Red Crystal (34 page)

Nick closed his eyes and said, ‘Oh shit.’

It took half an hour to get hold of Commander Kershaw, to stop briefly at the shop in Westbourne Grove and pick up a packet of the weedkiller, and meet him at St Mark’s Villas with a raiding party. Even before they had stationed two men at the back, obtained confirmation that a search warrant had been granted, and run panting up the stairs to the room on the second floor, Nick knew what they would find.

Nothing.

Wheatfield had done a bunk. They spent ten minutes establishing that no trace of the shopping expedition remained, and sped across town to the service flat in Weymouth Street, where they met up with Conway. Faced by five policemen the porter was suddenly more forthcoming about the occupants of the fifth floor. He thought that flat number 502 was most likely to be the one they were after. Conway referred to the list of residents he’d obtained from the letting agents. Four of the flats on the fifth floor were let, either to companies or American visitors. However, flat 502 had been let to a Mr and Mrs Hoerst of Switzerland.

They knocked on the door of the flat. There was no reply. The porter let them in with a pass key.

It was quite empty. There were no signs of a hurried departure. Conway phoned the letting agents again. The rent was paid up for another two weeks. No, references had not been requested because the tenants had paid the rent in advance end left a £150 deposit. And no, the deposit had not been reclaimed.

Everything was very neat and tidy. The porter explained that the maid would have been in that morning. She would have cleared out the wastepaper baskets and the kitchen rubbish.

Nick walked round the flat with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

An expensive service flat, money to burn, smooth organization. The letter bombs were Wheatfield, all right, but
this
set-up? No. Not on his own anyway. This sort of lifestyle was quite out of his league.

He sat disconsolately in an armchair, ignoring the angry glare of one of the two forensic men who were bent over tables and carpets, busy with small brushes and scrapers, like a couple of fastidious housewives.

Kershaw came in and sat in the opposite chair. He was a tall, thoughtful, softly-spoken man, although Nick had the feeling the calm manner was deceptive. ‘Okay, Ryder,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Wheatfield.’

Making an effort to remember all the details on the file, Nick listed the catalogue of Wheatfield’s political activities.

Kershaw drew a deep breath. ‘Any ideas as to why a well-known left-wing activist might be trying to score against his own side?’

Nick drew a deep breath. ‘Trying to stir it up. That’s all I can think of.’

‘Well – I’m not saying you’re wrong, but according to the surveillance reports, Wheatfield did not go near a post box yesterday.’

‘No. But then there were others involved. I’m sure of it.’

‘An organization?’

‘A group. Trained, possibly abroad.’

Kershaw stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Okay, Ryder. I’ll buy that. But I can’t say I’m happy with the motive. If you can come up with some more answers, that would be appreciated.’

‘Excuse me – ’ It was one of the forensic men. He was holding a number of small plastic bags. ‘I think you might find this interesting …’ The bags all contained granules of what looked like sugar. ‘I found these crystals down several cracks on the kitchen work surface. Also on the kitchen floor. And quite a quantity in the carpet, just here. Also a few were caught in the bristles of the floor brush. They’ll have to be analysed, of course. But taking a preliminary look, there appear to be two types of crystal here. At least one is granular, like sugar, the other more powdery, like salt …’

At that moment the telephone rang.

Giorgio held the telephone to his ear and counted the rings with growing impatience.

Suddenly it answered.

There was a pause, then a man’s voice said, ‘Hello?’

Giorgio hesitated then slowly replaced the receiver. It wasn’t Max’s voice. Gabriele must have given up the flat. Why hadn’t she told him? And would it be relet already? He sighed with annoyance. How could he be expected to understand the British way of doing things?

He looked at the last number on his list. He’d already tried the mews house. There was only the flat in Chelsea. It was strictly for emergency use, so it was unlikely she’d be there, but he tried the number anyway.

As he’d expected, no reply.

He stared out of the window of Victoria’s flat until a movement distracted him. She was offering him a glass of wine. She had already laid the table for a meal. Her efforts to please were almost painful.

He sipped the wine and regarded her. She was pliable, naïve, impressionable. And of course she was madly in love with him to the point where she would do anything for him. It was rather amusing to see how far he could make her go. Sometimes her submissiveness annoyed him, sometimes it pleased him. At this moment it was just about tolerable.

‘Do you want to unload the van?’ she asked.

Immediately his good humour evaporated. Women were unbelievable. They could never leave you alone; they always had to try to manipulate you, to try to make you as small-minded and obsessed with trivia as they were. He was overwhelmed with irritation and didn’t answer.

‘Well then,’ she was saying. ‘I’ll start to get the meal, shall I?’

Suddenly he felt bored. And resentful. This girl had nothing to say. He rather missed Gabriele. She was tough on him, but she knew what he wanted.

He drained the glass of wine and decided that, as soon as the van was unloaded, he would drop this girl. She had served her purpose. He had put up with her for quite long enough.

The telephone rang and Victoria answered. From her manner it was obviously a good friend. He wasn’t in the slightest interested; her friends would be dull and unimportant.

He flicked idly through a magazine, only half-listening.

‘… Oh, I just got caught up in the crowd … No, no, honestly, I’m fine now … Just a little bruised … Promise … Yes, I
will
call mother. Yes … Yes, Caro, I
promise
…’

Giorgio fidgeted and wished she would get off the phone. Her high-pitched chatter was annoying.

‘… How’s Henry? … Really? But I’ve got it here. Hang on …’

Victoria pulled one of the newspapers up off the floor and spread it out. ‘Got it … Yes,
what
a good picture.’

Giorgio let the magazine fall to his lap and stared out of the window.

‘… Is he very busy? … Yes, I’m sure … No, I quite understand. Perhaps in the next holidays – what do you call them? Yes, the
recess
…’

Giorgio picked up the magazine again. Finally Victoria rang off and said brightly, ‘Sorry about that. Family – sort of.’

She disappeared into the kitchen. After a moment Giorgio reached out and slowly slid the newspaper towards him. The paper was open at the centre page. There were two news pictures, one of some visiting foreign politicians, and one of a man in a preposterous white wig.

The caption under the man with the wig read: The Attorney General, Sir Henry Northcliff.

Henry. The name on the telephone.

He refolded the newspaper and, getting up, wandered into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame. Victoria was at the stove, adjusting the gas under a pan.

She turned and jumped. ‘Oh! You gave me a fright.’

He was still for a moment then, reaching out, he caressed her cheek. She looked at him uncertainly, not sure of what he wanted.

He smiled to show that he was pleased with her. She stepped forward and, putting her arms around him, leant her head against his chest.

He said gently, ‘Tell me about your friends.’

Gabriele found the address and, driving on a little, turned a corner and parked the Fiat on a double yellow line. She looked at herself in the driver’s mirror. The blonde wig was uncomfortable. She readjusted it and checked her make-up, which was heavy, with thick black eyeliner and several layers of mascara. She added a preposterously large pair of sunglasses. A real dolly bird.

She got out and went round to the boot.

The parcel sat lodged against the side of the car where she had positioned it the previous day. She picked it up and put it on the pavement while she slammed the boot shut.

Picking it up again, she crossed the pavement and went into the office of Cardinal Couriers Limited, a company who specialized in fast reliable deliveries.

She put the parcel down on the front desk.

A young man in overalls appeared. ‘Where’s it to go to?’

‘Putney.’

‘When do you want it delivered?’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s a bit late for today – ’

‘First thing tomorrow morning would be ideal.’

Taking the address from the top of the parcel, he made out the chit, asked her for two pounds ten shillings, and began to make out a receipt. ‘What company?’

She hesitated for a moment. ‘Crystal Designs. 3 Margaret Street.’

He entered the details on the receipt, and passed it to her.

‘We do collect, you know. You only have to ring.’

She nodded. ‘I know, but I was passing. I thought it might be easier.’

She returned to the car. No warden, no ticket. Her luck was good today.

She turned the ignition and, revving hard, let the clutch in with a jerk. The Fiat shot off down the street, barely missing a slow-moving pedestrian.

Gabriele hardly noticed. She was thinking: Wait until they read about this one in Italy.

H
ELEN
M
C
C
ABE STARED
at herself in the bathroom mirror and sighed. There seemed to be a dozen more wrinkles on her face since she had last looked. She was getting old, and she couldn’t think where all the years had gone.

The house was lovely, of course. Four bedrooms, double garage, standing in a third of an acre in a very pleasant part of Putney; quiet yet only five minutes from the river and twenty minutes from Peter’s office. For years all she had ever wanted was a nice home. Now she’d got it and … And she felt empty and dissatisfied and she didn’t understand why.

She walked through into the bedroom and thought vaguely about what to wear. It was eleven and time she got out of her dressing-gown.

The doorbell rang. She muttered, ‘Oh dear!’ Pulling on a sweater she hastily stepped into a skirt and, still shoeless, went breathlessly down the stairs to the front door.

A rather startling figure stood in the porch. He was dressed entirely in black leather with a shiny black crash helmet on his head. He looked like one of those Hell’s Angels she’d read about. Then she saw that he was holding a parcel. Of course: a delivery boy. What else would he have been? Silly of her.

She signed for the parcel and took it into the kitchen. It was addressed to Peter. She wondered what it could be. Had he ordered anything? Unlikely. He usually left all the household purchases to her. Something to do with the garden perhaps. Even then, he would have told her.

She went back upstairs to find some shoes. She brushed her hair and half-heartedly patted a little powder on her nose.

Back in the kitchen, she made herself a cup of coffee and, sitting at the table, considered what to do with her day. She should write a note to her daughter.

She got up to put the cup in the sink and noticed the parcel again. Quite large – something interesting, certainly. A present? She wondered if Peter had got her a surprise. But it wasn’t her birthday and – well, he wasn’t that sort of husband. He was considerate, but not
imaginative
. That was because he was so busy and didn’t have time to think about domestic things. She was pleased at his success, of course, and didn’t resent the long hours he worked. At the same time she felt left out, excluded.
Useless
.

She found a scrap of paper and tried to start a shopping list for the weekend. She should make the effort to find a new dress as well. There was an official dinner coming up in two weeks and she had nothing suitable. She dreaded occasions like that. She didn’t feel at home among crowds of important people. And she had never got used to being Lady McCabe, although it was four years now since Peter had become Commissioner and been knighted.

She watched a pigeon pecking at the lawn, then, aware that her list was still blank, wandered over to the fridge to see what was needed. On the way she fingered the parcel, and picked it up again. Quite heavy and solid. What
could
it be?

Suddenly it seemed rather a treat, this parcel. Something unexpected and exciting in what was otherwise a dreary day. It
would
be nice to open it.

She mustn’t, of course. It was addressed to Peter. She looked at her watch. Twelve. Perhaps she might just give him a ring … She didn’t often, so he wouldn’t mind. Yes, why not? It would be nice to hear his voice, if only for a minute.

She dialled and waited a little nervously. The line went direct to his secretary, who answered immediately. They exchanged greetings, then the secretary said she wasn’t sure if he was free, but she’d just find out.