Midnight Fugue (17 page)

13.00–13.50

Goldie Gidman watched his guest’s reaction to the food that Flo had set before him with an amusement he took care to hide.

The man had been an hour late for his eleven o’clock appointment at Windrush House. As his purpose was basically to beg for money, it might have been expected that he would be punctual. On the other hand, as a peer of the realm condescending to visit the tasteless mansion of a self-made black man, he perhaps did not feel that the courtesy of kings need apply. Certainly his explanation for his lateness with its casual reference to the number of roadworks between Sandringham and Waltham Abbey had more of condescension than apology in it.

Goldie Gidman was not offended. When asked as he frequently was by journalists why a man with his background should be such a staunch supporter of the Conservative Party, he had a stock reply that included references to traditional values, British justice, fair play, equal opportunity, enlightened individualism, and cricket.

Privately, and not for publication, he had been known to say that he’d looked closely at British politics and seen that the Tories were his kind of people. Folk he could deal with, motives he understood.

Internally, in that core of being where all men hide their truths and which will only be laid completely open at the great Last Judgment, if such an event ever takes place, Gidman believed that all politicians were little better than reservoir dogs, so you might as well run with the pack that fed off your kind of meat.

The peer was what is known as a fund raiser. His purpose in visiting Goldie was to discover why in recent months his hitherto generous donations to the Party had diminished from a glistening flood to a muddy trickle. It should not be thought that the Party’s ringmaster was so naïve as to think that Gidman was likely to be impressed by an ancient title. Rather his thinking was that, by hesitating his payments, Gidman was taking up a bargaining position. In consequence of recent scandals, such negotiations tended to be delicate and oblique, with the attendant danger of misunderstanding. When a man who thinks he has bought a villa in Antibes finds himself fobbed off with a timeshare in Torremolinos, dissatisfaction at best, and at worst defection, will follow. So this particular peer had been chosen because he gave out such an impression of intellectual vacuity that Goldie might feel constrained to explain in words of at most two syllables what precisely it was he wanted in return for his largesse.

But an hour had passed and the peer was no further forward.

So when Goldie looked at his watch and said, ‘Any second now my wife’s going to call me in to lunch. Thinks if I don’t eat regular I’m going to get an ulcer. You’re very welcome to take pot luck with us if’n you ain’t got somewhere better to be.’

‘How kind,’ said the peer. ‘I should be delighted.’

He meant it. Though this was his first visit to Windrush House he had heard that his host kept a fine cellar and that his wife, who apparently had a professional connection with the catering trade, could dish up some of the tastiest traditional fare a true blue Englishman could desire. This he imagined would be an old-fashioned Sunday lunch to remember.

He was right in one respect.

The pot from which he had agreed to take his luck held nothing more than a thin beef consommé. This was backed up by some hunks of wheaten bread and a wedge of hard cheese, all to be washed down by a small bottle of stout — a special treat, Goldie assured him, as on normal days Flo permitted him nothing but still water.

After a cup of lukewarm decaffeinated coffee, the peer was eager to be on his way even though, with regard to his mission, he felt he now knew less than he thought he did when he arrived.

As he rose to take his leave, Gidman said, ‘Almost forgot. Must be getting old.’ And he produced a long white envelope.

It was unsealed and, after an enquiring glance from the peer had been met by an encouraging nod, he opened it and examined the contents.

‘Good lord,’ he said. ‘My dear fellow, this is extraordinarily generous.’

‘I like to help,’ said Gidman.

‘And you do, you do. Don’t think we’re not appreciative.’

Here he paused, expecting to receive at the very least a strong hint as to how this appreciation might best be shown.

But as he was later to explain to the ringmaster, ‘He just smiled and said goodbye, didn’t hint at a gong, never even mentioned young Dave the Turd. I mean, can it really be he’s not looking for anything in return?’

And the ringmaster said with that insight which had put him at the centre of the circus, ‘Don’t be silly. Of course he wants something, and I don’t doubt we’ll find out what it is sooner or later.’

He was right, but not wholly so.

Back at Windrush House, Flo Gidman, who was more susceptible to the glamour of a title than her husband, rattled on about what a nice man the peer had been, and how you could see the family connections in his nose and ears, and finally asked, ‘Did your talk with him go well, dear?’

‘I think so,’ said Goldie. ‘He got what he came for.’

‘The donation, you mean. I hope they show their appreciation.’

Though she would never press her husband on the matter, the prospect of being Lady Gidman was not altogether disagreeable to Flo.

‘Maybe they will,’ said Gidman, smiling fondly at her. ‘Me, I hope they won’t have to.’

His wife smiled back, not really understanding what he meant.

She was not alone in this, for even the subtle mind of the ringmaster only partially grasped what had gone on.

The reason for the recent scaling down of the Gidman contributions had been that Goldie didn’t care to be taken for granted, except in matters of retribution. When it came to largesse, it was his judgment that regularity and reliability bred first disregard, then disrespect.

It was always his intention when the right moment came to remind the Millbank mandarins what an important contributor he was. Today he felt the moment had come.

A couple of hundred miles to the north, two of his employees were dealing with a potential problem. If, as he thought most likely, they dealt with it satisfactorily, then that was an end to the matter.

But if, as was always possible, things went belly-up, and if, as was most unlikely but still just about possible, all his other safeguards proved to be flawed, then a wise man would be found to have grappled his influential friends to him with bands of gold.

That was why he’d been able to remain underwhelmed by his visitor. He might have a title and a name that ran so far back into antiquity its spelling had changed at least three times, but in the Gidman scheme of things, he was nothing more than the Man from the Pru.

He had been selling insurance.

And having made such a large down payment on his policy, Goldie Gidman felt able to head up to his private sitting room for a cigar and an afternoon with Jimi Hendrix, confident that nothing happening up in darkest Yorkshire could disturb the pleasant tranquillity of his day.

13.00–13.30

Loudwater Villas was an Edwardian terrace converted to flats in the loadsamoney eighties. It derived its name from its proximity to a weir on the Trench, one of the two rivers that wound through the city. Had it overlooked the other, the placid and picturesque Till, the outlook might have added value to the property. But when the industrial revolution began to darken the skies of Mid-Yorkshire, geography and geology had dictated that the deeper, narrower, speedier Trench should be its power source. All you saw across the river from the upper windows of Loudwater Villas was a wasteland of derelict mills that successive Bunteresque city councils promised to transform into a twenty-first-century wonderland of flats and shops and sporting arenas as soon as this postal order they were expecting daily turned up.

Fleur Delay knew none of this, but her eye for detail told her this wasn’t the kind of apartment block that had high security.

No main entrance security cameras; no concierge cum security man behind a bank of screens checking out visitors; no bar to unobtrusive entry but the locked front door.

She knew it was locked because she’d just seen a man walk up to it, insert a key and enter.

Simplest was to wait for someone else to approach, then follow them in. But she was keenly aware of the woman cop standing in the Keldale car park. She’d been talking on the phone. Presumably she’d rung in for instructions.

And if eventually the instruction was to head for Loudwater Villas, then she could be close behind.

Fleur made up her mind. This was after all just an initial check-up, so while a low profile was still preferable, invisibility wasn’t of the essence. The subject identified, then the serious business would begin. It had already occurred to her that the accident rate for young men on motorbikes was pretty high. Not that an old Yamaha 250 was exactly a high-performance machine, but you can break your neck hitting tarmac at forty miles an hour almost as easily as you can at eighty.

But that was getting ahead of herself. Now she needed to get in there quick, even if it meant ringing someone’s bell.

She said, ‘Vince, sit tight. I’ll go and take a look.’

‘Sure you don’t want me along, sis?’

‘Not yet. Have your mobile handy, keep your eyes skinned, and if that woman from the car park shows, give me a ring, OK?’

‘Sure.’

She got out of the car. As she straightened up she swayed slightly. Then she was OK. Vince hadn’t noticed. Sometimes Vince’s ability not to notice things was irritating, but this time she was grateful.

She set off for the entrance. Her luck, always good on a job, held. A car drew up behind her. She glanced round to see its driver, a young Asian man, get out. He was in a hurry, passing her without a glance, inserting a key in the lock and pushing the door fully open as he entered so that she was able to reach it before it swung shut.

She was in a small hallway with a staircase rising from it. No sign of a lift. This had been a conversion with no economy spared. A notice headed LISTON DEVELOPMENTS with a logo resembling the Sidney Opera House confirmed what she’d guessed: the flats in the thirties were on the second floor.

She headed quickly up the stairs. The faster she moved the less chance there was of meeting somebody. Ahead she could hear the young Asian’s footsteps. He was making for the second floor too. She stepped out into the corridor just in time to see him entering a flat, calling, ‘Devi, what are you doing? Ma’s expecting us at one,’ to which a woman’s voice replied, ‘In a minute, in a minute, your ma’s not going anywhere, worse luck!’

The door closed as Fleur approached. Number 38.

She passed on to number 39, which was the last along the corridor. So, neighbours on one side only and they sounded as if they were on their way out.

Beyond the door she could hear the sound of a television cop-show or movie, the kind that involved screaming women and screeching cars. There was a bell push. She leaned into it, then stood back. No security cameras, but the doors did have peepholes. She composed her face to smiling housewife mode. It didn’t come easy and wouldn’t stand close examination, but it should do for a one-eyed squinter.

The peephole darkened. After a moment it lightened again. Thirty seconds passed. Adjusting his dress, or didn’t like the look of her? She was starting to fear the second when the door opened.

She made a rapid assessment of the man who stood there.

He had an unruly mop of hair whose blackness was of an intensity you rarely met outside of a priest’s socks. But his eyebrows she noticed were light brown. And surely he’d had a moustache when she glimpsed him leaving the car park?

His build was right, just under six foot tall, quite muscular, no evidence of any middle-age spread around the belt of his jeans. Age hard to say, though his skin tone looked like that of a young man. Too young? Maybe he used male moisturizer.

He said, ‘Yes?’

She said, ‘Mr Watkins?’

He said, ‘Who’s asking?’

She said, ‘I’m glad to find someone at home. I was beginning to think the whole block was empty. I’m Jenny Smith, Mr Watkins. From Liston Developments. It’s about the proposed improvements. We will have to ask you to vacate your apartment for a couple of days, I’m afraid. I’m here to discuss timings and alternative accommodation with you. Do you have a few moments?’

As she spoke she moved forward with an assurance it would have taken a tank trap to deny. The man retreated before her. Her gaze took in the tiny room. She got no impression of permanency. Furnishing was minimal: television set with a lousy picture and distorted sound, one balding armchair next to a rickety coffee table on which stood a telephone, no pictures on the wall, no curtains on the window.

After seven weeks this would have looked good. After seven years it was puzzling.

He said, ‘Look, I’m a bit busy, couldn’t you do this some other time…?’

He had a bit of an accent. She wasn’t too good at accents. Bit up and down, like that nosey cop who used to get up Goldie’s nose. But accents were easy to put on if you had the gift for it. Vince did a great Arnie Schwarzenegger.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Health and Safety — they need everything yesterday. God, they’re the bane of my life these days. How long have you been here, by the way?’

‘Why? Isn’t that on your records?’

‘Of course it is.’

He was sounding edgy. The furnishings apart, it was looking good. But between looking good and absolute certainty there was a gap a rash jump to conclusions could easily tumble you in.

He said, ‘Look, just for the record, could I see some identification?’

Real edgy!

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘No problem. You’re quite right to ask. In fact, you asking reminds me I should have asked too. So I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, all right?’

A bit of jocular innuendo was always distracting, especially when accompanied by a menacing leer. She rarely had difficulty facing down guys who liked to talk big.

He said, ‘No, I’m sure you’re who you say you are. But listen, I’ve really got things to do…’