taylor say. ‘No harm done.’
‘By the way,’ Streatley called, ‘we’re having a spot of bother over the electrics. I hope you have a torch.’
She heard the front door bang behind them and went to the top of the stairs to make sure they had gone. Then she returned to the studio. Tears came into her eyes as she stood looking at the mess on the floor and the ruined canvas. Suddenly the lights went out. She stood in the dark, frozen and silent, afraid. When she moved she felt the crunch of broken glass under her shoe as she groped round the room and made her way downstairs. In the kitchen she struck a match and looked for the telephone. When she picked it up the line was dead. She began to tremble. She must get hold of Godfrey, of anyone who might help her. In a panic she fumbled for her coat and bag. She would telephone Godfrey. She knew no one else.
The Richmond Diary Page 11
