Long Time Coming (37 page)

‘I will pay. Gladly. In fact, I will pay the entire fifty thousand. Thanks to Meneer Meridor, I can comfortably afford to do so. And you have, after all, done what I asked.’

‘But Meridor’s reputation will remain sullied,’ Eldritch pointed out.

‘It cannot be helped. I’ve done as much as I can. And so have you. The money is in a suspense account under Oudermans’ control. It can be drawn upon at any time I specify.’

‘How about today?’ I asked. ‘At least for the fifteen. It can be in Belgian francs if that helps. He’ll settle for a million.’

‘And who is
he
?’

‘Verhoest.’

Nimbala chuckled. ‘That man keeps costing you money, Meneer Swan. Do you think it’s well spent?’

‘It’s
your
money, J-J.’

‘Technically, it’s Meneer Meridor’s. And he would definitely not approve.’

‘But you’ll do it anyway.’

‘Yes.’ Nimbala tapped his stick decisively on the ground. ‘Of course.’

I called Verhoest from the nearest phone box and agreed to exchange the money for the negatives at two o’clock at the bank where he’d deposited them earlier. Nimbala then called Oudermans with instructions to make the cash available. Their agreement came, he reported, with a string attached, one I wasn’t at all surprised by. Van Briel would deliver the money.

He looked disappointed when he saw me waiting for him alone outside the Banque Belgo-Congolaise in Arenbergstraat a quarter
of an hour before my appointment with Verhoest. ‘Where’s our client?’ he instantly demanded.

I was forced to tell him he was missing Eldritch as well as Nimbala. Neither of them had been keen to encounter Verhoest after so many years, so they’d taken themselves off like two men about town for lunch at a restaurant they remembered from former times. ‘Verhoest would recognize him from the old days, which might complicate matters,’ I explained. ‘And we don’t need any more complications, now do we?’

Disappointed though he was, van Briel was forced to concede the point. ‘You’re right, of course. We have Lady Linley coming to the office at four with a lawyer called Govaert. He has quite a reputation. We also have Mrs Banner sitting by the phone at Zonnestralen expecting us to call her with news of you. And the Irish journalist you met last night, Moira Henchy, has been in my ear as well, telling me things about your uncle and her dead father that make me wish I’d gone skiing this week. I feel like the kid with his thumb in the dyke. Are we going to get drowned, Stephen? Or does a million francs buy us a good bung?’

‘Good enough.’

‘Who is Verhoest?’

‘Someone Ardal Quilligan left these with.’ I handed him the wallet of photographs.

He sorted through them for a minute, then whistled his appreciation. ‘Nice. Where are the negatives?’

‘In a safe-deposit box in this bank.’

‘So, we’re here to buy them from Verhoest?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what do you plan to do with them?’

‘Put them in your office safe, then phone Tate and tell him we have what he wants.’

Van Briel nodded. ‘OK. Good. Not really a bung, then.’ He grinned. ‘More a whole new dyke.’

Our business with Verhoest was concluded with anticlimactic ease. He arrived on time, looking dowdy and unremarkable in his grubby hat and raincoat, inspected van Briel’s proffered wads of high-domination Belgian franc notes with a degree of satisfaction that fell far short of enthusiasm, then retired to the vault with one of the bank clerks to fetch the negatives.

‘Do you think he has a whole boxload of secrets down there, Stephen?’ van Briel mused as we waited.

‘Maybe.’

‘He’s an old Congo hand. You can always tell them. There’s a deadness in the eyes.’

‘Is that right?’

‘How does it feel to know what this is all about?’

‘You reckon I do?’

‘Oh yes. There’s a change in you since yesterday. Then you were more like me. Now … you’re more like him.’

The
him
was Verhoest, returned from the vault, the envelope containing the negatives in his hand. I checked them. Van Briel double-checked them. They matched the prints. There could be no mistake. Van Briel handed over the money and we left Verhoest to pay it into his account. ‘Give my regards to your uncle if you see him’ was his parting remark, which, it seemed to me, was about as effusive an expression of gratitude as he was capable of.

‘Any similarity to him is temporary, Bart,’ I proclaimed as
we stepped out into the street. ‘Once this is over I’ll revert to type.’

‘We’d better get it over fast, then.’

‘Amen to that.’

We walked the short distance to Oudermans’ offices. Oudermans himself was waiting to greet me, his politeness stretched thin by professional disapproval. This solution to his clients’ problems wasn’t the kind to be found in a textbook of ideal case management. But if it worked … it worked. With the negatives stowed in the safe, I phoned the number Tate had given me.

The man who answered wasn’t Tate, though he sounded English. His manner was brisk. ‘Do you have the proof, Mr Swan?’

‘Yes.’

‘There can’t be any room for doubt.’

‘And there isn’t any.’

‘Sure?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. You’re in Antwerp?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. Mr Tate will meet you in the Centraal station buffet at four o’clock.’

Oudermans seemed almost relieved that I wouldn’t be able to attend their meeting with Lady Linley and her lawyers. ‘Call Govaert,’ he instructed van Briel. ‘Persuade him to postpone the meeting.’

‘Until when?’

‘It doesn’t matter. If Mr Swan can reach an accommodation with Mr Tate this afternoon, I imagine the meeting will never take place.’

I made another call before leaving Oudermans’. After some delay, Eldritch came to the phone of the Metropole Hotel restaurant. He sounded subdued, almost mellow.

‘I’ve secured the negatives,’ I reported. ‘And I’m to meet Tate at four.’

‘You’re doing well.’

‘So far.’

‘So good.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Meet me in the Angel –
Den Engel
– in the Grand Place – Grote Markt, I suppose I should say – at six o’clock. Then you can tell me the worst.’

I thought at the time that Eldritch had been giving rein to his natural pessimism with his last remark. As I sat in the smoky, bustling, cavernous buffet at Centraal station an hour later, though, it occurred to me that the best I could achieve was also the worst for Eldritch, at least in one respect that he might justifiably regard as crucial. Nimbala’s pay-off would keep him in comfort for a good few years, but my surrender of the proof that Desmond Quilligan had forged the Picassos meant Sir Miles Linley would live on in unthreatened comfort himself. There was compensation. But there was no justice.

Tate materialized silently out of the prevailing fug as the hands on the clock above the counter registered four o’clock exactly.

‘What have you got for me, Mr Swan?’ he asked, gliding into the chair on the other side of my table.

‘These.’ I slid the wallet of photographs across to him.

He examined them carefully – and expressionlessly. Then he replaced them in the wallet. ‘Very nice. Very … definitive.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Can I keep them?’

‘Sure.’

‘I’ll need the negatives, of course.’

I laid Oudermans’ card in front of him. ‘They’re in safe, legal custody.’

‘Well, that’s reassuring.’

‘Isn’t it?’

Tate took a drag on his cigarette, studying me dispassionately as he did so. Then he said, ‘Here’s what I’ll do for you, Mr Swan. First thing tomorrow morning, a man will walk into Ostend police
station and report that he witnessed Ardal Quilligan’s murder. His description of the killer – male, middle-aged, built like a brick shit-house – will conclusively rule out you and Miss Banner. I can’t be answerable for the speed and efficiency of the Prosecutor’s Office, but I’m confident the police will have released Miss Banner before the day’s out and informed you both that you’re free to go.’ He smiled tightly. ‘How does that sound?’

‘Acceptable.’

‘I thought it might. Meanwhile, we’ll confirm the present location of the negatives’ – he picked up the card – ‘and arrange a suitable time for their collection.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘How did you persuade your uncle to hand them over?’

‘I didn’t need to. They were with someone else.’

‘I see.’ Tate ruminated on that for a moment. ‘There are just the six pictures, are there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Holding on to an extra few would be foolish, you know. In the extreme.’

‘This is all there is. Sir Miles Linley can sleep soundly in his bed.’

‘In that case, so can we all.’ Tate pocketed the photographs and the card, then stood up and headed for the exit.

Den Engel, as I realized when I arrived, was the bar I’d killed time in the day before. It probably hadn’t changed much since 1840, let alone 1940. Eldritch was sitting at a table towards the rear, smoking one of his Sobranies and sipping a local beer. He looked tired and thoughtful, which was no surprise, since he had plenty to be tired by and thoughtful about.

I told him the particulars of my deal with Tate, to which he reacted with a nod of acceptance and a murmured, ‘That should do it.’ Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, this is for you,’ he said, reaching into his pocket.

It was a cheque from Nimbala for £5,000: my share of the reward. My instinctive reaction was to hand it back, but Eldritch grabbed my wrist and forced me to hear him out.

‘Never refuse money unless there are strings attached, Stephen. That’s a piece of wisdom that comes with age. Rachel isn’t going to be best pleased when she finds out what you’ve bought her freedom with, even though you had no alternative. She’ll need … perspective. You should take her away somewhere where she can get it. A long way away. Five thousand pounds’ worth of away.’

‘It’s a nice idea.’ And so it was. In that moment, after all we’d been through, it was richly tempting.

‘Make it more than an idea.’

‘She may turn me down.’

‘I doubt that.’ He let go of my wrist. And I didn’t let go of the cheque.

‘What will you do, Eldritch?’

‘I plan to go away myself.’

‘With anyone I know? Marie-Louise, perhaps?’

‘We’ll see.’ He glanced past me, deflecting the question. ‘It would have been satisfying to make Linley suffer for what he did to me. But I decided a long time ago that if I ever got out of prison I wasn’t going to waste however many years I had left striving for vengeance. We played our hand and we lost. I wouldn’t say we were defeated, though.’

‘No?’

‘I’m hoping you’ll do something for me.’

‘What?’

‘J-J said I could stay at his apartment for a couple of nights. So, I don’t have to go back to Zonnestralen. If I did, I’d have to meet Rachel’s mother. Frankly, I can’t face all the explanations and apologies I owe her. Could you … go and see her on my behalf ?’

I could hardly refuse his request after trading away his chance of revenge. I nodded. ‘All right.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Is this goodbye, Eldritch?’

‘If everything goes according to plan, yes.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘We’ve both got what we originally wanted, Stephen. Isn’t that enough?’

‘It doesn’t feel like enough.’

‘Then you should adjust your expectations.’

‘Why didn’t you speak up in your own defence at your trial?’

‘Ah, that last unanswered question, eh?’ Eldritch chuckled drily. ‘I didn’t think you’d leave it hanging.’

‘Well?’

‘Finish your beer and step outside with me. I need some air.’

Darkness had descended on the Grote Markt, its cobbles gleaming damply in the lamplight. Eldritch lit another cigarette and wandered across the square towards the Brabo Fountain, gazing up at its statue of a youth clutching an outsized severed hand, poised as if to throw it.

‘Do you know the Brabo legend?’ he asked.

‘Inexplicably, I haven’t found the time to follow the tourist trail round Antwerp,’ I replied.

‘Well, it goes like this. Shipping on the Scheldt in ancient days was at the mercy of the giant Antigonius, who used to tear off the right hands of captains who tried to dodge paying his toll and throw them into the river. Along comes a brave young Roman soldier, Silvius Brabo, supposedly a nephew of Julius Caesar. He challenges Antigonius to combat, outfights him, cuts off
his
hand and throws it into the river. Biter duly bit. Or maimer maimed. The name of the city is a corruption of
hand werpen
– to throw a hand.’

‘Are you telling me this for a reason?’

‘It’s a legend, Stephen. A myth. That’s the point. In real life, you can’t outfight a giant. There’s only one way to get the better of him.’

‘And that is?’

‘Hire a bigger giant.’

‘What if there isn’t one available?’

‘Pay the toll.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You have to know when to resist and when to give in. Also
how
to resist. And
how
to give in.’

‘Is that supposed to explain what happened at your trial?’

He nodded. ‘Amongst other things. Then. Now. And in the future.’

It is a drizzly, clammy Wednesday morning in Dublin. The greyness of the day is somehow intensified by the atmosphere prevailing in the Taoiseach’s office in Government Buildings. Éamon de Valéra sits at his desk, tight-lipped and frowning, the folds of flesh on his raw-boned face suggesting that this is a far from uncommon expression. His eyes gleam behind round, steel-framed glasses and are apparently fixed on the two men sitting at the table in the centre of the room. This cannot literally be true, however, since he is partially sighted to the point of blindness. But the literal truth has never been regarded by Éamon de Valéra as any kind of obstacle. He sees what he needs to see.

In this case, he sees, accurately enough, Frank Aiken, the Minister for Defence, and Gerald Boland, the Minister for Justice. They are contrasting figures – Aiken big, bluff and burly, militaristically moustached, dominant of bearing; Boland bland of face, slighter of build, melancholically undemonstrative. All three are veterans of the Easter Rising and, notionally at least, the staunchest of old comrades. But the collusions and compromises of the past twenty-four years have left their mark. Aiken, a former IRA Chief of Staff, believes Germany will win the war and advises de Valéra accordingly. Boland believes and advises the opposite. And de Valéra himself, who serves as Minister for External Affairs as well as Taoiseach, takes his own counsel.