Dying to Tell (4 page)

"Circumstances turned against them."

"George Alder dying without a son old or sensible enough to take over from him, you mean?"

"Yes. You never knew him, did you?"

"Not at all. We'd never have known any of them but for you befriending Rupert."

"George Alder drowned, didn't he?"

"So I believe. In the Sedgemoor Drain. It can't have been long after Rupert was born."

"Before, Rupe's always said."

"You're right." Dad chomped thoughtfully on his digestive biscuit. "It was before. Summer or autumn of 'sixty-three. Strange. I'd forgotten all that."

"All what?"

"Oh, there were some other farming deaths around the same time. Accidents. Suicide. That sort of thing. People started talking about a jinx on the land. The Gazette was full of it. For a while, anyway."

The Central Somerset Gazette being full of something hardly made it earth-shattering news. But I was still more than a bit surprised that I'd never heard of the Street farmers' jinx of '63 before. "How many deaths?"

"I can't remember. Two or three perhaps. Mmm. Maybe I'll check up on that next time I'm in the library. It's an interesting subject."

"Could you let me know what you find out?"

"Certainly." Dad frowned at me. "I thought local history bored you rigid."

"It does. Usually."

"But not in this case?"

That depends what you find out." I was more curious than I was letting on. Why hadn't Rupe mentioned any of this to me? He loved mysteries, great and small. And this one seemed to involve his own father. Perhaps he didn't even know about it. But, if so, that was surely more mysterious still. I was going to have a lot of questions for Rupe when I tracked him down.

"A jinx on the land," Dad mused, leaning back in his chair. "Or a curse." A faraway look I knew of old blurred his gaze. "It has Arthurian echoes, don't you think?"

"Since you ask, no." (Not for me, it didn't. Not Arthurian, that is. But echoes? Yes. I'd have had to admit it had plenty of those.)

"You won't oversleep tomorrow, will you, son?" "No, Dad. I won't." And I didn't.

LONDON

CHAPTER THREE

The train was half an hour late into Paddington, but I'm not sure that's why I felt so down as I wandered out of the station into a London morning that was too warm for autumn but plenty grey enough. The early start from Glastonbury definitely hadn't helped. Plus the fact that I've never been a fan of our not so fair capital. The old nickname of the Somerset and Dorset railway the Slow and Dirty suits London down to the ground and even more below the ground.

Not that I had any intention of descending into the bowels of the Bakerloo. It was the number 36 bus for me: a forty-minute trundle past Hyde Park and Buck Pal, then across the Thames by Vauxhall Bridge to The Oval. Why Rupe, a sworn enemy of all team sports, had moved so close to a major cricket ground was beyond me. The A to Z put Hardrada Road within strolling distance of the Hobbs Gates. Maybe he'd just enjoyed ignoring the place.

12 Hardrada Road was one of a terrace of three-storeyed yellow-brick Victorian houses. Smart but unpretentious, I suppose you'd say. But hell for parking. Number 12 didn't look like its owner had run out on it, though. The top-floor windows were ajar. I rang the bell, feeling I ought to before trying the neighbours. Naturally, there was no answer. Of course, even if Rupe was still living there, refusing to respond to letters and phone calls, he'd likely be out at work at eleven o'clock on a Thursday morning. But since I had no idea where work might be now he'd slipped his anchor at Eurybia Shipping, that thought took me nowhere.

The harassed but helpful mother of two (at least) who opened the door to me at number 10 hadn't seen Rupe in months. "Not that we ever saw much of him. I thought he was working abroad. Didn't he tell me that? I'm not honestly sure. Ask Echo. She'll know if he's due back."

"Who?"

"Echo Bateman. His lodger. She normally gets home about midday."

A lodger! I had the sudden impression getting a fix on Rupe was going to prove easier than I'd anticipated. Little Miss Echo could sort everything out for me. To celebrate this happy thought, I ambled back to a pub I'd passed on my way from The Oval. I had an hour to fill and something was needed to knock out the headache too much coffee and too little breakfast had given me.

The Pole Star was your usual rag-rolled, stripped-pine piece of Nineties chic. A bit bleary and frayed at the edges, maybe, but that's how opening time found the handful of customers as well as the bar, so there were no complaints to be heard. None that weren't drowned out by the roar of a vacuum cleaner in the food area, anyway. Fortunately, hoovering up last night's pizza crumbs turned out to be a token affair. Before I was halfway through my drink, tranquillity was restored. I decided to hedge my bets where the lodger was concerned and tap the barman for information.

"Do you know Rupe Alder? He lives just round the corner."

"Rupe Alder? Yeh. Not been in for quite a while, though. You a friend of his?"

"From way back. More way back than recently, to be honest. That's my problem. We've lost touch and I don't know where he is at the moment."

"Can't help you, mate. But there's a bloke who works here in the evening who knows him quite well. Used to, anyway. You could ask Carl about Rupe Alder."

"And will Carl be here tonight?" "If he wakes up in time, yeh."

Things were looking better and better. They always do when my aimless ramble through life assumes the fleeting dignity of a plan. The plan I left the Pole Star with was to buy a packet of extra-strong mints from the news agent next door, eat one on the way back to Hardrada Road (in case Echo was down on lunchtime drinking), hear what Echo had to say for herself, scout round for a cheap place to spend the night, maybe take in a film somewhere, then gravitate back to the Pole Star to catch Carl in mid-shift.

L.G." as we know, stands in my case for Lancelot Gawain. But sometimes I think it could mean Lucky Guy. Not often, but sometimes. This was one such occasion. A young woman was letting herself in as I hove to at number 12. Tall and broadly built, with short spiky black hair and big bush-baby eyes, she was wearing Post Office uniform and uttered a weary enough sigh in the second before she noticed me to suggest she'd spent several long hours pounding the pavements of south London that morning.

"Echo?"

"Christ, you made me jump." (Indeed I had. But that's darks' finest for you.) "Do I know you?" The bush-baby eyes contracted as she turned to look at me.

"Your neighbour told me your name. I'm a friend of Rupe's. Lance Bradley."

"Have we met?"

"No. But '

"Only you do look .. . familiar."

"I promise not to be."

"What?"

"Familiar." I shaped a grin. "If you let me in."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Well, yes. I suppose it is. Look, could we start again? I'm from the sticks. Blame the hokey line on that. I'm looking for Rupe. His family are worried about him."

"His whatT

"Family. Most of us have one whether we like it or not."

"First I've ever heard of Rupe's. Anyway, you won't find him here. But..." She looked me up and down. "All right. Come on in. I've got you now. You are a friend of Rupe's."

"I did say."

"People say all sorts of things." She pushed the door wide open and went in, gesturing for me to follow.

The first thing that caught my eye was a large, garishly coloured oil painting, hanging unframed on the wall just inside the door. The second was another similar painting further along the hall past the stairs. They were clearly the work of the same artist. I'd have put money on that. As to what the artist was trying to convey in slashed lines and violent tones I couldn't have hazarded a guess.

"They're mine," said Echo, catching my gaze as she slammed the door behind me. "Don't feel obliged to give an opinion."

"Right."

"Come into the kitchen. Do you want some tea?"

"Why not?" (I really was going to have to think of a better response to offers of refreshment.)

We moved past the Vesuvian canvases and two closed doors to the kitchen. That's you, isn't it?" asked Echo, prodding at a picture (framed, this time) on the wall to her left.

It was a photo-montage, like the ones Les produced to commemorate fancy-dress nights at the Wheatsheaf. Only this montage, I saw as I looked at it, was a collection of snapshots from Rupe's life. Some of places Glastonbury Tor, Durham Cathedral, Big Ben. And some of people friends I recognized, friends I didn't. Echo's prod had landed on a photograph of me sitting outside a Pennine pub during some weekend jaunt from Durham circa 1983, a bottle of Newcastle Brown clutched firmly in my hand. (OK. What can I say? We all have to make our own mistakes.) "I'm surprised you recognized me from this," I muttered.

"Maybe I wouldn't have if you'd had the good sense to change your hairstyle." She filled the kettle and lit the gas. "Bag in a mug OK for you?"

"Fine." (I could only hope the wince hadn't shown.)

"Now, what's this about Rupe's family? He's never mentioned having relatives."

"A brother and two sisters. They live at Street, down in Somerset. That's where Rupe was born. Me too. We went to school together. And university."

"Durham?"

"Right. You're quick, aren't you?"

"No. Rupe did mention that. Some time. But the family ..." She shrugged. "Not a whisper."

"How long have you been lodging with him?"

"About a year. Not very much with him, though. He's been abroad most of the time. That's really why he suggested me moving in. I needed somewhere bigger for my paintings and he needed someone to look after the place while he was away."

"Away where?"

"Tokyo. On assignment for the shipping company he works for. There's no mystery. I don't know why his family are worried about him."

"You aren't?"

"He's in Tokyo." The kettle began to sing. She took it off the boil and filled our mugs. "What's there to worry about?"

"Well, they didn't know about Tokyo for starters. You have some way of contacting him there?"

"A phone number. Actually .. ." She frowned at me, almost guiltily. "I've called him a few times lately. No answer. And he hasn't phoned back. But.. ."

"He's left Eurybia Shipping."

"He has?"

"Yes."

"Oh." The frown deepened. "I didn't know that."

"Could I have my tea fairly weak, do you think?"

She seemed puzzled by the request, then suddenly understood. "Oh, sure." She hoiked the bag out and handed the mug to me.

"Got any milk?"

"In the fridge."

I helped myself. "For you?"

"Yeh." I poured some into her mug. Thanks."

"Why have you been phoning him lately?"

Things." She sipped her tea. "Odd things."

"Care to share them?"

She crooked her head at me. "Can I trust you, Lance?"

"Sure."

"Rupe said I could."

"Did he?"

"We were talking once. About people you could really -really trust. He named you. No one else. Just you. Something about a caving accident. Something about .. . going back for a friend you've left behind. Is that what you're doing now?"

"Hope not." I smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "What about those odd things?"

"You may as well come through." She led me back into the hall and opened the door into the front sitting room. "My room's upstairs. This is Rupe's."

It was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with minimal decoration. There was a well-filled bookcase in one corner, with a model sailing ship on top. As far as personal touches went, that was about it. But Rupe had never been one for surrounding himself with things. He'd been a minimalist before it came into fashion.

There was a desk beneath the window, on which stood a telephone and answering machine, alongside a neatly stacked pile of letters. Echo walked across to it. "I've got my own phone. Rupe was adamant I shouldn't bother to deal with any of his calls. Or his post. So, I haven't. But '

"What?"

"I think someone's been in here and taken some of the letters. Maybe listened to his phone messages as well."

"Somebody broke in?"

"Not broke, exactly. Slipped a latch on a window at the back, then took a look around. I'm pretty sure there are some letters missing. And the books have been moved. Dust disturbed. You know? Nothing I can swear to absolutely. We're not talking about your average burglary."

"What about the rest of the house?"

"Nothing. Just down here."

"Have you reported this to the police?"

"What's there to report? It's not much more than a suspicion."

I leafed through the letters. Brown window envelopes, for the most part: nothing exciting. The only hand-addressed ones were from Win. The scratchy fountain pen and Street postmark gave her away. Whatever else there'd been .. . had gone. "You said odd things, Echo. Plural. What else has happened?"

"You've turned up."

"I don't count as odd."

"If you say so. Anyway, you're not the first. Lately I've had three other blokes round here looking for Rupe."

"Three?"

"Yeh. And liquorice all sorts they were. To start with, there was a bloke from Eurybia Shipping paying what he called a "social call"."

"Didn't he mention Rupe had left the company?"

"Nope. And he didn't seem to know Rupe was supposed to be in Tokyo either. Said he'd been abroad himself."

"Leave a name?"

"Charlie Hoare. Pretty typical middle-aged London suit. After him came the Japanese businessman. I've written his name down there." She pointed to a Post-it note stuck to the answering machine: Mr. Hashimoto, Park Lane Hilton. "He called towards the end of last week."

"What did he want?"

"To speak to Rupe. I told him Rupe was in Tokyo, but I'm not sure he believed me."

"And the third one?"

"A couple of days ago. Some old bloke. He was pretty rough. Said he was looking for Rupe. Didn't leave a name. Didn't say much at all. Shifty. You know?"

"And all this is what prompted you to phone Rupe in Tokyo?"