Leo poked her head into the depths of the wardrobe. On the left hung an array of suits and dresses. She rifled through them and at the far end came across what were distinctly men’s clothes, some suits, shirts, trousers. Left over by some visitor, she determined. Or perhaps they belonged to Christopher Norfolk. She pushed them aside. On the right, there were shelves with an assortment of pullovers and blouses. None of the piles were particularly disarranged. The top one, above her head, however, was empty. That was where the box, now on the bed, must originally have been positioned. It would explain why she hadn’t noticed it in her first cursory look round. She had been superstitiously loathe to invade Isabel’s personal wardrobe.
Leo looked out the window. A week ago, though it felt much longer than that, she had stood amidst the broken shards of the vase she had given Isabel and imagined a violent intruder. The police had deflected her. Now the breakin had occurred, differently than what she had imagined. But she was still no closer to Isabel.
Outside, in the crisp spring sunlight she saw two young women walking briskly down the narrow street. Glossy hair swung to the rhythm of long-legged strides. One of the women raised her face and she could see the laughter on it. The other joined her, then kicked aside a stray chocolate wrapper. Two young women, laughing, busy with their sense of destination. Like Isabel and her way back when in that first year in London. They might even have come to this neighbourhood once in those happier times. She had an image of a comedy club buried amidst back streets where they had spent an evening hooting over impersonations of Margaret Thatcher.
Leo shook herself. She turned to the bed with its sprawl of papers and poised herself at its edge. Letters. Some of them old, judging by the yellowing paper. She picked one out at random. December 10 1986, the date stated. She walked back to the window to read its fading ink in the bright light.
Dear Isabel,
Haven’t heard from you for some weeks. I hope you’re dressing warmly enough for what must now be the ghastly British winter. Your job sounds dreadful. Couldn’t you manage a better one? Do try and keep the right kind of company. It’s important for a young woman making her way in what isn’t a kind world.
Things here are none too good. Martha’s hip is bothering her. You should write to her, even if not to me. You know how she loves you. She’s always tried to get her clutches into you, I know, but it was with the best will in the world. She’s staying with me at the moment, having a break from her social work. None too soon, if you ask me. Alice Springs is no place for a woman of her age. I don’t know why she bothers. It’s made her a little mad.
Otherwise the only news is that we’ve had a breakin. Someone stole all the tools in the shed, including the lawn mower Martha had just bought. I think it was one of the Abos who keeps following her, which only makes it worse. This place isn’t getting any better. I don’t mind you abandoning us. Really I don’t. I’m glad you ditched that dreadful boyfriend. And I’m going to get myself a new job soon, maybe even move.
Yours, mother.
Hastily Leo placed the letter at the bottom of the box, as if to hide it from her own and Isabel’s eyes. A guilty embarrassment suffused her. It wasn’t her place to be reading this. She picked out another frayed sheet. This one was signed Martha. Despite herself, she read it avidly. The quality of Isabel’s home life suddenly materialised in her nostrils, an acrid suffocating smell of heavy wool cardigans and women trapped in emotional warfare.
My beautiful darling,
I’ve come to spend some weeks with Elinor, who has been far from well. She’s on edge, imagining things again, dreaming breakins, you know how she does. The doctor’s given her some tablets. But don’t worry, I’ll see her through. Concentrate on yourself. You deserve it. I miss your bright smile, but I’m happy to think of its growing brighter…
There was more to this letter, another page of chatty news about Australian politics and recent books, which Leo skimmed quickly as she tried to remember whether Isabel had ever talked to her at length about the relationship between her aunt and her mother. Nothing came to mind, so she pressed on through yellowing sheets. These were all personal letters, old ones, which is why Isabel had stashed them out of sight. Out of mind, too, Leo reflected, though it surprised her that Isabel had kept so much of her past with her, since she talked about it so little.
She lifted a few more letters from the mess on the bed and read quickly. Here was a plaintive plea from an abandoned Australian lover called Duncan. She added it to the growing pile in the box, singled out a dozen others in the same thick, brown ink and sped through them. It made sense to try and categorise the letters by their senders. There was a tiny chance, after all, that someone from the past had come back into Isabel’s life and whipped her away.
Her eyes fell on a familiar hand - bold, sprawling, the strokes thickly black. Leo stiffened and glanced down at the signature for confirmation. Jeff. Embossed at the top of the stationery was the name of a hotel. In Cannes.
Gorgeous,
You really are you know. Emphatically.
We should have done this sooner. And for longer. Watching you on the beach was far better than any of the films I saw.
Why did you take off so quickly? Shall I come and find you out in London? Nothing would be more delightful…’
Leo stopped reading. She scrunched the letter into a tight ball and flung it across the room. Her stomach was heaving. Jeff and Isabel. Isabel and Jeff. How could he! How could he cross that particular line? Not just any woman. But her closest friend. And when? She retrieved the letter from the corner into which it had fallen and with shaky hands uncreased its folds. It was then that she heard the click. She froze. She knew that sound now. The door. Fear grappled with rage, a tumult of emotion. She struggled to move, to alert Inspector Faraday.
Before she could do so, a voice boomed out ‘G’day. Anybody here?’
Christopher Norfolk strode towards her and paused at the threshold of Isabel’s room. He was wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater beneath a leather jacket and he looked as if he had forgotten to shave. His hold-all hung from one shoulder. His computer from the other.
‘Hello there, Holland. You don’t look too pleased to see me. Should I have told you I was going to vanish for a few days? Apologies rendered - though I didn’t quite realize how long I’d be myself.’ He poked his head into the room and was about to dump his bag, when he stopped short. ‘Hey, what’s happened in here?’
An icy voice from behind cut him off. ‘What’s happened in here is a burglary. I take it you have a key to this place.’
‘I do.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I’m sure the little lady here will do the honours.’
‘I’d far prefer you did them yourself.’
‘Sure thing, Mr…?’
Faraday flicked his ID a little too close to Christopher’s face.’
‘I see. In that case. Christopher Norfolk. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Inspector. Sorry to find there have been problems in my absence.’ He moved towards the study, let out a low whistle. ‘Messy problems.’
Leo scrutinised his face.
‘What’s been taken?’ He draped an arm loosely round her shoulders, as if they belonged together.
She brushed him off, felt Faraday’s inquiring glance.
‘You’d think Holland wasn’t pleased to see me, Inspector.’
‘Should she be? Where were you between 7.30 and 11 o’clock last night, Mr. Norfolk?’
‘Oh it’s like that, is it?’ He crossed his arms over his chest and made a mockery of deep contemplation. ‘I think I can safely say that I was in a red Ford - rotten car - somewhere between Totnes and London. Alone. No witnesses. Want to take me in?’
‘This isn’t a comedy, Mr. Norfolk.’
‘No, suppose not.’ He turned to look into Isabel’s office. ‘Suppose not. What’s been taken, Holland?’
‘I’ll just have a look at your computer, Mr Norfolk.’
&n
bsp; Leo watched Faraday unzip the bag and shook her head.
‘So that’s what’s gone. Anything else?’ Norfolk’s face was suddenly serious, the eyes a steely charcoal as if secret thoughts had darkened them. ‘Did you surprise him, Holland?
‘Leave the questions to me, Mr Norfolk.’ Inspector Faraday was curt. It was clear that he now trusted neither of them. ‘You live here?’
‘I’m visiting.’
‘You’re a friend of Leonora Holland’s?’
‘Leonora? Is that what it is?’
‘Not a friend then?’
‘A casual acquaintance, you could say. But a friend of Isabel Morgan’s. An old friend. And that’s enough, Inspector. I had nothing to do with this breakin. And if you’d stop treating me like some two-bit villain, I might even be able to help. I’m concerned about this. And Holland, here, has got me concerned about Isabel as well. I’ve been trying to track –‘ He stopped himself. ‘Tell me what was taken, Holland.’ He was suddenly authoritative.
‘That’s the problem. Apart from my laptop, we’re not sure. And the letters I imagine you pinched the other day.’
He let that slide, moved suddenly past them to prowl round the apartment. He poked his head into Leo’s room, glanced at the kitchen. Leo followed him. In the bathroom, she saw him repeat Faraday’s gesture and bend to sift broken earth between his fingers.
‘I never knew Isabel to grow things from scratch before,’ Leo heard herself saying.
‘She’s a woman of many talents.’
‘You and I need to have a conversation, Mr. Norfolk.’
‘Yes, we probably do, Inspector. Our talented friend may be in some trouble. The extent of it has just come home to me now. And I may inadvertently have increased it.’
‘Those letters?’
‘Let’s go and sit down.’ He slumped into the sofa. Faraday perched on the one opposite.
‘How did you increase it? What have you been doing?’
‘One step at a time Holland. Don’t get ahead of yourself. And this is all guesswork. Come and sit down, you’re making me nervous.’
Leo positioned herself between them.
‘Carry on, Mr. Norfolk.’
‘When Isabel was last in Australia, we talked at length about the biogenetic sector, in particular the genetic engineers with their interesting new food crops. Transgenic they used to be called. Now the term’s become less transgressive, more homely, “modified,” one might say.’ He chuckled. ‘Isabel had leads and she was going to do some investigating - for a book or a series of articles. Not on the obvious stuff that’s got everyone so excited, the soya and the oilseed and corn, but the future possibilities. The dreams waiting to be realized in the labs.’
‘Under the name of Iris Morgenstern?’
‘I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Anyhow I was going to do some footwork on the Australian side, just to see who was developing what, and as importantly, who owned what. And she was going to cover Britain, and do some sniffing around in the US as well, on her trip there. Isabel had a hunch that the big players would soon be in cahoots with the drug companies, though for the moment they were hiding behind a lot of smaller research establishments - like Monsanto behind Delta and Pine Land, you know the company Monsanto bought which developed and patented the Terminator.’
‘The Terminator?’ Leo heard herself croaking.
‘Well these are creative folk, Holland. Terminator technology - as it’s called - genetically alters seeds so that they won’t germinate if replanted, which is great for the patent holders, not so good for the poorer countries and the smaller farmers. In India they’re organising against it.’
‘You mean those seedlings in the bathroom were…?’
‘Don’t know. Anyhow the point is Isabel is with the Greens on this. You never know what kind of ultimate effect these altered plants will have, on soil, on other plants, on economies, let alone on humans. Then there’s traitor technology, a small leap into disabling germplasm, not to mention junkie seeds, which need constant injections of proprietary chemicals to keep going and…’
‘Spare us the lecture Mr Norfolk. What have you found out?’ Faraday was terse.
Norfolk gave him a cold stare. ‘On Friday, I took myself down to Greenpeace to see a friend I have there, a friend of Isabel’s too. She’d been in touch with them, of course, got lists from them of companies and so on. Though she kept her cards close to her chest. In part because she didn’t want to implicate anyone if she got into the wrong kind of difficulty. But I did learn, because they’d laughed about it, that she’d got a job as a temp in a firm near Exeter. So I hired a car and trundled down there.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Leo interrupted.
‘Easier to do these things alone, Holland. Anyhow, I wanted to get there before closing time and these English roads are something else.’
‘What was the name of the company, Mr. Norfolk?’
‘You got one of those cancer sticks for me, Holland?’
Leo passed him a cigarette.
‘A match, too. I don’t carry the things.’
‘The name of the company, Mr Norfolk.’
Norfolk deflected him.
‘By the time I got there, the top guns had taken off for the weekend. So I got talking to a young woman. A lively Sheila.’
He winked at Leo and she had the distinct impression he had added that comment for her benefit. She thought suddenly of Jeff. Jeff and Isabel. Her cheeks felt hot.
‘What did this lively Sheila tell you then?’ her voice dripped irony.
‘Well she distinctly remembered a temp who had worked there for two weeks or so early in March who fitted Isabel’s description.’
‘ So how does this help us?’
‘Give me credit for a little intelligence, Inspector.’
‘I give you credit for a lot more than that, Mr. Norfolk.’
Leo watched them perform their little power dance. Norfolk had slouched back into the sofa, his eyes half closed in an indolent disdain. Faraday sat on the edge of his seat, his body all wiry sinew ready to discharge itself in a leap of foot or fist. They hadn’t taken to each other, these two men. Faraday evidently suspected Norfolk. So did she for that matter. He was slippery. He was hiding things behind those sleepy eyes. His whole narrative could be a fabrication. Though in its larger contours it rang true.
‘Go on.’
‘Where were we?’
‘Friday. You were talking to a young woman. Quite a long talk from the sound of it.’
‘Well we got interrupted by a muscle man who didn’t seem to like my queries. Spy cameras everywhere in that place. And he shouldered me out, just as the conversation was growing interesting…’
The ring of the telephone startled them. For a moment, no one moved. Then Leo ran for it. Faraday was just behind her. ‘Leave it,’ he barked and pointed to the answering machine.
Isabel’s voice filled the room. Leo caught Norfolk’s eye. He was tensed now, listening with acute concentration as if he might deduce something from this disembodied sound.
A woman’s voice followed, heavily accented, so that it made her words difficult to grasp.
‘Isabel, darling. Paola here. I need to speak to you. Perhaps with a degree of urgency. Have you been in touch with Daniel? He rang. To save you looking for my number, I remind you. Seven nine four, eight five, eight five. Phone me please, eh.’
Leo saw Faraday writing the number down.
Paola. The one Daniel Lukas had phoned yesterday just as she left him. He was up to something.
‘The name of that company, Mr Norfolk?’ John Faraday broke into her thoughts.
‘Oh that. Plantagen.’ Norfolk seemed to have lost interest. ‘Cute eh? Merry olde England stuff. But you won’t find anything out from them if you ask - even if they did send a hired night raider over to dig out any data Isabel might have nicked. All gentlemanly and very above board. And smoother than your best claret. More Oxbridge co
nnections than six cabinets, I’d imagine.’ Abruptly he picked up his laptop and strode towards the door. ‘Guess I’ll be seeing you nice folks later on.’
Before either of them could hold him back, he was out the door.
7
Evening drizzle gave Upper Street a sheen which matched its recent assortment of trend-setting shops and minimalist restaurants, where bread was served with extra virgin oil and seats were as hard as borstal chairs. As the traffic lights turned red, Daniel Lukas pulled up short and watched a bent old man shuffle slowly across the street. In front of Daniel’s car, he looked up and paused. Beneath a forest of dreadlocks, Daniel spied an ashen face far too young for body and gait. It took him back to his days in the psychiatric wards of the Maudsley. The lithium shuffle. The wonder drug, lithium, which tempered manic highs and depressive lows, had its side effect in this sluggish shamble.
The man’s vacant eyes seemed to accuse him. They re-invoked in him that helplessness he had sometimes felt in his student years, when symptoms called up treatments in neat pill form. Holding operations, as all the doctors acknowledged. Better than long-term wards, they all agreed. Better, yet not good enough, Daniel thought. It was one of the reasons he had started in on an analytic training.
The cars behind him had begun to hoot as the light changed. At their sound, the man raised a staying hand, gave him a sly whisper of a smile and slowly finished his interminable amble across the street.
Daniel veered into a side street and parked erratically. As he got out of the car, the young-old man was right beside him. ‘Couldn’t spare a pound, could you friend? I’ve lost my…’ He seemed to have forgotten what he’d lost.
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