by G I Tulloch
Adam looked somewhat crestfallen briefly. "I think you underestimate the significance." He defended himself.
Bel looked at him pityingly and shook her head. "Really? Well if it makes you feel better. But I still think we're attacking the wrong people."
Privately Adam agreed they probably were but in the circumstances his only strategy was to keep poking the beast until it woke up.
Chapter 23
Adam's parents lived on an estate. Not the kind of estate that contains hundreds of identical semi-detached houses in ordered rows of suburbia, but a country estate.
Adam stopped at the gates. The imposing stone pillars and iron wrought gates, with gatehouses either side, appeared like something out of a Georgette Heyer Regency novel. Trees, rhododendron bushes and high walls masked the view beyond and gave privacy a new meaning. Bel, a newcomer to this scene, was curious as to how Adam was going to open the gates without incurring a hernia, and quashed her disappointment heroically when he produced a credit card sized swipe card and inserted it into a very modern piece of electronics by the roadside. The gates swung open with a characteristic groan, so archetypal that Bel wondered if it were coming from a loudspeaker in the bushes.
The car swung through the gates and along a bush lined gravel drive, ending in a large courtyard surrounded by outhouses and garages. Bel was first out of the car and stood transfixed, not by the courtyard but by the imposing country house that rose up beyond it.
The original central section, a three storey 18th Century Georgian Manor house had been extended over the centuries with three wings, of proportions that almost swamped the original building. Unlike some country houses of similar vintage the various additions had been kept in keeping with the original, giving it a grander, more imposing appearance. To Bel, it was straight out of the National Trust handbook.
Adam watched her, leaning on the car with a resigned look on his face.
"It's just a house that people live in. It's cold and damp and draughty." He strode off through a large wooden door and entered the house.
Bel contemplated his back for a moment before following quickly, aware that if she lost track of him in there she might get lost for days. The smell reminded her of country houses her parents had forced her, as a child, to visit with them on wet holidays.
Having entered through the servants' and tradesmen's entrance they made their way along the long cold stone passages of the vast kitchens and countless work-rooms at the back of the house, and into the main part of the house where Adam started calling out for signs of life. Somewhere in the depths of the house a clock chimed five o'clock.
Within seconds a middle aged woman in neat twin set (but no pearls) met them. With her hair in a bun and glasses on the end of her nose, she looked as if she was auditioning for a Brian Rix farce.
"Oh Mr Adam. I didn't hear you come in."
"Ah Mrs Daly. How are you? We came in the back way I'm afraid. Very sneaky, but you know me." He introduced Bel to the housekeeper.
"Do you know where my mother is?"
"Yes. She's in the workroom."
Adam looked at his watch. "Of course. It's about that time."
He made off down a long corridor, Bel on his heels.
"Mrs Daly?" she enquired.
Adam turned with a grin. "Yes, and don't laugh but her husband's name really is Arthur."
"And the workroom. Am I to expect a group of ladies doing needlework?"
Adam turned again and strode off. "Hardly."
The 'workroom' turned out to be a large panelled room with windows shuttered and curtains drawn, which on its own would have been a surprised to Bel, even were it not for the room's contents.
Bel later described it as a cross between Concorde's flight deck and a TV Producer's control room. TV screens filled one wall, whilst another contained computer monitors. Desks covered in paperwork, computer keyboards and printers littered the floor. At one desk sat a tall elegant woman in jeans and a tee-shirt, her back to them, oblivious to their presence but intent on a computer screen.
Adam broke the silence. "Mum."
The figure turned around and peered at them over the top of reading glasses. An initial frown broke into a smile that extended to the brown eyes, matching the short-cut chestnut hair. White trainers completed the somewhat incongruous ensemble.
"Adam my dear, how nice to see you. You should have warned me you were coming." She took a few seconds surveying Bel, as if accessing some deep memory bank. "And Bel my dear, it's been a long time, far too long."
She spoke with a familiarity that belied the fact that Bel had met her only once and that was at Adam and Fran's wedding, a memory that always brought mixed feelings.
"I did call you yesterday if you remember, to tell you I was coming." insisted Adam.
Joan Lennox frowned. "Did you? I don't recall I'm afraid, the Dow Jones was misbehaving yesterday," she said, as if that explained everything.
A computer bleeped in the background and the conversation was terminated as Adam's mother's attention returned to the wall of screens. "Sorry my dears. Tokyo's about to open and there are some interesting things going on. Adam, your father's at Sandown but he should be back shortly. You'll stay the night of course, it's getting too late to go back up to London." She started typing furiously, at which point it seemed prudent to leave.
They made their way to the front of the house, through the main hall past the sweeping staircase and across the stone floors out into the late afternoon April sunshine that still had some warmth in it. As they stepped outside Bel stopped to take in the vista that opened up before her. The ground in front of the house fell away in extensive lawns dotted occasionally by old oaks and horse-chestnuts, surrounded by the characteristic ironworks to keep deer and sheep at bay. In the distance an extensive lake reflected the occasional cloud and the setting sun. To the left of them the lawns gave way to woods and a stable block, complete with classic arched entrance and white wooden clock tower. To the right the sweeping drive curved majestically until it disappeared out of sight into tree-lined obscurity.
They stepped down from the grand entrance and Bel sat on one of the stone blocks, which in days gone by would have helped riders or carriage passengers to alight. Adam watched with mixed feelings, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, as she took in the scene.
Some minutes passed without a word being spoken. At last Bel turned to Adam.
"So Lennox, this is what you rebelled against."
"Yes."
"How big is it?"
"What you see plus deer park plus another five thousand acres plus three farms." Adam replied.
"It's awesome."
Adam looked quickly at her. "It's a bloody millstone." he retorted.
They were interrupted by the arrival outside the stable block of a landrover and two enormous horse boxes.
Adam gratefully broke the awkward moment.
"I need to speak to the old man. Don't get too lost, it's a big place." He hesitated and sighed. "It's far too bloody big a place."
With knowledge of his father's habits, Adam waited until the race horses had been safely stabled and his father had supervised the work schedule for the next day, before retiring to a book-lined library with a glass of chilled white wine. The fact that the books were not old first editions, but racing form books, gave away Adam's father's passion for the sport, and explained to some degree Adam's ability to spot a winner.
Their 'handshake and statutory three pats on the back hug' greeting reflected a relationship that had had stormy moments and harsh words said, but where love and respect still lingered, even if an understanding of differing positions and attitudes had yet to be achieved.
Adam accepted an offered glass of wine.
"How are the horses doing?"
"What? Oh yes, doing well, holding their own, just about paying for themselves. It's put your mother out something rotten. She likes to feel that it's necessary for her to subsidise them. Gives her a feeling of power and control."
"Oh she'll be happy today. No winners, one second and a couple of also-rans." His attention seemed to wander slightly before refocusing. "But no injuries thank God."
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Eventually Robert Lennox ('Bob' on the racecourse, 'Sir Robert' at the county show) finished processing the days events and returned to the present. Whether he suited the role or the role suited him was difficult to tell but the sandy hair, moustache and tweed jacket with patched elbows was every inch the country squire.
"You said on the phone that you needed to talk about the old days. Very veiled. Give. What's it all about."
Adam fiddled with the stem of his wineglass.
"I need to know anything you can remember about Granger Bartlett."
"Granger Bartlett." Adam's father closed his eyes, accessing the archives. To aid the process he got up and walked across to the window before starting his reply. A sip of wine lubricating the memory.
"The Granger Bartlett that I recall had the reputation of a ruthless bastard who would do anything to beat a competitor to a deal."
"Including breaking the law?"
"It's possible he stayed within the law, more by luck than judgement, but he came damn close on numerous occasions. Morality was almost an anathema to him. He was always out to crush the other man. He took on his father's business after the war in 1950. As you might imagine they had suffered badly during the war and the government compensation wasn't nearly enough. Granger cut corners and made deals to pull the company through. If he saw another company in difficulties he would see it as an opportunity to gain. And he did gain. The company went from strength to strength as world trade improved and stability was regained."
Adam contemplated the condensation on the wineglass.
"Did anyone in particular suffer at his hands, with the ruthless dealing?"
Adam's father rubbed his chin and then scratched the back of his neck before replying.
"I seem to remember there were a couple of particular deals which got him notoriety but I can't remember any details. How important is this?"
Adam hesitated. "I'm not sure. It's possible someone's life may depend on it."
He filled in some sketchy details.
"Oh! Well let me make some phone calls. Hopefully I can get more details by tomorrow morning."
Adam drained his glass. "What was Granger's connection with Ireland?"
Adam's father grimaced and sat back down. "I'm not sure exactly. Granger was a supporter of the underdog against the establishment, which was ironic since he was rapidly becoming part of it. He supported the Irish Republicans in the early days, far more openly than people would have liked. The government tried to lean on him but that only made things worse. Rumour had it at the time that he got in deeper than he intended and tried to get out before it was too late."
"Did he succeed?"
"Just before the car accident the whispers were going round that something had happened. After the accident there was a lot of conjecture that he'd tried to get out of it. He may have been intending to spill the beans or even taking the honourable way out."
"What do you think?"
Adam's father shook his head.
"Granger Bartlett wasn't the honourable type. Suicide wasn't in his nature. If it wasn't an accident then I think the IRA probably saw him as too high a risk and killed him."
The evening meal was served in a small comfortable dining room, with a log fire in the grate, avoiding the embarrassment of the Grand Hall with its table that sat sixty people, where you would have to call a taxi to pass the salt.
Coffee came, and a box of mints disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Bel turned to Adam's father.
"I love your place here, the house is wonderful," she said.
Adam's father, coffee cup in hand, didn't make any comment but a beaming smile crossed his face as he turned to his wife.
"Told you she would," he crowed.
Joan Lennox reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a crumpled fiver, which she handed to her husband.
"You bet too much," she said in riposte, and turned to Adam. "I worry about your father and his betting habits."
"That's rich," interrupted her husband without malice, "coming from someone who plays the stock market for a living."
She took on a hurt expression. "That's different," she insisted. "That is business."
Adam looked fondly at the pair of them. "You're as bad as each other, like a couple of kids with toys."
His mother adopted an indignant expression that was belied by the twinkle in her eyes. "Bel, can you believe what our son has just said? We certainly didn't bring him up to be that disrespectful, I can assure you."
"It's scandalous," Bel agreed, watching Adam with a grin. "I should disinherit him immediately."
"Oh no!" cried Adam's mother. "Don't encourage him dear!"
Despite Adam's strenuous efforts, they failed to avoid a game of Scrabble with his parents, where their competitive personalities came to the fore. The dictionary, intended to be the independent arbiter was in grave danger of becoming confetti on the floor.
They were persuaded to stay the night (during which Adam managed to safely negotiate the minefield of whether he and Bel would like separate rooms). Bel insisted on Adam giving her a tour. By the light of flood-lamps they wandered around the outside of the house with the last blue fading in the western sky. Thin wisps of grey cloud crossed the fading red sky of the sunset.
When they came to the stable block they went inside. A row of equine heads appeared over stall gates to see who the late visitor was.
"I grew up to all this." said Adam. "Accepted it as the norm, didn't question it until I went to London when I was seventeen and saw how other people lived, on the streets, with nothing but the clothes they stood up in. I rebelled as only teenagers can. We rowed about it all the time until one day I had had enough and left. By that time my relationship with my parents was so bad that I think they were relieved."
He stopped to stroke a nose and dish out a sugar cube.
"And you lived on the streets?"
"Two years. Made friends. Became part of the drop-out culture. Eventually managed to sort out the good and the bad. Learned more about myself. Learned to survive."
"And now?"
"Now I'm happy doing what I'm doing. Making my own way, using my own rules. I guess I've tempered my views but I still can't agree with all this."
They sat down on a bale of straw in the dim glow of the stable lights and Adam sucked on a stalk of straw in an absent-minded habit from childhood.
"The estate," said Bel. "Your parents own it all?"
"Every stick."
"What made them buy it in the first place?"
"They didn't. It's been in the family for centuries. My great-grandfather made piles out of India."
"And when your parents have gone?"
Adam gazed around him, a resigned expression on his face. "It'll be mine. Every damned stick and brick of it."
They walked on in increasingly comfortable silence.
At last Bel's curiosity could wait no longer. "Your mother's 'workroom', what's that all about?"
"Ah. Mum is a genius. Mum spends hours playing the stock market, buying and selling stocks and shares. Tokyo, Paris, London, Wall Street. You name it, Mum's got connection to it."
"Isn't that a risky business?"
Adam laughed. "For some but not for Mum. She makes millions a year. That's how they can afford to keep this place and the horses. The whole caboodle, financed from the capitalist society we live in."
"Rather like you giving dead certainties to Gerry."
Adam stopped and turned toward her. "What?"
"Your Mum's genius and your father's racing knowledge rolled together and you're using it to finance Gerry's lifestyle."
Adam went to say something and then closed his mouth as they walked on.
Minutes later as the
y turned the corner by the stable block Bel stopped in her tracks.
Adam followed her gaze. "What is it?"
She turned and looked at him. "You know, just for a moment, I'd forgotten all about the bloody awful mess we're in."
Chapter 24
The market was not one on the tourist trail, with all the colourful trinkets and tourist junk, but a local market where the prices were based on the average Thai wage rather than tourist dollars. Caged birds lined the roadside beside vegetable stalls. Anything that was edible was covered in flies despite the stallholders' efforts. The smell attacked Frank's nostrils. He had never got used to it, the heat and decay that were part of everyday life. He stepped out of the searing sun to examine some unrecognisable meat, probably wild pig or chicken. No, not chicken, it wasn't scrawny enough. Against better judgement but without much option he bought a piece, making a mental note to cook it more thoroughly than usual.
He was brought up short by the sound of music coming from his pocket and it took him a few seconds to realise that it was the mobile phone in his pocket. A recent acquisition that they had decided was necessary given recent events. He looked at it quizzically, trying to remember which button would answer the call before putting it to his ear.
He started walking away from the market as he spoke.
"Gerard?"
"Yes it's me," came the confirmation.
The tone of the voice put Frank on his guard.
"What's the matter?"
"He's dead, John's dead."
Frank stopped walking and stood dangerously close to the middle of the road.
"What? How did it happen?"
There was a pause during which only laboured breathing could be heard.
"He was murdered." The voice was monotone, the depression almost audible.
"I don't understand," said Frank. "That can't happen. He's protected. We protect him, that's what we do."
"It wasn't enough. Not this time."
Frank looked around him as if his surrounding were about morph into a distant planet.
"Shit. So it's over. We failed. After all this time, and we failed."
Gerard's voice gathered some strength. "We didn't fail. We did what we could. It just wasn't enough."
