Lennie Marchbanks, who had fitted the false teeth now returned to him by Berthea, answered quickly, “Chipping Campden, I expect. There’s a well-known car fence near there. That’s where all the stolen cars end up.”
“Then we should go there,” said Berthea. “We might still catch up with them.”
“It’s really bad of them to steal my Porsche,” said Terence. “And if we catch up with them, I’m jolly well going to tell them that.”
“Steal your Porsche?” muttered Berthea. “Not only that. They want to steal your house. The Green Man was right, you know.”
She spoke quietly, but Terence heard.
Chapter 74: What Did the Green Man Say?
Terence Moongrove was largely silent on the trip to Chipping Campden. Sitting in the back of Lennie Marchbanks’ silver Volvo, he looked out of the window in a thoughtful, slightly injured way. From the front passenger seat, Berthea half turned to check up on her brother. Poor Terence, she thought. The shattering of an illusion is never easy, even if one’s life is filled with illusions.
Lennie Marchbanks, sensitive to the atmosphere, tried to make conversation. “I drove along here the other day with Alfie Bismarck,” he remarked. “We were going to see a horse that Alfie’s got up there. Nice horse that he bought from Christopher Catherwood last year. Christopher had some success with him on the flat races over in Newmarket, but wanted to concentrate on something else.”
“Oh yes,” said Berthea. “That’s interesting, isn’t it, Terence?”
“Jolly interesting,” he mumbled.
“Alfie’s got the touch all right,” continued Lennie. “He turned round a really useless horse that had done the rounds. Ireland. France. Back to Ireland. Then Alfie started working on him and he began to romp home. I said, ‘Alfie, you’re giving that horse something in his oats,’ and Alfie got all shirty and said I shouldn’t talk like that. I said it was only a joke, but he said there are some things you shouldn’t joke about.
“Alfie’s honest, though. I’d trust him with my shirt, more or less, as long as I had a spare one, ha! And that boy of his, Monty, I’ve heard what people say about him but it isn’t true, you know. He’s a chip off the old block, that boy. He won two grand last week at some small meeting up north. Came home with his pockets full. I said, ‘Monty, you should invest that, you know. Buy some shares in something solid, like futures in helium.’ He looked at me like I’d suggested that he should fly to the moon. So I said, ‘How do you think your old man made his money?’ I was referring to Alfie’s eye for a good investment, but young Monty says, ‘Gambling, Mr Marchbanks. That’s how he did it.’”
The conversation continued in this vein until just outside Chipping Campden, when Lennie told them all to start looking out for Terence’s Porsche. “We’ll just cruise through,” he said. “Then if we don’t find it, we can start looking along some side roads I know. Good places for stolen vehicles, those side roads.”
They drove slowly. There was a Porsche parked outside a newsagent’s premises, but it was the wrong colour. Then, as they made their way into the main square, Lennie gave a low whistle. “See over there?” he said. “See?”
“My car,” said Terence. “What a nerve.”
“They’re in that hotel,” said Lennie. “Probably having lunch. Stuffing their faces.”
“Shall we call the police?” asked Terence.
Berthea shook her head. “The police will complicate matters. All those forms. The police have bad karma, Terence.”
Terence nodded. “I just want to give Rog and Claire a piece of my mind. That’ll be worse for them than being arrested. I can get jolly cross, you know.”
“You’re right,” said Berthea. “That’ll teach them.”
Lennie Marchbanks parked his car and they went into the hotel. Roger and Claire were seated in the dining room, perusing the menu. They looked up, and were surprised when they saw that Terence was accompanied.
“We thought it was just us,” said Roger, rising to his feet.
“Well, you thought wrong!” snapped Terence. “You Sam!”
Roger frowned. “What?”
“You Sam!” repeated Terence. “You great Sam!”
Roger looked angry. “You’re calling me a Sam? What have I done to deserve that?”
“You stole my Porsche,” spluttered Terence. “We saw it outside.”
“Yes,” crowed Lennie Marchbanks. “Fine pair of car thieves, parking the car in broad daylight.”
Roger looked at Lennie in astonishment and then turned to Berthea. ‘But you told me to take it,” he said. “You said that Terence had said …”
“Delusions,” said Berthea.
Roger let out a cry. “Delusions? You told us! Claire heard, didn’t you? You told us that Terence wanted to meet us here.”
“A likely story,” interjected Lennie Marchbanks.
Roger spun round and glared irately at Lennie. “You shut your face! You Sam!” he shouted.
“You calling me a Sam?” Click. Lennie voice was filled with anger, and his teeth, dropping forward, made a familiar clicking sound. Click.
“It’s jolly rude to tell somebody to shut his face,” said Terence. “You shouldn’t say things like that in public. You shouldn’t.” He turned to Berthea. “Did you tell them that, Berthy? Did you tell them to take my car?”
Berthea swallowed. “Of course not, Terence. Have I ever lied to you? Ever? Once? And have I ever let you down? Ever? Even when Uncle Edgar accused you of eating those sponge finger biscuits of his when you were eight. Remember? And I said that you hadn’t, although I knew you had because I’d seen you.” She paused, adding under her breath, “And what did the Green Man say?”
“I didn’t eat all of them,” said Terence. “The dog had four.”
“For heaven’s sake,” snapped Claire. “This has got nothing to do with biscuits.”
“Indeed it hasn’t,” said Berthea coldly. “But it has everything to do with the theft of a Porsche. Give me the keys, please.”
“No,” said Roger.
“Then I shall call the police.”
Roger hesitated, and then handed over the keys to the Porsche.
“Now we can go home,” said Lennie Marchbanks. “And these two can make use of public transport to get back to Cheltenham.”
Berthea looked at the dejected fraudsters. “You’ll find your cases with all your possessions at the front gate,” she said. “You may remove them without entering the property.”
They left. Terence drove back with Berthea in the Porsche.
“I’m really grateful to you, Berthy,” he said. “There was something about that couple that I didn’t quite trust. I saw it all along, you know.”
Berthea nodded. The delusions of which the human mind is capable are manifold and varied, she thought. We are imperfect creatures in every respect, and it was her job to lend wholeness to those who were shattered and unhappy. Not every mission ended quite as well as this one, but that did not mean that one should not try. Every day we should try, she said to herself; we should try to make life better for those around us, and for ourselves. We should try to be kinder. We should try to control our impatience with people like Terence – and others.
“Dear Terence,” she said fondly. “Now you have your car back.”
“Thanks to you,” said Terence. “Dearest Berthy.”
Chapter 75: Dee and Martin do the Business
If it is the case, and it undoubtedly is, that all business start-ups are fraught with fret and worry, then the bottling and marketing of Dee’s Sudoku Remedy was very atypical.
The task of designing the packaging for the remedy had been referred to a client whom Dee knew to be a graphic designer. He had produced a label within a matter of days and had also been able to find a sympathetic and cheap printer. After that had been done, all that was required was to purchase a large quantity of Gingko biloba in pill form and have these pills put in bottles to which the label had been affixed. Again
Dee had a contact who was able to arrange for this to be done on very favourable terms, and quickly too.
“Simple, isn’t it?” Dee remarked to Martin. “Now we do a bit of advertising.” She paused. “Your five thousand pounds, Martin …”
Martin had been impressed by the speed with which the project had progressed. “No problem,” he said. “It’s ready.” He looked away. It was his entire capital, and he was not sure how, if the money were to be lost, he would explain this to his godfather, who had given it to him. His godfather, who had a minicab firm in Essex, was short-tempered and, in Martin’s view, rather too close to certain criminal elements in Romford. He imagined that his godfather might, as he occasionally put it, “wish to have a fireside chat” with him if Dee’s scheme did not work out.
But now there was no going back. An advertisement was booked in a puzzle magazine and in a daily newspaper. Want to improve your Sudoku performance? it asked. The Sudoku Remedy, an entirely herbal product, increases the supply of blood to the brain, thereby enhancing your skill at solving even the most complex sudokus. Also contains anti-oxidants.
“I hope it works,” said Martin.
“Hope what works?” asked Dee. “The product or the advertisement?”
“Both,” said Martin. “But especially the product.”
“Of course that’ll work,” said Dee. “We all know that
Gingko biloba increases the supply of blood to the brain and improves mental performance. If it does that, then you’ll be able to do a sudoku better. Stands to reason.”
Martin still looked concerned, and Dee tried to cheer him up. “Come on, Martin,” she said. “You have to have confidence in business. If you just sit on the sidelines and worry then nothing ever gets done. This is our big chance.”
“Maybe,” said Martin. “It’s just that …”
“Just that nothing,” said Dee. “This is going to work, Martin. You’ll see.”
The product was launched on a Monday. The advertisement in the newspaper had listed the telephone number of the shop for orders and had also given a website address. By nine-thirty in the morning, when Dee and Martin turned on their computer in the shop, there were already over four thousand email orders.
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” said Martin, looking over Dee’s shoulder as she scrolled down the list of emails. “Maybe it’s a virus.”
“No,” said Dee, her voice cracking with excitement. “This is for real, Martin. And look, more are coming in.”
Then the telephone began to ring, and more orders were taken. For the entire day Martin remained glued to the telephone, writing down the address of each customer and noting down how many bottles were wanted. Many took two; several took more than that, intending to send the remedy out to sudoku-addicted friends abroad.
At the end of the day, in a state of utter exhaustion, the two of them switched off the computer and disconnected the telephone.
“That’s that,” said Dee. “Now we have some breathing space we must get more staff.”
Over the following week, Dee and Martin took on four people full-time. A further advertisement was booked in the newspaper, and this time the response was even larger. Then, at the end of the week, Richard Eadeston, the venture capitalist who had invested in the project, came to see them.
“Fantastic trading,” he said. “Stellar performance. Well done!”
Dee was almost too tired to talk. “Not bad,” she said.
“Not bad?” mocked Richard Eadeston. “Seriously good. Grade One fab.”
“Thank you,” said Dee.
“And here’s the really good news,” said Richard Eadeston. “We’ve been approached by somebody who wants to put an offer to you. I don’t think that you’ll be able to turn it down, frankly.”
“Try me,” said Dee.
“If you are prepared to sell the business,” said Richard. “I’m authorised to offer you four and a half million pounds for it. That includes the intellectual rights to the product. “
Dee closed her eyes. Four and a half million pounds. Three quarters for Richard Eadeston and his company, and a quarter split between her and Martin. Martin had not invested as much as she had, and therefore would not get as much return; but it would still be a lot.
She opened her eyes and looked at Martin. “What shall we do?”
Martin shrugged. “Maybe we should sell,” he said. ‘But then again, maybe we shouldn’t.”
“Should I flip a coin?” asked Dee.
“Why not?” replied Martin. “I’ll go along with that.”
Dee took a pound coin out of her pocket. “Heads we sell,” she said. “Tails we keep the company.”
The coin spun up in the air and was caught by Martin, who slapped it down on the top of his wrist, shielding it from view with his left hand. Then he exposed the coin.
“Sell,” he said.
Dee nodded. “We’ll sell the product,” she said. ‘Lock, stock and barrel.”
“Very wise,” said Richard. “Well done.”
Martin did not think that he deserved congratulation. He had produced nothing in any physical sense and yet here he was being offered a great deal of money. So this, he thought, is capitalism. It was a strange feeling.
“That’s a lot you’ll be getting,” she whispered.
Martin looked at her, his eyes fixed on hers. “A hundred thousand?”
“Yes, at least. Like it?”
Martin did not know what to say. He felt disconnected, and empty. He was not sure he wanted that much. It seemed such an impossibly large sum of money.
“Be grateful,” said Dee. “Your life is about to change.”
Martin thought she was right. His life was about to become different, although just how different he did not yet know, and would not know for another few months.
Dee, by contrast, knew exactly how her life would change. She would buy a flat now and get out of Corduroy Mansions, would go to live in her own place. It was all very well living with a whole lot of others when one was young and impecunious; now things were different. My own place, she thought, with deep pleasure. All I want is a flat somewhere … Wouldn’t that be loverly … loverlee!
Chapter 76: With One Leap ...
Tilly Curtain told William to stay exactly where he was, in the coffee bar on Brook Street.
“Has Ducky gone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Sometimes he pretends to go, but still hangs around.”
William looked around the coffee bar, then rose to peer out of the window. There were a few people on the street outside, but none of them, as far as he could see, was Sebastian Duck.
“The coast seems quite clear,” he said.
Tilly Curtain arrived fifteen minutes later. Without taking off her coat, she sat down opposite him at the table. “All right,” she said. “Listen carefully. We know Freddie de la Hay is alive. Our ops people are monitoring the signal from the transmitter under his skin. He’s fine.”
William reached out impulsively and took her hand. “I’m so relieved,” he said.
“Yes. So am I. I’m … well, I’m fed up with all the lies, all the compromises. I’ve had it.”
William watched her. He was not sure whether to raise the issue of her working for the Belgians. Perhaps he could hint that he knew and see if she took it up. “Everybody tells lies,” he says. “States operate on the basis of lies. They claim to be above it all, but there are tawdry lies underpinning everything, aren’t there? Even the Belgians …”
She stared at him. “Did he say that? Did he say that I was a Belgian double agent?”
William lowered his eyes. “He did.”
Tilly sighed. “He’s made the accusation before. He’s told people I’m a Belgian mole. There’s just no truth in it, William. And you know why he says it? It’s because he himself is a Belgian agent! I’m sure of it.”
William made a gesture of helplessness. “A world of mirrors reflecting mirrors,” he
said.
“Exactly,” said Tilly. “But enough of that. Let’s go and get Freddie de la Hay.”
They left the coffee bar and travelled by taxi to a street on the edge of St John’s Wood. “He’s in a mews house down there,” said Tilly. “I’ve already done a quick recce. It has a garden gate at the back. We can enter unobserved that way.”
William followed her. There had been light rain, but it had stopped and London seemed bathed in a curious misty white light. He had got into the taxi without thinking; now he asked himself whether it was all about to end for him too. Had Duck been right? Was this woman he hardly knew working for the Belgians? In a shifting, confusing world, anything could be true; anything could be false.
They made their way into a garden. There was a pergola; a bench; a child’s ball that had dropped in from a neighbouring garden and remained unretrieved. Fear makes us leave things where they are, thought William; makes us leave them the way they are.
Tilly was ahead of him, crouching behind a bushy wisteria. She made a sign for him to join her. “Look,” she whispered. “Look up there.”
William studied the back of the mews house, his gaze travelling up. There was a small dormer window in the roof, an afterthought child’s bedroom, perhaps. He squinted. There was a movement behind the glass, but it could just have been the sun, which had come from out of the clouds, breaking through that misty light and glinting off the glass. The sun upon glass can be like sun on the water – a movement, a liquid dash of gold, of silver.
“Freddie de la Hay,” whispered Tilly.
William looked again. His heart was thumping hard within him, as hard as a hammer. He felt as he had felt when he was about to be beaten as a boy. They had beaten him. Beaten him. That awful, horrid history master.
Freddie de la Hay. It was Freddie de la Hay, his nose pressed up against the glass. And even though no sound could reach him, William knew that Freddie had seen him.
“We must get him out,” William said. “Is that door locked?”
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