Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Baptiste Woodruffe?’ he says. ‘This is some kind of movie?’

  ‘Yes.’ I offer him a smile. Lying’s becoming a way of life. ‘They’re in pre-production at the moment. Rosa thinks there might be a role for me. I’ve got to phone the casting director, have a chat, find out more.’

  H nods. His eye returns to the paper and he carefully tears off the top strip where I’ve made my notes.

  ‘Great title.’ He gives me the curl of newsprint. ‘Can’t fail.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It’s mid-morning before I get the chance to make the call. The number rings and rings until finally someone picks up. To my surprise, it’s a male voice. Definitely not The Machine. Much older.

  I ask to talk to Baptiste.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name’s Enora. Enora Andressen.’

  ‘Can I tell her what it’s about?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s personal.’

  There’s a beat or two of silence. Then I hear a mumbled conversation in the background before I have another voice in my ear. This is very definitely the woman I met at the top of the hill. The same slightly breathless American inflection. The same playful determination to get to the point.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. ‘So how come you know my name?’

  I say nothing. She must be walking now. I can hear the clack-clack of heels on a solid floor. Somewhere big, I think. Somewhere full of echoes. I catch a door closing.

  ‘I asked you a question, right?’ She sounds slightly out of breath.

  ‘You did. I saw you in EastEnders. The iPlayer’s wonderful. Second time round you were still great.’

  ‘Well, thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. You’re OK to talk?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I’ve been interviewed by the police. You probably know that. Their idea, not mine.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You want to know any more?’

  ‘Sure we do.’

  I smile. We, not I. ‘He’s there? Your Brodie?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’re still in touch?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then tell him I said nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘And the police? Did they mention him at all? We need to know.’

  ‘His name never came up. Not from my point of view and not from theirs.’

  ‘This was a long conversation?’

  ‘Three hours.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m on police bail at the moment but my solicitor is telling me to expect arrest and a charge.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘We’re talking Class A drugs and a body on the beach at West Bay. At some point, probably very soon, I’m going to be re-interviewed but you might tell Brodie I had nothing to do with that boy’s death. I expect you can work the rest out.’

  ‘I can?’ She laughs. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. Might I ask a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Tell your Brodie he owes me. I’d appreciate another meeting. This number will find me day and night. You might tell him something else, too. Time waits for no man, least of all him.’

  I end the conversation at this point without saying goodbye. I hope I’ve seeded enough clues for Jessie’s favourite swimmer to work out that it might be in his interests for us to have another conversation. So far I’ve kept my word to Brodie but if Tony is right and I’m looking at a lengthy prison sentence then all bets might be off.

  I wait in vain for a call back, doing what I can to help Jessie around the house. After a couple of hours, when nothing happens, I go upstairs. Malo is lying fully clothed on his bed, pretending to be asleep. I know he’s pretending because he’s inherited none of my acting skills and hopelessly overdoes everything he associates with having a nap. The breathing is far too deep, his head is far too immobile, and he foolishly indulges in stagey little add-ons like a faux twitch under his left eye.

  ‘Malo …’ I settle on the bed. ‘Are you in there? Are you listening?’

  He tries to bluff me for a couple of seconds longer and then gives up. The left eye opens.

  ‘Yeah?’ he mumbles. ‘What is it?’

  I ask how he is. He says he’s OK. He’s not up for any kind of conversation and it’s obvious he wants me gone. This suits me just fine.

  ‘I’m after a favour,’ I say. ‘Just one. I’m thinking you’ll have Mateo’s phone number. I seem to have lost it.’

  ‘Why do you want it?’ H’s son, I think. Trust nobody, least of all your own mother.

  ‘I need to give him a ring. There’s something he might be able to help me with.’

  ‘Is it to do with Clem?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that it’s personal. I know this might be hard to believe that it has nothing to do with you.’

  Malo nods, reaches for his mobile. He scrolls through his directory and finds Mateo’s name.

  ‘I’ll send you a text,’ he says.

  ‘Fine.’ I’m still beside him on the bed. ‘Do it now.’

  I mean to phone Mateo once I’m back downstairs but Tony Morse is about to leave for Pompey. He’s already said his goodbyes to H and now it’s my turn. On the asphalt circle in front of the house, he gives me a kiss on the lips and another long hug and then writes his personal mobile number on the back of his business card in case I need his services again.

  ‘You really think that’ll be necessary?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do.’

  ‘And you don’t mind?’

  On the point of opening his car door, he pauses. ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I see,’ he frowns. ‘Two hours on the road? Crap plod coffee? That nice DC Martin?’ He smiles up at me. ‘Bring it on.’

  I watch him make himself comfortable in the BMW and then head for the long curve of drive that will take him down to the main gate. Back in the day, according to H, he’d burned through a series of sports cars the way he’d exhausted a series of wives. Only after his third divorce had nearly cleaned him out had he taken a vow of chastity and acquired a second-hand BMW saloon. Nice man, I think. And, despite his best efforts, still very much in the game.

  H is down in the barn with Andy. Last night’s rain has gone and there’s a freshness in the wind that hints of early autumn. The sun is out again and I walk across to the orchard where Andy has recently installed a wooden bench. The bench is new and a plaque on the back records the passing of Jessie’s all-time favourite dog, a hyperactive Jack Russell with absolutely no social skills. For reasons I never understood, the dog was called Emmet and spent most of its life terrorizing the local cat population. H adored it and insisted on paying for both the bench and the plaque. You’re getting soft in the head, I told him when I found out. And that’s nice.

  Mateo answers my call on the second ring. He says he’s pleased to hear from me again. When I ask how he and his family are coping, he admits it’s especially hard on his wife. She and Clemenza always had a very close relationship and she’s finding it extremely difficult to come to terms with what’s happened. In a way, he says, it’s worse than a death. Had their daughter fallen under a bus, at least there would have been some kind of certainty, and perhaps closure, but as it is the pair of them spend far too much time trying to fend off what he calls the blacker thoughts. Nights are the worst, he says. We kid each other that we’re asleep but all the time we both know otherwise.

  I offer my sympathies and when he makes a guarded enquiry about Malo I tell him that the boy is bearing up and that, in the end, both H and I are sure that Clem will be returned. At this point, I’m tempted to ask him about O’Keefe, H’s least favourite K&R expert, and about Mateo’s own attempts to open negotiations with whoever is holding Clem, but there’s something in Mateo’s manner that tells me a qu
estion like this would be far from welcome.

  Instead, I ask him about his friend in Vodafone, the one who could access call logs. Is his access limited to Vodafone alone?

  ‘By no means. My friend, too, has friends. Call data is readily available. You have a particular number in mind?’

  ‘I do. I have the exact time. And I’m guessing you might be able to access the location.’

  ‘You’re right. We might.’

  I give him Baptiste’s number. He reads it back to me and then promises to be in touch again when and if his friend gets a result.

  ‘This might take a while?’ I ask.

  ‘Not at all. I have your number. This afternoon, I hope. It’s been a pleasure to talk to you.’

  I’m taking a leaf out of Malo’s book and having a nap upstairs when my phone goes. I’ve pulled the bedroom curtain against the brightness of the afternoon light and I fumble in the half-darkness for my phone. I’m expecting a call back from Mateo. Instead I find myself talking to Pavel’s consultant up in Glasgow.

  He apologizes for calling me out of the blue but thinks a conversation might be in order.

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’ I’m up on one elbow, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. This is a different kind of guilt. Pavel, unlike poor little Noodle, is a very close friend of mine, but not once over the last twenty-four hours have I spared him more than a passing thought. Locked in a body that won’t work any more he deserves, at the very least, a conversation.

  The consultant clearly regrets being the bearer of bad news. Only days ago, with all the usual caveats, he’d been offering modest hopes for perhaps the partial return of sensation and control. Now, alas, that ever-fainter hope has vanished. The latest tests have confirmed a serious lesion in the upper reaches of Pavel’s spinal cord. The tissue of the central nervous system, once damaged, cannot repair itself. Pavel himself understands this only too well and all the indications are that he’s had enough.

  ‘Enough? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s suffering from serious depression. He’s a brave man, and he’s resourceful, too. He has a remarkable imagination. That may be a result of his blindness, we simply don’t know, but whatever the reason we all have tremendous admiration for him.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But it’s not enough.’

  ‘Your admiration?’

  ‘His ability to live in his head. A week ago he had a body he could rely on. Now he’s somewhere very different and I think it’s dawned on him that this is for keeps.’

  ‘But that’s always the case, isn’t it? With all your patients?’

  ‘Of course, you’re right, but Pavel is unusual. This morning he told me that someone had locked his door and thrown away the key. His hearing is fine. He can still taste, still swallow, but that’s about it. Nothing but darkness, he said. For ever.’

  Nothing but darkness. It’s hard not to imagine myself into that head of his and shudder at the implications. The endless ward routines, day after day. Unseen hands spooning food into your mouth. The awareness, or perhaps the assumption, that someone must be attending to your lower half, emptying your bowels, adjusting your catheter, monitoring your urine flow. Weird, I think, to find yourself so entirely at the mercy of other people. Not just for now. Not just for tomorrow. But, in Pavel’s own despairing phrase, for ever.

  ‘What can I do to help?’ I ask. The consultant has obviously given this question some thought. He thinks it might be an idea if I came up and paid Pavel another visit, not least because I obviously know him so well. That way, he and the nursing staff and the support team might be able to arrive at a plan for coaxing Pavel out of his depression. ‘You really think there is a plan? Options? Given what he now has to put up with?’

  ‘I’m sure there is,’ the consultant says at once. ‘I could introduce you to hundreds of patients we’ve treated over the years and most of them have gone on to lead perfectly worthwhile lives. I tried to get that over to Pavel this morning. I told him the darkest hour always comes before dawn. Not a happy choice of phrase for a blind man, I’m afraid, but belief is all-important. That’s what keeps these people going. At Pavel’s stage, it’s all they have.’

  The darkest hour. I can picture Pavel’s face only too well the moment the phrase shaped itself on the consultant’s lips. The slightest flicker of distress, the tiny hint of a grimace. Pavel is a connoisseur when it comes to language. He’s cherished its power and its beauty all his working life and he knows equally how easy it is to abuse. The darkest hour? He’d see through this benign little fib before the consultant had even finished the sentence and I suspect his patience, or that deep well of courage he’s drawn on since he went blind, is running out. There’s something unspoken here between me and the consultant and before I volunteer to head north again, I know Pavel would want me to voice it.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right in everything you say,’ I tell him, ‘but the fact is that Pavel has run out of options. And that, believe me, will matter more than anything else.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’re right. The man’s probably had enough. And in his situation, I’m guessing that you and I might feel exactly the same way.’

  When I go downstairs again, I find H alone in the kitchen. I’m not a moody person by nature. My lovely mum never had a moment’s patience for a strop or a sulk and I learned very early to keep my feelings to myself. H knows this and I suspect it’s one of the reasons – once he got himself beyond my minor celebrity – that he wants more of me in his life. Now, the look on my face tells him something’s seriously wrong. He reaches across the table and puts one large hand over mine. ‘Don’t worry. Tony will sort everything out.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Tony. Or the kid on the beach. Or Clem. Or even Malo.’

  ‘It’s about me?’ He looks appalled. ‘What the fuck have I done?’

  ‘It’s not you.’ I give his hand a squeeze. ‘It’s Pavel, my writer friend, our writer friend.’

  I tell him about the conversation I’ve just had with the consultant. H, as ever, is deeply practical. ‘We’ve got to get you up there,’ he says at once. ‘Poor fucker. You wouldn’t wish that on anyone.’

  ‘You’re right, you wouldn’t. But you know what’s worse? What must be beyond even Pavel’s imagination? How to bring it all to an end. You’re blind. You’re helpless. And worse still you’re surrounded by people determined to keep you ticking over. That won’t end. That goes on for ever until you can sweet-talk or bribe someone to see it your way. To be frank, I can’t think of anything worse, and more to the point I’m sure that goes for Pavel as well. The long goodbye? The longest goodbye? The never-ending goodbye? Take your choice. They’re all grotesque.’

  My little speech draws a grunt of agreement from H. For once, he’s lost for words. I’m trying very hard not to break down completely. I still have his hand in mine.

  ‘You know something?’ I mutter. ‘I believe Tony. When he says they might bang me up, I’m sure it’s more than possible. In fact, they might bang me up for a very long time. But none of that, not a single second, would compare to what that poor man must be going through. Someone’s turned his lights off, and bound him hand and foot, and locked his door, and thrown the key away. Even the thought of that must be unbearable.’

  H, bless him, spends the next hour or so making phone calls. By suppertime, he’s in touch with a private pilot called Buster Clegg. Cleggie, as he prefers to call himself, flies something called a Cessna from an airfield over the county border in Devon. He’s very happy to take me to Glasgow tomorrow and if I can get myself to Dunkeswell by eight in the morning we should be in Scotland in time for lunch.

  ‘If you want to stay over a couple of days, no problem. This guy says he loves Glasgow.’ H is beaming. ‘How does that sound?’

  It sounds great. I don’t have to report to the police for another three days. An excursion to Glasgow will do nothing to get me any closer to Brodie or Bap
tiste but that’s not the point. Pavel, I think. So completely alone.

  ‘That’s more than generous.’ I give H a hug. ‘But wouldn’t it be cheaper to go Flybe? This must be costing you a fortune.’

  ‘Forget the money.’ H shoots me a grin. ‘Cleggie comes highly recommended. And tell your mate he still owes me a script.’

  At H’s insistence, we eat en famille. Jess and Andy come up from the cottage and H presents us with his take on coq au vin. I know this is for me, a gentle reminder that Malo’s dad knows a thing or two about French cuisine, and even Malo himself has the grace to make short work of the helping H piles on his plate.

  ‘Great, Dad.’ He seizes a crust of bread to mop up the juices exactly the way his father’s just done. ‘Top work.’

  H is beaming again. He’s done apple crumble for dessert, using our own Bramleys from the orchard, and he’s attacking the lumps in his custard when my mobile begins to ring. It’s Mateo. I make my excuses and step into the hall, closing the door behind me.

  Mateo has been talking to his friend. Not only does he have a location for Baptiste’s phone but he thinks he’s found the address. There’s a pad and ballpoint pen on the occasional table beside the hat stand, and I grab them.

  ‘Beaufort House,’ he says. ‘The nearest village is Broadhembury.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Devon. My wife’s favourite county. Clemenza loved it, too.’

  I nod and make another note. Mateo’s use of the past tense is disturbing. ‘No news?’

  ‘Not much. Not yet.’

  ‘Anything you might share?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I’m still looking at the address. How come Mateo’s friend could be so precise? The question draws a chuckle from Mateo.

  ‘It’s the only building around there.’ He gives me a postcode. ‘Check it out on Google Earth.’

  I return to the kitchen. Malo wants to know who was on the phone and what was so important I had to leave the table.

  ‘It was Pavel,’ I tell him. ‘About tomorrow. He needed to know I’m really coming.’