Ghost Music (32 page)

“This is my revenge for you waking
me
up,” she said.

I rolled over in bed and pulled down the toggle of the bedside lamp. “Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I wasn't asleep yet.”

“What's the matter? Insomnia?”

“If you'd seen what I saw,
you'd
have insomnia, too. For weeks.”

“Not
more
weirdness?”

“You'd better believe it. The same weirdness, only worse. I'll tell you all about it when I get back to New York.”

“You're okay, though?”

“Sure, I'm okay. Did you find out anything about Penumbra?”

“Not a whole lot. They have a website but all it gives you is a few photographs of ritzy apartments, and a blurb about ‘prestige apartments worldwide . . . rare and distinguished rental properties in some of the most historic cities of Europe and Scandinavia . . . homes for international players of taste and influence.'

“Underneath that it says ‘Rome—London—Stockholm—Venice—Prague.'”

“Any contact information?”

“There's an e-mail address, and a line that says ‘a wholly owned division of Sunpath Holdings.' But that's all. I called my friend Gavin who works for Manhattan Realty Group. He knows everybody in property but he's never heard of Penumbra, or Sunpath.”

“Have you tried Googling Sunpath?”

“Yes . . . but there's nothing listed . . . except for some elementary school in Minnesota and a housing development in Arizona. It's a word used by realtors to describe the position of a house in relation to the sun, but that's about it.”

“Okay, Margot. Thanks.”

“Listen—you're stopping off in London, right?”

“I'm catching the eleven o'clock flight tomorrow morning. Well—in eight and a half hours' time.”

“Will you have time to buy me some British rock candy? You know, that pink stuff with london written all the way through it?”

“You're a kid, Margot. Did you know that?”

I put down the phone. Sunpath Holdings. I wrote it down on the Sheraton notepad beside the bed.

* * *

I ordered breakfast on room service the next morning, hard-cooked eggs and cheese and thin slices of salami. It was 8:00
AM
, but outside it was still dark and snow was falling into Lake Mälaren.

I watched CNN News while I dressed and drank my coffee, black with three brown sugar cubes in it. I didn't usually take sugar but this morning I felt like I needed the energy.

Every now and then the television picture crackled and jumped. At the end of his 8:15 am bulletin, weatherman Carl Parker said, “. . . apologies for all of the interference, folks . . . this is being caused by unusual solar flare activity . . . so blame the sun, not your set . . .”

I was standing in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, before the words came together in my head. I looked at myself in the mirror, and I felt as if I were in one of those reverse zooms they do in the movies, when the background dwindles rapidly away but the character seems to be coming toward you.

Blame the sun. Solar flare activity. Sun equals Sol. Path equals way.

Solway.
Penumbra was owned by Victor Solway. In his arrogance, in his supreme self-confidence, he had hardly even tried to disguise it.

* * *

The sun was shining sharply when I arrived at 37 Wetherby Gardens. When you see London in the sunshine, you realize how grimy it is and how gray and how decrepit. London itself looks tired these days, a city of exhausted dreams.

I paid off the taxi and managed to work out a reasonable tip—or maybe it was too much, because the cabbie called out, “Cheers, mate! Cheers! Thanks a lot!” before he drove away.

The first thing I noticed as I climbed the front steps was that there were no drapes hanging in the living room windows of the Philipses' apartment. When I reached the porch, I shaded my eyes so that I could look inside. There was no furniture in the living room either—and no paintings hanging on the walls. All I could see were bare floorboards and a half-open door leading to the hallway.

I rang the doorbell but there obviously wasn't much point. The Philipses were gone. All I could do was find myself another taxi and fly back to New York.

Halfway down the steps, however, I stopped and turned around, just to take a last look. And there she was—sitting on the right-hand windowsill, watching me. The white Persian cat who may or may not have been Malkin.

Slowly, I climbed up the steps again, and confronted her.

“What are you?”
I mouthed, even though I knew that she couldn't hear me through the glass—and even if she could, she wouldn't be able to answer me.
“What are you doing here? What are you trying to tell me, for Christ's sake?”

She stared at me for a few seconds longer. Then she jumped down from the windowsill and ran out of the living room, into the hallway, toward the kitchen.

I glanced around. There were three or four passersby on the opposite side of the street, but none of them was taking any notice of me. Why should they—a scruffy-looking guy in a raincoat? I went back down the steps, and around to the side of the house. There was a white-painted wooden gate, but it was unlocked, and I was able to make my way along the narrow alley where the garbage bins were stored.

At the end of the alley, on the right-hand side, I came across a second gate, but this was unlocked, too. I climbed three shallow
concrete steps and found myself on the Philipses' patio. I could see into their kitchen, and into the master bedroom, too. There was a double bed in the bedroom, although it had been stripped down to the mattress, and the kitchen was empty. But the white cat was sitting at the window, as if she had been expecting me.

I approached the window and hunkered down in front of her. She touched the glass with her nose, and licked her lips.

“What are you trying to tell me, puss?” I demanded, much louder this time. “Come on, Malkin—show me!”

She looked up, and so I looked up, too. In the window, I saw the reflection of a young boy, standing right behind me. I twisted around, losing my balance, so that I had to grab hold of the window frame to steady myself.

I stood up. The boy was about twelve or thirteen years old, with a short brown haircut. He was wearing a gray sweater with a school badge on it, and baggy gray pants. His face had been badly beaten. His lips were split and his cheeks were swollen, and it looked as if his jaw might been dislocated.

But it was his eyes that shocked me the most. They were wide-open, as if he were staring at me, but the irises and the pupils were milky white, while the eyeballs around them were deeply bloodshot. His eyelids were encrusted with a transparent crystalline substance, some of which had dripped halfway down his cheeks like tears, but then solidified.

“Daddy?” he said, reaching out in front of him. “Is that you, daddy?”

“It's Gideon,” I told him. “Listen—I can get you some help.”

“Is that you, daddy?” he repeated. “It hurts so much. Please tell them to stop. Please tell them not to hurt me anymore.”

I gently took hold of his hands. He flinched, and tried to tug them free, but I wouldn't let him go.

“Listen,” I said, “my name's Gideon. I'm not going to hurt you. Can you tell me your name?”

“My eyes,” he said, twisting his head around and around as if
that might help to clear his vision. “They hurt my eyes. They're burning and they won't stop burning and I can't
see
anymore.”

“Tell me your name,” I repeated. “I can help you, I promise. But I need to know your name.”

He suddenly stopped twisting his head and stared in my direction, although he was blinded.

“Giles Nicholas Philips,” he said. “Thirty-seven Wetherby Gardens, London SW5. Please give them what they want. Please, daddy.
Please.
Don't let them hurt me anymore.
Please!
”

I knew that it was far too late for me to help him, and that nobody else could help him either. I could call for an ambulance, but they wouldn't find anybody here.

I squeezed his fingers tight, and then I gripped his shoulder, to try and show him that I understood what he was going through, although he was plainly going through hell, and how the hell could I understand that?

I left him there, on the patio, still calling for his father, and I went down the steps and closed the gate behind me. Sometimes other people's agony is too much for us to listen to. Shit, listen to me, philosophizing. I left him because I simply couldn't bear it anymore.

As I crossed the paved front yard, the door opened and a young man in a dark business suit came out, carrying a briefcase.

“Excuse me!” he called out. “Can I help you?”

“I—ah—not really.”

He came briskly down the steps, on very shiny black shoes. He had one of those smooth fresh faces that you see in high school photographs, still unmarked by life's disappointments.

“Were you looking for somebody?” he asked me. “Perhaps I can help.”

“Well, uh—I was wondering if this apartment was for rent. I've been looking for a base in London for quite a while, and I just happened to be walking past.”

“It
is
available, as a matter of fact.” The young man opened his
briefcase and took out a business card. Keller & Watson, Letting Agents, 161 Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. “If you'd like to take a quick look around, I have the keys with me.”

I glanced up and I could see Malkin back on the windowsill, watching me. “No, thanks. Maybe I can make an appointment. You know—bring my wife along with me. She doesn't come over from New York until next week, but I daren't make any kind of major decision without consulting
her
—if you get my drift.”

The young man smiled sympathetically. “Of course, Mr.—”

“Schifrin. Lalo Schifrin.”

“Very well, Mr. Schifrin. Anytime you like. Just for your information, the rent is three thousand, two hundred and fifty pounds a week. Council tax on top of that, of course.”

I wasn't very good at working out the exchange rates of small amounts of British currency, but I knew that the pound was worth about twice what the dollar was—which meant that the Philipses' apartment would have cost me nearly twenty-five thousand bucks a month.

“Sounds very reasonable.” I nodded. “By the way, who owns it?”

“Funny thing, they're a New York company. Perhaps you know them. Penumbra.”

“Oh, Penumbra! Sure, I've heard of them. Very upscale. Run by that—what's-his-name feller.” I paused, and waited for the young man to give me the answer. When he didn't, I said, “You know. What's-his-name? Always escapes me. Galway? Solway?”

The young man shook his head. “I'm afraid I don't know, sir. Mr. Watson usually deals with Penumbra.”

“Oh, well, not to worry. But thanks for your time. I'll call you just as soon as the wife arrives in town.”

The young man shook hands, and walked off. I waited outside the house for a while, but the white cat had disappeared and I had no intention of going back to the patio to see if Giles Philips was still there, blinded or not.

I hailed a taxi. On the way back to my hotel, I sat watching London go past, sunlit and shabby, a city well past its prime. I felt exhausted. I also felt guilty—more guilty than I had ever felt before—because I had turned my back on Tilda, and Giles Philips, too. But now I had a pretty good idea of what Kate had asked me to do, and I was more determined than ever not to let her down.

When I arrived home, New York was in the grip of a bitter spell of weather from Canada. It wasn't snowing, but those northwest winds made your nose drip whenever you ventured outside, and all the city's fountains were frozen into lumpy shapes, like ice-trolls.

I put the heating on full blast, and poured myself a large glass of
krupnik
, the honey vodka that had been given to me two Christmases ago by my Polish friend Piotr Kús. He could play the drums like a demented marionette, Piotr, but only after two joints and half a bottle of Wodka Wyborowa.

I had only been home about an hour when there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and it was Kate, wearing a silver fox hat and a long silver fox coat. She was carrying Malkin in her arms.

“Hello, stranger,” I greeted her. “Come on in.”

She stepped into my apartment on very high-heeled black boots. I closed the door behind her, and then I took her into my arms and kissed her. Her lips were very cold, but the inside of her mouth was very warm. Her cold eyelashes brushed my cheek.

I untied her coat, and put my arms around her, and held her very close, and kissed her again. “You don't know how much I've missed you,” I told her.

She took off her hat, and shook her hair. “You could have come back from Venice nonstop.”

“No, I couldn't. I had to find out for myself what happened to the Cesarettis and the Westerlunds and the Philipses. You couldn't
tell me, could you? You could only
show
me. I still don't completely understand why, to tell you the truth. Something to do with a wife not being able to give evidence in court against her husband? But it doesn't really matter. All of those apartments are owned by Penumbra International Property and Penumbra International Property is owned by Sunpath Holdings and Sunpath Holdings is owned by Victor. Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” she said. Her chin was uptilted as if she were challenging me. “So what are you going to do now?”

“First off? First off I'm going to take off your coat. Then I'm going to take off your dress, and your underwear, if you're wearing any, and I'm going to carry you into the bedroom and make love to you.”

“What about my boots?”

“Your boots? No—you have to leave your boots on.”

“What about Malkin?”