Mary's Prayer (10 page)

And that was it, straight back to Newcastle. Laughing all the way with the kind of hysterical laughter that bravado and fear
creates. Larkin was driving; The Clash blared out.

‘Fuckin’ ’ell, what a laugh! I don’t think I’ve ever had an assignment like this one.’ And Andy collapsed into giggles.

‘Me neither,’ said Larkin truthfully.

Andy dug into his case, on the back seat, and pulled out a hip flask. He unscrewed the top, took a long swig, and handed it
to Larkin. ‘Happy homecoming!’

‘Cheers!’ Larkin took the flask and tipped it into his mouth. They kept it up all the way back to the hotel.

There was no message from Charlotte. Andy went to send his film by express post; Larkin wrote his articles on his laptop.
There were two; one for the tabloid he worked for, one to sell, freelance, to the Sunday supplements. He’d been working on
that one already, an ironic, elegaic account of his homecoming and the funeral. A real load of crap, in other words. It took
him about an hour and a half then he faxed them. Finally he gave his editor a reluctant duty call.

He told her he’d be staying in Newcastle for a few days because he thought he’d found a good story. Lindsay accused him of
seeing another woman; Larkin didn’t confirm or deny it.

There was a muffled noise at the other end, then Lindsay was back on the phone. ‘We’ve got your fax. Well done. You can still
write when you want to.’ There was a pause; Larkin heard her light a Silk Cut. ‘Well, hurry home soon, darling. I’m missing
your dick.’ And with that she rang off.

Larkin stood there holding the dead phone, wondering why he’d bothered. And where the fuck was home, anyway?

* * *

The same tired old shit, thought Larkin, as he watched Prince gyrating on MTV. He switched the set off, bored. For something
to do, he had another flick through his pile of background information on Edgell and Fenwick; nothing grabbed him. He looked
at the photo of Mary again. Behind her there was a whole load of people; he tried to make some of them out, but it was impossible
– they were out of focus. There was one man closer to Mary’s table who did look familiar, though. He went scurrying through
his pile of paper and came up with a matching face. Sir James Lascelles. He was pictured in the cutting presenting a cheque
to a local hospital’s renal unit, surrounded by nurses, looking as if the health of his serfs depended on their squire’s benevolence.
Larkin checked the photo. There he was at the party, doing a Gatsby, looking on while his guests availed themselves of his
generous hospitality. Perhaps it was time he paid a visit to kindly old Sir James. The newspaper article named his company
as Golden Crest. He got the number and address – Crest Towers – from Directory Enquiries and made the call.

He had no luck until he mentioned the law firm that Charlotte worked for; immediately he was connected to Sir James’s private
secretary. He was going to blag it, pretend to be from
Hello
magazine, but he sensed he wouldn’t get far. Instead he said, ‘I’m a friend of Charlotte Birch’s.’

He was put on hold. After what seemed like an eternity, made even longer by having to listen to ‘Greensleeves’ played on a
stylophone (
ha
, thought Larkin,
money can’t buy you taste
), the secretary came back on the line. ‘Sir James will see you at four thirty. Today.’

Larkin sat back, stunned. He hadn’t thought it was going to work. It was three thirty already. He grabbed his jacket and made
for the door. This was either the best move he’d ever made – or the worst.

‘Larkin. Stephen Larkin. I’ve got an appointment with Sir James at four thirty.’

Although he hadn’t had time to smarten himself up, he didn’t think he warranted the frosty greeting he was getting from the
receptionist at Crest Towers. She was all in black, with cropped hair and an expression that would have done Heinrich Himmler
proud. Her very presence made the temperature drop a few degrees. She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her he had an appointment
with Sir James.

‘Why don’t you check?’ said Larkin, getting irritated.

She reluctantly punched something into her terminal. Larkin looked round; the reception area was minimalist to the point of
severity. Situated just off Mosely Street, Crest Towers was a vast, black edifice, casting a towering shadow over the whole
city. No one could see in; and, as Larkin was discovering, no one could
get
in. The building was either a monument to endeavour, risk and progress – or an ugly, characterless eyesore. Larkin knew which
one he’d pick.

The receptionist looked up. On discovering that Larkin did have a bona fide appointment, her in-built thermometer plummeted
still further. Probably her idea of a good night out was going to the abattoir to watch the cattle being slaughtered; she
might even help to beat them with a stick first.

‘The lift is over there. Don’t move or touch anything once you’re inside.’

‘Why? Is there an ejector seat?’

She fixed him with a death-ray stare.

Larkin smiled. ‘I bet that beneath that tough, hard exterior, you’ve got a heart of pure marshmallow.’

Her ice-chip eyes followed him all the way to the lift.

The doors whispered open; Larkin saw a desk with a man sitting behind it. He stepped out and the doors hissed shut behind
him.

The lift was a stainless-steel canister attached to the side of the building. It silently descended, leaving Larkin to his
fate. The room was glass, circular, dizzyingly far from the ground, with a three hundred and sixty degree view of the city.
At the other end – if a circular room could have ends – was a huge, antique mahogany desk, unadorned with anything resembling
work, and inset with tiny TV screens. The desk also carried a hi-tech phone, but nothing else. No family photos. Nothing to
indicate a life outside Crest Towers. Behind the desk sat Sir James Lascelles. Larkin sized him up; his photos had flattered
him. He was squat, with a rubbery, slimy face, a deficit in the hair department and a bloated body wrapped in an expensive
suit. He had the sleek, oddly attractive look that money and power lends to ugly men: a handsome frog, perched on a lily pad.

Sir James smiled as if he had a long tongue and Larkin was the fly.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Larkin. I believe you wanted to see me.’

Lascelles’ composure made Larkin feel like James Bond walking into Blofeld’s lair. Next he would be told the villain’s master
plan, then placed in a trap that he had to escape from armed with only a comb and a wristwatch. Larkin checked for the presence
of a tank of pirhana fish, a trap door, or a fluffy white cat, and then crossed the floor towards Sir James.

Just because he makes more money than God
, thought
Larkin,
don’t let him intimidate you
. ‘Yeah. Hello.’ He looked around. ‘Nice view you’ve got here.’

Sir James smiled smugly. ‘It is rather, isn’t it?’

‘Bet it gets a bit boring after a while.’

‘You think so?’

Larkin shrugged.

‘Mr Larkin, look around you. I am rebuilding this city to my personal design. Everywhere I look I see a project of mine –
a shopping complex, a hotel, a cinema. Urban renewal. Everywhere I look, I look on my work.’

‘And tremble?’

The predatory smile widened. ‘I see you are well-read, Mr Larkin. I admire education in a man.’ He sighed elaborately. ‘Alas,
I am not educated.’ He sat back, smiled corpulently. ‘But self-improvement takes many forms.’

Larkin took that as his cue to speak. ‘Wouldn’t you say – the higher you are, the harder you fall?’

Lascelles smiled again; it wasn’t pleasant. ‘I won’t be falling. This was a decayed city, blighted by unemployment, poverty,
bad housing – but I’ve changed all that. I’ve employed hundreds – thousands, perhaps – housed families, whole communities,
improved the quality of life for the whole region. In short, I have become the saviour of the North East. I have become The
Grand Architect.’

A monumental bore, more like, Larkin thought. All the self-made men he’d ever met wanted to do nothing but talk about themselves.
It was like being stuck in a room full of actors. He decided to see how far he could go.

‘So you’ve got a vision. But haven’t they tried that vision thing round before?’

‘I take it you are referring to Mr Dan Smith and his unwise choice of associates. Yes, they did have a vision of how this
city should be.’

‘And to do the same thing they did, you have to resort to the same methods. And end up in the same mess? Doesn’t that worry
you?’

Lascelles smiled indulgently. ‘No. I won’t make the mistakes they made.’

‘So all these grateful people you’ve given work to, allowing them to build your grand designs …’

‘Yes?’

‘Can they afford to live in them? Shop in them?’

A flicker of anger crossed Lascelles’ face and was gone.

‘Your kind are quick to mock the accomplishments of others. But was it not ever thus? In a society, there will always be those
at the top and those at the bottom. I do what I can to help. Would that everyone would do the same!’

Larkin had taken an instant dislike to the man. Anyone so rich and successful had to be bent. The thrill he’d felt at being
granted an audience was quickly dissipating; all he wanted to do now was ask his questions and leave. But Lascelles was in
full flow.

‘Do you know something?’

‘A few things,’ said Larkin. ‘What in particular?’

‘I’m now the biggest property developer in the North East. Bigger than John Hall, even.’

‘Really.’ Larkin took a stroll around the room. ‘Is this all you do all day? Sit here at your uncluttered desk and look out
at Newcastle? Not much of a life, is it? Not much different from being on the dole.’

Another smile. ‘Ah, you misunderstand me. I look out here on
my
city. I see what progress I am making, or is being made on my behalf.’ He looked directly at Larkin. ‘There is very little
goes on down there that I don’t know about – or won’t find out about?’

‘Then you’re just the man I want to talk to. Do you know Mary Greene?’

‘Should I?’

‘You might know her as Mary Torrington?’

‘The names are not familiar. Am I being interrogated, may I ask?’

‘It’s just that I’m doing a little investigating into a
suspicious death. And your name has popped up a couple of times from independent sources.’

‘And you think I am responsible for this death?’

‘No.’

‘What then? Do you think I know who the guilty party is?’

‘As you said, nothing goes on in this town that you don’t know about.’

He sat back, stung: one-nil to Larkin.

‘
Touché
, Mr Larkin,
touché
. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about this woman.’

‘What about Gary Fenwick?’

‘Gary Fenwick?’

‘Oh, I should imagine you’ve heard of him, Sir James. I’m sure you read the papers.’

He made a theatrical show of remembering. ‘Ah, yes. Wasn’t he involved in a … a death, Mr Larkin? Is this the case you’re
asking about? I thought it was all very clear-cut.’

‘It is. But he may have been involved in the death of Mary Torrington as well.’

‘What an anti-social fellow! But isn’t he locked away? No longer a menace to society?’

‘You should know. It’s your pet law firm that’s handling the case.’

‘Oh, I’d hardly call them that, Mr Larkin. I just happen to know a few of its partners and associates.’

‘Including Charlotte Birch?’

‘Ah, the lovely Ms Birch. Or Mrs Twigge, to be exact.’

‘
Twigge
?’ Larkin couldn’t hide his surprise and amusement.

‘Didn’t she tell you her married name, Mr Larkin? I imagine not. She keeps her maiden name for professional purposes.’ He
sighed again, repositioning himself. Sir James continued. ‘You said on the phone that you are a friend of hers?’

‘I am. And I’m looking into the death of Mary Torrington on her behalf. You
must
remember her, Sir James. You were photographed with her.’

That caught Lascelles off balance, but he clung on to his composure.

‘Yeah,’ said Larkin. ‘Got it here …’ He dug into his pocket, handed the photo over.

Lascelles took it, but didn’t respond. Larkin decided to help him along a bit. ‘Look, there you are in the background. You
do photograph well, don’t you? I’d hardly have recognised you in the flesh. And look, there’s Mary, sitting at the table.
Recognise her now?’

Lascelles said nothing.

‘And who’s her companion? I don’t suppose you know him, do you?’ Larkin tried to sound offhand.

Sir James looked up, the edges of his mouth twitching in a smile – or a grimace. ‘No, I don’t. Are you insinuating that I’m
personally acquainted with everyone who comes to my parties? That’s a lot of people.’

‘I’m just asking for your help in my enquiries. A public-minded citizen like yourself – only too happy to help, I’d have thought.’

Sir James sat back. He returned the photo to Larkin. A look of amusement played over his face as he regained full control
of the situation. ‘Are you attempting to blackmail me in some way, Mr Larkin? I only ask because this office has every bugging
and counter-bugging device known to man. Threats don’t work in here.’

Larkin had the distinct impression he was being toyed with. ‘I wasn’t threatening you! I was just asking you a few simple
questions.’

‘Which I’m afraid I am unable to answer.’

‘Anyway,’ said Larkin before he could shut his mouth, ‘if you ever want a good firm of solicitors, I can recommend one. Nicholson
Griffin Harwood and Howe. They’ll take anybody.’

At the touch of a button on Sir James’s desk, the lift hovered into view once more.

‘I think this conversation has run its course,’ said Lascelles amiably.

Larkin crossed to the lift. Then he stopped, and turned.

‘One more thing. Ever heard of Wayne Edgell?’

‘Only from the papers.’

‘And – just one last thing – you wouldn’t happen to know who’s paying Gary Fenwick’s solicitor’s bill? It’s just that Charlotte,
bless her, won’t tell me, and I thought that you—’

‘Goodbye, Mr Larkin.’

And Larkin knew that was all he would be getting.

The Hitler Youth receptionist was still at her post. Larkin winked at her as he walked past but he may as well have been invisible
for all the notice she took.

He walked out through the main entrance. Then he saw something that made his blood freeze: Pierced Nipples, walking directly
towards him.

Larkin stared at him. He was wearing his leather trousers, a leather jacket with thin lapels and a white linen, collarless
shirt buttoned up to the neck. He headed straight for Larkin with a determined stride – and past him, into Crest Towers.

Curiouser and curiouser
, thought Larkin. Pierced Nipples and Sir James? And what about Charlotte – where did she fit into all this? And Charles.
Fenwick. Terry. Edgell. And Mary. Poor Mary. So what was all this – conspiracy or coincidence? Larkin was sure of only one
thing.

Give it up. Stop this ‘investigation’ right now. He was in way over his head. If there was something illegal going on, then
it was a job for the police, not a solitary journalist. He wanted nothing more to do with it. He felt a pang of conscience
over Mary – but it was something else he would have to live with. The whole thing had got too big.
Finito
. He would tell Charlotte tonight.

As he walked back to his hotel, rehearsing how he was going to break the news, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before:
just how many boards there were dotted
around, advertising Sir James’s company. What he owned, what he was developing. It made Larkin feel queasy.

When he got back to the hotel there was a message for him, from Charlotte. A time, and an address in Jesmond. He steeled himself
for what he had to do. He knew she’d go apeshit.

He knocked on the door of Andy’s room.

‘Oh, ’allo, mate. Come in.’

Larkin followed him. The room was virtually spotless; Andy’s bags and equipment were piled up on the bed.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’m off, mate. You coming, or what?’

‘Erm … no, not yet. There’s a few things I have to take care of tonight.’

‘Oh, her again. You still on this case?’

‘No. That’s what I’ve got to take care of. I’m going to see her tonight, tell her it’s all off. Tell her I’m going back to
London and that’s that.’

‘Couldn’t you just phone her and get the train back with me? We’d have a laugh.’

He saw the look in Larkin’s eye.

‘No. Don’t suppose you could, really.’

There was an awkward silence between them.

‘Well, look,’ said Andy, ‘I didn’t think I would – but I’ve had a great time up here. All things considered. You’re all right,
you are. It’s been – different, but good.’

‘You’re all right too,’ said Larkin.

They both stood like a pair of embarrassed teenagers, grinning like idiots.

‘Well, look, mate, I’ve got to go. You know my number. Give me a bell back in the smoke and we can go for a couple of bevvies
or something. Yeah?’

‘Sounds good to me. As long as there’s not a funeral going on at the time!’

‘Yeah, well.’ Andy stuck out his hand. ‘Cheers, mate.’

Larkin shook it. ‘Cheers.’

And he shut the door on the nearest thing he’d had to a friend in ages.