Eyes of the Blind

by Alex Tresillian

  The email was a bore, because it was now going to be at the back of his mind all evening. Where the Hell was Holthouse? He needed someone to talk to and take his mind off it. He thought about firing off a quick message of the “Where are you?” variety, but decided against. It would look panicky, which was the last thing John needed at the moment. Instead he downed his gin and tonic and made himself another.

  “So do we go in?” Roderick Leman asked.

  “What do you think?” Theresa threw back at him. Roderick was a little uneasy because they were in residents’ only parking and he was reluctant to leave the car.

  “Well,” he said, “you did say that – when Damian went – he told you it started at eight. It’s only quarter to now. So I doubt that the other guests will have arrived. We don’t want to go off half-cocked. I say we wait until five or ten past eight. Longer if Duncan Clark hasn’t arrived by then.”

  “OK,” Theresa agreed.

  Just before eight o’clock a taxi pulled up and dropped its passenger outside the house. The light was fading and their view was partially obstructed, and neither of them could positively identify the passenger as Duncan Clark.

  “Too thin,” Roderick said.

  “You’ve seen him more than I have,” Theresa conceded.

  Vivien Loosemore opened the door to Tony Strong. Despite having been warned to expect him, she was flustered, both by the circumstances and by the fact that she had thought the next arrival would be John.

  “Vivien,” Tony Strong said confidently. “Not too early, am I?”

  “We don’t use our real names on these occasions,” Vivien said. “I thought Daniel would have told you. To preserve our anonymity.”

  “I see,” Tony said, grinning like a small boy. “Who am I, then? Who are you? Who’s Daniel?”

  “I’m Mary,” Vivien said, feeling ridiculous. “Daniel is Gordon.” Tony Strong burst into a loud laugh. “How do you feel about Charles?”

  “Charles?” Tony Strong mused. “Heir to the throne. Posh name. Works for me. So long as it wasn’t the dead doc’s name. I don’t want a hand-me-down.”

  “No. Oh no. He was Richard. You knew about that?”

  “I make it my business to know, Mary. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”

  Vivien ushered him through to the lounge. Daniel looked up, also expecting Holthouse, and then leapt to his feet, hand outstretched.

  “Gordon, this is Charles,” Vivien said quickly.

  “Charles, delighted to see you,” Daniel said, noting that Strong was also wearing a designer suit and congratulating himself on his own choice. They would be an elite and high-class gathering tonight. John would let the side down, when he finally condescended to appear, in his inevitable jeans. “Let me fix you a drink,” he went on. Charles asked for vodka, straight, with a single ice cube, and slightly disconcertingly downed it in one.

  “Another?” Daniel suggested.

  “Why not, Gordon, why not?” Charles said, smiling.

  “I hope you’ll enjoy the evening,” Gordon ventured.

  “I hope so too,” Charles said. “I take it we have to talk about the weather and the state of the nation, as our work might give away who we are.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find conversation flows well enough.”

  “Shame we can’t talk about work, though,” Charles reflected. “There are a number of things I was hoping to get the chance to go through with you, away from the office.”

  “Well, while it’s just the two of us of course we can,” Daniel said. At that point they heard the front door open and a minute later Mary introduced Clive to them.

  “Good evening, Clive. I’m Gordon and this is Charles.”

  Daniel looked Duncan Clark up and down. He was wearing black motorcycling leathers and boots.

  “Came on the bike,” Clive said, noticing his gaze. “Best way to beat the traffic.”

  “What is it?” Charles asked.

  “I have something of a stable,” Clive confessed. “Tonight it’s the Honda NC700. My pride and joy is a 1966 Norton Atlas, but it was more about expediency tonight.”

  “I’m rebuilding a Triumph Thunderbird,” Charles said. “Been into bikes since I was six.”

  Daniel felt himself reduced to the role of drinks waiter as Tony Strong and Duncan Clark sat down and talked motorbikes, a subject he knew absolutely nothing about. He was further disconcerted by Duncan asking for sparkling water (“Never drink when I’m on the bike”), which he had had to get Vivien to provide from the kitchen. Had Clark not appreciated that the purpose of the evening was to enjoy good wine and food as well as the girls? Where was John? It was time to get things moving and there was still no sign of him. Deciding to call him, he pulled out his phone, only to be distracted by another email from Nemesis4DS. He opened it.

  “Not long now,” it said.

  What the Hell?

  John Holthouse’s phone went to voicemail. Daniel sent him a text. “We’re waiting for you.”

  “What’s going on? What are we waiting for?” Miranda asked. It was a quarter past eight and they could hear voices down below.

  “We have to wait till we’re called,” Beth said.

  “Somebody’s late,” Penny said. “It happened before once. DS will be livid.”

  Miranda was shivering, despite the warmth of the room.

  “Put your coat on till they call for us,” Penny said.

  “I’m not cold,” Miranda responded.

  “It’ll be fine,” Rebecca said, wishing she meant it.

  “When is something going to happen?” Niall said from the back of the car.

  “Penny said she would message us when they were going down to the banquet,” Matthew said. “We know there should be four men and we’ve only seen three. They’re waiting for someone.”

  “Shit.”

  “Do you think that was Duncan Clark on the bike?” Roderick Leman asked.

  “I don’t know. You can’t recognise anyone under a helmet.”

  “Did your husband ever say anything about Duncan Clark having a motorbike?”

  “No,” Theresa said. “Damian really didn’t know him.”

  “We’re a bit stuck then.”

  “We’ll go in at half past.”

  “OK.”

  At twenty-five past eight, furious, Daniel told Vivien to bring the girls down and start serving food. The spare girl would just have to help out and provide an element of choice. Vivien went up and spoke to them, explaining that one guest had not yet arrived, so they were all to be especially attentive to the other three. Penny discreetly sent her pre-written message to Matt, and they followed ‘Mary’ down the stairs, trying to smile and look relaxed.

  Miranda was hoping that it was her father who hadn’t arrived. She didn’t know why she was so sure he had become a late addition to the guest list, but it was fixed in her mind. But maybe now he had thought better of the whole thing and gone home instead. She followed Rebecca into the lounge, last of the four, and her eyes took in the buffet set out on a table to one side, the array of bottles of presumably alcohol on a piece of furniture against another wall, a large mirror over a large fireplace where coals were flaming, the chairs and sofas and their occupants: Daniel Sullivan, whom Penny was trying to distract so that he wouldn’t notice her; a thin-faced, dark-haired man whose eyes looked – in her limited experience – as if they had been set too close together in his head; and – she recognised the voice with shock and astonishment before the face – Duncan Clark. What could he be doing here? Niall had said he had turned out to be one of the good guys, but now...? Had they all just walked into a trap? It felt like the press conference all over again. Ranks of the enemy closing like water over their heads.

  She realised she was doing nothing and she should be doing something. Penny was monopolising Daniel – who seemed to expect nothing else – but Beth and Rebecca had each picked up a plate of somethings and were offering them to the other two men, who were engrosse
d in conversation, although she didn’t hear the words, only noise. She went to the buffet and picked up a plate. She had no idea what was on it. She walked towards the man who wasn’t Duncan Clark and he took one of whatever they were off her plate without looking at it or at her, or breaking the flow of what he was saying. She walked on to the sofa where Duncan Clark was sitting. She offered the plate at arm’s length, but he broke off his conversation, reached out, and took hold of her around the waist in a sudden, strong movement, pulling her proprietorially towards him.

  “Sit here,” he said, indicating the space beside him.

  Miranda felt she couldn’t say no.

  “Profiteroles are delicious,” he said quietly when she had sat down, “but would normally be served after the savoury dishes.”

  “Sorry,” Miranda said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Duncan Clark watched until he saw that both Gordon and Charles were engaged with other girls. Then he said,

  “Interesting hair colour. What’s your name?”

  “Elaine,” Miranda said hesitantly.

  “What’s in a name?” Clark mused. “Some girls seem to change theirs at will. More often even than their eyes. I don’t forget the eyes I work on,” he continued. “I am astonished to encounter yours here. If you’re hoping for some physical intimacy with our mutual friend it looks like you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Are you involved in all this?” Miranda said directly. “Just tell me. Because you’re all about to be exposed.”

  “Involved in what?” Duncan said.

  “Dr. Clarke’s death,” Miranda whispered.

  “Absolutely not,” Clark said. “My God, what on earth are you up to?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same.”

  “We’re going to expose the truth.”

  “We? Oh God, you haven’t got Niall tucked up your sleeve somewhere ready to blunder in and cause trouble?”

  “I haven’t got a sleeve.”

  “Touché. But this is not a place for you. You don’t need to do this. I’m here on the same mission and I want you to leave it to me. Now I’m going to stroke your leg. I apologise in advance, but I have to look as though I’m here to enjoy your wares and we’re being watched.”

  “OK.”

  “Don’t freeze. You took a Hell of a gamble with your attempt at a disguise.”

  “I know.”

  Daniel started to relax. Penny was good for that. Also, the other girls seemed to be charming his first-time guests. Duncan Clark had made a big play for a very blond spiky-haired boyish-figured girl he’d never seen before, and the other two were engaging Tony Strong OBE’s attention. Presumably John would explain all in the morning. This Number 17 Night was oddly different. Usually the men carried on a conversation amongst themselves with the girls as something of a sideshow during this part of the proceedings. Tonight they were drawing the girls out, almost as if they wanted to know who they were. The girls seemed different, too. The one that normally partnered John looked a little lost and there was a tension about the others. The blond had picked up a plate of profiteroles, which one could charitably put down to nerves, but was more likely to do with her hair colour. He needed to speak to Penny about sourcing a certain quality of recruit.

  The doorbell rang, which meant John had finally arrived. There would be a tale of traffic or car trouble, no doubt.

  For some reason Vivien kept him talking in the hall. There were raised voices, including a woman’s. All Daniel’s relaxation went. Who was this? Mrs. Tony Strong OBE? Mrs. Duncan Clark? Had one of the men been fool enough to let slip where they were going? For one awful moment he envisaged a vengeful Juliette Warwick wielding a machete, having already dismembered John and dined on his private parts. Then, to his complete amazement, the Clarke woman who had spat at him walked in with Susannah Leman’s father, despite Vivien Loosemore’s best efforts to keep them out.

  Everybody froze.

  “Disgusting,” Theresa Clarke said at last.

  “And you have trespassed into a private function because?” Daniel said, fighting back rage.

  “There are things to talk about,” Roderick Leman said. “Urgently. And both the principals are here.” He looked from Daniel Sullivan to Duncan Clark, for the first time taking in the girl sitting beside the latter. “No. Oh no. What the – ? Your hair – . What the fuck are you doing here? In your underwear? I cannot believe this.”

  Everybody looked at Miranda.

  “No,” Daniel half-whispered, as he saw, finally, through the disguise.

  “We’re not leaving until we hear the truth,” Theresa said, not recognising Miranda and not realising why her co-conspirator appeared to have run out of steam.

  “Daniel,” Tony Strong said, getting to his feet, “I think I’m going to leave you to it. Thanks and all that, but you seem to have matters to deal with that are no concern of mine.”

  “No you don’t,” Daniel said quickly. “Vivien do something useful and lock the door.”

  “Excuse me?” Tony Strong said, with an inflexion that reinforced the roles of their working relationship.

  “We’re not boss and underling here, Strong,” Daniel said.

  Roderick was staring at his daughter, nearly naked on a sofa next to Duncan Clark, trying to make any kind of sense of the world he had just walked into.

  “You lied about my husband, about Damian,” Theresa Clarke said, addressing Daniel and Duncan.

  “We did, and I’m sorry,” Duncan Clark said quickly. “I needed time to get to the truth.”

  “What are you talking about?” Daniel snapped.

  “Money,” Miranda said, wishing the cavalry would arrive, not really knowing who was on whose side any more. Everyone seemed surprised that she had spoken. The girls were just window dressing.

  “A great deal of it mine,” Roderick Leman said. Daniel laughed.

  “You call that a great deal?” he asked derisively.

  “If there are allegations to be made against British Association of the Blind employees,” Tony Strong said, “I urge you to make them through the proper channels – our own complaints department. I assure you they will be treated with the utmost seriousness, and I will personally – ”

  “– ensure that no dirt sticks to me,” Daniel interrupted, “having first lined my pockets.”

  There was a furious knocking on the front door. Vivien inched towards it.

  “Don’t,” Daniel said.

  “Police,” was shouted from the other side of the door. Despite his own agitation, Daniel was still able to relish the look on Tony Strong OBE’s face as he heard the word. It was as if he had stooped to pick a flower and realised he had put his hand down in dogshit.

  Vivien opened the door and a man with a camera burst past her, taking pictures all the while. Two men started to walk in after him, neither of them police officers.

  “Niall,” Vivien managed to say in strangled tones. “You’re not the police.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “But if I’d said Nemesis you might not’ve opened the door. Now where’s the orgy?”

  Tony Strong assumed control when journalists and a photographer entered the fray.

  “You are a long way outside your legal parameters,” he said to Matt.

  “The front door was opened to us when we knocked,” Matt said.

  “I shall call the police if you don’t leave now,” Tony Strong continued. “And I shall make sure these pictures never get into any papers.”

  “There’s always YouTube,” Niall said. Strong seemed to take in his presence for the first time. The front door slammed and Vivien Loosemore’s quick footsteps could be heard fading into the distance. “The rats are leaving the sinking ship,” Niall said. “Cerberus has quit.”

  “Nobody’s leaving until I hear the truth about my husband,” Theresa Clarke shouted. “Then you can get back to your depravity for all I care.”

  “The best place to have this conv
ersation will be at the Association in the morning,” Tony Strong said. “Then if there is a suggestion of wrongdoing we have a procedure – ”

  “Here will do,” Roderick Leman said.

  “Damian Clarke committed suicide because I confronted him with the knowledge that he had been sabotaging the aftercare medication for Miranda’s eyes,” Duncan said suddenly. “At a press conference following his death we headed off suspicion with a fabricated tale about his being a religiously motivated nutcase. I shall be going to the police in the morning to tell them that that was a convenient speculation. I shall also be telling them what I suspect to be the truth.”

  “I’ll be coming with you,” Theresa Clarke said.

  “And what is this truth you suspect?” Daniel asked. He had meant to be contemptuously silent, but he couldn’t resist the question.

  “Damian Clarke did what he did at your behest.”

  “Why?”

  “And you rewarded him,” Rebecca chimed in to everyone’s amazement including her own, “by inviting him to one of these evenings. To show him he was part of your crew. And he hated every minute of it.”

  “Before we get into the business of defamation and slander,” Daniel said, “I would still love to know why.”

  “It’s always money, isn’t it?” Niall said. “I was told by someone at BAB way back that any publicity for the eye transplant brought a massive spike in donations. She lost her job for telling me. So here’s a theory. Eye transplant a success – patient swans off into a happy future or a celebrity future – operation forgotten – no more donation spikes – each new transplant less newsworthy than the last – public lose interest. Eye transplant a heroic failure – public engaged, give more money: more money equals better chance of success – each failure brings a bigger windfall.”