Sight Unseen

by Graham Hurley

  Something special? I tell him I don’t understand.

  ‘No worries. Trust me. Seven o’clock. Does that sound OK?’

  I tell him seven o’clock’s fine. Then I mention H.

  ‘He’s a good friend of mine,’ I say lightly. ‘Do you mind if he comes, too?’

  There’s a moment’s silence, then he’s back on the phone, as affable as ever.

  ‘Not at all. Be great to meet you both. What size is he?’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘Yeah. Big? Small? Fat? Thin?’

  I’m staring at the phone, trying to work this out. Stick with the facts, I tell myself.

  ‘He’s stocky,’ I say. ‘Broad in the chest. Medium height, maybe a bit shorter.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Franklin’s laughing. ‘Seven o’clock.’

  The van from Pompey turns up in the late afternoon. These are faces I’m beginning to know very well and H meets them in a flurry of pumping handshakes on the turning circle in front of the house. They retire to the barn for a briefing and the fact that one of them is carrying a leather holdall suggests that they’ve arrived with weapons. Wes, for once, isn’t among them.

  H and I plan to leave Flixcombe around half past six. I’m wearing a really simple outfit I keep down at Flixcombe, saving it for occasions that might take me by surprise. I’ve put a bit of weight on thanks to the chemo and the neckline does my chest more than justice. H, who’s elected for a linen jacket and black chinos, does a double take in the hall when I descend from upstairs. He’s got used to the soft blonde fuzz that used to be a decent head of hair but he’s never seen this dress before. He’s talking to a couple of his Pompey mates and one of them gives me a whistle before H silences him with a look.

  ‘Outstanding.’ He steps across to me, his hands outstretched. ‘At this rate I might have to marry you.’

  We drive in convoy. H has given the map to the guys in the van and a mile or so short of Beaufort House he sticks his arm out of the window and gives them a departing wave as they peel off towards the sawmill. I’ve known him long enough now to recognize when he gets nervous and this is one of those occasions. He’s preoccupied. He doesn’t say much. He’s thinking too hard.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I put my hand on his thigh. ‘This is going to work. Believe me. All we have to do is get through to tomorrow. There won’t be a problem.’

  He shakes his head and slows for the turn into the Beaufort House estate. ‘This is the guy that nearly had you killed,’ he grunts. ‘In case we fucking forget.’

  There’s a parking area to the rear of the property and discreet signs directing visitors to the main entrance, and as we follow the beautifully laid granite slabs I realize that this obligatory walk is deliberate. On foot you can’t help noticing the delicate slate edging, the brimming flower beds, the lily pads on the ornamental pond and, as we round the corner of the building, the strutting male peacock on the half acre of lawn, displaying for his nearby mate.

  The peacock is the giveaway, I tell H. This entire estate is a gigantic boast. Look at me. Feel the money. Admire my undoubted taste. I pause for a moment, tugging on H’s arm, gazing at the view. The gardens fall away to a line of willows and what looks like a stream. Beyond the valley the land rises again and the distant ridges glow softly in the last of the sunshine. This is a million miles from a sagging tent in West Bay, I tell him. Take a good look. Remember. Because drugs money probably paid for this.

  ‘You’re right.’ H is limping slightly. ‘It paid for my place, too.’

  A flight of stone steps goes up to the front door. It looks freshly painted, black gloss, and there’s a period bell tug recessed into the wall for visitors.

  I ring twice. We wait. Finally the door opens. The last time I saw Dominic Franklin he was standing on these same steps, staring up at Cleggie and me doing an overhead circuit of the estate. Now, I’m looking at a middle-aged man in a heavy double-breasted jacket with fall-away wings, edgings in gold braid, and elaborate epaulettes on both shoulders. On the left breast of the jacket is a star-shaped decoration of some kind, not small. Beneath the jacket is a pair of creamy breeches with a line of buttons above the knee. Lightly muscled legs are clad in white hose and the patent leather shoes are topped with a large silver buckle.

  The legs come smartly to attention. The apparition offers a courtly bow, and off comes the tricorn hat.

  H takes half a step backwards. He can’t take his eyes off the sword, worn on the same side as the decoration.

  ‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Sir John Franklin,’ he says in a flat London accent. ‘At your service.’

  We step inside. This isn’t a house at all, it’s a stage set. Dominating the entrance hall is a huge polar bear. Erect on its back legs, it must stand eight feet tall. The eyes are beady and the mouth is half-open. Remarkable.

  Another figure has appeared, a woman this time. I recognize Baptiste but only from her face. She’s wearing a full-length dress in lovely greys and blues with an explosion of velvet bow at the breast. The flatness of the broad-brimmed straw hat is lightly ribboned, also in blue, and she extends a gloved hand in greeting.

  ‘Lady Jane,’ Franklin says. ‘My second wife.’

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance,’ I tell her.

  ‘On the contrary, my dear. The pleasure is entirely mine.’

  Franklin is beaming, delighted that I’ve slipped so easily into role. He’s shorter than I imagined, having seen him from Cleggie’s aircraft. His face is heavily tanned, a shade that marries well with the powdered wig and the tricorn hat, and when he escorts us towards the sweep of the staircase there’s just the hint of a limp.

  ‘You know Greenhithe? On the Thames?’ He’s paused beside a framed watercolour hung on the panelling at the foot of the stairs. ‘HMS Terror. I commissioned the artist especially. A fair likeness, might you agree?’

  I’m gazing at a two-masted sailing vessel with a huge bowsprit. A crowd of spectators on the foreshore are waving their hats in the air and the occasion has the feel of a joyous farewell. Other boats are decorated with bunting and the crew of HMS Terror are two-deep on deck.

  ‘A hundred and twenty men,’ Franklin says gravely. ‘All to perish.’

  I nod. I express my sincerest sympathies. I’ve known this world of make-believe all my working life and it’s a pleasure to accept such an unexpected challenge. For an amateur, Franklin’s performance is far from shameful. He can’t do much about his accent but he’s happy to play the role for all it’s worth. Baptiste, I suspect, may have helped.

  I mount the staircase, following our host. H trails behind me, looking lost. Every next step is another picture, another scene, another face, and Franklin pauses beside each with a word of explanation. A ship’s engineer in full uniform. A storm off the Orkneys. HMS Erebus in a pencil sketch on a flat, grey sea. A flight of geese against a flaring sunset. The expedition’s first iceberg, a menacing tower of bluey white, lapped by wavelets. On the landing above, also panelled, we pause beside another image. This time it’s a photo, an underwater shot taken with the help of a powerful lamp. The water is soupy, thick with tiny particles, but in the throw of the light I can see planking, even individual nails.

  ‘My flagship at fifteen fathoms,’ Franklin announces. ‘All that remains, I’m afraid.’

  ‘They found your ship?’

  ‘They did, ma’am. And I thank them for their efforts. Does one shed a tear? So much effort? So many prospects? So much suffering? So much grief? Let time and history be our judge. Come …’

  H is staring at the photo. Franklin’s little party piece has sparked a snort of derision but he can’t tear himself away. He wants to know what he’s looking at. He wants to know what this thing is.

  ‘I think it’s Franklin’s ship,’ I tell him. ‘Pavel told me the Canadians found the wreck a couple of years ago. Up in the Arctic.’

  H nods. ‘Bloody hell,’ he grunts. Despite everything,
I think he’s impressed.

  Baptiste shepherds us onwards. Franklin is waiting outside an open door. With a flourish, he invites us to step in and make ourselves at home. This will be our bedroom, our quarters. We have half an hour to dress. Dinner will be served downstairs.

  ‘Dress?’ H is lost again, much to Franklin’s amusement. He indicates the two sets of costumes on the big four-poster bed.

  ‘The dress,’ he says, ‘is for Eleanor, my first wife. And the uniform is for you, Captain Dannett. The last European to see us alive. You’ll have much to tell us. And believe me, we’ll hang on your every last word.’

  He offers H what might be a smile and then, with another little bow, he’s gone. I’m already inspecting my costume, holding it up against myself in the big full-length mirror. The empire line dress, in fine white lawn, is cut low and gathered tight under my breasts. On top I’m to wear a loose gown, framing the bareness of my neck and shoulders. Nice, I think. I glance round at H. He’s staring at the rough woollen jersey, the greasy peaked cap, the stiff serge of the jacket. He seems to be in pain again, a sure sign of tension.

  ‘I’m not wearing that,’ he says.

  ‘You must.’ I kiss him on the lips. ‘You’re Captain Dannett. I expect you’re a fisherman of some kind, or maybe a whaler. Make it up. The more extravagant the better. No one minds. It’s a game. It’s fun.’

  H shakes his head. He didn’t come to this poncey museum to be humiliated. He’s not doing it.

  I shrug. Franklin, wittingly or otherwise, has already stolen a march on H, literally upstaging his fellow drug baron. Whether or not he knows that H is Malo’s dad isn’t at all clear, though privately I suspect he must. What awaits us downstairs is also anyone’s guess but already the evening has acquired a dimension – and, to be frank a promise – that I’d never anticipated.

  I ask H to help me with Eleanor Franklin’s dress. He’s trying very hard not to look at my breasts but failing completely.

  ‘If you’re thinking Antibes,’ I murmur, ‘that was a very long time ago. A girl puts weight on, especially after chemo.’

  ‘Lovely,’ H says. I think he’s perking up.

  The dress fits perfectly. I do a couple of twirls for H’s benefit and then kiss him again.

  ‘Be Captain Dannett,’ I suggest. ‘Just for me.’

  H is looking at the bed. I suspect he’s wondering whether this might be the moment to negotiate the sleeping arrangements and I’m glad when he resists the temptation.

  He takes off his jacket, peels off the black polo neck and steps out of his chinos. Like me, he could lose a few pounds. I hand him the trousers. It turns out they’re made of canvas and even have the kind of stains you might acquire hunting something big and bloody out at sea. He struggles to button them round the waist but the pullover and the jacket are a looser fit.

  He checks himself out in the mirror and I catch just a flicker of approval before he turns back to me and pulls a face. ‘I’m boiling already,’ he says. ‘This stuff was made for the fucking Arctic.’

  ‘Then take the jacket off, once we’re downstairs.’

  ‘Yeah? You think he might do that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Captain Dannett.’ He pulls me closer. ‘You might have to owe me. You know that, don’t you?’

  I look him in the eyes. His face is inches away. ‘You never talk to a lady like that, my dear. Especially not me. What if my husband were to get wind?’

  ‘He’s fucking dead, love.’ H is grinning now. ‘I read it in a book, so it must be true.’

  FORTY-SEVEN

  We dine downstairs. The room is enormous, wood everywhere, high ceiling, thick velvet drapes at every window. The middle of a long refectory table has been set for four. I’ve no idea whether the serving staff, or indeed the people in the kitchen, belong to the house but I realize that none of this stuff matters. What’s far more important is that we preserve the fiction that costume and language has conferred on us.

  We eat three courses of rich food, including cuts of meat that look like venison but aren’t, and all the time between mouthfuls we make-believe that we’re an Arctic explorer and his two wives and the gruff, slightly sweaty whaler who was the last white man to lay eyes on the fearless Sir John. This little party game spares us all the embarrassments that attend the reason we’re really here and, by the time we’re drunk enough to risk a home truth or two, we’ve definitely got to know each other.

  By now, I’m expecting H, as it were, to break the ice and bring us back to real life, but it’s Baptiste who interrupts the flow of period banter with a compliment I haven’t been expecting.

  I’ve been aware of her eyes on me all evening. She reaches across the table and takes my hand.

  ‘I meant it about Arpeggio,’ she says. ‘I thought you were fabulous. Such a great performance. Friends of mine think you’re wasted on the arts movie circuit.’

  By now, I know I’m drunk. I nod. I’m wondering whether to respond as the first Mrs Franklin but decide against it. Enough is enough.

  ‘That’s kind,’ I say. ‘But I owe everything to the arts movie circuit. It lets you take risks. Mainstream makes you rich. My kind of movies keep you sane. Does that make sense?’

  ‘Big time.’ She’s stroking my hand now. ‘Such a pleasure to have you both here.’

  For one giddy moment, H thought he was back in a real conversation. Now, watching me and Baptiste, he’s not so sure. He turns to Franklin, who still appears to be Sir John.

  ‘Tell me about our Clemmie,’ H says. ‘What have you done with her?’

  Baptiste stops stroking my hand. Franklin’s looking slightly pained. There’s a tiny hand bell beside his place setting and he pushes his chair back before picking it up. Within seconds, one of the women in period costume who’ve been waiting table appears. She’s carrying a folded sheet of paper.

  ‘For Eleanor, if you please.’ Franklin nods at me.

  I spread the sheet of paper on the table. Five verses of a poem or perhaps a song.

  ‘Lady Jane’s Lament,’ Franklin explains, ‘penned after my demise. As my first wife you were a poet of some distinction. Sadly you were taken by tuberculosis while I, my dear, finally succumbed to the ice. Hence this lament from Lady Jane. Would you do me the honour? Please?’

  Another of the waiting staff has appeared, a youth this time, no more than Malo’s age. He’s dressed in what Evelyn once described as ‘fustian’ – heavy cloth woven from cotton, deeply practical. He has a guitar in one hand and a stool in the other. He settles on the stool, strums a chord or two, then looks inquiringly at Franklin.

  ‘Ready?’ Franklin’s looking at me.

  I’m trying to get the measure of the first verse.

  We were homeward bound one night on the deep

  Swinging in my hammock I fell asleep

  I dreamed a dream and thought it true

  Concerning Franklin and his gallant crew.

  I look up at the youth. ‘Just play the tune once,’ I tell him.

  He readily obliges. It’s catchy and it’s simple and before he even gets to the end I know there isn’t going to be a problem. I have a good singing voice, especially with a couple of drinks inside me.

  I glance at Franklin.

  ‘Off you go.’ He raises a finger. ‘Three … two … one …’

  The guitarist starts to play. I come in after the intro. I sing the first verse, my feet tapping, and then the rest of the lament. There’s applause round the table for us both and I get up to give the guitarist a hug. The moment I’m back in my seat, reaching for my glass, Baptiste is all over me again.

  ‘So where’s Clemmie?’ H is looking Franklin in the eye. ‘And don’t change the fucking subject this time.’

  Franklin proffers the decanter of port, recharges my glass, helps himself, and then passes it to H. H doesn’t move. He’s barely touched his glass all evening. Crunch time, I think. Rather later than expected but here nonetheless.

  �
�Your Clem is fine,’ Franklin murmurs. ‘She’s perfectly safe.’

  ‘You know where she is, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’ve been talking to Mateo? Her dad?’

  ‘I’ve been helping things along.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means my Somali friends have brokered an agreement. This was always their negotiation, not mine.’

  H nods. This is what he’s always suspected, that the Somalis made the money at the sharp end while Franklin stayed in the background, washing it, mainly by turning it into bricks and mortar.

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve fallen out with them?’ H isn’t smiling. ‘Bit of a tiff?’

  ‘They can be difficult people. In your day you were spared.’

  ‘In Pompey, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. In my book that makes you lucky. Wesley Kane was an exception. Most of the guys you relied on were white.’

  ‘You know about Wes?’

  ‘Everyone knows about Wes. The man’s a legend. That makes you twice lucky.’

  I withdraw my hand from Baptiste and settle back in my chair. I have a question here. ‘Two Somalis nearly killed me up in Glasgow. How much did you know about that?’

  ‘Not much. Until afterwards.’

  ‘And you?’ I direct the question at Baptiste. She’s looking pained. It’s obvious she wants no part of this conversation. ‘Was it Brodie?’ I ask her. ‘Was it his idea? Did he think I’d talk to the police? Mention his name?’

  She holds my gaze. Seconds tick by. Then she looks at her hands and nods. ‘Brodie,’ she agrees.

  ‘He sent the Somalis up there?’

  ‘He talked to them. Explained what was at stake. The rest was down to them.’

  ‘Business hates uncertainty,’ Franklin says quietly. ‘Everyone knows that. Brodie had everything nailed down. He’s an operator, that boy. He never drops a stitch. Everyone rates him. Especially the Somalis.’

  ‘But he knew about my friend up in Glasgow. And he must have told the Somalis.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Which is why they came for me.’