Connections Page 7

  The doorbell rang and when Fleur answered Joe was there. “I’m looking for Dominic—”

  “He’s here,” Fleur told him. Joe went straight past her and stood in front of him, skinny in his jeans and leather jacket, chalk-white and coiled like a spring. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Brendan’s disappeared. He had a huge roll of cash on him, his brother said—”

  “He wasn’t going to stand around, was he?” Dominic replied wearily. “He’s not exactly popular now. He knew there’d be trouble.”

  “No,” said Joe urgently, “a big roll of cash. Thousands and thousands.”

  “So what are you saying, Joe?” he asked.

  “You know what I’m saying. Vanessa went out and scored. Not for the first time. Only this time she’s dead. And Brendan’s loaded.”

  “I know she’s dead,” Dominic said flatly. “Van was a junkie. She’s dead. It’s not a new story. But you’re not doing yourself any favour with this conspiracy theory, mate. Displacement, that’s what it’s called.”

  “Dom!” Joe cried.

  Dominic said desperately, “Joe – I can’t stand this. You’re making everything worse.”

  “What about that guy who was looking for us three?”

  “Years ago – years. There’s always some bugger looking for some other bugger,” Dominic said furiously. “You’re mental, Joe, raving.” He stood up and put his arms round Joe. “Give it a rest, Joe. Let it go. Just let it go. Let’s bury Vanessa, let it go.”

  He stood up and led Joe out, though Fleur could see from Joe’s stance and the angry, determined look on his face that Dominic’s words had made no impression on him. Dominic muttered, “Thanks, Fleur,” and they were gone.

  Unable to bear being in the flat alone, next door to the empty flat, to which Vanessa would never return, Fleur went off to the Job Centre and volunteered for an advanced computer course to enhance her own, largely self-taught skills. She’d have to pluck up courage and ask her parents to lend her the money to cover the mortgage for a little while. She dreaded making the phone call to ask for the money.

  When the phone rang she thought the caller might be her mother. She drew a deep breath before she answered, “Hullo?” The phone went down.

  She stood there for a moment, wondering exactly how frequently these silent phone calls had been made to her since she’d moved in. Once a week? Twice? Was that normal? Perhaps it depended on how close your phone number was to that of the local hospital, pizza delivery service or vet. But she still thought the caller might be Ben checking up.

  She told herself she couldn’t start thinking about Ben, with everything else slipping, her morale so precarious and the call to her mother still unmade.

  She almost groaned aloud as she picked up the phone and rang Grace. “Lovely to hear from you – how are you?” came her mother’s light, pleasant voice.

  Fleur launched straight in, telling her mother that the wine bar had collapsed, she was out of work and needed a loan towards the mortgage until she could get herself a proper well-paid job.

  “Oh dear,” her mother said, dismayed. “Oh, Fleur. We would like to help, but life here is getting rather expensive—”

  “Oh well, forget it,” Fleur broke in grumpily, resenting the fact that she’d put herself in this bad position, resenting the fact that Grace hadn’t offered to pawn the silver to help her. Other people managed, she supposed. They had to. “It’s OK,” she said. “I’ll get some part-time work.” If there is any, she thought.

  “Let me talk to Robin,” her mother said.

  “No – it’s too difficult. I’ll manage.”

  “Be fair, Fleur. You know I’m not in charge of our finances. Robin does all that. You know we’ll help if we can. Do give me time to talk to him.”

  “All right, thank you,” Fleur said flatly. She tried to inject some life into her voice. “Thanks, Grace.”

  “I’ll ring this evening, after I’ve talked to Robin,” her mother said reassuringly. Then rather spoilt it by saying in a helpless voice, “Oh dear, Fleur. Haven’t things gone wrong since Ben left?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Fleur, putting the phone down. Surely her mother couldn’t still believe, after what Fleur had told her, that all would have been well if Ben had stayed? That if she, Fleur, had not carelessly mislaid him the business would be thriving, bills paid, the future as bright with promise as a newly minted guinea? She almost hoped Robin would veto the idea of lending her the money. Only the thought of appearing not just broke but stupid prevented her from picking up the phone and telling Grace she didn’t want the money any more. “Oh, sod it,” she said aloud. Evening was coming on. She had nowhere to go and nothing to do and she wished she was anywhere but where she was.

  When her doorbell went she answered it in a low mood and found Dominic outside with a thin woman in her forties.

  “This is Ellen, Vanessa’s mother,” he said. “Do you want to come over the Findhorn for a drink with us?”

  The invitation was an odd one. She glanced at Ellen to see if this woman, who had just lost her daughter, was happy about the idea of spending the evening in a pub with a total stranger. But Ellen’s face, pale with large, beautiful but heavily circled dark eyes, betrayed no hesitation. Stunned, disoriented probably, thought Fleur, but she picked up her bag and went off with them.

  As they went down the steps, Dominic in front, she said awkwardly to Ellen, “I’m very sorry – about Vanessa.” And Ellen said, “I’ve been afraid of this for so long. And then, when I thought it might be all right at last – that was when it came.”

  Now Dominic was crossing the road on his long, wiry legs, metres ahead of them, as if they were racing. “He’s having a lot of trouble dealing with this,” Ellen said in her clear, low voice. “He thought he’d saved her. He takes on too much responsibility.”

  Fleur just said, “Yes.”

  They sat down silently. Fleur guessed Dominic had invited her along to ease the strain of being alone with the bereaved Ellen. She didn’t know what to do. She asked, “Does Vanessa’s father know about it?”

  “I phoned him in Ireland. He’s coming over for the funeral,” Ellen told her. She added, “It may be hard. He’s already blaming me.”

  “Joe and me’ll take care of him,” Dominic promised.

  “He’ll manage to have his say, anyway,” Ellen predicted. “It’ll be his way of getting through it.”

  There was something unnerving to Fleur about Ellen’s composure. Was it only that for so long she’d expected her daughter to die or was she just holding everything in for the sake of those around her?

  “Is anybody staying with you?” Fleur asked.

  “A friend from work. She’s being very supportive.”

  “Ellen works for Social Services,” Dominic told her.

  “Oh – right,” Fleur said. “What’s your main area?”

  “Children,” Ellen said, iron in her tone, “children at risk.”

  There was nothing Fleur could say to this.

  Ellen spoke to Dominic. “Joe seems a little bit paranoid. He thinks someone’s been coming after you and they may have had a hand in Vanessa’s death.”

  Dominic shook his head. “Joe’s seen too many movies. He needs someone to blame, that’s all. To make him feel better. When we find Brendan we’ll get to the truth, but there won’t be any surprises. It was an accident, that’s all, an accident.”

  Joe came into the pub. He said to Ellen, “Your husband’s at the flat. I said I’d try to find you.”

  Ellen frowned, sighed, picked up a big handbag and stood up. “I’ve got to face him sooner or later.” She asked Joe, “Did he say where he was staying?” and Joe replied carefully, “He seems to think he’s staying with you at the flat.”

  “Why aren’t I surprised?” Ellen said.

  After she’d gone Joe said, “She doesn’t need him. He’s crying all over the place. Which, considering he’s been gone fifteen years, is a bit ironic.”

&nbs
p; “What isn’t at the moment?” Dominic said hopelessly. “But Joe, if you’re going to start plunging into that Oliver Stone video in your head right now I don’t know what I’m going to do to you.”

  “You’ll soon start wondering if I’m right,” Joe said. “But I’ve got to stop my unremitting quest for truth and justice because, Dom, if one of us don’t get over to that guy in Islington and plumb in his bath, we’ve got nothing left; we stand no chance of getting paid.”

  “Right,” Dominic said, “Thanks, Joe.”

  Joe left and he explained, “We’re doing up this house in Islington, only the money’s coming slowly, if at all. The man doesn’t want to pay. And we haven’t turned up because of Vanessa.”

  “Ellen seems very calm,” Fleur said. “It’s a bit frightening.”

  “She knows all the rules, about grief and that. She got into social work after her second husband raped Vanessa. Not that she’ll ever stop blaming herself, though she might say she has. She talks as if she can come to terms with it, but that’s just her trade talking.”

  “Poor woman. How do people bear it?” Fleur said.

  “Because they have to, I guess.” His tone changed. “So – what about you and me?”

  “Yes,” Fleur replied in a discouraged tone. Looking back, their night together had begun to seem like a dance in the ruins.

  “Just a fling as far as you were concerned? A bit of slumming?”

  “It doesn’t feel – I don’t seem—” Fleur blundered out.

  “You’re right,” he said quickly. “This isn’t the time or the place. I’m glad we got that cleared up. Makes it easier.” He looked at his watch. “I have to get back. My mobile’s flat. I’m expecting a phone call.”

  Jason had escaped. He joined them enthusiastically in the pub, wagging his tail. Halfway across the street he barked. Dominic cocked his head, listening. “The phone!” he said, taking off.

  Fleur meandered back after them. She thought she might have hurt Dominic’s feelings and wished she hadn’t. But was there an alternative? Jess had scared her – the relationship had no future – what else could she have done? She sighed and walked through the metal gates and the concrete area which stood in front of Adelaide House. She had only just observed a gleaming black Rolls Royce outside the garages when a man appeared from the shadows in front of them with alarming suddenness. “Fleur,” he said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  Nine

  Well, William, I won’t be turning up to give evidence at the Enquiry. I doubt if that’s the plan of those who named me, either. What they want is someone to blame in my absence, the absence being an admission of guilt. I’ll come in nicely as the named culprit in this affair – a rogue element conducting rogue operations, a dubious character in a dubious line of work, known to consort with bad characters like drug dealers, arms traders and British Members of Parliament.

  I’m going off for a few years to a warm spot with a nice woman and plenty of money, though at the moment I’m still staring out over the turbulent briny on a greyish day. The old bloke’s down there on the beach again with his ancient Labrador. Though fat and not agile, it’s been enjoying itself on the sand.

  All this puts me in an unusually contemplative frame of mind – so I’ll begin at the beginning.

  I was sitting in my office, two floors of an old building above a coin dealer in Bond Street, when my secretary, the invaluable Veronica, told me Adrian Pugh was outside. Adrian Pugh was – and is, unless he’s decided to duck out and ask for a transfer, which might be wise – a bespectacled pipsqueak of a principal at the Home Office. Meaning he was high up enough to have initiated what he was doing – or not. A comfortable position. I knew him through some discussions I’d been involved in at the Home Office concerning security, acting at that point as Samuel Hope of HVPS, of course, not Samuel Hope and his Mercenary Band. Anyway, Pugh had been there, looking keen, which was probably why he’d been deputed to come. You might ask, who was the leader in this affair? The answer is, I don’t know. But now I think anyone could have been telling Pugh what to do, from the top down.

  Pugh was a reasonable choice, just high enough on the totem pole to be trusted and to command my attention, not high enough to take any real responsibility for his actions. I was a bit surprised he hadn’t made an appointment, but I suppose he wanted to keep it all casual and off the record. Cover his arse, in other words. So in he came in his M&S suit, carrying a heavy-looking briefcase labelled HMG, the bespectacled swot personified.

  I went: sit down, a coffee, what can I do you for, all the time observing that Pugh was a little twitchy, not sure of his ground. But I’m used to twitchy people, even on the legit side of the business.

  “Basically,” he said, “we’re interested in finding three people. We just want to know where they are and we don’t want to waste police time. Someone suggested you were the man for the job.”

  It was not for me to point out that it would have been cheaper to waste a lot of police time looking for these individuals, rather than pay my fees, which are not cheap. If I had, he would probably have given me that standard bureaucratic reply, “Different budgets.” However, I didn’t believe not wasting police time was really the issue.

  “Do you think they’re in this country?” I asked him.

  “As far as we know.”

  “So – who are they?” said I.

  Which was when I first heard those fatal six words – Dominic Floyd, Joe Carter, Vanessa Whitcombe.

  “We don’t know too much about them,” he told me. “They’re young people we need to find for reasons which shouldn’t concern you too much. Your job would be just to locate them and tell us where they are. Not too complicated. It’s non-political,” he added reassuringly.

  “Animal rights?” I hazarded. “Road rebels?”

  “Just an ordinary criminal matter,” he said. “They’ve conducted a burglary and the police can’t find them. We want them.”

  “Yes,” I said. I asked, “Who got robbed?” A Cabinet minister in a male brothel was my guess.

  “All you need to know is that a flat in the West End was burgled, certain items were taken, the owner wants them back. The police have so far failed to find the culprits.”

  Three anonymous robbers, the girl used as sexual bait, compromising pictures taken. Or documents removed and held for ransom, I speculated. “Discretion essential, I suppose?”

  “That’s why people come to you, Mr Hope,” he told me. “The problem seems to be that all three were and apparently still are people of no fixed abode. This presents problems for the police.”

  “Homeless?” I asked him.

  “Yes, that’s so,” he confirmed, glum and serious as a dissenting minister. “It has to be said we’re not absolutely certain these three were the individuals who conducted the crime.”

  “I see,” said I, leaving a long pause into which I hoped he would throw some gratuitous information. But he was too wily for that. He hadn’t got to where he was without learning how to sit there, silent as a bespectacled Buddha, for years at a time if need be.

  “I can’t help feeling, Mr Pugh, that you aren’t revealing all the information you have about this matter. That is your right, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the more I know about the situation, the faster I will be able to deal with it. It’s not wise to retain the services of those you hope will help you without disclosing all the facts. Can you, for example, tell me who was robbed?”

  “I’ve been asked not to give you the relevant information until you’ve undertaken the case,” he told me. “After that I understand you’re bound by the Official Secrets Act.”

  It was indeed true that I was so bound by that innocent-looking bit of paper without which I could not get Government jobs.

  “I think I ought to be clear about who I’m working for,” I said.

  “The Home Office, naturally.”

  “Yes. But who would I be reporting to?”

  “To
me, actually,” he said without pleasure.

  Oh Lord, I thought. Pugh was so obviously a man with a wealth of knowledge and absolutely no understanding, or, to put it another way, a man with no common sense at all, or, to put it yet another way, you wouldn’t let him take your dog for a walk. Men like Pugh go from prep to public school, from there to university and from there to Whitehall without ever touching the ground. Reporting to Pugh would be like reporting to Zozik from the planet Blank Nevertheless, it never pays to refuse a small job from a big employer, so I said to Pugh, “Fair enough. I’ll do it.”

  If only I’d got that girl in Soho to do my I Ching that day – if only.

  Pugh said, “Good. Now, Hope, I want you to understand that this must be dealt with by as few people as possible. By you alone, in fact.”

  This is a standard request from clients, no problem being so serious, so confidential, so potentially interesting to others as one’s own. “Of course,” I responded smoothly. “Terms are normally handled by my secretary, who knows nothing more of the business.” This was completely untrue. The firm would have collapsed if Veronica hadn’t known everything. “So,” I continued, “what have you got for me?”

  He opened his case and handed me a skinny buff file. I felt his eyes on me as I scanned the little information the file contained. There was a report of a burglary from the house of a David Hamilton at 5 Gordon Mews, which runs off Welbeck Street, about half a mile from where we were sitting. The goods taken were described as four silver snuff boxes, a gold signet ring and £500 in cash. A brief report from the West End Central the previous November – it was now May – stated that from the information received the reporting officer, Inspector Franks, believed the suspects in the robbery to be Dominic Floyd, Joe Carter and Vanessa Whitcombe, all NFA, all having been looked for but not found in London and all otherwise untraceable.

  “I’ll do the best I can,” I told Pugh. “First I’ll go and talk to Inspector Franks.”

  “I thought I’d made it plain you should work alone,” Pugh said. “All our technical resources are open to you, but we don’t want any other individuals involved.”