Fault Line - Retail (3 page)

‘I guess Olly came back to finish doing whatever it was Joan interrupted, only to find he was locked out,’ reasoned Pete. ‘He must have been leaving again when you nearly ran him over.’

‘But what would he have been after in the basement?’ I asked. I couldn’t imagine the dusty archives of the family firm holding any sort of attraction for a teenage boy when there were girls in bikinis to be ogled all day down at the Lido swimming pool.

‘Beats me,’ Pete admitted. ‘But some people reckon he’s not right in the head on account of witnessing his father’s suicide.’

‘He witnessed it?’

‘Well, more or less. Ken Foster drove out to Goss Moor, parked at the end of some track and gassed himself in his car. You know – tube through the window from the exhaust. That’s how he topped himself. What he didn’t realize, though, was that Olly had stowed away in the boot. Some kind of prank. He was only seven. Anyway, he was still in the boot when a pair of hikers came across the car. Too late for Ken. I’m not sure what state Olly was in by then. But it’s bound to have affected him, isn’t it?’

I conceded it might have. But that still didn’t explain a clandestine visit to the basement. And why now, nine years after his father’s death?

‘Maybe it’s something to do with the merger,’ Pete suggested. ‘Maybe Olly’s worried about being robbed of his inheritance.’

Incredulity at the idea that anyone of our generation might want to inherit an outfit like Walter Wren & Co. must have been written on my face.

‘It’s all right for you,’ Pete complained, scowling at me. ‘Some of us need to earn a wage. Wren’s isn’t so bad.’

‘It’s had its day, Pete. And if Oliver Foster doesn’t understand that, then he really isn’t right in the head.’

I gave no further thought to Oliver Foster’s state of mind until Thursday, when I found myself down at Charlestown again. Jim Turner had borrowed me to clear a backlog of paperwork, which
involved
sorting several months’ worth of shipping orders into first date, and then alphabetical, order. I needed some fresh air come lunchtime, so took my sandwiches down to the harbour wall and sat in the sunshine on the bollard at the end of the eastern mole.

There were a few tourists wandering around taking snaps of the quaint old port, but it was otherwise a quiet day in Charlestown, with no loading in progress in the dock. I had the harbour wall to myself.

But it didn’t stay that way. I’d just lit a cigarette when I heard a voice behind me. ‘Can I buy one of those from you?’ The accent was cultured, the tone casual.

I looked round to find Oliver Foster gazing vacantly at me. He was dressed as he had been the previous day, in white shirt, jeans and plimsolls, with the addition of a green sweater tied round his waist. His hands were thrust into his pockets and his face wore an expression of heavy-lidded detachment. A high forehead made him look much older than I knew him to be, despite his unruly mass of blond hair.

‘Well, can I? Would thruppence do it?’ He fished a threepenny bit out of his pocket.

‘You can have one for nothing.’ I proffered the pack.

‘OK.’ He took a cigarette, peering at the label as he did so. ‘Ah. The international passport to smoking pleasure.’ He chuckled, though whether at his own ability to recite Peter Stuyvesant’s advertising motto or my pretentiousness at choosing the brand it was hard to tell.

He flourished a silver lighter. There were some initials inscribed on it that looked like
K.L.F
. I wondered if it had belonged to his father. He took a long first draw on the cigarette and gazed past me out to sea.

‘I nearly drove into you the day before yesterday,’ I said, reckoning that would get his attention.

It wasn’t immediately obvious I’d succeeded. But after a long pause he said, ‘So, you work at Wren’s.’

‘Yes. Just for the summer. Then I’m off to university.’

‘Where?’

‘London.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘You’re Oliver Foster, aren’t you?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Jonathan Kellaway.’ I offered my hand.

He smiled, amused, apparently, by the quaintness of the gesture. But he consented to a handshake. ‘How do you do, Jonathan?’ He was a couple of years younger than I was, but it was hard to believe. He already seemed to be an adult – mature, self-possessed, cynical even. Pose or not, it was impressive in its own way.

‘Been for a walk?’

‘You could say that. Been visiting. At the Carlyon Bay.’ I took him to mean the premier hotel of the neighbourhood, a mile or so along the coast. ‘Fancied a stroll afterwards. Told my chauffeuse to pick me up here.’

‘Your chauffeuse?’

‘Sister. She’ll be here soon. Very reliable, my sister.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Nineteen. She’s off to university as well.’

‘Really. Which one?’ (I knew the answer, of course, thanks to Pete.)

‘Not London.’ Oliver grinned. ‘Ah, here’s the chariot.’ He pointed with his cigarette towards a bright yellow Mini heading down the road on the other side of the dock. It pulled up at the landward end of the western mole, separated from us by the harbour mouth. A blonde-haired girl climbed out and started walking along the mole towards us. She was wearing a white safari-suit, dazzlingly bright in the sunshine, with several bead necklaces. Large, circular sunglasses and her long, breeze-ruffled hair gave her a glamorous, sophisticated look. Her world, I felt sure, was exactly the one I aimed to enter as soon as I left St Austell.

But the impression she made on me didn’t stop at glamour and sophistication. As she neared the curved end of the mole, with just the narrow mouth of the harbour between us, she pushed her sunglasses up on to her forehead – high, like her brother’s – and smiled.

She was beautiful. That was the realization that hit me almost like a blow. Not pretty or sexy or attractive, or, rather, all of those things with some other magical ingredient thrown in: the shape of her mouth, the sparkle of her blue, blue eyes, the hint of mystery as well as allure in her gaze. She was quite extraordinarily beautiful. She was the sort of girl I’d dreamt of meeting in Paris or Venice or San Francisco. And here she was, not half a world of fantasies away, but standing in front of me, on the harbour wall at Charlestown, in Cornwall.

‘Coming home?’ she called across to Oliver, her voice soft and slightly husky.

‘Glad to see you dragged yourself away,’ he replied.

‘You said you’d want picking up, so here I am. Are you coming?’

‘Guess so. But say hello to Jonathan here before we go. He’s working at Wren’s until he starts at university. Not Cambridge. But still university. This is my sister Vivien, Jonathan.’

‘Hello,’ I said, painfully aware of how sheepish I sounded. But great beauty, as Vivien must have been aware, is an intimidating thing.

‘Hello, Jonathan,’ she responded, smiling at me briefly, before returning her attention to Oliver. ‘Now, can we go?’

And that was how we first met, Vivien Foster and I. I watched her walk back along the mole to her car while Oliver headed towards the bridge across the dock gate. She never once glanced round at me, though she cast several glances in her brother’s direction. It was pretty clear she’d barely noticed me. But I’d noticed her. And I was already certain I’d never forget her.

How right I was.

THREE

I COULDN’T STOP
thinking about Vivien Foster for the rest of the day. I wanted to see her again – I longed to see her again – but I knew that wouldn’t be easy. Even if I could engineer an encounter, I suspected she’d give me the brush-off if I asked her for a date. The fleeting glance I’d got from her suggested she’d judged me as barely more interesting than the bollard I’d been sitting on.

By the following morning, I’d more or less abandoned the idea. I set off for work in a glum mood, Mum’s parting report of a fine weather forecast for the weekend doing nothing to lift my spirits. ‘We’ll probably go to the beach hut on Sunday.’ Poor old Mum. I think she genuinely believed what I’d enjoyed as a twelve-year-old I’d still enjoy at eighteen.

The walk to Wren’s was generally as uneventful as it was short, involving a cut through the cemetery to Alexandra Road. Not so that morning, however. As I approached the cemetery gate, I was astonished to see Oliver Foster leaning against it, puffing at a cigarette. He looked cold, with the collar of his thin windcheater pulled up round his neck. It was immediately obvious he’d been waiting for me.

‘Hello, Jonathan,’ he said with a smile.

‘Hello. What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to talk to you.’ He pulled the gate open to let me through. ‘Smoke?’ He produced a pack. ‘Not Peter Stuyvesant, I’m afraid.’

‘Never mind. Thanks.’ I took one and he gave me a light. ‘Been waiting for me long?’

‘Ten minutes or so.’

‘How did you know where I live?’

‘No other Kellaways with a St Austell phone number.’

‘But you didn’t want to phone me.’

‘Thought face to face would work better.’

‘Better for what?’

‘Take a walk with me and I’ll explain.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you late for work.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Good.’ He led the way at a dawdling pace along one of the paths between the graves. As far as I could see, we had the cemetery to ourselves – unless you counted its permanent occupants.

‘What’s this about, Oliver?’

‘I need you to do me a favour. Naturally, I’ll do you one in return.’

‘What kind of favour?’

‘Well, I reckon you’d like to get to know my sister. I could fix that for you.’

I’d meant what favour he wanted from me, not what favour he could offer me. Already, I’d been outmanoeuvred. ‘What makes you think I want to get to know your sister?’ I asked cagily.

‘All the guys do. Don’t pretend you don’t. It was obvious, anyway.’

‘How?’

‘It just was. But you won’t get anywhere with her without my help.’

The fact that I believed him was hugely irritating, but I was determined not to show it. ‘Maybe I don’t need a go-between.’

‘You won’t get anywhere with her on your own. You’re just not in her league. Those who are generally don’t get anywhere either. Viv’s very … choosy.’

‘In that case, I doubt she’d let her kid brother do the choosing for her.’

‘She wouldn’t know I was doing it. She’s very protective towards
me.
You saw how she came to pick me up yesterday. She worries about me, you see. And one of the things she worries about is that I don’t have any friends. So, if she thought you were my friend, she’d want to get to know you. You’d have a real chance with her. It’s actually the only chance you’ll get.’

How satisfying it would be, I thought, to prove him wrong about that. How satisfying, but how improbable. ‘Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that I—’

‘Do you play chess?’

The question literally stopped me in my tracks. ‘Chess?’

‘Well, do you?’

I shrugged. ‘Sort of.’

‘Sort of will have to do. Come to the house Sunday morning around half ten. We’ll play a few games. I’ll treat you like the big brother I’ve never had. That’ll get Viv’s attention. I guarantee it.’ He giggled, childishly, reminding me of what was so easy to forget: how young he was. Did I play chess? There was certainly no room to doubt he did.

I knew the sensible thing to do was to turn him down. But it wasn’t just the opportunity to meet his sister on her home ground that lured me on. There was also a come-hither hint of mystery about their family that I couldn’t resist. Sunday morning at Nanstrassoe House was a far more enticing prospect than anything else a weekend in St Austell was likely to throw my way. Oliver knew that, of course.

‘You haven’t told me yet what you want me to do in return for this invitation, Oliver,’ I said levelly.

‘You’ll come, then?’

I nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll come.’

‘Good. In that case, this is for you.’ He pulled something wrapped in a brown-paper bag out of his pocket and handed it to me.

‘What’s this?’ It was the size and shape of a half-pound pack of butter and weighed about the same too.

‘A cake of soap.’ He grinned. ‘Carefully chosen soap. Just the right consistency. Not too hard. Not too soft. I’ve cut it in half
lengthways.
You should get a perfect impression if you compress the key between the two halves.’

‘What key?’

I didn’t really need to ask. It was only a few days since he’d been locked out of Wren’s basement. But even so I could hardly believe he was going to such lengths to gain entry.

‘I need access to Wren’s records, Jonathan. Greville isn’t going to stop me just by locking a door.’

‘What are you looking for?’

He smiled. ‘It’s best if you don’t know. Best if no one knows. Until I’m ready.’

I was intrigued. There was no denying it. Intrigued
and
tantalized. A boring holiday job had suddenly blossomed into something much more interesting.

‘I need an impression sharp enough for a locksmith to cut a copy from.’ Yes. He did. And I wondered what he was offering that locksmith in return. Something else it was best for me not to know, probably. ‘Think you can do it?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘Good. It has to be done today, though. Bring it to me at the library this afternoon after work. I’ll be in the reference section. But remember: no key, no game of chess; no game of chess, no introduction to Vivien. You get me?’

I assured him I did. But as I watched him walk away, leaving me to carry on to Wren & Co., cake of not-too-hard-not-too-soft soap stowed in my duffel bag, I acknowledged to myself that I didn’t; I didn’t get him at all.

But he got me.

I’d cooked up a cover story for needing to look through the records by the time I reached Wren’s: a discrepancy I was trying to iron out for Jim Turner. With any luck, though, I wouldn’t need to use it. I’d decided to stage my raid on the basement straight after the mid-morning coffee break, when Joan Winkworth was likely to be in one of her mellower moods. She’d arguably be even mellower after lunch, but it was Friday, so several pints with Pete at the
General
Wolfe were virtually mandatory. I needed to be sober for this.