Malo again. H has withdrawn our son’s allowance. Without Clem to bail him out, he’s probably flat broke. I do a rapid mental sum, trying to tot up how much he might have got from the jam jar. Maybe forty pounds, if he’s lucky. This, as Pavel might say, is beyond pathos.
I search further. I never keep any kind of record of the food I’ve got in stock but the closer I inspect the shelves the more bare they look. The clincher is Marmite. Malo adores the stuff and I know I’ve only just started on a new jar. For whatever reason, probably habit, I keep it in the fridge. And I’m right. The Marmite, too, has gone.
By lunchtime I know exactly what I need to do. Malo, as H doubtless intended, has only one choice if he’s to avoid the nightmare option of getting himself a job. Flixcombe Manor is where he calls home. My forty quid will pay for the petrol. That, I suspect, is where I’ll find him.
I’ve no great desire for yet another conversation with H and so I phone Jessie, his housekeeper. Jessie and I have always had a rather guarded relationship but I think she’s finally accepted that I have no designs on her partner, Andy, and so lately things have got a little easier.
I ask about Malo.
‘He arrived an hour or so ago.’
‘How was he?’
‘Foul, if you want the truth. Andy says he’s stressing about Clemmie but that sounds like an excuse to me. Someone needs to take that young man in hand.’
‘His father?’
‘That’s someone else who’s lost his sense of humour. Maybe it runs in the family.’
‘H is in residence?’
‘Very much so. The rest you don’t want to know.’
I press her for more but she won’t elaborate. Then I suggest we might have a proper chat later.
‘You’re coming down?’ She sounds alarmed. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
I’m still angry about last night’s lies, about my son stooping to common theft, about feeling helpless in a mess of someone else’s making. I no longer care about the kind of reception that might await me at Flixcombe. As soon as I’ve checked up on a friend, I tell Jessie, I’m driving down.
Pavel, when I finally make contact on the phone, sounds a whole lot better. When I ask him whether he’s got any feeling back, any control, he says no, but he also assures me that he’s had a long conversation with this unwanted guest in his house and he has a feeling the demon will shortly be stepping back into the darkness where he belongs.
By ‘demon’ I imagine he means paralysis but the good news, the very best news, is that Pavel is back on form. He loves personification and it’s only now that I suspect it must be one of the ways he’s able to cope. If life deals you a rubbish hand, look it in the eye and never blink. That’s an artless metaphor if you happen to be blind but I’m sure that Pavel, if he ever gets to download and listen to this, will get my drift.
I leave London in the early afternoon. By tea time I’m turning in through Flixcombe’s imposing gates and making my way up half a mile of drive. After the experience of Bridport’s dirtier secrets I realize that this is H’s castle: solid, easily defended, and comfortably removed from the Humpties and Roosters of this world. More to the point, if the barely concealed CCTV cameras are any guide, they’d never get within shouting distance of the main house.
The manor itself is within sight now, glimpses of bone-white pillars through the trees, and as I slow for the final turn at the far end of the drive I remember only too well how the sheer size of this estate excited Malo the first time he laid eyes on it. That was the moment, in retrospect, that I probably lost him, though several months earlier he’d voted with his feet and joined my estranged husband and his new partner in Stockholm. At the time that had hurt me deeply but Berndt will always be Berndt and I think at some unconscious level I always knew that Malo would be back. That, as it turned out, was exactly the way it happened but when it came to the most important person in his life, H has no competition. On both sides it was love at first sight and, barring the current tiff, I imagine it always will be.
I’m close, now, to the house. To be wholly objective, and thus fair to H, it’s a delight: Georgian in origin, perfect proportions inside and out. In the late afternoon the windows at the front of the house are ablaze with reflected sunshine and as I glide to a halt I have just a moment of envy for my son’s unthinking inheritance of such a handsome pile. The engine off, I’m still gazing at a pair of peacocks that H must have acquired from somewhere when I hear a soft tap on the front passenger window.
I glance across. It’s Andy, Jessie’s partner. I lower the window.
‘Mind if I hop in?’ Without waiting for an answer, he opens the door. ‘Best drive round behind our place.’
‘Why?’
‘We need to talk.’
With some reluctance I do his bidding. His hair is wet and he smells of shower gel. Since I last saw him, weeks and weeks ago, he’s also lost weight.
‘Diet or exercise?’ I ask him.
‘Bit of both. Jess took a good look at me last month when we were on the beach and said I was turning into a fat bastard. That woman never lies. What choice did I have?’
Andy is a natural charmer. Like Danny, he has the looks and he knows it: well-shaped face, light blue eyes and a winsome thatch of unruly blond hair. His real ambition, he once told me, was to become an actor. Hence his constant pestering in the early days: how to break into showbusiness, who to impress, what passages to learn by heart if an audition ever came his way. I told him to take a look at a couple of Willy Loman’s longer speeches in Death of a Salesman, but I’m not sure he ever did.
We’ve arrived at the tiny patch of gravel behind the cottage that he and Jessie share.
‘It’s H,’ he says. ‘I think he’s losing it.’
‘How come?’
‘I dunno. Jess says it’s the Clem thing, people helping themselves, dissing his family, but me …’ He shrugs. ‘I dunno.’
‘Symptoms?’
‘He’s manic, all the time. He never lets up. Malo came back just now and H got him into the kitchen within seconds. “Where’ve you fucking been? What the fuck’s going on?” You know the routine.’
I do. But I want to know what else is happening.
‘He’s called some kind of pow-wow. Jess heard him raving on the phone. He’s got a bunch of guys coming up from Pompey. They’ll be here tonight. Jess says this is like something out of The Sopranos. He’s going to war.’
‘Against?’
‘You tell me. I’m guessing the kidnappers. I just hope the poor bastards know what’s coming.’
‘Any idea who these people might be?’
‘None.’
‘And H?’
‘I think he has a name or two. You know the black guy? From Pompey?’
‘Wes. Wesley Kane.’
‘Yeah. He’s been here a couple of days now. He and H were away most of yesterday. Jess saw them when they came back. Looked like H had been in some kind of fight.’
‘He’s hurt?’
‘Jess says not. Couple of bruises on his face. Swollen knuckles. Judge for yourself.’
I’m thinking about Larry Fab, the dealer at the very top of the Bridport dung heap. H had promised himself a couple of hours with the guy, just him and Wes, and H isn’t the kind of man to let patience get in the way of what he’d call a result.
‘You’ve no idea what happened?’
‘None. All I know is I’ve just spent all morning turning the barn into a shooting range.’
‘Shooting range? Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. Jess says the Pompey guys are probably bringing the guns.’
‘Guns?’ I’m appalled. ‘Fuck. He has lost it.’
‘Exactly. Call me old fashioned, but I’m not at all sure H knows what he’s getting into here. Tony Soprano’s the business but he’s make-believe.’ He grins. ‘Danny sends his best, by the way.’
‘Danny Flannery? Your mate?’
‘Yep. He said he really
enjoyed your little chat the other night. I told him he had no chance but I’m not sure he believed me.’
I can’t work out whether H is pleased to see me or not. I’ve found him in the library at the front of the house, the hideaway he likes to use when he needs time and space to think. He’s sitting at a table in the window with a copy of the Daily Mail on his lap. By now it’s Friday, way beyond the ransom deadline, but H doesn’t seem to be unduly bothered. Andy’s right about his face. Not just bruised but swollen.
‘What happened?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do. Just tell me.’
Something in my voice gets H’s attention. My expedition to the Landfall, I realize, has at last given me a foothold in his world.
‘We had a conversation with Larry Fab,’ he says.
‘We?’
‘Me and Wes. We got an address from one of the lowlifes. Kids that colour are hard to miss in Bridport. Wes tells me he’s gone back to his mum in London.’
‘You hurt him?’
‘We got the address.’
‘And then what?’
‘We lifted the guy. Knocked on his door and offered him out.’
Offered him out, I think. Very Pompey.
‘He told you what you needed to know?’
‘Yes. After a while. A London address. Might be useful. Worth a shot.’
‘Useful how?’
‘We don’t know yet.’
‘And did any of this involve boiling water?’
‘No chance. We were in the back of Wes’s van. He had a go with a vacuum flask a couple of years back, but Wes says it’s not the same. It’s all anticipation, isn’t it? Give the bloke the sight of a boiling kettle, give him time to have a bit of a think and you’ll be amazed what people tell you. No, Mr Larry was good. Respect to the man. Made it hard for us. In the end it’s a numbers game, two against one, but it was a decent ruck.’
‘So what made him talk?’
‘Wes. He promised to kill him and the bloke knew he meant it.’
I’m trying very hard to picture Wes’s face. I don’t remember a teardrop tattoo but I might be wrong.
‘Does it ever get to you, any of this?’ I ask H. ‘Be honest.’
‘Never. Wes tells me it got to you, though.’
‘He’s right. I thought what you did to Dooley was horrible. If you want the truth, it disgusted me.’
‘You don’t think shit like that happens all the time?’
‘Not in my world it doesn’t. And I hope not in Malo’s.’
‘Ahh …’ H tips his head back. There are crumbs on the newspaper from the plate of biscuits he’s demolished. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘Partly, yes. Malo’s lying. We both know that. The question is why.’
H looked at me for a long moment. He hates sharing information when he doesn’t have to, but I’m right about my little performance in the Landfall. He seems to want to trust me.
‘Wes put a tracker on the Audi after Clemmie went missing. The boy swears he never left her place the following couple of days but that’s bollocks.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Brixton.’
‘You followed him?’
‘We tried but we lost him. We had the GPS from the tracker but by the time we got to the address he was on the move again.’
‘And this address?’
‘Ties up nicely now we’ve had a word with Mr Fab.’
‘You mean they’re the same?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re telling me Malo’s been talking to the kidnappers?’
‘That’s what it looks like. The question is why.’
I take a deep breath. I’ve been toying with sharing Malo’s dalliance with the dreadlocks guy, the one with the teardrop tattoo, but this latest news has put my own piece of sleuthing in the shadows. Our son’s precious girlfriend is at the mercy of a bunch of lunatics. And Malo has paid them a visit.
‘So what does he say? Malo?’
‘Nothing. I haven’t had it out with him yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because that’s exactly what he’s waiting for. Attack the enemy when he is unprepared. Sun Tzu. The Art of War.’
‘Enemy? You mean Malo?’
‘The boy’s out of his fucking depth. Wes says it’s like a cult thing. He’s stopped thinking for himself and that makes him a liability.’
‘Is that why you’ve cut him off?’
‘Yeah. At the fucking knees. What else could I do?’
‘You could have a conversation. Talk to him. That sometimes works.’
‘He’ll blank me. He’ll lie. He’ll come up with a thousand reasons he wasn’t where he knows he was. Trust me. He’s my son. I was exactly the same. Black’s black? You call it white and see what happens.’
‘That’s denial.’
‘Of course it fucking is, and that’s where we are. Tonight we’re having a bit of a sesh in the barn. Lots of Stella. Lots of loud bangs. The boy’s in charge of changing the targets. Any luck, it might bring him to his senses.’
TWENTY-SIX
The Pompey contingent start arriving in the early evening. These are faces I’ve seen before, back last year when H threw a party to celebrate the discovery of the son he’d never dreamed existed, but now the mood has changed. There must be a dozen of them in all and one glance at the vehicles parked untidily outside gives you a clue to the way time has dealt each one a hand. Two BMWs, one of them brand new. A gross 4x4. A rusting van belonging to a plasterer. And the rest a selection of pick-up trucks with names like Barbarian and Warrior. This isn’t subtle. As Andy quietly observes, if you want to advertise a state of mind you might as well drive a Chieftain tank to work.
The mood, if anything, is gruff, even sullen. H has called these men to the colours and they’ve been loyal enough to turn up, but in one or two muttered conversations I get just a hint of resentment. The all-nighter last year was richly lubricated, with a brilliant sound system, lots of Tina Turner, plus a gaggle of Thai lovelies who were turning tricks in a van outside. This evening, by contrast, has the feel of a bill falling due for all that glorious mayhem and some of these ex-hooligans can’t help noticing their surroundings. Wealth has bought H an eye-watering slice of rural England. This, Andy points out, is a trillion miles from Fratton Park.
But the cases of Stella work their usual magic and the smells from Jessie’s kitchen suggest a decent curry in the offing, and by the time H calls his guests to order in the big main room downstairs the mood has lifted. Some of these men – and they’re all men – are wearing combat boots and camo trousers. Several could do themselves a favour and talk to Andy about diet and exercise but their eyes are hard and there’s a definite feeling of anticipation. I notice Malo on the sidelines. He can’t take his eyes off the display of weaponry Wes has carefully arranged on the Regency mahogany table.
H thanks everyone for coming along. I’ve already suggested he might be sensibly coy about the details of Clem’s disappearance and it turns out he listened. Indeed, there’s no mention of her at all. Instead he hints at some larger insult, undefined and undescribed, that has led to a bust-up with a bunch of infant lowlifes in a nice little town down the road. Quite how this might justify the pile of guns on the table is anyone’s guess, but H has never bothered to justify his wilder initiatives and now isn’t the time to start.
‘These animals need sorting out,’ he growls. ‘Take it from me.’
There’s a stir in the room. A guy in the front, wearing a Pompey shirt, asks whether H is selling the white powder again.
‘Not at all. No fucking need.’ He gestures round.
‘So this isn’t about turf?’
‘No. It’s about fucking manners. These people have taken a very big liberty. They’ve helped themselves to something they shouldn’t and it’s gonna be our job to get it back.’
‘So what is it?’
H dismisses the question. For the time
being, he says, he’s not going into details. What he plans to mount is an expedition to concentrate one or two minds.
‘Where?’
‘London. These people think we’re twats. We live in the country. We’re there for the taking. They couldn’t be more wrong and it’s gonna be our job to make them see the error of their fucking ways.’
I’m looking hard at Malo. I’ve no idea whether or not this is a bluff on his father’s part but it’s certainly making an impact. My boy has been spending far too much time indoors these last few days, but now he’s even paler. And he still can’t take his eyes off the guns.
Another of H’s soldiers is interested in what might go wrong.
‘We’re gonna be killing people here? Only last time I checked, the Filth aren’t going to be fucking impressed.’
‘No one’s gonna be killed. No one will die. We’ll be there to make a point, get under their fucking skins, maybe take a hostage or two. Don’t fuck with us. Then we’ll be off.’
‘So whereabouts in London?’
‘Brixton. We’ve done the recce. We know the address. It’ll be a pizza delivery. With guns.’
Malo again. He’s scratching himself. He can’t keep still. At the first opportunity, I think, he’s gonna be on the phone. Has H thought about this? Has he factored it in?
Jessie appears at the door. She semaphores something to H, who doesn’t get her drift.
‘Louder,’ he says. ‘Talk to me.’
‘When do you want me to serve the food?’
H frowns. Then he checks his watch before looking up at Jessie again.
‘Laters,’ he says.
We troop across to the barn. H normally stores gardening equipment here but Andy’s done a good job on getting everything out. At the far end, lit by flanking lights on metal stands, is the target area with a backing of hay bales. H is starting the evening’s entertainment with an uneven line of tethered balloons filled with helium. This gives the evening the feel of a kids’ party, which isn’t altogether inappropriate, but H has gone for black balloons with crude daubs in white Pentel. Eyes. Button noses. Unsmiling mouths. The kids’ party has become the Black and White Minstrel Show. Pompey humour again. Vile.
Sight Unseen Page 14
