by Ken Follett
A syndicate headed by Hamilton Holdings today won the license to drill for oil in the last North Sea oil field, Shield.
The Secretary of State of Energy, Mr. Carl Wrightment, announced the name of the winning contender at a Press conference overshadowed by the sudden illness of his Junior Minister, Mr. Tim Fitzpeterson.
The announcement was expected to provide a much-needed fillip to the ailing shares of the Hamilton print group, whose half-year results, published yesterday, were disappointing.
Shield is estimated to hold oil reserves which could ultimately amount to half a million barrels a week.
The Hamilton group's partners in the syndicate include Scan, the engineering giant, and British Organic Chemicals.
After making the announcement Mr. Wrightment added: "It is with sadness that I have to tell you of the sudden illness of Tim Fitzpeterson, whose work on the Government's oil policy has been so invaluable."
Kevin read the story three times, hardly able to believe its implications. Fitzpeterson, Cox, Laski, the raid, the bank crisis, the takeover--all leading in a great, frightening circle, back to Tim Fitzpeterson.
"It can't be that," he said aloud.
"What have you got?" Arthur's voice came from behind him. "Is it worth a fudge?" The fudge was what the public called the Stop Press.
Kevin passed him the story and vacated his chair. "I think," he said slowly, "that story will persuade the editor to change his mind."
Arthur sat down to read. Kevin watched him eagerly. He wanted the older man to react, to jump up and shout "Hold the front page!" or something; but Arthur stayed cool.
Eventually he dropped the sheet of paper on the desk. He looked coldly at Kevin. "So what?" he said.
"Isn't it obvious?" Kevin said excitedly.
"No. Tell me."
"Look. Laski and Cox blackmail Fitzpeterson into telling them who has won the Shield license. Cox, maybe with Laski's help, raids the currency van and gets a million pounds. Cox gives the money to Laski, who uses it to buy the company that got the oil license."
"So what would you like us all to do about it?"
"For Christ's sake! We could drop hints, or mount an investigation, or tell the police--at least tell the police! We're the only people who know it all--we can't let the bastards get away with it!"
"Don't you know anything?" Arthur said bitterly.
"What do you mean?"
Arthur's voice was as somber as the grave. "Hamilton Holdings is the parent company of the Evening Post." He paused, then looked Kevin in the eye. "Felix Laski is your new boss."
FOUR P.M.
32
They sat down in the small dining room, on either side of the little circular table, and he said: "I've sold the company."
She smiled, and said calmly: "Derek, I'm so glad." Then, against her will, tears came to her eyes, and her icy self-control weakened and crumbled for the first time since the birth of Andrew. She saw, through the tears, the shock in his expression as he realized how much it meant to her. She stood up and opened a cupboard, saying: "I think this calls for a drink."
"I got a million pounds for it," he said, knowing she was not interested.
"Is that good?"
"As it happens, yes. But more importantly, it's enough to keep us comfortably well off for as long as we're likely to live."
She made a gin-and-tonic for herself. "Would you like a drink?"
"Perrier, please. I've decided to go on the wagon for a bit."
She gave him his drink and sat opposite him again. "What made you decide?"
"No single thing. Talking to you, and talking to Nathaniel." He sipped his mineral water. "Talking to you, mainly. The things you said about our lifestyle."
"When does it become final?"
"It already has. I shan't go back to the office, ever." He looked away from her, out through the French windows across the lawn. "I resigned at twelve noon, and I haven't felt the ulcer since. Isn't that marvelous?"
"Yes." She followed his gaze, and saw the sun shining redly through the branches of her favorite tree, the Scots pine. "Have you made any plans?"
"I thought we could do that together." He smiled directly at her. "But I shall get up late; and eat three small meals a day, always at the same times; and watch television; and see whether I can remember how to paint."
She nodded. She felt awkward; they both did. Suddenly there was a new relationship between them, and they were feeling their way, unsure what to say or how to behave. For him, the situation was simple: he had made the sacrifice she asked, given her his soul; and now he wanted her to acknowledge it, to accept the gift with some gesture. But for her, that gesture would mean letting Felix go out of her life. I can't do it, she thought; and the words rang in her head like the echoing syllables of a curse.
He said: "What would you like us to do?"
It was as if he knew of her dilemma, and wanted to force her hand, to make her talk about the two of them as a unit. "I would like us to take a long time deciding," she said.
"Good idea." He got to his feet. "I'm going to change my clothes."
"I'll come up with you." She picked up her drink and followed him. He looked surprised, and in truth she too was a little shocked: it was thirty years since they had been in the habit of watching one another undress.
They went through the hall and climbed the main staircase together. He panted with the effort, and said: "In six months' time I shall be running up here." He was looking to the future with so much pleasure, she with so much dread. For him, life was beginning again. If only he had done this before she met Felix!
He held the bedroom door open for her, and her heart missed a beat. This had once been a ritual: a sign between them, a lovers' code. It had started when they were young. She had noticed that he became almost embarrassingly courteous to her when he felt lustful, and she said as a joke: "You only open doors for me when you want to make love." Then, of course, they thought of sex every time he opened a door for her, and it became his way of letting her know he wanted it. One felt the need of such signals in those days: nowadays she felt quite happy about saying to Felix: "Let's do it on the floor."
Did Derek remember? Was he now telling her that this was the acknowledgment he wanted? It had been years; and he was so gross. Was it possible?
He went into the bathroom and turned on the taps. She sat at her dressing table and brushed her hair. In the mirror she watched him come out of the bathroom and begin to take off his clothes. He still did it the same way: first shoes, then trousers, then jacket. He had told her, once, that this was the way it had to be; for the trousers went on the hanger before the jacket, and the shoes had to come off before the trousers would. She had told him how peculiar a man looked in his shirt, tie, and socks. They had both laughed.
He removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar with a sigh of relief. Collars always bothered him. Perhaps he need not wear them buttoned anymore.
He took off his shirt, then his socks, then his vest, and finally his underwear shorts. Then he caught her eye in the mirror. There was something close to defiance in his gaze, as if he were saying: "This is what an old man looks like, so you'd better get used to it." She met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. He went into the bathroom, and she heard the surge of the water as he climbed into the bath.
Now that he was out of sight she felt freer to think, as if before he might have overheard her thoughts. Her dilemma had been posed in the most brutal way: could she, or could she not, face the thought of sex with Derek? A few months ago she might have--no, not "might," but "would," and eagerly--but since then she had touched the firm, muscular body of Felix, and rediscovered her own body in the sheer physicality of their relationship.
She forced herself to visualize Derek's naked body: the thick neck, the fatty breasts with tufts of gray-white hair at the nipples, the huge belly with its arrow of hair widening to the groin, and there--well, at least he and Felix were much the same there.
She imagined herself in bed with Derek, and thought of how he would touch her, and kiss her, and what she would do to him--and suddenly she realized she could do it, and take pleasure in it, because of what it meant: Felix's fingers might be skillful and knowing, but Derek's were the hands she had held for years; she might scratch Felix's shoulders in passion, but she knew she could lean on Derek's; Felix had dashing good looks, but in Derek's face there were years of kindness and comfort, of compassion and understanding.
Perhaps she loved Derek. And perhaps she was just too old to change.
She heard him stand up in the bath, and she panicked. She had not had enough time; she was not yet ready to make an irrevocable decision. She could not, right here and now, accept the thought of never having Felix inside her again. It was too soon.
She must talk to Derek. She must change the subject, break his mood and hers. What could she say? He stepped out of the bath: now he would be toweling himself, and in a moment he would be here.
She called out: "Who bought the company?"
His reply was inaudible; and at that moment, the phone rang.
As she crossed the room to pick it up, she repeated: "Who bought the company?" She lifted the receiver.
Derek shouted: "A man called Felix Laski. You've met him. Remember?"
She stood frozen, with the phone to her ear, not speaking. It was too much to take in: the implications, the irony, the treachery.
The voice from the telephone said in her ear: "Hello, hello?"
It was Felix.
She whispered: "Oh, God, no."
"Ellen?" he said. "Is that you?"
"Yes."
"I've a lot I want to talk to you about. Can we meet?"
She stammered: "I--I don't think so."
"Don't be like that." His deep Shakespearean voice was like the music from a cello. "I want you to marry me."
"Oh, God!"
"Ellen, speak to me. Will you marry me?"
Suddenly she knew what she wanted, and with the realization came the beginning of calm. She took a deep breath. "No, I most certainly will not," she said.
She hung up the phone, and stood staring at it for several moments.
Slowly and deliberately, she took off all her clothes and placed them in a neat pile on a chair.
Then she got into bed and lay waiting for her husband.
33
Tony Cox was a happy man. He played the radio as he drove slowly home through the streets of East London in the Rolls. He was thinking how well everything had gone, and he was forgetting what had happened to Deaf Willie. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a pop song with a bouncy beat. It was cooler now. The sun was low, and there were streamers of high white cloud in the blue sky. The traffic was getting heavier as the rush hour approached, but Tony had all the patience in the world this evening.
It had gone well, in the end. The boys had had their shares, and Tony had explained how the rest of the money had been hidden in a bank, and why. He had promised them another payout in a couple of months' time, and they had been happy.
Laski had accepted the stolen money more readily than Tony expected. Maybe the crafty sod thought he could embezzle some of it: just let him try. The two of them would have to cook up some scheme for concealing the true nature of any withdrawals Tony made from the funds. That couldn't be difficult.
Tonight, nothing could be difficult. He wondered what to do with the evening. Perhaps he would go to a gay bar and pick up a friend for the night. He would dress up, put on some fancy jewelry, and stuff a roll of tenners into his pocket. He would find a boy a couple of years younger than himself, and shower him with kindness: a wonderful meal, a show, champagne--then back to the Barbican flat. He would knock the boy about a bit, just to soften him up, and then . . .
It would be a good night. In the morning the boy would go away with his pockets full of money, bruised but happy. Tony enjoyed making people happy.
On impulse, he pulled up outside a corner shop and went in. It was a news agent's, with bright modern decor and new racking along the walls for magazines and books. Tony asked for the biggest box of chocolates in the shop.
The young girl behind the counter was fat, spotty, and cheeky. She reached up for the chocolates, letting her nylon overalls ride up almost to her bottom. Tony looked away.
"Who's the lucky lady, then?" the girl asked him.
"My mum."
"Pull the other one."
Tony paid and got out fast. There was nothing more revolting than a revolting woman.
As he drove away he thought: really, with a million pounds I should do something more than just go out for a night on the town. But there was nothing else he wanted. He could buy a house in Spain, but he got too hot out there. He had enough cars; world cruises bored him; he did not want a mansion in the country; there was nothing he collected. It made him laugh when he thought of it this way: he had become a millionaire in a day, and the only thing he could think of to buy was a three-pound box of chocolates.
The money was security, though. If he went through a bad patch--even if, God forbid, he did a stretch--he could look after the boys more or less indefinitely. Running the firm could be expensive at times. There were about twenty blokes in all, and each of them looked to him for a few quid every Friday, whether they had had a tickle or not. He sighed. Yes, his responsibilities would weigh less heavily now. It was worth it for that.
He pulled up outside his mother's house. The dashboard clock said four thirty-five. Ma would have tea ready soon: perhaps a bit of cheese on toast, or a plate of baked beans; then some fruit cake or Battenberg; and canned pears with Ideal milk to finish off. Or she might have got him his favorite--crumpets and jam. He would eat again later tonight. He had always had a good appetite.
He entered the house and closed the front door behind him. The hall was untidy. The vacuum cleaner stood unattended halfway up the stairs, a raincoat had fallen from the hall stand onto the tiled floor, and there was some kind of mess by the kitchen door. It looked as if Ma had been called away suddenly: he hoped there wasn't bad news.
He picked up the raincoat and hung it on a hook. The dog was out, too; there was no welcoming bark.
He went into the kitchen, and stopped with one foot still in the hall.
The mess was awful. At first he could not figure out what it was. Then he smelled the blood.
It was everywhere: walls, floor, ceiling, all over the fridge, the cooker, and the draining board. The stench of the abattoir filled his nostrils, and he felt sick. But where had it all come from? What had caused it? He looked around wildly for some clue, but there was nothing, just the blood.
He crossed the kitchen in two big, squelching strides, and flung open the back door.
Then he understood.
His dog lay on her back in the middle of the little concrete yard. The knife was still in her--the same knife he had sharpened too much this morning. Tony knelt beside the mutilated corpse. The body looked shrunken, like a balloon with a leak.
A string of soft, blasphemous curses came from Tony's lips. He stared at the multiple cuts, and the bits of cloth between the dog's bared teeth, and whispered: "You put up a fight, girl."
He went to the garden gate and looked out, as if the killer might still be there. All he could see was a large pink wad of chewed bubblegum on the ground, casually thrown away by a child.
Obviously, Ma had been out when it happened, which was a mercy. Tony decided to clear up before she got back.
He got a spade from the outhouse. Between the yard and the garden gate was a small patch of poor soil, which the old man used to cultivate intermittently. Now it was overgrown. Tony took off his jacket, marked out a small square of ground, and began to dig.
The grave did not take him long. He was strong, and angry too. He trod the spade viciously and thought about what he would do to the killer if he ever found him. And he would find him. The bastard had done it out of spite, and when people did things like t
hat they had to boast about it, either before or afterward, otherwise they would have proved their point to nobody but themselves, and that was never enough. He knew the type. Somebody would hear something, and tell one of the boys in the hope of a reward.
It crossed his mind that the Old Bill might be behind it. It was unlikely: this was not their style. Who, then? He had plenty of enemies, but none of them possessed both the hatred and the guts to do a number like this. When Tony met somebody with that much front he usually hired the bloke.
He wrapped the dead dog in his jacket and placed the bundle gently in the hole. He shoveled the earth back in and made the surface even with the flat of the spade. You didn't say prayers for dogs, did you? No.
He went back into the kitchen. The mess was awful. There was no way he could clean it up alone. Ma would be back any minute--it was a bloody miracle she had stayed out this long. He had to have help. He decided to ring his sister-in-law.
He went through the kitchen, trying not to spread the blood around. It seemed an awful lot of blood, even for a boxer dog.
He went into the parlor to use the phone, and there she was.
She must have been trying to reach the phone. A thin trail of blood led from the door to the body, lying stretched full length on the carpet. She had been stabbed only once, but the cut had been fatal.
The look of horror frozen on Tony's face changed slowly as his features contorted, like a squeezed cushion, into an expression of despair. He raised his arms slowly upward and pressed his palms against his cheeks. His mouth opened.
At last words came, and he roared like a bull. "Ma!" he cried. "Oh God, Ma!"
He fell to his knees beside the body and cried: huge, loud, racking sobs, like the cries of a child in total misery.
Outside in the street a crowd gathered around the parlor window, but no one dared to come in.
34
The city tennis club was an establishment which had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with afternoon drinking. Kevin Hart was often struck with the implausibility of its title. In an alley off Fleet Street, squeezed in between a church and an office block, there was hardly room to play table tennis, let alone the real thing. If all they wanted was an excuse to serve drinks when the pubs were shut, Kevin thought, they could surely have found something more credible, like philately or model railways. As it was, the nearest they could get to tennis was a coin-in-the-slot machine which displayed a miniature tennis court on a television screen: you moved your player by twiddling a knob.
