Fault Line - Retail (8 page)

‘What could a lump of feldspar possibly be code for?’

‘I don’t know. But then I never know what’s going on in Oliver’s mind.’

‘Do you want me to try and find out?’

‘Think you can?’

‘Maybe. What’s my reward if I succeed?’

She thought about that for a teasing moment, then said, ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’d be grateful, though. Very grateful. That should be incentive enough.’

We kissed goodnight before I got out of the car at the end of Eastbourne Road. It was only a little more of a kiss than the occasion required. But I walked the short distance home as if I was walking on air, the heady promise of knowing her driving far from my thoughts the problems knowing her brother might yet cause me. She’d agreed enthusiastically to my suggestion of an evening at the cinema on Friday. I didn’t actually care what film was showing. If Vivien wanted to see
Thoroughly Modern Millie
, so did I.

SIX

I WAS ALL
set to deliver an ultimatum to Oliver when we met in the cemetery the following morning. As it turned out, I never got the chance. He was waiting for me by the chapel near the north gate, pacing up and down and smoking a cigarette with nervous intensity.

‘You’re late,’ he announced, as if we’d fixed a definite time. He looked so impatient and distracted I was tempted to point out we were rendezvousing at his request, not mine.

‘And good morning to you, Oliver,’ I said coolly.

He acknowledged the reproof with a scowling smile. ‘Have a good time last night, did you?’

‘I did, yes.’

‘And you asked Great-Uncle Francis what a pig’s egg is, so it was mission accomplished for both of us.’

His certainty momentarily puzzled me. ‘How can—’

‘Vivien told me when she got home. Accused me of “setting you up”. Understandably, I suppose, since she doesn’t know about our deal. And I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Well, about that, I—’

‘Save it. I’m in a hurry. And I don’t want to make you late for work, do I? Viv said the old boy looked like he’d seen a ghost when you put the question to him. You’d agree?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. Although—’

‘Shut up and listen. We have to move fast. I think they’re on to me.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘Never mind. But if you really want to know, ask him.’ Oliver pointed past me with his cigarette.

Turning, I saw nothing at first but the phalanxes of gravestones standing easy in the thin morning light. Then I spotted a brown-clad figure in the middle distance, moving slowly along one of the paths between the graves. It was hard to be sure, but he seemed to be scanning the inscriptions on the stones as he went. Certainly he didn’t seem to be paying us any attention.

‘His name’s Strake. He used to work for Wren’s. Now he works for … well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. But he’s been following me for the past couple of days. I can tell you that.’

‘Come off it.’

‘If you don’t believe me, wait and see what happens when we leave.’

‘You need to relax, Oliver. This is—’

‘Just listen to me,’ he broke in, grasping my forearm for emphasis. ‘I’ve got good news for you, Jonathan. I’m letting you off the hook. I want you to tell my stepfather I’ve confided in you. And this is what I’ve confided: I’d already got some valuable information from the records before he gave the order for the basement to be kept locked; I’d have gone back for more if I’d been able to, but it doesn’t matter: I’ve already got enough.’

‘Enough about what?’

‘Tell him I wouldn’t say any more than that. “I’ve already got enough.” You can tell Vivien too. And Great-Uncle Francis, if you run into him. Say you’re breaking my confidence because you’re worried about me.’

‘I
am
worried about you.’

‘No need. I know what I’m doing. This puts you in the clear. No furtive key-copying means no secret deal between us. Generous of me, don’t you think?’

It was – suspiciously so. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Oliver?’

‘Maybe I will. Later. If you’ll do one more thing for me. I know you can drive, but have you got a car?’

‘No. I can’t afford one.’

‘Could you borrow your father’s?’

‘Probably.’ In fact, it was generally quite easy to persuade Dad to let me use the car, as long as I didn’t ask too often. He had little enough use for it himself. ‘Why?’

‘I want you to drive me somewhere this evening.’

‘Where?’

‘Pick me up at Nanpean. Park in front of the pub. Be there by seven o’clock. I’ll be getting off the bus from Newquay. When you see the bus pull in, start the engine. We’ll need to make a quick getaway.’

‘Quick getaway? What exactly—’

‘Just be there, OK? Or at least warn me if you’re going to let me down.’

‘Who said anything about letting you down?’

His blue eyes bored into me. I noticed his pupils were unnaturally dilated. I wondered, not for the first time, whether he was entirely sane. ‘Can I count on you, Jonathan?’

I felt the force of his will, urging me to assure him he could. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there. But why—’

‘No more questions. I’m heading that way.’ He pointed towards the gate in the lower corner of the cemetery. ‘Wait here and watch what Strake does, will you? That should tell you whether I’m being paranoid or not.’

He spun on his heel then and strode away. I watched him go, stepping back into the lee of the chapel so that I could watch Strake as well without making myself conspicuous.

By the time Oliver was halfway to the gate, Strake had broken off from his perusal of inscriptions and started moving in the same direction. There wasn’t much doubt he was following Oliver. He accelerated steadily, cutting between the gravestones to maintain his diagonal route across the cemetery, his short brown mac billowing out behind him.

He had a trilby worn askew on his head and I couldn’t see his face for the brim, but I caught a movement of his arm and a drift of smoke that told me he was smoking a cigarette.

Oliver reached the gate and went through. Strake stepped up his pace a little more and was soon hurrying through the gate himself. Then I was alone.

In a sense, Oliver had given me exactly what I wanted: a cover story that would persuade Vivien – and her stepfather – that I wasn’t to blame for the consequences of Oliver’s actions, whatever they might turn out to be. But in another sense, of course, he was still manipulating me, still using me to serve some devious purpose of his own. And I hadn’t the first idea what that purpose was. As I walked the rest of the way to Wren & Co., I pondered the logistics of conveying Oliver’s message to Greville Lashley. My colleagues in Accounts would grow suspicious if I became a frequent visitor to the managing director’s office with a crunch board meeting pending. I decided to seize my chance, therefore, when I encountered Lashley in the yard, striding purposefully towards his car. It wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but already he was leaving rather than arriving. Evidently he’d made an early start – a sure sign of the tumultuous times in Wren’s affairs.

‘Could I have a quick word, Mr Lashley?’ I asked, intercepting him.

‘It’ll have to be damned quick,’ he said without break of stride.

‘It’s about Oliver.’

He winced, as if a rotten tooth had suddenly pained him. ‘Get in the car. You can tell me on the way.’

I was in the plush-leathered passenger seat of the Jag and Lashley was making a roaring exit from the yard before I thought to ask where we were going.

‘I have a meeting at Cornish China Clays. You’ll have to walk back from there, I’m afraid. I’m operating on a tight schedule today.’

He was also operating without regard to speed limits. We were going to be at CCC in a matter of minutes, traffic permitting. I had no time for subtle preambles. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said on Monday, sir, concerning … unusual events.’

‘Have you now? I take it there’s been something unusual, then. And that Oliver’s involved.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, no surprise there. That boy’s a specialist in the unusual. So, what is it?’

‘It was, well … something he said … on Sunday.’

‘Out with it, then.’

‘He said, well … he said he’d already got some valuable information from the records before you gave orders for the basement to be kept locked and, although he’d have liked to go back for more if he’d been able to, it didn’t matter, because he already had enough.’

Lashley’s initial reaction was to drop his speed and nod thoughtfully. I began to wonder if he was going to say anything at all and ended up filling the gap myself.

‘I suppose the real reason I’m telling you this isn’t that I think it has any bearing on … Wren’s negotiations with CCC but …’

‘Because you’re worried about Oliver’s state of mind.’

There was no denying it. He’d taken the words out of my mouth. ‘Er … yes.’

‘So am I, Jonathan, so am I. I don’t suppose he said what he was looking for in the basement, did he?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Or what he already had enough
of
?’

‘I asked, but …’

‘You got nowhere.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Well, I’d be grateful if you kept trying.’

‘I will.’

‘It’s to do with his father’s death, of course. You realize that much, I’m sure.’

‘I guessed it had to be.’

‘Muriel thinks he believes his father would never have countenanced a merger with CCC. And Ken would be in charge now, of course, if he hadn’t … taken his own life. That may be so, for all I know. Ken always had a sentimental streak. But the fact is he isn’t in charge. I am. And there’s no place for sentiment in this business.’

I’d ceased to be aware of our surroundings as our conversation had proceeded and was suddenly surprised to see the sprawling concrete and glass headquarters of Cornish China Clays looming ahead. A uniformed attendant in a booth touched his cap to Lashley and raised the barrier to admit us to the car park and we cruised to a halt near the main entrance.

‘Thanks for being so candid with me, Jonathan,’ Lashley said, as we climbed from the car. ‘It’s much appreciated.’ This last remark he addressed to me across the roof of the Jag, with his accompanying smile mirrored in the gleaming paintwork. ‘How did dinner with Francis and Luisa go, by the way?’

‘Oh, fine, thanks. They were … very friendly.’

‘Ah. On their best behaviour, then. Let’s hope that continues.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, you’d better step on it, lad. Or Maurice Rowe will have your guts for garters.’

I did step on it, though I made myself later than ever by stopping at a call-box and phoning Dad at the bank to ask him if I could use the car that evening. My explanation that I was doing a member of the Wren family a favour impressed him. Buttering up one’s employer was something he very much approved of. Use of the car was agreed.

Maurice Rowe actually made little of my tardy arrival, largely because the following day’s board meeting was now preoccupying people to the exclusion of most other topics. Certainly Pete could speak of nothing else when we adjourned to the General Wolfe at lunchtime. Until I distracted him with a question about a former Wren’s employee.

‘Strake? Gordon Strake? Oh yeah. I remember him. How d’you come to hear of him?’

‘I just heard his name mentioned a few times … down at Charlestown.’

‘That so?’ He looked faintly surprised, as well he might. ‘Well, Lashley laid him off last year. He was one of our reps. Not bringing in enough business, I suppose.’

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘Haven’t a clue. He’s still in St Austell, though. I’ve seen him in the betting shop.’

Then, before I could pump him for any more information about Strake, he was back on the topic of the hour: Wren’s merger with – or takeover by – Cornish China Clays.

The sun strengthened and the blue of the sky deepened as the day progressed. The evening I drove out into from St Austell was still and clear, with every line of hedgerow and house sharply etched. I reached Nanpean with plenty of time to spare and parked in front of the pub. I bought a half of bitter and sat outside, watching the traffic and waiting for the Newquay–St Austell bus to nose round the corner at the edge of the village.

Seven o’clock came and went. It was nearly ten past, in fact, when the dusty green 58A lumbered into view. I stood up as it passed and caught a glimpse of Oliver’s face, close to the window, staring out at me. I drained my glass and made a move for the car.

The bus stopped by the post office a short distance down the road from the pub. Several people got off, Oliver among them. He jogged towards me, frowning in what I took for irritation that I still wasn’t ready to go. But by the time he’d piled into the passenger seat of the car, I’d started the engine and lacked only directions.

‘Back the way I’ve just come,’ Oliver snapped, slapping the dashboard for emphasis. ‘Quick.’

Fortunately, the road was clear. I pulled out straight away and put my foot down, to which the car responded with its normal sluggishness. I glanced back at the pub in the rear-view mirror and saw a familiar figure hurrying up from the stop and squinting after us: Strake.

‘See him?’ asked Oliver.

‘What’s he doing here?’

‘He’s been on my tail all day.’

‘He followed you to Newquay?’

‘Yes.’ Oliver gave a nervous, whinnying laugh. ‘A nice waste of
his
time. I hope he enjoyed the ice-cream he had while I sat on the beach.’

‘Where are we going now?’

‘St Dennis. I’ll direct you from there.’ I hadn’t noticed until then that he was carrying a small army surplus knapsack on his shoulder. He turned away from me to unbuckle it and rummage inside.

‘Why did you go to Newquay?’ I asked as we left the village behind and our speed picked up.

‘To tire Strake out so I could more easily give him the slip.’

‘Well, you’ve done that all right.’

‘Yes. Pretty neat, don’t you reckon?’

‘Who’s he working for?’

‘Ask him next time you see him. I’m sure you won’t have long to wait.’

‘Where
are
we going?’