“For example?”
He leaned back on the sofa, folding his hands together. “Ah, for example the whole question of domestic help.” He chuckled. “It seems that the Drummond girls had grown up thinking that it was the height of sophistication to have an au pair. So when they became wealthy rock stars and needed waiting on hand and foot, nothing would do but to have an au pair. It was a badge of status, I suppose, and of course they did need someone to make the tea and toast, run the bath, crucial things like that. In an earlier age it would have been a butler or a maid, but given the period they were living in and their particular social aspirations, it had to be an au pair. But when hiring these girls, Valerian felt she had an image to keep up, which I suppose she did. A public image. So she insisted on hiring the most exquisite creatures imaginable.” He smiled at me. “I wonder if you can guess what happened?”
I thought of Erik Make Loud and Nic Vardy sitting on a sofa, drunk and comparing notes. “The guys in the band wouldn’t leave them alone?”
“Exactly! It became a point of honour to see who could be the first to seduce the new au pair. And since we’re talking about men who were young, handsome, famous and rich, it never took them very long. So the inevitable complications would ensue. The poor girls would not only get distracted from their primary task…”
“Tea and toast.”
“And running the bath. You mustn’t forget about running the bath. Yes, they would also inevitably end up leaving in tears when whichever bloke in the band had seduced them moved on to his next conquest. Which never took long. So it was my humble suggestion that she stop hiring these ravishing, glamorous creatures and instead employ less comely but equally efficient girls.” He chuckled. “And of course, that did the trick.”
I could well imagine Erik Make Loud’s horror at the suddenly changed situation and his disgusted utter reluctance to lower his standards. “Smart move,” I said.
He nodded. “Interestingly, when Valerian had the baby she got rid of all the domestic help. Just when you would have thought she’d need it most, she decided she had to be a proper old-fashioned hands-on mother. No au pairs or nannies. She looked after the little boy herself.” He smiled. “Although of course looking after him herself really meant delegating his care to Cecilia.” He sighed nostalgically. “She was a nice girl.”
“Cecilia or Valerian?”
“Both of them. Though of course it was Valerian I knew best.” He smiled again. “I like to think that I did help her.” The smile faded. “Although of course in the end it turns out that perhaps I was no help to her at all.” He looked down at his shoes.
I said, “You don’t blame yourself for what happened, do you?”
“The suicide of a client is the most emphatic failure possible for someone in my profession.”
“Perhaps she didn’t commit suicide.”
He looked up and stared at me for a long time with increasing interest. “What makes you say that?”
I leaned forward. “There are two big question marks about the life of Valerian. The circumstances of her death and the disappearance of her child.” He nodded. I said, “I’m wondering if the two are somehow connected.”
“How might they be connected?”
“What do you know about John Blacklock?” I asked.
He sagged back on the sofa, nodding. “Ah. Blacklock. Of course.” He shifted uneasily. “He was already on the scene when I met Valerian. Unfortunately.” He glanced at me. “I like to think that I managed to diminish his influence over her, at least.”
“What was he like?”
Osterloh shrugged. “Do you know what cold reading is?”
“It’s when you make guesses about someone you’ve just met.”
“Yes, exactly, and you act on these guesses to try and make the person think you know more about them, and their situation, than you actually do.” He gave a chilly little smile. “Mind readers, fortune tellers, con men. There are all sorts of people who apply this method, to awe the credulous and advance their own ends.”
“And that’s what John Blacklock did?”
Osterloh considered carefully. “That wasn’t all he did. He also possessed a certain acuteness. A perceptiveness. About people. Let me give you an example. When we first met in Canterbury, and you were with the young lady.”
“Nevada,” I said.
“Yes. It was instantly obvious you two were what we used to call ‘an item’. Now, there is no way John Blacklock would have failed to notice something like that, and no way he would have failed to make use of it, whether it was by trying to drive a wedge between you, or exploiting the bond to his own profit. The only sure thing is that, whatever he did, it would be to his own profit.”
“Could he have been the father of Valerian’s baby?”
He fell silent. At first I thought I’d shocked him, but then I realised he was thinking carefully. “The dates work,” he said. “Blacklock was certainly seeing her around the time the child must have been conceived. It’s also true that their tryst seemed unusually monogamous, and exclusive. At least on Valerian’s side…” He shook his head. “And do you know what, he was around a great deal after the boy was born. Much more than before.”
“Could he have taken the kid?”
“A custody snatch?” he said. Again he was silent for a moment. “Do you know…” he said thoughtfully, “he did go back to Ireland at just about the time the boy disappeared.” He began to nod his head as if confirming something to himself. “Yes. And Blacklock himself vanished from the scene, at least the scene here in Britain, for some years after that.” He looked up at me. “So the answer is yes, potentially, to both your questions.”
“Is he still alive?” I said, “Blacklock?”
Osterloh blinked at me in surprise. “Of course. I think so. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve tried to find out, but it isn’t that easy. I’ve looked at his entry on Wikipedia, and it seems to depend on the time of day whether it says he’s alive or dead.”
The doctor chuckled. “Yes, that makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, you see Blacklock has his devoted followers. But he also has sworn enemies. They would both be trying to alter his page, each to their own ends. Distorting the truth. When you add that to the Wikipedia people themselves, trying to maintain accuracy, and the public relations firm that I suspect Blacklock employs—he used to employ one back in the 1960s and I hardly see him changing his ways—that makes for a total of at least four interested parties, very interested, all changing the entry on Blacklock to suit their agenda.” He thought for a moment and then hooted with laughter. “I imagine it’s changing with almost stroboscopic frequency.”
I said, “Well, that explains why sometimes it says he’s alive, sometimes that he’s dead and occasionally has a message from some colourful individual that he’s eternal and is never going to die.”
Osterloh laughed again and said, “You see, this is why the printed page is superior to the Internet. Have I told you about my book?”
Here it comes, I thought. I considered myself very lucky to have eluded the sales pitch so far. Now I tried to head it off at the pass. “Actually, you did. You also mentioned that there was nothing about Valerian in it.”
He nodded glumly. “That’s true.”
“Is there anything about Blacklock in it?”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, no.”
“Maybe you should write a book about him. There’s obviously a need for some hard facts about the man, and as you say, in a medium less subject to distortion than the Internet. And there are probably few people as well qualified to write one.”
He stared at me, then suddenly dug out a pen and a small red notebook. He flipped it open and started scribbling. “What a splendid idea!” he said. “That’s a truly wonderful idea. Why did I never think of it? And it will very probably be a substantial bestseller.” He shut the notebook. “Thank you for that. I shall make a point of thanking you aga
in, properly, on the acknowledgements page when the book is published.”
I considered asking for a signed first edition but decided that he was all too likely to spot the sarcasm. He put the pen and notebook away. “Of course,” he said, “to avoid the inevitable libel suit I shall have to wait until after he dies.”
“Assuming he doesn’t live forever,” I said.
* * *
On the way back I stopped at the charity shop to pick up my records. The girl who’d served me was no longer behind the counter. She’d been replaced by a surly young guy with a beard. It took a lot of explaining to get across what I wanted, and when I finally did, he made a big deal of looking for the records and failing to find them. If he’d had his way, that would have been that, but I made him go to get the girl who was sorting stock in the back room. She wasn’t pleased to be disturbed but she looked for the records and, again, drew a blank.
After much discussion the girl and the bloke finally came to the conclusion that someone else must have taken them. In any case, they were gone.
After considerable argument they finally refunded what I’d paid; luckily I’d kept the receipt with me. I left the shop with my money, but a cold feeling in my stomach.
23. BLACK EYE
From Bayswater I headed to the Colonel’s hotel in Mayfair, where I was supposed to meet Nevada. She was waiting for me in a small bar just off the lobby. The bar was full of gleaming brass fixtures and leather sofas and it was very dimly lit. Not so dimly lit that I didn’t immediately see the familiar figure sitting at the table beside her.
“Tinkler, what are you doing here?”
He grinned at me. “John wanted to see me.”
“John?” I said.
“The Colonel,” provided Nevada.
Tinkler wagged his finger in a scolding gesture. “You have to stop calling him that. It really pisses him off.”
“Yes, poor bloke,” she said.
I kissed Nevada and sat down with them. There were two coffees already on the table and a mangled pile of wrappers that had once contained expensive chocolate biscuits. The spoor of Tinkler. “But why did he want to see you?” I said.
Tinkler puffed up with pride. “Well, John used to have a big real estate business back in the States.”
“Before he got divorced,” said Nevada. “Then he packed it all in. Sold up, split it fifty-fifty with the ex-wife and then retired.”
I said, “Are we getting any nearer an answer here?”
“The thing is,” said Tinkler, “John still keeps his hand in. He operates a small property portfolio. And he wants me to help him with it.”
“Help him?”
“He’s witnessed my breathtaking database skills.”
I sighed and sat back in my chair, looking at the cups in front of them. “Is this the place with the good coffee?”
Nevada shook her head. “No, we left the hotel for that. But today John wanted to meet in here. Said he didn’t want to go far. So please don’t complain and make a scene if it’s not up to scratch. The coffee, I mean.”
“Do I ever?” A waitress took my order and the coffee came with suspicious speed. But it wasn’t bad. Considerably better than at Dr Osterloh’s—though that wasn’t saying much.
“Oh, by the way,” said Tinkler. “I’ve booked us a visit with the Evil Elves.” It took me a moment to think who the hell he was talking about. Then I remembered those gnarled, red hands hovering over the jigsaw puzzle.
I said, “The Trevertons. Timothy and Gordon Treverton.”
“The Alpine Twins,” said Tinkler.
“I think we’re sticking with Evil Elves,” said Nevada, sipping her coffee.
“You remember we worked out that they were more than likely to have a stash of rare vinyl? Stuff that Valerian and her entourage left at the house? Well, I could hardly sleep thinking about it, so I got in touch with them—”
I said, “How did you get in touch with them? We never had their phone number.”
“They have a Facebook page.”
“They’re on Facebook?”
Tinkler nodded. “A whole load of family photos. Actually, to be honest, just photos of the brothers. In the great outdoors. Mountain climbing, canoeing, doing archery. Mostly with their shirts off and revealing rippling torsos. I sent a link to Clean Head because I thought she’d appreciate it. And she got quite excited.”
“Why didn’t you send me a link?” said Nevada.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said.
“Sending it to you now,” said Tinkler, taking out his smartphone.
“Where the hell is the Colonel?” I said.
“Just coming down from his room. He—”
“I’m here.” I turned around to see the Colonel standing there. He had a livid purple bruise under his left eye, and a small dressing taped just above his left eyebrow. The battered appearance of his face was seriously at odds with his fastidious clothing. Perhaps he’d dressed with extra care, to compensate.
“My god,” said Nevada. “What happened to you?”
“Mugged,” said the Colonel succinctly. He pulled up a chair and sat down with us. We were all staring at him.
“Your poor face,” said Nevada.
“You were mugged?” I said. He nodded, smiling a tight, bitter little smile. If anything he seemed quietly proud of the revelation. The waitress came over and took his order. She showed no reaction to his appearance. Working in the hotel, she’d probably seen him already.
“This was the day I got back from Ireland. I was coming out of the Tube at Piccadilly Circus, heading along Regent Street and this little…” He searched for a suitable word, “This little scumbag came along on a bicycle. One with a lot of gears. And he grabbed the package I was holding…”
“What was the package?” I said.
“Some shoes I’d bought. But they weren’t in a bag from the shoe shop.” He stared at me, his wounded eye gleaming oddly. “They were in another bag, a plastic shopping bag I was using.”
“Very good for the environment,” said Tinkler brightly. We all ignored him.
“There was nothing on the bag to indicate what was inside,” said the Colonel. “But from the size of the parcel I think they believed it was documents.” He gave me a little smile. “In fact I think they thought it was the documents that your friend Agatha went to Morocco to collect.” He looked at Nevada. “She did an excellent job, by the way.”
“Of course,” said Nevada, who had recovered her composure. She had been genuinely shocked at the sight of the Colonel, though. “We only use the finest.”
“Of course, the documents are all safe in a bank in Morocco, the originals.” The Colonel glanced at Tinkler. “With copies on our computers thanks to Jordon here.” Tinkler beamed modestly. “But they don’t know that,” said the Colonel.
“So this cyclist grabbed the bag from you,” I said. It didn’t explain his injuries.
“I wouldn’t let go of it. So he stopped and hit me with something. I think it was a bicycle pump.”
“Ouch,” said Nevada.
“Or something of that nature,” said the Colonel. He shook his head, as though dismissing the whole incident. “Anyway, never mind any of that. I haven’t spoken to you properly since I got back from Ireland, so I thought we should meet.”
“Where’s Lucy?” I said.
“Still in Dublin. Decided to stay over for a few days. She found a pub where she liked the Guinness. In Dublin I imagine even she could manage to achieve that.”
“So she doesn’t know you were attacked?” said Nevada.
“Or care,” said the Colonel. He turned to me. “Have you made any progress while I was away?”
I nodded. “John Blacklock is definitely our top contender.”
The Colonel stared at me pityingly. “You’re sure of that?”
“He was around when the kid disappeared. He is a strong candidate for the father—”
“And you’re certain of your facts?” sai
d the Colonel.
I looked at him. Obviously he knew something I didn’t. “I was,” I said. “Up until now. What did you find out in Ireland?”
“I employed a local investigation firm to look into Blacklock. They already had a detailed dossier on him, which I suppose makes sense. Given the kind of man that he is.” He stared at me, eyes pale and cold. “I gave them the relevant dates. And it turns out on the day the boy disappeared Blacklock was in Ireland. In prison.”
We looked at him. So much for that theory. “He could have got someone else to do it for him,” I said.
The Colonel nodded happily. “Sure, he could have. But the most likely candidates, all his close associates, were also in prison. It seems that Blacklock’s group—cult, commune, whatever you want to call it—were squatting in a building that was church property. The authorities, both church and civil, had been waiting for the chance to apprehend him there and arrest the lot of them. Which they did about a week before Tom was taken. They remained in prison for almost a month.”
“Still,” said Nevada, “someone else could have kidnapped the boy on Blacklock’s behalf. Someone who wasn’t behind bars.”
The Colonel shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. He sounded far from convinced.
“And he’s still the most likely candidate to be Tom’s father,” I said.
The Colonel smiled happily. This was apparently the statement he’d been waiting for. He now proceeded to explain with bitter relish why I was wrong.
Blacklock had a longstanding and, it has to be said, quite justifiable grudge against the clergy of his country. He had been raised in church institutions where he had been subject to violent abuse. His story was far from unique, but it was an extreme example. As he had got older and stronger Blacklock had begun to fight back against his tormentors. So the priests had decided to teach him a lesson. This had involved holding him down and giving him such a savage kicking that, in one sense, he had never recovered. “He was effectively castrated,” said the Colonel. “There was no way he could ever have fathered a child after that.”
“So he was a eunuch?” said Tinkler, who, I noticed, was clutching his groin protectively.
The Run-Out Groove Page 22
