Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  ‘Have you seen George?’

  He shook his head. ‘His door was closed when I passed an hour ago. He’s probably having a nap.’

  Getting to his feet, he led me along the corridor, shuffling in his Moroccan leather slippers and rapping on my grandfather’s door. No response. Paddy produced his keys and unlocked the door. His face fell.

  ‘Blimey.’

  He ushered me inside. The room was empty, the clothes rack bare. No suits, no shoes, no belongings. No trace of the ‘harmless old goat’ who had conned Nancy, Harriet, Dad and me before vanishing with a fortune in stolen diamonds.

  RICHARD

  Tailing Tom on the tube felt ridiculous – as though I’d strayed into a spy movie. He nearly spotted me on one occasion, suddenly turning in my direction, forcing me to slow my pace and melt into the crowd. After the first leg of his journey he changed platforms and waited for a Northern Line train. I maintained my distance, listening to Harriet’s golden voice on the tannoy.

  The train now approaching is to Edgware. Please stand back from the platform edge.

  Those mellifluous tones stiffened my resolve, reminding me why I was playing silly buggers and following my son: only by tracking George down did I stand a chance of setting things right and winning Harriet over. Unlike me, Tom seemed to have some kind of plan. I was determined to find out what it was.

  The train arrived. As he stepped aboard, I slipped into the adjacent carriage, my face hidden behind a copy of the Evening Standard. I kept watch through the glass panel. He got off at Camden Town. I followed suit, maintaining a discreet distance.

  Outside the station, heading away from the bustling high street, he walked past a row of Victorian houses then turned onto a deserted side street. I followed, peering around the corner in time to see him entering a large redbrick building. It looked as if it might once have housed an institution, a school, perhaps, or a working men’s college. The door closed behind him. I waited a moment before taking a few steps closer. There was a sign above the door. Rochester House.

  Returning to the corner of the street, I lit a cigarette, leaning against the railings and keeping watch on the door. After a couple of minutes, it opened and a man emerged. In his late forties, he was dishevelled and shabbily dressed, hobbling along the street and into an off licence. Moments later he was back, opening a can of Special Brew and taking a long, thirsty swig before limping away and disappearing around a corner.

  Half an hour and two cigarettes later, the cold was starting to chill my bones. Giving up on Tom, I was on the verge of heading for home when I saw him emerge from the redbrick building and walk in my direction, head down, hands tucked into his pockets. I made a hasty retreat, diving into a newsagent’s and feigning interest in a rack of magazines. Seeing him walk past, I counted to ten before peering out of the doorway. He’d disappeared, presumably making his way to the tube. I returned to Rochester House and pressed the buzzer. A male voice answered.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for George Brocklebank.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His son.’

  There was a pause followed by a sigh. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The man’s name was Paddy. Sitting in his shabby office, he told me that ‘Gorgeous’ George had been one of the hostel’s occasional residents but had vanished, taking all his belongings. I blinked as the man’s words sank in.

  ‘My father was homeless?’

  ‘This was his home,’ said Paddy. ‘At least, when he wasn’t “working”.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘I’ll tell you what I told Tom. I’ve no idea where George is but he’s one hell of a character.’

  For several seconds I was lost for words. When I managed to speak, there was a catch in my voice. ‘May I see his room?’

  Paddy led me along the corridor. He pushed open a door. The room was tiny, almost cell-like. A single bed, a clothes rail and a rickety chair held together by string.

  How had the old man sunk so low? Where were the Savile Row suits, the Jermyn Street shoes, the silk pocket squares? What had become of the Havana cigars, Cartier lighters and Rolex watches?

  Any sense of pity lasted only seconds, replaced by a surge of fury. For decades this man had lived the life he chose – selfish and callous, maybe even sociopathic, wreaking havoc and misery in his wake. My life would have been better if he’d cleared off as soon as I was born. So would Bonnie’s.

  As for Tom…

  I could barely bring myself to consider how much happier the boy’s childhood would have been had his very existence not served as a daily reminder of George’s betrayal. I’d tried to forgive Bonnie – succeeding most of the time – but forgetting was another matter.

  Poor Tom.

  Blameless Tom.

  For twenty-five years, I’d done my best, every waking moment of every day. True, I’d lost the plot on the day he turned six, the day the truth had come to light. For a year I’d been unable to so much as look at ‘my’ son without searching for signs of George. My father was in every hair on Tom’s head, every mannerism, every facial tic.

  George… George… Fucking George…!

  ‘Are you okay?’ said Paddy.

  I turned to study his face. ‘Are you sure you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘I am.’

  I reached for my wallet and took out all the cash: just over two hundred pounds.

  ‘Positive?’

  His hesitation lasted a split-second.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, I was in a cab, sifting through a Tesco bag retrieved from the hostel’s bins. Paddy had managed to identify the rubbish removed from George’s room. The bag contained bits of paper covered in doodles, two dog-eared paperbacks and a sheaf of receipts from London’s swankiest restaurants.

  Best of all, the cache contained a copy of The Times dated just over a year ago. Someone (presumably George) had circled a name in the obituary column. A billionaire, Bernie Shine, had died at ninety-four after a stellar career at the top of the oil industry. Shine was survived by two daughters and a third wife, Imelda. According to the waspish obituarist, Widow Shine was renowned for enjoying the high life and keeping a permanent riverside suite at one of London’s finest hotels.

  I thought for a moment then tapped on the glass partition and called to the driver.

  ‘Change of plan. We’re going to the Savoy hotel.’

  HARRIET

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions – another of Nan’s sayings and one that fitted the bill when it came to Richard and Tom.

  Okay, they meant well. Maybe I shouldn’t have blamed them for the fact that ‘Gorgeous’ George had conned his way into God knows how many bazillions of pounds’ worth of diamonds (not to mention Nan’s bed) but I couldn’t help the way I felt. Guilt by association.

  On the other hand, if George hadn’t come up with the estate agent scam, I’d never have got the jewels in the first place. That he was devious was never in doubt. But it wasn’t as if we could shop him to the police without being prosecuted for theft and/or handling stolen goods. Bottom line: I was sooooo pissed off with everyone involved, including Nan and myself. I was also knackered, my breasts were sore and I’d spent half the afternoon throwing up. This pregnancy lark was no day at the beach.

  To make matters worse, Cockweasel was on the doorstep when I got back from my first antenatal appointment. At first I thought I was hallucinating but no, there he was, leaning against his Porsche, smoking one of his stupid e-cigarettes and scrolling through his phone. He looked up as I approached the house.

  ‘Your grandma wouldn’t let me in.’

  I said nothing, reaching for my keys while trying not to let anger get the better of me.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  ‘Pregnant. Thanks to a crap shag with a knob-jockey.’

  He had the grace to let his chin sag onto his collarbone, a picture of shame. When he spoke again his voice was barely audible.

 
‘Are you going to tell Candida? About the baby?’

  I closed my eyes.

  ‘Piss off, Damian.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did but please don’t involve my kids in—’

  ‘I’ve no intention of telling your children. They’ve enough on their plate being related to a shit-weasel like you.’

  He cleared his throat, fiddling with his key-ring. Something on his mind. His voice took on an edge.

  ‘I know it was you,’ he said.

  I pretended not to hear and put my key in the lock. He stepped towards me and lowered his voice.

  ‘The estate agent described the people who viewed the flat. You and an old man – “Lord Buckingham” – who doesn’t exist. There’s a Duke of Buckingham but he bears no resemblance to the bloke who helped you burgle my flat.’

  I turned to meet his gaze.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  I could tell the human skid-mark didn’t believe me. He was trying to remain calm. On one hand, he wanted his stuff back; on the other, he couldn’t lay into me without risking setting me off. Who knew how I’d respond to pressure? Another visit to Wifey? A scene outside his house? At his kids’ school?

  ‘I know I’ve behaved badly,’ he said, ‘but Dad left those diamonds to me. The only decent thing he did.’ His voice had fallen to a whisper. ‘God knows how he thought I could turn them into cash – and it’s not as if I can go to the police and tell them what you did – but the point is, they belong to me.’

  ‘Like your new house?’ I said. ‘And the one in Tuscany?’

  ‘Both mortgaged to the hilt.’

  I turned to face him.

  ‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You were planning to wait a few years then quietly flog the diamonds through a fence and use the money to pay off both mortgages.’

  The expression on his face told me I’d scored a bullseye. He clenched his jaw.

  ‘Look me in the face and swear you don’t know where the diamonds are.’

  A command I was happy to obey. I met his gaze.

  ‘On Nan’s life,’ I said, ‘I have no idea.’

  Then I went inside and closed the door.

  TOM

  Leaving Rochester House, I walked to the pub where I’d had that first pint with George. I left twenty minutes later, none the wiser. No one had seen the old sod or knew where he’d gone.

  Heading for the tube, I turned up my collar against the drizzle and reflected on what Paddy had confirmed: my grandfather was the kind of man who would have the contacts to fence stolen diamonds and turn them into cash. How much were they worth? Thousands? Millions? Enough for George to see out his days in Palm Springs or the South of France?

  It was hard not to feel a sneaking admiration for his chutzpah. If he hadn’t stolen the gems from Harriet I might have wished him good luck. But this wasn’t simply an old rogue’s last hurrah, this was a devastating blow to the woman I adored. Did the fact that George had seduced Harriet’s grandma make things worse? Only one person could answer that question – Nancy herself – and she wasn’t talking, at least not to me.

  Fumbling for my Oyster card, I was about to pass through the ticket barrier at Camden Town when I realized I had no idea where to go. Harriet was barely speaking to me, and my father was more unapproachable than ever. I stared at my phone for five minutes before accepting the inevitable: like it or not, Dad and I were in this together. I tapped his name. He answered straightaway.

  ‘Have you found him?’ he said.

  ‘I wish. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Let’s just say I’m on the case.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’

  I could feel a knot of anger tightening in my stomach.

  ‘Either you tell me or I’ll wait outside your house and follow you until we find him.’

  No response. I let the seconds tick by until he caved in and broke the silence.

  ‘The American Bar at the Savoy.’

  ‘Is he there?’

  ‘No, but his girlfriend is.’

  ‘Girlfriend? You make her sound sixteen.’

  ‘Try ninety,’ said my father. ‘Better get a move on before she snuffs it without telling us how to find her toy boy.’

  RICHARD

  Now in her eighty-first year, Imelda Shine was a strikingly beautiful woman with perfect posture and a bob of immaculately coiffed golden hair. Perched on a stool at the bar, she sipped from a flute of champagne then tapped a manicured fingernail on the ice bucket. Judging by the slur in her voice, she’d been drinking long before I showed up at her hotel.

  ‘Suppose I know where Georgie Boy is, why should I tell you?’

  ‘I’m his son. I’m concerned about his welfare.’

  She gave me a sideways glance. ‘And I’m Little Red Riding Hood.’

  I studied the woman’s tanned face, checking for signs of ‘work’ or Botox but there was nothing, merely evidence of good genes and money. Plenty of money.

  The billionaire’s widow had sounded terse when she’d answered the phone in her suite, agreeing to meet me in the American Bar ‘as soon as I can drag my bones to the lift. Order a bottle of Dom Perignon. Put it on my tab.’

  I’d paid for the champagne myself, of course, trying not to wince at the price. The rich can smell a sponger straightaway and I’d no intention of allowing myself to be bracketed with my father.

  ‘Do you know those people?’

  I followed Imelda’s gaze. Tom and Harriet were shuffling into the bar, escorted by a wary-looking woman I took to be a receptionist.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

  Seeing my companion, the flunkey held back, hovering by the door as Tom and Harriet crossed the room to join us at the bar. Satisfied that the jeans-clad newcomers posed no threat to the hotel or its clientele, the receptionist glided away and exited.

  As I performed the introductions, I could see Imelda appraising the new arrivals but finding them not to her taste. The lack of grooming. The lack of money.

  She pointed to a corner table and addressed a waiter. ‘We’ll sit there.’

  The man performed a curt bow and gathered our ice bucket and glasses while taking an order from Tom and Harriet; a negroni for him, a Diet Coke for her.

  ‘Perhaps if you’d shown interest in Georgie sooner,’ said Imelda, settling carefully into a velvet banquette, ‘things might have been different.’

  She held my gaze. There was a challenge in her stare. I wondered how much she knew. Already on edge, her next utterance sent my anxiety levels soaring.

  ‘So,’ she said, gazing at Tom, ‘this is the famous “grandson”.’ She used her forefingers to mime quotation marks. Tom looked quizzically at her.

  ‘Famous in what way?’ he said.

  ‘Georgie talks about you a lot.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Tom.

  ‘How’s the musical coming along?’ said Imelda.

  ‘He told you about my show?’

  She nodded, her voice turning into a camp drawl worthy of a grande dame of the theatre. ‘He told me lots of things, sweetheart.’

  She glanced in my direction, a coquettish smile playing on her lips. I could feel my palms growing sweaty. An intervention was required.

  ‘My father is not all he seems,’ I said.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Imelda, bestowing a withering glare. A trio of gold bracelets jangled on her bony wrist as she reached for her glass.

  ‘Meaning what?’ said Harriet.

  Mrs Shine took a sip of champagne before replying. ‘If you’ve come to tell me that “Lord Anthony Buckingham” doesn’t exist, you’re too late. George is as aristocratic as my derrière; I knew he was a fraudster the moment he picked me up in the casino at Monte Carlo.’

  ‘He picked you up?’ said Tom.

  The woman nodded. ‘I was on a losing streak.
He promised to change my luck if I allowed him to take me to dinner at Le Louis XV. I knew he was a con-man from the start, but what I couldn’t know was how much fun we’d have and how much I’d missed fun.’ She crossed her shapely legs in a move that marked her as a graduate of the finest finishing schools.

  ‘My husband had all the money in the world – grand houses, palazzos, planes, helicopters, super-yachts – but no sense of humour.’ She leaned forward and placed a bejewelled, liver-spotted hand on Tom’s knee. ‘When it comes to women there are two things a man needs to know: how to make her laugh and how to make her come.’

  Harriet’s eyes widened in mock outrage.

  ‘You know you said that out loud?’ she said, earning a thin-lipped smile.

  ‘I’m just glad George has finally come into some good luck,’ said Imelda. ‘We celebrated last night – oysters, caviar, champagne, the “whole enchilada” as he put it, delivered via room service… if you catch my drift. Then he told me that he was sorry but he needed to move on to pastures new. “Time for one last hurrah”.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘I can hardly blame the old trout. Perhaps if I’d accepted his proposal of marriage ages ago it might have been a different story, or if I’d believed his nonsense about a gold mine in Peru, but no matter – it pleases me to see him standing on his own two feet. And if he’s found another lady friend – someone to “see him out” – well, c’est la vie.’ She shrugged. ‘Plenty more fish, as they say.’

  You had to admire the woman’s spirit.

  ‘Who’s the new “lady friend”?’ said Tom.

  ‘I believe it’s someone he “bonded” with,’ said Imelda. ‘Someone from a similar background.’ She stifled a yawn. ‘I suppose what he says is true: “You can take the boy out of Walthamstow et cetera” – even if the “boy” is as old as Methuselah.’

  Harriet cleared her throat.

  ‘When you say “lady friend” I think you might be talking about my grandmother. And George’s “good luck” might refer to diamonds.’