Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  H is beginning to fidget. He wants to know about this man’s weaknesses, not his strengths. Tony, like me, can read him like a book.

  ‘Two points of interest,’ he says. ‘Gabrielle has unearthed a chain of estate agents which also appear to belong to Franklin. He’s worked the usual sorcery to disguise the ultimate ownership but Gabrielle thinks they’re definitely his.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Over three dozen. Some in London, some in the Home Counties, a handful on the south coast. Always where the money is. Logically, there’s no real mystery here. You’re a developer. You build houses. Why not sell them, too? The fancy name is vertical integration. The only downside is all the hassle of staff and premises. Happily, Franklin has avoided all that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By basing the whole operation online. That way you get minimum exposure on the high street, which is good because the high street has become the kiss of death. Business rates, rent, utility bills. The smart guys take their operation online because the internet’s free. Everyone’s at it now but Franklin was one of the first to make it really work. The question you might ask is why?’

  There’s an exchange of glances around the table. Tony loves these occasions, playing to an audience, firing questions, savouring his own control. H says it’s one of the reasons Tony’s so good in court and he’s probably right.

  ‘Just tell us,’ H says. ‘Don’t fuck about.’

  ‘Our suspicion is he’s washing money. And to make the operation worthwhile it has to be serious money, lots of money. And if that’s true then it has to be drugs money.’

  ‘Narco loot.’

  ‘Precisely. Property is the biggest item most people ever buy. Get the right guys designing the agency software and you can wash trillions.’

  ‘But why go to all that effort? When he’s got a cracking business already?’

  ‘Because these guys never know when to stop. They’re masters of the universe. They want to play God. They want to be top of the pile, show everyone else how clever they are. Am I ringing any bells here?’

  H has the grace to smile, but Tony hasn’t finished.

  ‘And you know the name he uses for the online estate agencies? Home Free. This, in Gabrielle’s estimation, is Mr Franklin taking the piss. And I’m sure she’s right.’

  I’m looking at Tony. I want to know what drugs and where they might come from.

  ‘My assumption is cocaine, and probably crack cocaine. Perhaps heroin, too. Class A definitely. That’s where the market grows itself.’

  Tony is looking at H. H definitely likes the sound of what he’s hearing.

  ‘But he wouldn’t be hands-on, would he?’ he says. ‘He’d fucking sub that out.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘To the Plug,’ I say softly, with a nod towards H. ‘To the Somalis. To Larry Fab. And to young guys like The Machine.’

  H leaves the kitchen to raid his cellar and reappears with a couple of bottles of Lafite. A modest celebration, he seems to be implying, might be in order. I, meanwhile, have been thinking hard about something Cleggie mentioned.

  ‘This is a man with a Spitfire.’ I’m looking at Tony. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘You are. And that’s the second thing. Gabrielle says it’s a Mark IX, which is apparently the one you really want. It’s vanity, of course. It goes with the big yacht and the Monaco pad and the pile down the road. But Gabrielle’s also found evidence that he’s a genuine buff. She’s been digging round some of the vintage aircraft sites and, unlike some owners, he actually pilots the thing himself. Spitfires can be like thoroughbred horses. You buy it and put it in a stable and pay all the maintenance bills and then get someone else to fly it. That’s not the case with Franklin. He used to fly a Tiger Moth but these last couple of years he’s done the conversion course to Spits. Now he’s hands-on. Angels fifteen. Bandits everywhere. Tally fucking ho …’

  H loves this stuff. He badly wants to get in Franklin’s face, to put him in his gunsight and shoot him down. No surprises there. Our DVD of The Battle of Britain has practically worn out.

  ‘Cleggie told me he’s in the market for taking punters for rides,’ I tell Tony. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘I don’t know. This is certainly a two-seater. Gabrielle’s seen the photos. But I’m not sure whether his current licence allows him to fly passengers.’

  ‘Four thousand pounds a go? Would that be right?’

  Even H blinks. ‘How much?’

  I repeat the sum and I can see Tony nodding. Elsewhere in the country, other pilots are charging nearly £5000 for a fifty-minute flight, so Franklin has naturally decided to undercut the opposition.

  Tony appears to have come to the end of his briefing. Gabrielle, he says, will be in touch again tomorrow, by which time she may have more to say about Mr F.

  H at last looks up. On certain occasions, and now is the perfect example, he can’t resist tabling a plan. You can sit around and yak for just so long. But then you have to do something.

  ‘We book a flight.’ He’s looking at the faces round the table. ‘And we think very hard about how to make that four grand work.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Next day I’m back in London for my three-monthly check-up. I take the Tube to Euston and walk the quarter mile to the specialist unit at UCLH. On this occasion I submit to a CT scan, which is much quicker than an MRI investigation, and after a visit to the cafe on the ground floor to get rid of the metallic taste in my mouth from the dye injection, I take the lift again to the rather bare office where my consultant holds court. He appears to warrant express treatment from the radiographers and by now the results of the scan should have arrived on his PC.

  There’s a brief delay while he deals with a particularly distressed patient and then I’m ushered in. I’ve been in this man’s hands for more than a year now and after a rocky start I’ve grown to like him very much. He has an affability which is totally at odds with the news he so often has to impart. Even on the grimmest days he seems to have a smile on his face. He waves me into the empty chair in front of the desk and flicks quickly through my paper file. My chemo course is barely a memory. I’m naturally keen to find out whether it’s worked or not and I’m wondering why he hasn’t angled the screen of the PC so I can take a look at the scan.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  In truth, I feel awful, jumpy again, but I tell myself this has more to do with manic Somalis than any rogue cancer cells.

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Never better.’

  ‘You mean that?’ His eyes have strayed to the screen. ‘No headaches? No loss of vision?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ He’s frowning as if he doesn’t believe me. ‘Here’s the picture.’

  I peer at the screen. The X-rays have taken slices through my brain but it takes an expert to tell me what I should be looking at.

  ‘Here.’ The consultant is pointing at an island of darker grey, lagooned by white. ‘It should have gone but it hasn’t.’

  A flurry of keystrokes take him to a much earlier MRI image. The good news is that the tumour is much smaller than it was but I sense he’s disappointed.

  ‘My fault?’ I ask him. ‘Or can I blame the chemo?’

  ‘Blame the chemo. Anger can be a real tonic. Blame me. Blame anyone.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  He’s gone back to today’s images. He scribbles himself a note and then consults my file again.

  ‘No infections during the last course of treatment?’

  ‘Nothing I noticed. Apart from all my hair falling out.’

  ‘Good. The beret’s a good look. I’d hang on to it if I were you.’

  ‘A souvenir?’

  ‘Alas, no. We’re not quite through this yet.’ There’s the ghost of a frown on his face. ‘This isn’t going to kill you. Not in the short-ish term. But is there anything you really want to get done? Only now might be the time.’

  I’
m thinking very hard. I’ve had this news before from the same source but then he was talking about the Grim Reaper at my door. Now, my prospects appear to be a little brighter, something which gives me determination, as well as hope.

  Anything I really want to get done?

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And thanks for the tip.’

  I spend the evening back home at my apartment. In place of the crazed Somali face in the front of the Mercedes, I’m now haunted by that single image from the CT scan, the island of darkness on the map of my poor, wounded brain. Getting a terminal diagnosis and then surviving for a full year is supposed to harden you against bad news. You celebrate each new dawn, squeeze the happy essence out of every passing moment, and in the event that your longer-term prospects turn sour, you thank God for sparing you so far and count yourself lucky for the bonus weeks and months to come.

  Only it doesn’t quite work like that. We’re engineered with an appetite for life. It’s bred into us. It exists deep in our bones, our DNA. No one ever invented human beings who went happily to their grave. Even the poor souls at Auschwitz, so easily deluded by the promise of hot water and a pebble of soap, preferred Third Reich lies to the overwhelming likelihood that their days – their minutes – were numbered.

  I nod at the bleak rightness of the thought. I plait my fingers. I’m lying full length on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. My ceiling, like most other ceilings in the world, is white. White is the colour of light, of affirmation. White is the enemy of darkness. White is where we want – need – to belong. So far, so good. Then I remember Pavel. Is he thinking this way? Inert and immobile in his hospital bed? Or does there come a moment of clarity when you realize that the darkness might not, after all, be so unwelcome? When darkness, in other words, becomes your very best friend? To this, I realize I have no answer.

  I hear a knock at the door. My first guess is H and I don’t move. But then I wonder whether it might be Malo, keyless as ever, back from abroad. I pad down the hall and open the door. It’s Evelyn, my lovely neighbour. And she’s holding a bottle of what looks like Chianti.

  ‘Present from Venice,’ she says. ‘How are we?’

  I invite her in. To my shame I remember that the trip to Italy was a celebration. After forty years with various publishing houses, Evelyn has decided to return her editing pencil to the jam jar and retire.

  ‘A lady of leisure.’ I give her a hug. ‘What on earth will you do?’

  She stays for most of the evening. We drink the Chianti and half a bottle of Tempranillo I’ve found in the kitchen cupboard that serves as my cellar. She tells me about Venice, which she’d been very happy to explore alone, and about expeditions to various destinations on the mainland. In Verona, she’d watched The Barber of Seville in the Roman Arena. The performance, she said, hadn’t started until nine in the evening but the ancient stones were still warm from the heat of the day and afterwards, past midnight, she’d shared a bottle of prosecco with an Italian woman half her age on the terrace of a nearby trattoria.

  Evelyn speaks fluent Italian and has a real knack for befriending total strangers, two talents which help make her one of life’s originals. She has a self-sufficiency, or maybe self-belief, that I’ve always envied. Maybe it’s something that comes from mothering so many great books. Maybe it goes hand in hand with regular attendance at the Catholic church down the road. Either way, I envy her strength and her serenity and it’s one of the many blessings of our relationship that I can tell her so.

  Typically, she ignores the compliment. Instead, she wants to know about me. I’ve already decided to ignore what’s been happening over the last week or so. She knows Malo well, and has become a bit of a fan, and I don’t want to jeopardize any of that. The CT scan, on the other hand, is a different matter. To be blunt, I could use a little sympathy.

  She joins me on the sofa. I very rarely cry and I have no intention of doing so now but I have one or two things to get off my chest. Like every other cancer patient, I’ve submitted to the treatment and let the chemicals wreak havoc on my system. I’ve also believed the cautious assurances that everything may turn out for the best. Yet it hasn’t. I’ve lost my hair, and my peace of mind, and a million other things, for nothing. I’m still going to die.

  ‘But you may not, my lovely. Nothing is certain until it happens.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ She’s stroking my hand. ‘Allotted span? Might that be a helpful phrase?’

  Allotted span. I know exactly what she’s saying. She’s telling me that the whole thing is a mystery, that God decides, and that whatever happens is for the best. That’s a lovely thought, and I truly appreciate her concern, but from where I’m sitting it doesn’t feel that way at all. It feels raw, and horrible, and deeply unfair. Why me, for God’s sake? Why not Brett Dooley? Or our mad Somalis? Or even Dominic Franklin, a man I haven’t even met? Where’s the fucking justice in all this?

  It’s an ugly thought and I have no intention of sharing it, but Evelyn is as intuitive as ever. In all the years we’ve been friends and neighbours, she’s never failed to read my mind.

  ‘It may not happen,’ she says again. ‘In the meantime, carpe diem.’

  Seize the day? If only. I’m back in the consultant’s office, back in a world where my life chances appear to be diminishing by the day. Was there anything I really wanted to get done, he’d asked. And now, sitting here with my lovely wise Evelyn, I realize that the answer is yes.

  The closest I can get to Dominic Franklin is the number I have for Baptiste. When Evelyn has drained her final glass and left, I give Baptiste a ring. Please God, let her be at Beaufort House with her beau within touching distance.

  She picks up at once. ‘Enora Andressen?’ She’s recognized my number. ‘You know what time it is?’

  ‘Late. My apologies.’

  ‘It’s nearly fucking midnight. What is this?’

  ‘I need to talk to Dominic.’

  ‘Dominic?’

  ‘Dominic.’

  There’s a long silence. I’m not supposed to know where she is, who she sleeps with, what she’s up to. For a moment I think she’s hung up on me, but I’m wrong.

  ‘How did you get my name in the first place?’ she asks.

  ‘I saw you on TV. EastEnders. I watch the credits. It’s a thespy thing. Pathetic, I know, but hey …’

  ‘I used a different name. Ellen Waheen. Not Baptiste at all.’

  ‘Yeah? Any reason?’

  ‘That’s not the point. How come you knew my real name? And how come you got my number?’

  I’m picking at a loose thread in one of my cushions. Excellent questions.

  ‘You want the truth?’ I say at last. ‘I can’t remember.’

  Another silence. Then she’s back again. ‘You’re pissed,’ she says.

  ‘You’re right. Is Dominic there?’

  She says no. She says I should be careful who I phone. I know she’s on the point of hanging up when the phone changes hands and I hear another voice, male, hints of a flat London accent. This is the guy I talked to before. I’m sure it is.

  ‘Speak to me,’ he says. ‘Whoever you are.’

  This time I make a real effort. Dominic Franklin, I think. Lord of the manor. Owner of half the world. Big in property. And huge in narcotics.

  ‘My name is Enora Andressen,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a film actress. You can Google me. You may even have heard of me already.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he’s laughing, ‘I have. What do you want?’

  ‘You fly a Spitfire. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He pauses. ‘What’s the game here? What are you after?’

  I frown. I’ve worked hard on this. Pavel would call it back story.

  ‘My grandfather was in the Battle of Britain,’ I tell him. ‘He’s dead now but his birthday’s coming up. Call it a celebration. Call it whatever you want. I have money. I’ll pay whatever you charge.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

 
‘Excuse me?’

  ‘About your grandfather. Just tell it the way it is. You want a flight, yeah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No problem. A pleasure. You’ve got a pen there? Ring me again tomorrow on this number at half past nine. You’ve got a choice here. Someone else flies you and you pay him a lot of money. Or I’m in the pilot’s seat and you get it for free. Your call. And apologies for my rude friend.’

  I find a pen and something to write on. Then he’s gone. Carpe diem, I think, gazing at his mobile number.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Cleggie gave me his card before we said goodbye and next morning, first thing, I ring the private number he scribbled on the back. When he first picks up he sounds grumpy but the moment he realizes it’s me there’s a real warmth in his voice. I ask him how he is.

  ‘Bloody neck,’ he says. ‘Won’t leave me alone.’

  I want his advice. I’m in London just now but I have lots of time and a perfectly good car and I can meet him wherever might be convenient.

  ‘You have something in mind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Care to tell me what?’

  ‘No. Just bring that plane of yours. I’ll give you another massage afterwards. Deal?’

  We meet in the early afternoon at Blackbushe Airport, down the road from the military academy at Sandhurst. It’s a lovely day, bright sunshine, just a bit of wind, and I enjoy the hour or so driving out of London. The airfield lies beside the main road. It looks like the set for the kind of period movie that features gorgeous women in floaty dresses and sleek male admirers with mischief in their eyes. I come to a halt in the main car park. Beyond the chain-link fence, just metres away, is a yellow biplane that smells of adventure and hot oil.

  Cleggie is waiting in a cafe area in the terminal building. That same black flying suit. He gets to his feet and gives me a long hug. I can tell by the stiffness in his upper body that his neck is no better.

  ‘You’ve brought that lovely plane of yours?’

  ‘No, I came on my bike.’

  He gets me a coffee and sits me down. We trade memories of what happened up in Glasgow the way veterans might discuss some long-ago battle. From the police, Cleggie has heard nothing. He suspects they’re far too shorthanded to waste time on a double kidnap and car theft.