The Talisman (46 page)

He parked the hired Rolls and walked up the steps to the entrance, which was flanked by urns containing a profusion of budding flowers. He turned to survey the gardens. The orchards, the hedgerows, were all a riot of colour and richness, a wonder to the eye. It was hard to believe that it had been a wilderness less than eight months ago.

He was equally astonished at the interior. He strode from room to room, taking it all in. Nothing jarred – the furnishings, the fabrics, the colours, all blended so perfectly that he felt something akin to awe.

Alex was surprised to see his brother, but not as taken aback as Edward was by him. For a moment he did not recognize Alex, having seen him only fleetingly since the last plastic surgery he had undergone. There had been numerous operations until his face had been completely reshaped, and now Edward could see the full extent of the change. There were no scars or puffiness – he looked like a different man. Edward held him at arm’s length. ‘Jesus Christ, you look good, you look good.’ He inspected Alex’s face closely, shook his head. ‘My God, what a job they did on you . . . what a face! Now you’re my brother again . . . I love the gear, nice jacket.’

Edward touched his brother’s face, his cheek, then wrapped him in his arms. Alex seemed not quite at ease with his brother, a little withdrawn, and Edward picked it up immediately.

‘What’s the matter, something wrong?’

‘No, no, nothing wrong . . . well, tell me, what do you think of the place?’

He watched Edward as he wandered around, picking up objects, looking at the fabrics. He was pale, not tanned like Alex, but there was that strength to him, that confidence. He picked up an ornate vase, a very expensive one. ‘This a copy or the real thing?’

Alex smiled, amazed he wasn’t able to tell. ‘It’s real, Ming Dynasty. It has an unusual fault in the glaze that makes it special.’

‘You don’t say? Well, I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. What did that set us back?’

‘Twenty-five thousand.’

Edward nearly dropped the vase in shock. ‘Fucking hell, twenty-five grand and it’s got a bleedin’ fault . . . You’re sure you know what the hell you’re doing?’

‘Yes – it’s already increased in value.’

Alex began to feel annoyed as Edward continued his inspection. He noted that Edward’s cashmere coat had a small rip in the pocket and a stain down the front. Edward somehow looked old-fashioned, scruffy, his suede shoes in need of a brush.

It had been almost five years since they had been reunited. For the first three years Alex had undergone extensive plastic surgery. He had recuperated in Cannes, and grown accustomed to living in style, a style he had adapted to with ease. He now spoke fluent French, and had taken a year of elocution classes to, as his brother put it it, ‘Get rid of that bleedin’ East End tag.’

Edward and Alex had struck a deal, one that Alex could not really refuse. He had agreed to leave England, undergo surgery, and hand over the reins of the club and his other business interests to Edward. Alex had drawn up the contracts, selling out for one million. Edward had then placed a further two million in a Swiss bank account for Alex’s use. The château had been Edward’s idea on one of his infrequent visits. He had suggested that they buy it and renovate it, even teasing Alex that although he was having a well-earned holiday, there was always money to be made in property, and it would give Alex a goal. But Edward had not bargained for Alex’s enthusiasm, his dedication, or the vast expense of the refurbishment. He kept a watchful eye on the Geneva account, and had cabled even more money to Alex when asked. The more money he paid the less guilt he felt. But he was careful to make notes of every withdrawal, every transaction.

Ming could hear their voices as they strolled from room to room. She waited for what she deemed a respectable time before making an appearance. Then she entered the drawing room silently, standing just inside the ornate, arched doors. Alex watched his brother when he turned towards her. At times Edward’s resemblance to Freedom was truly unnerving – the eyes so dark, hair so black that it had a blue sheen to it.

‘Edward, this is Ming. Ming and I have been working closely on the whole project – in fact I couldn’t have done up the place without her.’

Edward smiled at her, but his eyes were expressionless. His French was not as good as Alex’s, and he spoke to her in English. ‘Done a great job, I’m very impressed . . . what about a small tour?’

He picked up the looks between the two of them as they led him around the château. They were very much a couple, pointing out one piece of furniture or another, explaining where it came from and exactly which period. Ming talked about the colour schemes, the wonderful carpets they had shipped in, and Edward said not a word. She could feel his eyes, taking stock of everything, taking special note of her. So this was the big brother she had heard Alex speak of. She could see how different they were, in manner as well as appearance, and she could feel the energy flowing from Edward, could sense his danger.

Alex grew quiet as they neared the end of their tour. He noticed the way Edward stood close to Ming, rested his hand on her shoulder when he asked about a painting, stepped back and laughed with her when she described the auction where they bought it.

At last the inspection was over, and Edward walked slowly down the great stairway. Halfway down, he stopped. ‘Well, we shall have to throw a party before we leave. I shall call London, start making arrangements . . . what about staff, have you anyone moving in yet?’

Alex hesitated. He had not hired anyone as yet, he had been taking care of himself. But Edward paid little heed to his reply, he was congratulating Ming again, but at the same time dismissing her. ‘Do you have transport?’

Ming smiled and said yes she did. Edward looked over at Alex.

‘Well, no doubt we will meet again . . . Alex and I have a lot to discuss, I am only here for a few days, then we return to London.’

Alex ushered Ming to her car. She knew he was angry, his face was set, but he smiled, said he would collect her for dinner later in the evening. He stood and watched her drive away before turning back to the château.

Edward was lounging on a silk sofa, his feet resting on frilled silk cushions. ‘We’ll have a good dinner, then we’ll go over all the papers you have to sign. I’ll be here for a couple of days, but I want to send them back by courier tomorrow, then I can relax. May take a dip later, I must say the pool looks very inviting.’ He paused, looked searchingly at Alex. ‘You look fit and well, Alex, really tanned, it suits you . . . She’s a cute little thing, isn’t she? Very talented, too . . .’

Alex clenched and unclenched his fist.

‘You’ll have the office next to mine, but I’ve not furnished it . . . after seeing your taste, well, I think you’d rather do it yourself.
Très
impressed, old boy.’

‘Good, I’m glad you like it. I . . . well, I love the place, and it must be obvious to you that I’m very happy here – not just in the château, but in France. I like it, I like the people, and I’ve been thinking.’

‘Obviously. Well – go on.’

‘Well, I can’t just continue spending, this place will cost a fortune to run. But I’m sure I could open up the vineyards. And perhaps I could start buying some of the farm land surrounding the orchards, make it a productive business. We’ve already started – we’ll have a good crop, and the season’s not even begun.’

‘You don’t know anything about farming! Besides, I’ve made arrangements.’

Edward cursed himself silently for not coming to France more often. He should have guessed something like this would happen. He lit a Havana cigar, puffing slowly, taking his time and choosing his words carefully. ‘Trouble is, you’ve no option really.’

‘Whaddya mean by that?’

‘Watch it, Alex, the accent slipped there.’

‘Screw my fucking accent! What do you mean I’ve got no option? If I don’t want to come back to London, then I won’t . . . And would you use the bloody ashtray?’

Edward turned on him, his voice controlled, but spitting out the words. ‘Maybe I need you, maybe you’ve overspent out here – do you think I’m running the Bank of England? While you’ve been lazing about over here in the sun, I’ve been working my butt off for you – yeah, for you . . . Here – passport, birth certificate – Alex Stubbs is dead, Alex Barkley’s coming back to London with me.’

Alex didn’t even pick up the envelope. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘You owe me, Eddie, you gave me that cash, what is this? You want it back? Not a lot to pay for near ten years.’

Edward went to his brother, put his arms round him. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. I’m needled now because . . . because, Alex, I want you with me. I want you to take a look at what I’ve been doing, that’s what I’ve been knocking myself out for since you’ve been in France. Between us, together, we can go places, you know? You haven’t even seen what I’m working with in London, and you’re going to step right in, right in next to me . . . You opt out of it, then it’ll all be worthless. Don’t run out on it just because of some Jap bitch.’

Alex pushed him away, had to get away from his arms. ‘Maybe I need her.’

Edward sighed, rubbed his fingers in his hair. He tried another tack. ‘You look closely at her, Alex my old son. She’s no twenty-two-year-old, she’s forty if she’s a day. Not quite the sort you want to settle down with and have a family.’

Alex was getting angrier, his fist itching to throw a punch.

Edward opened his briefcase. ‘Take a look at how deep I’m prepared to go for you, how far I’m prepared to go to get you out of that cheap shit-hole of a club you ran. You are free, no one can trace you . . . Alex Stubbs, the ex-con with the off-the-peg suits, is gone. Read it, bottom of second page.’

Alex opened the English newspaper, searched the columns, unsure even what he was looking for . . . The article was only a few lines long, but it was a nightmare: ‘GANGLAND KILLING SUSPECTED . . . Alex Stubbs, a Mayfair club owner, was found burnt to death in his Jaguar early this morning. Police suspect . . .’ The print blurred, and Alex couldn’t read any more. He swallowed, stammered, ‘What the hell is this, for Chrissake?’

‘Like I said, Alex Stubbs is dead. You’ve a new passport, new birth certificate – you come back as Alex Barkley. I’m already making waves – we’ve got a property business, investment company, plus that old club you ran . . . I didn’t sell it, you only had a short lease, so I bought the whole building. We’ll open a club, it’ll be the best in London – gambling, dining, cabaret . . . I’ve already sunk over two and a half hundred grand in it, going too fast for you, am I? Whichever way you want to look at it, the jam is spreading very thick and fast. Going to make you rich, brother, richer than you ever dreamed.’

Alex’s mouth was dry, his mind reeled. Edward leaned back on the sofa and laughed. ‘I’ve been over all your old accounts, and you are good. As I said, I need you.’ He sprang to his feet, bursting with excitement, and strode around the room. ‘I want this place in every magazine, every glossy from
Paris Match
to
Vogue
,
Elle
, you name it, and then we’ll throw a coming-out party, for you, for me. We’ll get the Rainiers, the Windsors, big names, have them all here kissing our hands, and then, brother, we are in, all you need is the social acceptance . . . Alex? Heyyy, buddy . . .’

Alex sighed and rested his hand on the Louis XIV marble-topped table. ‘It’s maybe what you want, but . . .’

Edward snapped, his face flushed with anger, ‘Can’t you see what I’m offering? Remember Ma, her dreams? Not just for me, but for you. We’re going to be everything she ever wanted, and more. If you need time to think about it, fine. But I won’t wait long, and don’t think this came cheap.’ He held out the newspaper, shoved it under his brother’s nose. His voice dropped almost to a whisper, ‘You had a pretty poor funeral, old son – two bouncers and a wreath of friggin’ yellow roses from a tart . . . that what you want? You make your mind up.’

Edward slammed out of the château, and Alex heard the Rolls churning up the gravel. He walked from room to room, and as he passed through the bedroom he caught his reflection in the long mirrors. He stopped, stared, then walked closer and looked at himself. He did look different, his hair bleached almost white by the sun, his tan, his new face. He put out his hand and touched his image in the mirror. It was true, Alex Stubbs was dead.

Ming knew it would be Edward, she just knew it. He walked straight in, straight through to her sparse, white sitting room.

‘Okay, I’ll give it to you straight – I think you are good, and I intend making the château famous. I will get every major glossy magazine to cover it, that means you will benefit. I will promote you, make you, but I want a cut . . .’

Ming sat demurely in the high-backed, polished wood chair. Edward lit a cigarette, carefully placed it into the gold holder. ‘I have companies in England, office blocks, properties. I also want to branch out in the States, more offices . . . I want you to do the interior design for them all . . . have to change your name, but I’ll back you to the hilt.’

Her hands folded, she waited for him to finish. Edward flicked ash off his cigarette, leaned forward and continued, ‘I’ll make you a rich woman, and a famous one . . . I detected traces of an American accent, you educated in America? What happened? Had to run for it when your lot hit Pearl Harbor?’

Ming caught her breath – she detested him, he was even sharper than she had given him credit for. He was silent, watching, waiting for her to answer. ‘I was educated in America, my family sent me over to finish my studies there . . . Pearl Harbor really has very little to do with either myself or my work . . . I am residing in France because I wish to.’

Edward stood up and laughed, stubbed out his cigarette in a crystal bowl. Before she could say anything he was walking up the narrow staircase to her workshop. He lounged in the doorway. ‘You know how much the château cost to refurbish, sweetheart? Did you think for one moment I didn’t have your credentials checked out? I know all there is to know about you, and I also know you were in debt up to your little Japanese neck in the States. You were left high and dry with no cash to finish your so-called studies. You were brought over to Cannes by a French pimp, dumped by him, then you worked in a couple of massage parlours. You have a stream of relatives coming in illegally to work for you, cheap labour . . . Don’t mess around, don’t think I am as dumb a bastard as my brother – do you want to be rich or not, that’s all you have to think about.’