The Truth (27 page)

Silla shook her head vigorously.

‘No, no, no, dear boy. Quite unnecessary. I shall have a hot toddy, go to bed and watch
The X-Factor
. I’ll be fine in the morning.’

Mabbut pressed the lift button.

‘What’s his game, Silla? What’s this all about?’

‘How should I know, old boy? He has people on his back. Urgent have put a lot of money behind this project and they want something that’ll be talked about. It’s the way the business is, believe me. And he may be right. There could be something you’ve missed. No one’s perfect. Not you, not Melville.’

‘Should I do what he says?’

‘No option, dear boy. The publisher’s approval clause is a tough one. They can lead you round the ring for a lot longer.’

She suddenly looked very drained but managed a wan smile.

‘Don’t sulk, darling. Six months ago you couldn’t believe your luck. Now you’re behaving like Ernest Hemingway.’

The lift slid down in front of them.

‘Talk in the morning?’

Silla nodded and with a peremptory little wave she stepped into the lift. Mabbut was aware of Hector’s pumped-up frame filling the doorway behind him.

‘She don’t look well.’

‘No.’

‘I drive her four year. I never see her look like that.’

Mabbut nodded agreement.

‘Once I drive another lady. Much younger. Always laugh. Then one day she don’t come down.’

‘Well, I’m sure she’ll be fine.’

‘Dead. Two days dead! I had to break in. She was fifty-one.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘Oh yes. Sad. Where you go now. That place you live?’

‘No, I’ve . . . I’ve some shopping to do.’

For some reason Hector winked.

‘OK, sir. I understand.’ He gestured towards the lift. ‘Look after the lady. She’s good woman.’

Mabbut walked away from Silla’s block and took a turning that led to a small garden dominated by an expansive London plane tree. It was tucked away, a relic of an eighteenth-century churchyard, and few people seemed to know it was a public place. A woman and her daughter were feeding a flock of fat, fidgety pigeons. Two Asian girls in headscarves sat on one of the benches, giggling. Otherwise, people passed by without stopping. Mabbut found a wooden bench as far away as possible from the others. He leant back against the words ‘
In memory of Mifanwy Dell, who loved this place
’, and took out the sheet of paper Latham had given him. At the top, in bold, was the name and address of one Victor Trickett.
Sir
Victor Trickett. Latham must have cut and pasted the rest of the contents, presumably from his researcher’s report.

Therefore, following extensive enquiries, we have ascertained that this is the same man who had dealings with Melville back in the early eighties, an episode which does not reflect well on Mr Melville. VT has agreed to talk to your author provided his identity is protected. He has never spoken about his relationship
with Mr Melville before, but he’s now ready, for a
[something cut out here]
to put the record straight before it’s too late. We recommend that the author make contact with a view to a visit asap
.

At the bottom of the page Latham had added, in his own handwriting, ‘
Strongly recommend follow-up. For any help with arrangements, contact me personally 24/7. RL
.’

Mabbut folded the note and slipped it into his inside pocket. A strengthening wind rustled the branches of the tree that sheltered him. The last months spent criss-crossing the country in search of contacts, doing research in libraries and news archives, had reminded him why he had once been good at his job. He was thorough. He took pride in following up every lead, knocking on every door, making sure he missed nothing. Now, apparently, he had missed something significant, and an all too familiar feeling returned; that sudden, swinging collapse in morale to which he seemed so fatally susceptible.

He read and reread the single sheet of paper. There was something that worried him about it. It was not so much that it showed him up, or even that it had appeared so late in the game, collected by some anonymous figure from an equally anonymous informant. What made him suspicious was the apparently uncritical way that Latham had endorsed these findings. His shifty, conspiratorial ‘contact me personally’ approach smacked of something more than a mere desire to get at the truth. If there was a separate agenda to rake up bad news on Melville, then perhaps Mabbut’s failure to find it was less culpable. The difference between honest and dishonest reporting.

A light rain began to fall, marking a circle of dry ground beneath the shelter of the tree. A smartly dressed woman hurried by, holding her dog as if she were afraid of it getting wet. The Asian girls stood and walked cautiously out of the park. They checked their mobiles. One gave a high-pitched squeal and they set off rapidly up the street.

‘Hi, Dad.’

Mabbut shut the front door, dropped his bag to the ground and made wearily for the kitchen. Jay and Shiraj were at the table, cups of
tea in front of them, eating something wholesome from foil containers similar in shape and size to those that littered the approach to his Underground station every Saturday night.

‘Did they like the book?’

Mabbut stopped himself from telling the truth just in time.

‘Pretty much. There’s a few things they want me to look at before it’s all signed and sealed. How about you. Had a good day?’

‘Yes, really good.’

Jay smiled and reached for Shiraj’s hand.

‘I was able to speak with my mother and my cousins this afternoon and they are all very happy and send blessings to you for helping us in our time of trouble.’

Mabbut cleared his throat, and unhooked a mug from above the worktop.

‘I won’t be able to get it straight away, I’m afraid. They’re delaying the delivery payment.’

Jay’s face clouded. ‘But you’ve delivered the book?’

‘Technically, yes. But they want some new interviews to be done. It’ll take another week or so.’

Jay looked embarrassed. Shiraj shook his head and turning to her, spoke softly.

‘It’s fine, Jay. I will tell them.’

Mabbut still had his coat on. He turned and went out into the hall to hang it up. By the time he came back he’d made up his mind. Of all those around him at the moment, Jay was the least compromised, the one most open and dependent on him. This was the one family relationship he had not messed up. And most of his debts had been paid off.

‘Don’t worry, Shiraj. I’ll authorise a transfer right away. The money should go through first thing Monday.’

‘Please, sir, I do not want to take from you what I cannot pay back. Believe me, my family will honour any amount you can find for us. You have already given me your hospitality and your friendship. This will never be forgotten.’

Mabbut looked at Shiraj. His troubles were of a far, far greater magnitude than anything Mabbut had ever had to deal with. These were matters of life and death and yet the boy accepted them all with
a stoical calm. Whatever Urgent Books wanted was insignificant compared to what might befall Shiraj or his family. He felt not only a warmth for the decent young man his daughter had brought into his life but also gratitude for the opportunity he had been given to right some wrongs. He extended his hand. Shiraj stood, and as he did so, Mabbut reached out and hugged him close.

FIVE

S
ir Victor Trickett wasn’t easy to find. His address, ‘Lees Hall’, had no accompanying number, only the name of the village where it was located – ‘Great Brenham, Norfolk’. Mabbut had taken the Norwich train, hired a car and had already got lost twice as he negotiated the back roads where signposts were still shaped like pointing fingers.

Great Brenham was the largest of a cluster of villages that also included Little Brenham, Brenham Till and Brenham Magister. Though it had once boasted three medieval churches, the presentday population of the Brenhams was probably in the low hundreds. The only thing approaching a centre was a small village green with a single multi-purpose shop. Mabbut received directions to Lees Hall from the elderly proprietor.

‘It’s been empty for quite a while,’ she added, encouragingly.

Mabbut bought a steak pie and ate it sitting in the car. As he stared out at the two or three flint-work cottages with their creeperclad walls he found himself hoping beyond hope that this would be a bum lead. He tidied away the remnants of the crumbling pie, took a swig of water, then scrutinised the directions he’d been given and turned on the engine. A mile or so down a country lane a track led off between stony fields until it dipped and entered a small wood. He slowed down when he came to a timber pile marked on the map and a few yards beyond that was a stout but mildewed five-bar gate, securely fastened. He got out of the car and was examining the rope knots when he heard a voice and the gruff bark of a dog.

‘I’ll do that!’

Down the overgrown driveway came a short, barrel-like figure. The man was wearing a beret and a trenchcoat and looked to
Mabbut to be about his age. An elderly retriever shuffled along behind him.

‘You must be Mabbut.’

On closer inspection the man was clearly much older than his visitor. His skin, though firm, was deeply lined and mottled around the neck. He had a thick grey moustache and wisps of white hair curled out from beneath the beret. On the front of it was a badge which caught Mabbut’s eye.

‘Eighteenth Royal Hussars. Light Dragoons they call them now.’

The man’s voice was harsh and croaky, his tone petulant. The classic outsider, thought Mabbut, as he watched the man work deftly through the knots and slip the rope over the gatepost.

‘You can bring the car in. Just be careful of the dog. She’s half blind.’

Lees Hall was little more than a large Victorian villa. Ivy grew across its plain red-brick façcade, and with the woods hemming it in on three sides, there was a sense that nature was close to reclaiming the space. There was one open aspect, through which could be glimpsed a low hill, on top of which were what looked like outbuildings.

‘Used to be a farm,’ said the man, who Mabbut had to assume was Victor Trickett. He led Mabbut through a porch into a large dark hallway that smelt of dogs and damp.

‘Want a beer?’

Mabbut declined. ‘D’you have any coffee?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘Tea, perhaps?’

There was an unmistakable hiss of exasperation. ‘Bag do?’

‘That’s fine.’

‘You should find one in the cupboard.’ He indicated a long narrow kitchen, off the hallway. ‘Above the basin. Kettle’s full.’

His voice receded and Mabbut found himself alone. A fine layer of grease on the kitchen surfaces put him off any further exploration. Checking that he wasn’t being observed, Mabbut emptied and refilled the kettle, then selected a mug, washed it carefully and set it down on the one empty space on the worktop.

‘So what d’you want to know?’

The voice came from a room next to the kitchen. Mabbut peered through the door and found his host in a cluttered drawing room which was full of good-looking furniture, but too like the back room of an antique shop to be completely comfortable. Trickett settled himself into an armchair and poured a bottle of beer into what looked like a regimental mug.

‘I haven’t got long,’ he said to Mabbut.

The kettle was barely whispering, so Mabbut abandoned the idea of tea and perched himself on the edge of a chair, reaching into his pocket for the voice recorder.

‘Do you mind if I use one of these?’

‘Rather not.’

‘It’s purely for accuracy. Protects you as much as it protects me.’

‘Don’t you people have notebooks?’

‘I use one of those as well. The recorder’s just for back-up.’

‘Notebook’ll do me.’

Mabbut put away the recorder and took out his pad and a blue Pentel.

‘You’re certainly off the beaten track here.’

‘Suits me.’

Mabbut cleared his throat. ‘Sir Victor, I believe you know Hamish Melville.’

‘Used to. Haven’t seen him in years.’

This proved to be the tone of much of their conversation; Mabbut having to prod, Trickett playing it straight back. He claimed they’d met in the army, when Melville was a captain in the Royal Engineers. That, at least, corresponded with Mabbut’s own research. Both had been involved in the Suez invasion of 1956 and both were highly critical of the way the operation had been bungled. They’d kept in touch. Neither of them had been tempted by civvy street, both by nature ‘a touch stroppy’. Then, without warning, Melville had left the army and started to make money in the City. Trickett had stayed on in the Hussars for a while but seeing how well Melville and some other ex-soldiers were doing he too had resigned his commission and gone into business. Melville was a wheeler-dealer, had good ‘what they called people skills’. Trickett admitted he was the
opposite: an inventor, someone who was happiest at the drawing board, or in the lab. In the early days of heart surgery he had worked on a pioneering set of MHVs, mechanical heart valves, and was experimenting with a new type of plastic anginal valve. Development was expensive, however, and he had approached his old colleague Melville to come in as a partner.