The Truth

by Michael Palin

  He reached the fast-running river that twisted along culverts through the town and walked across a bridge to a picturesque riverside strip filled with tourists. Some were shopping for glass and trinkets, others were being carried round in coaches drawn by ponies with red caps on their ears. Portly waitresses in big skirts brought trays of coffee and chocolate to those who were taking late lunches or early teas outside on the café terraces. Beneath a long classical colonnade, groups of the elderly were waiting in line to take the famous healing waters.

  Mabbut found a table and ordered a coffee. He still had Krystyna on his mind, so he took out his notebook and flipped through the last few pages, trying to concentrate on the job in hand.

  It was twenty-four hours since he’d seen Trickett. It was a visit he’d found disturbing, for many reasons. That the man had failed to show up on his radar was clearly an omission on his part. On the other hand there had been something odd about it all. Why had this highly confidential, and potentially explosive, information surfaced only now? He’d missed it, but then so, at first, had Latham’s team of researchers, who’d supposedly been working on the Melville file for six months.

  The coffee arrived, a plume of milk still vibrating gently on its surface.

  Mabbut had never met any of Latham’s researchers. He’d been told they were interns, young graduates hoping for a permanent foothold in the publishing business. On the odd occasions when he’d wanted information from them, he’d had to go through Latham. And then there was Trickett himself. Hardly the most convincing witness. A sad, bitter old man who didn’t want his name to be mentioned. Mabbut’s hunch was that there was some chicanery here, something that fitted uncomfortably well with Latham’s determination to change the tone of the book. Mabbut felt he had to catch up, to try to win back the initiative before it all got out of hand. He had to check out the credibility of Trickett. And he had to check out the existence of this Ursula Melville before anyone else got to her.

  There had not been much to go on. A name and a country. Apart from an eighty-five-year-old radio actress called Ursula Melville, Mabbut had drawn a complete blank. He’d been about to give up when, after tapping in her full name, Google had asked whether he’d meant ‘Galena Health Products’. Mabbut had idly clicked again, and this time he sat up. Galena Health Products were produced at a clinic in the Czech Republic. The address was Stara Louka, Karlovy Vary. No telephone or email was given. It was a wild card, a hunch, but he hadn’t been able to let it go.

  Mabbut finished his coffee, left the money beneath the saucer and walked across the plaza to a quiet street of boutiques in tall nineteenth-century houses painted in vibrant shades of green, red, pink and blue. It wasn’t a long street and at number 19 Mabbut found the nameplate he was looking for. ‘Galena Centre for Health and Beauty’. It was in English. He buzzed and was admitted.

  Inside everything was cool, white and minimalist. He’d heard about these private sanatoriums. Largely catering to wealthy Russians, they capitalised on the publicly available mineral waters to offer highly private therapy: expensive, exclusive, exhaustive and dedicated to making the rich feel better. Stairs led up to a first-floor reception area.

  Mabbut found himself in a long bright room with tan leather sofas and walls hung with framed photos of bodies beautiful. It was an anaesthetised, strangely depersonalised environment which could hardly be more different from anything one would associate with Hamish Melville.

  Through force of habit, or perhaps just to make it quite clear that he was not here for a beauty treatment, Mabbut reached into his pocket and took out his notepad. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of himself in the tinted mirror behind the reception desk, looking old and furtive, like some elderly detective on his last job. The receptionist was impeccably complexioned, with the pale, immaculate face of a doll. She smiled as best she could.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning. I’m looking for a Ms Melville.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Ms Melville. Ursula Melville?’

  ‘We don’t have anyone of that name here.’

  ‘This is the Galena Clinic?’

  ‘Centre. Yes.’

  ‘I was told that Ursula Melville worked here.’

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘I don’t think so, no.’

  Mabbut was treading water now, about to kick himself for the whole absurd adventure, when the receptionist’s face showed a glimmer of recognition.

  ‘There is an Ursula Weitz.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  Mabbut was about to reply when he experienced an almost out-of-body experience. The door behind the receptionist swung open and he found himself face to face with a tall, imposing woman with a head of golden hair. Instantly he knew who it was. The shrewdness of the eye, the briskness of the glance, the effortless composure. It was as if Hamish himself stood there, albeit white gowned, full bosomed and forty years younger. So when the woman spoke in a soft German accent he was momentarily confused.

  ‘Yes, sir, how can I help?’

  The receptionist gestured redundantly. ‘This is Ms Weitz.’

  ‘It’s pine extract with the zest of lemon, Mr . . . what was the name again?’

  ‘Mabbut. Keith Mabbut.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Very nice,’ Mabbut lied, as he took the first sip of the tea. They were sitting together in Ursula Weitz’s office. The walls were lined with photographs of those who had been treated there or, rather, those who had been treated and were happy to have their photographs taken. Mabbut recognised one or two world leaders, and others he was less sure about: actors, sportsmen and women, television celebrities. All wearing the same impenetrable smiles. Smiles like masks, concealing the anxieties that had brought them to the clinic in the first place. Loss of looks, loss of attraction, loss of the power to seduce and beguile.

  The awkward initial introductions were over and despite the fact that her existence was a potentially lethal discovery for his book, there was something about Ursula Weitz that gave Mabbut hope. An openness, perhaps. A lack of Trickett’s bitterness.

  ‘I know who my father is, but I don’t have any contact with him. I must have met him when I was a baby, but I don’t remember anything. My mother, Bettina, she married my stepfather, Felix—’

  ‘Felix Weitz?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes. They married when I was five years old. I have two stepsisters and a stepbrother and we are all one big family. But my mother always told me the truth. She had to. I was half a metre taller than everyone else!’

  Ursula laughed. A loud, unladylike laugh, bracingly out of place in such a controlled environment.

  ‘And your stepfather? Did it worry him?’

  She shook her head vigorously.

  ‘He was too busy making money. He loved to play the markets. He was like a child. When Germany reunited, he bought everything he could in the East, companies that no one else would touch. Within ten years they were all making a profit. So he sold them, and went looking around the old Soviet republics.’

  She chuckled at some memory.

  ‘He had this energy, you know. He would come home from, I don’t know, Azerbaijan, and tell us how he had bought an oil company because he was the only one who could drink and stay awake.’

  ‘Is he . . .?’

  ‘Still alive? No. He was quite a bit older than my mother.’

  Mabbut hesitated.

  ‘I . . . I’m probably out of line here but do you ever think about meeting up with your real father?’

  ‘I have my business to run here. We’re opening a spa in Berlin next year. I have a partner who I’ve been with for five years. My life is my life. Why complicate things?’

  ‘Yes. I understand. May I ask, did your mother talk much about her first husband?’

  ‘She talked about my father. A lot.’

  ‘Only, a man called Victor Trickett claim
s that not only did Melville steal your mother, he also stole some important designs for heart valves which belonged to Trickett. Did she ever mention this?’

  Ursula frowned.

  ‘What was the name again?’

  ‘Victor Trickett. Sir Victor Trickett.’

  ‘I don’t remember her saying anything, no.’

  ‘She never talked about artificial hearts, heart valve patents. Anything like that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry. That means nothing to me.’

  They talked for a while about this and that, but then a buzzer went on her desk. Ursula spread her hands apologetically.

  ‘It’s my oligarch. He’s on his way.’

  She slid open a drawer, took out a card and examined it.

  ‘Four hours. Four therapists.’

  She got to her feet.

  ‘That sounds good for you.’

  ‘It’s good money, but he thinks it entitles him to put his hands wherever he likes. And our therapists don’t do that.’

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I bring in some girls from outside. I give them an hour’s training and tell them that if they keep quiet they can keep the tips.’

  ‘And what d’you tell him?’

  Ursula shrugged.

  ‘He never complains. He’s ninety-four. He won’t be coming here much longer.’

  Mabbut smiled at her and held out his hand.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Ms Weitz. I’m sorry to have to ask you these things.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘He’s a great man, your father. It was a privilege spending time with him.’

  He was halfway through the door when Ursula called after him.

  ‘Mr Mabbut?’

  He turned.

  ‘How about a realignment massage? On the house, of course. You look as though you could do with one.’

  SEVEN

  Mabbut had never felt particularly comfortable in private clubs. He’d been lunched at the Garrick once, and one of his better sources in the arsenic story had been a member of the Reform, but he’d never been invited in. On this bright spring morning, as he turned off St James’s and walked up the steps to the bow-windowed façade of Whites, he tried hard to remember that all men were equal. And some women too, as his father used to say. Rex Naismith, dressed in a light grey three-piece, was waiting for him at the bottom of a wide curving staircase, his bulk disguised by excellent tailoring.

  Rex greeted Mabbut and suggested they go on up to the dining room and have a drink there. At various tables Mabbut recognised the broad backs, well-filled stomachs and faintly familiar profiles of political life gone by. Rex ordered two glasses of the house white and they ate herring and beetroot salad. They talked, neutrally, about the club, its history, the portraits on the walls and the impossibility of finding a restaurant as quiet as this anywhere else in the centre of London. Then there was a good but slightly tough New Zealand lamb to be dealt with as Rex effortlessly spun gossipy anecdotes about some of their fellow diners. It was not until the table had been cleared and the cheese trolley dismissed that Mabbut began to explain to Rex why he’d asked to meet him.

  He described, as fully as possible, his predicament over the Melville book, and the recent revelations about Sir Victor Trickett, though of course he didn’t mention him by name. Rex, it was said, knew everything about everybody, so Mabbut asked whether he was aware that Melville might have had secrets, been involved in adulterous affairs and business betrayals. Rex was confidently dismissive. Melville was undoubtedly competitive and astute in matters financial but he was absolutely not the sort of man to have taken a penny that didn’t belong to him. On the other hand he couldn’t deny that Melville had always ‘had an eye for the ladies, and they for him’. Mabbut said that this was also the view of all his sources. Charley Murray had heard rumours of a love-child, maybe even two. Mabbut smiled as he thought of Ursula. She’d turn a few heads in here.

  Emboldened by Rex’s candour, Mabbut steered the conversation closer to home.

  ‘I gather you and Krystyna are . . . well . . . seeing less of each other.’

  Rex seemed taken aback.

  ‘Not at all. We see each other regularly.’

  ‘My daughter seemed to think otherwise.’

  For once Rex had no reply. He pursed his lips and looked sideways at Mabbut for a moment.

  ‘Your daughter and her mother are seeing less of each other. That’s certainly true.’

  ‘Oh . . .?’

  Rex loaded a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred. There was clearly more to be said.

  ‘I hope I’m not speaking out of turn here.’ Rex tapped his spoon on the rim of the cup and laid it carefully on the saucer. ‘But there’s a little friction between them at the moment.’

  ‘Friction?’

  ‘Over the boyfriend.’

  ‘You mean Shiraj?’

  ‘Shiraj, yes. Krystyna feels that Jay, and you to a certain extent, are being, well, a little over-indulgent with him. Does that make sense?’

  Mabbut gave a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘I’m afraid Krystyna and the National Front have never been sworn enemies.’

  ‘That’s not entirely fair.’

  ‘Well, put it this way, she’s never had unlimited tolerance for non-nationals. It comes from being Polish.’

  Rex ignored the jibe.

  ‘I still think it’s worth talking to her about it. Julia does belong to you both.’

  Mabbut bristled. He was not going to be told how to treat his own daughter by this man.

  ‘If she wants to talk to me, she knows where I am,’ he said briskly.

  Rex, ever calm, checked his watch.

  ‘Well, I hope you didn’t mind my passing the message on.’

  He held up his hand for the bill.

  ‘I’ll ask around, about your informant,’ he added. ‘Sounds pretty harmless to me. I wouldn’t worry.’

  Mabbut stared at the computer screen. He was left with an adulterous affair and an illegitimate child, and given what passed for sensation these days it was pretty thin stuff. He could quite easily feed this into the text, but would it be enough to get Latham off his back? He set to work that night and by half-past four had come up with something that felt right. He would revisit it in the morning and, all being well, send Latham the relevant pages over the weekend. Then, hopefully, the whole thing could be put to bed and he could get back to Albana.

  First thing on Monday Silla rang as Mabbut was emerging from the shower. Latham had read the latest version and wanted to meet them both as soon as possible. Unfortunately one of her most promising new discoveries was at the Madrid Book Week so she wouldn’t be able to accompany him this time.

  ‘Are you all right, Sill?’

  ‘Much better. Call me tonight. I should be in the hotel around nine. And good luck, dear boy.’

  Mabbut treated himself to a taxi down to Urgent Books, arriving in good shape and, despite his earlier qualms, feeling quietly confident about the way he’d dealt with the Trickett story. Instead of talking in his office, Latham led Mabbut through to the boardroom. He motioned him in and briskly shut the door behind him. There was no offer of refreshment. He slapped the rewrites down on the table and indicated a row of chairs on the nearside of the table. Mabbut sat down while Latham remained standing, his back to Mabbut.

  ‘You’ve been busy, I gather. Trips to the Continent.’

  Mabbut shrugged. ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘I could have organised it all for you if you’d asked.’

  ‘I was lucky, got a cancellation.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I now know that he does indeed have an illegitimate daughter. I should have found that out earlier, but as you will have read, I’ve now included it in the text, with her name changed at her request.’

  Latham snorted. ‘And her story practically undetectable.’

  ‘There’s nothing to it. It’s
no big deal.’

  ‘Well, that’s a matter of opinion. What I’m more interested in is Trickett.’

  ‘I was down there first thing on Monday. Interesting man. A hermit knight.’

  Latham tapped his finger rapidly on the pages before him.

  ‘Did you listen to what he said?’

  Mabbut paused a moment before answering.

  ‘He specifically asked not to be recorded, but I kept full notes, yes.’

  ‘Did he at any time mention anginal valves?’

  ‘He didn’t go into technical detail, but, yes, he mentioned that he had worked on something like that.’

  Ron took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and adjusted his glasses.

  ‘He designed the first ever set of plastic bileaflet valves for use in heart operations.’

  ‘But as I remember, he told me he couldn’t finish the work.’

  ‘Because he didn’t have the money, right?’

  ‘That was it, yes. Melville offered to help him.’

  Latham nodded. ‘That was kind of Melville, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very much in character.’

  Latham pulled a chair from under the table, and sat directly opposite Mabbut.

  ‘What he did next was not in character, though, was it? And going off with Trickett’s wife?’

  ‘Having an affair? That’s hardly a character flaw.’

  ‘What about running off with a woman who took all the work her husband had done for the last four years and helping her sell it to the highest bidder?’

  ‘That’s not how Trickett described it. He said they worked jointly.’

  Latham shook his head angrily.

  ‘That is what he said. You just didn’t hear it.’

  ‘How do you know? You weren’t there.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear it because you didn’t want to hear it, because it looks bad for the man you hero-worship!’

  ‘Look, I’ve written about his infidelity. I’ve written about his illegitimate daughter, who, incidentally, has never even met him. And who has never heard of Victor Trickett either. I’ve taken all that on board and I delivered the rewrites to you in three days flat. I’ve kept my side of the bargain.’